𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 // Akaza x reader (+18)

Chapter 43 | Distracted

The village is ruined.

It sleeps in the hush of rot and moss and crawling ivy. Bones of buildings litter the earth like half-forgotten warnings.

The dojo stands near the edge of the tree line, half-swallowed by nature, the windows dark even at noon.

The sun barely reaches inside.
Which means demons could.
And yet, you step in.

Akaza's already there. Shirtless, barefoot.

You cross the threshold, heart pounding too loud in your ears — not from fear.
From the echo of last night.
The press of his body against yours.
The kiss at your throat.
The way his voice cracked when he said he shouldn't want it—and still stayed.

Your fingers flex at your sides as you square your stance. He doesn't speak. Just nods once, slow and unreadable, and raises his fists.

The air between you brims. Tight. Uneasy. Like it remembers, too.

Training begins.

It's hand-to-hand.
You're fast. Focused.
But Akaza is faster. Always has been.

Your first strike he blocks easily. The second glances his side and it's enough. A half-second too long, too close.

You feel his breath as he moves.

He grabs your wrist and your stomach flips, not from the motion, but from the way his grip burns into your skin. Not rough. Just firm. Controlled.
It sends heat through your ribs, coiling low and sharp.

You twist out — barely — and counter, planting your foot and aiming low. He dodges.

But you feel the air shift again, the tension zigzagging between your bodies like it's trying to take shape.

You don't speak.
Neither does he.

But the space between you is crowded with the memory of his hands on your waist, the slow breath against your neck.

The way you tilted your head back to give him more.

Strike. Block. Step. Tension.

Akaza lunges this time — and you dodge, barely brushing past his side. You shouldn't feel anything. It's a graze, a whisper of skin.

But you do.
You feel everything.
You hear his breath catch. And yours skips, unsteady.

When he spins and catches you around the waist — too fast, too smooth — it's supposed to be a takedown.

Instead, your bodies collide, chest to chest, your hand pressed against the cut of his shoulder. His arm is wrapped around you, holding your balance for a heartbeat too long.

Too close.
You could lean in.
He could pull you tighter.

Neither of you does.

But the thought pulses in the space between you.
Your eyes meet. His are dark — not cold, but deep. Searching.

You feel it again: the restraint. The edge. The ache.

You shove away, breath coming hard, throat tight.

He lets you.
Again.
This time he doesn't hold back.
You don't either.

You strike faster. Move sharper. Not to win but to forget. To fight the heat rising in your blood. Every time your hands meet — forearm to wrist, palm to shoulder — it's like lighting a fuse.

He grabs your ankle mid-kick and twists. You fall, roll, come up swinging. He blocks. But your fist lands at his chest.

Flat against his heart.
You both freeze.
Akaza's eyes widen slightly.
It's the first time you have landed a critical blow.

The dojo creaks.

Something moves outside ... a bird, maybe.
But inside, it's just you. Him. The heat.

Your hand slides away. You step back.

"You're slow today," you say, voice too rough.

Akaza doesn't answer right away.
Then a faint, unreadable smile. "Distracted."

You turn away. You can't let him see your face. The smile spreading across your lips.

The light outside is pale and high — midday, though you wouldn't know it from inside the dojo.

The sun doesn't reach here. Not fully. Its rays die at the threshold, swallowed by shadowed wood and shuttered walls. The air inside hangs thick, unmoving, too quiet, and still not safe.

Akaza stands near one of the darkened beams, arms crossed loosely over his chest. But he doesn't step closer to the door.

He can't.
Not yet.

"You should rest," he says finally, voice low. Calm. But distant, somehow. Like he's holding something back behind his eyes. "There's time before we go again."

You hesitate, still catching your breath. Muscles aching from sparring. Skin still tingling from every graze, every held-back moment, every touch that meant more than it should've.

"And you?" you ask.

"I'll stay," he replies. "Can't leave in this light. I'll go out after sunset. See what I can find."

"For?" you murmur.

"Anything we might need."

The silence stretches between you again. Not awkward — just thick with all the things you both keep choosing not to say.

You glance toward the corner where the old mats are piled, half-covered in dust and wear. It isn't much.

But it's something.
Still, you hesitate.

And he notices.
"I won't watch you sleep," he says, almost too soft. "Not unless you want me to."

You almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, you nod, slow. "Wake me before sunset."

"I will."

***

You don't remember falling asleep.

But you wake to the sound of a familiar voice, quiet, near your ear.

"It's time."

Your eyes blink open slowly. The light in the dojo hasn't changed much, but the weight of the air feels different. Thinner. Cooler. The sun's fallen just enough.

He's crouched beside you, one hand resting on his knee, the other reaching to nudge your shoulder but not quite touching. Always close. Never too close.

"I'm heading out. I won't be long."

You push up onto your elbows, voice rough with sleep. "Where?"

"Food," he says. Then adds, after a beat, "For you."

Your chest twists a little at that. At the care in it.

He stands, movements fluid, controlled. "While I'm gone, meditate. Center yourself. We'll train again tonight, harder."

You nod, watching as he moves toward the door but stops just before the line where shadow ends and sunlight used to kiss the ground. He waits, almost calculating. Then steps out — fast. Gone.

You sit there in the silence he leaves behind, the distant weight of his presence fading beyond the edge of the dojo. Meditation feels impossible, but you try anyway.

You breathe. You let the silence in. You listen to the wind moving through what's left of the village. Birds, far off. The creak of wood.