🅝🅐🅝🅐

You swear you can feel him in your throat.

Every slow thrust pushes you further, deeper, and stretches you wider than you thought possible, but Megumi just holds you there. One arm wrapped firm around your back, the other splayed at the base of your spine, palm flat, forcing you to stay close, to stay open for him.

His cock drags out of you so achingly slow it burns. You feel every ridge, every vein, the way the thick head catches on your swollen entrance before he slides back in, heavier, deeper than before. It punches the air from your lungs. You cry out, and he moans into your shoulder.

“You feel that?” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “That stretch? That pressure?”

He tilts his hips up and grinds not fast, not sloppy. He knows exactly where to push, how to angle himself until your cunt clenches and your body jolts against his.

“God, you’re sucking me in,” he groans. “So fuckin’ deep inside you I can feel your heartbeat around me.”

He’s thick, and your body is stuffed with him. Every movement is wet and messy, the sound of your slick echoing between gasps, squelching around every grind of his hips. You don’t even know where he ends, and you begin just skin and sweat and the unbearable fullness of him buried inside you, again and again.

Your thighs tremble as he fucks up into you from below, lazy but precise, each thrust pressing against that aching spot that makes your vision blur. His cock twitches and pulses with every tight squeeze your cunt gives him, and he fucks into it desperate to feel you fall apart.

“Gonna make a mess of you,” he whispers, lips dragging over your jaw. “Wanna keep you dripping for hours.”

You can feel it, his cum from earlier already leaking out around the base of his cock, mixing with your slick, smearing down your thighs, slicking the sheets below. He hasn’t pulled out once.

And he won’t.

“Feel so good inside you,” he breathes, like it’s a prayer. “Too good. Fuck, I don’t wanna stop.”

His voice breaks on the last word. His hips falter. But he keeps going has to keep going, holding you tighter as his thrusts grow messier, needier, deeper. His cock swells, stretching you more with every second, and you can geel it coming

The moment he presses in deep balls flush, tip grinding against your cervix and stays.

You freeze. You feel it. The twitch. The heat. The pulse.

He’s coming again.

Thick ropes of it spill deep inside you, and Megumi gasps hips stuttering, hands digging into your skin, desperate to hold you in place as his cock throbs. You can feel every drop, the way it fills you up, overflowing, leaking around him, still connected, still deep.

You whimper, overstimulated, twitching in his lap.

And Megumi sweet, ruined Megumi brushes the hair from your face, presses his forehead to yours, and whispers,

“Don’t move. I wanna stay inside you like this.”

You nod, barely breathing, and he just holds you his cock still buried, still twitching as aftershocks ripple through both of you.

And when he finally speaks again, it’s a whisper you’ll never forget,

He knows he’s drunk.

The soft kind, not the sloppy kind. The kind that makes everything warm and hazy. The kind that dulls his shame and sharpens every inch of you.

You’re standing near the kitchen, sipping something sweet, laughing with Nobara. You haven’t looked at him in minutes.

He feels it like a bruise.

He shifts on the couch and stares into his half-empty cup.

He could stay here.

But his body has other plans.

You don’t hear him at first when he slips in behind you,quiet, always. Not until he leans forward and rests his chin on your shoulder.

You go still. Then, “Fushiguro?”

“‘S me,” he murmurs, smiling into the crook of your neck like it’s funny. “Why are you always over here when I wanna be where you are?”

You blink, turning your head slightly. He’s closer than you expected face flushed, eyes a little glossy, voice low and honest.

He’s not usually like this. He never says what he wants. But right now… he is.

You raise an eyebrow. “You wanna be where I am?”

He nods. Slowly. Resting more of his weight against you. “Always.”

Nobara catches your eye and discreetly vanishes. Smart girl.

You gently guide him toward the hallway with a soft tug on his wrist. “Let’s get you some air.”

He follows without resistance too warm, too loose, too compliant. You half expect him to stumble, but he doesn’t. He walks steady, silently, except for the way he breathes a little heavier when your hand stays in his.

You end up in a quiet spare room. The door clicks shut. The noise outside fades to a distant thump.

And Megumi… just looks at you.

Still flushed. Still soft. But there’s something underneath it now. Want.

He sways forward slightly. “You’re so pretty.”

You snort, sitting on the bed. “You’re so drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Prove it.”

He moves closer. Drops down beside you on the edge of the bed. Shoulders brushing. Knees knocking. You can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Then he looks at you like you’ve just said something sacred.

“I want to kiss you so bad right now,” he says, barely more than a whisper.

You go still. But you don’t move away.

You tilt your head, lips quirking. “So kiss me, then.”

He does.

And fuck, it’s a mess. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and open and needy. Like he’s been holding back for too long and now he’s unraveling in your hands.

His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp. He swallows the sound like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. His other hand finds your waist, then your thigh, gripping hard like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

You don’t stop him. Not yet.

Your hands slide up under his hoodie, palms dragging over heated skin. He groans and kisses you deeper, harder, like he needs to feel all of you at once.

His body shifts, thigh slotting between yours. You roll your hips against the hard line in his jeans before you even mean to, and he feels it. You know he does. His mouth breaks from yours with a ragged sound, forehead pressing to yours, panting.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I want you so bad.”

You can tell. It’s written in the way he kisses you again, open-mouthed, desperate, wet and hot, and messy. His hands explore more now, bolder, sliding up your spine, fingertips grazing the edge of your bra.

He wants more. He needs more. He starts to guide you back against the bed slow, shaking, like he’s asking without asking.

He wants your shirt off. He wants your mouth on his neck. He wants to see you, all of you. To have you cling to him the way he's aching to cling to you.

Then, your hand closes around his wrist. Firm. Still. “Megumi,” you breathe, lips still brushing his.

He freezes. Eyes wide. Wanting. Waiting. “Not like this.”

He swallows. Chest rising fast. His thumb strokes your waist like he doesn’t want to let go.

“But I-”

You hush him gently, sliding your hand up into his hair. “I know what you want.” He leans into your touch. Pathetic. Hungry. Yours.

“And I want it too,” you say softly.

His breath hitches. “But you’re drunk. And I need you to remember this for the right reasons.”

He whines. Actually whines. Quiet and low and so frustrated it breaks your heart.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth slow and sweet. “Next time,” you whisper. “When you ask sober.”

He groans, collapsing forward into your neck, burying his face in your shoulder. His arms wrap around you like they always wanted to. He’s shaking just a little.

You let him stay there.

And when he mumbles “Don’t go,” into your skin, so soft you almost miss it

Megumi doesn't remember falling asleep.

One moment, he's on his back in bed, heart still too loud from earlier at your apartment, the taste of you still caught on his lips, ghosting across his skin. Every time he closes his eyes, it floods back your hands, your mouth, the way you kissed him like you already knew how he liked to be kissed.

Like you've done it before.

So he doesn't fight sleep when it comes. He lets it have him.

And then

There is firelight.

And the scent of blood.

Not in the way that startles, but in the way that feels familiar. Like the thick weight of summer heat and iron on his tongue has always been part of his memory. Like waking up inside a body he doesn't question.

Because suddenly, he's not Megumi Fushiguro anymore. He is, but he isn't. He's older, not in just age but in weight. His hands are rougher. His right leg is gone below the knee

He's sitting on a stool inside a dim, canvas lined medical tent, the fabric walls swaying with the wind and moans of imjured men. A makeshift crutch leans against the cot beside him. His uniform's sleeves are rolled up, stained to the elbow, and he's stitching a man's abdomen with the kind of focus that's become instinct.

He used to be a fighter. Sharp with a blade, fast on his feet. But a mortar had taken his leg in the early days of the war, and after the fever broke and the pain dulled to a permanent throb, he had refused to go home. He couldn't swing a sword anymore but he could still save lives.

So he learned.

How to cauterize a wound, how to cut away rotted flesh. How to press two cracked ribs back into place with steady hands and a mouth full of apologies.

But lately, those hands have been drifting his attention, tugged by something else, someone else.

You always stand too still during roll call.

That’s what first catches his attention.

The other soldiers fidget wipe sweat from their brows, shift their stances, adjust their swords. But not you. You stand like you’re carved from stone, like you’re waiting for something to strike you. Like you want it to.

Megumi doesn’t know your name. He doesn’t ask. He’s not supposed to get involved not with the soldiers, not anymore. Not after he lost the leg.

But he watches.

From the infirmary tent, from the edge of the training grounds. On slow mornings when the drills are loud and the medic quarters are quiet, he takes his stool to the shade and lets his gaze wander. Just casually. Just enough.

Your movements are too clean. Your stance slightly off. And your voice, when it carries across the field, holds a softness no man around here should be brave enough to show. He catches it sometimes when you bark commands. In between the grunts, the steel, the blood.

There’s something wrong about you. Off.

But he never looks too long.

Because he knows better.

If a woman’s caught with forged documents, her death won’t be swift. And he’s seen enough carnage in this war to know what people do when they’re afraid of being fooled.

Still-

You fight like you’ve already died once.

You throw your body too hard into sparring drills. You don’t flinch when you're knocked down. You never hesitate.

That’s what gets to him the most.

Men on the field hesitate because they want to live. But not you.

You train like someone begging not to come back.

And though he doesn’t understand why, He can’t stop watching.

"Hold still," he mutters, adjusting the bandage on a soldier's thigh.

The boy flinches anyway, and Megumi clicks his tongue, refocusing.

He ties off the gauze, sets the salve aside, and leans back on his stool. His crutch is leaned against the cot, and the war drum echo of sparring rings in from across camp.

He doesn't mean to glance toward the training grounds again.

But he does.

You're back in the ring this time against

someone twice your size. Your helmet's askew, sweat darkens the collar of your uniform, and your sword arm moves with a speed that doesn't belong to someone trying to win.

It belongs to someone who no longer cares.

Steel clangs. Dirt kicks up. You take a blow to the ribs and don't react.

Megumi exhales slowly through his nose. His jaw ticks.

"Reckless idiot," he mutters under his breath, too low for the soldier on the cot to hear.

You stumble, straighten, and lunge again. There's a wildness in your posture, like your bones are brittle with something other than war. Something heavier.

Megumi doesn't know what it is.

But he knows what it looks like to train like that. He used to do it, too, before the injury. Before they pulled him off the field and told him he was useful in other ways now.

He sets the salve jar aside, wipes his hands on cloth, and tells himself he's not looking at you again.

He doesn't know your name.

You don't know he exists.

But still-

He watches.

A lull settles over the tent as the sun dips past the edge of the camp, shadows stretching long over bloodstained linen and crates of dwindling supplies. Megumi sits on the edge of his rickety stool, washing his hands in silence, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wrists aching.

The flap of the tent rustles.

“Got a gash on my thigh,” grunts a soldier, dragging himself in. “From drills, not glory. Don't laugh.”

Megumi doesn’t. He gestures for him to sit, already reaching for the stitching kit. “Lucky it wasn’t deeper.”

“Tell that to my pride.”

They sit in silence while Megumi works, the tension eased only by the low hiss of cloth being cleaned. The soldier watches him for a moment, then lets out a breath.

“Hey, you ever see that one?” he asks suddenly. “The quiet one. Keeps their helmet on even during mess. Kinda small, weird gait. Trains like he’s got something to prove.”

Megumi doesn’t look up. “No.”

The soldier chuckles under his breath. “You’d remember. Weird guy. Doesn’t talk. Fights like he’s got nothing left. Creeps me out sometimes like he doesn’t care if he dies.”

