warnings. established relationship, fluff (like... a lot), sae pretending he is not painfully attentive ♡
word count. ~3.4k.
every time sae returns from spain, he brings you something small. it takes you far too long to understand that none of the gifts are as thoughtless as he pretends they are.
── .✦
The first gift Sae brings you from Spain is a bookmark.
It is thin and painted by hand, a trail of deep blue flowers curling around its edges while a narrow red ribbon hangs from the bottom. Pretty, certainly, but not particularly remarkable. The sort of thing displayed beside postcards and magnets in a quiet shop intended for tourists with a few coins left to spend before their flights.
Sae places it on the table between you without explanation.
You look down at it.
Then back at him.
“What’s this?”
“A bookmark.”
“I can see that.”
He lifts his glass, entirely unaffected by your stare. “Then why did you ask?”
You narrow your eyes, though the smile threatening your mouth ruins whatever irritation you were attempting to convey.
“I meant why are you giving it to me?”
Sae takes a slow drink before answering.
“You dog-ear your pages.”
There is enough judgment in his voice to make it sound like a personal failing.
You glance at the bookmark again.
“You bought this because you don’t like the way I mark my pages?”
“You’re ruining them.”
“They’re my books.”
“You’re still ruining them.”
You laugh, tracing one fingertip over the painted flowers. The blue is slightly uneven in places, small imperfections revealing where the brush must have paused against the wood.
“You could’ve just told me to buy one.”
“I have.”
“You complained. That’s different.”
“It clearly wasn’t effective.”
Sae leans back in his chair, conversation apparently finished.
You smile despite yourself and slip the bookmark carefully inside the novel waiting in your bag.
“Thank you.”
His eyes flick toward your hands for a moment.
Then away.
“Hm.”
You think little of it at the time.
Sae travels constantly. Training camps, matches, obligations you do not always understand and events he rarely seems interested in attending. Airports and hotel rooms have become ordinary pieces of his life, distances measured in fixtures rather than weeks.
The bookmark feels like an impulse purchase—a small object he spotted beside a register that happened to remind him of your terrible reading habits.
Then comes the second gift: a box of tea from Spain.
You are waiting in his apartment when he returns, curled into one corner of the couch with a blanket covering your legs. His flight landed late enough that you had almost fallen asleep twice, but the sound of his key turning in the lock has you sitting upright immediately.
Sae steps inside with one hand wrapped around the handle of his suitcase.
He looks tired.
Not obviously. Sae rarely permits anything to appear obvious. But there is a faint heaviness beneath his eyes, a stiffness in his shoulders that only becomes visible after you have spent long enough learning the difference between his indifference and his exhaustion.
“You’re still awake,” he says.
“You told me you’d be here at eleven.”
“It’s eleven thirty.”
“Exactly. You’re late.”
“The plane was delayed.”
You rise from the couch and move toward him, wrapping your arms around his waist before he can say anything else.
For a moment, Sae remains still.
Then his hand settles against the back of your head.
“You missed me,” he observes.
“No.”
“Right.”
His palm slides slowly down your hair, lingering before he steps away to remove his jacket.
You watch him open his suitcase.
“You’re unpacking now?”
“I need something.”
From between neatly folded clothes, he removes a small paper package and holds it toward you.
You blink.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside is a box of loose-leaf tea, the label printed in Spanish and decorated with tiny illustrations of oranges.
You lift the lid and breathe in. The scent is warm and sweet, citrus softened beneath something floral.
“It smells amazing.”
“You complained the tea here tastes like hot water.”
You look at him.
“That was months ago.”
Sae shrugs and begins closing his suitcase.
You remain kneeling beside it, the box held carefully in both hands.
“You remembered that?”
“You complained for twenty minutes.”
“It was terrible tea.”
“I remember.”
His tone remains flat, but there is the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
The third gift is a pair of earrings.
Small golden stars, delicate enough to catch the light whenever you turn your head.
He leaves them beside the bathroom sink while you are getting ready, the box appearing between your makeup and his irritatingly limited collection of skincare as though it has always belonged there.
You find it while searching for your lip balm.
“Sae?”
He appears in the doorway, already dressed for dinner.
“What?”
You hold up the box.
His gaze drops toward it. “They’re earrings.”
“Thank you, I was struggling with that.”
“You asked.”
“I’m asking why they’re here.”
“They’re yours.”
You turn one of the tiny stars beneath the light.
They are exactly the sort you would choose for yourself—simple, warm-toned, understated enough for everyday wear. You cannot imagine Sae wandering willingly through a jewelry shop, much less studying displays long enough to decide which pair would suit you.
“How did you even pick these?”
Sae’s expression suggests the question is ridiculous.
“You showed me a pair like them.”
“When?”
He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve. “You were looking at them online.”
Your hand stills.
That had been weeks ago. You had been lying beside him, mindlessly scrolling, and paused on a photo for no more than a few seconds before deciding you did not need them.
You are not even certain you spoke aloud.
“You saw that?”
“You had the brightness all the way up.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It was annoying.”
You stare at him.
Sae stares back.
Then his eyes drop briefly toward the earrings.
“Are you wearing them or not?”
The impatience in his voice fails to conceal the way he waits for your answer.
You smile.
“Help me put them on?”
“No.”
“Sae.”
“You have hands.”
“Please?”
He exhales, long and quiet, as though you have asked him to perform something unbearably difficult.
Still, he approaches.
You turn your back to him and move your hair aside. Sae’s fingers brush the curve of your ear as he fastens the first earring, his touch unexpectedly careful. The cool metal settles against your skin.
“You’re very good at this,” you murmur.
“Be quiet.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“Hold still.”
You do, though mostly because his fingertips have moved beneath your hair, smoothing it back into place with an intimacy that leaves warmth spreading slowly through your chest.
When he finishes, you turn toward the mirror.
The stars catch the bathroom light.
You look at Sae’s reflection.
He is already watching you.
“They’re perfect,” you say softly.
“I know.”
Of course that is his answer.
The gifts continue.
By the fourth gift—a small bottle of perfume—you begin to wonder whether any of his choices are truly spontaneous.
The fifth is a ceramic dish painted with lemons, chosen because your rings are always scattered across his apartment.
The sixth gift is a wool scarf in the exact shade you once admired through a shop window.
The seventh is chocolate from a place you had mentioned seeing online.
The eighth gift is a pen, bought because yours ran out during one of your calls and you spent five minutes searching for another while Sae listened in silence from Madrid.
Each time, he offers the same simple explanation.
“You said you wanted one.”
“You said you liked it.”
“You needed it.”
As though these are reasons enough.
Perhaps, to Sae, they are.
It takes you longer than it should to notice the pattern.
You are cleaning your room one afternoon when you find the first bookmark tucked inside an old novel. The blue flowers are slightly faded now, the red ribbon fraying near the end from months of use.
You place it on the bed.
Then, almost without thinking, you begin gathering the others.
The earrings from the small dish on your dresser.
The scarf folded over your chair.
The perfume beside the mirror.
The tea, nearly finished, in the kitchen cupboard.
A collection of small, ordinary objects arranged across your blanket, each one connected to a moment you had long since forgotten.
A complaint made beneath your breath.
A screen paused for a few seconds.
A passing comment that had felt too insignificant to carry beyond the conversation in which it appeared.
Sae had carried every one of them across countries.
You are still sitting among the gifts when he arrives.
He stops in the doorway to your room.
His eyes move from you to the objects scattered across the bed.
“What are you doing?”
You lift the bookmark.
“You remembered all of these.”
Sae leans against the doorframe, expression unreadable. “They’re things I bought you.”
“No.” You look down at the gifts. “You remembered everything I said.”
A faint crease appears between his brows, as though he cannot understand why this surprises you.
“You talk a lot.”
You laugh once, though the sound comes out softer than intended.
“I don’t talk that much.”
“You do.”
“And you listen?”
Sae’s gaze settles on your face.
For a moment, the room becomes very still.
He could tease you. He could look away, offer some dismissive answer and leave you to interpret everything yourself. That is what you expect from him—the careful avoidance he uses whenever a conversation threatens to become too openly sentimental.
Instead, Sae pushes away from the doorway and walks toward you.
He stops between your knees.
“You’re my partner,” he says simply.
Your fingers tighten around the bookmark.
“So?”
“So I listen.”
The answer is delivered with such calm certainty that your chest aches.
Sae looks down at the collection on the bed.
“You didn’t need to take everything out.”
“I was having a moment.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You brought me souvenirs from another country because I complained about tea.”
“It was bad tea.”
Your laugh breaks free before you can stop it.
Sae’s hand settles against your cheek, his thumb moving once beneath your eye. His expression remains composed, but there is something gentler behind it now, something he does not seem particularly interested in hiding.
“You really don’t think this is romantic?” you ask.
“No.”
“You remembered earrings I looked at for five seconds.”
“They suited you.”
“And the scarf?”
“You were cold.”
“The perfume?”
“You liked it.”
You smile up at him.
Sae’s eyes narrow slightly, already suspicious of the expression.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I said something impressive.”
“You did.”
“I bought you things.”
“You noticed me.”
The words quiet him.
His hand remains against your face.
There it is, you think—the reason the gifts never felt grand to him. Sae does not understand attention as an extraordinary act. He watches you because you are there. He remembers because your words matter to him. The little details you dismiss as meaningless settle somewhere inside him and remain there until he finds them again in shops, airports, and unfamiliar streets thousands of miles away.
To him, it is not romance.
It is simply loving you.
You turn your face and kiss the center of his palm.
Sae becomes very still.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He studies you for another second before bending down. His lips brush your forehead first, then the corner of your mouth.
“You’re welcome, mi amor.”
Your smile widens.
He notices immediately.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
You wrap your arms around his waist and pull him closer, your cheek resting against his stomach.
Sae sighs, but his fingers slide into your hair, gently combing through the strands.
After a quiet moment, his gaze shifts toward the gifts spread across the bed.
“You’re missing one.”
You lift your head.
“What?”
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and removes a small velvet box.
Your arms slowly loosen from around his waist.
“Sae.”
“What?”
You stare at the box resting in his palm. It is too small to contain anything harmless, and Sae’s complete lack of concern only makes your heart beat harder.
“You just got here.”
“And?”
“You already bought me something else?”
Instead of answering, he holds it toward you.
You take the box carefully, suddenly aware of how warm your hands have become. Sae watches in silence as you lift the lid.
Inside is a ring.
The ninth gift—and somehow, the one that makes every other object spread across your bed feel like a trail leading to this moment.
It is delicate, made of thin gold with a tiny teal stone set into the center—not extravagant, but elegant in that quiet, understated way Sae seems to understand suits you better than anything overly ornate. The stone catches the light when you tilt the box, flashing the same deep shade as his eyes.
For a moment, you can only stare.
“Sae…”
“You said you liked it.”
Your gaze snaps toward him. “When?”
“A few months ago.”
You search your memory until a blurred afternoon begins to return: the two of you walking past a jewelry shop, your steps slowing briefly in front of the window. You had pointed toward one of the rings inside and said it was beautiful before continuing down the street.
You had not thought about it again.
Apparently, Sae had.
“I didn’t even say I wanted it.”
“You kept looking at it.”
“For maybe ten seconds.”
“Long enough.”
The answer comes so easily that your chest aches all over again.
You remove the ring from its cushion, but before you can put it on, Sae takes it gently from your fingers.
“Give me your left hand.”
You stare at him.
Sae holds the ring between two fingers, his expression as composed as ever, as though he has not just taken the entire evening and tilted it quietly off its axis.
“Sae.”
His eyebrow lifts.
“Are you going to make this difficult?”
“You’re holding a ring and asking for my left hand.” Your voice comes out thinner than you intended. “I think I’m allowed to have a moment.”
“You’ve been having one for the past five minutes.”
Your mouth falls open, but the reply never comes.
Because he said left hand.
Not your right. Not whichever one happened to be closest.
Your left.
The realization settles slowly, warmth spreading through your chest until you can hear your own heartbeat beneath the silence of the room.
You look down at the ring again, at the delicate gold band and the small teal stone catching the light between his fingers.
Then back at him.
“Sae,” you say carefully, “is this a proposal?”
He watches you for a moment.
“Yes.”
The single word steals the air from your lungs.
There is no teasing in his expression now, no trace of the faint amusement he usually wears whenever he manages to fluster you. His gaze remains steady on yours, quiet and certain in a way that makes the small velvet box in your hands suddenly feel much heavier.
“You’re proposing to me?”
“I just said I was.”
“That isn’t...” You stop, pressing your lips together as a nervous laugh threatens to escape. “You can’t just hand me a ring and expect me to understand what’s happening.”
“I asked for your hand.”
“That is not the same thing as asking me to marry you!”
Sae exhales softly through his nose. For the first time, something almost uncertain passes beneath his composure—not hesitation, exactly, but the realization that perhaps this is one moment he cannot communicate through implication alone.
He lowers the ring slightly.
Then he steps closer.
“You want a speech?”
“I want to know why.”
His eyes narrow just a little. “You don’t know?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Of course you do.
Sae studies your face, and for one terrible second, you think he might refuse simply because you asked. Then his free hand rises to your cheek, his thumb resting just beneath your eye.
“I remember the things you say because they matter to me,” he begins. His voice is calm, stripped of any theatrical tenderness, but every word lands with deliberate weight. “I bring you things because I see them and think of you. I come back and expect you to be here. When you aren’t, the apartment feels wrong.”
Your breath catches.
Sae’s gaze does not leave yours.
I don’t want you fitting into my life only when our schedules allow it.” His thumb moves once across your cheek. “I want you in all of it—when I leave, when I come back, wherever I end up playing.
The sting behind your eyes grows warmer.
Sae notices, naturally, but this time he does not interrupt.
“I bought the ring because you liked it,” he continues. “I measured one of yours because I intended to put it on you. And I’m asking because I want you to marry me.”
There it is.
Not wrapped in poetry. Not softened by promises too grand to trust.
Just Sae, offering you the truth as plainly as he understands it.
His fingers shift beneath your chin.
“So,” he says, voice quieter now, “marry me, mi amor.”
Your vision blurs.
Sae’s expression tightens immediately.
“Don’t cry before you answer.”
A laugh slips through the tears gathering in your eyes.
“You’re still bossing me around during your own proposal.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m not avoiding it.”
“You haven’t answered.”
You reach for the front of his shirt, curling your fingers into the fabric as though you need something solid to steady yourself.
“Yes.”
Sae becomes completely still.
The smallest pause follows—barely there, but long enough for you to see the answer reach him beneath all that carefully maintained composure.
You smile through the warmth in your eyes.
“Yes, Sae. I’ll marry you.”
His shoulders loosen.
Only slightly.
But you see it.
Of course you do.
Sae takes your left hand, his touch unexpectedly careful as he slides the ring onto your finger. It settles perfectly at the base.
Of course it does.
You look down at it, watching the teal stone catch the light.
Then you look back at him.
“How did you know my size?”
“You leave your jewelry everywhere.”
“You measured one of my rings?”
“You make it sound more complicated than it was.”
“You secretly measured one of my rings, remembered something I looked at months ago, found it again, brought it home from Spain, and planned an entire proposal without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“And you still don’t think you’re romantic?”
“No.”
You laugh softly, though another tear escapes before you can stop it.
Sae brushes it away with his thumb.
“Don’t cry over a ring.”
“I’m not crying over the ring.”
“Then what?”
“You.”
That silences him.
You pull him closer by his shirt and kiss him before he can retreat behind another dry reply. His hand slides into your hair, holding you there as his mouth softens against yours.
The kiss is slow, warm with all the things Sae rarely says aloud.
When you finally part, your forehead remains pressed to his.
“You could have started with marry me,” you whisper.
“You would’ve interrupted.”
“I interrupted anyway.”
“I know.”
His eyes lower to the ring now resting on your hand. His thumb brushes lightly over the gold band, tracing the place where it circles your finger.
Then he brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.
“You like it?”
You stare at him.
“You proposed to me, and you’re asking whether I like the ring?”
“You said you did.”
Months ago.
For no more than a few seconds.
You shake your head, smiling helplessly.
“I love it.”
Sae’s eyes lift to yours.
“The ring?”
“You.”
The faintest smile touches his mouth.
“Good.”
Then he kisses you again.
The ninth gift remains on your finger, distinct from every small object spread across the bed.
The others were things Sae carried home because he remembered what you liked, what you needed, and every passing thought you never expected him to keep.
But the ring is not merely something he has brought home to you.
