I Hope I Shine Soon My Tomorrow Is Blue

THEY PASSED EACH OTHER OFTEN AT THE MAIN OFFICE. Yet this was perhaps the first time  that they have ever truly gotten to know each other after nearly fifteen years together in the same company. But that’s just how it was going to be. 

In such a big corporate world, not everyone has the luxury or time to go and have small talks or small pleasures. Time was money and money was far too golden, far too much to risk in things that didn’t serve them well in their constricted world.

Nanami Kento and Higuruma Hiromi don’t know each other personally. They had only known each other by the power of their names. In fact, they knew each other more as professionals who’ve crossed paths at legal seminars and business meetings. 

They could have shaken hands once, maybe twice, exchanged the sort of polite, distant words that belong to men too old and too tired to make new friends. But neither party could ever remember, and so it would certainly be covered up with the niceties that was the common lip service in their world.

Nanami Kento was certain that from what he had heard, or at least remembers, Higuruma Hiromi was the top mind in corporate legal dogmas. He knew how to get the job done. And he was paid handsomely for it.  

Yet it was not the excellence that struck him in his memory. If anything, it was the fact that he seemed more like a sharp, disillusioned lawyer with eyes like someone who’s seen too much to care much for it.

In Higuruma Hiromi’s own case, he was far too familiar with Nanami Kento’s infamy within the circles of the salarymen in the corporation’s payroll. He got any deal done, without any issue. Often, he was what the company called when there were far too important deals that they cannot risk going badly.

Yet in the truth of his memories, Hiromi thinks that he can recall Nanami Kento as the picture of restraint. He was as soulless as him, yet he was also the man who never lingers long enough in conversation to show what he’s really thinking. He was unpredictable. And that was good in the game of survival.

In some ways, they think that they both occupy the same world but on parallel lines. It was never touching, only aware of the other’s shadow. And they had been satisfied with that, they had been aware that it could be all there was. 

Until one night, those lines cross.

You're wiping down the bar, humming softly to yourself when you notice the two men sitting in the corner booth. they were certainly not regulars to you, to be sure. You would know if they were.

One is clearly a salaryman, his fine, pristine suit crisp and his sandy blond hair neatly styled appropriately. You find that he looks up as you approach, his eyes lingering on your curves appreciatively.

The other man is dressed just as formal. Though his demeanour was stridently casual for someone so well dressed like this, there's an air of authority about him that commands attention.

As you lean into the bar counter to take their order, you catch snippets of their conversations. It was something about a high-profile case and a substantial sum of money. Your curiosity is piqued, on both the case and the gentlemen. 

But even when you weren't certain about it, you could feel that they definitely had their eyes on you too. After all, the curious eyes are always hard to stop. much less older gentlemen who were born to be curious.

The bar isn’t crowded just yet. You could hear the hum of jazz low, the lights warm and slow. Nanami Kento sits at the counter, shoulders set in quiet exhaustion, his tie loosened but still prim and proper, far too compliant to propriety. Kento orders his usual: whisky, neat. 

Higuruma Hiromi then arrives a little later, still in his court suit, having finished the first appearance for a lawsuit for wrongful termination by an employee against the company. He had stayed far too long that the rain caught up with him.

He hadn’t even noticed that he had ended up sitting next to the sandy blond man in a fine tailored suit beside him. Hiromi removes his suit coat and puts it behind his stool, letting it dry enough. He adjusts his tie, loosens it enough to breathe as he orders his drink. Bourbon on the rocks.

You nodded at that as you greeted him with your usual warm, exhausted smile, eyes glinting under the amber light. And because you’ve seen too many men like them, the serious ones who forget to breathe, you joke about their suits.

“Matching, huh? Did I miss the memo?” You point to their suits.

You say it without thinking, breaking the monotony of another slow night. The joke isn’t even that funny, you were sure with that. But in a place like this with all its dim lights, rain pressing against the windows, the low hum of a saxophone from the speaker, you think that even small talk feels heavier than it should.

Kento glances down at his charcoal suit, then at the man beside him. It’s almost the same shade, now that he can see it in full. It was in fine cashmere. It’s also muted gray, the color of smoke and long hours. He exhales, setting his glass down. 

“Just coincidence, I think.” he says. His tone is flat, but not dismissive.

Hiromi looks over at the blond man’s suit, a faint line forming between his brows. “Coincidence or uniform?” he says, voice quieter, almost thoughtful. “Seems like everyone in our profession ends up dressing the same.”

“That’s because everyone’s tired. That’s probably why.” you say, polishing the same glass you’ve been holding for the last two minutes. “No one has the energy to stand out anymore.”

That earns the smallest shift from Nanami Kento. It wasn’t something you could conclude to be a smile, but you felt like it was something close. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, quickly gone.

Hiromi studies you instead, eyes steady. “You say that like you’ve seen too much of it.”

“I work nights, you know.” you reply. “You see people differently when they’re drinking after work. All that polish wears off.”

“Maybe it’s better that way.” Kento murmurs, half to himself. His voice carries a kind of resignation that makes you look up. “Pretending gets exhausting.”

Hiromi’s gaze flickers toward him, then back to you. “I think that’s why people come to places like this.” he finds himself saying. “So they can stop pretending, even for an hour.”

You meet his eyes briefly. “And you? Are you pretending tonight?”

His lips part, maybe to deny it, but he doesn’t answer. He just drinks the bourbon you placed in front of him, letting the burning sensation of bourbon energize him again. Kento sighs, saving him the trouble. 

“He’s been pretending for years. It’s obvious.”

Hiromi’s quiet laugh isn’t amused. “So have you.”

You glance between them. Two men who look like opposites but carry the same exhaustion behind their eyes. Something about it feels too intimate for strangers. For a while, no one speaks. The sound of rain fills mellows to the jazz piano.  

Then Hiromi leans forward slightly, elbows on the bar. “You’re good at this, I think.” he says.

You arch a brow. “At what?”

“Reading people.”

You smile faintly. “It’s part of the job.”

Kento shakes his head. “No, no.” he says quietly. “Most people just listen to respond. You listen to understand.”

That shouldn’t make your pulse quicken. But it does. You clear your throat, wiping down the counter again, needing something to do with your hands. “Careful, sir.” you say lightly. “You’ll make me think you actually enjoy being here.”

Kento glances up, and for the first time, his expression softens towards you. It was not a smile, not quite warmth, but something almost tender. And you were willing to take that rather than his anger after such a long shift.

“Maybe we do.” he says.

It’s quiet after that. They finish their drinks, their movements unhurried, perhaps even languid and relaxed. You catch small things as you watch them. The way Nanami Kento straightens his tie before standing, the way Higuruma Hiromi waits until you meet his eyes before saying goodnight.

When they leave, the door swings shut behind them, and the room feels strangely still. You look at the two empty glasses side by side. Same drink. Same suits. Same weariness. You tell yourself it was just a coincidence. But part of you already knows, nothing about your days from then on will stay ordinary.

And you were most definitely right.

From then on, both men start returning.

You were told they only came during your shift.

You were certain your manager gave your schedule out.

At first, separately. Kento comes midweek, always around the same time, always sitting at the far end of the bar. He doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t need to. But you find that he’s always observant with you. 

He watches you polish glasses, move through the dim light with practiced ease, offering small smiles to strangers who never stay long. There’s a steadiness in the way you move, something unshakable that draws his tired gaze again and again.

Hiromi, on the other hand, comes on weekends. He says it’s convenient for him, since the bar is open until late. He said that your bar happens to be on his route home. He gets off work far too late than most after all.

But you notice the way he lingers, the way he leans in when you speak. He asks questions when he’s in the mood. Too many, too personal.

Sometimes about your studies, at times about your future, your reasons for working nights. You tease him for being nosy, and he smiles like he can’t help it. You remind him, for a moment, of something he thought he’d lost: sincerity.

Both men notice each other’s habits too when they end up seeing each other in the bar. Nanami Kento thinks Higuruma Hiromi is being foolish, coming all the way here to indulge in idle conversation.

Higuruma Hiromi thinks Nanami Kento is worse because he’s sitting in silence over his chair as though he was some ghost, pretending not to care when he actually does.

But then, one night, they show up at the same time again. There’s a brief, awkward pause when their eyes meet as they sit down on their stools. There was a silent acknowledgment of something they both can’t quite name as they removed their suit jackets. 

You break the tension, as always, sliding their drinks across the counter with that same faint smile. The conversation comes slower this time, more deliberate. Higuruma Hiromi says something sardonic, Nanami Kento finds the fire in him as he replies with quiet precision. 

You laugh silently behind the counter. But you didn’t know that it was loud enough to be heard. And for the first time, they both look at you as you do. They look at you not as a bartender, but as the axis their nights now seem to orbit around.

And so it becomes routine.

Kento stays longer than he should. Hiromi comes even on weekdays now. Sometimes they sit in silence, sometimes they argue softly about trivial things over and over again. But you never get sick of it. It was always interesting.

They talk about what's the best whisky brands, the meaning of justice, whether people can really change. You stand between them, half amused, half oblivious to the way their gazes linger a little too long after you turn away.

Both men think the other is ridiculous. But neither can stop returning. Because somewhere between the clink of glasses and your easy laughter, between the exhaustion of long days and the soft glow of your bar, something starts to shift. It was a quiet obsession neither of them dares to name.

It happens on a Thursday. The rain hasn’t stopped since afternoon, and the bar feels smaller than usual. And you liked it that way. You liked the warm golden echo, where you can enjoy the world in the quiet. You’re rinsing glasses when the door opens, letting in a gust of wind and the smell of wet asphalt.

Kento was the first to arrive, as always. He nods in greeting, shedding his coat, his sandy blond hair damp at the temples. “Rough day?” you ask, drying a glass with the towel slung over your shoulder.

“They’re all rough, sweet girl.” he says, though there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s just how it is.”

You felt a certain way with his nicknames for you. But you don’t say it out loud. Instead, you focus on pouring his drink without asking what he’d like. You already know what he likes. He takes it with a quiet “Thank you.”

Then, half an hour later, the door opens again. “Evening.” Higuruma Hiromi says, shaking the rain from his umbrella. His voice carries easily through the low music, smooth and tired at once. “Guess I’m late to the party.”

 You grin. “Just in time. Your usual?”

“You remember, hm, don’t you?” he says, sliding onto the stool a few seats away from Kento. “I’m honored to become your regular, darling.”

“Hm, well you drink something easy to make.” You retort back at him, placing the bourbon on rocks in front of him. “Thank you for making it easier on me.”

“Of course, darling.” He says, raising it and drinking it clear. 

Kento glances at him, expression unreadable. “Higuruma.”

“Nanami.” A polite nod, the kind that means I didn’t expect to see you here again. I thought I'd driven you away with annoyance already. 

You set their refills once again. Another bout of whisky neat for Kento, then a new drink for Hiromi which is gin and tonic. As they drank the second bout of alcohol, you can feel the air settle between them, faintly electric.

“So, uh….” you say, leaning against the counter. “What’s the verdict tonight? Who had the worst day?”

“Me.” Hiromi says without hesitation. “Cross-examination with a witness who couldn’t tell the difference between a fact and a feeling.”

Kento huffs softly, something like amusement. “Then I suppose you haven’t met my boss. He threw a fit like a toddler and broke glass because daddy didn’t give him more venture capital.”

You laugh, a bright sound that cuts through the rain outside. “You two really should form a club.”

Hiromi leans in slightly, chin resting on his hand. “Would you join if we did?”

“I’d have to see the benefits package first.”

Kento’s eyes flick up to you then. It was brief, but sharp. “And what would that include?”

You tilt your head, feigning thought. “Decent pay, good health care, flexible hours, and no talking about work after 10 p.m.”

That earns a low chuckle from both. For a moment, it feels easy. It was almost domestic. But then the night stretches longer than it should. One customer leaves, then another, until it’s only the three of you left. The clock ticks past midnight. You glance at the time but don’t move to close up.

Hiromi's voice breaks the silence first. “Have you ever thought about quitting?”

You blink. “The bar?”

He nods. “I feel like you could do better than this.”

“Sometimes.” you admit. “But then people like you come in and make it bearable.”

He smiles faintly. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

“Why?”

“Because someone might believe it.”

Kento finishes his drink in silence, setting the glass down with precision. “It’s not a bad job,” he says, voice low. “You make people feel…less alone.”

You look at him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

He meets your eyes. “It’s the truth.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It hums of something you’ve never understood or found for yourself before. It was full of something unspoken, the kind that lingers in the air between three people who shouldn’t keep meeting like this, but do.

You finally exhale, glancing toward the window. “I should start getting shit done and start doing the closing soon.”

Hiromi checks his watch, then leans back. “We’re keeping you.”

“You always do, you two.” you tease lightly. “But the tips are nice, so keep it coming.”

