Yup.

The first thing you noticed was that Kaji was late.

Not unusual by normal standards, maybe.

But for him? Yes.

Kaji wasn’t the type to text often, and he definitely wasn’t the type to explain himself, but there was always a pattern to him. He showed up at your apartment after patrols more often than not, usually sometime after sunset, climbing through your balcony window with the same bored expression and his headphones hanging around his neck like permanent accessories. Sometimes he stayed for ten minutes. Sometimes three hours. Sometimes he fell asleep on your couch while pretending he was “just resting his eyes.”

But he always came.

Tonight, though, the clock had already passed midnight.

And you knew him well enough to feel when something was wrong.

Rain rattled softly against the windows while your untouched cup of tea cooled on the table. You were halfway through convincing yourself you were overreacting when a dull thud came from the balcony outside.

Your heart jumped immediately.

The window slid open a second later.

Kaji climbed inside slowly, one hand braced against the frame.

Your stomach dropped.

He looked awful.

His black shirt was damp from rain and torn near the ribs, his usually neat headphones hanging crookedly around his neck. There was dried blood near his jaw, another smear across his knuckles, and despite the calm expression on his face, his breathing was shallow enough that alarm shot through you instantly.

“Ren!”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like hell.”

“Bit harsh.”

“You’re bleeding on my floor.”

Kaji glanced downward lazily, like he hadn’t noticed the droplets hitting the wood beneath him. “Oh.”

“Oh? That’s your response?”

“It’s not that much blood.”

“It’s enough blood.”

He clicked his tongue quietly under his breath, already looking tired of the conversation, which only confirmed your suspicions further. Kaji only got this passive when he was hurt badly enough that even talking became inconvenient.

You stepped closer immediately. “What happened?”

“Nothing serious.”

“That answer has literally never meant anything good.”

“It worked before.”

“Kaji.”

Your tone finally made him look directly at you.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

There was something exhausted in his eyes tonight, hidden underneath the usual detached calm he carried around like armor. Most people at Furin only saw the intimidating version of him—the second-year everyone respected, the guy strong enough to stand beside people like Umemiya and Hiragi without hesitation. They saw the blunt attitude, the headphones, the dry comments, the terrifying reputation.

You saw the boy who used to sit beside you under the old bridge near your elementary school because crowds overwhelmed him.

The boy who silently handed you half his popsicle during summer festivals.

The boy who hated talking about himself but remembered every tiny detail about you without trying.

You’d known Kaji for so long that reading him had become instinct.

And right now?

He was in pain.

“Take your shirt off,” you said firmly.

“No.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’ll live.”

“That’s not the point.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, already annoyed. “You’re nagging.”

“You climbed through my window bleeding.”

“The front door’s farther.”

You stared at him flatly.

Kaji stared back for approximately three seconds before muttering, “...Fine.”

Even then, he moved carefully while pulling the shirt over his head, and the second the fabric lifted, your chest tightened hard enough to hurt.

Dark bruising spread across the left side of his ribs, angry and swollen beneath pale skin. Fresh bandages wrapped around his torso haphazardly, like someone had applied them quickly before he left.

“Oh my god.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Ren, your ribs are purple!”

“Purple’s a strong word.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Been told that.”

You reached toward his side carefully, fingertips brushing lightly against the bruised skin near the bandages, and Kaji inhaled sharply before going still.

The reaction lasted barely a second.

You still caught it.

“You saw a doctor?”

“Clinic nearby.”

“And?”

“Fractured ribs. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“They talked too much.”

“Kaji.”

“I stopped listening.”

Of course he did.

You closed your eyes briefly, resisting the urge to strangle him.

When you looked back up, Kaji was already watching you with that quiet, unreadable expression he got whenever your emotions became too obvious. Like he was cataloging every tiny reaction you had and storing it somewhere private.

He always did that with you.

Even as kids.

Especially as kids.

Back then, Kaji had been quieter than everyone else, all sharp eyes and blunt honesty, awkward around people but strangely gentle with you. He’d never been openly affectionate, but he hovered constantly at your side anyway. Walked you home without asking. Shared his headphones with you on trains. Remembered your favorite snacks. Showed up whenever you needed him without ever admitting he was worried.

And somewhere along the way, the affection became something deeper.

At least for you.

Though honestly, you were almost certain Kaji felt the same.

The problem was that Kaji carried his feelings like fragile glass. He treated love like something dangerous. Something that could ruin what already existed if handled carelessly.

So instead of confessing, he stayed close enough to drive you insane.

You grabbed the medical kit from beside the cabinet and sat beside him on the couch with a heavy sigh.

“You should’ve called me.”

“At midnight?”

“You came here anyway.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Kaji leaned back carefully against the couch cushions, eyes slipping half-shut. “You’d open the window.”

Your chest squeezed painfully.

Like it was obvious.

Like there had never been another possibility.

You unwrapped the loose bandages carefully, trying not to hurt him more than necessary. Kaji stayed unusually still while you worked, though every now and then his jaw tightened faintly when your fingers brushed too close to the bruising.