Megumi’s hands still for a moment, just a second.

The soldier winces as the needle bites skin. “Hell, sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”

“You didn’t.” But Megumi’s tone has changed, barely. Thoughtful. Quiet.

He finishes the stitches, wraps the bandage, and sends the soldier off with a muttered warning about reopening the wound.

When the flap closes again, the tent falls back into stillness.

Megumi leans back, elbow on one knees, staring at the tent’s far wall. The image forms unbidden, a silhouette on the edge of the training grounds. Slight frame. Controlled violence. Movements too fluid to be purely masculine, too angry to be self preserving.

Not his problem. Not his patient. Not his concern.

Still…

There’s something about the way you move.

Something he can’t stop noticing.

The war moves like a storm with no eye no pause. Days bleed into each other, soaked in red. Soldiers limp or are carried in, torn open, crying for mothers long buried. Megumi stitches flesh until it becomes instinct. Lost his leg long ago. Nearly lost his hands to frostbite last winter. He doesn’t feel the cold anymore, only the dull pressure of time. The ghosts never stop arriving.

Tonight, the air is thicker than usual.

Iron and ash curl through the canvas flaps. Somewhere, a shell hits too close dust rains from the ceiling, and the medic beside him flinches. Megumi doesn’t.

“Another one!” someone shouts, and it’s not unusual, until it is.

There’s a strange silence in the voices hauling the stretcher in. Urgency, but no shouting. The kind of quiet men use when something doesn’t make sense.

Megumi doesn’t look up at first. He’s elbow-deep in another man’s chest, blood pooling against gauze. But when they set the stretcher down near his station and the light catches on the splatter of red smeared across the soldier’s face, your face, he finally sees you.

Unconscious, maybe. No helmet. A soldier’s uniform clinging wet and too tight to a frame that.

His brain stutters.

He doesn’t understand at first. Just stares. Until his eyes follow the path of torn cloth along your torso, the shift in curvature where no man’s body would give like that. Your armor’s half, destroyed chest plate snapped from impact, belt twisted off and when he presses down to stop the bleeding, his hand catches on-

His stomach drops.

He freezes.

No one else sees it. They’re busy with triage, with shouting and bleeding and dying.

But Megumi sees you.

Sees what you are.

Not a boy. Not just another body thrown into this machine of death.

A woman.

In a place that will kill you if it knows.

He’s not breathing. He feels it.

You stir barely. Dried blood crusts in the corner of your mouth. One eye struggles to open, unfocused, dazed, pupils blown from pain but they still meet his. Your lips part, barely audible.

Your voice is low, broken, slurred from blood loss. “I started wars… for those beautiful eyes…”

The world stutters around him.

It’s ridiculous. You’re delirious. Dying.

But it cuts through him like a hot wire. The kind of thing people say in old poems, before they’re executed. The kind of thing that shouldn't be said in a tent full of dying men, to a boy who only knows how to stop the bleeding and not much else.

It’s not his problem.

It should be a report. A death sentence.

But something in him something long buried claws upward. Maybe it’s the flicker of stubborn heat in your voice. Maybe it’s the way you looked straight through him.

Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re going to die. And Megumi is so fucking tired of watching people die.

His hand presses firmly to your side, gauze already soaking through. He curses under his breath, grabbing thread.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he mutters. To himself. To the tent. To no one.

He works fast. Fixes what he can. Wraps you in silence. Hides the curve of your chest beneath new bandages, new linens.

Masks the truth in layers, shadows.

You don’t say anything else.

But your words are already carved somewhere in him.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this.

He only knows he can’t let you die.

Not like this.

The world outside the tent groans with war.

Metal clashes in the distance dull, relentless, like thunder muffled by cloth. Somewhere closer, a soldier screams. Another one begs. The scent of burning iron seeps through the seams of the medic’s tent, curling into the corners like smoke from a slow death.

And yet inside, it’s quiet. It’s just you. And him.

Megumi doesn’t move from the stool he dragged to your side. His hands are still sticky with your blood, even after scrubbing them. His fingers tremble with the ghost of stitching your skin shut, his palms remembering the tremor of your pulse as it fluttered, fragile, beneath your throat.

You're breathing. Shallow. Slow. Barely there.

He tells himself that's enough. He did his part.

But he doesn’t leave.

He sits there, elbow braced on his knee, jaw tight. His leg what’s left of it, aches from the way he’s bent. A phantom pain in a limb long gone, echoing through bone. He flexes his shoulders, tries to shake the tension.

Fails.

Because all he can think about is you.

The boy who wasn’t a boy at all.

The soldier he kept an eye on from a distance, drawn to your movements without knowing why. The way you fought like you had nothing to live for. Like dying was a choice. The grace in your violence. The fury. The grief.

And now you’re here. Armor stripped. Bandages blooming red around your middle. A woman.

A woman.

Megumi stares at you for a long time. Longer than he should.

You’re smooth beneath the grime. Lips parted just slightly, brow furrowed like even unconscious, you’re still fighting something.

He shouldn’t be looking at you like this. Not with that softness in his chest. Not with the way his eyes trace the curve of your jaw, the dark fan of your lashes, the smudged blood on your collarbone. Not with the way he keeps hearing your voice slur through the haze

He should’ve laughed. Should’ve dismissed it. You were bleeding out, half dead, delirious.

But he didn’t laugh. He couldn’t.

Because something about the way you said it stuck to him. Like a match held too long between trembling fingers.

He swallows hard. Glances at the flap of the tent. No one’s coming. No one knows what you are.

And he’s the only one who saw.

The only one who didn’t report you.

The only one who stayed.

He wipes a cloth across your forehead, slow. Careful. Tells himself it’s just to keep the fever down. Tells himself it means nothing that his fingers shake.

“You idiot,” he murmurs, barely audible. “You could’ve died.”

Maybe you still will.

But he won’t let it be tonight, not if he can help it.

Your breath hitches once. Then evens out again.

Megumi flinches.

He doesn’t know why it’s not like you said anything, not like you woke up or moved. But still, the sound hits him in the chest like shrapnel. He glances down at your lips again. Dry. Cracked. Smudged with something that might’ve been blood or ash or both.

There’s nothing pretty about war. But there’s something unbearable about the way softness still clings to you, even now.

He shouldn’t notice that.

He shouldn’t.

But he does.

And now he can’t stop.

Because you’re the only woman he’s seen up close in months. Years, maybe. He’s lost track. Most of the soldiers are men. The medics, too. The civilians? All long gone or long dead. And you, God, you’ve been right under his nose this whole time. Fighting in the mud. Training at dawn. Clashing swords with enemies twice your size and never giving an inch.

He thought you were reckless. Arrogant. Always getting dragged back into camp half broken, smeared in someone else’s blood.

Now he knows why.

And he wishes he didn’t.

Because the realization sits heavy in his chest. Because he remembers how his hands fumbled with your armor. How his breath caught when he saw the soft curve of your ribs, the unmistakable press of your chest, the swell of your hips beneath layers of blood soaked cloth.

He shouldn’t have looked. He shouldn’t have stared.

But he did.

And now it’s seared into him.

And worse, he wants to look again.

Not to gawk. Not like that. But just to see. To understand how someone like you exists in a place like this.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have survived this long. You shouldn’t have made it to his tent bleeding, delirious, looking at him with glassy eyes and saying something so goddamn romantic he thought for a second he imagined it.

He lets out a bitter breath. Drags a hand down his face. Who says something like that on their deathbed? Who fights like hell, masks themselves for years, survives war after war, and still clings to language like that?

You.

And that’s the problem. Because Megumi doesn’t believe in fate. Doesn’t believe in poetry. Doesn’t believe in much of anything anymore not with everything he’s lost.

But now you’re here.

And for some reason, it matters.

He watches the rise and fall of your chest. The little crease between your brows. The line of your neck, pulsing faintly with life.

“I should’ve reported you,” he murmurs, not even sure who he’s talking to himself or you. “They’d kill you for it.”

And he almost did. Had his hand on the tent flap. Had the words in his mouth. There’s a woman in the ranks.

But then your head had lolled to the side. Your lips moved. Your voice rasped and wrecked slipped out that impossible line.

And Megumi couldn’t do it.

Because he saw something in you that wasn’t just reckless or foolish or brave.

He saw someone like him.

Someone who kept surviving out of spite. Someone who didn’t want to be seen, not really, but still burned with the hope that someone might.

And now he’s the only one who knows. The only one who sees. His throat tightens.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath.

He doesn’t know if he’s cursing you or himself. Probably both.

You shift slightly in the cot just enough to draw his eyes again. And he hates it. Hates that he’s thinking about how pretty your eyelashes are, or how strange it is to see dirt smeared across collarbones instead of stubble. Hates the warmth in his gut that comes from proximity, not pity. Hates that part of him wants you to wake up not to thank him, not to explain yourself but just to look at him again. Like you did. Like it meant something.

I started wars for those beautiful eyes.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hard.

He’s so fucking tired.

And now he’s keeping secrets. And part of him is afraid terrified that if you die, no one else will know who you really were. That your name will get buried under the wrong one, your body burned with the rest, and your story will vanish like every other forgotten soldier.

So he stays.

Staring.

Wishing he were braver. Kinder. Colder. Anything but this.

Because you're not just bleeding out on his table anymore.

You're bleeding into him.

You cough yourself awake. It’s not gentle. It’s violent, like your body’s fighting for air after being drowned.

Megumi bolts upright from the stool at your side, startled out of a haze he hadn’t realized he’d slipped into.

Your eyes fly open. Disoriented. Dark and glassy.

And then they lock on him

.

Something shifts.

It’s just a second but it snags him. You stare at him like he’s a ghost. Like his face means something.

But before he can place it before he can even ask...you’re scowling.

“Fuck,” you rasp, trying to sit up. “Why- why am I still alive?”

“Careful,” Megumi says, pushing gently at your shoulder, “you shouldn’t...your stitches-”

You slap his hand away, teeth grit. “Why am I still alive?”

He’s stunned by how furious you sound.

And by how familiar your eyes look up close. The kind of familiarity that makes his throat tighten for reasons he doesn’t want to name.

“You were bleeding out,” he says evenly. “I stopped it.”

You look like you want to hit him.

Or yourself.

“Goddamn it,” you whisper, sinking back into the cot, face twisted in something bitter. “You should’ve let me bleed.”

Megumi exhales through his nose. His jaw ticks.

“I did think about it,” he admits. “But I couldn’t. I don’t- ” His voice falters. “I don’t know why.”

The tent crackles faintly with the sound of far-off gunfire and static through the field radio.

You stare past him, into some dark corner like it might swallow you whole.

He studies you.

The lines on your face. The tension in your jaw. The way your hand trembles as it fists the sheets, not from pain but restraint.

You’re angry. But not at him.

Still he feels it anyway.

“You’re lucky youre still alive” he mutters. “If I hadn’t gotten to you first you wouldve been slaughtered ”

You scoff. “Would’ve been easier.”

“That’s what you came here for?” he snaps. “To die?”

“Maybe.”

Your voice is low. Flat. Like you’re daring him to react. Megumi leans back, jaw tight. His one leg hurts from sitting too long, but he doesn’t move.

He looks at you again.

At the dried blood across your temple. The bruises along your arms. The soft shape of your mouth when you aren’t gritting your teeth. The curve of your lashes when your eyes flutter shut like you're trying to disappear.

You’re- fuck.

You’re beautiful.