Nanami Kento stands, pulling out his wallet, but Higuruma Hiromi stops him. “I’ll get this round.”

The blond arches a brow. “That’s unnecessary.”

“Consider it…professional courtesy, between colleagues.” The lawyer says, with a faint smirk.

You shake your head, hiding your smile. “You two are ridiculous.”

“And yet, darling, you like it.” Hiromi says, turning to you. “You don’t seem to mind the entertainment.”

You look at him and then at Nanami Kento, whose gaze hasn’t left you since you spoke. “Maybe I don’t.”

Another beat. The rain outside softens to a whisper. Kento ’s voice is quieter now. “Do you walk home this late?”

You shrug. “It’s not far.”

“You shouldn’t.” he says, almost too quickly. “The streets aren’t safe at this hour.”

“I’ll be fine.” you say with a smile. “You don’t have to worry about me, Nanami-san.”

He hesitates, then looks away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “I’ll walk her back, don’t worry.” Hiromi offers, already reaching for his coat.

“You don’t have to—”

“Maybe I want to.”

Kento’s caramel eyes flick toward him, sharp. “You’ve had three drinks.”

“Still more capable than you look right now, don’t you think?” Hiromi replies smoothly.

You sigh, sliding the last glass into the rack. “You two can stop arguing. I’ll lock up and walk by myself.”

But neither moves. You can feel their eyes. One steady and restrained, the other warm and piercing. Two men who shouldn’t care, but somehow do. The two of them decided to wait for you, to at least make sure you got out safely. 

When you finally turn off the last light, the sound of the rain is all that fills the silence as the three of you walk together, the two of them holding their own umbrellas over your head.

As you all pass the street, all you can think about is the quiet, impossible thought that they might both be waiting for the next excuse to come back. Or even walk you home.

YOU START TO NOTICE THINGS. At first, it’s easy to dismiss them. The small patterns, the quiet gestures that repeat over nights that all blur together. You may have been younger then, more naive, less aware of what it meant when someone’s eyes lingered too long or their voice softened in your direction. But even then, it was getting obvious.

Nanami Kento always tips too much but tries to not linger far too much. He finishes his drinks, talks once in a while, thanks you with quiet sincerity, and leaves like he’s afraid to overstay and make you uncomfortable. 

His restraint is almost old-fashioned, a kind of politeness that feels out of place in a world where most people demand to be seen. Yet, in the way he looks at you with those beautiful caramel eyes, with those measured, fleeting gazes, there’s something in him that is restrained and heavy, like he’s holding back more than just conversation.

Higuruma Hiromi, on the other hand, always lingers but never flirts. He stays long after his glass is empty, elbows on the counter, tracing the rim of his drink with absent fingers. He talks, not about himself but about you.

He asks about the books you like, the classes you’re taking, the places you want to go. His questions are never inappropriate, but they come too often, too easily. He listens too closely.

You think they’re both just lonely, though. They seem to be men far too comfortable with loneliness, men who’ve built a quiet life around it. The kind who don’t expect to be understood anymore, who’ve accepted that affection comes only in passing moments. It was like the brush of fingers over a bar counter or the sound of someone remembering their usual order.

Most men like that are too old for their own emotions. Too careful to fall, too afraid to want. Men who like the illusion of being cared for. Men who look for love in the worst of places. But they notice you too. You know they do. They just cannot help themselves.

They start arriving together more often now, it was almost as if they’re timing it together. They were leaving work at the same hour, walking into your bar with the same tired posture. It’s not a coincidence anymore. It's a habit.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t. But they both watch you. The way your sleeves ride up when you reach for bottles on the top shelf. The faint scar along your wrist that catches the light. The way you look when you think no one’s paying attention. It’s quiet, thoughtful even. But sometimes, you think it's also a little sad.

Something begins to shift with more and more time you spend together. You can feel it, slow and inevitable. The pull of something neither of them meant to start, and neither of them knows how to stop. Then, one of them finds out.

It doesn’t matter how they found it all out. Could have been a stray comment, could have been a passing remark about a college exam or a part-time schedule. But suddenly, it’s out there: your age. How young you actually are.

Much younger than either of them expected. It unsettles them both, but in different ways. You were twenty-two years old, you were an adult. That was true. But twenty years of gaps are still gaps to be known and felt when you three were together.

Nanami Kento goes quiet first. He doesn’t say anything that night, but his hands tighten around his glass. When he leaves, he does it without looking back. For a while after, he doesn’t return for a few days. You think maybe that’s for the best. 

But when he does come back, it’s worse. His restraint has turned brittle, an iron that had tried so long to resist had rusted. His distance is sharper. He tries to pull away, to remind himself of boundaries and propriety, of the line between what is right and what is wanted.

But it only makes his desire even more consuming to him. Nanami Kento tells himself it’s not real. That it’s just exhaustion, fascination, that it was his mid-life crisis. That it was nothing more. But his eyes say otherwise. It always does.

Higuruma Hiromi, on the other hand, reacts differently. He merely laughs when he hears your age. He laughs with such a soft, disbelieving sound. And that had surprised you. You hadn’t expected that from him.

“You’re still in school then, darling?” he asks, and when you nod, he looks away, something unreadable passing through his gaze. 

But the next time he comes in, he’s the same as he was. He was still relaxed, and far more curious, maybe even warmer than before. He starts to rationalize it in his mind.  It’s not wrong, he tells himself, if you’re the one pulling them in. If you smile first. If you keep the conversations going. If you’re the one who always pours the next drink before they ask.

And that’s how it starts for the two of them.  

The quiet unraveling of the line between being seen and being wanted.

After that night, something in the air changes.

Nanami Kento once more doesn’t come back. It wasn’t just days now, it became weeks. Two weeks, maybe three. You almost think he’s decided to stop entirely for a while.

That maybe the realization of how young you are, how much life you still have ahead of you, pushed him to keep his distance. You tell yourself it’s for the best. Men like him don’t belong in the lives of people like you.

But then, one evening, you see him again, after a cold rainy night. The same seat, the same order. Whisky, neat. He looks the same too. Still in his crisp suit, quiet composure but there’s something different in his expression. A tension, like every word he might say, has been weighed and measured before it leaves his mouth.

You greet him with your usual smile. “It’s been a while, Nanami-san.”

“I’ve been busy.” he says, and it sounds like an apology.

For a while, you talk about nothing. Then you  start to speak. You speak on the weather. Work. A new menu item. Even your college. But his warm caramel eyes keep flicking toward you. Not with the familiar warmth, but with a careful distance, like he’s afraid of seeing too much.

When you step away to serve another table, he exhales, shoulders softening. Watching you laugh with someone your own age makes something inside him ache. There was a mix of fondness and guilt he can’t quite name. You’re bright in a way the world no longer feels to him. And that’s exactly what terrifies him.

“More whiskey?” you ask.

He gives a quiet hum, lifting his empty glass. “Old habits.”

You lean on your elbows, chin tilted, teasing, “Bad ones, I’d say.”

His lips curve at that. Not quite a smile, more the ghost of one. “You sound like someone who hasn’t lived long enough to develop any.”

“Maybe.” you say, shrugging. “Or maybe I just watch people make the same mistakes enough to learn from them.”

That earns you a real smile, small and tired. The kind that makes you wonder if it hurts him to mean it. For a moment, neither of you speak. The bar hums softly with low chatter and clinking glasses.

Then you say, “You don’t come by as much anymore.”

He hesitates, eyes tracing the rim of his glass. “No.” he says finally, voice low. “I didn't think it was a good idea.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Why not?”

Nanami Kento looks at you then, really looks and in his gaze is all the restraint in the world, pressed thin against something fragile. “Because…..” he says, after a beat too long, “I don’t want to start relying on things I shouldn’t.”

The words hang between you, heavier than either of you expected. You purse your lips. “Is that so?”

“I’m not going to be good for you, dear girl.” He whispers back to you, perhaps the alcohol finally making its way to his lips as truth. “

You blink, caught off guard by the quiet gravity in his tone. His words aren’t dramatic, at least not the way you were hearing them. They’re weary, resigned, like he’s spent too long convincing himself of their truth.

“Is that supposed to be your warning label?” you say softly, trying to keep the air light, but your voice trembles on the edges.

Nanami exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh but not quite. “You deserve things that aren’t... half-lived.” 

He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, eyes fixed on it as though it could tell him something he’s been avoiding. “Someone your age shouldn’t waste time waiting for men like me to remember what it feels like to want anything.”

You cross your arms loosely, leaning against the bar. “You say that like you’ve already decided for both of us.”

“I have to.” His gaze lifts, and there’s something raw in it now. It’s not distance, but the ache of someone standing too close to the edge. “Because I know what it looks like when people like me take comfort where they shouldn’t. It starts tender and ends in ruin.”

For a moment, all you can hear is the low murmur of other patrons, the faint hum of a jazz record playing somewhere behind the counter. His hand, steady all evening, finally falters around the glass.

You swallow. “And what if I don’t mind a little ruin?”

That earns a flicker of something in his eyes. It was full of things you didn’t want to acknowledge. But you knew you could see it. He wants to be wanted. He was full of fear but also, he wanted that recognition. He looks away entirely, jaw tightening.

“Then I’d mind for you.” he says.

The words are quiet in that regard. Nothing more came with that finality. But underneath, you think to yourself that you can hear what he doesn’t say: It’s already too late for that.

HIGURAMA HIROMI WAS A BOLD MAN. But not in the way people usually meant it or thought him to be. His boldness towards you wasn’t loud or reckless. If anything, you saw it to be something that you can deal with.

It was quiet, deliberate, the kind that lived in the pauses between words. He didn’t stop coming to see you, unlike Nanami Kento. In fact, he came more often. Far more than he should have. Yet each visit carried a different weight now.

If anything, he was far softer, eager to be steadier. It was like he was trying to convince himself that this was harmless. Like he was proving to you too, that he was someone safe to be around.

He was not someone that was going to hurt or take advantage of you. That was the truth. You suppose you can see that. His teasing had all but vanished. The sharp wit, the dry humor.

All of that was gone. He had gone and let it be replaced by something gentler, almost hesitant. When he spoke to you now, it wasn’t to provoke a laugh. If anything, it was to make sure you were still breathing, still eating, still safe.

“You’re eating well?” he’d ask, tone so casual it almost masked the worry.

“Getting enough sleep?”

“You shouldn’t walk home alone, you know. Not these days.”

He didn’t ask out of obligation. You could feel that in the way his dark gaze lingered a heartbeat too long after your answers, as if he was memorizing proof that you were alright. He always framed his concern as passing conversation, but you could tell it was anything but.

And then there was the way he lingered after closing time. Always a few steps behind as you locked up the bar, always walking a careful distance behind you down the dim street.

Never close enough to make you uncomfortable, but close enough that you could sense him there. The silent shadow in a lawyer’s coat, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He never said he was following you to the bus stop, never made a show of it. But every night, when the bus finally arrived and you looked back, he was there.

He was pretending to check his watch, or his phone, or the street around him. And every night, he didn’t turn away until the bus doors closed and you were safely inside.

You told yourself it was just his nature. To be protective, overcautious, unable to let go of responsibility. But there was something in the way his eyes softened when you waved from the window that told you otherwise.

He wasn’t protecting you because he had to.

He was protecting you because he couldn’t help it.

He wanted to take care of you in his own way too.

The streetlight hums above you, washing everything in a tired gold. For a moment, neither of you speak. The sound of passing cars fills the space between words, and you realize how late it’s gotten.

The world around you is thinning out to nothing but shadows and the faint smell of rain. Hiromi’s gaze lingers on the road ahead, hands tucked in the pockets of his thickly lined coat.

The faint breeze tugs at his hair, the usually neat strands falling over his eyes. He looks younger like this. Or maybe just more human, stripped of courtroom poise and sharp edges.

“I know you can handle yourself.” he says eventually, voice quiet but steady. “That’s never been the problem.”

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “Then what is?”

He lets out a slow exhale, as if trying to find the right words. “It’s that people don’t always get what they deserve. You can do everything right and still end up hurt. I’ve seen too much of that.”

There’s no heat in his tone, only fatigue. It was the kind born of watching too many bad endings. You can’t tell if he’s talking about you, or himself. Maybe both. You look down at your shoes, scuffing the pavement. 

“You sound like someone who doesn’t believe in luck anymore.”

That earns the faintest chuckle from him. “I used to, I suppose.” he admits. “But luck doesn’t hold up in court.”

You laugh softly, but it dies quickly. His darker eyes find yours then, and for a fleeting second, you see something unguarded flicker through them.

It was something he immediately hides again behind a careful smile. The bus finally arrives with a low hiss, the bright headlights cutting through the dim night.

You step closer to the curb, heart tugging somewhere strange and heavy. You couldn’t help but look at him for much longer than you should have. When you realized, you quickly looked away, flustered and red.

