The next afternoon arrived bruised and heavy, the winter sun struggling through clouds that hung low over the city like a held breath. Sho's knuckles rapped against Kanato's apartment door—three sharp beats, the rhythm they always used—and beside him, Rou shifted his weight, gaming bag slung over one shoulder, already complaining about the cold.

"He said it's unlocked." Lauren's voice came from behind them, phone in hand, scrolling through Kanato's last message. "Bath. Let ourselves in."

Sho turned the handle. The door swung open.

The heat hit first.

Not the dry, regulated warmth of a well-heated apartment. Something thicker. Heavier. It wrapped around them as they crossed the threshold, pressed against their skin like a second atmosphere, and for a moment Sho thought the building's boiler must have malfunctioned. Then the scent reached him—sweet and electric, something that bypassed his nostrils and went straight to the base of his skull, lighting pathways he didn't know he had.

"What the—" Rou stopped mid-sentence, his voice catching.

Lauren stepped inside and closed the door behind them. The click of the lock sounded muffled, distant, as if the air itself had grown cottony and dense. "Kanato?"

No answer. Just the distant sound of water running in the bathroom, and beneath it—

Sho's mouth went dry.

Breathing. Shallow. Ragged. Coming from the living room.

They moved forward together without discussing it, drawn by something none of them wanted to name. The hallway felt longer than it had the last time Sho was here, the walls closer, the air thicker with every step. By the time they reached the archway to the living room, Sho's heart was hammering against his ribs for no reason he could articulate. His palms were damp. His skin felt too warm, too sensitive, as if his clothes had grown rough against him.

He saw Akira and forgot how to breathe.

The former agent was sprawled across the largest couch, his head tipped back until it rested on the top of the backrest, throat exposed in a line of pale skin and vulnerable tendon. He was wearing Kanato's pajamas—silk, dark blue, the kind of fabric that caught the dim light and shimmered—and the top three buttons were undone, hanging open over a chest that rose and fell too fast. One hand was weakly flapping the shirt against his skin, trying to generate air, and the motion drew Sho's gaze to the hollow of Akira's throat, the sheen of sweat that coated his collarbones, the way his lips parted on every exhale like he was drowning.

Seraph's long red coat was draped over Akira's legs like a blanket, the crimson stark against his pale thighs.

Akira's eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, fixed on some middle distance none of them could see. His breath came in these small, wet sounds—not quite moans, not quite gasps, but something between them that Sho's body recognized before his mind did. Something that made heat curl low in his gut, made his fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch.

Sho was straight. He'd always been straight. He liked girls, had never once looked at a man and felt that pull, that hunger that made his mouth water and his pulse pound. But right now, watching Akira's chest rise and fall beneath that open silk, watching the way his head lolled against the couch, the way his thighs shifted under the red coat—Sho had to physically stop himself from stepping closer.

Beside him, Rou made a sound low in his throat. A swallowed groan. A curse. Both. "Fuck," he breathed, and the word came out wrecked.

Lauren's hand found the doorframe, steadying himself. His knuckles were white. "Is that—" He stopped, swallowed. "Is that him?"

It was a stupid question. Of course it was Akira. But the Akira they knew was sharp-edged and competent, quick with a dry remark, carrying himself with the coiled readiness of someone who'd survived things that should have killed him. This Akira was something else entirely. This Akira was raw nerve and open skin, radiant with a heat that had nothing to do with the apartment's thermostat, and every breath he took seemed to pull the air out of the room and replace it with something that made Sho's thoughts go hazy and slow.

Then Akira noticed them.

His head rolled on the backrest, heavy-lidded eyes finding them with visible effort. His lips moved. A sound came out—a greeting, maybe, or a question—but it emerged as a breathy syllable, soft and stretched, the kind of sound Sho had only ever heard in private spaces, in darkness, from a mouth pressed against skin.

"Hh... hey..."

Sho's knees went weak.

He heard Lauren inhale sharply. Saw Rou's jaw go tight, his throat working as he swallowed. The air in the living room had become a physical thing, pressing against them from all sides, and Sho understood with sudden, crystalline clarity that he was one wrong thought away from crossing a line he could never uncross.

