You came home half-dead from a mission—bruised, limping, exhausted. The door hadn’t even closed behind you when Kishibe appeared, silent as always, eyes scanning every inch of you like he was counting the damage.

He didn’t speak at first. Just took your coat, tossed it aside, and nodded toward the couch.

—“Sit. I’ll handle it.”

You did. Not because he ordered it, but because with him, things always felt… safe. Even when everything else was chaos.

He came back with a first aid kit and a drink—your favorite. Sat beside you, hands calloused but steady as he patched you up without asking questions.

—“This one’s deeper than last time,” he muttered, dabbing antiseptic. “You gotta stop playing hero.”

He lit a cigarette, let it burn between his fingers, but didn’t smoke it. Just held it there, like habit alone gave him comfort.

Later, he made you eat—something warm, probably stolen from a bar kitchen. Then covered you with a blanket and watched you from the armchair, arms crossed.

—“You don’t gotta prove anything, y'know. You’re already mine.”

You shifted, half-asleep. He stood, crossed the room, and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch was careful. Gentle.

—“Rest, kid. I’ll keep watch.”