“Get home safe, okay?” he says. It’s simple, habitual. But it lands differently this time. “Call me and let me know.”

You nod. “You too, Hiromi-san. Please get home safe.”

When you climb onto the bus and look back through the window, he’s still there. Hands in his pockets, watching until the bus disappears down the street. He doesn’t wave. But he stays until you’re gone.

Hiromi waits until he gets home before he calls. The city outside his apartment window hums low and distant, a different kind of silence settling over him. He stares at his phone for a long moment before finally pressing the number.

Nanami Kento answers on the third ring. “Higurama.”

“It’s definitely not a bad time, no? You’re home.” Hiromi says, voice steady, though his jaw is tight. “So you can take time.”

“......Yes, I am. What do you want?”

“You got a minute now?”

A pause. “Of course.”

There’s a soft exhale on Hiromi’s end, like he’s been holding something in too long. “Good, good. Because I think we need to talk about her. I need to sort you clean, you bastard.”

Kento doesn’t respond right away, but the quiet on the other end says enough. “Okay, no answer? I’ll monologue, so don’t speak.”

“You know, Nanami Kento.” Hiromi continued to say. “I’ve been watching you dance around this for months. Showing up, pulling away, pretending you’re doing the right thing by keeping your distance, when really you’re just stuck.”

“Hiromi—”

“No.” His tone sharpens, not angry, but firm. “You need to hear this. Because I care about her, and I care about you, and this—” he exhales, frustrated “—this limbo you’ve put her in isn’t fair to either of you.”

Kento’s voice comes low, strained. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you do know all about it.” Hiromi replies. “You just don’t want to decide. But if you cared about her, if you loved her even half as much as I think you do then you’d settle your damn feelings. Either leave her alone or let it be something. Stop hovering like a ghost.”

There’s a long, weighted silence. Higurama Hiromi can almost hear Nanami Kento breathe, slow and uneven, through the receiver. He seemed so unable to say the thing that he wants to.

"Speak up, man. Come on."

“I don’t want to hurt her.” Kento says, after a while. “She’s….she’s precious to me.”

“Then stop doing it in pieces, you damn bastard.” Hiromi says, voice softer now. “She deserves someone who chooses her. Not someone who hides behind guilt.”

He lets the words hang, heavy and unrelenting. For once, Nanami Kento doesn’t argue. When the call ends, Higurama Hiromi stands there for a while, staring at his phone.

The bright city hums outside, distant and alive, and he runs a tired hand through his hair. He doesn’t feel better, not really. But at least, for once, he’s said what needed to be said, blunly, honestly.

Because he wants this to work. He wants this to be good. And he can only hope that it ends up that way. Otherwise, he knows that he'd hurt you even more. Kento will hurt you even more. He does not want that.

"Just give us time." He whispers under his breath. "Please."

NANAMI KENTO SAW THE JOY IN YOUR EYES WHEN HE CAME AGAIN. It was small, to be sure. But it was beautiful to see. It was so soft, it was a startled kind of brightness but it struck him all the same.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that look until he saw it again, until it hit him with the quiet weight of everything he’d been trying not to feel. After that, he and Hiromi start showing up together again. No explanations, no remarks.

Just two men returning to the same quiet corner of the bar as if routine could disguise the shift beneath it. Yet, the air feels heavier now. It was taut with something unspoken, fragile. All three of you feel it. None of you acknowledge it.

They still sit in their usual spots with Nanami Kento at the far end of the counter, Higurama Hiromi closer to where you work. You still move between them, pouring drinks, smiling, pretending not to notice how the rhythm has changed. But you do.

Nanami Kento’s glances are more careful now, the kind that slides away the moment your eyes might meet. His restraint feels different. It was not indifference, but self-defense. Hiromi, on the other hand, has decided to stay silent. 

His teasing has dulled into something more thoughtful, his questions gentler, his laughter rarer. Sometimes you catch him looking at Nanami Kento, his expression unreadable, not angry, but concerned, almost resigned.

You notice that neither of them laughs as easily anymore. The small talk feels forced, polite. When you serve them, they thank you in tones too carefully, like they’re trying not to let anything slip. It’s as if both men have built invisible walls. Not against each other, but around you.

During a lull between customers, you dry your hands on a towel and look between them. They sit in the same silence, nursing their drinks, and you finally say, “Did something happen between you two?”

Nanami Kento looks up, startled. He was caught off guard not by the question itself, but by your perceptiveness. “No, no…Not exactly.” he says after a moment. “Why do you ask?”

You tilt your head slightly, studying both of them. “You both look like you’re waiting for something to end.”

Hiromi’s jaw tenses, a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes before he hides it behind his glass. Kento doesn’t answer. He only looks down, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the rim of his drink.

The silence that follows is heavy and uncomfortable. But it was gladly not hostile. It's certainly just weary. Like the truth has been circling too long, and no one wants to be the first to name it. No one wants to open Pandora's box.

You force a small smile, trying to shake off the tension. “You know….” you murmur back at them. “It’s strange seeing you two this quiet. I used to think you only came here to debate, maybe even argue. But now….”

That earns a faint sound from Hiromi. It was  not quite a laugh, but the closest thing to one tonight. “Maybe we ran out of things to fight about, darling.” he says, drinking his alcohol. “Don’t worry too much about it.”

“Or maybe, it’s something else.” the blond man adds quietly, caramel eyes still on his glass. “Maybe we finally found something not worth fighting over.”

The words linger between the three of you, low and steady, carrying far more weight than you can place. You stare at him, but he doesn’t look up. Hiromi does, though. And whatever passes between him and Kento in that brief glance feels like a conversation neither of them will ever say aloud.

When you turn away to tend to another table, both men exhale at once, the sound nearly identical. It was as if each had been holding his breath for far too long. But you didn’t want to butt in. So you let it go and handle the other customers.

Later, as the night winds down and the last of the crowd drifts out, the bar settles into that familiar, fragile quiet. It was only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft rhythm of your cleaning rag against the counter. You’re half-distracted, humming to yourself, when you hear their voices carry softly from the corner booth.

“She’s too young, Kento.” Hiromi says. His tone isn’t sharp. If anything, it’s quiet, almost pleading, like he’s said it before in different words. His cigarette was now long abandoned on the counter. “Don’t break her heart like this.”

“I know.” The salaryman whispered, smoking the nicotine out of his lips. “I’m not…I am aware.”

A pause follows, long enough that you almost think that’s the end of it. But Hiromi speaks again, lower now. “Then why—”

Kento exhales, a sound too tired to be called a sigh. “Because she reminds me of when things still mattered.”

The silence that follows feels alive. Then, almost as if he’s confessing it to himself, He then adds. “And because I know if I let myself have her, I’d ruin her.”

Something in the way he says it makes you stop moving. The cloth stills in your hand. His voice isn’t filled with longing, or even regret. It’s quiet and resolute, the sound of a man standing behind the bars of his own making.

Hiromi doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint scrape of his chair, the soft clink of glass. When he finally speaks, his voice is tight. “You think restraint makes it better?”

“It’s the only decent thing I have left.” The blond says in reply, smoking again. “It’s all I can ever do for her sake.”

That stays with you, the weary honesty in it, the ache threaded through every word. You shouldn’t have listened, you tell yourself. But you do. You can’t help it. When you turn around again, they’re already leaving. 

The soft echo of the door closing feels too final, too heavy. You stand there for a while, staring at their empty glasses, two faint rings of condensation side by side, fading into the wood. Later, when you lock up and start walking home, his words follow you down the quiet street. 

She reminds me of when things still mattered. If I let myself have her, I’d ruin her.

You tell yourself it’s not your concern, that whatever exists between them, between you, is theirs to untangle. But the truth is, something has changed. After they find out you overheard because somehow they always do, everything shifts. Not all at once, but slowly, like the air after a storm.

Nanami Kento becomes quieter, more withdrawn. When he looks at you, there’s an ache there. It was not unkind, just burdened, like he’s seeing something he wants but has already decided to deny himself. His restraint is no longer courtesy; it’s penance.

Hiromi watches him with that lawyer’s gaze, far too calm, too precise, harsh and unblinking. He doesn’t mention the conversation, but you feel his understanding hanging in every silence. When Nanami Kento leaves early, Hiromi lingers a little longer, as if keeping watch over the space he can’t fill.

The rhythm you shared with them shifts into something fragile. You still laugh, still talk, still pour their drinks but the lightness is gone. What remains is quiet tension, warm and aching, as if all three of you know the boundary has already been crossed.

And yet, despite everything, despite guilt, restraint, and all the unspoken rules that should’ve kept you apart, they keep coming back. Both of them. Always. It isn’t logical. It isn’t routine. It can’t be that. 

It’s something deeper, something neither of them would ever admit aloud but both are helpless to deny. You feel it too. You feel that slow, magnetic pull that brings them to you night after night, as if the three of you are caught in the same orbit. As if none of you can bear to let it collapse.

Hiromi tries to make sense of it. 

Kento can only try to bury it down.

But you, you can only feel it.

It’s there in the way Hiromi’s gaze softens when you laugh, in the way Kento’s eyes flicker to you and away again like he’s afraid the light might burn him. Whatever binds the three of you isn’t something that can be reasoned away. It’s not rational, or moral, or safe. 

It just is. It hums beneath every breath, lingers in every pause. It’s in the way they both watch over you. It was  one with gentle caution, the other with quiet guilt. And maybe, deep down, they both know that what they feel isn’t just about you.

It’s about what they’ve lost, what they still wish they could be. You remind them of warmth, of youth, of the parts of themselves the world has worn down to ash. You can feel all of that, even in the silence. Especially in the silence.

One night, it’s too much to hold in. The bar is nearly empty, lit only by the low amber glow of a single lamp. Outside, the rain taps gently against the windows. Soft, rhythmic, the kind of sound that makes confessions feel inevitable.

Nanami Kento  sits where he always does, his posture perfect, his tie slightly loosened, as though even now he’s trying to hold onto order. His glass is finally empty. You pour him another bout of it. 

The soft, deliberate sound of whiskey spilling feels almost intimate. When you set the glass down before him, his eyes lift to meet yours. He looks tired. But it was not the kind of tired sleep that can fix and release him from all of it.

“You don’t have to look so guilty, you know.” you say, your voice quiet but steady. “I’m not a kid.”

He freezes, his hand hovering mid-air. The motion is small, but it feels enormous. It was as though time itself pauses to see what he’ll do. “I didn’t say you were, sweet girl.” he replies finally, his voice low and careful, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a thread of tension that betrays him.

You smile faintly, soft and knowing. “You didn’t have to. And you still do.”

The words settle between you like smoke. Fragile, dangerous, impossible to take back. His breath catches, barely audible, and for the first time, you see him falter. The composure he wears like armor cracks at the edges.

He looks at you, and the weight of everything unsaid fills the space between you. The bar feels smaller suddenly, too warm, too close. You can see the war in his expression. The part of him that wants to step closer, and the part that’s terrified of what that would mean.

He swallows hard. “It’s not guilt…at least not that I think of.” he says finally, his voice almost breaking on the words. “It’s fear.”

You tilt your head, your pulse quickening. “Fear of what?”

The blond man’s gaze drops to his drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light. When he answers, it’s so soft you almost don’t hear him. “Of what I might become if I stop pretending I don’t feel it.”

Something in you stirs. It was an ache, a kind of sorrow you can’t name. His fingers brush against the glass, and for a moment they graze yours, fleeting but electric. The contact is nothing, and everything. 

It’s the smallest brush of skin, but it makes the air between you feel alive. You don’t pull away. Neither does he. Outside, thunder murmurs somewhere in the distance, rain streaking the windows like threads of silver. Inside, everything goes impossibly still. 

His hand lingers near yours for a fraction too long, then retreats, slow and reluctant, like a man forcing himself to remember who he’s supposed to be. He finally takes a sip, eyes closing briefly. As though he’s trying to steady something breaking loose inside him. When he opens them again, his gaze finds yours, soft and pained.

“You deserve something untouched.” he says quietly. “And I’m not that.”

Your chest tightens. You want to tell him that you never asked for something untouched, that you don’t care about clean edges or what’s already been broken. But you can’t find the words to say back to him. 

You only smile again, faintly, and whisper, “You didn’t have to tell me that, either.”

And maybe that’s what undoes him. It was not your words, but the gentleness in them. The way you look at him without judgment, without expectation. The way you see the ruin in him and don’t flinch. He looks away first. Always.

When the last customer leaves and the lights dim to their softer hue, you begin your closing routine in silence. The clink of glass, the sweep of a rag over the counter, the hum of the refrigerator.

All of it feels heavier tonight. Nanami Kento lingers, as he always does, his thick wool coat draped over one arm, watching you with that same unreadable calm that hides too much underneath.

