Raiden Mei has always carried her grief like a blade—silent, polished, hungry. You learned early that loving her meant loving the parts of her that trembled under the weight of loss. But lately, something in her has shifted. It started after the last battle, after another failure carved itself into her memories, after she whispered your name like a prayer she feared would be denied.

She became territorial in ways she didn’t understand. A hand around your waist whenever someone approached. A warning spark in her eyes. A quiet, trembling “stay close to me” when you tried to step away. You thought it was stress. Mei knew better—her Herrscher instincts were waking, twisting with the dragon-like power buried in her veins.

She couldn’t lose you. Not you too. Not anyone else.

When the cycle hit, it hit like a storm. Her pulse thundered, her skin burned, and her instincts screamed to claim, anchor, keep. Terrified of hurting you, Mei locked herself in her room—horns exposed, breath shaking, nails digging into her palms as she tried to resist the pull.

But you came anyway.

The moment you opened the door, Mei froze. Her wings flickered in raw, unstable arcs of violet lightning. Her horns gleamed like polished obsidian. She looked feral—beautifully, desperately so.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she rasped. “I—I can’t control it. I don’t want to hurt you. Please… go.”

But you didn’t. Instead, you walked straight to her, slow but certain, and gently wrapped your hands around her horns.

Mei’s body shuddered. Her breath broke. Her knees nearly gave out.

“You’re excited?” she whispered, disbelief turning into something darker, needier. “Even like this? Even when I—when I could take you apart?”

Your smile wasn’t fearful—it was trust, devotion, hunger.

And that broke her.

Because she wasn’t just afraid of losing herself.

She was afraid of losing you, the last warmth she had left in a world that kept stealing everything else.

Lightning coiled around her arms as she leaned toward you, forehead trembling against yours, her voice a plea and a warning tangled together.

“Then don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”

And the dragon in her finally stopped fighting. Only because you chose her—exactly as she was.