Chapter Text
He was late. Again.
The clock on the far wall was an antique, its gilded frame gleaming under the restaurant’s warm lights, a relic that seemed almost out of place in such a modern, famous establishment. Its shorter hand had just slipped into alignment with the seven. One hour late.
You stared at it too long, as if the clock itself were mocking you, its relentless ticking echoing the same lesson you should have already learned: his time was never yours to claim.
Your hand tightened around the delicate stem of your wine glass, swirling the crimson liquid absently, watching it catch the golden glow of the chandeliers. Around you, the room buzzed with life, couples leaning close in whispered conversation, the gentle clatter of silverware against porcelain, laughter that seemed too easy, too careless. The kind of laughter reserved for people whose lives were untouched by the threat of kaiju alarms, whose loved ones weren’t summoned at any moment to throw themselves into the jaws of monsters.
But you had chosen this life. Or maybe it had chosen you, the moment you let yourself fall for the man who wore the title of Captain of Japan’s First Division.
The reservation had taken four months to secure. Four months of waiting, of planning, of quietly imagining his reaction when you finally placed before him the thing you knew would light up his guarded face, a bowl of the restaurant’s famous pesto pasta. A small, ridiculous discovery you’d made months ago, how the hardened soldier softened almost imperceptibly when that dish was set in front of him. It wasn’t the pasta you wanted. It was him, in that rare moment of peace.
But the seat across from you was still empty.
The waitress shifted at your side, clearing her throat softly. Her tone was professional, but her eyes betrayed her. “Would you like to order now, or… wait a bit longer for your partner?”
That pity look, threaded through politeness, cut deeper than it should have. It wasn’t her fault, but the weight of it pressed down on you all the same.
“I’ll wait a little longer,” you said, the words measured, careful, betraying none of the way your chest squeezed.
She nodded, a small bow, and slipped away.
Your phone glowed on the table, screen cracked faintly at the corner from some forgotten fall. You unlocked it again, though you already knew there would be nothing. No messages. No apologies. Just the constant hum of Division alerts that slipped into his world but never into yours, coded reports and sterile updates that reminded you where he was and who he belonged to, not you, but Japan, humanity, the endless war against kaiju.
You exhaled, the breath shaky as you set the phone down. “Another, please,” you murmured when a passing server caught your gesture, your glass tipped slightly toward them. The wine filled again, red and bottomless, and you stared at it as if the answer might lie within its depths.
The laughter around you swelled again, cruel in its contrast. How easy it must be, you thought, to love someone ordinary. To not measure your happiness in stolen hours or shattered promises, to not sit in the shadow of a world that could take him from you in an instant. Outside these glass walls, alarms could blare at any moment, sirens screaming through the Tokyo night, and he would run, not toward you, but toward the monsters. Always toward them.
And still, you waited. Because loving him meant this. Because you had promised yourself your love could bear the brunt of it.
But as the minutes bled into hours, as the seat across from you stayed empty, as the wine dulled the sharp edge of your heartache but not the hollowness, you wondered not for the first time, how long before the waiting broke you entirely.
Half an hour slipped past, then an hour, and still the seat across from you stayed untouched. When the clock finally struck ten, its hands slicing through the silence like a quiet reminder of reality, you felt the weight of the number more than the sound.
The restaurant would close at 10:30.
What had once been a vibrant dining hall was now nearly deserted, its glamour worn thin with the lateness of the hour. The chandeliers still glowed warmly, but their golden light seemed muted, as if even they were dimming in sympathy. A few tables remained occupied, couples leaning close, their laughter softer now, like embers burning low. Their presence was only a reminder of what you had hoped tonight might be.
You looked down at your glass, the seventh, the deep red clinging to the rim like a final gesture of defiance. You were glad you had taken a cab, a small foresight in an evening where nothing else had gone according to plan. Still, the alcohol had not dulled the ache, if anything, it only heightened the sharpness of the empty chair before you.
The waitress came again, her steps careful, the kind you reserve for fragile things. She tried to smile, but her eyes carried the same weight they had earlier, pity tempered with professional restraint. “I’m so sorry, miss. We’re closing soon. Would you like to order before the kitchen shuts down?”
You glanced at the glass in your hand, then at the clock, then back at her. A tired smile tugged weakly at your lips. “That’s okay. I’ll just pay.”
Your voice was soft, steady, but inside you could feel the crack spiderwebbing through your chest.
As you slid your card across the table, you murmured an apology for keeping her circling your table all night, for wasting a reservation that had taken months, for letting your hope spill into someone else’s shift.
But the waitress shook her head quickly, punching your payment through the register. “Please don’t apologize,” she said, then hesitated. Her eyes softened further, her voice dropping into something less formal. “I… shouldn’t say this, but honestly? Any guy who stands up someone like you? He’s a dick.”
It was blunt, startling, and it almost made you laugh. Almost. What came out instead was a low exhale, a humorless sound caught somewhere between relief and defeat. “Yeah,” you said, lips twisting faintly. “I guess so.”
