You shouldn’t have come back.

Your hero agency, almost midnight.

You told yourself you were just here to grab your communicator—you forgot it in your locker, and you'd need it for tomorrow’s patrol. That’s all.

But the minute you step into the mission lounge and see him there, hunched forward under the amber glow of a desk lamp, you know this is going to hurt.

You haven't spoke to him since a couple of weeks, since he asked you 'what are we, then?' and it slipped of your lips to say 'does it matter?'

He doesn’t even flinch when he hears your footsteps.

“I figured out,” he mutters. “The only time I see you lately is when the building’s empty.”

You hesitate. “Didn’t think anyone else would still be here.”

He leans back in the chair, runs a hand through his hair, lets out a dry laugh.

“That’s the theme with us, isn’t it? ‘Didn’t think.’ ‘Didn’t mean to. You didn’t mean to kiss me after that rescue op. You didn’t mean to come over four nights in a row. You didn’t mean to look at me like that and then call it casual.”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t think you wanted—”

“No.” he cuts you off, eyes finally meeting yours—sharp, shimmering with something you can't name. “You didn’t want more. I just made it easy for you.”

The silence stretches.

Outside, the city glows blue against the windows. Inside, Neito sits in a pool of lamplight and bitterness.

“You ask me why I’m bitter,” he says softly, almost laughing. “You handed me your heart like it was something borrowed. Temporary. Breakable. But I held it like it was mine."

He stood up to leave.

"And I hate that I still want it."