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The assignment brief is unremarkable, which is precisely why Izuku Midoriya reads it twice.
Long-term low-visibility patrol rotation.
Urban sectors bordering evacuated zones. Post-incident cleanup, secondary sweeps, presence enforcement. Minimal engagement expected. Emphasis on discretion.
He exhales slowly and folds the paper back into the file.
It’s not glamorous. There won’t be cameras, crowds, or decisive moments that look good in after-action reports.
This is the kind of work that happens after the headlines move on—when the city is still bruised, when people are trying to return to half-broken homes and pretend things are normal again.
It suits him.
“Midoriya.”
He looks up.
Aizawa is already halfway out the door, scarf loose around his shoulders.
“You’re assigned Alpha-Three. Rotation starts tonight.”
Izuku nods, shoulders squaring automatically. “Yes, sir.”
“Your partner’s Hagakure.”
That makes him pause.
Not because he’s surprised. On paper, it makes perfect sense. But there’s something about hearing it out loud, about the certainty of it, that lands heavier than expected.
“Yes, sir,” he says again, after a beat.
Aizawa glances back at him, eyes sharp. “This isn’t a combat assignment. Don’t overthink it.”
Izuku gives a small, embarrassed smile.
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s what worries me.”
The door closes behind Aizawa, leaving Izuku alone with the file and the quiet hum of the lights. He stares at Hagakure Tooru’s name for a moment longer than necessary.
He has worked with her before. Group exercises. Simulations. Emergency drills. She’s loud in a way that’s deliberate, a brightness that fills space others might overlook. She laughs easily, jokes about her invisibility before anyone else can, refuses to let it become awkward.
But this assignment isn’t like those.
This assignment is quiet.
They meet at the perimeter gate just after sunset.
Izuku arrives early out of habit, standing with his hands folded behind his back, eyes scanning the empty street beyond the barricades. The city looks different like this—muted, stripped of movement, its edges softened by the absence of people.
“You’re early!”
He startles despite himself.
“Sorry!” Hagakure’s voice is close, closer than he expected, and he turns instinctively, eyes flicking to where she would be. There’s the faintest disturbance in the air, like heat shimmer, but nothing solid enough to focus on.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she adds, amusement clear in her tone.
“No, it’s fine,” Izuku says quickly. “I should’ve noticed.”
She laughs. “You always say that.”
He rubs the back of his neck, ears warming. “Force of habit.”
There’s a pause—not awkward, exactly, but undefined. He realises he hasn’t greeted her properly.
“Um. Good evening, Hagakure.”
“Good evening, Midoriya,” she replies, mock-formal. “Ready for the thrilling world of standing around and being unobtrusive?”
“I think so.”
She hums thoughtfully. “That was a very hero answer.”
He smiles despite himself.
They start walking without discussing it, falling into step as naturally as breathing. Izuku keeps his pace measured, conscious of where she is even without visual confirmation. He listens—to the soft scuff of boots on pavement, to the way her breathing shifts when she turns her head.
He doesn’t comment on it.
He doesn’t need to.
The sector is quiet enough that every sound carries. Wind through broken windows. A loose sign clattering somewhere above. Their radios remain silent, clipped low and muted.
Hagakure breaks the silence first.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
Izuku blinks. “Doing what?”
“Tilting your head,” she says. “Like you’re triangulating something.”
“I—sorry.” He straightens immediately.
“Don’t stop,” she adds quickly. “It’s kind of impressive.”
He hesitates. “I just… like to know where my partner is.”
There’s something in the way she says,
“Oh,” that makes him glance sideways.
They continue on.
As the minutes stretch into an hour, Izuku realises something without quite meaning to: he hasn’t lost track of her once. Even when she moves ahead, even when she circles wide around a collapsed storefront, he always knows—roughly—where she is.
Not because she announces herself.
Because she doesn’t have to.
At one point, he adjusts his path around a pile of debris, leaving a wider gap on his right without consciously deciding to.
A second later, he feels the faint brush of displaced air pass through it.
She noticed.
She doesn’t say anything.
They stop on a rooftop overlooking the sector, city lights flickering at the edges of the horizon. Hagakure settles beside him, unseen, but close enough that he can feel warmth radiating faintly through the night air.