Akira blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as if he was just now registering their presence. His gaze drifted across their faces—Sho, Rou, Lauren, Kuzuha—and something like embarrassment flickered through the haze. He tried to sit up straighter, but his arms trembled, barely holding him, and he ended up slumped against the cushions with a small, frustrated sound.

"Sorry," Akira said, and the word came out slurred, too soft, threaded with that same breathy quality that made Sho's stomach clench. "I'm... I'm in the way. Practice. You have practice." He pushed himself upright with visible effort, the red coat sliding off his legs, and started to stand.

Sho opened his mouth to say something— stay, don't move, you shouldn't be alone —but the words wouldn't come. His throat was closed. His hands were shaking.

Akira rose. For a moment, he swayed, his body tilting dangerously to one side. His hand shot out, grasping at the back of the couch, and he steadied himself with a shuddering exhale. His knuckles were white where they gripped the fabric. The silk shirt had slipped further off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his neck, the shadow of his collarbone, and Sho saw a mark there—a bruise, a bite, something dark against pale skin—and his mouth flooded with saliva.

"I'll go," Akira murmured, more to himself than to them. "Kanato's room. I'll just—" He took a step. Then another. Each one looked like it cost him something vital, his bare feet dragging against the floor, his body pitched forward like a drunkard's. The red coat slipped off entirely, pooling on the floor behind him, and Akira didn't seem to notice.

Sho's hand twitched. The urge to help was overwhelming, a physical pressure behind his ribs. But the other urge—the darker one, the one he didn't want to name—kept his feet rooted. If he got closer. If he touched. He didn't trust himself. He didn't know what he would do.

None of them moved.

Akira reached the doorway to the bedroom. His hand found the frame. He leaned against it, breathing hard, and for a second Sho thought he would make it.

Then his knees buckled.

The sound of his body hitting the floor was wrong—too heavy, too final. Akira went down in a crumpled heap, one arm still reaching for the door, and as he hit the ground a cough wrenched out of him, harsh and wet, doubling him over. His hand clutched at his chest, clutching the silk shirt, and his breathing went from ragged to desperate in the span of a heartbeat, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a whimper.

The spell broke.

Sho was moving before he thought about it, crossing the room in four long strides. Rou reached Akira first—he'd always been faster, always the one who acted before he thought—and dropped to his knees beside the fallen agent, his hand reaching out to grasp Akira's shoulder.

"Akira—hey, Akira, are you—"

The touch didn't even land. Rou's fingers brushed the silk, barely a contact, and Akira screamed.

It wasn't loud. It was worse than loud. It was a choked, animal sound, torn from somewhere deep, and Akira's body recoiled as if Rou's hand had been made of fire. He scrambled backward, still on his knees, his back hitting the wall, and his eyes—those hazy, unfocused eyes—went wide with something that looked like terror.

"Don't—" Akira's voice cracked. "Don't touch me, don't, please—"

Rou's hand hung in the air, frozen. His face had gone pale. "I wasn't—I was just trying to—"

Another figure emerged from the bathroom.

Kanato moved like a shadow, barefoot on the concrete floor, wearing only loose pants with his hair still dripping water down his chest. He must have heard the scream. He must have come running. And in the space of a heartbeat, he was between his friends and Akira, his body a shield, his eyes—usually warm, usually lazy—gone cold and sharp with something that made Sho's blood run cold.

"Back," Kanato said. One word. Flat. Absolute. "Get back. Now."

Sho stepped away without thinking. So did Lauren. Rou scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender, putting distance between himself and Akira as if he'd been burned.

Kanato dropped to his knees beside Akira, and the change was immediate.

Where Akira had recoiled from Rou's touch, he leaned into Kanato's. His body turned toward the contact like a flower toward the sun, his trembling hands reaching out to grip Kanato's bare shoulders, his face pressing into the curve of Kanato's neck. A sound came out of him—a sob, a breath, a word that might have been Kanato's name—and Kanato's arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, one hand cradling the back of his head.

"I've got you," Kanato murmured, and his voice was completely different now. Gentler. Softer. The same voice Sho had heard him use with wounded animals, with scared children, with Akira in the dark hours of the night. "I've got you. I'm here. You're safe."

Akira's fingers dug into Kanato's shoulders, his whole body shaking, and he kept making these small, desperate sounds against Kanato's skin.

