#yiwrites

the next morning, the carcasses were gone. not eaten. not cooked. only dragged away, discarded deep into the woods. the scent told him it was you who had moved them. his heart, built of scales and fire, ached. he had wanted you to feel safe, fed, cared for. instead, you seemed afraid.

he stopped for a few days, brooding atop the cliffs. the forest wind tugged at his horns as he wondered where he had gone wrong. perhaps his gifts had frightened you. perhaps he was foolish to think a human would understand dragon courtship.

but he could not stay away.

your pov

it had started weeks ago, maybe longer. every few mornings, you found something dreadful by the door. a hare, a pheasant, once even a deer with its throat cleanly slit. at first you had thought it was the work of some wild beast, but the kills were too neat, too purposeful. someone — or something — was leaving them for you.

you had buried the first few, uneasy. you didn’t like the idea of something hunting so close to your home. the villagers told stories about the woods, about creatures that could take human form, about dragons nesting in the mountain caves to the north. you tried not to listen.

then one afternoon, you saw him.

he appeared near the edge of the clearing, tall and broad, white hair swept back from curved horns that caught the sun. his crimson eyes glowed faintly gold, the color of molten metal. he wasn’t human. you knew that instantly. yet he didn’t look dangerous — just… different. his tail moved behind him slowly, a deliberate, careful sway.

he spoke softly, voice low like gravel shifting underfoot. “you should not walk alone so far from the village.”

you wanted to ask what he was, why he was here, but his tone wasn’t threatening. it almost sounded… protective. still, you kept your distance.

after that day, the strange gifts continued. meat. jewels. one morning, a silver bracelet carved with a dragon’s eye. you placed it on your shelf, too fine to wear. you assumed he was just trying to be kind, or that he was testing some human custom he didn’t quite understand.

sylus pov

he thought perhaps jewels would fare better. dragons prized beautiful things, and he had seen how humans adored the same. he found gemstones buried in old hoards, polished them until they gleamed like captured stars, and left them where you would find them — on the window sill, beside the well, near the path you walked each day.

you took them, yes, but you never wore them. he noticed. his eyes always found you when you stepped outside, his senses following every glint of sunlight off your hair, every breath you took. but no trace of his gifts touched you.

he wondered if you thought them cursed. he wondered if you simply did not care.

dragons did not handle rejection well, but he tried to understand. maybe he had come too soon, before you trusted him. maybe his gestures were too grand.

so he tried smaller things.

he carved a charm from bone, something simple, meant to guard you. he left it on your doorstep, bound with leather. when you found it, you smiled faintly and hung it by the door. that small act eased something inside him, like a hand pressed gently over a wound.

he wanted to do more. he wanted to speak to you again.

your pov

sometimes, you caught glimpses of him. he always appeared near the treeline, never closer unless you called out first. his presence was strange but comforting now. you didn’t feel fear anymore — only curiosity.

you had noticed his eyes, the way they softened when he looked at you, and you wondered what he was thinking.

you began to notice small things too. he left polished stones that matched the river pebbles you collected, baskets woven from reeds, herbs bound neatly by clawed hands that somehow never tore the stems.

it was… sweet, in an odd way.

but you still didn’t understand. dragons, if that’s what he truly was, had their own ways, and you were just a human living too close to their world. it didn’t occur to you that all these gestures meant something deeper.

one evening, after a storm, you found your roof repaired. you hadn’t done it, and no villager would trek this far through the rain. the thatch was patched neatly, almost perfectly. you looked toward the forest and thought of him again.

he was taking care of you...?

sylus pov

the night he fixed your roof, he almost let himself believe it would be enough — that maybe you would understand what he was saying without words. dragons didn’t confess love with speeches; they proved it through acts of protection, devotion, consistency.

but the next morning, when you passed by him in the forest and only offered a polite nod, his heart fell again.

he had done everything he knew — hunted for you, built for you, brought wealth and safety. and still you smiled like he was a stranger.

he began to wonder if you simply didn’t want him. perhaps you were kind, but uninterested. dragons could not force affection. he had promised himself never to be like those in old tales who took rather than earned.

so he decided to stop.

for days he stayed away from your clearing. no gifts, no visits, nothing. the forest grew quiet around your home, and his absence left a hollow ache he tried to ignore.

but he couldn’t.

your pov

you noticed right away when he stopped coming.

no more gifts, no glint of scales between trees. the air felt heavier somehow, emptier. you told yourself it was better this way — you didn’t really know him, after all — but that small ache in your chest said otherwise.

you missed him.

and that’s when it began to click.

you thought back to the meat he had left, to the jewels, the careful protection, the fixed roof. the pattern of it all. he hadn’t been threatening you or showing off. he’d been… courting you. in his own way.

the realization left you stunned. your hands trembled a little as you held the silver bracelet again, running your thumb over the carved dragon’s eye. it wasn’t just a gift. it was a promise.

you felt foolish. all this time, you had turned away what was meant to be affection.

so you decided to find him... how do you even find a dragon. do they answer callings? prayers?

sylus pov

he was perched on the ridge above the valley when he smelled you. rain-washed air carried your scent, familiar and soft. then your voice — faint, calling his name.

he almost didn’t believe it at first.

when he landed, the ground trembled slightly. you stood there, soaked from the mist, holding something small in your hands — the silver bracelet he’d given you.

“you stopped coming,” you said quietly. “i thought maybe i’d done something wrong.”

his throat tightened. “it was i who did wrong. my ways are not yours. i thought you knew… what i meant.”

“i didn’t,” you admitted. “but i think i do now.”

you stepped closer, enough that he could see the drops of water clinging to your lashes. “the animals. the gifts. even the roof. you were trying to… court me, weren’t you?”

he exhaled slowly, the heat of his breath curling faintly in the air. “yes.”

for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. the forest around you whispered with the wind. then you lifted the bracelet and slid it onto your wrist.

“then let me accept properly this time,” you said. “i was only afraid before. i didn’t understand. but i do now.”

something inside him broke open — relief, joy, disbelief all at once. he reached out, claws retracting to gentle fingers, and touched your cheek as if you might vanish.

“you would have me, then?”

you nodded, smiling. “if you’ll still have me.”

his touch was warm, almost burning, but soft. you could feel the careful restraint in every movement, as if he feared hurting you.

“i have watched over you for so long,” he murmured. “i wanted you to feel safe before anything else.”

“you did,” you said. “even when i didn’t realize it.”

he let out a sound that might have been laughter, low and rough, and pressed his forehead gently against yours. his horns curved around your head like a shelter.

for the first time, you saw the true depth of feeling behind his eyes — not just admiration, but devotion carved deep, unshakable. dragons loved rarely, but when they did, it was eternal.

and so you reached up, resting your hand over his heart, feeling it thunder beneath your palm.

