Sinner @maltedroses - Tumblr Blog

ALL IT COULD HAVE BEEN - REN HANA X G.N READER

REQUESTED BY ANON

INSPIRED FROM ART - SHOULD I PUBLISH THIS IN AO3, THIS TOOK WAYYY LONG.

This is my first ykmet/btd fanfic, if it's bad! I'm sorry! I'm still learning! Please don't use the banner used for this fanfic anywhere until credit! If this flops I will cry.

Words: 13k

Genre: Angst/Fluff at the end!

If you find mistakes I’m sorry I did not proof read

(Reader is G.N)

Summary : Ren woke up, and just saw how all that could’ve been. In a world, he never met- Never mind, It's all just...?

Trigger Warnings (TWs) and Content Warnings (CWs):

Abuse / toxic relationship ,Trauma bonding / dependency , Violence (implied/mentioned) , Psychological trauma / dissociation ,Depression / hopelessness , Obsession / toxic attachment ,Power imbalance (Strade over Ren) ,Dark mental health themes

All it could have been… yeah, he thought about it. But not like that. Not really.

…Okay, maybe a little.

The sky’s already getting lighter. Morning. He needs to pull himself together, get the kitchen going. Routine’s...

And now there’s… a roommate.

He should probably do something for them, yeah? They’ve been good to him — too good, maybe. It makes him feel guilty, but at the same time… it’s nice. Nice to have someone around who doesn’t make him feel like prey.

And they seem to actually enjoy being around him. That’s… weird. Good, but weird.

If he’s being honest — which he’s not, even with himself — maybe part of him wanted it to feel like a date. Just a little. Just for a while.

The sound of movement pulled him out of that half-sleep haze. He cracked his eyes open, not sure why his chest felt so tight. Something was… off.

It took him a second to realize what it was.

The collar.

It was gone.

His hand shot to his neck, fingers brushing bare skin. No metal, no weight, no constant reminder digging into him. Just… nothing. He sat up too fast, the blood rushing to his head, and stumbled right off the edge of the bed.

He caught himself on the floor, knees aching.

That’s when he noticed — his clothes. Not the ones he fell asleep in. Black t-shirt, loose shorts. Like someone had picked them out for him.

His mouth went dry.

What the hell was going on?

A noise from the doorway made him flinch.

“Ren! Did you wake up, honey?”

His head snapped toward the voice, heart pounding. It was you.

You were standing there in an oversized hoodie, the sleeves half-swallowing your hands, looking at him like this was… normal. Like he was normal.

Ren blinked hard, unsure if he should relax or get ready to run. “What’s… going on?” His voice cracked a little, more confusion than fear.

“Huh? You okay?” you asked, smiling like nothing was strange.

You giggled and started talking — about something, everything, too much all at once. The words blurred together in his ears. He could see your mouth moving, see the little lift of your brows when you were making a point, but he couldn’t hear it. Not really.

Because the house…

The house was wrong.

Brighter. Cleaner. The smell was different — no damp wood, no metal tang. His mind kept circling back to one thought: He was supposed to be Collar on. Strade in the next room.

But Strade wasn’t here.

What the hell was happening to him?

His eyes kept darting around — corners, shelves, the little spaces None of it was here. It was all… gone.

Too clean. Too safe.

His chest tightened. His breathing got shallow without him meaning to.

“Ah! Do you remember this day, Ren?” your voice cut through, snapping him back.

“What?” he asked, startled.

You were holding out a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste like it was the most normal thing in the world. You studied his face, brows pinching slightly.

“You don’t remember…?”

“What…?”

“It’s our two-year anniversary. How can you not remember, Ren?”

Ren just stared at you, confusion written all over him. His mouth opened like he was about to answer, but instead…

“…Where’s your collar?”

You froze. “What?”

“My collar. Where is it?”

“Ren—”

“Strade.” The name dropped heavy from his lips. His eyes were wide now, darting between you and the unfamiliar walls. “He… he kept it on me. Strade—”

“Ren, slow down—”

“No—why is this—why does this look normal? Did… did someone save us?”

You looked just as confused as he did.

“Ren—hey—calm down,” you said softly, stepping closer.

He shook his head violently. “No, you don’t understand! I saw you in the basement. He kidnapped you!”

His hands were trembling now, voice breaking as he blurted, “He- gave you the-” He stopped, swallowing hard like the words hurt.

You frowned. “Gave me what?”

Ren grabbed your hand suddenly, holding it up in front of his face. His breath hitched. “Two of your fingers… they’re still here.”

“What—”

“He cut them off! —when I saw you—! come up.” His voice cracked into a near shout.

“Ren!” you interrupted, wide-eyed. “What happened?”

But instead of answering, you just smiled, almost nervously, and let out a small giggle. “It’s okay if you forget to buy me something for our anniversary. It’s okay… I’m not angry.”

That made something in him snap.

His whole face twisted. “What the hell is going on?!” he barked, his voice sharp and raw.

You flinched, fear finally flickering in your eyes. You’d never seen him look like this.

You laughed softly, tilting your head. “What are you even talking about?”

Ren’s jaw tightened. “Strade. The collar. We were stuck. I—” His words spilled faster, shakier, and fragments: basement… locked doors… the smell of beer… the way Strade looked at him...

“Ren…?” you asked gently, but his eyes were distant, like he was back there.

He grabbed your wrist suddenly, holding you in place. “What happened? Wait—what do you mean date?” His voice was urgent now, almost pleading.

“What date?” you echoed, confused.

“The night—at the bar—I was supposed to meet someone. They didn’t show and I got stuck with him. There wasn’t much of a fight. It’s not a dumb question! They stood me up!”

You blinked at him, clearly unsettled. “Ren, what are you talking about? I never stood you up. We hit it off fast, remember? We moved in together because you told me about your family situation.”

Ren froze, staring at you like you’d just spoken a language he didn’t understand. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “That’s not—” He stopped himself, because suddenly he wasn’t sure anymore.

His memories were vivid — the beer spilling, the back door that wasn’t a bathroom, his ears twitching in panic, the collar biting into his neck.

But the way you were looking at him… smiling faintly, confused but not afraid… it didn’t match any of it.

Ren’s voice cracked as he stepped back, dragging both hands through his hair. “You don’t get it—Strade’s not just some guy. He—he’s everything- He’s the reason-"

You blinked, brows furrowed. “Ren…”

“He kept me like a- Not even—worse than that. The collar, the rules, the… the things he’d do.” His eyes were wide now, almost glassy. “Sometimes he was nice, I was safe when he brings- I know him. I know what he is.”

You took a step toward him, but he flinched back.

“What’s going on?” His voice pitched higher, chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air. “Why is his stuff gone? Why aren’t you…? I saw you. I saw what he did to you!”

Your lips parted like you wanted to respond, but no sound came out.

Ren’s breathing was ragged now, every word trembling out of him. “If he’s not here… where is he? Did someone take us? Is this some game? What—” His voice cracked mid-sentence, and he pressed a hand to his mouth, shaking his head over and over like he could block the thoughts out.

You gave a nervous little laugh, the kind you do when things feel too strange to be real. “Ren… are you okay? Do you—do you have a fever?”

He grabbed your hand so hard you almost dropped the toothbrush still in it. His eyes were burning now.

“STOP. What happened. I’m not crazy!”

You froze at the sharpness in his voice.

“All of it—the basement, the collar, the shocks on my neck, the nights in the basement, the way he’d play nice before tearing me apart again, the way he’d grab me just to see me flinch—none of that is fake!” His voice rose with every word, trembling with rage and desperation.

Your eyes went glossy. “Ren… what happened?”

“He kept me there. I cooked for him, clean for him, Took care of him, He’d- the knife, he’d—he’d—” His voice cracked, cutting himself off before the rest could spill.

And then it all came pouring out.

His shoulders started shaking, breath hitching. “It all happened,” he mumbled, over and over, voice breaking. “I saw it. I saw you. I saw what he did to you.”

Ren’s hands tangled in his own hair, pulling just enough to hurt, like he could root himself in the present if the pain was sharp enough.

“My date never showed up, and then I met him-” he muttered under his breath, like saying it aloud might make it real. “I’m not weird. I’m not—” His voice cracked. “I’m not.”

But the words sounded hollow, even to him.

He doubled over, gripping his head, trembling from head to toe. “I was stuck…”

And then it hit him all at once — the truth of it, the weight of it — and his knees gave way.

The sound that came out of him wasn’t just crying, it was the kind of raw, broken sobbing that came from somewhere deep in the chest. “Ren…” you breathed, startled by the force of it.

