The days that followed my illness felt like a strange sort of limbo.

My body had healed—at least enough for me to function—but something else lingered beneath the surface.

The fever may have burned itself out, but a new kind of exhaustion had taken its place.

It wasn’t the usual weariness from sleepless nights on stakeouts or the grinding stress of the cases we couldn’t crack.

No, this was deeper, a weight that settled in my chest like a bruise I couldn’t quite shake.

I hadn’t told anyone about my visit to Kento’s grave, but it had been on my mind constantly.

That ache of loss, of failure, had never really gone away, and visiting him stirred it all up again.

But something had changed too—seeing Hana, standing beside me in that quiet, solemn space, had shifted something inside me.

Her presence that day had been as steady as the earth beneath my feet, but it had also unsettled me, in a way I hadn’t expected.

I hadn’t planned to stay long at the cemetery.

The walk there had been like dragging my feet through wet cement, each step a reminder of the things I hadn’t yet faced, the grief I hadn’t let myself fully feel.

The department’s small cemetery was a place I tried to avoid; the lives marked there too often felt like silent accusations.

Kento’s death especially.

When I arrived, I stood there in front of his grave for what felt like hours, trying to find the words.

The sun was low, casting long shadows over the rows of stone markers.

His grave wasn’t new anymore, but the memory of that day—when they buried him, the smell of rain still clinging to the air—was sharp in my mind.

The grass around his headstone had grown back, covering the raw patch of earth that had once looked so harsh and final.

But the pain?

That was still raw.

“I don’t know what you’d say to me if you were here”

I muttered under my breath, my voice rough, barely loud enough to carry.

“Probably something about how I’m still too damn hard on myself.”

I crouched down, resting my hands on my knees, staring at the engraved letters of his name.

“I should’ve done more”

I whispered, the words breaking free before I could stop them.

“I should’ve been there."

The quiet of the cemetery pressed in on me, and I could feel that familiar sense of guilt clawing its way up again.

How many times had I told myself that I’d failed him?

That if I’d been more careful—he’d still be here?

The weight of it was unbearable, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry it.

“I should’ve been the one—”

“Stop.”

The voice came from behind me, soft but firm.

I turned, startled, to see Hana standing there, her eyes locked on mine.

She’d come quietly, not wanting to intrude, but now that she was here, there was no denying her presence.

“You don’t have to do that"

She said, stepping closer.

“Blame yourself like that.”

Her words cut through the fog in my head, but they didn’t take away the pain.

If anything, they made it sharper.

Hana had always been the one to challenge me, to force me to confront the things I didn’t want to face.

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And standing there, in front of Kento’s grave, with her looking at me like she could see through every wall I’d built, I felt exposed.

“I can’t help it”

I said quietly, my voice strained.

“I can’t stop thinking about how I wasn’t there. How I didn’t save him.”

"You couldn't."

Hana stepped even closer, until she was standing beside me, her shoulder brushing against mine.

She didn’t say anything for a while.

Instead, she crouched down next to me, her eyes fixed on the gravestone, and for a long moment, we were just… there.

Together in the silence.

“I miss him too”

She said softly, her voice carrying a weight of its own.

“But Keisuke, he wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself. He wouldn’t want you to keep carrying this alone.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I couldn’t respond.

She wasn’t just talking about Kento now.

She was talking about everything.

The weight I carried, the responsibility I felt to protect everyone, to take care of everyone.

Including her.

Especially her.

“Hana—”

But before I could say more, she placed a hand on my arm, grounding me in the moment.

Her touch was warm, steady.

“I know what you’re going to say"

She whispered.

“And I know you think you have to carry this burden on your own. But you don’t.”

There was something in her voice that made me pause, something in the way she looked at me that made me want to believe her.

But I wasn’t sure if I could.

After leaving the cemetery, we walked in silence back toward the city, the tension between us building with each step.

It was different from before, though.

Not the kind of tension that came from unresolved grief, but something deeper, something that had been simmering between us for weeks—maybe even months.

We ended up at Hana’s apartment.

