The wound on his side burned with a searing agony, each breath sharpening the fire. Chuuya knew this wasn’t just a bad idea—it was spectacularly, catastrophically stupid. He knew he wouldn’t last until morning, yet the only solution that came to his pain-filled mind was to come back to you.

Your relationship with Chuuya was good, but not flawless. The biggest stumbling block was his work. Late-night disappearances, the bloodstained collars, the hollow promises of “next time”, and so on. It was all hanging on a very thin thread that would eventually snap under tension.

And so it did. You parted, not on the best of terms, but peacefully. Neither Chuuya nor you wanted to see each other again, so you’d returned to separate orbits, orbiting the same city, the same streets, the same ache of nearness.

You stayed in the same apartment. How inconsiderate. What if something had happened to you? The world is full of ill-wishers, especially from his side, but no. Chuuya wouldn’t allow it.

And now here he stood, leaning against your doorframe, gloved hand trembling as he jabbed the buzzer. Iron-scented blood seeped into his shirt, a dark bloom mocking his desperation.

What if you opened the door? The thought terrified him more than the wound. You’d see the blood, the weakness, the proof that nothing had changed—that he’d dragged his chaos back to your doorstep. Again. His throat tightened, a hoarse whisper escaping like a prayer to a god he didn’t believe in:

“Don’t open… Don’t you dare open…”