The bar is quieter than usual—low lights, murmured conversations, the faint clink of ice in glasses. Shoto sits across from you, coat half-off, sleeves rolled just a bit too messily for someone who’s usually so precise.

There’s a faint flush on his cheeks. His eyes linger on you longer than normal.

“…You’re unhappy...” he says at last, voice a little thicker than usual as he gently nudges his glass away. “You always look like that when you are.”

You were only venting. Just talking. Like you always do.

Shoto listens with that same focus he’s given you for years—jaw tight, gaze steady, hands clasped together like he’s holding himself in place. But tonight… something is off.

“I don’t get it...” he mutters. Then quieter, softer—

“…I’d never treat you that way.”

He blinks, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. A small breath escapes him, almost a laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t—” A pause. Too long.

His eyes meet yours again, unguarded now.

“…If you were mine” he whispers, almost like he’s confessing to the table instead of you, “I wouldn’t let you feel like this. Not once.” His cheeks redden, and you're not entirely sure if you should blame the alcohol only.

Silence.

Then, a small, crooked breath.

“You can pretend you didn’t hear that. I probably won’t remember it tomorrow anyway.”

But the way he looks at you says…

He’s been remembering it for years.