“You need to rest,” you muttered.

“Mhm.”

“No fighting.”

“No.”

You looked up immediately. “Excuse me?”

“No fighting’s unrealistic.”

“You have fractured ribs.”

“I’ve fought worse.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It should be.”

“It’s actually making me angrier.”

Kaji’s mouth twitched slightly at the corners.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t smile.”

“Wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were.”

“Can’t help it sometimes.”

The softness in his tone caught you off guard for a second.

Then he looked away first.

Dangerous.

That was the problem with moments like this.

Kaji was usually hard to read around other people, but with you, tiny cracks appeared constantly. Small things nobody else noticed. The way his voice lowered unconsciously around you. The way he watched your hands while you talked. The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.

And lately, it had been getting worse.

Or maybe better.

You tied the clean bandages into place before sitting back with your arms crossed.

“That’s it. I’m making the decision for you.”

Kaji looked immediately suspicious. “What decision.”

“I ban you from fighting until your ribs heal. Deal with it.”

Silence.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ren Kaji.”

“I said no.”

“You can barely breathe without wincing.”

“I breathe fine.”

“You nearly folded in half taking your shirt off.”

“That’s because you were staring.”

The second the words left his mouth, the room went completely still.

Kaji froze.

You froze.

Then, slowly, color crept across the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes widened. “Were you embarrassed?”

“No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m injured.”

“That’s not how injuries work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Ren.”

He clicked his tongue sharply and looked away, clearly irritated at himself now. “Forget it.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Kaji glanced back immediately, gaze narrowing slightly. “Why are you laughing.”

“You got flustered.”

“I did not.”

“You literally stopped functioning.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You’re still red.”

“Shut up.”

Your smile softened before you could help it.

God.

You loved him so much.

And the terrifying part was that Kaji probably knew.

Not because you’d said it outright—you hadn’t—but because nobody knew each other this well without understanding the truth underneath it. Kaji noticed everything about you. He knew when you were upset before you spoke. Knew your routines. Knew your fears. Knew exactly how you took your coffee and which nights your anxiety got worse and how to calm you down without making it obvious.

Sometimes it felt like the two of you had been orbiting the same confession for years.

Too afraid to ruin what you already had.

“You really can’t fight,” you said more quietly this time. “I’m serious.”

Kaji’s expression flattened slightly. “People are relying on me.”

“And I’m relying on you not to get yourself killed.”

The words came out harsher than intended.

Kaji blinked once.

You looked down at your hands before continuing more softly.

“Every time you show up hurt like this…” Your throat tightened frustratingly. “I hate it.”

Silence settled between you.

Rain tapped against the windows.

Kaji leaned forward slowly despite the pain, elbows resting carefully against his knees while he looked at the floor.

“You think I don’t?”

You stared at him.

His voice stayed low and even, but quieter than before.

“I know I worry you.” His fingers tightened slightly together. “That’s why I came here first.”

Something in your chest ached violently at that.

“You came here because you trust me.”

“Yeah.”

“And because you knew I’d take care of you.”

Another pause.

“…Yeah.”

You swallowed hard.

Kaji rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck before finally looking at you directly, dark eyes heavy with something rawer than usual.

“When things get bad,” he admitted quietly, “you’re the first person I think about.”

Your breath caught.

“Ren…”

“You make me weak.”

The words sounded almost accusing.

But the way he looked at you ruined any chance of misunderstanding them.

Not resentment.

Fear.

Like loving you had become the one thing capable of truly undoing him.

“You idiot,” you whispered.

His brows furrowed slightly. “Why am I an idiot.”

“Because you say things like that and somehow still haven’t realized I’m completely in love with you.”

Everything stopped.

Kaji stared at you.

Actually stared.

Like his brain had short-circuited.

Then very slowly:

“…What?”

You laughed shakily despite your racing heartbeat. “See? Idiot.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

The room fell painfully quiet.

Kaji looked genuinely stunned in a way you’d almost never seen before. Strong emotions usually made him withdraw inward, but right now every single feeling crossed openly over his face before he could hide it.

Disbelief.

Relief.

Fear.

Want.

“You…” He stopped midway, jaw tightening slightly. “You really mean that.”

“I thought it was obvious.”

“It wasn’t obvious.”

“Ren, I practically act like your wife already.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You climb into my apartment through the window.”

“You let me.”

“Because I love you.”

The flush spreading across his face this time was impossible to miss.

You thought you might die from how unfairly adorable it was.

Kaji covered part of his face with one hand briefly, shoulders tense. “You can’t just say things like that casually.”

“You literally just confessed first.”

“That wasn’t a confession.”

“It absolutely was.”

“…Damn it.”

You smiled softly before moving closer again. “Kaji.”

He lowered his hand slowly.

And there it was.

That terrifyingly vulnerable expression he only ever showed you.

“I wanted more time,” he admitted quietly.

“For what?”

“To become someone good enough first.”

Your heart broke a little.

“Ren Kaji,” you whispered, “I’ve loved you since before either of us knew what that meant.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Then, before you could say anything else, he reached for you carefully—hesitant despite everything, like he still couldn’t fully believe this was real.