It is his quiet way of asking you to make a home with him.
regular in the sense that he didn’t do much or more like he didn’t have to do much to excel in what he wanted.
regular in the fact that he was just good at soccer, just perfect at reading the field and was amazing at honing his skills to improve even without trying.
he was born that way. others will just have to deal with it.
in his schedule nothing was because it was needed. he got up for practice because it was scheduled, he cleaned because he wanted to and he didn’t like dust, he did the bonding exercises to shut up his coach on the days he had enough patience to go through with it.
he played soccer because he was the best…and because he loved it, there’s no doubt about that.
but he was meticulous about one exact thing.
and that was his health.
he had meal plans, time took carefully to fry the onions in his dishes on each side to a perfect sear.
the dishes lined up perfectly as he drifted his spoon over to you for a unneeded taste test.
his greens tucked, potatoes mashed and beef…was very beefy.
and his body? a temple.
a talented cherished fucking temple. especially when it came to rest.
so on a normal day he would be lucky to get home at 3pm for his daily nap, for a quick snuggle before he got up to do more match review.
but in all honesty that’s when he got home, toeing his shoes off at the door, showering, eating, reading over the interviews, then keeping tabs on his rivals…it was HARD WORK!
hard enough that by 5:30 everyday but his rest days: monday and sunday, sae would stretch one long arm up from his position, turn to you, who usually was snuggled next to him dozing already or watching the next dumb reality tv show…
and telepathically he’d communicate that he was ready to nap.
or in actuality, he’d huff tossing the ipad somewhere on the table in front, his long arm wrapping around you, until you finally turned to his big sleepy green eyes.
because he would not could not sleep without you.
and it was nonnegotiable that this was nap time for you too.
you knew that when his body, curled up over you, one long arm slung around your waist pulling you into his body, his face tucked in the place where your shoulder and neck meet, his bangs tickling you as he took one long breath and finally relaxed.
it was soothing, his hair fluffy, product free from the shower and down, a nice relaxer when you would turn in his arms and watch his face sink deeper into rest.
usually you’d follow right behind or be knocked out already, but today it was movie night of love island! you didn’t want to miss that for his oddly timed nap…you let him have it for the first two hours but once 7:30 hit you knew you needed to catch up on the last episode and his bulky body was not going anywhere.
so you devised a plan, large bear stuffy tucked on the side of the couch just in your reach that he some how completely missed, ready to be your freedom for the next two episodes.
your hand grabbed at his fuzzy ear, the other slowly gripping sae’s arm and pulling it out from underneath you.
pausing when he huffed and shifted his arm going back in its original spot.
BUT NEVER FEAR!
you rolled carefully around in his grip, his arm loosely in the air just enough space to pass the teddy bear through…
“you tried it.”
his arm twisted out your grip and grabbed the poor teddy by his face chucking him across the room.
“now” he scrunched his brows at you under his sleep messed up bangs, “we nap.”
being apart for so long had already begun taking its toll— the seven hours time-difference, missed calls, and replies that only grew shorter & shorter whenever sae was buried deep in training. but it snowballed fast, and weeks of frustration finally spilled out all at once.
“… you didn’t even bother replying to any of my texts yesterday, sae!” you snapped, pacing back and forth across your bedroom with your phone pressed tightly to your ear.
“i told you. i was busy with training.” he replied flatly.
“you always use that as an excuse!”
“cause it’s the truth.”
“so you couldn’t spare thirty seconds to send me a text?” you shot back, frustration bleeding through every word.
a tired sigh came through the speaker. “… not everything revolves around texting you every hour.”
the words left his mouth harsher than he intended.
“… got it.”
“you know that’s not what i meant.” he sighed, exhaling sharply.
“then what exactly… did you mean, sae?” you demanded, your voice trembling despite how badly you wanted it to sound firm. “because lately it feels like i’m constantly trying to squeeze myself into whatever tiny space you have left for me.”
“don’t start, please.”
“don’t… start?” you scoffed, a humorless laugh slipping out. “i’m your girlfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for your attention.”
“and i shouldn’t have to justify every second of my day to you.”
for a moment, all you could hear was the faint static of the call between you. it stretched on long enough for your anger to start turning into something heavier.
“maybe… it’s better if we stop pretending this is working,” you whispered, your throat tightening around every word.
sae’s sharp reply came instantly. “don’t say that.”
“… why not?” you snapped. “when was the last time we had a conversation that didn’t end like this?”
“that’s because you keep pushing.”
“no, it’s because you’re impossible to talk to!”
“maybe because nothing i say is ever enough for you.”
for a beat, neither of you said anything. then came the final straw. “fine,” you breathed, the word coming out shakier than you wanted. “… maybe soccer is the only thing you actually care about. you know what? i’m done.”
before he could respond, you ended the call.
the screen went dark instantly, your tear-streaked reflection staring back at you through the blackened glass.
for the first time since the argument started, your apartment fell completely silent. your chest felt tight. your eyes burned from crying because some part of you already missed him. and despite how angry you still were, guilt had already begun creeping in around the edges.
but right now, the resentment that had been building for weeks was still fresh, still sitting heavy in your chest. then in a fit of anger and exhaustion, you’d decided to block him everywhere— imessage, whatsapp, instagram, tiktok, even his email too. you didn’t want to hear his voice, see his name pop up on your screen, or read another dry reply that made you feel like an inconvenience.
you just needed silence and a moment of clarity for yourself.
—
on the other side of the world, sae stared at his phone screen in disbelief.
his messages weren’t delivering. his calls went straight to voicemail. when he opened instagram, your account no longer existed in his following or followers. the last message he sent you sat on ‘not delivered.’
he tried once more, then again, each attempt ending the same way. still nothing.
“… fuck,” he muttered, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
he was in his hotel room after his evening training, hair still damp from the shower, exhaustion from the day mixing with rising irritation from whatever that transpired between you two.
sae rarely lost his cool. but right now, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone gripped tightly in his hand; he was definitely furious. sure, the two of you had argued before, but this time you had intentionally shut him out. he knew he’d said things he shouldn’t have. he knew the distance had been wearing thin on both of you. but the thought that you’d actually block him— or cut him off completely made him feel more helpless than ever.
after one last failed call, he threw his phone onto the mattress with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face.
“stubborn woman…” he hissed under his breath, teal-eyes sharp with irritation. “you really think blocking me is going to fix anything?”
he leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the phone lying uselessly in front of him. a small part of him wanted to book the first flight back to japan without thinking twice, while the rational part of him knew you’d only resent him for ignoring the space you so clearly needed.
but the longer he sat there, unable to reach you; the heavier the unease settled in his chest. because for the first time in a long time… he couldn’t get through to you.
and he absolutely hated it.
⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: errr ending it here because i might wanna do a pt 2
nagumo is not an easy person to truly let in — not just because his entire professional life revolves around deception, manipulation, and the casual ending of human lives, but also because he's spent so long wearing that permanent smile that even he sometimes forgets what's real and what's just another mask. Coming from a famous family of spies, he was practically raised on the principle that trust is a weakness and that the only person you can rely on is yourself. So the fact that he's even considering a serious relationship with you (given that all his past ones failed)? that means you've already done something no one else has managed in years.
nagumo cannot cook to save his life. This is not an exaggeration. The son of a famous spy family, top-tier assassin, master of disguise, genius-level intellect — cannot boil rice without setting off the fire alarm. You will eat takeout every single night or you will learn to cook for two. He will compensate by handling every other household task with terrifying efficiency. The man has never left a dish in the sink overnight. Your bathroom has never been cleaner. You're pretty sure he reorganized your entire spice rack alphabetically and by frequency of use. It's the most passive-aggressive competence you've ever witnessed.
the man gets carsick on everything. Cars, buses, trains, boats, the world's gentlest ferris wheel. He once threw up in a moving taxi, cleaned it up himself in under thirty seconds without the driver noticing, and then continued a conversation about tax reform like nothing had happened. You're the only person who knows he keeps motion sickness medication in his briefcase next to the assassination weapons. The priority ordering is very funny to you. Less funny to him. You always keep a lunch bag on you whenever you’re together in the car (for him), and you never let him drive. Not that he’d want to, anyway.
for someone who values deception as his primary skill, he is shockingly, almost pathetically honest with you about small things. "I ate the last piece of cake." "I hid your keys because I wanted you to stay longer." "I pretended not to hear you call my name because I was enjoying watching you look for me." He cannot help himself. The big lies come easy. The little ones? The domestic ones? They stick in his throat like broken glass.
he texts in morse code when he's in danger. Not because he expects you to understand it — he knows you don't — but because typing it out helps him think clearly. You've learned to recognize the rhythm of his panicked messages versus his casual ones. A staccato burst of dots and dashes means he's fine, just bored on a stakeout. Long, drawn-out patterns with weird spacing mean you should probably check the news in the morning.
adding onto the Morse code thing, he would definitely teach you if ever had an interest in learning.
nagumo is a lightweight. Everyone knows this. What they don't know is that the man becomes aggressively, almost embarrassingly needy after two drinks. Not in a dramatic way — he won't cry or confess his undying love or anything theatrical like that. Instead, he just... stops letting go of you. His hand finds your sleeve. His head drops onto your shoulder. He follows you from room to room like a lost cat, not saying anything, dragging you to bed because he’s cold and wants to cuddle.
when you're sick, Nagumo is great at stillness. He will sit beside you for hours without moving, without checking his phone, without getting bored. He'll read aloud to you if you want. He'll just exist next to you, a steady warm presence, and something about the way he goes so quiet — no jokes, no teasing, no mask.
he refuses to sleep when you're sick. Just outright refuses. You'll wake up at 3 AM to find him sitting in a chair across the room, watching you breathe, and when you ask what he's doing he'll just say "nothing" and look away. He's terrified, you realize. Not of you dying — you just have the flu — but of not being there. Of something happening while his guard is down. Of losing another person he loves because he blinked at the wrong moment. You don't call him out on it. You just shift over and pat the empty space beside you. After a long moment, he takes it.
when he’s sick? nagumo is the worst patient on planet Earth. Worse than a child. He will deny being sick until he's literally collapsing, and even then he'll claim it's "just a little tiredness" or "probably something I ate."
he falls asleep holding your hand when he's sick. Not because he means to — he'd never admit to needing that — but because his feverish brain forgets to be guarded, forgets to maintain distance, forgets all the walls he's spent decades building. You'll extract your hand to get more water and he'll make a small, distressed sound in his sleep. The water can wait.
his favorite form of physical affection is back-hugging you while you're doing something mundane. Cooking. Brushing your teeth. Trying to leave for work. He'll just appear behind you silently and wrap his arms around your waist, hook his chin over your shoulder, and stay there.
he’s obsessed with your hands. Not in a weird way. He'll trace your palm lines with his fingertips, compare finger lengths, marvel at how soft your skin is compared to his calloused assassin hands.
he loves when you play with his hair. It's the only time he fully relaxes, the only time that constant smile drops into something softer, something almost peaceful. He'll lie in your lap and close his eyes and let you run your fingers through those messy black strands for hours if you're willing.
his favorite thing to do with you, physically, is absolutely nothing. Lying in bed at 2 PM on a Sunday, neither of you fully awake, limbs tangled together under too many blankets. He'll trace patterns on your skin. Nonsense shapes. Equations, maybe.
nagumo kisses your forehead before he leaves for anything remotely dangerous. Not your lips. Not your cheek. Your forehead. It's quick, almost perfunctory, like he's ticking a box. But the way his hand cups the back of your head, gentle despite everything those hands are capable of — that's not perfunctory.
⤷ GAKU HCS .
the first thing you need to understand is that gaku shows affection through proximity. Not words—he's terrible with those—but just being there. He'll sit next to you. He'll stand close enough that your shoulders brush. He'll fall asleep on your couch instead of going back to his own place because apparently your apartment is "closer" (it's probably not). He's like a cat that way. He doesn't ask for attention. He just appears in your space and waits to see if you'll acknowledge him.
moving in together—if it gets that far—will be an experience. Gaku owns maybe four outfits, one weapon, and a gaming console. That's it. No sentimental objects. No photo albums. No furniture of his own. He'll show up with a single duffel bag and look genuinely confused when you ask where the rest of his stuff is. "This is it," he'll say, like it's obvious. And then he'll immediately commandeer your TV for his PlayStation and act like he's lived there for years.
he’s genuinely, almost unnervingly calm about everything. House on fire? He'll finish his snack first. You just told him you love him for the first time? He'll blink at you for five seconds, say "cool," and go back to whatever he was doing. But here's the thing—he'll be thinking about it for days afterward. You'll catch him staring at you with this weird, almost confused expression, like he's trying to process a game mechanic he doesn't fully understand. He's not ignoring your feelings. He's just... bad at feelings. Really bad.
when gaku’s drunk which almost never happens because he doesn't see the point, he becomes weirdly talkative. Not emotional, not clingy, just chatty. He'll explain the entire lore of Resident Evil to you in excruciating detail. He'll rank everyone he's ever fought by how fun they were to kill. (Spoiler: Takamura is number one. He will talk about Takamura for hours. You have learned to just nod along.) The alcohol doesn't make him softer. It makes him more him, which is somehow both better and worse.
when he's sad which is rare, because Gaku doesn't really do sad so much as he does empty, he gets very quiet. Not his normal quiet, where he's just chilling. But the kind where he stops playing his games. Where he just sits and stares at nothing. He won't tell you what's wrong because he probably doesn't even know himself. The orphanage did a number on him, and some days it all just surfaces. You've learned to just sit with him on those days. Don't talk and don't try to fix it. Just be there. Eventually he'll lean his head against your shoulder. That's as close to "thank you" as he gets.
gaku has nightmares about Al-Kamar sometimes. he won’t wake up screaming or anything but you’ll feel him go rigid next to you, his breathing changing, his hands clenching into fists. If you touch him, he'll flinch, maybe wake up startled. So it’s become routine that you don't touch him. You just say his name quietly until his eyes open. He won't talk about it. He'll just stare at the ceiling for a while, and then eventually roll over with you against him and go back to sleep. In the morning, he acts like nothing happened. You act like nothing happened.
physical affection is weird with him. Not because he dislikes it — he actually seems to enjoy it quite a bit — but because he has no idea how to initiate it. He'll just sort of... loom near you. Stand close and wait until you realize he wants something. He's like a npc waiting for you to press the interaction button. He likes holding your hand because it's something to do with his hands. He likes when you lean against him because you're warm. He's not romantic about any of it he's just physically comfortable with you in a way he isn't with most people.
one of his favorite things to do is exist in the same room as you while he plays video games. He doesn't need you to watch him play or talk to him or even acknowledge him. He just wants you there and he’ll get genuinely annoyed if you leave the room for too long. "Where'd you go?" he'll ask, like you've been gone for hours instead of five minutes. He's not clingy in an emotional way. He's clingy in a "you're part of my environment now and I notice when you're missing" way. He’s very very used to having you around and feels weird when you’re not.
he shows he cares in the most Gaku way possible—by remembering things you didn't even know he noticed. if you mentioned once, offhand, that you liked a certain brand of energy drink. Now there's always one in his bag when he comes over. You said you were cold. Now he sits closer to you on the couch, radiating body heat like a human furnace. You told him a story about your childhood. Three weeks later he referenced a detail from it. He doesn't make a big deal out of any of this. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it but Gaku is naturally attentive which makes great for little things when it comes to dating.
he gets jealous, but not in a dramatic way. He just watches. If someone flirts with you, he'll look at them with the same expression he uses before a fight. He won't say anything. He won't do anything. He'll just look. And that's lowkey more terrifying than any threat could ever be. The person will usually leave pretty quickly after that.
he doesn't say "I love you" often. Maybe once every few months. And when he does, it's not romantic or dramatic or even particularly warm. It's more of a statement. "Yeah, I love you," he'll say casually. "Obviously." And then he'll go back to his game. But the thing is he means it. He means it more than all the flowery speeches in the world. Gaku doesn't lie. He doesn't see the point. So if he says he loves you, he loves you. End of story.
Gaku is surprisingly easy to be with. Not because he's a good boyfriend by any conventional standard — he forgets things, he's emotionally unavailable, he'll absolutely prioritize a boss fight over a dinner date — but because he never makes you guess where you stand. He's with you because he wants to be with you. If he didn't want to be, he wouldn't be. There's no manipulation, no games, no hidden meanings.
⤷ NATSUKI SEBA HCS .
let’s be honest about natsuki from the jump. Getting close to him is not easy. the guy spent his formative years getting beaten by a father who wanted weapons instead of sons, shipped off to an orphanage that trained children to kill, and experimented on like he was lab equipment instead of a person. so no, he's not going to open up over coffee on the second date. he's not even going to open up over coffee the twentieth date. but if you're patient. if you stick around while he figures out that you're not another person who's going to use him and discard him. you'll find someone who pays attention in a way most people don't. someone who notices things. someone who builds solutions to problems you haven't even complained about yet.
when you start staying over at his workshop regularly, and you will because that's where he lives basically, you'll notice that he has a system for everything. tools organized by weight and frequency of use. blueprints filed by date and project status. spare parts sorted into bins that are labeled in his messy handwriting. and here's the thing. he will, without asking, start applying that same system to your stuff. not because he's controlling but because he genuinely cannot understand how you function in chaos. "your keys were on the counter," he'll say when you can't find them. "i put them on the hook by the door. that's where keys go." he says this like he's explaining gravity to a child.
the protectiveness with natsuki doesn't look like what you'd expect. he's not throwing himself in front of bullets or picking fights with people who look at you wrong. that's not his style. instead, he protects you by being three steps ahead. he'll notice someone paying too much attention to you at a cafe and quietly reposition himself so he's between you and them. he'll build a small device that masks your location when you're walking home alone at night. he'll install better locks on your door without telling you, and you won't even realize until weeks later when you try to use your old key and it doesn't work anymore. he doesn't want credit for any of this. in fact, he'd rather you didn't notice at all. it's just what you do for someone you're not going to let get hurt. he's lost too many people already. he's not planning on losing you.
touching natsuki is complicated. not because he flinches, he's too somewhat put together for that, but because he goes very still. like an animal deciding whether to run or fight. the first few times you reach for his hand, he'll just let you hold it. he won't hold back. his fingers will stay limp in yours, unresponsive, and you'll feel like you're holding a mannequin's hand instead of your boyfriend's. it's not rejection. he just doesn't know what to do. no one's ever done this for him before. no one's ever touched him without wanting something. information. obedience. results. you learn to start small. a hand on his shoulder that lasts two seconds. your knee pressing against his under the table. your pinky hooking around his while you walk. and slowly, over months, he starts responding. his fingers curl around yours. his shoulder relaxes under your palm. he leans into your touch instead of away from it. he's still not good at initiating. but when he does, a hand on your waist guiding you out of someone's way, his forehead resting against yours for just a second before he pulls back, it’s got weight to it because you know what it cost him to do that.
kissing natsuki is an education in restraint. he'll kiss you on the lips, sure, but it's always brief. like he's timing himself. and if you try to deepen it, try to pull him closer, try to make it more than a quick press of mouths, he'll pull back but not angry. "not now," he might say, or he might say nothing at all, and you've learned not to be pushy. but sometimes, rarely, he'll kiss you like he forgot to hold back. like his brain shut off for a second and his body just acted. those kisses are messy and desperate and over too fast. he always looks surprised afterward, like he didn't know he had that in him. you never comment on it. you think if you did, he'd stop entirely.
he kisses your forehead sometimes, too. usually when he thinks you're asleep. it's feather-light, barely there, and he murmurs something against your skin that you can never quite make out. you've stopped trying to catch the words.
your words matter to him more than you realize. not the big declarations, those make him uncomfortable actually, like you're setting him up for something. the small ones are what get him. "i'm glad you're here." "that was a good idea." "you work too hard, come eat something."
jealousy is weird with natsuki because he doesn't get jealous the way normal people do. he doesn't get angry or possessive or start fights. instead, he gets clinical. he'll ask questions. "who was that?" "how do you know them?" "have they always looked at you like that?" and his tone is so neutral, so flat, that you almost miss the tension underneath. he's not interrogating you. he's just trying to figure out if this person is a threat to what you have.
his favorite thing ever, and he'd never admit this out loud, is when you fall asleep in his workshop while he's working. he'll glance over at you, curled up on the old couch and something in his chest will loosen. he thinks you look beautiful in your sleep, but he’s never really say that out loud either.
