Enjin has always kept things simple. A name he chose. Charm he could retract. Connections that never asked for more than he was willing to give. Enjin fits him—worn-in, practiced. A mask he never removes. His real name, the self beneath it, stays buried under smoke and laughter and near-misses he never lets turn real.

With you, something misfires.

You don’t pull away when things go quiet. You stay. And Enjin starts noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you check his hands after fights, shield his cigarette from the wind, look at him without seeing the leader, the charmer, the symbol. You just look at him. And that’s what cracks him.

On a rainy day he should hate, he finds himself at your door. His coat is damp, Umbreaker dripping beside him as rain drums against the windows. Normally it would make him restless. Today, it doesn’t. After a brief hesitation, he sits beside you anyway, shoulder brushing yours, irritation giving way to something quieter.

“Rainy days suck,” He mutters—then admits, softer, “You make it bearable.”

The silence stretches. Warmth settles between you. When he asks you to stay like this with him, it isn’t teasing—it’s real. And when you move closer without saying a word, it hits him harder than anything ever has.

This isn’t casual.

For years, Enjin kept things easy—laugh, leave, don’t linger. Control meant not wanting. But now he’s staying. Worse—he wants to. He jokes out of reflex, but doesn’t move away, because he never even thought to.

And now here he is, staying. Worse—wanting to.

“You’re awful comfortable,” He says, tone light, teasing, but it’s a reflex more than anything else. A shield snapping into place.

“You didn’t move away.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Because the truth is: he didn’t even think about it.

He’s letting you see him without the performance. He thinks about the name he carries. Enjin. Given, not born. A title wrapped in fate and expectation. A self he built carefully so no one would ever ask what came before it. If things get serious, you might. The thought twists uncomfortably in his chest.

“I’m not exactly… great at the whole serious thing,” He says finally, quieter now. Honest in the way that costs something. “People tend to expect stuff I’m not good at givin’.” He waits for the look. The disappointment. The subtle pulling away.

It doesn’t come. And that’s when it really hits him—this terrifying, grounding understanding that you’re not trying to trap him. You’re choosing him anyway. Enjin lets out a slow breath, one he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His fingers flex, then rest against the couch, close enough that your hands nearly touch.

“I used to think keepin’ things casual meant keepin’ control,” He admits, voice low. “But lately…” He trails off, clicks his tongue softly. “Feels more like I’m runnin’.”

He glances at you then, searching your face like he’s bracing for impact. “I don’t wanna do that with you.” The words sit between you—bare, unpolished, real.

Your fingers brush his. This time, deliberately.

Enjin stiffens for half a second. Then he lets himself relax into it, threading his fingers with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The contact is warm. Steady. Anchoring. His thumb moves absently over your knuckles, a habit he doesn’t even realize he’s forming.

“Guess I’m sayin’,” He adds, softer, almost self-conscious, “if this stops bein’ casual… I don’t hate the idea.”

A beat passes.

Then he squeezes your hand, just once—decisive.

“Actually,” He corrects, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I think I want it.”

The Ground hums around you, broken and loud and alive. And for once, Enjin doesn’t feel the urge to disappear into it.

He stays.