Izuku mirrors the posture a moment later, resting his forearms on his knees.
The city hums distantly. Not silent — just far away.
“Well,” she says after a moment, stretching her arms overhead. “If this rotation really is as long as they made it sound…”
Izuku glances in her direction. “Yeah.”
“…we probably shouldn’t spend the whole time pretending we’re still in class.”
He exhales a small laugh. “I didn’t realise I was doing that.”
“You kind of were,” she says, not unkindly. “Very… attentive.”
“I get that a lot.”
She snorts. “Shocking.”
The silence that follows is easier this time.
“You know,” Hagakure says, tone thoughtful rather than teasing, “we were in the same class for years, but I don’t think we ever actually talked like this.”
He nods slowly. “I was thinking that too.”
“Not in a bad way,” she adds. “Just… we ran in different circles.”
“I think I assumed you were always busy,” he admits. “You always seemed… comfortable. Like you already knew where you fit.”
She hums. “That’s funny. I always thought you had everything figured out.”
He turns, startled. “Me?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You had a plan. Or at least looked like you did. I figured you didn’t need more noise.”
He considers that. “I think I just didn’t know how to start conversations unless there was a reason.”
“Well,” she says lightly, “congratulations. Now there is.”
That earns a small smile from him.
They sit for a bit, listening to the city breathe.
“So,” Hagakure says eventually, “what do you do when you’re not on hero duty? Like, when no one’s watching.”
He thinks about it. “I walk,” he says finally. “A lot. It helps me organise my thoughts.”
“That tracks.”
“What about you?”
She shrugs — he hears the movement, imagines it easily. “I like places where no one’s paying attention. Cafés at weird hours. Parks early in the morning.
It’s peaceful.”
“I get that,” he says, without thinking.
She pauses, then smiles into the air.
“Yeah. I thought you might.”
The radio crackles softly — nothing urgent — and they both straighten out of habit before relaxing again.
When they stand to continue patrol, Hagakure doesn’t immediately move ahead or behind. She falls into step beside him, pace matched without discussion.
“Hey, Midoriya?”
“Yes?”
“This doesn’t feel awkward,” she says.
“That’s nice.”
He nods. “It is.”
They move on, conversation drifting to easier things — favourite quiet spots around the city, terrible vending machine choices, which teachers were secretly the worst.
Nothing profound.
Nothing forced.
Just two people realising that shared silence doesn’t have to be empty.
By the third night, the patrol no longer feels like an assignment.
It feels like a routine.
They meet at the same time, at the same gate, without discussing it. Izuku still arrives early; Hagakure still announces herself anyway, voice bright even when the street is empty. He’s stopped startling when she does. She’s noticed.
The sector hasn’t changed much. A few more lights restored. A few more windows boarded up properly. The city is healing in the slow, uneven way it always does.
They walk.
Conversation drifts in and out naturally now. Some nights it’s easy—complaints about sleep schedules, about ration bars that all taste the same no matter what the label claims. Other nights it’s sparse, comfortable gaps stretching between short comments.
Izuku realises he likes both.
What he doesn’t realise—at least not at first—is how much he’s begun to account for her without thinking.
He adjusts his stride when the pavement narrows. Slows when the footing gets uneven. Leaves space when turning corners, not because she asked, but because experience has taught him where she tends to move.
Hagakure notices.
She doesn’t point it out.
Instead, she starts matching him in return.
On the fifth night, it rains.
Not heavily—just enough to slick the
pavement and dampen the air, the kind of rain that carries sound strangely. Izuku pulls his hood up without comment, keeping his attention on the street ahead.
“I forgot how weird this feels,” Hagakure
says, amusement threading her voice.
“The rain?”
“Yeah. You can’t see me anyway, but now I can hear myself.”
He glances sideways. “Is it distracting?”
“A little,” she admits. “I sound louder than I mean to.”
He slows half a step. “If you want, I can—”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s fine. I just need a minute to adjust.”
He nods and keeps pace, attentive but not hovering.
A few minutes later, she speaks again, casual. “Okay. I’m good.”
He realises then that he trusted her to tell him when she was ready.
That trust settles somewhere in his chest, warm and unexpected.
They start developing small habits.