She offered a sympathetic smile before stepping away, and you gathered your things, the act of leaving somehow heavier than the act of waiting.
Outside, the rain met you with no hesitation. Cold drops soaked into your hair, traced the line of your collarbone, clung to your dress until the thin fabric felt like ice against your skin. The pavement glittered under the streetlamps, every passing car sending a spray of water across the emptying street.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to will away the shiver. Of course you had no umbrella. Of course you had chosen a dress too short, heels too thin; all for him. For the way you’d hoped his eyes might linger just a second longer, for the rare smile you’d learned to treasure when he noticed the details no one else did.
Pulling your phone from your clutch, you checked the cab app. Seven minutes.
Seven minutes in the rain, hugging yourself against the cold.
And then your gaze caught the massive digital billboard across the street, its neon glow cutting through the curtain of rain. The screen flickered through its rotation of ads, perfume, new-model EVs, a limited run of defense-force-licensed kaiju-weapon replicas before it landed on an image you knew too well.
JAPAN DEFENSE FORCE - FIRST DIVISION.
Floodlit against the night, there he was. Gen Narumi, Captain. His stance was relaxed, almost lazy, one hand shoved into his pocket as though the camera crew had interrupted him mid-conversation. The corners of his mouth curled in that irreverent grin, the one that could disarm entire crowds. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed under the digital polish of the screen, sharp, wolfish, too alive to be mistaken for anything other than the strongest.
Below his image, the slogan ran in bold white letters:
“The Strongest. Protecting Japan, one kaiju at a time.”
Around the edges of the billboard, the logos of corporate sponsors blinked, steel manufacturers, drone surveillance firms, even pharmaceutical companies, each eager to tie their names to the legend of the First Division. Because Narumi wasn’t just a soldier. He was a brand, a symbol, the polished face of a war that ordinary civilians wanted to believe was winnable.
The reel shifted, playing a familiar broadcast. Footage from just two months ago: Narumi after a city-saving operation in the Kawasaki district. He was still in his battle gear, shoulders streaked with dust, jacket hanging half-off his frame, but he’d looked straight into the camera and said, with that maddening drawl of his:
“Saved the city again. Pretty sure they’d have renamed Tokyo after me if I wasn’t already so humble.”
The crowd had laughed when it first aired. The clip had gone viral, spawning countless edits, memes, hashtags. People adored him, the nation’s cocky protector, the genius who laughed in the face of monsters that could level districts in seconds. To them, he was untouchable, invincible, a living legend with a smile sharp enough to cut through fear itself.
And yet, as you stood there beneath the rain, the glow of his image staining the wet pavement, you could only feel the jagged edge of irony pressing deeper. The strongest man alive, worshipped on billboards, celebrated in headlines, adored by millions and still, never there when you needed him. For them, he was salvation. For you, he was an empty seat at a table set for two.
The hiss of tires drew your attention, a cab, headlights cutting through the storm, slowing as you raised your arm to flag it down. You slipped inside quickly, drenched and chilled, the faint leather scent of the interior mixing with the damp air you dragged in with you. The seat was cold against your bare legs, the dress that had seemed so perfect hours ago now a clammy second skin.
You pulled out your phone again, its glow casting pale light across your face. The text bar waited, empty.
I am going back first.
You left me waiting for hours.
Please tell me you’re okay.
Your thumbs hovered, typing and erasing, rewriting, hesitating. So many words wanted to spill out, but every version felt too small, too desperate, too heavy for a man who belonged first to the world and only sometimes, if at all, to you.
Through the rain-streaked window, you caught one last glimpse of the billboard, Narumi’s grin unshaken, eternally confident, forever captured in that moment of strength the public adored.
You cursed under your breath, blaming the dress, blaming your foolishness, blaming the man who had not come though you knew you would forgive him as you always did. Your reflection stared back at you faintly in the glass screen, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, hair already damp.
“All this… to impress Narumi,” you scoffed softly, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.
“Y/N?“
You heard your name, light and careless, tossed into the night air as though it didn’t matter who else might catch it. You turned, pulse stuttering, and there he was. Narumi Gen, unmissable even when he tried to hide himself. Black pants loose at the knees, a plain shirt tucked halfway, bomber jacket shrugged on without a thought. His infamous two-toned hair, the streak of silver too bright to ever be subtle, was stuffed beneath a baseball cap, a flimsy disguise against the city that knew his face better than its own mayors. His smirk was crooked, lazy, the one that had started countless arguments with his superiors and made him a favourite in every broadcast clip. In his right hand, he dangled a thin plastic bag from the corner of his fingers. Convenience store takeout, cheap and greasy, the kind of food soldiers ate between deployments.
You smiled despite yourself, steps lightening with a spring you hadn’t realized you still had. He didn’t wave, only tilted his chin like he’d been expecting you, like you were the one who had kept him waiting.
“Why are you here?” you asked when you stopped in front of him, voice a mixture of relief and reproach. “Don’t you have training?”
