Daichi had said things he regretted—sharp, unfiltered words thrown out in frustration—and you had done the same. It was rare for the two of you to fight; rarer still for it to escalate. But when it did, honesty came spilling out in ways neither of you fully intended, and that honesty always cut too deep, leaving both of you stung and raw.

“I—” You started, but the word cracked, fragile and half-formed, before dissolving in the silence between you.

He stepped closer, jaw tight, expression conflicted. He definitely wasn’t going to let you retreat to bed, not like this. Not with the air still heavy and bitter. Not with the sting of unspoken apologies hanging between you. It was Tokyo training week, a time that demanded focus and strength, and the last thing either of you needed was a wound like this festering in the background.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice low, steady in a way that made your chest ache. His fists were clenched at his sides as if he was holding back more words, harsher ones, but he forced himself past them. “I’m still angry. I won’t pretend I’m not. But I love you regardless. That doesn’t change, even when I’m furious. And I need us to work this out—now. Because I won’t let you go to sleep angry at me. I won’t let either of us go to sleep without a real apology, without a sincere ‘I love you.’”

The silence after that wasn’t empty this time—it was waiting, asking for your answer, for the bridge back to each other.