A dear anon Requested; Yandere Rover with unlucky reader.
While thinking about how to write it, I remembered a request in my Wattpad; Yandere Male Rover with an Isekai'd simp reader.
The ideas opened the flood gates and I combined the two to write it, But accidentally I posted the half written Oneshot instead of saving in drafts, in a panic I deleted the whole thing and then lost the anon Ask.
(╥﹏╥) ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ
After having a meltdown, I got back the motivation and wrote it from scratch.
Yandere M! Rover x unlucky simp isekai'd F!Reader
This was the blueprint / reference sheet for this sotry.
Slowburn
12k words (was having so much fun writing this I didn't even notice the word count.)
Wuwa Version 2.0 Rinascita spoilers
Part 2 coming soon
Rinascita was never ready for your thirst.
You were losing your mind. Not in a metaphorical, “haha I love this game” way—no, actually losing it. Right there on your bed, wrapped in a blanket burrito, your phone inches from your face, you screamed at a pixelated man who had no idea the chokehold he had on your soul.
“YESSSSS! 100K DAMAGE! GO OFF, KING!”
Your screen was a whirlwind of Havoc energy—your Rover dodging as your fingers maneuvered with precision on your phone screen. With a flick of his fingers, the Umbra bar pulsed to max, you clicked the resonance Liberation.
His voice came:
“You will Obey!”
“AHHHH I SWEAR TO GOD YOU COULD MURDER ME AND I’D THANK YOU—”
Dark Surge erupted. His scythe formed from a pulse of void-black resonance, and in a single sweep, the TD was gone. Like, deleted. A 100K crit damage number splashed across the screen and you collapsed backward like it had personally hit you.
You clutched your phone above your head, grinning like a madman, heart pounding like you'd just been proposed to. “This is it. This is peak gaming.”
Then gravity remembered you existed. The phone slipped from your fingers and smacked you right on the nose. You yelped, hands flailing, dignity nowhere in sight.
Peak gaming? More like peak misfortune.
After picking up your phone, you started to do your dailies. The dailies were easy. With him by your side, you finished off everything with a grin. You tried to act normal—keyword tried. But you still found yourself whispering, “Look at my man gooo~” every time he did that spinning blade combo.
"Now, I just need to finish the Rinascita quest and Aero Rover is mine!" you declared dramatically, just as your phone clung to life at a tragic 5%. You stared at it like it had personally betrayed you. With the sigh of someone who's been wronged by fate itself, you slapped it onto the charger.
When you finally logged out, you sighed long and hard, rolling onto your stomach.
“God, I wish I was there,” you muttered. “Like, not even in a weird way.” You rolled around on the bed, talking to yourself like any sane person would. “Okay, maybe a little weird, but I just wanna meet him. I’d totally be chill, right? I’d be cool. He wouldn't know I'm mentally married to him. I can fake normal.” You stared up at the ceiling.
“Just one chance, universe. One chance.”
Like the protagonist of every isekai anime ever, you fell asleep like that, mind filled with daydreams about him. Blanket half on the floor. Still mumbling about scythe physics and “how hot it is when he says anything in that voice of his.”
You woke up mid-scream.
Not because you were in danger. You were falling. Your body was currently plummeting through the air like a sack of potatoes. A flash of green, a swirl of clouds, and now—face-first into a patch of moss.
“Mmfh—ow—oof—my back…” you groaned, rolling over with all the grace of a flipped turtle. Leaves stuck to your cheek. Something—probably a bug—buzzed suspiciously near your ear. You slapped it away with a shriek and scrambled up, wobbling like a newborn deer.
What the hell?
You looked around, eyes wide. The trees swayed gently above you. As you looked up, a breathtaking sight unfolded—towering trees and jagged mountains pierced through the clouds. Ancient ruins peeked through the foliage, whispering tales of a bygone era. The air was thick with the scent of moss and hummed with strange frequencies.
Everything shimmered faintly, like the game’s graphics got injected with magic steroids. Except... this wasn’t your screen. This was real.
You smacked your own cheek once. Twice. “Ow—okay. Okay. This is happening.”
Your heart thundered. You spun in a circle, awe and panic slamming into each other like bumper cars. “This is Rinascita. This is actually Rinascita—holy SHIT I’m IN the GAME.”
You shrieked and tripped over a tree root you definitely should’ve seen, collapsing into a bush. It scratched the hell out of your arm, but the pain was just proof: real, not a dream.
And then you heard footsteps. You froze, your butt still plopped on the bush.
Crunch. Crunch.
Shadows danced across the moss. A low hum of resonance energy vibrated through the air, in a way that sent goosebumps down your spine.
As he came into view, your lungs forgot how to function for a second as your gaze collided with his. Broad shoulders, lean waist. Black belts/straps wrapped around his hips and chest—he looked very dreamy up front.
And those eyes, so magnetic. “I love you,” you blurted out without even letting the thought cook in your brain.
The silence was loud, as he paused, shocked by the abruptness and genuineness of your tone. Even the wind paused like, girl.
You clamped your hands over your mouth, eyes wide in horror. “I—I mean—not like that—I mean yes like that but not in a weird way—well, okay, maybe a little weird, but—oh god, I just—I swear I’m normal. Sometimes... Fuck.”
Rover tilted his head, stepping closer, his eyes zoning in on the cut on your arm. “Are you injured?”
“Yes—no—I mean emotionally, yes. Physically... just my ego,” you mumbled the last part, still embarrassed.
You tried to stand, but your foot caught the same cursed root and you fell again, this time right at his feet. Like a peasant paying tribute.
You groaned into the dirt. “This is why I can’t have nice things. My unlucky streak is at it again...”
He didn’t laugh. Of course not. He is a gentleman through and through. Instead, he crouched down beside you.
You stared up at him from the ground, limbs tangled and expression fully dead inside. “You’re even hotter in person. That’s not helping.”
Pause, try not to be so obvious. you scold yourself, reminding yourself to keep the fangirling to a minimum.
He held his hand in front of you to help you get up, voice low and calm. “You seem... disoriented. Are you actually alright?”
You shook your head, took his offer with the kind of reverence usually reserved for divine intervention, allowing him to pull you up. He didn’t comment on the way you tripped again immediately after and used his jacket to steady yourself.
“I am sorry,” you whispered, gripping the fabric like a lifeline. “I’m not usually like this...”
He helped you be steady on your feet. His eyes didn’t leave your face. “That’s difficult to believe,” he said softly.
You couldn’t tell if he meant it as sarcasm or observation—but either way, damn, it did things to you, and he was so close.
You feel the lingering warmth of his hand on yours.
Not metaphorical warmth, Not the “he touched me, oh my God I’m swooning” kind. Actual heat, like a campfire still flickering in your veins. You glance down at your fingers You’d clung to him like he was the last thread tethering you to sanity—because maybe, he is.
He hasn’t stepped away, still hovering near. You guess he’s staying close so you don’t trip again. aw, how nice of him!
You’re still staring at that hand of yours. It’s shaking, combined with the sting of the scratch on your arm.
You blink down at your fingers. Curl them. Uncurl. You press your thumb into your palm like you’re trying to wake up—you already know the answer but you are still in denial. Nothing happens. The world doesn’t blur. There’s no logout button hovering over your peripheral vision.
Your throat tightens.
“I’m in Wuthering Waves,” you whisper, voice barely carried by the air. “The game. This is the game.”
You blink up at the sky—those shattered clouds, the hazy blue, the orange-tinged light that never feels quite right. It’s too beautiful to be real, and that’s the problem.
“I’m in the fucking game.” Your legs go stiff. You can’t look at Rover. Not yet. You can feel him beside you though. “Wait, wasn’t Truck-kun in charge of Isekai?! I mean, I love this game and I’m in it… I was happy a moment ago, but now I suddenly feel anxious!”
“I can’t even run two miles without gasping like a dying fish,” you mumble, voice catching on a breath. “I sprain my ankle walking too fast in socks. And now I’m here… in a post-apocalyptic monster hellscape…”
A breath escapes your lips. It sounds like a laugh, but it’s broken. It doesn’t make it past your teeth.
“I’m going to die here,” you whisper, almost stunned by your own words. “Of course this happened to me. Of course, knowing my luck. My life is just a string of bad RNG. And now in a game that would have me killed in less than a second!”
Your knees feel unsteady. The nausea creeps in like a slow wave, curling into your gut. Rover silently stands beside you, So completely unaware that you are currently having a mental breakdown in HD 4K resolution.
Maybe he knows but doesn't want to interrupt, ah, you are too far gone to think about that. You inhale shakily, Try to joke it off. “Haha, yeah, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you whisper but Your voice cracks.
Cool. Cool. Everything is fine.
You stare at him, Then you ask, “Have you met Cartethyia yet?”
He tilts his head. “...Who?”
You laugh. It’s the kind that sounds like it’s trying to crawl its way out of your throat, a panicky exhale.
You start mumbling.
“Montelli family… yeah, you’re supposed to team up with Carlotta. There’s this whole bit where you join the Troupe of Fools? Fight against Phrolova but make it look like a carnival performance. And then you receive the Laurel from Cartethyia, the Maiden. You meet her when she is dancing on water.”
You rub your temple, your brain short-circuiting, You crouch on the ground, slowly curling in on yourself, arms tightening around your knees.
“I don’t want to die,” you whisper, too soft. “I don’t even know how to hold a sword. I can’t fight monsters. I can’t run.”
Seeing someone fall, Rover quickly ran to help the said person. He had noticed you long before you realized he was watching.
Not just the way you stood awkwardly in this world—your posture not matching the other inhabitants, not aligning with the rhythm of this reality—but the way your eyes followed him. That slow trail of longing, like your gaze held a history no one had written yet.
He sees people look at him all the time. Wanting something. Needing something. Dressing up desperation in flattery.
But you blinked at him like someone seeing a memory in flesh. Like someone who couldn’t quite believe he existed. And then—“I love you.”
The words landed with a sincerity so bare, so vulnerable, it made his breath still for half a second.
Not lust. Not seduction. No angled smile or slanted voice. Just a truth, trembling at the base of your tongue, so unfiltered it didn’t even wait for permission.
His mind locked onto you like a puzzle piece with edges that didn’t match anything else in the box.
Flirting—he’d seen it all. It was currency here, like pain or adrenaline. Everyone tried it. A hand brushed too long, a compliment too smooth, a feigned stumble into his chest. It was the unspoken agreement of survivors: flatter the strong, and they might protect you.
He’d grown immune to it. So when you said you loved him?
He waited for the follow-up. The manipulation. The ask. The trade. But it never came.
You just stood there, awkward and pink in the cheeks, with eyes darting like you regretted speaking too loudly in church.
He noted the way you bit your lip, then tried to backtrack. The fumble of your fingers, the way you kept glancing away like maybe if you looked somewhere else long enough, time would rewind itself and un-say what you’d said.
Cute. He found you cute.
He’d catalogued emotions a thousand times. Studied expressions for lies, eyes for betrayal, postures for threat.
But yours didn't fit any category.
And then came the dump.
The babble of a girl who knew too much. Who said names like passwords, dropped references like prophecy.
At first, he assumed you were delirious. Shell shock, maybe. Madness. The kind that comes after a concussion, you did appear out of nowhere from the sky.
But the more you spoke, the more specific it all became.
You told him he was a character. That you had played through this world, and he was at the center of it.
He didn’t believe it.
But the clarity of your voice, the ache in it, the precision with which you whispered names—it didn’t match a lie. It matched conviction.
He stored it. Like a tracker tagging something rare. Slid the information into a mental folder and filed it next to things he wasn’t supposed to understand yet.
Later. He’d circle back to it later.
He watched as your body began to tremble. As you sank into yourself, shoulders hunched, head bowed like the weight of this world and the other one you came from had finally crashed together.
“You’re still alive, see,” Rover finally spoke, making you look up at him from your knees. He crouched down beside you again.
“Let me help you. We should definitely go somewhere safer. The forest is filled with TDs.”
Offering you his hand again, he watched as you stared at him like a deer in headlights.
“I’ll ask Zani to accommodate a place for you to stay. It seems you’ve lost your way.”
You blink rapidly. Rover watched you with a calm, unreadable gaze, waiting for you to take his hand. It seemed you had finally calmed down—or perhaps he’d distracted you—because the last trembles of your meltdown were fading.
“So,” he said, voice smooth like worn velvet, giving you a small smile. “What is your name?”
You, still high off panic and full simp-mode, blurted, “You can call me your wife.”
Instant regret. Your eyes went wide. “Wait, I didn’t mean—I mean—I don’t mind if you do, but I didn’t mean to—oh god, I’m making this worse—sorry—ah, I’ll stop!”
You buried your face in your hands, wanting the ground to open up and swallow your simp soul. “Forget I said anything. Please.”
Rover couldn’t help the amused glint in his eyes. He wanted to test something. The edge of his voice dipped, smooth and amused, just enough to tilt the world sideways.
“...Would you tell me your name, or should I start calling you ‘my wife’ ?”
You squealed internally. Your soul left your body. Your mind short-circuited. “That would be nice,” you said in a dazed whisper.
Rover chuckled softly. You were quite fun to tease.
Your eyes flew open. “Ah! No! I mean—sorry! My name is [Name]!”
You finally took his hand as he helped you stand. You let go quickly, already embarrassed and internally cringing at your slip-ups. You wanted to keep your fangirling side locked up, so you took a step away from him.
“I’ll guide you back to Ragunna City and help you settle,” Rover said, already walking ahead.
You stayed frozen in place.
Noticing you weren’t following, Rover glanced back. “Stay close,” he said calmly.
Startled, stumbling a bit before quickly jogging to catch up, falling into step beside him.
Oh god. You are so fucked.
You and Rover have been walking for… you don’t even know how long. Not to mention, as you two were walking out of the forest, there were so many TDs that attacked. Thank god Rover took care of all of them, and you were happily cheering him on from the back.
The misfortunate situation is not lost on you, knowing how your luck is, you were kinda expecting to run into more trouble after that. But this journey so far has been peaceful, and now you really don’t want to jinx it.
Oh, thinking about how peaceful it is might jinx it. I should stop. You shake your head to dispel the thought.
The weather’s nice too. Sunny, but not too much. The clouds, thick, cottony ones, hide the sun occasionally. Just the right kind of sky to take a walk and touch some grass.
Reaching a set of stone stairs, you notice a Resonance Nexus nearby. Rinascita Nexuses are shaped like the lower part of a fish’s tail, it’s unique. And on your left side… is a cave. A very dark one.
“Do you know this place?” Rover’s smooth voice comes from just beside you, making you snap out of your daze.
“Umm… I don’t know much of the map of Rinascita since I just started playing and then got dumped here. Well, I already know about the port part, where Brant and his crew leave you and then you meet Zani. I think… My memory’s a little fuzzy. Wait, no! You meet Phoebe first… now that I think more about it, you meet an NPC called Cristopopo. No, um… what was his name?”
You ramble on, words slipping faster than your common sense.
“Cristoforo…” Rover answers, his eyes narrowing as he watches you with a sharpened gaze. “How did you know all this?”
At first, he chalked off your ramblings as a possible concussion response. But now? You know how he arrived here. Who he met. Too much, actually. All of this is starting to feel very suspicious.
“Because I was the one behind the screen, Rover!” you chuckle, then pause.
Wait…Your brain stutters. Shouldn’t I be hiding the fact that I know too much? I’ve seen enough isekai anime to know this is a red flag move.
“Oh shit…” You slowly meet Rover’s gaze and smile as innocently as possible. “I am a normal human… who’s a little crazy. Yep! I think I actually got a concussion by falling from the sky! Weird… hahaha…”
You laugh nervously, trying to lighten the mood, where was your common sense when you needed it the most?!