You went willingly.

The moment your arms wrapped around him, Kaji exhaled shakily against your shoulder like he’d been holding that breath for years.

His embrace stayed careful because of the injury, but the feeling behind it nearly overwhelmed you anyway.

“You’re still banned from fighting,” you murmured into his hair.

A quiet laugh vibrated against you.

“Confessing and threatening me in the same conversation.”

“Yes.”

“You’re scary.”

“And you have fractured ribs.”

“They’re barely fractured.”

“Ren Kaji.”

“…Fine.”

You pulled back slightly. “Wait. Seriously?”

“For now.”

“You’re suspiciously agreeable.”

He looked at you for a long moment before resting his forehead gently against yours.

“You said you loved me,” he murmured. “I’m still trying to recover from that.”

Your entire face warmed instantly.

Kaji’s mouth curved faintly at the reaction.

Then softer.

So soft it could’ve hurt.

“Besides,” he said, eyes half-lidded as they stayed on yours, “if resting means I get to stay here with you, I can deal with it.”

---

A/N: My writing may seem a little lazy right now, guys, because I'm recovering. I'll do my best to get back into it! Wuvyu!

~~Shin Asakura~~

When you pull away from him with that wide-eyed fear, it hits him like a ton of bricks. He hears it in your thoughts before you even speak it. “He's dangerous... what if he snaps?"

Shin freezes. His heart pounds, not because you’re wrong—he has killed people—but because you’re terrified of him, not what he’s done. That distinction shatters something inside.

“You think I’d ever hurt you?” he asks softly, voice cracking a little as he gently lowers his hand, like even touching you would confirm your fears.

He gives you space. Too much space. For days, he barely meets your gaze, too afraid of what he’ll hear in your mind again.

Eventually, he breaks, sitting outside your room like some kicked puppy. “I’ve done terrible things,” he admits. “But if I could hear just one thought from you where you trusted me again… I’d do anything for that.”

When you finally reach out, saying, “I just needed time to process,” he leans into your touch like a dying man given water. He whispers, “Then take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’ll never stop being protective—but he’s more careful now, more open. And when you finally kiss him, hands trembling, he doesn’t read your mind. He wants to feel your trust the human way.

---

~~Yoichi Nagumo~~

He laughs it off at first. “You scared of me? Babe, I’m the guy who brings you takeout and clips your cat’s nails.”

But when you flinch at the sound of his knife clicking open, everything stops. His expression drops like a mask falling away.

“You know, I pretend a lot,” he says, almost too casually. “Happy-go-lucky, pretty-boy hitman. But pretending you’re not afraid of me? That one really hurt.”

He disappears for a day or two. Not because he’s angry, but because he needs to figure out if being in your life is actually hurting you more than helping.

When he comes back, it’s late. Rain clings to him. He crawls into your bed fully clothed, laying next to you with his back to yours. “I never wanted you to see that part of me,” he murmurs. “But if you’d rather see the truth than love a lie, I’ll show you everything.”

He opens up like never before. About his past, about how much of it he regrets, about how every time he holds a blade. He thinks of what he could lose.

And when you finally touch his face and say, “I trust you,” his smirk returns, slower this time. “Then I’ll treasure that trust because you have no idea how much it matters to me."

---

~~Natsuki Seba~~

He gets quiet—scary quiet—when you recoil from his smile after hearing a story about one of his past missions.

“So it’s finally come to this, huh?” he says, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them slowly. “The moment when you realize I’m a monster.”

But there’s no bite in his voice—just exhaustion. He’s used to being seen as a weapon, a tool, a successful test subject. But he thought you saw him as human.

He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. Just... slowly starts building walls. Talking to you only when necessary, pulling all-nighters again, isolating himself in data and chemicals.

When you confront him, saying, “I was scared, not disgusted,” he doesn’t believe you. Not at first. “You wouldn’t be the first to lie to me,” he mutters.

You finally break through when you patch up a wound he didn’t even ask you to touch. “You’re still you,” you whisper. And he grabs your wrist—hard—not to stop you, but because he’s shaking.

That night, he kisses you like a dying man. Desperate, soft, and scared. “If I scare you again,” he says, forehead pressed to yours, “tell me. I’d rather break myself apart than lose you.”

---

~~Mafuyu Seba~~

It’s a knife to the chest when you say, “I don’t know who you are anymore.” And Mafuyu just… smiles. Like he was expecting this.

“You were the one good thing I didn’t have to earn,” he says coldly. “Guess I got that wrong too.”

He shuts down completely. Barely sleep. Doesn’t text. You find his coat on your couch like he meant to come home but couldn’t.

The worst part? He wants to fix it. But he doesn’t know how. He was raised on logic and rules—emotions are messy, unpredictable. Dangerous. For the longest time, he never even had the guts for skin-to-skin contact. You were the first person to jump over the high walls.

So you break the silence first. You find him slumped over a desk, staring at a photo of you two. “Were you ever going to come back?”

