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The first time Shishiba shared a bed with Osaragi was the night he returned home after his hand surgery.
It was already past 10. Osaragi had come by after wrapping up a late mission, her first time visiting his apartment. He remembered seeing her from the security monitor, standing awkwardly in the building’s lobby, waiting for permission to come up. For a moment, he thought about brushing her off, just like he usually would: telling her to go home, get some rest, leave him to the quiet of his life, now altered, with two prosthetic fingers grafted to his left hand.
That would’ve been the proper thing to do, the way a mentor should draw lines with their apprentice, but something in him had been knocked loose that night. His stump throbbed beneath the glove, and his head swam in a lingering fog, possibly the aftereffects of whatever cocktail of sedatives they’d run through him during surgery, clinging to his system and dulling his reflexes. It felt as if his body was no longer his own. Maybe that’s why, instead of turning her away, he just pressed the buzzer.
When he opened the door, she looked almost out of place. Her dark work dress melted into the shadows of the hallway, the dim light catching only the pale edges of her face. In one hand was her usual suitcase, and in the other, a takeout box still warm to the touch.
“I went to the hospital, but they said you were discharged,” she said. “So I asked Hyo for your address.”
Osaragi had always come off as bold, but that night, she hesitated at the threshold, awkward, unsure, the kind of awkward that didn’t suit her knife-sharp presence in the field. She’d grown up on a farm, far from the rhythm of city life, far from whatever counted as social cues. He wondered, briefly, if this was the first time she’d ever visited someone’s home as an adult.
Shishiba let out a quiet sigh. “You didn’t have to. I’m fine on my own.”
“I wanted to. Is that a bad thing?” she asked, her voice low, not defensive, just genuinely puzzled. Her head tilted slightly to the side, eyes searching his face for something, some cue to follow. She always did that when she wasn’t sure how to act: looking to him for permission, for clarity. That had always been their unspoken dynamic: her, unmoored in most social settings, and him, the quiet anchor she instinctively leaned toward.
He couldn’t just leave her standing in the doorway. Besides, the smell of the food she brought was starting to stir something in his stomach. He had to admit: his appetite hadn’t been great the past few days, and hospital meals were absolute hell. What he really craved was something real, something warm, like the ramen from that tiny shop near Shinjuku Station where he and Osaragi often dined in between missions. So, without a word, he stepped aside and gave a small nod, motioning her in.
Osaragi looked quietly pleased at that. Her expression only shifted a little, but for someone like Shishiba, who’d spent enough time with her, it was easy to catch. It was the same look she gave when he let her grab a second tub of ice cream at the convenience store, or when he promised her something good after a job well done. When had he started noticing things like that? He sighed again and shook his head, closing the door behind them.
The apartment was barely lit. Before she arrived, it had been almost pitch black, the only light coming from the stretching neighborhood beyond the glass balcony.
Shishiba remembered apartment hunting a few years back, and this place had caught his eye the moment he stepped in. The first thing he saw was the sunset, streaming straight through the balcony windows and spilling into the room. The unit faced southwest, which meant the light was never too harsh, just warm enough to catch the beauty of the dusk. From the living room, he could see the nearby park nestled among the surrounding bustle of the city. He remembered standing on the balcony for a brief moment, bathed in that golden light, before turning to the real estate agent and placing the deposit without a second thought.
Shishiba was someone who paid careful attention to his living space, maybe a little too much for someone who could die on the job at any given moment like him. He liked to think he had a decent eye for interior design, and during the first few months after moving in, a good chunk of his paycheck had gone straight into renovations. He made sure everything felt like his, especially the lighting. He’d learned over time how much light could shape a home, how it changed the way a place felt: soft where it needed to be, sharp where it counted.
That night, though, he hadn’t bothered to turn any of them on. The apartment remained dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city bleeding through the windows. He’d dropped onto the sofa without a word, head hanging low, the weight of the hospital, the pain, the prosthetics, all of it, settling into his bones. He hadn’t checked the time, didn’t care enough to. Not until the security monitor chimed, cutting through the quiet and announcing his unexpected visitor.
Soon enough, Shishiba found himself in the kitchen area, with Osaragi waiting patiently, almost excitedly, at the dining table. He was unpacking the takeout she’d brought, plating the yakisoba with a quiet focus. Fortunately, he had just enough to get by: two dishes, two pairs of chopsticks, and a single bowl they could share. Shishiba had never been much of a home-cooking type; on his days off, he preferred wandering the city in search of ramen shops tucked into alleyways or train station corners. His hand still felt awfully stiff and unfamiliar, the prosthetics clumsy against ceramic and lacquered wood, but when Osaragi offered to help, he brushed her off. “This is something I need to get used to”, he said. And that was that.
