The leather couch creaked under Kanato's weight as he shifted, the sound swallowed by the thick silence that had settled over the living room like a second skin. From the bedroom, muffled through the closed door, came Seraph's voice—low, steady, a rhythm of reassurance that had been running for nearly an hour now. It's okay, Ren. I'm here. You're safe.

Sho sat in the armchair by the window, his long fingers wrapped around a glass of water he hadn't touched in twenty minutes. The condensation had pooled on the concrete floor beneath him, a small dark stain spreading like a bruise. He watched the bedroom door the way a man watches a storm through a window—aware that something immense was happening behind that thin barrier, something that would change the shape of everything once it passed.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the way Lauren's jaw tightened every time Akira made a sound. Not the sharp, panicked sounds from earlier—those had faded. These were smaller. A murmur. A breath that caught and released. The sound of someone being held through the dark until the dark loosened its grip.

Hibari was still asleep on the other end of the couch, sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. He'd crashed about thirty minutes ago, his body finally surrendering to the exhaustion of the night. Kuzuha had draped a thin blanket over him, and now sat on the floor beside the couch, back against the cushions, knees drawn up, scrolling through his phone with the blank expression of a man who wasn't seeing a single word on the screen.

Rou was in the kitchen area, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. He hadn't moved much. His eyes kept drifting to Kanato—to the way Kanato sat at the island table, plate of food half-eaten, laptop open, fingers moving across the keyboard with mechanical precision.

Kanato's face was calm. That was the thing that struck Sho the most. Not the exhaustion—that was expected, visible in the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he rubbed at his eyes every few minutes. But beneath the tiredness, there was a quiet steadiness. The kind of calm that came not from absence of fear, but from having moved through it so many times that fear had become a familiar room, one whose furniture he knew by heart.

"You should eat," Kuzuha said quietly, not looking up from his phone.

Kanato glanced at his plate—rice, grilled fish, a small salad that Hibari had thrown together before the hunger wave hit. He'd taken maybe four bites. "I'm eating."

"You're pushing it around," Kuzuha said. "That's different."

Kanato's lips twitched—almost a smile, almost a grimace. He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. The movement was automatic, detached from any real appetite. His fingers kept typing on the laptop, pulling up calendar invites, drafting emails to managers, rearranging schedules with the efficiency of someone who had spent years learning how to put out fires before they spread.

"I've already contacted Shikinagi-san's manager," Kanato said, his voice carrying that light, almost casual tone that Sho had come to recognize as armor. "Told them we're taking a few days off. Health emergency. They didn't ask questions—they've seen enough of Akira's medical leave requests to know not to pry."

He paused, scrolling through another email. "Our manager was more difficult. Wanted to reschedule tomorrow's stream for next week instead of canceling. I told them no."

"What did they say?" Rou asked from the counter.

Kanato's smile turned sharp at the edges. "They said okay."

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of people who had been through too much together to need to fill every gap with words. Sho listened to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic from the street below, the quiet rhythm of Seraph's voice still murmuring through the bedroom door. "...just breathe, Ren. I've got you..."

The name landed in Sho's chest like a stone dropped into still water. Ren. He'd heard Kanato mention it before, in passing—Akira's old name, the one he'd carried through the years of his service in SPIA. But hearing it spoken in Seraph's voice, soft and tender, wrapped in the cadence of a man who had said that name a thousand times in the dark—it felt different. Intimate. Sacred.

Lauren shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. His playful demeanor had dimmed since the chaos of the hunger wave, but there was still a spark of something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or the need to understand. He watched Kanato for a long moment, then said, his voice carefully neutral, "Kanato. Can I ask you something?"

Kanato looked up from his laptop, one eyebrow raised. "You're going to ask anyway, so go ahead."

Lauren's lips curved into a small, wry smile. "Fair." He paused, glancing at the bedroom door, then back at Kanato. "Do you ever get jealous? Of Seraph, I mean."

The question hung in the air. Sho felt his own attention sharpen, felt Rou push off from the counter to stand a little straighter, felt Kuzuha's thumb stop mid-scroll on his phone.

Kanato blinked. Once. Twice. Then he laughed—a genuine, startled sound that seemed to catch even him off guard. "Jealous?" He shook his head, still chuckling. "Of Sera? Lauren, what are you talking about?"

