You never thought dating someone like Megumi would feel like this—quiet, steady, and heartbreakingly gentle.

He’s the calmest man you've ever known. The kind who always lets you speak first, who never raises his voice, who just watches with soft eyes as you rant or ramble, nodding along and offering a low hum or quiet, grounding word. His calm could soothe storms.

His skin is sun-warmed from long hours spent under the sky, from training, from missions, and the tan only makes the softness of his expression feel more dangerous—how could someone that serious be so beautiful? So mature, so measured in all he does.

He eats simple meals. Plain rice, fish, vegetables, tea. Never complains. But when you cook?

He lights up in that quiet Megumi way—his chopsticks pause, brows raise just barely, and then he takes bite after bite without stopping, clearing every dish like it's the best thing he’s ever tasted. He never says much about it, but he’s always the first one at the table when he knows you’re cooking. Always lingers just a little longer when you plate it just for him.

Once, you asked if he liked it. He glanced at you and said, “I’d eat anything you make. You know that.”

And somehow, that hit deeper than any long-winded praise could.

He never overwhelms you with affection—but when he rests his head in your lap, or gives your hand a rare squeeze under the table, it feels more meaningful than flowers or grand gestures.

He’s simple. But never lacking. Quiet. But never distant.And every day you find yourself wondering how someone so still can make your heart race like this.