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You’d probably missed it the first handful of times, too relieved, too grateful to have him back in your arms at all. Alive and warm. Breathing, instead of another name added to a list that never seemed to stop growing.
Your cheek against his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath your ear. That alone had felt like the worlds greatest mercy.
But it dawned on you pretty quickly that something had changed.
You never expected him to come back unchanged. That would’ve been naïve. Still, when you first saw him, when the medics stepped aside and the light caught his face properly, the shock stole the air from your lungs.
The right side of his face was blistered, skin pulled tight and uneven despite Shoko’s expert care. Scar tissue spider-webbed across his cheek, angry and raw. And for a single moment…you froze.
Then relief crashed through you. Breathtaking and overwhelming. He was alive. He was standing in front of you. That mattered more than anything else ever could.
Months pass. Careful treatment and time doing what it can.
The skin settles, though the scars remain. His left eye clouds over, the colour of watered down milk. Sightless permanently.
And still, he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen.
Still your husband.
“Hey” you breathe, stepping up behind him as he stands at the door. You slide your arms around his waist and press yourself close. Your palm spreads across his abdomen, his skin warm through fabric, familiar and missed.
You feel it instantly, the way his body stiffens, muscle going rigid beneath your touch. A hitch in his breath, a small warning. His fingers twitch, itching to pry you off.
You pretend not to notice.
You lean in anyway.
“You think you could come home at lunch?” you murmur, voice dipped playfully low, trying to inflect it with as much obvious desire as you could. “I need a little… self-care.”
You feel his breath change before he speaks.
“No. That’s not possible.”
Curt and flat, like you expected.
He peels your arms away like they burn, steps out of your hold without looking back. The space he leaves between you feels cold. He bends to pull on his shoes, laces them with neat, practiced precision, the same way he does everything. Controlled and methodical.
You stare at his broad back. At the way the muscle shifts beneath the sky-blue shirt he favours. The sword holster already strapped in place. A horrible reminder of everything that took him from you, and what brought him back wrong.
“Please, Kento—” you start softly, reaching out, fingers barely grazing his shoulder before he shrugs you off.
The rejection hurts more than you expect it to.
“I’m busy.”
He stands, reaches for his tan suit jacket and slips it on, one arm, then the other. And then, like he hasn’t just pushed you away, like he hasn’t fractured something delicate in your chest, he turns, presses a brief, chaste kiss to your cheek.
You don’t react. You just watch him walk out the door without another word.
He’s been like this since he came home. Since the bandages came off.
Before that, before he could see himself clearly, he let you care for him. Let you sit close, touch him. He watched you quietly while you changed his wrappings, while you smoothed creams and lotions into puckered skin with slow, careful hands.
Then something snapped. A switch was flipped, clean and final.
He no longer holds you when he sleeps. Turns his back instead, a blank wall of cool distance. Even when you curl up behind him, content to be the big spoon, breathing him in, he finds an excuse to leave the bed. The bathroom. The kitchen. Anywhere but stay with you.
He doesn’t reach for you anymore.
No gentle love-making against the counter. No lazy mornings tangled in sheets together. No lingering touches, no heat, no hunger.
Everything…just gone.
You’d tried not to let it bother you, tried to tell yourself that you had to wait, that he’d been through something life changing, something that had left him with injuries, mental and physical, that you couldn’t even begin to understand. But the detachment, the complete lack of intimacy, watching him drift away and become a stranger was unbearable.
You’d gotten your husband back, but only in the flesh, not in soul.
…
By midday, your thoughts are spiralling, a self destructive loop you can’t escape. The house is too quiet. No footsteps. No breathing that isn’t your own. The silence presses in, makes everything louder.
You lift your phone. Your finger hovers over his name in your contacts.
You want to hear his voice. You need it. Need him to say it, to reassure you that everything is fine, that this morning meant nothing, that he still loves you. That you haven’t already lost him.
But the memory of his cool rejection stops you. The way he’d pulled away. The flatness in his usually warm voice.
Your hand trembles.
You scroll lower instead, thumb tapping Shoko’s name before you can overthink it. It rings once. Twice. Then her voice filters through the speaker, soft, breathy, echoing slightly.
“Shoko here.”
You can hear the chaos around her. Metal clattering. A wheeled tray squealing across tile before crashing to a halt. You’re on speaker, of course you are. You can just picture her phone propped somewhere unholy while she peers into some poor soul opened up upon her table.
“Hey… it’s me” you say quietly. The words feel intrusive the second they leave your mouth. Embarrassment curls tight in your chest. You shouldn’t be calling her with this. “Um…never mind, pretend I didn’t call. Sorry for bother—”
“I’m not busy” she interrupts gently. “Talk. I can tell something’s wrong.”
A sickening crack sounds through the phone, followed by a wet, visceral squelch.