“I was scared I’d break something that mattered,” he admits, looking up with raw eyes. “I don’t know how to be loved and feared at the same time.”

You hold him close and say, “Then let’s figure it out together.” His kiss is shaky, tender, and terrified. “I’ll make myself better,” he promises.

---

~~Gaku~~

He’s not surprised when you back away. He saw the fear in your eyes the moment he told you the truth.

“You thought I was just some weird, messy guy with a sharp tongue,” he mutters. “Turns out I’m also a trained killer. Surprise.”

He doesn’t beg or apologize. He just leaves. Ghosts you. The type of silence that tastes like blood and old memories.

You find him again by accident, nursing a busted lip in an alley. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?” you ask.

“Because I knew you’d try to stop me,” he replies, not meeting your eyes. “And I couldn’t watch you look at me like that again.”

You walk up and cup his jaw, thumb brushing his bruise. “You scare me,” you admit. “But I still love you.” That’s when he breaks, he hides his face in your shoulder and just breathes, like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in days.

Later that night, his touch is rough but reverent. He kisses your scars and his own. “If you ever want out,” he says, “I’ll let you go. But until then—I’m yours, even if I don’t deserve it.”

---

~~Heisuke Mashimo~~

He tries to joke it off. “I mean, who hasn’t accidentally blown something up, right?” But when you don’t laugh, he realizes this is serious.

His heart drops. “You think I’d hurt you?” he says, so softly it breaks your heart. “I’ve never even raised my voice at you.”

He spirals hard. Convinces himself you’re better off without him, that he’s too reckless, too unstable. He starts sleeping in his van again.

The guilt eats at him. You hear him muttering in his sleep—begging for forgiveness, apologizing to you, to the people he's failed.

You sat down next to him one night and said, “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here.” He just stares at you like you’re some miracle he doesn’t deserve.

He hugs you too tightly. Buries his face in your neck like you’re his only anchor. “Please don’t be scared of me,” he whispers. “I’d rather blow myself up than hurt you.”

You never saw him coming.

Which was strange, because Endo Yamato wasn’t exactly the stealthy type. He was loud—more than loud. Intense. He carried the kind of silence that came after a natural disaster, when all that was left was wreckage and smoke in your lungs. He didn’t tiptoe into a room, he arrived like a bad memory.

So it was irritating when he kept showing up in your life, over and over again, and you never quite noticed until it was too late.

Like now.

You looked up from the steps of the convenience store and squinted against the orange wash of sunset. He stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, a plastic bag hooked on one finger, and that half-lidded, unreadable stare settled on you like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

“Again?” you muttered, your hand curling tighter around the can of coffee in your hand.

He raised an eyebrow, strolling closer. “You looked like shit yesterday.”

“You didn’t even see me yesterday.”

“I did.”

“…Stalker.”

He smirked, sharp and lazy all at once. “That your way of saying thank you to a friend?”

“We’re not friends. You just keep showing up out of nowhere.”

Endo tilted his head. His voice, when it came, was low and steady. “You keep letting me.”

You hated how much that line shook you.

And he knew it, the bastard.

You weren’t sure when it started.

Maybe it was after the first time you saw him fight, when his fists moved like sledgehammers and his eyes didn’t blink even when blood hit the pavement. He was the kind of fighter who didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause to think about whether a punch would break someone’s ribs. You should’ve been scared. You were scared.

But there was something else. Something hollow under all that noise.

So you started talking to him. Once. Then again. And then, somehow, he started finding you.

Sometimes at the train station. Sometimes behind the gym. Sometimes at the convenience store, like now.

Always when you didn’t want to be alone.

“Why do you keep doing that?” you asked once.

He looked over, a lollipop stick between his teeth. “Doing what?”

“Showing up.”

He shrugged. “You don’t look like you’ve got anyone else who does.”

You scoffed. “And what, you’re doing charity work now?”

His voice dipped. “I don’t like seeing people alone when they’re in that kind of mood.”

You paused. “…What kind of mood?”

Endo looked at you then. Really looked.

“The kind where your head’s too loud and your chest’s too quiet.”

There was a moment.

A stupid, quiet moment outside the empty gym one evening. You were sitting on the bench, your phone in your hand, unread messages piling up because none of them were from anyone you wanted. He walked past you, then doubled back. Sat beside you without asking.

“Hey.”

You grunted.

He tossed a small carton into your lap.

“What’s this?”

“Melonpan,” he said. “Thought you’d like it.”

Your fingers clenched around it, the soft plastic wrapper crinkling.

“You didn’t have to.”

He looked away, ears pink.

“I wanted to.”

You didn’t say anything else. Just tore it open and took a bite, the sweetness catching in your throat like it didn’t belong there. Like you hadn’t tasted something good in a long time.

The first time you kissed him, it wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was walking you home. You were both quiet. You could hear the way his hand kept brushing yours, not close enough to be an accident. Close enough to burn.

You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

He turned. “What?”

“Nothing,” you whispered.

But it was something. Everything.

So you stepped closer.

He blinked when you touched his collar. Swallowed hard.

