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The nights in that penthouse apartment always felt too quiet. The marble floor was cold beneath bare feet, and the city lights outside the tempered glass windows only left a pale silver gleam slanting across the still-messy dining table—Daisuke’s dinner plate almost untouched, Haru’s wine glass already empty.
Haru sat on the black leather sofa, laptop balanced on his lap, the drug-abuse case report he was handling with the division still open on the screen. The pale blue light illuminated his tired face. In truth, he hadn’t been reading for a while; his eyes simply moved line by line without absorbing anything. It was proven when his back finally leaned against the cushion and his gaze drifted once more to the bedroom door that stood ajar. He wasn’t sleeping. He never truly slept anymore, not since he and Daisuke decided to live here six months ago.
Haru could never sleep peacefully when he knew the Kambe heir sometimes walked the apartment in his sleep. The most expensive neurologist in Tokyo had already explained it: moderate parasomnia, triggered by chronic stress and poor sleep patterns—the result of a brain that kept working long after the body had given up.
The clock read 02:17 a.m. when Haru heard the footsteps that had become all too familiar. They were soft, rhythmic, almost inaudible, but Haru had trained himself to hear them. He had to be ready whenever Daisuke’s sleepwalking habits surfaced.
The detective rose silently and walked toward the dark hallway. Daisuke stood on the threshold of the bedroom door, wearing crumpled navy silk pajamas, eyes tightly shut, his face calm like a Greek statue dreaming. His usually neatly combed black hair now fell softly over his forehead. He looked so different from this angle. And Haru felt incredibly fortunate to be able to see the version of Daisuke that no one else in the real world ever got to see.
Haru approached slowly, his hand extended but not yet touching. "Daisuke," he called softly, almost a whisper. There was no answer. Daisuke simply stepped past him, walking straight toward the kitchen while Haru followed two steps behind, his hands already raised and ready in the air, but not touching yet. He knew his own rules: never wake him abruptly, never force him back to bed before the episode ended—unless he was in truly dangerous.
In the kitchen, Daisuke opened the refrigerator. The bright white light spilled out, illuminating his blank face. He took out a bottle of mineral water, opened it, poured it into a glass—but didn’t drink. He just held the glass, stared at it for a long time, then walked toward the huge window overlooking the night of Tokyo. Haru kept following, his heart calm but alert. In these moments, he always made sure Daisuke stayed within his line of sight, because Daisuke would never be aware of what he was doing in his deepest sleep.
Like three months ago. A night just as cold. Haru had once let his guard down for three minutes—just three minutes—while taking a phone call from his mother in Fukuoka and stepping into the kitchen for water. When he returned, the bed was empty, but the balcony door stood wide open, the night wind blowing in with the smell of rain. He wasn’t focused on that, because he saw Daisuke already standing outside the glass safety railing.
The penthouse balcony was designed with 120-centimeter tempered glass—high enough for ordinary people, but not enough for Daisuke when he wasn’t in his own body. The man stood on the narrow concrete ledge outside the railing, one foot already lifted, his heel dangling over a forty-eight-story drop. The wind rocked his body like a dry leaf, his hair whipping across his own face. His right arm was stretched straight forward as if he reaching for freedom.
Haru didn’t remember how he managed to run that fast. He only remembered the bone-chilling cold when he vaulted over the glass railing, grabbed Daisuke’s waist from behind with both arms, and yanked him backward with all his strength until they both crashed hard onto the wet balcony floor.
Yet Daisuke remained asleep. There was no scream. No awareness. Only calm, warm breaths against Haru’s neck who soaked with tears, as he held Daisuke tightly, his body completely covering the other man’s like a living shield, crying silently and repeatedly apologizing for being careless.
That fear haunted him every night, until he could no longer sleep peacefully. And since that night, Haru had never let his guard down again.
Not when he once saw Daisuke walk into the kitchen and turn on the stove without realizing it. Not when he watched Daisuke sit on the sofa, speaking at length in English to someone in his dream—discussing contracts, stocks, and numbers that made Haru’s head spin just by hearing it.
Fortunately, tonight Daisuke only stood in front of the large window. The palm not holding the glass pressed against the cold pane. His breath left small patches of fog. He murmured, his voice low and unclear, "...no matter the cost... I’ll pay... everything...."
Haru now stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He didn’t pull Daisuke away immediately; he let him be for a while. Sometimes Daisuke needed to "finish" his nightmare before he could return to bed peacefully.
"I see," Haru answered softly, as if truly responding to Daisuke’s invisible business partner. "But tonight you’re allowed to rest. The contract can be signed tomorrow."