Lauren held his ground, his tone patient. "I mean it. When Akira needs someone—when he's in a bad headspace, when he's panicking—he reaches for Seraph." He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom. "Even before tonight, I've seen it. At the clinic, at the apartment, during that whole thing with the eye mask. He searches for Seraph. He calms down with Seraph. Not you. Not Hibari. Just... Seraph."

Rou nodded slowly, stepping closer to the island. "He's not wrong. I've noticed it too. Nagi-san trusts all of you, obviously, but there's something different about how he trusts Seraph."

Kanato set down his chopsticks. His expression shifted—not to something hard, but to something genuinely thoughtful. He looked at the bedroom door, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than before. "You're right. There is something different about how he trusts Sera."

He paused, and Sho watched the way Kanato's fingers found the edge of his plate, tracing the rim in a slow, absent motion. "And I could never be jealous of that."

Lauren waited. They all waited.

Kanato looked up, meeting Lauren's gaze directly. "First of all—Sera is my boyfriend. He's precious to me. I love him. I respect him. I admire him. How could I ever hate someone I love that much?" He shook his head, a small, almost incredulous smile crossing his face. "If anything, knowing that Akira has someone he can trust completely, even in his worst moments—I'm grateful. Every single time Sera takes care of him, I'm grateful."

He turned his gaze to the laptop screen, but his eyes were distant, looking at something none of them could see. "And second of all... Sera earned that trust. Every second of it. He paid for it in ways none of you could imagine."

Sho felt his chest tighten. There was something in Kanato's voice—a rawness that had not been there before, a crack in the easygoing mask.

Kanato reached for his phone, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb. He scrolled for a moment, then turned the screen toward them. "Even Hibari admits it. Said Sera's a saint."

Sho leaned forward, squinting at the photo. It was dimly lit, taken in what looked like a hotel room—generic wallpaper, a bedside lamp casting warm light over two figures tangled together on a bed. Seraph, his pink-and-red hair disheveled, his face pale and exhausted, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. He was curled on his side, one arm wrapped protectively around the figure pressed against his chest: Akira, just as pale, just as exhausted, his dark hair a stark contrast against the white pillowcase. Both of them were asleep. Both of them looked like they'd been through a war.

Sho's breath caught. "When was this taken?"

Kanato didn't answer immediately. He set the phone down on the table, screen still visible, and picked up his chopsticks again. He took a bite of rice, chewed slowly, swallowed. "First year after debut. Hokkaido. New Year's concert."

Rou moved closer, his eyes fixed on the photo. "That's the hotel we always stay at during Hokkaido events."

Kanato nodded. "Voltaction was sent as representatives. Just me, Sera, and Akira. Hibari had a solo schedule that weekend, so he stayed behind." He paused, and his voice dropped, the lightness fading into something heavier. "First day, Sera called me. Said a waitress at the breakfast lounge wouldn't leave Akira alone. Kept flirting with him, touching his shoulder, standing too close. Akira asked her to stop politely—multiple times—but she kept going. I reported it to management before the concert."

Sho felt a cold knot forming in his stomach. He didn't like where this was going.

Kanato's chopsticks traced a pattern in the remaining rice. "After the concert, Akira collapsed. Fever. It happened a lot back then—his body was still adjusting to being off the performance enhancers SPIA had pumped into him. Any intense physical activity would knock him out for hours." He set the chopsticks down. "Sera put him to bed, ordered room service because he didn't want to leave Akira alone. The waitress from that morning saw the order—thought it was Akira's, not Sera's."

His voice went flat. "She spiked the food with an aphrodisiac. And she hid a camera in the food trolley she left in their room."

The silence that followed was absolute. Sho felt his hands go cold. Beside him, Lauren had gone very still, his playful expression wiped clean. Rou's jaw was tight, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the island. Kuzuha had set down his phone entirely, his face unreadable.

Kanato reached for his phone again, swiping to a different file. "I have the recording. From the hidden camera. Police found it during the investigation." He looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Do you want to see it?"

Sho opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't know if he wanted to see it. But he nodded anyway.

Kanato turned the phone toward them, pressed play.

The video was grainy, shot from a low angle—the camera had been hidden in the lower shelf of the food trolley, angled toward the bed. The quality was poor, but the audio was clear. Too clear.

