The quiet hum of the city faded into the background, muffled by the thick walls of his apartment. The air between you buzzed with something heavier, something that had been building for years—since childhood, since late-night training sessions, since whispered secrets under shared blankets. And now, it hung in the silence of his dimly lit living room.

You sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twisted into the hem of your shirt. Your eyes flicked up just as Touya stepped closer—slow, deliberate, gaze locked onto yours like he was reading a language only the two of you knew.

His voice was soft, low, but confident. “You sure?”

You nodded once. “Yeah. Are you?”

He let out a breath—relief and want, all at once. “Been sure since we were fifteen.”

He was in front of you then, close enough to steal your breath, close enough to brush a thumb against your cheek. The kiss started slow, familiar—like something you’d already dreamed a thousand times over. But it deepened with time, with the kind of intensity that came from years of waiting, from every glance that lingered too long, every night you wondered if he felt the same.

His hands settled on your waist, grounding you. Yours found their way to his jaw, his collar, his hair.

And when he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing unsteady, he whispered like he couldn’t help himself:

“I don’t wanna rush this. But I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t wanted this for a long time.”

Your pulse quickened. “Then don’t pretend.”

He smirked a little—cocky, but flushed around the ears. “Good. Because I’m not letting you leave this bed for a while.”