We'd returned back inside after sending Vivi off, and Jin had steadily started to look more and more down. The warmth that had lingered earlier when Vivi was here now felt muted, tinged with an undercurrent of unease.

  I first noticed it when she brushed past me in the hallway. She flinched, barely perceptibly, when my arm grazed hers. At the time, I thought it was a fluke, some stray reflex, but it kept happening—small, uncharacteristic hesitations that chipped away at her recently built confidence. Her tail moved in tighter arcs, a clear sign of unease, and the playful flicks and fleeting touches I’d come to expect and love were nowhere to be seen.

  She avoided the living room’s reflective surfaces too, from what I could tell. Normally, she didn’t give a second thought to the mirrors around the flat, the gloss of the windowpane or the faint gleam of the television when it was off, but now her eyes darted away from them as though they burned her. When she settled on the couch, it was with her back to the larger mirror near the hallway, her posture stiff and defensive.

  “Jin?” I called from the kitchen, wiping my hands on a dishtowel. I’d been chopping vegetables for a quick lunch, but her stillness had drawn my attention more than the rhythm of my knife on the cutting board. “You good?”

  She nodded without looking at me, her tail giving a half-hearted thwack against the couch cushion. It was as close to a dismissal as I was likely to get, so I let it drop for now. Still, my gut told me something was off.

  By the time we sat down to eat, she’d managed to keep her distance without being too obvious about it. Her gaze stayed fixed on her plate, and though she picked at the food, it was clear her appetite wasn’t in it. I caught her staring at her own reflection in the water glass, her fingers twitching toward it before she jerked her hand back.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I asked again, leaning forward slightly.

  She met my eyes for the briefest moment, her lips pressing into a tight line. Then she nodded again, slower this time, but didn’t offer any further reassurance. She couldn’t verbally, of course, but even her usual gestures of comfort were conspicuously absent.

  The rest of the day followed in much the same way. Jin moved around the apartment like a shadow, her gaze avoiding anything reflective. At one point, I caught her standing by the window, her back turned to the glass, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The tension in her shoulders was palpable, but when I approached, she turned and quickly sidestepped me without meeting my eyes.

  “Jin,” I said softly, trying not to crowd her. “If something’s wrong, you can let me know.”

  Her response was a faint shake of her head, her tail curling tightly around her leg. She brushed past me and disappeared into the bathroom.

  I sighed, leaning against the wall and rubbing the back of my neck. She’d been making progress, slow but steady, ever since that first day. There had been bumps along the way, sure—her panic at seeing my blood this morning was still fresh in my mind—but this felt different. It wasn’t just fear; it was as though she was shrinking back into herself, piece by piece.

  The sound of running water drifted from the bathroom, steady and unchanging. I pushed off the wall, my footsteps soft as I approached the door. It wasn’t locked, but I hesitated, unsure whether she’d want me to intrude. Instead, I leaned against the frame, knocking lightly.

  “Jin?” I called, my voice low. “You’ve been in there a while.”

  The water stopped abruptly, leaving only the small echoes of droplets hitting porcelain. A moment later, the door creaked open just enough for me to see her face, damp from what I assumed was a quick rinse. She looked at me, her eyes searching mine for something I couldn’t quite place. Then, with a soft exhale, she opened the door fully and stepped past me.

  She didn’t stay long enough for me to ask anything, just brushed by with the same careful avoidance that had colored the entire day since Vivi'd left. Her tail flicked once, more out of habit than intention, before she disappeared into the bedroom.

  When I stepped into the bedroom later, the curtains were half-drawn, leaving the room dim and muted. Jin was perched on the edge of the bed, her back to me, her posture tense and closed off. Her hands rested on her knees, her claws digging faintly into the fabric of her pants. She didn’t look up as I entered, didn’t even so much as acknowledge me at all.

  I hesitated in the doorway, the weight of her silence pressing against my chest. “Jin?” I said softly, leaning against the frame. “You’ve been distant today. I know I keep asking, but is everything alright?”

  Her ears flicked, but she didn’t turn around. Her tail, coiled tightly around her leg, twitched once before going still again. It was the kind of reaction that screamed avoidance, a deliberate attempt to shut me out.

  I stepped closer, lowering myself to sit on the floor in front of her. “Hey,” I murmured, keeping my voice low. “I'm here, if you need to. I just want to help.”

  She finally looked at me, but it wasn’t the gaze I was used to. Her eyes were wide, searching, filled with a tension that made me hurt. She didn’t reach out, didn’t move closer—she just stared, like she was trying to decide if I was safe.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The thought hit me like a punch. She didn’t feel safe—not even here, not even with me.

  “Jin…” My voice faltered, unsure of what to say.

  She shook her head quickly, cutting me off before I could try again. Her hands clenched into fists on her knees, her extended claws digging into her palms hard enough that I winced on her behalf. The succubus closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

  I reached out carefully, resting my hand on the edge of the mattress. “You don’t have to handle this on your own.”

  Her eyes snapped open, sharp and full of something I couldn’t name. She pulled her hands away from her knees, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Her tail coiled tighter, her body folding in on itself like she was trying to disappear.

  “Okay,” I said softly, leaning back slightly to give her space. “I won’t push. Just… know I’m here.”

