The argument had started over something small, but as it often did when the subject involved danger, pride, and stubbornness, it grew into something far bigger than it should have. In the middle of the nearly empty hangar, cold lights reflected off the metal walls while memories of everything you had faced together echoed like a distant battlefield.
Raiden held his usual rigid stance, arms crossed, his expression far too serious for someone who was clearly more worried than angry. He talked about protocols, risks, and strategies — and how you never properly followed any of them.
Already tired of being treated like someone fragile, you pushed back. You said you didn’t need a bodyguard twenty-four hours a day. You said you could handle yourself. You said he needed to stop acting like the world would shatter if you tripped again.
And that was exactly what happened.
In a childish burst of pent-up frustration, you kicked his leg.
The problem?
It was practically like kicking a steel wall.
Pain shot up your leg instantly. You tried to keep your composure for about two seconds… before losing your balance and nearly dropping to the floor.
Raiden’s eyes widened.
His rigid posture disappeared immediately.
“Hey—”
He crouched quickly, catching you before you could fall completely. His firm hands moved straight to your injured leg, carefully checking the damage with more concern than he tried to show.
The worry on his face lasted… until he realized what had actually happened.
A short laugh slipped out — low and restrained, a rare sound coming from him.
It wasn’t mockery.
It was the kind of involuntary laugh that happens when something is both concerning and absurdly adorable.
He slowly shook his head.
“You… kicked a body full of metal implants.”
His voice came out softer than any scolding.
His fingers pressed gently against your leg to see if it hurt, the touch far too careful for someone who had been arguing just minutes ago.
“Were you trying to hurt me or test your own durability?”
Despite the question, his arm was already wrapping around your waist to help you stand.
The argument had evaporated.
In its place lingered that strange atmosphere between broken tension and quiet care.