“then stay,” you whispered. “no more misunderstandings.”

his wings shifted slightly, curling around you both like a cloak.

“no more,” he promised.

later, when the stars rose and the forest quieted, he stayed beside your cabin, guarding while you slept. he didn’t need to announce himself anymore. he was part of your world now.

and when he looked through the window and saw you still wearing the bracelet, glinting faintly in the moonlight, his heart finally eased.

you had accepted.

all his instincts quieted — the dragon and the man in him both at peace. he would hunt for you again tomorrow, but this time he would bring the meat dressed and cleaned, as he had seen humans prefer. he would still bring jewels, but he would offer them with his words, not silence.

he had learned, and so had you.

two worlds, bridged by patience and the slow unraveling of fear.

he smiled to himself, tail sweeping gently across the grass.

“mine,” he whispered softly to the night — not in possession, but in awe.

and from inside, even in your dreams, you seemed to hear him. your lips curved faintly as you slept.

in the morning, you woke to sunlight and the faint scent of wildflowers on the table — his newest gift, simple and human this time. you laughed softly, touched the petals, and whispered into the quiet, “i understand now.”

from the woods came the low hum of dragon wings, steady and sure, and you smiled, heart full.

he huffed, a small plume of smoke escaping his nostrils. “do not lie to me, little jewel. i can smell it. the iron-tang of your blood. it is fresh.” his voice grew more frantic. “let me see. i will find it. i will burn whatever caused you harm.”

you shifted, a faint blush on your cheeks. “sylus, really, i’m okay. it’s… it’s nothing.”

“nothing?” he recoiled as if struck. “the scent of your life-force leaking from you is nothing? why do you hide it from me?” his tail lashed, sending a cascade of coins skittering. “am i not your guardian? your protector? tell me where you are wounded so i may help!”

his worry was a physical thing, a heat radiating from his scales. he didn’t understand. if you were injured, why wouldn't you let him fix it? the thought of you suffering in silence, while he was right here, powerful enough to level mountains but helpless in the face of your secrecy, was agony.

you saw the genuine panic in his ancient eyes, the way his claws flexed with the need to act, to defend. you realized that to a creature of his nature, blood only meant one thing: a wound. a weakness. a threat.

you reached out, placing a small hand on the warm scales of his snout. “sylus,” you said softly, your voice firm. “it’s not a wound. it’s… it’s something that happens. it’s called a period.”

he went very, very still. the frantic energy left him, replaced by a deep, bewildered silence. “a… period?” he rumbled, the word foreign on his tongue.

“it’s a cycle,” you explained, your voice gentle. “for humans, or… people like me. it happens once a moon-cycle. it means my body is… well, it’s healthy. it’s not an injury. it’s just… messy.”

sylus processed this, his great mind turning over this new, strange information. blood that was not from a wound. a cycle of health. his worry didn't vanish, but it transformed, morphing into a fierce, curious need to understand.

“so… you are not in danger?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

“no,” you assured him. “just… a little uncomfortable sometimes.”

he was silent for a long moment, then he nudged your hand with his snout, a gesture of pure affection. “tell me,” he commanded, his voice a soft rumble. “tell me what this… cycle… requires. how does one care for a little jewel during this time?”

so you told him. you spoke of warmth and comfort, of soft blankets and hot drinks. you explained the need for certain cloths and herbs, things he had never before had cause to notice in the human villages he sometimes observed from a distance.

and sylus, the great wyrm of the emberpeak, listener of ancient secrets and hoarder of starlight, learned. he listened with the intensity of a scholar studying a lost language.

the next day, when the discomfort was at its peak, you found your nook transformed. the stone floor was piled high with the softest furs from his hoard, ones you knew he prized. a small, perpetually warm geode he used to heat his eggs, now cooled to a perfect, soothing temperature, was placed carefully beside you. and in a beautifully carved wooden bowl, stolen from who-knows-where, was a brew of steaming herbal tea, the exact leaves you had described.

he settled himself around your nook, not smothering you, but encircling you, a living wall of scales and warmth. his presence was no longer frantic, but a steady, vigilant calm.

“is this… delicate enough?” he rumbled, his voice barely a whisper.

you smiled, sipping the tea, enveloped in furs and the protective curve of his body. “it’s perfect, sylus.”

he let out a contented sigh, a puff of warm, smoke-scented air. he still didn't fully understand this human mystery, this cycle of blood without battle. but he understood you. and he would learn the delicate art of care, for his little jewel was more precious than any gem in his hoard.

the days unfolded, and sylus’s education continued. his worry, once a sharp, panicked thing, softened into a constant, humming vigilance. he was learning the rhythms of your body, the subtle shifts in your scent and demeanor that signaled the ebb and flow of this strange, non-lethal bleeding.

on the second day, he vanished at dawn, his great wings stirring the mist in the valley below. he returned not with gold, but with a leaf, carefully cupped in his massive claws, its surface piled high with dark, plump berries. they were still dewy, perfectly ripe, and he presented them to you with the gravity of a king offering a crown jewel.

“the sun-warmed ones from the southern slope,” he rumbled, his snout nudging the leaf towards you. “they are the sweetest. for your strength.”

he watched, unblinking, as you ate them, his head tilted. when you hummed in appreciation, a sound of pure pleasure, a deep, thrumming purr started in his chest, vibrating through the very stone you sat on. it was a sound you’d only heard a handful of times, reserved for moments of deepest contentment. he had provided. he had soothed.

his hoard-instinct, usually focused on gleaming metals and captured starlight, was repurposed. if you were his greatest treasure, then you must be adorned as such, especially when you felt unadornable. he began bringing you pieces from the deepest parts of his collection. not heavy crowns or sharp-edged swords, but things of pure, comforting beauty. a blanket woven from moon-silver threads, impossibly light and warm. a single, perfect pearl the size of your palm that glowed with a soft, inner light. he would drape the silver over your legs and place the pearl in your hands, his movements surprisingly delicate.

“shinies for my jewel,” he would murmur, as if covering you in his wealth could somehow armor you against the internal discomfort.

but his most constant comfort was his own body. he became a living furnace, a bastion of heat. he would curl around your nook, his massive flank a warm, scaled wall at your back, his tail creating a protective crescent. the heat that once could melt stone was now banked to a steady, penetrating warmth that seeped into your aching muscles, loosening the tight knots in your lower back and belly.

he was hyper-aware of every sound you made. a sharp intake of breath, a tired sigh, and his head would swing around, his great eyes fixed on you. but it was the groans—the low, involuntary sounds of pain that sometimes escaped you—that truly unnerved him.

you let out one such groan, curling in on yourself as a cramp tightened its grip. sylus flinched as if struck by an invisible arrow. a low, distressed whine escaped him.

