#(gone wrong)

your body flinched, the little flame flickering dangerously before you set the match down and froze.

he slammed the door like that when he was pissed.

and sanemi got pissed a lot.

“sanemi?” you called out gently, stepping into the hallway.

he didn’t answer.

you turned the corner just in time to see his back disappear into your shared room. the door slammed shut behind him, louder than the front door. the sound echoed through the house, through your chest, all the way down to your stomach.

you walked up to the door, hesitated for a moment, then knocked.

“sanemi... can we talk?”

nothing.

“hey,” your voice stayed soft, almost pleading, “what’s wrong?”

not even a shuffle.

you knocked again, heart climbing its way into your throat. “please open the door, it’s—” your words faltered. “it’s our anniversary.”

the silence felt cruel.

you stood there for another full minute, then two.

“please… just open the door. i want to see you.”

nothing.

you stared at the wood, chest tightening as your throat started to burn. your hand dropped slowly, brushing against the fabric of your yukata. it suddenly felt too nice. too dressed up. like a joke.

your feet moved you back to the table, but the food was cold now, the candle flickered out. the room looked untouched. like you were the only one who ever expected it to be special.

you sat at the table for a little while. waiting. hoping.

he never came out.

you ended up curling into your futon that night with makeup smudged down your cheeks and your pretty yukata still on. you didn’t have the energy to take it off. your head throbbed from crying, but nothing hurt more than knowing he was just a few feet away on the other side of that door, and he hadn’t said a word.

you cried yourself to sleep, the pain sitting deep and quiet in your chest like something sour.

the next morning, the door creaked open.

sanemi stepped out quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, the faint sound of the floor creaking under his feet. his jaw was locked, eyes heavy from lack of sleep. his gaze shifted down the hall, and his heart thudded against his ribs when he saw the table.

he stopped walking.

the food was still laid out, untouched. the little dishes you’d spent all afternoon preparing. the onigiri, now dry. the fish, cold. the ohagi, wrapped neatly like you’d been waiting for him to unwrap it.

his eyes moved slowly to the side, where your yukata hung now—neatly folded over the back of the chair. he remembered it. you’d shown him the fabric when you bought it, told him you had something special planned.

he’d muttered a half smile, rolled his eyes in that rough way he did when he was trying not to seem soft, but he’d said it looked good. he’d said you looked good.

his throat tightened.

he looked around, then noticed the futon. you were still asleep, curled up in a way that made you look so small, your hands tucked beneath your face. your hair was still half done, pins slipping out and strands flattened from the pillow. your face looked puffy, even in sleep.

and sanemi just stood there, jaw clenched so tight it ached, chest pulling with guilt he didn’t know how to swallow.

“fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

he rubbed a hand down his face, pacing for a second, then stopped. crouched down beside the futon, reaching out like he wanted to touch you but stopping just short.

you stirred faintly, shifting your weight but didn’t wake up.

he stared at you. the person who did all that for him. who waited. who knocked. who cried.

and he hadn’t opened the door.

hadn’t said a single goddamn word.

his voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

“i’m a piece of shit.”

he sat there for a while, elbows resting on his knees, watching your sleeping form.

and when you finally started to stir, blinking slowly awake, he didn’t wait for you to say a thing. he leaned in and whispered—

“i’m sorry.”

you blink slowly, still hazy, lashes heavy from dried tears. the light from outside slips through the shoji screen, soft and golden, but your body feels weighed down, your chest tight, head sore.

your eyes shift, and for a second you think you’re still dreaming. sanemi’s crouched beside you, shoulders hunched, hair messy like he’d been pulling at it. there’s a crease between his brows, one that hasn’t left since last night. but it’s his eyes that stop you—guilt soaking through them like he’s been carrying it for hours.

“...sanemi?”

he swallows, his jaw twitching. “yeah. it’s me.”

your voice comes out hoarse, quieter than you mean it to. “what time is it?”

“late morning.” he sits down fully, legs crossed on the floor. “you didn’t eat.”

your gaze drops, and the sting behind your eyes returns. you shift to sit up, tugging your sleeves tighter around you. you can feel the crease in the fabric where you’d slept in the yukata. you don’t say anything.

“i saw the table,” he says after a long beat. “and your hair. the yukata. everything.”

you nod once, lips pressed together.

“you were excited,” he mutters like it hurts to admit.

your fingers twitch in your lap. “i waited.”

“i know.”

he reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes darting away before he forces them back to you. “i had a shit patrol. stupid ass demon ambush near the village. nothing went right. i got back and my head was all—” he makes a frustrated gesture, “i didn’t wanna say something i’d regret.”

“so you didn’t say anything at all,” you whisper.

he doesn’t defend himself. doesn’t tell you that you’re wrong. he just stares at the floor.

