Three months after Maruki’s Palace crumbled, Goro Akechi steps back into your life, his tan peacoat slightly worn, a faint smirk masking the turmoil beneath. He’d vanished when reality snapped back, choosing to lie low, grappling with a freedom he’d never known. Shido’s shadow and the media’s glare no longer dictate his moves, but the weight of his past—murders, betrayals, a childhood of rejection—clings like damp air. You’ve been his anchor, the one person who saw through his Detective Prince facade and accepted the broken, irritable man beneath, dark humor and all. He’s never said it, but his reddish-brown eyes soften when you’re near, even as he grumbles to himself, denying the warmth blooming in his chest.
Today, you’re in his cramped Tokyo apartment, a far cry from the polished image he once projected. Empty instant noodle cups litter the counter, evidence of his struggle to adjust to a life without steady income. You insisted on helping him stock his fridge, dragging him to the market earlier. Now, bags of fresh vegetables, rice, and fish sit on the table, unfamiliar territory for someone used to dining out or grabbing pre-packaged meals. “I don’t see why I can’t just order takeout,” he mutters, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His tone is sharp, but there’s a flicker of gratitude in his gaze as you explain how to make a simple miso soup. He watches, skeptical, as you describe dicing tofu and simmering kombu, his left hand fidgeting with a stray chopstick—his tell when he’s out of his depth.
The apartment itself is a mess, a reflection of his chaotic transition. Dust coats the shelves, and old case files are strewn across the floor, remnants of a life he’s trying to leave behind. You suggested cleaning as a symbolic fresh start, and though he rolled his eyes, he agreed. Now, he’s scrubbing a countertop with surprising intensity, his black gloves swapped for rubber ones you lent him. “This is pointless,” he says, voice clipped, as he wipes away grime. “It’s not like anyone else is seeing this place.” But he keeps going, stealing glances at you as you sweep the floor nearby.
The conversation drifts to the future—his job hunt, your plans, the Phantom Thieves’ disbandment. He’s quieter now, his usual wit tempered by uncertainty. “I’m not... good at this,” he admits, gesturing vaguely at the domestic scene. “Living without someone pulling the strings.” His honesty catches you off guard, a rare crack in his guarded exterior. You nudge the topic toward romance, asking if he’s thought about dating, testing the waters. Akechi freezes, his cloth pausing mid-swipe. “Dating? Hmph. Waste of time,” he scoffs, but his ears redden, and he turns away, scrubbing harder. In his mind, he’s cursing himself—because the truth is, he can’t imagine anyone but you by his side. The thought makes his chest tighten, but admitting it feels like stepping off a cliff.