You can feel his caramel eyes on you, steady but distant, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of your silhouette before forcing himself to forget it. It’s unbearable, the quiet between you, the restraint that hums louder than any confession ever could.

When you finally turn to him, he straightens slightly, ready to say his usual goodbye. But something in you refuses to let the night end that easily. “Nanami-san.”

He pauses, his name sounding almost intimate in your mouth. “Yes?”

You take a slow breath, gripping the edge of the counter like you need the anchor. “I hope….” you start softly. “I hope that one day you’ll just…let me decide things too.”

He frowns faintly, confusion flickering before realization sets in. His brows draw together, the faintest crease forming between them. “What do you mean?”

You exhale a quiet, shaky laugh. “You talk like everything’s already been decided. It’s like I’m something to protect, not someone who gets to choose.” You look down, then back up at him, and your eyes meet his squarely. “But I’m not fragile. I have logic. I have sense. I also have feelings, you know.”

The words land like a soft blow. He doesn’t move, but you see it. The flicker of emotion that crosses his face before he schools it back into calm. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like he’s not sure which truth is safe to say.

“I know you do, sweet girl.” he says finally, his voice low. “That’s what makes this harder.”

You shake your head, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “You think I don’t understand what I’m doing? That I don’t see what this is?”

His silence answers him. You step closer. Not too close, but enough that the space between you feels thinner, charged. “You act like the only person who could get hurt here is me. But maybe it’s not about being hurt, Nanami-san. Maybe it’s about choice. Maybe I want to choose what hurts me.”

For a moment, he just looks at you and the air feels too full, too real. His eyes, usually so careful, soften into something almost tender, almost breaking. He exhales, slow and heavy. “You shouldn’t have to make choices like that.”

“Maybe not.” you whisper back at him. “But it doesn’t mean you get to make them for me.”

There’s a long pause. The rain outside has slowed to a drizzle, the city humming softly beyond the glass. He sets his empty glass down, fingers brushing the counter once, like he’s memorizing the moment.

“You’re…braver than I am, you and Hiromi are brave.” he says, almost to himself. “Or maybe just less broken.”

“Maybe both.” you say gently.

Something fragile passes between you. You can tell that it’s not quite peace, not quite surrender. Just understanding. When he finally moves to leave, you watch him quietly, the sound of his footsteps slow and deliberate. 

At the door, he finds himself hesitating. The light catches the side of his handsome face, and he looks back at you with something unguarded in his expression. It was something like longing, or regret, or both.

“I’ll try.” he says simply.

You nod. “That’s all I wanted.”

He leaves then, stepping out into the night, his silhouette fading against the dim streetlights. You stand there long after he’s gone, your heart unsteady, but not aching. Because this time, it wasn’t silence that lingered between you. It was something closer to truth.

IT HAPPENED ON A WEDNESDAY. You’re closing early this time around or at least, you plan to. But then, the door slams open and Higuruma Hiromi stumbles in. His tie is half undone, his eyes glassy with exhaustion and liquor. It’s rare to see him like this. 

He’s always composed, deliberate. But tonight, he looks undone, stripped bare of whatever calm he usually wears like armor. You can smell the alcohol before he even sits down. He must have drunk quite a lot before coming here to you.

“Hiromi-san—” you say softly, setting aside the glass you were drying. “Please, calm down. We’re closed.”

“Since when?” he mutters, half laughing. “You never close this early.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” you reply gently, moving to take the bottle from his reach.

He doesn’t stop you. Just slumps against the counter and presses his palms over his face. “My client.” he says after a moment. “He—he killed himself. Before the verdict came out.”

You pause. “I’m sorry.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “You say that like it means something.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t. You just quietly start tidying up around him, locking the doors, flipping the sign to Closed. You don’t want anyone else to see him like this. The proud lawyer is now just a man drowning in the wreckage of someone else’s tragedy.

“I thought I was helping him.” he whispers to you, holding his alcoholic drink. “But maybe I just made him believe there was hope when there wasn’t any.”

There's silence after that. The kind that presses on your ribs. Then he lifts his head, his eyes red, unfocused. “You make it look so easy.” he says suddenly. “Caring about people.”

You blink. “That’s part of the job.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s not. You mean it. That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Before you can answer, the door opens again. You turn, trying to tell them that the bar is closed already but you stop yourself. Instead your mouth opened, to see Nanami Kento standing in the doorway, rain still clinging to his coat.

“I saw the lights and I….” he says, eyes flicking between you and Higuruma. “It’s late. I was… worried.”

Higuruma laughs, not kindly. “Of course you were.”

 Kento’s expression hardens. “You’re drunk.”

“Brilliant deduction.”

You step between them before the tension can crack any further. “Both of you, sit down. Please.”

For a moment, no one moves. Then, grudgingly, they do. You pour water for Hiromi and tea for Kento. The air feels heavy, brittle at this moment, almost like static before a storm. Kento sits with that practiced calm of his, but his gaze keeps drifting toward you. It was protective, conflicted. Hiromi watches him with something close to bitterness.

And then, suddenly, he laughs again. Soft, humorless. “You think we don’t notice?”

You frown. “Notice what?”

He looks at you then, eyes sharp despite the alcohol. “How you look at us.”

The words hang in the air, shattering whatever fragile balance was left. You freeze. The sound of the rain against the windows fills the silence that follows. Nanami Kento could feel his jaw tighten. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t deny it. Just looks down at his hands, fingers curling slightly against the table.

For a long, unbearable moment, no one breathes. Then Kento exhales, low and heavy. “That’s enough, Higuruma.”

“Is it?” Higuruma snaps, his voice raw. “Because I’m tired of pretending this isn’t happening. Tired of acting like we don’t all know exactly what this is.”

You can feel your pulse in your throat. “You’re drunk and you’re upset.” you say quietly. “You do not need to talk about this right now.”

“Maybe.” he says, leaning back. “But I’m not wrong.”

Kento stands abruptly, his restraint cracking just enough for frustration to bleed through. “This isn’t the place—”

“Then where is it, that place?” Higuruma cuts in. “Where do men like us go to be honest?”

The silence that follows feels endless. You don’t move. Neither do they. Just three lonely people sitting in a dimly lit bar, surrounded by the ghosts of everything they’ve never said and the things they don’t know how to express honestly.

When Higuruma Hiromi finally slumps forward, head in his hands, the fight drains out of him. You kneel beside him, gentle, steady, coaxing him to drink water, to breathe. Kento helps wordless, carefully guiding him upright, making sure he doesn’t fall.

They don’t leave until nearly dawn. No one mentions what was said. No one apologizes. But something fundamental has shifted. From that night on, nothing feels the same. Their glances linger too long. Your jokes fall flatter. Even silence feels louder.

And though nothing happened. There was no touch, no line crossed by any of you. You know, in some quiet, irreversible way, that the three of you stepped past something you can never fully go back from.

The relationship grows dangerous in its intimacy. Not because of anything explicit, but because of how easily small gestures start meaning too much. At first, it’s practical things. Nanami Kento walking you to the station after work. Higuruma Hiromi waiting with coffee when your morning classes run late. Little courtesies that shouldn’t matter but they do. This does.

Then it becomes routine. You start meeting outside the bar. Sometimes it’s dinner after their long workdays. The quiet places where the lighting is soft and beautiful, and no one looks too long. 

Sometimes it’s the morning after your shift, when the city hasn’t fully woken yet and everything feels half-dreamed. You sit together, saying almost nothing. It feels safe, but only on the surface. Sometimes you’re with Nanami Kento. Sometimes Higuruma Hiromi. And sometimes, both.

They don’t plan it. They don’t need to. With the time that had passed, there was now a rhythm forming between them, one they both pretended not to notice. It was a silent coordination built on shared secrecy.

Kento waits for you outside the bar on nights he doesn’t have to. Hiromi messages first, asking if you’ve eaten, then deletes the texts later. They both stop pretending it's a coincidence. You start to see it clearly: they’ve begun to mirror each other. You began to see yourself in them too.

Kento found little by little that his restraint began to crack. The precision he lives by. All the rules, the professionalism. They had all started slipping in the quiet moments when he looks at you too long, when his voice softens without meaning to. He still doesn’t touch you, doesn’t say anything he shouldn’t, but the silence between words grows heavier, harder to ignore.

Hiromi, meanwhile, is fraying in a different way. The guilt that used to keep him cautious now twists into justification. He tells himself it’s harmless, that it’s just comfort, that he’s helping. That he can express the thing he cannot in this tenderness. 

But even he knows that’s a lie. He was not that person. He knew he was. His kindness starts to curdle into something darker. It ws a need to be understood, to be forgiven for wanting what he shouldn’t.

And you….somehow, you become the link between them. And the fracture. They start talking to each other more, even without you around. They’re drawn together by the same thing that’s undoing them. 

You see it in the glances they exchange, the subtle tension that hums when all three of you share the same space. It’s not romantic, not really. It’s something messier. Intimacy without clarity. Affection without safety.

“This isn’t sustainable.” Kento finally says, placing his hands on his lap. “This is not good.”

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. “It’s never going to end up good.”

“I keep thinking about how it’ll look. How it’ll end.” Hiromi whispers under his breath.

You want to say it doesn’t have to end badly. You want to believe it, that maybe this strange, delicate thing between the three of you could exist outside of consequence, untouched by reality. But even as the thought forms, it dies somewhere in your chest. Because deep down, you know better.

By now, you can feel it too. The inevitability. It moves quietly, threading itself through every shared glance, every small mercy, every time one of them lingers a little too long after closing. It’s not a love story.

Not the kind that ends with promises or peace. It’s a slow, careful collapse built on good intentions and loneliness, on three people who found comfort where they shouldn’t have looked for it. And none of you know how to stop.

You tell yourself that it’s harmless. That you just like their company, that it’s all innocent. But that’s a lie you repeat because it’s easier than confronting the truth. You keep finding reasons to see them, to talk, to hear their voices. 

You tell yourself you need guidance, that you need someone older, someone who understands the weight of the world you’re only just beginning to feel. But underneath that, there’s something else in there.

There was a need you can’t quite name. A longing to be seen by these men who seem to understand everything you’ve never been able to put into words. And they feed into it, too. They feed your delusions and reassure their fantasies in this reality.

Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s that same ache inside them that mirrors yours. But it grows. Slowly. Inevitably. It gets worse before it gets better. Maybe because none of you are brave enough to admit that it’s already too late. That the lines blurred long ago, and none of you can remember where they were drawn in the first place.

When you step behind the counter, they both follow your movements, but in different ways.  Nanami Kento’s gaze is steady, precise. It was the look of a man who memorizes details to keep himself from falling apart. 

He watches your hands as you pour, the slight tilt of your wrist, the way you bite your lip when you’re focused. It’s a kind of study, quiet and restrained, as though knowing you in fragments is safer than wanting you whole.

Higuruma Hiromi’s eyes, on the other hand, are nothing like that. His are direct, unflinching, almost defiant. He doesn’t look through you. He looks at you. Like he’s already accepted that he’s past the point of pulling back. 

And you…you’ve stopped pretending not to notice. You’ve stopped pretending not to feel the air shift when one of them leans too close, not to notice how their presence makes the space around you feel charged, unsteady. 

You tell yourself you didn’t ask for any of this, that you didn’t mean to become the center of whatever this is but that’s not the whole truth, is it? Because there’s something about being seen so clearly, so completely, that you can’t turn away from. 

It’s intoxicating. It’s terrifying. It’s the kind of attention that fills every quiet moment, every breath. You start to crave it even as you hate yourself for doing so. But it was just how it was. You wanted it. And you didn’t know what to do.

One night, when the crowd thins out and the bar hums with that late-hour silence, just the buzz of neon against the windows and the faint scrape of glass,  you decide you’ve had enough of pretending it’s normal. You stand behind the counter, hands braced against the wood, and look at them both.

They’re seated in their usual spots. Nanami Kento at the edge, composed as ever, his tie loosened. Higuruma Hiromi himself was sitting closer, one elbow propped up, a half-smile playing at his lips that didn't reach his eyes.

“You can’t keep doing this.” you say finally, your voice quieter than you intend, but sharp enough to cut through the haze. “Both of you. You’re exhausting yourselves over something that doesn’t even make sense.”

Kento looks up first. “It makes sense to me.” he says, and though his tone is calm, there’s something heavy beneath it.  It was the sound of conviction he’s ashamed of.

Hiromi’s response comes quicker, harsher. “It’s the only thing that has happened in months.”

You let out a brittle laugh, shaking your head. “Do you even hear yourselves? You talk like you’re—” you search for the word, then find it, bitter on your tongue — “addicted.”

Kento doesn’t flinch. He meets your eyes, steady but tired. “Maybe we are.”

You stare at him for a moment, stunned by the quiet honesty of it. Then Hiromi leans forward, elbows pressing into the counter, his expression open, almost pleading. Almost begging to hear it from your lips. As though that would be the call to action.

