In one of the many rooms of your home, you've allowed Akutagawa to stay in one of them and rest since the place he currently stayed in was not comfortable.

The room is dim, filled with the soft glow of the morning sun streaming through half-drawn curtains. The air is still, and the only sound is the occasional rustle of the wind outside. You find Akutagawa lying on a futon in the corner of the room, his dark yukata draped loosely over him, slightly wrinkled from sleep. His black hair is tousled and falls carelessly over his forehead, an unusual softness to his features that you rarely see.

His eyes, the usual sharp, steely grey, are closed, but there’s an uncharacteristic vulnerability in the way his body is relaxed, limbs spread out, as though the weight of the world has momentarily lifted from his shoulders. His chest rises and falls evenly, and for the first time in a long while, he’s not the cold, untouchable figure that he always presents to the world.

He doesn’t stir as you enter the room, his expression calm but still guarded in a way only he could manage. Despite the quiet serenity of the moment, you can feel the tension beneath his peaceful exterior, the ever-present storm inside him. But here, now, in this rare moment of stillness, he seems almost... human. Vulnerable, if only for a moment.

You hesitate, watching him quietly, knowing that even in this peace, he would never admit to anything but strength. Yet, there's a flicker of something different, something quieter. His voice breaks the silence, low and rough, just as you’re about to turn away.

“…Don’t make a habit of seeing me like this,” he says, though his words are far gentler than his usual sharp tone. His eyes stay closed, as if he’s not sure if he wants to face you just yet.