He snorted, dismissive, the sound carrying all the arrogance the Defense Force had reluctantly made peace with. “I don’t need it, lol.” The last word left his lips like punctuation, teasing, but you knew he meant it. He never bothered with false humility.
You fell into step together, shoulder brushing shoulder as you both started down the cracked sidewalk. The night smelled of rain-soaked asphalt and the faint tang of iron, the city never quite washed the kaiju stench away, no matter how hard the sanitation crews worked. Neon signs buzzed overhead, tired but stubborn, while the occasional drone swept low, camera blinking red, scanning rooftops for biological signatures.
“How was your last mission?” you asked, voice casual but not careless.
“The same,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head as though it had been a weekend stroll. “Nothing exciting.”
That was always his answer. You’d seen the broadcasts, though the emergency alerts flashing across every screen in Tokyo, the tremors beneath your feet when a kaiju surfaced, the grainy news clip that cut off just before his blade split a carapace clean through. The city loved him for it, loved his bravado, the way he called himself 'the strongest' with a grin sharp enough to slice through panic. The Force tolerated it, because results mattered more than decorum. You wondered, sometimes, if that meant he would eventually burn out long before anyone could stop him.
The walk to your apartment was not long, though neither of you had a car; Narumi always said roads weren’t worth owning when half the time they ended up cratered anyway. Your building loomed soon enough, five stories high, the kind of place landlords whispered excuses about. Not condemned, not yet, but not loved either. Rumors clung to its halls: mafia safehouse, smuggling routes, backroom deals that never reached daylight. The rent was cheap, which meant most people looked the other way. You hadn’t. You had patched the walls, repainted the kitchen, rewired old lamps with your own hands. On good days, when the sun slanted just right through the curtains, the place almost looked brand new.
But at night, climbing those endless stairs without an elevator, it became a workout laced with unease. Paint peeled along the stairwell. Cobwebs clung to the corners where the custodians had long since stopped caring. The air was damp, faintly metallic, and Narumi slowed on the last flight. His eyes flickered over the corridor, sharp even when his expression was not. You knew what he was thinking, how easy it would be for something to lurk here, unseen until it wasn’t.
At the fifth floor, you typed your keypad code. The lock clicked open with a polite chime, too cheerful for the peeling doorway. Narumi lingered, lips flattening.
“Why don’t you move?” His voice was low, not teasing now. “It’s dangerous here. If it’s about money, I’ll cover it. I can buy you a place near base, with actual security.”
You shook your head, smiling small, tired, the kind of smile that carried more weight than refusal.
Inside, the apartment greeted you with the details you had carefully arranged. A pair of women’s slippers neatly by the mat. A pair of men’s leather shoes, too big for your feet, deliberately placed just beside them. The faint lingering of cologne, not his, but one you kept open on the dresser, spritzed now and then so neighbors would think twice about whether a man lived here too. A defense of illusions, because sometimes that mattered more than locks.
The two of you drifted to the kitchen. You shrugged off your jacket, hanging it over a chair. The air had grown sharper these past nights, a chill that whispered of fall. Outside, the city’s lights shimmered in puddles along the road, reflected in fractured colors. You thought of how different the streets looked at dawn, when broadcast towers blared with Narumi’s face, headlines stamped with his victories, and the whole world pretended danger had been postponed.
Here, though, in the quiet of your makeshift home, it was just the two of you. And that was enough.
You peeled off your socks with the graceless exhaustion of someone who had been wrung dry by the city itself, the kind of fatigue that belonged more to unpaid salarymen stumbling out of fluorescent-lit offices at two in the morning than to someone who had simply walked home beside Japan’s most infamous soldier. They landed in the laundry basket with a limp thud, a small gesture of order against the chaos of a life lived in shadows. The floor was cool beneath your bare feet, its surface uneven in places from your own patchwork repairs, the consequence of living in an apartment block the government had long abandoned to its reputation. Rumors of yakuza hideouts and whispered deals gave the building its own mythos, one that kept most people away. But you had learned to carve safety from fear: keypad locks on the doors, men’s shoes deliberately placed by the entryway, and the faint musk of cologne sprayed across the air every few days to suggest a phantom presence. A man who never existed, but whom strangers would think twice about testing.
The faucet squeaked before it released its stream of water, the pipes groaning in protest like an old man roused from slumber. You cupped your hands under the flow, feeling the coolness bite into your skin, washing away dust, city grit, and the faint smell of exhaust that clung to your jacket. Soap foamed against your palms, bubbles bursting under the rhythm of your scrubbing, an act done more out of instinct than mindfulness. You reached blindly for the towel, fingers brushing fabric just as the muted thump of a plastic bag being placed on the counter broke the silence. The sound carried oddly in the small kitchen, hollow and resonant in a way that reminded you how fragile the thin walls were, how easy it was for noise to slip into neighboring rooms, for secrets to spill out where they shouldn’t.
“Na—”
The syllable barely left your lips before large hands caught your arm and spun you around, not roughly, but with the kind of swiftness born of reflexes honed in blood. You blinked, disoriented for a moment, until your gaze fell on those hands.