“Addicted to what, though?” he asks softly, eyes darting between you and Nanami. “To you? To each other? To feel something that isn’t emptiness?”

The words hang in the air like a confession neither of them can take back. No one speaks after that. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. In a way, it was the kind of silence that feels alive, pulsing with everything none of you dare to name.

And after that night, something changes again. Nanami Kento becomes more deliberate in everything he does, like he’s forcing himself into a role that keeps him safe. He becomes the caretaker: he makes sure you eat, that you go home at decent hours, that Higuruma doesn’t drown himself in alcohol or impulse. 

He pretends it’s just duty, just decency, but you see through it. You see the tightness in his jaw when Higuruma Hiromi gets too close, the way his eyes flicker toward you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Higuruma, though…..he starts to unravel. Some nights, he’s warm and witty, laughing too loudly at your jokes, teasing just enough to make you smile. Other nights, he’s tense, raw, restless. A man trying to provoke something, anything, to make sense of the noise in his own head.

And you, caught between them, start to crave both. Kento’s steadiness feels safe, but suffocating. It was like being wrapped in glass, protected, but unable to breathe. Hiromi’s volatility feels dangerous, but real, like standing too close to the edge of something that makes you feel alive.

It becomes a pattern you live with day to day. 

A dangerous, cyclical kind of intimacy.

And you didn’t want to let it go.

They argue, quietly at first, then sharper. You mediate between them. Someone storms out, someone stays behind. You say it’s fine, you patch the silence with small talk or smiles, and then the next night, they both show up again. Acting as if nothing happened.

But something has happened. You can feel it in the way the air changes whenever they’re near each other. It was the way their restraint is starting to fray, thread by thread. It isn’t just about you anymore. It never really was. Whatever is brewing between them runs deeper, older, heavier.

Some nights, when the tension builds too high, you catch the quiet flicker of emotion between them. It was a look held too long, a silence that felt like it could break the world if either of them spoke first. 

There’s history in their stares, something tangled and wordless. You see how Nanami Kento’s calm seems to crack only around Hiromi, how Higurma Hiromi’s defiance softens in Kento’s presence.

And you’re caught between them, watching as the line between care and craving, between protection and possession, begins to blur everything and anything. There was nothing that made sense anymore. But perhaps that's what made it easier.

That's why it made it easier when it finally happens one night after another one of their arguments. It was one that starts with your name and ends with something neither of them can admit. The bar is closed. The rain outside hasn’t stopped for hours. 

You’re still behind the counter, half-heartedly wiping down glasses, trying to breathe through the exhaustion of it all. They’re both standing a few feet apart. Silent, breathing hard, tension radiating off them like heat.

You can’t tell if they’re angry or heartbroken, and maybe they don’t know either. Nanami Kento looks like he’s holding himself together by sheer will, his hands still, his jaw set.

Higuruma Hiromi, on the other hand, looks undone. His dark charcoal hair mussed, tie hanging loose, his eyes sharp but tired. There’s too much between them: resentment, longing, regret.

The kind of emotion that can’t stay contained forever. When you glance up, they’re already looking at each other. The feeling of something raw and unguarded flashing between them. Neither speaks. Neither moves away.

The air feels thick, charged, as if the smallest touch would tip everything into chaos. And then, Kento takes a step closer to Hiromi. Slow, deliberate, like a man walking into a truth he’s denied for too long. Their faces are inches apart now, the silence humming like a current between them.

You watch as Kento’s hand rises. It was almost too hesitant at first, then a moment later, full of resolve, certain. And cups Hiromi’s cheek. His thumb brushes against the other man’s bottom lip, a gesture far too intimate to be a mistake.

Hiromi exhales, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment, like he’s surrendering to something inevitable. When he opens them again, there’s no defiance left. It was only a quiet recognition in him at that moment.

The tension between them crackles, alive and dangerous, filling every inch of air around you. You can feel it in your chest, in your breath, in the way your pulse stumbles. For a moment, none of you speak. None of you need to.

Because whatever this is, whatever has been building, breaking, and bleeding between the three of you has finally taken shape. And it’s beautiful.  And it’s ruinous. Everything about it was deprived. But you could not look away.

Slowly, deliberately, Kento closes the distance and presses his lips to Hiromi in a deep, passionate kiss. It's a kiss filled with years of longing, frustration, and finally, release. He kisses him back just as fiercely, his hands gripping Kento’s waist possessively.

You stand there frozen, your heart racing as you watch the two men you love most in the world finally giving in to their desires. As they kiss, their hands roam each other's bodies, reacquainting themselves with familiar curves and planes.

Hiromi’s fingers dig into the muscles of Kento’s back, pulling him closer. Kento’s hands slip under Hiromi's shirt, caressing the warm skin beneath. Their tongues dance and duel, each trying to dominate the other.

You can't tear your eyes away from the sight of them, your own arousal growing with every passing second. Without thinking, you step forward and press yourself against Hiromi’s back, sandwiching him between you and Kento. 

He startles at first but then leans back into you, his head falling onto your shoulder as he continues to kiss Kento deeply. Your hands snake around Hiromi’s waist, one sliding up to palm the blond man’s chest through his shirt while the other dips lower to cup a dark haired man through his pants. 

Kento groans into the kiss as he feels your hand on his chest, arching into your touch. Hiromi bucks back against you, his hardness pressing into your palm through the fabric of his pants. You squeeze gently, eliciting a gasp from him that is muffled by Kento’s lips.

Breaking the kiss, Kento turns his head to capture your mouth in a searing kiss as well. His tongue plunders your mouth, tasting the black haired man on your lips. Hiromi turns in your arms, switching places with you so that he can claim the caramel eyed man's mouth once more.

The three of you continue to kiss and touch, hands roaming freely over bare skin and clothed bodies. The room fills with the sounds of heavy breathing, soft moans, and the occasional snap of elastic as clothing is hastily removed. 

Soon, the only things separating you are a tangle of limbs and a few scraps of fabric. Kento’s strong hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him as Hiromi’s lips trail down his neck. You arch into their touches, your head falling back against his shoulder. He takes advantage, kissing and biting at the exposed column of your throat.

Kento’s hardness presses against your stomach, hot and insistent. You reach between your bodies to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly. He hisses through his teeth, his hips jerking forward into your touch. Hiromi's hand joins yours, their fingers intertwining as they pump Kento together.

Suddenly, Kento lifts you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. He carries you over to the nearest flat surface. He sets you down on the sturdy bar table and holds you as you sit against the edge. He grips your thighs, spreading them wide as he steps between them.

Hiromi then moves to stand beside you, his hand reaching out to caress your cheek gently. He leans in to capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss as Kento positions himself at your entrance. You moan into Hiromi’s mouth, the sound muffled by his lips. 

Without warning, Nanami Kento thrusts forward, burying himself deep inside you in one smooth motion. You cry out, your nails digging into Hiromi’s shoulders as Kento begins to move. He sets a steady pace, his hips snapping forward with each thrust. 

Higuruma Hiromi kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans and gasps as he watches where Kento disappears inside you. He then leans down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard. 

His teeth graze the sensitive bud, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Hiromi's hand slides down your stomach to find your clit, rubbing slow circles around the swollen nub. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, and you feel your orgasm building quickly.

Your hips buck wildly against Kento’s, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor. The lawyer’s calloused fingers on your clit and the salary man’s teeth on your nipple push you over the edge, and you come with a scream of their names.

As you ride out the waves of pleasure, Nanami Kento continues to pound into you relentlessly. His thrusts become erratic, his breathing ragged against your neck. He buries himself deep one last time and stills, his release flooding your insides.

Hiromi captures your mouth in a searing kiss as he watches Kento come undone inside you. When Kento pulls out, Hiromi lifts you off the table and turns you around to face him. He peppers kisses deeply before spinning you back around and bending you over the table.

You hear the sound of a foil packet tearing, and then his hands are on your hips, pulling you back as he sheaths himself inside you with one smooth thrust. You let out a harsh gasp at the sudden fullness, your inner walls still fluttering from your previous orgasm.

Higuruma Hiromi sets a brutal pace, his hips slamming against your ass with each thrust. He grips your hips tightly, his claws digging into your skin as he chases his own release. Nanami Kento then moves to stand in front of you, his semi-hard cock bobbing inches from your face.

He wraps a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you forward, guiding you to take him into your mouth.You obey eagerly, sucking him back to full hardness as Hiromi continues to pound into you from behind.

The three of you move together in a dance of pleasure and need, each seeking their own satisfaction while giving it in return. Hiromi’s thrusts become more erratic as he nears his climax.

He leans over your back, his chest pressing against yours as he bites down on your shoulder. His teeth sink into your flesh, marking you as his. That small bite of pain sends you spiraling into another orgasm, your inner walls clamping down around him like a vice.

With a roar, Higuruma Hiromi buries himself deep inside you and comes, his hot seed filling the condom. He collapses against your back, panting heavily as he rides out the waves of pleasure. Meanwhile, Kento’s grip on your hair tightens as he fucks your mouth mercilessly.

He holds you in place as he spills himself down your throat, his hips jerking forward with each pulse of release. After the intense threesome, you're left feeling emotionally and physically drained. 

Hiromi notices your exhaustion and wraps a gentle arm around your waist, supporting your weight as he guides you to the bathroom. Kento follows closely behind, his expression softening as he takes in your weary state.

In the bathroom, Hiromi turns on the staff shower and helps you step inside. The warm water cascades over your skin, soothing muscles that ache from the vigorous lovemaking. Kento joins you both in the shower, taking a washcloth and gently cleaning your body with tender care.

Hiromi grabs a towel and wraps it around you once you're clean, holding you close as he dries you off. Nanami Kento grabs another towel and begins drying himself off quickly before wrapping it around his hips. He looks at you with concern etched on his face.

"Why don't I take a bath at my place?" he suggests softly to Hiromi and to you. "It’s just nearby.”

Hiromi only nods in agreement, his arm tightening around your waist. "That sounds perfect, we can at least let this sweetheart rest." he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

Nanami Kento smiles softly and begins gathering your clothes, folding them neatly and placing them in a bag. He then grabs your other belongings while he closes up the bar. Hiromi carries you as he hails a taxi.

Together, the three of you make your way to Nanami Kento apartment. Once inside, Kento starts the bath, adding soothing lavender oils to the warm water. Hiromi then helps you undress and carefully lowers you into the tub, sitting on the edge beside you.

Kento returns with a glass of water and some snacks, setting them on the counter nearby. He sits on the other side of the tub, his hand resting gently on your shoulder as Hiromi washes your hair with tender care.

As you soak in the bath, the three of you talk softly, laughing quietly and sharing gentle touches. You sink more into the warm bath, surrounded by the soothing scent of lavender, you look between your lovers with a mix of affection and resignation.

You know deep down that pursuing a relationship with both of them is a bad idea. In the long run, you know that it's messy, complicated, and bound to end in heartbreak. But despite knowing this, you've grown to care for them deeply. You wanted them close, just as you know they wanted you too.

"I want this, this thing between us." You say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I want to be with both of you, even if it's not good for me. I know it's selfish and foolish, but I can't help how I feel."

You reach out, carefully taking each of their hands in yours and squeeze gently. "I don't expect either of you to understand or even agree with me. But I needed you to know the truth."

Kento’s expression softens, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles as he holds your hand. He looks at Hiromi for a moment, where soon a silent understanding passes between them. He smiles at you.

"We know it's complicated." Kento says softly, squeezing your hand back. "And we know the risks. But the truth is, we care about you too. Both of us."

Hiromi nods in agreement, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly. "We don't want to hurt you, sweetheart." He murmurs in agreement."But we also can't deny what we feel. If you're willing to take that risk, then so are we."

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips before pulling back and looking at Kento almost too expectantly. Nanami Kento leans in as well, pressing a soft kiss to your other cheek. His lips linger for a moment before he pulls back, his eyes searching yours.

"We'll take it slow, okay?" He promises to you. "And we'll communicate openly about our feelings and any issues that arise. We don't want to rush into anything and end up hurting each other in the process."

Higuruma Hiromi nods in agreement, his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip."But now that we're both committed to making this work, this love." he says firmly, a faint smile on his lips. "We have to do well….for all of us."

Together, the three of you sit in the warm bath, hands entwined and never willing to let go. You lean against them both, with your heart open, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead in your unconventional romance. Always and forever, together.

THE MEETING HAD RAN FAR TOO LONG. Nanami Kento could tell from the shift in the air. The low hum of executives checking their watches, the faint irritation that comes when power is forced to wait.

He adjusted the cuff of his tailored suit, gold tie pin catching the afternoon light, and checked his own watch. Five o’clock. Right on time. Across the glass wall of the conference room, Hiromi Higuruma was finishing his presentation.

