Can I ask more for gen? I’m so obsessed with him ☹️ maybe something like reader is very much in love with her handsome boyfriend, Captain Narumi, BUT she has some insecurities since she's just a civilian, not a soldier like him, and THEN she's somehow seen him training female soldiers and got really jealous and insecure, and now gen has to deal with it in the best way possible ♥️♥️ thanks baby
Oh, I am SO ready for this. Soft, insecure civilian reader who loves her devastatingly handsome captain boyfriend but can't shake the feeling she's not enough? And then she watches him train female soldiers and her brain spirals? And Gen—emotionally constipated, video-game-obsessed Gen—has to figure out how to reassure her in the best way possible? And apologies for talking a while
The thing about dating Gen Narumi was that he never made her feel small.
He was the captain of the First Division. The strongest anti-kaiju combatant in Japan. A man whose face appeared on news broadcasts and recruitment posters and the occasional magazine cover when the Defense Force needed good PR. He was sharp-jawed and lazy-grinned and so unfairly beautiful that people stopped in the street sometimes, recognition flickering across their faces.
He never let her forget it, either. Not with grand gestures—Gen wasn't wired for grand gestures. But in small, stupid, utterly Gen ways. He'd text her screenshots of his game with her name entered as the high score. He'd steal her snacks and then replace them with better ones, pretending he had no idea how they got there. He'd fall asleep on her couch, his head in her lap, and mumble something about how she was "better than a save point" before drifting off completely.
He never made her feel small. But the world did.
Because she was a civilian. Just a civilian. She didn't have a combat suit or a specialised weapon or a division that answered to her command. She worked a normal job in a normal office, and her biggest battle most days was surviving rush hour. She couldn't fight kaiju. She couldn't read combat data. She couldn't stand beside him on the front lines. All she could do was wait for him to come home and pretend the waiting didn't terrify her.
She'd never said any of this out loud. It felt stupid. Petty. He'd chosen her, hadn't he? Out of everyone, he'd chosen her. He crawled into her bed after brutal missions and pressed his cold nose to her shoulder and whispered dumb jokes until she laughed. He'd told her—once, red-eared and refusing to meet her eyes—that she was "the only side quest that actually mattered." For Gen, that was practically a proposal.
But the insecurity was still there. Burrowed deep. Waiting for a crack.
The crack came on a Thursday.
She'd finished work early and decided to surprise him at the First Division base. She'd done it before—brought him coffee, watched him pretend to be annoyed while his ears went pink. The guards at the gate knew her by now. They waved her through with friendly nods.
She found him at one of the outdoor training grounds.
He was running drills with a group of soldiers—new recruits, she guessed, from the way some of them were still fumbling their movements. Gen stood at the centre of it all, his combat suit half-unzipped, sleeves pushed up, moving through corrections with an ease that bordered on hypnotic. He was good at this. Really good. Patient in a way he never was with paperwork, sharp without being cruel. He adjusted a stance here, demonstrated a grip there, his voice carrying across the field in that lazy, authoritative drawl she knew so well.
The soldiers were mostly women.
Young women. Fit, powerful, capable women in sleek training gear, their muscles flexing as they ran through combat forms. One of them laughed at something Gen said, tossing her hair back. Another touched his arm to get his attention, her fingers lingering just a moment too long. And Gen—Gen didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Just nodded and moved on to the next correction like it was nothing.
She stood at the edge of the training ground, her coffee growing cold in her hands, and felt something ugly twist in her chest.
Look at them. Look at them, and then look at her. They were soldiers. They understood his world, his language, his life. They could fight beside him. They could protect him. They could stand where she couldn't. They were everything she wasn't.
And Gen was standing in the middle of them, completely at ease, while she hovered at the perimeter like a stranger.
The soldier who'd touched his arm laughed again. Gen's mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close.
Her stomach dropped. She turned around and walked back to the gate before he could see her.
She didn't answer his texts that night.
[19:42] yo u still coming over later? got that new slime game. thought we could co-op
[20:38] did i do something or are u just napping. if ur napping thats fine. u deserve naps
[21:02] ok now im a little worried
[21:03] not a lot. just a little. like 15% worried.