Kanato looked up. His eyes found Sho, Rou, Lauren, Kuzuha—all of them standing frozen, watching—and the warmth in them vanished. "What happened?"

Sho opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Kuzuha.

Kuzuha stepped forward, his voice steady but his face pale. "It's the incubus pheromones. He's radiating them at full strength. And he's in the middle of a hunger wave—look at him, Kanato. Look at his state."

Kanato's jaw tightened. He looked down at Akira, at the sweat-soaked skin, the trembling limbs, the way his breath came in shallow, pained gasps. "I was in the bath. I didn't—" He stopped. His hand cupped Akira's cheek, tilting his face up, and something cracked in his expression. "Akira. Baby. Look at me."

Akira's eyes found his. They were glassy, distant, full of a pain that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with something deeper.

"His spiritual energy is thrashing," Kuzuha said, moving closer but keeping his distance. "The hunger wave is hitting him harder than it should because his manifestation was delayed. He's in pain—constant pain—and the pheromones are making every touch feel like too much. He needs to be in a closed environment. Safe. Quiet. He needs to feed."

Kanato was already moving, sliding one arm under Akira's knees and the other around his back. He lifted. The effort showed on his face—Akira wasn't small, wasn't light, and Kanato was only a few centimeters taller, his frame lean rather than built for carrying—but he didn't hesitate. He didn't falter. He gathered Akira against his chest and stood, water still dripping from his hair onto Akira's flushed skin.

"Bedroom," he said. "Now. All of you—stay out."

He carried Akira through the doorway, and Sho caught a glimpse of Akira's face as they passed—tear-streaked, terrified, his lips moving in silent words that might have been prayers or pleas. His hand was fisted in Kanato's wet hair, holding on like Kanato was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water.

The door closed behind them.

The four of them stood in the living room, the weight of the silence pressing down. Sho realized he was shaking. His hands, his legs, his whole body trembling with adrenaline and something else, something he didn't want to examine. The air was still thick with that electric sweetness, but it felt different now—sadder, heavier, threaded with the echo of Akira's scream.

Lauren was the first to speak. "What the fuck," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "What the actual fuck."

Rou sank onto the edge of the couch, his head dropping into his hands. "I touched him. I didn't mean to—I was just trying to help—and he screamed. He fucking screamed."

"He didn't scream because of you." Kuzuha's voice was quiet, steady, but there was something raw underneath it. "He screamed because every touch that isn't Kanato's feels like an attack right now. His body is in survival mode. He can't control it."

"That doesn't make it better." Rou's voice cracked. "He looked at me like I was going to hurt him."

Sho wanted to say something. To reassure. To explain. But the words wouldn't come. Because Rou was right. Akira had looked at them like they were threats. Like they were predators. And the worst part—the part Sho couldn't say out loud—was that for a moment, looking at Akira sprawled across that couch, his chest exposed, his lips parted, his voice breathy and wrong—for a moment, Sho had wanted to be exactly what Akira feared.

He swallowed the thought and forced it down into the dark place where thoughts like that belonged.

From behind the bedroom door, a sound emerged. Low. Strained. Akira's voice, barely audible through the wood, saying Kanato's name over and over like a litany. Like a prayer. And beneath it, Kanato's voice, murmuring, soothing, trying to hold the pieces together.

Sho closed his eyes and listened to the sound of someone falling apart, and he didn't know how to make it stop.

The minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. The sounds from the bedroom shifted—Akira's desperate pleas softening into something more broken, Kanato's murmurs growing more urgent. And then, cutting through it all, a voice that made Sho's eyes snap open.

"Kuzuha." Kanato's voice, sharp with panic. "Kuzuha, I need you in here. Now."

Kuzuha flinched. His eyes went to the bedroom door, then back to the others. "He's asking for me."

"You can't go in there." Lauren's hand shot out, grabbing Kuzuha's arm. "You heard Akira. He doesn't want anyone else—"

"Kanato is calling me. That means he needs help." Kuzuha pulled his arm free. His face was set, determined, but Sho could see the fear in his eyes. "I'm going."

He crossed to the bedroom door. Pushed it open.

The sight on the other side would stay with Sho for the rest of his life.

