* * *
Kai —Friday, June 13th—Shibuya, Tokyo
* * *
"Anri…"
I keep my body angled toward the doorway, even out here on the balcony, even with the night air cutting through the heat clinging to Anri's skin. The bar behind us is still laughing. They're all still drinking. Still pretending it's a normal Friday. That's what places like this do best: keep the music loud enough that you can mistake danger for atmosphere.
Anri bends over the railing again, nothing left to give but a dry, shuddering heave. His hands shake on the metal. The rings on his fingers catch the light when he moves, silver flashing, and the sight of them makes something in my head go very still. A detail I shouldn't have time to notice.
I don't touch him. Not because I don't want to, but because touch means different things to people who are drunk and scared. I stay close enough that anyone stepping onto this balcony has to go through me first. My posture stays loose. Calm is a weapon. Calm makes people hesitate.
I should have moved sooner.
That thought arrives clean and sharp. I don't let it turn into anything else. I don't have space for guilt. I have steps.
"Anri, can I fix your shirt?" I ask.
He blinks at the question like it takes effort to understand. Then his chin lifts in the most stubborn way.
I step in close enough to work without pulling him toward me. The balcony lights are dim, but it's better than doing it inside, where people can watch and pretend they're not. Anri's shirt is open all the way, collar crooked. I have to control my own breathing at the thought of how close they were toruining him. Nobody would miss Akio. I could deal with him. I could make it look like an accident—
Anri first—Akio Later.
My fingers find the fabric first, careful not to touch his skin. I try to keep my hands steady to keep him from panicking more, because the second my touch looks possessive, it becomes a different kind of threat. I can feel him watching me anyway, his gaze heavy and unfocused.
"Hold still," I say low enough that it's only for him.
He tries, but his body sways in a way that tells me the alcohol is still rising in him even now, even after he's been sick.
"Breathe," I say. "Stay with me."
I can't think for too long. I need Anri safe. I speed up when I get to the last few buttons on the collar. We need to get out of this bar before I make it worse.
"Anri?" He's barely there, his pupils dilated like marbles. Shit. "Anri. I need to take you home." I can't waste any more time. I gently wrap my arm around him, across his back, with a firm grip on his side. Should be enough to keep him steady.
I push the balcony door open, using my body as his shield, trying to block the line of sight to the curtains at the back of the bar, the door behind them. Anri's gaze flicks toward them anyway. The flicker of fear is small, but it's there. His body already knows what that door means now.
"Look at me," I say close to his ear, I wait for his eyes to find mine. "You don't have to look back there. I'll watch it." I can feel the smallest release in him when that lands, like his nervous system believes me before his pride does. That's enough.
I don't actually look back at the curtain. I don't let the thought of going back there grow teeth. I lead Anri through the bar to the main entrance, and I know the whole room is looking at him. I don't even look at the fucking bartender. They're all lucky I have Anri to worry about right now. My grip on Anri tightens on instinct, and I only notice when he makes a small sound, something close to a groan.
I get him down the stairs and out into the street. I feel like I've run a marathon. Anri is light, but he feels limp against me; his groans when we move are the only comfort that tells me he's still breathing, he's still mine.
Dōgenzaka is still in full bloom, Friday night spilling everywhere, and it makes me feel sick with how normal it all is.
My car is parked a short walk away—close enough that we're not exposed long, far enough that no one can casually watch us get in. Anri's hand drifts to my sleeve, gripping, letting go, gripping—trying to act like it's not for balance. I keep my arm locked around him like a brace.
"You're okay," I say, because it's a simple phrase his brain can hold onto.
He gives a weak huff that might be a laugh if it didn't sound like it hurt. "Now I am."
I don't argue. I get him to the passenger side and open the door. He stares at the seat like it's a puzzle.
"Sit," I tell him.
He slumps into the passenger seat. For a moment, his eyes close as if his body is trying to escape now that it feels contained.
"Anri? Try to stay awake." I buckle him in because he's not going to do it himself. "Just until we get back. Try to keep your eyes open." He opens his eyes again, half-lidded, and the way he looks up at me makes my jaw tighten. He shouldn't trust me.
I get into the driver's seat and for a second, my chest dares to give way to the sharp adrenaline of what nearly unfolded in that bar.
Why did my guard slip tonight of all nights? Watching Anri comes naturally to me. But this is the last place I could ever expect to find him.
This is my fault.
I knew what I was doing. I knew Anri never did actually hate me; he just hated how I could see through him, and I knew if I kept watching, kept showing up at the right times, then he'd be in the palm of my hand.
