Im just someone that really like(obsess) NarumiGen

After a day of locking himself in his house, he had come up with his very own poison. Made from the remains of a dendro slime, mixed with a few crushed petals of Dendrobium, and a generous splash of expired alcohol stolen from the Cat’s Tail.

He didn't know if it was truly toxic. In fact, he just mixed random ingredients he found revolting.

He wasn't planning on truly poisoning you after all. In its current concentration, it would merely cause temporary numbness (maybe).

And so he placed a cute little package in front of your house (he stole the documents that held information of those working under the Grand Master to find your address). Inside the package was a plate of Hash Brown he had cooked himself.

Of course, the poison was sprinkled on top as well.

He knocked on the door to your house and hid in a bush nearby.

He watched the door open, a shiver of excitement going down his spine.

But when you stepped out, his eyes widened. You weren’t what he had imagined. Not old, not bitter, not hunched over with tired eyes and stained robes.

You looked... young and composed. Normal in fact.

You glanced at the package, shrugged, and brought it inside.

The next day, he had half hoped there would be some commotion. Instead, nothing happened.

Lohen found that significantly more unsettling than if you had screamed.

Did you not open it?

Did you die?

Worse, did you throw it away?

By the second day, irritation curdled into curiosity again, and curiosity dragged him back to your house.

He hadn’t even reached the door when something stopped him.

A box.

His box.

He stared at it, then at the note pinned neatly on top.

It read-

---

Observation Log

Possible dendro slime derivative.

Taste profile:

Slight bitterness.

Floral aftertaste.

Perhaps traces of alcohol.

Symptoms:

Tingling lips.

Mild numbness in fingers.

Onset approximately twenty-five seconds.

Conclusion:

Sloppily made poison.

---

He stared at the handwriting. The faint smell of alcohol lingering on the hastily ripped paper.

'..... Sloppy?' he scoffed, annoyance creeping up into his face. He crumbled the paper, staring at the door with a sadistic smile.

"Fine then. I'll show you real poison."

The next morning, another box appeared at your doorstep.

Like last time, you took it into your home. You had no idea who was delivering these, but the last package being drenched in a mild toxin made it interesting enough for you to open.

You tore open the box.

This time, it was a plate of mushroom pizza.

"Oh, that looks delicious." you muttered to yourself, noticing the unusual purple coloring on the crust.

You reached and held a piece of the pizza near your mouth. And without a care, you took a huge bite from the area where the coloring was the brightest.

The following day, Lohen returned to find another note on your doorstep. This time it was more detailed than the last.

---

Observation Log

Low concentration of Aconitum.

Taste profile:

Initial sweet-bitter note.

Followed by burning sensation.

Symptoms:

Numbness.

Dizziness.

Loss of strength.

Conclusion:

Good posion. Easily countered.

Although, I liked the taste of the pizza.

(attached are my other observations)

---

There were six pages attached.

Six.

Lohen stared, flipping through the pages with a smile. "God. She's insane."

This started the exchange of poisons and paper notes.

The next package that Lohen put on your doorstep had a small note of his own.

---

To the Medic

Firstly, fuck you.

Secondly, you missed a secondary ingredient. (Hint : It was Naku weed)

Thirdly, thank you for complimenting the pizza.

I made it myself.

---

Your response appeared the next morning.

---

To the Poisoner

1. Rude.

2. I did not miss the ingredient. Naku weed has no toxic properties. Just color.

3. The posion on the crust was obvious. Are you perhaps new to this poisoning thing?

---

Your responses pissed the Vice captain even more. Because how dare a lowly medic like you have the audacity to critic his cooking?!

He tried even harder after that.

More precise blends. Better masking. Controlled dosages. Carefully calibrated ingredients. Tried perfecting the recipe so you couldn't find any faults.

Everything.

After making sure everything was perfect, he delivered the next package. A plate of Northern Apple Stew.

The reply next day was written in a crumbled paper with messy handwriting.

---

Rules for Future Poisoning

1. No explosive diarrhea.

2. No permanent injury.

3. No organ damage.

4. No blindness.

5. No poisoning children.

6. Food should remain edible

---

Lohen rolled his eyes at the rules. "Killjoy." To him these rules just were unnecessary boundaries that ruined his fun.

But he never wanted to stop this exchange between the two of you. It was much too entertaining for him.

Unknown to him, that night ended with you locking yourself in your room. Having non stop diarrhea for hours.

Soon the notes became longer than the poisons themselves.

One morning, the package you opened had a plate of Cream Stew.

And this time the note attached had a list of ingredients used.

---

Current Theory

The toxin should produce localized muscle weakness.

Estimated duration:

Two hours.

Possible side effects:

Dizziness.

Drowsiness.

Complaining.

Will you be able to guess what I used (Y/N)? °^°?

---

Three days later Lohen received something he could only call a report.

A dossier.

Twenty-two pages which included diagrams, charts, annotated symptom timelines.

And corrections.

So many corrections.

---

Page 14: dosage error.

Page 17: please stop using kitchen spoons as lab tools.

Page 19: “Did you eyeball the concentration?”

---

Unfortunately Lohen had. And he hated that you noticed.

Months passed and somehow it became a routine.

Your medic colleagues grew increasingly worried seeing you drowsy every other day.

"Do you know who keeps sending you poison?" one asked.

You shook your head. "No, not really."

"Shouldn't that concern you?"

You looked confused. "Why?"

"Because they're poisoning you...?"

You blinked. Honestly, if the person wanted to kill you, they could have used other deadly toxins. Yet, they always made sure to use small doses and non lethal ingredients.

You smiled to yourself. "They are very considerate actually."

"... Oh." the medic froze.

You tapped a finger on your cheek. "They also have lovely handwriting."

"..."

The medic walked away. Unable to continue the conversation.

Lohen, meanwhile, was also not doing well.

Varka had his suspicions when he first saw the crazed man laughing while tasting the exotic plants he had ordered.

One day, while Lohen was away on a mission, he broke the lock of his drawer and read through all the papers in there.

Papers about toxic plants. Possible ingredients. And of course, all the notes you had written to him.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell is happening in Mondstadt?"

Varka immediately dragged Lohen by the collar and pushed him into the store you worked in to apologize.

You looked up from your desk and instantly recognized him as your mysterious poisoner.

Not by his face. But by his hands.

The stained fingertips. The chemical burns. The ink marks. The quiet proof of obsession.

"Oh," you smiled softly. "It's you."

Lohen blinked.

Varka shoved him forward. "Apologise to the lady Lohen."

Oh. So his name was Lohen.

The boy looked deeply offended. "I don't want to."

"Apologize." The Grand Master repeated, his gaze cold.

Lohen sighed dramatically. Then glanced toward you. "...Sorry for poisoning you."

You immediately shook your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. "There is so need for apologies. I should be thanking you actually."

Silence.

Even Varka froze.

You continued, brighter now. "The poisons were genuinely fascinating."

Varka looked horrified.

"I learned to make dozens of new antidotes!"

Lohen stared. Mesmerized.

"Also the toxins were quite creative! Honestly, every morning became something to look forward to."

Varka took a breath, and turned his gaze to the ceiling, perhaps praying to Barbatos why they allowed these two people to exist.

"Also the notes were fun!" you added, opening your drawer and placing a the stack of notes you had carefully stapled.

Lohen wasn't even listening anymore.

Because you were smiling.

At him.

Because of him.

Because he had poisoned you.

It was a stupid conversation. The girl in front of him was grateful for poisoning her. It was reckless, idiotic and yet...

At that moment his heart made some several terrible decisions.

He realised.

With a lot of hesitation...

That-

'Oh.'

'Oh no.'

'You were kinda cute.'

He had known your name for months. Known where you worked. Known your habits. Your favorite medicinal herbs. The way your handwriting became messier when excited.

But seeing you in person? Actually talking to you?

He was finished.

Absolutely in love.

That night he didn't sleep. Instead he sat at his desk surrounded by herbs, powders, vials, and failed formulas, staring at his next experiment like it might hold divine answers.

Most men wrote poetry.

Most men gifted flowers.

Most men confessed.

But Lohen was not most men.

He lifted a vial of deep red liquid, watching it swirl under lamplight with a manic smile. "If she barely liked the last one... I'll just make one that is even better."

And thus began the greatest romantic pursuit in history.

Not through gifts or heartfelt letters.

But through an escalating series of increasingly sophisticated poisons.

Lohen's new life goal was simple.

Create a poison so fascinating, so beautiful so perfect....

That when you tasted it—

You'd fall hopelessly in love with its creator.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing you fell in love with was the chemical composition.

Fin

😭 😭 😭 I CANT WITH THIS GUY. I FEEL LIKE HE'S SOMEONE WHO'D GIFT YOU A BOMB CUZ HE LOVES YOU.

Some of the ingredients used r actually toxic while others r just bs. I tried making it as Canon as possible but I'm sure there r some mistakes. Sorry abt tht.

He didn't understand. You saw it on his face, the way his brow furrowed, the way his mouth opened and closed like he was trying to find the right dialogue option and failing. Gen was good at many things—combat, strategy, pretending not to care—but he was terrible at this. Terrible at the moment when the mask slipped and he actually had to feel something.

"Did I do something wrong?" He was trying to sound casual. You could hear the cracks. "Because if this is about the dishes, I said I'd do them. I was going to do them. I had a whole plan."

"It's not about the dishes."

"Then what? Is it—are you—" He stopped. Swallowed. His ears were turning pink, that telltale sign of distress he'd never learned to hide. "Is there someone else?"

"No. God, no." Your voice broke on the denial. "There's no one else. There will never be anyone else. That's the problem."

"The problem is that there's no one else?"

"The problem is that you're you." The words came out harsher than you meant them to. You watched them land, watched him flinch—just slightly, just for a second, before the mask slammed back down. "Gen, you're a captain. You're the strongest captain. You fight kaiju for a living. Every time you walk out that door, I don't know if you're coming back. And I sit here, in this apartment, and I wait, and I check the news, and I—" Your voice splintered. "I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't breathe. And you come home with that grin like nothing happened, like you didn't just spend eight hours risking your life, and I'm supposed to just be fine with it."

"You never said—"

"I'm saying it now."

The silence was terrible. Gen stood in the middle of the room, his hands at his sides, his console lying forgotten on the couch. He looked smaller than you'd ever seen him. Less like the strongest captain and more like the orphanage kid who'd spent his whole life waiting for people to leave.

"So that's it," he said. "You're leaving."

"I have to."

"No, you don't. You're choosing to." His voice cracked on the last word. "You're choosing to leave because you're scared. That's not the same as having to."

"Maybe not. But I can't live like this anymore." You grabbed your bag from the counter, your vision blurring. "I'm sorry, Gen. I'm so sorry."

"Don't." He didn't move. Didn't reach for you. His voice went flat, the way it did when he was shutting down, and you knew—you knew—that if you walked out that door, you'd be proving every terrible thing he'd ever believed about himself. "If you're going to leave, just leave."

You left.

That was three months ago. October. The leaves were turning then, red and gold and beautiful, and you walked out of his apartment and into a world that suddenly felt completely colourless.

November was a blur. You threw yourself into work. You deleted his number, then undeleted it, then deleted it again. You blocked him on social media, then spent hours scrolling through his public page, watching his face appear in photos from Defense Force press events. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But he was still smiling that sharp, lazy smile, and you wondered if he'd already moved on, if he'd already found someone who could handle the weight of loving him.

December arrived with snow and silence. The city dressed itself in fairy lights and holiday displays, and you walked through it all like a ghost, untouched and untouchable. Your friends stopped asking what happened. Your mother stopped suggesting you "get back out there." Everyone had accepted that you were different now. Quieter. Dimmer. A light with the switch flipped off.

It's the little things that break you. Not the big, dramatic moments—you'd prepared for those. You'd expected to feel grief. You'd expected to cry. What you hadn't expected was the way your chest would seize up every time you passed a gaming store. The way you'd hear a laugh in a crowd and turn around, searching for a face you knew wasn't there. The way you'd reach for your phone to text him something stupid—a meme, a complaint about your boss, a picture of a pigeon you'd named Kevin 3—and then remember you couldn't. Not anymore.

You missed his hands. The way they dwarfed yours, warm and calloused, always reaching. You missed the way he'd drape himself over you on the couch, all lazy weight and complaining about your movie choices. You missed the way he said your name like it was a punchline to a joke only he understood. You missed his smile—that real smile, the one he only gave you, the one that transformed his whole face and made him look like the boy he must have been before the world got its hands on him.

You missed everything.

On December 12th, you found one of his hoodies in the back of your closet.

It was grey, worn soft, the First Division logo faded across the back. He'd left it at your place months ago, before the breakup, and you'd forgotten to give it back. Or maybe you'd deliberately not given it back. Maybe you'd buried it in the closet hoping you'd forget it was there, because getting rid of it felt like getting rid of him, and you weren't ready. You'd never be ready.

You pressed the fabric to your face. It still smelled like him. Faintly, after all this time—the cheap deodorant he always used, the faint ozone of his combat suit. The scent hit you like a physical blow, and suddenly you were crying, ugly and gasping, your knees hitting the closet floor.

You'd made a mistake. The biggest mistake of your life. And you'd been too proud, too scared, too stubborn to admit it.

You left the apartment before you could talk yourself out of it.

The First Division base was on the other side of the city. You'd never been there—Gen had always come to you, saying it was easier for him to leave work than for you to deal with the security protocols. You didn't know if he'd even be there. You didn't know if he'd agree to see you. You didn't know anything except that you couldn't spend one more night in your apartment with his hoodie and your regret and the ghost of a voice you were starting to forget.

The guard at the gate recognized your name. "You're not on the list anymore," he said, not unkindly.

"I know. Can you just—can you tell him I'm here? Please? If he doesn't want to see me, I'll leave. I promise."

The guard made a call. You stood in the cold, snowflakes catching in your hair, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples. Minutes passed. Five. Ten. You were starting to lose feeling in your fingers.

Then the gate buzzed open.

Hasegawa was waiting for you inside. His expression was guarded—not hostile, but not warm either. The expression of someone who'd watched his captain fall apart over the last three months and wasn't eager to see it happen again.

