The breeze that slipped through the window grew bolder, threading itself across the living room like a curious thing. It found the small spaces between them and Tenka's words, carrying them into the quiet until they landed on Kentaro like cold iron.

"I love you, Kentaro, from the day I met you, I always have. A-and that's why I want this to stop, the sealing Alberlines, everything. We can find another way. This has to end." Tenka's voice was small. Not the iron-voice that barked commands, but a soft thing that trembled at the edges.

Her words punched through Kentaro harder than any attack had. He stared, mouth working as if learning to form the sound again. "Y-y-you love me?!" he blurted, sitting up so fast the futon squeaked.

Tenka didn't pull away. Her fingers still held his arm, warm and steady. For a second, Kentaro only registered the sound of his own heartbeat. The rest, the confession, the weight of it, came in ragged pieces. She was blushing; her gaze fixed on the floor like she'd been caught admitting to a crime. The line between friend and something else cracked open, and he peered into the dark.

He let out a breath and lay back down, letting his racing thoughts slow. He'd always known Tenka cared for him. He'd never imagined the word "love" would come out of her mouth. Maybe he'd been stupid. Perhaps he'd let their friendship smooth the edges until the idea of romance felt foreign. It shouldn't be possible, and yet it sat in the room heavy and true.

Her hand tightened across his arm. Her breath was shallow, and the small sound of it, raw and urgent, and made the whole futon feel like it might tilt.

"Tenka." He turned his head a fraction, keeping his voice low.

"Hmm," she hummed back, the single note like a question and apology rolled into one.

"Why now? Why tell me to stop now? Is it because of Shaula? Is it because the Alberline power is that lethal?" His voice had that edge of panic he hated, but he couldn't help it. He needed answers.

She inhaled as if braced against an unseen storm. "Kentaro…" she said, softly. "Every time you touch, every time you seal an Alberline, every time you enter a Bloom, you're slowly rewriting yourself."

Her words were a blade wrapped in silk. They cut through the hush; they landed in his chest and lodged there.

"What do you mean?" He asked, voice small, because however he'd tried to steel himself, there was a hollow place in his gut that feared the answer.

Tenka leaned in so close that her cheek rested against his arm. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the faint tremor of her breath. She smelled like the night, clean, with the faint trace of dust from the Halcyon training grounds. The contact stopped him from moving away. It was a clinging gesture, the kind of desperate holding someone does when they can't stand the idea of losing another.

"From the data," she said, punctuating her sentences with little breaks to gather courage, "the night you summoned Serica's Glaceria… A piece of you disappears. It's like an overwrite." She swallowed, the sound small and brittle. "We looked back, the days you sealed Serica, Yura, even Aria. The same pattern. Something in you is being replaced, and it's something we can't get back."

A dozen memories washed through Kentaro: flashing light in a cramped apartment, a weapon that felt like an answer in his hand, the sick thrill of being the one who could change things. He felt dizzy. "So what does this overwritten thing mean?" he asked, slow enough to let each word coat itself in the truth.

Tenka's eyes met his, and the distance had shrunk to nothing. Her pupils caught the moonlight and flared dark. There was an intensity there now, a commander's certainty bleeding into something fragile and raw. "The longer this goes on," she whispered, "the more you absorb. The Anchor can only hold for so long. You gain strength, you borrow their power, but you lose pieces of yourself, and your body won't be able to hold it up. A memory, a temper, an instinct. Little by little, you'll be losing yourself until it's too late." Her voice trembled on the last words, but the meaning was clear and pitiless. "You're saving Alberlines, Ken. But in exchange, you're killing yourself. Slowly."

"...Killing myself, huh," he echoed, tasting the words as if they were foreign. It landed absurdly flat at first, not quite matching the thunder of her confession or the ache that followed. Then the realisation bulged up, and he swallowed air as a man dragged under water.

"Essentially," Tenka said, and there was no softness now. Only urgency. "You must stop. No, I want you to stop. If I lose you, I don't know what I'll do."

He smiled then, a stupid, small thing that cracked the moment, because he'd already decided, the choice sitting somewhere he couldn't unsee. But then she did something that cut that smile off: the look in her face hardened, and she reached for his hand, locking fingers with him. Her knuckles were white with tension. Her cheeks flushed a violent red.