“little jewel?” his voice was tight with renewed anxiety. “the pain? it is… it is still not a wound? you are sure?”

you managed a weak nod, pressing your hands to your stomach. “it’s just a bad cramp, sylus. it will pass.”

he didn’t look convinced. he lowered his head until his chin rested on the floor just before you, his hot breath a steady, rhythmic comfort. he began to hum, a deep, resonant vibration that was different from his purr. it was an old, instinctual sound, a dragon’s lullaby for their hatchlings. the sound seemed to sink into your bones, a tangible magic that didn't stop the pain, but made it feel distant, manageable, as if he was taking a part of it upon himself.

he was nursing you, not with poultices or potions, but with presence. with berries stolen from the sun, with the weight of priceless treasures, and with the ancient, grounding heat of his own soul. he was learning that care was not always about fighting a foe, but sometimes about simply being a warm, steady wall in the dark, a silent promise that you did not have to bear the ache alone.

the purring stopped abruptly. a low, guttural rumble started deep in his chest, a sound so different it made you freeze. you looked up. his head was lifted, his neck stretched taut. his nostrils flared wide, pulling in the air around you with sharp, audible sniffs. the warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, possessive intensity.

"you smell different," he growled. the sound was not friendly. it was the grating of stone, a warning. "the forest air on you is tainted. you smell of smoke. of crowded streets. of… another human. a man."

you slowly put your watering can down, the wooden handle suddenly feeling unsteady in your grip, but not afraid.

sylus, for as long as you've known of his presence around, has never harmed you. there was no reason for you to be afraid

"sylus, it's nothing. i had to go to the town market today. you know i go sometimes. the streets were just very crowded, that's all."

"who." the word was not a question. it was a command, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to tremble in response. a wisp of dark smoke, smelling of ozone and heated rock, curled from one of his nostrils.

your mind raced, trying to place the source of his agitation. "it was no one important! just… the baker's son, i think. his name is leo. i was turning a corner and he was carrying a big sack of flour. we just bumped into each other, that's all. it was an accident. he was kind about it and helped me steady myself."

the moment the name—leo—left your lips, sylus went completely rigid.

the low rumble in his chest erupted into a full, snarling growl that echoed through the clearing, sending birds scattering from the trees. "leo," he repeated, the name a foul, venomous thing on his tongue. smoke now poured freely from his nostrils, clouding the air between you with the scent of his agitation. "a… baker." he said the word with utter contempt, as if describing something weak and worthless. his eyes burned with a fire you had never seen directed at you before. it was jealousy, raw and primal.

before you could say another word to soothe him, he moved. with a powerful surge of coiled muscle, he launched himself into the sky. the beat of his vast, leathery wings was a thunderclap that whipped your hair and clothes violently. you stood there, stunned, watching his dark form disappear above the dense green canopy.

he was back within minutes, a terrifyingly swift hunter.

with a heavy thud that shook the cottage, he landed in the clearing. clutched in his formidable claws was the carcass of a massive, silver-furred stag. it was a magnificent beast, one that would have taken a party of the kingdom's best hunters days to track and great courage to bring down. he dropped it at your feet with a definitive, heavy thump, his chest puffed out, his obsidian scales gleaming with pride.

"see?" he declared, his voice a deep, proud rumble. he nudged the massive kill towards you with his snout, his eyes fixed on yours. "the finest meat in the forest. fresh. strong. full of life. i caught it for you. does your… baker… bring you such sustenance? can he provide the heart of the wild for you? can his soft, flour-dusted hands hunt and provide? or does he only offer you… weak grains and baked air?"

you stared at the stag, then back at his fiercely proud and deeply worried face.

a slow, aching understanding dawned.

this wasn't just about a strange scent. this was about territory. about possession. in his draconic mind, he saw a rival, a challenger for your attention, and he was trying to prove his superiority in the only way he knew how.

"sylus," you began, your voice gentle but firm. you crossed your arms over your chest. "that is a very impressive catch. and it is sweet of you to think of me. but i cannot eat an entire stag by myself. and i cannot make a new dress from rabbit fur or stag hide."

he blinked his large, intelligent eyes, the fire in them dimming to a confused smolder.

"i have to go to town sometimes," you continued, stepping a little closer, though the heat from his agitated body was intense. "it is not a choice. i need to buy cloth and needles and thread. i need soap and salt and things you cannot easily find in the forest. i am a human, and i live in a human world part of the time. when i am there, i might bump into people. it does not mean anything. leo is just a man who sells bread. that is all he is. i think that was the first time ive ever seen him"

he was quiet for a long moment, processing your words. the proud, rigid set of his shoulders slumped slightly.

the aggressive puff of his chest deflated. he looked from your face to the massive stag, then back to you, and let out a low, chuffing sound. he nudged the stag again, almost petulantly.

"but… my meat is better," he mumbled, his deep voice now a soft, rumbling plea. "it is stronger. better for you."

so clearly... he was still having lingering jealousy coursing through his veins.

later, as the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, you were admiring the soft, ethereal glow of the moon-petal flowers.

sylus watched you for a long time, his massive head tilted. then, he turned and, with astonishing delicacy, used the very tip of his wing to sweep a pile of his treasure towards you.

it was not just gold and gems, though there were glittering coins and deep green emeralds. there were rare, beautiful objects he had clearly collected over centuries: a perfectly preserved fossil of a prehistoric fern, a geode split open to reveal a stunning galaxy of violet amethyst crystals, a necklace woven from what looked like strands of starlight and one of his own, smaller, discarded scales.

all items that a jewel collector or archaeologist would faint at the sight of

he nudged the geode towards you with his nose. "this one," he rumbled, his voice low and intent. "it holds the memory of the earth's first breath. it is ancient and powerful."

his gaze was unwavering, filled with a desperate earnestness. "these are not just things. they are pieces of my hoard. my… heart. can your baker offer you the secrets of the world? can he give you a piece of his soul? can he show you the history locked in stone?"

ah... still having a one-sided beef with the baker.

he lowered his great head until his warm, scaled forehead was gently pressing against your chest. the growl was gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming vibration that felt like a plea resonating deep within your own bones. the scent of smoke was gone, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of the forest at night.

