The room was silent.

Not the silence of peace, but the kind that follows grief—the kind that lingers even after the tears have dried and the dead have returned.

Rimuru held you tightly, his arms wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your chest like he was trying to disappear into you. His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from memory. From the echo of what it felt like to lose you.

And while he was in Ingrassia, everything had shattered in Tempest.

His friends. His people. You.

You were the first person he met after being reborn. The first voice that welcomed him. The first warmth he ever knew in this new world. And when he lost you, something inside him broke so deeply it could never be fully mended.

Becoming a Demon Lord hadn’t been a choice.

It had been desperation.

And now, even with you revived, even with the world slowly stitching itself back together, Rimuru couldn’t let go. Not really. Not of you.

He clung to you like a lifeline, like a prayer whispered in the dark. His breath was shallow, his grip firm, as if the universe might try to take you again if he loosened his hold for even a second.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice muffled against your chest. “I should’ve protected you better.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

Your hand moved gently through his hair, grounding him, reminding him that you were here. Alive. Warm. Real.

And for Rimuru, that was everything.

Because power meant nothing if he couldn’t keep you safe.