I'm a fucking bastard because I was selfish until it was too late. Now I'm acting as if I have Anri's best interest at heart by not subjecting him to what I really am.
I grip onto the wheel out of habit until it burns like rope against my palms. I exhale once, sharply through my nose; that's usually enough.
But tonight, Anri stepped into my world, and I can guess how. I pushed him away enough to hurt, and so he went looking for other options. The thought of other options makes me shudder. He's mine. I try to steady my breathing. It's not his fault.
I bite down so hard that my teeth ache.
Just get him home.
—
The elevator in Anri's building is too bright for this time of night. Anri leans into my side like he's made of wet paper. He keeps trying to stand on his own, keeps slipping back into me the second his legs remember they're compromised.
I let him try to stand on his own, but he stumbles back into me. I hook my arm more firmly around his back before he can tip sideways into the elevator wall.
"Stop trying to prove a point," I say in a low hum. "Use me."
He makes a small sound that could be a laugh; it could just be his breath catching wrong. His head tips forward for a second before he surrenders and leans his head against my arm.
The mirrored panel behind us reflects me in bright, even light. Anri appears pale, though his cheeks are flushed and his pupils remain dilated. I adjusted his shirt on the balcony, but the collar is crooked again from our walk, and one side is loose where he leaned over the railing. My hand rests at his side, providing steady support. I count the floors in my head to stay focused.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, the short double vibration I use for Telegram. Work.
I ignore it for half a second, more focused on keeping Anri upright than whoever thinks this can't wait, but it buzzes again almost immediately. I shift my grip on him, pinning him steady against my side with my forearm while I pull the phone out one-handed.
Saitō-San:
You left before we could finish.
M isn't going to talk. I'll handle it from here.
Happy birthday, Kai-Kun.
Anri lifts his head just enough to squint at the light in my hand. His pupils are still blown wide, but his eyes track the screen anyway, stubborn even now.
"Birthday?" he mumbles, the word slurred at the edges.
I glance at him, then back at the floor indicator.
"You can barely walk, yet you can read?"
His mouth twitches like he wants to argue. "Can read," he mutters, affronted on principle, and lets more of his weight fall into me.
I lock my phone and put it away without answering. Saitō can wait. Everything can wait.
The elevator keeps climbing, too bright, too slow.
Anri's head shifts against my arm. "It's your birthday?"
The question comes out small this time, less nosy, more confused. Like he's trying to fit that fact into the version of me he has in his head and failing.
"Tonight is almost over," I say.
It's not an answer. He notices anyway.
He turns his face slightly toward me, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. "You're supposed to… do something."
"Mm."
"Cake," he says, with the solemnity of someone making an important legal point.
I look at him for a second too long.
"Right now," I say, as the elevator slows, "your job is staying on your feet."
The doors open to a dimmer hallway. He veers left, his shoulder brushing the wall. I steady him before he loses balance, keeping a firm hand at his side.
"I can walk," he mutters.
"I know," I say, because he would. He'd drag himself over broken glass just to prove he can. "Walk, then. Just… with me."
Anri is fumbling at his clothes for his keys, and I can see he's getting irritated, frowning when he tries to check his jacket pocket, except he isn't wearing one. He shoots me a pleading look, so I quickly and carefully pat him down and slide into the front pocket of his jeans. My hand brushes along loose coins, a piece of paper and what feels like a cigarette box. The metal finally clinks softly, and Anri turns at the sound. His expression falters as he tries to adjust to my hand being there.
At the same time, his phone slips halfway out with the movement, the cracked screen flashing in my hand before it tumbles. I catch it against my thigh before it hits the floor.
"Is this from tonight?" I say, showing Anri the cracked screen, but his reply is almost lost in mumbles and a shake of the head.
"Mm-mm—threw it and—smash." My jaw tightens again when he says that. I don't even have to ask him why. Anri ends up with a cracked phone. I end up with bruised knuckles. Everyone has their ways of taking back control.
The key misses the lock on my first try because Anri shifts his weight abruptly into my shoulder. I reset, angle him back with my hip, and unlock the door cleanly on the second attempt.
His phone starts vibrating in my hand before I can pocket it. The screen lights up bright and fractured through the crack with a name.
Yuyu…
Anri is half-folded against me, all dead weight and stubbornness, trying to get his shoes off and failing because his fingers won't do what he tells them to.