Sho watched as Seraph entered the frame, pacing restlessly. He was hot—Sho could see it in the way his shirt clung to his skin, the way he kept tugging at the collar, running his hands through his pink-and-red hair. His movements were agitated, jerky, like a caged animal. He stopped to fan his shirt, lifting the fabric away from his chest, and Sho could see the flush spreading across his skin even in the low-resolution footage.

Beside him, Lauren let out a low breath. "Shit."

On the screen, Seraph began scratching at his arms. His neck. His chest. The movements were desperate, uncontrolled. He disappeared into the bathroom—the sound of a shower starting, cold water pounding against tile. When he emerged, his hair was wet, his shirt plastered to his body. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress, and his breathing was ragged, uneven.

Sho felt his throat tighten. He had never seen Seraph like this. None of them had. The man was always so controlled, so still, so carefully measured in every movement. To see him like this—unraveling, fighting something inside himself—was wrong. Viscerally wrong.

Then Akira stirred.

A small sound—a cough, a murmur—and Seraph was on his feet instantly, crossing to the other side of the bed where Akira was half-awake, reaching for him. Seraph helped him sit up, brought a glass of water to his lips, murmured something Sho couldn't catch. His hands were steady, even as his body trembled. Even as sweat beaded on his temples.

Akira drank. Coughed. Fell back asleep within minutes, his fever clearly still high.

Seraph sat beside him on the edge of the bed. His breath hitched. His fingers curled into the sheets. After a long moment, he stood, walked to the bathroom, and Sho heard the sink run—cold water, splashing against skin. The sound went on for a full minute. Two minutes. When Seraph came back, his shirt was gone, discarded somewhere off-camera. His chest was slick with sweat, his muscles taut, his movements still carrying that frantic edge.

He sat down again. Stopped. His head dropped into his hands.

Sho realized he had stopped breathing.

On the screen, Akira stirred again—coughing, searching blindly. He tried to get up, his movements uncoordinated, feverish. He made it two steps before his knees buckled, and he pitched forward.

Seraph moved before the sound of the fall finished registering. He was there, catching Akira mid-collapse, scooping him off the floor like he weighed nothing. Akira's hands came up, fumbling at Seraph's face, and Sho could hear the fever-thickened slur of his voice: "Serao... what's wrong... you're so hot..."

The room was silent except for the video's audio. Rou's hand had gone to his mouth. Lauren was gripping his own knee, knuckles white. Kuzuha's eyes were fixed on the screen, unblinking.

Seraph carried Akira back to the bed. Helped him drink more water. Tucked the blanket around him with hands that shook. Then he leaned down, pressed his forehead to Akira's, and Sho heard the words, soft and broken: "I'm fine, Ren. Sleep. Don't worry about me."

Akira tried to get up again—Sho could see the frustration in his feverish movements, the worry etched into his face even through the grain of the footage. But Seraph held him down, gentle but firm, repeating the same reassurances until Akira's struggles faded into exhaustion.

Then Seraph took Akira's hand. Held it. Gripped it tighter than usual, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched.

Sho watched as Seraph reached out toward Akira's face—stopped himself mid-motion, hand hovering in the air. Fingers curling. Pulling back. The battle was written in every line of his body: the need, the craving, the desperate hunger the drug had injected into his veins, warring against something deeper. Something that refused to let him cross that line.

Akira fell asleep again.

Seraph sat there for a long moment. Then he lifted Akira's hand—the one he was still holding—and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Lingering. Tender. Then he tucked the hand beneath the blanket, stood, and walked to the bathroom. The door closed. The lock clicked.

The audio shifted. Sho heard Seraph's voice, muffled through the door, breathy and strained: "Kanato... Hibari... I need you to come to the hotel..."

The video ended.

The silence in the living room was so thick Sho could taste it. He realized his hands were trembling. He set the glass of water down before he dropped it.

Kanato spoke first, his voice quiet. "He was crying when he called us."

Sho looked up. Kanato's face was still calm, but there was something raw in his eyes—a wound that had been reopened by the telling.

"He locked himself in the bathroom," Kanato continued. "Broke the key so he couldn't open the door even if he changed his mind. Made sure he couldn't get to Akira no matter what the drug made him want." He paused, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "He stayed in there for four hours. Fighting it alone. While Akira slept on the other side of the door, completely unaware."

Rou's voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "How did you get him out?"