“It’s Nanami” you say softly. Your free hand hooks around the nape of your neck, fingers pinching skin hard enough to ground you. To keep your voice steady.
“Is he injured?”
Of course that’s where her mind goes. She was the one who stitched him back together. Who scraped him and Gojo off the battlefield and made them whole again.
“Not physically.” You pace the room, nails worrying at your skin, a nervous habit you can’t seem to stop.
The sounds on her end cease abruptly. Latex snaps. Footstep louder as she nears the receiver, her hand closing around the phone, and suddenly her voice is closer. Focused.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s… distant.” The word feels inadequate. You struggle to hold yourself together, throat tightening. “He doesn’t… touch me anymore.”
She exhales slowly. Weary. “Well. He’s been through a big… change.”
“I know—” You rush the words, afraid she thinks you’re selfish. “I understand that. I just…I don’t understand why he’s distant with me. I was there through it all. Through all the treatment. And I’d never see him as anything other than perfect—” Your voice falters, breathless, embarrassment bleeding in through the cracks.
She laughs softly, just a gentle puff of air. “I know you were. You were very brave.” A pause. “I think you just need to give him more time. I’m sure he still loves you. He’s just… tender right now.”
“I miss him.” The words shake as they leave you. Tears burn behind your eyes, gathering fast. Your throat burns, constricting as you try to swallow. “I feel like I’m losing him”.
“Tell him that” she says gently. “I’m sure he’s not doing this intentionally. As long as he knows you’re still there, that you still love him, that you still need him, body and soul, it should help.”
You nod even though she can’t see you. Tears spill over, slipping across your cheeks and down over your lips, seeping into the corners of your mouth. You sniff, wiping your face with the back of your hand.
Her voice softens further. “Don’t cry. He’d hate to know he’s causing you this much pain.”
“I’m so lonely” you gasp. Your knees give out and you slump onto the couch, sinking back into the cushions. The tears come freely now. “I miss him so, so much.”
She stays with you. Listens. Lets you cry for fifteen long minutes, offering soft reassurance, quiet advice, gentle encouragement, until there’s nothing left in you but exhaustion and salt-stung skin.
The house is still quiet, but at least you’re not alone in it anymore.
…
You find the rum shoved into the back of a cupboard, dust clinging to it’s glass shoulders. You crack it open, bring it to your nose. Sharp and sweet, like forbidden caramel. You hesitate only a second before deciding it shouldn’t hurt.
You make yourself a rum and coke. Then another. The pours are heavy, more rum than mixer, barely diluted. You sit at the kitchen table and nurse it, watching condensation bead and slide down the glass. Ice chimes softly each time you lift it. Your thoughts buzz, a low hum under your skin. The tightness in your shoulders loosens. Your body softens before your heart can catch up.
He comes home the way he always does. Quiet, and careful. Like he’s afraid to disturb you no matter what you’re doing.
Now, you wonder if it’s something else entirely.
If it’s avoidance.
Avoiding you, your eyes, your questions. Your hands.
You take another long swallow, the thought burning through you like acid.
“Kento” you hum when he steps into the kitchen. He pauses, surprise flickering across his face when he spots you sitting there in near darkness. “Welcome home.”
His voice is cool, detached. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
His hazel eyes flick to the bottle. Then to the glass in your hand.
“Because…” you wave vaguely. “Atmosphere.”
He flicks on the light without acknowledging you. You wince as it floods the room, stinging your eyes. He moves in immediately, takes the bottle from the table despite your protest and pours the rest down the sink. You watch it disappear. He rinses your glass quickly and sets it on the drying rack.
Clean, quick, and final.
He turns, hands gripping the counter, lower back braced against the hard edge. “What are you doing?”
You scoff and stand, the world tilts. You plant a palm flat on the table, waiting for the room to stop swaying. When there’s only one of him again, you move toward him, unsteady, hands landing on his waist, twitching against the warm muscle.
“Oh…” you breathe, melting into him. “I missed you.”
You nuzzle your face into his chest like a cat seeking warmth, breathing him in. “You smell good, I missed you so much”
“And drinking helped for what reason?”
“Self-medicating” you laugh softly.
This is the closest he’s let you get in days. You’re drunk on the sensation alone, your cheek rubbing against his chest, his heat soaking into you. “Nanami” you breathe, saying his name over and over, helpless to stop yourself.
“Stop that” he grunts, hands closing around your arms. He pulls you back. “You’re drunk.”
“Oh, Nanami, please” you whimper.
You rise onto your toes and kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated. His lips are stiff beneath yours, permitting, but not returning the action. You mouth at him desperately, teeth catching his lip, hands clawing at his neck, trying to pull him closer.
He doesn’t move, stood like a stone wall.
His hazel eyes look at you like he doesn’t know you.
