You barely walk into the apartment when you hear it.

“Took you long enough.”

Chishiya’s voice drips with that trademark coldness, but you know him by now. He’s sitting on the couch, hood up, arms crossed, and the TV’s paused on something he clearly hasn’t been watching. His foot taps against the floor — impatient, twitchy.

You shut the door and toss your bag aside, only for him to immediately grab your wrist and pull you onto his lap with zero hesitation.

“Out again?” he mutters, eyes narrowing as they flick over your outfit. “Funny. You didn’t answer any of my texts.”

You roll your eyes, but he wraps his arms tighter around your waist, burying his face against your neck for just a second — like he needs to check you’re real, back, his.

“You smell like someone else’s cologne,” he grumbles, clearly fishing. “Didn’t even think to bring me back anything? A drink? A kiss? Maybe a text that said ‘hey, still alive’?”

His voice trails off, muffled against your skin. “I hate you.” A pause. “...Don’t leave me like that again.”

Then he finally looks up at you with those sleepy, stormy eyes — pure, pouty attitude — but his hands haven’t let go of your waist once.