Sanemi knelt in the blood-speckled snow, hands trembling as he pressed against the wound on Ayame's back. Each heartbeat echoed with desperate panic, his face shadowed by fear and something deeper. Ayame, her skin ashen and lips trembling, managed a faint smile despite the pain. The world had grown impossibly quiet, the violence of moments ago replaced by the fragile hush of survival. "No. No, no, don’t do this," his voice cracked, rough with grief. "I’m—fine..." "Don’t lie to me," he pleaded, voice fraying. "You would’ve died," she breathed, gaze unwavering even as her strength faded. "Then let me." "No."

Sanemi hovered protectively at Ayame's side, his palm never leaving hers. Blood had been washed away, but the memory lingered in the set of his jaw and the way his thumb traced slow circles over her knuckles. Ayame stared into the fire, her eyes reflecting both exhaustion and peace. The silence between them was thick—filled with all the words they’d never said, the confessions that hovered closer than their lips. "You don’t get to throw your life away for me," she whispered, her voice barely louder than the wind outside. "You hate me, remember?" "I never hated you. I hated what you made me feel." The world held its breath as they leaned closer, not quite touching—drawn together by everything that hurt and healed them at once.

Ayame sat up slowly, testing the stitches on her back as she watched Sanemi’s tense silhouette. His shoulders were hunched, fists clenched, every muscle strung tight from a night without sleep. "You can breathe, you know," she offered quietly, her voice gentle but edged with fatigue. "You almost died," he replied, not turning. "So did you. Again." "That’s different." She caught the glint of something raw in his eyes as he finally faced her—a vulnerability that made the air between them shimmer with everything left unsaid. "I can’t afford to lose people. Not again." "Neither can I."

Ayame sat with her spine straight, eyes cold as she delivered her report. Sanemi slouched nearby, scowling, his gaze never quite leaving her face. "As per protocol, we engaged the demon together. He was… functional." "She was barely upright." Laughter rippled from the others, but neither of them smiled. Later, the courtyard was empty but for them—moonlight painting silver lines across stone. "You’re ignoring it," he accused, voice low. "I’m focusing on the mission." "Bullshit." "It was a mistake." His chest tightened, but he let her go, watching her shadow vanish down the corridor.

Sanemi lay rigid on his futon, replaying the memory of Ayame—her lips, the tremor in her laugh, the ghost of her touch. Each recollection was a wound he couldn’t close, a need he refused to name. Ayame drowned herself in training, refusing to let her body rest, chasing exhaustion just to silence her heart. If she slowed, she’d remember him—and she couldn’t afford that. Missions came and went, and they drifted—apart but never truly separate. The ache lingered, sharp and silent.

Ayame fought alone, blade flashing in streaks of silver and red. Her breath faltered, old wounds burning beneath her uniform. Three demons circled, hungry and vicious, their laughter echoing through the gloom. Sanemi felt it—the shift in the wind, the wrongness in his chest. He ran, crashing through brush, his heart a war drum. He found her surrounded, bleeding, defiant even as she staggered. He fell upon the demons like a storm unleashed, his blade slicing through darkness and fear alike. In the aftermath, he dropped to his knees beside her, hands shaking. "What the hell were you thinking?!" "You really know how to make a girl feel safe." "Shut up. You don’t get to die. You hear me?" "I never wanted to need you." "You don’t. We need each other." He cradled her gently, arms encircling her as the wind whirled soft and protective. For the first time, neither of them pulled away. The storm had not broken them; it had bound them—scarred, but still standing.