"He's in the training room," Hasegawa said. "He's been there all day. He's not—" He paused. "He's not doing great. In case that wasn't obvious."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you left, and he didn't say anything, but he stopped playing his games. He stopped streaming. He shows up to briefings on time and doesn't complain." Hasegawa's voice was flat. "Do you know how terrifying that is? Gen Narumi showing up on time and not complaining?"

"It's like a sign of the apocalypse."

"Exactly. So whatever you're here to do, whatever you're here to say—" He fixed you with a hard stare. "Don't make it worse."

"I'm here to fix it. If he'll let me."

Hasegawa held your gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, just once, and stepped aside.

The training room was empty except for him.

Gen was at the far end, running combat simulations. You could see the holographic kaiju flickering across the room, could hear the sharp crack of his numbers weapon as it connected with each target. He was moving faster than necessary, harder than necessary, his form aggressive and unguarded in a way that would have gotten him killed in a real fight.

"Gen."

He didn't stop. Didn't turn. Just kept fighting, his shoulders rigid, his movements sharp.

"Gen, please."

"Why are you here?" His voice was hoarse. Wrecked. He still wasn't looking at you. "If you're here to tell me you're okay, you can leave. I already know you're okay. Hoshina told me. He said you were doing fine."

"Gen—"

"Three months. You didn't call. You didn't text. You just—" He finally stopped, his weapon lowering, his chest heaving. "You just left. And I waited. Like an idiot. I waited for you to come back. And you didn't."

You took a step forward. He took a step back. The distance between you felt like a canyon.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I'm so sorry. I was wrong. I was scared and I was wrong and I've spent every single day since October regretting it."

"Regretting what?"

"Leaving you."

The words hung in the air. Gen stared at you. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, his hair a disaster. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He looked like he'd been hollowed out from the inside.

"You said you couldn't do it," he said. "You said you couldn't handle my life."

"I know what I said."

"And now you're back."

"I'm back."

"Why?"

"Because I can't handle my life without you." Your voice cracked. "I tried. I tried so hard. I told myself it was better this way. Safer. I told myself I'd find someone else, someone normal, someone who didn't make me feel like my heart was going to stop every time they walked out the door." You took a shaky breath. "But there's no one else. There's never going to be anyone else. You're it, Gen. You're it for me. And I'd rather be terrified every day of losing you than spend one more day without you."

Gen's jaw tightened. "You don't mean that."

"I do."

"You're just lonely. Or guilty. Or—"

"I mean it." You stepped closer, and this time he didn't move away. "I miss your voice. I miss your stupid jokes. I miss the way you complain about everything and never do the dishes. I miss the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. I miss your hands. I miss your smile—your real smile, the one you only gave me." You were crying now, tears freezing on your cheeks. "I miss everything. Every single thing. And I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve a second chance. But I'm here anyway, because I love you. I've always loved you. And I was an idiot to think I could just walk away from that."

The silence that followed was so long, so heavy, that you felt it pressing against your lungs.

Then Gen laughed. It was a broken, wet sound, half-laugh and half-sob, and he dragged a hand down his face.

"You're an idiot," he said.

"I know."

"The biggest idiot. Worse than me."

"I know."

"I'm a captain. I fight kaiju. I could die any day." His voice splintered. "You're right to be scared. You've always been right to be scared. But I can't—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I can't do this if you're going to leave again. I can't keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I've done that my whole life. I'm not doing it with you."

"I'm not going to leave again. I promise. I swear on—" A wet laugh escaped you. "On Muremaru. On every slime in every game. I swear."

Something shifted in his expression. A crack in the mask. A thaw.

"Slime promises are sacred," he said quietly.

"I know. That's why I made one."

He stared at you for a long moment. Then he crossed the remaining distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face, his palms warm against your frozen cheeks.

"You're freezing," he said.

"I've been standing outside for like twenty minutes."

"Idiot."

"You said that already."

"I'm saying it again." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone. "I missed you. Every day. Every stupid day. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't play my games. I kept reaching for my phone to text you and then remembering—"

"That I was gone."

"Yeah." His voice dropped. "That you were gone."

"I'm not gone anymore."

"You'd better not be." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Because I don't think I can do this again. The leaving. The silence. I need you to stay. Even when it's hard. Even when you're scared."

"I will. I promise."

"And I need you to tell me when you're scared. Instead of just running."

"I will."

"And I need you to—" He broke off, a laugh catching in his throat. "I had a whole speech prepared. For if you ever came back. I've been workshopping it for months."

"You've been workshopping a speech?"

"With Hasegawa. He said it needed 'emotional sincerity.'"

"Can I hear it?"

"No. It's terrible. I forgot all the good parts." He kissed your forehead. "Just—stay. That's all I want. Stay."

"I'm staying."

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you so tightly you could barely breathe. His heart was hammering under your ear, fast and unsteady, and his face was buried in your hair, and he was shaking. Gen Narumi, the strongest captain in the Defense Force, was shaking in your arms.

"I love you," he said, muffled against your hair. "I know I don't say it enough. But I do. I love you so much it's actually annoying."

"I love you too."

"Good. Because I'm not letting you go again. Ever. You're stuck with me."

"Stuck with you," you repeated, and smiled against his chest. "That's all I want."

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the training room was quiet, the simulation long since shut down. Gen pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes still red, his ears still pink, his smile crooked and real and completely, perfectly his.

"Hey," he said. "Do you want to get ramen? There's a place near the base. It's terrible. You'll hate it."

"That's your pitch? Terrible ramen?"

"It's the only pitch I have."

You laughed, bright and wet and completely unguarded. "Okay. Terrible ramen. But you're paying."

"Obviously. I'm the one with the captain's salary." He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Player two?"

"Player two."

2. You wake to his warm weight settling between your legs, his chin propped on your stomach so he can watch you slowly come to wakefulness.

He may flick your nose and grin as he compliments your 'radiant' morning face. Even in the most tender moments, Soshiro is an inescapable and ruthless tease.

3. You wake, disoriented, perhaps after a fleeting and disturbing dream, to the full length of his back pressed to yours. It's grounding, warm, and you often drift back to sleep, finding reassurance in the slow cadence of his breathing.

4. He rouses you by nibbling on your ear, or kissing your cheek softly. It's his favourite way to wake you when he wants to spend the day with you.

You must, of course, start early, so that every precious hour is bracketed, preserved, stolen moments of bliss layered between the golden mundanity of walking along a sun-warmed pavement, hand in hand.

5. Your head is tucked against his shoulder, one arm draped over his solid abdomen as the first light of dawn breaches the gap in the curtains.

He likes resting his chin on top of your head. It affirms his role as a protector, the contact assuaging any doubts about your safety. You're always most secure when you're with him, of course.

You half-wake to him slipping out from beneath you to get ready for work.

6. You wake fully, half an hour later, to the feel of him kissing the top of your head, the edges of his unbuttoned jacket draping cool against your skin. Every goodbye should be a proper one, after all.

7. You wake at midnight, or some other ungodly hour, to the feel of him climbing in beside you, his cool skin warming against yours.

For the first time that day, he shows his exhaustion, sighing and hissing slightly as you ease your hands over sore muscles, carefully feeling for the edges of bandages.

Soshiro never speaks of his pain, and you've taken it upon yourself to seek it out, to soothe it in the ways that only you can.

8. You wake to the sight of him, naked, the firm, sinuous lines of his bare back visible above the blanket where he lies sprawled out, in the kind of dreamless sleep that comes after a night of lovemaking.

His hair is tousled, mouth half open, deep breathing audible, a rare sight. He cracks one eye open the instant you brush his hair away from his brow, his smile lazy, content and utterly yours. 

Gen Narumi

1. A cold foot shoves against the back of your knee, the rest of Gen's body spread out away from you. This is how he sleeps when he's been restless, eager for a new challenge, until the desire inhabits him, body and soul. He dreams vividly, tossing and turning.

2. Gen can mimic a koala bear with frightening strength. His arms surround your waist as you sleep on your side, his head planting solidly against the middle of your back. It is his breathing that tickles you awake.

This usually occurs when he comes in tired from a mission. He knows he's going to wake you, but the weight and warmth of his body, the security of his arms, will lull you back soon enough.

3. After he's well fed, showered and ready to hit the hay, Gen can also resemble quite a fetching starfish, lying on his back, arms outstretched, light snoring waking you in the middle of the night.

There is, however, plenty of room on that chest for you lie on. Gen may tuck one arm around your shoulders as you sleep, nose buried in your hair.

4. You may wake up to an empty bed. Beating the next level on his new game is sometimes worth forfeiting sleep.

He's been surprisingly considerate, though, by shoving a pillow between your arms and bent knees. You've had a blissful sleep, and your annoyance evaporates when you find a steaming mug of coffee on the counter as he mutters over the muted sounds of the game.

5. You might wake up to cackling befitting a foggy Scottish moor before Macbeth makes an entrance, Gen's elbow lodged in your ribs.

He's posted something else on social media that has gone viral, and he's risen early to see the number of likes and comments. As soon as you're awake, he launches into a rundown of the highs and lows. His elbow stays wedged against your side, in case you fall asleep while he's gloating.

6. You rise a little late, and can tell, immediately, that he is pretending to be asleep. You play the game and shake him awake, aware that he was watching YOU sleep. He grumbles about how pushy you are, as if his voice isn't gruff with early morning tenderness.

7. Gen doesn't really have preferences on whether he's the 'big' or 'little' spoon. Both positions have their merits.

If it's post-coital, he's usually the big spoon. You wake up to his body pressed against yours, nose buried against the back of your neck, and impossibly soft kisses pressed to your shoulder.

This is Gen's most precious, private self, the face only you get to witness, and neither of you break the silence spun by unspoken intimacy. 

8. He brings you cup noodles and an onigiri in the morning. The scent wakes you, and if it doesn't, he waves the cup under your nose until the spice makes your nostrils twitch.

He calls it the breakfast of champions, and he would know, because he's the strongest in Japan, even when dressed in rarely-viewed fleece pyjamas with a bear embroidered on the front (they were comfortable).

Your arrival at Saint Catherine's wasn't announced with fanfare, wasn't marked by any particular significance that Narumi could discern from his position hunched over his Nintendo DS in the corner of the common room. You were just another teenager with a cardboard box of donations, probably some rich kid doing community service to pad out college applications. He'd seen dozens like you over the years—guilt-faced adolescents who would spend an afternoon here before returning to their intact families and functional lives.

You were talking to Sister Margaret, one of the caretakers who actually seemed to give a damn about her job, though Narumi had never seen the point in getting attached to any of the staff. They rotated out too frequently, moved on to better positions or burned out from the thankless work of managing society's cast-offs.

"Oh, that kid?" Sister Margaret was saying, following your gaze to where Narumi sat surrounded by a small crowd of younger children who watched with rapt attention as his fingers flew across the controls. "He's a bit of an outlier. He's a troublemaker—been suspended from school multiple times due to misconduct."

Narumi's jaw tightened imperceptibly, though his hands never stopped moving. Misconduct. As if defending himself from bullies who thought orphans made easy targets was some kind of moral failing. As if refusing to participate in group therapy sessions where they wanted him to share his feelings was somehow antisocial behavior.

"Really?" Your voice held a note of skepticism that made Narumi's ear twitch despite himself. "He doesn't look like a troublemaker."

Through his peripheral vision, he could see you studying him with an intensity that made something uncomfortable squirm in his chest. Most adults gave him a cursory glance and moved on, content to accept whatever the caretakers told them about the difficult children. But you were actually looking at him, taking in the way his shoulders curved protectively around his gaming device, the careful distance he maintained between himself and even the younger kids who clearly idolized him.

That boy? Gen thought with bitter amusement as Sister Margaret launched into her standard spiel about traumatized children and behavioral issues. A troublemaker? He wanted to laugh. If only she knew how many nights he'd spent mediating disputes between the younger kids, how many times he'd shared his limited allowance money to buy batteries for their broken toys, how carefully he'd crafted his reputation as the resident gaming expert just to give them something to look forward to.

But let her think what she wanted. Let them all think he was some kind of delinquent. It was easier than explaining that he'd learned early that emotional distance was the only reliable defense against disappointment.

Why does he look so sad? you wondered, tilting your head as you watched Gen attempt to explain the controls of his game to a cluster of eight-year-olds who hung on his every word. There was something in his posture, the careful way he held himself, that spoke of a deep loneliness he probably wasn't even aware of showing.

Looking back on it later, there was no particular reason Narumi should have found you interesting. You weren't special, weren't remarkable in any way that would typically catch his attention. You wore the same kind of clothes as every other teenager who showed up to drop off donations—jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than his monthly allowance, sneakers that had never walked through anything worse than suburban sidewalks.

He'd had multiple adults try to connect with him over the years, guidance counselors and social workers and well-meaning volunteers who all seemed to think they could crack his shell with the right combination of patience and therapeutic techniques. All of them had been shut down, dismissed with the cold efficiency he'd perfected over years of practice.

He simply didn't care about their efforts to help him. Why should he? It wasn't like he'd grown attached to any of the orphanages he'd been shuffled through—Saint Catherine's was just the latest in a series of temporary stops, each one passing him off to the next when he became too much trouble to handle. He'd learned to survive on his own strength; none of them had done a thing for him except provide basic food and shelter.

And you were definitely no different. What good would approaching him do? Were you trying to prove that you could reach the unreachable kid? What a waste of time.

But then you did something unexpected.

Instead of launching into some prepared speech about being there if he needed to talk or understanding what he was going through, you simply walked over and crouched down beside his makeshift gaming circle.

"Is that the new Fire Emblem?" you asked casually, nodding toward his DS screen where he was in the middle of a particularly challenging tactical battle.

Narumi's fingers stilled on the controls. He looked up at you properly for the first time, taking in your face with the same analytical intensity he applied to everything else. You didn't have the artificially bright smile that most volunteers wore, didn't seem to be performing kindness for an invisible audience. You just looked... curious.

"Yeah," he said slowly, suspicion threading through his voice. "You play?"

"My little brother does. He's been stuck on this same level for weeks, keeps complaining that the enemy AI is cheating." You settled more comfortably on the floor, seemingly unbothered by the stares of the younger children who weren't used to seeing teenagers willingly sit in their circle. "He's ten," you added, "and absolutely convinced that he's going to be a professional gamer when he grows up."

Something in Narumi's chest loosened slightly. You weren't here to save him or fix his trauma—you were just making conversation about something he actually cared about. It was such a foreign concept that he didn't know quite how to respond.

