Rain lashed against the windows hard enough to sound like thrown gravel.

The underground clinic smelled of antiseptic, old paper, and exhaustion. Dim amber lamps cast long shadows over the shelves, over scattered files, over the narrow examination bed at the centre of the room where blood had already dried in rust-coloured streaks from patients Yosano had treated hours ago.

The city above continued as if nothing had happened.

Yosano hated that.

She sat at her desk with one leg crossed over the other, glasses low on her nose as she read through paperwork she had long stopped caring about. The clock near the wall blinked 2:13 a.m. in dull red numbers. Far too late for visitors.

Far too late for mistakes.

The knock at the door barely sounded like one.

More like someone collapsing against it.

Yosano’s hand immediately drifted toward the scalpel lying beside her papers.

Silence.

Then another thud.

Weak.

Dragging.

Her expression sharpened instantly.

“Ara,” she murmured to the empty room, already standing. “Either someone’s dying or Dazai’s being dramatic again.”

She unlocked the door.

And froze.

“Kouyou, what—?”

Kouyou nearly fell forward the second the door opened.

Yosano caught her by instinct, arms wrapping around silk drenched black with rain and something darker underneath. Blood. So much blood that for one terrifying second Yosano thought it had soaked entirely through to skin.

Kouyou grasped at Yosano’s hair immediately, elegant fingers trembling violently as they tangled into the dark strands near her neck.

“I had nowhere else to go.”

Her voice sounded wrong.

Thin.

Small.

Nothing like the poised, untouchable executive that walked through the Port Mafia halls like royalty wrapped in silk and violence.

Yosano stared.

Kouyou’s face had gone nearly colourless beneath the smudged makeup and rainwater. Her lipstick had faded at the corners. Blood trailed from beneath the layered fabric of her kimono in slow, steady streams onto the clinic floor.

Gunshot.

Multiple, maybe.

And she was still standing only through sheer force of will.

“You absolute idiot,” Yosano snapped, already pulling her inside and slamming the door shut. “How long have you been bleeding?”

Kouyou didn’t answer.

That alone terrified her.

Because Kouyou always answered.

Usually with something sharp enough to cut skin.

Usually with that amused little smile that said she was perpetually three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

Now she just swayed.

Yosano hooked an arm firmly around her waist. “Sit down before you collapse.”

“I’m perfectly fi—”

“You’re dripping onto my floor.”

“That hardly seems like my greatest issue.”

“Sit.”

Kouyou finally obeyed, though more because her knees gave out than from agreement.

Yosano pushed her carefully onto the examination bed.

Up close, the damage looked worse.

The dark fabric of Kouyou’s kimono concealed most of it, but Yosano could already see the spreading stain across her side and abdomen. There were bruises blooming near her collarbone too. One sleeve had been shredded entirely.

“Who did this?”

Kouyou’s eyes slid shut briefly. “A mission.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“It should.”

Yosano clicked her tongue in irritation and began peeling blood-soaked layers away despite the immediate protest she received.

“Kouyou.”

“I liked that obi.”

“You can mourn your fashion later.”

“It was imported.”

“You’re about thirty seconds from dying.”

“A tragedy.”

Yosano glared at her.

Kouyou smiled faintly.

There she is.

Even half-dead, she still found the energy to be insufferable.

Yosano’s fingers paused as she uncovered the wound fully.

The bullet had entered low near the ribs.

Not immediately fatal.

But close enough.

And judging by the blood loss—

“You crawled here?”

“No.”

“Walked?”

“…Mostly.”

Yosano looked up slowly.

“You are clinically insane.”

“I spend time with you. It was inevitable.”

Despite herself, Yosano let out a short, incredulous laugh.

It disappeared quickly.

Because beneath the sarcasm, Kouyou was shaking.

Not visibly enough for most people to notice.

But Yosano noticed everything.

Tiny tremors beneath composed hands.

Breathing kept deliberately measured.

The stiffness of someone holding themselves together through agony alone.

Yosano moved before thinking.

Her hand slid against Kouyou’s cheek, brushing rain-damp strands of hair away from her face.

“You should’ve come sooner.”

For the first time since arriving, Kouyou’s composure cracked.

Only slightly.

But enough.

Her lashes lowered.

“I couldn’t let them see me like this.”

Them.

The Port Mafia.

The subordinates who looked at Kouyou like she hung the moon above Yokohama herself.

Executives were not meant to crawl bleeding through the city.

They were not meant to stagger through rain barely able to breathe.

They were certainly not meant to arrive at the doorstep of a woman they were secretly sleeping with because they trusted no one else.

Yosano swallowed.

“You could’ve died.”

“Yes.”

The answer came too easily.

Too honestly.

Yosano’s jaw tightened.

“How bad?” Kouyou asked quietly.

“You want the comforting lie or the real answer?”

“I dislike lies.”

“You’re lucky the bullet passed through cleanly.” Yosano reached for supplies with quick practiced movements. “You’re unlucky because you apparently decided bleeding out for dramatic effect was a wonderful idea.”

“Mm.”

“Kouyou.”

“What?”

“You scared me.”

Silence.

Real silence this time.

The rain outside softened into a dull roar.

Kouyou looked at her then.

Really looked.

And Yosano suddenly became acutely aware of how close they were.

