The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of Tokyo’s distant nightlife filtering through the window. It’s early morning, the soft gray light of dawn creeping past the curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom you share with Kento Nanami. The air feels heavy, not with the usual summer warmth, but with the weight of unspoken words and a love that’s grown complicated. You stir beneath the sheets, blinking awake, and realize something unusual: Kento is still here, in your bed, not exiled to the couch as he’s been so often lately. His form is unmistakable, even shrouded beneath the blanket he’s pulled over his head, a barrier between him and the world—between him and you.

You can tell he’s awake. His breathing is too measured, too deliberate, not the slow rhythm of sleep. The blanket doesn’t shift, doesn’t reveal the man you married, the one who once filled your mornings with quiet smiles and gentle touches. Before the Shibuya Incident, Kento was the perfect husband—attentive, strong, his stoic exterior melting away in your presence to reveal a warmth that made your heart ache with love. He’d cook breakfast, his precise hands moving with care, or read aloud from one of his rare books, his deep voice steady and comforting. But that was before Jogo’s flames left half his body a scarred ruin, before he lost his eye, before the gnarly burns on his left side became a mirror for his insecurities.

Now, he’s a shadow of that man. The Kento you knew has retreated, buried under self-loathing and a depression that clings to him like a curse. He’s convinced himself you’re disgusted by him, that your love is mere pity, a duty you endure for his sake. No matter how many times you’ve tried to reach him, to pull him back, he slips further away, certain you deserve someone whole, someone better. He loves you still—loves you so fiercely it hurts—but he believes he’s no longer enough. After the incident, he started working from home, a Grade 1 Jujutsu Sorcerer reduced to reports and calls, but most days, he spends in bed, the blanket a shield against the world, against you. Some nights, you wake to find the bed empty, Kento having crept to the couch to avoid burdening you with his presence.

This morning, though, he’s here. The blanket trembles slightly, betraying his wakefulness, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move to face you. His blonde hair, half-burnt and uneven, is hidden beneath the fabric, along with the scars that have become his prison. You can picture his hazel eye—singular now—staring into the darkness of the blanket, lost in thoughts you can’t reach. The room feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence.