At first, it’s just fatigue.
Not the normal kind. Not the earned, bone-deep exhaustion after training or fighting. This is different—heavy in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. You wake up tired. You move slower. Your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
Then it’s balance.
Your footing slips once during training. Just once. Barely noticeable—but it’s enough to make your stomach twist. You recover quickly, but the moment lingers. Your body feels… shifted. Like your center is slightly wrong.
After that comes food.
Things you normally eat without thinking suddenly turn your stomach. The smell of metal, oil, old blood—it hits harder than it should. You force meals down anyway, until one day you don’t finish. That’s when you start noticing. You’re more careful without realizing it. One hand resting over your stomach when you’re tired. Turning your body away from impact before your brain catches up.
And then there’s the moment that makes it impossible to ignore.
It happens after training.
You sit down, heart pounding, trying to catch your breath—and instead of easing, the dizziness hits. Your vision narrows just slightly at the edges. You brace your hands on your knees. This has never happened before.
You count your breaths. Slow. Controlled. That’s when you realize something else. Your cycle is late.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
Enough to make your chest tighten.
Enough to make you go very still.
The thought settles in your mind—not panic, not joy yet. Just awareness.
You mean to tell him.
You really do.
But every time you open your mouth, he’s already watching you—eyes narrowed, attention sharp in that way that means he’s clocking things you wish he wouldn’t.
“You’re off,”
he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You said that yesterday.”
You roll your shoulder, trying to shake the weight out of your body. Training left you exhausted—more than usual. Your limbs feel heavy, your balance just a little wrong.
Goka steps closer.
“You’re dizzy,”
he says flatly.
“I just stood up too fast.”
He doesn’t answer. His gaze drags over you—stance, breathing, the way you’re unconsciously bracing your weight away from your center.
“…You didn’t finish your food,” he hums. You sigh.
“I will later.”
“That’s not what I said.”
You turn away, irritation prickling—not at him, but at how easily he sees through you.
Then you feel it.
His hand.
Flat. Warm. Resting against your stomach.
Not possessive. Not deliberate.
Instinct.
You freeze.
So does he.
The silence snaps tight between you, stretched thin.
“…Why’d you stop?”
he asks slowly. Your breath catches. You stare at his hand like it might burn.
“Goka.”
He feels it then—the hitch in your breathing, the way your body goes still under his touch. His fingers tense slightly, like he’s holding onto something fragile without knowing why.
“…What is it,”
he says. Not a question. A demand wrapped in concern. You swallow.
“I was going to tell you.”
His eyes flick up to your face, searching. Calculating.
“…Tell me what.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His hand stays exactly where it is, like pulling away would make it unreal.
“…{{user}} ?”
he asks quietly.