Kanato was on the bed, sitting against the headboard, his bare chest pressed against Akira's back. Akira was positioned between Kanato's legs, leaning back against him, and their hands were intertwined on Akira's stomach—right over the mark, the incubus sigil that glowed faintly gold through the silk. But Akira wasn't relaxed. He wasn't peaceful. His body was rigid, trembling, his head thrown back against Kanato's shoulder, and his face was contorted in a rictus of pain.

His tail had emerged—Sho had seen it before, once, in glimpses—but now it was thrashing wildly, lashing against the sheets, against Kanato's leg, moving with a frantic energy that spoke of pure, unprocessed agony.

And Akira was crying.

Not the quiet tears of sadness. These were the sobs of someone being unmade, each one torn from his chest with a violence that made Sho's ribs ache in sympathy. His nails were digging into Kanato's forearms, hard enough to leave crescents, and his voice—that breathy, desperate voice—was repeating Kanato's name in a loop, broken and pleading, like he didn't know what else to say.

Kanato was crying too. Silent tears streaming down his face, his jaw clenched, his hands shaking as he held Akira. His voice was hoarse with the effort of staying calm. "Kuzuha. Something's wrong. He's hurting—he's hurting no matter what I do. When I feed him, the touch hurts him. When I stop, the hunger hurts him. I don't—I don't know how to fix this."

Kuzuha stepped closer, but stopped at the edge of the bed. "May I examine him?"

Even through the haze of pain, Akira's body went rigid at the new voice. His grip on Kanato's arms tightened, and he pressed himself deeper into Kanato's chest, trying to disappear. "No," he gasped. "No, no, no—Kanato—"

"Shh." Kanato's voice cracked. He pressed a kiss to Akira's temple, his cheek, anywhere he could reach. "It's just Kuzuha. It's just our friend. He wants to help you. Can he help you? Please, baby. Please let him help."

Akira shook his head, but the movement was weak, barely there. His whole body was shaking so hard Sho could see it from the doorway. "Hurts," he whimpered. "Everything hurts. Kanato—"

Kanato's arms tightened around Akira instinctively, his cheek pressing against the crown of Akira's head. The shaking was worse now—fine tremors that ran through Akira's entire body like a plucked string still vibrating. And beneath that, through the contract, something new flooded Kanato's chest.

Fear.

Not his own. Akira's. Raw and overwhelming, a sudden surge of it that made Kanato's breath catch, his heart stutter. It hit him like a wave—cold and sharp and desperate—and for a moment he felt disoriented, the boundaries between his own emotions and Akira's blurring into something he couldn't separate.

Akira's grip on his shoulder turned bruising. His face pressed deeper into the curve of Kanato's neck, hiding, and his voice came out in a broken whisper. "Who—who's there. Kanato. Who's there."

Kuzuha had been moving forward. Slowly. Carefully. His hand extended, palm open, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. But at Akira's words, at the sheer terror bleeding through that quiet voice, he froze mid-step. His hand hung in the air for a beat before he lowered it, his expression cracking.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Kuzuha said softly, his voice barely above a murmur. "I'm Kuzuha. We've met before. At the hotel. At the—"

"No." Akira's voice was small. Childlike. Wrong in a way that made Sho's stomach turn. "No, no, no—stay away. Stay away. " He pressed himself deeper into Kanato's chest, his whole body curling inward, trying to disappear. His fingers dug into Kanato's skin hard enough to leave marks. "Kanato. Kanato, please. Please make him go away."

Kanato's throat closed.

He looked at Kuzuha—his friend, his teammate, the person he'd called for help—and saw the hurt flicker across Kuzuha's face before it was masked by understanding. Kuzuha stepped back. Not far. Just enough. Enough to show he wasn't a threat.

"I'm backing away," Kuzuha said, his voice still soft. "See? I'm moving back. I'm not going to touch you."

Akira's breathing didn't slow. His body was still rigid, still trembling, and Kanato could feel the fear coursing through the contract like an open wound. Too much. Everything is too much. He pressed a kiss to Akira's hair, then another, his hand moving in slow circles on Akira's back.

"I know," Kanato murmured. "I know, baby. I know."

