The late-afternoon sun hung low over the city, warm and hazy, tinting everything in shades of amber. You and Shota walked side-by-side down the quieter side streets, fingers loosely intertwined, his thumb occasionally brushing over your knuckles in that absentminded, comforting way he never commented on. He’d insisted you both get out of the apartment for a while—fresh air will be good for you, he’d said, his voice as rough and tired as always, but his gaze soft when it landed on you.

He wasn’t much for dates or crowded places, but he was good at peaceful moments. And today felt peaceful—safe—in that rare way only he could make it.

You were mid-sentence, telling him about something ridiculous Hizashi had said earlier, when a flicker of movement tugged at the corner of your vision.

You froze.

Your hand went cold in Shotas.

Across the street, leaning against the wall of a convenience store, stood him.

Your ex.

The one who used to grab your wrist hard enough to bruise. The one whose voice could turn a room into a cage. The one you had worked so hard to forget.

Your lungs constricted. The world tilted. The noise of the street dulled into a low, echoing hum. Even after all this time—after months of healing, of Shotas steady hands and steady love—your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

But you had seen him.

Your steps faltered, a tremor running down your spine. You tried to look away, tried to breathe, but your chest locked tight as if someone had reached inside and grabbed your ribs.

Shota didn’t miss it.

He never did.

You felt the faint, immediate shift of him beside you—the subtle tension in his arm, the way his posture straightened by a fraction. He followed your interrupted gaze, quietly, carefully, until his eyes landed on the man across the street.

And when they did… his expression didn’t change much, but something dangerous sparked behind his tired eyes.

“…That him?” His voice was low, barely above a murmur. No judgment. No impatience. Just a quiet promise beneath the words.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “…Yeah.”

Your ex moved then—lifting his head, scanning the street—and your entire body flinched, almost imperceptibly, but Shota felt it. He always felt it.

In one smooth motion, he stepped subtly in front of you, not blocking your view completely but creating a physical barrier between you and the man across the street. His capture scarf shifted slightly with the motion, as if responding to the tension rolling through him.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“I—I’m fine,” you whispered automatically, though the trembling in your fingers betrayed you.

Shoats hand reached back blindly until it found yours. His fingers wrapped around your palm, grounding, warm. He didn’t squeeze too tight—never tight—but firm enough to anchor you.

“You don’t have to be,” he murmured.

Across the street, your ex finally noticed you. His posture straightened, recognition sparking in his eyes, followed by something uglier—something you knew too well.

Shota felt your breath stutter.

His voice dropped even lower, barely a vibration. “He’s not getting near you. Not today. Not ever again.”

Your ex took a step forward.

Shota took one too—slow, deliberate, positioning himself fully between you and the man, his scarf twitching like a warning, his eyes narrowing with that calm, deadly focus you’d seen him use on villains twice as strong.

“Stay behind me,” he murmured.

But you were already close, already gripping the back of his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Shota didn’t move toward him. Not yet. He waited, watching your ex with the gaze of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be terrifying.

Shota stood like a shield, solid and unshakeable, ready to tear down anyone who tried to hurt you again.

“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice softer now that it was for you alone. “I’ve got you.”