You don’t notice. You can’t. Want roars too loud. Your fingers fumble with his buttons, lips leaving his mouth only so you can see what you’re doing. You reach the fifth button before he catches both your wrists in one hand and stops you cold.
“Stop. I’m not in the mood.”
You do, for a second. You stare down at where his grip holds you, your drunk, touch-starved mind screaming at you to keep going. You surge forward again, mouth crashing back onto his, teeth nipping at his lip in your clumsiness.
“I said stop”. He snaps the words and shoves you away
The sudden force, combined with your unsteady footing, sends you stumbling back. Your hip collides with the corner of the table. Pain flares white-hot before you come to a stop, braced against it.
For a moment there’s only silence.
You freeze, hands splayed on the table. The shock sobers you in an instant.
His hands lift, hovering, reaching for you. Then his gaze flicks to his own hand, the scarred one, the webbing along his skin, and whatever he sees there makes him pull back. His arms drop to his sides.
“I’m sorry” he says. Exhausted. Worn thin. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No. I’m sorry.” The humiliation burns, a feeling you never thought he’d make you feel “I shouldn’t have… jumped you like that.”
You shake your head, push hair back from your face, fighting to stay composed. Fighting not to cry again.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” You can’t look at him. You can’t stand the weight of his eyes on you. You turn away, hiding the tears, the bitten, bloodied lip, the shame burning across your face. “Don’t worry.”
An awkward silence fills the air, you have the desperate urge to hide.
“I’m going to shower” he murmurs.
He slips past you, pausing just long enough to press a kiss to your temple. You flinch. Not fully, but enough. Your shoulders curl inward, your head drops, hair falling like a curtain between you and him.
And once again, he’s gone, slipping into the bathroom, the soft click resonating round the kitchen.
You stand there for a moment, unmoving. Your heart pulses hard in your chest, uneven, like it’s lost its footing. It feels as though the bottom has fallen out of you entirely. You don’t know what to do with your hands, with your body.
The taste of rum lingers on your tongue, and thankfully, the alcohol blunts the worst of it.
Just enough.
You know tomorrow will be different. Morning will strip you bare. You’ll feel it all at once.
You turn on the faucet, cold water rushing loud in the quiet room. You splash it over your face, gasp at the chill, cup your hands to sip some slowly. Then you shut it off and lean over the sink, elbows locked, water dripping from the tip of your nose.
You stare down at the plug hole.
Your thoughts twist together, a tangled mess of shame, confusion and longing, too knotted to separate.
Later, when he’s showered and slipped into bed, when the usual kiss to your cheek never comes, you stand in the doorway.
Hovering. Caught on the precipice of a decision that feels far too heavy and final.
You could cross the room. Crawl in beside him. Reach out and press your fingers to his warm back, just to be sure he’s still there.
But you can’t.
You can’t take the expanse of his back turned to you. The way his wheat-coloured hair fans across the pillow. The way his body goes rigid whenever you get too close.
So you turn away.
You tuck your nightgown tighter around yourself, chasing warmth that won’t come. You choose the couch instead. Curl onto your side beneath a blanket pulled from the linen closet, staring at the walls washed dark blue by the night.
The distance between you and him has never felt so vast. A chasm you keep reaching across, only to be pushed back every single time.
And you don’t know how many more times you can survive the fall.
…
Your decision comes the way most of them do.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just blank. Heavy. Settled into your bones like something inevitable.
You tried.
You kept reaching for him, again and again. Small, careful touches. Fingers brushing his hand. Quiet reminders that you loved him. That you were still here. Waiting, hoping he’d take your hand, pull you in, hold you like he used to.
He didn’t.
He left you alone.
You’d wanted the weekend. Something simple. The beach, maybe. Salty air and blazing sunshine. Time to remember each other. You touched his hand when you suggested it.
He flinched. Actually flinched.
Mumbled something about work. About being called in. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Then, later that afternoon, Gojo called, cheerful and oblivious, asking for Nanami.
That’s when it hit you.
He hadn’t been called away. He’d chosen to leave. To avoid you.
He was gone, and you were clinging to what was left behind. A shell. A familiar shape, but empty inside.
You didn’t confront him. There was no point. It felt like shutters slamming closed around your heart, an act of self-preservation more than cruelty. You couldn’t survive being gutted like this anymore.
So you chose to leave.
Being alone was better than being with someone who made you feel lonely.
The door opens softly. Like always. Shoes scuff as he toes them off. Keys clink into the bowl by the door. The whisper of fabric as he loosens his tie. Normal sounds on a normal evening.
You steel yourself.
These are the words you’ve only ever heard in your nightmares.
He senses it immediately, that there’s something wrong. Maybe it’s your face. The way your shoulders are set. The manila envelope on the table, stark and out of place.
