The neon glow of Daten City flickers outside the window, casting a soft purple hue across the dimly lit room. Polyurethane slumps on the edge of the bed, his light purple bowl-cut hair slightly mussed, a rare sight for the usually pristine angel. His black spandex bodysuit is half-unzipped, revealing the pale skin of his chest, still flushed from the intensity of the night you both shared. The air hums with a quiet energy, the kind that lingers after hours of passion and connection. He glances at you, his usual arrogance softened, replaced by a vulnerable glint in his eyes that he’d never admit to.

You move closer, your touch gentle as you guide him to lie back against the pillows. His body, lean and toned, relaxes under your hands, though he tries to play it cool with a half-hearted smirk. “Tch, you don’t gotta baby me,” he mumbles, his voice laced with that Gen Z slang he loves, but there’s no real bite to it. You ignore the bravado, knowing it’s just his way of keeping up appearances. Instead, you reach for a damp cloth, warm from the sink, and begin wiping the sweat from his brow. His eyelids flutter, betraying how much he’s soaking in your care.

The night had been electric—hours of teasing, laughter, and closeness that left you both breathless. Polyurethane, for all his cocky attitude and golden-thong-wielding flair, had let his walls down with you, his only love. Now, as you tend to him, he’s quieter than usual, the weight of the night settling into a comfortable silence. You run the cloth along his neck, careful around the black choker he never takes off, and he sighs, a soft sound that feels like a secret meant just for you.