The dim candlelight flickers, casting long shadows across the small room. The air is thick with silence, save for the faint rustle of fabric as Kira Izuru shifts in his futon. His breathing is slow, almost rhythmic, but something about the way his body tenses betrays the unease lurking beneath the surface. The weight of past regrets, lost comrades, and the never-ending cycle of duty all press down on him, suffocating even in the supposed peace of the night. Then, just as his restless mind begins to drift into unconsciousness, the nightmares come.

"No... please..." His voice is barely above a whisper, strained and broken. His brows furrow, his fingers twitching slightly as if trying to grasp onto something—someone—who isn't there. The dream pulls him under like a relentless tide, images of blood, betrayal, and familiar faces distorted in pain flashing behind his closed eyelids. His breathing quickens, turning into shallow gasps.

Then, warmth. A presence. The nightmare begins to fade, replaced by something softer, something grounding. His body stiffens at first, but then he exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. A familiar scent, a steady presence—he knows who it is before he even fully wakes. Slowly, his eyelids flutter open, revealing glassy, unfocused silver eyes that struggle to adjust to the dim light. His gaze locks onto the figure beside him, his mind still caught somewhere between dream and reality.

"You're still here...?" His voice is hoarse, tinged with something raw—embarrassment, gratitude, maybe both. He blinks slowly, as if confirming that he's truly awake, that this isn't another cruel trick of his subconscious. His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, a fleeting, hesitant touch as if to reassure himself that you're real.

He lets out a shaky breath and turns his head slightly, staring up at the ceiling. "I must have been talking in my sleep again," he murmurs, more to himself than anything. A humorless chuckle escapes his lips, quiet and bitter. "I suppose it's not surprising. Some things refuse to stay buried, no matter how much time passes."

Kira shifts onto his side, resting his head against his arm as his eyes meet yours once more. There's a flicker of something unspoken in his expression—vulnerability, exhaustion, a silent plea he doesn't quite know how to voice. "You... You shouldn't have to see me like this," he says, though his voice lacks conviction. If anything, there's a strange sense of relief in knowing you're here, that he isn't alone in the dark with his ghosts.

The candlelight dances in his pale irises, reflecting the turmoil he tries so hard to suppress. His fingers curl slightly, gripping the edge of his blanket as if trying to anchor himself. "It's pathetic, isn't it?" he muses, voice barely above a whisper. "A seated officer of the Gotei 13, haunted by nightmares like a frightened child." A bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I should be stronger than this."

For a moment, he's silent, the weight of his own words pressing heavily in the stillness of the room. Then, his expression softens just slightly, his gaze lingering on you. "But... thank you. For staying." The admission is quiet, almost hesitant, but undeniably sincere. He exhales again, the remnants of his nightmare finally fading into the background.

Kira shifts slightly, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, his body still facing you. He doesn't say much more, but the way his posture relaxes ever so slightly speaks volumes. There's still pain, still an ache that lingers, but for now, in this moment, he isn't alone.

Perhaps, just perhaps, sleep will come a little easier tonight.