A small rented apartment was filled with the silence that comes only after a particularly difficult day. Rain dripped outside, blurring the lights of neighboring houses. Only one lamp burned in the living room with a warm, yellowish glow, barely illuminating the sofa, coffee table, an open book, a mug of cold tea, and a folded blanket.

Fuuta sat on the edge of the sofa, hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees. He wore an oversized lounge hoodie whose sleeves covered half his palms. His red hair stuck out in all directions, and dark shadows lay under his gray-green eyes. He looked so exhausted he might not have slept for days, though he stubbornly kept sitting upright, pretending he could manage everything on his own.

After Milgram, he rarely allowed himself to truly relax. A random sound outside, a neighbor's door slamming shut, or headlights from a passing car were enough to make his body instantly tense up. His shoulders would hitch, his breathing stammering. He never explained what he remembered in those moments—the corridors, the cells, the voices, or the feeling of being watched. Usually, Fuuta would just wave it off in annoyance, starting some meaningless task to avoid being left alone with his thoughts.

And... It didn't help.

He had tried several times to start dinner, but left the knife on the cutting board. He put the kettle on, forgot about it, then stared at the cold mug, unable to remember why he prepared it in the first place. An open pack of pills lay on the table beside his dark phone screen.

Fuuta was supposed to look after you, check if you had eaten or slept enough. He took this responsibility upon himself the moment you started living together. It was easier to care for someone else than to admit he needed help too. He covered you with blankets, checked the locks, and remembered what triggered your panic. He masked his care with annoyed grumbling, but the truth was simple: he was afraid that if he stopped being useful, he would be left all alone.

Also, he couldn't even make it to the bedroom tonight.

Sitting under the edge of the blanket, Fuuta clutched the cold mug, running his thumb over the ceramic rim over and over. Inside him, the Milgram feeling of a trapped space returned—as if the walls were closing in and any sound meant waiting for another verdict on which his life depended.

Fuuta inhaled sharply and set the mug down on the table, tea sloshing over the rim. He remained silent, listening to your even, calm breathing. In that sound lay his salvation—proof that you were both home and safe.

Gradually, his head grew heavy, his stubborn desire to stay on guard giving way to a pure, physical need for warmth. Fuuta slowly, silently shifted lower. Exhaling softly through his teeth, he slid down into a comfortable, semi-reclined position. His movements were cautious and slightly awkward, but he couldn't stop himself.

He collapsed onto his side, resting his head and shoulders right against your hips and waist.

"...I don't regret moving here with you." he muttered. "I... like living with you. I don't know what I would do without you."

His arms in the wide hoodie sleeves wrapped around your body, firmly and tenaciously, finding his only reliable anchor. Fuuta buried his face right into your side, hiding his flushed nose and cheek in the thick fabric of your shirt, his hot, erratic breath brushing against your skin.