But those golden eyes, glint with something unreadable. The air suddenly feels thick with tension.
Rover nods slowly, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “This is the way to the city square.” he says, pointing toward the cave.
…?No way. If you remember correctly, this actually leads to the Cathedral—the Order’s base.
Still, you follow him into the cave. He walks a few steps ahead while you lag behind. It’s dim, lit only by candles on either side, on the ground, shadows licking the stone walls. The air is cold and damp.
It’s so dark that if someone were to murder anyone in here… no one would know.
You chuckle to yourself.
Imagine if Rover brought you here to murder you because you’re suspicious. Hahaha… funny.
Rover pauses mid-step as if he heard that thought.
You freeze.
He turns to look at you and you swear his eyes are glowing.
“There are stone stairs up ahead. I think I should guide you from here, knowing how you can trip unprompted.” he says, offering his hand.
Aw, how nice! But wait, did he just make fun of you?
Eh, whatever. You can’t focus on that when Rover just remembered something so trivial about you! Your heart does a little flip as you take his hand without hesitation.
He helps you walk down the stairs, and the cave opens into a half-balcony area. From here, you can see the structure of the place more clearly.
There’s an opening to your left where the stairs lead down to a wide area with a fountain in the center. Another balcony lies to the right, and what looks like an elevator structure stands to the left.
Oh! you know this place.
“Rover! This is the Cathedral area, not the city square. The elevator leads down to the entrance of the Cathedral and…”
You walk to the balcony that overlooks the Cathedral’s massive dome.
“And I remember doing an Echo Challenge: Flight VI here!”
You turn to face Rover. “So why did you—” Your voice dies inside your throat as you see the look on his face.
He’s smiling, The I-just-confirmed-my-suspicion kind of smile.
And he looks so hot.
“…you know a lot more than you let on,” he says, casually.
You raise both your hands in surrender. “Look, I’m from another universe who got dropped into this one out of nowhere! And then I met my future husb—”
Rover raises an eyebrow. You panic and pivot mid-sentence.
“I mean, I told you everything I know! I’m no threat! I can’t even fight or anything!”
You’re really selling this like a bad NPC, and the delivery is getting desperate. A true Oscar performance.
Rover nods again, as if still processing your info. Then he lifts his chin toward the landscape. “That’s Ragunna City. But you already know that, don’t you?”
You look out across the scenery. In the game, it’s beautiful but in real life? It’s stunning.
“Are we gonna take the elevator, then a boat to the city?” you ask, excited.
“No,” Rover says. And suddenly, he’s standing right in front of you.
You gulp.
His eyelashes are so long. His lips look kissable as hell
Focus!
“—Ready?”
“Huh?”
Before you can even process it, Rover’s hand wraps around your waist and pulls you close as he jumps off the balcony.
His Flight wings appear just in time, catching the wind, and the two of you are soaring through the air. The wind rushes past you, your heart threatening to beat right out of your chest.
Down below, the city opens up in all its glory. It’s breathtaking.
Rover lands gracefully on the city square, letting go of you immediately. You wobble, regaining your footing, eyes wide.
“You should’ve warned me first!” you exclaim. “But that was awesome! It’s such a bummer you can only use this utility in Rinascita and not in Huanglong.”
Rover frowns slightly, but then smirks. “I did tell you we were about to fly down to the city square.” He leans closer to your eye level. “Seems like, you were lost in that head of yours.”
Ugh. This man. Why is he so……illegally attractive?
Ragunna City in all its glory, where the architecture immediately captivates with its harmonious blend of form and function. Buildings rise in warm hues of beige, ivory, and terracotta, their facades adorned with intricate carvings and ornate balconies that seem like something straight out of a dream.
Canals weave through the city like veins, crossed by arched stone bridges that connect various districts. Along these waterways, colonnaded walkways provide shaded paths, their columns supporting overhanging terraces lush with greenery.
"Wow!" You’re blown away by how breathtaking the city is. “It’s about time Zani called…” Rover murmurs just as his terminal rings.
“Unfortunately, bad news, I did connect with the places around, but there aren’t any rooms available in any of the hotels in the city,” Zani says over the call. Rover had asked her if she could arrange a room for you.
What surprises you more is that Rover didn’t mention a single thing about how he found you, where you're from, or any of your wildly suspicious ramblings. He simply stated you were someone important to him and that Zani should treat you like she treats him.
Weird… but you don’t dwell on it.
“I’ve told some of my people to keep searching. This is uncanny to say the least,” Zani continues, and Rover hums in response.
“If we can’t find anything,” Rover says, turning his gaze to you and calling your name, “you can stay with me.”
You blink. Spending a night with Rover? In a room? Alone?! Count me in.
After the call ends, you’re busy ogling the streets—your eyes wide as you try to soak everything in.
“Would you like to look around the city?” Rover asks, voice smooth as silk.
“Can we?! Don’t you have to, like… go meet the head of the Montelli family? Maybe a certain troop of fools to plan the Carnival performance?”
There you go again, digging your own grave with the shovel. Might as well throw in a few flowers while you’re at it, because Rover is clearly locked onto you again.
“…”
“Ah—I would love to! Let’s look around the city!” you shout, immediately speed-walking toward the Tub Tacet Discord to distract him.
“Hey Rover, she is very suspicious…”
“Shh…Abby, now is not a good time.”
Rover simply follows, letting you lead the way, subtly steering you through the city like he’s indulging you… or observing. Either way, you're too thrilled to care.
The shops are narrow but deep, with arched doorways and canvas shades overhead. The lighting is dim but golden, bouncing off copper lanterns and polished wood counters. Markets are open-air, scattered through the city like hidden gems.
You’re definitely enjoying yourself. Doesn’t this feel like...a date?
And to think—your mother luck has finally shown up for you, because nothing bad has happened so far. This whole exploration? Solid 10/10.
“I won’t be coming back to the hotel tonight, so the room’s all yours. I have some things to take care of. We might see each other in the morning.” Rover says as the two of you finally arrive at the hotel he’s staying at.
Might…? You blink. Right, it’s probably the quest time. Maybe he’s off to meet the Troop of Fools or something. It is nighttime, after all.
“We won’t see each other in the morning?” you ask, the disappointment slipping out before you can stop it.
“Maybe, maybe not. It Depends.” Rover gives you a smile and with that, Rover walks off after handing you the room key.
You enter the room and plop onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. So tired. Your legs are aching like you walked across the entire map. Rolling back and forth on the mattress, you try to find a comfortable position.
“I wonder… why didn’t Abby appear when I met Rover? In the Rinascita quest, Abby was always out and about…”
With that final thought, sleep takes you, deep and heavy, completely unaware that, somewhere out there, you had already slipped beneath their skin, settled into their thoughts.
The next morning, you're already up and about, practically skipping through the sun-dappled streets of Ragunna City. How could you not? You're in the world of Wuthering Waves! The most logical thing to do? Soak in every glorious detail.
Well, after that nervous breakdown yesterday, you’ve come up with a brilliant idea—you're going to settle in Ragunna City, find a job, and live a comfortable life, far away from the wild and hostile Tacet Discords.
You gasp, the memory of the Phrolova fight and its breathtaking cutscene flooding back. Oh. My. God. You're so ready.
You race toward the gathering crowd, the air buzzing with anticipation. Brant sits atop a high platform. But where's Rover? Maybe he's with Carlotta, preparing for the performance.
Suddenly, red petals begin to drift from above, catching the sunlight as they fall. You look up, and there she is.
Phrolova.
Your heart skips a beat. The sky parts like a curtain, revealing a scene that's both eerie and mesmerizing. The atmosphere is tinged with an otherworldly aura, sending a thrill down your spine.
The crowd's cheers swell as Phrolova begins to speak, her voice resonating through the square. She gracefully settles onto a circular hoop suspended in the air, exuding an ethereal elegance.
It's about to begin!!!
You watch, enraptured, as Carlotta and Rover take the stage, battling wave after wave of Tacet Discords. Brant narrates the scene like a grand play, his words weaving the action into a captivating story.
The climax arrives with a burst of fireworks as Rover slices through Phrolova's wand with his scythe. He lands on the stage, the remnants of Phrolova's domain dissipating around him. A laurel materializes, crowning his head.
You're practically bouncing with joy. Witnessing this in real life is beyond anything you could have imagined. It's absolutely magnificent.
Suddenly, a feeling wraps around you like a hug, it's suffocating.
You feel Eyes on you.
You glance around and find Rover staring directly at you, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. There's something in his gaze, so unnerving.
Instinctively, you feel an urge to hide, to escape those hauntingly beautiful eyes.
Without thinking, you turn and weave through the crowd, slipping into the narrow alleys of Ragunna City, your heart pounding in your chest.
After the Carnival, Rover walks into the hotel, footsteps soft on the polished floors. He’s greeted instantly.
“Mister Rover, another room has been prepared for you. Here’s the key,” the receptionist says with a practiced smile.
He smiles back, taking it without a word, fingers curling around the cool metal. Once inside his suite, the door clicks shut behind him.
Not a single thought passed through his head, just the static buzz of your voice echoing in some unreachable corner of his mind.
With a heavy exhale, he dropped down onto the edge of the bed. he sat with both feet planted wide on the ground, knees spread, forearms resting atop them.
One hand slid through his hair, slow, rough, pulling at the strands like he could rake the thoughts from his skull.
“I’m in the fucking game.”
“Have you met Cartethyia yet?”
“Montelli family… yeah, you’re supposed to team up with Carlotta. There’s this whole bit where you join the Troupe of Fools? Fight against Phrolova but make it look like a carnival performance. And then you receive the Laurel from Cartethyia, the Maiden. You meet her when she is dancing on water.”
“Umm… I don’t know much of the map of Rinascita since I just started playing and then got dumped here. Well, I already know about the port part, where Brant and his crew leave you and then you meet Zani. I think… My memory’s a little fuzzy. Wait, no! You meet Phoebe first… now that I think more about it, you meet an NPC called Cristopopo. No, um… what was his name?”
“But that was awesome! It’s such a bummer you can only use this utility in Rinascita and not in Huanglong.”
“Because I am the one behind the screen, Rover.”
Your previous conversations loop around in that big brain of Rover's. He rests his chin on his clasped hands, elbows propped on his knees, eyes glued to the wall.
The pulse in his temple beats a little too hard.
“She said I’m a character,” he whispered, eyes narrowing. “This world isn’t real.”
A sharp breath rattled into his lungs as he closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly, as if listening to some whisper only he could hear.
“She knows Huanglong. She knows Rinascita. She talks like she has known me since the beginning of my journey...”
“I love you.”
The moment it replayed in his mind, something fractured beneath the surface.
Abby burst from the Tacet mark, crackling into the air with a spark of gold light. “What if all she’s saying is nonsense?”
It pouted when Rover didn't say anything. “Rover, don’t we have to meet Carlotta, Brant and Roccia for the celebration tomorrow? Let's just sleep!”
He didn’t move. His eyes were still on the wall, still seeing the shape of your smile in the cracks of the paint.
“Abby… what’s her frequency like?”
Abby blinked, startled by the question. “Eh? I mean—it’s normal. Kind of weirdly low, actually. But it’s got this… this vibe to it. Hard to explain.”
Abby floated in slow, thoughtful circles, frowning in concentration. “It just feels…”
Rover’s gaze finally broke from the wall, softening when turning to Abby.
“Out of this world!” Abby said suddenly, snapping its little paw-fingers. “That’s it!”
He nodded. “Otherworldly,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then his voice dropped. “Can you absorb her?”
Abby jerked in mid-air, appalled. “Ew! No! She’s sweet! Like aggressively sweet! I’d get indigestion.”
A slow exhale left Rover’s mouth. He stood without another word, walking to the door, movement fluid, like the weight of his thoughts no longer held him down.
“Will we go to the party tomorrow?” Abby zipped after him, in an excited spiral. “Umm..where are we going?”
Rover nods, smiling softly at Abby. “Yes we will. For now I just need some fresh air.” Abby floats beside his shoulder. “What about the strange girl?”
He pauses at the threshold, a shadow stretching long behind him from the hallway lights.
“I must keep her close.”
You weave through the streets, your steps slowing to a casual stroll despite the frantic beat of your heart.
It felt like… no, you don’t want to finish that thought.
There’s no reason to. Rover would never—he’s gentle, thoughtful, the kind of man who's Carring and always waits for your answer. He’s your Rover.
The sun has long dipped below the skyline, shadows stretching like claws across the cobblestones. The streets are lit by eerie blue lamps, that give off that weird hypnotic sound.
The occasional flutter of a curtain from open windows, or the low creak of Ragunna City's buildings, the distinct sound of people are the only thing keeping you company, You have walked towards the empty part of the city.
You’re not walking with any direction, just letting your feet take you through the winding alleys, marveling at how this place feels so much like Rome. So beautiful, so rich with history and yet, so easy to get lost in.
The wind howls through the upper levels, curling around the rooftops like a predator circling in silence.
And then it hits you, that feeling. That dreadful, skin-prickling, breath-snatching feeling. Something is watching you.
You lift your gaze, heartbeat stalling.
Two glowing purple orbs, blink into existence atop a rooftop. They shift, jump, moving roof to roof, always staying just far enough to make you doubt…
but close enough that you know they’re watching. And they’re getting closer.
No. No, no, no.
One single word cuts through every thought Run.
And so you do.
You bolt through the city, panic clawing at your throat, your shoes skidding on the stone paths as you turn corner after corner, blindly sprinting down alleyways and corners that all look the same.
The wind behind you screams. You don’t dare look back. You don’t need to. The orbs are above you now, gliding overhead like phantoms. They’re keeping up, very easily.
Your lungs are burning. Your legs ache. But still, you run.
You make a sharp turn, too sharp and slam headfirst into something solid. You stagger back, the impact jarring your senses.
And in your dazed panic you hear the person in front of you whisper your name softly, Spoken like a question, and yet it cuts through your fear like a blade. You’d know that voice anywhere.
“Rover!” you gasp, your voice a ragged mess of relief and exhaustion. “Oh thank god, Rover, I think I was being chased! There were these orbs, like, ghost things, jumping over rooftops!” You point up, frantic, your breath hitching.
But there’s nothing. Your outstretched finger trembles. You blink up at the empty rooftops.
Rover steps closer, brows furrowed with visible concern. “You didn’t return to the hotel,” he says, voice soft but serious. “I got a little worried…”
The way he says it, that makes guilt wrap tightly around your chest. You hadn’t thought about that. You’d gotten so swept up in the fear of getting away from him, but he was the only one who came to your rescue.
Before you can respond, a sharp, slightly indignant voice cuts in.
"Meh! She better have a good explanation! You wasted my precious time!"
Your heart leaps with recognition.
“Abby!!” you squeal, spotting the tiny, cat-like Echo floating indignantly beside Rover’s shoulder.
You lunge forward and scoop it into your arms before it can float away, smothering it in your excitement. “Oh my god, you're so fluffy in real life! You’re adorable! So cute!!”
“Let. Me. Go!” Abby grumbles, squirming and kicking its little limbs in protest. It floats upward with an angry wobble as soon as you loosen your grip, glaring at you with narrowed eyes.
You pout. “Ok, ok sorry! I know I didn’t ask before hugging you but I got hit with cuteness aggression! You can’t hold that against me.”
The little Echo huffs and sticks its tongue out at you without missing a beat, you stick yours right back.
Rover watches the interaction in silence, noticing how easy it is to distract you.… but that earlier intensity still lingers at the very edges of his expression.
After that long, nightmare-like night, you returned to the hotel with Rover. Morning came too soon, walking out of your room you catch a glimpse of familiar dark fabric moving past you, Your heart jumps.
Quickly, You follow him along the hallway, Rover is already walking ahead, his silhouette framed by golden light from the lobby windows.
“Rover!” you call out, voice echoing softly across the corridor.
He pauses mid-step, turning just slightly. That warm, boyish smile spreads across his face—“Good Morning.” and that breathy softness of his tone. The kind that makes your chest squeeze painfully and your legs feel weak.
It’s stupid how fast he can do that to you.
You greet him back with enthusiasm, falling into step beside him, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. It's too early to be simping again, gotta make your brain think of something else.
“You know, I was thinking... I’m going to stay in Ragunna City. Maybe get a job, settle in a bit. That way I don’t have to run into any Tacet Discords...and honestly...I really don’t want to learn how to fight.”
Rover’s eyes flick toward you as he opens the front entrance of the hotel. The door glides smoothly, and he holds it open without a word, letting you step through first.
“That’s smart thinking,” he murmurs, and for a second, you swear there’s something weightier behind his tone.
Your heart does a flip. Rover just called me smart. He thinks I’m smart! Heh!
You glance up at him, beaming, but the smile on his face has vanished. He’s watching you now. A stillness in him, like the air before lightning strikes.
“But,” he says slowly, and starts walking again, now the two of you are walking down the streets. “You told me about what happened last night… and it sounds like Ragunna City might not be as safe as you think.”
You blink at him. “Wait… you believe me?” The shock is real, raw. You hadn’t expected him to take your words seriously.
He stops walking and Turns. His golden eyes meet yours, catching the sunlight just right, there’s a glimmer in them that feels too sharp to be soft, too intense to be gentle.
“Yes, I do,” he says, voice smooth, measured. “Every single word since we met… I’ve believed you.” He leans in slightly, lowering his tone to something quieter, something softer that curls beneath your skin. “You wouldn’t have a reason to lie to me. Right?”
