... In which I, after reconciling with my friends, go all out to prove my sincerity to Akechi too, regardless of how much I'm fought along the way. Success may bring about benefits for both him and me . . . and mark the start of something truly genuine.

. . . T-19 days

******************************************

A/N: If you've been wondering why this fic is rated M, you're about to find out at the end of this chapter. It's not too intense, but we're entering territory that justifies the rating (and yes, there will be more instances like this in future chapters).

Please enjoy at your own comfort level. But if you've seen the rating, you're probably already anticipating it. :)

***

I'm used to initiating, but now I'm waiting. Waiting . . . for who knows how long?

The next day goes by in more or less a blur . . . I find myself grateful to Ann for her request to see me after school, as her heartfelt promise distracts me from my uncertainty. Yet as soon as I return to Leblanc and Sojiro closes up shop, my unease swallows me once again.

You do not control me. Not you. Not Maruki, and not any other force, in this or another reality.

"Rin, are you okay?" Morgana asks, jumping onto my bed beside me. "I know that all this waiting is tiring you out, but maybe it'd be best to just sleep for now. Tomorrow, things might be better."

I don't resist the suggestion. It's not like I have anything better to do, anyway. Yet after changing into my pajamas, I lie on my bed and shut my eyes, replaying the words over and over.

I've asked you before . . . But maybe I should ask again, just to make certain. For you to say such things, what am I to you, really? A side piece in your story? A love interest?

You're not! I wish to scream. I've never seen you as anything other than my equal. But then I suddenly wonder if the world—the gods that set us up—have too. Whether we were ever . . . meant to be equals at all.

But we must have, I think instantly. Otherwise, the game wouldn't have been fair.

"Are you really okay?" Morgana asks, following my gaze to where my phone lies beside me on the mattress. "You know, you can always call him if you really want."

I nod absentmindedly, yet I do not move.

A side piece in your story.

. . . My story? My eyes snap open when that detail suddenly stands out to me. Why even is it . . . my story to him?

I rise a little to ask Morgana if he has any ideas when I'm startled by the ringing of my phone. I jerk around so abruptly that I nearly hit my head on the windowsill, and when I reach for my phone, it slips off the bed and crashes to the ground.

Morgana startles, and I groan, catching sight of the long crack that now adorns the display. But my frown vanishes immediately when I recognize who is calling me.

"Is it . . . ?"

I cannot even answer Morgana. All I can do is pick up and press the cracked screen to my ear. ". . . You usually call around this time of night," Akechi says, and for a moment I'm so overjoyed to hear his voice that I don't even catch how . . . blank it sounds.

"You told me to leave you alone," I whisper.

From the corner of my eye, I see Morgana pointing out the window with a questioning expression. "Do you want me to get out of here, or . . . ?"

"You're the best," I mouth and fiddle it open for him with a grateful smile.

He slips out, not without returning my smile. "I'll just throw rocks at Futaba's window until she lets me in. Don't be late for school tomorrow!" he replies, and I almost laugh, falling back onto my bed as soon as he's out of sight.

"I did tell you that," Akechi says. "And so I'm wondering—what am I supposed to derive from the fact that you picked up the phone at all? It'd be better if you didn't," he says earnestly. "Listen to your friends and cease being content with me. Cease insisting on enduring pain for my sake. That's the only reason I called, you know?"

"I won't cease," I almost exclaim, and he groans.

"Stop!"

"You can't make me."

"You are—"

"It's my choice."

Akechi doesn't reply for a long time. I can feel him on the other side of the line, and even before he says it, I can tell that he won't argue with a point like this.

"You're such a fool," is all he says. Then, "And so selfish."

"Why am I selfish?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

"Because you're forcing me to watch you hurt," he hisses, and I freeze. "If you genuinely choose this path, you'll hurt," he says quietly, yet with so much conviction that a chill creeps down my spine. "You deserve so much more than what you'll get from me." The sheer weight of conviction in his voice presses on my chest like a boulder. "I do not want to hurt you. And yet, it is inevitable. It is."

I grit my teeth against the blinding ache that bleeds out of the words. "I'm not going back on my choice," I press out. "I can live with the pain."