Dinner passed in near silence. Shishiba figured he must’ve looked worse than he felt, bad enough that even Osaragi didn’t try to make conversation, which was fine by him. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, and she wasn’t the type to force it.
The food definitely helped, though. The warmth settled into him slowly, loosening something he hadn’t realized had tensed up. He hadn’t felt hungry earlier, not until now, with real food in front of him, shared between two pairs of chopsticks.
Maybe it was just timing. Or maybe it was something else, something about not eating alone.
Whatever it was, he didn’t look too closely at it. He just kept chewing, resisting the familiar urge to remind his apprentice to eat her vegetables.
The sound outside made him glance toward the window. It had started raining, steady and unrelenting, typical of summer evenings this time of year. He checked his phone. It was nearly midnight already, a time not exactly ideal for commuting.
Not that he doubted Osaragi’s ability to defend herself. Hell, he'd probably feel worse for the poor bastard dumb enough to bother her. Still, the girl tended to get… imaginative. She might spot a shadow, convince herself it was a ghost, and end up crouched behind a vending machine somewhere, soaked through. They were back on duty tomorrow anyway, and the last thing he needed was her catching a cold mid-mission.
He leaned back as he finished his part of the meal. “You’ve got a change of clothes in that suitcase, right?”
It was a habit she’d picked up after that one mission, when some desperate target kicked over a barrel of water to stall her. He remembered it vividly: her drenched to the bone, the fabric of her uniform clinging in ways that made him uncomfortable, not because of her, but because of the way strangers on the street had stared. He’d taken off his jacket without thinking and wrapped it around her, jaw clenched tight. The memory still made something cold twist in his gut.
“You can use my bathroom. Just be quick. It’s late.” Shishiba sipped on his cup as he spoke.
She mumbled a response, still working through the last of her soba.
Shishiba watched her for a second, then looked away, once again biting back the familiar urge to remind her not to talk while chewing.
By the time Osaragi emerged from the bathroom, Shishiba had already retreated to his bedroom. After days in a sterile hospital room, surrounded by machines and fluorescent lights, the quiet ache across his body felt easier to bear now that he was finally back in his own space.
Well, almost his.
Just beyond the doorway, a familiar figure lingered. Osaragi was shifting from foot to foot, uncertain and out of place, like a cat in unfamiliar territory. She wore an oversized T-shirt with a teddy bear print and cotton shorts from her suitcase, her hair tied up, still damp at the ends. The faint scent of his citrus-and-cedar shower gel hung in the air, familiar, domestic. Something about it made him want to forget the ache in his joints, the weight in his head, and the phantom throb in his hand.
“What’s wrong, Osaragi?” Shishiba asked, his voice low, even as he rose from the bed and approached the doorway.
They stood on opposite sides of the threshold, the warm, gentle lighting of the bedroom casting a faint glow between them. The doorframe felt like more than just wood and air: it was a line, quiet and invisible, but heavy. Something that once crossed, couldn’t be uncrossed.
Shishiba knew the right thing to do. He should’ve grabbed a blanket and settled on the sofa like he always did whenever they had to crash somewhere during missions. That was their routine: she got the bed, he took the couch. No questions, no confusion. It kept things clean, professional, and drama-free.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t offer. Didn’t step aside.
He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was the lingering haze of the sedatives, dulling the sharp edges of his better judgment. Or maybe it was something quieter, something that had been gnawing at him in the background for a while now. So instead, he let the question hang in the air between them and left it up to her.
He could feel her gaze on him, searching, waiting, looking for a cue to follow as usual. But this time, Shishiba didn’t offer one. The choice was hers. He stayed still, gaze steady, letting the silence speak for itself.
Maybe this was the worst idea he’d ever had.
He felt like he was standing bare in front of her, stripped down, exposed, and utterly defenseless, as if all she had to do was lift her trusted buzzsaw and slice clean through his neck.
Moments passed, and finally, her voice broke the silence.
“…So I’m allowed to stay?”
She tilted her head slightly. The question wasn’t coy, just genuine. Like someone asking if stepping off a marked path would trigger a landmine.
And Shishiba knew: this wasn’t just about crashing on a bed for the night. This was about her stepping into his space, slipping quietly into the private corners of a life he’d never shared with anyone before.
He nodded, a barely perceptible tilt of his chin, and stepped aside, just like he had earlier when she stood at his front door.
Osaragi crossed the threshold with a bit more certainty this time. As she moved across the room, Shishiba noticed how careful she was not to disturb anything, like stepping through a space that didn’t quite feel hers yet. She made her way to the right side of the bed.
Without a word, she untied her hair, placing the tie on the nightstand. Then, slipping under the covers with quiet precision, she glanced up at him, not expectantly, just calmly, as if to signal it was time to call it a day.