There’s no threat in his voice. None at all. Only kindness. Too much kindness. It floods over you, sweet and heavy. You gulp.
But then you see it. That unwavering focus in his eyes. Like he’s not just hearing you but memorizing every syllable, and every feature of yours.
Still, your smile returns, hesitant but hopeful. He believed you, About the ghost. You weren’t crazy, and somehow that felt like everything.
“Yep! I was serious about that.” you say, a little breathless. “Thank you.”
Right then, his terminal buzzes.
But Rover doesn’t reach for it immediately, His eyes linger on you, longer than necessary, longer than what should be polite. like the interruption has offended him somehow.
Only when the buzzing repeats does he finally pick it up.
“Were you awake, Rover? I trust you had a restful sleep?” a woman’s voice purrs from the other end.
You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the squeal building in your throat, eyes going wide. Oh my god. It's Carlotta! This is it! This is where he goes to meet with Brant, Roccia. You're practically vibrating with excitement, quietly giggling into your hand like a lovesick person.
“Psst! What are you giggling about!?” a tiny voice snaps beside you.
You blink, turn your head and flinch. “Abby!? When did you get out of Rover’s Tacet mark? You’re still weak, you shouldn’t be out!”
Abby floats right into your face, squinting suspiciously. “You’re weird. You know things only me and Rover should know. I’m watching you.” It squints harder, doing the two fingers motion from its eyes to yours, then promptly zips back into Rover’s Tacet mark like a gremlin vanishing into shadow.
The call ends with a soft beep.
Rover turns back to you, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze, like he’s thinking too much. Or not thinking at all. “Don’t mind Abby,” he says. “Would you like to come with me?”
You blink. “Where?”
He raises an eyebrow, as his lips quirk up slightly. “You already know the answer. So why ask?”
You huff, flustered, watching as Rover turns his back to you, walking ahead with a casual confidence. Like he already knows you’ll follow.
The space you arrive in is open and tastefully decorated, big plush couches arranged around a low table, soft lighting casting warm glows over the area.
And your breath catches.
Because there they are—Brant, Carlotta, and Roccia. In the flesh. Living, breathing, talking. Not just pixels or dialogue boxes. You practically light up, your eyes going wide and sparkling like you’ve stepped into a dream made real.
You barely register the soft click of Rover’s boots behind you.
He watches you. Watches the way your mouth parts just a little in awe, the way your body angles forward in excitement.
He drinks in every detail like he’s parched...
but it’s not enough. Because for the first time since you met… you’re not looking at him.
You’re looking at them.
And he doesn’t like it.
Not one bit.
There’s a weight in his chest, something sharp and unfamiliar. A prickling tightness blooming behind his ribs like thorns.
He clears his throat softly, a warning disguised in civility.
You blink, glancing back at him. He’s smiling But something in his eyes is off.
Rover gestures toward the trio and some other people from the troop of fools with a tilt of his head, silently urging you forward. You step ahead with a nervous bounce, and he trails just behind you.
His eyes never leave you.
Not even for a second.
“Raise your glasses! Shout it loud, friends! To us! To the carneval! And to our very own Laureate!” Brant cheered, his voice a bit too loud and his steps more than a little wobbly. He looked absolutely wasted, swaying on his feet as he raised his drink high into the air with a proud grin.
You paused, standing just a few feet away from him, trying not to let your expression reveal the internal screeching happening inside your head. Rover stepped forward slightly, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours. “Please, stop,” he murmured. “You’re making me feel embarrassed.”
Brant gave Rover a sloppy, closed-eyed smile, completely unbothered by the scolding. Then his gaze shifted and landed on you and he lit up like a firework. “Oh! The Laureate's Maiden!” he exclaimed, voice cracking with excitement as he stumbled a little. “You were the one Rover left so early for, aren't you?”
He extended his drink toward you in a cheerful toast, and you froze. Your heart practically stuttered at the title, ‘Laureate’s Maiden.’ The words echoed in your mind like a prophecy.
Rover said nothing. He only lifted a hand to his forehead while shaking his head.
Carlotta’s sharp, observant eyes flicked toward you in curiosity. Meanwhile, Roccia leaned in toward her and whispered, “He’s drunk again,” before offering you a small, apologetic smile, in her shy demeanor.
You were losing your goddamn mind.
You stood there, barely holding it together, silently screaming. You were watching Brant be an absolute mess, Roccia being adorable, and Carlotta giving you the “I see you” stare. And then it hit you again how real everything is.
Your inner fangirl was one step away from combusting.
You felt it building up—your excitement almost boiling over your lips.
A hand wrapped around your wrist.
Your head snapped up, eyes locking with Rover’s. His face didn’t betray much, but the look in his golden eyes was enough—sharp, steady, and entirely too aware of what was happening inside you.
Somehow, he knew.
That you were about to slip, about to fangirl out loud and shatter the whole illusion. You didn’t even get how, but he caught it. As if he was tuned to your every breath.
You swallowed your squeal and took a deep, steadying breath. Then gave him a small, sheepish nod.
But he didn’t let go of your wrist and you could feel it in the pressure of his touch, the way he refused to release you.
Carlotta’s gaze softened, her attention drifting from Rover’s hand on you to your expression.
She smiled, and looked down for a moment, then patted the empty space beside her on the couch. It wasn’t direct, no announcement or fanfare, but the invitation was clear in her casual, elegant way. Just a subtle gesture, as if saying; Come sit. Let’s talk. You’re welcome here.
Carlotta rose gracefully, lifting her glass with a quiet confidence that commanded attention. “A toast, everyone!” she called, her voice ringing clear across the space. “drink freely and celebrate without restraint—everything’s on me.”
A ripple of cheers followed, glasses raised, laughter blooming in the air like fireworks.
You giggled to yourself, heart warm, eyes sparkling as the atmosphere buzzed around you. Slipping from Rover’s grasp—fingers parting with a reluctant drag—you moved to sit beside Carlotta on the plush sofa, feeling a soft thrill.
Carlotta turned to you, her expression calm but kind. “Welcome,” she said smoothly, folding one leg over the other. “You’re Rover’s special person. You’ll be treated as such.”
Your chest gave a small, involuntary flutter. You blinked at her, caught off guard by her directness. “Ah—Thank you! Um… but I don’t know about being special…” Your voice trailed into a mumble as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, cheeks heating. “I want to be, though…”
Carlotta tilted her head, repeating your words with an airy lilt, “You’re not?” a flicker of relief, so subtle it almost slipped past you.
Before you could open your mouth and spill something mortifying —your unfiltered thoughts like, ‘Rover's fingers felt like silk ropes and I think I stopped breathing for three seconds’—a sudden shift interrupted.
Rover moved, Just strode forward and sat himself directly between you and Carlotta, his body sliding into the space. His shoulder pressed lightly against yours, and you had no choice but to scoot slightly to the side—caught off guard by the smoothness of the maneuver.
Carlotta blinked in mild surprise, eyebrows raising ever so slightly. Your own eyes widened too. The tension was brief but palpable, like the quiet before a lightning strike.
Carlotta adjusted her posture with ease and offered no protest. She simply redirected the flow of conversation, her tone shifting into something professional as she began discussing details about the event.
Rover and Carlotta kept talking, their tones low and deliberate as Roccia chimed in now and then. You stayed quiet, content to observe. but the heat at your side was impossible to ignore.
Rover’s leg brushed against yours, now settled there, beside yours. His hand settled near his knee, close enough that you felt the weight of it, even without touch. There was less to no distance between you two.
Whatever that gesture meant, it was received. Even the Order’s acolyte, who was spying from afar noticed it.
No one would approach you. Not now. Not with him right there.
It would be reported to Primus, an unexpected detail they’d soon turn into a calculated advantage.
You’re alone again.
The wind cuts soft against your skin as you stand on the balcony—that balcony. The one Rover brought you to the cave opened up into a place, Order's Cathedral.
He got summoned by the Primus. Some urgent request, diplomatic bullshit. You didn’t want to go inside. So you told him you’d wait here—where it all began. Where you both first touched Regunna’s sky.
The elevator hums behind you.
Ding.
“Excuse me, Miss. Are you with Rover?”
You blink, caught mid-thought. When you turn, you find an acolyte standing just a few feet away, the fountain splashing steadily behind him.
“Yes?” you say slowly, confused. Why the hell is one of them talking to you?
“With the Primus’ request, we’d like to give you a tour of the Order’s wildlife.”
Huuuh!?
You stare at him, deadpan. “Does Rover know about this?”
He doesn’t answer, Instead, his hand appears from behind his back, holding out a bouquet. A beautiful one. Flowers in shades that don’t exist in Regunna’s natural palette, arranged like a bribe wrapped in silk.
“For you, my lady,” he says with a thin smile. “A gift from the Primus. As a welcome.”
Huuuuuuuhhhhh?!
You feel your social anxiety flare like a damn solar flare. You grab the bouquet on instinct just to make this weirdo stop looking at you. The scent hits you immediately—sweet, heady, with something underneath, Faint and Strange.
Rot?
No. It’s not bad. Just…
“Would you please follow me?”
You don’t want to.
You don’t want to.
You want to ask more questions. Call Rover. Push this guy into the railing and run. But your body… it’s moving. Feet light, legs slow, floating forward.
The bouquet trembles in your hands.
Your throat tightens. “Ro...ver…” you try, but your mouth opens soundlessly. Not a whisper, not a wheeze. Nothing.
Inside, you’re screaming. You are begging for your voice. For control of your body.
Help me.
But all you can do is follow.
You’re in a field now.
Wide, open, The sky is dimmer here. Or maybe you’re imagining it. You blink—your vision sharpens. The man’s walking away, saying nothing. His silhouette fades into the distant treeline like he was never there.
And just like that, you drop the bouquet.
It hits the ground with a soft thump, and suddenly—it’s like you can breathe again. Like some part of your soul just clawed its way back into your chest.
Your hands shake.
“That bastard,” you hiss, furious. You want to run back, grab someone—anyone—by the collar and scream at them, What the fuck was that?!
But… who would believe you?
Then a voice, warm and steady, echoes in your memory.
“Every single word since we met… I’ve believed you.”
Rover.
Your breath hitches. Yeah. He would believe you.
But first, you need to get the hell out of here.
You spin around, scanning the field. You don’t even know where you are. There’s grass. Rocks. A distant shimmer of trees. You have no idea which way is back to the city. And of course, the second you realize how alone you are, The air shifts.
It gets cold. And then you hear it. Skittering. Growling. Clicking. Then, like stars in a nightmare sky, they appear—one by one. Tacet Discords...At least twenty of them.
All shapes. All sizes. Some teddy bear like. Some Grotesque silhouettes against the horizon—elongated limbs, blinking eyes, wet jaws, razor-wings.
The air hums with primal danger.
Your heart drops straight into your gut.
“Nonononono! fuck me sideways...” you breathe, taking a shaky step back.
Then they move, Fast. All at once. You run.
There’s no plan. No direction. Just sheer, animal panic. You dodge a spiked tail that slams into the ground where you stood a second ago. The impact makes the earth tremble, and you scream—loud, raw.
Your luck is absolute shit—no, scratch that, it's cosmically cursed. You were having such a good time.
And now? Thrown into this mess.
Funny how things go to hell the moment Rover isn’t by your side. When he’s around, your luck feels blessed, like the universe has your back. The second he’s gone? Boom—chaos and now apparently a welcoming bouquet laced with “fuck-you” energy.
Branches whip at your arms as you dive into whatever passes for cover here—rocks, shallow dips, ruins of something ancient and forgotten. You keep going, because stopping means dying.
You trip once. Twice. A claw nearly catches your ankle. You don’t look back.
Your legs burn. Your lungs are begging for mercy.
Your brain is just screaming: You’re going to die here.
You’re not built for this. You never trained. You’re not a Resonator. You don’t belong in the middle of a Tacet Discord bloodbath.
All you have is your decent sense of sarcasm, and what you hope is enough spite to fuel your survival.
“Great!” you shout breathlessly. “This is fantastic! You guys didn't even ask me on a date and now I’m on the fucking menu?!”
A Tacet Discord shrieks behind you in response. You scream back, middle finger raised in pure survival-mode insanity.
They’re everywhere. Every direction you turn..You can't outrun them. You know that.
But you’ll damn well try.
Because dying like this—alone, devoured in the dirt like trash?
Not on your list of acceptable Tuesday activities, wait is it Tuesday here? Nevermind.
And if you’re going down... at least one of these freaks is gonna have indigestion afterward.
The air is thick with dread.
Your legs are jelly, lungs burning, and the cacophony of Tacet Discords closing in is deafening. Each breath feels like a countdown to oblivion.
Suddenly, a blinding light pierces the gloom.
A shockwave erupts, sending Tacet Discords flying like ragdolls. The ground trembles beneath you, and for a moment, the world holds its breath.
From the epicenter of the blast, a figure emerges—Rover.
But this isn't the Rover you know. His eyes blaze with an otherworldly light, and an aura of raw power radiates from him. The very air around him seems to bend, acknowledging his dominance.
He moves with lethal grace, each step purposeful. With a mere gesture, he summons ethereal weapons, dispatching Tacet Discords with surgical precision. The creatures, once so terrifying, have become his playthings.
His eyes glow—brighter than the stars, colder than space.
The frequency thickens around him like a cloak of shadows alive and hungry. His Spectro resonance still hums at the core, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat like a ticking bomb.
In a blur of movement, Rover twists—hand slicing the TDs clean and efficiently, like a surgeon cutting through rotten flesh.
More surround him. A pulse of Havoc ignites—Dark Surge expanding. He warps forward, vanishing for a half second—then reappears behind them mid-spin, hurling his scythe from both hands. The Tacet Discords shudder before collapsing, torsos sliced clean.
You blink—and two more Tacet Discords have already fallen. You can’t even see how he did it.
You sigh in relief but damn it, he looks terrifyingly hot. That dark gleam in his eyes, the effortless precision, the sheer dominance in every move…
Yeah, you’re shaken, but a part of you? Still hopelessly down bad.
The adrenaline drains from your body like a snapped string. You can finally let go, but your limbs tremble uncontrollably. Now that the fear has passed, your body finally realizes just how close you came to dying.
A sharp crunch pulls your attention up.
Rover steps forward, walking toward your crouched form with slow, steady steps. The ground doesn’t quake beneath him anymore, and that unbearable frequency that had screamed around him moments ago has vanished. The pressure lifts.
Your Rover is back.
You wrap your arms tightly around yourself, heart pounding like a war drum as you watch him approach. He crouches in front of you, and for a moment, it’s like déjà vu—just like when you first met. That same soft smile curves his lips, like the battlefield around you doesn’t exist.
He extends a hand.
That’s it. You can’t hold it in anymore.
Tears spill over your cheeks—hot, heavy, unstoppable. The sob rips from your throat before you can even stop it. You were going to die. You were so close to being torn apart and—
You don’t even register him moving until his arms are around you, pulling you into a firm, grounding hug.
You bury your face in his chest, fists clutching the undershirt beneath his jacket like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality.
One of his hands moves slowly over your back, tracing calming circles. The other cradles the back of your head gently, like you’re fragile glass and he’s terrified of cracking you.
And in that moment, you feel safe. Safe like never before. Not because the danger is gone.
But because he is here.
Your sobs have finally faded to sniffles. You rub your puffy eyes, shifting just a little away from his chest but still firmly in his embrace.
“I actually thought I was going to die,” you mutter, voice scratchy. “Like! I know I broke my personal record of staying alive for a week, which is amazing, but I still didn’t wanna die, you know?”
Rover hums softly, his gloved fingers gently threading through your hair. The motion is rhythmic, soothing. “You’re still alive,” he says, voice calm and warm. “See?” And there it is, that smile. Soft. Sweet. Heart-melting.
You’d fight twenty more Tacet Discords for that smile. Urm… hide behind him while he fights.
“Yeah… thanks to you,” you reply, trying to gently pry yourself from his hold.
Keyword: try.
His arms don’t budge.
“Rover… I think I’m okay now,” you laugh awkwardly. “We can head back to the city?”
You’re not sure why it came out as a question but somehow, when it comes to him, you feel like you need permission to even breathe.
Rover finally nods and lets go, though his eyes linger on you, scanning, calculating, checking every tiny tremble in your limbs.
You stand beside him, brushing dust off yourself as he steps ahead, leading the way. The silence is easy… until he speaks, like it’s casual small talk.
“I met with Primus. Can you guess what happened?”
He’s smiling, but... something’s off. You glance down and see his fists clenched so tight.
“Oh yeah!” you perk up, totally missing the tension. “I remember that quest—kind of. Doesn’t he like, talk in riddles about ‘The Maiden’ or whatever?”
You ramble, voice light and airy now, blissfully unaware that your words aren’t answering his question so much as distracting yourself.
“Mostly accurate, but he mentioned you as well. And threatened me, indirectly.”
You don’t notice how Rover’s gentle tone shifts—how frustration slips into the spaces between his words, how tightly he’s reining it in.
“Wait! Wait! Wait, what?! Am I ruining the plot?!” you blurt, wide-eyed. “No way! I don’t wanna get involved, nope. Rover, can you like—send me to Jinzhou? That place is super peaceful right now and it’d be perfect for me to start a new life in. Like then I won't have acolytes luring me into a place filled with Tds...”
Rover stops walking. There’s so much in your words that bugs him. The way you talk about leaving like it’s that simple...like he could ever let you go.
