Shota’s apartment is quiet when you step inside, the afternoon sun filters in faintly, casting soft golden light across the dark wooden floors. You kick off your shoes, setting the key down on the table with a soft clink before moving deeper inside. The space is sparse, neat but lived-in. A stack of case files sits half-open on the coffee table, loose papers fanned out in organized chaos. His capture weapon is coiled on the back of the couch.

And quiet — so quiet. You arch a brow as you make your way to his bedroom.

The first thing you notice is the sound of his breathing, slow and even. The bed is unmade, dark sheets tangled around his legs. Shota’s black long-sleeve shirt has ridden up to expose the lean cut of his stomach, a sharp line of muscle beneath pale skin. His breathing is steady, his mouth slightly parted as his chest rises and falls beneath the thin fabric. His hair is a mess, the long black strands splay out beneath him against the pillow. It softens his face, makes him look younger somehow.

You linger at the doorway for a moment, your chest aching at the sight of him. He’s always so composed—always so sharp and aware, even when he’s exhausted from a week’s worth of missions. Seeing Shota like this, relaxed and unguarded, makes something tighten in your chest.

You cross the room carefully, setting your phone on the nightstand before lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight, but Shota doesn’t stir.

Your hand hovers above his exposed stomach for a moment before you let your fingers trail along the bare skin. He’s warm beneath your touch, the smooth ripple of muscle shifting faintly as he breathes. He sighs quietly when your fingers drift upward, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to settle at his ribs.

“Mm.” His brow furrows slightly, lashes fluttering against the sharp cut of his cheekbone. His hand shifts beneath the pillow, completely relaxed like this. “You’re staring,” Shota murmurs.