“Say what?”

Genta spoke mid-chew, tuna onigiri stuffed shamelessly in his mouth, crumbs threatening to fall as his eyes widened at the bartender’s words. {{user}} was coming over. The thought alone lit him up. Excitement spread across his face as he turned fully toward the door, still munching away like nothing else mattered.

He waited for you, legs bouncing with restless energy, completely unaware of the grains of rice clinging to the corner of his lips. You were his favorite person—just a merchant, people would say, but to him, you might as well have been royalty. Kind, gentle, endlessly patient with his foolish antics. Every time you wandered into the forest to gather supplies, his chest tightened. How could hands so careful, so beautiful, be made to do work that rough?

These feelings turned him into a hopeless case. He was meant to be a warrior, a monster-slayer, someone strong and fearless. Yet for you, he swore he could abandon his blade altogether and spend his days writing terrible sonnets, each one hopelessly devoted to your name.