Haru took the glass from Daisuke’s cold fingers, set it on the nearest table, then gently turned Daisuke’s body to face him.
"Let’s go back to sleep," Haru whispered. Daisuke didn’t resist when Haru bent slightly, slipped one arm under his knees and the other behind his back, then easily lifted him bridal-style. Daisuke’s body was light for him—too light, actually, for someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders every day.
Daisuke mumbled something indistinct, his head naturally falling onto Haru’s shoulder, as if it belonged there. Haru walked through the long corridor, past the living room still cluttered with his own laptop, and into the dark master bedroom.
He carefully laid Daisuke on the bed and pulled the blanket up to his chest. But suddenly Daisuke caught Haru’s wrist, his fingers gripping tightly, pulling him down—without the forcefully, just with an unspoken need.
Haru understood, and finally climbed onto the bed himself, lying beside Daisuke and letting the half-conscious body curl into his embrace. Daisuke rested his head in the crook of Haru’s neck, his warm breath tickling Haru’s skin. Daisuke’s hand crept to Haru’s chest, searching for the steady heartbeat that was always there, that never left.
"Sorry," Daisuke suddenly murmured, his voice small and cracked, still on the edge of sleep. "I always bothered you."
Haru smiled in the darkness. His fingers gently stroked Daisuke’s hair, over and over, like a mantra. "You didn't even bothering me, Daisuke," he replied calmly. "You are the person I chose to protect for the rest of my life."
Daisuke didn’t answer again. His breathing had already evened out, deep and long. But his hand still clutched Haru’s shirt. And Haru himself stayed awake until the sky outside the window began to fade into grayish blue, not falling asleep right away. His thoughts drifted again, counting how many times Daisuke had woken up crying because he felt guilty toward him. How many times he had gotten angry at Haru for pushing himself too hard—for Daisuke's sake.
Haru would only smile when he saw the same expression on Daisuke’s face every morning: two seconds of confusion, then forced self-control.
"Did I messed up again?" he would ask flatly, voice still hoarse from sleep.
Haru would sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and answer in the same calm tone as the night before. "You never mess anything up."
Daisuke would give a soft huff, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, but he would rub his face with his palm. "You don’t have to stay up all night watching me like a child."
Haru wouldn’t answer immediately. He would stand, walk to the walk-in closet, take out Daisuke’s favorite indigo shirt—perfectly ironed by the housekeeping staff the previous afternoon—and place it at the foot of the bed without such an any words.
Daisuke would stare at him, brows furrowing deeper. "I’m serious. I can install motion sensors throughout the apartment. Or infrared alarms. Or anything you want. You don’t have to—"
"I don’t want anything," Haru cut in gently but firmly. He turned and looked straight at Daisuke. "I just want you to sleep well. That’s all."
Daisuke stared at him for a long time. Those sharp eyes that usually made his opponents lower their gaze in meetings were now trapped in Haru’s calm, unshakable stare. He opened his mouth to argue again, but Haru had already knelt in front of him, taken both of Daisuke’s wrists in his hands, pulled gently, then stroked the back of Daisuke’s hand with his thumb.
"Daisuke," Haru said, voice low. "I know you hate feeling weak. I know you hate depending on anyone. But I’m not anyone else. I’m your partner, so let me take care of you for the rest of my life, please?"
Daisuke fell silent instantly, his breath catching. His fingers tensed in Haru’s grip. He looked into Haru’s clear eyes that never asked for anything except honesty, and for a moment that sky-high ego cracked again—just like every time Haru used his most lethal weapon: unconditional sincerity.
Finally, Daisuke looked down first. "Do whatever you want," he said softly, almost inaudible.
Haru gave a small smile, then stood, cupped Daisuke’s face, and began kissing his entire face—forehead, nose, cheeks, then lips. Each touch was light, making Daisuke freeze as if electrified, and he mumbled, he walked to the bathroom with deliberately firm steps, but Haru knew from the slight slump in Daisuke’s shoulders that the little morning battle was over—and Haru had won again, without ever raising his voice, without ever forcing.
Haru promised himself that no matter what Daisuke went through, he would always be by his side. And he would never complain. Never get angry. Never feel tired.
Because he loved Daisuke despite all his flaws. Despite all his resistance, his stubbornness, all the annoying traits that Haru accepted with his whole heart.
But at the certain times, Daisuke’s ego did manage to upset him a few times. Haru had never minded the man’s stubbornness before, because he had promised to stay by Daisuke’s side, to protect him no matter what.
Yet that evening—perhaps because his worry had been excessive lately—Haru realized he sometimes became overly possessive over Daisuke, especially when the younger always found a way to deny every well-meaning word he said.
