Megumi never understood how the hell he ended up with someone like you.

You, with your perfect posture, your elegant clothes, your love for classical music that’s so far from his own world of roaring guitars and underground concerts. You, who always have a book tucked under your arm, who prefers candlelit cafes over crowded venues, who listens to Chopin while he blasts something loud enough to shake the walls.

And yet, here you are—his complete opposite, sitting on his hotel bed, flipping through a book while he tunes his guitar. It should be weird. It should feel out of place. But somehow, it doesn’t.

“Bach again?” he mutters, strumming idly, his voice just loud enough to pull your attention from the pages. He swears you roll your eyes for a second—just the briefest flicker of exasperation before you smooth your expression back into that poised little look you always wear when reading.

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” you say, and he smirks.

It’s funny, really. How you wrinkle your nose at the scent of cigarettes lingering on his jacket, yet still find yourself curled up in it when you think he isn’t looking. How you claim his music is too much noise but know every lyric to his songs, mouthing along at his concerts when you think no one will notice.

You’re the one who straightens his tie when he has to look presentable, who sighs when he stumbles in after a long night on stage, yet silently bandages his bruised knuckles when the adrenaline hasn’t quite faded. And him? He’s the one who plucks the headphones from your ears just to replace Chopin with something rougher, messier—just to watch you glare at him in that way he secretly loves.

You shouldn’t work. But somehow, against all logic, you do.

And Megumi? He wouldn’t change it for the world.