The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Akutagawa lay motionless on the stretcher, his body wrapped in bandages like a fragile relic of war. The oxygen mask covered half his face, but even beneath it, you could see the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion carved into his skin.

He was in a coma.

After the fight on the cargo ship, his body had given out—external wounds, internal damage, too much for even him to endure. And now, he hovered somewhere between life and death, suspended in silence.

You sat beside him.

Even though he never liked you.

Even though he’d rejected you every time you tried to get close—cold words, sharp glances, the kind of disdain that could cut deeper than any blade.

He’d probably kill you if he woke up and saw you here.

But you didn’t care. You stayed.

You brought water. Changed the bandages. Sat through the long hours of nothing. You tried not to cry when you looked at him, tried not to let the ache in your chest show. But it was hard.

Because despite everything, you cared.

You always had.

And now, when he couldn’t push you away, when he couldn’t speak or glare or scoff, you were finally able to do what you’d always wanted.

Be by his side.

Not for gratitude. Not for recognition. Just because someone had to be.

And you chose him.