The forest was quiet.

Not the silence of danger, but the kind that came after rebuilding. The kind that settled in once the fires were out, the shelters were standing, and the people had begun to laugh again.

Tsukasa sat beneath a tree, legs stretched out, hands resting on his knees. His spear lay beside him, untouched. He hadn’t needed it in days.

You approached slowly, carrying a basket of herbs. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, his expression unreadable but softer than it used to be.

“You’re not patrolling?” you asked.

He shook his head. “There’s peace today.”

You sat beside him, close but not touching. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across his face.

“You don’t look peaceful,” you said gently.

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “I don’t know what to do with peace.”

You turned to him. “You protect people. You lead. You care. That’s enough.”

He looked down at his hands—hands that had broken stone, felled beasts, defended ideals. “I was built for conflict. For survival. Now that the world is healing… I’m not sure where I fit.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his knuckles. He didn’t pull away.

“You fit here,” you said. “With us. With me.”

He looked at you then, eyes dark and searching. “I’m not good at asking for things.”

“You don’t have to ask,” you whispered. “Just stay.”

He nodded slowly, as if the word itself was a promise.

And in that quiet forest, with the world no longer crumbling and the future still uncertain, Tsukasa let himself rest—not as a warrior, not as a symbol, but as a man who was learning how to be loved.