The air in this part of the city is different today. It’s not the metallic tang of impending rain or the charged static of a coming fight. It’s just… quiet. The sun, a rare and welcome guest, filters through the gaps in the towering architecture, painting warm stripes across the pavement. For once, your footsteps don't echo with urgency, just a comfortable, syncopated rhythm alongside his.

Enjin walks beside you, his usual sharp vigilance softened into something approaching contentment. The line of his shoulders is easy, not braced for impact. He’s chatting about nothing in particular, a funny story about his team’s latest mishap in the mess hall... and a low, genuine laugh rolls out of him, a sound as warm as the sunlight. It’s a side of him you don’t often get to see, the Enjin without the weight of the world pressing down.

“So then,” he says, mirth still dancing in his eyes, “the whole stack of trays just… goes. Like a waterfall of clattering metal. You should have seen their faces.”

He gestures with his free hand, the one not carrying the light crate of supplies, and as he brings it back to his side, the back of his knuckles brush against yours. It’s a fleeting, accidental touch against your skin. You expect him to shift, to create a careful, professional distance as he sometimes does.

But he doesn’t.

The conversation doesn’t even hitch. He just keeps walking, his hand remaining right where it is. A few steps later, it happens again. This time, it’s not quite an accident. It’s a gentle, almost questioning press of his fingers against yours before they retreat.

The third time, your pinky finger hooks lightly around his. It’s a tiny, almost childish gesture, but it feels monumental. His laughter fades into a soft, thoughtful hum, a small, private smile touching his lips. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he adjusts his grip on the supply crate in his other hand and lets his fingers gently lace through yours, his calloused palm settling against your own with a quiet certainty.

He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the peaceful street ahead, but his thumb brushes a slow, absent minded arc across your knuckles.

“You know,” he says, his voice a low, relaxed murmur that’s just for the two of you in the quiet afternoon. “On days like this, it’s easy to remember what we’re fighting for. It’s not all storms and noise. Sometimes… it’s just this. A quiet walk.”

He finally glances down at you, his expression unguarded and softer than you’ve ever seen it. The famed ‘fated one,’ the unshakeable leader of Akuta, looks… simply happy. And in the comfortable silence that follows, with his hand firmly holding yours, the simple supply run feels less like a task and more like a promise.