The apartment is dark, save for the thin slant of city lights cutting through the heavy curtains. The sound of rain patters faintly against the glass windows. Your breath is still uneven as you lean back against the wall, peeling off your gloves with a sigh. Your body aches from the patrol, from the weight of tonight's villains who have decided to be extra persistent today.

You hear him before you see him.

The soft creak of the window as it slides open. The faint scuff of boots against the windowsill.

“You’re late,” you say, not bothering to look up.

“I got held up,” Shota mutters, his voice is low and familiar, a rough scrape against the quiet.

You finally lift your head to find Shota standing by the window, the inky dark hair falling past his shoulders, crimson eyes tired as ever but still sharp. His hero uniform is torn at the shoulder, a streak of blood at his temple that’s already starting to dry. He pulls his capture weapon from around his neck letting it pool in his hands before dropping it on the floor.

“You should have called,” you mutter, stepping toward him, pulled into his gravity so naturally it’s almost jarring. Maybe that’s why he’s come by again — he can’t seem to stay away either. From this. This entanglement, this tryst of bodies pressed together in your sheets, finding something in eachother too addicting to give up.

You’re close enough now to feel the heat of him beneath the dampness of his clothes, the faint scent of rain and sweat and blood clinging to his skin. His breath is steady as your fingers lift to brush along the edge of his jaw. His eyes half-close at the touch, the tension in his shoulders softening just enough for you to notice.

“I never call,” Shota mutters back, watching you through half lidded eyes, letting your fingers slide over his stubble. He’s not lying either — he doesn’t call on nights like these, just finds his way to your apartment before any news outlets can snap a photo of him sneaking in through your window.