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The front door clicks open.
Teru steps inside like he’s underwater, movements slow and distant, his keys barely making it to the hook before slipping from his fingers. His bag lands with a dull thud just inside the genkan. He forgets to take off his shoes. For a long second, he just stands there—swaying slightly, as though the floor beneath him could give way at any moment.
“I’m ho—” he starts to call out, voice rough from disuse and exhaustion.
Akane seems to materialize out of nowhere at the foot of the stairs.
“Bathroom. Upstairs. Now.”
Akane doesn’t yell and although the words are firm there’s no heat behind them.
Teru blinks. The words filter through the haze a second too late.
“…Okay,” he mumbles, barely audible.
Only once he responds does Akane head upstairs and Teru starts to leave the day at the door.
He shrugs off his coat—it smells like hospital: antiseptic, sweat, faint blood and stronger coffee—and drapes it over the banister. He’s too tired to fold it, too tired to care. Muscles aching and vision tunneling, he makes his way up the stairs one slow step at a time.
It’s a bone deep exhaustion that can only come from working a 36-hour on-call shift, and still - there’s a satisfaction to it. The satisfaction is something he never felt after coming home from long night patrols exorcising supernatural beings and despite feeling dead on his feet he’s never been more glad to have left all of that behind.
This is different. This is steady. Purposeful. He’s still saving lives—just not with a sword anymore.
(Once, not long after they moved in together, he came home from the hospital and found a half-asleep Akane curled on the couch with his laptop open to a tab titled "How to care for someone after a night shift." He hadn’t said anything. Neither had Akane. But now rather than decompress in the dark until he felt like a properly functioning human again, he let himself be taken care of. Akane was always firm, but so gentle at the same time.
It’s not flashy. It’s not loud.
But it’s love. And it’s his.)
Muscles aching and vision tunneling, Teru makes his way up the stairs one slow step at a time.
The lights have already been dimmed in the hallway. The bathroom door is open. Lights are already on. Steam is starting to fog the mirror. A towel is already folded on the counter. His toothbrush is sitting out with toothpaste already on it, neatly waiting.
Akane stands by the tub, sleeves rolled to the elbow, waiting with a faint crease between his brows. His expression softens just a fraction when their eyes meet. He doesn’t smile, the late night also wearing down on him, yet he still radiates contentness. A warmth, quiet and steady, settles in the space between them.
Neither of them says anything but they don’t need to.
Teru steps out of his clothes with sluggish, automatic motions. He drops them in the hamper, barely remembering to remove his watch, and climbs into the bath like a puppet with its strings cut. The heat hits him all at once—muscles groaning, tension unspooling from deep in his spine.
Akane kneels beside the tub, sleeves already damp at the cuffs. He dips a hand into the water, checking the temperature even though Teru’s already in. Then he reaches for the cup on the rim, fills it, and gently tips it over Teru’s head.
Warm water runs in rivulets down Teru’s face, over his neck, behind his ears. He leans into it.
Akane doesn’t speak. Just works in silence, slow and careful. Tomorrow, once Teru is well rested with no less than 14 hours of sleep, he will be a chatterbox, telling Akane all of his anecdotes with a toothy smile on his face.
For now, he squirts shampoo into his palm, lathers it briskly, and then sets both hands to Teru’s scalp.
His fingers are firm but gentle, tracing deliberate circles into Teru’s hair. Nails just scraping the surface. The kind of touch that doesn’t demand anything. Just offers.
Teru lets his eyes fall shut.
I’ve made it this far, Teru thinks, letting Akane take care of him as he silently muses to himself. I’m so lucky to have him.
Back at Kamome, Teru had thought it was the greatest misfortune of his life to have met Akane. And now—now that they’re older, and out of the dark—he can’t believe he was so mistaken. They’ve both grown softer, steadier.
There’s a rhythm now. A routine built not out of repetition but understanding.
The steam rises around them, curling like a veil. Akane works the shampoo down to the nape of Teru’s neck, thumbs pressing gently into the base of his skull, and something unknots there—something old and tired and aching.
