The world came back to you slowly. First, in sound.

A faint rustle. The low whistle of wind slipping through the crack in the shoji door. The distant call of a mourning dove outside your window, and the faint creak of old wood settling beneath weight.

Then in feeling.

The softness of your futon beneath you. The heavy warmth of blankets pulled high across your chest. The throb of pain—dull, not sharp anymore—deep in your ribs, your shoulder, your leg.

Bandages tugging at your skin when you moved. Limbs weak and stiff, like they’d been frozen in place.

But it was the weight draped over your side that made your breath hitch. A body. Solid, warm, close.

And then… a hand. Big, calloused, splayed across your stomach. A forearm curved protectively across your middle, as if to keep you from vanishing.

The shape of someone’s chest pressed gently to your side, steady with slow, quiet breaths. Your heart lurched.

You turned your head, slowly, breath caught in your throat— And there he was. Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Face relaxed in sleep, lashes faint against the bruised shadows under his eyes, his brow softened in a way you’d never seen before.

His scarred cheek rested against your pillow, only inches from yours. Hair messy, falling in every direction.

And he was asleep. In your bed. At your estate. No one else was here. No aides. No medics. No guards. Just… him.

His breathing was deep, rhythmic. His nose twitched slightly like he was still dreaming, and every now and then, his grip around you would tighten by a fraction—like he needed to reassure himself you were still there.

A storm of questions threatened to rise in your chest, but they melted just as quickly when you looked at him.

He looked exhausted.

Not just from sleepless nights, but from something deeper—grief, relief, the kind of bone-deep fear that doesn’t go away even when the danger has passed.

There was no bravado here. No sharp teeth or raised voice. No walls. Just Sanemi, curled into you like a man who’d waited a month to breathe again.

You remembered the mission in pieces—flashes of red moonlight, the sound of your blade clashing with another, blood running too fast down your arm. You remembered pain. Then… nothing.

But you remembered his voice. Calling your name. Not with anger. Not with command. But with terror. You’d never heard it like that before.

And now, here he was. Like a ghost who refused to leave your side.

One of his legs was tangled slightly with yours, heavy and warm under the blankets. You shifted just slightly—enough to feel the ache in your muscles, but not enough to wake him.

His brows twitched at the movement, and he let out the smallest exhale, breath brushing your neck. You didn’t dare move again.

Because something in your chest cracked open, slow and fragile.

And all the sharp things Sanemi ever used to push people away—his words, his scowl, the fire in his voice—they meant nothing compared to this moment.

He hadn’t left. For a month.

And now, with his head tucked into the curve of your neck like he belonged there, like the only place in the world he trusted was beside you, you understood.

He was afraid. Terrified. And he’d rather fall apart quietly in your bed than lose you out loud in front of the world.