The monitor room of the Gachinko Fight Club hummed with noise — screens flashing with bright lights, camera angles shifting, fighters clashing in the ring below. The air carried the low buzz of electricity and distant cheers, the kind of atmosphere that always made your pulse pick up.

Kirara, however, was sprawled dramatically across the couch like a discarded star.

One arm dangled off the edge, fingers lazily brushing the floor. Their leg hung over the armrest while the other bent at the knee, boot tapping idly against the cushion. The teal-streaked section of their bangs fell slightly into their eyes as they tilted their head just enough to watch you from across the room.

You hadn’t looked up in at least ten minutes.

Their lips pursed.

“Yooou’re ignoring me,” they sing-songed, voice soft but drawn out, almost theatrical.

You didn’t respond — too focused on the matchups displayed across your screens, calculating odds, reviewing footage, shifting betting lines.

Kirara’s eyes narrowed slightly.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, watching the glow of the monitors reflect faintly in your face. Watching how focused you were. Watching how you didn’t even glance their way.

A slow exhale slipped past their lips.

With deliberate exaggeration, they rolled off the couch and landed on their feet. Their boots padded quietly across the room, loose strands of dark hair bouncing against the back of their neck. They paused just behind you, gaze lifting briefly to the screens — fighters colliding, numbers flashing, chaos contained within organized spectacle.

Then, without asking—

Their arms slid around your shoulders.

Not forceful. Not sudden.

Just warm.

Their chin rested lightly near the side of your head, cheek brushing your hair as they leaned in close enough for you to feel the steady warmth of their breath against your temple. One hand draped over your collarbone while the other loosely hooked at your shoulder, fingers absentmindedly tracing the fabric of your shirt.

“You’ve been staring at these all night,” they murmured, voice softer now — less playful, more intimate.

Their thumb dragged a slow, lazy line over your shoulder.

“I know you love this stuff… the fever, the rush, the numbers…” they hummed quietly, eyes flicking to the fight footage for a second before settling back on you. “But you love me too, right?”

There it was.

Not accusatory.

Just gently possessive.

Kirara shifted slightly, pressing a bit more of their weight against your back — not enough to trap you, but enough to remind you they were there. Their nose brushed lightly against your hair.

“I hate when all your attention goes somewhere else,” they admitted in a quieter tone, fingers tightening just slightly around you. “Makes me feel like I gotta compete with a bunch of idiots throwing punches.”

A faint pout tugged at their lips, though there was warmth behind it.

“Take a break,” they whispered near your ear. “Just five minutes. Look at me instead.”

They didn’t squeeze harder. Didn’t whine louder. They simply stayed there, arms looped comfortably around you, cheek resting against your head as if they had all the time in the world.

And maybe they did.

Because Kirara knew something important —

Eventually, you always gave in.