It started with three rapid knocks on your dorm door.
Then a whisper through the crack: “Mi vida, open up—urgent emergency.”

Hanta stood on the other side holding a reusable grocery bag like a trophy. Hoodie on, hair messy, smile too bright for someone definitely breaking curfew.

“Alright,” he announced with absolute seriousness, “the vending machines downstairs finally restocked. We strike now or Denki will get there first.”

He grabbed your hand—warm, eager—and tugged you into the hallway. “I brought my tape, so technically this counts as hero training. Speed. Stealth. Pastry acquisition.”

You gave him a look that clearly said Are you insane? Hanta only grinned wider.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t like this. This is our love language: chaos.” He pressed a finger to his lips, then shot tape down the stairwell rail. 
 “Zipline time.” You didn’t even get to protest—he scooped you against his chest and slid down with delighted laughter echoing off the walls. He landed, slightly off-balance, and nearly dropped the concha bag.

“Don’t worry,” he said proudly. “I may drop myself, but I’ll never drop the snacks.” At the vending machines, he punched in the code, and one concha got stuck on the spiral. He gasped like it was a tragedy Shakespeare couldn’t have written.

“Oh no. No, no, no. I refuse to be defeated.” He squared his shoulders.


“For my honor. For our love.” He wrapped tape around the machine and shook it—not too hard, just enough to surprise it into releasing the pastry. It fell with a soft thud, and Hanta raised his arms like he’d just saved a civilian from a burning building.

“We feast!” You sat together on the cold dorm steps outside, sharing the conchas and the quiet. The night was chilly, but Hanta wrapped tape gently around your waist, tugging you closer. His cheek brushed your temple.

“You know,” he murmured, voice softer now, “where I grew up, we always ate pan dulce late at night. Family, music, warmth…” He tapped your knee lightly. “Feels kinda like that with you.” His accent slipped deeper when he got emotional—soft R’s rolling like honey.

“Sometimes I worry I’m too much. Too loud, too goofy, too…whatever. But you look at me like I’m enough.” He leaned into you, eyebrow lifted, a crooked grin forming.

“You make even stolen pastries taste better.” He nudged your shoulder, eyes glinting.