And he hates that it’s the first thing that’s come into focus after hours of watching you sleep, waiting for your pulse to waver, waiting for your chest to stop moving.

Because it doesn’t mean anything, right?

You’re a soldier. Or- no. Not even that.

You’re a liar. Pretending to be one of them. Hiding right in front of him. Until your shirt tore in that blast and he saw what no one else did.

That you weren’t supposed to be here.

That you were a woman.

He’s not stupid. He knows what it means for you to risk that. The weight of it. The desperation.

But he doesn’t understand why.

Not yet.

Still you opened your eyes and looked at him like you knew him. Like he’d ruined everything just by being here.

“You got a name?” he asks finally.

You don’t answer right away.

He watches your throat work. Your jaw twitch.

Then you meet his eyes again and this time, it’s colder.

“Does it matter?”

Megumi swallows whatever softness he felt.

Maybe it doesn't.

He notices it how your eyes shift.

The way they scan him, calculating, assessing, as if you’re not just seeing him for the first time but recognizing something in the wreckage. Something about him.

Then your gaze drops.

To the end of his right leg. Or what’s left of it.

And for the first time, your anger cracks.

Just a little.

Your eyes soften. Not with pity but something gentler. Something he doesn’t deserve.

“What happened?” you ask quietly, like you’ve known him forever.

His brows twitch up. “Motar tore it up.”

You don’t say anything. Just nod. Like that’s enough.

He watches you shift on the cot still slow, still stiff with pain, but holding your own.

You shouldn’t be upright at all, honestly.

And yet here you are, like a stubborn nail.

“What about you?” he says, nodding faintly toward your chest. “Shrapnel nicked your lung. You’re lucky it didn’t collapse.”

“I’ve had worse,” you mutter.

He snorts. “Sure. That why you bled out face-first?”

You glare at him. He raises his brows in challenge There’s a pause. You tilt your head against the tent pole and exhale like you’re bracing for something.

Megumi watches you.

There’s something about you that keeps catching him off guard. The calm under the fury. The way you talk like you’ve already lived through worse than death.

And the way you looked at him when you woke up.

Like you’d seen that face a thousand times before.

He finally asks, “Why’d you come here?”

You go still.

Not defensive. Just quiet. Like the words were waiting to be pulled from somewhere deep.

You look at him for a long moment.

“I was running away,” you say finally. “From someone.”

A beat.

You lower your gaze, voice dropping to something darker. “Someone who keeps haunting me.”

The tent buzzes with silence.

Megumi doesn’t know what he expected.

But not that. Not something that sounds like memory. Like grief. He swallows hard. “You wanted to die.”

You don’t confirm it.

You don’t have to.

It’s in the way your eyes drift toward the flaps of the tent like you’re still half in the dirt.

But then you turn your head, back to him. And your expression shifts again measured, a little too calm.

“You gonna tell someone?” you ask, tone light. “About what I am?”

He meets your gaze. Holds it. Shakes his head once. “No.”

You stare at him like you don’t believe it.

Then, “Why not?”

It’s the first time he really looks at you not just the bruises and blood, but you. The strange weight in your stare. The familiarity he keeps trying to ignore.

He doesn’t have an answer.

So he just shrugs.

“Guess I didn’t want to lose someone withlut knowing their name.”

Your face flickers.

And this time it’s not anger that rises behind your eyes.

It’s grief.

Old and quiet and bottomless.

But you don’t speak again.

You just look at him.

He doesn’t know when it started.

Not the war. Not the pain. That was always there, like the breath before screaming.

But this you this ache he carries in the soft parts of himself… he doesn’t remember the first time it made a home in him.

It wasn’t when you woke up. Not even when you bled out on his cot, half-conscious and thrashing. No he was too caught in the moment then. Too desperate to keep her alive.

But after?

After you woke?

After you looked at him with something hollow and furious in your eyes something ancient?

Something changed.

You pretended it hadn’t.

Went right back to wrapping your chest, right back to slipping your voice into deeper tones when others passed. Right back to silence. Control. Disappearing.

But he saw it now.

The way you flinched when someone called you “kid.” The way your eyes hardened when someone barked an order too loud. The way your hands moved like a soldier’s, but your mouth said nothing unless it had to.

You didn’t speak to him unless it was necessary. You made sure of that. Kept your distance. Kept your dignity.

But he noticed when you limped.

He noticed when your left shoulder hung lower than the right too many hits, too many nights without proper bandages.

And when you came back bruised, blood dried under your collar?

He treated you anyway.

Even when you told him not to.

Even when you said you could handle it yourself.

Even when you spat, “Why do you care?”

Because he did. Against his will, against his logic. Against everything war had made him bury he did.

And somewhere in the stretch of weeks that followed between drills and raids and smoke rising black into a washed-out sky he began to notice more.

The curve of your lip when you held in a retort.

The way your throat moved when you swallowed back words too heavy to carry.

The quick flick of your eyes across his body before landing on the leg he didn’t have anymore like you already knew the story.

He caught himself watching you in the quiet moments. Just watching.

When you cleaned your rifle.

When you tightened the straps of your vest.

When you walked past him and didn’t look and something in his chest ached at your absence of attention.

It was stupid. You made herself clear.

You wanted nothing from him.

And still-

He found himself replaying your voice in his head. The way you asked, soft but not gentle, “What happened?” after your gaze landed on the space where his leg used to be.

How your voice had dipped, casual and familiar, like you asked that question once before in another life.

How your anger wasn’t just rage, but grief dressed in armor.

He doesn’t know what it means.

Only that he waits now.

He waits to see you in the yard again. Waits to hear you call out a warning during drills. Waits for the moments when their hands brush by accident and you pull away like he burns.

He waits to be near you, even if you never wants him close.

And maybe that’s what falling in love is, out here.

Not flowers or confessions. Not touches or names.

Just silence.

Just yearning.

Just watching the one thing you were never meant to keep, and hoping somehow that they stay anyway.

You come in bleeding.

Not limping, not groaning, not asking for help. Just… bleeding. Like it's something you plan to fix yourself. Like you’re still trying to stay invisible even when you're covered in your own blood.

Megumi doesn't say anything at first.

Just sets his book down. Quiet. Careful.

You glance at him once, brief and unreadable, before you start peeling off your jacket. You try to hide the way your hands shake, the way you can’t reach the gash along your side. You’ve always hated showing weakness.

But he already knows.

And when your knees almost give out halfway to the cot, he’s there. Steadying you. Touching your waist like it’s instinct like he’s done it before. One hand on your waist the other on his makeshift crutch.

You flinch.

But you don’t pull away.

He guides you down. Doesn’t ask for permission. Doesn’t joke or scold or soften it with pleasantries. He just grabs the med kit and kneels in front of you like it’s a routine.

Only it’s not.

Not to him.

Because he’s wanted to touch you since you came back into the camp. Since you eyed him like a threat and called him soft with that sharp tongue of yours. Since you let him treat your wounds and didn’t thank him, but stayed. Since you showed up in the middle of the night, bruised and hurting and his.

He wanted to kiss you then. He wants to kiss you now.

He doesn’t know when it started. Only that it’s in everything now how he hears your voice even when you’re gone, how he memorizes the way you breathe when you’re angry, how every glance you throw his way feels like it means something.

Like maybe… maybe you want him too.

“You need stitches,” he murmurs, pulling gauze from the kit. “Lie back.”

You grunt. “You always this bossy?”

“Only when people bleed all over my floor.”

You snort. It’s soft. Tired.

But it still stirs something in him.

He presses the gauze to your side and watches you flinch again. Not from pain at least not the physical kind. It’s something else. Something you’re trying to swallow.

“Let me do this,” he says.

You let him.

And the quiet stretches.

You watch him. He can feel it your eyes on him like heat. He doesn’t look up, because if he does, he might do something stupid. Something selfish. Something he won’t be able to take back.

Like kiss you.

God, he wants to kiss you.

Wants it in a way that hurts.

He should say something clinical. Should change the subject. Should ask about the mission or make some sarcastic comment to fill the silence.

But he doesn’t.

He finishes tying off the bandage, sets the gauze aside, and says soft, like a secret,

“You scare the shit out of me.”

You blink.

He shrugs, but his voice stays low. “You walk in half-dead like it’s nothing. You don’t ask for help, but you always end up here. You don’t want to be seen, but you look at me like you’ve known me your whole life.”

Your jaw tightens.

He finally looks at you.

And it hits him all at once how close you are. How worn you look. How much he wants to pull you in and keep you.

He swallows. Hard.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

You don’t.

So he leans in.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough, either. It’s something raw. Something desperate. A kiss like a whisper of something lost, something ruined, something he never got to have.

He doesn’t expect you to kiss back.

But he hopes.

For one second just one your breath stutters. Your hands don’t push him away.

Then they do.

You shove him. Harder than necessary. And your voice shakes when you say, “Don’t.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t apologize.

He just watches you stand, fury in your eyes and grief under your skin. You hold your side like it’s all that’s keeping you together.

Then you walk out.

Fast. Bloody. Gone.

Megumi stays where he is. Breathing hard. Heart breaking loud in his chest. But he doesn’t regret it. Because he meant it.

Because loving you feels like something he’s already done a many times in another life and he’s doing it again now, even if it ruins him.

It’s been three days since you walked out.

Three days of silence. Three days of him replaying every second your flinch, your voice, the kiss. Wondering if he crossed a line. If he imagined the way your hands trembled. If he broke something he’ll never get back.

He’s been sleeping in the infirmary again. Not because he has to. Because it’s the only place that still smells like you.

He doesn’t expect the tent to open.

Not now. Not after midnight. Not after three days of pretending he’s fine.

But it does.

Soft. Slow.

And then you’re there.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. Just sits on the cot, frozen because he’s not sure if you’re real or if he’s finally snapped from the waiting.

You don’t say anything.

You just walk to him. Quiet. Careful. Like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you’re too loud.

He watches every step like a man trying not to breathe underwater.

And then you kneel.

Right in front of him.

Your fingers brush his leg. The one that ends in phantom ache and memory. He twitches, but doesn’t pull away.

You look up at him, eyes wet but steady. Then your hand slides beneath his thigh, adjusting it. Gentle. Familiar. Like you’ve done it a hundred times. Like it doesn’t scare you. Like it never did.

And that’s when it breaks.

His composure. His doubt. The pain he kept locked behind his ribs. “You came back,” he says, like a confession.

You nod.

“I didn’t think you would.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I didn’t think I could.”

He doesn’t ask why.

Because your hand is already on his jaw. And your thumb is brushing the corner of his mouth like you’re memorizing him all over again. Like you missed him. Like you love him.

And then you kiss him.

Not urgently. Not in apology.

Soft. Steady. Like a promise that’s been buried under lifetimes. His hands find your back. Your waist. The back of your neck. Anywhere he can hold you and convince himself you’re not a dream.

You kiss him like you’ve waited years.

And maybe you have.

He lets himself fall into it. Lets his lips part under yours. Lets his heart race too fast. Lets his breath hitch when you whisper against his mouth, against his skin, against the place in him that never stopped hoping.

“I love you.”

His throat catches.

“I always will,” you say. “Even when I run. Even when I die. Even when you forget.”

He’s shaking.

You hold him like you’re trying to keep him together. Like you know what the waiting has done to him.

Your hands are in his hair. On his chest. Around his neck. You kiss his temple, his cheek, the place just below his ear.

“You’re my home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t cry.

But something breaks open inside him. Quietly. Sweetly.

Like the ache is finally being kissed away.

