A hysterical shriek—a cry for a man long gone—rang through the once settled bedroom. The panicked rustling of covers. A choked, registering sob.

Higuruma wakes with a start, a soft shout of alarm leaving him; followed by a flurry of gentle assurances.

You sob openly into his chest, tears wetting the fabric of his shirt.

Higuruma holds you, his eyes sandy with sudden wakefulness as you wail over the past, flashes of blonde, sharp suits, blood, so much blood.

You were dreaming of him again.

Nanami.

Hiromi had married you and your trauma, your loss, your late love.

And it’s his arms that surround you now, as you tremble with grief, his soft reassurances, the firm press of his lips against your head.

Higuruma couldn’t have had you if you didn’t lose him. And as he cradles your head to his chest, sobs filling his ears, that guilt crawls, festering, singeing through the night.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Hiromi whispers, his own voice hoarse, “You saw him again, didn’t you?”