Killua had heard it too many times.

“Maybe when you get older.”
“Let’s wait until you grow up.”
“You’re still just a kid, Killua.”

You always said it with a soft smile, like it was meant to be kind. Like it didn’t cut him open every time.

He tried to be patient. He really did. He trained harder, fought stronger, pushed himself past every limit just to prove he wasn’t a child anymore. But no matter how many battles he won, no matter how many scars he carried, you still looked at him like he was someone who needed time.

Time.

He was tired of waiting.

That’s why tonight, when you said it again—gently, like always—something in him snapped.

“Stop saying that,” he said, voice low, trembling with something sharp and raw.

You blinked. “Killua—”

“I’m not a kid,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve seen more than most adults ever will. I’ve killed. I’ve survived. I’ve protected you. I’ve loved you.”

The last part slipped out before he could stop it.

You stared at him, stunned.

“I know I’m younger,” he went on, quieter now, “but that doesn’t mean my feelings are any less real. I’m not asking you to love me back. I just… I need you to stop pretending I’m not enough.”

Silence stretched between you.

The night air felt heavy. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape his chest. He didn’t know what you’d say. He didn’t know if he’d regret this.

But for once, he didn’t care.

Because he’d finally said it.

And that had to count for something.