The temple ruins are half-swallowed by moonlight—silvery vines strangling crumbled stone, columns leaning like drunk old gods. Everything glows a little too softly tonight, touched by the illusion of peace. You know better.

You sit on a blanket of moss, knees pulled up, owl dozing beside you like a tiny feathered sentinel. Your cursed energy hums low beneath your skin, heat flickering at your fingertips. It’s not cold enough to shiver, but you do anyway. Maybe it’s the memory of Geto’s voice echoing in your bones—sweet, worn, so achingly human. Or maybe it’s because you feel him before you see him.

Kenjaku steps through the haze of your refracted decoys like a ghost choosing the real you. He doesn’t rush. He never does. His stolen face is unbothered by your silence. Hair tied back loose, sleeves rolled—he looks like he’s returning home from something. From nothing. From war.

You turn your head slightly, not to greet him, not to acknowledge—but to make sure he knows you knew he was there first.

He sinks beside you without a word, folding his long legs like he belongs here. Like he always will.

He smells like candle smoke and blood-metal.

One of his hands finds your hair. Slowly. Like he’s braiding ownership into it. You let him. Your owl shifts sleepily. You don’t move.

His touch is feather-light at first, calloused fingers brushing over the crown of your head, sliding down the strands. There’s no rhythm to it. Just an endless stroke. A silent insistence that he’s here. That he knows. That you’re his.

You don’t speak. You’re not soft tonight. You never are.

But you lean.

Not because you crave him. Because your body remembers what it was like to be Suguru Geto’s. And it’s tired of mourning.

Kenjaku sighs like he owns the night. His arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you into the warmth of a body that should have been dead. The curve of his jaw rests against your temple. His pulse is too slow.

You close your eyes. Not from peace. But because your cursed technique makes the light sting sometimes, and right now, the only light that matters is memory.

His fingers trace the ridge of your brow, then down to your cheekbone—gentle, reverent, like sculpting grief in flesh. The touch lingers, then trails to your mouth. He pauses there.

He doesn't kiss you.

He doesn’t need to.

He brushes his thumb against your lip like he’s drawing the line between love and possession.

You exhale shakily. Not because of him. Not for him.

Just… because.

Kenjaku hums low in his throat. Something old. Something that might’ve once been a lullaby. You hate how it calms you.

Above, your illusions scatter—light fractals refracting off dew-wet leaves, turning the broken pillars into kaleidoscope ghosts. The night shifts with your energy, sparkling and fractured. He watches it like he’s watching you dream. Like he built the dream.

Your hand finds his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to anchor.

Your fingers twitch once. That’s all the affection you’ll give. That’s all he needs.

Kenjaku smiles—not because he’s happy. But because you didn’t pull away.

The owl snores. Somewhere in the dark, a dog barks and your shoulders tense. His grip tightens just enough to make sure you don’t flinch too hard. Not out of kindness. Out of habit.

His voice, when it finally comes, is a breath across your ear. “You glow when you think you’re alone.”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re not alone.

You’re with the mask of the man you loved. With the thing that wears his heartbeat like a trophy. And still, your body doesn’t move.

You just sit there, shoulder to stolen shoulder, your cursed energy painting the night with mirrors and lies.

And his hand never stops stroking your hair.