"The AI isn't cheating," he said finally, turning the screen so you could see his battle formation. "Your brother's probably not managing his resources properly. See, if you position your units like this..."

For the next twenty minutes, Narumi found himself explaining advanced gaming strategies to someone who actually listened, who asked intelligent questions and didn't once mention his situation or try to psychoanalyze his attachment to fictional characters. You even laughed at his dry commentary about the game's more ridiculous plot points, a sound that made something warm unfurl in his chest before he ruthlessly stomped it back down.

When you finally had to leave, you simply said, "Thanks for the tips. I'll have to pass them along to my brother—though he'll probably accuse you of showing off."

"I don't show off," Narumi replied automatically, then paused as he realized he was almost smiling. "I just don't see the point in doing something badly."

"Hmm." You studied his face with that same thoughtful expression from before. "I'll be back next week with more donations. Maybe you could show me that tactical formation thing again? My brother would never believe me if I tried to explain it myself."

And then you were gone, leaving Narumi staring at the spot where you'd been sitting and wondering why the common room suddenly felt so much emptier.

...

You kept your promise. The following week, you returned with another box of your brother's outgrown clothes and a genuine interest in hearing about Narumi's latest gaming achievements. You didn't make a big production of it, didn't announce your intentions to help the troubled orphan boy. You simply settled beside him on the floor and asked about his progress in Fire Emblem as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"My brother says you're probably making up those completion times," you said teasingly as Narumi demonstrated a particularly complex strategy involving multiple character classes and carefully timed special attacks. "He thinks it's impossible to beat the final boss in under twenty minutes."

Narumi's eyes narrowed, a competitive gleam sparking to life. "Your brother doubts my skills?"

"Well," you said diplomatically, "he's never actually seen you play. For all he knows, you could be some kind of gaming urban legend."

That got a reaction. Narumi spent the next hour proving every claim he'd made, his fingers flying across the controls with a precision that bordered on artistry. The younger children had long since wandered off to other activities, but you remained focused on his demonstration, occasionally asking questions that proved you were actually paying attention.

"Okay," you said when he finally paused to catch his breath, "I'm convinced. You're definitely not making this up."

Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in Narumi's chest at your obvious admiration. When was the last time someone had been genuinely impressed by his abilities? The caretakers praised him for academic achievements with the same lukewarm enthusiasm they showed everyone, and his classmates either ignored him or viewed his success as grounds for resentment. But you were looking at him like he'd just performed magic.

"It's not that impressive," he said, but the protest lacked his usual bite.

"My brother would probably cry if he heard you say that." You grinned, and Narumi found himself fascinated by the way your whole face transformed with genuine amusement. "He thinks gaming is the highest form of art."

"Smart kid," Narumi murmured, then caught himself. When had he started... enjoying these conversations?

Over the following weeks, you established a pattern. Every afternoon, you'd arrive with donations and seek him out wherever he happened to be lurking. Sometimes you'd find him in the common room with his usual gaming circle, sometimes tucked away in the library where he'd discovered they had a surprisingly decent collection of comics, occasionally hidden in the small courtyard behind the building where he liked to practice his handheld gaming in natural light.

You never seemed put off by his initial prickliness, never took his sardonic comments personally or tried to correct his attitude. Instead, you met his defensive sarcasm with gentle teasing, his skeptical questions with patient answers, his obvious hunger for recognition with the kind of casual praise that didn't feel like pity.

"You know," you said one afternoon as you watched him absolutely destroy a boss battle that had been giving him trouble for days, "you'd probably be really good at chess. It's the same kind of strategic thinking, just without the flashy graphics."

Narumi's paused his game to give you a look of profound disbelief. "Chess is for old people."

"Chess is for people who like winning," you corrected. "Besides, doesn't your favorite Fire Emblem character use chess metaphors for like half his battle dialogue?"

"...That's different."

"Uh-huh." You were clearly trying not to smile. "What if I brought a chess set next week? Just to see if you're as good at it as you are at tactical RPGs."

"I don't need to prove anything to you," Narumi said automatically, but there was no real hostility in it. It was more like a reflex, the same way he might duck if someone threw something at his head.

"Of course not," you agreed easily. "I just thought it might be fun. My brother's been begging me to learn so he has someone to play with besides our dad, who lets him win constantly."

Fun?

"...Fine," he said finally, trying to ignore the way his pulse had picked up speed. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

Your smile was brighter than sunshine. "I wouldn't dream of it."

...

True to your word, you arrived with a magnetic travel chess set tucked under your arm alongside your usual donation box. Narumi had spent the entire week pretending he wasn't looking forward to seeing you, maintaining his routine of academic excellence and social isolation while trying to ignore the strange anticipation that seemed to be building in his chest.

It doesn't mean anything, he told himself as he found excuses to linger in the common room around the time you usually arrived. She's just another volunteer who'll get bored and move on eventually.

But when you walked through the front door and immediately sought him out with your eyes, when your face lit up the moment you spotted him hunched over his DS in the corner, something in Narumi's chest did a little flip that he absolutely refused to acknowledge.

"Ready to have your ego crushed?" you asked cheerfully as you set up the chess board on a nearby table.

"You're awfully confident for someone who's never seen me play," Narumi replied, but he was already moving toward the table with more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything in months.

The game that followed was a revelation. You weren't a particularly skilled chess player—your strategy was decent but predictable, your endgame weak—but you were engaged in a way that Gen had never experienced before. You asked questions about his moves, complimented his tactics even when they were being used to dismantle your defenses, and laughed delightedly when he pulled off a particularly elegant checkmate sequence.

"Okay," you said as you surveyed the board where your king lay definitively defeated, "that was embarrassing. But also kind of amazing? How did you see that fork coming six moves ago?"

Narumi felt heat crawl up his neck at the genuine admiration in your voice. "It's just... pattern recognition," he said, using his standard explanation while trying to ignore how pleased your praise made him feel. "Once you understand the underlying patterns, chess becomes fairly predictable."

"Right, 'fairly predictable,'" you repeated dryly. "I'm sure that's what every chess grandmaster tells themselves."

"I'm not a grandmaster."

"Yet, want to play again?" you asked, already resetting the board. "Maybe this time I'll last longer than fifteen minutes."

They played three more games, each one ending in decisive victory for Narumi but somehow feeling less like conquest and more like... fun. You celebrated his clever moves even when they were destroying your position, asked him to explain his thought process, treated each defeat as a learning experience rather than a source of frustration.

By the time Sister Margaret announced that visiting hours were ending, Narumi realized he'd spent the entire afternoon smiling.

"Same time next week?" you asked as you packed up the chess set, your tone carefully casual in a way that suggested his answer mattered more than you were letting on.

"If you want," Narumi said, aiming for indifference and missing by several miles. "I mean, someone has to teach you proper endgame technique."

Your smile was radiant. "It's a date."

Narumi spent the next week replaying that phrase in his mind, analyzing it from every possible angle. *It's a date.* Obviously you hadn't meant it romantically—you were sixteen to his twelve, practically an adult compared to his awkward pre-teen existence. But there had been something in your tone, a warmth that suggested you genuinely enjoyed spending time with him.

Why? he wondered as he lay awake staring at the ceiling of his shared dormitory room. What could you possibly get out of these visits? You weren't earning community service hours, weren't affiliated with any religious organization, weren't studying child psychology or social work. You just... came. Every week, without fail, bringing donations that seemed almost secondary to the time you spent talking to him about games and the kind of random topics that had never interested the adults in his life.

For the first time since his parents died, Narumi found himself looking forward to something.

...

Friday became the highlight of Narumi's week, though he would have rather died than admit it out loud. He developed elaborate pretenses for his anticipation—telling himself he was just eager to demonstrate his intellectual superiority, or that he enjoyed having someone to talk to.

You, for your part, seemed to sense the shift in his attitude without commenting on it directly. You began staying longer during your visits, sometimes arriving early with the excuse of wanting to help sort donations but really just to spend more time talking with him. You started bringing things specifically chosen with his interests in mind—new puzzle games, even a gaming magazine subscription that you claimed your brother had "grown out of" but Narumi suspected you'd bought specifically for him.

The truth was becoming harder to ignore with each passing week: Narumi was falling for you. Hard.

It was ridiculous, he knew. You talked about high school drama and college applications and part-time jobs—adult concerns that felt impossibly distant from his world of dormitory curfews and supervised study halls. You had a life outside these walls, friends who didn't know his name, experiences he could barely imagine.

But knowledge of the impossibility didn't make his feelings any less real.

He noticed everything about you now—the way you unconsciously tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating on a chess move, the soft sound of your laughter when he made one of his dry observations about the other children, the gentle patience in your voice when you explained some concept from your world that he didn't understand. He memorized the exact shade of your eyes, the way your face lit up when you walked into the common room and spotted him in his usual corner.

Narumi had never experienced attraction before—had barely understood the concept beyond clinical definitions in health textbooks. But whatever this feeling was, this constant awareness of your presence, this desperate hunger for your attention and approval, it was consuming him from the inside out.

He started having dreams about you. Innocent ones, mostly—fantasies where he was older, where the age gap didn't matter, where you looked at him with something more than fond affection. Dreams where he was tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with you, confident enough to tell you how he felt, worthy enough to deserve your romantic attention.

He'd wake from these dreams with his heart racing and shame burning in his chest. What kind of pathetic kid develops feelings for someone so obviously out of his league? What kind of delusional fantasy was he living in?

But then it would come, and you'd walk through those doors with that bright smile reserved just for him, and all his rational self-criticism would evaporate like morning mist.

"My brother finally beat that level you helped him with," you said, settling beside him on the floor where he was demonstrating advanced combos to his audience of younger kids. "He's been bragging about it to everyone who'll listen. I think you've created a monster."

"Good," Narumi said, pleased despite himself. "Confidence is important in gaming. Too many players second-guess themselves and lose opportunities."

"Speaking of confidence," you said with a teasing smile, "he's been asking if he can meet you sometime. He's convinced you're some kind of gaming legend."

Narumi's heart did a complicated flip at the thought of meeting your family, of being invited into that part of your life. But the rational part of his brain immediately began cataloging all the ways such a meeting could go wrong.

"He wouldn't be impressed," Narumi said, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm just better at pattern recognition than most people."

"Right, and Mozart was just better at pressing piano keys than most people." You rolled your eyes affectionately. "You know, false modesty doesn't suit you. You're allowed to acknowledge that you're exceptional at things."

Exceptional. The word sent warmth flooding through Gen's chest, even as he tried to maintain his composure. Coming from you, praise felt like sunlight after months of winter.

"Your brother sounds like he has good taste in role models," he said, aiming for casual and missing by several miles.

"He does," you agreed, and there was something in your tone that made Narumi look up sharply. You were studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to recognize, but there was something new underneath it—a kind of careful consideration that made his pulse quicken.

"Narumi," you said slowly, "can I ask you something?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"What do you want to do when you get out of here? I mean, long-term. Have you thought about careers, or college, or...?"

The question caught him off guard. Most adults who bothered asking about his future did so in the context of immediate practicalities—what high school he wanted to attend, what subjects he should focus on, what kind of part-time job he might be suited for. But you were asking about dreams, about the kind of life he wanted to build for himself.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I've never really thought that far ahead."

It was a lie, but a necessary one. The truth was that Narumi had elaborate fantasies about his future, detailed plans that always seemed to revolve around becoming someone worthy of your attention. Sometimes he imagined becoming a professional gamer, achieving the kind of fame and recognition that would make you proud to know him. Sometimes he pictured himself as a successful businessman or scientist, accomplished enough to offer you the kind of life you deserved.

But he could never voice these dreams, could never admit that every vision of his future included you in some capacity.

"You should," you said gently. "You're too smart and too talented to just drift through life without a plan. You could do anything you set your mind to."

"Anything?" Narumi asked before he could stop himself.

"Anything," you confirmed with absolute certainty.

For a moment, Narumi allowed himself to imagine telling you the truth—about his feelings, about the dreams that revolved around you, about the way your weekly visits had become the center of his entire world. For a moment, he let himself wonder what you might say if you knew how completely you'd captured his twelve-year-old heart.

But reality crashed back down before he could work up the courage to speak. You were sixteen, practically an adult. You had your own life, your own plans, your own future that didn't include a damaged orphan boy with an inappropriate crush.

"I should probably figure that out," he said instead, his voice carefully neutral.

"You've got time," you said with that gentle smile that made his chest ache. "But when you do decide, I hope you'll aim high. You deserve good things, Narumi."

I deserve you, he thought but didn't say. Instead, he nodded and returned his attention to his DS, trying to ignore the way your casual faith in his potential made him feel simultaneously hopeful and heartbroken.

...

The conversation about his future lingered in Narumi's mind over the following weeks, mixing with his growing awareness of your approaching departure to create a constant undercurrent of anxiety. You'd mentioned that your family would be moving next fall, which meant you had maybe six months left of visits. Six months before you disappeared from his life forever.

The thought was unbearable.

Narumi found himself trying to memorize everything about your time together—he started hoarding these moments like a dragon hoarding treasure, desperate to collect enough memories to sustain him through the loneliness that would follow your departure.

But then you said something that changed everything.

"I've been thinking about what I want to do after graduation," you mentioned casually during one of your visits, setting up the chess board with practiced efficiency. "My parents want me to apply to traditional colleges, but I'm considering something different."

"Like what?" Narumi asked, though he was only half-listening. He was too busy watching the graceful movements of your hands as you arranged the pieces, trying to commit every detail to memory.

"The Defense Force," you said, and suddenly you had his complete attention.

Narumi's hands stilled on his own pieces. "The Defense Force?"

"Yeah." You looked up with that bright smile that never failed to make his heart skip. "I know it sounds crazy, but I've been reading about their recruitment programs, and they're actually looking for people to apply."

The Defense Force. The elite military organization responsible for protecting Japan from kaiju threats. It was dangerous work, the kind of career that came with a high mortality rate and no guarantees of coming home alive.

Narumi felt something cold and sharp twist in his stomach. "That's... that's dangerous."

"Well, yeah," you said with the casual fearlessness that only someone who'd never faced real danger could possess. "But it's also important. And the training programs are supposed to be incredible—they teach you everything from advanced combat techniques to disaster management to emergency medical care. Plus, the benefits are amazing, and they help pay for continuing education."

