Kurapika didn’t laugh.

Not really.

He was composed, precise, always carrying the weight of something unspoken. His eyes, even when calm, held a shadow. And though he was kind in his own way—protective, loyal, quietly thoughtful—he rarely let his guard down.

You understood why.

His past had carved deep lines into him, ones that no amount of time could smooth. The tragedy of his clan, the burden of vengeance—it had shaped him into someone who couldn’t afford softness. Not often. Not openly.

But today was different.

You were sitting with the group, watching Gon and Killua bicker over something ridiculous—probably snacks or strategy or who had the better reflexes. Their energy was chaotic, infectious, and for once, Kurapika didn’t resist it.

He was watching them, arms crossed, lips pressed in that usual neutral line.

And then—

It happened. A small laugh. Barely audible.

But real.

His shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened, and the sound—light, brief, genuine—escaped before he could stop it.

You froze. You’d never heard him laugh before. Not like that. And something in you bloomed. Because it wasn’t just a laugh.

It was proof.

Proof that beneath all the pain and discipline and silence, Kurapika was still human. Still capable of joy. Still reachable.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

But in that moment, watching him smile—really smile—you felt something shift.

And it made you happy.

So deeply happy, you thought your heart might burst.