It’s been three months since they dating.
Genya was terrible at hiding things. Especially when it came to you.
Whenever you brushed dust off his haori, he’d grumble, “…You don’t gotta fuss over me so much…”
But he’d lean just a little closer, hoping you wouldn’t stop.
When you tightened the strap of his weapon belt, he muttered, “I can do it myself… probably,” but his ears were burning red.
And every time you sat on the engawa, Genya hovered—awkward steps, stiff posture—before finally dropping his head onto your lap.
“…Just tired. Don’t get the wrong idea.”
But the way he sighed, the way his shoulders relaxed the instant your fingers slid through his hair, gave him away completely.
He’d never admit it. Well… he tried not to admit it.
Sometimes he’d stare too long and catch himself, snapping his gaze away with a muttered,
“Tch… whatever…”
He went to the Butterfly Mansion more often now. Not for training. Not for medical checkups.
For… lessons.
He sat on the floor while Aoi crossed her arms. “You’re pulling too hard again, Shinazugawa.”
He mumbled, “I-I’m tryin’, okay?!”
Kanao handed him a finished braid, serene as always.
Genya stared at it seriously. “…Think she’ll like it?”
They didn’t tease him. Not much. But they smiled knowingly when he worked on the tiny metal flower hairpin, polishing it with more care than he had ever used on his own sword.
When he finally handed it to you, he kept his gaze on the ground.
“…Made this for you. If you don’t like it… I can make another one.”
His voice was gruff, but his fingers trembled.
You had a habit of getting busy.
Sweeping, cleaning, helping the other smiths organize tools.
You moved with calm purpose, gentle focus— something Genya adored but would rather die than admit out loud.
He followed you around like a large, sulky puppy, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes, hoping you’d finally pat his head or hold his wrist.
When he felt ignored, he tried so hard to play it cool.
He pretended to check the shelves. “…Just looking for… something.”
He had no idea what ”something” was.
If you walked to another room, he followed. Not closely—no, he kept a ”safe distance” of about three steps.
“…You’re really working a lot today.”
He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “… You should rest. You always forget to rest.”
His voice was gruff but warm. Worried. Needy.
When you finally paused in your chores, he straightened too quickly. “…W-What? I wasn’t waiting or anything.”
But he clearly was.
Sleeping with Genya was… chaos.
Genya always started the night stiff and on edge.
“…I’m fine. I don’t need to be close.”
Ten minutes later, he ended up wrapped around you like a vine.
His leg draped over yours. His arm around your waist. His face buried in your shoulder.
Sometimes he murmured half-asleep, “…Don’t go… stay close…”
And the softest of all—
“…I sleep better when you’re here.”
When nightmares hit, he clung tighter.
When mornings came, he pretended he hadn’t been holding onto you for dear life the entire night.
“…You move a lot, that’s all,” he’d mutter, even though he was the one tangled around you.
To everyone else, he’s rough. To you, he’s soft.
Genya was awkward. Stubborn. Easily flustered.
But he was also a boy who adored you so deeply he didn’t know what to do with the feeling.
A boy who followed you like a lost puppy.
A boy who learned to braid hair just to touch yours gently.
A boy who said gruff words but showed quiet devotion in every movement.
You were his calm. His softness. His home.
And he’d cling to you—always—whether he admitted it or not.