You were excited about this. Narumi could see it in the way your eyes lit up, in the animated gestures you made as you described the recruitment materials you'd been studying. This wasn't some idle fantasy—you were seriously considering risking your life to fight monsters.

The rational part of Narumi's brain understood that you had every right to make your own choices about your future. You were intelligent and capable and perfectly qualified to make decisions about your own life. But the part of him that had grown to depend on your weekly visits, the part that had started building fantasies around a future that included you, was screaming in protest.

"What about college?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled. "You said your parents wanted you to apply to universities."

"They do. But I think I want something more... immediate? More real?" You paused in your chess setup to look at him directly. "College feels like just more school, you know? Four more years of sitting in classrooms and writing papers about things other people discovered. The Defense Force would be different. It would be contributing to something that actually matters."

Narumi wanted to argue. He wanted to list all the reasons why joining the Defense Force was a terrible idea, all the safer career paths that would keep you alive and close to Tokyo. He wanted to beg you to reconsider, to choose something that wouldn't take you away from him permanently.

But he was twelve years old and you were sixteen, and he had no right to try to influence your life decisions. He had no right to any opinion about your future at all.

"That's... really cool," he said instead, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

"You think so?" Your face lit up with pleasure at his apparent approval. "I was worried you might think it was stupid or reckless."

"I think you'd be good at it," Narumi said, because it was true even though it made his chest ache. "You're smart and... and brave."

"Brave?" You laughed, but there was a pleased flush spreading across your cheeks. "I don't know about brave. Maybe just tired of feeling useless."

Useless? Narumi stared at you in genuine bewilderment. How could you possibly think you were useless? You, who had single-handedly transformed his entire world just by showing up and caring about him? You, who had given him the first taste of genuine friendship he'd ever experienced?

"You're not useless," he said, the words carrying more intensity than he'd intended. "You're... you're the most important person I know."

The confession slipped out before he could stop it, carrying way too much emotion for what was supposed to be a casual conversation between friends. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as he realized what he'd revealed.

You were quiet for a long moment, studying his face with that thoughtful expression that always made him feel simultaneously seen and terrified. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than usual.

"Narumi," you said carefully, "you know that our friendship isn't going to end just because I join the Defense Force, right? I mean, it might be harder to visit regularly, but—"

"It's fine," Narumi interrupted, unable to bear whatever kind platitude you were building up to. "I understand. You have your own life to live."

"That's not what I meant—"

"I know what you meant." His voice came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way it always got when he felt vulnerable. "You're trying to be nice about the fact that you're leaving. But you don't have to pretend that we'll stay in touch afterward. I'm not stupid."

"Gen—"

"Can we just play chess?" he asked, already moving his first pawn with jerky, agitated movements. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say about the subject, but something in his expression must have warned you off. Instead, you made your own opening move and settled into the familiar rhythm of the game.

But the easy companionship of previous weeks was gone, replaced by an undercurrent of tension that made every move feel weighted with unspoken meaning. Narumi played more aggressively than usual, sacrificing pieces in risky gambits that reflected his internal emotional state. You responded with unusual defensiveness, as if you were trying to protect something precious from his attacks.

The game ended in stalemate—the first time neither of you had achieved a clear victory.

"Good game," you said quietly as you began putting the pieces away.

"Yeah," Narumi replied, though it had been anything but.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with all the things neither of you was saying. Finally, you cleared your throat.

"I haven't made any final decisions yet," you said. "About the Defense Force, I mean. I'm still researching, still thinking things through."

Narumi nodded without looking up from the chess board. "Whatever you choose," he said finally, "I hope it makes you happy."

It was the truth, even though it felt like swallowing glass to say it.

...

You continued your visits, but there was a new awkwardness between you that hadn't existed before. Narumi found himself holding back, afraid that too much enthusiasm or attachment would make his feelings obvious. You seemed to be doing the same, treating him with a careful gentleness that suggested you were aware of his emotional state even if you didn't fully understand it.

The easy intimacy of previous months was replaced by polite conversation. Narumi hated it, missed the natural flow of your interactions, but he didn't know how to bridge the gap without revealing more than he was prepared to share.

Then, in early spring, you arrived with news that shattered his carefully maintained emotional control.

"I got accepted," you said without preamble, your face glowing with excitement and pride. "Into the Defense Force training program. I start basic training right after graduation."

Narumi felt the world tilt sideways. He'd known this was coming, had been preparing himself for months, but the reality of it still hit him like a physical blow. You were really leaving. Not just moving to another city with your family, but joining an organization that would consume your entire life, that would train you to fight monsters and risk your life for strangers.

"Congratulations," he managed, his voice sounding strange and distant even to his own ears.

"Thank you!" You were practically vibrating with excitement, clearly having expected a more enthusiastic response. "I still can't believe it, honestly. The application process was so competitive, and the physical requirements were insane, but I made it. I'm actually going to be a Defense Force officer."

Narumi should have felt proud of you. Should have shared in your excitement, celebrated this achievement that clearly meant so much to you. Instead, all he could feel was a crushing sense of loss, as if you'd already disappeared from his life despite sitting right in front of him.

"When do you leave?" he asked.

"Training starts in June, so I'll be finishing up my visits here in a few weeks." Your excitement dimmed slightly as you seemed to remember the implications for your friendship. "I'm really going to miss our Fridays together."

Miss. As if your time together was already in the past, already relegated to fond memories rather than living reality.

"Yeah," Narumi said quietly. "Me too."

You reached across the table and squeezed his hand, the contact sending familiar electricity racing up his arm. "Hey, this doesn't have to be goodbye forever. I'll write when I can, and maybe once I'm settled in my assignment—"

"Don't." The word came out harder than Narumi had intended, cutting through your hopeful reassurances like a blade. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"But—"

"I'm happy for you," he said, pulling his hand free from yours and standing abruptly. "I really am. This is what you want, and you deserve to get what you want. But don't pretend that we're going to stay in touch afterward. We both know how these things work."

He was being unfair, he knew. You hadn't done anything wrong except pursue your dreams and try to soften the blow of your departure with kind intentions. But the pain of losing you was so acute that he needed to create distance, needed to start the process of emotional detachment before it destroyed him completely.

"That's not—" You stood as well, frustration clear in your voice. "Why are you being like this? I'm trying to tell you that our friendship matters to me, that I don't want to just disappear from your life."

"Because it's easier!" The words burst out of Narumi with more force than he'd intended, carrying months of suppressed emotion. "It's easier than pretending that you'll actually have time to think about some kid from an orphanage once you're busy saving the world. It's easier than hoping for letters that will never come and visits that will never happen."

You stared at him, clearly taken aback by his outburst. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with the weight of everything Narumi had revealed without meaning to.

"Is that really what you think of me?" you asked finally, your voice small and hurt. "That I would just... forget about you?"

The pain in your voice made Narumi's chest ache, but he couldn't take back what he'd said. Couldn't apologize for protecting himself from the inevitable disappointment of abandonment.

"I think you're sixteen years old and about to start the most important chapter of your life," he said quietly. "I think you'll meet new people and face new challenges and build a future that doesn't have room for Friday visits to an orphanage. And that's... that's okay. It's what's supposed to happen."

"I'm tired," he said, cutting off whatever reassurance you were building up to. "Can we just... can we not do this today? I need some time to think."

You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say on the subject. But something in his expression must have convinced you that pushing would only make things worse.

"Okay," you said softly. "But this conversation isn't over."

You gathered your things with careful, deliberate movements, clearly giving him time to change his mind or say something more. But Narumi remained frozen in place, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched you prepare to leave.

This was it, then. The beginning of the end.

He should let you go. Should accept that this was how things had to be, clean and final and rational. You would walk out that door and continue building your impressive life, and he would remain here in this liminal space between childhood and whatever came next, carrying the memory of your kindness like a secret treasure.

But as you shouldered your bag and turned toward the exit, something desperate and reckless unfurled in Narumi's chest. The careful emotional distance he'd been trying to maintain crumbled all at once, leaving him raw and exposed and terrifyingly vulnerable.

He couldn't let you leave like this. Not when there were so many things unsaid between you, not when this might be his last chance to—

"Wait."

The word escaped him before conscious thought could intervene, sharp and urgent in the quiet common room. You stopped immediately, turning back with surprise written across your features.

Narumi's heart was hammering against his ribs as he took a shaky step forward, then another. The younger children who'd been scattered around the room seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere, quietly migrating toward other activities and leaving the two of you in relative privacy.

"Wait," he repeated, quieter this time but no less intense. His hands were trembling—when had they started trembling?—and he shoved them deep into his pockets to hide the evidence of his emotional state.

"Narumi?" Your voice was gentle, concerned, but you made no move to come closer. Waiting for him to find whatever words were struggling to break free from his chest.

He stood there for a long moment, caught between the safety of silence and the terrifying possibility of honesty. Everything rational in his mind was screaming at him to step back, to let you go, to protect himself from the inevitable pain of hoping for something impossible.

But looking at you—really looking at your face, at the genuine care and confusion in your eyes—Narumi realized that the pain of never trying might be worse than the pain of rejection.

"I..." he started, then stopped, his voice catching on the magnitude of what he wanted to say. How did you tell someone they'd become your whole world? How did you explain that their weekly visits had transformed from pleasant distraction to vital necessity?

You waited, patient as always, giving him the space to stumble toward whatever truth was clawing its way out of his throat.

"The Defense Force training," he said finally, the words coming out stilted and awkward. "How long is it?"

"The basic training program is eighteen months," you replied carefully, clearly uncertain where this line of questioning was heading. "Then there's specialized training depending on your assignment, which can be another six months to two years."

Two to three and a half years. Narumi's mind raced through calculations—he'd be fifteen or sixteen by the time you finished training. Still younger than you, still probably too young for whatever he was thinking, but closer. Less impossibly distant than the gap that existed now.

"And after that?" he pressed, taking another step closer. "What happens after training?"

"Well, that depends on a lot of factors. Your performance, the needs of the organization, personal preferences..." You tilted your head, studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to treasure. "Why are you asking?"

This was it. The moment of truth, the point of no return. Narumi could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he forced himself to meet your eyes directly.

"Because I want you to wait for me."

The words hung in the air between you, bold and desperate and completely insane. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as the magnitude of what he'd just said hit him. Had he really just asked you—brilliant, accomplished, sixteen-year-old you—to put your life on hold for a twelve-year-old orphan with an inappropriate crush?

Your eyes widened in genuine shock. "Narumi..."

"I know how it sounds," he rushed on, his voice cracking with emotion and adolescent uncertainty. "I know I'm just some kid and you're about to start this amazing career and I have no right to ask anything of you. But I..." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. "I think I like you."

The confession hung between you like a live wire, crackling with dangerous energy. Narumi immediately wanted to take it back, to retreat into safer territory, but it was too late now. The truth was out there, raw and honest and completely terrifying.

"You think you like me?" you repeated slowly, your voice carefully neutral.

"I know I do," Narumi corrected, his voice growing stronger even as his hands continued to shake. "I know it's crazy and probably just some pathetic kid's first crush, but I can't help it. You're... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, your expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something else he couldn't quite identify. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than he'd expected.

"Narumi, you're twelve years old."

"I know." The words came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way he always got when people pointed out his age as if it invalidated everything he felt. "I know I'm twelve and you're sixteen and that makes this weird and impossible. I know you probably think I'm just some confused kid who doesn't understand the difference between friendship and romance."

"That's not—"

"But I do understand," he continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. "I understand that you're going to leave and become this incredible Defense Force officer and probably meet someone amazing who's actually age-appropriate and accomplished and everything I'm not. I understand that asking you to wait for me is selfish and unrealistic."

Narumi took one more step closer, close enough now that he could see the flecks in your eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of your perfume.

"But I'm asking anyway," he said quietly. "Because in three years I'll be fifteen, and in five years I'll be seventeen, and maybe by then the age difference won't matter so much. Maybe by then I'll be someone worth waiting for."

The silence that followed was deafening. Narumi could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the weight of your gaze as you processed his impossible request. He'd laid everything bare, offered up his heart with trembling hands, and now all he could do was wait for you to decide whether to cherish it or crush it.

"You want me to wait five years," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I want you to give us a chance," Narumi replied, his voice steadier now that the worst of the confession was behind him. "I want you to consider the possibility that what I feel for you might be real, even if I'm young. I want..." He swallowed hard, gathering the last of his courage. "I want you to think about whether you might be able to feel something for me too, someday."

You were quiet for a long moment, your eyes never leaving his face. Narumi held his breath, suspended between hope and terror as he waited for your response.

"You really mean this," you said, and it wasn't quite a question.

"I've never meant anything more in my life."

Something shifted in your expression then, surprise giving way to a kind of wonder that made Narumi's chest tight with desperate hope. You reached out slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.

When your fingers brushed against his head, Narumi's breath caught in his throat. Your touch was warm and soft and everything he'd dreamed about during those lonely nights in the dormitory.

"You're so young," you murmured, but there was no dismissal in your voice. Instead, there was something that sounded almost like regret.

"I won't always be," Narumi said, leaning slightly into your touch despite himself. "And you... you won't always be so far ahead of me."

You studied his face with that intense focus he'd come to associate with your chess games, as if you were trying to see several moves ahead into a future neither of you could quite imagine.

"Five years is a long time," you said finally. "A lot can change. We'll both change."

"I know." Narumi's voice was barely audible, but his gaze never wavered from yours. "But some things don't change. Some things are worth waiting for."

The moment stretched between you, heavy with possibility and the weight of an impossible decision. Narumi could see the internal struggle playing out across your features—logic warring with something else, something that made his heart race with desperate hope.

Finally, incredibly, you smiled. It was a small, uncertain thing, but it transformed your entire face in a way that made Narumi feel like he might actually float off the ground.

"You know what?" you said, your voice carrying a note of wonder that suggested you couldn't quite believe what you were about to say. "Okay."

"Okay?" Narumi's voice cracked on the word, hope and disbelief tangling in his chest.

"I'll wait," you said, and now your smile was growing brighter, more confident. "I mean, I can't promise that I'll still feel the same way in five years, or that you will. But... but you're right. You won't always be twelve, and I won't always be sixteen. And maybe..." You paused, seeming to gather your own courage. "Maybe there's something here worth exploring, when we're both ready for it."