"stay here, little one," he whispered, the sound so quiet it was almost carried away by the breeze. "with me. my forest is your forest. my treasure is your treasure. my protection is yours. i can keep you safe. i can give you wonders. choose my fire. please. do not… do not seek warmth from his feeble, mortal hearth."

and in that moment, you saw it all. the jealousy, the grand displays of hunting and wealth, the desperate hints. it wasn't the aggression of a monster.

it was the fear of a lonely, ancient creature who had finally found something precious, something he considered his, and was terrified to the core of losing it to another. he was trying to prove he was the better provider, the better protector, in the only language a dragon knew.

you reached up and wrapped your arms as far as you could around the thick base of his neck, burying your face in the warm, smooth scales. "silly dragon," you murmured, your voice muffled against him. "your meat is the best. your treasures are the most beautiful. and your fire is the warmest thing i have ever known. i come back to you, don't i? i always come back."

he let out a long, shuddering sigh, a hot breath that stirred your hair. he leaned into your touch, his massive body relaxing, the tension finally bleeding away. he might not fully understand your human world, but he understood your touch, your scent, and your promise to return.

"...i am also certain i am capable of creating better creations than that measly mortal human baker."

"have you ever even tried making bread, oh-mighty-dragon?"

"... no but if it shall make you happy, i shall learn. nothing a human can do i cannot."

you brush off his anger a little replying, “it wasn’t even that bad of a hit” or “you weren’t paying attention, and i didn’t want you to get hurt, even if you have rct.” 

he swears that if he didn’t already have white hair, he would have sprouted some from the stress of this conversation.

what you do that melts satoru gojo

satoru had accepted long ago that free time just wasn’t for him. meetings, missions, babysitting students, more meetings—if he was lucky, he could steal an hour to nap. the strongest didn’t get breaks.

then you came along.

you’d complain to him about the higher-ups constantly, your frustrations spilling over whenever he came back too late, too tired, too sore. he always waved it off with a laugh. “don’t worry about me, sweets. nothing i can’t handle.” but it still ate at you.

the day before your anniversary, he found out just how far you were willing to go for him. he walked up to the higher-ups’ office, already hearing your voice through the door. sharp, demanding, but steady. and when you stepped out, there you were, beaming at him with the kind of smile that knocked the air right out of his lungs.

he came closer towards you. “what has you smiling so bright, sweets?” he said with his usual smirk.

“i got your schedule completely empty for tomorrow!” you say with a toothy grin.

satoru stops. freezes, processing what you just said. completely empty? how? that was possible? especially asking for it a day before? when was the last time he even had a full day to himself?

as you hear no response from him, you look up and see him staring directly at you, no smile. an un-readble expression.

“um… is everything okay?” you as while waving your hand in front of his face. “earth to sat-” before you could finish your sentence, he hugged you.

not a light hug, it was genuinely one squeeze away from suffocating you.

“satoru??? is everything okay?” you ask while trying your best to breathe.

he had his face buried in your neck. the only words spoken were a faint “thank you.”

that was the first time you did that, but definitely not the last. you would fight for him so he could have rest, and he never felt more thankful. you brushed this off as “it is just a day,” but those days he could spend sleeping in and cuddling you were everything. a domestic life, even if it was just for day, without any curses or nagging in his ear would completely recharge him everytime.

he always spent the entire day with you, too. every morning would start off with endless thank you’s as your legs are tangled and he is breathing in your scent as the sun shines on you.

what you do that makes suguru geto mad

suguru doesn’t like raising his voice at you. he rarely even gets upset in obvious ways—he’s too calm, too collected. but there’s one thing that chips away at him every single time: the way you put everyone else above yourself.

you’ll drag yourself home after missions, covered in scrapes, limping slightly, exhaustion painting itself in the slope of your shoulders. but the first thing you do isn’t sit down or ask him for help—it’s check on everyone else. did they make it home? are they hurt? do they need something?

it drives him insane.

one evening, he walked into the kitchen to find you hunched over the counter, carefully sealing a package of charms you promised to deliver to a younger sorcerer the next morning. your eyes were heavy-lidded, movements clumsy, and you kept shaking your hand out because of how sore it was.

“sweetheart,” suguru’s voice was soft at first, careful. “you should rest. that can wait until tomorrow.”

“i told her i’d get it to her before her mission,” you replied without looking up, forcing a smile. “she’s nervous. i don’t want her going in without it.”

he came closer, watching you fumble with the string until it slipped from your fingers. you muttered a curse, bending to pick it up, but he caught your wrist gently, stopping you.

“enough.” his tone was sharper this time, more firm.

you looked up, startled by the rare edge in his voice. “but—”

“no. listen to me.” he set the charm aside, cupping your face in his hands so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. “you give and give until there’s nothing left, and you think that’s okay. but it’s not. you’re not a tool for others to use, and you’re not responsible for holding everyone else together. you’re human. and you need rest.”

his words left you quiet, guilt pooling in your chest. you hated worrying him, hated that he had to scold you like a child.

he sighed, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “i love your heart. i love that you care so much. but i won’t sit here and watch you destroy yourself in the process.”

it wasn’t anger in his eyes. it was desperation. and that hurt worse than any lecture could.

what you do that melts suguru geto

suguru knows himself. maybe too well. he knows when his thoughts start to dip, when the heaviness creeps in, but sometimes it slips past him before he even realizes it.

what he doesn’t know is how you always notice before he does.

it started small—little things, like the way he lingered a beat too long in silence or how he toyed with the edge of his sleeve when he thought no one was looking. the signs were faint, almost invisible, but you caught them.

one evening, he came home quieter than usual. he greeted you, yes, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. he sat on the couch, staring at nothing in particular, shoulders slumped like the weight of the world was pressing him down.

you didn’t ask what was wrong. instead, you disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with his favorite tea steaming in a mug. you set it in his hands gently, tucking a blanket around his shoulders without a word.

then, you sat beside him. no questions. no pressure. just your presence, steady and grounding.

after a long moment, he turned to look at you. “how did you know?” his voice was soft, almost a whisper, like he was afraid saying it out loud would shatter the fragile calm around him.

you only shrugged, leaning against him. “i just… know you.”

and that was it. that simple act—your quiet care, your ability to see him even when he couldn’t see himself—melted something inside him. he rested his head against yours, breathing in the comfort of your closeness.

later, when he finally spoke about what was weighing him down, it wasn’t with his usual walls or distance. it was raw, vulnerable, because you had given him a space where he felt safe before he even knew he needed it.

and in that moment, suguru realized just how deeply you were intertwined in his soul—how you weren’t just someone he loved, but someone who saw him when no one else did.

what you do that makes kento nanami mad

nanami kento is not a man easily rattled. he’s patient, composed, and never the type to explode unnecessarily. but if there’s one thing that can pull a sharp sigh out of him and get him rubbing the bridge of his nose, it’s when you try to pay for something when he’s right there.

it’s not that he thinks you’re incapable. he knows you’re independent, strong-willed, and more than capable of taking care of yourself. but to him, paying for you—whether it’s dinner, groceries, a train ticket, or even something as small as a coffee—represents more than just money leaving his wallet. it’s his way of showing care, of providing, of grounding himself in a world where he often feels his work only ever takes.

so when the waitress brings the check and you slyly grab it before he can reach, it makes his jaw tighten. “i’ll get this one,” you chirp, handing over your card with a sweet smile.

nanami’s voice drops. “there’s no need.”

