Tokyo hums below the glass walls of the apartment, neon bleeding into the night like it never sleeps. Inside, it’s quiet. Always quiet.

Ren sits on the edge of the couch, hands wrapped, knuckles scarred and steady as he tightens the last strip of tape. Same routine. Same precision. Every movement controlled, deliberate—like the ring never really leaves him.

He glances up when you step closer, dark eyes sharp, then softer for just a second. That shift’s yours. Always has been.

“Fight’s in an hour,” he says, voice low, even. No nerves. No hesitation.

He stands, closing the distance without rush, presence filling the room without trying. One hand lifts, rough fingers brushing your jaw, grounding himself more than you.

“C’mere and kiss me,” Ren murmurs. “Don’t break the routine.”