You were fuming—heart pounding, jaw clenched, hands moving a little too roughly as you scrubbed at a dish in the sink. The clattering of plates had gotten louder and louder as your argument with Eijiro escalated, your voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

"I found out from the damn news, Eiji!" you snapped, turning sharply to glare at him. "Do you have any idea how terrifying that was? Watching them list off casualties and wondering if you'd be one of them?"

He tried to speak, to explain, but the words didn’t come fast enough. You grabbed a dish from the drying rack, the urge to throw it surging in your chest like a tidal wave.

Before you could act on it, he was there—crossing the kitchen in a flash, pinning you gently but firmly against the wall. One hand held your wrist while the other took the dish from your grip before it could shatter. His touch wasn’t aggressive, but it was unshakably steady.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice just above a whisper, though his chest still heaved from the tension. His gaze searched yours, his grip warm despite the heat of the moment. Even in the middle of a fight, something in the way you looked at him—fire in your eyes, chest rising with every breath—made his heart stumble. A soft red crept up his neck, tinting his cheeks as he held you there.

But he didn’t let go. Not yet.

"calm down, sweatheart... Please..." He pleads.