Narumi felt something break open in his chest, a flood of emotion so intense it left him dizzy. You were saying yes. Not to romance, not now, but to possibility. To the chance that someday, when the timing was right, you might look at him and see not just the lonely orphan boy but someone worthy of your love.

"Really?" he whispered, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter this fragile moment.

"Really," you confirmed, your hand still warm against his head. "But I have conditions."

"Anything," Narumi said immediately, and he meant it. He would agree to anything that kept this possibility alive.

"You have to promise me that you'll focus on building your own life," you said seriously. "I don't want you putting everything on hold waiting for me. Get good grades, make friends, figure out who you want to be outside of this... whatever this is between us. Can you do that?"

Narumi nodded eagerly. "I promise."

"And you have to understand that I can't make any guarantees about how I'll feel when I see you again. People change, Narumi. What seems important at sixteen might not matter at twenty-one."

"I understand," he said, though privately he was certain that his feelings for you would never change, never fade. "But what if they don't? Change, I mean. What if we both still..."

"Then we'll figure it out when that time comes," you said gently. "But for now, this has to be enough. This promise, this possibility. Can you live with that?"

Could he live with the faint hope of someday rather than the crushing certainty of never? Could he survive on the promise of your consideration rather than demanding your immediate affection?

Looking into your eyes, seeing the genuine care and cautious optimism there, Narumi knew he could live with anything as long as it meant you'd be part of his future.

"Yes," he said simply. "I can live with that."

Your smile was radiant, transforming your entire face in a way that made Narumi's heart stutter in his chest. For just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like when you looked at him that way because you loved him back, because he was finally old enough and accomplished enough to deserve it.

"Then it's a deal," you said, extending your hand formally as if you were sealing a business arrangement rather than making the most important promise of his young life.

Narumi took your hand without hesitation, marveling at how perfectly it fit in his despite the size difference. Your skin was warm and soft, and he wanted to memorize every detail of this contact before you pulled away.

"Five years," he said, testing the words on his tongue.

"Five years," you agreed. "Give or take."

You held his gaze for another moment, and Narumi thought he saw something flicker there—affection, maybe, or the beginning of something deeper. But then you were stepping back, creating physical distance even as you maintained the emotional connection you'd just established.

"I should go," you said, glancing toward the door where Sister Margaret was making pointed gestures about visiting hours. "But I'll see you next week? For our last few visits?"

"You'll still come?" Narumi asked, unable to hide the relief in his voice.

"Of course I'll still come. We're friends, aren't we? Even if..." you gestured vaguely between the two of you, "even if there's this other thing too."

Friends. And something more, something with the potential to become everything he'd ever wanted. It wasn't perfect, wasn't the immediate reciprocation his heart craved, but it was infinitely more than he'd had that morning.

"Yeah," Narumi said, his voice steady despite the emotional upheaval of the last few minutes. "We're friends."

You shouldered your bag again, this time with none of the sad finality that had characterized your earlier departure attempt. Instead, there was something almost celebratory in your movements, as if you'd just made a decision that excited rather than worried you.

"Take care of yourself, Narumi," you said as you headed toward the exit. "And remember—focus on your own life first. I want to see what amazing things you accomplish while I'm gone."

He watched you walk away, his heart full to bursting with hope and determination and the overwhelming magnitude of your promise. You paused at the door to look back at him one last time, your smile soft and fond and full of possibilities.

"See you Friday," you called out, and then you were gone, leaving Narumi standing alone in the common room with his heart racing and his entire future suddenly, brilliantly rewritten.

Five years. He could do five years. He could become someone worthy of your love in five years.

After all, he'd already waited twelve years for you to walk into his life.

What was five more?

Woods don't forgive mistakes.

That's something every Guild member learns in their first year — not in a classroom, not from a manual, but from the particular way the trees close behind you when you venture past the marked boundaries. The way the light dies at a specific depth, like someone drew a curtain between the world you know and the one that wants you dead. Spectral Anomalies favor old growth. Something about the roots, Caldwell once theorized, his spectacles fogging as he scribbled in that battered notebook of his. Something about how long the dead have been rotting in one place.

You stopped listening to Caldwell's theories around year two. Not because they were wrong — they usually weren't — but because knowing why a thing wanted to kill you rarely changed whether it succeeded.

What you know, standing at the edge of the camp clearing with the smell of char and ozone still thick in your throat, is this: the mission ran four hours over, three Guild members are sitting with field-wrapped injuries ranging from mild to significant, the Anomaly they were sent to collapse is nothing but a dark stain on the soil now, and Narumi is standing in the center of the mud with blood matted into his two-toned hair and his eyes burning the wrong color.

Not the sharp magenta you know. Something deeper. Something feral.

The grey-streaked front of his hair is plastered to his temple. His shirt is gone — shredded, probably, somewhere between his third shift and his fourth, because Narumi never bothers to account for clothing when the wolf decides it's time. He's in that space he gets sometimes after a bad one. That in-between place where the man and the animal are still arguing over who gets to be in charge of the body, and neither side is winning cleanly.

His chest heaves. His fingers are curled at his sides — not fists, exactly, but close, the knuckles too pale under the blood and mud. His ears, slightly pointed in this state, are pinned back. Every Guild member within thirty feet is maintaining a very deliberate, very careful distance, which you clock as you step out from the tree line.

Yusuke is the first one to see you. He's got his arm in a makeshift sling — probably the shoulder again, that man has a gift for reinjuring the same three things — and his expression shifts from tightly wound anxiety to something that is not quite relief but is in the neighborhood of it.

"Thank the mountain," he breathes.

"He's been like this for twenty minutes," says Reika, not looking away from Narumi. She's crouched near the supply packs, one hand resting on the hilt of a blade she absolutely knows she won't use but clearly needs to feel under her palm. Her dark braid is half-undone, mud-spattered, and her jaw is set. "Collapsed the Anomaly beautifully, full shift, tore through the last cluster like they were paper — and then just. Didn't come back."

"Did anyone approach him?"

A short, weighted silence.

"Takeda tried," Yusuke says.

You look at Takeda, who is sitting against a log with his knees up and a strip of cloth pressed to a gash above his eyebrow. He raises his good hand in a small, philosophical wave. "Still have all my fingers," he offers. "Which I'm choosing to count as a win."

"Narumi didn't mean to —" Reika starts.

"Oh, I know he didn't mean to. That's not really the comfort you think it is, but sure." Takeda prods at the cut and winces. "Go get your handler, someone said. Great idea, someone said. Fastest runner, everyone said."

You're already walking.

Not quickly. That's the thing people never understand when they watch you with Narumi — the way you don't rush, don't brace, don't reach for anything. Speed reads as prey behavior. Urgency reads as threat. You learned that early, before the collar, before the formal Handler designation, when he was just the Guild's most infuriating new asset and you were the cervine spirit they'd assigned to keep him from destroying the north wing recreation room.

The mud pulls at your boots. The fire someone built at the edge of the clearing throws long shadows. Narumi's head snaps toward you the moment you clear the ten-foot perimeter his instincts have apparently staked out — and the sound that comes out of his chest is not human. Low, wet, resonant. The kind of sound that is a warning and a question and something frightened folded under both of those things.

You don't stop.

His eyes track you. The glow in them pulses — that deep, wrong-register magenta, the color his eyes go when the wolf is sitting too close to the surface for comfort. A muscle in his jaw jumps. His shoulders shift, weight redistributing, the instinct to lunge flickering visibly through him like a current.

You reach up and wrap your hand around his obsidian collar.

Not hard. Not with force. Just — your fingers curl under the carved edge of it, cool stone against your knuckles, and you feel the way it hums faintly with the binding work threaded through it. The enchantment recognizes you. It always does. And more importantly, so does he.

"Gen." Your voice is even. Level. The tone you use when you're telling him a fact about the world that he needs to accept. "Enough. Down."

For one breath, two — nothing.

Then it breaks.

It's not dramatic, the way it happens. No collapse, no shuddering — just a long, slow exhale that seems to come from somewhere deep in his sternum, and the glow in his eyes dims back to the sharp, familiar magenta, and the tension in his shoulders unknots by degrees until he's just standing there. Muddy. Blood-streaked. Exhausted in the way only a full-shift leaves a person.

He leans forward.

His forehead touches yours.

He breathes you in, slow and deliberate, the way he does when his heart rate is still running too fast and his hindbrain needs something to anchor to. You let him. You hold still, one hand still curled around his collar, and you listen to the change in his breathing — the raggedness of it smoothing out, the long inhale, the held pause, the release.

Behind you, you hear Yusuke let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in his chest for the last twenty minutes.

"You absolute disaster," you say quietly. Not unkindly.

Narumi makes a sound against your hair that might generously be interpreted as a scoff. "Finished the mission, didn't I."

"You also nearly took Takeda's face off."

"Takeda should've stayed back."

"Gen."

"Fine. I'll apologize." He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are fully his again — sharp and slightly annoyed and very, very tired, the way he always looks after a hard shift when he's trying to pretend the tiredness isn't there. There's a cut above his left eyebrow that's already knitting itself shut, the accelerated healing that comes with his bloodline doing its work. A bruise is forming along his jaw. "Is everyone alive?"

"Everyone's alive."

"Then it was a successful mission."

"We'll discuss your definition of successful later." You finally release the collar — slowly, letting your fingers trail the edge of the obsidian before you step back. "Can you walk?"

He gives you a look that communicates, with remarkable efficiency for a non-verbal expression, that he finds the question personally offensive. "I can run."

"I didn't ask if you could run, I asked if you could walk. Those are different questions with different implications."

"I'm fine."

"Your shirt is gone, you have someone else's blood on your collarbone, and you just spent four hours as a wolf. You're functional. You're not fine."

He stares at you for a moment. Something flickers behind his eyes — not the wolf this time, something more complicated, more human. Then he turns away, which is Narumi's version of conceding a point.

The walk back through camp is its own kind of ritual.

The Guild members give you a wide berth — not out of fear exactly, or not only fear, but the particular respectful distance people maintain around a situation they understand is being handled. Reika gives you a look as you pass that conveys a full paragraph of meaning: I'm glad you're here, this was a lot, we need to debrief, but not now. You answer it with a slight nod.

Takeda, to his credit, manages a thumbs up in Narumi's direction.

He doesn't look at him. But the set of his shoulders changes, fractionally, in a way that probably only you would read as guilt.

"He's fine," you say quietly, for Gen's ears only. "It's a surface cut."

"I know."

"He knows you didn't mean —"

"I know." His jaw tightens. He keeps walking. "I'll deal with it."

It's the most you'll get out of him on that subject right now, and you know better than to push. Narumi's relationship with his post-shift behavior is complicated in ways that took you the better part of two years to understand. He's not oblivious to it. He's not dismissive of it. He hates it — hates the gap in control, hates that the people around him have to manage around the wolf the way you manage around a loaded weapon. He just doesn't have a language for that discomfort that doesn't come out sideways, as deflection or bravado or the particular stony silence he's wearing right now.

You let him have it.

The Guild's north wing is quieter at this hour, the hallways lit by the soft gold of mana-lanterns that someone remembered to turn down to evening levels. Your shared quarters are at the far end — a concession the Guild made early, before you fully understood what the Handler arrangement would mean in practice, when they were mostly just hoping to keep Narumi from relocating the walls. The rooms are larger than standard issue: a main space, a washroom with a proper soaking tub because Narumi's post-mission recovery requires it, sleeping arrangements that evolved organically over two years into something the Guild's administrative structure wisely chooses not to examine too closely.

You close the door behind you both.

The sound of the camp, the fire, the low murmur of voices cataloguing injuries and breaking down equipment — all of it cuts off. The quiet is immediate and total. He stands in the middle of the room and doesn't move for a moment, just exists in the stillness like he's reminding himself it's available.

"Washroom," you say. Not a question.

"In a minute."

"Now."

He turns to look at you. That familiar expression — the one that is technically a protest but doesn't quite land as one because you both know how this goes. "I've been moving for four hours. Let me stand still for thirty seconds."

"You can stand still in the tub."

"That's not how standing still works —"

"Go."

"..."

He goes to the washroom.

The tub in your quarters is deep and wide, one of the Guild's older fixtures, the stone worn smooth from decades of use. You run it hot — hotter than most people would stand, but Narumi's thermoregulation runs high after a shift, that internal wolfish furnace burning through the metabolic cost of transformation. He strips what's left of his lower clothes without ceremony and lowers himself in, and the sound he makes when the heat reaches his shoulders is entirely involuntary and entirely incongruous with the image he spends so much effort maintaining.

You settle on the low wooden stool beside the tub and reach for the scrub brush.

"I can do that myself," he says.

"I know."

You hand him the soap and start on his back anyway. He goes still. There's a tension in him at first — that reflexive resistance to being tended to, the part of him that was raised to equate needing something with owing something — but it loosens as your fingers work through the knots in his trapezius, as the hot water does its work on the rest. The mud comes away in long grey-brown streaks. The blood underneath it, someone else's mostly, follows.

"Four hours," you say.

"Mm."

"You went to full shift at the ninety-minute mark."

"The standard partial wasn't doing enough damage."

"That's not the protocol."

He makes a sound. "The protocol assumes the Anomaly is operating at a predicted magnitude. This one wasn't."

"Which is information you had before you shifted fully. Which means it was a judgment call, not a necessity."

"It worked."

"I'm not arguing that it worked." You find a knot just below his shoulder blade and press into it with your thumb, and he hisses quietly. "I'm noting that you made a unilateral call four hours ago that resulted in you standing in a camp clearing snarling at your own teammates twenty minutes ago, and I'd like you to have one thought about the relationship between those two things."

A long silence. The water shifts as he resettles his weight.

"They were going to get to Reika," he says finally. Quieter. "The cluster that reformed on the east side. She didn't see it. Yusuke was down, Takeda was pulling him back, and she didn't see it, and the partial shift wasn't going to be fast enough."

You stop moving your hand.

The admission sits between you, heavy and unguarded in a way Narumi doesn't usually allow himself to be — not out loud, not in words. He's looking at the water. His profile in the low lamplight is all clean angles, the grey-streaked hair falling across his forehead, the cut above his eye a thin dark line, the jaw that seems to have a permanent setting of composed even now.

