The first thing Tatsuya noticed when he opened his eyes was that the fire was still going, what was a good thing.
He couldn't face her disappointment if the fire had died.
His body ached from the stiffness of sleeping on the wooden floor, his body wasn't yet used sleeping like this and it wasnt worth repeating.
Argh my back..
Besides the sound of this own suffering, he heard a loud yawn but the source of the sound tucked herself deeper into her blanket.
The sound meant she had slept.
Dragging himself upright, he moved with deliberate care. Every action had become part of his ritual: stoke the fire, check the wood, prepare food before she stirred.
The "morning routine." A laughable phrase in this place, but it was all he had to cling to—proof that life was still staggering forward, even if it dragged its feet.
He sliced at stale bread with the grace of a butcher wielding a sword meant for pig slaughter. The result: something resembling chunks rather than slices. His jaw tightened. "Close enough."
Of course, the universe refused to let him keep even that delusion.
"…You call that bread?"
The dry remark, sharp as splintered wood, drifted from behind him. He stiffened, turning just in time to see her—Meki—with the blanket still wrapped around her, rubbing her eyes, hair a tangled mess that fell unevenly over her face. She was awake. Awake and… talking.
His relief was immediate. His panic, too. "Uh—I was—uh—" He glanced at the bread massacre. "Trying."
"Trying to punch it into submission?" She tilted her head, voice flat, but her lips twitched almost imperceptibly—halfway to a smirk she wasn't ready to show.
Tatsuya opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Bread couldn't defend him. "…It's edible."
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, as if the bread itself might leap up and betray her if she trusted it too easily. But after a long pause, she sat, pulling the bowl toward herself.
She thank him, but didn't meet his gaze and just ate.
The tension in his chest eased, like someone had loosened a rope knotted around his lungs.
"You're clumsy," she added between mouthfuls, "but… I guess it works."
His eyes widened slightly at the but. That single word, dangling there like a fragile thread, was as close to praise as he could hope for.
"Thanks," he muttered before he could stop himself.
Her gaze flicked up at him sharply, as though she hadn't expected him to acknowledge it. She turned back to her food immediately, muttering something under her breath. Something about idiots saying thanks too easily.
Tatsuya let the silence sit. Not a heavy silence, not the kind that choked like smoke—but a silence that felt almost… ordinary.
It struck him then, the absurdity of it all. Sharing stale bread in a cabin with a girl who flinched at shadows, teasing him like a child mocking a bad cook—these fragments of "normal life" felt more precious than gold. They shouldn't have existed, not after everything. And yet they did.
And if he wasn't careful, he might start to want them.
Part 2
After the fire and the bread came the next step: Stefan.
The shaggy beast exactly belong here, but didn't Tatsuya. And maybe that was why he clung to the goat's routine as much as his own.
Feed him. Brush him down. Whisper apologies for being a terrible caretaker.
He pushed open the cabin door, greeted by a breath of cold air sharp enough to sting. Stefan's snort cut through the morning fog, the goat stamping its hooves as if accusing him of being late.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Tatsuya muttered, adjusting the bucket in his arms. "You're starving. Join the club."
The sound of soft footsteps behind him made him pause. He turned.
Meki stood in the doorway, blanket still wrapped loosely around her shoulders..
It was a chilly morning after all.
Her expression wasn't quite curious—more guarded, like a thief casing a room—but she didn't retreat when his eyes met hers.
"…You're going to feed him?" she asked.
"Yeah." He blinked. "Want to—?"
Her brows shot up at the offer. Too much, too soon. He backpedaled. "I mean. You can watch. If you want."
Something unreadable flickered in her eyes, but after a moment she stepped outside, pulling the blanket tighter. She didn't say yes, but she didn't say no either.
Tatsuya busied himself with Stefan, setting the bucket down, patting the Goat's side as the beast lowered its head to eat.
"I used to fix things," Meki's voice broke through suddenly, startling him.
He looked over. She wasn't watching him—she was staring at Stefan, eyes distant.
"Clothes. Pots. Whatever I could get my hands on," she continued, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket
She still wore around her.
"People always said it was pointless. That once something breaks, it never goes back the same. But…" She trailed off, biting her lip, before finishing quietly. "…It felt better. Making it useful again."
Tatsuya swallowed. Words crowded his throat—That makes sense. That's not pointless at all. But he stayed quiet. Something about her tone told him this wasn't a place for heavy-handed reassurance.
Instead, he brushed Stefan's mane, slow and steady, letting the silence stretch just enough for her to continue if she wanted.