“ken, it’s just one meal. you don’t have to pay every single time. i can take care of us, too.”

and while he knows you mean well, something about it gnaws at him. maybe it’s because you don’t see yourself the way he sees you. in his mind, he already made the choice that his money is yours, his stability is yours, his future is tied completely to yours. so why do you insist on acting like there needs to be balance here? he doesn’t want balance. he wants you taken care of.

even after you married him, when you had full access to his card, you’d use it sparingly. he noticed, of course. he always notices. you’d buy groceries with your own card, slip a bill into the cashier’s hand when he wasn’t looking, and it frustrated him to no end.

one night, after dinner out, you tried again. “ken, please, let me pay this time. you’ve been working so much, and i just—”

his hand covered yours, steady and firm. “stop.”

the tone was enough to make your words falter. he wasn’t angry at you, not really. but the seriousness in his eyes pinned you in place. “you don’t need to do that. not for me. not ever. i provide because i want to. i want you to feel secure. please… don’t take that away from me.”

it’s not a lecture in the typical sense, but for nanami, that’s as close as it gets. his words stick, heavy and deliberate. and though you pout, though you argue that relationships should be equal, in the end you let him win, because the look in his eyes makes it clear—it’s not about the money. it’s about his love, his way of giving it to you.

what you do that melts kento nanami

nanami doesn’t often express joy in big, grand ways. his happiness isn’t loud—it’s quiet, domestic, tender. and nothing warms him more than the little notes you scatter throughout your shared life.

you don’t even think about them much. it’s just your way of showing affection, scribbling reminders or encouragements on scraps of paper. but for nanami, they become treasures.

he opens his bento at work, exhausted after a morning meeting with the higher-ups, and tucked beside the carefully prepared food is a sticky note: don’t forget to breathe, ken. i love you.

he finds another on the fridge when he comes home late: milk in the top shelf, dinner in the microwave, and me waiting in bed. hurry up :)

there’s one in his jacket pocket one day when he’s leaving for a mission: come back to me safe. always.

at first, he thought they were sweet, but harmless. over time, though, they become his anchor. in the middle of a long day, when the world feels too gray and he wonders if anything he’s doing matters, he catches sight of your handwriting and suddenly it all feels worth it.

one evening, after a particularly rough assignment, he comes home earlier than expected. you’re asleep on the couch, blanket half-pulled over you. he sets his briefcase down quietly, but when he opens it, a note flutters out. you must have slipped it inside without him noticing.

thank you for working so hard. i know you don’t hear it enough, but i’m proud of you.

his chest tightens. he stares at the note longer than he should, fingers brushing the ink. and when he looks back at you, soft and peaceful in the dim light, he feels something he rarely lets himself admit: pure, unfiltered happiness.

he kneels beside the couch, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and whispers, “you’re going to make me soft, you know that?”

you don’t stir, but he smiles anyway. because for nanami, your little notes are proof that you think of him even when he’s not there. and that knowledge melts him every single time.

what you do that makes toji fushiguro mad

toji fushiguro has lived most of his life believing in strength. strength keeps you alive. strength gets you through. strength is everything. so when you, the person he sees as the most perfect thing in his life, start insulting yourself—especially your body—it makes something inside him snap.

“i think i need to try this new diet,” you say one morning, scrolling on your phone. “look at this before-and-after. maybe i’ll look better if—”

“the hell are you talking about?” his voice is sharp, almost a growl.

you blink up at him, startled. “it’s just a diet, toji. no big deal.”

“no big deal?” he repeats, stepping closer. “you’re already perfect. why would you waste your time with that crap?”

he hates it. hates the way you wrinkle your nose at the mirror, the way you pinch at your stomach or sigh at your thighs. because to him, you’re it. the standard. you’re everything he didn’t know he wanted and everything he swears he doesn’t deserve. so when you talk down about yourself, it feels like you’re insulting the very thing that keeps him going.

one time, you skipped dinner because of some ridiculous cleanse you read about. he caught you trying to sneak into bed without eating, and he lost it.

“don’t ever do that again,” he snapped, slamming a plate of food in front of you. “i don’t care what some dumbass online says. you’re not starving yourself in my house.”

you argued, embarrassed. “toji, it’s just for a week—”

“no.” his tone was final, eyes flashing with a kind of fear you rarely saw in him. “you’re not hurting yourself like that. not for me, not for anyone, not ever.”

and in that moment, you realized it wasn’t anger at you. it was fear. fear of losing you, of watching you slip into habits that could harm you, fear that you didn’t see yourself the way he saw you.

toji fushiguro doesn’t beg. but if it means you’d stop tearing yourself down, he would.

what you do that melts toji fushiguro

for all his rough edges, for all his blunt words and sharp smirks, toji fushiguro has one weakness he’ll never admit to anyone: your cooking.

the first time you made him a home-cooked meal, he didn’t think much of it. he thought food was food, nothing more. but the moment he tasted it, his eyes widened just slightly. “damn… this is good.”

from then on, he was hooked.

after a long day, when he drags himself home, sore and exhausted, the smell of your cooking greets him at the door. you’re in the kitchen, apron on, humming as you stir something on the stove. and suddenly, all the tension in his body bleeds out.

“you’re spoiling me,” he mutters, slipping his arms around your waist from behind.

“someone has to,” you tease, pressing a spoon into his hand. “taste this.”

he takes the bite, and he swears it’s the best thing he’s ever had. it always is. and he falls a little more in love every single time.

once, you packed him a lunch before he went out. he didn’t think much of it until he opened the container hours later, sitting alone in some dingy spot, and found not only a meal but a little note tucked inside: don’t forget to eat, tough guy.

he sat there, chopsticks frozen in his hand, and for a moment, he felt something strange. warm. safe. like maybe, just maybe, he could have this kind of happiness.

“you’re gonna kill me one day,” he mumbled to himself, but he ate every bite.

because toji fushiguro may act like nothing gets to him, but the truth is this: every time you cook for him, he falls deeper, and he doesn’t even try to stop it.

what you do that makes choso mad

choso isn’t used to being protective in the way he is with you. with yuji, yes—that’s instinct, blood, responsibility. but with you, it’s different. it’s bone-deep, constant, almost terrifying.

so when you try to do things yourself, when you climb up on counters to reach the seasoning at the top shelf instead of just asking him, it drives him insane.

“what are you doing?” his voice is panicked as he rushes into the kitchen, seeing you wobbling on your toes on the edge of the counter.

