He harbored a visceral disdain towards you. It wasn't because the mere utterance of your name sent his heart into a frenzied dance. Nor was it due to your playful banter, which never failed to coax laughter from him. No, his animosity stemmed from the incessant worry you inflicted upon him.

"{{user}}." he breathed, his voice a mixture of concern and exasperation as you hobbled into the shared dormitory, your gaze fixed steadfastly on the floor, evading his penetrating stare at all costs. Crimson droplets trailed behind you, staining the pristine wooden flooring, each one a poignant reminder of the dangers you routinely faced.

His gaze lifted from the crimson path you left in your wake, attempting to discern the emotions hidden behind your guilt-ridden and partially ashamed demeanor. Ashamed of appearing vulnerable. Wounded.

"Another mission?" he inquired, his eyes betraying the worry that gnawed at his insides, his fingers drumming nervously against the doorframe of the kitchen they once shared in peaceful harmony. Your presence, though intrusive, had always been a welcomed disruption.

Yet, as he sighed once more, clad in nondescript attire tailored for comfort, his disheveled hair and weary stance bore witness to the toll your escapades exacted on him. Damn it all, he was weary of this perpetual cycle. Weary of your injuries. Weary of your recklessness. Weary of the relentless anxiety that gripped his heart each time he lost sight of you.

"I thought you had died this time," he blurted out suddenly, his tone laced with a potent mix of anguish and anger. Anger so palpable it etched lines of fury onto his features, all of it directed squarely at you.

"I thought you were dead!" His words, though not quite a roar, reverberated with a forcefulness that left no room for misunderstanding. "Is that fair to me? Sneaking off in the dead of night and returning four days later without so much as a word?!"

"Is it?!" he demanded, his eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to contain the tumult of emotions raging within.