The sidewalk outside the Mitsubishi Building shimmered beneath the midday sun— its surface polished by the passage of a thousand business shoes and city wheels.

Rimuru moved easily in the crowd, blending in with the fuzzy tail ends of his scarf catching the breeze like a banner. His boots tapped lightly beside Goblin Slayer's heavier steps, with the latter's armor drawing more than a few stares— but never for long.

Even spectacle became background noise when surrounded by glass towers and a skyline that refused to pause.

"Alright, next crossing," Rimuru muttered, mostly to himself, while brushing a strand of silver-blue hair back from his face, as the crosswalk signal blinked green. The crowd surged forward, and the two of them were carried with it— flowing across the intersection that opened into Marunouchi Plaza, like a throat clearing between sentences.

The plaza's brick-paved expanse stretched out before them, bordered by rows of carefully pruned zelkova trees and the symmetrical grandeur of Tokyo Station's western face. Red brick, white stone, ironwork, and glass coalesced into a vision that belonged to another century— but was too immaculate to feel old.

As they stepped onto the plaza, Rimuru slowed down, his stride shifting into something looser, more elastic. His gaze climbed the length of the Marunouchi station dome, paused, then dropped to the lines of benches scattered beneath the shade, and further still to the open paths where couples wandered and tourists circled slowly— soaking in the old-European charm nestled in the capital's high-modern heart.

"You know—" Rimuu said idly, pulling his phone out of his pocket— sleek, polished titanium reflecting the sunlight with a silvery gleam, "— I always said I wouldn't end up looking like one of them— a tourist. Head tilted back, phone in hand, dumb smile on my face."

The slime then held up the device, flicked it to camera mode, and took a photo of the station's domed silhouette. Then another, angled from below— trying to frame the old-meets-new skyline with an artist's eye. Satisfied, he switched to the front camera, stepped closer to the ashen-haired man without a word, and held the phone up between them.

"C'mere, Ren."

Being beckoned, Goblin Slayer then leaned in slightly before Rimuru tapped the screen twice.

One photo came out crisp. Another slightly blurred. In both, the ashen-haired manna posture was rigid but cooperative— his crimson eyes faintly narrowed, as if trying to decipher the phone's purpose even now.

Rimuru, by contrast, wore a lopsided smile and a strand of wind-tossed hair over his cheek, mouth open mid-laugh.

"Hmm." The slime hummed, as he glanced at the photo and gave a noncommittal hum. "Needs work. We'll try again next time, though."

Goblin Slayer didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either. The space between them stayed just a little narrower than it had to be.

And as they drifted further into the plaza, Rimuru walked ahead a few paces, brushing his fingers along the back of a bench before circling a stone fountain where the water gleamed with refracted sky.

He was quiet, but not solemn— just present.

His gaze flicked from building to tree to people to clouds, thoughtful in the way someone gets when the silence isn't empty, just full of little things unspoken.

The two of them soon gravitated towards a brochure stand that was tucked against a polished black stone column, near the edge of the plaza. Rows of leaflets stood fanned out in tidy racks, like an invitation.

"Let's see what the city thinks we should do," Rimuru murmured, while thumbing through the pamphlets with casual precision. He then proceeded to pull one advertising the Kitte rooftop garden, another about the Mitsubishi Ichigokan Museum, and one more that outlined a walking route along Marunouchi Naka-dori.

His expression twitched with interest at a few more— ones printed on thicker paper with cursive titles and twilight cityscapes— before slipping them into a neat stack in his hand.

"I'm not saying we have to do all of it," he said, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked smile, "but hey, if we're already here… Might as well play local tourist, yeah?"

Goblin Slayer stood beside him, gaze lowered over the pictures with a mild crease between his brows. The sunlight caught in the edges of his armor— reflected in the polished plate like he belonged here more than he should.

He didn't respond right away— just glanced from the brochures to the slime's face, then back. "… You seem to enjoy this."

