Chapter Text
The screaming is already over by the time Yuji arrives.
That, more than anything else, is what makes him slow down.
The curse has been exorcised cleanly, its residue fading into the night air like smoke after a fire. The street is quiet in that fragile, unnatural way it gets after something terrible has happened—windows lit, doors half-open, neighbors peeking out with fear still clinging to their faces. Sorcerers usually leave at this point. The danger is gone. The job is done.
But you’re still there.
Yuji notices you because you’re kneeling on the pavement like you belong there, like the cracked concrete was always meant to cradle you and the woman sitting in front of you. An older woman, hunched and trembling, her breath coming in short, uneven pulls. Her hands shake so badly Yuji can see it from where he stands, fingers fluttering like they don’t quite remember how to be still.
One of your hands is wrapped around hers.
Not tight. Not restraining. Just present.
You’re talking to her softly, your voice low enough that it doesn’t cut into the quiet, but warm enough that it fills the space between you. Yuji can’t hear every word, but he catches the shape of them—gentle teasing, something about how she’s tougher than she thinks, how she’s already survived the worst part. You slip in a joke, badly timed and clearly intentional, and after a second of hesitation the woman lets out a breathy laugh, startled by the sound of it like she didn’t expect herself to still be capable of that.
Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against the back of her hand.
Yuji freezes when he feels it.
Not fear. Not aggression. Just cursed energy, flowing from you in a way he’s never seen before. It’s smooth, even, warm. It doesn’t spike or cut or flare. It moves like a tide, like something practiced and careful. He watches the woman’s shoulders slowly lower, the tremor in her hands easing as if something heavy is being lifted from her chest and passed gently elsewhere.
Passed to you.
The realization settles in Yuji’s gut, quiet and heavy. You aren’t pushing the emotion away. You aren’t suppressing it. You’re taking it. Whatever fear, whatever lingering horror the curse left behind, you’re drawing it into yourself and holding it there, letting it settle somewhere inside you where it can’t hurt her anymore.
You don’t look like a fighter.
You look… present.
Strong in a way that doesn’t demand to be seen.
Yuji doesn’t mean to stare, but he does anyway. He watches the way you lean in, how your posture is open and grounded, how your body—soft curves and solid warmth—creates a sense of safety just by being close. You’re comfortable in yourself, in the space you take up, and it makes the world around you feel steadier for it.
Eventually, gently, you help the woman to her feet. You stay close until she’s sure she can stand on her own, until she thanks you with watery eyes and shuffling steps back toward her apartment. Only then do you straighten, rolling your shoulders once like you’re easing out of a weight Yuji can’t see.
That’s when you notice him.
Your eyes lift, meeting his without surprise, and your face breaks into a small, tired smile—easy, genuine, like he’s just another person passing by instead of the one who ended the curse. You don’t look intimidated. You don’t look impressed. You look… curious.
And kind.
“Hey,” you say, like this is normal. Like this is nothing special at all. “You okay?”
The question hits him harder than any curse ever has.
Yuji blinks, caught completely off guard. He’s used to being thanked, to being feared, to being ignored once the danger passes. No one ever checks on him after. No one ever asks if he is alright.
“Uh,” he starts, then laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just—wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”
You nod like that makes sense. Like of course he would care. Like of course that matters.
“Good,” you say simply. “You did good back there.”
Something warm and unfamiliar settles in Yuji’s chest, spreading slow and deep. He doesn’t have the words for it yet. He just knows that standing here, in the quiet after everything else has broken, feels different than it ever has before.
And he can’t look away from you.
You don’t linger once the street begins to empty.
There’s a rhythm to this part of the work, one you’ve learned the hard way. You stay long enough to make sure everyone can breathe again, long enough to be certain no one is going to fall apart the moment you turn your back, and then you leave before your body remembers how tired it is. Before the emotions you’re holding start to press too loudly against your ribs.
You offer Yuji a small wave as you step away, your smile still warm even though he can see the exhaustion sitting just beneath it now. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something—thank you, maybe, or ask your name—but the moment passes. You disappear down the street, hands tucked into your sleeves, shoulders squared like you’re bracing yourself for something he can’t see.
Yuji stands there longer than necessary after you’re gone.
He tells himself it’s just to make sure everything’s settled. That’s what he always tells himself. Still, the image of you kneeling on the pavement, calm in the face of someone else’s fear, stays with him in a way that won’t loosen its grip.
—
Later, you’re alone.
Your apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that lets thoughts echo if you’re not careful. You kick off your shoes by the door and sit down on the floor instead of the couch, back against the wall, knees pulled loosely to your chest. The lights stay off. You don’t need them.
You close your eyes and finally let yourself feel everything you’ve been holding back.
Fear, first. Not yours. Sharp and panicked, left over from hands that shook in yours only an hour ago. You let it surface slowly, naming it, breathing around it instead of through it. You imagine setting it down, piece by piece, until it loses its edges. Grief follows, heavier but duller, the kind that aches without screaming. You let that one pass too, reminding yourself gently that it does not belong to you, even if it passed through you.
Your breathing evens out. Your shoulders lower.
This part is never easy, but it is familiar. You’ve learned how to sit with borrowed emotions without letting them root themselves in you. How to feel them fully, honestly, and then let them go with care. When you finally open your eyes again, the weight inside your chest has eased to something manageable. Something that feels like memory instead of burden.
You stay there a while longer anyway.
Because kindness costs something, even when you give it freely.
—
Yuji doesn’t sleep well that night.
He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene over and over again in his head. The way your thumb moved in slow circles. The way the woman’s breathing steadied. The way you asked if he was okay, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He thinks about your smile—soft, tired, real. About the quiet strength it must take to carry other people’s pain without flinching. About how you didn’t look at him like a weapon or a hero, but like a person.
He doesn’t know your name.
He doesn’t know where you went.
But he knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his bones, that he wants to see you again.
And somewhere, in the quiet after the screaming stops, something has already begun.