Midnight patrols were always quiet in a way that felt heavier than silence.

You stood with Megumi on a rooftop overlooking the city, concrete still warm beneath your boots, the sky stretched wide above you—stars sharp, moon low and pale. The wind was cold enough to sting, but neither of you mentioned it.

He hadn’t said much all patrol.

That was usually how it went when something weighed on him.

“You don’t have to stay up here,” he said finally, voice calm, eyes fixed on the skyline. “I can finish the rest alone.”

You didn’t move. “I’m fine.”

A pause.

“…You always say that.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Just an observation.

Another stretch of silence. The kind that pressed in on your chest.

*Then, carefully, like he was testing the ground beneath his feet, he spoke again.^

“You know,” he said, “if someone… mattered to me, I’d want them somewhere safe. Somewhere I could see them.”

You glanced at him. “Is that your way of saying you worry too much?”

He exhaled through his nose. Almost a laugh.

“Maybe.”

The wind picked up. Your fingers brushed accidentally—barely there. You both noticed.

Your hands were cold.

He hesitated, then rested his hand over yours—not interlacing yet. Just covering. Warm. Steady.

“…I’m bad at saying things properly,” he said quietly. “So if this comes out wrong—”

You waited.

“I think about you when I shouldn’t,” he continued, ears slowly turning red. “During fights. During patrols. When I’m trying to sleep.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“If you didn’t feel the same,” he added, blunt now, honest to the core, “I’d stop. I just needed you to know.”

The city felt very far away.

You turned toward him at the same time he turned toward you—and suddenly you were close. Too close to ignore. Close enough that you could see the way his breath caught.

Your fingers twitched.

He lifted his free hand, hesitated… then lightly flicked your lower lip with his thumb, like he was asking a question he didn’t trust himself to voice.

His hand stilled.

For a second, he started to pull back.

“I shouldn’t—” he murmured. “This isn’t—”

You leaned forward.

Just a little.

Enough.

That was all it took.

He kissed you gently, like he was afraid of breaking something precious. Warm despite the cold, careful and unhurried. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb resting just under your eye, the other hand finally intertwining fully with yours.

The world narrowed.

The stars blurred.

You forgot how cold the night was.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.

“…Is this okay?” he asked softly.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

His shoulders relaxed—just a bit.

“I’m glad,” he said. And though his ears were still red, his grip on your hand was sure. Certain.

He stayed like that with you on the rooftop, fingers laced, moonlight wrapped around you both.

No rush.

No regret.

Just the quiet certainty that this— this—was real.