#protective gestures

You, however, had absolutely overdone it.

“Harumasa,” you whispered, voice soft and slurred, leaning forward over the table until your forehead brushed against his arm. “Why are your sleeves always rolled up like that?”

He glanced sideways at you, lazy as ever. “Easier to move that way,” he replied, his tone carrying that familiar half-smile. “Efficiency, remember?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, eyes squinting as if deep in thought, then you giggled—light, airy. “You and your efficiency. You even make drinking look efficient.”

He sighed, amused. “That’s one way to say ‘boring.’”

You shook your head fervently, too close now, your breath warm against his shoulder. “Nooo, you’re not boring. You’re… efficient in a sexy way.”

That made him pause.

His eyes flickered, his hand stopping mid-motion as he set the glass down. You blinked up at him, realizing you’d said it aloud, and instead of backtracking like you usually would, you grinned lazily.

“Actually, it really bothers me when people flirt with you,” you continued, your words tumbling freely now. “Those fans asking about your heart or your choker, like—don’t they know you’re mine?”

The air froze.

You twirled your fingers in the strap of his tactical harness, tracing along the edge, completely oblivious to the soft crimson rising on his face.

“…Mine, huh?” Harumasa said, voice low.

You nodded without hesitation, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. “Yup. I like your choker too. It looks really good on you. Like it’s saying, ‘off-limits.’”

He covered his mouth, stifling an incredulous laugh. “You’re something else when you drink.”

He meant to push you gently away, but you beat him to it—head falling against his chest with a content sigh. “Mhm. Warm…”

He let out a quiet exhale, almost defeated. You were weightless against him, murmuring about how cool his eyes looked, how his voice was comforting, how you liked his lazy way of smiling.

When you tugged weakly at his hand, threading your fingers through his gloved ones, his composure cracked just a little more.

“You should sleep,” he murmured, adjusting your hair away from your face.

“Only if you promise to stay,” you whispered back, already half-asleep.

He hesitated. Then, softly—almost to himself—he said, “You really shouldn’t say things like that so easily.”

But even as he said it, his thumb brushed your knuckles. And though his gaze returned to his glass, the faintest smile lingered, like a man who’d stopped fighting the inevitable for one quiet night.

“Wine is meant to be savored,” Hugo had said earlier that evening, all graceful gestures and smug charm. “Not devoured.”

You’d apparently taken that as a challenge.

Now, two and a half glasses later, you were anything but savoring. Hugo sat beside you, impeccably composed, watching your drunken antics with both amusement and mild disbelief.

“Darling, if you continue like that, even your liver will start questioning your life choices,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat.

You giggled, pointing accusingly at him. “S’not fair. You talk so fancy when you’re tipsy. Why can’t I be classy drunk?”

“Because, my dear,” he said, swirling his wine, “you skipped the ‘graceful decline’ stage and dove straight into ‘confession hour.’”

You frowned, unamused—then pouted. “You’re so mean when you’re right.”

He smiled faintly, eyes glinting in that half-amused, half-adoring way. “And you’re quite adorable when you’re indignant.”

That made you blink. Then your face lit up like a firework. “You think I’m adorable?”

Before he could answer, you slid closer—far too close—until your knees brushed his. Your fingers tugged at his tie, eyes hazy but sharp with boldness alcohol had coaxed out.

“You know,” you murmured, voice dropping to a whisper, “your fans don’t deserve you.”

His smile faltered. “Oh?”

“They call you charming and mysterious, but they don’t see you,” you continued, the words spilling freely. “They don’t see how tired you are when you come home late, or how you always feed Robin before yourself, or—” you hiccupped—“how gentle you get when you think no one’s watching.”

For once, Hugo was speechless.

You tilted your head, smiling dreamily. “I get jealous, sometimes. When people ask for your attention. When they talk about how handsome you are.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Jealous? You?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, fingers now tracing the buttons of his vest. “Because you’re mine, and I don’t like sharing.”

He chuckled, the sound soft but laced with something deeper. “Possessive, are we?”

You hummed in affirmation, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’m drunk and possessive. Terrible combo.”

He looked down at you, amusement flickering into something gentler. Carefully, he set his wine glass aside, one hand brushing against your cheek. “Terrible? I’d say… dangerously endearing.”

You nuzzled closer, muttering incoherently about how good he smelled and how pretty his eyes looked when the light hit them. Hugo listened in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching every so often.

When you finally drifted off against him, murmuring a sleepy, “Don’t leave, okay?”, Hugo exhaled softly.

“Never,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

He draped his coat around your shoulders, eyes softening. For once, the great phantom thief looked less like a man of mystery and more like someone who’d found the one thing he could never steal—peace.

Lighter had seen plenty of drunks in his day—bikers, fighters, mercs—but none quite like you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the counter of the gang’s private bar, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, clutching your third glass like it was a life goal. He leaned nearby, arms crossed, scarf fluttering faintly from the ceiling fan’s wind.

“Y’know,” you slurred, “you always look so cool, it’s unfair.”

Lighter tilted his head, his usual grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Unfair? You saying I should look worse?”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “You should have at least one bad photo somewhere. It’s criminal that you don’t.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You hopped down—barely—and stumbled right into his chest.

“Woah,” he caught you, steadying you with one arm. “Easy there, champ.”

You looked up at him, dazed. “You called me champ. That’s your thing.”

He smirked. “Guess you’ve earned it for surviving three shots.”

You squinted at him, then reached up to tug his red scarf. “Why do you wear this all the time?”

“Symbol,” he replied. “Means I fight for the gang, not just myself.”

You hummed, fingers running over the fabric. “It suits you. Red looks good on you. Passionate, brave…” your words softened, “…and warm.”

That last part caught him off guard.

He tried to look away, but your next words hit harder than a right hook.

“I get so jealous sometimes,” you whispered, tugging gently at the scarf again. “Everyone calls you ‘The Champion,’ everyone cheers for you—but they don’t see how tired you are when you come home, or how much you hate blood, or how gentle you get when someone’s hurt.”

Lighter’s breath hitched.

You smiled hazily, fingertips brushing his jaw. “You always say you can’t lose, right? But… you already won. You won me.”

For a second, the air between you stilled—quiet, charged, real.

Then you wobbled, nearly toppling, and he caught you again with a low laugh. “You’re gonna make me faint before you do, y’know that?”

“Mmm, maybe,” you murmured against his chest. “You smell like smoke and cologne. It’s nice.”

He froze. Then, slowly, his hand came up to the back of your head, steady but hesitant.

“Get some rest,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “You’re drunk.”

“You like me though, right?” you asked suddenly, peering up with glassy eyes.

Lighter blinked. “…You really want that answer right now?”

“Yes.”

He sighed, smiling wryly. “Yeah. I like you, dummy. But we’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”

You grinned, satisfied, and nestled against him. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting go.”

“Didn’t think you would,” he muttered, his cheeks faintly pink beneath his shades.

When you finally dozed off, his thumb brushed across your cheek briefly before pulling the scarf around you both, a silent promise wrapped in red warmth.