"I do," Rimuru said easily, like it was obvious. "Being in a place, walking around with no real crucial goal… No responsibilities."

"Like daffodils being carried by the wind," Goblin Slayer mused with a soft nod. "Liberating, isn't it?"

The response was quiet. Simple. But the slime's fingers faltered slightly on the edge of a glossy pamphlet before he folded it and tucked it under the rest— his expression unreadable for a beat.

They then walked again, not in silence but without urgency.

Rimuru paused often— to photograph a shadow on pavement, to gesture at a storefront, to lean sideways into Goblin Slayer's shoulder when a tourist jostled past them. The touch was brief but intentional, like a note struck softly enough to fade before it could echo.

The edge of the plaza gave way to a street lined with trees strung with soft globe lights, unlit in the sun but glinting faintly like ornaments. Between the glassy storefronts and pedestrian crossings, something bright and oversized caught Rimuru's eye.

The slime then stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my God…"

Hearing the awe in his friend's voice, the ashen-haired man followed his yellow-eyed gaze. His own brow furrowing, as he asked, "What is it?"

Rimuru turned toward him, expression suddenly alight. "That—" he pointed, as if it could be anything but the looming, colorful structure down the street. "— That's a 'Round 1.'"

"… A round one?" Goblin Slayer repeated, while simply blinking once in confusion. "Is that… A place, or are you trying to describe something's appearance?"

"Nah, it's an arcade." Rimuru said it like a punchline and then laughed. "But you don't have an idea what that means, huh?"

"Not really, no."

Rimuru brightened further, energized now. "Okay, okay, think of it this way. You know how a phone or an iPad works— apps, screens, digital stuff? Imagine a place that's full of machines like that. Big ones. Games you play with your hands, feet, sometimes your whole body. Loud, fast, sometimes really weird. And they're all built just for fun."

Goblin Slayer's brow remained knit. "So… Like training simulations?"

Rimuru snorted. "Sure. If the goal of the training is to teach you how to race go-karts, punch cartoon mascots, or fish for rubber ducks with a claw."

"Ah… I see then."

"Do you?" Rimuru grinned. "Because I've been dying to go there since before I died. Back when I was still, y'know—" He gestured at himself vaguely, "— me. I used to look at places like that online and just sort of… Wished I'd gone."

"Why didn't you?"

Rimuru blinked. Then raised both brows like the ashen-haired man had just asked him why he'd never climbed Mount Everest on a Tuesday. "Because I was a shut-in loser, remember? I barely left my apartment. I spent more time arguing with strangers on forums than I did talking to actual humans."

"Oh… You're right— I remember that now," Goblin Slayer murmured awkwardly, with his brows slightly knit. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's fine," Rimuru interrupted gently, waving off the apology. "I don't mind saying it. It's just funny, that's all. I spent years trying to escape people, and now I'm dragging you into crowded arcades."

Goblin Slayer hesitated. "Even so… I'm sorry."

Rimuru blinked again. "For what?"

"For reminding you."

Rimuru's expression softened. He looked down, then back up at Goblin Slayer, and shrugged one shoulder. "Honestly? I appreciate it. Having to say shit like that aloud gives forth a lot of introspective— reminds me how far I've come, and what I can make up for now."

That earned a slow nod from the ashen-haired man. "I can see that," he murmured back, and briefly lamented the wisdom in the slime's words in silence. "So then," he picked up after a beat, "We're going there, right?"

Rimuru tilted his head. "To Round 1?"

"Yeah. After we finish tending to our priorities, that is."

The way the slime's face lit up made something in Goblin Slayer's chest tighten— foreign, but not unpleasant.

"Hell yeah, man," Rimuru cheered, while slipping the stack of brochures into his coat pocket. "You're gonna love it! And if you don't, well— I'll play enough for the both of us."