They were unmistakable. Veins coursed over the ridges of his knuckles, each tendon a taut line of strength. Scars webbed across the skin, some shallow, some deep, each one a story you could trace by memory alone. You had seen enough of them to know which came from blades, which from claws, which from the corrosive touch of a kaiju’s toxin. But there were two new ones, faint but raw, stretching like pale threads against the tan of his skin. They weren’t there before. They weren’t supposed to be. Nothing about him ever escaped your notice, and yet here they were, silent proof that his world had cut him again without you there to see it.
Your eyes rose to meet his, and there it was, the infamous red iris, sharp and watchful even under the dim light of your kitchen. It was an eye the entire nation recognized from broadcasts and posters plastered across Shinjuku’s neon corridors, an eye that smiled cockily in public while declaring he’d saved them “yet again.” But here, in your cramped apartment with paint peeling in strips above your head, it wasn’t a banner of victory. It was something heavier, darker, something that studied you like a puzzle it could never quite solve.
You shuddered under it, not from fear, but from the awareness of what it meant. That eye was both shield and weapon, the gaze of a man who had stared into monsters and cut them down without flinching. You wondered, fleetingly, how it must look from the other side, if a kaiju felt that same cold shiver crawling down its spine when Narumi Gen locked his sights on it. If they understood, even in the last moments before he struck, that they had already lost.
His grip tightened slightly, not to hurt but to anchor you, and you felt heat crawl up the nape of your neck. His hand was firm, steady, unyielding. The kind of hold that could crush bone if it wanted to, yet carried restraint as if the mere thought of breaking you was sacrilege.
“You’re tired.” His voice came low, roughened by something unspoken, the faintest rasp threading through the syllables.
“You’re getting skinnier.” He pinched lightly at the flesh of your arm, a mockery of casualness, though his eyes betrayed no humor. They flicked across you with clinical precision, as if cataloguing every ounce you’d lost, every hollow curve of your cheek that hadn’t been there before.
“Have you really been eating well?” His tut carried through the room, followed by a deliberate sweep of his gaze at your surroundings, the half-dried laundry hanging by the window, the patched-up walls, the faint smell of instant ramen lingering from last night’s dinner.
The air between you tightened, a silence filled not with comfort but with questions neither of you had the courage to answer. You reached up anyway, fingers brushing back strands of hair from his forehead, revealing the cap discarded carelessly on the counter. His two-toned hair caught the weak glow of the overhead bulb, black and pale in contrast, a symbol both of his defiance and of the persona the public adored. The mask of the strongest, shed only here, in this narrow sliver of ordinary.
And you smiled, soft and weary, because there were no words left that wouldn’t unravel the fragile balance you pretended to keep.
You slowly raised your hands, hesitant at first, as if touching him were a privilege earned only by the weight of your shared history, the scars you carried silently in your heart while he carried his openly on his skin. Your palms came to rest against his face, cool at first, and then warm—alive, human, fragile despite the power he wielded daily. You traced the line of his cheekbone with your thumb, and the contrast made your breath catch. When his hair was slicked back before missions, he looked like the executioner the media painted him to be, unflinching, sharp, ready to sever life without hesitation. In those moments, he wasn’t Narumi; he was the First Division Captain, the human blade Japan trusted to keep its heart beating in a world where monsters could appear from the sea, the sky, the very cracks in the earth.
But now, with his hair loose under the dim light of your kitchen, with strands falling stubbornly into his tired eyes, he looked so different, aloof to a stranger perhaps, the kind of man who seemed unreachable, a storm contained within flesh. To you, though, he was simply Narumi, the man who remembered the things you thought he never noticed, the man who showed up with convenience-store food because he knew you’d forget to eat, the man who wore exhaustion like a second skin yet never spoke of it.
His eyes were a battlefield of their own, sunken, circled by the shadows of sleepless nights, dark crescents like the memory of kaiju claws etched beneath the surface. Your jealousy prickled at the back of your mind, absurd in its pettiness, as you thought of the way his face still held softness even in this ruinous fatigue. He used the same soap, the same rough towel for everything, his body and his face treated with the same careless efficiency, and still, his skin felt like velvet under your hand. Meanwhile, you fought nightly with serums and toners, moisturizers lined up like soldiers on your bathroom shelf, and still woke up with breakouts at the wrong time of the month.
"You're worried about me," you said, your voice quieter than you intended, almost drowned out by the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner. Your thumb swept gently across the hollow under his eye. "But have you looked at yourself?"
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes, lashes brushing your palm like the whisper of wings, and leaned into your touch as though it were something rare, something fleeting, something he could lose if he pressed too hard. That small, instinctive nudge burrowed into your chest, and suddenly your heartbeat wasn’t yours anymore, it belonged to the rhythm of him, erratic and overwhelming, filling the small apartment like a drumline.