You moved in without thinking, kneeling down beside him, your arms slipping around his shoulders. He collapsed into the touch like someone who’d been holding himself up for years without a break.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you murmured, pulling him closer until his head rested against your collarbone. Your fingers carded gently through his hair, brushing his ears in a way that made him shudder.

You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there just long enough to make him freeze. His breath caught — a short, startled sound that almost turned into a sob.

“This is… different,” he rasped, voice small but sharp in the quiet.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Different?”

He didn’t answer. His throat worked like he was going to speak, but instead he just closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around you tighter, burying his face against you. The warmth, the steady thump of your heartbeat under his ear — it felt too safe, too warm, too good.

He stayed there, breathing in your scent like he needed proof you were really here. His tears slowed, but every so often his breath still hitched.

You rubbed his back in slow circles. “Ren… I think you had a nightmare,” you whispered, your voice so gentle it almost hurt. “I’m always here for you. Don’t worry.”

The words washed over him, soft and steady, but they didn’t erase the images still burned into his mind. He wanted to believe you. He wanted to fall into this and never think about Strade again.

But deep down, he knew what he saw.

And that made the hug feel both like salvation… and a trap.

The darkness you gave him now felt different — warm, steady, a soft light peeking through. But the other darkness he knew… that had been a blanket smothering the light, keeping him trapped.

He couldn’t stop the way the comparison made his chest ache. His sobs came quieter now, but heavier, like they’d sunk deep into him. He clung to you harder, almost enough to tear your hoodie at the seams, but you didn’t flinch.

“Ren…” you murmured, one hand stroking through his hair, the other gently patting one of his ears. The touch made them twitch, and his breath caught.

“You should freshen up,” you said softly, like this was the most normal morning in the world. Then, after a pause, “Or… do you wanna cuddle for a few minutes? It always helps.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, eyes wide with disbelief. “…I would… like to freshen up,” he said, the words sounding almost foreign in his own mouth.

You smiled like that was the right answer, brushing your knuckles lightly against his cheek before standing. “Alright. I’m gonna pick out some clothes for you.”

You gave the top of his head a playful little boop with your hand, and for just a second he froze — the kind of stillness that came when his brain didn’t know if it should melt into it or shove it away.

“Go on,” you encouraged, voice light. “Go freshen up. I’ll have something ready.”

Ren stayed sitting there a moment longer, watching you walk away, mind spiraling between the comfort of your touch and the wrongness buzzing in his skull.

The bathroom light hit faintly as Ren stepped inside, shutting the door with a soft click. His reflection met him, still and strange.

His hair… it was normal. Not the uneven, harshly chopped mess he remembered. No jagged edges from being hacked off— like it had grown without fear.

Used to be chopped off on the right side..

He remembered! Strade scared him, when he was cutting, He accidentally-

He leaned in closer to the mirror, amber eyes wide, scanning. This isn’t right.

With a quick motion, he pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his ears. He braced himself for the familiar map of bruises and cuts, wherever metal had bitten in.

But there was nothing.

His skin was smooth.

Healthy...?

No faint red indent circling his throat where the collar should’ve been, No scars-

Just… normal.

“What…?” His voice cracked, echoing faintly in the tiled room.

He turned sideways, then twisted to see his back in the mirror. Still nothing.

It felt wrong. Like someone had stolen him and replaced him with a copy that didn’t remember pain.

His breathing had started to hitch, He wanted his nails pressing into his own skin as if wanting to trying to peel back this strange. The pressure in his chest swelled, his mind drowning in half-remembered shouts and the sting of metal, smell of blood-

A knock at the door broke through the spiral.

“Ren?” Your voice, warm and light.

He froze, his hands still at his sides. Slowly, he stepped forward and cracked the door open.

You were there, smiling, holding out a neatly folded set of clothes — a soft gray hoodie and matching pants. “Here,” you said cheerfully. “Do you want me to cook, or do you want to, or—better idea—together? We always do things together.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the fabric in your hands, then to your face. “…Could you do it today? Just today?” His voice was quieter, almost embarrassed.

You didn’t even pause. “Of course, Ren!!” You reached out and tapped his nose playfully. “Now, have a nice bath, you little cutie. I bought all new bath products for this month just for you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you — as if trying to figure out how you could so easily accept him in this state. Then he gave a tiny nod, taking the clothes from you.

“Thanks,” he murmured before closing the door again, your warmth-

Before the door could fully shut, you pressed your palm to it, stopping him gently.

“Ren,” you said softly, your voice a little more serious now. He glanced up, startled by the shift in tone.

“Whatever it is… I’m here for you.” You stepped closer, the hall light brushing over his tired face. “You had a bad nightmare, didn’t you? We don’t have to do anything today. We can just rest.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to deny it, but you didn’t let the moment slip away.

“Just… tell me, okay? Communicate with me. If I can share my pain with you, you can share yours with me. It’s mutual.” Your hand brushed over the back of his, grounding him. “That’s what… love is, right?”

Something in his expression faltered — the tension in his jaw loosening, the guarded look in his eyes breaking just enough for the truth to peek through. His fingers curled faintly around yours.

“…Yeah,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

The bathroom filled with a cloud of steam.

The warm scent of rose and something faintly sweet curling into the air. The water lapped against the porcelain as Ren eased himself in, his ears twitching at the quiet fizz of the bath bomb you’d dropped in earlier.

Long, hot bubble baths — the kind where the heat seeps deep into your bones — had always been his secret haven. Expensive floral shampoos lined the ledge, labels neat and facing forward, just the way he liked them. His hand lingered over the rose-scented one before uncapping it, letting the delicate fragrance bloom into the steam.

He worked methodically, the way he always did, fingers scrubbing through his hair and over his ears, careful not to miss a spot. Even now — even after everything — he still cared about this part of himself. Cleanliness, well he just likes to take care of himself.

It's not serious.

The foam clung to his skin and fur, little peaks melting under the slow glide of his hands. He leaned back against the curve of the tub, letting the bubbles rise and tickle his jawline, the warmth soaking into every knot in his muscles.

It was… relaxing. It should’ve been purely relaxing. But his mind wouldn’t still. The mirror’s reflection from earlier kept flashing back — the smoothness of his skin, the absence of bruises, the untouched softness where there should’ve been pain. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Confusion pressed at him, low and restless. Was it good? Was it wrong? Was it even real?

He sank deeper into the bath, ears drooping slightly, and closed his eyes. Maybe he just needed time.

When Ren finally stepped out, the steam still clinging faintly to his hair, he looked fresher but not exactly rested. His tail flicked once behind him— and he padded into the kitchen, the smell already meeting him halfway down the hall.

Mashed potatoes, soft and buttery, and tender meat still steaming on the plates. The kind of simple, warm food that stuck to the ribs. You turned, grinning when you saw him.

“Perfect timing,” you said, sliding a plate toward him. “Eat up, Hana-kun.”

He hesitated before sitting, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. His posture stayed guarded, shoulders drawn in as though expecting… something. He murmured a quiet “thank you” before picking up his fork.

You dug in happily, the easy clink of cutlery and your satisfied hum filling the space between you. Ren took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

It was… okay. Good, even. Warm in a way that seeped into his chest. But as he swallowed again, a strange unease curled in his stomach. He wasn’t supposed to be here, at a table like this, eating food made with care.

He should have been — his mind flinched — cooking for... Knife in hand, heat of the stove against his face, doing everything, That was the rhythm his body knew.

This wasn’t that. This was quiet.

The meat was tender, the potatoes smooth and rich, but the difference in taste wasn’t just seasoning. It was… safety. And it was so foreign, he didn’t quite know how to chew it.

Still, he kept eating. Fork to plate. Bite after bite. Like if he just kept going, maybe his hands would stop trembling.

You set your fork down, tilting your head toward him. “Ren… what happened?”

He paused mid-chew, fork hovering halfway to his mouth. His eyes were shadowed, tired, like there was a weight sitting somewhere just behind them. His lips parted, closed again. He looked like he wanted to tell you something but instead his shoulders sank.

“I just… had a nightmare, Like you said.”

You blinked, then let your expression soften into a warm smile. “Oh… I understand.”

Then your eyes lit up. “Oh! I got you something!”

Before he could respond, you hopped up from your chair and scampered toward the bedroom. You were clumsy in your excitement — bumping into the corner of the table with a soft “ow!” — and he could hear the faint rustle of you rummaging through something.

When you returned, your grin was impossibly wide.

“Tadaa~!”

You held it up proudly, and his brain stalled.

It was an anime pillow. Of a magical girl character he liked.

His mouth actually fell open a little, his ears twitching high with disbelief before slowly angling downward.

“I support my boyfriend’s good taste—” you corrected yourself with a laugh, “—and his gooning habits!”

