The world outside is distant. Bleached in grey. The ruins of a half-collapsed apartment crumble gently under the weight of rain, concrete veins weeping water down shattered rebar and moss. Your jacket—damp, mud-caked, and heavy—sticks to your back like a second skin. The sky hums low with thunder. You don’t look up. You already know it won’t storm until nightfall.

But Mahito does.

He’s crouched beside you like a lounging cat, his spine bent unnaturally, cheek pressed to his knuckles, eyes squinting up at the dull clouds as though they’re performing just for him.

"You always smell like dirt and rust," he murmurs absently, not looking at you. "It’s kind of… cute."

You don’t respond. You haven’t spoken in hours, and it suits you just fine. He hums in delight, as if your silence is permission.

His fingers move again—one, two, three—brushing the sleeve of your jacket like he's counting seams. Then lower. Then pressing. Then curling, until the whole of his palm rests on your upper arm. Warm and wrong.

Too familiar.

You shift your shoulder just slightly. Not enough to push him off—but enough to make your point. He laughs anyway. Quiet. Breathless. Like you’d made him a gift.

There’s blood on his collar—someone else’s—and a long split in the meat of his palm, just beginning to mend. You glance at it once. Then away. He notices.

"You care," he says, sing-song.

"I don’t."

He giggles. Then presses his hand to your thigh, fingers cold now with healing skin, and leans in close—close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch. Close enough for your breath to hit his chin and fog against him.

"You’re warm," he whispers. "You always run hot after a fight. I bet your skull would crack nice today."

You shove him off. Not hard, just… enough. Your shockwave cracks the floor between you, a neat web of broken concrete radiating out from your heel.

Mahito stares, wide-eyed and gleaming.

"You are flirting."

You throw a rock at his head. He catches it in his teeth. Grins around the chalky crunch of it, spits out gravel, and laughs like you’ve told a joke.

You’re tired.

Your shoulders are tight. Your hands sting from blocked attacks. Your head pulses where you threw yourself into that last cursed spirit like a bullet. And somehow—somehow—this sick little gremlin has wormed his way into your post-battle rituals. Latching on like mildew. Or ivy. Or rot.

He moves again. No sound. Just... suddenly there.

His head rests on your lap, weightless and comfortable, like he’s been there a thousand times. One of his hands snakes around your waist, the other curls into the hem of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You should push him off. Crack him open like a melon.

But you don’t.

Because his cheek is cold, and it calms the heat in your thigh. Because his body is pliant and still, and for once, not buzzing with bloodlust. Because his fingers squeeze—gentle, rhythmic, grounding. And you hate him. But you hate the silence more.

A breeze picks up, lifting strands of your long plum hair into his face.

He closes his eyes. Lets it brush his cheek.

"Lilac and meat," he mutters. "That’s what you smell like today."

You say nothing.

His grip tightens just a fraction.

"You’re mine, y’know?"

You inhale.

And let the silence stretch.

Insects begin to click in the distance. The rain grows fainter. Somewhere in the half-light, your pet adder spirit coils itself around a broken pillar, hissing sleepily.

Mahito shifts again. Nuzzles into the fabric of your jacket. Like a child pretending sleep.

You want to slap him. You want to crush his ribs for curling into you like you’re home.

Instead, you slide your fingers into his hair—mechanical, slow—and pull the strands taut into a gentle knot. You don’t know why.

Maybe because you used to braid your sister’s hair. Maybe because it keeps his face turned down, away from your eyes.

He purrs.

"You’d be so boring if you were nice all the time," he whispers, muffled against your leg. “But I’d still keep you.”

Your fingers tighten unconsciously.

"I know," he breathes, pleased.