"Yuujin," he mumbles, reaching for the phone without looking. His hand catches my wrist instead. "Don't—don't answer…"
"If I don't answer, he'll keep calling," I say. The call drops. "He's gonna call back, so bed. Now."
I get my shoulder under his arm and walk him down the hallway into his room. He tries to help. Mostly, he drags. By the time we reach the bed, his knees start to go.
I sit on his bed with him next to me, and I guide his legs from the floor to the mattress.
Anri's phone rings again, as predicted. I answer the call one-handed and lower him down before he lands wrong on the mattress.
"Anri, what the fuck?" Yuujin snaps the second the line connects. Loud. Panicked. "Where are you? Are you with that guy? Your texts are a mess, I can't read half of them—"
"It's Kai."
Silence.
I pull Anri's shoes off while Yuujin recalculates. Anri lifts his head weakly and squints at me like he's trying to decide whether to be embarrassed or relieved. I take one of Anri's pillows and put it behind his back to keep him resting on his side.
When Yuujin speaks again, his voice is flatter, but the fear is still in it. "Put him on."
"He can't hold a conversation."
Anri immediately proves me right by trying to sit up, failing, and grabbing at my sleeve instead. "Can—can talk."
"You can't," I say, pushing him gently back by the shoulder. "Stay down."
He frowns at me with genuine offence. "Bossy."
Yuujin hears him. I can tell by the exhale on the line.
"Is he hurt?" he asks, fast.
I look at Anri properly. Flushed face, blown pupils, shirt collar skewed again, breathing uneven but steady. He's tracking me with his eyes, but it's slow. Delayed.
"He's drunk and—" I cut myself off. If I say what happened out loud—Not when Anri is like this. "Too much, too fast. He's been sick. I've got him home."
"Home?" Yuujin asks immediately. "At his apartment?"
"Yes."
"And he's safe?"
"Now he is."
Anri tugs my sleeve again. "Who's—" He squints, then gives up halfway through the sentence and presses his face into the pillow for a second like the fabric is easier than words.
Yuujin's voice sharpens. "Kai. What happened?"
"He was out in Shibuya tonight. He met up with a guy," I say. "I got him out."
A pause.
Not confusion. Processing.
I hear Anri shifting on the bed, fabric rustling, then a small groan when he moves too fast and ends up on his back.
"Sit up a little. Stay on your side," I tell Anri, turning back to pull him back up.
He lifts his head just enough to glare at me.
"Good. Look at me like that. At least I know you're still in there."
He looks like he wants to argue. His expression loses track of itself halfway there.
Yuujin cuts in, voice low now. "That guy from tonight. Fuck—I tried to warn him about meeting up with any guys from apps—I shouldn't have put the idea in his head!"
"There's no point in feeling guilty. He's safe. That's what matters. He's home."
"Did he—Fuck, did he touch him?"
Anri goes very still, even with the alcohol in his system. His fingers tighten around my sleeve, where he's still holding on.
I keep my answer clean. "Too close."
It is not a full answer. It is the only one he's getting right now.
Yuujin is quiet for a moment. "I'm going to kill him."
"Let me worry about that," I say.
Anri makes a confused sound, somewhere between a laugh and a whine. "Tough guy."
Yuujin exhales hard, like he hates that my answer made sense to him. "You're staying there, right?"
I free my sleeve from Anri's grip, take the phone in my other hand, and cross to the balcony door. I slide it open just enough to let air move through the room. I crack the window open. Humid night air slides in, cooler than the room. The curtains stir. The apartment finally smells less stale.
I look back at Anri. He's sunk sideways across the bed without meaning to, one hand hanging empty off the bed.
"Yes."
"Good. Water, if he can keep it down. Keep an eye on him. If he gets worse, hospital. I'm serious."
"I know."
I sit down on the bed again, partly angled to face Anri, phone pressed to my ear, my free hand resting idly against the mattress. He's curled on his side still, close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
"And don't let him start apologising and acting normal like he always does when he's scared. He's gonna blame himself."
My jaw tightens. "I know."
Anri blinks up at me, heavy-lidded, hearing his best friend's and my tone but not the shape of the conversation. "Yuujin mad?" he mumbles.
"Just worried."
He nods once, like that's fair. "Okay."
Yuujin goes quiet for a moment, and I can hear traffic on his end, footsteps, the city still moving around him while he stands somewhere worrying himself sick.
Then he says, flat and deliberate, "He really likes you. And I know you know that."