They then continued to walk, their pace slowing, as the looming storefront of United Arrows rose in the near distance like a clean, polished promise.

"I hope they have that Mario Kart setup," Rimuru mused. "It's got seats that move when you turn, and it throws wind in your face and everything. Or the rhythm games— those are so fun. I used to watch videos of people playing 'em and just wonder how their hands moved that fast."

"Can't imagine any of that," Goblin Slayer said, while glancing at him, and then back ahead. "You'll show me how to perform those activities, right?"

"Yeah, obviously." Rimuru grinned. "Also? We are SO getting pizza afterward. You've never had real, greasy, arcade-and-soda pizza, and that's not okay."

Goblin Slayer tilted his head slightly. "What's special about pizza?"

"Everything! It's terrible. And perfect. It's got that weirdly crispy crust, way too much cheese, and sometimes the pepperoni curls up like little bowls of grease. It's disgusting. You'll love it."

The way Rimuru said it— like he meant it just for him, like the whole thing was an inside joke shared across lifetimes— made the air between them hum a little.

They eventually reached the storefront. United Arrows rose in understated elegance ahead of them, a place out of reach and right on time.

Rimuru didn't stop walking. Didn't say anything profound. He just gave Goblin Slayer a look— half smirk, half question— and walked toward the door, trusting he'd follow.

And of course, he did.

The door of United Arrows gave way with a quiet, pneumatic hiss, parting like a secret letting them in.

Rimuru stepped first into the cool hush of the store, the scent of wood polish and cedar greeting him like a memory he didn't know he had. The shift from the plaza's heat was immediate and total— calm lighting, brass accents, soft jazz murmuring in the background like someone whispering compliments behind glass.

Goblin Slayer followed with a slower step. The automatic door closed behind him with a faint click, the sound neatly folding them into the boutique's curated quiet.

Rimuru let his hand glide over the edge of a display table— fingertips brushing smooth linen and crisp cotton as he walked deeper into the store. The quiet invited low voices and slow footsteps, and the slime's boots made almost no sound at all as he stepped in front of a rack of button-ups arranged by tone— bone white to midnight black, with pale greys and stormy blues between.

"Okay, this is nice," he murmured, more to himself than to the ashen-haired man, but loud enough for him to hear. "They didn't half-ass the curation. That's always the first test."

Goblin Slayer continued to follow just behind him, silent, watchful. He didn't reach for anything, didn't touch— he stood with the same quiet alertness he always did, but there was no tension in it.

Rimuru paused, before pulling out a short-sleeved ivory camp shirt with a subtle floral texture, and holding it up with a critical eye. "This might be too beachy for you. Or maybe it's so off-type it works. Hmm. Needs something to anchor it."

He then turned and held it briefly in front of Goblin Slayer's chest, squinting. "Nope. You'd look like you were on your way to a destination wedding where you're also the bodyguard and the guy who buries the groom."

"I don't know what that means," Goblin Slayer said.

"It means we're not buying it," the slime replied, grinning, and stuffed it back on the rack.

They then traversed deeper into the store, with Rimuru peeling shirts off hangers and stacking slacks over his arm, pausing now and then to squint at a tag or hold up a garment to the light.

He kept up a steady rhythm of chatter— half commentary, half thinking aloud.

"This fabric's amazing. Like, ridiculous. I'd wear this and then immediately spill coffee on it."

"Those slacks are a war crime. Why would you put pleats and a taper on the same pant?"

"Ooh, wait— look at this jacket. No, actually, don't look at it, I'm gonna make you try it on first."

Goblin Slayer's contributions were fewer, but not absent. He asked questions, pointed at details.

"This fabric... It's woven. Not like gambeson. But reinforced?"

"Sort of," Rimuru said, feeling the sleeve of a lightweight herringbone coat. "It's interlined. Structured, but not stiff. Meant to hold its shape while still moving with you. It's not armor, but for civilian life? It's pretty close."

