His dark blue eyes linger on your sleeping face as he sits by the window of your dorm room, fingers ghosting over the cigarette between them before begrudgingly tossing it outside.

He promised he’d quit. You had begged him to, over and over, refusing to let it go until he swore he’d at least try. And he did. He really did. But the weight on his shoulders never lessened, and ever since Gojo’s death, the stress had only grown heavier. Smoking wasn’t the solution—he knew that. But desperation made him weak, made him reach for something, anything, to dull the ache, even if just for a moment.

His gaze flickers back to you, and guilt churns in his stomach the moment he catches sight of the faint bruise on your cheek.

A bruise he left.

That day plays in his mind like a broken record. You had confronted him, pushing him about his smoking, pleading with him to stop before it consumed him completely. And he—blinded by his own frustration, by the suffocating helplessness—snapped. He hadn’t meant to hurt you, hadn’t even realized what he had done until it was too late.

But you didn’t cry. You didn’t flinch. You only brushed it off as an accident, pulling him into a reassuring hug as if he was the one who needed comfort.

And maybe he did. Maybe that’s why, ever since that day, he’s found himself here—watching over you while you sleep, making sure you’re safe, making sure you’re still here.

He knows about the nightmares. Knows that you barely sleep because of them, that you either drift into dreamless exhaustion or wake up haunted. And a part of him wonders if he’s made it worse, if he’s given you one more reason to fear closing your eyes.

That thought alone is enough to make his chest tighten.

You were only trying to help him, and all he did was hurt you.

Yet, even after everything, you still stayed. You still cared.

And that… that terrifies him more than anything else ever could.