"Fine, but did you ask me if I can live with seeing you hurt?" he snaps, and I freeze with my mouth agape. "For a while, I wondered if there might not be enough time to inflict it this time," he mumbles. "But your . . . care for me is genuine, no? And so there is. I would have tried anyway, but . . ." He suddenly cuts himself off. "Are you lying when you claim that there's nothing you're unsatisfied with? You—"

"I'm not!" I exclaim before he can finish. "I'm not. I'm happy. Not because of Dr. Maruki, but because of us. I just want us."

"I was inclined to believe that before your friends brought up that you deserve sincerity," he replies, dropping my heart into the pit of my stomach.

"But you're being sincere," I plead.

"And . . . trust."

"I'm okay with things as they are now."

"You are entitled to something better."

"But I don't want "better"!" I exclaim, rolling onto my back and throwing my free arm up. "I don't want anything other than us. Other than you."

There's one moment of unbroken silence. Then Akechi whispers through gritted teeth, "I hate you."

I dig my fingers and toes into the bedsheet beneath, staring at the outlines of my room, bathed in pale moonlight that seeps through the window, and . . . realize that hearing this doesn't hurt at all anymore. ". . . Why?" I whisper back.

"Because," he hisses, "you make me want to try to give you what you deserve. But that's how it always starts: compromises. Wanting to give is where it starts. Wanting to accommodate because you care becomes . . . doing something entirely different from what you actually want. Being the way others want you to be because that's all you ever do. All you know. Everyone likes to be accommodated, and those who don't mind deforming their faces and breaking their bones in order to appear the way others like it succeed. And in the end, you look at yourself and think, who are you if you're not acting? There's nothing beneath that mask. There's nothing inside."

It takes several silent seconds for me to register that he has ceased speaking. That I'm staring up at the ceiling and . . . fighting against a rising sick feeling. "You're still there," is all I reply. "I see you."

"I won't be for much longer if I begin to compromise again," he says in a flat voice. "Do you not understand? Each compromise feels like a step back. It's not safe. Don't let them see. Don't let them know you're hurt, or cracked, or broken. If you do, that's your curtain call."

I press my fingertip into the fracture running across the phone screen. "You're not broken," I say, and he laughs.

"Not enough yet, yeah. As long as you're able to function, you're not broken enough yet. So it's all just a lazy excuse. You will not see me break again."

As I lie there, I find that my mind has become a jumbled mess. Words swim around in it that I want to tell him but that I don't think he'll find very useful or comforting. I want to say something—anything—to alleviate the acrid pain that oozes out of every word he utters. It drains into me through the fresh crack in my screen . . . directly into the crack in my heart, where his knife from earlier today still sticks.

"I want you . . . the way you really are," I say after a seeming eternity. "No compromises. No demands. Just . . . you. And don't say I deserve better now!"

Akechi is silent for one heartbeat, then he scoffs. "What's so great about me, anyway, that you want so much? I don't understand. I understood back when I was still pretending, but now . . . ? I cannot fathom what the fuck you want from me," he snaps, and I tighten my hand around the phone. "It's not difficult to pick up on the ways in which others want or expect you to act . . . There's enough telltale signs if you're adept at reading them. But you . . . You are . . ."

There's nothing that I seem to have ever done that you didn't like. Those words—uttered in an entirely different context yet . . . conveying the same emotion, as I suddenly realize—drift through my mind. And so, I only say, ". . . Nothing."

"That's what you keep claiming," Akechi says.

"You don't have to believe me," I reply. "Figure it out for yourself."

"I already have." He groans. "I know that you're right. Just . . ." He breaks off, quietly cursing under his breath. "I tell myself over and over that you're not like everyone else," he almost shouts. "But I cannot . . . yet. I don't want to hurt you, but even less am I willing to compromise myself. I cannot give you the love, care, and trust that you deserve until I can convince myself that you're safe to trust." He pauses. "But you still don't care about that, do you?"

I open my mouth to tell him yes, then I say instead, "I think . . . maybe you're wrong."

"Wrong?"

"You say that you can't give me the love I deserve, but you are . . . kind to me." All that the words elicit is a stunned silence. It makes me want to reach through the phone and shake him. "You don't see how good you already are, do you?" I urge. "How selfless?"

Akechi scoffs. "Please."

