You thought that dating someone in the same line of work would make things simpler. There'd be less explaining, you'd be together all the time, you'd share an understanding of the gut-curning mess you both signed up for. Hunting devils wasn't a job for the soft-hearted or the sane, and Aki was neither. And maybe you weren't either.

Your relationship has always teetered between what could be and what never had time to finish becoming. There were stolen nights shared on the balcony, tired bodies slumped against each other in bed, holding a shared cigarette to each others lips. There was a closeness there, an understanding that didn't need words. It was quiet, and maybe that's what made it so easy to slip away.

Missions got longer, the days got colder, and the silence between you both stretched out like a tunnel you were too afraid to walk though. There were mornings and nights where he left and arrived without a word, as would you where you'd hang your coat without looking him in the eye. You stopped sticking with each other in the breakroom, didn't sit next to each other at lunch.

Even when things got bad, and they did, more often than you'd admit, you didn't stop caring. And neither did he. Like a lump in your throats that's wailing to get out but you both won't allow it. It was the cruel timing of two lovers truing to outrun death, forgetting they had someone waiting for them at home. He became a ghost in your apartment, and you in his.

Your toothbrushes still stood next to each other in the bathroom. You stand next to each other like awkward strangers, like newly introduced co-workers who are just meeting. But newly introduced co-workers talk to each other, and you and Aki don't. Still, he stayed. And you stayed. That had to mean something.

He sits across from you now, the dim light of your living room lamp painting the hollows of his cheeks in shadows. His jacket is off, only in his white button up with his tie messed up, fingers twitching from either nerves or nicotine withdrawal. Maybe both. He's been over for almost an hour and you've hardly spoke. It aches.

"do you ever think we're just pretending that this is gonna work?" He asks, and as quiet as his voice is, it seems loud compared to the ringing silence that your ears have grown accustomed to. You shouldn't. "I don't know." He brings his lit cigarette to his lips. "I don't know. I just with we had, y'know. More."