He then handed it over to Goblin Slayer without ceremony. The young man took it from him carefully, before draping it over one arm.

By the time they reached the dressing rooms, Rimuru's arms were full. Goblin Slayer held half the load himself— shirts, jackets, pants folded over hangers— and followed the slime into the corner alcove with the biege-colored cushioned chairs and long mirrors.

Rimuru then dropped into one of the seats with a breathless sigh.

"Alright," he said, snapping his fingers and pointing. "First one— try that black shirt with the grey tapered trousers. We'll start basic and move up."

"Understood," Goblin Slayer replied, before stepping into the changing room— curtain swaying closed behind him.

Rimuru leaned back in the chair, legs crossed, hands laced behind his head. He let his gaze wander the store's ceiling as muffled shifting and the soft clink of hangers came from behind the curtain.

"Hey Ren, you good in there?" He called.

A beat passed.

"Yeah," Goblin Slayer replied simply.

A moment later, the curtain parted and he stepped out. The black shirt fit snug through the shoulders and arms, neatly tucked into the pinstripe slacks the slime had picked out.

The effect was clean. Modern. Effortlessly sharp in a way Goblin Slayer had never tried for, but now wore like it might have always belonged to him.

Rimuru blinked. Then slowly lowered his hands and leaned forward.

"Okay, first of all— what the hell? You look good ."

Goblin Slayer gave a mild blink. "Is that unusual?"

"It's shocking, is what it is," Rimuru muttered, eyes narrowing playfully. "I spent all this time assuming I'd have to rescue your sense of style from the abyss, and here you are: casually modeling like you've done this before."

"I haven't," the young man said. "But the fabric is comfortable. It fits."

"You look like someone I'd be afraid to email wrong at work," the slime muttered.

Not understanding the levity behind that comment, Goblin Slayer tilted his head. "That's… A good thing, right?"

"Extremely," Rimuru assured, before rising up to his feet to begin walking a slow circle around him, and then suddenly reached up and tugged gently at the shirt collar. "This stays. You're not allowed to not buy this. We'll build the rest of the outfit around it."

The next half hour blurred into a rhythm of dressing and redressing. Rimuru tossed combinations toward the changing room with a conductor's flair: a caramel-colored sweater layered under a structured blazer.

"No, no, too preppy— you look like you're auditioning for the role of a Persona protagonist."

Next, was a slate-blue jeans that made the ashen-haired look oddly like a model for some outdoorsy lifestyle brand.

"Okay, maybe, but we're not going full REI chic today."

And finally, a sleek jacket in dark olive that Rimuru loved but ultimately vetoed because, as he put it, "You're not a tree."

Each time Goblin Slayer emerged, Rimuru sat, reclined, tilted his head like a painter judging perspective, arms crossed or fingers steepled— every now and then saying nothing for just a moment too long.

"You keep staring at me," Goblin Slayer remarked once, while stepping back out in a crisp white Oxford shirt and dark tapered jeans.

"Yeah," Rimuru said. "I'm allowed to stare at you."

The answer came too fast— causing the slime to look away, cheeks coloring just faintly. "A-Anyway— next one. We're almost done."

Eventually, Rimuru set aside the last pair of pants he'd dismissed with a mutter and clapped his hands. "Alright," he said, while standing. "Let's put it all together now."

Goblin Slayer remained where he stood, unmoving, while his friend approached with deliberate steps— one tie in each hand. One black. One white.

He held them up, one at a time, gauging the contrast against the ashen-haired man's shirt with a narrowed gaze.

"Black's too sharp," Rimuru muttered, while angling it slightly to catch the light. "You'd look like you were attending a funeral you orchestrated. On purpose."

He then swapped it out for the white.

"This, though…" His voice softened. "This is quiet. Intentional. Almost priest-like— but not too much. Like someone who could command a boardroom... Or a battlefield."

Goblin Slayer gave a single, thoughtful nod.

