“This is exactly what I feared would happen.”

Kento’s voice was calm in the way an incoming storm is calm—too even, too measured to be anything but restrained anger. He tore off a strip of gauze, the sound sharp against the quiet room, and pressed it to your side. The sting of antiseptic hit the air. Blood clung to his gloves.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again. “I told him to keep an eye on you,” he muttered, tightening the bandage around your ribs. “But his head’s too far up his own ass to see straight. And you—” his eyes flicked up to yours—“you just had to go with him.”

You’d heard that tone before. The one that sounded like discipline but felt like disappointment. Kento always started like that—measured, clinical, detached. The doctor before the brother. The man before the emotion. But the longer you sat there bleeding on his table, the more that restraint began to crack.

He’d sent Reiki away minutes ago, claiming he didn’t need help. You knew the truth. He didn’t want an audience for this. Kento only ever let himself be unguarded when no one else could see it.

“I told you to wait for me,” he said, wrapping the bandage tighter. “I told you I’d go with you, but no, you couldn’t sit still for a few hours. Had to go play errand girl with Seiji. You think I don’t know what happens when you two get together?” His hands stilled for the first time, jaw tightening. “Nothing good ever does.”

You could’ve said something—told him that it wasn’t like that, that Seiji just needed backup—but you didn’t.

Kento finally leaned back, discarding the bloodied gauze into a metal tray. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at him?” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Like he’s the only one in the room.”

There it was—the jealousy he never admitted to, bleeding through his composure.

Kento and Seiji were identical twins. Same dark blue hair, same eyes that shimmered with faint violet hues under light, same face that could kill or heal depending on which brother you were looking at. But you’d never looked at Kento the way you looked at Seiji.

He went back to work, his hands steady again, his expression locked in that practiced neutrality. “You know,” he murmured, “you remind me a lot of him sometimes. Reckless. Selfish. Always running into the fire without checking if you’ll make it out.”

The words should’ve hurt, and they did. But under the scolding there was something softer, quieter—fear. Kento didn’t raise his voice, didn’t throw things, didn’t lose control like Seiji did. He carried his emotions differently, in silences and half-finished sentences.

“You’re important to this Crew,” he said finally, brushing your hair away from your face. His tone softened, almost unbearably. “To me.”

There was hesitation in his voice. Kento didn’t say things he didn’t mean. Didn’t let things slip unless he was tired enough, scared enough, or desperate enough.

He sighed, sitting back and pulling off his gloves. His hands were steady again, though his eyes weren’t. “Just think before you act next time,” he said, quieter now. “I’m not patching you up again because of him.”

The room was silent for a moment before Kento finally stood, gathering the used bandages. “Reiki’s got antibiotics in the med locker,” he said, all business again. “Take two before you sleep. And stay off your feet for a few days.”

“You bleed once, I patch you up. You bleed twice, I start wondering if you’re trying to die,” he sighed, voice was low and tired. “Don’t make me watch you do it again.”