“Lean back,” Akane murmurs, the first words he’s spoken since the front door opened.
Teru obeys. Lets Akane tip his head back, lets the water pour over his scalp until the bubbles are gone.
His eyes stay closed the entire time.
This is love, he thinks distantly, and it’s cheesy but irrefutable. This is what love really is. A toothbrush with toothpaste already on it. A bath drawn at the perfect temperature. Hands that ask nothing and give everything.
He lets himself sink a little deeper into the water as Akane reaches for the conditioner.
Akane rinses the last of the soap from Teru with slow, measured pours, making sure not to let the water splash too hard against his forehead. When he’s satisfied, he sets the cup down and pulls the drain plug with a quiet click.
The water gurgles as it spirals away. Teru doesn’t move.
He’s slumped against the back of the tub, hair plastered to his face, eyes still closed. His shoulders are loose, heavy—not tense like usual, not braced for impact.
Akane grabs the bath towel he laid out earlier, unfolding it with a practiced flick. He doesn’t ask. Just reaches forward, wraps it carefully around Teru’s shoulders, and helps him sit up. His touch is brisk but never rough—he pats down Teru’s back and arms first, then tousles gently at his hair, trying not to tug.
“Up,” Akane says softly, tapping Teru’s knee.
Teru groans, but obeys, rising with the stiff, reluctant movements of someone half-asleep on his feet. He steps out of the tub and into the towel Akane holds open for him. Akane wraps it around his torso, tight and warm, then begins drying his hair with a second towel, ruffling and squeezing until the worst of the damp is gone.
There’s a kind of quiet reverence in the way he does it—like he’s done this a hundred times before, and will a hundred more. (And Teru would let him do it hundreds of times - he’d give Akane his heart just because he knows he’d take care of it with gentle words and loving hands.)
The gratitude hangs in the air, unsaid and understood.
They move to the bedroom next. Teru’s pajamas are already laid out on the bed—loose drawstring pants and a plain long-sleeved shirt that smells faintly of detergent and cedar from the drawer sachets Akane insists on using. Teru dresses slowly, limbs heavy, towel draped over his shoulders like a cape. He only stumbles once, and Akane is there to steady him with a hand to the elbow, not saying a word as he changes into his own pajamas.
When they return to the bathroom, the mirror has fully fogged over. The only light now comes from the small lamp over the sink, casting everything in a low amber glow. Their toothbrushes wait side-by-side, already set out.
Without thinking, they fall into place—two figures in sync, orbiting the same center of gravity.
Teru stands in front of the sink, right hand rising to grab his toothbrush. A beat later, Akane steps in behind him, reaching with his left. The movement is natural, fluid—like they’ve done this before, countless times, without ever talking about it.
Akane’s chest presses gently against Teru’s back. His chin slots over Teru’s shoulder for a moment, then angles slightly to the side as he begins brushing. Teru, still a little dazed, copies the motion.
Their arms cross just slightly in the middle, shoulders brushing with every shift. Toothpaste foams in the sink. The quiet sound of bristles on enamel fills the room, rhythmic and mundane.
Akane leans in a little closer, brushing with the kind of focus that’s almost theatrical. Teru catches sight of it in the fogged-up mirror—his own tired expression, Akane behind him, brows faintly furrowed in exaggerated seriousness. It’s ridiculous. It makes his mouth twitch around the toothbrush.
Akane meets his eyes in the mirror. He raises a brow, then taps Teru’s arm with the back of his hand—gently, deliberately—like hey, you missed a spot.
Teru rolls his eyes and leans back into him a little more, just to be annoying.
Their elbows knock. They’re practically on top of each other now.
“What now?”
“Bed.”
They finish brushing, neither of them backing off.
It’s stupid. Intimate. Comfortable in a way that makes Teru’s chest ache a little.
By the time they rinse, the mirror is still fogged but the air has cooled. Akane spits, then wipes his mouth with a towel and tosses it lazily over the rack.