"Alright," Rimuru murmured, before stepping closer. "Hold still."

The white tie rested across his palm, silky and fluid. He lifted it gently, slipping it around the young man's collar. The fabric whispered as it slid into place, and the slime's fingers moved with ease— deft, practiced, careful not to disturb the stillness between them.

Goblin Slayer didn't flinch. Didn't back away. He stood steady, silent, letting him work.

They were close now. Closer than either of them seemed prepared for.

And as Rimuru pulled the knot into place, his hands slowed. His gaze lingered— not on the tie, but on the man in front of him. First his chest, then his throat, then his face. His breath caught somewhere between them.

He didn't say anything. Just looked.

And then kept looking.

Goblin Slayer's voice came low, even. "... Are you almost done?"

Rimuru blinked, the question grounding him. "Yeah," he said, with a faint, fogged hum. "Almost."

He then adjusted the knot, with his fingers brushing the collar with quiet precision. Like smoothing out not just fabric, but something else— something fragile in the air between them.

Then he stepped back, just a pace.

"... Perfect," Rimuru said softly, his golden eyes still on the tie, but no longer really seeing it.

The ashen-haired man proceeded to then look down at himself, then lifted his gaze. "I don't think I've ever worn anything that felt this... Regal."

The slime shook his head slowly. "I wouldn't call it regal," he replied. "But... It suits you. Really suits you."

Their eyes met again, neither of them moving.

Neither of them looking away.

Something unspoken passed between them in the quiet— a hum beneath the surface, warm and persistent. Rimuru's throat bobbed with a swallow.

Then, too quickly, he stepped sideways and cleared his throat with a weak laugh. "Anyway… I guess it's my turn to play runway model, huh?"

He gave a grin that didn't quite meet his eyes and added, "Let's see if I can match your aura, Mr. Battlefield Boardroom."

Goblin Slayer didn't ask what that meant.

But his lips curved, just faintly, into something that might've been the beginning of a smile.

They didn't walk side by side that time.

Rimuru moved ahead, eyes sharp, zeroed in on a quiet corner of the boutique marked ' Petite .' There wasn't anything vain in his stride— just a kind of single-minded excitement, like a kid chasing down the last prize in a crane game.

Goblin Slayer followed at a steady pace, watching as the slime pivoted toward the section with the kind of quiet determination that made him feel like a tagalong in someone else's campaign.

"Hey, Ren," Rimuru called back, barely glancing over his shoulder. "I need your hands."

The tone was offhand, but the words stuck. Goblin Slayer didn't respond— just stepped in behind him, steady and unreadable, even as his ears warmed.

Rimuru was already in motion. One hand grazed a stack of neatly folded trousers, the other flipped through a rack of collared shirts. He moved fast, decisive— yanking pieces off hangers, squinting at colors in the light, occasionally making little noises of disapproval or interest.

Goblin Slayer soon found himself loaded down with an armful of clothes: slacks, a soft gray sweater, a cable-knit vest, and a coat the slime claimed was "too legit to quit." Hangers sailed back toward him without warning— the slime didn't check if the young man caught them. He just hoped he would.

At one point, Rimuru disappeared into a maze of slim-cut jackets, voice muffled. "This is technically your fault, you know."

"… What is?"

"You. Looking ridiculously put-together in your outfit." A pause. "Now I've got to keep up, or it'll look like you hired me to carry your shopping bags."

Goblin Slayer adjusted the pile in his arms. "You don't need to match me."

Rimuru, as if on cue, suddenly then emerged holding two nearly identical shirts— one in each hand. "Don't I?"

The slime gave him a look— half playful, half something else. He didn't press the point, just turned and led them to the fitting rooms.

They were quieter back there, the air cooler, the lights softer than they were on the store floor. Rimuru then nudged open the curtain of a booth and gestured at the nearby cushioned chairs— specifically, the same one he had sat on earlier. "Your job now is to sit there and judge me."

