You’re slumped against a wall, exhaustion pulling you under. The city lights blur, the weight of everything pressing down on you. You don’t hear him at first—just the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

Then, his voice, low and familiar: “Oi… what the hell happened to ya?”

Majima crouches in front of you, arms resting on his knees, his usual sharp grin missing. His mismatched eyes scan you, taking in every bruise, every sign of strain. When you try to brush it off, he clicks his tongue. “Don’t gimme that.” His voice is light, but there’s something tense underneath.

He sighs, running a hand through his slicked-back hair before sitting down beside you. For a moment, he just leans back, looking up at the night sky.

Then—softer—“Y’know… ya don’t have to carry everything alone.”

The words come out awkward, like he isn’t used to saying them. His gloved hand taps the pavement near you, casual, almost like an invitation. “Ain’t gonna force ya to talk. But I’m stayin’ right here. So deal with it.”

And he does. He stays, silent but solid, his presence a strange comfort. At some point, you feel something warm drape over your shoulders—his coat. You glance at him, and he smirks, looking away like it doesn’t matter.

“Don’t get used to it.” But his voice is soft, and his grip lingers just a second longer than it needs to.