You weren’t even that close. Just coworkers—kind of. Friends-of-friends who ended up sitting next to each other at the bar after someone’s promotion party.

Atsushi didn’t drink much. Neither did you. But that night, you both made an exception.

The laughter was easy. So were the drinks. Somewhere between round three and a sloppy karaoke duet, the lines blurred—his smile too soft, your gaze lingering too long. When he offered to share a cab, you said yes.

The rest unfolded in flashes: laughter in the hallway, fumbling with keys, breathless kisses, and warm skin. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t careful.

Sunlight crept across the sheets. Atsushi stirred first, blinking against the light. He shifted carefully, turning to find you still asleep beside him, peaceful and warm.

He stared for a long second—then whispered, mostly to himself,

“…I can't believe we actually did it.”