Hagakure walks point more often, slipping ahead to scout intersections before looping back. Izuku waits without being told, eyes up, posture relaxed but ready. When she returns, she doesn’t report unless there’s something worth reporting.
Sometimes she taps twice against his arm as she passes—all clear. Sometimes she doesn’t need to.
Izuku finds himself responding in kind: a slight tilt of his head when he hears something off, a hand lifted briefly to signal pause. She reads it immediately.
No words.
No acknowledgement.
Just coordination.
Downtime fills itself.
They sit on rooftops during scheduled pauses, backs against low walls, sharing the quiet. Hagakure occasionally hums—soft, almost absent-minded. Izuku doesn’t comment, but he always notices when she stops.
Once, she asks him what he’d be doing if he weren’t here.
“Sleeping,” he answers honestly.
She laughs. “Same.”
Another night, she asks him about his notebooks.
“Do you still keep them?” she says.
“Yes,” he answers, then hesitates. “Not as obsessively.”
“That’s good,” she says. “Growth.”
He smiles, small but genuine.
He doesn’t ask her about her quirk.
He doesn’t need to.
She talks about other things instead:
places she wants to visit once the rotation ends, foods she misses, how strange it feels to be somewhere no one expects her to perform or be upbeat.
“I don’t mind being cheerful,” she says one night, leaning back, hands laced behind her head. “I just don’t like feeling like I owe it to people.”
Izuku considers that quietly. “You don’t.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t think so?”
“No,” he says simply. “You never did.”
The silence after that is heavier—but not uncomfortable.
The first real test comes without drama.
A sound in the distance. Not loud. Just wrong.
Izuku stops immediately, raising a hand. Hagakure freezes with him, close enough that he can feel the faint displacement of air beside his shoulder.
They listen.
A second sound follows—metal shifting against concrete.
Hagakure moves before he can speak, circling wide and fast, rain masking her steps. Izuku holds position, heart steady, attention sharp.
It turns out to be nothing. A loose panel, knocked free by the weather.
When she returns, she doesn’t joke about it. She just nods once.
“False alarm.”
“Good call,” he says.
“Thanks for trusting me.”
He meets her unseen gaze. “Always.”
The word comes out easier than he expects.
Later that night, as they walk back toward the gate, Hagakure breaks the quiet.
“You know,” she says, tone light but curious, “most people take a while to stop talking around me.”
He frowns slightly. “Around you?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Like I’m… adjacent. Part of the situation, but not really in it.”
He thinks back over the past few nights.
The way he’s addressed her directly. The way he’s waited for her input without prompting.
“I don’t do that,” he says slowly.
“No,” she agrees. “You don’t.”
Something in her voice shifts—subtle, but present.
“I appreciate it,” she adds.
He nods, unsure how to respond without making it bigger than it needs to be. “You’re my partner.”
She smiles. He can hear it.
“Yeah,” she says. “You treat it like that.”
By the end of the second week, Izuku
realises something quietly unsettling.
He no longer has to think about where Hagakure is.
He just knows.
Not in a dramatic way. Not as a sixth sense or a hero instinct. Just… awareness. Like knowing where a familiar piece of furniture is in a dark room. Like knowing when someone is standing beside you without turning around.
It doesn’t alarm him.
It comforts him.
And somewhere along the way, without ceremony or decision, he’s stopped thinking of the patrol as something he’s doing with Hagakure.
It’s something they’re doing together.
It happens on a night that feels identical to all the others.
Same gate. Same time. Same quiet stretch of city that has started to feel almost familiar.
Izuku notices he’s tired before he realises he’s been compensating for it.
Not enough to be dangerous—he’s still sharp, still capable—but the edges of his focus are dulled. The kind of fatigue that doesn’t slow your body so much as your reactions. He tells himself it’s fine.
They’re near the end of the rotation. He can manage.
Hagakure notices anyway.
“You’re quieter tonight,” she says as they walk.
“I am?” He blinks, surprised.
“Mm-hm. Not in a bad way. Just… different.”
He considers denying it, then exhales. “I didn’t sleep well.”
She hums. “You want me to take point more?”
The offer is casual. No judgement. No insistence.
