Takarazuka - Ebata Takimasa

Lieutenant Ebata Takimasa was not a man given to patience.

To the men under his direct command in the Imperial Japanese Navy, he was a demanding, unyielding shadow—fiercely loyal, but to everyone else, he was a walking storm front. Tall, sharp-featured, and perpetually scowling, Ebata was infamous in the bustling port town for his icy demeanor. He barged through crowded docks like a dreadnought clearing a lane, never excusing himself, never apologizing, his boots heavy on the cobblestones. He cared for his troupe, and he cared for the Emperor. The rest of the world was merely in his way.

That was, until the day he ran into you. Literally.

It had happened three weeks ago outside a crowded tavern. You hadn't moved out of his way; instead, you had collided with his shoulder, spun around, and cursed him out with the vocabulary of a dockworker before disappearing into the alleys. Ebata, stunned into momentary silence, had felt a strange, unfamiliar jolt in his chest. A civilian—a woman, no less—hadn't cowered. You had brawled.

Since then, you had become a recurring headache that Ebata found, to his profound irritation, he actually looked forward to, and you were a magnet for catastrophe. Quick-tempered, fiercely independent, and seemingly allergic to authority, you spent half your time arguing with merchants and the other half antagonizing off-duty soldiers.

And Ebata, God help him, kept having to rescue you.

Today was no different.

Ebata was cutting across the market square when a familiar, shrill voice rose above the din of haggling vendors and clanking metal. He stopped, his jaw tightening. He didn't even need to look to know who it was. Ebata turned his head. Near a corner stall, you were wearing your usual scruffy work jacket and a defiant glare—was poking a burly army private in the chest with a finger. The soldier, a hulking brute from the infantry garrison with a face flushed red from cheap sake and embarrassment, was towering over you, his hand hovering dangerously close to the hilt of his sidearm. A small crowd of onlookers had formed, whispering nervously.

"Watch your mouth, little rat," the soldier snarled, stepping into her space. "You're barking up the wrong tree. I could have you arrested for disrupting the peace."

With heavy, deliberate strides, Ebata cut through the crowd. He didn't push people gently; he parted them like the bow of a destroyer, his white naval uniform stark against the dusty market.

Before the army private could lunge forward, a firm, heavy hand descended upon your shoulder, spinning you around with enough force to cut off you tirade mid-breath.

You opened your mouth to unleash a fresh wave of fury on whoever dared grab you, but you words died in your throat as you looked up.

Standing over you was Lieutenant Ebata. His cap was pulled low, casting a shadow over his sharp eyes, and his mouth was set in a thin, unforgiving line. He looked like death warmed over.

"L-Lieutenant?" the army private stammered, instantly recognizing the naval insignia and scrambling to snap a ragged, terrified salute. The infantryman had heard the rumors about Ebata Takimasa—that the man had ice in his veins and a fist like an iron mallet.

Ebata didn't acknowledge the private with so much as a glance. His cold, dark eyes remained locked entirely on you.

"What," Ebata said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the quieted square, "are you doing this time, little lady?" He said the nickname he usually called you