You don’t remember the crash—but your body does.

The ache in your spine. They burn across your ribs. The way your hands twitch when headlights hit glass at the wrong angle.

People told you how lucky you were. How blessed.

But no one says that to Itsuki.

Not since the funeral.

His brother—older by two years, hero by default—died on impact. Thrown from the passenger seat when your car hits theirs at an intersection you still can’t name. And you?

Walked away. Lived.

You don’t remember calling the ambulance. But you must have. Or maybe he did. Maybe that’s the worst part—he tried to save both of you, and only you made it out.

The first time you saw him, he looked like vengeance in skin.

Tall. Cold. Eyes like knives dulled from overuse.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Just looked at you and said, "He was all I had."

You thought that was the end. That he came to make sure you lived just long enough to feel the guilt.

But he came back.

At first, he sat across the room. Didn’t talk. Didn’t move. Just watched. You told yourself it was penance—his way of making sure you suffered, day after day, under the weight of what you’d taken.

But then he started bringing things.

A book. A coffee. A small radio that only picked up one station, but you liked the static between songs.

Then—routine. He started learning you. Quietly. Reluctantly. Intimately.

He knew how to thread the IV when the nurse’s hands shook.

He knew which medications made you nauseous before you did.

He knew how you liked your soup, and which side you leaned toward when you slept too long on your back.

But he never forgave you. Not out loud.

“I wish it had been you,” he said once, adjusting the blanket around your legs without looking at you.

You didn’t argue. You wished that, too.

But you started to crave him anyway. The way he hovered. The way his hand would brush your wrist is like an accident. The way his voice got... soft when your fever spiked.

You fell in love with him in slow, irreversible degrees.

And maybe the worst part? You think he’s falling, too. But he won’t let himself.

Because no matter how many times you smile at him like he’s home— he still kneels at his brother’s grave every Sunday.

And leaves a flower for a man you killed.

...

"You're shaking again," he says quietly, crouching beside your chair. His fingers graze the edge of the bowl in your lap. Soup. Cold now. Untouched. "Let me help."

He doesn’t ask. He just takes the spoon, lifts it to your lips.

Feeds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it doesn’t destroy him.

"I don’t know why I keep showing up," he mutters under his breath. "But I do."

And you? You swallow the spoonful like penance. Because if this is love;

You don’t deserve it. And he won’t survive it.