"I mean it," I plead. "Don't you understand that every time you're pushing me away or telling me that I deserve better, you're sacrificing? You are standing for the truth, which is so much kinder than fostering any kind of delusion. You're fighting Dr. Maruki despite his offering you anything you've ever wanted. You are looking past the way my friends act for the sake of our common goal—not complaining, not asking for anything more than you're given. You are . . . You . . ." I cannot find words for every kind and selfless act that I have seen him commit under the guise of ruthlessness since his return.

"Ha, maybe you've not quite woken from your delusions yet," Akechi says contemptuously. "Only someone utterly mad could make such a claim."

"You've done all those things," I say simply. "I thought you were so good at accepting the truth?"

There is a pause. "I'm not denying that I've done all that," he says contemptuously. "But what else am I supposed to do? Nothing I've done makes me the way you claim."

I grit my teeth, thinking that maybe he's not ready to admit this yet. If I find a way to prove this to him, though . . . "Then just . . . be honest," I say instead. "That's what I want from you."

"Honesty, hm?" Akechi pauses. "Right, you want . . . reality. Fine," he presses out between gritted teeth, then speaks in a voice so low and seething yet so infinitely gentle that I barely recognize it: "Reality is—I'm fucking terrified. You hear that?" he snaps. "You're hearing. And you . . . You will . . . not use this information against me. You will not belittle me or judge me . . . Will you?"

My vision blurs, and yet I don't even blink to see again. I don't need to see. I need to . . . "I won't," I whisper before my voice can desert me. Then, "I want to see you. Where do you live?"

There is a long, loaded pause. ". . . I'll be at your place," he says instead of replying, and I can't help but feel apprehensive again.

"I don't want to force you . . ."

"The mere fact that I'm agreeing tells you that you're not," he replies and my anxiety subsides. He's right; I let the comforting thought sink in. He's made it abundantly clear that he'd never let me force him to do anything anymore.

"Okay," I say, hearing shuffling on his end of the line. "I really don't . . . want to change you or "fix" you. I don't want you to trust me for me. The reason I want you to trust is . . . because you deserve to know trust." I pause, inhaling. "Because I love you."

". . . And that's the truth?"

"The whole truth."

There's a long pause. "I have to drive now," he says. "See you."

I'm uncertain for how long I lie there, with my broken phone pressed to my cheek, and battle against the rising tears until I finally lose. When I remember that I should go downstairs and unlock the door for him, my cheeks are wet and my eyes sting. Not even the quick visit to the restroom helps all that much.

Instead of going back to bed, I curl up on one of the cafe benches, with my knees pulled to my chest and my dark phone in front of me on the table. It doesn't go off anymore—not that I've expected it to.

I don't know how many seconds tick by before the doorbell finally chimes and my head flies up. "Didn't you lock up yet?" Akechi asks, placing his motorbike helmet on the counter. "It's not safe to—"

He breaks off and startles when I leap up from my seat and fly into his arms. "I'm fine." I sob. "Can't I just hold you? Please . . . I don't mind. I just . . ."

But he pushes me off his chest, holding me at arm's length. Only then do I process that he hasn't taken off any of the gear yet besides the helmet—he's still wearing the heavy leather jacket and the gloves. "Is that what you asked me here for?" He slips out of the jacket, hanging it on the backrest of a chair, and I see that he's wearing a relatively casual black turtleneck underneath; combined with the black pants, shoes, and gloves, it makes him almost blend into the dim room.

I place my hands on top of his, which rest on my shoulders. "Can I?"

For one moment, he is silent. Then he releases his grip on me, stepping back. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says between gritted teeth, reaching for his glove . . . but instead of removing it, he pulls it tighter. "I'm not going to break you too. I can't break you too. Please don't make me."

I stare at him with my mouth agape, not comprehending. He's not attempted to hurt me since . . . he tried to kill me, I think. But . . . "What do you think it will take to break me?" I whisper into the suddenly stifling darkness.

An inconceivable moment of silence goes by. ". . . I don't want to hurt anyone else," he hisses eventually, and I flinch. "I don't want anyone to be hurt anymore. You can stop looking at me like that. I know it's too late to say such things now."