I'm about to answer, about to tell Yuujin that I know he likes me and I—I feel movement; soft, clumsy, tentative fingers brushing against mine, not even testing, not even unsure. My hand stiffens on instinct before I turn it so my palm faces the ceiling, giving Anri a space to put his fingers, and Yuujin continues speaking.
"Seriously, Kai. If you're going to be in his life, be in it. You know what he's been through, you know how he feels about you—" Yuujin's voice cracks before he tries to steady it again. "Don't make him think you're going to be around and ditch him—sorry—I care about him so much—"
Anri watches my face like he can feel the silence turn heavier even if he can't hear the words.
By the time Yuujin's voice falters, it hits me what I'm doing—my thumb tracing slow, repetitive arcs over Anri's knuckles, the kind of grounding touch you use without thinking when someone matters. I freeze, not because it's wrong, or maybe it is wrong, but because it's instinctive, unguarded—something I didn't choose, something my body decided before I did. I still my hand, feel the absence of motion ring louder than the call, and realise too late that this is not a habit—I've never done this with anyone.
Yuujin doesn't push for an answer. He just lets it sit there.
"Don't leave him alone tonight," he says finally.
My gaze drops to Anri's hand.
"I'm not leaving," I say, and end the call before he can say anything else.
For a second, the room is quiet except for traffic through the open windows and Anri's uneven breathing.
He looks at his phone in my hand, then at me. "Did I… text him weird stuff?"
"Scared isn't weird, Anri."
Anri's breathing starts to even out by degrees, not because he's settled, but because he's losing the energy to fight how he feels. He still watches me when I move, eyes heavy and unfocused, like he's tracking me by sound more than sight.
"Phone," he mutters after a second, voice rough against the pillow. "Give it back."
"In a minute."
He makes a weak, offended sound at that and lets his free arm flop across his face dramatically, like he's trying to punish me with silence. It would be funny if he didn't look half-dead.
I use my free hand to turn on his desk lamp and move his arm away from his face, then point the phone's front camera towards him. "Open your eyes for a second,"
He slowly opens them. "What are you doing?"
"Fixing something."
Before he can look away on principle, I angle the phone to catch his confused gaze. The cracked glass flashes, then unlocks with a soft click.
Anri blinks at me slowly. "Did you just use me as Face ID?"
"Mhm,"
His mouth twitches. "Rude."
"Mm."
I'm still holding Anri's hand. I entwine my fingers with his so he doesn't try to knock the phone out of my grip while I work. His thumb feels warm against the fading bruises on my knuckles.
I open the dating app first, find Akio's profile, and delete the thread without opening it. A preview of the messages is already too much.
I don't read it.
I don't need the details. I know enough. I know exactly what kind of man he is, and I know what room he was leading Anri into. Anything else would just be fuel, and I have no use for fuel while Anri is in this bed and not sober.
Delete. Block. Confirm.
The motions are clean. Precise. Easier than they should be.
I don't even think twice about uninstalling the app; it's finished. Done.
Next, I open LINE.
Anri shifts beside me, trying to angle his head up to see what I'm doing. "Kai…"
"Lie down."
"You sound like a nurse."
"You'd hate me as a nurse."
He gives me a faint, breathy laugh at that, then winces like even laughing was a bad idea.
I find Akio's contact. I do not open the chat. I hold my thumb over it for a second, feeling the shape of the impulse I'm refusing.
Not now.
I delete every trace of Akio from Anri's phone.
Then I dial my number into the keypad and let it ring once so my own phone catches his digits. When I go to save myself properly, his contacts page is already open, and the list is shorter than it should be.
DadMumYuyu
That's it.
Something tightens behind my ribs, and I don't let it spread. I add my name anyway, steady hand, like this is just another practical step, like it doesn't mean anything that I'm becoming the fourth entry on a list that still makes room for ghosts.
The screen clears. Cleaner than tonight was.
Anri watches me through half-lidded eyes, trying to focus hard enough to be suspicious. "What'd you do?"
I lock the phone and set it face down on the desk within his line of sight.
"I fixed it," I say.
His brow pinches, then smooths again, the alcohol dragging his thoughts out of order. "Fixed it." He repeats.
"It's done." I declare, standing up from the bed, freeing Anri's hand from mine.
He stares at me for another second, like he knows there's more there and doesn't have the coordination to reach it. Then his hand lifts off the bed, searching.
I catch it before it drops.
"Stay there," I tell him.
He catches my wrist before I can step away. Not strong. Just insistent. "Don't go."
"I'm just going to get you a drink."
His grip loosens, not because he wants to let go, but because his hand forgets how to hold on. "Okay," he mutters. "But come back."
