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

Chapter 44 | Catch me if you can

By the time Akaza returns, the sun has dipped low — shadows stretched long and thin.

He slips back into the dojo without a sound, a small wrapped cloth held in one hand. A faint scent follows him —  sea. He tosses the bundle into your lap without ceremony.

"Eat."

You unwrap it slowly. Two onigiri, smelling of the sea and something sweet. You blink.

"Where did you—?"

"Does it matter?" he says, not looking at you as he crouches again near the beam. His tone isn't harsh. Just resigned.

You look at the rice in your hand, then back at him. "You're not eating?"

He doesn't answer at first. Just runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

"I already did," he says, almost too evenly.

You freeze.

Then it clicks. A memory you keep pushing aside — the truth that always lingers behind his silence. Behind his name. You glance down at the onigiri in your hand. Suddenly it feels heavier.

"I forgot," you say quietly. "What you need."

He doesn't respond right away. Just leans back against the beam, head tilted toward the ceiling. "It's better when you forget."

There's no cruelty in his voice. Just fact.

But that doesn't make it sit any easier.

You take a bite of the rice, chewing slowly, the taste filling your mouth like something almost painfully normal. Grounding. Human. And he watches — not hungrily. Not with longing.

Just... watching.

Quiet. Like he's reminding himself which one of you this food is meant for. And which kind of hunger he's no longer allowed to admit.

*

The last grain of rice sticks to your fingers. You wipe your hands on your trousers and rise, brushing sleep and softness from your limbs.

He's already standing near the center of the dojo, hands loose at his sides. Waiting.

"Begin when you're ready," he says.

You step onto the worn floorboards. The air is thick, almost too still. Shadows cling to the rafters like old breath. The dojo has no windows. No sun. No warmth.

Only the sound of your breath and his. And the silence between footfalls.

You circle each other slowly. No swords, no flash of steel. Just hands. Flesh. Focus.

You strike first, a test. A sharp jab toward his shoulder. He blocks it easily.

You go again, faster, aiming for his ribs. He steps into the blow, catching your wrist, spinning you.

You twist away, back on sure foot. And he's already moving again — no hesitation, no grace spared. Only power. The dojo floor groans beneath your feet as you trade blows. Palm to palm. Elbow to side. Block. Duck. Counter.

But it isn't the impact that hits hardest — it's the heat.

Again: Every time your bodies meet, it's like lighting a fuse. Your skin remembers too much. So does his.

When his hand grips your forearm, you feel the echo of how he held you in the water. When you move to sweep his legs and he dodges low, you see the line of his sixpack. The way you leaned against it.

It all comes back. Too fast. Too close.

He grabs your wrist again, tighter this time, and for a breath, neither of you move. Just frozen there, panting, sweat sheening your temples. The contact sears.