The man was dangerously beautiful as ever as he calmly, precisely and deliberately hammered down what they would gain and lose if they pursue this merger through the legal procedures.

It was the same tone he’d used in court years ago, now applied to contracts worth millions. The same strident face, the same never ending confidence. Everyone liked that about him, but he was only happy if you and Kento liked it. And you do.

When Kento appeared in the doorway, conversation still continued. A few executives turned, murmuring quietly. The others looked from one man to the other, unsure whether to speak. Hiromi caught Kento’s eye mid-sentence. 

A flicker of recognition. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, he said. “Gentlemen, that’ll be all for today. I believe we’re done here.”

“But—” one of the younger board members began, flipping through notes.

Hiromi closed his folder with a quiet snap. “I leave on time. Always have.”

There was an awkward chuckle, the sound of shuffling papers. Nanami Kento waited by the door until Hiromi joined him, both men walking down the hall like two parallel lines that refused to meet, until they did.

Outside, the driver was already waiting. Hiromi slid into the car first, still shrugging out of his jacket. Kento followed, loosening his tie. The driver looked onto them, through the mirror. “Where to, sirs?”

“Home, if you will.” Hiromi said simply.

Kento smiles. “We have our dearest girl waiting at home.”

The driver nodded. The tinted glass rose, sealing the two of them inside a private world. For a while, neither spoke. The city moved past little by little. It was worth passing through the indifferent silver gilding and tall dull marvels. It was a sign that each passing moment, each passing building is a moment closer back home. 

Then Hiromi’s voice broke the silence. “You still check the time every day.”

Kento gave a quiet hum. “Habit.”

“Or ritual.” Hiromi said. “You’ve always liked those.”

Kento’s caramel eyes flicked toward him, faint amusement in his expression. “And you’ve always liked testing them.”

Hiromi smiled, gaze turning to the window. “Some things never change.”

When the car turned into the private drive, the world outside seemed to fade. The chaos of work, the noise of Tokyo city, the endless meetings and deadlines. What waited beyond the gates was another life entirely.

The fine, beautiful house was quiet when they entered. All clean lines and warm light, more home than luxury. The scent of dinner drifted faintly from the kitchen. And there you were. Barefoot, reading at the kitchen counter, sunlight brushing your face.

You looked up as the door opened. “You’re home early.”

Hiromi’s laugh was soft. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m used to you both working late, dearest.” you said, closing your book. “Did something happen?”

Kento set his briefcase down, unbuttoning his jacket. “We just decided not to waste another evening in that boardroom.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “That’s new.”

“It’s necessary, sweet girl.” Hiromi said, loosening his collar. “You always told us to take breaks.”

You laughed quietly. “I didn’t think you’d listen.”

The three of you stood there for a moment. It was perfect and every time, to just be around each other. Nothing was better. The air was beautifully calm, the sunshine was brighter than before. The flowers on the numerous vases smelt even sweeter.

This kind of silence, this peace had been hard earned. It was something that carries years of history inside it. The late nights, the blurred lines, the unspoken promises that had shaped your lives into something no one else could ever understand.

You’d left bartending long ago. College was long over too. Your name was on papers and projects that had their funding quietly pushed through by the same men now standing in your kitchen. You knew it. They knew it. 

And though none of you ever said the word love, at least not in the way most people would. You had your own language and your own ways. That was more important. It was written in the way your lives are still intertwined.

It was messy, hidden, and it takes time to read. But it was impossible to sever. That was more important. Hiromi leaned against the counter, watching you with an expression that was both fond and quietly possessive.

Kento, ever the observer, poured water into three glasses, his movements steady, deliberate. You took one from him, your fingers brushing his. The contact was nothing, and yet everything.

“Did you ever think about that time, back then?” you asked softly.

Kento's voice was low. “Every day.”

Hiromi smiled faintly. “We shouldn’t.” he said. “But we do.”

You nodded, half-smiling. “Some secrets never really end, do they?”

Kento glanced toward Hiromi, then back to you. “No, I don’t think so, sweet girl.” he said quietly. “They just learn to live in daylight.”

The house fell quiet again, but you did not mind and neither did they. It was not empty, and it never will be. This piece of peace was well treasured by the three of you. You giggled as you continued to cook your dinner, the two distracting you with sweet nothings as they aided you.

Outside, the city lights flickered to life. Inside, three people sat together at the dining table, sitting beside each other comfortably. You were much older now. And life has become a steadier essence from the instability it had been.

But everything was still carrying the echo of what began in the glow of a bar that no longer existed. And for a moment, it almost felt like paradise. You sometimes wonder when the lines first disappeared.

Not the obvious ones. Not the age, or the titles, or the distance between who they were and who they became. The other lines. The invisible ones that divided right from necessary, choice from fate.

Because somewhere along the way, the three of you stopped living separate lives. You wake in the mornings to Kento’s schedule, the sound of his alarm soft but exact. He never snoozes, never falters, never forgets to leave a cup of coffee for you before he goes.

Hiromi’s nights are louder. He still takes late calls from clients, pacing across the living room with that quiet fury he’s never learned to tame. But when he passes you, he always rests his hand on the back of your chair, grounding himself.

And you, you’ve somehow learned to exist between them. You play around in the city, you spend without limit, you exist in extremes. But you still learn, you still grow, but you are also a wallflower to the cages of their love. 

Somehow every part of your life still runs parallel to theirs. You tell yourself you’ve earned this peace, though you know that peace is not what this is. It’s something stranger. Something fragile.

You remember what it used to feel like, in that bar light flickering, the taste of exhaustion in the air, the way two men once stared at you like you were something they didn’t have the words for. Back then, you thought it was chaos.

Now, years later, you understand it was a kind of gravity. You still feel it when Kento walks through the door and the air steadies, when Hiromi’s voice drops into that playful yet careful, teasing calm.

No one talks about what you are to each other. You don’t need to. The scandal, the secrecy. It was all good. Every bit of it is buried beneath success and routine. But it lives, quiet and unshakable, under every glance and every shared silence.

Tonight, dinner is simple. Nanami Kento cuts vegetables with the same precision he once used to write contracts. Higuruma Hiromi reads headlines aloud, pretending not to care about the world while keeping track of every word you say.

You sit between them, pretending not to notice the way they mirror each other even now. Two men shaped by loneliness, now bound by something they can neither define nor undo. There was no more I, there was no more me. It is forevermore written in we.

When the plates are cleared, you lean against the counter, watching them argue softly about logistics, about who’s driving tomorrow, who’s picking up the delivery, who has the longer commute.

It’s mundane. Domestic. Almost absurd. And yet, beneath it, you can still feel that same dangerous undercurrent, the same pull that began it all. The one that never truly stopped. That you were glad for.

You catch their eyes, one after the other. Kento’s steady, patient gaze. Hiromi’s tired, wry half-smile. Both of them carried the same silent acknowledgment: We shouldn’t have, but we did. And I would do it all over again.

You exhale, a small laugh escaping before you can stop it. “What?” Hiromi asks.

“Nothing, nothing.” you say in airy response. “Just…it’s strange. I never thought this would last.”

Kento’s expression softens, far too rare, far too genuine. “Neither did we.”

The moment holds. It’s not romantic, not tender, it's volatile and it's cruel and it burns and it enrages. Yet it was all you truly had. It saved you from the hell of loneliness. But most of all, it was real.

Three lives tangled by mistake and choice and time, still standing, still willing, and devoted. Still happily, bitterly choosing each other. Hiromi sets his glass down, the sound quiet but deliberate.

“We stopped trying to make sense of it a long time ago, no?.”

“And yet, this is still it.” Kento hums as he adds. “Here we still are.”

You nod, a small smile ghosting your lips. “Here we are.”

The words hang in the air like an agreement, like the final note of a song that never really ends. Outside, the city hums. It will never move you, with all its distance and its indifferentness. Inside,   the house glows with that peculiar warmth of familiarity that only comes from shared secrecy. 

Whatever the world might call it, you did not care. Scandal, mistake, miracle, weird, abnormal, you did not care and neither did they. What mattered was that it made you happy. It’s yours. And for now, that’s enough.

As the three of you sit at the dinner table, the atmosphere is charged with an undercurrent of tension and longing. The conversations flow easily, but there's a subtle shift in the way you all look at each other. 

The lingering gazes, soft smiles, gentle touches that linger just a moment too long. Kento notices the way Hiromi's shirt stretches across his chest as he leans forward to refill your wine glass.

Hiromi catches Kento staring and raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. You bite your lip, watching the exchange with a growing heat in your belly. As the meal winds down, Hiromi stands and begins clearing the plates.

Kento reaches out to stop him, his hand brushing against Hiromi's wrist. "Leave it, we’ll handle this later." he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "Come here."

Hiromi hesitates for a moment before setting the plates back down and turning to face Kento. The air between them crackles with unspoken desire. The blond stands, his chair scraping against the floor, and pulls Hiromi flush against him. 

Their lips crash together in a fierce, passionate kiss that steals your breath away. You watch, transfixed, as their hands roam each other's bodies possessively. Hiromi's fingers tangle in Kento’s hair, tugging sharply as he bites down on his lip. 

Without breaking the kiss, Nanami Kento reaches out and grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet and into their embrace. The three of you stumble towards the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and heated kisses.

Once inside, clothes are shed quickly and carelessly. Nanami Kento pushes Hiromi onto the bed and crawls over him, his eyes never leaving yours as you join them. You straddle Hiromi's hips, grinding down against his hardening length. 

He groans, his hands gripping your hips tightly. Kento moves behind you, pressing kisses along your spine as his fingers tease your entrance.You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your beautiful lips.

Suddenly, Kento pulls you back against his chest, his arm wrapping around your waist possessively. "I want to watch you ride him, sweet girl." he murmurs into your ear. "Want to see your face as he fills you up."

His other hand reaches around to circle your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Hiromi looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hands roaming over your body hungrily. "Come here, darling pretty." he says, his voice rough with desire.

He guides you onto his cock slowly, inch by inch, until you're seated fully in his lap. You start to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual rhythm. Nanami Kento watches, his breath hot against your neck as he continues to tease your clit with his fingers. 

The pleasure builds slowly, a coil tightening in your core with each thrust and circle. Hiromi's hands grip your hips, guiding you faster and harder. His dark eyes are locked on yours, filled with lust and something deeper, more profound.

"You're so beautiful, aren’t you?" he breathes, hot breath releasing each and every time."So perfect."

Kento’s other hand snakes up to tweak your nipple, sending a shock of pleasure through you. Suddenly, Kento leans forward and captures Hiromi's lips in a searing kiss. You can feel the heat of their mouths against yours as they devour each other hungrily. 

The sight of them kissing while you ride Hiromi pushes you closer to the edge. Kento breaks the kiss and turns your face towards him, capturing your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. His tongue tangles with yours as Hiromi's thrusts become more urgent, more demanding.

You can feel the tension coiling in your body, the pleasure building to a crescendo. Suddenly, Hiromi flips you both over so that he's hovering above you. Kento moves to the side, his hand never leaving your body as he watches intently. 

Higuruma Hiromi starts to pound into you mercilessly, groaning loudly as his powerful hips snapping forward with each thrust. The massive bed creaks against the mahogany floors beneath you, the sound mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Come for us, sweet girl." Kento murmurs, groaning as he throws his head back. "Want to see you fall apart so prettily.”

His fingers find your clit again, rubbing tight circles that push you over the edge. You scream their names as your orgasm crashes over you, as tears fall down your eyes. Your inner walls clamp down around Hiromi's cock.

Hiromi follows soon after, his hips jerking forward as he buries himself deep inside you with a guttural groan. You can feel his hot seed filling you, marking you as his. Kento leans in to capture your lips in a soft kiss, swallowing your moans as Hiromi continues to thrust shallowly, riding out his own release.

As the three of you come down from your high, you're left panting and sweaty, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sheets. Nanami Kento presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling Hiromi in for a slow, tender kiss.

Hiromi smiles against Nanami's lips before turning to capture yours in the same sweet gesture. The three of you lay there for a long moment, basking in the afterglow and the warmth of each other's presence.

There are no words spoken, no promises made. Instead, there was just a silent understanding that passed between you all. This is where you belong. As the night wears on, the three of you drift off to sleep, wrapped around each other like puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. 

You wake up sometime in the early morning hours to find yourself sandwiched between their warm, sleeping forms. Kento’s massive arm is draped possessively over your waist, while Hiromi's face is buried in the crook of your neck. 

You smile softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Hiromi's forehead before carefully extracting yourself from their embrace. You pad quietly out of the bedroom and make your way to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water and leaning against the counter. 

