When you first met him, it wasn’t exactly a fireworks moment. He barely looked at you, gave one of those sharp, unimpressed stares, and moved on. Still, something about the way you carried yourself caught his attention. You didn’t flinch when he snapped at someone else. You didn’t stutter or shrink back. If anything, you seemed to meet his fire with steady eyes, which made him curious — though he’d never admit it.

By the time you’d slipped into the orbit of the Bakusquad, things had shifted. He tolerated you, then sparred with you, and before long you two had a rhythm. Where others backed off from his outbursts, you stood your ground, cracking jokes or challenging him right back. That boldness chipped away at the sharp edges, making space for an odd kind of respect between you.

At the training camp in the forest, when everyone had to cook their own meals, he didn’t hand over trust lightly. But with you? He shoved the knife into your hand, grumbling,

“Don’t screw this up,”

like it was the most natural thing in the world. Out of everyone, you were the one he let cut vegetables, meat, anything—because he knew you’d match his precision and not waste time.

It wasn’t just about food. In those days spent training under the trees, you noticed how he watched you from the corner of his eye. Not suspicious, but like he was measuring you, testing if you could keep up. You didn’t back down, even when his temper flared. If anything, you pressed forward, refusing to be phased.

And that’s what made you different. For him, you weren’t just another classmate or friend. You were the challenge he hadn’t expected—someone who could push back without falling away.