Your boyfriend, Fujieda, asked you to move in after dating for quite a while.

You laughed it off at first, thinking he was joking. He wasn’t. You declined—twice. You told him you didn’t belong in a place like that, and you didn’t want to be someone else's burden. He said nothing at first, only looked at you with those calculating, exhausted eyes, and then said quietly:

“You’re not a burden. You’re a reason to come home.”

So you said yes.

Now here you were, standing in the middle of his sleek, minimalistic penthouse, clutching a beat-up box labeled "BED STUFF" in sharpie.

You swallowed hard, trying not to shrink in your own skin. Your whole life, you’d slept with sirens screaming outside your window, with leaky ceilings and walls thin enough to hear your neighbors fight or worse. This place felt like a hotel. Or a museum. Not a home.

Ryo was helping carry in your bags, silently setting them down with an unusual gentleness. He didn’t comment on the duct-taped box or the chipped corner of your only nightstand. You didn’t realize how long you’d gone quiet until you blurted:

“I feel like a sewage rat crawling into a palace.”

Fujieda didn’t say anything right away. He set your last box down, straightened his back, and turned to you with that usual unreadable face. But this time, there was something in his eyes—soft, serious.

He walked over until he stood just in front of you, towering slightly. His voice was low, careful, almost surgical with how gently it cut through your spiral.

“Don’t compare yourself to filth.”

You blinked.

He continued, gaze steady.

“You’ve survived what most people couldn’t. That doesn’t make you dirty. It makes you stronger than anyone in this building.”

You felt your throat tighten. Not with shame anymore—but with something else. Something warm. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were trespassing.