Neither of us had spoken much since we left the cemetery, but it was as if we both knew that we weren’t ready to part ways yet.

Not tonight.

Her apartment was familiar now, not because I had been there before but because it felt like her—a reflection of the quiet strength and warmth she carried with her everywhere.

The space was small but carefully arranged, filled with little details that spoke to who she was: books stacked on the coffee table, framed photographs of family and friends on the walls, a cozy blanket draped over the arm of the couch.

It felt… safe.

“I’ll make us some tea”

She said softly, moving toward the kitchen, her movements quiet and deliberate.

I nodded, settling into the couch, my eyes drifting over the room.

The air was warm, and the light from the lamps cast soft shadows on the walls.

It felt peaceful here, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself relax.

Really relax.

The tension I carried with me, the constant edge that had become second nature—it slipped away, leaving only a kind of quiet ache.

When Hana returned with the tea, she sat beside me on the couch, close but not too close.

The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable—it was a shared understanding, an acknowledgment of everything we’d been through, everything we hadn’t said yet.

For a while, we just sat there, sipping our tea, the sound of the rain that had begun to fall outside filling the space.

The quiet was comforting, and I found myself watching her, noticing the small things—the way her fingers curled around the mug, the way her eyes flickered toward mine every so often, as if she was waiting for me to say something.

But neither of us spoke.

Not yet.

Eventually, Hana set her mug down on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch, her eyes closing for a moment as she let out a deep breath.

“It’s been a long few weeks”

She murmured, her voice low.

I nodded, my throat tightening as I thought about everything that had happened.

The cases.

The near-misses.

Nagasuki.

The weight of Kento’s death still heavy on my heart.

But there was something else, too.

Something that had been building between us, something that neither of us had acknowledged but was impossible to ignore.

“Hana”

I said quietly, turning to face her.

She opened her eyes, looking at me with an intensity that made my chest tighten.

“I—”

But the words caught in my throat.

What was I trying to say?

That I was grateful for her?

That she had become more than just my partner, more than just a colleague I trusted with my life?

That there was something between us, something that had grown out of all the moments we’d shared, all the times we’d stood side by side, facing the darkness together?

But before I could find the words, Hana leaned in slightly, her breath warm against my cheek.

Her eyes flickered to my lips, and I could feel the pull between us, that magnetic pull that had been there for weeks, maybe even longer.

I felt my heart race, the room around us fading away as the space between us disappeared.

I leaned in too, my lips just inches from hers, the moment hanging in the air like a fragile thread, ready to snap.

But then, just as our lips were about to meet, my phone buzzed, vibrating loudly against the table.

The sound cut through the moment like a shard of glass, shattering the fragile connection we’d just begun to acknowledge.

I pulled back, cursing under my breath as I fumbled for my phone.

It was Sasaki.

“Hana—”

I began, but she was already pulling away, her expression soft but resigned.

“Answer it”

She said quietly, her voice steady.

I hesitated, but there was no choice.

I answered the call.

“Keisuke”

Sasaki’s voice was urgent.

“I need you and Hana back at the station. Something’s come up. It’s serious.”

I glanced at Hana, who was watching me with a look that I couldn’t quite read.

Disappointment?

Understanding?

Maybe both.

“She's with me, we'll be there”

I muttered, ending the call before Sasaki could say more.

The room felt colder now, the warmth that had filled the space between us just moments ago fading into the background.

“We have to go”

I said softly, standing up.

Hana nodded and standed up from the couch too, her face calm, but there was something in her eyes that made my chest ache.

“I know”

She said simply.

I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of everything we hadn’t said pressing down on me.

I wanted to tell her that this wasn’t the end of whatever had just begun to unfold between us.

That this… thing, this connection, wasn’t something I was willing to let go of.

Not now.

Not ever.

But all I could manage was a quiet promise.

“We’ll talk about this”

I said, my voice rough.

Hana smiled then, a small, sad smile that held both hope and something deeper—something I wasn’t sure I could fully understand yet.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

And with that, we left, stepping out into the cold night, the rain falling softly against my skin, the weight of everything we hadn’t said still lingering in the air between us.