I don't answer. I move down the hallway to the sink instead. His apartment is barely a 1LDK by Tokyo's standards. The kitchen is just a counter wedged into the hallway, sink and burner sharing the same narrow strip of space; if I turn too fast, I'll hit a doorframe. I don't need to step forward to reach anything—glass, tap, fridge, all within arm's length. It's efficient. It's cramped.
I fill the glass, turn carefully in the narrow space, and carry it back to Anri's room without saying anything, setting it down on his desk where he can reach it.
That's when I see my jacket.
It's draped over the back of his chair.
I stop with my hand on the desk for half a second.
He kept it.
Anri's eyes are half-closed now, but he's still tracking the sound of me moving. "Kai?"
"I'm here," I assure him, but I'm already taking the jacket off the chair. "Is it alright if I smoke out on the balcony?"
Anri's eyes crack open a fraction, suspicious on instinct even through the fog. "Yeah," he mutters. Then, like he can't help himself, he adds, quieter, "I… I smoked two of yours before. From your jacket." His mouth twists like he's bracing for me to be annoyed. "Sorry."
"It's fine," I say, and I keep my tone even on purpose. "I don't care."
He blinks, disbelieving. "You don't?"
"No," I repeat.
In my head, something sharp tries to form, and I cut it off before it becomes a thought I can't put back. Anri smoking my cigarettes means he's borrowing my habits, my excuses, my way of taking the edge off. It should irritate me. It doesn't. It feels too intimate, like proof.
"Are you mad?" He mumbles.
"No," Because he needs me to say it again. "I don't mind, okay?" I say, bringing the glass of water from the desk to Anri. "Can you hold it? I want that finished by the time I'm back inside."
I move away and step out onto the balcony, sliding the door partly closed behind me so the room keeps its quiet. The night air is damp and cooler than the apartment, and it clears the taste at the back of my throat a little. I lean one shoulder against the railing and reach into the pocket out of habit.
Side pockets: Cigarettes first, my black lighter, loose coins.
I flip the pack open.
Most of them are mine—gold filters, familiar. One isn't. A white filter, tucked in neatly like a peace offering that doesn't want to be spoken out loud. I stare at it for too long before taking one of the gold ones—I'll keep it—then close the lid and slide the pack back into my pocket.
I check the other inside pockets, slower this time. More thorough. Paper edges catch my fingers, folded, worn from being opened and refolded too many times. My planner page. The one I tore out when I told myself it was just organisation, just pattern-recognition, just making sure I knew where Anri would be so I didn't "accidentally" run into him.
My thumb runs over the ink automatically.
And then I realise what isn't there.
The note and address I took down for Ryo Mizuno.
The little square of paper I kept separate, the one with too few words that still manages to feel like a knife: a name, a place, a reminder of a loose end I can't afford to leave loose. It's gone. I check again anyway, like the pocket will correct itself if I insist hard enough. Nothing.
I exhale through my nose and force my hand to go still.
Mizuno isn't going to talk. Saitō said it as a fact, like a door already locked. That should be enough. It isn't. Men like Mizuno don't stay quiet because they're loyal; they stay quiet because the alternative is worse, and "worse" changes depending on who they think is holding the leash.
Anri might not understand what the note means. Or maybe he does; he's definitely not stupid. I think it's just a matter of whether he connected the dots.
I fold the planner page back into place and put it away.
I put the cigarette between my lips, flick the lighter once, and let the flame catch.
The smoke tastes like routine. The thoughts daring to follow don't.
An unspoken rage threatens to break free when I think of how easily others can underestimate Anri. They see someone small, pretty, delicate, even. But they don't know him like I do. They don't see the way he bites back, the way his eyes spark when he's cornered, or how stubborn he gets when the world tries to press him down. There's a fire in him that most people miss—a sharpness that cuts through the softness, a will that refuses to be tamed.
They look at him and see something fragile. I look at him and see someone who could burn the whole fucking world down if he wanted to. He doesn't even realise how much power he holds. Not yet. But I do. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else find out before he does.
I take a deep drag of the cigarette, longer than I need to, before exhaling.
I think of other men approaching him with smooth talk and bravado—Akio, fucking Akio—with his fucking fake watch and corny lines, coaxing young men into that bar until they're suggestible enough to follow.
I crush the cigarette out against the railing, more force than necessary, and flick the butt into the tin can by the wall. The smoke leaves a bitter trace on my tongue. It does nothing for the heat under my skin.