“So,” he mutters, as if confirming something to himself, “that’s what happened…”
Then louder, firm enough to cut through your spiral. “It’s okay. Nothing will happen to you.”
And he says it with such unshakable certainty, it doesn’t feel like reassurance, it feels like a threat to the universe itself. this is his vow to you.
You exhale. “Thank you…” The walk continues, and there’s a light brush of Rover’s hand against yours.
You hesitate, then test it, fingers creeping toward his, shy and slow. Like you’re asking a question without words.
And rather quickly, Rover answers.
He intertwines his fingers with yours, firm and grounding. No hesitation. Just his hand, holding yours, like he’s always meant to.
You grin to yourself, giggling inwardly like a little gremlin. Heheh, holding hands before marriage. How scandalous.
Well, you muse dramatically, we’ve held hands before… but this is different. This is sacred. Because I initiated it.
You beam with inner pride, your silly little heart puffing. Because yes, this moment matters. Because yes, you’re holding your husband’s hand.
Husband as in: you married him in your daydreams. Details, details.
As you and Rover entered Ragunna City again, you were immediately met with Carlotta. it seemed like she had been waiting for the two of you.
“Rover!” she called out, striding toward you both. Her expression brightened, then faltered the moment her gaze landed on you. Concern twisted across her face like a storm cloud. “Are you okay?! My goodness...”
“It was the Order,” Rover replied, his tone calm but clipped. Then, turning to Carlotta, he made a quiet request—asking for her help. His eyes found yours again. “I need to take care of something. Carlotta can be trusted, don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Your hands were still interlocked—his grip firm, grounding. Then, with a final squeeze, he let go and walked away, his figure disappearing like a tether snapping loose.
You turned to Carlotta, awkwardly brushing back your disheveled hair. “Um… sorry for how I look? I feel like I offended you somehow.”
Carlotta blinked, clearly startled. “No, no! Please, be at ease. As I said before—Rover’s special person will be treated with the utmost care and respect. Please, follow me.”
She led you to her estate and provided a guest room stocked with fresh clothes. After a soothing shower and a change into soft, clean fabric, you collapsed into the bed like a soul exorcised of fatigue.
It wasn’t long before a gentle knock on the door pulled you from your nap. “Come in!”
Carlotta entered, a composed smile on her face, followed by a butler carrying a silver tray. Your mouth practically watered on reflex. The far end of the room revealed a small table and chairs. The butler wordlessly placed the tray down and exited with the elegance of a ghost. Carlotta gestured for you to sit with her, settling into one of the chairs with regal ease.
You took the seat across from her, and she offered you a genuine smile. “Don’t mind me. Please, dig in.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. The food was warm and familiar, like a safety blanket in edible form.
Finally relaxed, your guard temporarily down, you decided to bring up the thought that had been gnawing at your mind.
“So, I was thinking of going to Jinzhou. You know, that city in Huanglong...”
Carlotta tilted her head with interest, eyes glinting. “May I ask why?”
“I don’t feel safe in Ragunna City after the...” you hesitated, poking at your food, “You know... and Jinzhou is, like, very peaceful right now. A perfect place to not get attacked by anything!”
Carlotta nodded, leaning back and folding one leg over the other with the poise of a queen. “I can help you with that. Arrange transportation. I’ll make sure you arrive safely and are well taken care of once you’re inside the city.”
You gasped, hand pressed to your chest dramatically. “Omg! You would do that? Thank you so much!”
Carlotta nodded, her smile never faltering but her eyes held something calculating beneath the warmth. Of course, she had her own reasons. She was a woman of business, after all. And every investment had its return.
Carlotta had escorted you back to the hotel after receiving a message from Rover—he wouldn't be able to pick you up himself. You didn’t think much of it. Maybe he got caught up in something.
You made small talk with Carlotta.
Once you reached the hotel entrance, you turned to her with a small smile.
“Thanks... for walking with me. And for, well, everything,” you murmured, scratching your cheek awkwardly.
Carlotta smiled, her gaze softening. “Of course. Take care of yourself.”
You waved her goodbye, entering the building and making your way up the stairs, shoes clicking softly against the polished floor. As you reached your floor, something odd caught your eye. You noticed a door, just beside yours, was slightly ajar.
Curiosity won over common sense, and like the nosy little gremlin you were, you peeked.
And immediately regretted it. Who are you lying to? You didn't regret it a slightest bit.
Rover stood inside, his back to you, just as he was taking off his jacket. Then came the gloves, tossed onto a nearby chair. The strap across his chest followed, sliding off in one smooth motion. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt. That clingy, perfectly-fitted grey undershirt. He was halfway through tugging it off when your soul panicked.
You panicked, raising your fist and knocking loudly. Your eyes widened. Your cheeks caught fire.
Rover turned his head slightly, catching you in the corner of his eye, shirt now caught at his ribs, he lets go of it.
Your face flushed immediately.
He looked unfairly good like this—hair slightly tousled, collarbone peeking out, that necklace glinting against his skin like a silent warning.
“Oh, you’re back... safe and sound.” he said, voice dipped in honeyed relief. His eyes roamed over you, then lingered just a second too long. “Good.”
You cleared your throat and stepped inside like a guilty cat caught knocking over a vase. “I—uh—y-yeah, I just—sorry, I didn’t mean to peek or anything, I just—your door—it was open and—uh—” You were absolutely malfunctioning. “Your shirt is committing war crimes.”
Rover chuckled softly and didn’t press it. His smile was warm, and yet something about it felt strained, like there was static just under the surface. As he turned fully, the soft lighting dancing across his face, the shirt clinging to his muscles.
You cleared your throat, You sat down on the arm of a chair, legs swinging slightly. You figured now was a good time to talk. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you... about something.”
He tilted his head, eyebrows lifting as he leaned against the table. “I’m listening.”
“So… I kinda had a conversation with Carlotta while I was stuffing my face with food. And, well…” you paused, watching his hands still, You smiled awkwardly. “So... I talked to Carlotta. And she said she could help me get to Jinzhou. You know, because Ragunna’s not exactly ‘let’s settle down and bake cookies’ levels of safe.”
Rover’s smile didn’t vanish—it simply froze, like a painted expression.
“Oh?” he said, with an almost imperceptible pause.
His tone stayed even. “And why would you want to go there?”
“Like I told you before..” You shrugged. “I don’t feel safe here. I mean, what happened in the field? That’s not something I want a round two of. And Jinzhou's got, like… zen energy. I can heal a bit. And I think... I need that. I think I’d feel better there. You could come visit too, of course.” You grinned at him, clearly trying to keep the conversation light, because the strange, tense atmosphere is becoming suffocating.
“I see,” Rover said softly. He took a step closer. “Leaving is the right choice?”
“I mean… yeah?” you answered with a sheepish grin. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d miss you. A lot. You’re like the world’s best emotional support. Like—seriously. Who gave you permission to look that good covered in dust?”
That got a small laugh out of him but the tension didn’t fade. His fingers flexed slightly at his side.
Then your eyes caught something, on the edge of his undershirt sleeve, just beneath the fabric...
Your heart jumped, Blood. A faint, dark smear near the hem of his shirt.
Your lightheartedness fizzled. “Wait… are you hurt?” You stood, frowning. “Did something happen?”
Rover tilted his head, then looked down like he’d forgotten the evidence on him. “No,” he said quickly. “Not my blood.”
That did not make it better. Not his? You blinked. “Then whose—?”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he said with a gentle smile, the kind that felt... wrong now. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
That strange calm in his voice made your skin crawl in the oddest way. You tried to shake it off. Your body stiffened instinctively.
After a pause, he looked at you again—this time softer, almost vulnerable.
“Will you stay?”
You hesitated. He waited. You shook your head slowly. “No. I mean, I care about you, and I have made that clear, I guess very clear… but I just don’t want to stay here anymore. It doesn’t feel right. I need space. Maybe you can come visit me in Jinzhou when you get a break or something?”
You smiled gently and stepped toward the door.
But it shut before you could touch the handle.
A hand pressed flat against the wood in front of you, and heat rushed down your spine. Rover was behind you now, close enough that you felt the weight of his presence in your bones.
“That,” he whispered, voice no longer gentle but absolute, “is not an option.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
You turned your head slightly, only to find his face right there, cheek against your hair, mouth near your ear.
“I didn’t believe you at first,” he began, voice barely above a whisper. “When you said all those things. About me. About this world. I thought you were just being poetic. But I listened. Every word. Every little slip. You’ve known me since the beginning, haven’t you?”
You slowly turned to face him. His eyes weren’t wide with madness. No. They were too calm. Too lucid. And that was so much worse. You backed up slightly but there was nowhere to go, Your back pressing against the door.
“You talk like you’ve always known me. From the beginning of my journey. Every choice I’ve made...you understand it before I even speak…”
He exhaled a laugh—short, humorless. “I started noticing things after I met you. Things I shouldn’t notice. The way the world shifts around us. The way time bends. The way... none of it feels real anymore.”
You blinked. “What are you talking about—?”
“I see it now,” he breathed. “The repetition. The scripted kindness. The way people pause just long enough for you to speak. I am in a story. I wholeheartedly believe you now...And you…”
He leans closer, his elbow bending, caging you gently between him and the door.
“You are the only unpredictable thing in this world. The only one who looks at me like I’m more than lines of code. The only one that feels real. Because you are the only one anchoring me to the real world.”
You could hear the tremble building under his voice, like a crack in the earth before the quake.
“I started wondering—what am I? A character in a story? A game? Made for people’s amusement?”
His voice broke, briefly. “Am I real, or just code wrapped in skin?”
You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat.
“You’re the only thing that makes sense now,” he continued. “You’re the only one who doesn’t glitch. The only one who talks like she’s seen me.”
“Rover—”
“No. Listen. Do you understand what that means?” His hand cupped your cheek—soft, reverent, yet trembling with obsession barely restrained. “You are my anchor. Without you, this world dissolves. Without you, I become... just another piece of fiction.”
His forehead pressed against yours.
“I don’t want to forget how your voice sounds. I don’t want to wake up and realize I imagined you. I don't want to go back to a loop where you never existed.”
You felt his breath tremble against your lips.
“I need to know that I’m not just a story you’ll get tired of.”
Your heart thundered in your chest—part fear, part something far too complicated to name.
“I fucked up...” you whisper to yourself, barely audible.
Rover smiles.
That soft, puppy-like smile. The kind that used to melt your heart, the kind that once made you believe he could never hurt you. The kind that now feels like a mask.
He steps away for a moment—only to hook his fingers around your wrist with a gentle tug, pulling you back. You stumble, breath catching, and the back of your knees meets the edge of the bed with a muted thud.
“I notice everything about you,” he murmurs. “The way you dote on me... those little moments? They don’t go unnoticed.”
He extends his hand—like he always has. From the moment you met until now, it has always been there, waiting. Waiting for you to take it.
And you always did. With no hesitation. Sometimes even with joy.
But now...
Now you hesitate.
His hair is slightly disheveled, a few strands falling into his eyes. There’s a faint smear of blood at the hem of his grey shirt—crimson staining cotton like paint across canvas. When he tilts his head, the necklace he always wears catches the light, swinging like a pendulum.
Even now, in this moment, he looks so...Beautiful. Unreal.
“Don’t you want to be my wife?” His voice is low, coaxing. “Why hesitate now...?”
He says your name like a lover's prayer. Or a spell. Like the idea of you slipping away is unbearable. And it makes you ache to take his hand again.
“You said you loved me. Remember?”
His eyes widen. The desperation in them is stark, unhidden, raw. Wild. Like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff and calling it faith. Like falling is a choice... and dragging you down with him is a promise.
Then, in a voice so quiet it makes your stomach twist.
“So prove it.”
Your breath stutters. He was patient. He gave you your space, didn’t he? Gave you time to think. To breathe. He waited...
But patience is fragile.
And even if you run, it won’t matter. he’s the main character of this world. He knows that. he knows this world bends to him.
You can’t escape.
Everyone loves him, adores him. They always will. He’ll use that love, twist it into a cage so soft you won’t even know you’re inside it.
He sees it now, your fear. Sees the way your body tenses like a trembling leaf. He exhales, slow and measured, and steps into your space until there’s nothing left between you.
“Jinzhou,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “You want to go there?”
You nod quickly, reflexively. Any wrong move could shift the moment. Could turn gentleness into something else entirely.
His hands lift, hovering in the air, waiting, Would you flinch? He would never do something that would push him away from you.
But you don’t flinch. You don’t move.
So he cups your cheeks with such tenderness it makes your skin crawl.
“There,” he whispers. “Relax. You can go to Jinzhou. I won’t stop you.”
Because this world already belongs to me. I don’t need to lock you up to keep you.
You shiver. His voice is calm, but his eyes... those eyes aren’t the ones you fell in love with. They’re deeper now, darker, bottomless pits that don’t reflect light, only swallow it.
“Don’t worry,” he soothes, fingers brushing along your jaw. “You’re safe. I’ll make sure of that.”
And you nod.
You lean into his touch because, in this world—whether you like it or not—he’s the only one who can protect you. The only one who won’t let you go.
me in the corner collecting dust as i wait for a gaku oneshot
“𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨”
a/n: i did it. he's sauurrrr fine i need that bro
ac goes to mimeonsemi
synopsis: gaku hates how you keep beating him at his favorite arcade game.
the first time it happened, gaku barely cared.
he walked into the arcade after finishing a job, pockets heavier than they should've been, still wearing the bored expression of someone who'd seen far too much blood to be impressed by flashing lights and prize counters. he wandered from cabinet to cabinet until one machine caught his eye.
tekken 8.
easy. he cracked his knuckles, shoved a few coins into the machine, and played.
perfect accuracy. ridiculous speed. a score high enough to knock every other name off the leaderboard. it’s like he knew every combo of every character after the first try, aware of every move that could deflect an attack and land a harder hit in return.
he smirked.
gxku. first place.
"nice."
he left.
the next week, he came back. his name was second. and above it sat three stupid little letters. letters from your name.
"who?"
he stared at the screen for a long moment before quietly inserting another coin.
five minutes later – gxku. first place again.
he walked away feeling strangely satisfied.
the week after that – your initials again. first. again.
he frowned. that was more annoying than sakamoto or nagumo.
the fourth week became personal.
the fifth week became insulting.
by the sixth, he was timing his visits around the machine's maintenance schedule because maybe, maybe, someone was cheating. there was absolutely no logical reason his score kept getting beaten by someone whose initials looked like they belonged to a middle school honor student.
he even tried different machines. same result. your initials. every. single. damn. time.
his competitive streak (normally reserved for killing other assassins before they killed him) had somehow transferred to a fighting game tucked into the corner of a shopping mall.
he started optimizing. different grip. different finger placement. less blinking. he watched tournament videos online. he practiced on his phone. he spent so much time in the arcade that one employee started greeting him with, "welcome back." he didn't even know the employee's name.
something had gone terribly wrong. then one rainy friday, after finally reclaiming first place by a measly 43 points, gaku leaned back with a quiet sigh. "finally."
he left.
he came back the next morning. his score had been beaten. by 44 points.
there was no way. that wasn't coincidence. that was mockery.
he looked around the arcade for the first time in weeks instead of immediately sitting down. whoever you were… you had to be here. nobody normal played this much.
he crossed his arms and waited. 10 minutes. 20. 30.
and then you walked in carrying an iced drink, wired earpods around your neck, completely oblivious to the assassin currently watching you from across the room.
you smiled at one of the employees.
they smiled back. "morning."
"morning!"
you wandered directly toward his machine.
gaku narrowed his eyes. no. there was no way. you looked... painfully ordinary. you wore a cute outfit like you had come back from a hangout with your friends. your shoes were clean. you were humming some pop song under your breath. this couldn't be his rival.
you casually set your drink down. inserted a coin. selected expert difficulty. and absolutely annihilated his score.
his eye twitched. you didn't celebrate. you didn’t react at all actually. you simply nodded once, satisfied, grabbed your drink, and turned – only to nearly walk into someone.
you blinked. a very tall man was standing directly in front of you.
“oh, sorry.”
he stared.
you stared back. "can i help you?"
another long silence. then–
"hey."
"yeah??"
"you're the one."
"the one what??"
he pointed at the leaderboard without breaking eye contact. "the one ruining my rankings."
you looked at the screen. then back at him. and laughed. "that's what this is about? i thought someone was specifically trying to beat MY score."
"i was."
"oh."
another awkward silence.
you scratched your cheek. "well... i guess we've been ruining each other's rankings."
"... huh." that... hadn't occurred to him.
you tilted your head. "wait. are you the 'gxku' guy?"
"yeah."
"you're insane. do you know how many hours i've spent trying to beat you?"
"how many?"
you looked genuinely embarrassed. "too many, to be honest."
"same..."
the employee behind the counter nearly dropped the plushies they were organizing. they had spent 2 months watching the leaderboard become a battleground between two anonymous psychopaths. and apparently, neither of them had realized the other was doing the exact same thing.
you smiled. "want a rematch?"
gaku looked at the cabinet. then at you. "best out of 3."
"that's it?"
"best out of 5."
"confident."
"i'm winning."
you grinned. "that's cute.”
"... then best out of 10."
"you're on."
3 hours later, neither of you had left. your drinks had melted. the employee's shift had ended. a crowd had somehow formed behind the machine. people were placing bets. children were chanting whenever one of you hit a perfect combo.
at one point, someone actually whispered, "are they dating?"
