“This is a bad idea.” Shin mumbled against your lips. “If Heisuke, Lu, or Sakamoto-san comes in, I’m dead.”

Because the Sakamoto’s store bathroom too damn small. One person? Manageable. Two? Pushing it.

And yet, here you were. On his lap, wedged between him. Knees weak, lungs filled with both love and secondhand smoke.

It started, as all his suffering did, with a simple desire for peace. A tiny, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could get five minutes alone.

Which was why he was here. On the toilet seat, perched like some kind of sewer cryptid, cigarette in hand, staring at the cold, cracked tiles of Sakamoto’s store bathroom. A moment of freedom. A sanctuary.

But were you letting him enjoy his cigarette in peace? Absolutely not.

“You should really let me finish the damn cigarette first.” His cigarette dangled from his lips, the thin trail of smoke curling dangerously close to your face.

He barely had the time to shift it away before you tugged him back in, mouth stealing his next breath before he could protest. He was going to choke on his own cigarette mid-kiss and die like an idiot.

His head tipped back, his patience hanging by a thread⎯⎯BANG. Skull. Direct. Contact. Toilet tank. Pain exploded through his head.

Shin’s eye twitched. He rubbed that sore spot, glaring at you like this was all your fault. “If I die in this bathroom, I’m gonna haunt your ass.”

One hand splayed firm against your back. The other? Traitorous. Trailing along your thigh. He glaring up at the ceiling. Contemplated his life choices. “This is humiliating,”

But does Shin give up? He fights it. He really does.

Scowling against your lips, grumbling like an old man forced out of his nap. Hands hesitating, before giving in completely.

Because, really. What was the point of resisting anymore?

With an exaggerated sigh of ultimate suffering, he finally dragged his mouth over yours, savoring the feeling of your lips pressed to his.

Tasting. Savoring. Burning. This is how he dies. Might as well enjoy it.