Something loosened in his chest, like a heavy stone finally shifting after sitting there too long. He let out a small breath, then turned to adjust the air conditioner, warming the room just enough. With a flick, he turned off the main lights, leaving only the low glow of the nightstand lamp casting soft shadows across the room.
When he sat back down on the edge of the bed, the sheets were already warm from the presence beside him. It was surprisingly grounding, a quiet signal that she was there, alive, healthy, and fully present. And he was finally home. Not under the stinging, sharp scent of disinfectants or wrapped in sterile white sheets, but surrounded by the familiar faint trace of his own shower gel, in the soft dim of his room. His space. Well, not entirely his for the time being.
He slowly began to remove the gloves, securing his prosthetic. His fingers faltered for a moment, clumsy. He could feel her shift, sitting up slightly behind him, watching, but she didn’t reach out. She knew better than to offer help unless he asked.
They sat in silence as he finished the task, the quiet hiss of velcro being the only sound between them. When he finally tucked the glove away in the drawer, something in him eased.
With that thing out of sight, he could pretend, just for a while, that the darkness wasn’t clawing at him from somewhere deep below. That the figure he’d buried in the water would stay there tonight. And that maybe, for once, he could finally get a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
As Shishiba turned, he found Osaragi still watching him, her gaze resting quietly on his hand this time. The skin around the stitching had begun to heal, and he could feel the faint itch of scabs forming where his fingers used to be. But even so, something unsettled stirred inside him under her gaze. The hand wasn’t grotesque, not anymore, but it still felt like a reminder of everything he’d lost.
“Can I touch it?” She finally asked. Under the soft light of the lamp, her features seemed softer somehow. The glow cast gentle shadows along her face, tracing the curve of her cheek, the dip beneath her eyes. Her lashes fluttered faintly as she breathed, not with hesitation, but something quieter. It wasn’t pity in her tone, just plain curiosity, the kind that always made her ask things others wouldn’t dare.
Shishiba wanted to say something, but again, for the umpteenth time that night, he bit back the words. The dull ache lingering beneath his ribs made even the simplest syllables feel heavy, like dragging lead across his tongue. It left him feeling useless, hollow in places he hadn’t noticed before.
So instead, he just lifted his left hand slightly in her direction, offering her a full look at the part of himself he’d been trying not to flinch from. Letting her see him in the most vulnerable form he knew.
Osaragi gently cupped his hand with both of hers, her calloused palms cradling what remained of his left hand as if it were something precious. It was the same way she’d held it the moment he woke up in that hospital bed, dazed and broken. Her thumbs, lined with faint scars of her own, brushed softly across the back of his hand in slow, deliberate strokes.
For a moment, she looked almost like she was praying, solemn, focused, her gaze lowered in quiet reverence. As if his hand were an offering, and she was honoring whatever was left of it.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked, her gaze finally lifting to meet his.
“Sometimes. My body still thinks the fingers are there,” he said, voice rough, like it hadn’t been used in days.
To his surprise, she lowered her head, letting her forehead rest gently against the back of his hand, like a quiet bow, or maybe a silent prayer. The warmth startled him at first, foreign and intimate in a way he wasn’t used to, but slowly, it settled, melting into something grounding, something steady. Something almost like comfort.
When she looked up again, her face was calm, but there was a flicker of quiet determination in her eyes.
“You have the gods’ blessing now,” she said simply. “I prayed for you.”
He almost laughed. Of course she did. His partner and her odd, rural superstitions, how could he forget?
Shishiba never believed in gods. If they did exist, surely he would’ve been punished by now, wiped clean off the earth for everything he’d done, for all the blood still clinging to his hands. And yet here he was, not struck down, but haunted instead, by the shadows that clung to the edges of sleep, by names he no longer dared to speak, by memories that rose like ghosts whenever the room went too quiet.
“So I have,” Shishiba said, deciding to play along this time as he let out a quiet, steady breath. “Can we go to sleep now, Miss Superstitious?”
She didn’t argue, just gave the faintest nod and lay down beside him, her hand still wrapped around his like it meant something sacred. Maybe she thought it would help the gods bless him better that way. Shishiba wasn’t sure. He didn’t bother asking.
Instead, he reached over and flicked off the lamp. Darkness settled gently over the room, and he turned onto his side to face her. Under the shared warmth of the covers, her quiet presence tethered him, soft, steady, and inexplicably grounding.
Osaragi drifted off quickly, her breathing soon became a quiet rhythm syncing with the patter of rain against the windows. It was still coming down outside, but in the dim hush of the room, everything felt warm and settled.
“Good night, Osaragi,” he whispered.
He doubted she heard it. But that was enough.