"no," another answered. “worse."
you won the 10th game by 2 points.
gaku stared at the results screen as a man who refuses to ever accept defeat. but finally, he sighed. "rematch next week?"
you laughed so hard you had to grab the cabinet for balance. "you know..." you wiped a tear from your eye. "most people ask for my number first."
he considered it. "give me your number then."
"so you can text me?"
"so i know when you're coming."
you snorted. "to prepare?"
"to beat you."
"that's somehow less romantic."
"... was it supposed to be romantic?"
you looked at him for a long second before smiling to yourself. "you're kind of hopeless, man."
"... next saturday?"
you handed him your phone instead. "put your number in."
he frowned. "why?"
"because if i'm going to have an arch-nemesis, i at least want one i can bully over text."
he took the phone, typed his number in, and handed it back.
"i'm still winning next week."
you looked down at the contact he'd saved.
gxku (loses at tekken)
you locked your phone before he could see what you added in parentheses.
"yeah?"
"yeah."
"see you next saturday, loser."
for the first time in months, gaku walked out of the arcade smiling. he'd finally found the idiot responsible for destroying his rankings. unfortunately for him though, he’d also found something else – a feeling. specifically, attraction.
˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ OLD HABITS DIE HARD! ✉️
伏黑惠 — fluff/crack, clingy!megumi, childhood bsfs to lovers
“Megs, it’s time to go.”
“Just a bit longer..”
Gojo sighed, watching a tiny Megumi cling onto your arm like a koala. Why was he being so stubborn right now? He had always been difficult, but not this difficult.
He had never seen him so fond of another human being before. Megumi stared at strangers like they slaughtered his entire family right before his eyes, so seeing him sticking to you like glue was a rare sight.
Gojo’s one and only dream was for Megumi to interact with other human beings, especially considering how closed off he was for his young age.
He never expected someone like him being so attached to someone like you.
You were a sweet kid. You lost count of the amount of times Gojo retold the story of how you cried after Megumi ‘accidentally’ stepped on a baby worm, squishing it’s wriggly body and reducing it to a tiny pile of it’s guts and flesh.
He says ‘accidentally’ because Megumi actually did it on purpose, but you only lived to see the part where he was already stepping on the poor worm, not the part where he brutally stepped it to death.
He felt so bad that he sat by you for four hours, waiting until you calmed down. It proved to be a challenge because he only got you to stop was by hugging you, and the moment he let go you’d start crying all over again.
it’s not like he minded though. He enjoyed being in your presence, even if his oversized t-shirt was drenched in your tears right after.
He found himself naturally gravitating towards you, like the sun orbiting the earth. Wherever you were, he’d be standing in your shadow, breathing down your neck. It started to get awkward when people would flicker their gaze back and forth between you and him during conversations, cause he’d always stand impossibly close behind with a nasty glare.
Wherever you went, so did he. He’d sit next to you at recess, walk by your side on the pavement after school, Gojo even found him talking to you from the other side of the door while you used the bathroom.
That little habit followed him into his teenage years. You were both older now, he was colder and more serious than before, but his fondness for you stayed the same, even more if possible.
How could he not? You were the sun to his moon. No one would look at you and think you killed for a living. It didn’t help that inumaki would pop in every so often to ask you to make him treats. It was basically a routine for you to walk up and down jujutsu high’s halls, back and forth between classes holding a tiny pink bag, some sort of sugary treat usually sitting inside a box tied with a bow in it.
Yuji and Nobara started tallying the amount of times he’d huff, groan or sigh whenever he was assigned a mission with someone else other than you. He’d beat their asses if he ever found out, but everyone started keeping track of how many hours he’d spend around you.
Refilling your bottle during training? He would be there with his own bottle. Lunch? He’d sit beside you, eating the homemade meal you had prepped for him in the morning. Any other fucking time of the day? You would be hiding in the break room, his head peering over your shoulder to look at whatever you were doing on your phone.
Their calculations came to.. a daily average of 16 hours. On cold stormy days, he’d sleep in your room because you were ‘scared’ of the thunder. Now that would come to around 23 hours, the one hour being times where you’d be forcefully separated.
Maybe the reason he was so attached because you were the first person to show him genuine care and affection. Sure, Gojo would coddle him until the ends of the earth, but Megumi always believed that care came from obligation. He was his father figure, of course he had to care about him.
You were different. You saw him and decided he was the one you’d take care of for the rest of your life.
He came back late from a mission one night, and you grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him back to your room to patch him up.
He was reluctant to let you do so. He didn’t want to be a burden to you, especially since it was late at night, and you should’ve been long asleep by then. He felt bad for making you wait up for him, but the moment you pouted at him he fully gave up.
You pressed the cotton ball to one of his cuts, stinging sensation running up his entire arm from the sudden change of temperature. “Why are you always so reckless, can’t you be more careful?”
You looked up at him, awaiting his answer, only to find him gazing at you with half-lidded eyes. He studied your worried expression and felt his heart go all fuzzy.
You furrowed your brows at him. “Are you gonna sit there and stare at me all night, or do I have to drag you back to your dorm myself?”
“Can I stay for the night?” He asked, voice quieter now. “I need to be near you for a while longer..”
Your gaze softened, wrapping your arms around the boy’s neck. Still sitting on your bed, he pulled you closer by curling his arms tight around your waist.
“Okay.”
Post-shibuya, when the culling games came around, he still didn’t want to split up with you. You were fully capable of handling yourself, but maybe that’s why he didn’t want you to go off on your own.
He fought against splitting up from you and yuji. His excuse was that they would need you if Sukuna ever striked again. You suggested that Yuta stay with them, you being far more willing to fight without holding back in battles.
He didn’t listen. He never did when it came to you. He’d much rather you stay back and recruit more allies with him than run around fighting high-ranked sorcerers for points. You would’ve been their best bet at getting enough points for his sister, if it wasn’t for him.
He knew he was holding you back, but at least it would keep you safe. That’s all he ever wanted to do. Keep you safe.
Now, if only he was born somewhere far from here. Away from the jujutsu world. Away from curses. That reality would never happen. Megumi Fushiguro had never been destined to win in the first place. He was a major loser, and fate never did listen to him. Not even once.
Even when he was most desperate.
Now he sat alone in the clinic. The room of smelled of antiseptic and protective gloves, room white and too quiet for his liking.
He never wanted to throw up more in his life.
He sat by your body with his fists clenched tight in his lap, you unmoving and laid out on the table, bag pulled too high. You never stayed still in your sleep. You’d toss and turn and kick his back as you wrapped your arms around his waist, mumbling something incoherent.
He’d never get that ever again. The scars carved onto both sides of his face were a constant reminder of how you would just be a memory from then on.
A damn good one.
Shoko opened the door slightly, only peeking in from the crack of the door. She had done this a million times before, but this time, when she saw him she froze.
She stared at his back for a second, and suddenly she was a teen again, watching Gojo hunched over his desk, hiding whatever snacks he could sneak into class that day.
“Fushiguro?” He pressed his lips into a thin line, knowing by the tone of her voice, he knew what she was going to say before she could open her mouth.
You were about to be cremated, trapped soul about to be set free through the flames.
You used to tell him that you weren’t afraid of anything, but he say the way you’d flinch whenever anything hot would get too near. He’d usually chuckle under his breath, telling you that everything would be alright.
“Ieiri-San, I.. I need more time.” His voice cracked. The stone cold Megumi Fushiguro was faltering, all because the love of his life now
“Please. Let me stay with her. Just… a little longer.”
a/n: aggressively NEED THAT. @accidenthppns see i delivered
ac goes to bm169_v2
synopsis: jester!sae x royal princess!reader oneshot i am not okay.
the first time sae makes you laugh, it is entirely by accident.
your court has gathered in the grand dining hall for another miserable political feast full of jeweled goblets, stiff-backed nobles, and men old enough to crumble into dust trying to convince your father they deserve more land. oh brother.
you are halfway through dying of boredom when the king gestures toward the entertainers.
“bring in the jesters.”
you expect bells. tricks. something humiliating.
but instead, a tall boy with pinkish maroon hair walks into the hall looking deeply offended to be there at all.
he wears red and silver, his hat lacking the ridiculous dangling bells the others wear. his expression stays flat as he bows with all the enthusiasm of someone attending a funeral.
the nobles already seem irritated by him. good.
“this is the new one?” one lord scoffs. “he looks miserable.”
“i am,” sae replies calmly.
the silence afterward is so catastrophic that wine nearly exits your nose.
your hand flies over your mouth too late. the sound escapes anyway – a sharp laugh that echoes through the hall.
everyone is shocked.
sae looks up at you for the first time. his eyes are pretty in a dangerous way. like polished glass.
your father sighs heavily. “you were meant to entertain quietly.”
“then they should hire quieter people.”
another laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
you spend the rest of dinner pretending not to notice sae glancing toward the royal table every few minutes.
he becomes your favorite part of the court after that. which is unfortunate. because jesters are meant to exist in the background. decorations with jokes attached. people forget they are there.
sae refuses to be forgettable though. he lounges across windowsills during banquets with the elegance of a prince and the attitude of someone moments away from insulting a duke. he wins knife games against soldiers twice his size. he speaks to nobles like they inconvenience him personally.
so it’s only natural that you overhear maids gossiping about him constantly.
“he’s rude.”
“he’s terrifying.”
“i think he threatened a bishop.”
“well… did the bishop deserve it?”
the answer is usually yes.
and that’s when you start seeking him out in quiet moments.
sometimes he sits in the palace gardens tossing apples into the air with lazy precision. other times you find him asleep in absurd places – library ladders, balconies, once inside a window alcove while musicians performed a meter away.
today, you discover him beneath a tree in the courtyard, reading.
“i thought jesters were supposed to juggle.”
without looking up, he says, “i can juggle books if that helps.”
you smile despite yourself and sit beside him, lifting the edge of your gown away from the dirt. “what are you reading?”
“history.”
“willingly?”
“sadly so.”
his gaze flicks toward you then. subtle and assessing. you notice he does that often now. like he’s trying to figure out something.
“you don’t act like a jester,” you tell him quietly.
“you don’t act like royalty.”
“that sounds insulting.”
“it wasn’t.”
the wind shifts softly through the courtyard trees. for a second, neither of you speak.
then sae closes his book and says, “you look unhappy during court.”
the honesty catches you off guard. people rarely ask you things directly. they dance around you carefully, smiling too much, lying too easily.
“court is exhausting,” you admit. “everyone wants something from me.”
“and what do you want?”
you stare at him. he asks it so simply. as if the answer matters.
“i don’t know,” you whisper.
sae leans back against the tree trunk, eyes half-lidded. “that’s probably the first honest thing anyone in this palace has said all week.”
the rumors begin soon after. a princess spending time with a jester becomes entertainment for the court itself. you hear whispers during dances. poor thing, they say. how embarrassing. how improper.
one noblewoman even asks you directly, “surely you don’t actually enjoy his company?”
you glance across the ballroom where sae stands near a marble pillar, already looking seconds away from leaving and walking out the grand double doors. but when he meets your eyes, you catch it – the faintest tilt of his lips.
“immensely,” you answer.
the woman nearly chokes.
later that evening, sae corners you on a balcony overlooking the palace gardens.
“you should stop defending me.”
moonlight catches against the silver embroidery of his sleeves.
you tilt your head. “why?”
“because people are cruel to you afterward.”
“people are cruel regardless.”
his jaw tightens slightly. “they shouldn’t be.”
there’s something dangerous about the way he says it. like something sharp enough to cut.
you step closer before thinking better of it. “does it bother you?”
“yes.”
the answer comes instantly. your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly hard. sae takes notes of it. his eyes lower briefly to your hands where they clutch the balcony railing too tightly.
“you’re nervous,” he murmurs.
“you’re staring.”
“you’re pretty.”
your face grows warm. the words landed with devastating ease, how did he deliver that so smoothly with not even a single stutter?
sae watches the reaction carefully, almost curiously, like he enjoys discovering which words affect you most.
“you say things too directly,” you whisper.
“would you rather i lie?”
“that would be easier.”
he hums softly. “i’m bad at lying though.”
you think he might step closer. you think you might let him. instead, voices echo from inside the ballroom, shattering the moment apart.
sae clicks his tongue in annoyance. “your kingdom keeps interrupting me.”
“my apologies.”
“i don’t forgive you.”
but his mouth curves slightly when he says it.
and for the first time in years, returning to the ballroom doesn’t feel quite as unbearable as it used to be.
༉‧₊˚✧ Summary: After having your first child with Zuko, you realized this is what he needed to finally heal.
༉‧₊˚✧ A/N: PURE FLUFF
You remembered Zuko during his first days upon the Fire Throne more clearly than anyone else ever could.
Not the image the people eventually came to adore - the composed Fire Lord with sharp eyes and royal posture, draped in crimson and gold like he had been born for power.
You remembered the boy beneath the crown.
Seventeen years old. Far too young for a throne built from generations of bloodshed and fear.
He carried himself as though he belonged there, spine straight and chin lifted high, but you knew better. You saw the truth hidden underneath every carefully controlled expression.
Zuko was terrified. Not merely of failure, nor of the war his family had left in ruins around him.
He was afraid of himself.
Sometimes, late at night, when the palace corridors fell silent and the servants had long disappeared behind closed doors, you would catch him staring into the flames burning inside the royal braziers with an expression that almost resembled fear.
As though he expected the fire itself to betray him if he lost control for even a second.
And perhaps that fear made sense.
He had been born from a love that was never meant to be gentle, crafted from two souls that should have never been bound together in the first place - a father who carved destruction into everything he touched, and a mother too isolated, too powerless against the monster surrounding her, to fully shield her son from the cruelty of the Fire Nation court.
Ozai had burned his way through Zuko’s life long before the scar ever touched his face, and Ursa, despite loving him with everything she had, could only do so much while drowning in that palace herself.
The result of that broken union stood before the world as Fire Lord: scarred, exhausted, painfully human beneath all the royal armor.
It showed in every part of him, in the stiffness of his shoulders whenever advisors questioned him too harshly, in the exhaustion beneath his eyes after another sleepless night, in the way his hands curled tightly into fists whenever anger rose too quickly in his chest, as though he feared what might happen if he loosened his grip for even a moment.
Pain lived inside Zuko like a second heartbeat.
So did trauma.
So did anxiety.
So did guilt that never truly belonged to him.
Even years later, even after becoming the kind of leader the nations learned to respect, there remained something unbearably heavy about the way he carried himself.
As though the sins of generations rested across his shoulders simply because he happened to be born into the wrong bloodline.
As though he spent every waking moment trying to prove he was not his father.
And perhaps the cruelest part was that Zuko never fully understood how extraordinary that alone made him.
Because despite everything done to him, despite the violence, the exile, the humiliation, the years spent desperately clawing for love from a man incapable of giving it, he still chose kindness. He still chose mercy. He still chose to become better.
Every single day, Zuko fought a war inside himself that nobody else could see, and every single day, he won.
You knew Zuko far too well to ever mistake his silence for coldness.
You had grown beside him through every version of his life - through the fear of becoming the next ruler of a nation stained by war, through stolen moments of happiness that never seemed to last long enough, through heartbreak, grief, healing, and every painful step in between. You had watched him survive the worst parts of himself and somehow still stand back up afterwards.
That was why you noticed the little things nobody else ever paid attention to.
The way he clung to routines as though they were the only stable things in his life.
The way every movement of his seemed carefully calculated, every decision thought through a hundred times before spoken aloud. Zuko hated unpredictability.
He hated losing control. After spending his childhood surrounded by chaos and fear, he had built patterns for himself so meticulously that stepping outside them almost seemed to unsettle him physically.
Because beneath everything - the title, the power, the fire running through his veins - Zuko was terrified of becoming a monster.
The thought alone haunted him more than any enemy ever could. You saw it in the restraint he carried around others, in the guilt that crossed his face whenever anger slipped too sharply into his voice, in the way he would sometimes stare at his own hands after firebending too aggressively, as though he feared they belonged to his father more than to himself.
And yes, Zuko was Ozai’s son.
There was no denying that.
You could see it in the intensity of his gaze, in the frightening strength behind his bending, in the authority he naturally carried without even trying. But the resemblance ended where it mattered most. Where Ozai ruled through fear, Zuko ruled through understanding. Where his father took, Zuko gave. He possessed the same fire, yet chose warmth over destruction every single time.
That was the kind of man he became.
And as a man, Zuko was extraordinary in ways he never fully realized. Capable, intelligent, fiercely protective, the kind of person who carried the weight of entire nations on his shoulders without complaint. Sometimes he became too trapped inside his own thoughts, overanalyzing every mistake until it nearly consumed him, but even then, there was something painfully genuine about him.
Something dependable. Safe. At the end of the day, beneath the scars and royal robes and impossible responsibilities, Zuko was simply a real man.
And more than that, he became a real husband.
He refused to give you anything less than a true marriage.
Not one built out of obligation or political convenience, but one founded on love, trust, and choice.
He waited until the timing was right - until the world around him had finally calmed enough for him to love you properly, without war breathing down his neck or duty constantly tearing him away.
Yes, it took time before he finally allowed himself to court you openly, and there were moments when the waiting frustrated you more than you cared to admit. But looking back, you understood why.
Zuko wanted to offer you stability before asking for your heart completely. He wanted to be certain he could give you the life you deserved instead of dragging you into the chaos he had spent most of his own life trapped inside.
And the wait turned out to be worth it in every possible way.
Because somehow, impossibly, Fire Lord Zuko became the kind of husband young girls dreamed about in romantic stories.