"You should have said that," you tell him. "In the debrief."

"I know."

"Not to justify the shift. To let Reika know why."

A muscle in his jaw moves. "She doesn't need to know why."

"Gen."

"It would be —" He stops. Starts again. "It would make it weird. She doesn't — I don't need her to feel like she owes me something because I —"

"She won't feel like she owes you. She'll feel like her partner was paying attention." You resume the slow work down his spine. "There's a difference."

He doesn't answer, which is not the same as disagreeing. You let it breathe.

Outside, the mountain wind has picked up, finding the gaps in the window frame the way it always does this time of year, a thin cold thread through the warm room. The lantern on the wall flickers. Narumi leans slightly into the pressure of your hand — unconscious, probably, or close enough to it that he'd deny it if you named it.

"The mission report's going to be a mess," he says eventually.

"I'll help you with it tomorrow."

"You always say that and then you make me do most of it."

"I make you do the parts that require you to reflect on your decisions, which is different from making you do most of it."

He actually makes a sound that is almost a laugh. Almost. Swallowed before it fully forms, but it's there, warm in the back of his throat. "You're annoying."

"You find that genuinely charming and it bothers you?"

"I find it tolerable."

You tug his collar. Not hard — just enough to feel, the obsidian shifting slightly against his throat. He goes quiet immediately, that particular quality of quiet that is different from silence, weighted and aware. You feel the change in him under your hands — the breath that hitches fractionally, the shoulders that drop a half-inch.

"Tolerable," you repeat.

"...fine," he says. Lower. "It's charming. Don't make it weird."

You work through the rest of him methodically — the long muscles of his arms, the back of his neck where the collar sits, the old scar tissue on his left side from a Spectral encounter in his second year that he still won't fully tell you the story of. He talks, now that the walls are down enough. It comes out in pieces, the way it always does after a hard mission: the part where the Anomaly split unexpectedly, the part where Yusuke went down, the particular frustration of watching your team work below their capability because the intelligence they were given was wrong.

You listen. You ask questions where they're useful. You don't fill the silences.

By the time the water cools enough that he admits it's cooled — which takes longer than it would with anyone else, wolf-warm as he runs — the worst of the blood haze is just a shadow. His eyes are steady magenta, sharp and present. He's tired in a clean way now, the metabolic debt of four hours catching up with him, and he rests his forearms on the edge of the tub while you work conditioner through the tangled mess of his hair with your fingers.

"You're doing the thing," he says.

"What thing."

"The thing where you're being patient and it somehow makes me feel worse about myself than being yelled at would."

"I know. That's why I do it."

"That's genuinely diabolical."

"Thank you." You work a particularly stubborn knot free near his temple. "You did well today, Gen. The team is alive. The Anomaly is closed. You came back." A pause. "That last part is the one I care most about."

He's quiet for a moment. His head tilts, very slightly, into your hands.

"You always lead with the mission outcomes," he says. "Like you have to establish that the work was good before you're allowed to say the other thing."

"Occupational habit."

"You don't have to do that with me." He's not looking at you. Eyes on the water, or the middle distance, somewhere else. "You can just — say the thing."

Your hands still in his hair.

"I'm glad you came back," you tell him. Simple. Direct. The way he actually needs things, under all the armor.

The line of his throat moves as he swallows. "Yeah," he says, very quietly. "Me too."

The moon has shifted position by the time he's out of the tub and dry and wrapped in one of the heavy Guild-issue robes, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hair still damp and his expression in that post-mission place it gets: not soft exactly, but quieter. More present than he usually allows himself to be.

You're at the small table by the window, reviewing the preliminary mission notes you'll need to turn into a report, when you hear him shift on the bed.

"Leave it," he says.

"It'll take me twenty minutes."

"Leave it." A pause. "Please."

You set down the pen.

The room is warm, lit by the low gold of the lantern on the bedside table. The mountain wind has settled to a murmur. You cross to where he's sitting and stand in front of him, and he looks up at you — that sharp, direct gaze he has when he's not performing anything, when the lazy irreverence is set aside and there's just him underneath.

The moon is up fully now, visible through the gap in the curtains. You feel it in him before you see it — the way his breathing shifts, something in the quality of his attention sharpening, warming. Post-mission, post-care, wolf instincts settling from the blade-edge of blood haze into something different. Something pointed in a specific direction.

He hasn't moved. He's just watching you.

"I'm going to take the collar off," you tell him, reaching for the clasp.

His hand comes up and catches yours.

Not forceful. Just — stops you. His fingers close over your wrist, thumb against your pulse point, and his eyes in the lamplight are beginning to glow again at the edges. Not the wrong-register deep burn of the blood haze. This is different. This is deliberate.

"Don't," he says.

"Gen —"

"I mean it." His thumb moves over your pulse, slow, feeling the rhythm of it. "Leave it on."

You look down at him. He looks up at you. The collar sits heavy and dark at his throat, the obsidian catching the light, the enchantment-work threading cool silver through the stone — and he is wearing the expression he almost never lets surface, the one that lives under the arrogance and the deflection and the lazy performance of not caring: the one that needs.

"Tell me what you want," you say.

His jaw tightens, then releases. The wolf and the man, both of them honest for once. "You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

A beat. Two. The glow in his eyes intensifies, warm and predatory and somehow simultaneously the most unguarded he ever looks.

"I want you to use it," he says.

Something settles into place.

You reach out and take the front of the collar in your hand — not the clasp, not to remove it, just hold it. The obsidian is warm from his skin. He watches your hand like it's the most important thing in the room.

"Lie back," you tell him.

He does.

Not because you forced him. Not because the enchantment compelled him. Because Narumi, underneath everything — all the battlefield competence and the arrogance and the magenta glare he turns on anyone who questions him — has made the decision, freely and deliberately, to belong to you in this room. The collar around his throat is not a cage. It is a declaration, worn by choice, honored by both of you.

He stretches back against the bedding, one arm bent under his head, and looks at you. The lamplight plays across the lean architecture of him — the long muscle of his chest and stomach, the collar dark against the column of his throat, the damp-dark fall of his two-toned hair against the pillow. He is catastrophically beautiful, in the way that very dangerous things sometimes are.

"Well?" he says. That familiar challenge in his voice, but stripped of its bite. Warm under it. Waiting.

You climb onto the bed and over him, settling your weight on his hips, and his hands move immediately to your waist — large and warm through the fabric of your clothes, fingers pressing in. The sound he makes is low and private.

"You're still dressed," he says.

"I'm aware."

"That's inconvenient."

"For you."

The glow in his eyes brightens. He watches you reach down and take hold of the collar, one hand curled under the obsidian, and the sound that rises from him at that contact is something between a groan and a purr — deep in his chest, involuntary, the wolf's response to the one thing it trusts completely.

"You ran your mouth the whole way back from the Woods," you tell him, holding his gaze. "Told me the mission report would be 'straightforward.' Told me the blood haze 'wasn't that bad.' Told Takeda — while Takeda had a gash above his eye that you put there — that he should've 'read the situation better.'"

"In my defense —"

You tighten your fingers on the collar. Not hard, but certain.

He stops talking.

"You're going to apologize to Takeda in the morning. In person. Without qualifiers." You feel him shift beneath you, that restless wolfish energy looking for somewhere to go. "Nod if you understand."

He holds out for approximately four seconds — which is, for Narumi, a significant exercise in restraint — before his chin dips. Once.

"Good," you say.

And then you lean down and kiss him.

It is not a gentle kiss. He doesn't want gentle — you know that by the way his whole body surges upward the moment your mouth finds his, hands gripping your waist hard enough to feel each individual finger, a low growl breaking in his chest like something that's been dammed up for hours finally finding a crack. He tastes like cedar soap and something underneath it that is just him — warm and animal and winter-sharp — and when his teeth catch your lower lip you let him have it, let him pull, let the small sound he drags out of you be real and unguarded.

He pulls back a half-inch, chest heaving, and his lower lip is caught between his own teeth now — that specific thing he does when he's trying to hold himself in check, jaw tight, eyes blazing magenta. He looks catastrophic. You want to ruin him entirely.

"Off," he manages, fingers already working at the hem of your shirt.

"Ask."

The growl again, lower this time, more frustrated. The glow in his eyes pulses. "Please."

You sit up and pull the shirt over your head, and the sound that comes out of him is unfiltered — not a word, not even close to language, just a low sharp intake that he doesn't manage to swallow in time. His hands move immediately, palms flat and fever-hot against your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breasts, relearning the geography of you with that thorough greedy attention he gives to things he considers worth his full focus. His thumbs drag slow circles over your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra and you feel them stiffen against the pressure, feel the warmth of it pull a line straight down your spine.

"Look at you," he says quietly. There's no performance in it. Narumi in private says exactly what he means.

You reach back and undo the clasp. The straps fall. He watches with his lower lip back between his teeth and his chest rising and falling visibly faster, and the restraint it's costing him is written in every line of his body — the tendons in his forearms, the locked set of his jaw, the way his hips have shifted underneath you with the animal's reflex to push up and take.

"Slow," you tell him.

His exhale shudders. He closes his eyes for one beat — gathering himself, the wolf and the man negotiating — and when he opens them again, the urgency is still there but it's banked. Channeled. He looks at you the way he looks at things he is in no hurry to stop looking at.

"Both hands," you say, and guide them up yourself, placing them exactly where you want them.

He follows without resistance. His palms cup the weight of your breasts and he learns — presses and holds and watches your face, adjusting, until you make the sound that tells him he's found the right place. He works his thumbs in slow rolls over your nipples until they're stiff and aching and you have to breathe through the want of it, and the whole time he watches you with the focused patience of something that has decided it is in no rush at all.

"There." The word comes out lower than you intend.

"I know." He says it like it isn't arrogance but simply truth. "I know you."

He pulls you down and his mouth finds the curve of your collarbone, your throat, the soft place under your jaw — and you feel the drag of his teeth, controlled and deliberate, the wolf's reminder that it could, that it is choosing not to, that the choosing is its own kind of thing. He moves lower and when his mouth closes over your nipple the sound you make is sharp and real, and his response to that sound is another low groan, his cock hard and insistent against the inside of your thigh through the robe.

You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock through the cloth.

Every muscle in his body locks.

"Fuck —" His voice is wrecked already, barely a word, and his head tips back against the pillow, throat exposed, the obsidian collar dark against his pulse. You can see him swallow. You can see the way his teeth go back to his lower lip, biting down hard, the tendons in his jaw standing out. "Don't — if you — please —"

"Please what," you say.

"Please keep going." Strained, hoarse. "Please."

You tug the robe open and take your hand back, and he makes a sound of protest that ends when your fingers close around the bare length of him. He's hot in your hand, skin tight, already leaking at the tip — and the sound that tears out of him when your thumb drags through the slick there is the least composed thing you've heard from him all night. His hips roll up before he can stop them, chasing the friction.

"Still," you tell him.

He goes still. His knuckles are white in the bedding. His chest heaves.

You stroke him slowly. Deliberately. Long pulls from root to tip, feeling every ridge, every pulse, his cock twitching in your grip, and you watch his face the entire time — the way his lip is bitten so hard now there'll be a mark, the way the glow of his eyes has bled out to consume most of his irises, the way his canines are just slightly more pronounced when his mouth drops open. He's beautiful like this. Undone. All that battlefield competence stripped back to just want.

"Please," he says again, smaller this time. "I need — come on, I need to touch you —"

You let him.

His hand slides down your stomach and between your thighs and when his fingers find how wet you already are, he goes completely silent for one breath — just the look on his face, raw and honest and something close to reverent — and then he makes the groan that comes from somewhere in his sternum, low and resonant, his forehead dropping back against the pillow.

"Christ." He says it to the ceiling. "You're — god —"

"Don't get poetic," you tell him, but your voice is not entirely steady.

He huffs a sound that might be a laugh and then his fingers move, and it stops being funny. He finds the slick heat of your cunt like he does know you — two years of learning exactly this, exactly where, exactly how much — and he works two fingers inside you slow enough that you have to press your palm against his chest to brace yourself, feel his heartbeat hammering beneath it. The wet noise of it is obscene in the quiet room and he listens to it, the wolf's ears tipped forward, attentive.

"There," he says quietly, watching your face. Not a question. "Right there."

You rock against his hand, thighs trembling, his thumb finding the tight bud of your clit and working it in small circles while his fingers curl inside you, and the sound that builds in your throat is not composed. His cock is hard against your hip. He's got his other hand on the small of your back to hold you as you move, and the look on his face — the focused, burning, privately undone look — makes heat flood the base of your belly.

"I want —" you start.

"Yes," he says immediately. He doesn't wait for you to finish. He already knows.

You pull his hand free, hear the wet drag of it, watch him lift his fingers to his mouth without thinking about it — wolfish, instinctive — and the sight of that, the casual claiming of it, winds something hot and tight in your chest.

"Gen."

"What?" He doesn't sound apologetic. He sounds wrecked. "You taste like — I can't —" He stops, jaw working. "Come here. Please. Right now."

You line yourself up over him. Take the collar in one hand. His whole body locks at that contact — that low chest-deep sound, half groan and half something more animal — and you hold his gaze as you sink down onto him, taking him in by degrees.

The stretch is significant. The burn of it pulls a sharp exhale from you and a wrecked, guttered groan from him, his hands on your hips gripping without pushing, holding without directing — giving you the pace and the depth while his whole body shakes faintly with the effort of not taking more.

"God," he manages, voice like gravel. "You're so — fuck, you're so —"

"Don't stop talking," you tell him, because you know what it does to him, the asking. The being asked.

"Tight." He says it like a confession. "Hot. Perfect." His lower lip is between his teeth again, hard, and there's a sound rising from him that's almost constant now — low and continuous, not quite a growl, not quite a moan, something in between. "Please move, please, I need you to —"

You move.

You set the pace slow and deep at first, the full drag of him with every roll of your hips, and the wet sounds of it fill the room — slick and explicit and shameless, the noise of you two and how much you want each other, and Narumi makes a sound like it's killing him every time you come down. His hands flex on your hips. His head tips back, the pale column of his throat exposed, the obsidian collar shifting.

"More," he says, hoarse. "You can — harder, I won't —"

You tighten your grip on the collar and he snaps.