"Please, hear me out, Kentaro. Let me be selfish for once. Just once." Her voice rose a little, spilling with a desperation that brushed the ceiling and leaked down the walls. "Let's leave. Just you and me. Or, maybe with Serica, Aria, and Yura. I can handle Halcyon on the outside. Let's run away somewhere safe where we won't have to worry about Reiden or Cradle. Living here won't be an option anymore with them around. Let's live a normal life. Open a small shop or something, have kids, grow old. Forget Cradle, Spire, the Alberlines, everything. If this means I lose you, I'd rather walk away, and drop everything I've worked for, and keep you alive than let you fade because of what I started, a mistake I made because of my emotions."

She said it plainly. She said the things monsters and leaders never admit. The room trembled in the quiet after. Kentaro'smouth opened. The temptation glowed hot and real. Who wouldn't want to turn their back on a war and trade it for a lifetime with Tenka and the girls? Who wouldn't want to escape the inevitability of loss?

He thought of Rin, the first time he'd met her. He thought of Serica's laugh and Aria's soft voice. He thought of Kira'sfierce standards, the faces of people who had anchored pieces of his life. He thought of a promise he'd told himself when he first stumbled into this chaos: he wouldn't run. He would not abandon those who needed him because of a fear of what might be taken later.

He swallowed. He could already feel Tenka's breath hitch, waiting for the answer to break her. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to take her hope and snap it like a twig. But he also couldn't let the world she wanted to leave behind burn for want of his cowardice.

"Tenka…" he said, voice steadying like he was fastening something into place. "I'm sorry."

The look that flashed through her face was primal, dejection first, then the pale shock of being refused. Her lips parted as if to speak, and Kentaro felt the guilt like a heavy cloak. He moved to explain, to make her understand. Words lined up, reasons, promises, but he didn't get a single one out. He froze because her lips were suddenly on his.

It happened softly and suddenly. Tenka leaned forward and kissed him. For a moment, the world narrowed to the two of them, the hum of the building, the rust of the curtains, the breath between two stubborn hearts. Her lips were warm and urgent; she pressed closer, and his arm tightened around her as if he could hold her from slipping away. He didn't push back. He didn't pull her closer either. He simply let himself feel.

When her mouth left his, he sat with a ghost of the touch on his lips, hand moving to where hers had held his. "Tenka," he breathed, the name an exhale of both wonder and pain.

She looked down, ashamed and small. "Honestly, I had a feeling you'd say no," she whispered. "And yet I asked. I was selfish." Tears were fresh on her cheeks; they fell and dampened his sleeve. Her voice broke. "I'm sorry, Kentaro. I just want you to stay alive."

He moved without thinking and wrapped her in a tight hug. She stiffened, then melted, weight collapsing against him."What-" she began, stunned.

"Tenka," Kentaro said into her hair, voice fierce and soft at once, "if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have any of this. You gave me the chance to care, to fight, to have something meaningful in my life. I can't… I won't leave. Your selfishness, your asking me to run, it wasn't cruel, it wasn't selfish. It was brave. And it shows you care about me, which truly means the world to me" He pulled back just enough to see her face through his fingers, and though her eyes were swollen, there was a shard of relief there.

"But you won't live a normal life if you keep doing this," she whispered again, voice jagged. "I need you..."

He smiled, and Tenka didn't see it; she wrapped her hands tighter around him as if trying to anchor him. "I know," he said simply. "But I don't regret it. If spending the time I have saving them, with you and the girls at my side, is the choice, then it's one I make willingly. I'll take the time I can get, Tenka. I promise I'll do it with everything I have."

She let out a choked sound, equal parts laughter and sob. Her grip loosened enough that he could pull her face up to his. Their eyes met; Tenka's were red-rimmed but clear now. There was resignation there, and something fiercer: a resolve to support him however she could, for as long as she could.

Outside, the wind softened, and the moon slid a patient glance across the room. It felt like an ending, and a beginning braided together. They were not running. They were choosing to stay, and in that choice, there was love, loss, and a dawning, terrible courage.

Tenka buried her face in his chest. Kentaro held her like a promise, a promise to fight, to stay, and to share whatever days remained, however long or short they would be.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them pretended the future was anything but uncertain. That made everything more precious, not less.

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