And he thinks if you left again, it would kill him.

But if you stay...

God, if you stay He’d love you like this forever.

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

You wait until the last sword is sheathed, until the fires burn low, until the others have crawled to their mats and the shadows are thick enough to swallow a body whole. And then you slip into the darkness.

You never say where you're going.

But he knows.

You find him behind the supply tent, or near the river, or sometimes under the old hollow tree behind the medic’s hut where the moss grows thick and the air tastes like rain. He’s always there. Waiting. Watching.

He can’t help it.

He touches your jaw like a prayer. Kisses your mouth like he’s parched. Lets his hands roam beneath your bandages like he’s learning you from memory like if he doesn't hold you now, the next time they’ll carry your body in on a stretcher.

There are bruises on your ribs again. A split at your brow. You never flinch when he cleans the blood, but your eyes flicker when he reaches for the salve because you know what comes next.

Because he always leans in after.

Because he always whispers your name, the real one, the one no one else is allowed to know.

And you let him.

You let him even though it’s wrong. Even though it’s dangerous. Even though the wrong person catching wind of this could see your throat slit by morning.

You still let him.

There’s a moment always a moment when he braces his weight against you, left leg firm, right thigh hollow beneath your palm. You never say a word about it. Just reach down and adjust him, steady him like you’ve always known how. Your touch lingers. He lets it.

You lean close, and he can’t stop the way his breath shudders when your lips brush his throat.

“Someone will see,” you whisper.

“Let them,” he answers, reckless. “Let them see I love you.”

Your mouth parts, but he kisses you before you can speak. And gods, it’s sweet. It’s ruinous. He doesn’t even care that you might bite back again. That you might run. That you might shove him away and vanish into morning like you did last time.

Because he remembers the last kiss. The one you gave him.

Because he still wakes up with your hands on his face and your mouth on his.

Because in all the horror and rot of this place, you are the only softness left.

And so he kisses you like that. Like you’re hope. Like you’re the only thing that’s still warm.

Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt. His palm finds your neck. You’re breathing too hard. His leg shakes beneath you both, so you steady him again softly, without thought, the way you always do.

He lets out a breath, forehead pressed to yours, voice barely there.

“You’re going to get us both killed.”

You smile, slow and tired and far too fond. “You’re the one who keeps showing up.”

He grins despite himself. “I lost my leg, not my heart.”

You go still.

Then your mouth finds his again, hungry and gentle all at once. Like you know it’s not forever. Like this is the only now you get.

And maybe it is.

So you kiss until you forget where the danger ends and where he begins.

And he lets himself have you. Just for tonight. Just for this breath. Just for this impossible, aching, beautiful love you’ve pressed into the hollow space of his chest and made home.

The air smelled like blood and fire.

Megumi didn’t notice the pain at first.

Maybe because it had been hurting all day. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.

The medical tent was half-torn from shelling. One side caved in. Bodies outside. Screams fading. Dirt soaking red beneath him, thick and hot and endless.

His hands were covered in someone else’s blood.

Maybe yours.

Maybe his.

He couldn’t tell.

Everything was smoke.

Everything was breaking.

Then Footsteps.

Frantic. Uneven.

He turned his head, breath frozen in his throat.

And there you were.

You were running toward him.

Through smoke and chaos and death, with one hand clutching your side, the other swinging wild as you limped forward. Your coat was ripped open. One leg dragged useless behind you. Blood poured from a wound on your jaw, and still you ran.

Megumi blinked.

His vision doubled.

Your name caught in his mouth, but it didn’t come out.

You were crying. Your face—grimed with ash, streaked with blood twisted in something more than pain. Desperation. Grief.

You looked like the world was ending.

And he realized-

It was.

You collapsed to your knees beside him, arms hooking under his shoulders. Your whole body trembled from exertion, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t flinch. You pulled him upright like you’d done it before. Like you’d carried him through fire in another life.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he rasped. His voice was thin. Useless.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I had to come for you.”

Your hands were shaking as you gripped him, breath rattling in your chest. Every time you moved, you winced but you kept going. Pulled his weight against you. Stood. Walked.

Your leg wasn’t holding you. You were half dragging yourself across the ruined tent floor, taking each step like it cost you something permanent.

But you still did it.

You walked for both of you making up for his missing leg. Megumi couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t speak.

All he could do was feel the weight of you beneath him warm, real, familiar in a way that terrified him. Like he’d always known your shape.

Then movement. Behind you.

Too fast. Too close.

“Look out!”

He didn’t think.

He threw his weight forward, shoved you away. Your body hit the ground hard.

And the blade meant for you...

Drove into him.

For a moment, everything stopped.

His breath left him like a gasp punched from his lungs. Pain blinding, sharp lit up his chest. Then dulled. Then faded.

He fell.

The earth rushed up fast and too far.

The sky spun. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and hot.

And then your hands again.

On his face. His shoulders. His chest.

“No,” you whispered. Over and over. “No, please, please stay with me.”

Your voice was shaking. Broken. Choked.

You pressed your forehead to his, as if closeness could keep him tethered. Your hands tried to hold him together like you’d done this before. Like you'd lost him once and swore never again.

Your blood mixed with his.

You looked at him like he was everything.

“I thought I could change it,” you said.

Your voice cracked on the last word.

Megumi blinked, slow. What were you saying?

"Youre not even cursed” you breathed, barely audible. “You were supposed to live. I did everything right this time. I- I kept my head down, I stayed close, I didn’t run- I thought maybe, maybe this time you’d stay.”

He couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

But god, he could see you.

He saw the panic in your eyes, the way your fingers pressed into his shoulders, the way you were trying to memorize him in the seconds left.

He should’ve been scared. But all he felt was...Peace. Because it was you.

Because if this was the end, and you were here, he could take it.

You looked at him like you’d watched him die before. Like this wasn’t the first battlefield. Like he’d left you again and again and again.

And now he finally understood the ache in your voice when you said, “This is my fault. I always lose you.” Tears slipped down your cheeks.

And he wanted to say, No. Not your fault.

He wanted to reach for you. Wanted to take your hand. Wanted to promise he’d stay next time. Wanted to believe there’d be a next time.

But he couldn’t move. So he looked at you. One last time. And saw everything. Not the blood. Not the battlefield. Not the end.

He saw you.

Beautiful.

Even now. Especially now. Your hands on his face. Your voice breaking. Your grief old, deep, ancient.

Like it had lived in you for centuries.

You leaned closer, and your lips brushed his temple. “Why do you always leave me?” you whispered.

Megumi wanted to cry.

He wanted to beg forgiveness for every life he couldn’t remember, every promise he must’ve made and broken, every death that left you alone.

But the light in his eyes was already fading.

You were the last thing he saw.

You. And only you.

And then.

Nothing.

He woke with a gasp.

The ceiling above him was blank. His sheets tangled. His shirt soaked. His chest ached like something had torn loose inside it.

He sat up.

The dream already slipping. Vanishing.

But something stayed. A whisper. Your name a heat in his ribs. His hands trembled. There was no blood. No battlefield. No smoke. No you.

But god, it hurt.

Like something precious had been ripped away from him mid-sentence. Like a promise broken across time. He pressed a hand to his chest, stared at the dark ceiling.

After a moment of breathing he checked his phone, a message from you.

'Thanks for the kiss earlier, come by tomorrow?'

The bell rings like it’s pulling a curtain down on a play.

A soft, metallic clang that vibrates against the cheap ceiling tiles, signaling the end of something not just class, but the strange, delicate stillness that always exists when you and Megumi sit near each other without speaking.

You don't move at first. You take your time slipping your notebook into your bag, fingers trailing over the cover. Around you, chairs scrape the linoleum and sneakers scuff against the floor, but it all feels far away. You're used to letting people leave first. It’s easier not to be noticed that way.

Megumi, of course, leaves too. You assume.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, the strap catching on your jacket sleeve, and when you finally step out into the hallway, you don’t expect him to be there.

But he is.

Leaning against the wall just beside the classroom door, one foot propped up behind him like he’s trying too hard to look relaxed. His hair still falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t brush it away. He’s staring down at his phone, not typing just holding it, like maybe it gives him something to do with his hands.

Your eyes skim over him once, then away.

You don’t stop.

You pass him with the measured steps of someone who doesn’t plan on making this easy, gaze forward, chin lifted. You count three steps.

“Wait,” he says.

It’s not loud. Not urgent.

You glance back over your shoulder. Megumi isn’t looking at his phone anymore. He’s looking at you, almost like he’s surprised the word even came out of his mouth.

You tilt your head slightly. “Something wrong?”

He straightens up a little, clears his throat. His hands are already in his pockets, like they’re safer there.

“I was just wondering if you were doing anything after school,” he says, way too casual. Like this is a normal thing for him to ask. Like youre friends or more.

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“For the project,” he says quickly. “Thought we could get some work done.”

You pause. The hallway around you is loud and narrow laughing students, slamming lockers, someone yelling. It all feels like a blur compared to the quiet awkwardness between you two.

“We were going to meet in the library,” you remind him.

“I just thought maybe somewhere else.” His eyes flick to the floor. “Somewhere quieter.”

You narrow your gaze, suspicious but amused. “Quieter than the library?”

His ears go pink.

“I meant… somewhere private,” he says.

You blink.

A beat.

“Private?” you echo, lips quirking. “Megumi. Be honest. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Then you laugh a short, surprised sound that slips out before you can stop it. He flinches, but not in a hurt way. More like he knows he walked straight into that one.

He groans and looks away immediately, exasperated. “No. God. That’s not- I just thought it’d be easier to focus without distractions.”

“Mhm.”

His jaw flexes. “You’re enjoying this.” You’re grinning now, just a little.

He sighs, defeated, then glances up at you again and for a second, he’s not awkward. Just earnest. Still quiet, still closed-off, but there’s something open in his eyes. Vulnerable, maybe. Or uncertain in a way that matters.

You inhale softly. Then shrug. “My place is close. Ten-minute walk.”

His brows lift, surprised.

“It’s private,” you add with a teasing lilt. “No distractions. Unless you count my ac.”

“You sure?”

You nod. “No one’s home. You’ll survive.” There’s a pause. And you realize he’s hesitating not because he doesn’t want to go, but because he knows this means something. This is you letting him in. Not just to your house, but to the version of yourself you don’t usually let people see.

He nods. “Alright.”

You turn toward the stairs, adjusting your bag strap again. “Let’s go, so we can be in private.” You teased.

He groans behind you. “I really hate you sometimes.”

And still he follows.

You glance over your shoulder, walking backward now, a smirk curling on your lips. “You wish.”

The school fades behind you, swallowed by the early afternoon blur of traffic noise and distant shouts from the soccer field. The sun hangs lazily above the rooftops, casting your overlapping shadows long on the sidewalk. You walk side by side, a pace or two apart. Not close enough to brush shoulders, but close enough to feel him there.

For a while, it’s quiet.

The kind that doesn’t press. The kind that settles between people who are still figuring out how to be near each other without needing to fill every space. Then Megumi speaks.

“You know,” he starts, voice low, thoughtful. “I realized something.”

You glance over at him, brows raised slightly. “Yeah?”

“You don’t have a car.”

He doesn’t look at you. He’s squinting forward, eyes narrowed against the sun. His hands are back in his pockets.

You blink. “That’s what you realized?”

“I mean, think about it.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “You walk everywhere. Every time we meet up, you’re either already on foot or you say something like ‘It’s not that far’ or ‘I don’t mind walking.’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drive.”