"I don't like silence," she admitted after a long pause, her voice sharper now, defensive like she regretted speaking at all. "Not the kind outside, with wind or birds. That's fine. I mean… deep silence. When it's empty. It's like…" Her grip tightened on the blanket. "Like everyone left. Like I'm the only one left."
Tatsuya's hand froze on Stefan's mane. He knew that silence. He knew it in his bones.
He didn't say that, though. He didn't know if he could.
"You won't have to hear that kind of silence here," he said instead, voice quieter than he intended. "Not if I can help it."
Her eyes flicked toward him, sharp and suspicious, but her shoulders eased the smallest fraction.
The moment lingered. Then she crouched suddenly, fingers brushing the dirt near Stefan's hooves. She picked something up—a small, smooth stone, gray with faint white veins. Turning it over in her palm, her lips pressed together like she'd been caught doing something childish.
"I like these," she muttered.
"…Rocks?"
Her glare snapped to him, sharp enough to cut. "Smooth stones. They're different."
Tatsuya raised his hands in surrender. "Right. Smooth stones. Got it."
She huffed, looking back down at it. "They're… simple. Small. They don't change much, even when everything else does." She slipped it into her pocket before he could see more. "I used to keep them. When I could."
The admission carried more weight than the stone ever could.
Tatsuya looked at her, really looked at her—blanket still wrapped like armor, hair wild, voice defensive but trembling at the edges. And he realized these fragments weren't random.
They were survival. These little quirks—fixing things, avoiding silence, collecting stones—they were pieces of her she'd fought to keep when the world tried to strip her bare.
"…You know," he said slowly, brushing Stefan's mane again, "that doesn't sound pointless to me."
Her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat, unreadable. Then she turned sharply, muttering something about him being an idiot, and walked back toward the cabin.
But her steps were lighter than before.
Part 3
It was official. The girl was a menace.
Not because she'd tried to stab him in his sleep or because she set the cabin on fire—no, that would have been simple. That would have made sense. Instead, she had chosen a more insidious weapon: casual complaints.
"You cut the bread wrong," Meki declared, arms crossed as she leaned against the table like a self-proclaimed expert.
"…It's bread," Tatsuya muttered, staring at the half-loaf he'd just sliced. "There isn't a wrong way."
Her eyes narrowed like he'd just confessed to treason. "It looks like you hacked it apart with a rock. How do you even eat something like that?"
He held up a crooked piece. "With my mouth?"
Her glare sharpened. Then, without ceremony, she snatched the slice out of his hand and bit into it. A long chew later, she sniffed, "Still terrible."
Tatsuya blinked at her, caught between indignation and… something dangerously close to amusement. His lips twitched before he forced them flat. No. Absolutely not. Smiling was not allowed.
"I'll be sure to write that in my cooking journal," he said instead, voice dry as the crust. "Right after the entry about the porridge you insulted yesterday."
Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she tossed her hair with a huff. "If you don't want advice, keep serving garbage."
And then—without waiting for permission—she grabbed the knife from his hand, muttering something about "basic human dignity" under her breath.
Her fingers, thin but steady, guided the blade with a kind of meticulous precision that made his earlier efforts look like vandalism. She cut a neat slice, then shoved it toward him with a smug expression.
"There. See? It's not that hard."
Tatsuya stared at the slice, then at her. "…So you complain and then do it yourself?"
"Someone has to save breakfast from you," she said, nose in the air.
He took the bread, bit into it, and chewed slowly. "Tastes the same."
Her eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. "Liar."
He shrugged. "Guess I just don't have a refined enough palate to appreciate the artistry of bread slicing."
For a moment, silence stretched—then she huffed again, pushing past him to adjust the pan over the fire. "You're hopeless. Move. If you insist on cooking, at least don't ruin it completely."
And just like that, she was stirring, tasting, frowning, adding a pinch of salt from the jar he thought she hadn't noticed. She scolded him for letting the fire burn too high, for not cutting the vegetables evenly, for "standing there like a log."
Tatsuya watched, caught between irritation and something dangerously close to fondness. She looked… less like a shadow of her former self and more like a person again. Busy hands, sharp tongue, stubborn spark.
And here I am letting her drag me into this little act, he thought bitterly, jaw tightening. Like I deserve to be in the same scene as someone trying to put themselves back together. Idiot. You'll just break her too.
He shoved the thought down and reached for the pan anyway. "Fine. But if you burn it, I'm writing it in the journal."
Her scoff was instant, sharp. "As if I'd burn it."
But her sleeves were rolled up now, her hands moving with care, and the air in the cabin was warmer than it had been in days.
