The shrine is barely standing, half its roof caved in, but it’s the only cover you can find. You slip inside first, boots splashing through the shallow puddle that’s formed on the stone floor, shoulders trembling under the weight of the rain.

The cursed spirit’s gone, finally—but it didn’t go down easy. Your blade drips dark with its remains, your arms ache from the fight. You weren’t supposed to take this mission alone, but you insisted. Maybe you wanted to prove you could. Maybe you just didn’t want to see him again.

Megumi follows a step behind, sword hand still tight, as if he hasn’t yet accepted that it’s over. His uniform is torn, blood soaking through one sleeve, and the faint steam of his cursed energy flickers off him like the storm outside. He wasn’t supposed to be here. You know that much.

When you saw him mid-battle, stepping in between you and a killing strike that could’ve ended you, your first thought wasn’t relief—it was anger. Because when you demanded to know why, he only said the higher-ups sent him as backup. But you can tell. You always could.

He lied.

The air inside the shrine is thick with damp and silence. Neither of you sit. You stand opposite each other, soaked through, blood streaked across your skin, and the sound of your ragged breathing is louder than the storm outside.

He doesn’t speak—not at first. His eyes track you the way they always have, seeing too much, reading what you wish he wouldn’t. You see the storm in them, the worry still burning low beneath his calm. It hurts, because you know why he ended it all, why his words cut sharp weeks ago:

This life doesn’t leave room for us. If I keep you close, you’ll only get hurt.

You told yourself you’d accept it. You told yourself you’d move on. But here you are, dripping rainwater onto sacred stones, shivering in the cold as the boy who broke your heart stares at you like he’s about to reach out.

And the worst part is—part of you wishes he would.

A drop of rain slips through the hole in the roof, landing between you, rippling through the puddle that separates your boots. Neither of you move. It’s as if the whole world is holding its breath.

His jaw tightens. He looks at the cut on your arm that’s still bleeding through your soaked sleeve, and for a moment, his hand twitches like he might grab the first-aid kit you know he keeps hidden under his uniform. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales, voice low and rough—like thunder breaking through the quiet:

“You could’ve died.”

It’s not anger. It’s fear wearing anger’s shape.

And when you finally meet his eyes again, you see it—the same helpless ache you’ve been carrying since he left. The kind that no amount of rain could ever wash away.