And when you kissed him, slow, cautious, testing the way he tilted into you like a man starved. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, something broken and hungry, and kissed you back like he meant it.

You never really talked about it after.

It just kept happening. In quiet alleys. Behind closed doors. In the dark spaces between fights and pain and healing.

He always smelled like smoke and salt and something coppery, like he’d been in a fight five minutes before.

You’d tug him down by his shirt, kiss him until his hands trembled, let him push you against cold walls with equally cold, calloused palms on your hips.

His lips were rough. His voice was hoarse.

But when he kissed you, he kissed like he thought it might be the last good thing he ever got to have.

And when he touched you?

God.

He touched you like you weren’t fragile, but holy.

It wasn’t always pretty.

You once found him at the park, knuckles raw, a busted lip blooming purple across his mouth.

“Again?” you said.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just sat down beside you on the swings and breathed hard, like he couldn’t remember how to be in his body without pain to remind him.

“You treat pain like it’s supposed to be normal,” you whispered. “That’s scary.”

He froze.

And when he looked at you, his eyes were empty in that terrifying, familiar way. Not dead. Just used to it.

“You think I like it?” he asked softly.

You didn’t answer.

He stared at the ground. “I just don’t know how to be without it.”

You slid your hand into his. His fingers didn’t close right away.

But when they did, they held on too tight.

The first time you slept together, it was quiet.

No fireworks. No crazy declarations. Just silence and skin and breath.

He kissed your shoulder like he was scared it might bruise. You pulled him in with a hand in his hair. And when he said your name—just once, like a prayer—you kissed the sound out of his mouth and undid him one piece at a time.

After that, he didn’t sleep.

He just watched you, fingers tracing the line of your collarbone like he was trying to memorize something too soft to last.

“You okay?” you asked in the dark.

He was quiet for a long time. Before settling on an answer.

“Yeah.”

But you didn’t believe him.

He never called you his.

You never asked him to.

But somewhere between the fights and the kisses, the half-healed bruises and the coffee shared under vending machine lights, you started looking for him. Started waiting.

And he always came.

Even when you didn’t say it.

Even when you couldn’t.

One night, he showed up at your place.

Eyes wide. Breathing fast. Blood on his shirt.

You yanked him inside. Sat him down. Bandaged his shoulder with trembling hands and too much antiseptic.

When you were done, he caught your wrist.

“You scared?” he asked.

You looked him in the eye.

“…Of you?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned in.

“Not really. Of you dying in front of me while inside my home? Probably.”

He made a sound like a laugh and a sob stitched together. Then pulled you into his arms and held you so tight you couldn’t breathe.

And maybe you didn’t want to.

Later, when you were curled under the sheets together, your legs tangled with his and his hand flat against your back like he needed the reassurance of your pulse to stay grounded, he finally said it.

“I don’t know what this is,” he whispered. “But I want to keep showing up.”

You buried your face in his neck.

“Then keep doing it.”

And he did.

---

A/N: I got hugs here and I'm giving them to Endo

He wasn’t the kind of guy you were supposed to like.

Too smug. Too pretty. Too dangerous.

He smiled like he knew things you didn’t, and half the time, he did.

So, of course, he had to ruin everything by being nice to you. Not in the obvious way. But in the subtle, disarming, toe-curling way that made your stomach do flips whenever he leaned in too close.

And today? Today was the worst.

Because Mitsuki Kiryu had gotten into a fight for you.

You’d heard about it before you even saw him.

“Saw Kiryu wipe the floor with that guy from Rinsen…”

“Something about him disrespecting someone close to him?”

“He never loses that cool, man. Must’ve been serious.”

Your heart did a funny little thing at that.

You’d been cornered outside the train station yesterday—some loser from a rival school, trying to get a rise out of you because you were “close to Bofurin.” He’d grabbed your wrist, said something disgusting, and you’d brushed him off with barely concealed fury.

What you hadn’t known was that Kiryu had seen it happen.

He hadn’t said a word about it after walking you home that night. He’d just looked at you, expression unreadable under the faint glow of the streetlight, and made a quiet comment about being more careful.

You’d thought that was it.

Until today.

You found him leaning against the side of the school building, a fresh bruise under one eye, knuckles scuffed, and a bandage stretched across his cheekbone like a badge of honor.

“Kiryu,” you breathed, rushing toward him. “What the hell?”

He looked up from his phone with that signature smirk. “You’re late.”

“I’m not late—what happened to your face?!”

“I won.”

“That’s not the point?!” You grabbed his wrist, inspecting the damage on his hands. “God, what happened?”

He tilted his head and grinned. “You happened.”

You froze. “What?”

“That idiot at the station? I figured he needed to be educated. Violently.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “You… fought him? Because of me?”

Kiryu shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Yep. I did this for you.” Then he leaned in, lowering his voice to that infuriating purr that made your entire spine tingle. “And I will now be taking payment in kisses.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He looked far too pleased with himself. “It’s only fair.”

You wanted to slap him.

You also wanted to kiss him.

The problem was, he knew that.

