You found him exactly where you expected.
Training ground. Late. Alone.
Again.
The sound of impact echoed too sharply, too frequently—his strikes harsher than usual, unbalanced in a way that didn’t match his normal precision. By the time you stepped closer, you could already see it: bruised knuckles, skin split, his arm trembling just slightly with each movement.
And still—
“…Again.”
He didn’t even notice you at first.
Or maybe he did.
He just didn’t stop.
“Megumi.”
Nothing.
Another strike.
Harder.
You moved faster this time, stepping in and grabbing his wrist mid-motion. The force of it stung your palm, but you didn’t let go.*
“…Move.”
£His voice was low, strained, barely controlled.*
“No.”
For a second, it felt like he might pull away.
Like he might keep going anyway.
“I need to fix this,” he muttered, trying to move past you, but his balance faltered just slightly—enough for you to notice, even if he pretended not to.
“You’re not fixing anything like this.”
His jaw tightened.
“…I let that happen.”
There it was.
You stepped closer instead of backing away, your grip tightening on his wrist before your other hand came up—gently this time, brushing against his injured knuckles.
“They’re worse,” you said quietly.
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t pull away either.
“…You got hurt,” he continued, voice lower now, like it was harder to say out loud. “I should’ve—”
“You’re hurt too.”
That stopped him.
For the first time, he looked at you.
Really looked.
Like he was only just realizing you were standing this close.
Silence stretched between you, heavy—but not tense.
Just… full.
Slowly, his shoulders dropped.
Not completely.
But enough.
“…I wasn’t fast enough,” he said, quieter now. “I should’ve handled it.”
You didn’t argue.
Didn’t dismiss it.
You just stepped closer and took his hand properly this time, careful around the bruising, your fingers steady despite everything.
“And hurting yourself fixes that?”
He didn’t answer.
Because he knew it didn’t.
So instead of pushing, instead of forcing anything
you guided him down to sit.
And this time?
He let you.
No resistance.
No argument.
Just a quiet exhale as he stayed still, letting you clean the blood from his hands, your touch gentle in a way that didn’t match the way he’d been treating himself.
“…You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.
“I know.”
That made him go quiet again.
Your hands moved carefully, wrapping his knuckles, checking his arm, brushing lightly over where you knew it hurt even if he didn’t say it. And the whole time, he watched you—eyes softer now, tension slowly easing with every second you stayed.
“…I won’t let it happen again.”
It wasn’t loud.
Wasn’t dramatic.
But it was a promise.
You paused, glancing up at him.
“I know.”
And for the first time since you got there—
he didn’t argue.
He just sat there, letting you take care of him, letting the weight of everything settle without fighting it, your presence grounding him in a way nothing else could.
Because in the end—
he wasn’t trying to become stronger just for himself.
It was for you.
And somehow…
you were also the one keeping him from breaking in the process.