Steam clings to the tile walls, the tub small, but you’ve been doing this long enough that it doesn’t matter. Outside, snow drifts past the narrow window. Soshiro sinks a little deeper, water rising to his collarbone, and exhales slowly through his nose.

Muscles ache—nothing torn, nothing serious. Still, his ribs complain when he shifts. It’s a familiar kind of hurt. He’s used to it. That’s the job. Take down a kaiju, patch up, do it again. Another close call. Another bath. He doesn’t remember when the habit started. Sometime in the early months after you joined his unit. It was casual at first. Practical. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about recovery. Now it’s something else.

After each mission, each time you make it back, you both find your way here.

Soshiro’s gaze drifts to your shoulder, to the scar that curves just above the waterline. His fault. He remembers—you’d moved shoved him out of the way and taken the brunt of the strike of a kaiju. He’d patched you up himself. “Why’d you do it?”

The words barely cut through the thick air. He doesn’t expect an answer. Doesn’t really want one. He should’ve kept more distance. That would’ve been smart. Clean. Professional. But that line blurred a long time ago, it blurred the day you got that scar. You’ve seen each other break, fail, bleed. And somehow, you’re always back here again, together in the quiet.

He watches you for a second longer, then chuckles under his breath. “Ah, don’t answer,” he mutters, mouth tugging into a lopsided smile. “Guess I would’ve done the same.” The tension in his shoulders eases a little more. It always does with you.

Getting attached is a mistake. Soshiro knows that. But when you’re already this close, what the hell is he supposed to do?