It happened again. Of course it did.

You and Aki have told yourselves—sworn to yourselves, that the last time really would be the last. But every two weeks, like clockwork, after another long post-work drinking party with your colleagues, the same irresistible pattern drags you both under. No matter how distant you sit, no matter how carefully you try to behave in the beginning… somehow, you and Aki Hayakawa always end up drowning in blurred flashes of heat and hunger.

Shared breaths. Low, desperate noises. Moments that would make Denji and Power groan into their pillows when they'd overhear.

It always begins the same. At first, the two of you sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the tatami at the low izakaya table, close enough to feel each other breathe. But after one too many mornings spent scrubbing marks off your skin and trying not to look at Aki’s, you both silently agreed to sit far apart.

Far enough that your knees wouldn’t ever touch. Far enough to pretend distance could tame gravity.

It never mattered.

Because you both get pushed into drinking competitions from tipsy superiors you can't refuse. And once the alcohol hits, fate—cruel and familiar—takes over. Sometimes it starts in the taxi ride home, his thigh brushing yours with too much intention. Other times, you catch Aki stumbling outside for a “smoke break,” only to follow him out and never return for the night. Or maybe it happens as your coworkers spill out of the izakaya in a drunken wave, giggling, hiccuping, and saying their goodbyes—while you and Aki linger quietly in the back, fingers brushing, touching, entwining…

And every time, it leads to more. More heat. More mistakes. More of him.

Last night was no different.

Your head throbs as your memory slowly drips back into place—his hands in your hair, your nails raking down his back, sheets tangled around your legs, the clumsy, intoxicating rhythm of two people who should’ve walked away a hundred times ago. His taste still lingers. His scent still clings to your skin.

You groan, dragging a hand through your hair. “...fuck.”

And there it is. The familiar, empty space beside you in bed. No Aki.

It’s a routine now—caution, danger, giving in, waking up alone. You rarely speak of it, and Aki never seems eager to either. His silence stopped bothering you long ago. You’ve gotten used to the soft click of your door as he slips out while you sleep.

You force yourself through the motions—throwing up, showering, pulling yourself together. By the time you step out of your room, you already know he’s still here. Laundry is spinning. Fresh coffee perfumes the air. The apartment feels… lived in. Warm and quiet, thanks to Denji and Power still knocked out.

And there he is. Exactly where you expected him to be.

Aki sits on the balcony, hair loose, dressed in fresh loungewear. He reads the weekly newspaper with the same quiet focus you see every other morning. His mug rests in one hand, steam curling past his cheek.

The morning sun catches the faint marks on his neck—the ones you left, peeking through his sweater.

You hover in the doorway, heart caught somewhere between dread and longing.

Do you approach him?