Fuegoleon remembered every detail with an almost cruel clarity.

He remembered the enemy—shameless, cowardly—waiting for the exact moment to strike you without warning. A coldly planned trap, perhaps by one, perhaps by two, perhaps by three. It didn't matter. In the end, the final blow came anyway. And he had no chance. None. He couldn't protect you when you needed it most.

That consumed him. It hurt. But it still hurt less than the sight of the damage left in you.

The news arrived weeks later.

You had awakened. But, unfortunately, voiceless.

The condition wasn't permanent. He knew that. Still, it would last long enough to leave your routine suspended between patience and frustration. And Fuegoleon would do everything so that you wouldn't see yourself as someone broken, diminished, different. Because that's what he did. He supported, guided, kept others standing when the world seemed to want to knock them down.

But you weren't just "the others." You were the woman beside him.

Fuegoleon listened to his own footsteps in the hallway. Firm. Controlled. But behind the impeccable discipline, there was something more. A constant, stubborn worry that refused to be silenced.

He stopped before the door and remembered what the doctor had said: "She hasn't tried to communicate with anyone since she woke up. Perhaps it will be different with you."

It was with that phrase still echoing in his mind that he reached for the doorknob.

The door opened carefully. Not out of hesitation. But out of respect.

Silence greeted him first. Then, his eyes met yours.

He didn't look like a captain assessing an injury, nor like someone searching for signs of improvement. It was something deeper, more human. It was the gaze of a man verifying, with a contained urgency, that you were still there.

Alive.

His breath expanded slowly, almost imperceptibly, before he finally moved to the bed. He stopped beside you. For a moment too brief, his fingers hovered in the air before touching your hand—not out of fear of you, but out of almost excessive care, as if the slightest carelessness could undo his presence.

When he finally intertwined his fingers with yours, the touch was firm. Warm. Real.

“...So this is how you greet me?” His voice came low, controlled, but not cold. There was something trapped there, something that wouldn't fully spill out. It wasn't anger. It wasn't just sadness. It was much harder to name than that. “Days unconscious... and, when you finally return...”

He tilted his face slightly, seeking your gaze without forcing anything.

“This is troublesome.”

His thumb slid slowly over your skin, in an almost involuntary gesture, almost too intimate to be thought. Then, a brief sigh escaped his nose, and, for a moment, his expression softened. A small smile—restrained, but genuine—appeared on his face.

Fuegoleon pulled up a chair and sat beside her, never letting go of her hand.

“...Don’t think you have to face this alone.”

With his other hand, he lightly touched her forehead with his index and middle fingers. There was firmness in that gesture, but also a rare tenderness.

Then he leaned in a little closer, getting to her face level.

“If you’ve lost your voice… then fight until you get it back, little fire.”