Kanato's smile was thin, tired. "Had to call the hotel manager. They forced the door open. Sera was on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. He'd been scratching at his own arms—there were nail marks, some of them bleeding. He looked at us and the first thing he said was, 'I didn't touch him. I didn't—I swear I didn't touch him.'"

Kanato's voice cracked, just slightly. He cleared his throat, looked away. "I called Arata. Both of them needed IV fluids—Akira's fever spiked to nearly 40 degrees from the stress of it all. But once they were stable... Akira crawled into Sera's bed. Held him. Whispered to him that the effects would fade in a few hours, that he was safe, that he did the right thing. Over and over, until Sera stopped shaking."

He gestured to the phone, still displaying the photo of the two of them sleeping. "That's when I took this. They fell asleep like that. Sera was still—the drug was still in his system, making everything worse. But he didn't move. He didn't touch Akira inappropriately. He just let Akira hold him until they both passed out."

Lauren let out a long, shaky breath. "Jesus Christ."

Kuzuha spoke for the first time in a while, his voice low. "Kanato..."

Kanato looked at him.

Kuzuha's expression was unreadable, but his voice carried something heavy. "That's why you said you trust him more than yourself."

Kanato's lips curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Yeah." He picked up his chopsticks again, glanced at the cold rice, set them down. "I have trust in Sera more than I have in myself. That's not an exaggeration. That's not me being dramatic. I mean it."

He turned to look at the bedroom door, where Seraph's voice had finally fallen silent. The room beyond was quiet now. Akira was asleep. Seraph was holding him. The world was, for this moment, still.

"Sera earned that trust," Kanato said softly. "Every scar. Every sleepless night. Every time he locked himself in a bathroom so he wouldn't hurt the person he loves most." He paused. "How could I ever be jealous of that?"

Sho didn't have an answer. None of them did.

From the couch, a rustle of movement. Hibari stirred, his arm sliding off his face as he blinked groggily at the ceiling. "Mmm... did I miss something?"

Kanato's face shifted, the mask sliding back into place as he turned to Hibari with a tired grin. "Just me telling them how much of a saint our dear Sera is."

Hibari sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. "Ah. That story." His voice was rough with sleep, but his eyes—when he opened them—were clear. "Yeah. He's a saint. And an idiot. A self-sacrificing, noble, infuriating idiot." He paused, a soft smile crossing his face. "Our idiot."

Hibari's smile softened as he leaned back into the couch cushions, his eyes drifting to the bedroom door. The lamplight caught the edge of his face, carving shadows under his cheekbones, making him look older than his twenty-four years. "You know," he said, his voice still rough with sleep but carrying a warmth that seemed to fill the room, "Sera and Akira have been sleeping together long before any of us met them."

The words landed like stones dropped into a still pond. Sho felt his breath catch, his fingers tightening around the glass he'd finally picked up. Beside him, Lauren's head snapped toward Hibari, his carefully constructed neutrality cracking into something raw and curious. Rou set down his cold tea with a soft clink against the counter, his full attention now fixed on the man sprawled across the couch.

Kuzuha was the only one who didn't move. But Sho saw the way his thumb stilled on his phone screen, the way his eyes lifted slowly, deliberately, to meet Hibari's gaze.

"Wait," Lauren said, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief. "Before you met them? Like—before high school?"

Hibari's smile widened, but there was no humor in it. Something softer. Something almost reverent. "Yeah. Before Kanato and I ever knew they existed." He shifted, pulling his knees up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around them like a child settling in to tell a story. "They were both in SPIA. Trained operatives. But people forget—they were kids when they started. Akira was what, eight when they took him? Seraph was even younger. They grew up in that place."

Sho felt the words settle into his chest, heavy and cold. He thought of Akira—the way he flinched at sudden movements, the way he went still when someone raised their voice, the way he smiled like he was still learning how. He thought of Seraph—the careful way he moved, the way he never stood with his back to a door, the way his eyes tracked every person in a room without seeming to.

They grew up in that place.

Hibari continued, his voice casual, as if he were discussing the weather. But his eyes were distant, focused on something none of them could see. "SPIA didn't let them go outside except for missions. No friends. No family. No normal life. Just training, conditioning, and the constant threat of death." He paused, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his shin. "And they were teenagers. Trapped in that environment with nothing but each other and a whole lot of stress."

Rou's voice was quiet when he spoke. "So they—"

"Started sleeping together," Hibari finished, his tone matter-of-fact. "Yeah. It was just stress relief at first. Two bodies finding warmth in a place that was designed to freeze them solid. No strings. No expectations. Just... survival."

