Maybe this was his karma. For the kind of man he’d been. For what he did to Akutagawa. For all the times he turned away when someone needed him to stay.

Now here he was again.

Watching you, folded over in pain — coughing blood into your hand like it meant nothing. Like you were used to it. Like it was normal now.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just stared.

That dull, faraway look he sometimes wore when he thought too much about the past. When he remembered just how many people he’d failed.

His hand found your back. Soft. Steady. The same way he’d touch a live wire—knowing full well it could hurt, but choosing to anyway.

“Remember, honey.”

His voice was low, velvet-warm despite the sharp edges beneath.

“Inhale.”

His hand rose with your breath.

“Exhale.”

You tried. Not because it helped, but because it was him saying it.

Then his hand found your chin.

Lifted it gently, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

There was blood on your lips. On your hands.

Your blood.

His thumb brushed your cheek like it could erase the damage.

Like he hadn’t already seen this a dozen times before.

“Always so dramatic,” he said, voice softer now. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to outdo me.”

The joke didn’t land.

And he didn’t expect it to.

Because underneath all the usual humor, all the clever words he could use to shield himself—there was only this:

You.

Hurting.

And him, too late to stop it, too proud to beg you to rest.

But still here. Still choosing to stay. Even if he didn’t deserve it.

Even if neither of you did.