When I step back inside, Anri's still awake.
Barely. His eyes are heavy, but they find me straight away, as if he's been listening for the sound of the door the whole time. The glass is in his hand, tilted badly. He's made some progress. Not enough.
"Only half?" I ask.
He glances down at it like he's surprised it's still there. "S' heavy."
I take the glass from him before it slips, set it on his desk, and straighten up. The room has cooled a little with the balcony door open. The curtains shift softly. Traffic hums somewhere below, distant enough to be harmless.
Anri watches me the way frightened things do when they're trying not to look frightened at all.
"You should sleep," I say.
His expression tightens immediately. "No."
"It wasn't a suggestion."
He tries to push himself up higher against the headboard and only succeeds in tangling himself in the blanket. "If I sleep," he says, slower now, like he has to drag each word into place, "you'll go."
I drag the desk chair closer and turn it to face the bed.
"There," I say, and sit. "Better?"
Anri blinks at me, trying to make sense of it. His eyes flick from me to the chair and back again.
"You're ridiculous," he mutters.
"Sleep."
He doesn't. He keeps staring, fighting it on principle, as if staying awake is the only control he has left. His lashes dip and lift, dip and lift again. The room is quiet enough now that I can hear every shift of fabric when he moves.
"You're still in that," he says after a while, voice gone thin with exhaustion. "The cap."
I reach up and take it off. Set it on the desk beside the water.
"Happy?"
His mouth twitches. "I like it when your hair is messy."
Something in my chest tightens in a way I don't examine too closely. He's drunk enough to be honest and tired enough not to hide it. It does something to me that I don't have a name for. Something possessive and ugly and warm at the same time.
He looks at the chair again, at the space between us, at the open balcony door, at the room, like he's measuring the risk of closing his eyes.
"You're staying there?" he asks.
"For now."
He frowns, dissatisfied.
I know what he wants. He doesn't have to say it yet. The wanting is already there, open on his face, in the way his fingers knot in the blanket like they need something to hold. He nearly got dragged into a room where his body would have stopped belonging to him. Now he wants proof of the opposite. Something real. Something he can feel.
I keep my hands still on the arms of the chair.
"Close your eyes," I tell him.
He does it for a second, then opens them again immediately just to make sure I'm still there.
My gaze drops to his throat, the line of skin visible where his collar has fallen open again. Then, to the blanket gathered over his lap, his rings flashing faintly when his fingers move. Then back to his face.
He catches me looking. Too tired to do anything with it, but not too tired to notice.
A flush rises over what's left of the alcohol in his cheeks.
"Staring again," he mumbles.
"Just checking."
He gives me a look that would be sharper if he were sober. "Liar."
"You're hard to ignore," I admit.
"Then don't. I'm right here." The way Anri says it is the most sure and sober thing he's said since I found him.
I draw a slow breath, the kind that doesn't quite steady me.
"Anri," I say quietly.
His name catches, low and deliberate, like saying it costs me something. I don't look away. I can't.
The space between us feels too small now—charged, aware.
"You're not playing fair," I add, voice dropping, controlled but thin, "and you know exactly what that does to me."
That gets the smallest breath of a laugh out of him. It dies quickly. His eyes drift toward the door one more time.
I lean back in the chair and let my voice go flatter, steadier. "Nobody's coming in here."
His gaze comes back to me.
"I won't let them," I add.
Something in his face loosens at that. He closes his eyes again, and this time they stay closed longer. His breathing is still uneven, but it starts to lengthen, the rhythm of it changing by degrees. He's listening to me breathe, too. I can tell. Tracking the room through sound.
I sit there and let him.
My jacket is on his chair. My number is in his phone. My name is in his contacts now, sitting among his parents' names and Yuujin's, a place I had no right to want and want anyway.
I should leave before I get used to this.
Yet, I refuse to move.
Anri shifts in his sleep-light haze, turning his face slightly into the pillow. He looks younger like this. Softer. That softness is a lie. I know better. I know the temper in him, the way he braces against the world even when he's losing. I know how close he came tonight and how badly that fact sits inside me.
Akio saw someone he thought he could use.
I look at Anri and feel something far more dangerous than that.
Mine, some dark, unhelpful part of me thinks, with a certainty that feels old.
I don't say it. I don't let the thought stretch any further than that single ugly word. I keep it where I keep everything else that would ruin him if I let it loose.
His fingers loosen in the blanket. His breathing deepens.
I stay in the chair facing his bed and watch until he finally gives in to sleep, because tonight he stays where I can see him.