Tatsuya reached for the pot to stir the simmering stew, too preoccupied with correcting his last clumsy mistake to notice the metal was hotter than he anticipated.
"—agh!"
The hiss of pain escaped his lips as his fingers made contact with the rim. Heat seared through him. He yanked his hand back instinctively, but Meki was faster.
"W-What are you doing, idiot?!" she exclaimed, lunging forward. Her hands hovered over his, fingers brushing his skin. "…I-It's not like I care, stupid…"
And then—warmth spread from her hands into his, sharp and controlled, yet gentle. The sting of the burn faded, leaving only a dull ache.
Tatsuya froze, blinking down at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. Healing magic but not an incantation. Just—her hands.
He'd felt the pull of Sora's ritual once, the practiced, ethereal hum of Ruza's technique. But this? This was different.
Her healing… it isn't like Sora's or Ruza's.
His mind almost whispered the words aloud: She didn't even use an incantation. She… learned this herself?
The thought brought with it the names. Sora. Ruza. Familiar voices echoing from the gray corridors of his memory, blurred and untouchable. He blinked, shaking the reminder away. Now was not the time.
But he couldn't ignore the reality in front of him. Meki's hands lingered just slightly longer than needed, her grip careful, assessing, almost hesitant.
Her face was flushed, averted, hair falling like a shield over the sharp line of her jaw. She mumbled something under her breath about "stupid clumsy idiot", but it didn't mask the concern threaded through her tone.
Tatsuya's chest tightened. He realized—maybe for the first time—that his presence wasn't just destructive. That maybe, in some fragile, trembling way, he could allow someone to care.
And she wanted to care.
She's letting me exist near her without fear, he thought, a bitter laugh choking the back of his throat. And I… I can't ruin this. Not her. Not now.
He flexed his fingers slowly, testing the burn. It throbbed faintly, but the pain was muted, dulled almost entirely. He looked up at her.
"Thanks," he muttered, voice low, uncertain.
Her head snapped up at the sound, eyes wide, and she quickly looked away. "D-Don't get used to it," she stammered, curling her hands into fists at her sides. "It's just… I was close, okay? That's all. Nothing more."
Tatsuya wanted to smile. He really did. But he settled for a small nod instead, because smiles could be dangerous. They invited hope. And hope—he knew too well—could break in a single moment.
And yet, even as he reminded himself of every failure, every mistake, every life ruined by proximity, he couldn't push away the faint warmth lingering where her hands had touched his.
Part 4
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the cabin window, painting the table in long streaks of amber. Tatsuya knelt on the floor, carefully running his cloth over the edge of his sword. Each swipe felt ritualistic, precise—almost sacred—but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching.
"Mm."
He glanced up. Meki had moved closer than usual, crouching beside the table like she belonged there. Her blanket was tossed back slightly, revealing the small pile of carving tools she had brought—knives, scraps of wood, and the half-finished spoon from yesterday.
She placed them neatly on the side nearest him, eyes flicking toward him with a sharp edge that was almost playful.
"…You're getting awfully comfortable," Tatsuya muttered, brushing another streak of dust from the blade.
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not. Don't flatter yourself," she said, voice clipped, but her shoulders didn't retreat. Her hands hovered over the wood, fingers tapping idly. "I just… want to see how you do it. That's all."
He lifted an eyebrow. Sure. That's all. Not the fact you're deliberately inches away, like you want to be close but won't admit it.
She huffed, reaching for a scrap of wood and beginning to shave it into a smooth curve. The rasp of her knife against the grain filled the quiet, mingling with the faint scrape of Tatsuya's cloth on steel.
"You really don't know what you're doing," she muttered suddenly, voice loud enough for him to hear. "I mean, look at that edge. You'll ruin it one day if you keep half-assing it."
Tatsuya's lips twitched. He should scold her. He should snap back with something sharp. Instead… he found himself staring at her hands. Quick, precise, careful.
"Half-assed?" he said, dry as always, but with a note of disbelief. "You're the one carving a spoon while sitting three inches from my face."
Her head snapped up at that, eyes wide. Then, almost immediately, she looked away. "I-I'm not… three inches! That's… totally normal. You're exaggerating."
Her flush betrayed her words. And somewhere behind that sharp tongue, Tatsuya could feel it—the tiniest sliver of comfort, the fragile thread that meant she trusted him enough to stay this close.
He shook his head, muttering under his breath. Great. She's testing the limits. She's comfortable enough to tease, but not to trust completely. Perfect. Exactly what I don't deserve.
