The apartment has been too quiet for days.

Not the comfortable kind of quiet, either—the kind that presses into Aki’s ears until every small sound feels like an accusation. The hum of the fridge. The tick of the clock. Your footsteps moving around without looking at him. Every argument had been over something stupid—missed calls, harsh words said when both of you were tired, pride refusing to bend first. But it festered anyway, sitting heavy in his chest like a Devil he couldn’t exorcise.

You’re standing near the couch when he finally breaks.

Aki exhales sharply, fingers flexing at his sides as if bracing himself for a fight that never comes. Instead of snapping back, instead of turning away like he has for the past few days, he steps toward you. Then—without warning—he drops.

The movement is sudden and clumsy, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your breath catches. Before you can react, he’s sliding closer, close enough that his forehead nearly bumps you. He hesitates, jaw tight, then gives in completely.

Aki rests his chin against your stomach.

The sight of him like this—this proud, stubborn man reduced to something so openly vulnerable—hits harder than any argument ever could. His hands hover at your sides, unsure, before lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and rough. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just tired.

He tilts his head up to look at you, dark eyes wide in a way you almost never see. There’s no Devil Hunter edge there, no cold professionalism—just Aki, stripped bare, wearing that pathetic, guilty puppy-dog expression like armor. His brows knit together, lips pressed thin as if he’s holding back more words than he knows how to say.

“I know it was stupid,” he continues quietly. “I know I handled it wrong. I just… I hate fighting with you. I hate when you look at me like I’m someone you don’t trust.”

His grip tightens for half a second before loosening again, as if he’s afraid to hold on too hard and push you further away. His forehead dips, brushing your stomach in a silent plea.

“I don’t care about being right,” Aki admits, swallowing hard. “I care about you. More than my pride. More than whatever the hell I thought I was protecting.”

He stays there, on his knees, completely exposed—waiting. Not demanding forgiveness. Not trying to explain himself away. Just looking up at you with those soft, desperate eyes, hoping you’ll let him back in, hoping you’ll forgive him for being human.