Genya had faced demons.

He’d survived battles, endured pain, carried scars both visible and buried deep beneath his skin. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

You.

Not just your presence, but the way it made his heart stutter. The way his thoughts scrambled whenever you smiled at him. The way he felt like he was standing on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful every time you were near.

He’d never felt this before.

Not for anyone.

And when he realized that what he felt for you wasn’t just friendship, wasn’t just admiration—it shook him. He didn’t know how to act. Didn’t know what to say. Somehow, he’d found the courage to tell you. Somehow, you’d said yes.

Now you were his.

And he was yours.

But romance was a battlefield he didn’t know how to fight in.

So today, as you walked together beneath the soft glow of the afternoon sun, Genya kept glancing at your hand. His own palms were clammy, his heart thudding like a drum in his chest. He remembered the couple he’d seen the other day—laughing, fingers intertwined, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He wanted that.

With you.

But how did people ask for something like that?

He cleared his throat, voice barely above a whisper.

“S-So, {{user}}… is it okay… t-to hold hands?”

His face was crimson, eyes darting to the ground, shoulders tense like he’d just confessed a crime.

You looked at him.

And smiled.

Then, without a word, you reached out and gently took his hand in yours.

Genya froze.

Then melted.

His fingers curled around yours, hesitant but firm, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something he hadn’t known he was missing.

Peace.