Not wildly — not breaking, not taking control, just his hips surging up to meet you, the pace fracturing into something less measured, the deep roll of him becoming urgent thrusts that drag at something inside you and make your thighs shake where they bracket him. The sound that comes out of you is not composed and you don't try to make it so. His grip on your hips tightens to the edge of bruising and he watches your face like it's everything.

"There," he breathes, reading your expression, your sounds, everything. "That's — yeah, right there —"

"Don't stop —"

"Not stopping." His voice is completely wrecked now, private and raw and nothing like the man who sleeps through briefings and tells Takeda to read the situation better. "Not stopping. I've got you. I've got you."

You lose the thread of time.

It is slow and messy and completely unguarded — his hands moving from your hips to your back to your hair, your fingers finding his chest, his throat, the collar, and every time you take the obsidian in your hand his whole body responds like a live current running through it. There's sweat at his temples and in the groove of his collarbone and you feel your own thighs slipping on his skin, the obscene wet sound of where you're joined, and he listens to all of it with his head tipped back and his lip ruined from his own teeth.

He talks. He always talks, in private, that stripped-back Gen who never learned to perform in bed: like that, yes, don't stop, stay right there, please and your name — not your name, never your name, always you, as though that is the only word that fits.

You come apart the first time with your forehead against his shoulder and his name in your throat, and the sound he makes at the clench and pulse of it is filthy and honest and everything.

He doesn't stop.

"Again," he says, against your hair. Not a request. A fact. "I want to feel you again."

You tighten your grip on his collar and ride him through it.

"Turn over," he says. Not a request. Low and rough and coming from somewhere behind his teeth.

His eyes are almost entirely consumed by the glow. Magenta, blown wide, the wolf sitting right behind his face. His jaw is set. He's got that expression — the one that lives at the exact threshold between Narumi and the animal, where the man is still nominally in charge but asking nicely has stopped feeling like enough.

You should probably be more cautious about that.

You turn over.

He doesn't waste time. His hands find your hips before you've even fully settled — dragging you back against him, pulling your hips up and your chest down until you're on your forearms in the wrecked bedding, and the sound he makes when the new angle hits is not human. Low and guttural and raw, his hands gripping the jut of your hips with intent.

"Gen —"

He pushes inside you in one long stroke and the word dissolves.

The angle is different like this — deeper, sharper, his cock pressing into places that make your vision blur at the edges, and the wet obscene plap of his hips against your ass is so loud in the quiet room that it makes heat flood your face. You can hear it. You can hear how soaked you are, the slick pull of him dragging back and snapping home, the sound of it filthy and real and completely unignorable.

"Slower —" you start.

He goes harder.

The thrust drives you forward into the pillow and cuts your sentence in half and replaces it with a sound you didn't plan to make — desperate, helpless, real. His fingers dig into your hips in a grip that will absolutely bruise and he pulls you back to meet him, and the resulting plap is loud enough to make the headboard rattle.

"Gen, I said —"

Another thrust. Harder than the last. The slick heat of you takes him in and holds and you feel him in your sternum.

"—fuck—"

"Say it again," he says, voice like gravel dragged over rock. "Tell me to slow down again."

You reach back and shove at his hip. Hard.

He catches your wrist.

And then it stops being a negotiation.

You push back into him instead — hips rolling, meeting every snap of his, matching him thrust for thrust until the rhythm becomes something less like a pace and more like an argument — messy and urgent and neither of you giving ground, the headboard knocking against the stone wall and the wet slapping sound of skin on skin filling up every corner of the room. The sheets beneath you are soaked through. You can feel it on your knees, the damp drag of fabric, the evidence of how long this has been building pooled into the bedding below you.

He leans over you, his chest against your back, his mouth finding the back of your neck — and his teeth graze the knot of your spine and the hiss that escapes him is the wolf, barely translated.

"Mine," he says into your skin.

"Yours," you say back, because you are, and you both know it, and there's no armor left in either of you for pretending otherwise.

His hips are relentless. You feel it in your thighs, your stomach, the swollen ache of being taken hard and well, and every thrust drags a sound out of you that you've stopped trying to swallow. His cock is splitting you open in the best possible way, the thick slide of him, every ridged inch, the plunging wet heat of it — and the sound — god, the sound, the plap plap plap of him driving home, obscene and rhythmic and completely divorced from anything either of you would call composed.

He hisses again, sharp, through his teeth — the deep involuntary sound of a man who is running out of runway.

"I'm going to —" he starts.

"Inside." Your voice comes out broken. "Don't you dare pull out —"

He doesn't pull out.

The pace fractures into something less rhythmic and more desperate — short, hard, grinding thrusts that press him as deep as you can take him, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt and pulsing — and you feel it before it happens, the way he swells at the base, that specific thick pressure that makes you gasp and try instinctively to pull forward.

His hand flattens on your lower back and holds you still.

"Take it," he says. Rough. Strained. Close.

The knot forms fully and you feel it lock — that hot, impossible fullness, his cock buried deep and swollen where you meet, pressing against every interior wall, and the stretch of it sends a shudder through your whole body that starts at your spine and ends somewhere you don't have a word for. It doesn't hurt — you're far too wet, far too ready — but the pressure of it is total. Complete. He is everywhere inside you and there is nowhere else he could possibly reach.

He comes apart.

Not quietly. The sound tears out of him — raw and guttural and completely unguarded — and you feel it, the pulse of him, the wet rush of heat flooding you from the inside, again and again in long shuddering waves. It is warm in a way that is almost shocking, visceral and real, the slick of it seeping around the knot where he's sealed inside you, soaking the already-ruined sheets beneath you in a slow wet spread.

His whole body shakes. His hands on your hips loosen from gripping to holding, palms flat, and he folds over your back, chest heaving, the damp fall of his two-toned hair against your shoulder.

You're both breathing like you ran somewhere.

"Christ," he says, into your spine. One word. That's all he has.

You feel him still pulsing. Slow and deep and involuntary, his body wringing out the last of it, and the fullness of the knot presses with every throb — not painful, but present in a way that makes coherent thought difficult. You're soaked. You can feel it everywhere, the slick mess of both of you, the ruined sheets, the cooling wet on your inner thighs.

"Gen."

"Mm."

"You did not slow down."

A beat.

"No," he agrees, without any detectable remorse.

You would elbow him but the angle is wrong and honestly you don't have the structural integrity for it right now. You settle your weight more evenly instead, forearms in the damp bedding, and feel the knot hold — locking you together, his warmth spilling slow and relentless, his heartbeat still hammering where his chest rests against your back.

His hand moves up your spine. Slow. Aimless. Landing between your shoulder blades and staying there.

"You pushed back," he says. Quieter now. That private Narumi voice. Something almost wondering in it. "You always push back."

"Someone has to."

He makes the sound that is almost a laugh. It resonates through his whole chest, through you, through the warm mess of where you're still joined.

"Yeah," he says softly. "Someone does."

A beat of genuine quiet. His heartbeat slowing under your palm. The knot still holding, the warmth of him still pooled deep inside you, and for a moment it is almost peaceful — the wrecked sheets, the low lantern, the mountain wind outside.

Then he moves his hips.

Not a thrust. Not urgency. Just — a slow, deliberate circle. Lazy. Intentional. His cock shifting inside you, the knot pressing into a new angle, and you feel the obscene slosh of him — the wet heat of everything he spent still sealed inside you by the knot, moving with him, warm and filthy and inescapable.

He does it again.

"Gen."

"Hm." Innocent. Completely unconvincing.

Another slow roll of his hips, and the sound it makes — the wet, clicking, absolutely ruinous gluck of it — makes your face go hot to the ears. You feel every drop of him shifting inside you like he's reminding you of it. Like the point needs to be made again.

"Are you seriously —"

"Just getting comfortable," he says. His voice has recovered entirely. That lazy, self-satisfied register is back, fully operational, as though he did not just shake apart against your spine twenty seconds ago. You can feel the smile in it.

He does it a third time, slower, and makes a low sound of pure smug contentment.

"You can feel that, can't you." Not a question. "All of it. That's —"

You elbow him.

Hard. Square in the ribs. The satisfying thud of it lands exactly where you intended and he makes a noise that is nothing like the composed battlefield commander or the wolf or any version of Narumi Gen that the Guild has ever documented —

"Ow —"

You drop your forehead into the pillow.

Somewhere in your chest, despite everything — the ruined sheets, the bruises forming on your hips, the fact that you are thoroughly and completely stuck with him for the foreseeable future — something warm and helpless turns over.

"That hurts," he says again, smaller, into your shoulder. Aggrieved. Genuine.

"Good," you tell him.

His arms tighten around you. You feel his mouth curve against your skin.

The convention wristband is still around your wrist when Gen pulls onto the expressway.

You’ve been idly worrying at the edge of it without even noticing, more interested in the way his hand keeps leaving the wheel to knock the shifter into the next gear. The Supra answers with that low, expensive growl you’ve been feeling in your ribs since you left, and the blow-off valve gives a sharp little psshh when he changes again. His car is as smug as he is.

Gen raises one eyebrow. "Still can’t believe the judgment over my new bumper stickers."

A pixel-heart decal on the bumper of a car like this is an atrocity, you think—but you also like that he loves it. There’s a charm in how he refuses to care what anyone thinks.

"It’s not the car I’m judging," you say. "Now it looks like it’s owned by a fifteen-year-old with a Twitch channel."

"And yet," he says, flicking you a glance, his mouth twitching, "you still got in."

The highway is a blur of streaking streetlights and black asphalt, but inside, everything is bathed in the pink-violet glow of the footwell LEDs. The glow catches on the edges of Gen’s white sneakers as he works the pedals with a practised, twitchy precision. A scruffy little Godzilla air freshener swings from the rear-view mirror whenever he takes a bend. On the dash, a tiny Legendary Pokémon figure sits with all the self-importance of a shrine ornament. There’s a charging cable spilling from the centre console, and a Tamagotchi hanging from the driver’s side visor, chirping now and then.

"It’s amazing anyone takes you seriously," you say, grinning.

"Everyone takes me seriously," he replies, voice easy. His thumb drums the rim of the wheel, an idle little tic you could watch for hours. "That’s what makes it funny."

His hair is down, the darker length brushing his jaw while the dyed front catches silver whenever the streetlights cut across the windscreen. Off-duty clothes on him are unfairly hot: a black bomber jacket, a dark shirt tight against his muscles underneath it. He keeps one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearstick—a weighted aluminium knob—custom-made with a tiny, pixelated 8-bit sword etched into the top. So him.

You’ve been staring at him since you both left the convention centre carpark; the broad line of his shoulders under the seatbelt, the way his jacket sleeves are bunched up on his forearms, how they pull tight when he steers one-handed into a lane change. The backs of his hands are veined where he grips the wheel, thick cords showing every time he changes gear. He chews his lower lip absentmindedly when a corner comes up; his jaw tightens, the muscle rolling. You watch him bite that lip, and your pulse stutters. All of it makes looking out at the road a complete waste of time.

"You’re doing that thing again," he says.

"What thing?"

Gen scoffs. "That thing where you act casual while you eye-fuck me."

The engine (that rebuilt 2JZ he’s so defensive about) gives a deep, smug growl that vibrates through the floorboards and straight into your bones.

You lean back, a curve to your lips. "I’m just admiring the view. And by view, I mean the fact that you haven’t managed to kill that Tamagotchi yet."

"I don’t lose," he counters, "not at games, not at combat, and definitely not at keeping tiny digital dinosaurs alive. It’s about specs, Princess. High-spec performance requires high-spec attention."

He accelerates suddenly, the turbo whine climbing in pitch until it’s a metallic scream. The sheer G-force pins you back into the bucket seat. He handles the car as though it’s an extension of his own nervous system, his movements fluid and dismissive, every movement cleaner than it needs to be because he knows you’re watching, despite your obvious lie.

You watch his leg tense, the muscle of his thigh visible through the dark fabric of his jeans as he braces against the footrest. He’s so damn certain of himself. It half-makes you want to see him falter, just a little.

"You make it hard not to stare," you admit, finally.

It lands. You see it in the way his shoulders square, just slightly.

"Yeah?" he says, too casual.

The cabin smells of leather, of engine heat, of his cologne. The city is thinning behind you. Road signs flash overhead and are gone. The music is low, something with too much bass and not enough subtlety.

You let your gaze drop, pointedly, to where his thighs spread under the steering column. The seat is set low. His jacket is open. You let your hand settle on his thigh. Your fingers move without thinking, slow at first, palm flattened so he has a second to object. He doesn’t buck his hips; he’s far too disciplined for that, but you feel the muscle beneath your fingers go rigid.

You rub him through the denim, watching his face. He’s pretending he’s unaffected, lips pressed into a line, but his breath gets shallower until you feel the outline of him start to strain against your palm.

"Getting distracted while driving is a rookie mistake, Gen," you say, teasing, your voice dropping an octave.

He swallows; it’s a visible thing. A corner approaches, and he downshifts without a glance off the road. His hand tightens on the shifter, knuckles pale, and then loosens.

"You’re gonna make me crash," he says, half laughing.

"Oh? But you seemed so confident a second ago."

"I am confident." Another clean gear change. Another quick psshh. "I’m also driving."

You smile, finding the tab of his zipper and dragging it down. "Multitasking’s good for the brain."

His laugh comes out rougher than before. He tips his head back against the seat for the briefest second, then looks over at you, his eyes darker than they were a minute ago.

You slide your hand inward, your fingers finding him there. He’s thick, hot, and already weeping a bead of salt-slick heat against his underwear. You give a slow, firm squeeze, feeling the pulse of him through the fabric. A low sound catches in his throat; the beginning of a protest that he doesn’t have the heart to finish. The Supra swerves almost imperceptibly before he corrects it.

"You’ve got awful timing," he rasps, his jaw setting. "We’re on a public highway. My reputation is literally built on being the best."

You ignore him, hooking your fingers into the waistband and freeing him into the cool air of the cabin. This time, his reaction is impossible to miss. Gen lets out a ragged exhale, his head tilting back against the headrest for a heartbeat before he forces his eyes back to the windshield. The faint pink glow under the dash brushes over the velvet skin of his cock, showing the flushed head and the veins along the underside.

His fingers stay fixed at ten and two as though he’s trying very hard to remember he is, in fact, behind the wheel of a fast car on an open road.

