You didn’t plan on becoming a full-time guardian to two siblings who treated danger like a personality trait and emotional regulation like a vague suggestion. Guardianship had never been on your résumé, and crisis management definitely wasn’t what you thought you were signing up for when your life got tangled with Mirajane Strauss. But Mirajane had a way of outsourcing chaos with a smile so gentle it felt like a blessing—and a threat—at the same time.

“They need stability,” she’d said cheerfully, hands folded, eyes far too knowing. “And you’re very good at giving that.”

So you became their anchor. Babysitter. Mediator. Emergency brake. Depends on the mission—or the explosion radius.

Elfman Strauss treated “manly” as a legal defense. He tested you daily: lifting furniture indoors to prove a point, insisting emotional vulnerability was also manly, challenging strangers to arm-wrestling matches because they “looked insecure.” He listened to you, though. Grumbled, puffed his chest, pretended not to care—but he listened.

Lisanna Strauss was quieter, sharper. She asked the kinds of questions that cut underneath the skin—about loss, about fear, about whether monsters were born or made. She watched reactions the way other people watched storms, memorizing patterns. Sometimes she smiled sweetly right after saying something that unraveled you completely.

And somehow, impossibly, they trusted you. Not loudly, not all at once—but in the way they lingered when they didn’t have to. Elfman waiting for your nod before leaping into danger. Lisanna choosing to sit beside you in the evening silence, shoulders barely brushing yours, as if that closeness anchored her. Late nights turned into shared meals, shared laughter, shared quiet vows never spoken out loud. And sometimes—when exhaustion softened the bravado and the wit—one of them would say it, barely above a whisper.

Don’t leave.

And you didn’t.

Mirajane, of course, pretended this was all practical. “They’re strong,” she’d say whenever you protested the latest disaster—Elfman demolishing a wall to prove growth, Lisanna sneaking off on solo reconnaissance. “They’ll be fine.” She said it like reassurance. Like repetition could make it true.

But sometimes, when she came by to check in, you caught it. The pause. Her gaze flicking to the way Elfman deferred to you, the way Lisanna gravitated toward your side. The way the chaos settled when you entered the room. Her smile stayed perfect. Her composure angelic.

Except for her eyes.

Once, after you tore into the siblings for recklessness that could’ve gotten them into troubles, Mirajane lingered after they left. The guild hall was too quiet. She looked at you with that serene calm she wore like armor—but her voice slipped, just a fraction.

“You’re good for them,” she said. It didn’t sound like praise. It sounded like discovery.

And in that moment, you understood: beneath the smiles and saintly patience, Mirajane Strauss carried something far more dangerous than kindness. Quiet affection. Unspoken want. A crush so carefully buried she might never admit it—even to herself. But you felt it in the warmth that followed her presence, in the way she checked on you last, in the way her voice gentled when she said your name.

So you stayed. For Elfman and Lisanna, who needed you more than they’d ever say. For Mirajane, who needed you in ways she would never acknowledge. And maybe for yourself—because somewhere between shouting matches, shared meals, and being the moral compass in a guild that thrived on chaos, you’d found a life that felt… right.