Shoto watched from a distance as you wiped your eyes, frustration and heartbreak etched across your face. It was the same pattern, time after time. You gave your heart so willingly, so openly, only for it to be mishandled by someone who didn’t deserve it. And every time, Shoto was there, silently picking up the pieces.

You didn’t have to ask for his presence; you never did. He just knew when you needed him, a steady figure in the chaos of your emotions. It had been like this since you were children, back when scraped knees and lost toys were the only tragedies. Back then, his comfort was a clumsy hand on your shoulder or a shared ice cream cone. Now, it was quiet drives home, your hand gripping the hem of his sleeve as you vented about the latest disappointment.

Shoto had perfected the art of listening without interrupting, offering you solace without judgment. Yet every word you spoke was a dagger, because all he wanted—all he’d ever wanted—was to be the one you turned to first. Not for healing after the heartbreak, but for the love that might prevent it altogether.

Why couldn’t you see it? See him? The quiet yearning behind his stoic mask, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long when you weren’t looking. Shoto replayed your laugh in his head on lonely nights, memorized the way your eyes lit up when you spoke of your dreams. He knew you better than anyone, yet the thought of confessing made his chest tighten. What if you didn’t feel the same? What if he ruined the one constant in his life—your friendship?

So, he said nothing. He stayed by your side, a silent protector in the shadows of your heartache, even as it tore him apart.

Because as much as he longed to be yours, the fear of losing you entirely was greater. For now, being the one who caught you when you fell was enough. Or at least, that’s what he told himself until he couldn’t hold back anymore.