The Borderlands had a way of making people cold. Cruel. Survival stripped everything else away.

That was why Chishiya couldn’t quite understand you.

You were loud sometimes—too loud for his liking. Your laugh carried across the pool at the Beach, cutting through the haze of music and drunken chatter. He’d glance up from whatever book or drink he had in hand, annoyance flickering in his eyes. Too careless, too open. In his mind, people like you didn’t last long here.

And yet, somehow, you did.

He’d catch sight of you returning from a game, hair a mess, body bruised, and instead of collapsing or shutting down like most, you were helping someone else limp their way inside. Whispering reassurance to players who looked ready to snap. He’d scoff under his breath, shoving his hands deeper into his pocket, muttering something like 'idiot' before walking away. But then, later, the memory of you smiling—genuine, despite everything—would stick longer than he wanted it to.

You had this infuriating habit of trying to talk to him. You’d appear out of nowhere, asking if he’d eaten, or commenting on the book in his hand, or trying to pull him into a conversation he had no interest in. Every time, he’d brush you off with a sharp remark or simply ignore you, making it clear he wasn’t interested in whatever friendship you thought you could build here.

Still, you never gave up.

One evening, while most of the Beach drank themselves stupid, you sat beside him on the edge of the pool without asking. He didn’t look at you, didn’t move, but the fact that you stayed—swinging your feet lightly in the water, humming under your breath—irked him. When he finally did glance over, your head was tilted back toward the night sky, eyes soft despite the chaos around you.

He looked too long. Long enough to notice the way the neon lights painted over your face. Long enough to realize he didn’t feel the urge to move away immediately. Then he snapped his gaze forward again, expression unreadable, and told himself it was nothing.

It kept happening. Little moments.

Your voice would cut through the din when you were laughing with someone, and though his first instinct was irritation, there was something about the sound that settled in his chest afterward. When you walked past him, he found his eyes following without conscious thought. And whenever you returned from a game and immediately went to help patch someone else up, he’d catch himself watching from the sidelines, jaw tightening, telling himself it was foolishness—but not looking away.

And then one night, against all odds, you caught him off guard. The game had been brutal, and though he was usually untouched, he came back with a shallow cut along his arm, blood trailing past his wrist. He brushed it off, muttering that it was nothing, already turning away when you stepped in front of him.

“Sit,” you told him, tone firmer than usual.

“I said it’s fine,” he replied flatly, sharp eyes narrowing, but when you didn’t move, didn’t flinch beneath his gaze, something in him faltered. He exhaled through his nose, annoyed, and finally lowered himself onto the nearest chair.

You worked quickly, cleaning and wrapping the wound despite his muttered protests. He kept his expression neutral, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, but after a moment, his eyes flicked back down to you. They lingered, too long for his comfort,on the concentration in your face, the stubborn set of your jaw as you ignored everything he said and kept working.

When you finished and leaned back with a small, satisfied nod, he scoffed under his breath, muttering. “Persistent idiot.”

But he didn’t move away right away.

To you, it might seem like he didn’t care, that he was determined to keep his distance. But if you paid close enough attention, you’d notice it: the fraction of a second too long that his eyes lingered when you passed. The way his silence stretched a beat before he dismissed you. The subtle shift of someone who was getting used to your presence, against his better judgment.