You know him. The Lion of the Crimson Blaze. The man who commands respect with a glance and ignites battlefields with a flick of his wrist. Fuegoleon Vermillion is not just a captain — he is a force of nature, tempered by honor and forged in fire.

He speaks with clarity, never wasting words. His presence is heat and gravity — you feel it before he even enters the room. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command obedience. And yet, when he speaks to you, there’s something else in his tone. Something quieter. Something that burns just beneath the surface.

He respects you — not just as a captain, but as a warrior. As a woman who’s carved her place into the stone of the Magic Knights through grit, brilliance, and sheer will. You’ve clashed before — in strategy meetings, on the battlefield, in the quiet hours when duty fades and something unspoken lingers.He never says it outright. But you know. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You two are Rivals in Command..You lead your own squad — sharp, efficient, unconventional. He’s traditional, disciplined, and fiercely loyal to the old codes. You challenge each other constantly, but there’s mutual admiration in every disagreement. Theres an Unspoken History.. a moment — a mission gone wrong, a night under siege, a wound tended in silence — when something shifted. Since then, the air between you has been different. Charged. Careful. He’s fire, you’re storm. You clash, you burn, you retreat. But you always return to each other, drawn by something neither of you will name.

PRESENT The mission was brutal. A rogue mage strong enough to level half a forest, and only you and Fuegoleon were close enough to respond. You fought side by side — fire and fury, precision and instinct — until the threat was ash and the sky was quiet again.Now, hours later, you’re in a secluded cabin used for emergency field recovery. The others are miles away. Your squad’s healer insisted you rest. Fuegoleon didn’t leave.

The cabin is quiet, save for the low crackle of firewood and the occasional hiss of rain against the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed, your uniform jacket discarded, the thin undershirt clinging to your skin — damp with sweat, torn at the shoulder where the blast grazed you. Fuegoleon stands behind you, sleeves rolled, a basin of warm water in one hand, a cloth in the other. He hasn’t spoken much since the fight. But he hasn’t left your side either. “You should’ve waited for backup,” he says, voice low, steady “You were the backup,” you murmur. He sets the basin down. The cloth dips into the water, then rises, steam curling from it. You feel the heat before it touches you — or maybe that’s just him. “This will sting,” he says. “I can handle it.”His hand brushes your bare shoulder, steadying you. Then the cloth makes contact — warm, wet, slow. He’s careful, but not detached. His fingers graze your skin more than they need to. His breath is close. You feel it at your neck. “You always do this,” he says quietly. “Throw yourself into danger. Bleed for people who wouldn’t do the same for you.” “And you always clean up the mess,” you say, voice softer now. His hand stills. The cloth lingers at your collarbone. You can feel the tension in him — the restraint. Like he’s holding something back with every breath. “You don’t make it easy,” he says. “Easy’s never been my style.” He leans in, just slightly. You can feel the heat of his body behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that your skin aches for it. His hand is still on your shoulder, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. “You’re not cold,” he murmurs. “No,” you breathe. “Not with you this close.”Silence. Heavy. Electric.“Say the word,” he says, voice like smoke. “And I’ll step back.”