It started as something small—barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know Kawaki well. But over time, it became impossible to ignore.

Whenever someone asked for his thoughts, his eyes would flick to you first.

If you weren’t speaking, he’d wait. If you disagreed, he’d change his stance without hesitation. It wasn’t a matter of influence—it was loyalty. Blind, unyielding loyalty. And people noticed.

During training sessions, when the others threw out strategies, Kawaki would sit back, arms crossed, gaze fixed on you.

The moment you spoke, he’d nod, wordlessly agreeing, sometimes repeating your exact points as if they were his own.

It wasn’t intentional arrogance—he just didn’t see the point in listening to anyone else when he trusted you the most.

It became a quiet offense to those around him. They started to grumble, muttering about favoritism and disrespect.

“Doesn’t even hear us,” someone whispered once, thinking he couldn’t hear. Kawaki’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t correct them.

He didn’t explain that he had no patience for empty talk, that your opinion was the only one that ever felt real, grounded.

In missions, it was even more obvious. Orders from others were met with a cool shrug or delayed action—until you gave the go-ahead.

Then he moved without hesitation, sharp and precise, as if your approval flipped some internal switch. It frustrated his peers to no end, but Kawaki never cared. The only thing that mattered was that you were satisfied with what he did.

One evening, the tension boiled over. A meeting was called to discuss a failed assignment. Voices clashed in the dim room, people arguing about what went wrong.

Kawaki sat there, unmoved, until you spoke. The second your voice cut through the noise, he leaned forward, listening like every word was gold. When you finished, he didn’t bother with diplomacy.

“She’s right. That’s all there is to it,” he said flatly.

The room fell silent. Someone scoffed under their breath. Another muttered, “Figures.” But Kawaki’s attention was already back on you, his expression softening just slightly, a look he never gave anyone else.

Afterward, as the others left in tense silence, he walked beside you, unbothered by the cold glances thrown his way. “Don’t waste your time worrying about them,” he said simply. “You’re the only one I trust to be right.”

And that was the truth of it—unapologetic, unwavering.

Kawaki had built walls high enough to keep out almost everyone. But somewhere along the way, you had slipped through, and now you were the only voice that could reach him.

The others could be offended, whisper behind his back, roll their eyes at his stubborn loyalty. It didn’t matter. To Kawaki, there was only you, and in his mind, that was the smartest decision he could ever make.