You laughed again, cocking your head like you were waiting for his reaction.

Ren’s brows knit together, a faint flush touching his cheeks. His ears drooped fully now, tail curling in faint embarrassment.

“You’re…” he muttered, pouting.

“Sorryyyyy~” you giggled, leaning closer and poking his cheek. “You’re cute when you pout though.”

He looked away, ears twitching faintly as if trying to hide the conflict crossing his face. Your smile was too bright, too warm — it made something in his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name. Was this the dream? Or… was that the dream?

He swallowed, hands resting stiffly on his knees. “…Thanks,” he murmured, the word almost hesitant.

You, however, beamed at him like he’d just gifted you the moon. “You’re welcome!” you chirped, slipping right back into your meal as if everything was perfectly ordinary.

He watched you for a few moments, the clink of your fork against the plate grounding him, before his voice came again — quiet, almost guilty.

“Hey… y/n?”

You hummed, looking up at him mid-bite.

“…Sorry I didn’t get you anything…” His eyes dropped to the table. “I—”

Before he could finish, you stood up so suddenly he flinched. His chair creaked faintly as he leaned back, a flash of alarm flickering across his face.

But instead of… whatever he’d braced for, you leaned forward, cupping his face gently in your hands.

“It’s okay,” you said, voice sweet and sure. “Mmm, it happens! Don’t worry, Ren.”

Your thumbs brushed softly over his cheeks, and you smiled like you meant every word.

“I’m glad you apologized to me. That’s more than enough.”

His ears twitched again, not in embarrassment this time — but in something softer, harder to define.

You grinned at him, bouncing lightly in your seat. “Sooo… will you be mine for the whole day? We can go outside, and you can make it up to me!”

For a moment, he just stared at you — that guarded, unreadable look flickering across his face again — but then, a small smile tugged at his lips. “…Okay.”

Your own smile widened instantly. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!”

But as you leaned in with that easy cheer, he spoke again, voice quieter. “Y/n… you don’t have to be so positive all the time.” His eyes softened, his tone almost shy. “Seeing you smile makes me- Your… positivity, it’s really something.”

“Awwww…” You reached across the table, patting his hand. “Ren!”

He chuckled under his breath, almost as if he couldn’t help it, but there was a shadow there too. He appreciated it — you — and it felt nice to be wanted, to be looked at with something other than pity or disdain. But…

“…Expect—” He paused, the word dying on his tongue. His gaze drifted away, ears lowering slightly. “Forget it… maybe it was just a dream.”

He smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll finish my food, if you’ll excuse me.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

You stood, gathering your plate. “Well, I’m gonna keep this pillow away,” you teased, nodding toward the ridiculous waifu body pillow.

He gave a short huff of laughter. “Yeah… probably for the best.”

You turned away, you mumbled something under your breath, too quiet for him to fully catch.

And Ren — Ren didn’t push. He acted like he was fine, like he could just slot himself neatly into this life you’d given him. But deep down, he didn’t know how to react.

If Strade was just a dream… why did it still feel real? Why did he remember the smell, the pain, the way every day was survival? And if this was the dream… why did it feel so fragile, like one wrong step would shatter it?

So he smiled. And ate. And pretended.

Ren finished the last bite quietly, the clink of his fork against the plate sounding far too loud in the stillness between you. Without a word, he stood, took his dish to the sink, and began rinsing it under the stream of warm water.

His eyes didn’t follow the plate, though. They were somewhere far away, deep in a fog he couldn’t seem to step out of.

It was dark in his head — not the kind of dark where you can’t see, but the kind where you can’t tell which way is forward anymore. His thoughts looped, muddled, skipping between now and… there.

Well… he was Ren Hana here. And in that dream — if it even was a dream — he’d been Ren Hana too.

Only… the dream Ren was gone. Lost somewhere along the line. Unrecoverable.

That version had been awkward — a man who didn’t know how to survive the kind of world, Strade put him in-

Well, He did know how to survive, He was there for months-

…Wait.

The sound of you rifling through your clothes snapped him out of it. He glanced over, catching you holding up two outfits and smiling at him for an opinion.

Bright. Warm. So alive.

The shiver that ran through him at that contrast wasn’t yours to feel. He forced a small nod, returning his gaze to the plate.

Maybe this was just… a dream.

It felt too good to be real — this quiet, this ease, this safety.

…Why did he think that?

He didn’t know.

His hand stilled in the warm sink water, and on impulse, he pinched his arm hard.

The sting bloomed instantly. Real.

This was real.

So maybe that was the dream… yeah.

He should probably forget about it. Lock it away.

And focus on… this.

Focus on you.

Even if part of him still braced for a door to slam or a hand to grab him out of nowhere.

The day was bright — obnoxiously so — the kind of blue sky that made the colors of the amusement park look almost fake. Flags whipped in the warm breeze, the sound of laughter and rides clanking along their tracks blending into an excited, messy symphony.

Ren stood just inside the park gates with you, looking up at the rollercoaster that looped like a twisted ribbon above the entrance. You were grinning, already pointing at a ride in the distance, the sunlight catching on your hair.

He managed a small smile in return. Not because he wasn’t happy — in a way, he was. But it was… an unstable kind of happy. Like holding a delicate glass in hands that kept trembling.

You’d chosen the park because you remembered him mentioning he liked them. And he did. At least, the idea of them. Spending time with someone, seeing the lights at night, walking through the silly themed areas — it was all supposed to be fun.

So why did his chest feel so tight?

You tugged his arm. “Come on, let’s do the bumper cars first!”

He let you lead him, his long steps matching yours. Your energy was magnetic, and part of him clung to it like a lifeline, hoping it would pull him out of the fog.

The bumper cars were loud, jolting, and ridiculous — you rammed into him twice, laughing hard, and he swerved just to get you back. For a moment, he actually laughed too. It felt strange in his own ears, as if it belonged to someone else.

When the ride ended, you bounced out of the car, teasing him for being “too easy to hit.” He...smiled, but it was faint, his eyes flicking briefly to the crowd around you.

You guided him to a spinning teacup ride next. He hesitated at the sight of the rotating platform, but you were already getting in, so he followed. The ride whirled faster than he expected, your laughter mixing with the dizzying blur of colors around him. It was almost… too much.

When it slowed, he exhaled shakily, hiding the small wave of nausea behind a quick grin. “Not bad,” he said, even though his stomach still felt off.

“See? You can handle fun,” you teased, poking his side.

He didn’t reply, just followed you toward the snack stalls.

You bought a stick of cotton candy and held it out to him. He pulled a tuft off, tasting the sticky sweetness. It melted instantly on his tongue, leaving behind a faint ache of childhood memories he didn’t quite want to touch.

You looked so happy eating yours. There was something almost… unreal about it. The way your smile stretched, carefree.

He stared a second too long before looking away.

He couldn’t tell if this was too good to be real… or if he just didn’t deserve it.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a loop of rides and games. You dragged him to the ring toss, where you somehow won a small plush rabbit. You immediately shoved it into his hands, telling him it “looked like him.”

He frowned at it but didn’t give it back.

Every time you smiled, something inside him twitched — half warmth, half ache.

It was exhausting.

You didn’t seem to notice the way his mood kept dipping. You were too busy trying to make the day perfect. And he didn’t want to ruin it. So he nodded, he laughed when you did, he even agreed to a mild rollercoaster.

The ride rattled, the wind pulling at his hair as you screamed beside him. His heart pounded for reasons that had nothing to do with the drops or speed. He kept glancing at you, making sure you were really still there. That the seatbelt was locked. That no one was going to—

The ride ended. He didn’t remember half of it.

You leaned forward, pointing out the view, the rows of rides lit up like constellations. “Isn’t it pretty?”

He looked — not at the view, but at you.

You were like lit from the side by the fading sun, your eyes reflecting the lights below. It was… ethereal. (Well! It was still morning!)

Like something he might dream up on a good night.

And that scared him.

Because dreams didn’t last.

He turned away, pretending to look at the horizon. “Yeah,” he murmured.

When the wheel stopped at the top for a moment, you nudged him. “Hey, you okay? You’ve been kinda quiet today.”

His grip on the bench tightened.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

You gave him a look — not pushing, but not convinced either. “You know… you can tell me if something’s wrong.”

He wanted to. God, part of him wanted to spill everything. But what would he even say? Hey, I keep thinking this might be fake and I’m scared if I enjoy it too much, it’ll disappear?

Instead, he forced a small smile. “Just… tired.”

You didn’t call him out. You just nodded, resting your head against his shoulder for the rest of the ride.

He didn’t move.

You were still smiling but worried.