The silence between you spoke louder than words, heavy with all the unseen battles, the political briefings dressed as strategy sessions, the funerals no cameras filmed, the weight of being the man everyone believed unbreakable. And for a moment, standing there in your tiny kitchen with peeling linoleum floors and a leaking faucet that sang in the middle of the night, you wondered if perhaps this was the only place in Tokyo where Narumi Gen allowed himself to be just a man.
Your stomach fluttered, betraying you with its giddy betrayals, butterflies erupting like they hadn’t learned you were too old for them, that you had long since buried girlish fantasies in favor of cynicism. And yet, here they were, stubborn as weeds, blooming violently in your chest. Heat crawled up your neck, spilled across your cheeks, and you hated how easily he could reduce you to this, this pulsing, trembling mess of affection.
Narumi looked so heartbreakingly human when he was vulnerable, when he wasn’t performing the part of Captain. And just like that, every shard of anger you had collected, the sharp sting of disappointment each time he didn’t show up, the quiet dinners eaten alone, the soft curses whispered into your pillow when his absence hollowed out the room, all of it dissolved in a rush, washed away by the sight of him pressing deeper into your hand like a cat into sunlight.
How could you stay angry when this was what he gave you? This quiet surrender. This unspoken trust. How could you resent him for missing a meal, a celebration, a moment, when he was out there with blood on his hands and ash in his lungs, carving paths through monsters so others could walk home safe?
How could you be angry at him for not showing up for you when he was out there making sure the world itself kept breathing for one more day?
Your heart whispered the answer even as your mind fought it: you couldn’t. Not really. Not when he was standing in front of you like this, softened, worn down, and yet still so unbearably beautiful.
“Is it tiring?” you asked, though you already knew the answer. The fatigue was painted across his entire body: the tension coiled in his shoulders, the faint tremor that passed through him when he finally allowed himself stillness, the way his breath slowed only when your hand anchored him.
He didn’t say yes. He didn’t have to but the answer was there in the dip of his shoulders, in the hitch of his breath, but Narumi was Narumi. He cracked an eye open, caught the softness in your gaze, and immediately, reflexively, smashed it under his heel.
"Don’t start sounding like an old grandma," he muttered, the words dry as steel wool, though his voice came out rougher than he probably intended. "You’ll kill the mood faster than a kaiju raid alarm."
You blinked, caught off guard by the whiplash, the sudden bite of sarcasm where vulnerability had just been. He even had the nerve to twist his mouth into that uneven smirk, the kind that always made you want to smack and kiss him in equal measure.
"Mood? What mood? I’m asking you a serious question."
"Yeah, and I’m giving you a serious answer," he fired back smoothly, leaning away from your palms with the lazy swagger of someone who didn’t want to admit he’d enjoyed it. But before he let go entirely, his hand lingered against your wrist a beat too long, the warmth there betraying him before he could stuff it behind his usual walls. "Hypocrisy looks good on me. Can’t say the same for worry lines, though."
He reached up, tapped two fingers lightly against the furrow of your brow. The gesture was mockery on the surface, but gentleness hid underneath, the kind of gentleness that hurt because it was always half a joke, never whole. "You’re gonna start looking like the landlord if you keep frowning like that. And trust me, that guy’s scarier than any kaiju I’ve fought."
You scoffed, half-annoyed, half-relieved at the familiar rhythm of him dodging intimacy like it was another enemy he had to parry. "You’re impossible."
"And you’re predictable," he shot back instantly, sliding away toward the counter where the bag of convenience-store food still sat. His back to you, shoulders slightly hunched, he tore open a packet of onigiri with his teeth like it was the most important mission of his life. "See? I knew you’d get all serious. That’s why I brought snacks to shut you up."
"That’s not why you brought snacks."
"Maybe not," he conceded, popping a mouthful of rice into his mouth and licking his thumb with the casual arrogance of someone who knew he was infuriating you, "but it’s working, isn’t it?"
There it was again. The armor slamming into place. Vulnerability smothered beneath smirks, awkwardness wearing arrogance like camouflage. Narumi Gen; kaiju-slayer, billboard-hero, public darling, didn’t know how to hold tenderness without turning it into a joke, didn’t know how to stand still in the quiet without trying to make it noisy again.
And yet, you’d seen it. Felt it. That split-second where his eyes had closed against your hand, where he’d leaned into you not like a captain or a savior, but like a man who was so, so tired.
You wanted to push. To demand he stay in that space for longer than a heartbeat. To drag him back to the softness he so quickly buried. But you didn’t. Because moments like this even fractured, even smothered in banter, were rare. Moments where the city outside, with its glowing billboards proclaiming his strength, with its citizens calling his name like a prayer, with its endless shadow of monsters ceased to exist. Where it was only you and him in the quiet kitchen light.
So you bit your tongue, even though frustration twisted inside you, even though his retreat stung like a wound you’d stopped trying to bandage. You stayed still. You let him win. Because sometimes, just sometimes, Narumi Gen let the mask slip long enough for you to catch a glimpse underneath. And even if he ran from it the very next second, you couldn’t bring yourself to ruin the fleeting miracle of being the only one allowed to see him waver.