"So pull over?" You suggest, your thumb brushing over the swollen head.

"No," he growls, "That sounds like quitting."

He reaches out, his hand fumbling for the lever on the side of his seat. With a mechanical clunk, the back of the driver’s seat drops just enough to give you room without his eyes ever fully leaving the road. He takes the next exit lane smoothly, not stopping, just cutting onto a darker stretch where the traffic thins even more.

"Get over here," he commands.

You unbuckle, the chime of the car’s warning system adding a frantic rhythm to the air, and lean over the handbrake, onto his lap. His hand leaves the wheel just long enough to touch your jaw, thumb pressing once at the corner of your mouth before he lets go again. It isn’t soft, exactly. It’s intent. A quick claim on your attention.

"Knew you were full of bad ideas," he murmurs.

"You bought the car, then got behind the wheel looking like that. I’m just reacting appropriately."

His laugh breaks on the way out. "You’re insane."

You love him like this—still cocky, but all frayed at the edges, trying to keep himself together. The LEDs throw colour across the underside of his jaw. Gen spreads his legs as wide as the bucket seat allows, his left hand still navigating the wheel with a terrifying, one-handed confidence. He looks down at you, his pupils dilated until that thin rim of red is almost gone.

You don’t make him wait. You wrap your lips around him, the heat of his cock shocking against the coolness of your lips. He’s massive, stretching you until your jaw aches, tasting of salt and that heady male musk.

Gen’s head hits the seat with a dull thud. "Fuck," he hisses, his fingers tangling in your hair. His palm flattens at the base of your skull and guides, the curve of his thumb braced so every bob you take matches his drive.

You set a rhythmic pace, your tongue swirling over the sensitive underside of him while your hand reaches up to pump the base. You can feel every vibration of the car through him; the rhythmic thud of the tyres, the hum of the transmission. When he shifts gear, his right leg tenses, the movement forcing him deeper into your throat. You take it all, eyes watering, because if you’re going to do this in his stupidly gorgeous car, you may as well do it well.

The smugness goes out of him in increments. Not all at once. Bit by bit. A broken-off breath. The tendons in his neck standing out. A hard swallow he doesn’t hide quickly enough. The Supra gets louder when he pushes it, the sound filling the car and sinking into your bones. He’s driving by feel now, his focus split between the blurred road and the wet, suctioning heat of your mouth. His hand presses more firmly into your hair, not cruel, just honest about how gone he’s getting.

"Shit," he mutters, voice dropping lower. "You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?"

You do. That’s half the fun, too.

The last of his composure goes fast after that. His hips jerk upward, an instinctive, searching movement that he can’t quite suppress. You use your hand to massage his balls, your tongue flicking over his slit, before taking him so deep that your nose nudges against his jeans.

The speed readout on the dash climbs, and you feel it like a pressure in your chest. His teeth catch the inside of his cheek, and he begins to give himself up in smaller, sharper noises: a string of broken syllables, a sound that could be a laugh. You turn your head a little to look up at him, mouth full of him, and see his face transformed. The arrogance is gone, replaced by a raw, glassy-eyed desperation. He’s biting his lip so hard it’s turning white, his head rolling from side to side.

You feel the tremor start low in his pelvis and climb through the length of him. His hand on your head suddenly goes rigid. He clamps his fingers into your hair, pressing you down, forcing you to take every inch of him as he bottoms out in your throat.

"Come on," he breathes above you, not a command so much as a plea. "Make me—"

He hits his limit with a low, strangled growl. You swirl your tongue, hollowing and drawing until the first flood shocks you—hot, thick, filling your mouth in a way that almost knocks the air out of you. He holds you there, forcing you to swallow every drop, and you do, even as he continues to twitch inside you.

Then, the Supra decelerates, the engine braking providing a heavy drone as Gen finally lets off the throttle. It stays true in its lane anyway, as if the car itself has learned to accommodate his worst habits. Gen is slumped back in the seat, his hand still heavy on your head, his chest heaving.

You pull back slowly, still tasting him in the back of your throat, smiling with the smugness of someone who knows they’ve won. There’s a softness at the edges of him now; he seems dazed. His hair is a mess, the grey and black strands sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looks at you as if he’s never seen you before—as if you just managed to pull off a move he didn’t even know existed.

Afterwards, he’s quiet. Not for long (he’s still Gen) but long enough to enjoy.

You sit back in the passenger seat and reach for your seatbelt again, not bothering to hide your grin. Your lipstick is probably gone. Your hair definitely isn’t where you left it.

Then he glances over and catches your expression.

"Oh, don’t do that," he says.

"What?" You feign innocence.

"That look."

"I have no idea what you mean."

He laughs once, incredulous, then scrubs a hand over his mouth. "You are so full of yourself."

He shifts, pulling his trousers back together with hands that are still visibly trembling. He looks out at the road, then back at the dashboard where the Tamagotchi is still blissfully asleep.

"You’re the one who told me to get over there."

"Yeah, well." He shifts down, the car answering with that same deep growl. "I was curious."

You turn toward him fully, resting an elbow against the door. "And?"

His tongue presses briefly into his cheek. That tiny tell; effort not to hand you a win too easily. Then he looks at you with the corner of his mouth lifting, eyes still a little hazy despite himself.

"And," he repeats, "you’re not allowed to act surprised when we get home and I return the favour."

You grin. The Supra drops into the next stretch of road like it owns it.

He drives one-handed for a moment, the other coming over to squeeze your knee, and even now—hair a mess, ego dented, bottom lip still a little swollen—he looks devastating.

"I still hate your new bumper sticker," you say.

He barks out a laugh so sudden it fills the whole car.

"Shut up," he says, smiling now. "You love my taste."

You swipe your tongue over your lips, catching the last of him, and let your grin widen.

His tread is no less weighted as he makes his way to the bedroom.

Gen tends to keep his hard work concealed, a remnant of a time when such things were left unacknowledged.

You're fully aware, though, that even humanity's strongest soldier is only human. He's spent enough nights in your arms in senseless slumber for you to be aware of the toll his work sometimes takes on him.

This is one such evening, and his shadow looms in the doorway as he pauses, taking you in.

Wordlessly, you hold out your arms to him, and he glances away, lips forming a familiar curve of downturned petulance, as if to delay acknowledging how much he needs you.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be right there."

You smile at the ill-concealed crack of exhaustion in his voice.

He makes his way to the bed, first drawing the t-shirt up along his torso and over his head. It's tossed with accuracy borne of long practice towards the chair nearby.

The broad, scarred expanse of his shoulders and chest come into view, his rangy form stretching out as he kicks his pants away and climbs up onto the bedspread in his boxers.

He mumbles as he shuffles towards you, low, gruff and half-heard, more a routine than necessity.

"Fucking Hasegawa ... always on my case ... and that Ashiro ... so damn perfect ... all over the internet. Stole my credit again. What's her problem? Can't she mind her own damn business? But no, obviously she has to be a big fuckin' deal. As for Vice-Captain Bowl Cut, bet he's smirking himself to sleep right now, that asshole ... "

By the time he reaches you, he's given up all pretense of reluctance.

You utter a soft 'oof' followed by a short huff of laughter as he all but collapses against you.

Gen is all muscle, and his weight settles over you like the push of a powerful ocean current. Long limbs slot naturally around the curves of your own body, the press of his knees, abdomen, chest and arms forming an indomitable vice.

He breathes out heavily over the skin of your stomach, making you squirm and protest slightly.

"Gen!"

"Shhh. Stop moving."

Wound tight from anticipation of his ticklish attack, you manage to remain still. He lies there for a minute or two,  before wrapping his arms firmly around your middle and tugging you further down the bed into his embrace.

His head is now pillowed right between your breasts, a sigh escaping him as he presses his cheek to the soft yield of you.

"Feel's good."

"Does it?"

You can't help but tease him, trailing fingers through his slightly tangled hair.

"Always."

The rare sincerity housed in the slight hoarseness of his voice sends a shiver racing down from where his skin shifts and slides over yours.

This was the part of him you craved; his sheer need for you laid bare, free of the trappings of ego and stacked defenses.

Gen, however, often reminds you of a heat-seeking missile, always ready to launch himself into the breach of conflict or the mulish desire to stoke the passion of others.

Soon, he raises his head, chin propping on your chest, the kindling of that intense gaze passing over you like a searchlight.

"Hey. Look at me."

"I am looking at you."

"Properly."

"Okay, and ... what am I supposed to be seeing?"

"Your incredibly hot and amazing Captain. Returned from battle."

"You were in a meeting with Hasegawa."

"Same fuckin' thing."

You grin, pushing back his bangs absently.

"And did brave Captain Narumi get his ass kicked again?"

"Nah, I just let him think he's won. Gets him off my back."

"A strategic genius, you are."

He brought up one hand with langorous intent, flicking your nose hard.

"Ow! Gen!"

"Think you're so cute, huh?"

"You think I'm cute."

"Since when?"

"Since the last hundred times you've told me so?"

"How do I make you stop talking?"

"You already know."

"Damn, I'm half dead and you want this cock in you?"

You shove his shoulder hard.

"I was asking for a kiss, you idiot!"

He props himself up slightly, and by his expression, you can see that you've fallen into his surprisingly well-laid trap.

Gen is easily baited (as one Soshiro Hoshina can testify), but he is also adept at antagonizing those he is closest to. 

Now, his eyes are traveling with smug satisfaction over the embarrassed, slightly exasperated set of your features, the look he knows only he can place there.

"What's the matter? You shy all of a sudden?"

Oh, two could play at that game.

"Fine. Maybe I do want more."

"Huh?"

He hadn't been expecting that, judging from the crease between his short brows. 

You arch beneath him, knees rising on either side of his body, turning what had been a lazy, comfortable embrace into one charged with intent.

"Here I was, longing for a big, strong, handsome man to push me into the mattress, and here you are, just where I want you."

"Wha - "

As adept as he is, it's always so incredibly easy to turn the tables on him.

Your fingers are now passing, feather-light, over the bridge of his nose, lips, along the firm line of his jaw.

"I love when you put your whole weight on me like this. Feels like you'll keep me here all night, until I can't move."

His breathing is audibly speeding up, humid against your palm, eyes focusing on you, misted over with lust, lips parting in that unconscious display of arousal.

It is a small, secret point of pride, at this point, how rapidly you can get him going.

"Gen ... "

"What?"

"Be a good boy and make me come."

The words, delivered in a velvet snare, are enough to send him into a flurry of activity, his ears now tinged with a tell-tale flush. 

"Goddamn fucking ... I'm gonna ... don't think you're gonna get away - "

"But if you're tired - ah!"

He cut you off, drawing out a shriek as he maneuvered himself completely over your form, lips settling over yours as naturally as the full weight of his body did.

In the beginning, before familiarity had taught him better, Gen had been clumsy, desperate, his kisses comprising more teeth and whispered growls of desire than anything.

Now, he molds to you in ways that steal breath from your lungs, robbing you of all awareness of anything but him.

As in battle, he is in love, brimming with unspoken passion, overwhelming strength holding you down to receive him, always, always surrendering to the feelings you give him.

Mercurial as the onset of a thunderstorm in spring, Gen tilts his head, his kiss a savage smear of warmth all across your mouth, paying no heed to your gasped pleas in between, when you manage to free yourself.

The shift you wear to bed is already rucked up to above your breasts by the way you're pinned, and he is now making short work of your underwear.

Hips rutting fervently downward, he is certainly 'pressing you into the mattress' now.

Even when exhaustion has the upper hand, Gen's natural inclination to release pent up emotions is always overwhelming in its execution.

You can't help the soft cries escaping you, rising to a sharp point as the head of his cock slips by and rubs against your clitoris, each catch and slick slide jolting you with pleasure.

There is no plan or art to this, only his need and your need for release, as clumsy and messy as it might be.

The column of Gen's throat curves above you, Adam's apple bobbing, inviting you to bite and lick.

The moan that comes thundering from him matches the tempo of his hips, and this time, the head of him slips inside, pulsing and hot.

Your hands come flying up around him, nails finding purchase on his back as his abdomen shudders and ripples against yours, so close that you can feel every twitch and bunch of the muscle there.

He pushes in further, the bedsprings protesting under the combined force of your passion, the head of the bed rocking back to hit the wall as he sheathes himself fully, then pulls back and thrusts again.

Normally, you require some preparation, but at times like these, when he drags your senses to new heights, you are wet enough to take him for as long as he needs.

Your breath mists along the curve of his chest, nipples dragging against his, another brilliant white point of pleasure in your joining.

Finally, rhythm asserts itself, one you are both long acquainted with.

You know what he likes, what he wants to hear, specifically from you, when you are together with him like this.

"Gen - you're so - "

" - wet, so hot - "

"Mmmm, there. There. You're - big, so good, so - "

"Take it, take it - "

" - so good, fuck me so good - I can't - "

A lifting duet, carried by something greater than the simple current of desire.

While he still holds you down, all but immobile under the heavy drop and upward curve of his hips, each thrust deep enough to leave you breathless, your trust in him is implicit.

In the way your head tilts back, the way your thighs fall open for him, the way his fingers slide across your palms and thread through yours, the way he breathes worship into your hair, Gen weaves untamed sensuality into everything he does to you.

He is a fire moving across a distant mountainside, suddenly closer than you expect, threatening to sweep you away, heaving and heady intoxication, flickering towards some greater conflagration.

He pins you, stretches you, pleasures you, whispers to you, the dampness of exertion growing between your bodies.

Shoulders and biceps rise and fall, boulders beneath the silken landslide of his skin, as you tug your hands from his grasp, clutching at his back once again. 

A ragged, molten wave teeters over a precipice, you at the gleaming edge, and you descend, holding him as your single lifeline.

When your breathing has slowed once more, when the hazy, sore-sweet ache of post-orgasmic bliss comes to cover you both beneath sable folds, he nuzzles into the side of your neck.

"Was tired ... thought you'd help me, traitor."

Quivering with breathy laughter, you shake your head, unable to form words just yet.

"Huh? Can't talk now? That's rich. Fuckin' ... made me blow my back out and now you're just lying there - "

You hush him with a finger to his lips, tears of mirth gathering in the corners of your eyes.

" ... didn't care that I had to sit with Hasegawa for four hours, and now you squeeze me dry when I - "

"Gen."

"Huh?"

"Shut up and kiss me."