The wind’s in your hair, the sky is glowing pink-orange, and Chigiri’s riding just ahead of you, glancing back every now and then to make sure you’re still keeping up. His hair glints in the sunset like fire, and there’s the smallest smile tugging at his lips — rare, real.

You finally catch up beside him, and he shifts just slightly to match your pace.

“Took you long enough,” he teases, not out of arrogance, but habit.

Then, more softly: “…I like when we ride like this. Feels like we’re racing the world together.”

The light hits him just right — cheeks flushed from the breeze, eyes locked on yours for half a second longer than necessary — and it’s quiet for a while. Comfortable.