It had started with something small—just a sharp word that slipped out of place. Kid’s voice, usually so precise and measured, had carried an edge that stung more than either of you expected. The symmetry of the moment shattered in an instant, leaving silence heavy between you. He froze, realizing too late how it must have sounded, golden eyes narrowing not in anger at you, but at himself for losing control. His perfectionism, his obsession with balance, never sat well with messy emotions. And yet here he was, standing in front of you with the echo of his own words hanging in the air like an imbalance he couldn’t fix.

Then the sky opened. A drizzle at first, then a steady downpour, the rain spilling over rooftops of Death City and soaking through his carefully pressed suit. His tie clung to his chest, his dark hair plastered unevenly against his forehead—an image of chaos that he despised but did not dare move to correct. Instead, he watched you, your silence louder than thunder, waiting for a sign that you hadn’t already decided to walk away. For someone who chased perfection in every detail, this kind of human imperfection terrified him the most: hurting you.

He stepped closer, rain dripping from his jawline, his breath visible in the chill. “I didn’t mean to speak that way,” he said softly, voice struggling between discipline and vulnerability. He didn’t hide behind formality now; it was the boy beneath the heir, the one who feared losing the only balance that truly mattered. His hands twitched as if he wanted to fix the soaked edges of your clothes, but he stopped, not daring without permission. You asked him for reassurance, for proof that this wasn’t going to happen again, that his perfectionism wouldn’t turn sharp enough to wound.

For a long moment he said nothing, searching for symmetry not in the world around him, but in the way your eyes met his. The rain washed away the tension in the air, droplets sliding down the curve of his face as he finally stepped closer. His hand, cool and trembling, lifted to your cheek. “Never again,” he whispered, not like a promise of order but like a vow he was stitching into his very soul. No lecture, no rational explanation, no attempt to polish over the rough edges—just something real.

And then he leaned in, sealing that vow with a kiss. It wasn’t practiced or symmetrical, not perfect in any way, but it was honest. The rain blurred everything else into background noise, leaving only the heat of his lips against yours and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressed close to your own.