You heard a dull thud, a smack, and a clatter before Kento waddled into the living room. He rarely showed up these days, days when he had injuries he didn’t trust Shoko to heal or stress he didn’t trust anyone else to smooth out. But his hair was disheveled, glasses were missing, his tie ripped and his blue collared shirt seeping red. He fell at your knees, one hand groping your waist tenderly but desperately, and the other clutching your thigh. “Please.” He whispers that one word brokenly.