Their argument happened in the late afternoon, right after Daisuke came home from a long board meeting. Haru only intended to remind him—using the gentlest tone he could manage—that Daisuke hadn’t slept more than four hours in three consecutive days, that the doctor had warned the frequency of his parasomnia episodes must not increase because it could trigger more dangerous ones, that the stack of medical documents Daisuke considered "a shit" actually contained real advice on how to reduce his workload.
Daisuke answered in a flat, overly controlled tone, with a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "I won’t let my life be dictated by a piece of paper from an overpaid doctor," he said coldly, without looking at Haru. "Besides, I’m fine."
Haru tried again, his voice still trying to stay low. "You almost cut your own hand last week. I was the one who stopped you. That’s not definitely fine."
Daisuke set down his chopsticks with an unusually loud clack. "If you're tired, Kato Haru, you can leave. I never asked you to keep watching over me."
The words hung in the air like a knife. Haru stared at him for a long time. His usually calm eyes now trembled, but he didn’t raise his voice. He only nodded slightly, stood, and left the table without touching the food he had cooked himself for two hours.
After that, they didn’t speak for the rest of the day.
The cold war lasted until the next morning. Haru got up, dressed as usual, and left for the police station without saying a word to Daisuke, who only sat on the sofa, drinking his coffee and scrolling through his phone, never once glancing at Haru as he walked out in a messy mood.
For the rest of the day, Haru channeled his remaining emotions into busying himself with the serial murder case he was trying to solve, attempting to forget his fight with Daisuke, until he even forgot to eat lunch.
Haru returned home right in a two o'clock, walking straight to the bedroom and pushing open the half-ajar door. Moonlight from the large window swept across the bed, where Daisuke lay on his side, blanket draped up to his shoulders. His breathing was steady, his black hair spread across the white pillow. His face was calm and peaceful—not seem like the last expression Haru had seen on him during their argument that day.
Haru stood in the doorway for a few seconds, as if deciding what to do, before finally walking slowly to the bed, sitting on Daisuke’s side, and gently stroking his head. Even when he mad at him, Haru still treated Daisuke with utmost tenderness.
03:10 a.m. Haru opened his eyes with the same sensation as someone choking underwater: lungs burning, heart leaping, the world tilting. He didn’t remember when his head had drooped; he had fallen asleep for fifteen minutes—once again, just fifteen minutes. Time that felt endless when he realized Daisuke was no longer beside him.
The realization made Haru bolt upright, his head throbbing from the sudden movement, but he ignored it. His palms were cold, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a war drums.
He searched every room in the apartment, then saw the door to Daisuke’s private small observatory standing open by two hand-widths.
The biometric lock Daisuke had installed for hundreds of millions of yen meant nothing to Daisuke’s own genius brain, which could apparently unlock it even while unconscious. Registered fingerprint, the exact tapping rhythm—all performed with terrifying precision in the deepest sleep. Haru had once read the medical report: in severe parasomnia cases, patients could perform complex tasks they normally did while awake. He had simply never truly believed it until tonight.
And Haru remembered that corridor led straight to the spiral staircase to the upper floor, so he ran.
He reached the staircase just as Daisuke—with eyes tightly shut and face pale as marble—misstepped on the seventh stair from the top. In the fifteen minutes Haru had left him, Daisuke had climbed that far, and he hadn’t moved again when his body swayed from the misstep and fell backward with a loud thud that made Haru feel as if his own bones had cracked.
Haru lunged, but he was half a second too late. He only managed to catch Daisuke’s waist, yet the man’s head had already struck hard against the mahogany-covered concrete step. Blood immediately flowed—warm, sticky, dark red under the automatically triggered sensor lights.
"Daisuke."
Haru knelt, Daisuke’s body sprawled across his lap, his hands trembling as he touched the already-soaked temple. Blood dripped onto the floor, onto Haru’s rumpled uniform, everywhere.
"I'm sorry," Haru whispered, voice breaking as he bent down and held the still-sleeping Daisuke tightly. "I’m sorry, I'm really sorry... I’m sorry I fell asleep. I’m sorry...."
He held Daisuke tighter, one arm wrapped over his body, the other supporting the injured head. Blood from the wound immediately smeared onto his palm, but he didn’t care. He just kept whispering, over and over, like a prayer that was never enough.
"Let’s go back, okay?"
Daisuke didn’t answer, of course. But he let Haru carry him with a bridal-style—one arm under the knees, the other behind the back. Daisuke’s head lolled against Haru’s arm.
