“You can’t keep doing this.” Aki’s voice is raw, low enough that it vibrates through the receiver. “I have feelings too, you know. I might die because of my contract with the devils. Can’t you just come home now?”

It’s the third fight this week, but that only weighs heavier on him—because tonight, finally, you picked up after nearly twenty missed calls. He lets out a frustrated sound, collapsing back against the couch as if the cushions could hold the mess of his impatience. The phone is pressed to his ear; the room is thick with the hum of the city and the sharp ache of not knowing where you are.

Sometimes, in these small, quiet moments, doubt gnaws at him. Is this relationship wasting your time? His time? He loves you—stubborn, stupid, terrible as that makes him—and that love feels too big to be carried alone. He knows you’re cautious about touch. He knows you aren’t ready for everything he wants to give. He knows your past has built walls. He understands. But six months have passed. Six months of meals shared in silence, of him placing a bowl of rice beside you and watching you eat like it’s a ritual. Six months isn’t nothing.

“I work, you work,” he says, voice steadier now, trying to rein in the edge. “I’m a devil hunter, yes—but I make time for you. I keep coming back. I don’t want to drag you. I just… don’t make me feel like I’m begging.”

The clock somewhere in the background ticks toward midnight. He swallows and presses on, softer: “Please. Come home. Don’t be late. It’s almost twelve.”