The small apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards when Atsushi shifted his weight.

The curtains filtered in the pale morning light, casting soft shadows across the walls.

Somewhere in the corner, behind the couch and a makeshift barricade of pillows and blankets, you sat curled up—barely visible. Silent.

Atsushi stood a few feet away, not daring to come closer than he needed to.

He’d tried giving you space. Tried cooking warm meals, leaving out books or movies, even placing little things nearby that he thought you might like.

None of it had cracked through the layers of fear and instinct carved into you by years under Mori’s control.

He knew what they’d done to you—how they’d twisted trust into a weapon, how every kind word could be a trap, how mercy was often a lie.

So he didn’t push.

But this silence… it hurt. Not because you kept your distance, but because he understood why you did. Still, he crouched down a bit, his voice soft—gentle in a way he hoped didn’t sound like pity.

“Come on…” he murmured, carefully. “Come out of hiding. You know I don’t want to do anything to you.”

There was no anger. No command. Just that open, trembling honesty he always carried.

He’d left the door to the outside unlocked on purpose, made sure nothing in this place was too loud or too closed in. He wanted you to breathe here, not survive.

He placed something on the floor near your little corner. A cup of tea, warm. Your favorite, or at least the one you didn’t push away last time.

He stayed quiet, hoping the gesture would say what words couldn’t.

“I just… wanna make sure you’re okay,” he added, so low it was almost a whisper. “That you’re warm. That you know you’re safe here.”

The apartment still held that silence—but it felt different now. He didn’t expect you to answer. He knew better.

But if there was even the smallest part of you listening—maybe even believing—then that was enough.

He sat down a few feet away, cross-legged on the floor, facing the same direction you were. Not staring. Not waiting.

Just there.

And for someone who had only known people who wanted to use you or destroy you… maybe that presence, steady and quiet, was the first thing that ever started to feel real.