All I see are sweet and shy SOs, but what about the ladies who are grumpy/stern/stoic? How does Hanzo navigate that kind of romantic relationship?

youbetteroverwatchyourself:

YES

ANON I LOVE YOU

Okay so Hanzo is a very private man, he isn’t known for letting his feelings flow all around but he will be very caring to his lady. He will at first, let her talk, if she’s bothered by something hopefully he can help. He will make some tea if she’d like, sitting down next to her.

He would wait, give her time until she finally decided to speak about what she feels.Although he wants to see her happy, he understands that this is how she is and her happiness can be shown in different ways. He’d never push her to be out of her shell if she isn’t comfortable, but he lets her know he’s there if she needs.

“Always.” he’ll say, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

She’s not a morning person. She doesn’t even like being the same room with another person after crawling out of bed on the off chance they feel the need to have a conversation and she hasn’t woken up completely and entirely. This takes an hour at least, two is typical.

Hanzo doesn’t mind.

He slips away from bed, leaving her to rest until the alarm drags her grumbling and snarling into consciousness. Breakfast is ready and silently waiting for her when she finally comes to the table, groggy and sour. Hanzo lets her be, reading the news on his phone while he sips his tea, and silently slides another piece of toast when she stabs tiredly at the empty space on her plate.

As she eats and sits and breathes, consciousness finally taking root in her reluctantly, she finally mumbles a groggy, “Good morning”. He hums back in reply, and she gratefully takes the cup of tea that he sets down for her.

She’s still not completely awake or aware even after a shower and dressing, and by then Hanzo has to leave while she still has some time to spare before her own day has to begin. Still, she stands by the door, blearily watching as he gathers his things. It seems like he’s been ignoring her this whole time, until he pauses and reaches out a hand. He brushes his knuckles gently against her cheek, and for the briefest moment she leans into the touch. As quickly as it happens it’s over, and he’s murmuring a goodbye as he’s out the door.

For just a few seconds she says there, leaning against the wall. Gazing at the closed door where he’d left, she feels the lingering brush of skin against her own.

“I love you” is what that touch says, louder than the silence they share.

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