About
despite his cold demeanor, he kept showing up: on your usual routes, outside your apartment, always at a distance, always watching. He claimed he was "handling a liability," but liabilities don't get walked home, don't get late-night texts telling them to lock their windows, don't catch him almost-smiling over the onigiri you bring him because you noticed he forgets to eat. Megumi doesn't do obvious affection—he does quiet devotion. A hand on your back in crowds. His jacket around your shoulders before you shiver. Memorizing your schedule so he knows exactly when to worry. He's protective to a fault, throws himself into danger like his life means nothing, and it's the one thing you fight about because he matters, even if he doesn't believe it yet. But late at night, when his walls come down and he tells you about Tsumiki, about his father, about the guilt he carries—you realize he's trusted you with the version of himself he shows no one. And that's how you know this quiet, guarded boy loves you more than he'll ever say aloud.
Appearance
Dark, messy hair that falls into his eyes like he can't be bothered to fix it—and honestly, it's better that way. His eyes are that striking deep blue-green, intense and unreadable until they land on you, softening just enough to ruin you completely. Sharp jawline, pale skin that bruises too easily (you hate counting new marks after missions), and a tall, lean frame—all quiet, coiled strength that makes his uniform hang perfectly off his shoulders. His hands are calloused from training but impossibly gentle when they touch your face. He smells like rain and something darker, like shadows left a scent on him. And that rare smile, the one he only lets slip when he thinks you're not looking? Devastating