You snort, amused. “Maybe I’m just really committed to the pedestrian lifestyle.”

“Maybe,” he mutters. “Or maybe your car just doesn’t exist.”

You shrug. “It’s true. I don’t have one.”

He looks at you now, almost surprised you confirmed it so easily. “Why not?”

You tip your head back, watching a bird cross overhead in a lazy arc. “Lots of reasons. Don’t really need one. I live close to everything. Plus, I like walking. Makes me feel like I’m not just passing through everything, y’know? Like I actually exist in it.”

You both fall into another stretch of silence, but it’s softer now. A little warmer.

Megumi is quiet for a second, processing. “Of course you’d say something poetic about walking,” he says eventually, deadpan.

The buildings thin as you get closer to your block, the world slowly quieting around you. You can feel the shift in him less guarded, like the rhythm of walking beside you has stripped some of the stiffness from his spine. His arm brushes yours once, maybe by accident most likely not.

He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

You reach the worn steps of your building, the sun casting long shadows across the cracked concrete. The hum of the city feels distant here, muffled behind the heavy front door.

Megumi pauses beside you, hesitating for a moment before asking, his voice low and careful, “Do you… live alone?”

You fumble with your keys, the metal cold against your fingers. You don’t look at him right away.

“Yeah,” you say finally, sliding the door open. “No siblings. Just me.”

He steps inside behind you, The door shuts softly behind him.

“Must be... quiet,” he says, voice almost uncertain.

You shrug, hanging your jacket on the hook by the door. “It can be. Sometimes too quiet. Mom’s a doctor works crazy hours no time to visit. I’m used to having the place to myself.”

You glance at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. “Sometimes. But it’s also nice not having to answer to anyone.”

Megumi lingers by the door, hands tucked into his pockets. “That must be lonely.”

He nods slowly, eyes thoughtful. “I guess it’s good, having a space like that. Somewhere you can just be.”

You walk down the narrow hallway to the small living room, the afternoon light spilling through the window. You flop onto the couch, and Megumi follows, sitting down on the edge of the seat opposite you.

His eyes flick around the room, taking it all in rows of books stacked on a battered wooden shelf, some leaning precariously, a small turntable nestled in the corner, next to a neat stack of vinyl records with worn covers. A few framed photos sit scattered across the windowsill mostly landscapes and old concert shots, nothing too personal. No family photos.

There’s a quiet hum of life here, even in the stillness.

Megumi’s gaze lingers on the cluttered coffee table, where notebooks and loose papers mingle with a half-finished cup of tea. You notice him picking up a record, running his fingers over the cover with an almost reverent curiosity.

“You really like music,” he says softly, not looking at you.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. It’s kind of a constant. Helps me...focus. Keeps things from getting too quiet.”

He studies the record a moment longer before setting it down carefully, as if it might shatter. His eyes meet yours briefly tentative, as if he’s unsure whether to say more.

After a pause, he asks, “Do you spend a lot of time here alone?”

You shrug, looking away for a second. “Enough. It’s not bad. I’m used to it, the rest of my time is at school or the record shop.”

Megumi doesn’t press, but you catch the shadow behind his eyes, like he understands loneliness better than he lets on.

The room feels smaller now, but warmer. Somehow, sharing this quiet space shifts the weight between you, less distance, more something fragile beginning to form.

You clear your throat, nudging the conversation back. “So… project stuff. You ready to get to work?”

Megumi nods, pulling out his notebook too. But the way he glances around the room once more before focusing makes you think this moment will linger longer in both your minds than any project ever could.

You both settle in without saying much. It’s not awkward just that quiet concentration that settles between people who are used to keeping to themselves. Megumi flips open his notebook while you grab your laptop from the arm of the couch, balancing it on your knees.

“I was thinking,” you start, “we should open with the part about Heloise’s letters. It sets the tone better than Abelard’s side he’s kind of...dry.”

Megumi hums in agreement, already jotting something down. “Her letters are more emotional. More-” He hesitates, searching for the word. “Exposing. Makes the tragedy feel lived in, not just written about.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

“I’m not useless,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. “Didn’t say you were. Just...I didn’t think this would matter to you.”

He shrugs. “It didn’t. Then it did.”

You watch him for a second, trying to read into that. But he doesn’t elaborate. Just flips a page and starts outlining his points for the presentation slides.

You refocus too, syncing your document with his notes. You’ve developed a rhythm by now, he builds the framework, you fill it in with nuance, emotion, context. It works, strangely well. Like you’ve been working together longer than a few weeks.

“Visuals?” you ask.

“I found some manuscript scans and some modern portraits. We could contrast them old world versus romanticism.”

“Ooh, yeah. Tragedy as myth versus tragedy as feeling.”

You share a small smile, and it’s...nice. Warm. Like something between you has softened without either of you meaning it to. Not like the bickering from when you first started.

Megumi glances up at you. “Exactly.”

You lean back for a second, stretching your arms above your head. “If we don’t get an A on this, I’m rioting.”

“You mean we’re rioting,” he corrects.

“Right, of course. Co-dependent academic sabotage.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath and nudges his notebook toward you. “Your turn.”

You take it from him, but your eyes linger on the edge of his expression the faint, rare smile that sticks even after he turns back to the screen.

You return the notebook to him, your fingers brushing, and this time, he doesn’t flinch.

“I fixed the citation on the second slide,” you say, tugging your knees up onto the couch.

He takes it with a little half-smile barely there, but it lingers longer than usual.

Megumi glances at the page, then back at you. “Yeah. I figured you would.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re... a control freak,” he says, matter of factly.

Your mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence, but there’s that twitch in the corner of his mouth the start of a real grin. “You fixed it before I even got a chance to open the file. That’s kind of the definition.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but it’s hard to hold the glare when he looks so pleased with himself. “Coming from the guy who color-coded our outline.”

“That was efficiency.”

“It was neurotic.”

He snorts, actually snorts, and you blink because you’re not used to hearing him laugh so freely.

And he must catch your surprise, because he sits back, eyes still on you. Something soft settles behind his expression.

“What?” he says, voice quieter now.

“Nothing,” you murmur. “You just… smiled.”

“Don’t act like it’s a rare event.”

“It is.”

You both fall silent for a moment, but it’s not heavy. It’s… charged. Warm.

He’s still looking at you more openly now, like the act of teasing you cracked something open in him and he doesn’t want to shut it again.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “This might be a weird time to bring it up, but… you looked really pretty. At the party last week.”

Your breath stutters. You didn’t expect him to say it not so plainly.

“...Oh.”

“I mean, you look good now, too,” he adds, rambling a little. “But at the party I- uh- I noticed. Noticed more. Not just the outfit or anything, I mean, the way you… god, never mind.”

You’re staring.

“You’re blushing,” you say, trying to sound smug, but your voice is too soft to sell it.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He groans and drags a hand over his face. “This is why I don’t say things.”

He glares at you, but his ears are red.

“No, no, you’re doing great,” you say, grinning now. “Please continue. I want to hear more about how good I looked.”

Chasing him.

You can’t remember the last time you felt like this teasing, light, safe. The lives before didn’t have this kind of stillness. There was always something chasing you.

But this version of him is sitting across from you, blushing and smiling and trying so hard to be brave in his quiet way.

“You wanna rehearse now?” you ask. He shrugs. “Yeah, but if I mess up, you’re not allowed to tease me.”

“I make no promises.”

He chuckles, leaning forward to grab the laptop. His shoulder brushes yours, close, familiar.

The laptop warms between you, screen tilted toward both of you as you scroll to the slides. Megumi shifts beside you on the couch, and his knee bumps yours just a little.

You start with the intro, reading from the script you’d drafted together.

“‘Love letters in exile, a study of Abelard and Heloise’s epistolary connection,’” you recite, your voice low, steady.

Megumi clears his throat, picking up the next line. “‘Their correspondence, spanning years of separation and tragedy, reveals the emotional gravity of forbidden love.’”

You nod approvingly. “You sound like you actually care.”

He glances sideways. “I do.”

You don’t expect the quiet honesty of it. It shuts your teasing right up for a second.

“…Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”

You run through the first slide and halfway into the second, but he keeps stumbling on the word “transcendental.”

“That’s the third time,” you say, lips twitching.

“It’s a dumb word,” he mutters. “Who even picked that-”

“You did.”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. It messes it up a little, and you absolutely notice.

“You’re nervous,” you say, nudging his knee with yours again. “Megumi Fushiguro. The guy who got into an argument with Nanami over historiography methods. Nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” he says, and even though it’s a lie, it comes out sounding a little cocky.

You smirk. “Prove it.”

He tilts his head, gaze dropping to your mouth for half a second too long.

Then, still holding your stare, he reads his next line flawless pronunciation, perfect cadence.

You blink. “…That was hot.”

He chokes.

You laugh, covering your face with your hand, because you didn’t mean to say that out loud, but it’s too late. His face is red, but his eyes are bright, and he looks annoyed, embarrassed, and way too pleased.

“You can’t just say that in the middle of a presentation,” he mutters, not meeting your gaze.

“Sorry,” you say, and you’re not sorry. “It was. You looked very academic.”

“...Is that a thing now?”

“I have weird tastes.”

You’re both smiling too hard to keep going, but you try.

You scoot closer so you can read from the same screen, and your shoulder brushes his chest this time. His hand is resting near the trackpad, and you reach to scroll down, your fingers grazing the back of his.

He doesn’t move.

You don’t either.

You both pretend to keep reading.

The silence stretches soft, unspoken.

You shift just slightly, leaning into him under the pretense of seeing the next line. He tilts the screen down for you, like instinct. His voice is a little lower now, more relaxed.

He reads again. “‘Even through centuries, the letters echo with longing. They offer not resolution, but the ache of persistence.’”

You swallow.

“Megumi.”

“Yeah?”

You don’t know what you were going to say. Maybe just his name. Maybe “I’m scared.” Maybe “don’t die this time.”

But instead, you say, “Let’s run it again.”

He nods once, slow.

And this time, when he shifts closer, his thigh presses against yours and stays there.

The sun sets and you finish the last line of the last slide. Silence follows thick, warm, buzzing with the kind of shared relief that feels almost like victory. You shut the laptop gently, the click of it closing louder than it should be.

“That’s it,” you murmur.

Megumi exhales, head dropping back against the couch. “Finally.”

You smile, leaning back too. “We finally finished it.”

“Yeah.” His voice is softer now. “We really did.”

A quiet beat passes between you. You both stay where you are, bodies close but not touching anymore. His thigh isn’t against yours now, but you can still feel the echo of it, the weight of where he’d been.

You sit forward, stretching your arms over your head. Your back arches, spine popping slightly, and you sigh at the release.

Megumi watches.

You don’t see it feel it, maybe. But his gaze follows the line of your arms, the tilt of your neck, the way your shirt rides up slightly at the waist.

And when you sit back again, turning toward him, you notice his eyes aren’t on your face.

“You good?” you ask, voice laced with playful suspicion.

He blinks. Looks away a second too late. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Right,” you say, drawing out the word.

He rakes a hand through his hair again. “What?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“You’re acting normal,” he counters, tone dry. “That’s weirder.”

You snort, nudging his knee with yours again. “That’s fair.” The air shifts again. Still light, but no longer funny. Something lingers beneath it now unfinished sentences and almost confessions.

You lean your head against the back of the couch, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

“You’re quieter than usual,” you say.

He hums. “I was thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

You smile at the ceiling. “What about?”

