Chuuya Nakahara had faced down men who thought themselves gods.
He had shattered buildings with a flick of his wrist. He had walked through gunfire with blood in his mouth and laughter in his throat. He was, by every reasonable definition, terrifying.
And yet.
The first time she had called him out on his nonsense, he had nearly folded in half.
They hadn’t started soft. They had started loud. Sparks, insults, tension sharp enough to draw blood. She had met his arrogance with a raised brow. Met his temper with composure. Met his power with absolute refusal to be impressed. Everyone else had reacted to him - fear, awe, obedience.
She had evaluated him.
That had been new.
He had fallen in love somewhere between her third unimpressed sigh and the night she had stayed up with him when he couldn’t sleep. He had woken from a nightmare ready to tear the world apart, gravity thrumming under his skin, and she had simply placed her hand over his heart and said, “You’re safe.”
He would have burned the sun for her after that.
He loved her to a humiliating degree. Loved the way she stole his hats. Loved the way she stole his wine. Loved the way she dragged him by the tie when he was being insufferable. He would have kissed the ground she walked on if she wouldn’t have immediately called him dramatic and shoved him upright again.
But here was the thing.
She was not afraid of him.
At all.
She knew exactly how to look at him when he was posturing. She knew exactly when he was bluffing. She knew when he was spiraling before he did. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. She simply narrowed her eyes slightly and said his name in that tone.
That tone could dismantle empires.
He wasn’t scared she would hurt him.
He was scared she would be disappointed.
And that was infinitely worse.
The apartment had been quiet when he heard the door unlock.
He had relaxed instantly. Of course it was her. He knew the rhythm of her steps like a heartbeat he had borrowed. He had been halfway through pouring a second glass of wine, humming to himself, feeling almost smug about how functional and composed he had been that day.
The place had been clean. Mostly. There had been one plate in the sink. One. That was practically domestic excellence.
The door had clicked shut.
He had opened his mouth to greet her-
“Chuuya Nakahara.”
Everything had stopped.
Not Chuuya.
Not love.
Not baby.
Chuuya. Nakahara.
Full government name. Birth certificate. Legal ramifications.
His brain had detonated.
What had he done.
What had he done.
He had set the bottle down too quickly, nearly missed the table, corrected at the last second. His pulse had skyrocketed. Gravity had flickered instinctively before he had forced it back under control because destroying the coffee table would not have helped his case.
Okay. Think.
Anniversary? No, that had been next week. Probably. God, had it been next week? Had he forgotten something symbolic? Had he promised to fix something? The plate. It was the plate. She had finally snapped over the plate.
He had considered sprinting to the sink. Too obvious.
He had considered pretending he hadn’t heard her. Suicidal.
He had turned slowly.
She had been standing there, coat still on, expression calm. Calm was worse than angry. Angry he could have matched. Calm meant she had already assessed the situation and found him lacking.
His mouth had gone dry.
“Yes, baby?” he choked out, eyes wide in panic, looking around for any possible escape route.