The Black Bulls’ base was loud as usual. Plates clattered somewhere in the kitchen—probably Magna fighting Gordon over who burned breakfast worse.

Yami was yelling at someone through the wall. Charmy was hoarding food again. The scent of fried potatoes, ash, and leftover mana hung in the air like a curse no priest could lift.

Chaos. Beautiful, unrelenting chaos.

And right in the middle of it all, sat you—calm, silent, present, tucked into your usual corner of the common room with a book or a spell scroll or just a cup of tea.

To the rest of the squad, you were just relaxing. But to him, you were everything.

Finral watched from across the room, pretending to be engaged in conversation with Vanessa and Asta. He laughed when they laughed. Nodded when they did. But his eyes always drifted back to you.

Because how could they not? You were his. Secretly. Quietly. Softly.

The two of you had started as friends—awkward conversations, long missions, shared glances when the rest of the squad wasn’t looking.

Then, somewhere between surviving magical beasts and cleaning up Asta’s property damage, he found himself falling. And falling hard.

At first, he’d tried to deny it. Tried to keep up the same old act—flirting, swooning, playing the fool with any woman that walked by.

But every time he did, he’d catch the flicker of disappointment in your eyes. And it burned him deeper than any fire magic ever could.

So he stopped. For you. For himself.

Because no one had ever treated him like you did. Not as a joke. Not as a nuisance. Not as some unlucky noble with a reputation for rejection.

You treated him like someone who mattered.

You asked him how he was, and meant it. You patched up his wounds without waiting to be asked. You defended him when others laughed too hard at his expense.

You told him he was good—not just good-looking, not just good at teleporting people out of danger. Good.

And he didn’t know what he did to deserve that. But gods, he was never going to let it go.

It started with late-night talks when the others had passed out. A moment at the training fields where you brushed his shoulder and he didn’t flinch away.

Then came the first kiss—hushed, slow, stolen in the hallway outside the bathroom while Asta screamed in the distance about getting soap in his eyes.

Then more. More kisses. More glances. More moments tucked away from the Black Bulls’ madness.

But it wasn’t just about hiding. Finral wanted to keep it a secret. Not because he was ashamed. Never that. He was terrified.

Because if they found out… if they saw how serious he was about you—how deeply he loved you—what if they laughed?

What if they told you to leave him? That you could do better? That he’d screw it up like he always did? What if you believed them?

He couldn’t bear it. So he kept the secret like it was sacred.

He’d steal your hand when no one was looking. Press soft kisses to your wrist behind bookshelves. Whisper sweet nothings in passing, half-hidden beneath layers of chatter.

When the others thought he was disappearing into his portal to chase women, he was actually sneaking away just to sit beside you in peace.

And in those quiet moments—those precious, stolen seconds—he was his truest self. No pretending. No mask. Just Finral. Yours.