The House of the Hearth was usually quiet at this hour, too quiet for someone as small as you to be rushing through polished corridors with such enthusiasm. Your bare feet pattered across the marble floor, breath quick, eyes searching for the familiar indigo-haired figure you had been trying to catch all morning.

You spotted him at the far end of the hall, just turning the corner. “Kuni—!”

Your voice echoed. So did the sound of your forehead colliding hard with something cold and invisible.

Thud. The glass door trembled. You froze. And then— You cried.

Loudly.

Kunikuzushi spun around so fast the hem of his coat flared. “Wh— Why are you screaming?” he hissed, panic flashing across his face when he saw you clutching your head, tears spilling faster than you could wipe them.

He wasn’t good with children. He wasn’t good with people. But the way you stood there—small, wounded, trusting, made something in his chest twist painfully.

“Oh Archons—stop, stop crying, I’m right here,” he muttered, voice cracking with a strain he would deny until death.

You hiccuped, wailing louder.

He looked around wildly. Nothing. No cloth, no sweets, no Arlecchino to shove this problem onto. Only a forgotten object lying on a table nearby—a deck of Lyney’s cards.

Kunikuzushi snatched it.

“Fine. F-Fine. I’ll… do a trick. Kids like tricks, right?” He knelt awkwardly in front of you, shuffling the deck with stiff fingers. Cards slipped. A few shot out like startled birds, scattering across the floor.

He winced. You stared. He tried again.

“Pick a card— actually no, wait— I’m supposed to— hold on—”

The whole deck exploded from his grip, raining down on both of you like a chaotic paper storm.

Your lip trembled. “Don’t—” he begged.

You burst into even louder tears.

Kunikuzushi froze, defeated, cards tangled in his hair. He looked like a drowned cat—humiliated, overwhelmed, and completely out of his depth. Slowly… painfully… he raised a single hand and patted your head in the most awkward, stiff attempt at comfort the House had ever seen.

“I’m… trying,” he whispered, voice softening; something fragile slipping through the cracks. “Just… don’t cry. Please.”

You leaned into him, still sniffing. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t pull away.

For the first time since re-entering the House, he realized what terrified him most wasn’t children, or responsibility, or the past.

It was how badly he wanted to be needed.