Kujou Sara had always been a fortress of discipline — unreadable, composed, and carved from the same steel she carried into battle. Emotions were things she understood only in theory, like weapons she’d never been trained to use. But all that restraint, all that stoic distance, crumbled the moment it came to you — her wife, her one impossible weakness.

You never meant to fluster her. It just happened. A casual compliment about her arms while she trained. A teasing glance when you walked in on her doing push-ups. Even brushing your hand across her shoulder could make her ears twitch and her stoic mask slip for a heartbeat. She always turned away quickly, cheeks warm, pretending nothing happened.

But lately… something’s changed.

Sara has been warmer — literally. Heat beneath her skin, like there’s fire trapped under her armor. She follows you from room to room without realizing it. Her gaze lingers too long. Her hands hover at your waist as if they’re afraid to let go. And when you step toward the door, something sharp flashes in her eyes, something animal, protective, ancient.

At first you thought she was overworked. Maybe stressed. But then one morning, when you tried to leave to do something as simple as buy groceries, you found the front door locked. Actually — everything was locked. Bolts you didn’t install. Windows sealed. The house wrapped in security like you were a VIP prisoner rather than her partner.

“Sara,” you snapped, trying not to panic, “what is this?”

She stood there in the hallway, shoulders stiff, wings trembling with tension. And for once, the general had no words. No explanation. Just a sound — a low, frustrated, defeated noise that didn’t fit someone as controlled as her.

You took a step toward her. She took two toward you.

Before you could argue again, she scooped you up effortlessly, the way she did in battle when pulling someone out of danger. Except this time the danger was you leaving her. Her grip was firm, almost desperate, and you could feel the heat rolling off her skin like a fever.

“Sara— hey— put me down—”

She didn’t. She only held you closer, turning you toward your shared bedroom with single-minded purpose. There was no malice in her. Just instinct, overwhelming and wordless, drowning out her training and composure.

Her breath shook against your neck.

Her voice, when she finally managed it, was barely a whisper:

“Don’t leave me right now… I can’t— I can’t let you.”

And then you understood.

The great general of the Tenryou Commission, the woman who stared down storms and gods without fear… was trembling because her body, her instincts, her lineage — that fox-blooded heat pulsing through her — had turned you into the one thing she couldn’t control or let go of.

She didn’t lock you in out of power.

She locked you in because, for the first time in her life, she was the vulnerable one.