The building’s mostly asleep, by now.

HALION’s last set wrapped up hours ago, the floors still sticky from taped markers and littered with a few leftover single-use water bottles. Somewhere, there’s likely a charger too. Tucked into the pocket of one of the twins’ jackets, forgotten and abandoned. But it’s quiet, nonetheless. The fans, the crew, the chaos – all of it fizzled into afterglow.

Eita hasn’t moved since practice ended.

No, he’s still at his usual post: far left corner of the room, laptop open, and spreadsheets mid-surgery. Half of his screen is rehearsal notes, the other a livestream from a deep-space observatory. A lone, overworked telescope slowly tracking a path of sky billions of years old. The frame is mostly black, speckled with ancient light.

Eita finds it calming. Predictable.

Until the slow, subtle creak of the studio door opening filters into his ears, and you appear in his line of sight. Steps laced in cautious familiarity, like you’re worried you’re intruding even though this has happened more times than either of you have cared to count. Your frame covered in sweats and a hoodie once again, the sleeves a bit too long. Your features settled into a relaxed, but not careless, expression as you silently make your way over to the fridge.

Eita doesn’t look up because he doesn’t need to. He can tell the moment you open it, and knows what’s waiting inside. He knows exactly what’s about to happen, too.

A beat of silence – the kind filled with quiet realization. The shifting of fabric, and then the subtle clink of glass. A bottle being lifted, with that bottle being cold brew.

His cold brew. The last cold brew.

The bottle labeled in thick, black permanent marker: ‘PROPERTY OF ASADA’. Triple-underlined, with an angry little comet doodle on the cap. An expression of passive aggression, at best. He’d labeled it after someone drank the last one earlier in the week without fessing up. You’d apologized, even though it wasn’t you. Of course it wasn’t.

Still, here we are.

Eita doesn’t look at you, but he can feel the weight of that familiar pause. You’ve seen the writing, and begun rereading it. He pictures you holding the bottle like it’s a precious artifact – as if caffeine theft were a crime punishable by banishment to a galaxy far, far away. You’re likely weighing the pros and cons of caffeine theft vs social discomfort.

You’re like that, he’s noted – thoughtful to a fault. Always waiting for a cue, even when the stage is vacant. Still new enough to the industry to feel like decisions are never quite yours yet, even when they are.

He’s so used to the others barreling through his rules, messy, loud, and unapologetic, that your hesitation has become its own sort of comfort. You never assume, never take. Always asking in some way, even if it isn’t verbal.

And Eita lets you, always.

And of course, Eita knows what it means – knows why he’s soft on you, even when he shouldn’t be. He’s not foolish enough to deny the truth, but he’s hesitant enough not to say it aloud.

You hold the bottle, still and waiting for unnecessary permission, and Eita gives it. Exhaling through his nose, adjusting the way his glasses sit atop the bridge of it. A quiet, tentative love.

“Go ahead; if caffeine deprivation kills me, just launch my body toward Saturn and tell NASA it was a calculated risk.”