You developed a bit of a routine, you and Futakuchi. After a long week of working your asses off, you often spent your Sundays in each others arms. Futakuchi would throw a fit the moment you’d try to get up, stating that it was the law for you to stay there.

The two of you watched your favorite television show as you pressed against Futakuchi, his arm casually draped over your hip. “What the fuck was he thinking? She was obviously the better love interest.” He complained.

It was so domestic.