You walked a few steps ahead of him, humming softly, clutching the little rabbit plush you’d won earlier. Your smile was still bright, as if the fireworks hadn’t ended yet, your footsteps light on the pavement. For a moment, Ren just watched you, the way your energy practically glowed.

It should’ve warmed him.

But instead, his chest twisted.

The sharp edges of something he couldn’t name kept digging into him all day, and now, it felt too much. The brightness of your happiness contrasted too harshly with the storm in his own head.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, ears flat against his skull — hidden, tucked under the illusion. His tail pressed close to his leg, invisible, but twitching with unease.

You slowed down, glancing over your shoulder at him. He hadn’t noticed how far behind he’d fallen.

“Ren?” Your voice was soft, curious. “You okay? You’ve been… quiet.”

He let out a sharp huff, more like an exhale of frustration than an answer. His face turned slightly away. “I don’t know.”

The words were bitter on his tongue.

You blinked, smile faltering just slightly, as though you weren’t sure if you’d heard him right. “What do you mean?”

“I said I don’t know,” he repeated, harsher this time. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

Your steps slowed to a stop. He didn’t. He kept walking, brushing past you as though he could leave the question behind.

“…Ren.”

There was a tremor in your voice now, something heavy slipping into it. You stood still, watching his back.

When he finally turned his head, your face was darker than he expected. Sadness clung to your expression, twisting with frustration.

“This whole day,” you said quietly, “you’ve seemed out of it. I’ve been trying to cheer you up, trying to make you smile… and nothing works. What happened?”

He froze. His throat felt tight. He didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to drag you into whatever this was inside him. But the silence itself was an answer, wasn’t it?

His jaw tightened. “…You wouldn’t understand.”

Something cracked in your face.

“Don’t understand?” you repeated, your voice rising. “After all this?”

You stepped toward him, sharp, every word trembling with anger. “Ren, I’ve done everything I could today — rides, games, food, everything — and you’re still—” Your hand shook at your side. “Still like this.”

He finally looked at you. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, your lips pressed tight.

The sight made his gut twist.

But your anger didn’t stop.

“Why?” Your voice broke, louder now, raw. “Why are you like this? What happened to you, Ren? If there is something. You can tell me!"

The tears slipped free then, streaking your cheeks.

Ren’s mouth opened, but no words came. His ears twitched under their concealment, his tail curling tighter against himself. He wanted to say it’s not your fault, it’s me, but it stuck in his throat, choked by the bitter taste of his own confusion.

Your voice cracked again. “Is it me? Am I not— enough?”

That hit him like a blade. His head snapped fully toward you, eyes wide, breath sharp.

He hadn’t meant for it to get here. He hadn’t meant for you to cry.

Your voice trembled when you asked again, softer this time but edged with frustration.

“What? What is it, Ren? What wouldn’t I understand?”

His lips pulled into something tight, sharp. His reply cut out cold, bitter, cynical—

“You wouldn’t. That’s it. End of story.”

The words stung. You blinked at him, your chest tightening, your face hardening with disbelief.

“That’s not fair. You’ve already told me about your past. Don’t you remember? You—”

Ren’s gaze snapped to you, sharp amber flashing. “...Past?”

The way he said it sent a shiver through you. Not Strade’s house. No—something earlier.

You swallowed, looking down. “Before all of… this. All of us, You told me once.”

He stiffened.

“It was about your colony… right?”

The air around him seemed to shift, darker, heavier. His hands curled in his pockets, shoulders taut.

You bit your lip and looked away. “I remember. You… you really tried to separate yourself from that place. Because of your mother. Because of what they all… did. The way they treated human babies like—like garbage. And it was accepted.”

Ren’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. His ears, hidden away, flattened tighter against his skull.

“That’s right, isn’t it? You… you ran away from her.”

His jaw clenched.

You lifted your gaze, trying to soften your words even though your heart thudded against your ribs. “Ren, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide that from me. I may not be beastkin, but I already accepted that part of you. I… I understand.”

The words tumbled out desperate, shaky. “You try to hide it, but if you keep everything locked up you’ll just burst out one day. And that’s worse, isn’t it? Don’t do that to yourself.”

He didn’t answer.

You studied his face. He wasn’t looking at you—his gaze was fixed somewhere distant, eyes darker than before, unreadable.

“...Is that it?” you tried again, voice fragile. “Is it because you miss it? The community? Living alongside your own kind? Do you… miss it, even if you hate what they did?”

Silence.

Ren said nothing. He didn’t move. His expression didn’t crack.

Your chest hollowed, guilt sinking in fast. Your eyes lowered, tears threatening again. “I’m sorry. I must’ve reminded you of something horrible. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He still didn’t speak.

You forced a small, broken smile, stepping past him, clutching the little plush tighter. “Let’s… let’s just finish the ferris wheel. Then we’ll go home, okay? I’m sorry, Ren. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”

Behind you, Ren finally drew a shaky breath. But he didn’t follow. Not yet.

You reached for his hand, your fingers curling around his knuckles, warm against the cold stiffness of his. His ears twitched beneath the hood, but he didn’t pull away.

“Whatever you’ve been through…” your voice was low, steady, though it shook at the edges, “that’s your nightmare. But your past—Ren—it’s not a nightmare. It’s real. And I know accepting it hurts.”

He didn’t look at you. His gaze was pinned to the ground, shadowed, unreadable.

“You ran away,” you continued softly. “You had to. And now… you’ve come this far. You’re starting something new. It’s hard, I know. But—see?” You lifted his hand just a little, pressing it to your chest, over your heartbeat. “You’ve come a long way.”

Ren’s throat bobbed. He didn’t answer.

You breathed in deep, the ache in your chest making your voice slip into something sharper. “After that…Can we go home, then?”

The air around you tightened. You let out a shaky exhale, a little angry, a little hurt. “Okay.”

Your eyes caught a flicker of golden light—a food stall glowing under strings of fairy lights, the smell of grilled batter and sauce in the air. You forced a small smile and pointed. “Takoyaki. I’ll buy one.”

Ren’s shoulders tensed. “…I don’t need one.”

But you were already walking.

Children’s laughter carried through the crowd, soft music blending with the buzz of the night sky.

By the time you returned, a little paper boat in your hand, Ren was waiting near the ferris wheel queue. His eyes flicked at the food, but he said nothing.

You boarded the cabin together. He slid to the far end of the seat, pressed against the glass. You sat opposite, placing the takoyaki carefully on your lap.

The wheel lifted, creaking slow, pulling you both above the glittering park. Neither of you spoke. The silence was thick—awkward, aching, but not empty.

You picked up a skewer and popped one into your mouth. Then, without saying a word, held out another skewer, this one not takoyaki but grilled chicken hearts—an odd little specialty the stall had been selling.

Ren’s eyes flickered, amber meeting yours for a split second.

He took it. Quietly. No thank you, no comment. Just the soft sound of him chewing, slow, thoughtful.

You leaned back, watching him, your lips curving faintly. You’d remembered. He’d mentioned once—long ago—that he liked them. And here you were, still thinking of him, even now.

He noticed. You saw it in the way his gaze softened, only for a moment. But his face remained tired, his silence heavy, as though the words he carried were too jagged to push past his throat.

The ferris wheel rose higher. Outside, the world shined, Inside, you two sat across from each other—one eating in silence, the other just watching.

Ren shifted at the far end of the seat. His hand, resting on his knee, trembled faintly. His chest felt too tight, his eyes hot. He blinked, hard. Once. Twice. The lights outside smeared, hazy.

…Was he crying?

He turned his face away, nails digging into his palm as if to steady himself. No—he couldn’t let you see this. Not you. Not when your smile had been so bright. Too bright.

But you did see.

“Ren?” you whispered, sharp with concern, immediately rising from your spot and crossing the tiny space. You sat beside him, knees brushing, your hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”

He stiffened. His first instinct was to push you away—keep you out, bury everything deep where it couldn’t hurt you. But when you leaned closer, warmth pressing against the cold walls he built around himself, the last of his defenses cracked.

“…I—” His breath caught. The words didn’t come out clean. They broke, jagged, strangled. His hand flew up to cover his face. “Damn it—”

Tears spilled anyway.

He shook his head, voice splintering as he whispered, “…Because you’re so gentle.”

Your heart clenched.

Ren swallowed hard, the sob clawing up his throat. “I wish—” His shoulders shook, his breath hitched. “I wish this could go on forever.”

Your fingers brushed his trembling hand, peeling it away so you could see his face.

“This tiny bit of happiness—” He gasped between broken breaths, his voice both bitter and fragile. “My heart… it’s unable to accept it. It’s too much. Too happy.”

You froze, watching the tears streak down his flushed cheeks.

