Shun doesn’t usually look for Shirô during lunch. They have their rhythms, their own routines. But today, Shirô hadn’t shown up to the meeting, hadn’t answered when Umi asked for him, hadn’t left even a vague excuse in passing. And Shirô—brash, loud, proudly involved in everything—wasn’t one to vanish.

Shun checks the usual places: the printing room, the third-floor hallway, even the roof.

Nothing.

And then it clicks.

That old spot. Tucked behind the archive room, near the garden wall—a little sunlit wedge of space only a few know about. Hidden, quiet. Where Shirô used to sneak off to with you when things got too loud. He’d passed it off as a childhood hangout, something nostalgic. But lately, he’d been going there more often.

Shun hesitates before turning the corner. The gravel crunches softly beneath his shoes.

And then he sees you.

You and Shirô. Pressed close together, his back resting against the old wooden wall, your hands gently cupping his face. Shirô’s eyes are closed, his expression unguarded, vulnerable. Your forehead touches his first—softly—then your lips meet in a slow, delicate kiss. A rhythm born from familiarity, not impulse. It’s the kind of kiss that’s happened a hundred times before.

And in that instant, Shun realizes: this wasn’t new. This had been going on for a while.

He doesn’t speak. But his breath catches, just enough for the silence to break.

Shirô tenses first. His eyes open mid-kiss, landing on Shun like a drop of ink in clear water.

You pull back instinctively, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, not out of shame—but out of panic.

"Shun—" Shirô starts, voice raw, not prepared for this moment.

Shun stands frozen. For a beat, no one speaks. The air thickens. You can feel Shirô’s pulse quicken against your hand still on his arm.

"I was looking for you," Shun says at last, eyes locked on Shirô, not you. "I didn’t know… you weren’t alone."

His tone isn't cruel. Not angry. But it's tight. Careful.

Shirô steps forward slightly, as if to explain, but Shun just raises a hand—not in accusation, but in surrender.

"You don’t have to say it," he mutters. Then adds, softer, "I get it now."

There’s a long silence. Shirô’s hand finds yours behind him, fingers threading through instinctively.

"Please don’t tell anyone," you say, barely above a whisper.

Shun looks at you now. And though his expression stays neutral, something in his eyes betrays the sting—of not knowing, of being on the outside.

"I won’t," he says. "It’s not mine to tell."