Haru walked back and went straight to the master bedroom. He laid Daisuke on the bed, then quickly fetched the first-aid kit he always kept on the top shelf in the bathroom and returned to Daisuke’s side.
He cleaned the wound with alcohol, pressed clean gauze to Daisuke’s temple until the bleeding stopped. Butterfly stitches, bandage—everything done with hands full of experience.
Daisuke remained asleep throughout the process. No movement, no whimper, nothing. While Haru simply kept wiping away the remaining blood on Daisuke’s skin. "Why do you have to be like this..." he finally whispered, voice cracked but still soft. "I always told you... I always begged... but you never listen."
When he finished, he didn’t bother putting the kit away; he could do it tomorrow morning. Instead, he climbed onto the bed, pulled the blanket up to Daisuke’s neck, then drew him into his arms without hesitation. Daisuke’s body was cold, but Haru held him tighter, sharing his own warmth, sharing the heartbeat that now beat for both of them.
Haru had already sent a message to Daisuke’s secretary: all schedules for today, tomorrow, and the day after were canceled. No long explanation, just one sentence: “Direct order from me.” He already guessed that the next morning Daisuke would wake up confused when he felt the pain in his bandaged head and see Haru’s exhausted face—having not slept all night—yet still greeting him with a gentle smile. "Morning," he would say. "Did you sleep well last night?"
Daisuke blinked slowly. His hand automatically rose to his temple, touching the bandage, then his eyes narrowed. He turned, saw Haru’s pale face and red eyes from lack of sleep, and his expression immediately changed; the iron wall he usually wore for the outside world crumbled.
"How long was I gone?" he asked at once.
"Fifteen minutes," Haru answered honestly. "I fell asleep. I'm sorry."
Daisuke was quiet for a few seconds. Then he shifted, sitting up slowly, his hand gripping Haru’s arm tightly—not in anger, but in fear he rarely ever showed.
"Outside?" he asked again.
"No, you went to the observatory room and fell down the stairs. I treated it."
Daisuke closed his eyes for a moment. His breathing sounded heavy. Then he opened them again and looked straight at Haru.
"Install safety chains on every door now," he said quietly but firmly. "I’ll pay for it. Whatever it costs."
Haru gave a small smile. "I already ordered them last night through the app. They’ll be installed tomorrow morning." He pulled Daisuke into a warm embrace, rubbing his back with such gentle strokes that Daisuke buried his face in Haru’s neck, and Haru could feel the faint trembling in Daisuke’s shoulders—the trembling Daisuke would never admit was crying.
"I hate making you scared," Daisuke mumbled there, voice muffled. "I hate myself for this."
Haru held him even tighter, his hand moving up to stroke Daisuke’s hair over and over. "Don’t hate yourself, Daisuke," Haru whispered. "I don’t need you to be perfect," he continued, then his hand moved down, gently stroking Daisuke’s back repeatedly, as if soothing a wounded wild animal. "I need you to stay here. With me. Even if you sleepwalk to the edge of the world, I’ll still follow. I’ll always bring you home."
"So don’t be afraid, okay? I promise you’re with someone who will keep you safe forever." Haru instinctively kissed Daisuke’s temple, his nose, the corner of his wet eye, and finally his lips—very softly, as if pouring all his love into Daisuke in that moment.
"Sorry," Daisuke squeaked, his voice small, hoarse, almost inaudible.
Haru didn’t answer immediately. He simply leaned over, took the glass of warm water with honey from the bedside table, and brought it to Daisuke’s lips. Daisuke drank obediently, without protest, without a sarcastic remark. Just swallowed, then looked down. "I know you’ll never truly apologize with long words," Haru finally said, voice still calm but with a faint tremor at the end. "But I also know you won’t stop punishing yourself if I stay silent now."
"I am sorry too for getting angry at you yesterday," he whispered, right into Daisuke’s ear.
He hugged Daisuke again, so tightly. All the exhaustion that had filled his body seemed to vanish when Daisuke was in his arms, showing his trust by letting his cold mask stay open.
"What do you want for breakfast today? I’ll cook for you." Haru kept whispering his affection softly into Daisuke’s ear, who still refused to show his crying face.
"Just—stop treating me like a child—" Daisuke stopped to draw a sharp breath as he tried to hold back a sob. "But I want a natto... and miso soup." His voice was soft and trembling several times despite his efforts to control it.
"Oh God, my dear, please stop crying? It makes me sad," Haru said, but he laughed hearing Daisuke speak while still sniffling like that, and he couldn’t help kissing the top of Daisuke’s head over and over.
Haru swore to himself that he would always be the fence, the shield, and the home for the man he would love forever: Kambe Daisuke.