She stared at the messages until they blurred. Then she turned her phone face-down and curled into a ball on her couch, wearing his hoodie—the one he'd left last month and she'd never given back—and hated herself for being so ridiculous.
He'd done nothing wrong. Nothing. He'd been training soldiers, which was literally his job. He'd smiled at someone. Someone had touched his arm. He hadn't touched back. He probably hadn't even noticed. He was probably sitting in his quarters right now, genuinely confused about why his girlfriend had vanished.
But she couldn't stop the spiral. All those women. All those capable, powerful, worthy women who shared his world in a way she never could. How long until he realised he could have one of them? Someone who understood. Someone who didn't have to wait at home like a civilian burden while he risked his life?
The doorbell rang at 21:47.
She didn't move. It rang again. Then a third time. Then she heard his voice, muffled through the door.
"I know you're in there. Your light's on. Also I can hear you breathing."
"...Okay. This is very dramatic. I'm the dramatic one in this relationship. You're stealing my thing."
Despite everything, a weak laugh bubbled up in her throat.
"I brought food," he added. "From that place you like. The one with the noodles. I waited in line for like twenty minutes. Do you know how many people recognised me? I had to sign an autograph. For noodles."
She got up. Unlocked the door.
Gen stood in the hallway, a takeout bag in one hand and an expression on his face that was trying very hard to be casual and failing miserably. He was still in his combat suit, which meant he'd come straight from base. His hair was messy. His eyes scanned her face with an intensity that betrayed the lazy slouch of his shoulders.
"You've been crying," he said.
"You're wearing my hoodie and your eyes are red. That's two for two."
She crossed her arms, hugging herself. "Maybe I have allergies."
"Can I come in? Please? I brought noodles. And I'm confused. And a little freaked out. Like 35% now. Maybe 40."
He set the noodles on the counter and turned to face her. The kitchen felt too small suddenly, filled with his presence, his height, the weight of his attention. He didn't crowd her. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, waiting.
"So," he said. "What'd I do?"
"Okay. We both know that's not true. You've been weird all night. You ignored my texts. You were crying. Something happened." He paused. "Was it something at work? Do I need to go intimidate your boss? I can do that. It's probably an abuse of my authority but I'm willing to make that sacrifice."
"You didn't have to." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something gentler. "C'mon. Talk to me. I'm trying to be... you know. Emotionally available. This is character development. Don't let it go to waste."
Her lip wobbled. Damn it. "I came to the base today."
"To surprise you. With coffee. But you were on the training ground."
"Yeah, I had new recruit drills all afternoon. It was brutal. Those rookies don't know their left from their—" He stopped. Something shifted in his expression. "Wait. You saw that? And you didn't come say hi?"
"I'm never too busy for coffee. Especially yours. You get the good kind."
"You were training all those women."
He stared at her. The silence stretched. Then his eyes widened—just slightly, just enough—and she watched understanding dawn across his face.
"Ah," he said. "Ah. Okay. This is a... this is a thing. This is a jealousy thing."
"It's not—" She started to deny it, then stopped. Because it was. It was exactly that, and she was too tired to pretend otherwise. "Fine. Yes. It's a jealousy thing."
"Okay." He leaned against the counter, arms crossing. He didn't look angry. Just... thoughtful. "Okay. Talk to me. Why?"
"Because they're—" The words caught in her throat. She gestured vaguely, helplessly. "Look at them, Gen. They're soldiers. They're fit and they're capable and they understand your whole world in a way I never will. They can fight beside you. They can protect you. They're everything I'm not. And I'm just... I'm just a civilian who waits at home and worries about you and can't do anything except hope you come back."
Her voice cracked on the last word. She looked away, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.
Gen was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Can I talk now? Or do you have more?"
"Okay." He pushed off the counter and walked toward her. Slowly, like he was approaching something skittish. When he was close enough to touch, he stopped. "First of all, those recruits? They're terrible. Like, genuinely terrible. Half of them can't hold a stance. One of them tripped over her own feet during warm-ups. I'm not impressed by them. I'm trying to keep them from dying on their first mission. That's my job. It's not a dating pool."
"Second." He reached out and tugged gently at the sleeve of the hoodie she was wearing—his hoodie. "You think I want someone who understands my world? I don't. My world is kaiju and combat data and officers who make me do paperwork. It's exhausting. It's all the time. You know what I actually want? I want to come home to you. I want to sit on your couch and play stupid games and eat your terrible cooking—"
"My cooking is not terrible."
