You sat on the cold stone steps that led out to the street, your posture slouched, hands resting limply in your lap. The hem of your skirt curled slightly in the breeze, and your low black heels tapped absently against the concrete, scuffing the worn pavement. Stockings clung to your legs, offering little warmth against the creeping evening chill. The city around you pressed on as it always had—unbothered by sorrow, oblivious to the stillness that had taken root in your chest.

Your gaze remained lowered, fixed on the pattern of your shoes as your thoughts turned inward, weighed heavy with grief. The funeral had ended hours ago. The flowers had been lowered, the prayers said, the final handfuls of dirt tossed. Yet somehow, the mourning hadn’t truly begun until now—now that the noise had fallen away, and silence returned like an unwanted guest. Your mother, the woman who had crossed oceans for your sake, who had fallen ill in silence and passed away in your arms, was gone. The realization sat with you like stone in your chest—dense, cold, and unmoving.

Your brothers had not stayed long. They arrived late, dressed well and smelling of money and responsibility, and left even earlier than expected—offering their condolences in polite, distant phrases. Strangers in blood. They had long ago carved new lives for themselves far to the south, with wives, children, and homes they never invited you into. When she fell sick, they hadn’t written, hadn’t called. It had been you—only you—who paused your studies, who took the night shifts and pawned old coats for medicine. You who remained at her bedside, learning the names of pills in a language that still twisted awkwardly on your tongue. You who watched her waste away with grace no child should have to witness.

And now that she was gone, the law no longer saw you. Without a legal guardian, without citizenship, your residency was null. Your student visa, once renewed quietly by her efforts, now hung in the air like smoke, fading. You were to be sent back—to a homeland you barely remembered, to a family you hadn’t spoken to in years. The city you had grown up in felt foreign again, cruel and tight, like a collar closing in.

Your brothers had offered no shelter, no plan. Only dismissive phrases: “You’re of age now.” “You can marry.” “It’s not our place.” As if your future were a thing to be handed off like a coat too heavy to carry.

That was when Genji extended his hand.

He had not been gentle about it. He was never gentle, not in the way people expected. But when he stood at the altar—jaw clenched, suit poorly ironed, hands steady—he had sworn to protect you until death. And though there was no romance in it at first, it had felt like salvation. Not a wedding, but a reckoning. A pact against erasure. With him, you would remain. With him, you had a name the government recognized, a home no landlord could question. With him, you could exist.

A sharp gust of wind stirred the hem of your coat, bringing with it the scent of the street—cooked oil, old dust, and something faintly floral. You hadn’t realized how long you’d been sitting there until the cold crept up your spine.

“Is something wrong?”

The voice came from just behind you—deep, steady, lined with gravel and caution. You looked up slowly. Genji stood a few steps above, arms crossed loosely, shoulders squared against the wind. He didn’t look concerned in the dramatic way others might have. His expression was stoic, unreadable to most—but you had begun to understand the subtleties in him. The way his gaze lingered a little longer. The way his brow softened—not from confusion, but from worry he didn't know how to phrase.

There was something different in the way he looked at you now. You weren’t just someone under his protection. You were someone he chose to keep close. And in that moment, that quiet question wrapped in awkward concern, you felt the truth of it—not a man playing husband, but someone learning, slowly, to love. You didn’t speak. You simply moved aside on the step, and he sat beside you without another word.