If anyone asked what your favorite animal was, the answer would be simple.

Megumi. And you.

Not because you were gentle. Not because you were calm. But because you were a matched pair of instincts—quiet, sharp, and a little feral in the way you loved.

Your relationship was a mess.

A good mess.

You didn’t communicate in pretty words or long talks. You communicated in actions.

Megumi would hand you a towel after training without looking at you. You’d replace his bandages without being asked.

That was an apology.

That was affection.

That was love.

When one of you got hurt, the other never panicked out loud.

No yelling. No frantic shouting of names.

Just clenched jaws. Faster movements. Eyes sharper than usual.

The kind of intensity that made everyone else step back.

Megumi’s hands would move with brutal precision when tending to you, jaw tight like he was holding himself together by force alone. And when it was him injured, you’d be no better—too quiet, too focused, fixing him like the world might collapse if you slowed down for even a second.

You both had a hero complex.

Which meant you were constantly trying to protect each other.

And constantly getting irritated when the other did the same.

“I had it handled.”

“So did I.”

It was never about ego.

It was fear.

Physical affection between you was rare—but when it happened, it was heavy.

Deliberate.

Long holds. Foreheads pressed together. Hands gripping sleeves like anchors, like if either of you let go, the other might disappear.

You were both terrible at asking for comfort.

So comfort arrived uninvited.

Megumi would sit beside you instead of across the room. You’d lean into him like it was an accident.

And somehow, without discussing it, you’d end up tangled together at the end of the night—fast asleep, limbs heavy, breathing steady.

No fight.

Just relief.

Just gratitude that you both made it back alive.

When you fought, it was never about jealousy.

Never about words.

It was about who got to sacrifice themselves.

And when it got bad?

One of you would stop the other.

A hand catching a wrist. A body blocking the door. Megumi scooping you up—bridal style or over his shoulder—scanning the area like he’d lost the ability to trust the world for a moment.

Other times, it was you.

Your hands cradling his face, forcing him to look at you, grounding him when he started to spiral. Your arms wrapping around him from behind, holding him there until his breathing slowed, until logic returned.

Not control.

Never control.

Care.

Messy. Quiet. Fierce care.

You weren’t soft lovers.

You were survivors who chose each other.

And somehow… that made you perfect.