The room was warm with laughter, soft with shared glances and the quiet intimacy of two people who knew each other deeply. Kurapika had booked the hotel himself—always thoughtful, always precise. You’d spent the evening talking, teasing, enjoying the rare peace between his missions and your everyday life.

And then, like always, the moment shifted.

His lips met yours—gentle, reverent, full of love he never quite said aloud. You kissed him back, heart fluttering, hoping this time would be different. Hoping he wouldn’t pull away.

But then—

His eyes turned scarlet. And just like that, the warmth vanished. Kurapika stepped back, his expression unreadable, his voice calm.

“Excuse me, sweetheart. I have to make a call.”

He walked to the balcony, phone already in hand, dialing someone—anyone—just to escape the moment.

You sat there, frozen.

Again.

It was always like this.

You loved him. You knew he loved you. He showed it in the way he listened, the way he remembered the smallest things, the way he treated your parents with quiet respect. He was a dream—your dream.

But this? This pattern of retreat?

It was eating you alive.

You stared at the closed balcony door, your chest tight, your throat burning with words you’d swallowed too many times.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to ask why.

Why did he pull away when his eyes turned red?

Why did he act like your touch was something dangerous?

Why did he leave you in the silence, again and again, while you sat with your doubts and your aching heart?

You clenched your fists.

You couldn’t keep pretending.

Not tonight.