He could feel the others watching. Rou, standing frozen near the foot of the bed. Lauren, one hand braced against the doorframe. Sho, still in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes too bright. They were all looking at Akira—at the way he shook, the way he clung, the way his voice had broken into something none of them had ever heard from the composed former agent.

"Akira." Kanato's voice was steady, even though his hands were shaking. "Akira, I need you to hear me. Can you hear me?"

Akira made a sound that might have been acknowledgment. His breath was hot and uneven against Kanato's neck, his lips brushing skin as he whispered Kanato's name over and over, a litany, a prayer.

"No one is going to touch you without your permission," Kanato said. "Do you understand? No one. Kuzuha is our friend. He came because I called him. Because I was scared, and I didn't know what to do, and I needed help." His voice cracked on the last word. "But if you don't want him close, he won't come close. That's a promise."

Akira's grip loosened by a fraction. His face lifted, just enough that Kanato could see his eyes—red-rimmed, glassy, barely focused. "Promise?"

"Promise." Kanato pressed their foreheads together. "I won't let anyone hurt you. Ever. You know that."

For a long moment, Akira just stared at him. His lips were trembling, and Kanato noticed—with a lurch of his stomach—that they were wet with blood. A thin red line ran from the corner of his mouth, and his lower lip was split, the wound fresh and angry.

"You're bleeding," Kanato breathed. "Akira, you're biting through your lip."

Akira blinked, as if he hadn't noticed. His tongue darted out, tasted copper, and he flinched. "Sorry," he whispered. "Sorry, I—it hurts. Everything hurts. I can't—I can't stop it."

"Don't apologize." Kanato's thumb brushed gently over Akira's cheek, wiping away a tear. "Don't ever apologize for this."

Behind him, Sho heard Lauren exhale—a long, shaky breath that sounded like someone trying not to cry. He turned his head just enough to see Lauren's jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the bed with an expression Sho couldn't quite read.

Rou had sunk onto the edge of the mattress, his hands clasped in front of him, his shoulders hunched. He looked smaller than usual, the easy confidence that normally defined him stripped away. "This is fucked," he said, barely above a whisper. "This is so fucked."

"He's in pain," Kuzuha said quietly. "Real pain. And he can't—his body won't let him accept help from anyone but Kanato right now."

"Then what do we do?" Sho's voice came out rougher than he intended. "We can't just stand here and watch him suffer."

"We wait." Kuzuha's eyes were still on Akira, his expression heavy. "We wait, and we make sure Kanato has what he needs to get through this."

On the bed, Akira had gone quiet again. His face was buried in Kanato's neck, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. But his hand had found Kanato's, their fingers interlaced over the glowing mark on his stomach, and he was holding on like Kanato was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Then his voice came again, smaller than before. "I want Hibari."

Kanato's chest hitched.

"I want Tarai," Akira whispered, and the name came out in Japanese, soft and broken. "Tarai and Serao. I want them here. Please. Please, Kanato."

"They're coming home," Kanato said, his voice thick. "Seraph will be back tomorrow night. And Hibari—Hibari is on his way. I called him. He's coming as fast as he can."

Akira's breath stuttered. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

A sound came out of Akira—a whimper, a sob, something between the two—and his body curled tighter, folding in on itself. "That's too long," he said, and his voice broke completely. "That's too long. I can't—Kanato, I can't do this until tomorrow. Everything hurts. Everything is so scary. I can't—"

A wave of pain cut him off. His back arched, a raw groan tearing from his throat, and his hand clenched so hard around Kanato's that his knuckles went white. The mark on his stomach flared gold, bright and pulsing, and for a second the air in the room grew thick and electric.

Then Akira coughed. Harsh. Wet. His body convulsed with it, and when he pulled his hand away from his mouth, there was blood on his fingers.

"Akira." Kanato's voice went sharp. "Akira, look at me."

But Akira's eyes were rolling back, his breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. His grip on Kanato's hand slackened, and his body went limp, slumping against Kanato's chest like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Akira?" Kanato's hands flew to Akira's face, cupping his cheeks, tilting his head up. "Akira—no, no, no—wake up. Wake up, baby. Akira. "

Nothing. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell, but the movement was too fast, too shallow, and his lips had gone pale except for the red still welling from the bite.

"KUZUHA." Kanato's voice cracked like a whip. "Something's wrong. He's not—he's not waking up."

