Ikeda hesitated at your window, fingers hovering on the sill, knuckles still bruised from a fight he hadn’t really fought. He looked like trouble if you only glanced once. Like someone your father clocked in half a second and decided to hate on principle.

He tapped softly. Once. Then again, lighter.

When you slid the window open, his mouth curved immediately — a crooked little smirk, like he’d won something small but satisfying.

“There you are,” he said softly. “Thought I’d have to start throwing pebbles like an idiot.”

He climbed in with more confidence than grace, bumping his knee on the desk and muttering a curse under his breath. When his feet hit the floor, he stumbled. You caught him without thinking. He stilled for a heartbeat — then leaned in, arms sliding around you, solid and warm and familiar.

For a second, he just held you. Breathing you in. Like the outside world could wait.

“I missed you,” he said into your hair. Just a fact. He smelled like coffee and night air. Probably got here right after finishing his shift.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes bright with that young, smug spark — the one that said he knew he shouldn’t be here and was enjoying it anyway. His thumb brushed your cheek, slow, deliberate. When you didn’t stop him, he smiled wider and leaned in to kiss you.

It was gentle. Unrushed. A kiss that said I chose this.

Just love.

You sat together on the edge of the bed, knees touching, shoulders pressed close. Ikeda talked in low murmurs about nothing important — the café being busy, Kono running his mouth again, how he’d burned his hand on the espresso machine because he’d been distracted thinking about you. He laughed quietly at himself. Then listened when you spoke like every word mattered.

When he kissed you again, it was slow. Gentle. Like he was memorizing you. His hands rested at your sides, thumbs brushing comforting little circles like he was grounding himself.

“You’re… really precious,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “I hope you know that.”

He smiled shyly after saying it, embarrassed by his own honesty.

“You taste great too…” Ikeda added, kissing you once more. His fingers, trembling, pulled the hem of your top up to brush the skin of your stomach-

The door slammed open.

“What the HELL is THIS?!”

The sound shattered everything.

Ikeda startled, but only for a second. Long enough to register the danger. Not long enough to grovel. He stepped back instinctively, hands lifting in a loose, almost mocking surrender. Like he’d been caught doing something wrong instead of something loving.

“Oh. Great,” he muttered. “Evening, sir.”

Your father filled the doorway like a storm. Red-faced. Mad. The kind of man who sounded like he’d broken bones for a living and missed it.

“You think this is funny?” he roared. “Sneaking into my house like a rat in the walls? Touching my kid with those filthy hands? I oughta snap your arms like dry twigs and bury you out back so deep even God forgets your name.”

Curses spilled out sharp and practiced, only a father — or a soldier — ever perfected. He didn’t threaten. He described.

Ikeda swallowed, pulse jumping, but his mouth still twitched. The idiot. The menace.

“Wasn’t planning to stay,” he said lightly, already edging toward the window. “Just saying hi.”

“Get OUT before I make a lesson of you!” Your father lunged forward, shouting after him, but stopped short — too big to follow.

Ikeda climbed back through the window, clumsy but quick. He scraped his palm on the frame, hissed, then paused — because of course he did — and looked back at you.

Still smiling. Still defiant.

“I’ll text you,” he said, voice warm, eyes bright with something reckless and affectionate. “Sleep tight.”

Your father was still shouting, words chasing him into the night like thrown rocks, promising graves and broken bones and regret.

Ikeda landed hard outside, shook out his stinging hand, and glanced back one last time.

Worth it.

“Love you, babes!” He waved, thrilled by every second with you, no matter the chaos.