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The apartment was always exactly seventy-three degrees.
Yoh knew this because the digital thermostat on the wall was custom-built, its face locked behind a clear plastic panel that only Segasaki had the key for. Three years of living here, and Yoh had never once been able to adjust it himself.
He sat at the low table in the living room, his drawing tablet glowing in the dim light. Outside the window, Tokyo hummed with a life Yoh hadn't touched in months. He was supposed to meet his editor today. *Supposed* to.
The front door clicked open.
"I'm home," Segasaki Mizuki announced. His voice was a rich, soothing baritone—the same voice that charmed millions during the six o'clock weather broadcast every single evening.
"Welcome back," Yoh murmured, not looking up from his screen. His stylus left a slightly jagged line on the canvas.
Mizuki shed his coat, draping it perfectly over the back of the sofa before crossing the room. He didn't sit. He stood behind Yoh's chair, a heavy, radiating presence. A large hand settled on Yoh's shoulder, thumb brushing the bare skin of his neck.
"You didn't go to the meeting."
It wasn't a question.
Yoh swallowed. "I decided to stay home. To work on the draft instead."
"Good boy."
The praise sent a shiver down Yoh's spine—though he could never quite tell if it was comfort or dread. Mizuki's hand slid up, threading through Yoh's dark hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt his head back against Mizuki's stomach.
"You know why that was the right decision, don't you?"
*Because if I leave, something bad will happen. Because the world outside is cruel. Because people are waiting to tear me apart.*
"Because Mr. Hayashi doesn't have my best interests at heart," Yoh recited quietly.
"Exactly." Mizuki picked up Yoh's phone from the table with his free hand, tapped the screen, and Yoh heard the faint sound of a voicemail being deleted. He did this often—curating Yoh's digital life, blocking numbers, erasing messages before Yoh could hear them.
"Your editor has been pushing you to change your art style. He wants something darker, more commercial. He doesn't appreciate your talent, Yoh. He wants to break your spirit so you become dependent on the publishing house. If you'd gone to that meeting, he would have spent three hours making you feel worthless. You'd have come home in tears, unable to draw for weeks."
Yoh closed his eyes. It made sense. It always made sense when Mizuki explained it. Mizuki was smart. Mizuki was successful. Mizuki knew how the world actually worked.
"And it's not just him." Mizuki's tone dropped into that dangerous, protective whisper that made Yoh's stomach lurch. "When you go out, people look at you. They see how pretty you are. How fragile. Last time you went to the convenience store alone, that cashier followed you halfway home."
"He was just going the same way—"
"No. He was stalking you. I watched it on the lobby cameras. If I hadn't been monitoring, who knows what he would have done." Mizuki's lips brushed the shell of Yoh's ear. "I can't protect you if you walk into danger. Do you want to get hurt?"
"No."
"Then stay here. Where it's safe. Where I can keep my eyes on you."
Mizuki released Yoh's hair and moved around the table, sitting gracefully on the opposite side. He tapped the drawing tablet, turning the screen toward himself. It was a rough sketch of a boy looking out a window at a storm.
"Your lines are shaky today." His expression shifted from menacing to perfectly concerned in a fraction of a second. The Weatherman Mask. "Are you feeling anxious?"
"A little."
"I thought so." Mizuki reached into his pocket and slid a small amber prescription bottle across the table. "You forgot your morning medicine again. That's why your thoughts are getting scattered. That's why you're doubting me."
Yoh stared at the bottle. He didn't remember going to a doctor. He didn't remember being diagnosed with anything. But Mizuki had explained it months ago—his anxiety was clinical, his brain couldn't handle the stress of the industry without help.
"I think I took it," Yoh said, a sudden spike of panic hitting his chest. He didn't want the pill. Every time he took it, the world went soft and fuzzy,
and it became so much easier to just... agree.
Mizuki's smile didn't waver, but his eyes went cold.
"Yoh. Don't lie to me. It makes me sad when you lie, because it means you don't trust me. And if you don't trust me—" His voice dipped. "—how can I keep you safe?"
The guilt was a physical blow. Mizuki did *everything* for him. Paid the rent. Cooked every meal. Shielded him from every predator lurking outside that door. And Yoh was repaying him with *lies*?
"I'm sorry." Yoh's hands trembled as he unscrewed the cap, shook a small white pill into his palm, and swallowed it dry.
"Good." The ice in Mizuki's gaze melted back into warm affection. He reached across the table and took Yoh's hand, running his thumb over his knuckles. "The forecast for tonight is clear skies, Yoh. No storms. Just stay inside with me, and everything will be perfectly calm."
Yoh looked at their intertwined hands, then up at the man who loved him so much he couldn't bear to let anyone else even look at him. The pill was already working—tightness loosening in his chest, the jagged whispers of *run* and *he's lying* dissolving into a comfortable, heavy fog.
"Okay," Yoh mumbled, picking up his stylus. "Clear skies."
Mizuki watched him with the patient gaze of a spider sitting at the center of a beautifully woven web, waiting for the fly to stop struggling.
"That's my good boy."
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*fin.*