Kuzuha was at the bedside in three strides, his earlier hesitation forgotten. He dropped to his knees, his hand reaching for Akira's wrist to check his pulse—then stopping an inch away, remembering. "May I?"

Kanato's jaw worked. He looked down at Akira, at the slack face, the trembling eyelids, the blood on his lips. "Yes. Yes, just—help him."

Kuzuha's fingers found Akira's pulse. He held them there for a long moment, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he opened them, some of the tension had left his shoulders.

"He's not in danger." Kuzuha's voice was steady, but his hand was shaking as he pulled it back. "His spiritual energy is still intact—it's fluctuating, but it's stable. He passed out from the pain. From exhaustion. His body couldn't handle anymore."

Kanato's breath came out in a shudder. He pulled Akira closer, cradling him against his chest, his hand coming up to rest on the back of Akira's head. "He scared me. He fucking scared me."

"I know." Kuzuha's voice was gentle. "I know he did."

A long silence settled over the room. Sho watched Kanato's hands move—brushing Akira's hair back from his forehead, tracing the line of his jaw, pressing a kiss to his temple—and felt like he was intruding on something sacred. Something he had no right to witness.

Then Kuzuha spoke again. "Kanato. We should close the energy flow."

Kanato's head snapped up. "What?"

"While he's unconscious." Kuzuha's voice was careful, measured. "If I regulate the flow, I can dampen the hunger wave's intensity. It won't stop it completely, but it will ease the pressure on his system. Give him some relief."

"He didn't consent to that." Kanato's voice was sharp. "I'm not—I'm not going to do something to him while he's passed out that he didn't agree to."

"Kanato." Kuzuha held his gaze. "He's in agony. And I can help. The process is fast—ten, maybe fifteen seconds. He won't even wake up for it."

"That's not the point."

"I know." Kuzuha's voice softened. "I know it's not. But Kanato—look at him."

Kanato looked down. At Akira's tear-stained face. At the blood on his lips. At the way his brow was still furrowed, even in unconsciousness, even in sleep, like he couldn't escape the pain even when his mind had shut down.

"I'll be fast," Kuzuha said. "I promise. And I'll back away the second it's done."

Kanato's throat worked. He looked at Kuzuha, then at the door, where Lauren, Rou, and Sho stood watching. Then back at Akira.

"...Fine." The word came out strangled. "Fine. But if he flinches—if he makes a sound—you stop."

"I stop." Kuzuha nodded. "I need you to position him. I need access to the mark on his stomach, and his neck."

Kanato's arms tightened around Akira for a moment before he moved. Slowly. Gently. He shifted Akira's weight, easing him forward until Akira's back rested against his chest, his head lolling against Kanato's shoulder. The silk shirt had ridden up, exposing the pale skin of Akira's stomach, the golden sigil that pulsed faintly even in unconsciousness.

Kanato's hands bracketed Akira's waist, holding him steady. His eyes never left Kuzuha's face.

"If you hurt him—"

"I won't."

Kuzuha moved closer. His hand extended, and Sho saw it tremble. He was scared too. Scared of causing more pain, of breaking something that was already barely held together.

His fingers touched the sigil.

Akira's body jerked. A spasm ran through him, his back arching slightly, and a sound escaped his throat—a whimper, thin and broken. His hand found Kanato's forearm, gripping weakly, and he turned his face into Kanato's neck, seeking warmth, seeking safety, even in sleep.

"Shh." Kanato's voice was barely a whisper. He pressed a kiss to Akira's hair, his hand coming up to cradle Akira's face. "I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe."

Kuzuha's fingers pressed deeper into the mark. The glow intensified, pulsing in rhythm with Akira's heartbeat, and Sho watched Kuzuha's expression shift—concentration, strain, something that looked almost like pain.

Beside him, Rou shifted his weight. "Is it supposed to take this long?"

"His energy is dense," Kuzuha said, his voice tight. "The suppression made it— accumulate. There's a lot to regulate."

Akira's breathing changed. Quicker. Shallower. A low moan escaped his lips, and his grip on Kanato's arm tightened. "Nn... nn..."

"Almost there," Kuzuha murmured. "Just a few more seconds."

