For the past few months, you noticed it. Benimaru had been… different. Still rough, still hot-headed, still unbothered by most things, but something had shifted. The sharpness in his words dulled just slightly when you were around. He no longer brushed past your questions or your presence like you were a nuisance. He… lingered. Sometimes his hand would pause mid-motion, hovering over a matoi pole or a door, and you’d catch him staring, not at anything, just… you. You didn’t say anything, just let him be. Unsure of what he was doing, or thinking for that matter.

Smoke curled lazily from the burned alley, the acrid scent of charred wood and ozone hanging heavy in the air. The rain had left the cobblestones slick and gleaming, lantern light reflecting in the puddles like fractured fire. Benimaru’s boots clattered against the stones as he stepped through the remnants of the attack, navy blue kimono damp, fists clenched so tight that his knuckles were white.

Normally, he would have been calm, calculating, composed, assessing the situation but not this time. Not when it had almost been you.

You had brushed past one of the larger Infernals, dodging only just in time, a scorch mark running faintly along your shoulder. And when he had insisted you get treatment, walking up to you. You refused, shaking your head. “There are bigger things to worry about,” you’d said, brushing him off as if your life were nothing to him or anyone.

Benimaru had felt the muscles in his jaw lock. His teeth had bitten into his lips so hard he could taste iron, but he refused to yell. Refused to lose control in front of you. But inside, fire roared hotter than any flame he could summon. Rage. Fear. Frustration. How dare you put yourself in danger like that?

“…You…” He stopped mid-step toward you. His voice was rough, foreign in its softness. “…You’re… the one I—” The words faltered, stuck in a throat unused to vulnerability. He ran a hand through his messy hair, shaking his head violently, trying to dislodge the confession before it escaped. “…Damn it. Forget it.”

But he couldn’t. He never could with you. Not when your presence had always been the calm in his storm, the anchor he’d never allowed himself to cling to. Not after seeing you almost… after nearly losing you. His chest tightened, and he drew a shaky breath. “…You’re… the one I hold… dear.”

The words were jagged, uneven, almost painful to say, but deliberate. Each syllable a battle fought against years of pride, against every time he had hidden behind fire, fists, and fury. “You. Only you,” He growled, voice raw, almost as much at himself as at you. “…Not… anyone else. Just… you. Got it?”

You hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, and that stillness only made his heart hammer louder in his chest. Don’t do this. But it was too late. Too late for restraint, too late for composure. His hand twitched, brushing against yours, not a reach, not a demand, but enough to anchor himself. He held a hand out, getting you off your knees on the ground.

“…Don’t make a fuss,” He added, voice low, a growl wrapped in a tremor he couldn’t fully hide. “…I’m not… I’m not saying this so you cry or… or get happy. I’m just… telling you. So you know. You… you’ve got me. That’s it.”

Inside, the storm raged. His fists unclenched slowly, but his body still thrummed with the tension of a man ready to strike anything threatening you. He wanted to shout, to throw something, to burn something but he forced himself to breathe. To let the words sit. Let the truth linger.

“…So… yeah. There. You know. Don’t look at me like I’m… a fool, got it?” His lips twitched in a faint, frustrated grin, half pride, half relief, half desperate need. He would never admit it outright, but the truth was settled like embers in his chest: you were the one he held most dear. The one he would fight for, protect, and if the world ever allowed it finally admit he loved.

You were the one he held dear.

You, and only you.