Not because he was perfect, but because every ounce of love he gave was real.
He memorized the smallest things about you without even trying - the teas you liked after difficult days, the exact way you preferred your blankets folded at night, the expressions that meant you were upset even when you insisted you were fine. He kissed your forehead absentmindedly while passing through rooms, held your hand beneath crowded council tables, and looked at you with such quiet devotion that sometimes it still stole the breath from your lungs.
And because Zuko loved so deeply, and because you were hopelessly in love with your husband in return, it was almost inevitable that your love would eventually grow into something even greater.
Maybe the pregnancy had not exactly been planned, but somehow, it still arrived at the perfect time.
Life had finally softened around the two of you - not completely, never completely, but enough for peace to settle into the palace without feeling fragile.
Enough for Zuko to sleep through most nights without waking from old ghosts. Enough for both of you to finally breathe instead of merely survive.
And perhaps that was why it happened so naturally. It did not take long at all after your marriage truly began for love to bloom into something deeper. A few quiet nights tangled together as husband and wife, a few moments where the Fire Lord stopped carrying the world on his shoulders long enough to simply be yours, and suddenly the realization settled between you both like sunlight breaking through clouds.
You were going to have a child.
Before that moment, you and Zuko had spoken about children countless times, usually during the quieter hours of the night when the world outside your chambers no longer demanded pieces of him.
You always smiled whenever the topic came up because, unlike him, you had never feared the idea of parenthood.
Children had always melted your heart so easily. It was simply part of who you were.
Every time you heard a toddler babbling nonsense through the palace gardens or saw tiny hands reaching excitedly toward their parents in crowded streets, your entire expression softened without realizing it.
Zuko noticed it every single time.
He would catch you smiling at children during festivals or stopping to wave at babies carried through the market, and there would always be this faint amusement in his eyes, like he already knew exactly what kind of mother you would become one day.
But him… him, it was more complicated.
There was always warmth in his expression whenever he looked at the children of the people closest to him. You saw it whenever he held Aang and Katara’s youngest in his arms, awkwardly allowing tiny fingers to tug at his sleeves while pretending not to know what he was doing. You saw it in the softness that overtook his face whenever little ones laughed around him, a gentleness so natural it almost seemed to erase the harshness life had carved into him.
For brief moments, he looked peaceful.
And then the fear returned.
You could always spot the exact second it happened.
The subtle tension settling back into his shoulders. The distant look creeping into his eyes as though some painful thought had suddenly dragged him away from the present. It was sharp enough to ache every time you noticed it.
Because Zuko wanted children.
But he was terrified of becoming someone’s father.
It was not difficult to understand why.
His own childhood had left scars far deeper than the one burned across his face. Ozai had turned fatherhood into something cruel in Zuko’s mind - something tied to fear, disappointment, and pain rather than safety or love. You knew there were moments when he genuinely questioned whether darkness simply lived inside his bloodline, waiting to be passed down like some terrible inheritance.
Once, during one of those late-night conversations, he admitted it quietly.
“What if I end up hurting them without meaning to?”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly shattered your heart.
Because that alone proved he never would.
Zuko feared becoming his father so deeply that he monitored every emotion inside himself like it was a weapon waiting to slip from his grasp. He was careful with his anger, careful with his words, careful with the way he carried himself around people he loved. Sometimes too careful. And perhaps he did not realize it then, but monsters never question whether they are monsters.
Ozai never lost sleep wondering if he was causing pain.
Zuko did.
Constantly.
That was the difference between them.
But despite all of Zuko’s fear, despite the hesitation that sometimes clouded his expression whenever the topic of children came up, you still felt it deep in your heart - he would be a good father. No, more than good. He would become the kind of father children felt safe running toward without fear.
The kind that would kneel beside scraped knees and bedtime tears with more patience than he ever believed himself capable of.
You knew it because, beneath all the damage life had inflicted on him, Zuko carried an overwhelming amount of love inside himself. It simply took him longer than others to trust that love enough to let it breathe.
Before your child was born, you had always imagined yourself becoming the mother of a little boy someday.
In your mind, he looked almost identical to you - your smile, your features, your softer expressions - but with Zuko’s stubbornness and quiet intensity woven somewhere into his personality.
You imagined tiny hands gripping your robes through palace halls and messy dark hair sticking up after naps.
That image had lived inside your head for years so naturally that you never thought to question it.
But the moment Zuko became part of your life, that fantasy slowly began slipping away without you even noticing.
Because realistically? Your genes never stood a chance against his.
Not against those sharp golden eyes capable of melting and terrifying people alike. Not against the dark hair that seemed painted from firelit shadows. Not against the sheer force of presence the royal bloodline carried even in childhood.
Somewhere along the way, you simply accepted the inevitable truth: any child of Zuko’s would come into the world already carrying pieces of him too strongly to miss.
And then it finally happened.
After months of waiting, worrying, hoping, and countless sleepless nights, you brought your first child into the world.
A daughter.
The moment the midwives placed her into your arms, it felt as though the entire palace, the entire world, fell silent around you.
She was impossibly tiny, wrapped carefully in soft blankets, her little face scrunched with sleepy confusion at being pulled into such a bright and unfamiliar world.
Thick dark hair already dusted the top of her head, and when she finally blinked her eyes open, your breath caught entirely in your throat.
Amber.
Warm, glowing amber eyes identical to her father’s stared back at you.
You thought your heart might burst right then and there.
She was beautiful.
Not because she carried royal blood, nor because she was destined to become a princess of the Fire Nation someday, but because she already felt like something precious enough to heal broken parts of the world just by existing.
And when you looked toward Zuko, you realized he was staring at her as though he could not believe she was real.
Your husband - the man who once feared himself so deeply, the man who spent years convinced he carried too much darkness inside him - looked utterly defenseless in that moment.
All the strength he wore like armor throughout his life seemed to crumble the second his daughter wrapped her tiny hand around his finger.
You would remember that expression forever.
Wonder.
Fear.
Love so overwhelming it almost looked painful.
Your daughter became the greatest gift either of you had ever received.
Perhaps especially for Zuko.
Because despite all the horrors he had endured, despite the scars his father left carved into his soul, life had still placed something so soft and pure into his hands and trusted him not to break it.
Your little firecracker quickly became the center of both your worlds, filling the once quiet palace chambers with warmth that had been missing for years.
Laughter echoed through hallways once known only for heavy silence and royal tension, tiny babbles replacing the distant sound of political discussions and endless responsibilities.
It was almost unbelievable sometimes, how one impossibly small child could breathe so much life into a place that had spent generations drowning in fear.
And she looked so painfully like her father that it almost made you laugh.
Even at such a young age, before she could properly walk or speak without stumbling over her own words, Zuko’s features were already stamped all over her.
Thick dark hair that stuck messily around her face after naps, sharp amber eyes glowing with curiosity, expressions far too dramatic for someone who barely reached your knees. Her cheeks were so chubby that they nearly swallowed her eyes whenever she smiled, revealing tiny little teeth through drooling giggles that instantly melted everyone around her.
Yet somehow, despite how adorable she was, there was already something strong about her presence - something unmistakably royal, unmistakably Zuko.
Sometimes you would catch servants staring at her with amused expressions because it truly felt like someone had simply shrunk the Fire Lord down into toddler form.
But beneath all the laughter and chaos she brought into your lives, there was something deeper happening too.
Something quieter.
Your daughter healed wounds she did not even know existed.
Wounds her father had carried for so long that he no longer remembered what it felt like to live without them.
Because becoming a father changed Zuko more than anyone realized.
He had not expected it to happen so soon.
Truthfully, he barely felt old enough to process being Fire Lord half the time, let alone someone’s father.
But what truly shook him was not simply parenthood itself.
It was the fact that he had a daughter.
A daughter.
A tiny, fragile little girl carrying his bloodline forward.
The realization alone seemed to haunt him during those first months.
You noticed it constantly in the way he watched her.
Sometimes you would wake in the middle of the night only to find him sitting beside her cradle in complete silence, staring at her with an expression so conflicted it nearly hurt to look at.
She seemed impossibly delicate in his eyes.
Too soft. Too vulnerable for a world he knew could be cruel.
He could barely comprehend how small she truly was.
Her skinny little arms would wiggle wildly in the air while she crawled determinedly across the palace floors, stubbornness radiating from every movement in a way that was very clearly inherited from you.
And Zuko would simply stare at her, almost disbelieving, as though he could not understand how someone so tiny could already possess such fierce determination.
“She’s impossible,” he muttered once while watching her stubbornly attempt to climb over cushions twice her size.
But the fondness in his voice betrayed him completely.
She was so small, her head barely measured the size of his two fists put together. Sometimes when he picked her up, his hands looked absurdly large supporting her little body, making him freeze every single time as though one wrong movement might somehow hurt her.
You knew part of him was constantly terrified of his own strength around her.
And perhaps that fear deepened because she reminded him too much of another little girl he once knew.
Azula.
More than once, you caught his gaze lingering on your daughter with distant thoughts clouding his expression. Later, quietly, he admitted it to you. He remembered Azula at that age too - louder, taller, round-faced and sharp-eyed even as a child.
He remembered the palace swallowing both of them whole long before either truly understood what was happening.
Perhaps that was why he watched your daughter so carefully.
Not because he feared her.
But because he feared the world around her.
Because despite all the joy your daughter brought into his life, Zuko struggled far more with fatherhood than he ever allowed others to see. Becoming Fire Lord had already forced him to grow up too quickly, but becoming someone’s father at such a young age felt entirely different. He had barely learned how to carry the weight of a nation without breaking beneath it, and suddenly he was entrusted with something infinitely more fragile than politics or war.
A daughter.
The reality of it seemed to shake him to his core.
Not because he was disappointed, never that, but because the thought of his bloodline continuing through such a small, delicate little girl awakened fears inside him he did not know how to silence.
A girl.
Someone soft enough to be hurt by the world far too easily.
Someone who trusted him completely from the moment she opened her amber eyes.
There was always hesitation in him during those first months. Hesitation before picking her up from her cradle, as though his hands were too rough for someone so delicate.
Hesitation while helping her stand on shaky legs.
Hesitation even while holding her tiny hand because he feared squeezing too tightly without realizing.
Your daughter was as delicate as a flower in his eyes.
And Zuko, after spending most of his life surrounded by destruction, did not know how to trust himself with something so soft.
“What am I supposed to do with you, my little firecracker?” he sighed one evening while sitting beside the bed, watching her happily tangle herself in expensive silk sheets without a single care in the world.
She barely acknowledged him, too busy babbling nonsense to herself while kicking her tiny feet excitedly against the mattress.
And despite all his fear, despite the anxiety constantly living inside him, you could still see it happening slowly.
Zuko was already hopelessly, completely in love with his daughter.
No matter how much Zuko tried to keep that careful distance at first, your daughter had completely different plans.
Maybe you were the one who carried her for nine months, the one spending most of the day feeding her, bathing her, soothing her back to sleep after nightmares, but in her tiny little mind, none of that mattered nearly as much as her father did.
From the moment she learned how to properly reach for people, she reached for him first.
Tiny hands constantly grabbing at his robes whenever he passed by, little babbles filling the room the second he entered it, amber eyes instantly lighting up with excitement at the mere sight of him.
She was hopelessly attached to Zuko.
And unfortunately for the two of you, she was also painfully possessive about it.
Every attempt he made at peacefully loving his wife somehow ended with a tiny interruption.
The moment he sat beside you, she suddenly needed him.
The second he wrapped his arms around you, she came waddling over with offended little noises, demanding to be picked up immediately.
Half the time, she would physically shove herself between the two of you with all the determination her tiny body could muster, glaring up at you as though you were the intruder stealing her father away.
And Zuko, traitor that he was, always laughed before giving in.
“How could I possibly ignore the princess of the palace?” he would murmur dramatically while scooping her into his arms, despite the way you rolled your eyes at him afterward.
Truthfully, though, he never stood a chance against her.
He belonged entirely to that little girl from the very beginning.
Watching them together side by side was almost unsettling sometimes because of how deeply they resembled one another.
Not only physically, though even that was undeniable - the same amber eyes, the same dark hair, the same expressive face incapable of hiding emotions properly - but in countless smaller ways you never expected.
The similarities revealed themselves slowly over time, catching you off guard in the strangest moments.
The way she slept sprawled across the bed exactly like him, limbs everywhere as though she had personally fought the blankets and lost. The way she furrowed her brows while concentrating on something simple.
Even the way she walked somehow mirrored Zuko despite her tiny unsteady legs still wobbling beneath her with every rushed step. Sometimes she would stomp around the palace with the exact same dramatic determination her father carried during council meetings, and it took everything in you not to burst into laughter whenever you noticed.
You found yourself watching them often.
Quietly.
From afar.
Sometimes from the doorway of your chambers while Zuko sat cross-legged on the floor letting your daughter climb all over him like a tiny firebending menace. Other times from the palace gardens where she ran circles around him while he pretended not to notice her attempts at sneaking away.
And slowly, over time, you realized something beautiful was happening.
Zuko was healing alongside her.
As your daughter grew older - becoming louder, faster, more mischievous with every passing month - something inside him softened completely.
The constant tension living in his shoulders began disappearing little by little. He stopped overthinking every movement around her. Stopped analyzing himself so harshly every second of the day. Around your daughter, Zuko finally allowed himself to exist without fear constantly breathing down his neck.
He learned how to simply be.
To be a father.
A husband.
A man.
Not a Fire Lord burdened by expectations or haunted by his bloodline. Just… Zuko.
And for the first time since you had known him, he looked free.
You truly noticed it around the time your daughter turned one and a half. By then, she had become a whirlwind of energy incapable of sitting still for more than a few seconds.
Tiny feet carried her everywhere at alarming speed while her endless curiosity constantly pushed her toward new disasters waiting to happen.
That afternoon, she had apparently decided the palace gardens were hers to conquer.
You stood nearby trying not to laugh as Zuko followed after her across the stone paths, large hurried strides struggling to keep up with the way she changed directions without warning every few seconds.
One moment she was running toward the koi pond, the next she was distracted by flowers, and then suddenly sprinting toward a servant carrying fruit simply because she found the basket interesting.
And behind her came the Fire Lord himself.
Tall and radiant beneath the sunlight, crimson robes fluttering around his legs while loose dark strands of hair danced through the warm breeze. He looked almost godlike like that - powerful and untouchable beneath the golden afternoon glow.
Yet the expression on his face was anything but intimidating.
The anxious frown that used to follow him everywhere had disappeared completely, replaced instead by a teasing smile that looked so natural on him now it almost hurt your chest to witness it.
“My little firecracker,” he called after her with mock exasperation, laughter already slipping into his voice, “come back here before you destroy something important.”
“My firecracker, get back to your father!”
He always called her that - my little firecracker.
You did not know exactly when the nickname appeared or why it stayed, but somehow it fit her too perfectly to question it.
Perhaps it was the way she burned through every room with unstoppable energy, or maybe it was because she carried so much of him inside such a tiny body.
At the sound of his voice, your daughter looked back over her shoulder with wide amber eyes sparkling mischievously, and instead of obeying him, her tiny legs moved even faster.
The sight alone nearly made you laugh.
She could barely run properly yet, her steps uneven and clumsy, but she acted as though escaping the Fire Lord himself was the greatest challenge ever placed before her.
Zuko let out an exaggerated sigh before immediately giving chase again.
“Oh no you don’t-....”
It happened so quickly you almost missed it. One second your daughter was squealing triumphantly while stumbling across the stone paths, and the next Zuko had effortlessly swept her into his arms with a victorious grin spreading across his face.
“Gotcha!” he laughed, lifting her high enough for her delighted squeals to echo through the gardens. “And where exactly did you think you were going, huh?”
Your daughter answered him with incoherent babbling and breathless giggles, tiny hands immediately grabbing at his face while he pressed his cheek dramatically against hers.
They looked almost identical like that - matching dark hair tangled by the wind, matching amber eyes glowing beneath the sunlight, matching smiles so full of life it hurt your chest.
“You’re in serious trouble now, missy,” Zuko continued with mock severity while she laughed harder at absolutely nothing. “Your mother is waaay too far away to save you this time.”
At the mention of you, your daughter immediately twisted in his arms searching for where you stood nearby, little hands already reaching in your direction despite the fact she had spent the last ten minutes actively running away from him.
Traitor.
And then Zuko looked up too.
The moment his eyes met yours, something inside your chest softened so deeply it almost ached.
Because suddenly the image before you became one you knew you would carry for the rest of your life.
Your husband standing beneath the warm glow of the afternoon sun, robes fluttering gently around him, your daughter held securely against his chest while both of them looked at you with the exact same eyes. The two people you loved most in the entire world staring back at you with identical warmth painted across their faces.
One your heart.
The other your soul.
And somehow, they carried the same beauty so unmistakably that it felt impossible not to see how deeply they belonged to one another.
“Well, well,” you teased softly while walking toward them, unable to stop smiling, “look who finally got caught.”
Zuko narrowed his eyes playfully while adjusting your daughter higher in his arms as though protecting his prize.
“I caught a very dangerous criminal, actually.”
Your daughter squealed proudly at that, clearly taking it as a compliment.
“Perhaps I should step in and save her?” you asked, stopping in front of them.
At your approach, both their faces lit up at the exact same time.
The same smile.
The same eyes.
The same overwhelming love.
And in that moment, watching the two of them standing there together while laughter filled the gardens around you, you realized something simple yet devastatingly beautiful.
That was what home felt like.
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