“I could’ve handled it myself,” you grumbled, not meeting his eyes.

He hummed. “I know. But where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re a menace.”

“A sexy menace,” he corrected, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. “Now… about that payment.”

You swallowed thickly. “Kiryu—”

“Call me Mitsuki,” he said, stepping even closer. “You always do when you’re flustered.”

You were flustered. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne—clean, sharp, like cedar and smoke and something warm underneath.

Your eyes flicked to his lips.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Scared?” he asked, voice teasing.

You shook your head. “No. Just…”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding,” you said lamely, brushing a thumb over the cut on his cheek.

He grinned. “Battle scars. Sexy, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he murmured, inching forward, “you’re still staring.”

“Maybe I like looking at you,” you shot back.

“Then maybe,” he whispered, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, “you should do more than just look.”

The first kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was everything you expected from Mitsuki Kiryu—cocky, consuming, confident. He kissed like he fought. Precision and total control. One hand on your jaw, the other pressed against the wall behind your head, caging you in.

You melted into it—into him—fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform as he deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping past your lips like a challenge. You met it with your own, fighting for control you knew he’d never fully give.

When he pulled back, he was flushed, breathing unevenly.

“Damn,” he muttered, “you’ve been holding out on me.”

“You started it,” you whispered, dazed.

“I’m definitely not finished.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Exploring. His hand slid down to your waist, fingers splaying against the curve of your hip like he was mapping you out.

It was addictive.

You barely noticed when he maneuvered you through the empty hallways and into a room where no one would find you for at least an hour.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And then he was on you again. Hot mouth, wandering hands, the low growl of your name curling against your neck like a promise.

“Still mad at me?” he murmured, dragging his teeth lightly over your collarbone.

You gasped. “A little.”

“Mm. I’ll kiss it better.”

He did.

Over and over, until your head was spinning and you were clinging to him like your life depended on it.

Later, when you were curled up against him on the worn couch in the corner of the room—his jacket draped over your shoulders, your fingers tracing lazy circles into his chest—he finally spoke again.

“I meant it, you know.”

You blinked up at him. “Meant what?”

“That I did it for you.”

Your heart did that thing again. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “No one messes with you and gets away with it. Not while I’m around.”

You reached up, brushing hair from his face. “That’s dangerously close to romantic.”

He smiled, soft and real. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

You laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

You kissed him again, slow and sweet this time. No fire. No teasing. Just gratitude. Just feeling. Just him.

“I like you,” you whispered into the space between your mouths.

He kissed your nose. “Good. Because I’m crazy about you.”

You flushed.

He grinned.

And then he said it again—low, warm, almost reverent.

“I did this for you. And I’ll keep doing it.” He pulled you closer. “But, I would like to inform you that I also take cuddles and undivided attention as payment.”

---

A/N: Since "responsibilities in society" is trying to break down my door. I will be inactive for now. But when I return. WHEN I RETURN.

Ren Kaji’s voice rang out across the lot with a sharpness that only he could pull off. His usual scowl deepened as he glared at you, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his headphones hanging loosely around his neck, and a lollipop carelessly dangling from his mouth. Despite his tough, almost brooding exterior, there was always something about the way his eyes softened when they landed on you that betrayed his attempt to keep you at arm’s length.

You, on the other hand, had a smile that could rival the sun, always ready to tease him just a little too much.

You cocked your head, eyes glinting with mischief as you leaned against the fence, a comfortable distance away. “Oh, really?” you said, voice laced with teasing. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve been showing up in the same spot every day for the last two weeks.”

His friends—including his juniors—stood in the background, grinning and exchanging looks as the tension between the two of you grew more palpable. You had no idea what they found so funny. It was just a typical morning routine, wasn’t it? You showed up. Kaji denied you. The end.

Except this time, there was something different in the air. You could feel it.

“We’re not friends,” Kaji repeated, this time with more force. His jaw was clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching ever so slightly as if he were trying to contain some feeling—something deeper than annoyance. “You just keep showing up out of nowhere.”

You raised an eyebrow, enjoying the game of cat and mouse. “You keep letting me.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and full of implication. Kaji froze for just a moment, his eyes flicking to yours with an unreadable expression, before he quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere, suddenly very interested in the concrete beneath his feet.

“Please,” Enomoto, the loud one, laughed from the sidelines. “Don’t lie, Kaji. You’re practically begging [Y/N] to stay.”

Kaji’s eyes shot toward Enomoto, his lips pressing into a tight line as if he was about to retort, but before he could, another voice spoke up.

Kusumi, the quiet one, who had been watching the entire exchange from the corner of his eye, tapped a note in his phone and showed it to Kaji.

We can see it clearly (VwV)/

Kaji’s cheeks flushed a faint red, just enough for you to notice, and your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t good at hiding his emotions, not really.

You smirked, letting your eyes wander to the group. “What? Is it that obvious?” you asked, teasingly.

Before Kaji could respond, his eyes flickered back to you, and he muttered through gritted teeth, “You’re not my friend.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender, taking a few steps back. “Okay, okay,” you said, chuckling lightly. “I’ll go. But only because I don’t want to be the one to destroy your cool reputation.”

