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His breathing is still rough, but every few seconds it steadies a little more. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it stops devouring him whole.

I smile faintly, despite the pain. “There you are.”

He makes a small sound around the lollipop, and I lean in to brush my forehead to his.

“It’s alright.”

When he starts calming down, the first thing his eyes drop to is the knife still lodged in my shoulder.

“I…” His voice catches around the lollipop. “I stabbed you.”

I follow his gaze down, then wrap my hand around the hilt and pull it free. I wince as blood wells, but I keep my face mostly straight and toss the knife onto the desk like it’s a minor inconvenience and not a fresh hole in me.

“Not the first time, sweetheart.”

He looks disoriented, still half caught between wherever he’d gone and the fact that I’m now bleeding all over his room. I push myself upright, and after a second, he does too, blinking at me like his brain is only just now resuming normal function.

Then something in his expression sharpens, and he seems to remember where we are.

And, apparently, who I am.

“Why are you in my room?”

“One,” I say, counting on my fingers despite the blood, “I missed you.”

His eyes narrow.

“Two, I told you I wanted to draw you again. You didn’t want to come to me, so here I am.”

Before I can say anything smart, he grabs my arm, carefully, I notice, not touching the wound, and shoves me toward the bed. I let him do it because I enjoy watching him slip into this version of himself.

He pushes me down to sit, and I smirk up at him. “Kinky.”

He glares. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re the one forcing me onto your bed.”

“You’re bleeding.”

I glance down at the sheet where a few red drops are already blooming. “Should we fuck and add more stains to this?”

That nearly gets me stabbed a second time. He reaches for something, probably a cloth, maybe a weapon, hard to tell with him, but before he can get far, I catch his wrist and yank.

He stumbles forward with a startled curse, and I drag him down onto the bed with me. Now he’s flat on his back against the mattress, and I’m over him.

He stares up at me, eyes wide in outrage. “Kento—”

I brace my good arm beside his head and settle my weight to pin without crushing. My wounded shoulder throbs in protest, but I ignore it.

“Now,” I say softly, “tell me what that was about.”

His brows pull together. “What are you talking about?”

I tilt my head, studying his face. Up close like this, I can still see traces of the afterimage of him vanishing somewhere behind his own eyes.

“You disappearing on me.” I let my gaze flick over him.

His jaw tightens. I can already see him turning defensive. “It wasn’t—”