Sho watched Hibari's face as he spoke, looking for any trace of jealousy, of discomfort. He found none. Only a quiet, steady admiration that seemed to emanate from the man's very bones.

"But you know how these things go," Hibari said, his smile turning knowing. "You can't share that kind of intimacy with someone for months—years—without catching feelings. And they did. Both of them. But neither of them ever confessed."

Lauren leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low and intent. "Why not?"

Hibari's smile flickered, something shadowed passing behind his eyes. "Because they couldn't. Not while they were still in SPIA." He paused, letting the weight of that settle. "Sera told me once—he said he started realizing he had feelings for Akira when he was eighteen. That was around the time he got strong enough that he wasn't at the edge of death after every combat mission. He had enough space in his own head to actually look at Akira and see him. Really see him."

Hibari's gaze drifted to the ceiling, his voice taking on a distant quality. "But even then, he never said anything. Because he noticed something."

"What?" Rou asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hibari looked back at them, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion lining his face. "Akira acted cold to him in public. When anyone from SPIA could see them, Akira treated Seraph the same way he treated every other agent. Professional. Distant. Like they were colleagues, nothing more."

Sho felt a frown forming on his face. That didn't match the Akira he knew—the one who reached for Seraph in his sleep, who leaned into his touch, who looked at him like he was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet.

Hibari seemed to read his confusion. "I know. It's hard to imagine, right? The Akira we know is so openly caring toward Sera. Always checking on him, touching his shoulder, making sure he's eaten." He shook his head slowly. "But that's because they're safe now. Back then, every interaction was monitored. Every glance could be reported. Every moment of softness could be used as a weapon against them."

Kanato spoke up from the island table, his voice quiet but steady. "When Hibari and I first met them in high school, they acted like strangers."

Sho turned to look at him. Kanato's face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen, but his hands had stilled over the keyboard.

"Akira spent all his time on academics," Kanato continued. "Seraph was always at basketball practice or in the orchestra room. They barely acknowledged each other in the dorms. If I hadn't known they came from the same agency, I would've assumed they'd never met before." He paused, his jaw tightening. "It took months before they started acting like friends around us. And even then, it was gradual. Careful."

Lauren let out a low breath. "So they were hiding it. The whole time."

"Protecting each other," Hibari corrected, his voice firm but gentle. "Akira wasn't being cold because he didn't care. He was being cold because he cared too much. If SPIA realized they were attached—if they had feelings for each other—they would've used it against them. Taken one hostage to control the other. Made them choose between each other's lives and their missions."

The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. Sho felt his hands go cold again, a familiar numbness spreading through his fingers. He thought of Akira, sixteen years old, already carrying the weight of years of conditioning and trauma, forced to act like the person he loved most meant nothing to him. Forced to hide every soft glance, every gentle touch, every moment of tenderness behind a mask of ice.

And Seraph—watching Akira turn cold every time someone else was watching, not knowing why, not understanding until the realization hit him like a blade between the ribs.

"He figured it out eventually," Hibari said, as if reading Sho's thoughts. "Sera. It took him a while, but he figured out why Akira acted that way. And when he did..." Hibari's voice softened, his eyes growing distant again. "He decided he would never confess. Not while they were still trapped in SPIA. Because as long as they were there, they could never be together. Not really. The moment they acknowledged what they felt, they'd be vulnerable. And vulnerability in that world was a death sentence."

Rou's voice was hoarse when he spoke. "So he just... waited?"

"Waited," Hibari confirmed. "For years. Through every mission, every near-death experience, every time he watched Akira walk away from him in public and pretend they were nothing. He waited."

Kuzuha spoke for the first time, his voice low and resonant. "And when they finally got out?"

Hibari's smile turned bittersweet. "When they finally got out, everything was chaos. Akira was struggling to survive as a vtuber, dealing with the withdrawal from all the drugs SPIA had pumped into him. His body was falling apart. His mind was a battlefield. Sera kept waiting, because he wanted Akira to have time to heal. Time to breathe."

He paused, his fingers stilling on his shin. "But then three years passed. And Akira never dated anyone. Not once."

Lauren's voice was careful. "Why?"