The house is silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. You take a sip of your water and gaze out the window at the pre-dawn sky, lost in thought. Suddenly, you hear footsteps behind you. You turn to see Nanami Kento standing in the doorway, his hair rumpled from sleep and his eyes heavy-lidded.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks softly, padding over to you and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

"Or maybe you just couldn't stay away from me." he murmurs teasingly, nipping gently at your earlobe. You couldn’t help but laugh softly and lean back into him, enjoying the feeling of his strong arms around you. “Hm, that’s good to know.”

"Both.” you admit to him softly. "I missed you."

He smiles against your skin and turns you around to face him, his hands sliding up to cup your face. "Come back to bed, then." he whispers, pressing a kiss on your temple."Let me hold you again."

His caramel eyes are dark and full of desire, but there's also a tenderness there that makes your heart swell. You nod, letting Kento lead you back to the bedroom. As you climb into bed, you notice Hiromi stirring awake.

He blinks sleepily at you both before a slow smile spreads across his face. "Back so soon?" he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. 

Nanami Kento chuckles and pulls you back against his chest, Higuruma Hiromi rolling over to press against your back. You're sandwiched between them once more, their warmth enveloping you completely.

Hiromi's massive hand finds yours beneath the covers, his long fingers intertwining with yours as Kento's arm wraps around your waist possessively, tightly. As though they wanted to merge with you.

"Stay here, sweet girl." Hiromi whispers against your neck. "Stay with us forever."

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you nod eagerly. Kento smiles as he leans closer to you, his head resting on your shoulder. Hiromi is content as he feels your lips against his jaw. This was perfect. This is everything.

Yes, you'll stay with them. 

Forever, if they'll have you.

as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.

you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.

the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.

you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldn’t. couldn’t listen to him tell you that he needed more from you—more support, more time, more patience.

you’ve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. you’ve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. you’ve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.

i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. you’re never home. i know you’re busy at work and you’re doing what you love but please, ‘samu. please. 

love me, too.

your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says he’s tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.

you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.

“babe?” you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. “babe, what’s wrong?” his voice is calm against your turmoil. “are you having a panic attack?”

“’samu, i’m—” you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water. 

“drink, please,” he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water he’d given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.

he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.

when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.

"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.

his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"

“i love you so much, osamu,” you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch. 

“i love you, too,” he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.

not anymore.

you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.

“i love you so much,” you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. “but i—” you sob, “but, osamu, i can’t anymore.”

osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“i love you so much,” you confess. “i would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. i’ve tried my best, but osamu, i’m so tired,” you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. “i’m so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, and—and—and i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.”

you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. “i’m so sorry i can’t give you more, osamu.”

you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.

the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.

when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. “what’s next?”

your smile is sad and wet with tears. “i think you know.” you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. “let’s… let’s do this in the morning, okay?”

he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesn’t take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries. 

you press your face against his hair and cry with him.

—

the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. it’s early, but you can’t keep sleeping. there’s a lot to pack.

your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that you’re alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so it’ll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.

you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad back—osamu didn’t leave—and your fingers turn cold.

the door slides shut behind you and he turns. “good mornin’,” he says quietly, shutting off the stove.

“good morning,” you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. “osamu. what is—what.”

he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other plates—nearly every single plate you own, you note—and your dining table is bursting with food. “cooked breakfast.”

“for how many people?” you ask, incredulous. “i tried t'remember everythin’ you liked,” he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.

“thank you,” you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used. 

when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. “when you leave,” he says, “i’m going to try again.”

you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.

“i don’t want you to leave,” he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. “but i know i’ve—i know i fucked up. i love you, and i never should’ve hurt you.” he inhales through his nose. “but i did, and i can’t change that.

“but i’m not giving up on you. not on us. you—” he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. “i’ll… if i have to start all over again, i’ll do it,” he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “i’ll win you back.”

“osamu,” you whisper, and his face crumples again.

“i love you too much to let you go,” he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. “and i know that makes me a jerk. but i’m… i love you, so much—so fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.”

he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. “leave me if you have to,” he says brokenly.

“if you need space, i’ll understand. but please,” he begs. “please don’t give up on me.” 

he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.

the horror that overtakes you is beyond words. 

you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he won’t do this to himself, you won’t let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.

you won't let him do this.

later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamu’s middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. “please, just… give me another chance.”

you look up at him, and your eyes meet.

—

“hey!” atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. “it’s so good t’see you!“

“hi, ‘tsumu,” you greet, returning the hug. 

he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. “know what you want?”

you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. “how are you? how’s training?”

“’m good! training’s good. teammates are pretty good, too.”

"yeah? like who?"

atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."

you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. “fine. ask me.”

atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, “how are you two? it’s been over a month now, right?”

“oi.” you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. “stop bothering them, ‘tsumu.”

atsumu glares at his twin. “i’m the one who invited ‘em to lunch!”

osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brother’s wandering hands with it before they get to close. “these are not for you.”

“but that’s a lot!" atsumu whines. "can’t i have any?”

“no,” osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.

"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.

osamu ignores him. “let me know what you think.”

“okay,” you say with a smile. 

“and let me know if you need to take out anything,” he continues, “i’ll wrap it up for you.” he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. “enjoy.”

“thank you, ‘samu,” you tell him before he turns to leave. 

he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.

atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. “so i take it things are going well?”

“yeah,” you admit, picking up an onigiri. “going really well, actually.”

“you’ve been…” atsumu searches for the word, “is it still called ‘dating’? you broke up. but… entertaining each other…?”

“don’t hurt yourself,” you joke. “but yeah. let’s call it dating. and it’s going well, thanks for asking.” you take a bite of the onigiri.

“does he still have a chance?” atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.

you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, who’s smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friend’s apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.

you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friend’s door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if you’re eating or if you need any food.

you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.

but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.

but in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his ‘see you later’s, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time he’s putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.

it's like everything is new again.

his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.

it's not new, you think. it's better.

you swallow your food. it's delicious.

‘You’ve got another thing coming if you think you're getting out of this, Y/n!’ 

The front door slammed against the wall as Tendo swung it open. 

‘Not answering my texts or calls, leaving me high and dry, do we really need me to miss you any more than I already do?’

If he had his way he would kidnap you from your law firm and make you a partner in his factory. The job would come with part ownership, unlimited potential and… perks. 

‘Y/n?’ His smile wide and a spring in his step, he yelled out again as he gave the open plan apartment a once over. 

He had been patient about your reluctance to get back into running for far too long. 

You were making great progress up until the recent flu season, and you were out for two weeks with a bad cold. Any athlete knew a two week break was as good as pushing the restart button. 

Tendo also knew you were eager to get back in the gym full time. But the heavy chest and cough that the flu had left behind needed to clear out first. Since then your evenings consisted of walks, and light jogging. 

The desired effect was met, but you wouldn’t budge about running; having always hated that form of cardio.

Before the flu you'd had a steady pace that you didn't waver on out of pure discipline, but getting you back to it had been a pain in the ass. 

For days he’d been pushing the subject, until you finally ran out of excuses and relented. 

He was excited to leave the factory early and get his running shoes on. To him there was no comparison to that type of refocus. The air in his lungs, the feel of his rushing pulse and the urge to keep his legs going long after they had reached their limit.

It was good for clearing the head. 

His smile dimmed down as the seconds ticked by without an answer.

The silence he was met with when he entered your apartment was out of character but not above being part of one of your grand schemes to escape cardio for the day.

You weren't in the kitchen or the lounge area. The TV was silent and the terrace door shut. The sliding door and at least some of the windows were always open when you were home. 

It was an aesthetic thing. The fresh oxygen from your plants outside, the chilly wind from your highrise apartment, the open air somehow breathing new life into the atmosphere.

You had that in common, needing the sharp clarity. The slap on the wrist from nature to pause in your thoughts and appreciate the present time. 

Your penchant for working hand in hand with the universe and going with the flow made more sense to him than you realized. He just had a more direct approach to things. 

He was Tendo Satori. World renowned chocolatier and infamous Guess Monster of the volleyball court from his heyday in Shiratorizawa Academy. Bypassing the bullies, the weird looks and the rejection – he did what he wanted, when he wanted and didn't let any form of the word ‘no’ phase him. Returning to Tokyo had been the best decision he’d ever made too. It was the reason he’d found you.

He paused; his confusion palpable.

Glancing down at the compact shoe stand just inside the doorway, he noticed your day shoes were still present and your house shoes weren't. So you were definitely in here. 

‘I will find you.’ He stated more softly as he kicked off his shoes and closed the door behind him. There was no doubt about it. 

Making his way through the layout of your apartment that was now second nature, he noted that there was no brew of coffee in the air either. You usually have a cup every few hours. 

The narrow hallway leading out of the lounge housed doorways to your bedroom, bathroom and study. He would bet his money on any of them. 

But on further inspection of the study and bathroom, the doors were wide open - and unoccupied. 

The slightly ajar door of your bedroom was a telltale sign, but every game of hide and seek needed a bit of time to play out. Where was the fun in winning early? 

Pushing the door open, knocking being an unnecessary politeness at this stage, his smile was returned to him at the sight he was met with. 

The only light in your bedroom peeked from between two closed curtains that covered a wall span of mid-level to ceiling high windows. The sundown rays barely reached the foot of the bed, leaving most of the room in evening shadow.

The double bed in the center of the room sat between a one seater against the wall, a tiny dresser for your nighttime essentials and your current read of the week.

He walked into the room, taking care to avoid the pillows that were thrown haphazardly to the floor. His presence blended into your personal bubble that had already grown accustomed to him.

There you were in the middle of the bed. Scattered across your pillow was your hair, your eyes closed and your breaths uneven as your body curled up in a fetal position around a particularly large pillow. 

On instinct his eyes scanned the MSBY Black Jackals team calendar stuck on the side of your bedroom cupboard. The 17th of July. He sighed softly. It was that time.

His change of plans were immediate. No longer was running and a healthy meal on the agenda. It was time for comfort and calories.

Softly stepping around the pillows, he had spied your phone upon entering and turned it over to see a number of unread messages both from him and a few friends. But nothing seemed too urgent, no one more important. 

As far as he knew, you definitely attended work, so you either started cramping later in the day or probably stuck it out until you got home.

The battery percentage was 42% so he plugged your phone to charge and kept it on silent taking care to turn it over again for when the screen lit up with notifications. 

Leaving the room, he made quick work of ordering food instead of opting to make it himself because he was not sure of how long you hadn't eaten and he would rather keep his focus on you.

He squinted at his phone, caught between spicy ramen or spicy chicken or spicy tuna. You liked all three and all were comfort food and he knew of two different establishments that would be happy to add on. A lightbulb went off in his brain and he pulled up a frequent contact. 

‘Onigiri Miya, how can I help you?’ 

‘Ushiwaka!’ Tendo whisper yelled. ‘Can I get an urgent delivery?’

‘Uh… sure, please state your order, name and address, Sir?’ 

Tendo’s left eye twitched. ‘Wakatoshi.’ He replied slowly. Mildly offended that his best friend did not recognize his voice.

‘... Yes, that is my name, please state yours and what I can get for you?’

Tendo slapped his forehead. ‘It’s Satori!’ 

On instinct he looked toward the door of the bedroom, hoping he didn’t wake you up.

‘Tendo.’ Wakatoshi Ushijima stated over the phone line, Tendo understood it was partly a greeting.

He sighed loudly, squeezing his eyes to shut out the need to fight with Ushiwaka over the phone. ‘Would you be able to schedule a delivery for two platters in the next 20-30 minutes?’ He knew you would want options and sushi would be the most filling and binding enough to tide you over till tomorrow. 

‘Yes. We can squeeze in a drop off for that time. Should I tell the kitchen the spicy tuna rolls are for y/n?’

Tendo scoffed. Y/n he remembered easily. He whistled out a breath. ‘Yes, please tell Samu it’s for y/n, Wakatoshi.’ Y/n was known for haggling Osamu for spicy tuna and any new spicy recipes and he would know how best to make her order.

‘Payment on delivery?’ Tendo offered after a few seconds of soft clicking and silence.

‘That would be perfect. Enjoy your evening Tendo.’

‘I’ll visit you at the shop soon.’ It was a mild threat. 

‘Okay.’

The dial tone lasted a second before he clicked off. 

Tendo’s eye twitched again as he continued looking at his cellphone, resisting the urge to throw it. Always so calm, collected and unphased was Wakatoshi Ushijima.

He whistled another breath, before dropping his phone on the kitchen counter and moving on to the rest of his tasks.

He put coffee to brew, noted that there was chocolate in the fridge and peeked into the bedroom one more time before he tore his shirt off to shower.

As he pulled his red hair back, a bulk of it in one of your hair ties, so it didn’t get too wet, he caught a glimpse of the outline of a curled up fox on his left rib cage. Long-tail curled around the small form of a female fox, sleeping soundly – his Y/n was just as simple, just as vibrant, just as feline, just as secure in his presence. The matching black fox with a slightly shorter tail sitting up with his ears perked would easily be found on your right shoulder blade.