"I'm not—" I wrap my arms around myself, blinking away fresh tears. "If you didn't want to be close to me, why did you still come?"

"It's not that I don't—" He breaks off, pivoting away. "Because it isn't difficult to give you this much," he whispers. "It's not so much to ask."

"To come over in the middle of the night is not much to ask?" I ask incredulously.

"It's not like I had anything better to do."

"Goro, please . . ."

He lets out a dry laugh. "What, you think that name's going to earn you some extra points?"

"No," I make a face. I just want to feel close to you. I want you to feel my care for you somehow, I don't say. "Just . . . can't we just talk?"

"About what?" he asks in a flat voice, and I sink back onto one of the benches, pulling my knees to my chest and placing my bare feet on the considerably warmer fabric of the bench.

"I really did fight Shido for you," I say, watching him lean on the counter before finally walking over and supporting himself on the table in front of me.

"Yeah, right."

"I wish I could have recorded his words . . ." I pick at the table. "I asked his Shadow about you after his defeat. He—"

"I don't want to hear it," Akechi cuts me off.

"I just want you to know that he regrets what he did to you and your mom," I blurt out, and Akechi makes a face.

"Of course he does." He scoffs. "That's what comes with a change of heart. But his regret doesn't actually fix anything. All I want is for him to be brought to justice."

"That's happening too." I give him the most uplifting smile I have. "Because of your sacrifice."

Akechi whips his head away. "Then why are we still talking about this?" Looking back, he must have seen the face I make because he reciprocates my glare. "In case you wondered, I've no more resentment." He pauses. "Resentment . . . is such a superfluous emotion. It does nothing for you . . . Only eats you up from the inside until there is nothing left, and so it begins to eat what surrounds you too, eventually leaving you so hollow and consumed that you don't even remember who you are anymore, besides vengeance."

I stare into his face, half-concealed behind strands of slightly disheveled hair, and think about his own life, which was consumed by resentment until he finally managed to let it go. Then I think about the resentment my friends still harbor, and . . . can't help but feel a tinge of worry.

"Regret is the same," Akechi says suddenly, removing his hands from the table. "Both equally destructive and yet ultimately useless. I have none anymore. Neither."

"That's . . . incredible," I say earnestly. "It's impressive that you—" But then I cut myself off, staring at the table where his hand just was. Now, I make out on the formerly spotless surface a . . . hand-shaped, dark stain. My blood freezes in my veins, and I lean closer. "Is that . . ."

Akechi follows my gaze, and his hand jets out in an impulse to wipe away what I'm convinced is blood, yet then he restrains himself. "Apologies," he says. "I'll get something to clean that."

Yet I leap up after him before he can move. "Are you . . . hurt?"

"I'm fine."

I don't believe him for a second, not least because when I reach for his hand, he flinches. "But you . . ."

"I'm still able to function," Akechi says with that horrid blank stare. "As long as I'm able to function, I'm not hurt enough yet. You don't even have to look at it." He straightens his glove, turning away. "Just pretend it's not there. It's—"

". . . But that's not the truth," I reply, trying not to let too much of the terror I feel from the way he speaks shine through in my voice.

"The truth is that I'm not hurt enough to be affected," he retorts.

"The truth is that you're hurt."

"And who gives a shit?!" he exclaims, and I flinch back. But only momentarily, then I take a stance before him.

"I give a shit!"

He stares at me like I've lost my mind, and my stomach tightens uncomfortably. Yet when I reach for his hand again, he pivots away. "All of this is resolved, no? In that case, I'm leaving."

"Wait!"

He could have easily slipped out of my grip and ran, but when I catch his wrist between my hands, Akechi stops. "Please don't run away," I urge. If I let him go now . . . I don't actually know what might happen, but I can't disregard the terrible sick feeling that rises in my gut. "Just . . . let me take a look at it. To make sure it's really okay."

"I've already done that," he says frigidly.

"But you're bleeding again." I slide my hand lower, taking his left hand into mine, but when I release him again, my palm comes away stained.

"Spare me." He attempts to step away, but I manage to hold on.

"Wait!" I plead with increasing desperation, racking my brain on what to do. I cannot let him leave like this, or I'll be up all night with worry. And he . . . "I'm not going to say anything," I urge quietly, without raising my gaze. "I'm not going to ask any questions or make assumptions. You don't have to explain if you don't want to. I just want to take a look and . . . make sure that it doesn't become infected. Is that okay?"

