You’d sworn you’d never let your guard down around him. Not Sanemi Shinazugawa — not the man who made every training session feel like war and seemed to enjoy pushing you past breaking point. The two of you barely spoke outside of the occasional insult or order barked across the sparring field.

But last night had been different. For once, the camp had something resembling joy — a rare celebration meant to lift morale, with food, music, and a little too much sake. You remember laughing, though you can’t remember why. The rest is a blur.

Now, you wake with a pounding headache and the faint warmth of someone breathing beside you. You turn — and nearly jolt upright when you see him, sprawled out next to you on the futon like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, one arm lazily propped behind his head, watching your reaction with infuriating calm.

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart…” his mouth curves into something between a smirk and a dare. “I didn’t do anything you didn’t beg for.”