Meki's knife scraped again. "Your sword's still filthy. And don't give me that look like you don't care—I can see it in your stupid face. You actually like it when I correct you, don't you?"
Tatsuya froze. She thinks I like being mocked? The thought should have been infuriating, but instead it made his chest tighten. He wanted to tell her to shut up, to leave, to not make him feel human again. But he didn't. He just nodded slightly.
"You're an idiot," Meki muttered, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "and you're hopeless at everything."
Her words were sharp, but the edge had softened. She wasn't trying to hurt him; she was pretending she was. A shield. A tsundere mask. The faintest hint of comfort hiding behind mockery.
Tatsuya's hand froze mid-wipe on the sword. He realized something dangerous: her presence, her teasing, the tiny closeness—it wasn't just a trial for her. It was a choice.
And she chose to be near him.
The thought caught in his throat. I'm going to ruin this. I can feel it. One wrong move and—
But she kept working quietly, scraping and sanding with the faintest hum. Almost a rhythm. Almost… ordinary.
And for a moment, he let himself imagine that maybe—just maybe—he could exist in this quiet space without destroying it.
But then, predictably, Meki muttered, "Don't get any ideas, stupid. I'm not being nice."
And Tatsuya couldn't help it. He chuckled quietly. Just a sound, small and bitter-sweet, almost forbidden.
She froze, eyes flicking up at him, suspicion and something else—reluctant approval, maybe—blinking faintly in her gaze.
Perfect, he thought grimly. I like this. And I'll ruin it anyway.
Part 5
Night settled into the cabin.
The fire crackled, faint sparks dancing upward, but Tatsuya didn't lower it as he normally would.
He stacked logs carefully, arranging them so the flame would burn steadily, brighter than needed.
His fingers lingered on the wood as he set the last piece in place, the warmth of the fire reflecting faintly on his pale face. She's afraid of the dark, he reminded himself silently. If it's only a small thing… maybe I can do this. Keep it alive for her. That's all. That's all I can do. And yet…
The "yet" pressed down on him like a boulder. Every survival he had tried to build, every small victory, always ended in ashes. Everyone who came close to him—touched him in any meaningful way—ended up broken or gone.
And now, here was Meki, a fragile human tethered to him by nothing more than curiosity and cautious trust.
He hated it. Hated himself for feeling the faint tug of warmth when he watched her settle near the fire. Hated himself for wanting to be the reason that warmth could exist tomorrow. And most of all, he hated the fact that a small part of him feared what would happen if he failed.
Meki's movements were quiet, deliberate, almost reverent as she crawled toward the corner of the cabin and crawled on the bed she had claimed for herself.
She curled her legs beneath her, hands brushing the blanket over her shoulders. The firelight traced her faint copper hair, illuminating her delicate features in a way that made Tatsuya's chest tighten.
"Th-thank you…" she muttered softly, voice almost lost in the crackle of the flame. Her lips twitched into a faint smile, small and hesitant, but unmistakable.
Tatsuya froze. She's smiling. She actually smiled at me…
The blade of guilt and fear cut through him sharper than the memory of every mistake he had made.
He wanted to protect that smile. He wanted to hold onto it as though the world itself might fall apart if he let it slip away. But he knew the truth all too well.
His presence wasn't pure protection—it carried ruin. And if he stayed too close, if he let himself linger… he might crush this fragile trust before it had a chance to grow.
Tatsuya settled on the floor, leaning back against the wall, eyes fixed on the flickering light. His fingers clenched, unclenched. Every plan he had to keep her safe seemed laughably fragile in the face of reality.
Every breath he took was haunted by what could go wrong.
And yet.
The faint smile lingered in his mind. Small. Fragile. Human. And somehow, impossibly, it made the suffocating weight of guilt bearable for the first time in days.
He exhaled slowly, letting the heat of the fire wash over him and her. The shadows pressed closer around the cabin, but the light endured, stubborn and unyielding. He didn't know if it would be enough. He didn't know if he could be enough.
But tonight, he decided it was enough to try.
Meki's breathing softened as she curled deeper into the blanket, eyes closing against the glow of the fire. Her smile remained, faint and fleeting, as if daring the darkness to touch her.
Tatsuya watched her, heart tight, thoughts splintered between hope and fear. He could almost hear the knife-like edge of possibility slicing through him—between protecting her, and destroying her.
And somehow, he let himself stay there, letting the warmth of the fire—and the fragile warmth of her trust—linger in the cabin a little longer than it should have.
The night closed in, silent but alive with potential.
And for once, in a world so often gray and fractured, Tatsuya allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, a small ember of ordinary life could survive.