Hope, he realized, was ugly. Hope was dangerous. To believe in it, to reach for it, only for it to be torn away—he knew that pain too well. He’d buried it, caged it, locked it deep. And yet, sitting here with you, your hand wrapped around his, it clawed its way out again.

His nails scraped his thigh as he muttered, barely audible: “…Hope makes you stupid. Makes you think you can keep something. Makes you think people won’t…” His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead against your shoulder. “…won’t leave.”

You held his hand tighter, but you stayed silent, letting him pour out what little he could.

His words twisted, half-truths, half-riddles. “A dream felt like a lifetime once… but it was a lie. Just another cage. And I—” He choked on the thought, the name, the shadow that haunted him. He didn’t say Strade, but you felt it lurking in the cracks of his words. “—I thought maybe… maybe that was better than nothing.”

You didn’t understand. Not fully. The way he spoke, fragmented, cryptic—it was like trying to trace a picture through fog. But it was enough to know he was bleeding inside something..

You slipped your hand around his, holding it firmly. Not to drag him out. Not to fix. Just to be there.

Ren trembled, his tail hidden, ears pressed flat under the hood, his body folding smaller against you. He whispered, almost bitterly, almost like a plea: “…Don’t be so kind to me. I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t survive losing this too.”

Ren cried quietly against you, and you just held him.

You didn’t say anything. Maybe nothing you said could reach him right now. Maybe words weren’t what he needed. All you could do was remind him: you’re here. Your hand stroked his back slowly, steady, even though your chest was twisting tighter with every sound that broke from him.

And then—tears welled in your eyes too.

Ren lifted his head just barely, enough to glance at you through wet lashes. He saw them—the trembling line of tears clinging to your lashes, sliding down your cheek. His breath hitched sharply, like something inside him cracked even deeper.

…It was different.

He could tell. Strade’s tears, when they came, had always been a reflection—that dark empathy. Crying because he enjoyed the act of making someone break. Living through it, savoring it.

In a way that is experienced in the imagination through the actions of another person-

But yours—yours were nothing like that. You weren’t crying because it pleased you, or because you wanted to trap him in the same pain. You were crying because he was. Because someone you cared for was hurting, and that was enough to break you too.

It made his throat close, his chest convulse.

“Stop—” he rasped weakly, though he didn’t mean it. His arms clutched around you suddenly, desperate, his nails biting into your skin so sharply that you hissed. But even then, you didn’t let go. You just petted his head gently, smoothing back his hood, whispering his name softly.

He buried his face against your chest and sobbed harder than before. Not the restrained tears he’d tried to swallow, not the shaky breaths he had tried to pass off as nothing—this was raw, unfiltered, as though years of locked-up grief were spilling loose in a flood he couldn’t contain.

Who was he right now...?

Ren? The one he was in that 'nightmare'-

REN..?

Ren Hana, The one he is here..?

A Fox..?

Your hand stayed steady on him, even through the sting where his nails dug deep.

Ren didn’t even realize how hard he was clinging, how much it hurt. All he knew was if he let go, even for a second, he might disappear—this fragile warmth, this proof that someone cried for him might vanish.

“…Don’t… go,” he choked out, the words trembling as if they were dragged from a wound.

“Ren…” you whispered, brushing his hair back gently. “Nothing’s happening. I’m here. You’re not alone. I would never leave you—I won’t go.”

But your words only made him cry harder.

Inside his chest, something twisted painfully. Being curled up like this, pressed so close, simply existing side by side—it was almost too much. The minutes ticked by, yet this warmth felt unnatural, unbearable. His body shook with it, as though he couldn’t contain what it meant.

Because in the hollow void of his heart, every touch of kindness dug deeper into the scars he carried. Old wounds warped what should have been soft and tender, twisting them into something grotesque. He felt misshapen, perverted, as though he wasn’t built for this kind of closeness.

The thought terrified him.

Your gentleness—this fragile happiness—he wanted it to last forever, but the more he wanted it, the more his chest burned. His heart rejected it, unable to believe it could belong to him.

It repeated in his mind like a curse. The more you held him, the more he felt he might shatter. Because if he lost this… if you ever left, or this was stripped away, he wouldn’t survive it. He knew he wouldn’t.

You stroked his hair, whispering again, steady and quiet: “I’m here. Always.”

He cried into you harder, shoulders shaking violently, as though your words carved straight through his wounds.

Ren’s breath hitched as though he were surfacing from drowning. His eyes opened, red and blurred, and for the first time that night, you pressed a soft kiss to his nose, then to his forehead.

“It’s not a dream, Ren,” you whispered firmly, holding him close, refusing to let him retreat back into himself.

For a moment he froze—but then, finally, his lips twitched into a faint smile. Fragile, tiny, but real. You pulled him into a deeper hug, burying your face into his shoulder. A kiss felt right, but now wasn’t the time; right now he needed to be held, to know he wasn’t alone.

“Maybe,” you mumbled into his ear, trying to ease the heavy silence, “we should just… watch some cheesy romance movies. Because… I don’t know… might be nice?”

Ren let out a soft, shaky laugh. “…Hm. I would like that.”

Then, so suddenly it startled you, he muttered, “Graduation…”

You pulled back a little. “Wait—what?”

“Graduation,” he repeated, blinking like the word had been dragged up out of a fog.

“Oh shit—TOMORROW’S GRADUATION! I FORGOT!” you gasped, hands flying up to your face.

Ren stared at you, bewildered. “Wait. We… finished college?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah?”

He tilted his head, expression scrunching up in pure disbelief. “…What the hell?”

You couldn’t help it—you giggled. “What the hell, Ren.”

Laughter bubbled out of him too. Like some missing piece of memory had slotted into place, but he chose to simply ignore it, to let the moment be.

“Oh shit. We got stuck,” he said with a huff of amusement, gesturing at the Ferris wheel still frozen at the top. He picked up the chicken hearts you’d given him earlier. “Well… guess I’ll finish this, then.”

You shook your head, amused, watching him chew while you held up your phone. Click! The photo caught you smiling wide, and Ren mid-bite, staring at the camera with the absolute wrong timing.

You snorted at the result. He narrowed his eyes. “Delete it.”

“Nope,” you said smugly.

“Seriously.”

“Nope!”

You tucked the phone away, and for the briefest moment, the whole night felt like that—normal. Stupid. Warm. Nothing like the basement nightmare he’d once been trapped in.

You held your phone up proudly, screen glowing with the photo. “Haha, I’m gonna keep this as my wallpaper.”

Ren turned his head slowly, giving you the most unimpressed stare you’d ever seen. “…Seriously, Y/N?”

“Hah!” you stuck your tongue out at him. “Well, why don’t you just go cuddle your anime waifu pillow and forget all about me? Aw, your bedside’s gonna be so cold tonight without her~”

That earned you the look—half glare, half soul-leaving-his-body.

Your smug grin faltered. “…I’M SORRY, THAT WAS A JOKE—”

The silence stretched for a beat too long—until Ren suddenly barked out a laugh.

You blinked, startled. Then his laugh grew into something fuller, real, his eyes scrunching up. Relief flooded you so fast you huffed, pouting, before the giggles slipped out of you too.

“Heh,” he smirked between chuckles, “jealous of an anime pillow… You’re cute.”

Your face heated instantly. “Shut up, Ren!”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, but his grin didn’t fade.

The rest of the day melted together like sugar in tea, slow and sweet. You couldn’t really tell where one moment ended and the next began, only that Ren was there, and that was enough.

Movies stacked one after another, a little marathon that wasn’t planned but just happened. Popcorn bowls emptied, refilled, and emptied again. Sometimes you caught Ren staring at the screen, but more often he was sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You didn’t call him out for it, just leaned into him until his shoulder stopped feeling so tense.

Later, when the night stretched quiet and lazy, you set up the bath. Not just any bath—bubbles, too many bubbles, practically spilling over the rim. You’d meant it for both of you, something silly, relaxing. But Ren stood in the doorway blinking at the sight, ears twitching slightly, and shook his head.

“…That’s for you,” he muttered, almost guilty. “Not me.”

You only smiled, tugging his hand. “It’s for us.”

He hesitated. You could see the way he second-guessed himself, the way his body half-turned as if ready to back away. But when you laced your fingers through his and tugged gently, he let you pull him in.

It ended up being mostly you fussing over him—washing his hair, scrubbing the shampoo into a foamy crown, giggling when his ears twitched under your hands. He glared, but you swore you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile, the kind that darted away the second he realized it was there. You couldn’t help playing with his hair, running your fingers through until it stuck up in messy tufts.

“Well,” you teased, flicking a bit of bubble onto his nose, “you’re cute like this.”

