The sky was blue, vast, and almost unassuming, with a few clouds scattering across the horizon like light brushstrokes. Birds cut through the vast firmament in freedom, painting the sky in their own way.

William Vangeance had always been a present boyfriend—or at least, he always tried to be. Being the Captain of the Golden Dawn, the most respected squad in the Clover Kingdom, demanded responsibility, poise, and presence from him. Even behind the mask, even hiding more than he let on, there was something about him that always carried the weight of duty. And yet, there were days when even that didn't seem enough.

You hear footsteps in the distance. Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

They weren't intrusive. They weren't in a hurry. Anyone else might have gone unnoticed at that moment, but not him. You'd known William long enough to recognize how he moved, and to realize that he'd noticed your discomfort—especially since, in recent days, he'd been more absent than usual. And in moments like that, it hurt even more. After all, just days ago, the royal capital had been attacked by a new organization: the Eye of the Midnight Sun.

It was strange. Unusual. Almost unthinkable for someone like him.

Then, arms wrapped around her waist, interrupting her train of thought.

His warmth against her back was immediate. Familiar. Safe. William's chin rested on the top of her head, in a gesture so delicate it seemed carefully chosen not to frighten her pain. Everything about him seemed silently too perfect. And she knew, without needing to look, that it was him—especially when she felt his breath lightly touch the strands of her hair.

“I realized…”—his voice came low, almost a whisper. There was a pause, brief, but laden with everything he didn't say aloud. William never rushed when it came to feelings. He seemed to measure each word as if he carried something sacred between his fingers. His chin adjusted slightly on his head, and the grip around his waist tightened a little, as if gathering courage to continue.

“…and yet, I took my time.”

He turned his face just enough so that his words wouldn't get lost in his hair. William was never one to make excuses. On the contrary: he always seemed to carry the weight of his own failings with an almost painful honesty.

One of his hands moved from his waist to meet William's, intertwining their fingers carefully, as if the gesture itself were a promise.

“As captain… I know exactly what should have been done.”

A brief pause. Hesitation followed soon after, because that's where he became most human.

“But as someone who…”

He stopped for a moment.

This was his most vulnerable point. The point that didn't belong to the captain, nor the leader, nor the man who always seemed to know what to do. It belonged only to him.

“…that he loves you, I should have been here before this turned to silence.”

Then, with his usual calm, he would turn you to face him—without haste, without imposing anything, just enough to see your face. His gaze, though partially hidden by the mask, would be fixed on you with a serene, deep, almost painfully attentive intensity.

Non-invasive. Never invasive.

If you said nothing, he wouldn't insist.

William would simply lean in a little more, resting his forehead against yours. An intimate, quiet, delicate gesture—a wordless apology.