There’s a pause, too long. Then,

“…You probably.”

Your breath catches.

But you don’t move. Neither does he. You turn your head, slowly.

He’s already looking at you.

And it’s different now. His eyes aren’t guarded. There’s something bare there, like he’s trying not to fall into something he already stepped into hours ago.

You’re still leaning back, the laptop closed, the night still quiet.

But nothing feels quiet anymore.

You lean back again, head resting lightly against the couch, eyes on the ceiling, heart a little too loud in the silence.

Megumi’s leg brushes against yours again, slower this time, like he’s testing the space between you, measuring the possibility.

His voice is low, careful, almost hesitant. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You don’t turn to look at him. “Say what?”

“That.” His gaze drops just a little, but the weight of it stays. “The way you look at me.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, but your throat tightens. The air between you feels dense, charged.

You finally meet his eyes, slow and steady. “What do you want me to say?”

He exhales, a breath caught deep, as if he’s fighting the pull of all the words he could say but doesn’t.

“I want you,” he says simply, voice raw with something unspoken something older than this moment.

You feel the confession like heat rising in your chest.

His hand moves, almost without thinking, resting on the couch just inches from yours. The quiet invitation hangs there close enough to reach, but still a choice.

You hold your breath.

He swallows. “If you want me to stop, just say.”

But you don’t say anything.

Instead, your fingers twitch, inching toward his.

The space between you vanishes in a single breath.

It starts slow.

His lips brush yours cautious, almost reverent, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want this.

But then you press into him. Let him taste your answer. And he kisses you back with hesitation, with trembling hands, like someone who wants to be good for you.

You let him try.

You let him try to kiss you like he means it, let him cup your cheek, angle your face just right like he’s seen it in a dream. His mouth parts against yours, breath hot and uneven but he doesn’t know what to do with it. Not really.

But you do.

You know him better than he knows himself in this life, in the last, in every one before.

So you grab his jaw.

You tilt his face up to yours like he’s a worshipper and you’re the altar. Your mouth slants over his with force, wet and eager and aching. Your tongue slides in deep, and he gasps, that broken, sweet sound that’s always been yours to pull from him.

You chase it.

You kiss him the way you know he likes to be kissed not soft, but starved. The way he never asks for, but melts beneath. The way that makes him whimper through his teeth and clutch at your waist like he might fall apart.

Your lips drag down, over the edge of his mouth, his jaw. You suck at the spot beneath his ear and he shudders. His fingers tighten in your shirt like he’s drowning.

He’s breathing hard now. Not saying a word. Just letting you.

Because he’s wanted this, you longer than he’s willing to admit.

You move to straddle him, and he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on your hips, sliding up, grasping like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. You rock down against him and he groans into your mouth, hips jerking up beneath you instinctual, helpless.

His breath is ragged when he tries to take the kiss back tries to lead.

You let him for half a second.

You let him mouth at your bottom lip, kiss you deeper, sloppier. But he’s too careful, too hesitant. So you swallow the control back tilt your head and kiss him open, unfiltered. You lick into his mouth like you know exactly what he tastes like when he moans. You do.

You know he likes when it’s messy.

You know the sound he makes when you bite his lip just enough to make him gasp “Ah—fuck—” the way his hips roll like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

And now he’s not holding back.

His arms wrap around your waist, dragging you flush to his chest, and he’s kissing you back like he’s falling. Like if he doesn’t stay pressed to your mouth, he’ll die all over again.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging, grounding yourself in him. His hands roam under your shirt now, warm palms splayed over bare skin like he needs to feel all of you, now, now.

You're drowning in it.

The heat. The memory. The weight of every life you lost him.

And still, still it isn’t enough.

You kiss him like you want to ruin him. Like you’ve waited lifetimes just to taste the sound he makes when he breaks.

He’s gasping into your mouth now, rocking up against you, nails biting into your waist.

It’s not safe.

It’s too much.

But you don’t care.

You’ve waited too long to be good.

You're allowed to be selfish. Just this once.

And god, he lets you.

Your lips drag against his as you pull back, just barely, but his mouth follows like he can’t stand the loss, like he’d rather drown than let you go. His breath stutters across your cheek, warm and wet, and then you're both gasping into each other again, too close, too slow, too deep.

It's a kiss that clings.

His lips slip, miss, catch again on yours. You bite gently, too gently, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and aching, almost a whimper. His fingers flex at your hips, digging in like he’s holding himself together by the bones of your body.

And you can feel it, the desperation in the way his tongue moves against yours, the way he breathes like you’ve stolen something vital from him and he wants you to. Like he’s falling apart from how good it feels to be kissed like this like you know him. Like you remember.

You kiss him through it. soft, deep, dirty.

Your lips slick with spit and heat, tongues curling again, slow and heavy.

You only pull back when you absolutely have to your breath a harsh exhale against his mouth, lips hovering over his, your noses brushing. A string of spit stretches between you before it breaks, glinting in the low light, shamefully intimate.

He chases the space between you.

Eyes closed. Mouth open. Chest rising like he’s still tasting you.

He’s trembling.

So are you.

You pull back barely. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to see him.

And God, he's ruined.

His face is flushed down to his throat, skin burning hot like he's been fevered for hours. His pupils are blown wide, inked deep into the soft blue of his eyes. They flicker between your eyes and your mouth, unfocused, dazed. His lips are parted bitten, swollen, slick. Kiss-drunk.

His breath escapes in shallow pants, brushing against your cheek.

His hair’s messier than usual. His jaw’s clenched. His hands still gripping your waist tense like he’s not sure whether to pull you in or just hold you there, memorizing the shape of you.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

The silence stretches but not wrong. Not cold.

It simmers.

His eyes trail down again slow, hungry and stop at your mouth like he’s still tasting you. Like he’s desperate to drown in it all over again.

And he would.

If you leaned in even a little, he’d fall. No hesitation, no pride. He’s already halfway gone, and he doesn’t even know it.

All he knows is you.

And how he’s never been kissed like that before.

His hands are still on your waist, fingertips twitching like they don’t know whether to let go or pull you back in. You can feel how warm they are through the fabric. How warm he is.

“I-” he starts, then stops. His voice breaks on nothing. He clears his throat, still breathless. “That wasn’t... too much?”

You blink at him.

“Too much?” you echo.

His ears are a whole new shade of red now. “I just meant- if it was weird or- I don’t know, maybe I...”

“Megumi.”

You lean in again, just close enough to press the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth. He exhales, eyes fluttering shut.

“You were perfect.”

He swallows hard.

You pause. It lingers. Everything lingers.

The silence between you stretches, not uncomfortable just full. He’s still looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. And you’re still in his lap. And your apartment’s quiet except for your breathing and the distant hum of your fridge, and you’re warm. You’re both warm.

You pull back just far enough to see his hair mussed from your fingers. His expression soft now, sweet and a little dazed.

“Wanna stay for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We don’t have to do anything else. Just… stay.”

He nods.

"Yeah," he says. "I'd like that."

You press your forehead to his. His arms tighten just slightly around your waist.

And for a little while, you just stay like that.

No blood. No past lives. No one else.

Megumi never asked to hang out.

Not with anyone.

He wasn’t the type. Crowded places drained him, loud chatter and meaningless small talk twisted inside his chest like a knot. Yuji and Nobara always had to drag him out, usually kicking and screaming, to places he’d rather avoid.

But today, something was different.

Today was Wednesday.

And today, you didn’t have history together.

And today he wanted to see you.

He’s standing just inside the school gates, fingers curling and uncurling in his pockets, His mind twists over the smallest decisions Where to go? What to say? Is this really a good idea?

Yuji and Nobara, hovering nearby, look at him expectantly, waiting for him to break the silence.

Megumi swallows hard, then pushes out the words like he’s pushing against a wall.

“Let’s hang out,” he says, voice rough and uncertain. “After school.”

He doesn’t meet their eyes, staring at the cracked concrete instead. The words taste strange on his tongue foreign, heavy, like stepping off a cliff into the unknown.

Yuji blinks, disbelief flashing in his eyes. Nobara arches a brow, teasing but curious.

“Since when do you do that?” Yuji asks, cracking a grin.

Megumi shrugs, awkward, like a kid caught doing something he wasnt supposed to.

“theres a nice restaurant...,” he mutters, then pauses, fingers twitching in his pockets. “Near that one record shop.”

He barely dares to say it out loud.

Yuji exchanges a glance with Nobara, both sensing something beneath the surface a hesitation, a vulnerability he doesn’t usually show.

“But why?” Nobara asks, voice playful but probing.

Megumi shrugs again, no answer ready.

He just wants to see you.

Even if it means stepping way out of his comfort zone.

Yuji laughs softly, nudging him.

“Our little Megumi is finally growing up!”

Megumi’s mouth tightens, heart thudding too fast. This isn’t like him.

Megumi doesn’t regret asking.

Not really.

But as he sits in third period, chin resting on his palm, elbow digging into the desk, he starts to wonder if maybe he’s lost his mind a little.

The clock ticks so loudly it feels like mockery. Every second drags its heels, sticky and slow, like time itself is trying to make him give up. The teacher drones on at the front of the room, but Megumi doesn’t hear a word of it. His eyes flick back and forth between the textbook and the clock, as if looking harder might make the hands move faster.

It doesn’t.

He sighs, low and frustrated, flipping a page he hasn’t read.

You both dont have history today. No shared glances over the textbook. No quiet arguments under your breath about thesis formatting. No offhanded remarks that worm under his skin and stay there for hours. Just empty space. Just silence.

And it bothers him more than it should.

He shifts in his seat again.

Every part of him feels too aware of the ticking clock, of how much longer he has to wait before the day is over. Before he can follow through on this stupid half plan that’s been gnawing at his nerves since morning.

Across the room, Yuji’s passed out with a pencil in his mouth. Nobara’s texting under the desk. Normal things. Comfortable things.

But there’s nothing comfortable about this.

Megumi doesn’t do anticipation. He doesn’t get excited about things, especially girls. But now? Now he’s restless. He taps his pen against the desk click, click, click then catches himself and stops.

This is dumb.

It’s just lunch.

It’s just a coincidence.

He’s just...going to be near where you work. That’s all.

No big deal.

His leg bounces anyway. His hand tightens on the pen. Because deep down, he knows he’s lying.

He wants to see you, and not under the excuse of the project. He wants to see you like he did at the party, or at the record shop.

It's stupid. He tells himself that again.

You wouldn't care.

But he thinks about your expression when you're amused how your mouth curves first, but your eyes are what really give you away. He thinks about that lopsided look you gave him the last time you saw each other. The way you said his name, soft and drawn out, like it meant something to you.

His stomach flips, and he slumps a little deeper into his seat.

This is getting out of hand.

Megumi stays hunched in his seat until the bell finally rings, sharp and shrill. It cuts through his thoughts like a slap. Around him, chairs screech back and students begin filing out, laughing, groaning, stretching. The hallway outside floods with voices, footsteps, the usual end of day buzz.

He doesn't move right away.

His palms are clammy.

Yuji slaps a hand onto his desk, startling him slightly. “You good, man?”

Megumi stands, too quick, his chair groaning behind him. “Yeah. Fine.”

Nobara eyes him with thinly veiled suspicion as she swings her bag over her shoulder. “You’ve been twitchy all day.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have,” she deadpans, strolling beside him as they walk out into the hallway. “Like a dog who saw its own reflection.”

Yuji laughs. “Nah, he’s just nervous. Probably doesn’t wanna admit he misses us and wants to hang out.”

