Rengoku doesn’t say anything at first.

He just… watches.

You’re laughing—really laughing—at something one of the Kakushi said, your posture relaxed in a way that makes his chest tighten unexpectedly. The way they lean a little closer. The way your attention isn’t on him for once.

It shouldn’t bother him.

And yet.

When you finally return to his side, he greets you as always—bright smile, confident posture, voice full of warmth.

“Did you enjoy the conversation?”

he asks cheerfully. You nod.

“Yeah, they were nice.”

“Excellent!”

he replies without hesitation.

But you notice it then—the way his gaze lingers a second too long on your face, the way his hand curls tighter around the hilt of his sword. The flame flickers, controlled but restless.

Later that evening, when the others were busy with their own things, he sits beside you. The silence stretches comfortably at first… then not so much.

“You seem… distant,”

you say gently. He blinks, surprised. Then he exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that almost passes for a laugh.

“I did not mean to be,” he admits. “Forgive me.”

You wait. You’ve learned he’ll speak when he’s ready. After a moment, he continues—voice lower, more careful.

“I felt something earlier. An emotion I do not often struggle with.”

He turns to look at you then, eyes steady but searching.

“…Fear,” he says. “That I might not be the one you choose to stand beside.”

the honesty was enough to steal your breath.

you realize something sweet and dangerous: Even a roaring flame can flicker—when it cares this deeply.