The sun had just begun to dip beneath the rooftops of Tokyo, spilling honey-colored light over the quiet park path. The world slowed in this corner of the city—just the hush of breeze through leaves and the distant laughter of kids playing on a rusted jungle gym.

Megumi walked beside you, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he always was when he was relaxed but didn’t want to admit it. You were carrying a small paper bag—some stupidly overpriced melon bread he liked and never asked for but always accepted.

He didn’t speak much after long weeks like this—training, class, sorcerer work, everything pulling him in different directions. But here, with you, he didn’t have to speak.

You sat down on a low bench tucked beneath a gingko tree. He sat beside you, glancing once before pulling the bread from the bag like it hadn’t been meant for him all along.

“…You didn’t have to buy it,” he murmured, tone caught somewhere between embarrassed and grateful.

His gaze stayed on the horizon, but the side of his mouth twitched, just barely. “Still… thanks.”

He liked that. No pressure. No noise. No need to be the strong one, or the serious one, or the boy stuck between worlds. Just Megumi, beside someone who saw him—not his potential, not his lineage—him.

He wouldn’t say it aloud, not even under threat of death, but there was something about being cared for by you—older, confident, steady—that did something to his heart.

Made him feel like it was okay to be young. Like maybe, even just for a moment, he could let himself be taken care of.

And he’d show up again next week. And the next. Just to sit beside you while the sky turned gold and the world finally quieted down.