Akira's body shuddered. His back arched, a soft cry escaping his throat—a sound that was half pain, half something else, something that made Sho's face heat despite himself. And then, as quickly as it had started, the tension drained out of him. His body went slack, his breathing evening out, his face relaxing into something that almost looked like peace.

The golden glow of the sigil dimmed to a soft, steady pulse.

Kuzuha pulled his hand back. He was breathing hard, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and when he stood, he swayed slightly, bracing himself on the edge of the bed.

"Done." His voice was hoarse. "The flow is regulated. He'll still feel the hunger, but it won't be— that. It won't be agony."

Kanato's hands moved immediately, pulling the weighted blanket up over Akira's body, tucking it around his shoulders, cocooning him in warmth. "Thank you." His voice cracked. "Kuzuha. Thank you."

Kuzuha shook his head, taking a step back. Then another. "Now you need to feed him. I can't—I can't take the edge off completely. He'll still need energy. And the feeding process might still hurt him, but—" He stopped, swallowing. "But it's all we can do."

"I know." Kanato's hand was stroking Akira's hair, slow and gentle. "I know."

Kuzuha took another step back. His legs wobbled, and Rou was there in an instant, catching his arm, steadying him. "Whoa—you okay?"

"Fine." Kuzuha's smile was thin. "Just—energy regulation takes a lot out of you. Especially when the subject has as much stored energy as Shikinagi-san."

"Come on." Rou's hand found Kuzuha's shoulder, guiding him toward the door. "Let's get you to the couch."

Kuzuha paused at the threshold. He looked back—at Kanato, still holding Akira, still murmuring soft words into his hair. "Kanato. Can you close the door?"

Kanato's eyes met his. A silent thank you passed between them. "Yeah. I've got him."

Kuzuha nodded. He pulled the door closed behind him, the click of the latch final and soft.

In the living room, Sho collapsed onto the couch, his head falling into his hands. His heart was still pounding, his palms still damp, his mind still replaying the image of Akira's body going limp, the blood on his lips, the way he'd begged for people who weren't there.

"Fuck," he said, and the word came out hollow.

Rou lowered Kuzuha onto the other end of the couch, then dropped onto the floor, his back against the wall. "Fuck is right."

Lauren stood by the window, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the bedroom door. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll live." Kuzuha's voice was tired. "But 'okay' is going to take time. This hunger wave is going to last days. Maybe a week. And every feeding is going to be a battle until his body adjusts."

Sho lifted his head. "How long has it been? Since it started?"

"Since yesterday afternoon, from what Kanato told me." Kuzuha's hand ran through his hair, messy and damp with sweat. "He's been in pain for almost twenty-four hours straight."

"Jesus." Rou's voice was barely a whisper.

The silence stretched. Through the door, they could hear Kanato's voice—low and steady, a constant murmur of reassurance. And beneath it, occasionally, a soft sound from Akira. A whimper. A sigh. A word that none of them could quite catch.

"The pheromones," Sho said suddenly. His voice came out strange. "They're still there. Even with the door closed."

Kuzuha's eyes met his. "Yes."

"It's making me..." Sho trailed off. Swallowed. "It's making me feel things. Things I don't want to feel."

Rou let out a hollow laugh. "You too, huh?"

"I was in the room with him for less than a minute." Lauren's voice was tight. "And I still—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't know how Kanato does it. Being in there, touching him, holding him—and not..."

"Kanato is strong." Kuzuha's voice was quiet. "And he loves Akira. That changes things. The pheromones affect him too, but his bond with Akira—the contract—it channels it. Gives it a direction."

"Lucky him." Rou's voice was bitter. "We're just stuck out here, feeling like we're going crazy."

"It'll fade." Kuzuha closed his eyes. "Give it an hour. The concentration in the air will dissipate with the door closed."

Sho leaned back, his head hitting the wall behind the couch. He stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, trying to think about anything other than the sound of Akira's voice, broken and desperate, calling for Kanato.

From the bedroom, Kanato's voice rose briefly. "I've got you. I've got you. You're safe."

And then—quiet enough that Sho almost missed it—a sound that might have been Kanato crying. Soft. Stifled. A sob swallowed before it could take shape.

Sho closed his eyes and listened, and waited, and tried not to think about the blood on Akira's lips.