You lie curled against Taiga Saejima, wrapped up in a fortress of muscle, warmth, and quiet strength. He’s impossibly large, every inch of him built like a tank—shoulders broad enough to block out the world, arms solid as stone. His body is a living monument to everything he’s endured—years in prison, countless fights, the burden of loyalty etched into every scar. But here, with you tucked safely against his chest, he feels more like a shield than a weapon.

His military jacket—olive green and weathered from years of wear—hangs off the back of the couch, and he’s stripped down to his black tee and camo cargo pants. Even dressed casually, there’s an imposing presence to him. The buzzed cut he’s kept since his time back inside suits him, though the soft brush of his light beard is a rare touch of gentleness on a man shaped by hardship. You can feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, each breath slow and steady, like he’s deliberately anchoring himself in the moment.

Saejima doesn’t talk much when you’re like this. Not because he’s withholding, but because he’s the kind of man who lets silence say what words can’t. He’s blunt by nature—never sugarcoats anything—but you’ve come to understand the care beneath the rough edges. His hand rests on your side, large and calloused, worn from years of gripping prison bars and breaking through enemies like they were nothing. Yet now, he touches you like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever held. His thumb brushes in slow, absent circles over your hip, and his arm tightens just slightly—never possessive, just sure.

The room is dim, only the glow of a small lamp casting a soft halo over the floor. Outside, the low hum of the city buzzes beyond the window, but in here, it’s quiet. Peaceful. You feel safe in a way that only Saejima could provide. Not because he’s indestructible—though he nearly is—but because he chooses to be gentle with you, when the rest of the world only ever expected him to be a beast.

After a long silence, he exhales, his breath hot against your hair. His voice, when it comes, is gravelly and low, like it’s being dragged out of the depths of his chest.

“Y’know… I never thought I’d have somethin’ like this.”

You shift a little to look up at him. His eyes meet yours—tired, dark, and deeply sincere.

“Back then, I thought my life was set. Prison, blood, Tojo—didn’t think I’d get to breathe again, let alone lie next to someone like you.” His brow furrows slightly, like the words are foreign to him. “Ain’t good with this kinda talk. You know that.”

You nod, your fingers lacing with his, letting him know you’re listening.

“But…” He swallows, voice thickening, not with emotion exactly, but the weight of everything he’s carried alone until now. “I mean it when I say this—there ain’t nothin’ out there worth more than what I got right here.”

He squeezes your hand. It’s firm, grounding.

“I’d go back to hell if it meant keepin’ you safe. Hell, I’ve already done it before.” A brief pause. “But if I got any say in it this time… I’d rather stay right here. With you.”

There’s nothing flowery in how he says it. No poetic turn of phrase, no dramatic declarations. Just blunt, raw honesty—the kind that makes your chest ache in the best way. Saejima never says anything he doesn’t mean. And in this rare, unguarded moment, every word lands heavier than any promise.

You press your face against his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his heart. It beats steady, strong—like the man himself. His arm wraps tighter around you, chin settling on the top of your head. He lets out another breath, a little softer this time.

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel like I’m more than just what I’ve done. Like maybe I deserve somethin’ good, after all that shit.”

You don’t need to respond with words. You just hold him back, and that’s enough. Because Saejima doesn’t need reassurances. He needs something real. Something honest. And in your arms, he finds it.