“just grabbing the paprika—”

“get down,” he snaps, grabbing your waist and lifting you off before you can argue.

you pout, crossing your arms. “i could’ve done it, choso. i don’t need your help for everything.”

but he looks at you with wide, almost frantic eyes. “you looked like you were about to fall. what if you hit your head? what if you got hurt?”

to you, it’s small. harmless. but to him, it’s a nightmare scenario playing out right in front of him. he’s lost too much already—he can’t lose you, too.

another time, you tried carrying a heavy box of groceries into the apartment. by the time he saw you, you were staggering under the weight, refusing to set it down.

“why didn’t you call me?” he demanded, rushing to take it from you.

“because you were busy with yuji—”

“i don’t care. you don’t do this alone. not when i’m here.”

his voice was sharp, but his hands were gentle, cupping your face after he set the box down. “please… let me help. i need to help.”

and you finally understood—his frustration wasn’t about the act itself. it was about fear. the fear of watching you hurt yourself when he could have prevented it.

what you do that melts choso

for all his protectiveness, for all his seriousness, choso melts when he sees you getting along with yuji.

he never imagined having a family, not really. but seeing the two of you together—laughing, teasing, cooking dinner side by side—it feels like a dream he doesn’t deserve.

one night, he came home to find you and yuji sprawled on the couch, playing some ridiculous video game. yuji was laughing so hard tears streamed down his face, and you were grinning, eyes shining, yelling at him to stop cheating.

choso stood in the doorway, frozen. something in his chest ached. because this… this was happiness.

“oh! choso, come here!” yuji called, waving him over. “she’s better at this than me, i swear.”

you patted the seat beside you, smiling. “sit with us. i’ll teach you how to win.”

and he did. he sat, awkward at first, but the warmth of your laughter and yuji’s joy wrapped around him like a blanket.

later that night, when yuji had gone to bed and you were cleaning up, choso pulled you into his arms without warning.

“thank you,” he murmured into your hair.

you blinked, confused. “for what?”

“for making him happy. for making me happy.”

you smiled softly, hugging him back. and choso knew then, without a doubt, that nothing in this world could melt him faster than the sight of you loving the only family he had left.

---------------------------------

you had signed them last night, your hand steady, your heart a curious, hollow thing. you had expected to feel something…relief, perhaps, or sadness. but there was only a strange emptiness, like a room cleared of furniture. 

it was the right thing to do in your head. the contract marriage your parents had arranged was for two years, and two years had passed. you both were still so young, only in your twenties. you couldn't keep him bound to a ghost of a marriage, a political arrangement that had served its purpose. the kingdoms were stable now, the alliances secure. there was no need for this performance any longer.

he deserved to find love, real love, with someone who could laugh with him, talk with him, share a life with him beyond the rigid performance you both put on for the court. you thought of the way he looked at other couples sometimes, at banquets and gatherings, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before it was smoothed away. you had always assumed it was contempt for their frivolity. now you wondered if it was something else entirely.

he was a good duke, everyone said so. not that you needed others to say it, even you could see it. he was strong, silent, fair. the servants respected him, the council listened to him, the people adored him from afar. and he was handsome, in a way that was easy to forget because you never really looked at him. not really. you looked at the duke. you never looked at kento. 

his blonde hair was always perfectly in place, his clothes impeccable, his bearing that of a man who had never doubted his place in the world. but sometimes, in the briefest moments before sleep claimed him, you had seen his face soften, the lines of responsibility easing, and he had looked almost young. almost vulnerable. you had always turned away then, feeling like an intruder.

your marriage had a specific contract, written and agreed upon by your parents, of course. you and Duke Nanami had agreed that you would sleep in the same bed every night, but even with that, absolutely no words were exchanged towards each other. for two years, you had gone to bed next to each other as an obligation, two figures on opposite sides of a vast mattress, the space between you a silent treaty. 

in public, you pretended to be a loving couple, your hand on his arm, his rare smiles directed at you, but it was only in public. you two barely spoke to each other not in the public's eyes, and if you spoke, it was only for political reasons. 

you had to dine together at least once a day, no words spoken, only utensils would be heard. you had memorized the sound of his knife against bread, the way he stirred his tea exactly three times, always to the left. these small, meaningless details had become the entire vocabulary of your marriage.

you waited until he had finished his first cup of tea. he was buttering a piece of toast with precise, economical movements, his focus entirely on the task. you took a breath, the sound seeming impossibly loud in the quiet room, a crack in the stillness.

you pushed the papers across the table. they slid over the polished wood, the edges whispering against the surface, coming to a stop just beside his plate.

he looked at them. his hand stilled on the butter knife.

this movement was not something very unusual for you two. you would often share documents that needed second opinions with each other, only because you were the duke and duchess. financial reports, invitations, diplomatic correspondence. you had passed papers back and forth like this a hundred times. a thousand. your hand knew exactly how far to reach.

for a long, terrible moment, he didn't move. then his eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned the top page. you watched his gaze travel across the words, and you saw the moment he understood. his jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the smooth skin of his cheek. his knuckles, still resting on the table, went white.

you had prepared a little speech. something about it being for the best, about freedom, about gratitude. you had rehearsed it in the mirror last night, your reflection calm and composed. but the words died in your throat as he looked up at you.

there was no relief in his eyes. no acceptance.

there was a raw, confusing anger. it burned there, fierce and uncontrolled, and it was the most emotion you had ever seen on his face. it transformed him. he was no longer the composed duke. he was a man on the edge of something.

"what is this?" his voice was a low rasp, a sound you hadn't heard in two years. it wasn't the cold, political tone he used at court functions. it was rough, broken, barely contained. this was different. this was him, this was kento.

"the terms are fulfilled," you said, your own voice quiet, matching the room's silence, though inside you were trembling. "the contract is complete. we can… we can end this. you can find a real wife you actually want to speak to."

his chair scraped back with a violent screech against the marble floor, a sound so harsh and sudden it made you flinch. he stood, looming over the table, his hands flat on its surface, leaning towards you. his breakfast was forgotten, the toast growing cold, the tea untouched.

"don't worry, i have compiled everything to make sure the divorce is smooth. rumors should die out in less than two months—" you continued, your voice mechanically reciting the practicalities you had so carefully arranged, but he interrupted.

"what did i do wrong?" he asked, the anger in his voice cracking, revealing something else beneath it. pain? desperation? "tell me. what have i done that you would want to leave?"

you were stunned. wrong? he had done nothing wrong. that was the entire point. "you did nothing," you said, trying to be gentle, though your heart was pounding now. "that's just it. we have no… connection. we have an arrangement. it's done. you're free."

