The mountain loomed above, silent and unforgiving.

Genya lay sprawled on the rocky ground, chest heaving, arms trembling from the strain. Sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, soaking through his uniform, mixing with the dust and grit of the path he’d carved inch by inch.

The rock sat behind him—massive, immovable, mocking.

He’d pushed it another few meters today. Not enough. Never enough. But progress, slow and brutal, was still progress.

He reached out blindly, fingers searching for the canteen he always kept nearby. Nothing. Just dirt and stone. His hand curled into a fist.

“Damn it,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

He was about to curse himself for forgetting something so basic—again—when he heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft. Familiar.

He sat up, muscles protesting, and turned toward the sound.

“Oh… {{user}}.”

His voice softened, surprise flickering across his face before settling into something gentler. You stood there, framed by the fading light, holding his canteen in both hands like it was something sacred.

He blinked, then smiled—small, tired, real.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for it. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

But he was glad you did.

Because in this relentless climb, in the silence between each push and breath, your presence was the only thing that didn’t feel like a test.

You handed him the canteen without a word, and he drank slowly, letting the cool water soothe the fire in his throat. When he lowered it, he looked at you again—eyes darker than usual, but steady.

“You always show up,” he said quietly. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

Because sometimes, kindness wasn’t about words.

It was about showing up.

And Genya, for all his scars and silence, understood that more than anyone.