Hibari met his eyes. "Because of the honey trap missions. Because of all the times SPIA sent him to seduce targets, all the times he was raped in the line of duty. His trauma made him afraid of intimacy. Afraid of romance. He would complain about being lonely—I've heard him, we all have—but every time someone confessed to him, he turned them down. Juniors. Seniors. Even an old friend from his academy days. He said no to all of them."

Hibari's voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "So Sera kept waiting. Because he wanted Akira to be ready. He wanted Akira to choose him, not out of loneliness or obligation, but because he genuinely wanted to be with him."

Sho felt something crack open in his chest. He thought of Seraph's hands—steady, careful, always reaching for Akira with a gentleness that seemed ingrained in his very bones. He thought of the way Seraph looked at Akira when he thought no one was watching, a quiet, aching tenderness that spoke of years of longing, years of patience, years of waiting for a moment that might never come.

"And then," Hibari said, his smile brightening, "the incubus thing happened. And suddenly all four of us were thrown together, and we all confessed because we were too scared to lose each other, and..." He spread his hands, a small laugh escaping his lips. "Well. Here we are."

Rou shook his head slowly, his expression a mixture of awe and something almost like grief. "That's..." He trailed off, searching for the right word. "That's insane. He waited that long?"

"Sera's patient," Kanato said from the island, his voice carrying a warmth that cut through the heaviness of the room. "Stubborn. Loyal to a fault. He'd wait a lifetime if that's what Akira needed."

Sho thought about the photo still visible on Kanato's phone screen—the two of them tangled together, exhausted but safe, Seraph's arm wrapped around Akira like he was the most precious thing in the world. He thought about the video he'd just watched, Seraph locking himself in a bathroom rather than risk hurting the person he loved most.

And he understood, finally, why Kanato said he trusted Seraph more than himself.

Lauren leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, shaky exhale. "I thought I understood," he said, his voice quiet. "I thought I understood what they had. But this..." He shook his head. "This is something else entirely."

Hibari nodded slowly. "It is. And the craziest part?" He looked at each of them in turn, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like pride. "Seraph doesn't think he's special. He thinks he just did what anyone would do. He doesn't see how extraordinary it is—to earn that kind of trust from someone like Akira, after everything he's been through."

Sho felt his throat tighten. "He's wrong," he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. "That's not what anyone would do. That's not what most people would do."

"I know," Hibari said softly. "But try telling him that. He'll just look at you like you're speaking a foreign language and change the subject."

A small, bittersweet laugh rippled through the room. It wasn't humor, not really—it was the sound of people trying to process something too large for words, trying to find their footing on ground that had just shifted beneath them.

From the bedroom, the sound of movement. A soft murmur—Akira's voice, sleepy and disoriented. Then Seraph's response, low and calming, the words indistinguishable but the tone unmistakable. I'm here. I've got you. Sleep.

Sho watched the bedroom door, his chest aching with something he couldn't name. He thought of all the times he'd seen them together—the quiet glances, the casual touches, the way they seemed to orbit each other like planets caught in the same gravitational pull. He thought he understood it. He realized now he had only seen the surface.

Kanato stood up from the island, his joints popping as he stretched. "I'm going to check on them," he said, his voice carrying a lightness that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Make sure they're not starving to death in there."

Hibari snorted. "Sera would never let him starve. You know that."

"I know." Kanato's smile was tired but genuine. "But I want to see them anyway."

He crossed the living room, his footsteps soft against the concrete floor. At the bedroom door, he paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He glanced back at the group—at Sho, at Lauren, at Rou, at Kuzuha—and his smile shifted into something softer. Something almost vulnerable.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying. For listening. For caring about him."

He didn't wait for a response. He pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click.

The living room fell silent again. Sho stared at the closed door, his mind still reeling from everything he had learned. Beside him, Lauren had gone still, his usual playful energy completely absent. Rou had returned to leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, his expression thoughtful. Kuzuha had picked up his phone again, but his eyes were unfocused, staring at a screen he wasn't seeing.

Hibari let out a long breath, his body sinking deeper into the couch cushions. "I love those idiots," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that filled the room. "So much it hurts sometimes."

Sho didn't have words. He just nodded, his eyes still fixed on the bedroom door, where the people he'd come to care about more than he expected were safe, together, finally allowed to be soft with each other after years of forced distance.

And he thought, with a quiet certainty that settled into his bones like a stone finding its resting place at the bottom of a river— they deserve this. They deserve every moment of peace they can find.