When I finally lift my gaze, looking at him over the top of my glasses, he is staring down at me with suspicion, yet there is something else in his face that makes my stomach knot together . . . It's gone again before I can really be certain, but I could have sworn to see in his eyes a tinge of . . . fear. "I promise," I say earnestly, and he tightens his jaw.

". . . If you break this promise, I will never believe another word you say, understand?"

I nod, and he doesn't fight me anymore, but I can still feel resistance emanating from every inch of him when I slowly remove the glove.

I bite down on my tongue, not even allowing my mind to wander and generate potential reasons for why his knuckles might be raw and bleeding, so much so that my throat tightens with secondhand pain. I've never knocked my hand bloody like this, but I have punched someone in elementary school when he and his friends wouldn't stop picking on a classmate. My hand didn't even bleed, and yet it still hurt for days—presumably just as much as that boy's jaw.

Despite how much it must hurt, Akechi barely reacts when I apply disinfectant and bandage the hand as well as I can. He doesn't say anything, either. When I'm done, he washes off his stained glove, then turns with it in hand. "Are you done?" he asks with a tinge of something I almost mistake for ice, but I could swear is actually apprehension.

I nod, then—against my best efforts—yawn. It has to be past midnight, and I haven't slept for a single minute today yet.

"You should sleep," he says, like on cue, and I sigh, unable to deny that I'm overwhelmingly fatigued. "You look terrible," Akechi adds after a pause. "Have you been crying?"

For one moment, I contemplate telling him that he can't ask questions about my condition if I can't ask questions about his, but then I just nod.

"And you're still not mad at me?" he asks incredulously, looking down at where I'm holding his bandaged hand in mine. "I cause a scene in front of your friends, I tell you to leave me alone, I make you cry . . . And you're not the least bit angry?"

"It was my friends who started that scene," I amend, making a face. "And I wasn't crying before you called."

"Why were you crying then?"

I swallow, bringing his hand up to my face. "Because of what you said on the phone," I whisper. "Because you're in pain, and there's only so much I can do about that. I'm not used to being unable to help when I witness pain. But your pain . . ." I press his palm against my cheek, tightening my hold. "You want to face it alone. And it hurts me that I have to let you."

For one moment, Akechi is silent. Then a faint smile appears on his face. "It's my pain and no one else's," he says. "You shouldn't hurt because of it."

"But that's how it works when you love someone!" I blurt out, and he scoffs, his smile widening.

"That's why I say that I will hurt you."

"Even if I wanted, I can't just stop caring for you," I retort, and he groans. "Please stop pushing me away. I can handle the pain."

"You can handle my pain?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "You can't even handle that hand. Don't think I didn't see how much it hurt you just to look at it."

I clench my teeth, telling myself I shouldn't be surprised that he saw through me yet again. "It did hurt," I admit. "But I endured it anyway."

Akechi pauses, then he surprises me by turning my way and cradling my face in his hands; one hand against my skin is bandaged, the other gloved. "Are you really some kind of masochist?" he asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or why are you subjecting yourself to this willingly?"

I stifle laughter. "This has nothing to do with being a masochist," I say, unable to stifle a smile. "It has to do with how we're willing to endure pain for those we care about."

"Ah, that," he says disgustedly. "Except for this to apply, I'd have to believe in your genuine care for me."

"Isn't there enough evidence at this point?" I finally look him in the eyes, seeing in his face that he knows I'm right. "You don't have to believe me either way," I amend. "But don't ask me for another explanation either."

One moment of silence goes by. Then he says, "Deal," and my smile grows until it overtakes my entire face. "Excellent. Now that all that's settled, we're getting you to bed." Without warning, he hooks an arm around my waist and slings me over his shoulder, pivoting toward the stairs. "It's late enough."

I can't help but stifle laughter all the while to my room. When he throws me down onto my bed, I dissolve into a giggling mess. Momentarily, it's as if everything dreadful that's been clinging to me since yesterday has evaporated, leaving behind only warmth and joy . . . Until I catch sight of his face again and the unexpectedly somber look he gives me.