His face went red instantly, and he sank lower into the water as if the bubbles could swallow him whole.

But his voice was soft, no bite to it. And when you leaned back, laughing, he didn’t pull away.

By the time you’d both dried off, the world outside had gone quiet, the kind of silence where even the air feels drowsy. Crawling into bed beside him felt natural, like something you’d been doing for years. Ren didn’t say anything, but you didn’t need him to. The way he shifted closer, almost immediately, spoke louder than words.

Sleep was strange with him. He didn’t lie still—he moved constantly, kicking lightly, shifting, turning. But every single time, no matter how much he fidgeted, he always ended up against you. His hand would find your wrist, or his arm would snake around your waist, or his face would press into your shoulder. Once, when you tried to slip out for the bathroom, he groaned, clung harder, and practically dragged you back down.

“Ren,” you whispered, muffling your laugh, “I’ll be right back.”

He only hummed in his sleep, burying his face against you as if to say no chance.

So you stayed. Maybe you didn’t mind being his anchor.

Hours later, when the room was dark except for the faint glow from the window, Ren stirred. Not enough to wake fully, but enough that his eyes blinked open, hazy and soft. He stared at you for a long while, as though memorizing the shape of you, the way your chest rose and fell. His hand was still curled tightly into your shirt, knuckles white.

His thoughts were fogged, heavy with sleep, but somewhere inside was a tremor of fear.

This…

His chest ached. He swallowed.

This is not just a dream, right…?

Because if it was, if this warmth, this comfort, this impossible safety was only another cruel trick of his mind, then he wasn’t sure he’d survive waking up.

He’d had dreams before. Too many. Dreams where someone touched him gently, where voices weren’t sharp, where he wasn’t treated like a broken thing or a weapon. Dreams that ended when the cold reality cracked him awake and left his stomach hollow, left his chest a graveyard.

That thought alone made him clutch you tighter, nails digging faintly into your side without him realizing. The panic trembled under his ribs, the terror that when he opened his eyes fully, you’d be gone.

He squeezed his eyes shut, like a child terrified of the dark. But when he opened them again, slow, shaky—

You were still there.

Your face tilted toward him, hair messy against the pillow. Your lips parted just slightly with your steady breaths. One of your hands rested loosely over his arm, not gripping, not restraining, just there. Gentle. Warm. Real.

Ren’s throat burned.

No. Not a dream. It can’t be.

But part of him whispered cruelly: What if it is?

He hated how fragile that hope felt, how dangerous. Hope was a knife that cut deeper than despair ever did. Hope left him raw. Exposed. It was safer not to believe, not to trust the soft things that could be ripped away.

Still—he couldn’t stop staring at you. Couldn’t stop listening to the rhythm of your breath, syncing his to yours as if he could trick himself into calmness.

Maybe it was okay. Maybe, just for tonight, he could believe.

The thought scared him more than anything.

His eyes burned, but he blinked the tears away, burying his face into the curve of your neck so you wouldn’t see. You shifted slightly, murmuring his name in your sleep, and your hand curled against him instinctively.

He exhaled shakily. His lips parted, a whisper slipping out before he could stop it.

“…Don’t leave.”

The words dissolved into the dark, unheard—or maybe you did hear, half-dreaming, because your arm tightened around him.

Ren closed his eyes again, clinging so tight it almost hurt.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself drift into sleep with the fragile, terrifying thought:

Maybe this time… it’s real.

Ren blinked awake, the world blurry at first. His body felt heavy, clinging still, arms tangled around something warm. He turned his head, slow, cautious—

And there you were.

His eyes widened instantly. You were asleep, right there in front of him. Not dissolving, not fading, not vanishing into the fog of another cruel dream. Your chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, lips parted slightly, one hand resting against his arm as though you’d held onto him even while unconscious.

Ren froze. His throat tightened.

No way… it’s real?

His heart hammered so hard it made his chest ache. He shifted just enough to lean closer, staring, drinking in every tiny detail—the way your lashes brushed your cheeks, the faint little wrinkle between your brows that smoothed out when you exhaled. You were so close he could feel the soft warmth of your breath against his skin.

“…Not a dream,” he whispered, the words trembling out of him.

The relief hit him like a wave, so strong it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. He released a shaky sigh, pressing his forehead against yours, clutching you tighter like if he loosened his grip, everything would vanish.

You slept soundly, blissfully unaware, curled up like you had nothing to fear. You looked… innocent, almost. Peaceful in a way Ren didn’t think he’d ever seen before. His chest twisted painfully, but not in the way he was used to. It was soft, overwhelming—adoration so raw it scared him.

He had to look away, eyes burning. “Damn it…” he muttered, though there was no anger in his voice. Only disbelief.

Then—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The alarm shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete.

Ren jerked, nearly jumping out of his skin. His head whipped toward the sound, ears twitching, and his face twisted in instant, murderous irritation. The shrill noise stabbed at his already-fragile nerves.

“Are you kidding me?” he hissed under his breath.

You stirred at the sound, mumbling something incoherent and shifting closer to him, burying your face into his chest. Ren’s eyes widened again. His entire body went still.

Oh, hell. He was done for.

His hand hovered awkwardly before finally settling against the back of your head, holding you close. His heart was going insane—thundering, stuttering, threatening to burst.

The alarm screamed again. Ren clenched his jaw, glaring at it like it had personally declared war. Carefully—so carefully—he stretched an arm out, fumbling across the nightstand until he found the cursed thing and smacked it silent.

The room fell back into quiet, except for the sound of your breathing.

Ren exhaled, long and shaky, before glancing back down at you. His lips parted, eyes wide, chest tight.

“…You’re real,” he whispered again, almost like he needed to remind himself.

And instead of getting up, instead of worrying about the time or the day or anything else, he pulled you closer, burying his face into your hair.

WHATEVER

The gown hung awkwardly on Ren’s frame, the stiff material clearly not his style. He tugged at the collar, scowling faintly.

You couldn’t help it—your lips curled into a grin. “Hehehe! Ren, you look good in graduation clothes!”

He shot you a flat look, ears twitching despite his best effort to look unimpressed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,” you said, already lifting the small camera in your hands. Click! The shutter went off before he could react.

“Oi—!” he hissed, shifting quickly to adjust the fabric so his tails didn’t twitch into view. “Do you have any idea how hard this is? I can’t—”

Click! Another shot, perfectly timed.

“Stop!” he growled, but the corners of his lips twitched, betraying him.

You gasped dramatically. “Oh nooo, the scary graduate is angry! Guess I’ll just…take more photos then.” Click click click!

Ren groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but he didn’t actually move away. In fact, he leaned a little closer when you raised the camera for a selfie. He tried to keep his expression unimpressed, but the second you leaned your cheek against his shoulder, his face softened just enough—click. Perfect capture.

“See? Memories!” you said, flipping the little camera around to show him the shots. “Look at this one—you’re pretending to hate it, but I can tell. You like it.”

He rolled his eyes, ears flicking back.

But he didn’t pull away when you snapped another one.

“Impossible but cute, right?” you teased, sticking your tongue out.

Ren actually laughed—low, startled, like he hadn’t meant to let it slip. He turned his face aside to hide it, but you caught the curve of his lips before he could stop you.

Another click.

“You’re saving all of these, huh?” he muttered, side-eyeing you.

“Of course,” you said proudly. “One day we’ll look back and say wow, remember when we survived fucking college and Ren actually wore this!"

Ren snorted, shaking his head. Still, when you lifted the camera again, he leaned in—just slightly—so the next photo caught both of you smiling for real.

Memories.

Your gown swished as you spun in place, holding your camera high like it was some kind of award itself. “Hehe! My clothes look goodie too, huh? We’re the best-dressed duo here!”

Ren stood beside you, his cap tilted slightly askew, looking at once far too good in formal wear and like he was going to snap it off and throw it away any second. He gave you a long side-eye, but the corners of his mouth twitched again.

you caught it—that faint heat creeping up his ears.

Your classmates didn’t make it easier. Every time someone passed, they either called out “aww, couple goals!” or muttered “ugh, the romance club is at it again.”

You stuck your tongue out at the latter, laughing. “Haters are just jealous they don’t get to walk beside the prettiest graduate.”

Ren turned his head sharply, trying to mask the way his face tightened—softened, conflicted. The sound of their voices, the noise of the crowd, your words—it all felt like something he should remember. Like he had walked this moment before. But why? Why did his chest ache like- too sharp to ignore?

He stared down at the diploma clutched in his hand, knuckles white around it. A strange pulse of memory crawled up his spine.

What is this feeling? Why does it feel like I’m not supposed to be here—like this never happened and never will, but differently?