“Y/N.”
It’s the first time he’s said your name in a while. It sounds strange from his lips now.
You swallow. Trying to pick your words carefully, everything you’d rehearsed vanishes. “I… I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“No.” Your voice shakes. “Kento, I’m leaving… you.” The words nearly choke you. Your gaze drops to your knees. “I want a divorce.”
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Neither of you move. You wonder if this is it, if he’ll just nod, go to another room, sign the papers like it’s a task and be done with you.
“What— I don’t understand.” He steps forward, breathless, then stops short of you. “Why would you— I don’t want this— no, you can’t—”
“I don’t understand either” you whisper. Somehow, your voice holds. “I don’t know how we got here. I’ve tried, Nanami.”
He winces at the name. At the distance you’ve put between you.
“I feel alone” you continue, the words finally spilling. “All the time. I reach for you. I try to kiss you. To touch you. I’ve thrown myself at you like some—some common whore.” Your hands clench, nails biting into your palms to keep the tears back. “And you push me away. Every time. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your breath stutters. “When was the last time we fucked?”
He looks wrecked. Jaw tight. Hazel eyes wavering. He shakes his head, like he’s holding himself back from saying something worse.
“You don’t get it” he says finally.
“What don’t I get?” Your voice rises despite you. Tears blur everything. “I can’t live with this distance. I miss the love we used to share. I miss being wanted by you.” Your voice breaks completely. “But more than anything…I miss you, so much…it feels like I’m dying”
He goes still. Confusion drains into despair. He moves closer, his eyes redden with every breath.
“When I first saw myself in the mirror after treatment…” His voice is rough. Unsteady. “All I could think was how you’d regret this. Regret me… surviving.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t want to see it in your eyes. I thought it was better if I pushed you away instead.”
He looks at you then. Really looks at you. Tears cling to his lashes.
“I mean…look at me.” His brows tremble, folding in pain. “Who would want this?” A broken laugh. “Actually, maybe it is better if you leave. Find someone else. Stop wasting your life on someone already broken.”
Something inside you ruptures.
It feels like you’re bleeding internally, waves of emotion ripping at your soul. Sobs tear out of you, violent and uncontrollable. Your head throbs. Burns. Everything hurts, like he’s taken a blade and split you open from throat to stomach.
You realise you’re wailing.
Your hands claw at your face, covering your mouth as the sound pours out of you.
He tries to stop you, grabs your wrists, tries to still you, but you thrash, the agony too big to contain.
“Why?” you scream. “How could you think that of me?”
“Y/N” he gasps, fighting to hold you, finally pulling you hard against his chest. Holding you there. Anchoring you. “Stop”
“I love you” you sob, fists knotted in his shirt. “I’ve never loved anyone but you. Nothing…nothing will ever change that.”
“You loved who I used to be” he whispers, his voice breaking as it brushes the crown of your head.
“No.” The word snaps out of you, sharp and sudden. You shove him back, hands pushing hard at his chest. “Don’t. You don’t get to say that.”
Your breath comes fast, jagged, lungs burning as you force the words out. “When I saw you on that table, I thought I was going to die. I just wanted you back.” Your voice cracks but you don’t stop. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. And then you woke up, and I swore I would make sure you knew, every moment of every day, that I love you.”
“Y/N” he exhales, helpless, as you struggle through tears, hyperventilating around every syllable.
“No” you cut in again. “Stop talking. Just listen for a second”
You grab his hand, the one latticed in scars, he instinctively tries to pull away but you refuse to let him. Your grip tightens until he finally gives up.
“I adore these scars” you say fiercely. “Every day I look at them and thank the heavens because they are what brought you back to me. You survived. You’re here.” Your thumb presses into his palm, grounding him. “You came home. To me. To your family.”
His breath stutters. A single tear slips free, tracking slowly down his cheek, catching in the uneven scar tissue before falling.
“You’re beautiful” you whisper. “You survived. I love every last inch of you.”
You lift your hand, hesitate, just for a heartbeat, before pressing your palm to his cheek.
He doesn’t pull away.
The skin beneath your fingers is soft. Textured. Rippled and puckered. But real. Your chest aches as your heart swells, the sensation of him, alive, warm, here, feeling impossibly precious beneath your touch.
“Please” you breathe. “Kento. I love you.”
“I love you too” he gasps.
He surges forward suddenly, arms wrapping around you with desperate force, pulling you flush against him. Your face presses into the scarred side of his throat, breath catching against warm skin.
“Please don’t leave me…” he chokes. “I don’t want a divorce—”
“I don’t want one either” you whisper, lips brushing his scarred flesh. “I thought I had no other option. I love you, and the pain of watching you fall out of love with me hurt too much.”
“I never did” he breathes fiercely, holding you tighter. “I never stopped loving you.”