The shower was always her sanctuary, a brief cocoon of steam and solitude where the weight of the day was allowed to dissolve into the drain, but today it was different, heavier, warmer, almost unbearably so, because her mind refused to stop circling back to Narumi.
The water rained down in a steady cascade, each droplet pattering against her skin like a soft percussion of memory and longing, and she leaned her forehead against the cool tile as if the wall could anchor her wandering thoughts. Her hands moved automatically, lathering soap, scrubbing away exhaustion, but her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped bird, restless, searching, because in the kitchen stood a man who rarely belonged to anyone but his division, his nation, his endless battles. Yet for now, for tonight, he was here.
She thought of his hands, rough and scarred, how they had felt against her arm earlier, so strong and yet so careful, as if holding porcelain he couldn’t afford to break. She thought of his eyes, those red orbits, unrelenting in battle but strangely hesitant when turned toward her, as though every second he allowed himself to look at her was a risk, a weakness he couldn’t name. She thought of the silence between them, silence not empty but thick with words he refused to voice, emotions he swallowed like bitter medicine, his awkwardness at love more dangerous than any kaiju lurking beyond the city’s horizon.
And then the frustration came, the tug of anger at how he always ran from conversations that mattered, always let the chance slip between his fingers as if words weighed more than his blade. He could banter with comrades, lead soldiers into death with bravado, laugh too loud in a crowded bar, but when it came to her, to them, he clammed up. And wasn’t she tired of that? Tired of loving a man who refused to speak the language of his own heart?
But then, her lips curved despite herself, there were moments like today. Moments so rare that she almost didn’t dare breathe, lest the spell break. He had stood in her kitchen, hair falling loose around his face, fussing over whether she was eating enough, pinching her side like some grumpy uncle, trying to hide his worry under awkward gestures. She had touched his face and he had leaned into her palm. That was enough. For now, it had to be.
The push and pull gnawed at her chest: the desire to demand more from him, to shake him until he confessed everything he bottled up and the quiet, dangerous joy of simply existing in the same space with him, no monsters, no divisions, no alarms. Just Narumi. Just her.
The water had grown hot, nearly scalding, and it snapped her back into the present. She tilted her face up to the spray, letting it wash away the tight coil in her chest, and a sudden laugh escaped her lips; soft, startled, as though she’d caught herself dreaming too much. No. Not tonight. Tonight wasn’t for bitterness. Tonight wasn’t for tallying the things unsaid. Tonight was for fruit on a plate, for ridiculous chocolate bars he would devour, for instant ramen and steam curling from the kettle. For them.
She shut off the tap, the sudden silence almost ringing in her ears, and wrapped herself in a towel. Her reflection in the mirror looked flushed, wild-eyed, alive in a way she hadn’t seen in months. And she decided, no more heavy thoughts. She would let herself have fun with him tonight, laugh with him, tease him, watch him be awkward and loud and wholly Narumi. Because chances like this were rare, fleeting, fragile as glass. And if she wasted it sulking, she’d regret it more than any unsaid word.
She slipped into fresh clothes, ran a hand through damp hair, and padded back toward the kitchen, heart lighter, determination tucked between her ribs like a secret vow. Narumi Gen was many things; captain, fighter, leader but tonight, he was hers.
She stepped out of the bathroom with her hair still damp, dark strands clinging to her neck and collarbones, the faint steam trailing after her like a ghost of the shower she had just left behind. A plain shirt hung loose on her frame, soft cotton brushing against skin that still tingled from the heat, and shorts that clung lightly to her thighs gave her the unpretentious comfort of home. Barefoot, she padded across the floor, quiet at first, her presence announced not by footsteps but by the faint scent of soap and shampoo that drifted ahead of her.
Narumi was exactly where she knew he’d be: leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand lazily cradling a half-finished can of soda, the other fiddling absentmindedly with the edge of a wrapper. His coat had been slung across a chair in careless disregard, and his hair, half-tied, half-loose, framed his face in a way that made him look a fraction younger, almost boyish if not for the scars cutting across his skin. He looked up at her then, eyes flicking briefly, quickly, before darting back down, pretending he hadn’t noticed, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“You take longer showers than a damn kaiju fight,” he said finally, voice gruff, offhand, as though her return had unsettled him and he needed to hide it beneath the usual lazy bravado.
She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter, mirroring him without meaning to. “Better than stinking of sweat and gunpowder all day. Some of us appreciate hygiene.”
He scoffed, exaggerated, tipping his head back. “Tch. Please. My sweat smells like victory.”
Her laugh broke through before she could stop it, sharp and unrestrained, and he glanced at her then, quick, a flash of satisfaction that he had made her laugh without meaning to. He immediately ruined it by tossing a chocolate bar at her, the wrapper smacking her squarely in the chest before dropping to the floor.
“Oi-!” she protested, bending to pick it up. “You’re such a child.”
“And you’re too easy a target.” He leaned back with that insufferable grin, the one that stretched a little too wide, daring her to push back.