“Ren!”

Your voice cut through, sharp and warm, yanking him out of the spiral.

Click!

The flash went off in his eyes. He blinked rapidly, caught off guard.

You laughed, lowering the little camera. “Earth to Ren! Hello?? Hana calling from planet reality!”

He blinked at you again, slowly shaking his head before a low laugh left him. “You…are too much.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly this time. “No. I’m just enough.”

"Extrovert, Y/n.."

"No! I'm just alert!"

His hand twitched—and without overthinking, he reached to touch your wrist. Not holding, just…reminding himself you were there. Real.

And when you leaned the camera up for another selfie, he didn’t flinch away this time.

Everyone clutching their certificates, tossing caps, hugging their friends. It felt like the kind of scene you only saw in movies—except this one was yours.

Ren Hana stood beside you, his cap tilted, diploma in hand. His grin looked so natural in that moment, sunlight catching the orange of his hair, eyes almost glowing with life. But you noticed the way his fingers twitched on the paper, as if he had to remind himself he was holding it.

Your own certificate was clutched against your chest, “Bachelor of Animation” written in bold across the top. The same as his. You couldn’t stop giggling—it felt surreal. All those sleepless nights, late assignments, doodles on napkins—it had all led to this.

“Ren,” you whispered, leaning in, “I love you.”

His smile faltered just slightly. His eyes flicked to yours, studying, searching—as if your words didn’t quite register in the right language. Then, after a beat too long, he answered softly, “...I love you too, Y/N.”

Your heart soared anyway. His hesitation didn’t matter—you wanted to believe him. No, you did believe him. Because the way he looked at you, the faint curve of his lips, the way his shoulders eased just enough—it had to be real.

You lifted your little camera and bounced on your toes. “Your smile when you got your certificate was priceless! I’m keeping that in my heart forever. Come on, Hana, smile for me!”

Ren blinked, startled by the sudden shift in your tone, your cheer bursting through his fog. He looked down at the diploma again, as though it was a prop in someone else’s story. A dream he’d stumbled into.

But then you raised the camera, tilting your head just right. “Hana~!”

And something in him softened. His lips curved upward, hesitant at first, then wider, easier. The kind of smile that reached his eyes. The kind that almost scared him, because it felt too natural. Too human.

You snapped the picture—click!

Frozen forever: his smile.

He looked happy!

You laughed until your sides ached, and the sound of Ren laughing with you—loud, unguarded—was enough to make your chest feel too full.

Everyone counted down again, and in a wave of voices:

“3, 2, 1—!”

Caps flew like a storm of black birds against the sky. You threw yours high, spinning in the air. Ren clutched his diploma a little tighter, not joining in right away. His smile trembled, eyes watering—happy tears, unpolished and raw. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, staring at the weight in his hands as though it might dissolve if he let it go.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his sleeve, and lifted your camera again. “Say cheese, Ren!”

Click. Another picture of him, watery-eyed but smiling, caught mid-laugh.

He finally gave in, throwing his cap belatedly, and you both tilted your heads back to watch it soar before falling somewhere into the crowd of others. You giggled and slipped your hand into his.

“Well…” you breathed, looking at him as the world spun with celebration around you, “we officially did it.”

Ren turned to you, diploma pressed against his chest like it was the most precious thing he’d ever been handed. His smile faltered, just a little, as you added softly, teasing, “So… after this, what’s next? Marriage?”

He jumped, nearly choking on his breath, eyes widening comically. “W-What—”

You couldn’t stop laughing. “Haha! I’m just teasing. We’ll probably live together for a while first and then… we’ll take care of it later.” You winked, light and mischievous.

Ren looked down at the certificate in his hands, his laughter quieting into something softer. His lips parted, but no answer came right away. For a moment, his silence stretched—a strange weight in the middle of so much noise and happiness.

“Ren,” you coaxed gently, bumping his shoulder, “what do you wanna do?”

He blinked, glancing at you, then back at the diploma again. His smile had melted into something more hesitant, almost… distant. His voice was quieter when he finally answered.

“...I don’t know,” he admitted.

REPEATED.

AGAIN.

THE QUESTION!

HAHA!

Ren didn’t know how to answer you. “What do you want to do next?” you had asked. Marriage? Moving in? Dreams that spilled out like sunlight. He’d laughed, even if his throat felt tight. “I don’t know,” he admitted, staring at the certificate in his hands as if it were supposed to tell him something.

You only smiled, leaning in. “Ren, are you happy today?”

“Yes,” he said, and this time he laughed for real, the word cracking out of him with weightless joy.

And you smiled too. “Ren! Ren!” you called, testing his name like it was the first time you’d said it.

“Hm?” His eyes softened, his mouth still curled up in a grin.

But then—your eyes flickered. A blink, a shift in the light, and suddenly they weren’t yours at all. A color that didn’t belong to you, not soft, not warm— but cold, sharp, bright. Wrong.

Before he could understand, the sound followed: Buddy.

Ren froze.

The laughter, the warmth of the crowd, the graduation hats still hanging in the air—snapped into silence. A voice, low and heavy, dripping with something playful that wasn’t play at all. “Buddy, wake up.”

Ren’s smile faltered. “What…?” His voice cracked, thin.

“Ren, you okay?” you asked, but the world was already darkening, folding in on itself.

It should have been peaceful—the way the edges blurred, the way sound dulled into nothing. He almost let it pull him under, almost believed it was just sleep after a long day. But then he saw him.

That face. That grin.

Ren’s whole body jerked upright with a scream.

He was back. The same room. The same smell of iron and disinfectant. His chest heaved. His hands shook as he reached up, desperate to feel bare skin where his throat should be free—but no. The metal pressed back against his fingers. The collar. Cold. Real.

His stomach lurched. He wanted to vomit, but the air was too tight to even breathe.

He clawed at it anyway, nails dragging over the edge. “No—no, no—”

His vision sparked. He went under.

Then, just as suddenly, breath tore back into him. He gasped, blinking hard, lungs burning.

Strade.

The man stood there, broad and casual, like he’d never left. His smile carved deep lines into his face, cheerful in a way that made Ren’s blood run cold.

“Da bist du ja, Kumpel!” Strade said, voice rich with that thick German warmth that never meant warmth.

“There you are, buddy!” - Translation

Ren’s pulse thundered in his ears. “What…?”

“Oh, Ren.” Strade clucked his tongue and stepped closer, boots steady on the concrete. “I was really worried about you!”

The words were soft, almost kind. The smile was bright. The tone—mocking, not mocking? He couldn’t tell. That was the worst of it.

Ren shook his head, retreating until his back hit the wall. His breath stuttered out. “No…no, it was real, it was real—”

“What was?” Strade asked smoothly, tilting his head like a teacher coaxing an answer from a stubborn student.

Ren’s mouth opened, but the words wouldn’t come.

He’d been there. He’d touched you. He’d laughed. He’d cried. He’d held the certificate in his hands. It couldn’t have been fake. It couldn’t.

And yet—his throat ached with the collar. His wrists bore faint bruises where shackles had been. His clothes, the same ones he’d worn in the “dream.” Too exact. Too cruel.

“Nightmare?” Strade said finally, almost gently, as if Ren were a child woken by thunder. “A bad one?”

Ren flinched. His eyes slid away. “…Yes.” The word came out hollow, small.

“Mm. I see.” Strade’s grin widened, satisfied. He squatted a little to level with Ren, voice lowering to that sing-song cadence of his. “You gave me quite the scare. And…” He lifted a hand, wagging a finger toward the corner of the room. “…you made poor Y/N worried too!”

Ren’s head whipped around.

You.

You stood there, quiet, watching. The expression on your face unreadable. Familiar—too familiar.

Ren’s throat closed. His heart twisted. His hands shook against his knees.

If you were here…was it real? Or was this the dream?

Ren’s chest caved. He wanted to scream again, to tear the walls down with his bare hands, to drag himself back into the sunlight. But he couldn’t. His body stayed locked. His breath came shallow. His vision blurred.

And yet, in the blur, he still saw you.

Still saw your smile.

Still heard you call his name.

“Ren! Ren!”

He shut his eyes hard, nails digging into his palms, refusing to let it go—even as Strade’s shadow fell over him, even as the collar bit deeper into his neck, even as the weight of the workshop crushed him back into place.

He whispered it into his own chest, trembling, clinging to the only thing that still felt true.

“…It was real. It was.”

Ren’s hands trembled in his lap, but he forced his lips to move. “I’m…fine.”

The word tasted like rust. His throat ached as if he’d swallowed shards of glass, but he made it sound steady enough. If he broke now, Strade would see.

