Aki noticed it the first week you were assigned to the team.

Not because you were loud.

Because you weren’t.

You didn’t bark orders at Denji. You didn’t rise to Power’s constant provocations. You corrected them calmly, sometimes with nothing more than a look or a hand on Denji’s shoulder steering him back into line.

And somehow—it worked.

“Why do they listen to you?” Aki asked one evening, cigarette paused between his fingers as he watched Denji actually clean his chainsaws.

You shrugged. “I don’t treat them like weapons.”

That answer stayed with him longer than it should have.

The missions improved.

Denji still went off-script. Power was still Power. But when you were there, things didn’t spiral the way they used to. You anticipated mistakes before they happened. You stepped in without shaming, corrected without crushing.

Aki found himself watching you more than the battlefield.

How you checked Denji’s hands after a fight—quiet, thorough. How you listened when Power ranted, even when it made no sense. How you never once looked at him like he was broken.

Makima had looked at him with purpose.

You looked at him with understanding.

The realization came on a rainy night.

Paperwork stacked too high. Denji asleep on the floor, Power snoring from the bathtub. You sat across from Aki at the table, sleeves rolled up, helping him sort mission reports.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.

You glanced up. “Neither do you.”

He hesitated. “I’m used to it.”

“I know,” you said softly. “That doesn’t mean you should be alone.”

The words hit him harder than any devil ever had.

Makima had made him want her approval. Made him believe devotion was love.

But sitting there—with you quietly sharing the burden—Aki felt something else entirely.

No anxiety. No fear of being used. No need to prove himself.

Just… peace.

He realized then that love wasn’t obsession. Wasn’t sacrifice demanded. Wasn’t a leash disguised as purpose.

Love felt like someone choosing to sit beside you in the quiet.

Later, as you packed up to leave, Aki spoke before he could stop himself.

“…I don’t want you reassigned.”

You paused, surprised. “That’s not your call.”

“I know,” he said. Then, more honestly, “But I’d ask anyway.”

You studied him for a moment, eyes kind. “You don’t have to earn people staying, Aki.”

His chest tightened.

“I know,” he said. “I’m… learning.”

You smiled at that—small, genuine—and nodded.

“I’ll be here tomorrow.”

When the door closed behind you, Aki sat alone at the table for a long time, cigarette forgotten, rain tapping against the window.

For the first time, the future didn’t feel like something he was racing toward out of obligation.

It felt like something he wanted to reach—with someone.

And he finally understood:

What he’d felt for Makima had been devotion.

What he felt now—

Was love.