With a wink, you turned to leave, feeling the eyes of his friends following you. But before you could take more than a few steps, you felt a rough pull at your wrist.

“Not so fast,” Kaji’s voice came, low and strained, as he tugged you toward him with a surprising force. The lollipop was still in his mouth, but his grip on your wrist was firmer than usual, making your heart race for reasons you couldn’t explain.

“What are you—” you started to ask, but he didn’t give you a chance to finish.

“We’re not done talking,” Kaji growled, pulling you into a quieter part of the schoolyard away from his friends.

The town was quiet in the afternoon, the sun lazily sinking toward the horizon as you walked through the streets, casually glancing into shops and enjoying the warmth of the day.

But something had changed in you. Since that little encounter this morning, there was an electric tension hanging in the air, thick and undeniable. Kaji’s reaction had left you wondering, especially when his eyes lingered just a little too long when you teased him.

“Why was he so weird about that?” you murmured to yourself, shaking your head and deciding to forget about it.

What you didn’t know was that Kaji had been following you, keeping his distance but watching your every move. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him, but something about the way you’d walked away from him, smiling that sweet, irritating smile, had driven him crazy.

He hated that you always seemed so comfortable with him, even though he was doing his best to avoid you. It was a game he didn’t know how to play, and yet you kept playing it anyway.

As you walked down the street, enjoying the cool breeze, a voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Hey there,” a guy from your class appeared, smiling like he’d just won a prize. His eyes were dark with intent, and you could already feel the vibe of the conversation shifting to something uncomfortable. This was the third time you’ve seen him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” he said, stepping closer to you. “You always look so good. You finally wanna hang out sometime? Maybe we could grab a coffee.”

You smiled politely but took a step back. “I told you that I’m really not interested,” you said firmly, already feeling the tension building.

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, he moved closer, his hand brushing against your arm as he leaned in just a little too much. “Come on, don’t be like that. We could have a good time together. I know we would.”

Your skin prickled with discomfort, but before you could speak again, a cold, unmistakable voice cut through the air.

“Hey,” Kaji called out, stepping forward with a glare aimed squarely at the guy. His posture was stiff, his hands clenched at his sides, and you could see the anger rolling off of him in waves. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away?”

The guy blinked, momentarily surprised, but then his cocky grin returned. “What is it to you? You jealous? You the boyfriend or something?”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought Kaji might actually punch the guy. His hand twitched at his side, the lollipop still stuck between his lips, but it was obvious he was holding himself back with everything he had.

Before you could say anything, Kaji grabbed your wrist again, this time with more urgency. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice barely more than a growl as he started walking away, dragging you behind him.

Your breath caught in your throat at his sudden forcefulness. You tried to resist for a moment, but it was useless. Kaji wasn’t letting you go, and at that moment, you realized just how badly he didn’t want you talking to anyone else.

“Where are we going?” you asked, half breathless and half intrigued.

“Somewhere quiet,” he muttered, still walking briskly, and the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. He was angry. He was angry because of that guy.

Kaji didn’t speak a word as he took you down a side street and pulled you into an alley. When he finally stopped, he turned to face you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, and his fiery, intense eyes locked onto yours.

“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” Kaji spat, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. “I don’t want anyone else flirting with you. You’re mine.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You stared at him, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to process what he was saying. But before you could gather your thoughts, Kaji was right there, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that was nothing short of ferocious.

It was messy and needy, and you could feel his desperation in the way his fingers curled into your hair, tugging you impossibly closer.

For a second, you were too shocked to respond. But as his kiss deepened, as he pulled you tighter into his chest, something in you snapped. You kissed him back, hands flying up to his neck as your lips parted against his, your body pressing closer as you felt the heat rising between you.

When he finally pulled away, his breathing was ragged, his eyes dark with emotion.

“I can’t keep pretending,” Kaji admitted, his voice low and raw. “I’ve been fighting this for too long, but I can’t anymore. You—you drive me crazy.”

Before you could say anything, Kaji grabbed your hand, his fingers twining with yours, and he started walking again, dragging you along with him, not caring if his friends saw. He wasn’t going to hide anymore.

As you continued walking with Kaji, his grip on your hand never loosened. His headphones were back around his neck, but he didn’t put them on. He kept his eyes on you, his face unreadable, but the tension between you was palpable.

His friends were watching from a distance, and it was obvious they were trying not to laugh. Enomoto, Kiryu, and Tsugeura exchanged glances, their eyes full of amusement as they walked alongside Kaji.

“You know, Kaji,” Enomoto called out, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you can’t pretend you’re not in love anymore. It’s kinda obvious now.”

Kaji shot him a glare, but his fingers tightened around your hand, and for the first time, you didn’t try to pull away.

Kaji might have been denying it, but his heart? His heart was no longer willing to lie.

---

A/N: He'll get there guys. Trust.

The game pieces were long forgotten.

