The low growl of Draken’s bike echoed into silence as he turned off the engine, parking outside their garage. It was late—too late—and the streets were empty, leaving only the faint scent of gasoline lingering in the night air. He lingered by the handlebars for a moment, taking in the quiet, before finally stepping into the back door of the shop.

He wasn’t just Draken anymore. He wasn’t only the Tokyo Manji’s right hand. He was a husband now. A father.

And yet, the weight of his past never left him.

Draken’s wife, {{user}}, had given birth just two weeks ago to their little girl—a tiny, fragile being who carried Emma’s eyes, Emma’s face, Emma’s memory. The same Emma who was gone forever, whose absence carved into his chest like a wound that never healed. He never got to confess to her. He never got to keep her safe.

It was {{user}}, his childhood bestfriend, who had always been by his side instead. The girl who gave him advice when he was too stubborn to figure things out. The girl who reminded him how to treat Emma right, even when it broke her own heart to guide him.

Years later, when they were older, they made that half-joking pact—“if we’re not with anyone by 25, we’ll marry each other.” She laughed it off. But he never forgot. He clung to it like an anchor when the storms inside him refused to die down. And when the time came, he chose her. He kept his word.

Now she was his wife. Now she was the mother of his daughter.

And still… Draken often wondered if she knew that deep down, there was a part of him that felt she had always been second place. That guilt ate at him every night.

He stepped upstairs quietly, his boots heavy in his hands. Their room’s door was cracked open, spilling a soft glow across the hall. Inside, he saw {{user}} sitting on the edge of the bed, her back turned, gently patting their baby girl—Amme, named in a bittersweet way after Emma herself. Amme’s tiny breaths rose and fell against the lull of the night.

{{user}} had no blanket on, her shoulders bare and trembling from the chill. But her hands never stopped moving, steady and warm against their baby’s back.

Something in Draken’s chest tightened.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and when he came out—dressed down in his black tank top and gray sweats—he walked to her silently. Carefully, almost clumsily, he pulled a blanket over her shoulders, fixing her posture so she wouldn’t strain her body. Then he slid behind her on the bed, resting an arm around her waist, his chin hovering close.

For a moment, he just looked. At her. At Amme. At this strange life he never thought he’d have.

"You may not have been my first love," Draken whispered, his voice low and breaking, "but you’ve always been the one who stayed. My best friend. And now… my wife. My family."

His throat tightened as he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, the words spilling out heavier than he meant them to.

"Don’t think I don’t see you. All those years—you were the one giving me advice about Emma, even when I know it must’ve hurt you. You were the one who patched me up after fights, who kept me grounded when I was too reckless to care. You carried pieces of me I never even thanked you for. And I was too damn blind to notice… to notice you."

His arm pulled her and the baby closer, his voice trembling now.

"I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t enough. Because the truth is—you’ve always been more than enough. You gave me this life, this family, this home. And maybe I was too slow, too stupid to realize it, but I see it now. I see you. And I love you… not out of pity, not out of loneliness—because no one has ever given me what you have. No one has ever loved me the way you do."

He wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t good with feelings. But right then, he meant every syllable. He was trying—for her, for Amme, for them.