  She didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped back to her lap, and she shifted slightly, angling her body away from me. The rejection left a hollow ache in its wake. I stayed where I was for a few minutes longer, hoping she might change her mind, but to no avail. Her breathing steadied, her body relaxing just enough to let me know she wasn’t in immediate distress, but the distance between us felt like a chasm I couldn’t cross. With a quiet sigh, I rose to my feet and turned toward the door. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.

  I didn’t look back as I left. I couldn’t. The ache in my chest was too sharp, the weight of her withdrawal too heavy. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling slowly as I tried to steady myself.

  Something had shifted—something I couldn’t fix with words or reassurances. And for the first time since I’d brought Jin here, I had absolutely no idea what to do.

  I sank into the couch, the cushions soft beneath me but doing nothing to ease the tight knot in my chest. The apartment felt too quiet without Jin’s presence, I thought, realizing just how accustomed I'd grown to her. The sun had sunk towards the horizon even further, its light now stretching across the living room floor in long, golden streaks, but the warmth it carried felt hollow.

  I leaned back, draping an arm over my forehead as I stared at the ceiling. My mind churned, replaying the day’s events in a loop I couldn’t seem to break. Something had changed—something I couldn’t quite pin down—and it left me restless.

  What triggered this?

  Jin had been doing better. She’d started to relax around me, even around Vivi. The walls she’d built so high had started to crumble, and I’d thought we were finally reaching a place where she felt safe—safe with me, at least. But now…

  I closed my eyes, the image of her tense posture and distant gaze burned into the back of my mind. She’d withdrawn so completely, shutting me out in a way that felt deliberate but not malicious. It wasn’t anger I’d seen in her eyes. It was fear.

  The scratches on my arms itched faintly, a reminder of the morning’s chaos. I traced the edges of one with my fingers, the sting long faded thanks to my regeneration, but the memory still fresh. Jin’s panic, her thrashing, the wild look in her eyes—it had been a moment of pure, unfiltered terror. Not for me, but for her. Especially after she'd skewered me earlier. Though thanks to Viv's intervention that had been fine, like most minor injuries tended to be around them.

  She must still feel guilty about that, I concluded. She’d hurt me—not on purpose of course, but enough to leave a mark. And Jin, for all her strength and stubbornness, carried guilt like a stone tied to her ankles.

  It made sense, didn’t it? Her withdrawal, her avoidance—it had to stem from that. She was pulling away because she thought she’d failed me, because she thought she was dangerous after she'd cut me open. It wasn’t the first time she’d reacted this way; Jin had been hard to get used to me in the first place. She didn’t trust herself, or others, and now, after this morning…

  She doesn’t want to hurt me again.

  The thought hit harder than I expected, my chest tightening as I turned it over in my mind. It wasn’t just guilt she was feeling—it was shame, fear, and a hundred other emotions she couldn’t put into words. And it was all directed inward, a storm she was trying to weather alone.

  I sat up, resting my elbows on my knees as I stared at the floor. The weight of the realization settled over me like a lead blanket. She doesn’t need space. She needs reassurance.

  But how could I reassure her when she wouldn’t let me in?

  The quiet stretched on, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant sounds of the city outside. My gaze drifted to the bedroom door, half-closed and bathed in shadows. Jin was in there, alone, and every instinct I had screamed at me to go to her, to pull her close and tell her she didn’t have to carry this weight on her own.

  But would she let me? I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I tried to steady myself. One step at a time, Raku. You can’t fix everything in a day. The thought didn’t bring much comfort, but it was enough to keep me grounded. Jin might not be ready to let me in, but that didn’t mean I had to sit here and do nothing. I could start small—something to show her that she wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how hard she tried to push me away.

  I rose from the couch, making my way to the kitchen. The dying sunlight streaming through the window caught the edge of the countertop, casting a soft glow over the room. I opened the fridge, scanning its contents with little focus. As I pulled out a few ingredients, the sound of familiar steps caught my attention. I turned toward the hallway, my heart skipping slightly at the sight of Jin standing there. Her posture was still tense, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, but there was something hesitant in the way she looked at me.

  “Hey,” I said softly, setting the ingredients on the counter. “Wasn’t sure if you were hungry, but I thought I’d put something together.”

  She didn’t respond, her eyes dropping to the floor as her tail curled loosely around her leg. She took a tentative step forward, then stopped, her claws flexing tensely at her sides. I waited, giving her the space to decide. When she finally moved again, it was to cross the room in a few quick strides. She stopped just short of me, her hands hovering uncertainly before she reached out to brush her fingers against my arm.

  Her touch was light, hesitant, but it spoke volumes. I turned to face her fully, my hand covering hers as I met her gaze. “Jin,” I murmured, keeping my voice steady. “You don’t have to do this alone. Whatever you’re feeling—whatever’s going on—we’ll figure it out. Together.” Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against my shoulder. Her tail flicked once, brushing against my leg, and her grip on my arm tightened just enough for me to feel the tension in her fingers.

  I held her close, my hand running over her back. The words I wanted to say felt too big, too heavy, so I let my warmth speak for me.

  And even if she didn’t believe it yet, I would keep reminding her: She wasn’t alone.