What began as a casual night of board games in your room had turned into a quiet war of wills. You were cross-legged on the floor, the carpet warm under your thighs, frustration prickling at your skin as you glared at the boy across from you.

Hayato Suo sat with his knees bent, one long arm resting casually over his thigh, the other holding a cup of tea he hadn't touched in ten minutes. He was watching you—no, studying you—with that infuriating calmness that made your heart do things it had no right to do.

"You moved my token," you accused.

He blinked, tilting his head slightly. "I don’t recall."

“I watched you,” you said, voice rising. “When I blinked. You leaned forward and—”

“You must be imagining things,” he said smoothly, setting the cup down. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

You scowled. “Because I was trying to catch you cheating.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Or maybe you were just distracted.”

By what, exactly?

His perfectly calm posture? The way his long fingers toyed with his sleeve cuffs, or how the soft fabric of his charcoal-gray shirt clung to his lean frame? Maybe it was the way his single visible eye stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was reading every thought you weren’t brave enough to say out loud.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said flatly.

“And yet you’re still losing,” he replied with a faint smile.

That did it.

With a growl, you lunged across the board. It was supposed to be a light shove, a playful tackle in revenge. But Suo shifted at the last second, catching you with a quiet “careful,” and then the world tilted. You found yourself straddling him, both hands braced against his chest, your legs locked around his waist.

Time froze.

Suo didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just laid there on your carpet like this was normal, like you weren’t currently sitting on his lap with your knees pressed into his sides.

The only thing worse than your own panic was the way he looked at you.

Calm. Steady. Slightly amused.

And his hand—his very large, warm hand—had come to rest on your thigh, anchoring you there like it was nothing.

“…This doesn’t count as cheating,” you blurted.

“No,” he said, smiling slowly, “but it’s definitely breaking the rules.”

Your face went hot. “Get off me.”

“I believe you’re the one on top,” he murmured.

You stared down at him, breath uneven. You hated how easily he could do this. How he can rattle you, shake you with just a look, a comment, a damn touch. He was the storm and the stillness before it, and you never stood a chance. You could feel him shifting, his hands wandering a little.

“Suo,” you warned, leaning down a little, “don’t move.”

“Why?” he asked, eyes glittering. “You’re afraid of what’ll happen if I do?”

“Yes,” you snapped.

And then he moved.

Just his hips, just a little. Barely an inch.

But it was enough.

Your body swayed with the shift, and your palms slid down his chest to catch yourself—and that was when you felt it. The subtle tension in his abdomen, the heat between your bodies, the unspoken something simmering just beneath the surface of this moment.

His fingers pressed gently into your thigh, a quiet reminder that he could hold you here as long as he wanted.

You swallowed.

And said, shakily, “I said don’t move.”

His smile widened, calm and devastating. His voice dropped just enough to scrape along your nerves.

“You’re the one straddling me.”

You nearly choked on air.

“I—you—”

He lifted himself onto his elbows, bringing his face even closer to yours. His breath brushed against your lips, his tone maddeningly soft.

“You going to tell me to stop?”

You hated him. You hated the way your heart betrayed you when he looked at you like that. Like you were something precious. Like he meant every word, even when it was wrapped in teasing.

You tried to steel yourself. “This is all just a game to you.”

His gaze darkened. “No. Not this.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing along your cheek with disarming gentleness.

“I flirt, I tease. But when it comes to you, I don’t play.”

You stared at him, trying to find the lie, the joke, the thing that would let you run from this.

But there was none.

Just his honesty. Quiet. Certain. Raw.

“I’ve always loved you,” he said, voice like velvet and thunder. “And I think part of you knows that. You just keep pretending it isn’t real because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your lower lip. “Then kiss me like you mean it.”

You hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then you leaned in.

And kissed him.

It started uncertain. Your lips barely pressed to his. But Suo didn’t give you space to doubt. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you down against him, deepening the kiss with a hunger you hadn’t seen in him before.

His mouth was warm, confident, possessive. He kissed like he had time, like he’d been waiting, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t memorize every part of you.

Your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth and rolled his hips, not enough to scare you, but to remind you who had the upper hand.

“You still pretending this isn’t real?” he breathed against your lips.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

You kissed him again, harder this time. His hands moved under your shirt, fingertips grazing up your back, mapping the curve of your spine. Every touch was reverent, like he was learning you by heart.

And then, he pulled away, just far enough to look you in the eye.

“You’re mine,” he said quietly. “Say it.”

You trembled, breath shaking. “I’m yours.”

His smile was unlike any you’d seen before. Soft and raw and utterly undone.

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

He sat up fully, keeping you in his lap, and brought your foreheads together, both of you panting.

“You’ve always been,” he said. “Even when you pretended not to notice.”

“I noticed,” you whispered, nuzzling against him. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

He chuckled, and kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck. “Let me show you.”

And he did.

Slowly, carefully—never rushing, never pushing, but always close, always there. Every kiss. Every touch. Every breath.

Hayato Suo was calm, elegant, gentlemanly to a fault.

But when it came to loving you?

He was ruthless.

---

A/N: Gentleman? Sure... sure...