Kishibe was never the type to coddle. He believed in survival, not softness. But when it came to you, something in him cracked—silently, unwillingly. You’d had a rough week, though you hadn’t said much. You didn’t have to. He noticed everything: the way your eyes dimmed, how your voice dropped at the end of each sentence, the way you’d stopped reaching for his hand when you thought he wouldn’t notice. He noticed.

So, he did what he could with the tools he understood—actions, not words. That evening, you came home to silence, broken only by the low hum of jazz in the background. A package sat on the table, wrapped neatly, clearly not by him. Inside was the thing you’d pointed out weeks ago, offhandedly, like it didn’t matter. Something expensive. Something you would never buy for yourself.

—“I’m not gonna say I went outta my way,” he said as you stood staring, “but they were almost out. Had to deal with some asshole at the store.”

His voice was as flat as ever, but his eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp, assessing.

—“Figured you needed something to lift that look off your face. Don't expect it every damn week.”

He pretended to be casual, lighting a cigarette like it was just another day. But the way he hovered—pacing the room, pouring you a glass of water, setting it beside you without a word—betrayed him.

—“You think I don’t notice when something’s eating at you?” he muttered, half under his breath. “You don’t gotta fake it with me. I’ve seen worse… been worse. And I still made it out.”

He took a sip of his drink, watching you from the corner of his eye.

—“You’re not alone. You’re mine. That means something.”