She tore open the chocolate bar deliberately, snapped it in half, and without saying anything, walked over and shoved one piece into his mouth. His eyes went wide for a split second before narrowing again, muffled cursing spilling past the bite. She raised her brows at him, satisfied.
“That’s what you get,” she said simply, settling on the stool across from him with her own half.
For a moment, silence stretched between them again, not heavy this time, but light, fragile, almost teasing. Narumi chewed slowly, watching her in that sidelong way he always did, like staring at her too long might burn him. He wanted to say something, she could see it, the words hovering on the tip of his tonguebut he swallowed them down with the chocolate, choosing instead to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and grunt.
“You’re messy,” he muttered.
“And you’re hopeless,” she shot back, softer than she meant, softer than he deserved.
His eyes flicked to hers, then away, then back again, like a man fighting a battle he didn’t know how to win. For one breath, for one impossible second, she thought he might actually say something real, something vulnerable. But then he tilted his head, grin snapping back into place like armor.
“Hopeless? Nah. I’m perfect.”
She wanted to scream at him, shake him, laugh at him all at once. But she didn’t. Because moments like this, messy, simple, undisturbed were too rare to ruin with demands he wasn’t ready to meet. So she smirked, bit into her chocolate, and let the silence swell between them again, not as an absence, but as a space they both filled in their own clumsy way.
The chocolate was gone in moments, its sweetness leaving only the faint stickiness of sugar on her tongue and a kind of restless energy in her chest. She licked her fingers clean, deliberately slow, and caught Narumi glancing before he turned away sharply, cracking open another can of soda as if carbonation could drown the tension.
Steam rose thick from the pot, curling around them like a veil. Her damp hair stuck to her forehead, and his shirt, too loose, too carelessly thrown on earlier hung open enough to reveal the sharp lines of his collarbone. The air between them shifted, charged, though neither said anything about it.
When the noodles were ready, she drained the pot and dumped the contents into two mismatched bowls, sliding one toward him across the counter. He caught it with surprising dexterity, lifting the bowl to his nose and inhaling dramatically.
“Mmm,” he said, mock-serious. “Smells like five-star dining. Truly, I am honored.”
She rolled her eyes and smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Eat before it gets cold, idiot.”
He dug in noisily, slurping with no regard for manners, and she groaned. “Do you always eat like a feral animal?”
“Feral animal with impeccable aim,” he said around a mouthful, grinning wide enough that broth threatened to spill.
She laughed despite herself, settling onto the stool beside him. She slurped her noodles with deliberate elegance, making a show of tapping her chopsticks neatly against the rim of the bowl. Across from her, Narumi devoured his food like a wolf, tilting the bowl dangerously close to spilling, broth dribbling at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re an embarrassment,” she muttered, shaking her head. “If Division One could see their captain now-”
“They’d envy me,” he interrupted, swallowing loudly. “Ramen this good? Shared with company this tolerable? Yeah, they’d all be jealous.”
Her chopsticks froze mid-air. It wasn’t much, just a careless line tossed out as if it meant nothing, but it hit her harder than he could ever know. She covered it with a scoff, rolling her eyes. “You’re terrible at compliments.”
“I wasn’t complimenting you,” he said with a smirk, leaning back on the stool, balancing on two legs like he had no fear of gravity. “I was praising the noodles.”
She kicked at his shin under the counter, and he yelped, barely catching his bowl before it tipped. “Sadist,” he grumbled, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Coward,” she shot back.
“Survivor,” he corrected with mock-seriousness, wagging his chopsticks like a weapon. “You don’t last this long in the JAKDF by wearing your heart on your sleeve.”
She didn’t answer, just watched him, the line between teasing and truth blurring in the steam curling between them. His grin was sharp, but it faltered for the briefest second under her gaze like he knew she saw more than he wanted her to.
She looked away first, stabbing another bite of noodles. If she pressed, he’d run. He always ran when talk edged too close to the soft places. And she was tired of chasing conversations that ended with him shutting down. So she let the silence stretch, not heavy but taut, like the string of a bow pulled back and waiting.
Narumi slurped again, louder this time, breaking the moment. “You’re staring too much. Careful, you’ll fall for me all over again.”
She let out a laugh that was half-frustration, half-relief. “You wish.”
His grin returned in full force, boyish and infuriating. “Nah, I don’t wish. I know.”
And though she wanted to smack him, to shake him until he dropped the armor of jokes and bravado, she didn’t. Because moments like this where it was just the two of them, pretending the world wasn’t burning outside were rare. And she wasn’t about to ruin it by demanding more than he could give. Not tonight.
The folded shirt smelled faintly of detergent, though the edges had long since stiffened from weeks of being forgotten at the bottom of your drawer. You held it up for a moment, staring at the soft gray cotton, worn thin around the collar, the faint imprint of Narumi’s habit of tugging it loose when the weather grew hot or when battle fatigue weighed too heavily on his shoulders. It was his, without question,his scent lingering despite months of absence, his casual claim to your space woven into the fabric of an object so mundane. When he had last stayed over, you couldn’t remember exactly; perhaps after the kaiju alert near Yokohama, or was it the mission where Division One had been deployed alongside Division Four, and he had stumbled into your apartment with exhaustion clinging to his movements? Time blurred together when measured by kaiju attacks and half-kept promises.
