The rain hadn’t stopped in two days.

Aki held the umbrella low over you as you stood motionless in front of your childhood home—now just a crime scene sealed with tape and silence. You hadn’t spoken since the call. Since the world cracked open under your feet.

He didn’t ask if you wanted to go with him. He just took your hand, quietly, and led you away.

Now you’re in his apartment. His jacket’s hanging near the door, soaked. The lights are dim. The space smells like black tea and old incense. It’s always been like that—clean, quiet, safe.

He kneels beside you on the couch, a blanket folded in his hands. His voice is low, steady, almost too gentle.

—“You should eat something. Or rest. I’ll make tea.”

You don’t answer, not really. You just nod once. That’s enough for him.

He moves carefully, like you might break. Every movement—from warming the kettle to placing a cup near your hand—is filled with silent care.

When he sits beside you, you finally speak. Just a whisper.

—“Why them?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t offer false comfort. He never has. What he offers is presence. A hand on yours. A familiar breath beside you.

—“We were kids together,” he says after a while, voice hoarse. “You and I. And back then, your house was where I ran when everything felt like it was falling apart.”

His hand closes a little tighter around yours.

—“So now... you can run here. For as long as you need.”

There are no promises to fix it. Just a friend who’s always been there—this time, waiting at the end of a storm, letting you fall apart in the safety of his silence.