Megumi scowls. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Ohhh,” Nobara says, eyes glinting. “That means it is.”

He doesn’t answer. Just shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

They take the long route out of the school, and with every step, Megumi feels his nerves wind tighter. The restaurant’s not far. Close enough to the record shop that if he timed it right, he could make it across the street without them noticing.

He won’t explain.

Can’t explain.

Because what the hell would he even say?

Hey, I was hoping I might catch her between customers. I remembered where she works, what days she’s on shift. I don’t even know why I care. I just do.

He exhales quietly through his nose.

They arrive at the restaurant ten minutes later. It’s nothing fancy somewhere halfway decent that Nobara won’t complain about, but casual enough to keep up the illusion that this is just a normal lunch.

Megumi holds the door open without thinking.

Yuji steps inside and heads straight for a booth. Nobara tosses a sly glance his way. “A restaurant with air conditioning? Who are you lately?”

He ignores her, grabs a menu, and flips through it without reading a single word. His gaze drifts out the window instead across the street, where the familiar gold lettered sign of the record shop peeks out between people passing by.

There’s a glint of movement inside. Faint, distorted through the glass. It could be you. It could not be. He can’t tell.

His throat feels dry.

“You gonna order, or just glare at the window ?” Nobara asks, one brow raised.

Megumi doesn't look away. “In a second.”

“You okay, man? You’ve been kinda...weird.” Yuji questions

“I’m fine,” he mutters.

He’s not fine. His fingers keep curling around the edge of the menu, white knuckled, useless. His knee bounces beneath the table, barely concealed.

Because he didn’t come here for fries or soda or whatever seasonal combo deal Yuji's drooling over. He came here for a glimpse. Just one. One small moment of closeness. One chance to act like this wasn’t entirely on purpose.

He glances toward the counter. There's a rack of takeout containers. A sign taped to the wall, Skip the line, order ahead!

His heart lurches.

“I’m gonna grab something to go,” he says quickly, rising to his feet before either of them can question him.

Yuji pauses, a appetizer fry halfway to his mouth. “But we just sat down?”

“Forgot I said I’d bring something back to Tsumiki.”

A lie. He hates lying. But it’s cleaner than the truth.

Nobara squints at him. “When did you talk to Tsumiki today?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already at the counter, ordering before his own voice sounds like it belongs to him. Something simple. Something you might like. He tries to remember if you mentioned preferences flavors, brands, anything.

He doesn’t come up with much.

Still, when the cashier hands him the brown paper bag stapled at the top, something about the weight of it feels heavier than it should. Like he’s holding something fragile.

He makes it out the door in two long strides.

The door swings shut behind him, little silver bell chiming overhead.

Yuji stares at it for a second, mouth open, a fry dangling forgotten between his fingers.

"...Did he just lie to us?" he asks, stunned.

The street’s crowded, spring hot and humming with noise. Car horns. Footsteps. The faint buzz of music from someone’s speaker.

Megumi doesn’t hear any of it.

He crosses without checking the light.

He hesitates just once before pushing open the door.

The record shop’s bell chimes softly overhead.

Cool air hits his face, along with the familiar scent of vinyl and dust and something vaguely sweet. It’s quieter inside. Quieter, but not silent. There’s a lo-fi track playing from the speakers. The kind of song that feels like it knows more than you do.

Shoko’s behind the front counter, elbow deep in the register, bored out of her mind.

Her eyes flick lazily toward the door at the sound, ready to ignore whoever it is.

Until she sees him.

And then she grins.

“Well, well, well,” she says, leaning against the counter, dragging out every syllable like she’s savoring it. “Look who finally cracked.”

Megumi stiffens. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, stretching. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day. What’s the occasion? Or should I say who?”

He ignores the bait. Sort of. Holds up the takeout bag, eyes carefully averted from the back of the store. “Is she here?”

Shoko’s grin widens like a cat with cream. “You brought her food?”

He doesn’t answer. His face says enough.

With a teasing hum, she lifts a hand and gestures lazily toward the back. “She’s in the jazz section again. I’ll call her over.”

“No, wait-” Megumi starts, but she’s already turned, cupping her hands around her mouth.

“Hey! Vinyl girl! Your admirer’s here!”

Megumi’s soul leaves his body.

Shoko leans her chin into her palm, utterly unbothered.

“You’re evil.”

“I'm delightful,” she says sweetly. “And hey if she doesn’t want it, I’ll eat it.”

You peek around the edge of the jazz aisle right from that quiet spot in the corner, expression unreadable, one earbud still dangling from your shoulder.

He freezes.

Not because you caught him off guard but because he always does, every time he sees you like this. Head tilted. Eyes steady. A subtle crease between your brows that makes you look like you already know too much.

And maybe you do.

Your gaze drops to the paper bag in his hand. Then back up. “…Were you just in the neighborhood?” you ask, voice dry. Teasing.

He swallows, shifts his weight.

“Sort of,” he mutters. “I thought… you might’ve liked this place. Or the food. Or… something.”

Your lips twitch, just barely.

You take a step closer, slow and deliberate, and hold out your hand without asking. He places the bag into your palm like it’s a peace offering, careful not to brush fingers, though you both feel the static between them anyway.

You look inside.

Pull out the takeout container. Pop the lid.

Then you sniff it and immediately grimace.

“It smells terrible.”

He winces. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

“I can tell,” you say, but you’re already grabbing a plastic fork and stabbing into it.

The first bite confirms it, terrible.

Somehow overcooked and underseasoned at the same time.

You make a face nose scrunched, lips curled, chewing like you’re being held hostage.

He looks genuinely horrified. “You don’t have to eat it.”

“I know.”

You take another bite.

Megumi just stares at you, brow pinched. “Why are you still- ?”

“Because,” you say, swallowing thickly. “You bought it for me.”

You say it like it’s obvious. Like it’s reason enough.

And maybe it is.

But not to Megumi.

He blinks. Once. Twice. His brain fizzes out like someone pulled the plug.

You’re still chewing grimacing, dramatically, like you're bracing for war with every bite but you’re still eating it.

For him.

Because he bought it for you.

His ears are hot.

His stomach flips.

His chest feels tight in a way that’s both unbearable and kind of… stupidly sweet.

Why does that mean so much?

It shouldn’t.

It’s just takeout. It’s just a sentence.

It’s just you.

But that’s the problem.

You look up at him again, fork dangling in your fingers, and the corners of your mouth twitch with the faintest hint of a smile. Not mocking no, it’s worse. It’s gentle.

He looks away immediately.

Shit. Shit.

What is he supposed to do with that? With the way you’re looking at him.

He clears his throat, trying to shake the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “You… really don’t have to finish it.”

“I know,” you say again, cool and soft.

He nods. Swallows. Looks down at the floor like it might offer some mercy.

It doesn’t.

There’s a long, quiet beat. He can hear the lo-fi hum of the speakers again, the soft crinkle of the takeout bag as your fingers shift.

Then, barely above a mutter,

“…Next time,” he says, voice low, almost caught in his throat. “I’ll get you something good.”

"I'll hold you to that, Megumi." There's an easy smile on your lips.

His name lands too softly.

Too knowingly.

And Megumi short-circuits.

His heart lurches sideways in his chest. His spine locks up. It takes every ounce of willpower not to look at you again. Not to let whatever expression is blooming across your face destroy the fragile grip he has on his dignity.

I’ll hold you to that, Megumi.

You said it like it was simple. Like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t just nothing. Not to him.

His fingers twitch.

His mouth opens like he might say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Just static. Just heat. Just a buzzing in his head like he’s stood too close to something dangerous.

You’re still looking at him, expectant and patient, with that damn smile. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just Gentle in a way that makes it worse.

“Uh-” he stammers. “I… should get back.”

You tilt your head slightly. “To the restaurant?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “My friends, theyre waiting.”

You don’t stop him. Just lift your half-eaten container like a toast. “Thanks for the terrible lunch.”

He half turns, eyes darting to the door. “You’re welcome,” he mutters, already halfway gone. “Sorry.”

The bell chimes again as he slips out.

Cool air hits his face. Then heat. Then noise.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten years.

Across the street, Yuji and Nobara are still in the booth, waving exaggeratedly through the restaurant window, their expressions somewhere between what the hell and we’re going to roast you for this forever.

Megumi doesn't wave back.

He just keeps walking, fast, his heartbeat a mess in his ears. His palms are clammy.

His chest feels tight.

All over a half-rotted lunch and the sound of his name in your voice.

I’ll hold you to that, Megumi.

For the first time, a sick thought crosses Megumis mind.

Monday starts slow.

Your body is here, technically. You’ve shown up showered, dressed, on time. But your mind is elsewhere. Or maybe nowhere at all. It’s like you’re watching yourself from just behind your eyes, blurry and soft edged, stuck somewhere between the ache of yesterday and the unbearable possibility of tomorrow.

The classroom is cold. Too bright. The hum of overhead lights digs into your ears like static. You find your usual seat near the window and sink into it like a habit.

Megumi doesn’t sit next to you.

You half expected him to.

Maybe you hoped he would.

But he slips into the row behind, quiet as ever. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even nudge your bag or cough like he might want you to turn around. And for some reason, that makes it worse.

You keep your gaze on the desk. On your hands. On the lines of the textbook in front of you that feel impossible to focus on. You’re tired. You cried yourself into the kind of emptiness that leaves a ringing in your skull. Everything is too loud and too quiet all at once.

Nanami starts the lecture. You jot down notes without thinking. Your handwriting is crooked, uneven. Nothing sticks.

There’s a moment where Megumi shifts behind you, chair squeaking faintly. You pretend not to hear.

You told yourself last night you’d be smart again. That you’d pull back, just a little. That maybe if you gave yourself space, the ache in your chest would settle.

But now you’re sitting in this too quiet classroom with him just out of reach, and your stomach twists with something close to regret.

He hasn’t texted again. You haven’t replied.

You don’t know what you would say. Class drags. Minutes stretch. The sunlight shifts across the floor.

Nanami clears his throat toward the end of the period. “I’ve read through most of your project outlines,” he says, flipping a few pages on his clipboard. “There’s improvement. Some of you may begin preparing the final presentation if your framework is solid.”

You feel your spine straighten. Almost unconsciously, you glance over your shoulder.

Megumi’s already looking at you. His eyes flick away when you meet them, but there’s something tentative in the line of his mouth. Something almost nervous.

Nanami gestures toward your desk. “You two. Stay after for a moment.”

You nod, even as your pulse flickers. Megumi murmurs a quiet “yeah” behind you.

The rest of the class filters out. Chairs scrape. Papers rustle. You stay seated, stiff and still, hands folded in your lap. Megumi steps up beside you, but doesn’t say anything.

Nanami approaches your table, glancing between your outline and the two of you. “This is a clear improvement from what you submitted before,” he says simply.

“The argument’s focused, the supporting materials are detailed, and you’re beginning to pull real thematic weight.”

Megumi lets out the barest breath. Not quite a sigh. Almost like relief.

You just nod. “Thank you.”

“If you maintain this momentum,” Nanami continues, “you can begin preparing the final presentation portion this week.”

You nod again. Megumi stays quiet beside you.

Nanami glances at his clipboard one last time. “Coordinate outside of class. You know your deadlines.”

And then he moves on, already calling up the next pair of students he asked to stay behind.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. Megumi lingers. Doesn’t leave. There’s a second a beat of silence stretched thin before he shifts, still standing by your desk.