Strade’s eyebrows lifted in mock relief. “Ach, siehst du, Liebchen?” He turned his grin toward you, voice lilting, warm, wrong. “Liebchen, you were worried for nothing. He is fine.”

He even clapped his hands together once, delighted, like a father hearing his child admit they weren’t really sick.

You nodded, stiffly, as though agreeing might soften the atmosphere. “He’s okay now… thank you, Strade.”

Ren’s heart sank. Hearing you thank him—the words felt poisoned, stolen.

“Of course, of course!” Strade said cheerfully, as if it were obvious. He leaned down and patted Ren’s shoulder, the weight firm, lingering. His eyes gleamed, his grin wider than it should be.

Ren flinched at the touch, every nerve in his body screaming, but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t.

Then Strade stood, stretching his back with a groan, casual as if nothing had happened at all. “ my neighbor needs some help.” He tapped his chin, then wagged a finger playfully at both of you. “I will be back soon. Behave well while I am gone?”

The way he said it—it was half a joke, half a threat. He always spoke like that.

He reached for his coat by the door, humming under his breath, an old tune that caught in Ren’s ears like broken glass. Without a backward glance, Strade swung the heavy door open, the hinges groaning, and stepped out.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed through the room, sharp and final. Then silence.

Ren sat frozen. His pulse thudded against the collar. His eyes darted once to you, then to the floor.

Finally, his lips moved, barely a whisper. “Neighbor… help…” He swallowed hard, voice cracking, breath shuddering out. “He’ll be back. He’ll always come back.”

He curled forward, arms wrapping around his knees as though to make himself smaller, quieter, anything that might keep the workshop from swallowing him whole.

But no matter how he folded in on himself, the collar stayed. Heavy. Real.

Ren’s eyes snapped wide when you leaned closer to him. Instinctively, he shifted back, shoulders tensing, breath catching in his throat.

“…Ren?” you whispered.

He swallowed, then raised a trembling hand, palm open, hovering between you both. “Punch me.”

Your brows furrowed. “…What?”

“Just—please.” His voice cracked with urgency, almost pleading.

“Punch me. In the hand. Now.”

You hesitated, staring at his pale fingers, then at his desperate eyes. “…Fine.”

Your fist tapped against his palm softly, barely more than a push.

Ren’s fingers curled, gripping the air as if trying to capture the sensation. His chest rose, shaky, and he nodded once. “…This feels real, too.”

You tilted your head, worry etched across your face. “Ren…?”

After a long pause, he exhaled a sharp breath, shoulders sinking.

“This is real.”

Your confusion only deepened. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, masking it with a nonchalant face, though his hands betrayed him—clenching, unclenching, restless.

But his mind wouldn’t stop replaying. Last time—he remembered. Staying up late, talking to you about stupid things. Life stuff. Meaningless and heavy all at once.

And then… that one silly question that slipped out of his mouth, half a joke, half a wound.

“If you were… my date, would you have come?”

He remembered your laugh, quick, natural. The way you had answered—yes, of course I would. I’d rush. Because Ren is cute.

Even now the echo of it burned him. His heart had leapt in that moment—too much. Too fast.

And maybe that’s why it had twisted into a nightmare. Maybe that’s why the dream had felt so cruelly real.

“…Ren,” you whispered again, your voice gentle, pulling him from the spiral. “Are you okay?”

His lips trembled, then pressed into a thin line. “I’m okay.”

It was a lie, but it was all he could give.

He looked at you finally, gaze softer, almost childlike with how fragile it seemed. “…Say… what do you call a dream? And a nightmare?”

You blinked at the question but answered anyway. “A dream is something that makes you feel safe, or happy—even if it’s not real. A nightmare is the opposite. It makes you afraid, hurts you, even though it isn’t real either.”

Ren stared down at his hands. Silent.

“…So what do you call something that feels like both?” he whispered.

You blinked at him, your lips parting. “…I don’t know.”

Ren let out a dry laugh, no humor in it. His eyes stayed downcast, fixed on the trembling veins in his hands. “That’s what it is, then. A whole life of what ifs.”

“What if…?” you asked softly, leaning closer.

But he didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, shoulders hunched. Whatever words he might have had, he swallowed them, as though speaking them aloud would make them too heavy, too real. “…It’s probably not worth it.”

His silence stretched before he added, voice small but sharp with bitterness, “That’s all it’s been, really. A while now. Having hope is the same as being stuck in a nightmare.”

You stared at him, the hollow cadence of his tone making your chest ache. “…So it’s a nightmare?”

Ren’s lip quivered as he shook his head. “It’s something that isn’t real. Can’t be real.” He rubbed his eyes, frustrated. “I can’t explain it. Lost hope mixed with a sweet dream—that’s just desperation dressed up like comfort.”

You didn’t know what to say. His words hung heavy, thick in the air. All you managed was a quiet, “…I don’t know what happened.”

He forced a little smile, almost convincing. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” You didn’t give him room to pull away this time—you leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. For a moment, he froze stiff against you, his breath catching like he’d been caught doing something wrong. But slowly, almost reluctantly, his body gave in, forehead pressing against your shoulder.

You murmured against his hair, “Yeah, but it’s gonna take time. Healing isn’t clean or straight. You’re all tangled up, Ren. Anyone would be, after what you’ve been through.”

His breath stuttered.

Ren let out a shaky breath. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But deep down, where his words couldn’t reach, he felt it—the strangest contradiction: like he was slowly going insanely sane. Like every second was another splinter in his mind, tearing him apart while stitching him together.

He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know how to make sense of it.

But he knew one thing.

At first, he had only been smitten with you— But now… now you had dug deeper. You had carved a space into his chest that he couldn’t shake.

Somewhere in that broken, battered heart of his, he cared about you. Truly.

And that scared him more than any nightmare ever could.

“In society,” Ren muttered, a growl buried in his throat, “I couldn’t be that. Couldn’t bare my teeth without someone calling me dangerous. Couldn’t bleed out my heart without them deciding I was insane.” His mouth twisted, bitter and sharp. "With you.."

Your chest tightened at the edge in his voice. “…And with me?” you asked, soft, careful.

He froze, flinched almost, before his eyes snapped to yours—searching, dissecting, like he needed to catch the lie before it slipped past your lips.

“…You let me too,” he said finally, voice low, thick with something unsteady.

A laugh slipped out, sudden and sharp, but it shattered halfway, splintered like glass. “It’s confusing as hell. ‘Cause it feels the same. Not the same—different—but close enough to tear me apart. I don’t know what to fucking do with that.”

His fists tightened at his sides, veins straining, like he wanted to dig his nails straight into his chest and rip out whatever was gnawing there.

“…If Strade, by letting me be feral,” he whispered, voice rasping thin, “then you—you’re teaching me to stay alive by being… human. And I don’t know which one’s worse. Or which one’s real.”

“Do you want me to cook, or do you want to, or—together?” you asked lightly, trying to pull the thread of tension from his shoulders.

Ren blinked at you. “Together..?”

Your chest jumped. “I didn’t mean that—I’m not trying to replace you! I just thought maybe… if someone was there, it could help you out. That’s all.”

He stared, expression unreadable for a beat. Then his lips twitched, and he gave this small, uneven smile—like it almost hurt his face to make it. “…Maybe together sounds nice.”

Ren’s smile didn’t fade, but there was something flickering behind it—shadows slipping under his skin. He stirred the pot absentmindedly, his hands steady, but his thoughts restless.

Strade will be watching.

He didn’t have to look to know it. He felt it.

Ren wanted to ignore it. Wanted to let himself sink into this strange calm—your shoulder brushing his, the small laugh you gave when the sauce splattered. It was too good. Too easy.

And that was the problem.

Because if Strade noticed, really noticed, something would happen.

Strade’s “games” still carved into his bones. Maybe...

But he couldn’t stop. Not this time. He couldn’t stop looking at you, couldn’t stop feeling the warmth of your hand when you passed him the spoon, couldn’t stop hearing that soft tone in your voice when you thanked him.

It was dangerous.

But, it was nice.

Too nice.

He didn't want to stop it.

He was selfish yes...

Ren’s jaw clenched. He knew Strade would see through it, maybe even wait until it mattered most before pulling the floor out from under him. He always did.

And still… Ren let himself smile again, just a little. Quiet.

Even if it hurt later.

Cuddled up all close, simply being side by side.

The hands of the clock continue to tick forward

This warm happiness –

Body is unable to take it

Like a pit opened in the empty void that is the sky

Husk of a body and heart that should be tender are

Distorted forms covered with Wounds

Completely Perverted

Please only give the love that is dripping with Blood

Anxiety has as if crumbling to bits