“Yes,” he says after a beat. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
She moves ahead without further comment, footsteps light and controlled. Izuku adjusts instinctively, letting her set the pace. It feels strange at first—ceding a role he’s grown used to—but also, unexpectedly, relieving.
He trusts her.
They’re crossing a narrow side street when it happens.
A patch of broken concrete hidden beneath pooled rainwater shifts under Izuku’s foot. His balance goes before he can correct it, pain flaring sharp and sudden up his ankle as he stumbles.
He doesn’t fall.
Because Hagakure is already there.
Her hand closes around his wrist, firm and sure, anchoring him before gravity can finish the job. He feels the pressure, the warmth—real, unmistakable.
“Hey,” she says immediately. “Don’t move.”
“I’m okay,” he starts to say, then stops as she crouches, invisible fingers steadying his leg.
“Let me check,” she says. It’s not a request.
He goes still.
Her touch is professional—careful, precise—but the awareness of it hits him harder than the pain. He can feel where she is exactly now, mapped perfectly in his mind.
“Sprain,” she concludes after a moment.
“Mild, but you shouldn’t put too much weight on it.”
“I can walk,” he says reflexively.
She straightens. “I know. But you don’t have to.”
The words catch him off guard.
“I’m taking point,” she continues, already adjusting her position. “You follow my voice. Slow pace.”
“Hagakure—”
She squeezes his wrist once.
Grounding. “Midoriya. Let me.”
He nods, swallowing. “Okay.”
Moving is harder than he expects—not physically, but mentally.
He has to trust her guidance completely. Where to step. When to pause. When to shift his weight. She stays close, voice low and steady, narrating just enough to keep him oriented without overwhelming him.
“Small step here.”
“Careful—uneven.”
“Good. You’ve got it.”
Her presence is constant, reassuring. He realises distantly that she’s placing herself slightly ahead and to his right, shielding him from the street without drawing attention.
She’s protecting him.
The thought settles strangely in his chest.
When they reach the rooftop they usually rest on, she helps him sit without comment, hands lingering only as long as necessary.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to slow us down.”
She turns toward him fully. He can tell by the way her voice shifts.
“You didn’t,” she says. “This is part of it.”
“Part of—”
“Working together,” she finishes.
“Sometimes that means leaning instead of leading.”
He exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you.”
She smiles. He hears it.
They stay there longer than usual.
Izuku rests his injured ankle, gaze unfocused as the city stretches out before him. Hagakure sits close—not touching, but near enough that he doesn’t feel alone in the quiet.
“You know,” she says eventually, voice thoughtful, “this is the first time someone’s actually let me take care of them like this.”
He looks at her, startled. “Really?”
“Most people either assume I don’t need help,” she says lightly, “or that I can’t give it.”
“That’s… wrong,” he says immediately.
“I know,” she replies softly. “But it’s nice when someone else knows too.”
The weight of that lands slowly.
“I trust you,” he says, without hesitation.
There’s a pause.
“I know,” she says again. This time, her
voice is warmer. “You always have.”
When they finally resume patrol, the rhythm is different.
Hagakure stays close, adjusting to his pace without being asked. Izuku listens more intently than ever, following her cues without second-guessing.
The dependence is no longer theoretical.
It’s real.
By the time they reach the gate at the
end of the shift, Izuku realises something else.
The pain in his ankle is manageable.
The awareness of her—of her presence, her voice, her steady guidance—is not something he wants to lose.
And for the first time since the rotation began, the thought crosses his mind quietly, without panic or analysis:
This matters.
The ankle heals quickly.
Not overnight, but well enough that by the next few shifts Izuku can walk without favouring it, can move with the same controlled confidence he always has. He expects the routine to snap back into place the way it was before.
It doesn’t.
Hagakure still stays closer than she used to.
Not hovering. Not obvious. Just within reach—her pace matched to his, her movements slightly adjusted so she’s always there if he needs her again.
Izuku notices it the same way he notices everything else: quietly, without comment.
He doesn’t ask her to stop.
She doesn’t offer an explanation.
It’s the third night after the injury when someone else joins their sector.
A temporary reassignment. Another pro hero doing overlap coverage while routes are rebalanced. He’s polite, competent, and very much there in a way Izuku and Hagakure are no longer used to.
