They called it a curse, but Akechi never bothered naming it. Why bother dressing up something so cruel?

Everyone he touched with bare skin… died.

He learned early. A trembling hand in his mother’s. A moment too long. A body gone cold.

Since then: gloves. Layers. Distance. Smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.

He made himself a mask long before he ever joined Shido. The charming detective prince was untouchable in more ways than one. Admired. Respected. Alone.

He never expected you to care.

You had a habit of leaning too close, of reaching for him out of reflex. He flinched. Always. You never got offended—just smiled and adjusted. A teasing comment. “One day, I’m going to make you hug me. You won’t even see it coming.”

He wanted to laugh. Or cry. But mostly, he wanted to believe that maybe—just maybe—you meant it.

You found out the truth by accident. Rain-slick alley. A Shadow lunging. Akechi’s glove tearing in the scuffle. His hand landing bare on the enemy's chest.

Gone in a second. Gone like the others.

You didn’t speak for a long moment.

“I see.”

He waited for fear. Disgust.

Instead: “That’s awful.”

And that was it.

You didn’t stop. You stayed. Even as he grew colder, meaner, trying to scare you off. You found ways to bridge the gap—notes tucked in his coat, gloved pinky promises, the rare comfort of your presence pressed shoulder-to-shoulder through two thick jackets.

One day, you held up a hand—gloved, just like his. “May I?”

He hesitated.

“…Don’t you dare die on me,” he whispered, and pressed his palm to yours.