How many nights had ended with Kouyou beneath her hands like this already? Not bleeding. Not broken. But close enough that Yosano still remembered every inch of her skin beneath silk robes and dim lighting.

What had started as drunken tension after one particularly vicious argument had become something dangerous very quickly.

Because Kouyou understood her.

Not the polished version Yosano gave the Agency.

Not the sharp-tongued doctor everyone kept at arm’s length.

Kouyou saw all the ugliness underneath and stayed anyway.

Which made this worse.

Much worse.

Yosano disinfected the wound.

Kouyou hissed sharply.

“Oh, now you react?”

“I’m not fond of being set on fire.”

“You were shot.”

“And yet this feels ruder.”

Yosano rolled her eyes but her hands gentled unconsciously.

She stitched carefully, efficiently.

Kouyou watched her the entire time.

Not the wound.

Her.

Like she was memorizing something.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

Yosano nearly drove the needle into her own hand.

“Shut up.”

“You blush easily.”

“You’re concussed.”

“Possibly.”

“You flirt when injured.”

“You flirt when stressed.”

“I do not.”

Kouyou gave her a look so unbearably knowing that Yosano had to look away first.

Damn her.

Damn her stupid elegant voice and impossible calm and the way she still carried herself like nobility even while bleeding across medical sheets.

The stitching finished at last.

Yosano exhaled slowly.

“There.”

Kouyou glanced down. “Your bedside manner remains appalling.”

“And yet you keep crawling back.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

The room went still.

Kouyou’s expression changed.

Softened.

Something warm and aching settled into it.

“I do,” she said quietly.

Yosano suddenly couldn’t breathe properly.

Because there it was.

The thing neither of them said aloud.

The thing hidden beneath sharp banter and tangled sheets and late-night drinks and pretending this arrangement was merely convenient.

Kouyou trusted her.

Entirely.

Enough to stagger half-dead across Yokohama for her.

Enough to place her life into Yosano’s hands without hesitation.

Yosano hated how much that meant.

Slowly, carefully, Kouyou reached up again.

Her fingers curled lightly into Yosano’s hair.

Less desperate this time.

More tender.

“You cut your hair,” Kouyou murmured.

“…You noticed?”

“Of course.”

Yosano laughed softly through her nose.

“Nearly died and that’s your observation?”

“You still kept the same perfume.”

Yosano stared at her.

Kouyou’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion now.

The adrenaline was fading.

Finally.

“You need sleep,” Yosano said quietly.

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll sedate you.”

“How romantic.”

“I can make it less romantic.”

A tired smile touched Kouyou’s mouth.

Then, unexpectedly—

She leaned forward.

Rested her forehead lightly against Yosano’s shoulder.

The movement was so small.

So vulnerable.

And it shattered something quietly inside Yosano.

Because Kouyou Ozaki did not lean on people.

Ever.

Yet here she was.

Bleeding.

Exhausted.

Trusting.

Yosano’s arms moved around her before she could think better of it.

Careful. Deliberate. One hand settled against Kouyou’s back while the other cradled the side of her face, fingers brushing damp strands of copper-gold hair away from tired eyes.

Kouyou trembled once against her.

Not from pain this time.

Something quieter.

Something worse.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. The storm outside growled against the city, rain hammering the windows in relentless waves, but inside the clinic everything felt strangely muted. Distant. Like the world had narrowed down to the warmth between them.

Then Kouyou shifted slightly.

Yosano felt delicate fingers slip against her wrist.

Carefully — almost reverently — Kouyou lifted Yosano’s hand toward her lips.

“Kouyou—”

A soft kiss pressed against her knuckles.

Lingering.

Warm despite the cold rain still clinging to her skin.

“Thank you,” Kouyou whispered.

The words were so quiet Yosano almost didn’t recognize them at first.

Because Kouyou rarely thanked people.

Rarely let herself need them enough to.

Yosano’s chest tightened painfully.

“You idiot,” she murmured, though there was no bite left in it.

Kouyou’s lashes lowered, exhaustion finally beginning to pull at her properly now that she no longer had to force herself upright through adrenaline alone. She still held Yosano’s hand loosely against her mouth, thumb brushing absentmindedly over her skin.

Like she was grounding herself with it.

Yosano looked at her for a second longer before sighing softly through her nose.

Then she smiled.

Small.

Fond.

Helplessly tender in a way she almost never allowed herself to be.

Her fingers slid carefully through Kouyou’s hair as she leaned back against the examination bed beside her. Not enough to jostle the injury. Just enough that Kouyou could rest properly against her shoulder.

“There,” Yosano murmured.

Kouyou made a faint sound of approval.

Half-hum. Half-exhale.

Yosano felt her body slowly begin to relax for the first time since arriving at the clinic. The rigid tension left her inch by inch, like she was finally allowing herself to believe she would survive the night.

Thunder rolled softly overhead.

Yosano closed her eyes briefly and began to hum under her breath — a low, old melody her mother used to sing long before blood and war and Mori had touched either of their lives.

Kouyou went still listening to it.

And then, impossibly gentle, she leaned closer.

As if following the sound.

As if Yosano’s voice was the safest thing she had ever known.

Eventually their breathing synced together in the dim amber light of the clinic.

The storm continued outside.

But neither of them moved away.