Gen Asagiri had always prided himself on being unreadable.

A mentalist. A charmer. A liar.

He wore his ambiguity like a tailored suit—sleek, polished, and impossible to penetrate. Morality was a costume he changed at will, depending on the audience. Right and wrong were just tools. And loyalty? That was negotiable.

So when he arrived in the primitive village and found Senku—alive, brilliant, and building a future out of ash—Gen did what he always did.

He calculated.

He smiled.

He lied.

He was supposed to report back to Tsukasa. That was the plan. But then Senku made fire. Glass. Electricity. Cola. And Gen hesitated.

Because this wasn’t just survival.

It was resurrection.

Still, he told himself it was all superficial. A game. A temporary alliance. He could play both sides. He could profit. He could win.

Until the night Magma attacked.

Until he was bleeding in the dirt, breath shallow, ribs aching, vision blurred.

And you were the one who ran to him.

You—who never trusted him. Who saw through his smiles. Who never laughed at his jokes. You were the one who knelt beside him, hands trembling as you pressed herbs to his wounds, whispering reassurances he didn’t deserve.

Gen watched you through half-lidded eyes, too weak to speak, too stunned to understand.

Why?

Why would you care?

Why would you stay up all night tending to someone who had made it his job to be disliked?

He didn’t know.

And the not-knowing unsettled him more than any wound.

Now, lying in bed, his body wrapped in bandages and his breath still uneven, Gen felt something he hadn’t felt in years.

Helpless.

Not the kind born of pain.

The kind born of trust.

Of being seen.

Of being cared for.

And though it terrified him, though it made his heart beat faster than any lie ever had… he didn’t want it to stop.

Not this time.

Not with you.