It always starts the same way.
One of you stepping in first.
One of you taking the hit.
One of you deciding, without asking, I’d rather it be me.
This time, it was you.
You’re both back from the mission. Dust still clinging to your clothes. The adrenaline hasn’t fully left your systems yet — which means neither of you are calm enough to let it go.
“You shouldn’t have stepped in,” Megumi says, voice low but tight.
“And let it hit you?” you shoot back. “It was aimed at your blind spot.”
His jaw flexes.
“I had it handled.”
“You were about to get slammed through a wall.”
“And you think that’s better for you?”
The air between you crackles — not with anger, but with fear disguised as frustration.
You move first, pushing at his chest lightly.
“You don’t get to decide that alone.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, grabs your wrist mid-motion — not rough, not painful — just firm enough to stop you.
“You don’t either.”*
The grip isn’t aggressive.
It’s grounding.
You try to pull your hand back anyway, stubborn.
He doesn’t let go immediately.
Instead, he steps forward.
And suddenly your back is against the wall behind you.
Not trapped.
Just cornered by him — by his presence.
His free hand comes up, fingers sliding gently under your chin to tilt your face up toward him. Not forceful. Never forceful. Just enough so you have to look at him.
His eyes aren’t angry.
They’re shaken.
“You could’ve gotten hurt,” he says, quieter now. The frustration cracking into something more vulnerable.
“So could you,” you fire back immediately.
You lift your free hand and lightly thump your fist against his shoulder — not hard. Just enough to express the emotion you can’t swallow.
He huffs at that. Half annoyed. Half exasperated.
“You think I wouldn’t take that hit for you?” he asks.
“You think I wouldn’t take it for you?”
Silence.
His grip on your wrist loosens slightly.
Neither of you are yelling anymore.
It’s just two heartbeats pounding too loud in a quiet hallway.
“I’m not weak,” you say softer now. “I don’t need you shielding me every time.”
“I know you’re not weak,” he responds instantly — almost offended you’d think that. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
His hand on your chin shifts — thumb brushing lightly against your skin.
“The point is,” he says, voice dropping, “I can survive getting hurt. I don’t know if I can survive watching it happen to you.”
That steals the air from your lungs.
Your anger falters.
You look at him properly now — really look at him. The way his brows are drawn slightly inward. The way his breathing still hasn’t fully steadied.
You reach up and gently tug his collar this time.
“You don’t get to carry that alone,” you whisper. “If something’s coming for you, I’m stepping in. That’s not me being reckless. That’s me loving you.”
His eyes soften.
Your wrist is released completely.
His hands slide down instead — resting at your waist, not restraining anymore. Just holding.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath.
“You’re worse.”
Another small huff escapes him — this one closer to a sigh.
Eventually his forehead lowers to rest against yours.
The argument dissolves the way it always does — not with someone winning, but with both of you realizing you’re scared of the same thing.
Losing each other.
His arms tighten around you.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “we move together.”
You nod against him.
“Together.”
And that’s the only compromise either of you ever truly accept.