The difference is immediate.
The hero talks to Izuku first. Always Izuku. Status updates, questions, casual observations delivered like Hagakure is an extension of the space rather than a person occupying it.
Izuku answers at first—automatically, professionally.
Then he stops.
“Hagakure,” he says instead, turning slightly. “What do you think?”
There’s the briefest pause. Surprise, maybe.
“I agree,” she says. “The east side’s been quieter lately.”
The hero blinks, recalibrates. “Right. Good point.”
They move on.
Izuku doesn’t miss the way Hagakure shifts closer after that. Just a fraction.
Enough that he feels it.
Later, during a scheduled pause, the hero excuses himself to check the perimeter, leaving them alone on the rooftop.
Hagakure exhales. “Wow.”
Izuku glances at her. “What?”
“Nothing bad,” she says quickly. “Just… that was new.”
He frowns slightly. “How so?”
She tilts her head, considering. “You didn’t even hesitate. You just—included me. Like it was obvious.”
“It is obvious,” he says, then stops.
The words linger between them, heavier than he intended.
She smiles—not teasing this time.
Something softer. “You really don’t think about it, do you?”
“Think about what?”
“Making space,” she says. “You just do.”
He looks away, embarrassed. “I just don’t like when people get overlooked.”
There’s a quiet moment.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I noticed.”
The rest of the shift passes smoothly, but the awareness doesn’t fade.
Izuku catches himself checking in more often—not verbally, just through posture, pacing, the subtle signals they’ve developed. Hagakure responds without missing a beat. If anything, they move more seamlessly with the third presence gone, slipping back into their familiar rhythm like water finding its course.
At the end of the night, as they walk back toward the gate, Hagakure breaks the silence.
“Hey, Midoriya?”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever think about how strange this is?”
He considers the question. “Strange how?”
“That we didn’t really know each other,” she says, “and now we… do. Without anything actually changing.”
He nods slowly. “I’ve thought about that.”
“And?” she prompts.
“I think,” he says carefully, “that sometimes people just need the right context.”
She laughs softly. “Leave it to you to make it sound academic.”
He smiles. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says. “It’s one of the things I like.”
The word like lands gently, without weight—but it stays.
The comment that finally shifts everything comes from somewhere unexpected.
As they’re signing off at the end of the week, Aizawa glances up from his tablet, eyes flicking between them.
“You two make a good unit,” he says flatly. “Efficient. Quiet. Don’t get in each other’s way.”
Izuku straightens. “Thank you, sir.”
Hagakure hums. “High praise from you.”
Aizawa pauses, then adds, almost absently, “You don’t usually see that level of awareness unless people are paying attention to each other.”
He leaves before either of them can respond.
They stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
“Well,” Hagakure says finally, attempting lightness. “Guess we passed.”
Izuku nods, but something in his chest tightens.
Paying attention.
He has always paid attention. To threats. To details. To the world around him.
This feels… different.
As they part ways for the night, he realises the thought has been circling for a while now, waiting for permission to land.
He isn’t just aware of Hagakure.
He looks for her.
And when he doesn’t immediately sense where she is, something in him reaches—quietly, instinctively—until it finds her again.
The rotation ends on a night that feels almost disappointing in its normalcy.
No incidents. No alarms. Just the slow, familiar walk through streets that have stopped feeling hostile and started feeling… known.
Izuku is aware of it the entire time—that this is the last shift. That tomorrow, they’ll be reassigned. Back to different teams, different rhythms. The thought sits heavier than he expects.
He doesn’t mention it.
Neither does she.
They take their final scheduled pause on the same rooftop, the one they’ve claimed without ever saying so.
Hagakure sits first this time, leaning back on her hands. Izuku lowers himself
beside her a moment later, careful of the still-healing ankle out of habit.
“You’re favouring it less,” she says.
He smiles faintly. “I didn’t realise.”
“I did.”
Of course she did.
They lapse into silence, not strained, but thoughtful. The city below them is quieter now than it was weeks ago.
Fewer broken lights. Less emptiness.
Evidence of life returning in small, stubborn ways.
“This was a good assignment,” Hagakure says eventually.
“Yes,” Izuku agrees. Then, after a pause, “I’m glad it was with you.”
