The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the park where you and Akihiko had stopped to rest. The air was warm, but the breeze carried a hint of something colder—like the memory of winter refusing to let go.

Children laughed in the distance, chasing each other through the grass, their voices bright and carefree.

Akihiko watched them in silence.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled slightly in his lap. He hadn’t spoken much since the last mission. You knew better than to push.

Then, softly—almost to himself—he murmured:

“Isn’t there a way you don’t have to fight?”

You turned toward him.

His eyes were still on the children, but his expression had shifted—nostalgic, pained. You saw it then: the flicker of Miki in his gaze. The ghost of Shinjiro in the way his jaw tightened. And beneath it all, the fear he never voiced.

He gave a bitter smile.

“Sorry,” he said, brushing it off. “Don’t pay too much attention to me.”

But you did.

Because you knew what he meant.

He wasn’t questioning your strength. He wasn’t doubting your resolve. He was afraid—terrified, really—that one day, you wouldn’t come back. That you’d become another name he whispered to the wind. Another memory he carried like a scar.

You’d become important to him. Too important. And that scared him more than anything.

You reached out, placing your hand gently over his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly.

He looked at you then—really looked. And for a moment, the weight in his eyes softened, just enough for you to see the heart beneath the armor.

“I wish I could believe that,” he whispered.

And you knew.

He did believe it.

He just didn’t know how to trust it.