You froze.

The warmth of his hand on your shoulder was startling—firm, unmistakable, grounding you in place before your heart could even decide whether to flee or collapse.

“I found you, letter writer.”

Sanemi’s voice was low, rough, but not angry. Not like you expected.

You turned slowly, breath caught in your throat, and met his eyes—those sharp, storm-colored eyes that had haunted your thoughts for months. He looked at you with a strange mix of certainty and softness, like someone who had finally solved a riddle that had been gnawing at him for far too long.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

Your mind raced through every letter you’d written—every quiet confession, every whispered admiration, every moment you’d watched him return from missions with new scars and sent words instead of comfort.

You thought you’d been careful. You thought he’d never know. But here he was.

And he knew.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” he said, his hand still resting on your shoulder, grounding you. “But the way you wrote about my scars… the way you noticed things no one else did…”

He trailed off.

You swallowed hard.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?” he interrupted gently. “Care?”

You blinked.

Sanemi’s expression shifted—less guarded now, less harsh. There was something vulnerable in the way he looked at you, something raw and real.

“I read every letter,” he said. “Every single one.”

You felt your heart stutter.

“I thought they were annoying at first,” he admitted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But then I started waiting for them. Wondering what you’d say next.”

The silence between you was thick with everything unsaid.

And then, softer than you’d ever heard him speak—“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You looked down, fingers curling into your sleeves.

“Because I didn’t think you’d care.”

Sanemi exhaled slowly, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your wrist, holding it gently.

“I do.”