“i thought…” you bite the inside of your cheek, voice breaking, “i thought maybe you forgot. or didn’t care.”

his head snaps up. “no. no, i didn’t forget.” his voice is low, almost desperate. “i knew. i knew what day it was. i just—i fucked it up.”

you blink rapidly, trying not to let tears fall again.

he shifts closer. “i do that sometimes. you know i do. i get in my head and… i shut down. slam shit. push people away.”

you let out a shaky breath. “yeah. you do.”

he hesitates. “but i don’t want to do that with you.”

silence stretches between you, thick and full of all the things he should’ve said last night.

“can i fix it?” he asks, voice quieter now.

your lip wobbles. “i don’t know.”

he leans forward, palms flat on the floor beside you. “i wanna try.”

you look at him, really look. and for all his scars, his hard jaw, that mean look people run from—there’s something soft in his eyes. terrified, even. like he’s scared this might be the time you walk away.

“you hurt me,” you murmur.

he nods. “i know. and i’m sorry.”

“you didn’t even open the door,” you continue, heart twisting. “i just wanted to see your face.”

he reaches up, hesitantly brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “you can hit me if you want.”

you almost smile. almost. “i might.”

“good. i’ll let you.”

you finally let the tears fall—not from pain, not this time but from the weight starting to lift. he lets you cry, doesn’t tell you to stop, doesn’t try to explain his way out of it. he just sits there, quietly rubbing your back while you lean into him.

“you’re still in your yukata,” he says softly.

you nod. “i didn’t wanna take it off.”

“you looked beautiful,” he mutters. “still do.”

you finally manage a small, tired laugh. “shut up.”

“serious,” he says, pulling back to look at you properly.

“i should’ve come out. should’ve told you. you do all this for me and i go and act like that?”

he exhales through his nose. “i felt like shit when i saw everything. like a complete asshole.”

“you were,” you say bluntly.

he smirks. “i deserved that.”

a beat of silence.

his lips press against your forehead first, lingering longer than usual.

then he leans down further, kissing the corner of your eye where a tear had dried, like he’s trying to erase the evidence. it makes your chest ache all over again.

“you hungry now?” he asks again, voice low, brushing a few strands of hair from your face.

you shake your head slowly, resting your cheek on his shoulder. “not yet.”

his arms wrap around you gently, like he’s scared he’ll break something. “okay. we’ll sit here for a bit.”

you nod into his shoulder, letting your fingers curl into the sleeve of his uniform. the silence isn’t weird anymore. it’s quiet, soft and safe. his hand rubs slow circles into your back, and for a man who acts like he’d rather fight than talk, he’s never been more gentle.

“i really liked the food i made,” you say quietly. “i wanted to surprise you. the miso was perfect, and i even found that sake you like. took me all day.”

his grip tightens a little, jaw clenching as his eyes close.

“you always do too much for me.”

“i like doing things for you.”

“still.” he exhales. “doesn’t mean i should take it for granted.”

you don’t reply. he already knows.

“when i came out and saw everything,” he continues, voice quieter now, “i felt like someone punched me in the gut. the flowers you put out, the dishes still warm, that stupid candle.”

“you always say you hate candles.”

“i do. but you like them. so i should’ve appreciated it.”

you lift your head, eyes meeting his. “you’re not gonna start crying, are you?”

he scoffs. “hell no.”

you give him a small smile. “liar.”

he rolls his eyes and stands up slowly, pulling you with him. “cmon. sit at the table, at least. i’ll reheat everything.”

you blink. “you? in the kitchen?”

“don’t look so surprised,” he mutters, already making his way across the room. “i know how to warm up some damn rice.”

“burn it and you’re done.”

he smirks over his shoulder. “you planning to leave me over scorched rice?”

you sit down carefully, watching him move. “depends. you already missed our anniversary.”

he freezes, guilt flickering over his features again, but you hold up a hand.

“but” you add “you’re here now.”

he nods slowly. “yeah. i’m here now.”

you pull your yukata tighter around you, watching as he struggles with the kitchen fire and mutters curses under his breath. he burns his fingers once, flinches at the hot pan, and still somehow manages to get everything on the table. it’s not perfect, but it doesn’t have to be.

you both sit, eating quietly, the silence no longer stiff. he keeps glancing at you, making sure you’re okay. you catch him once and raise an eyebrow.

“stop looking at me like that.”

“can’t help it,” he mutters around a mouthful of rice. “you’re pretty.”

“mmhmm.”

he swallows and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “next year i’ll do better.”

“better?”

“like... plan something. maybe even wear something nice.”

“a yukata?”

“don’t push it.”

you laugh softly. and it’s real this time.

“alright, shinazugawa” you say, teasing. “i’ll give you another chance.”

“tch. generous.”

“just don’t slam the door next time.”

he pauses, then leans closer, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “i’ll try to knock with flowers instead.”

“that the new version of sorry?”

“only for you.”

and when he reaches over the table, fingers brushing yours, you don’t pull away.

because despite everything, his temper, his walls, the way he shuts down—he’s trying.

and for you, that’s enough. for now.