Touya was a bad idea in the way storms are bad ideas—everyone warns you, but the air feels electric and standing still feels worse.

It started small. Coffee dates he insisted on paying for, sliding a matte-black card across the counter with a grin like it was a joke only he got. Late-night snacks, convenience store hauls, the cashier raising an eyebrow while Touya leaned in and asked if you wanted anything else. Then the piercings—matching silver hoops, done on a dare that turned into laughter that turned into your parents’ tight smiles when you came home with bandages taped to your ears.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t like the way he spoke, like rules were optional and consequences were for other people. They didn’t like the bike, the scars, the fact that he never called them Mr. or Mrs. anything. They really didn’t like the idea of you two moving in together.

You and Touya sat on the floor of the empty living room, backs against bare walls, a single lamp plugged in because the electricity was still being sorted. He stretched his legs out, boots scuffing the hardwood, and draped an arm around your shoulders like the place already belonged to both of you. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet in that suburban way—lawns trimmed too neatly, curtains pulled back just enough to watch.

Your phone buzzed. Your mom’s name lit the screen.

You answered, already bracing yourself.

It didn’t take long.

They were pleading before you could even say much. Voices overlapping through the speaker, your dad’s careful tone cracking around the edges. He’s not good for you. We’re worried. Please, just think about this. And then—soft, desperate—Would you consider breaking up with him? For us?

Touya had been quiet. Too quiet.

You felt it before you saw it—the shift in his posture, the way his jaw set. His hand reached over casually, like he was going to steal a fry off your plate. Instead, he took your phone.

“Touya—”

He hung up mid-sentence. Black screen. No goodbye. He slipped the phone into his pocket like it was always meant to be there, then tugged you closer, pulling you into his chest. His hoodie smelled like smoke and laundry detergent and something expensive he pretended not to care about.

“What would they know?” he said, voice low, almost lazy. His chin rested on the top of your head. “Their marriage is pretty messy anyways. It wouldn’t be surprising if they divorced.”