Five days passed.
Five evenings without him.
Five nights in which Ayumi turned in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince herself it was okay.
She shouldn't go looking for him.
She shouldn't disturb him.
She had seen the van. The weapons. The bags.
Feitan had his own life.
And it wasn't a life for her.
But now and then, she would glance outside.
Just for a moment.
Just to see if the lights were on.
And they were.
Always.
One evening, she opened the drawer.
Took out the stuffed kitten she'd had as a child.
She hadn't touched it in years.
It was still soft, but the plastic eyes were scratched.
She put it in a small bag.
Wrote one word on a slip of paper: "Friend."
And left it in front of his door.
No signature. No message.
Just a small excuse. A sign.
A silent "I'm thinking of you."
Feitan didn't respond.
But the next day, Ayumi found a small object in her mailbox:
an origami flower.
Grey and white.
Folded perfectly.
It was his way.
The only way he knew.
And Ayumi understood it.
That evening, she knocked.
She didn't bring anything.
Just a quiet heart and her hands tucked into the long sleeves of her sweater.
Feitan opened the door.
He said nothing.
He stepped aside to let her in.
The house was just as she remembered: empty, cold — but alive.
The kitten jumped immediately onto her lap.
Feitan closed the door, slowly.
She looked at him.
Feitan looked back — but not intrusively.
As if he was still asking himself whether she was real.
Whether that presence, that face, that voice… were truly for him.
"Have you been back long?"
Ayumi asked quietly.
Feitan nodded.
Then, after a few seconds — he hesitated.
But he spoke.
His voice was low. Rough.
As if the words scratched his throat on their way out.
"Would you… like to do something?"
Ayumi looked at him, surprised.
Not at the question — but at the way he held it.
It wasn't an invitation.
Not a suggestion.
It was almost a request for help.
"What?"
she whispered.
Feitan looked down.
At his hands. At the cat. At her.
"I don't know."
And he meant it.
He really didn't know.
He had never done anything with someone.
Not in the good sense.
All his actions had always been invasion, attack, conquest.
Now he wanted… to share them.
But he didn't know how.
Ayumi didn't laugh.
She didn't tease him.
She gave a small nod.
A yes.
"Anything's fine. Even just staying here."
Feitan looked at her.
And, in the subtlest way possible, he nodded.
That night, they did nothing.
No walk. No plan.
They just sat on the couch, like last time.
She with the kitten.
He a little closer.
Ayumi began to talk.
Light stories.
Absurd anecdotes from school.
Funny people met on the bus.
Feitan didn't say a word.
But he listened.
Now and then, his gaze dropped to her hands.
The way they moved.
The way her voice opened and closed like the breath of something alive.
It was a world he didn't know.
But slowly, he was learning to desire it.
Feitan didn't speak.
He didn't know how — not like that.
He had killed with a breath.
Destroyed entire lives without blinking.
But now…
it was silence holding him hostage.
Ayumi laughed.
Softly. Warmly.
As if that night she had forgotten all the darkness.
As if, just for a moment, she had allowed herself to shine.
And he…
watched her.
Not like a starving man watches prey.
But like someone wondering:
"Why here? Why with me?"
She sat just a few centimeters from him, the kitten in her arms, her profile gently lit by the dim lamp.
The sleeves of her sweater covered her hands.
Sometimes she tucked her hair behind her ear with a slow, almost absent-minded gesture.
And she spoke.
Not to fill the silence —
But to make it home.
Feitan felt her voice like a warm, liquid trail.
It slid into his bones.
Untied knots he didn't know he had.
He had forgotten what it was like to listen without defending himself.
Forgotten that the sound of peace existed.
He watched her.
Every movement.
Every shift of her fingers as she stroked the cat.
Every pause in her voice as she searched for a word.
Every curve of her smile.
That smile…
He would never forget it.
Ever.
Because he had never seen one like it before.
It wasn't a smile that asked for anything.
That tried to protect anything.
It simply said: "I'm here."
Feitan noticed the breathing.
Not his.
His was frozen.
But not his heart.
That… was moving.
As if it were learning a new rhythm.
One that followed her voice.
He touched her wrist.
Just slightly.
Not by accident.
For confirmation.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't stop talking.
As if that touch was the most natural thing in the world.
Feitan lowered his gaze.
He had never wanted something so simple.
A presence.
A night.
No promises.
Just…
"Stay."
The word came out just like that.
Raw. Bare. Pure.
Ayumi turned toward him.
Not surprised.
Not afraid.
She looked at him.
Just that.
A full, steady, calm gaze.
One of those that had stripped him bare since the first day.
And in that silence — thick with close skin, held breath, past pain finally softening…
she didn't say yes.
She didn't say no.
Feitan just saw that she didn't get up.
That she stayed.
That she kept stroking the cat.
That the light was still on.
And he understood.
It was the first time someone didn't run.
The first time someone chose to stay.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was real.
It happened slowly, like all things that matter.
No promises. No experience.
Just the strange certainty that both of them wanted to be there.
It was a first time — for both.
And you could tell.
Their hands trembled.
Their movements were slow, uncertain.
Sometimes they got in each other's way, laughed quietly, paused to figure out what came next.
But neither of them hid.
Ayumi looked him in the eyes. Always.
Even when she felt vulnerable.
Even when her heart was pounding too hard.
Feitan never looked away.
He was afraid to.
As if closing his eyes would mean missing something sacred.
Their hands found each other.
Intertwined.
Fingers slipping together like they had always known how.
Their foreheads touched, breaths merging.
Slow. Warm. Imperfect.
Humble.
There was no rush.
No urgency.
Only that moment — and them inside it.
Ayumi's body trembled slightly — not from fear.
From emotion.
From trust.
From feeling seen and accepted, without judgment.
Feitan didn't say a word.
He had none.
But every gesture shouted:
"I'm here."
And when their bodies finally came together,
it felt like falling into a new kind of silence.
Intimate.
Tender.
Their legs tangled, breaths quickened — then slowed again.
From time to time, Ayumi closed her eyes.
Then opened them again — just to look at him.
Feitan looked at her as if he had never seen anything more alive.
And then, without a "later," without a "that's enough"…
they found themselves in each other's arms.
Ayumi nestled against his chest, hair scattered over the pillow.
Feitan with one hand on her back, the other still holding hers.
They fell asleep like that.
Still naked. Still intertwined.
With slow heartbeats, and a room filled with new peace.
For the first time in his life,
Feitan slept without dreams.
And Ayumi…
without fear.