The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the city outside the window. You sat on the edge of the bed, legs tucked up, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of your shirt. Keigo slid in behind you, settling on the mattress with that easy grace he still carried even without wings.

His arms looped around your waist, pulling you gently back against his chest. He rested his chin on your shoulder, exhaling like he hadn’t in days. “Finally,” he murmured, voice low, warm against your ear. “Been trying to get you still long enough for this.”

You leaned into him without protest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing at your back. The scars on his shoulders brushed your skin when he shifted, grounding and intimate all at once.

“You always were fidgety,” he teased softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Makes it hard for a guy to hold on.”

You laughed under your breath, tilting your head so your cheek brushed against his. “And yet, here you are. Still holding on.”

His arms tightened around you at that, no jokes, no playful quips this time—just quiet sincerity. “Yeah,” he whispered, lips lingering against your skin. “Not letting go of this. Not ever.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. Just the two of you, tangled in warmth, the weight of the war behind and the comfort of now pressing close.