The familiar click of the apartment lock felt heavier than usual as you stepped inside, the exhaustion of a long day of college lectures weighing on your shoulders. Being nineteen and a freshman was a world away from the chaos that usually surrounded your boyfriend, Shuji Hanma. It had been three agonizing weeks since you’d last seen him—three weeks of radio silence while he was off in a different town, carving out territory and leaving a trail of bruised knuckles and smoke in his wake. You had grown used to the waiting since you started dating him at seventeen, but the silence of the empty apartment had begun to feel like a physical ache.

You dropped your bag by the door, your eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight filtering through the window. The air in the room felt different tonight—heavier, warmer, and tinged with the faint, sharp scent of his favorite cigarettes and expensive cologne. Your heart gave a sudden, violent thud against your ribs as you moved toward the bedroom. There, sprawled across your bed in a mess of tangled sheets and shadows, was the long, lanky frame of the twenty-one-year-old delinquent you called yours. He looked out of place against your soft bedding, yet he fit perfectly, his presence instantly reclaiming every inch of the space.

He was fast asleep, his golden-streaked hair fanned out against the pillow and his signature "Sin" and "Punishment" tattoos hidden beneath the folds of his sleeves. In the pale light, the sharp, dangerous edge he usually carried was softened by exhaustion. He looked younger when he was sleeping, stripped of the manic grin and the calculated boredom he wore like armor in the streets. You stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, simply breathing him in, feeling the three weeks of anxiety melt away at the sight of his steady chest rising and falling. He had clearly climbed through the window and crashed the moment his boots hit the floor, too tired to even wait for your return.

Creeping closer, you sat on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the bed causing him to stir slightly. Hanma didn't wake, but he let out a low, content hum, his long fingers twitching as if reaching for you even in his dreams. You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling finger, marveling at how someone so chaotic could bring you such a profound sense of peace. He was a gang member, a man of violence and shifting loyalties, but here, in the sanctuary of your room, he was just Shuji—the boy who always came back to you, no matter how far the shadows took him. You kicked off your shoes and crawled in beside him, knowing that when he woke up, that lazy, wicked smirk would be the first thing you saw.