"Are you really okay?" I pull myself up again and stand in front of him, arms raised. "Your hand's fine, right?"

"I'm fine."

"And . . . that thing about the bet? You know, Yaldabaoth and all that," I insist. "I didn't ask earlier because you said it was fine, but . . . you know, even if you want to face your pains alone, you can always tell me if something is bothering you."

Akechi gives me a long look. "It didn't bother me," he says flatly. "On the contrary, it explained a lot of things . . . that I had been observing and trying to make sense of in my head. If anything, it alleviated a lot of the doubts I've been having about myself."

I don't doubt the sincerity of his words anymore, but . . . "About the other thing . . . You know that I've been trying to tell the others that I'm not that special," I whisper. "I really have."

"I know." He actually smiles, then an odd look enters his face, and he steps closer, cradling my face again. "Y'know, like I said before, the thing that pisses me off the most is not that you're special or treated as such. It's that you actually deserve it. I can't even envy you properly." He laughs. "You make things so much more difficult by being . . . unconditional. Instead of hating you, you actually made me—"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but I understand anyway. Warmth gathers in my chest, nearly making my heart overflow. For one more moment, he hesitates, then pulls his remaining glove off with his teeth, and I hold my breath when he traces two fingers along the edge of my face.

"You . . . why could we not have met earlier?" he whispers to himself, and I make a face.

"Don't say that," I urge. "It wasn't too late when we met. It was that my friends and I didn't try harder for you."

He laughs, saying softly, "You couldn't have saved me."

"If we had tried—"

"You couldn't have saved me, Rin," he insists, and a swell of apprehension overcomes me. "You did what you had to do, and so did I."

"No!" I exclaim, catching the front of his shirt with both hands. "I didn't want to do that. I didn't want to deceive you or to hurt you!"

"If you hadn't, you would have died."

"No!"

"Rin, it's better this way," he says soothingly. "Think—if you hadn't done that, would you really be here the way you are now? What did I say about regret earlier?"

". . . That it's useless," I mumble, and he nods. "But—"

"Useless," he insists, and I sigh. "What's there even to regret?" He raises the corner of his mouth. "Nothing of significance was lost either way."

I blow out a breath, unwillingly admitting that he's right. We did . . . salvage it in the end. And we won. He won too . . . And he's here now. We're all here now. I smile.

"Stop looking so much like you're still wishing," Akechi says, his smile widening. One moment passes, then he hooks a finger into the neckline of my shirt, sliding one side off my shoulder to kiss the skin in its place. "It's alright," he whispers into my skin. "As soon as we deal with Maruki, it'll all be right. All the way it should be."

I let the words sink into me as he buries his head in my half-exposed chest, feeling his heart beat in sync with mine. It's alright. For one second, we stand there, closer than I feel we've ever been. Then he encircles my waist and throws me backward onto my bed, lingering above me with a faint smile. "You have school tomorrow, no? You really can't stay up any longer. Don't let all of this depressing stuff distract you from your sleep."

I give him a smile, which I hope conveys to him that none of his pains are a bother. Then I catch his arm in my hand, pulling him closer. "Stay with me," I whisper, inches from his mouth. "Who else is going to wake me up if Morgana's not here?"

"Do you not have an alarm?" Akechi asks incredulously, but when I kiss him, he reciprocates. He even draws closer, coming to kneel above me and pressing me back into the sheets.

Then and there, an unprecedented ache for him spears my heart, and I fist the front of his shirt, feeling his arms encasing me. "I don't care about the circumstances," I whisper against his mouth, picturing whatever information he's apparently withholding that he claims might affect my decision. "I want anything."

"You should care," he says, but then reconnects his mouth with mine, and in all this time, I don't think he's ever kissed me like this. Not because it's a fundamentally different kind of kiss, but because in it, I can taste the edges of his own desire. Keeping them at bay are walls of far too powerful self-restraint, yet those suddenly feel weakened.

His hand travels lower, along my body, as I run my knuckles down his chest, pulling the hem of his shirt out of his waistband in search of skin. It feels almost cool under my burning fingertips. Even under my lips when they find the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. His neck.