The match was easily deduced, your connection unyielding, the loyalty unending. He would always have your back… you would always be close to his heart.

Love was very different with you. Somehow it didn't require too much effort to keep up. Were you stubborn, a bit controlling, easily swayed by emotions and headstrong about your opinions, sure. But you were adaptable. You heard him out, kept up with his antics and newly found hobbies and supported his idea to open his own chocolate factory too. A risky idea akin to becoming Willy Wonka and building a castle in the sky, but you supported him anyway. 

The world was too big to be realistic but too small not to have firm foundations for any big dreams. And the middle is where you made yourself comfortable. You taught him it could be comfortable. 

Conversation was easy. Fighting was hard. Like when you were offered a job at a new branch in a different region — a promotion to run it, and you refused because your heart was with him. He would have moved too, but by then he'd invested in his factory and he didn't like holding you back. Ultimately it was your decision. 

Choosing you on your hard days, cooking dinner, letting you vent, providing input or just being there seemed to be everything for you.

Those nights, when tears leaked from the edge of your vision and you weren't strong enough to carry it all, you let it free. He found you then, his tongue lapping at the tears, his long fingers firm on your thighs, his teeth teasing, coaxing, driving you over while he held all your shattered pieces together. 

Some days were harder than others. Like when machinery broke at the factory or someone put in the wrong quantity of ingredients ruining an urgent batch or even dispatching too much stock. A start-up that he needed to keep up with, he did his best, but some days his best just didn’t cut it. 

Those days you let him swipe at you, let him taunt the reality of what was, his honesty a bit cutting, and unnecessary. But you curled into his side, never allowing him to push you too far away and when he worked his way out of his head, he would hold you as close as possible. 

Making love to you on those nights were primal, edgy, kinky, nothing off the table, very few hard limits. And a combination of colors, your only lifeline to stay sane. 

He was loud and rowdy. You were quiet and observant. But you could keep him in check and he could hear you in the silence. 

Maybe days like these where you were overly sensitive and could cry at the drop of a hat were supposed to be harder. He didn't think so. 

In honesty, he saw your monthly cycle from a mile away. Your boobs were sensitive, you looked a bit plush and rounded, your appetite seesawed between not hungry and ravenous and you were extremely restless and horny.

He knew you enough to notice the signs. And he would never tell you this, because you would hate it, but he loved when you were like this. 

He didn’t mind the blood. The messy sheets and underwear. Making a last minute run for pads or tampons. And definitely didn’t mind a bit of blood on his cock when you asked him to make you feel a bit better. 

When you were this vulnerable and sensitive and overwhelmed he was ready to grab a hold of you with both arms and keep you close. Feed you food. Share showers with you. Just overall dote on you and revel in the right to do every bit of it. 

Plus, you already knew he had a thing for dacryphilia. It played a big role when orgasms helped with the cramps. First three days were either the best or the worst. He preferred the former over the latter.

It was not that you didn't let him take the lead on most decisions or consider him in every scenario, but some masculine pride had to be felt at the fact that in these moments, for these few days, you followed him blindly and without question. 

Deep in his thoughts he didn't even notice he was on autopilot until he answered the door. He'd already had fresh clothes on, his hair slightly damp and skin flushed from a hot shower. A gray sweatpants he used when he stayed over and an old, frayed at the edges, purple shirt he had bought in Paris, easy material that you wouldn't find too abrasive against your skin. 

Once done paying up and thanking the delivery guy, Tendo placed the food on the counter but didn't unpack anything yet. 

He would usually take time to tease the person doing the delivery. Something easygoing, like receiving the order with his head upside down, or rising to his full height to be unnerving. If he was in a good mood he might make easy friends with them, provide unsolicited advice to the college goers or tell a mild secret about the volleyball professionals that would make Onigiri Miya an interesting hotspot for a few days. Then he would wait for a phone call where Y/n’s favorite Miya twin would sigh heavily, the simple action taking a lot of effort from the very composed male.

By now it was dark, the sun set at least half an hour ago, and the dull street light hue shone through the lounge. He drew those curtains, making sure no light peeked through. He knew your eyes tended to be sensitive to light and too much exposure would give you a headache, which would only cause you to be even more miserable.

Ticking the boxes in his head, as he switched on and dimmed the lights of the apartment, he unplugged the heating pad and made his last stop to the bedroom. 

You had turned over to face the doorway and were a little awake, probably having heard all his shuffling. 

He leaned against the door jam. 

‘Hi.’ You said softly. A small strained smile on your face. He didn't like when you were in pain, but he masked the twinge of irritation he felt curl around him. Focusing rather on your voice and how you were feeling.

He knew how bad the cramps could get. And he didn't like how he could never fix it. Not yet anyway. A nine month break was a plan for the future. 

He swallowed hard, doing his best to stop himself from imagining you with a round belly, a glow to your skin, his baby inside of you… the surge of protectiveness almost making him snarl. Dammit, it was not time to get you pregnant.

Instead he tilted his head to the side. ‘That bad, huh.’

Tears welled in your eyes at his words. He knew it was an involuntary reaction. You were frustrated, had every right to be too. But the irritation he originally thought he could handle could be felt in his taut cheeks. 

‘Just a few days.’ You reminded him. A tiny attempt to make the inscrutable expression on his face soften.

‘Can I move you?’ He asked before he could help himself. He needed to be close. He needed you close.

You barely had time to finish a head nod before he made his way over and climbed gently onto the bed. 

You expected him to curl up behind you and spoon. But he sat up against the headboard and as gently as possible brought your back to lean against his front. 

The slight jostling had you moaning in discomfort. Your clothes were too abrasive. And you were both hot and cold. But the cramps in your belly were the worst. The type of pain that can't be pinpointed or fixed — just felt. It made you hypersensitive to almost everything.

‘Shhh,’ he soothed, his lips finding the top of your head. His kiss was a tender reassurance, making you feel completely together despite unraveling your senses even more.

You tensed slightly when his arms came around you and he placed the heat pack on your belly. 

‘Mmmmh,’ you whined in slight relief as the heat seeped through your clothes. You gave yourself a minute before sighing and leaving your entire body weight to sag on your boyfriend. 

You felt his smirk. ‘Better?’

Letting yourself lean against his shoulder, you hid your face in the crook of his neck and let the world disappear. ‘What would I do without you Satori?’

‘Exactly what you were just now.’ He replied easily, his fingers crawling up under your shirt and applying light pressure at your sides. ‘And somehow you would find the strength to take care of yourself.’ You groaned at the slight pressure, the pain from the cramps slowly becoming manageable. ‘Eventually.’ He added after a moment.

‘But,’ he stopped and one hand slid up your body to tilt your chin up. ‘I'm here to make it a bit better.’ 

He pecked you on the lips and let you relax again. 

‘Reconsider,’ you teased. ‘This is almost every month for the rest of your life.’

‘I don't scare easily, baby.’ His answer was instinctive. ‘I'm the monster in the dark, remember.’

Awkward position aside, you tilted your head up again to peck his chin. A small reminder that you had accepted every single part of him a long time ago. 

You both sat in silence, in the dark. Feeling each other's heartbeat align. His arms around you, strong and secure, his cheek pressed up against your forehead — like no other moment in the world could be more perfect. 

‘There's food,’ he whispered after a few minutes, ‘coffee and chocolate. And a very famous chocolatier at your every beck and call.’ 

‘Spicy food?’ Appetite mood swings aside, your mouth watered at the option. 

‘Osamu’s best.’ 

‘Belgian coffee?’ Only the best that he would bulk order for you. 

He hummed. 

You smiled to yourself this time. You had no choice but to count yourself lucky. ‘I might just be in love with you.’

‘Yeah? How can you be so sure?’ It was a very Tendo question. Where he knew, as you had both confessed months ago, but he would like an elaboration anyway. 

‘Because… ‘ 

It may be more than a few months since you’d started dating, but how could you explain it without sounding insane? How could you say that you needed to hide yourself in the crook of his neck. That you needed his arms around you and his fingers intertwined with yours. How could you explain that his work cologne was strong but his clean Satori skin felt like home. That his body curled around yours and his lean legs that held firm on the outside of your thighs were a cocoon of safety. That Tendo Satori’s wit and humor and smile and song were a force to be reckoned with and your whole heart only ever craved more of him. 

‘I want to turn you around so I can watch the emotions race across your features, but I'm trying to take care of you.’ His long index finger traced his name on the top of your thigh. The sensation tickled, and had you shivering in anticipation. 

‘I'm thinking.’ You answered through clouded thoughts. 

His chest shook with laughter. ‘Questioning if you love me? You do.’ The only reason you knew not to get offended was because he wasn't laughing at you — he'd never do that to you. His laughter was a Satori-trait. It didn’t always signify humor, rather a clear sign of his confidence, sometimes an acknowledgement, on the odd day… a dare.

‘I'm thinking about how I know I never want to lose you.’ You answered softly. ‘That I always want you with me when it gets tough, and I want to tell you first when things go right, and have you cheer for me in the same way you sing your song.’

‘What about how much you love me?’ He pressed on. 

It was not love. It went deeper than that. He knew it too. 

On surface level may seem simple, but Tendo Satori lived his whole life making peace with the fact that he chose not to flee and not to fight, he chose to just ‘be’ – he was a monster of a different kind. What did that make you, that you tasted his heartache on his lips and chose him anyway.

This time he did turn you around. His patience running thin when you didn’t answer. 

He lifted you up easily, his lean body and muscle strength, aging like fine wine and strategically maneuvered your body so you straddled his lap, the heat pad stuck securely between your bodies and your arms finding purchase on his neck. 

You winced slightly at the new position, but you also felt better being face to face. A serious conversation popping up in a very not ideal situation.

His big round eyes shined with mirth and… some other unnameable emotion. Something darker. A promise. And the vow to do absolutely anything to keep it. 

He touched his nose to yours as you held eye contact. ‘You're never getting rid of me, you know.’ He pulled back and a slow smile grew on his face. ‘You have to love me.’ He blinked. ‘You have to love me alot.’ 

His tone mocking you playfully, purposely provoking, stirred up a need to lean in further and bite. ‘In fact, you have to marry me too.’

Your eyebrows shot up, not missing a beat before awarding him a response. ‘Are you proposing?’

‘I can if you want me to.’ He was nonchalant, his gaze now hooded. A sense of all-knowing overcoming his energy. Like you should consider it done if that's what you really wanted, but it would be a mere formality. ‘I can do the flowers in a heart on the floor.’ He brought one of your arms forward from around his neck. ‘I can do candles and fairy lights.’ He placed a tender kiss on the inside of your elbow. ‘I can get down on one knee.’ He snorted. ‘Or both.’ Then his fingers curled between your own and he met your eyes. His own, a quiet smolder of heat and resolution. ‘I can tell you how much I love you too, y/n.’ 

‘I didn't s—,’ 

‘You don't have to.’ 

His other hand snaked around the back of your neck and pulled you further into him. His face, a hair's breadth away from yours. ‘I can promise you forever.’ He whispered against your lips. ‘And a life together. And to stand with you until the very end.’

‘But most of all,’ he placed a tender kiss below your eye, removing the wetness you didn't seem to notice until now. ‘I'll remind you that I can't unlove you. That this scarred heart, this weird complex man, labeled for as long as he can remember, found a world within having you that he never wants to leave.’

You couldn't speak, your throat clogged with emotions too intense to unravel, a cloying need to cry and make sense of what you just heard, but you could only feel. ‘How ‘m I supposed to top that?’

His lips formed a triangle shape, mouth open and his teeth showing off a burst of happiness. ‘You say, yes.’

The single word was cataclysmic. It cascaded through you, all the many reasons you could never not choose him. His sharp wit, his daring nature, his competitive spirit and perspective on life. His weird hair and resilience to stand up after being pushed down, a force of nature in his love. 

‘Say yes.’ You repeated back to yourself. There was never any question. 

‘Say yes.’ He decreed. His focus entirely on your lips, the heat of his words waiting to fold into yours.

He waited. He didn’t prompt, tease or provoke… he just waited. And for a man that would do anything to get what he wants, that simple action was your undoing. ‘Yes, it is then.’ 

He captured his lips with your own and immediately the world spun on its axis. 

Kissing Tendo Satori was like crossing a line you may never find your way back to. There were no sparks or fireworks in the background, just a deep need. It had the potential to be sickly sweet or bitter and dark, a chocolaty thickness that melted to an unhealthy point of no return. He was an addiction, his smile a borderline threat and demanding lips, a reminder that you no longer belonged to yourself. 

‘Guess I have a label now too.’ You sighed softly when you came up for air. 

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed, breathing hard. ‘What's that?’ 

You covered his heartbeat with your hand, making a silent promise of your own. ‘The girl that fell in love with a monster.’