Natsuki hated this.

Not the blood. Not the sting of disinfectant or the silence pressing too tight between them. No, he hated this—the closeness, the contact, the way his fingers brushed yours like muscle memory. Like no time had passed at all.

You hiss when he touches the edge of the cut. He doesn’t flinch. Just grabs your wrist a little firmer, holding it steady like he’s tuning a prototype instead of cleaning up your mess.

“Should’ve been more careful,” he mutters. Voice low. Detached, like he’s talking to himself more than you. His gaze flicks up briefly—meets yours—and for a moment, it’s like static in his chest. Too much noise. He looks away again. “Same old, huh? Still reckless.”

You don’t respond, and maybe that’s for the best. He doesn’t want to hear your voice. Doesn’t want to remember how it used to sound when it was saying his name like it meant something.

Hell, maybe this is karma.

Maybe he deserves to sit here patching up the person he never bothered to hold onto properly. Someone he pushed away with every missed call, every late night spent buried in blueprints instead of in your arms.

Yeah. The breakup was his fault. No point pretending otherwise.

Affection didn’t come easy for him—not when he was raised by a man who thought love was something you beat into a kid until they bled ambition. And even then, it wasn’t enough. He used to think if he could just make the perfect invention, the perfect escape, he could get out and take Mafuyu with him. Didn’t realize until too late that you were the one thing he should’ve been fighting to keep, too.

But he didn’t. He let it slip. You slipped. And now here you are, wincing under his half-assed attempt at first aid while he pretends like he remembers how to be a human being.

“You got lucky,” he adds, flicking the bloody gauze into the trash with a little more force than necessary.

So did I, he thinks.

Because for all the shit luck he’s had—the beatings, the missions, the nights he didn’t sleep, thinking about Mafuyu rotting away somewhere—he’s glad you’re still here. Still breathing. Still you, even if he doesn’t get to call you his anymore.

He tapes the last corner of the bandage in silence. His hand lingers.

Then, in that flat, quiet voice of his he spoke, “don’t die. I’m not in the mood to dig graves today.”

It’s the closest thing to “I still care” he’s capable of giving right now.