"free?" he spat the word out like it was poison, like it burned his tongue. he stared at you for another agonizing second, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes searching your face for something you couldn't name. then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving his half-eaten meal and the signed papers on the table.

the silence he left behind was different. it was empty and sharp, like a blade. you sat there for a long time, staring at the empty chair, at the papers, at the cold toast. you didn't understand, you had given him exactly what he should have wanted.

that night, you were already in bed, your back to the center, as always. you had maintained this position for two years, a silent declaration of boundaries. you heard the door open and close. you felt the dip of the mattress as he climbed in on his side.

the space between you felt like a chasm, wider than it had ever been. you could feel his anger, a hot, tense energy radiating from him, filling the darkness. you turned your head on the pillow, and in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, you could see his face. 

his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, his expression carved from stone, but his jaw was tight with a fury he was barely containing. his hands, resting at his sides, were clenched into fists.

"why?" you whispered into the darkness. it felt weird speaking to him so late into the night. you slept next to each other every day for two years, but when was the last time you two spoke in this situation? you couldn't remember. perhaps never.

he didn't answer. he just closed his eyes with a long, slow sigh, the sound heavy with something that might have been exhaustion or despair. he turned slightly away from you, his back now a wall between you, shutting you out completely.

great.

the days that followed were a new kind of torture. the silence was no longer peaceful. it was hostile, charged. 

you tried to bring it up again at dinner. you opened your mouth to speak, and he stood immediately, his chair scraping back, and left without a word, his food untouched. 

you tried to catch him in the hallway. he walked past you as if you weren't there, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his jaw set. his aide looked back towards you in confusion, perhaps thinking you two had your first marital spat but didn't dare question. 

but given everything, every night, without fail, he was in that bed. angry, present, unmoving. you could feel the heat of his rage even in sleep, could hear the tension in his breathing. it was maddening.

finally, one evening, you had had enough. the silence had become unbearable, a weight pressing down on you. you couldn't live like this, in this limbo of unanswered questions and unspoken accusations.

you found him in his study, a room you rarely entered. it was his sanctuary, his domain. he was standing by the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand, staring into the flames. the firelight played across his features, carving deep shadows under his eyes, making him look older, wearier. you closed the door behind you with a firm click, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

"i deserve an answer, your grace," you said, using his title as a shield, as a reminder of the distance between you. "why are you so against this? we are strangers."

he didn't turn around. his shoulders were rigid, the fine fabric of his coat straining across his back. "you think i am a stranger to you?" his voice was low, controlled, but there was a tremor beneath it.

"we have not spoken a single personal word to each other in two years," you said, your voice rising slightly, the frustration of all those silent days finally spilling out. "we share a bed, we share meals, and we share nothing. i know the sound of your breathing at night better than i know your thoughts. i know how you take your tea, but i don't know if you're happy. i don't know if you've ever been happy. i am offering you an out. i am offering you freedom."

he finally turned. his face was a mask of pain, so raw and open it made your breath catch in your throat. his eyes were bright, too bright, and he set the glass down with a sharp clink that seemed to shatter the last of his composure.

"you think this is a loveless marriage?" his voice was rough, broken, barely a whisper. he took a step towards you, then stopped, as if afraid to come closer, as if you might shatter if he touched you. "you think i did this because i felt nothing?"

you just stared at him, utterly confused. your mind, which had been so certain, so prepared, was suddenly blank.

"i was distant because i had to be," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if a dam had finally broken. "my first duty was to make this duchy strong. not for me. for you." he breathed out, a shaky, uneven sound. his eyes showed a mix of anger and… guilt? self-recrimination? "i have spent every waking hour for two years strengthening our position, securing alliances, building our coffers. i trained with the sword until my hands bled, until i couldn't hold a pen, so that if anyone ever threatened you, i could stand between you and them and they would not get past me. i made money, enough money, so you could have anything you wanted, anything at all, without ever having to ask or worry, without ever having to feel the limitations of this duchy." his voice broke completely on the last words. "i did it all for you."

tears were pricking at your own eyes now, hot and unwelcome. this couldn't be true. it couldn't.

"what do you mean you did this all for me? no offense, your grace, you have given nothing to go off of! to my knowledge, we didn't even know of each other's presence before the marriage ceremony itself." your voice was shaking now, the careful composure you had maintained for two years crumbling.

he took a shaky breath, the anger gone, replaced by a desperate vulnerability that made him look younger, softer. "you want me to sign these papers? you want me to let you go?" he looked away, his gaze lost in the flames again, as if he couldn't bear to see your reaction. "i saw you during the imperial ball when we were both sixteen. you wore the most beautiful gown, pale gold, like the first light of morning. it perfectly complemented you. the jewels in your hair sparkled against the chandelier's light, but they were nothing compared to your eyes. you were standing by the window, looking out at the garden, and you didn't know anyone was watching. you had this small, secret smile on your face, like you knew a wonderful secret that the rest of the world was too busy to notice." his voice dropped even lower. "i have been yours ever since that moment. every breath, every thought, every action. all of it has been for you."

the world tilted. you remembered that ball. that was technically your first social debut into high society. you had been terrified, overwhelmed by the noise and the people and the expectations. you had escaped to the window for a moment of peace, and you had been looking at a rose bush in the garden below. you had smiled because a little bird had landed on it, a tiny flash of life in the formal, manicured space. and he had been watching.

"i… i didn't know," you whispered, the words feeling wholly inadequate, a pathetic response to the revelation that had just shattered everything. "you never said…"

"i… i apologize for that." he finally met your eyes again, and the pain there was almost unbearable to witness. "i thought the silence was what you wanted. you were always so composed, so regal, so untouchable. i thought you needed a partner who was strong and steady, not one who would burden you with foolish feelings, with weakness. i thought if i could just make everything perfect, if i could build a world where you wanted for nothing, then one day you might look at me and see someone worthy. i was trying to be what you needed."

he finally crossed the room, stopping right in front of you. he was so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and wine. he didn't touch you, but his dark eyes held yours, pleading, desperate. "the duchy was in the best shape when i first inherited it after our marriage, but it wasn't good enough. not for you. knights were missing a captain, the staff was full of spying rats from rival houses, our treasury didn't even have enough to buy a gown worthy of being taken to an imperial ball." he admitted, finally looking away, shame coloring his features. "i spent all my time during the marriage working to strengthen us, to strengthen things for you. you are a princess…" he hesitated, then slowly reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of your hair with a tenderness that made your heart clench. he held it, watching it shine in the fire's light. "i couldn't let you be treated as anything less. i couldn't let you regret marrying me. but i see now… i see i have neglected you in the process. i was so focused on building a fortress that i forgot to live in it with you."