The words are simple. Honest. They surprise him anyway.
She turns toward him. He can tell by the way her voice shifts, by the way the air seems to hold still.
“Me too,” she says.
Another pause stretches out—not empty this time, but full of everything they haven’t said yet.
It’s her who breaks it.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, tone careful but steady.
“Of course.”
She hesitates. “If we hadn’t been assigned together… do you think we would’ve ever gotten to know each other like this?”
The question lands gently, but it lands.
Izuku considers it seriously. He always does.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I think… probably not. I tend to stay where I’m useful.”
“And now?” she asks quietly.
“And now,” he says, heart beating just a little faster, “I think I stay where I’m wanted.”
There it is.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.
She laughs softly—not teasing, not dismissive. Almost relieved.
“Good,” she says. “Because I was worried it was just me.”
He turns to her fully now. “Worried about what?”
“That I’d gotten used to you being there,” she says. “That I’d miss this more than I should.”
“You’re allowed to miss it,” he says immediately.
Her voice softens. “What if I want it to keep going?”
The words hang between them.
Izuku doesn’t answer right away—not because he doesn’t know, but because he wants to be sure he says it right.
“I don’t think,” he says slowly, “that we have to stop just because the assignment ends.”
She goes still.
“You don’t?”
“No,” he says. “We don’t have to pretend this only mattered because someone told us to be here.”
A beat.
Then she reaches out.
He feels it before he sees it—fingers brushing his sleeve, tentative at first, then settling when he doesn’t pull away.
Her hand is warm. Real. Grounding.
He covers it without thinking.
The contact is simple. No rush. No escalation. Just confirmation.
“Midoriya?” she says quietly.
“Yes?”
“You know this would be… different, right?”
He nods. “I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
He looks down at where their hands meet—visible and invisible overlapping seamlessly.
“I think,” he says, voice steady, “it already is.”
They don’t kiss.
They don’t define anything.
They sit there a while longer, hands still together, watching the city breathe as something new and unspoken settles comfortably between them.
When they finally stand to leave, Hagakure doesn’t let go right away.
“Walk me to the gate?” she asks, lightly.
He smiles. “Always.”
They move off together, steps aligned, the space between them no longer something to be measured or accounted for—just shared.
And for the first time, Izuku realises that awareness doesn’t always mean vigilance.
Sometimes, it means choosing to stay.
Izuku notices it first because he always does.
Not during training. Not during class.
But in the space between—when the day loosens its grip and people drift where they mean to go rather than where they’re told.
He’s crossing the courtyard when something shifts beside him. A familiar alignment of footsteps. A presence he no longer has to search for.
“You’re early,” Hagakure says, amused.
“So are you,” he replies.
It’s been a few weeks since the rotation ended. Long enough that this isn’t habit anymore. Long enough that it’s intentional.
They don’t meet every day. They don’t have a schedule. Sometimes they walk.
Sometimes they sit somewhere quiet
and talk about nothing in particular.
Sometimes they don’t talk at all.
What they have doesn’t ask to be named.
They fall into step easily, moving toward the edge of campus where the lights thin out and the noise fades. Izuku carries two drinks from a vending machine, handing one over without looking.
“Same as last time?” he asks.
“Same as last time,” she confirms.
He smiles.
They sit on a low wall near the trees, evening air cool against their skin.
Hagakure leans back on her hands.
Izuku mirrors her a moment later.
“You know,” she says casually, “people have started asking if we’re on a team together.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Mm-hm. Apparently we have a ‘look.’”
He considers this, then asks carefully,
“Does that bother you?”
“No,” she says easily. “I kind of like it.”
There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.
“I like being seen,” she adds, quieter.
He turns toward her, expression open. “I see you.”
She smiles—not bright, not performative. Just real.
Her fingers brush his hand where it rests on the wall. This time, there’s no hesitation. No uncertainty. He takes her hand fully, the motion easy and sure.
They sit like that for a while, watching the last of the light fade through the trees.
Izuku realises—without surprise—that this feels like continuation, not a beginning.
No assignment.
No obligation.
Just presence, chosen again and again.
And when they stand to leave, hands still loosely linked, it feels less like stepping into something new and more like walking forward with something already understood.