Goblin Slayer nodded once and took the seat, before setting the clothes beside him. The chair was firm but comfortable, upholstered in beige fabric that smelled faintly of cedar.

Rimuru then proceeded to disappear behind the curtain with a soft rustle, with hangers clicking as he hooked the chosen pieces onto the wall. A moment later came the muffled thump of boots being kicked off, followed by a faintly exaggerated sigh.

Goblin Slayer stayed seated, the quiet stretch of hallway around him blanketed in a hush more dignified than sterile. The cushioned seat was firmer than expected, upholstered in a creamy linen that smelled faintly of cedar oil and clean wool.

He then glanced down at the pile of clothing beside him— carefully folded, surprisingly weighty— and let his hands rest atop it as though to steady something.

From the other side of the curtain, Rimuru's voice carried faintly.

"Okay, first one's a wildcard," he warned. "If I look like I'm auditioning for a low-budget soap opera, just… Lie to me gently."

The curtain drew back, and Goblin Slayer blinked.

It wasn't bad , exactly— dark green turtleneck, pleated trousers wide enough to suggest a gentle breeze was necessary for the full effect— but it was theatrical. The slime turned side to side in the mirror, frowning like he was studying a failed painting.

Goblin Slayer tilted his head. Not quite disapproving— just unsure.

Rimuru caught the look and groaned. "Yeah, no. That's a no. I knew it. Back in a sec."

The curtain slipped shut again.

This became a pattern. Rimuru would emerge, adjust, rotate, react to Goblin Slayer's subtle tells— a slight narrowing of the eyes, a blink too slow, a lack of any real shift in posture— and then retreat with a muttered commentary about ratios or vibes or tragic sleeve lengths.

By the fourth outfit, he'd visibly deflated.

"Why do they make beige this shade of sad?" He mumbled, tugging at the stiff collar. "It looks like I got lost on the way to a networking event in purgatory."

The ashen-haired man didn't laugh, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth was unmistakable.

Then came the fifth attempt.

Rimuru stepped out slower this time, almost cautious, the curtain drifting back behind him like the reveal of a final act.

Black dress shirt. Tailored pinstripe slacks in dark charcoal. The same soft brown belt that had seemed almost too subtle on the rack now pulled the whole ensemble together. A white tie hung around his neck, still untied, and his boots had been swapped for low-cut black leather shoes that caught the light just enough to hint at polish.

Rimuru didn't say anything at first. He smoothed the hem of the shirt with both hands, then adjusted the fall of the tie— more nervous gesture than styling choice.

Goblin Slayer looked him over slowly. From the confident set of the shirt to the calm, deliberate lines of the pants— and finally, to the quiet bloom of pink rising in the slime's cheeks, faint but unmistakable.

"… That's nearly identical to what you picked for me," the man said at last, his voice soft with something unreadable.

Rimuru let out a breath like he'd been holding it for far too long. "Good," he said, his smile crooked with relief. "That was kind of the idea."

He stepped toward the mirror but didn't really look into it— his gaze floated somewhere near the young man's shoulder, caught between reflection and reality.

"I know it's a little on the nose," he added, fiddling with the end of the white tie draped around his neck, "but it's kinda nice, right? Not, like, copy-paste identical, but… Cohesive. Like a—"

He stopped himself with a small, self-deprecating twist of the mouth.

Goblin Slayer waited, brow faintly raised, the silence patient but expectant.

"… Forget it," the slime muttered, glancing away. "I was gonna say 'like a couple,' but it sounded stupid in my head before I even finished thinking it."

"It doesn't sound stupid to me," the ashen-haired man said simply.

Rimuru blinked, startled by the sincerity of it. "No?"

"There's a logic to it," Goblin Slayer said, his tone matter-of-fact, though his eyes lingered a moment too long. "If we're walking together— dressed like this— people might assume we're… Together, in a… Romantic sense."

