You're in the doorway of your room. One hand braced against the frame. Knuckles white. The other hand pressed flat against your stomach like you're holding yourself together.

Across the hall, Megumi stands in the dim glow of the kitchen light. He's in a worn grey t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still messy from sleep. Or lack of it. There's a glass of water in his hand. He'd been getting one when he heard you get up.

His footsteps had been quiet. Concerned. Familiar.

The space between you is maybe ten feet. It feels like a mile. It also feels like nothing at all.

His pulse is slow. Steady. The kind of heartbeat you'd fall asleep to on the couch during movie nights. Right now, it sounds like a drum. Loud. Warm. Louder than the rain. Louder than your own ragged breathing.