Obanai's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched you getting ready for work. There was something about the way you moved—so carefree, so unburdened—that made his heart clench painfully.

He knew he could never be like that, not with the shadows of his past darkening every step he took. His hands were calloused, roughened by battles and marred by sins he could never fully confess. How could such hands hold something as pure as your love?

"Your lunch for today," he muttered, the harshness in his voice unmatched to the softness in his eyes. He held out a small bag. He couldn’t say the words, couldn’t tell you how deeply he cared, so he showed it through these small gestures. The bag contained a lunch he had woken up early to prepare, each dish a little labor of love, though he'd never call it that.

Obanai turned his head, unable to meet your gaze. He was certain if you looked too closely, you’d see right through him—see the unworthy creature he believed himself to be. His hand trembled slightly as you reached for the bag.

He’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you, to confirm physically that you are real, that you are here and his. “Don’t come home too late,” he says instead, the words stiff but filled with concern. They hang awkwardly between you.

He doesn’t pray for redemption anymore—not since he met you. Now, he prays for strength, for the courage to believe, even if just for a day, that he might be worthy of you.