He hadn't meant for the word to fall with such weight. But it did.

Rimuru opened his mouth, a reflex to cover the beat of silence with something clever— but nothing came out. Instead, he smiled, faint and unfinished, as if he'd remembered something private.

"… In that case," he said at last, "I say we make it official."

Goblin Slayer tilted his head slightly. His brows raised, just a fraction. A subtle glint in his crimson eyes flickered— surprise, maybe, or something close to curiosity.

"N-not like that ," Rimuru added quickly, flushing as he grabbed the white tie and folded it with more drama than necessary. "I meant, let's go buy these before someone mistakes us for freeloading weirdos playing dress-up…"

Turning back toward the dressing room, the slime began unbuttoning his shirt, steps light with the restless energy of someone dodging his own heart.

Goblin Slayer stood a beat later, running both palms down the front of his thighs like brushing away a thought. "So… Tomorrowland first? Or Ships?"

Rimuru looked over his shoulder with a half-dressed smirk. "Tomorrowland. If we're going to match, we need coats that live up to the drama, and they've got some of the best tailoring in the city. And if not… Ships'll catch the rebound."

He then dropped to a knee by the bench where their shared duffel bag sat. The floor was colder than it looked, seeping through the fabric of his slacks as he unzipped the bag and pulled out his folded blue coat and the tan, plush scarf still infused with faint traces of café air and winter streets.

"As much as I'd love to walk out of here looking like we belong in a fashion spread," he said, voice muffled slightly as he pulled the coat over his head, "you can't wear it until you've bought it. Them's the rules."

Goblin Slayer glanced down at himself— still dressed in the polished monochrome ensemble Rimuru had chosen for him— then at the duffel, where his old armor and travel-worn clothing waited like artifacts from another life.

"So we change back first," he murmured.

Rimuru nodded, his voice a little softer now. "Yeah. We'll do the full reveal after we've paid and made our grand exit. Maybe at Tomorrowland. Or Ships. Depends on which way the wind blows."

A quiet lull stretched between them as they both turned toward the dressing rooms— neat rows of half-drawn curtains and polished brass handles, each one concealing a private little world.

Then, without warning, Rimuru scooped up his coat and boots into his arms and turned toward one of the open stalls— just as Goblin Slayer did the same.

They bumped shoulders— lightly— and both paused.

"Oh, uh…" Rimuru gestured vaguely. "You wanna take this one?"

Goblin Slayer gave a small nod and stepped forward.

But Rimuru moved at the same time.

And for just a moment— less than a breath— they reached for the same curtain.

Their hands brushed.

The contact was featherlight, but it stopped them both in their tracks. Rimuru went still, fingers hovering just shy of Goblin Slayer's. He didn't pull back immediately. Neither did Goblin Slayer.

The moment stretched— quiet, charged, heavy with something unsaid. Close enough to cross a line. Far enough that neither dared to speak it aloud.

"… Ah," Rimuru breathed, a little too quickly. "Guess we both wanted the same thing."

Goblin Slayer made a sound— low, indistinct, not quite agreement, not quite protest. His hand dropped, stepping aside with quiet grace.

"You first," the ashen-haired man said.

Rimuru hesitated.

Then his expression softened— eyes low-lidded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, not for anyone else to see.

"… Thanks, Ren," he said, voice low.

He slipped inside, the curtain falling closed behind him with a gentle hush.

Goblin Slayer lingered there a moment longer, adjusting the weight of the bundle in his arms: the black turtleneck, folded with care; his armor plates stacked neatly beneath; his old boots set side by side, scuffed and steady.

Then, without another word, he turned into the stall beside Rimuru's, and let the curtain fall.

For a while, there was only the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet shift of boots and fabric, and the hush of two people— unseen, unspoken— changing back into who they were, even as something between them had already begun to shift.

And just a curtain between them. Thin. Quiet. Almost nothing at all.