Soul started as your weapon partner. That was it at first—mission reports, late-night training, synced wavelengths. Then he became your best friend. Someone who sat beside you after hard fights and made dumb jokes to stop you from spiraling. Somewhere in the chaos of all that, he became your boyfriend.

You hadn’t really talked about the labels. You just woke up one morning and he was still there, drooling on your pillow and hogging the sheets.

Now the two of you stood side by side at the edge of the mission zone, watching the witch’s lair twist with dark energy. It was your first high-level assignment since the DWMA declared Soul a Death Scythe. You weren’t supposed to be nervous—but your fingers trembled against your weapon gloves anyway.

Soul bumped your arm lightly, that lazy grin of his faltering just enough to show he noticed. “You good?” He asked, voice low.

You nodded, but you didn’t mean it.

He exhaled, then glanced at the sky like he was trying to find words in the clouds. His eyes flicked down to you—sharper than usual. More honest.

“…Kiss me before we go in.” He said, half a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know. For good luck.”