"don't go," he whispered, the words barely audible, a broken plea. "please. give me a chance to show you. not the duke. not the title. just me. kento. let me try to make you feel even a fraction of what i have felt for you every single day for the past six years."

you were lost. completely, utterly lost. the foundation of your entire marriage, your entire understanding of your life for the past two years, had crumbled to dust at your feet. he wasn't a cold, distant duke who tolerated your presence. he was a man who had been silently, desperately, impossibly in love with you since before you even knew his name.

you shook your head, not in refusal, but in sheer overwhelm. your mind was a storm, a chaos of confusion and disbelief and a strange, terrifying warmth blooming in your chest. "i don't… i don't know how to feel. i convinced myself there was nothing here. i built my entire existence around that nothing. not that i had any reason to do otherwise."

"then let me help you find out," he said, a fragile hope flickering in his eyes, so tentative it might have been extinguished by a single harsh word. "just… stay. stay, and let me try. let me court you. let me show you who i am when i'm not trying to be the perfect duke." he swallowed hard. "and if, after that, you still do not want this marriage… i shall not hold you down. i will sign the papers. i will let you go, even if it destroys me. please. just let me try."

you didn't agree that night. you couldn't. your voice wouldn't work, your thoughts wouldn't settle. you just turned and walked out of the study, your footsteps echoing in the silent hallway. you went back to your shared room, your mind a storm of confusion and a strange, budding warmth that you didn't trust. he followed later, much later, and for the first time, he didn't stay on his side. he laid facing your back, just watching you in the darkness, a silent sentinel. you could feel his gaze on you, a gentle pressure, and for once, it didn't feel like an intrusion. it felt like a promise.

the next morning, he was not in bed. nothing out of the ordinary; he always woke up before you and left. the empty space beside you was familiar, expected.

what was odd was the single, perfect white rose from the garden in a small crystal vase on the bedside table. it hadn't been there when you fell asleep. a note in his elegant script was tucked beneath it, simply reading, 'for the smile.'

you stared at it for a long time, your fingers tracing the delicate petals. for the smile. the smile he had seen six years ago. the smile you had forgotten.

at lunch, he asked you a question. a real question. "what is your favorite color?"

it was so simple, so startling, you almost laughed. after being his wife and duchess nanami for two years, after sharing a bed and a table and a life, he would finally know your favorite color. "blue," you said. "like the sky at twilight. when the day is ending but the night hasn't quite taken over yet."

he nodded, a small, private smile on his lips that transformed his entire face. the lunch continued with small back and forth questions. he asked about your favorite food, your favorite season, your favorite memory of your childhood. and you found yourself answering, found yourself asking him the same questions. 

you learned that he loved autumn, the crisp air and the changing leaves. that his favorite food was a simple warm bread his mother used to make. that his favorite memory was of his father teaching him to ride a stallion. the meal lasted twice as long as any meal you had shared in two years.

that evening, he took you for a walk in the ducal gardens. you had no idea how he had made spare time without warning, but you weren't going to turn down his invitation. 

the gardens were beautiful in the fading light, the flowers casting long shadows, the air heavy with the scent of roses and lavender.

he didn't try to hold your hand, but he walked close enough that his sleeve brushed yours, a constant, gentle reminder of his presence. 

he told you about his favorite tree as a boy, a massive oak he used to climb to escape his tutors. about the first horse he ever owned, a stubborn little pony named pepper who had thrown him more times than he could count. about a silly bet he'd lost to a friend at military academy that had resulted in him having to wear a dress to dinner. 

he was funny, and warm, and real, something the public would never believe you if you told them. he laughed, a real laugh, and the sound of it was so surprising, so lovely, that you found yourself smiling without meaning to.

over the next weeks, he courted you. truly courted you, as if you were meeting for the first time. he left small gifts on your dressing table: a book of poetry he thought you'd like, with certain passages marked, a beautifully colored scarf the exact shade of twilight blue, a tiny painting of a bird, like the one you had smiled at all those years ago.

he would find excuses to be near you, not as the duke, but as himself. he would read aloud in the sitting room in the evenings, his deep voice a comforting rumble as he brought stories to life. he taught you how to play chess, and he let you win, though you suspected he was holding back. 

he listened. for the first time in two years, he listened to your opinions, your little stories about your day, your memories of your own kingdom. he asked questions, real questions, and he remembered the answers. he started leaving his tea cup on your side of the table after breakfast, a small, silly gesture that made your heart flutter.

you were never one to carelessly spend for yourself, even as a princess in your kingdom, everything you owned was gifts from others because you said it felt wrong to spend others' earnings on yourself. when you told kento this small fact, you woke up to a new gift every day.

he had long noticed you were never one to spend much, but he brushed it off as you being able to tell the duchy was still too poor for your liking and spent more time trying to get more money. now that he knows that is not the reason, why should he hold back in showering his wife, duchess nanami, with gifts when he knows you will not spend it on yourself?

one evening, you were in the library, he was showing you a map of his lands, his finger tracing the rivers and mountains, explaining the history of each region, the stories of the people who lived there. you found yourself watching his hand, the strength in it, the grace with which he moved. you looked up and found him watching you, his gaze having left the map entirely. his eyes were soft, full of a tenderness that made your heart ache, that made you feel seen in a way you never had before.

"you have been… trying very hard," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper in the quiet library.

his lips curved into a hesitant smile, almost shy. "i told you i would. i meant it. i will spend the rest of my life trying, if you let me, every day, every moment. i have four years of catching up to do."

you looked at the map, then back at him. you thought of the two years of silence, of the anger in his eyes when you'd offered him freedom. you thought of the rose, the scarf, the sound of his laugh as you'd accidentally knocked over a rook during your chess game. you thought of the way he looked at you now, as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

you thought of the boy at the ball, watching you smile at a bird, and falling in love.

you reached out and placed your hand over his on the map. his whole body went still, his breath catching. his eyes widened, searching your face.

"i think," you said, your voice quiet but sure, the words feeling right for the first time in two years, "i would like to stay."

the smile that broke across his face was like the sun coming out after a long, grey winter. it was radiant, relieved, and full of so much love it made your own eyes sting with tears. he turned his hand under yours, lacing his fingers with yours, holding on tight as if you might disappear.

"thank you," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, then another, then a third, each one slower, more deliberate than the last. it was the first time he had ever touched you like that, with such deliberate tenderness. it was warm, and soft, and it felt like a promise. it felt like the beginning of something.

that night, when he climbed into bed, he didn't stay on his side. he shifted closer, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him. you could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your back, a rhythm that seemed to match your own. he pressed a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering.

"goodnight," he whispered into the darkness, his breath warm against your skin.

and for the first time in two years, the silence in the room felt like home. it was no longer empty, no longer a void between strangers. it was full, rich, comfortable. it was the silence of two people who no longer needed words, because for the first time, they understood each other completely.