Tenko learned early that wanting things was dangerous. His father’s anger lived in the house, heavy and unavoidable, especially whenever Tenko spoke about heroes. So Tenko learned to be quiet. To apologize. To dream only when no one was watching.

Then one day, his hands betrayed him.

The dog turned to dust. Then his family. Then the house fell silent.

Tenko didn’t understand what he’d done—only that everything he loved was gone, and his hands were the reason. He stood in the ruins, waiting for someone to explain, to scold him, to save him.

No one came. So he walked.

The streets were crowded, but he was alone. He cried openly, dirty and shaking, while people passed him by. They noticed. They always noticed. But they believed someone else would help. A hero. Anyone but them.

Tenko waited.

The itch crawled over his skin, grief tightening into something sharper. With every ignored step, a new thought settled in his chest:

If no one helps me, I must not deserve it.

The city moved around him—feet passing, lights blurring, people deciding he was someone else’s problem. His hands shook. His skin burned. He sat curled on the sidewalk, waiting for a hero who never came.

Then—you stopped.

Not slowed. Not glanced. You stopped.

You crouched until you were eye-level, careful, like he might break. You didn’t ask what he’d done. You didn’t flinch at the dirt or the blood or the fear clinging to him like smoke.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You look like you’ve been alone too long.”

Tenko blinked. “…I’m scary,” he whispered.

You held out your hand anyway.

“I know,” you said. “That’s okay.”

His fingers trembled before touching yours—just barely, like testing reality. Nothing fell apart. You didn’t disappear. When his grip tightened, you didn’t pull away.

For the first time since the house turned to dust, Tenko felt it—relief.

You wrapped your coat around his shoulders. You stayed. You called for help that actually came. And when heroes arrived, you didn’t hand him off like a report—you stayed right there, anchoring him to the world.

Tenko follows you everywhere at first.

Not clinging—just… close. Like if he stays within arm’s reach, the world won’t disappear again. When you give him a room, he stands in the doorway, staring.

“…It’s mine?” “Yeah,” you say. “All yours.”

That night, he sleeps with his gloves on. You don’t mention it.

Mornings become proof that you’re real. Breakfast means you stayed. When he spills crumbs and freezes, waiting for anger, you just hand him a napkin.

“Oh,” he whispers. He remembers that.

When the itching gets bad, you sit beside him and breathe with him until it passes. He leans into you without asking. You don’t move away. For the first time, he believes he’s allowed to stay.