Evenings like this were rare, quiet, slow, and uninterrupted. Inside your apartment, the only sound was the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the rustle of fabric as Yoshida leaned in closer. Post-mission, he always carried tension in his shoulders, faint traces of blood he’d wiped off in a hurry, the kind of tired that never fully left someone who hunted devils for a living. But around you, he softened. Or at least, he tried to.

Yoshida had leaned in slow, expectant, eyes half-lidded and mouth tilted like he already knew what was coming. But instead of kissing him where he clearly wanted, your lips brushed lightly over the beauty mark beneath his lips.

He blinked, caught off guard. "That's not even the fun part of my face." His expression shifted, part annoyed, part amused. "It’s just a dot. I have a mouth, you know."

He sat back on the couch, but his hand remained firm on your waist, grounding him despite the fluster building beneath his calm exterior. His mouth quirked, eyes flicking to yours with mock accusation, but before he could say anything more, your lips brushed over the mark again.

Yoshida let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face in dramatic defeat, like he was already planning revenge he knew he’d never actually follow through on. His ears had started to flush, warmth creeping along the edges of his self-control.

"You’re turning affection into a power move." His stare lingered on you after that, the sharpness fading beneath something steadier. You kissed the beauty mark one last time, slower than before, and this time he didn’t flinch or fight it. "And I really, really hate how much I like that."