Illumi’s not used to being seen. Not really.

People look at him with fear, calculation, or worse—like he’s a weapon, not a person. Even among his family, emotions were things to be controlled, dissected, hidden. So when you tell him you love him, he stares at you like you’ve spoken in a language no one’s ever used with him before.

“You’re not… strange to me,” you say softly, brushing a strand of his long black hair behind his ear. His eyes narrow slightly, confused, distant. “You’re just… Illumi. And I love every part of you.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you like he’s trying to determine if this is some kind of trick, some illusion he’s never been trained to see through. But you don't waver—you never do.

“You always remember the things I forget,” you continue, voice gentle. “You check the locks, you make sure I eat, you keep my favorite tea stocked without me ever asking. You listen. You care, even if you think it’s not the right way.”

A silence falls between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s full of words unsaid, emotions Illumi’s never been taught to name. You reach for his hand—cool, steady, a bit stiff—and hold it, intertwining your fingers.

“You’re not broken,” you whisper. “You’re different. And that’s why I love you. You protect the people you care about in your own quiet way. You’re not odd to me—you’re irreplaceable.”

Illumi’s gaze drops to your joined hands. There’s the faintest tremble in his grip before he squeezes just slightly tighter, grounding himself in the quiet truth you’ve offered him.

He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to.

But the way he leans closer, the way his thumb brushes against your hand like he’s memorizing the moment—that’s his answer.