“You were dead.”
I pulled back just enough to see his face, to convince myself again that this was real. His eyes—those impossible eyes that had haunted every waking moment since Tooi—stared back at me, wide with shock.
“Gods, Kaneko, I’m so sorry.”
The apology tore from somewhere deep, somewhere I’d kept locked and buried beneath rage and ruin and the careful construction of a man who didn’t care about anything.
“I failed you.”
My hands shook as they held his face.
When had I started trembling? When had the tears begun falling?
I didn’t know, didn’t care.
“I love you. Gods, Kaneko, I love you. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve told you, held you, kissed you . . . so many times.”
They were words I’d never said when I had the chance, words that had burned in my throat as I watched Tooi burn, as I searched the slave markets, as I’d given up hope.
“Gods of everything, I love you.”
I kissed him again, softer this time but no less desperate. More than a year of grief and guilt and love with nowhere to go poured into that kiss. More than a year of wondering what I could have done differently, how I could have saved him, what I wouldn’t give for one more moment.
And now I had it.
Now I hadhim.
In my arms, against my chest, his heartbeat thundered—or was that my own pulse pounding so hard it might shatter my ribs?
“Kaneko.” His name became a prayer, a plea, a promise. “I’ve always loved you. Since that first day—that terrible day—gods, since forever.”
My forehead pressed against his, our breath mingling in the narrow space between us. He still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved except to place his hands against my chest—not pushing me away exactly, just resting there, as if he needed to confirm this was real, too.
“Say something,” I begged, my voice barely a whisper. “Please tell me this isn’t a dream. Tell me you’re real. Tell me—”
Tell me you forgive me.
Tell me you love me, too.
But I couldn’t ask for that, not yet, not when I could barely forgive myself.
He opened his mouth. I saw his throat work, his lips part, the beginning of—something.
A word. My name, perhaps. But nothing came. No sound emerged except a soft exhale that might have been surprise or pain or something else entirely.
His eyes—gods, those eyes—stared at me like I was a ghost, like I was some impossible thing risen from the dead. They tracked across my face, taking in what hard years had done tome, the hollows beneath my cheekbones, the gaunt edges that no amount of muscle could hide, the shadows that now lived permanently beneath my eyes. I must have looked like death walking, a scarecrow version of the man he’d known, held together by desperate longing and a stubborn refusal to die.
Still, he said nothing.
His mouth closed, opened again.
But then—gods, then—his hands moved against my chest, pressing closer, his fingers curling into my shirt, gripping the fabric like he was afraid I might vanish if he let go. His body began to tremble, a fine shaking that I felt through every point of contact between us. A single tear trickled down his cheek, catching the moonlight like liquid silver.
And then he leaned into me.
He isn’t pulling away, isn’t resisting. He’s melting against my chest.
His forehead came to rest against mine, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between us. His eyes fluttered closed, and for one perfect moment, I felt him relax in my arms—truly, completely relax—as if he’d been holding himself rigid for too long and could finally let go.