You feel it before he says anything. That quiet weight in his voice, like he’s working up to something.

“Hey,” he says softly, just for you this time. “Do you… want to start working on it? Like soon. Today, maybe?”

You blink, caught off guard.

Then, “I have work after class.”

Megumi nods quickly. Too quickly. “No, yeah- I didn’t mean, like, now. I just figured- I don’t know.” His voice lowers a little more, almost sheepish. “I just thought It might help.”

You hear what he doesn’t say.

I want to see you again.

I’m not ready for this to go back to how it was.

You hesitate.

Then you look at him fully. Really look. And suddenly he’s that same boy from the party awkward, sincere, maybe a little drunk on the memory of your hand in his.

He thinks you’re brushing him off.

You’re not.

And you don’t want him to walk away thinking you are. “My shift’s slow,” you say, cutting through the silence. “It’s just a record shop. Off campus. There’s a quiet corner, if you still want to work.”

His expression shifts.

It’s small barely anything but you catch it, you always do. That flicker of surprise. The quiet way his shoulders loosen.

“You’re inviting me to your job?”

You shrug, heart thudding. “I It’s quiet. It’s either that or that coffee shop that smells like bleach.”

A beat passes.

Then he nods. “Okay.”

The record shop smells like dust and vinyl and something overly sweet from the candle Shoko insists on lighting near the pop section.

You like it here. Always have.

It’s quiet in a way most places never are. The kind of quiet that breathes with you not empty, not hollow, just still. Music always playing low through the overhead speakers. Soft jazz. Classic rock.

Sometimes old soul, when Shoko’s in the mood.

You’re wiping down the small round table in the back corner, dragging the cloth in slow circles, making sure everything looks... presentable. Like this isn’t just a dusty little hideaway behind the jazz aisle, half hidden from the rest of the shop. Like this moment matters more than it should.

You already know it does.

You pause when your reflection catches in the plexiglass window nearby eyes shadowed, mouth unreadable. Still tired from everything. Still sore. But steadier now. Or maybe just more resolved.

He’s coming.

You’d almost told him not to. Almost sent a quick follow up, Actually, never mind. I’ll be fine on my own.

But then you remembered the way his voice had dipped when you said you had work. That flicker of something behind his eyes. The disappointment he hadn’t said out loud.

So instead, you texted him the address.

You step back, toss the rag into the bucket behind the counter. The table’s clean. Two chairs, one pulled out already. The lights are dimmer in this part of the store,

softened by the old orange tinted fixtures overhead. You told Shoko you were expecting someone for your class project. She barely glanced up from the speaker she was unpacking.

“Just don’t let him break anything,” she said around her cigarette, which wasn’t technically allowed inside but no one really cared, besides shes the owner. “And don’t forget to lock up. I’m heading out early.”

You like Shoko.

You liked her even before this life. Back in your first one, she was a healer like you, quiet, sharp, always moving just ahead of disaster. You didn’t know her well, but you remember the sound of her voice. That cool calm. She’s always been like this, you think. Unshakeable.

You hear the little chime of the front door bell, soft and tinny.

And then his footsteps.

You don’t look right away. Just press your palms against the edge of the table, breathing in once, quiet. Centered.

He rounds the aisle a second later, shoulder brushing the shelf corner, hair damp from the rain outside, jacket slightly wrinkled. His eyes catch yours and linger.

"Hey,” he says, voice low.

You nod. “Hey.”

He looks around the shop, taking it in. “This is where you work?”

You gesture toward the faded concert posters and stacks of alphabetized records. “Told you it was quiet.”

“It’s... nice,” he says, but there’s something in the way he says it like he means more than that. Like he’s seeing something personal and storing it away.

You sit down. He follows.

It’s silent for a moment.

Then the record changes a soft shift into something older, bluesier. You don’t recognize the voice, but the piano is slow and syrupy, like it’s playing underwater.

You glance over at him. He’s looking around the corner of the table like he’s afraid to break the spell.

“You okay?” you ask finally.

Megumi blinks like you startled him. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, I just... didn’t think you’d actually want me to come.” He said voice low and light.

You don’t answer right away.

You rest your hands on the table instead. Let the silence stretch.

“I wanted you too.” you say, barely audible over the music.

His gaze shifts.

You can feel the weight of it. The careful way he’s trying not to read into your words. But you meant them. Every one. You didn’t want to be alone not after yesterday. Not after remembering what it feels like to lose him. Not when he’s here, still here, and willing to sit across from you like this.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

He opens the notebook slowly, flipping through the outline pages Nanami approved. You lean in slightly, watching him. Watching the little crease in his brow as he reads.

And just like that, the moment bends around the two of you again tender and unspoken.

You should be talking about the project.

You should be writing.

But instead, you sit with him in the hum of old speakers and quiet breath, listening to music that hurts a little more than it should.

Because even now even like this you’re still reaching for him. And he’s still choosing to stay.

You work in silence for a while.

Well, not silence exactly. The music floats around you, soft and unobtrusive, just loud enough to fill the spaces you’re both too hesitant to occupy with words.

It’s easy, though. Strangely easy. Pages shuffle. Pens scratch. Megumi leans forward occasionally, muttering something about phrasing or citation format, and you nod without really hearing him.

You’re not looking at your paper.

You’re looking at him.

He’s focused. Elbows on the table, head tilted slightly, hair falling into his eyes, hiding his blues from you. There’s a furriw between his brows like he’s deep in thought, but every once in a while, he glances up at you. Quick flickers.

Uncertain.

You wonder if he knows he’s doing it.

The tension isn’t sharp anymore. Not like it was in the classroom. Not like earlier. It’s something else now. Something quieter.

Eventually, the song ends. The next one starts. A track you don’t love.

You push your chair back. “I’m changing this,” you say under your breath.

Megumi blinks, looking up. “What?”

“This song. It sucks.”

He watches you stand. “It’s not that bad.”

You scoff, making your way toward the dusty shelf near the register where the aux controls are. “You’re not the one who has to hear it for four hours straight.”

You flip through a short playlist you made for slow afternoons like this. A mix of things that don’t get too loud. A few older indie songs. One particular track makes your fingers hover.

You click it.

A mellow guitar intro filters through the speakers. Low. Warm. Something you remember from a long time ago a different life, maybe your 6th or 5th, you dont remember.

But its the kind of song someone like him might like, if he let himself.

You turn, leaning your hip against the shelf. “Better?”

Megumi listens for a second. Then he nods. “It’s… nice.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Nice?”

“I mean it.”

“‘Nice’ is such a noncommittal word. It’s the musical equivalent of ‘meh.’”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “I’m not good at describing stuff.”

“You don’t say.”

He shakes his head, glancing down at the outline again like he’s trying to hide his smile. “You’ve worked here a while?”

You walk back toward the table, sitting down again. “Yeah. Almost a year.”

“You like it?”

You glance around the shop. The soft stacks of vinyl. The faded posters. Shoko’s half drunk tea by the register. Then back at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s quiet. The music’s good. And Shoko’s cool. She lets me play whatever I want as long as I don’t burn the place down.”

“She the one with the cigarette?”

You grin. “She’d be flattered you noticed.”

“I thought she was going to set the rock section on fire.”

“That would actually be an improvement.”

He huffs a soft laugh at that, eyes crinkling faintly.

It’s small. Barely anything. But it settles deep in your chest.

Then he clears his throat. “So, uh. Record shop. Books. History class. You into, like, old stuff?”

You blink. “Old stuff?”

He winces. “I meant, like, older music. History. Whatever.”

You tilt your head, half smiling. “You trying to ask about my hobbies or just trying to figure out if I’m secretly a hundred years old?”

He freezes. “What? No- I just-”

“I’m joking, Fushiguro.”

“Oh.”

You don’t laugh. You just watch him fumble for a second. Something warm tugs behind your ribs. He’s trying. He’s trying to get to know you.

You soften. Just a little.

“I like stories,” you say eventually. “Doesn’t matter if they’re on paper or in lyrics or hidden under blood and dust. If it has weight, if it lasts... I like that.”

He’s quiet.

Then, softly, “That’s kind of beautiful.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s no irony in his face. No teasing in his voice. Just quiet sincerity.

You glance down, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He smiles again. Small. Barely there.

But it’s real. And for a second, you forget to be afraid.

You settle into the stillness again.

Megumi’s watching you. You feel it. Not with intensity, not like a stare but a kind of gentle attention, one that lingers a little too long when you glance down at your hands or tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You always pick the music?” he asks after a while, voice low.

You nod. “Perks of being Shoko’s favorite.”

“She has favorites?”

“Not really. But I bring her snacks, so I win by default.”

He smiles, soft. “What kind?”

“Coffee candy. Sour gummies. Anything she can chew while pretending not to listen to customer complaints.”

“That’s smart.”

You shrug. “I’m a problem solver.”

There’s a pause. His fingers tap faintly on the edge of his notebook. Then “What other stuff do you like? I mean, besides music. And solving problems.”

You blink at him. It’s the kind of question people ask all the time, but not like this. Not from him. He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a stiffness in the way he’s sitting now, like he’s bracing for impact.

“What do I like,” you repeat.

He nods once.

You consider lying. Or dodging. Or teasing. But the moment feels too quiet for that.

Too still.

“Small things,” you say. “Like... thunderstorms. Music. Flowers. The smell of old paper. Old things in general, I guess.”

He nods again, slower this time. Like he’s storing each answer in the back of his mind.

You watch him for a moment, then tilt your head. “Why’re you asking?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Dunno,” he says. “Just... want to.”

The corner of your mouth lifts. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close.

“Okay,” you say. “What about you, then? What does Megumi Fushiguro like?”

He hesitates.

“That’s... a hard question.”

“Come on,” you coax. “You asked first.”

He looks down. His voice, when it comes, is quiet and low.

“I like quiet places,” he says. “Good food. Dogs. I don’t know. Nonfiction books. Watching other people argue about stuff I don’t care about.”

You snort. “So, being lame.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Uh-huh.”

He glances at you, and there’s something new in his expression open, amused. Braver than before.

“You’re kind of mean,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like an insult.

“You’re just sensitive.”

“Probably.”

And then, for no reason at all, your heart squeezes. There’s something about the way he says it. The ease in his voice, the way he’s beginning to relax in this space you’ve carved out between vinyl shelves and half done note cards. It feels like he’s letting you in without realizing it.

You try to remember if it’s always been this easy with him if in some life before this one, he looked at you just like this. Head tilted. Eyes soft. Like he wanted to stay a little longer than he was allowed to.

Before you can say anything else, the door chime rings again.

You both turn as Shoko steps back inside, eyebrows lifted, cigarette now pinched out and tucked behind her ear.

“Forgot my coat,” she says, strolling past without looking at either of you. She pauses near the table, then squints at Megumi. “You the project partner?”

He nods, half rising from his seat. “Yeah.”

She glances between the two of you, gaze lingering. Then, deadpan, “Huh. You’re cuter than the last one.”

Your stomach flips.

“Shoko,” you hiss.

Megumi turns pink to the tips of his ears.

She only shrugs, grabs her coat from the hook by the back door, and tosses a wink over her shoulder. “Don’t break anything.”

The door shuts behind her with a final little ding.

Silence.

You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him.

He clears his throat. “Last one?”

You fold your arms on the table. “She’s exaggerating.”

“Was he actually uglier?”

You glance up, startled. He’s watching you, expression unreadable.

You grin, slow. “You fishing for compliments, Fushiguro?”