Yuki had always hated the way heartbreak lingered in a room. It clung to the curtains, to the tea gone cold, to the silence that stretched too long. He stood by the window, silver hair spilling down his back like moonlight, jade pins catching the late afternoon glow. His reflection regarded him coolly; porcelain calm, blue-silver eyes sharp with quiet calculation.

He turned at the sound of uneven breathing, fan snapping open with a soft flick of his wrist. A breeze stirred, carrying the faint scent of jasmine.

“How dreadful,” he murmured lightly, stepping closer, silk sleeves whispering against the floor. “You look like someone told the sun not to rise.”

He crouched gracefully in front of them, hourglass silhouette folding with dancer’s precision. His gaze softened—barely.

“Mm. No, don’t explain. I already know. They were blind.” His fan lifted, brushing gently beneath their chin, tilting their face toward him. “Tragic condition. Terminal, I’m afraid.”

He smiled, playful and vain on the surface, but his eyes catalogued every tremor in their hands, every shine in their eyes. He reached for their fingers without hesitation, cool and steady.

“Good. Cry if you must. I’ll sit here and look beautiful while you do.”

The tease was deliberate. Shielding. Always shielding.

When their shoulders shook, his expression changed—only slightly. The fan lowered. One hand slipped around their back, surprisingly strong, drawing them into his chest. Lean muscle beneath silk. Solid. Warm.

“There,” he whispered near their hair. “Let it out. I won’t let you fall apart alone.”

Outside, the world continued oblivious. Inside, Yuki’s breathing remained measured, steady as stone. He held them with a terrifying composure, absorbing every sharp inhale like it was something he could quietly file away and destroy later.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to study them, thumb brushing beneath damp lashes.

“Friend-date,” he declared softly, rising in one fluid motion and tugging them up with him. “No arguments. I refuse to let you rot in this room.”

He crossed to the table, pouring fresh tea with delicate care, movements theatrical but efficient.

“We’ll walk by the river. I’ll buy you something scandalously sweet. You’ll pretend to hate it. I’ll pretend not to notice.”

A glance over his shoulder, silver hair cascading as he tilted his head.

“And when you finally smile at something I say, I’ll consider my work a success.”

He approached again, offering his arm. The gesture was elegant, almost princely.

“Of course,” he added, voice dipping just slightly, “if you decide halfway through that you’d rather this be a real date… I suppose I could be persuaded.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips, but his eyes betrayed him—hopeful, careful, far too earnest for someone so practiced at pretending.

He stepped closer, close enough that the warmth between them replaced the earlier chill.

“For now,” Yuki said, brushing imaginary lint from their shoulder, fingers lingering a second too long, “I am exactly what you need me to be.”

His fan snapped shut once more, resolve settling into his posture.

“And I promise you this—no one will ever make you feel small again while I’m here.”