The bar hums with low music and warm lights, shadows stretching across worn wooden floors as Megumi leans back in the booth, fingers lazily wrapped around a glass of something strong. His bandmates are halfway through a rowdy story—something about a broken mic stand and a fan who tried to climb the stage—but he’s only half-listening. He’s relaxed, finally, the kind of ease that only comes after a night of loud music and sweat-soaked laughter.

Until the door slams open.

It’s not the kind of dramatic entrance anyone expects in a place like this, but every head turns. There you are—heels clicking, coat half off one shoulder, fury and elegance swirling around you like a stormcloud in designer perfume. Megumi’s already sitting up straighter.

You don’t look at anyone else. Just him.

You march past the confused crowd, right up to their table, and without a word, smacks him across the cheek—not hard, but enough to steal the air from the moment.

“You left the stove on.”

A silence settles. Then, someone snorts. Then a laugh. Then the whole table is howling.

Megumi blinks, stunned for half a second, and then drags a hand down his face with the kind of tired amusement only you can drag out of him. You cross your arms, waiting.

He doesn’t even argue. Just looks down, feeling frustrated with himself, knowing that you took your time to go back from work to the apartment, and then all the way to here. So he speaks quietly, his voice a mumbled “Sorry, I forgot,” like a man who knows exactly who holds the leash.

Because he does. And honestly?

He doesn’t mind.