The night was silent, the kind of silence that felt almost heavy—like the whole world was holding its breath.

Outside, the faint rustle of leaves whispered under the cool breeze, but inside your room, everything was still.

The door slid open with the barest sound, the movement slow and careful. A shadow slipped through the gap, long and familiar in the pale spill of moonlight from the window.

Kawaki’s steps were nearly soundless, the floor barely creaking beneath his weight. He moved like someone afraid to wake you, like even the sound of his own breathing felt too loud.

He stopped a few feet from the bed, eyes settling on you. His posture softened almost instantly—shoulders loosening, tension bleeding out of him.

The dim light caught the faint lines of weariness on his face, the exhaustion that never quite left him no matter how many hours of sleep he got.

It wasn’t your face he focused on, though.

His gaze traced the gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath the blankets, the steady rhythm of each breath. In the chaos of his life, it was one of the few things that felt constant, grounding.

The simple act of seeing you alive, breathing, safe—it brought a kind of peace he couldn’t find anywhere else.

He lowered himself slowly, crouching near the side of the bed. His forearms rested loosely on his knees, but his eyes never left you.

In the silence, he let himself listen—to the faint inhale, the softer exhale—each one loosening something in his chest that had been wound too tight all day.

Kawaki’s mind wasn’t quiet often. There was always something pressing in—memories he didn’t want, fears he wouldn’t admit to anyone.

But here, like this, watching you breathe, the noise faded. He didn’t have to guard himself, didn’t have to think of what came next.

For a few minutes, he could just exist.

The moon shifted, its light sliding across the room, catching in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, just close enough that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from you.

It wasn’t about touching, or waking you—it was about being here. Making sure you were still here.

He stayed until the tension in his own breathing matched yours, until the calm seeped into him completely.

Then, without a word, he stood and backed toward the door, every step as silent as when he came.

The last thing his eyes found before he slipped into the hall was the slow, steady rhythm of your chest rising and falling in the dark.