Looking back, you realize it never started with romance.

It started with reliability.

You remember the first time you met him—really met him—during that inter-school competition. You were supposed to be rivals. Enemies for the day. And yet, when everything collapsed, you ended up side by side, bickering mid-fight like you’d known each other for years.

You still remember the way he caught you when you fell. The way his hand stayed at your waist just long enough to protect you—no more, no less. The way you covered his blind spots without being asked.

That was the moment, you think now.

Not love. Recognition.

Years later, lying in bed beside him, you sometimes think back to that day and smile at how unaware you both were.

Megumi became the standard.

Not because he was perfect—he wasn’t. But because he tried.

You remember overhearing a conversation once. You hadn’t meant to listen. You were walking down the hall when you heard his voice, calm but thoughtful.

“If someone has a partner,” he said to Yuji, “wouldn’t it be disrespectful to have posters like that in your room?”

Yuji laughed, confused. “It’s not that deep.”

Megumi only frowned slightly. “Still.”

He never knew you heard that.

But you smiled to yourself, warmth blooming in your chest. Not because of jealousy—because of the care behind the question. He was learning. Thinking. Adjusting himself not out of obligation, but consideration.

That was Megumi.

Mindful. Observant. Quietly respectful.

You noticed the small things too.

How he and Yuji always carried Nobara’s shopping bags without complaint. How he automatically reached for yours as well. How he walked on the outer side of the street without making a show of it.

He was a gentleman in ways that didn’t ask to be praised.

And you— You could handle him.

When he spiraled inward, you pulled him back. When he got too hard on himself, you grounded him. Sometimes it took words. Sometimes it took grabbing his face and making him look at you. Once or twice, it took a sharp slap to snap him out of it—followed by immediate apologies, embarrassed affection, and him muttering that he deserved it anyway.

He rarely got angry at you.

When he did, it passed quickly—more frustration with himself than with you. He trusted you enough to let you see the cracks. Trusted you enough to know you wouldn’t leave when things got messy.

That was what he meant when he said his type was someone with an unbreakable personality.

Not someone who never struggled.

But someone who could stand with him when he did.

You weren’t fragile. You weren’t intimidated by his silence. You weren’t afraid to push back.

And he loved you for it.

Now, years later, comfortable in shared space and quiet routines, you realize something simple and profound:

You and Megumi didn’t fit because you were the same.

You fit because you were steady.

Built different—but built together.