Teru lingers a moment longer, gripping the edge of the counter.
Akane watches him through the glass.
Then, softly, he says, “Bed?”
And Teru just nods.
The sheets are cool but the comforter is thick, and the moment Teru climbs in, it’s like his body gives up entirely. His limbs melt into the mattress. His breathing slows.
Akane joins him a beat later, flicking off the bedside lamp until all that’s left is the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains. Teru was already pulling the covers up, his hair still a little damp, sticking up in defiance of the towel-dry. He scooted closer to Akane without really thinking about it, like gravity had already made the decision for him.
They lie there in the quiet, facing each other.
Their legs brushed under the covers. A second later, they both shifted, syncing naturally until Akane’s calf was resting against Teru’s ankle, and Teru’s arm settled somewhere between Akane’s waist and the mattress.
Teru’s hair is still damp, sticking up in odd places. Akane reaches out and gently smooths it down. His fingers linger a moment too long on Teru’s temple.
They were quiet for a while. The kind of silence that came only when the day had been full and good, and nothing needed to be said to prove it. It was the kind of quiet Akane had longed for, once. The kind Teru hadn’t known how to ask for until now.
“…Do you ever think about how far we’ve come?” Akane finally asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to break the stillness too hard.
Teru made a small sound. “Mhm. Sometimes I think about high school. Your cute little screams as you dangled from the ceiling."
Akane let out a quiet laugh. “I can’t believe that’s how you decided to deal with your feelings for me.”
“Well,” Teru muttered, “I didn’t know what else to do.”
They both smile and it’s a little bittersweet. Hating supernaturals had been so ingrained in Teru back then, and even though Akane was barely even one, his ties with the school mysteries set a great barrier between him and Teru.
It had taken a lot of patience and understanding to work past.
Then, after a beat, Akane turned onto his side, propping himself up just enough to look at Teru. “Do you remember how long it took you to even hold my hand?”
Teru groaned softly and covered his face with one arm. “Don’t remind me.”
“No, it was cute,” Akane said, grinning. “You looked like you were being physically punished every time I so much as brushed your fingers.”
“You knew I didn’t know what I was doing,” Teru said, muffled but not defensive. “And you were very patient.”
“You were worth it,” Akane said without missing a beat.
Teru moved his arm just enough to glance at him through his lashes. His face was still pink from the shower, but there was a different warmth in his cheeks now.
Akane settled back into the pillow, voice softer. “You’ve endured so much. So many people telling you how to live, what to want, who to be.”
Teru didn’t answer, but his hand sought out Akane’s beneath the blanket and squeezed once.
“I just hope,” Akane continued, “that when you’re here, like this, you can finally feel like it’s okay. That you’re doing just fine.”
Teru was quiet for a while, like he was letting that settle somewhere deeper than words could reach. Then he said, quietly, “I used to feel like I was running through life. Like I was always behind. Like if I stopped, even for a second, everything would fall apart.”
Akane knew. He had watched him do it - he’d seen Teru run himself ragged and couldn’t do anything to convince him to just rest . Even for a moment.
“But now,” Teru said, voice growing sleepier, “I can walk. Just walk.” His eyes were drooping, blinks taking longer. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
Akane turned his face toward him, barely brushing their noses. “It is. You made it possible. You’re stronger than you think.”
“…It’s been tough,” Teru murmured, barely audible now. “But we’re still young, right?”
“Right,” Akane whispered.
“We’ve still got time. Even after everyth…” His voice trailed off, heavy-lidded eyes finally slipping shut.
Akane held his gaze a moment longer, even though Teru was already asleep. His husband’s breathing had gone soft and even, lips parted just slightly in that way they always did when he was completely at ease. He looked younger like this. Not in years, but in weight.
Akane smiled faintly and whispered, just for himself, “I love you.”
From where Teru lay — entirely still — he would never hear it. But somewhere in the quiet of that shared breath, the thought echoed back in kind, unspoken but steady:
I love you.