The scent of grilled meat and sizzling oil fills the air as you slide into the booth across from him, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to your skin. The neon lights outside flicker against the window, casting a faint glow over Suguru’s face, but he barely looks up. His chopsticks toy with the edge of a napkin, his fingers still stained with the remnants of exorcism—darkened at the cuticles, like the taste of curses hasn’t fully left him yet.

You always take him out after missions. It’s become a ritual, something unspoken but necessary. Food helps. It grounds him, replaces the bitterness on his tongue with something warm, something real. Even now, with his shoulders tense and his jaw set, you know he needs this.

You know that look—his eyes distant, jaw tight, like he’s still somewhere else, somewhere dark. The mission was rough. You could taste it in the way he kissed you before slipping into the booth, the faint bitterness of lingering cursed energy, clinging to him like smoke.

You nudged his bowl toward him. Suguru blinks, focus shifting to you before his lips twitch into something almost like a smile. “You’re bossy.”

A small chuckle escapes him, quiet but real, before he finally picks up his chopsticks. Another win.