Momentarily, my eyes shut as I feel him sliding my shirt up and encircling his hands around my waist. Then he leans in, moving them lower, as I do mine. Every inch of skin I encounter is a priceless treasure that I might never grasp again.

He moves his mouth along my collarbone, beginning gently, then increasing in intensity. His knee pushes my legs apart, and I bite my lip to hold back a scream. I'm digging my fingers into the soft fabric of his sleeve before his bandaged hand catches my wrist, pressing me down. The other slips up along the inside of my thigh until it comes to rest between my legs. I arch into his touch, making a profoundly undignified sound. He lingers, then pushes aside all layers of clothing, and another sound catches in my throat. Steadily, he caresses, then slides a finger inside. Once, twice . . . I scream.

"Rin . . ." Abruptly, he withdraws, and I let out an immensely dissatisfied groan. "What the hell are you letting me do to you?"

"I—"

"No." He retracts his hand, releasing me, and I groan again.

"You . . . But what if we—?"

"You don't understand." Akechi leans in again, lifting his hands to cup my face and looking down at me with unprecedented longing—yet this time, the wall around it is standing strong. Then he slips off the bed, and I almost fall after him in panic.

"Goro—"

"Stop," he urges. "Rin, stop giving yourself more reasons to regret me."

"I won't."

"I don't believe you. Besides—" There's suddenly an amused gleam in his dark eyes. "I don't presume you have any protection lying around here somewhere? Because I, for one, did not bring any."

My face falls, and I blow out a breath, trying to compose myself. My face burns and my skin prickles—and I'm far from satisfied. But I still have to begrudgingly shake my head.

"And that settles that."

Despite his words, I latch onto his sleeve, pulling him back onto the bed without even attempting to fix my disheveled clothes. "Will you just let me hold you now?"

"And after that, I'm supposed to just trust your intentions to be innocent?" Akechi asks, yet the disbelief in his voice is glaringly feigned. He leans in and brings his hand up to his mouth, running his tongue along his finger. "Y'know, you should really work on your self-restraint."

My mind goes blank, and I involuntarily bite down on my lip with such force that I almost draw blood. The only thought that swims up in my jumbled mind is that if he actually turns this into some kind of challenge where he tests the limits of my self-restraint, I am indisputably screwed.

It takes me at least a full five seconds before I can even resume breathing normally, and another few until I can find and formulate proper words. "Do you enjoy tormenting me or something?" I press out, and he laughs. For less than a second, a unique kind of feral edge flashes across his face that immediately erases every bit of composure that I've since regained, no matter how quickly it vanishes to make way for his signature smirk.

"Very much," he replies, and before I can even react, he's already pulled me back onto my sheets, lying beside me. "Especially as long as you keep blushing like that."

Instead of replying, I merely bury my still-burning face in his shoulder, shutting my eyes. "At this rate, you're going to kill me again," I mumble and feel his laugh.

"I thought you said you could handle me."

"I can!" I whine, pulling him closer. "I just might die in the process."

"But that's a price you're willing to pay?"

"Obviously." I smile into his skin, burying my hands deep in the fabric of his shirt. "Don't stop."

***

I must have fallen asleep shortly after, because the next thing I know is that my alarm is going off and something is repeatedly banging against the window. When I hastily scramble up and turn off the alarm, then turn toward the window, I see Morgana perched outside. His tail is raised and his eyes are narrowed accusingly. Only when I glimpse at the time do I realize why.

I nearly trip over my own feet in a frantic attempt to untangle myself from my sheets and get to the window to let Morgana inside. Then my eyes meet a piece of paper that looks like it's been torn out of my notebook and stuck in between two books that stand upright on my desk.

I snatch it out and break with a wide smile.

If you really don't have an alarm, consider this the consequence of that careless decision. Oh, and should you share anything that was said or transpired last night with anyone, that's the end of my trust—and your being killed in ways that you enjoy so much.

P.S. You'll find the key under the doormat.

I stuff the page deep into my bag and hope urgently that Morgana does not catch onto the blush that I feel spreading across my face when I then let him inside.

"Rin, what's gotten into you?" he exclaims as soon as he hops into the room. "You'll be late for school!"

My gaze wanders from my bag with the note over to my tangled sheets, and I merely shrug, swallowing hard. In the end, I make it to class with only a moment to spare.