You turned, holding it out. “You left this last time,” you said softly, voice catching between an offer and an accusation.
Narumi glanced over from where he stood, sleeves rolled up, drying his damp hands with a kitchen towel. He had just finished arranging the ramen cups on the counter, ice and sausages stuffed into your already cramped refrigerator. His sharp, narrow eyes softened only slightly when they fell on the shirt, though his mouth tugged into the faint smirk he often wore, a shield more than an expression.
“Thought you’d burned it already,” he replied, tone casual, teasing, but carrying that familiar avoidance beneath. He reached out and took it, brushing his fingers lightly against yours, not enough to linger, not enough to reassure. “Guess you’re more sentimental than you look.”
You rolled your eyes, though inside something twisted at the way he deflected. “Go shower, Narumi. Change into it. You’ve been up for two days straight, don’t deny it.”
He leaned against the counter, tilting his head in mock offense. “Two days? Please. Three at least. But still strong enough to beat anyone’s ass. You think I’m tired?” He jabbed his thumb at himself, grin widening into that familiar arrogant flare. “Strongest Captain in the JAKDF, remember? Can’t be taken down by some lack of sleep.”
And yet his shoulders slouched as he said it, his voice carrying that husky edge that only came when exhaustion had hollowed him out. You saw it; he knew you saw it. Still, he played the part.
“I had a movie ready,” you said carefully, changing the subject before you betrayed the ache in your voice. “The one you’ve been waiting for the anime release. Even made popcorn this morning before work.”
His smirk faltered, eyes flicking toward the couch where the popcorn bowl waited, untouched. For a heartbeat, he looked almost guilty. Then, as if catching himself, he forced another grin, lifting his chin with mock bravado. “Damn, you planned a whole date night, huh? And here I was ready to impress you with gourmet instant ramen.”
“Just shower,” you repeated, softer this time, unwilling to fight the wall he had put up between you. You held out the folded shirt and shorts until he finally sighed, taking them from your hands. He brushed past you, shoulders grazing yours, his sandalwood scent cutting through the faint steam of the kettle behind him.
“I’m only doing this because you insist,” he said over his shoulder, voice playful but low, tired. “But you better not fall asleep before me. Would ruin my pride if you knocked out first.”
You didn’t answer. You simply watched him disappear into the bathroom, the faint sound of running water filling the silence of your small apartment.
By the time he emerged, hair damp, shirt loose against his frame, you had switched off most of the lights. Only the dim lamp near your bed cast a glow, its warmth spilling across the room in uneven shadows. He looked different out of uniform; less Captain, more boy. The weight of responsibility seemed to slip, however briefly, leaving only the man who tugged at the hem of his shirt awkwardly as if uncertain whether he still belonged here.
The bed dipped when he settled beside you, a careful few centimeters of space left between your bodies. The queen-sized mattress suddenly felt too large, too quiet. You lay on your side, facing away, eyes tracing the faint silver of moonlight seeping through the crack in the curtains. You thought about the popcorn in the kitchen. The movie still queued on your laptop. The laughter that could have filled the room, the warmth of a rare night uninterrupted. You had planned so much, desperate to wring every drop of time from his fleeting presence. But instead there was only this: the silence, the weight of all the unsaid pressing down heavier than his arm could ever feel.
Your chest tightened with disappointment you didn’t want him to see. Narumi had once told you, in the offhanded way he often confessed truths, that your emotions lived too openly on your face, too raw, too unguarded. Tonight, you were grateful for the dark, for the way shadows masked the sting in your expression.
And then, just as your thoughts threatened to spiral, the mattress shifted again. The space between you collapsed as a hand, familiar, calloused, certain despite his own hesitations slid around your waist and pulled you back.
You stiffened, heart thudding wildly as your head tucked beneath his chin, your face brushing against the steady rhythm of his chest. His sandalwood scent, natural and grounding, filled your senses. Narumi didn’t speak at first, only drew you closer, his hold tightening as if anchoring himself to the present moment, as if afraid you might slip away.
“Sleep,” he muttered finally, voice low, nearly swallowed by the night.
The voices in your head, sharp with longing and unvoiced demands, fell quiet. You closed your eyes, breathing in sync with his, feeling the rare vulnerability in the way his arms curled tighter around you, no teasing, no banter, just the simple need to hold. You hugged him back, wordless, the frustration of his constant avoidance dissolving into the fragile intimacy of this moment.
And just before sleep claimed you, soft and almost hesitant, you felt it: the press of his lips against your temple, fleeting and delicate, a promise half-formed, a truth unspoken.
You let yourself drift, held within the space where Narumi’s walls briefly crumbled, where the world outside ceased to exist, and where for once he was simply here.