"It's medium. At best. But I like it. That's the point. I like it because it's you. I like coming home to you. I like that you're not in the Defense Force. I like that you ask me dumb questions about kaiju and pretend to understand when I explain combat stuff. I like that you worry about me. No one else does. Or they do, but it's professional. You worry about me because you love me. That's... different."
She sniffled. "You hate it when I worry."
"I hate it because I don't want you to be sad. But I also... I don't know. It's nice. Knowing someone cares if I come back." His ears were red now. Bright, unmistakable red. "Stop looking at me like that. This is hard. I'm not good at this."
"I'm doing great. Obviously. I'm nailing this emotional honesty thing." He stepped closer, his hands settling on her waist. "Third. You said you're just a civilian. Like that's a bad thing. Like that makes you less. But you're not less. You're the most important person in my party. You're the healer. The support class. Everyone thinks DPS is the best, but they're wrong. The party wipes without the healer. I would know. I've wiped a lot of parties."
A wet laugh escaped her. "Did you just compare our relationship to a raid composition?"
"Yes. It's a good metaphor. Respect the metaphor." He tugged her closer, her chest pressing against his. "You're not on the front lines. You're not a soldier. And I'm so, so glad you're not. Because when I'm out there, when everything's on fire and there's some giant ugly kaiju trying to kill me, the thing that keeps me going is knowing you're here. Safe. Waiting. Ready to yell at me for being reckless."
"You yell at me so much. It's very sexy. I love it."
She buried her face in his chest. "I'm sorry. I know I'm being ridiculous."
"You're not. You're being insecure. It's different. And I get it." His hand came up, threading through her hair. "I get insecure too. You think I don't? I'm dating the most beautiful woman in the entire city and she's way too good for me and I wake up every day wondering when she's going to figure that out."
She pulled back, staring up at him. "What?"
"Oh, she's surprised. She's shocked. She had no idea that her devastatingly handsome boyfriend is also cripplingly insecure about her leaving him for someone better."
"You're not—you're literally the strongest captain—"
"Doesn't matter. Still feel like an orphanage kid who nobody wanted half the time. You know that. You're the only one who knows that." He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "You see me. The real me. Not the captain, not the strongest, not the numbers. Just Gen. The guy who plays too many games and forgets to eat and says the wrong thing ninety percent of the time. And you still choose me. Every day, you choose me. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? How amazing that is?"
Tears were slipping down her cheeks now. "Gen..."
"I don't look at anyone else. I don't want anyone else. Those soldiers? Couldn't pick them out of a lineup. You? I'd find you anywhere. In any crowd. In any game. On any server. You're my player two. You get that? You're it. There's no one else."
"Your player two," she repeated, a watery smile breaking through.
"Yeah." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Now can we please eat the noodles? They're getting cold and I stood in line for twenty minutes. I signed an autograph. For noodles."
"The autograph was probably a bigger sacrifice."
She laughed—a real laugh this time, cracked and tear-soaked but real—and kissed him. He made a small, surprised sound against her mouth, then melted into it, his arms wrapping fully around her, pulling her close like he'd been waiting all night for exactly this.
They ate the noodles on the couch, her feet in his lap, his console abandoned on the coffee table. He told her about the terrible rookies—"one of them asked if kaiju had levels, like in a game, and I had to pretend I didn't want to cry"—and she told him about her dumb boss and her dumber coworkers, and somewhere between the second container of noodles and the third time he made her laugh, the insecurity faded to a whisper.
Later, when she was half-asleep against his shoulder, he spoke quietly.
"I mean it. What I said. You're it. There's no one else. There's never going to be anyone else. So if you're ever feeling like that again, just... tell me, okay? Don't ignore my texts. Don't make me worry. Just tell me. I'll fix it."
She tilted her head up, looking at his profile—the sharp jaw, the messy hair, the faint pink still lingering at the tips of his ears. "You're really bad at talking about feelings."
"And you still did it. For me."
"Yeah." He glanced down at her. "You're worth the character development."
She kissed his jaw and felt him smile against her hair.
"Player two," she murmured.
"Player two," he agreed. "Forever."
