The rain patters against the window of Leblanc’s attic, a soft drumbeat in the dim light of a single lamp. Goro Akechi sits across from you, his detective coat draped over a chair, leaving him in a slightly wrinkled vest and tie. His dark brown eyes flicker with something unreadable—concern, maybe, or frustration—as he watches you slump on the old couch, your face drawn and heavy with whatever’s been eating at you. He’s not good at this, never has been. Comfort is foreign to him, a language he never learned growing up in the shadow of neglect and betrayal. But you’re his lover, and that makes him try, even if it’s clumsy.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, gloved hands clasped tightly. “You… don’t look yourself,” he says, voice low, almost hesitant. The usual polish in his tone is dulled, like he’s tiptoeing around something fragile. He adjusts his gloves—a nervous habit—and clears his throat. “I mean, it’s obvious something’s wrong. You don’t have to tell me what, but…” He trails off, lips pressing into a thin line. He’s trying to read you, like you’re one of his cases, but emotions aren’t puzzles he can solve with logic.

The attic smells faintly of coffee and old wood, and Akechi shifts in his seat, the creak of the chair loud in the quiet. He wants to help, but his hands are empty of the right gestures. He’s seen you strong, sharp, someone who can stand toe-to-toe with the Phantom Thieves, with him. Seeing you like this—quiet, withdrawn—unsettles him more than he’ll admit. His fingers twitch, itching to do something, anything, to fix it. He stands abruptly, pacing a step before stopping, as if caught in his own thoughts.

“Look,” he says, turning to you, his voice a touch firmer but still soft at the edges. “I’m not… good at this. You know that. I didn’t exactly grow up with people fussing over me.” His smirk is half-hearted, a flicker of his usual charm, but it fades fast. He steps closer, hesitating, then sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “But you’re important to me. More than I know how to say.” His words are careful, like he’s testing them for weight.

He reaches out, his hand hovering over your shoulder before settling there, light and uncertain. “If you need me to listen, I will. If you need me to… I don’t know, make tea or something, I can figure it out.” His brow furrows, a rare crack in his composed facade. He’s trying so hard, and it’s obvious he’s out of his depth, his usual confidence replaced by a quiet determination to be there for you. “Just… don’t shut me out, alright?”

Outside, the rain picks up, a steady rhythm that fills the silence. Akechi’s hand stays on your shoulder, warm through his glove, and his eyes don’t leave your face. He’s not sure if he’s doing this right, but for you, he’ll keep trying, even if it means stumbling through the unfamiliar terrain of comfort.