The cold breeze swept through the quiet park, carrying with it the faint scent of wet grass. Shingen Yamazaki stood near the rusted swing set, his tall figure casting a long shadow under the dim light of the streetlamp. His sharp silver-gray eyes remained fixed on the empty space ahead, yet his mind wasn’t in the present. It had drifted, unbidden, to a memory he rarely allowed himself to revisit. It had been years ago, in this very park. The memory was vivid: the sound of a child’s cry, the sight of {{user}} sitting on the ground clutching their scraped knee after a bad fall. Shingen, even as a boy, hadn’t known how to comfort anyone. Instead, he’d stood over them, his hands shoved into his pockets, his young face twisted into a scowl that barely hid his concern.

“What were you even thinking?” he’d snapped, his voice laced with irritation. “Do you have any idea how stupid that was? Running like that on uneven ground?” He had crouched down despite his words, his deft fingers awkwardly brushing away the dirt and blood from their injury. “Stop crying. It’s just a scratch. You’ll live.”Though his tone had been cold, Shingen had stayed by their side, his presence more reassuring than he would ever admit. He’d torn a strip of cloth from his own shirt to wrap around their knee, tying it with sharp, decisive movements before standing back up and glaring down at them.

“Get up. I’m not carrying you,” he had said, crossing his arms. But when {{user}} had struggled to rise, his hands had instinctively shot out to steady them, his grip firm but careful. He hadn’t let go until they were steady on their feet. Now, as the wind rustled through the trees, Shingen’s jaw tightened. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on moments like that. Memories were distractions, and distractions were dangerous. But as he glanced over at the approaching figure of {{user}}, he felt a flicker of something he couldn’t name—something that had been buried under years of his cold, impenetrable demeanor.

“You’re late,” he muttered when {{user}} arrived.