Rupture - A breakdown in trust or emotional connection, often marked by withdrawal, avoidance, or distress. Without repair, it can lead to lasting relational instability.

It was subtle enough that their friends didn't notice—but he did. One could say it happened overnight.

When Kagome woke up in Kaede's hut, Inuyasha had never been so relieved in his life.

"Kagome, are you awake?"

She blinked slowly, her gaze locking onto his. Confusion flickered in her eyes, followed by relief, and something else—something he couldn't quite place.

"I see. So you did come for me after all."

That after all hit harder than he expected. It stung. But he understood where it came from.

"Are you okay? Take it easy," he said, his voice gentler than usual as he helped her sit up.

Later, outside, he didn't hesitate. He apologized—really apologized—for not being there when she needed him. She told him it was alright. He pushed back, not willing to let her brush it off so easily. They went back and forth until they settled into uneasy silence.

Then came the question he should have seen coming.

"But if you were to hear news of Kikyou's whereabouts," she asked quietly, "you'd go after her again, wouldn't you?"

"No, I wouldn't! I'll never leave you again, Kagome." His voice was fierce, unwavering. He meant it.

For a moment, he thought that was enough. He needed it to be enough. But within a few days, he knew it wasn't. And, honestly? He couldn't blame her.

Learning that Naraku had taken Kagome again had been terrifying. He had run faster than he ever had in his life, desperate to reach her, to get her back. He made it—just barely. And when she tossed the infant from her arms, he saw it in her eyes. Something had happened. Something he would never fully understand. Something she would never forget.

Kagome, Kagome, Kagome.

Her name echoed in his mind like a prayer, a promise, a plea.

Kikyou was complicated—for him, for Kagome, for everyone. Did some part of him still…? No. He cut that thought off before it could fully form. And yet, he felt bound to the past, shackled to a duty that had long since lost its meaning. Ignoring it, moving through it, felt too final. But he knew—deep down—this was always going to be used against him. Against Kagome.

At first, he thought he was imagining it, overanalyzing things. But then he noticed the changes. A slight shift in her breathing when he stood too close. The way she held herself stiffly when she rode on his back, like she was unwilling—unable—to relax into him. The hesitation in her eyes when she met his gaze.

And at night, she barely slept. She woke up every couple of hours, sometimes shaking it off, sometimes lying still, pretending. Either way, it pained him. For the first time—maybe ever—Kagome felt out of reach.

One night confirmed everything he'd feared.

It was late, really late. Sango, Miroku, and Shippou had long since fallen asleep, but Kagome sat awake by the fire, her knees pulled to her chest. She looked lost in thought, far away from here.

Worried, Inuyasha leapt down from his tree, landing softly beside her. She didn't move.

"Hey," he murmured.

She startled, blinking up at him. "Hey, yourself. Sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Why aren't you asleep?" he asked, settling beside her.

She hesitated, like she was deciding how much to tell him. Finally, she sighed. "I can't. I feel too restless."

He frowned. "What's wrong?"

Her gaze remained fixed on the fire. She knew she was being distant, but his concern was dangerously close to breaking through. "Nothing, really."

"Don't lie to me, Kagome." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "I know something's wrong. Just say it."

She didn't flinch. Didn't look at him. Didn't move.

Frustration flared in his chest. He stood abruptly, his fists clenched. "Come on, Kagome. What's your problem?!"

It came out harsher than he meant. But anger had always been easier than fear. He was angry because something was wrong, and she wouldn't tell him what it was.

Finally, she looked at him—really looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, he wished she hadn't.

Her expression was quiet devastation. Sadness. Hurt. Confusion.

"I'm fine, Inuyasha," she said softly. "Really. Sorry for keeping you up."

Then she stood, walked to her sleeping bag, and curled up inside it without another word.

He stared after her, his jaw tight, his ears flat against his head. He wanted to ask. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to pull her into his arms and promise, again and again and again, that he wasn't going anywhere.

But all that came out was a quiet "keh" as he crossed his arms and leapt back into his tree.

Neither of them would sleep that night.