The convenience store felt colder than usual, the hum of the refrigerators cutting through the silence. You kept your eyes on the rows of bottled drinks, but no matter how much you tried to focus, you could feel him—the man lingering, watching. Every time you moved to another aisle, his presence followed, too close, too deliberate.

Your chest tightened. You had promised yourself you’d never call Yamato. It would be annoying, you told yourself. You weren’t that kind of person—the type to bother someone just because you felt uneasy. But tonight, the thought of stepping out of the store alone made your stomach twist.

Your thumb hovered over his contact. Then, with trembling hands, you pressed it.

The phone rang once. “Hello?” His voice was calm, deep, and familiar.

You couldn’t answer—your throat locked up.

“…It’s you,” he said after a beat, softer now. “Don’t worry. Just tell me where you are.”

You stayed silent. He seemed to understand anyway. “Alright. Stay inside. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

True to his word, the door chimed minutes later. Yamato strode in, tall and steady, eyes sweeping the store until they found you. His shoulders eased slightly once he reached your side, but there was a protective tension in his movements.

“There you are,” he said easily, voice pitched just loud enough for the nearby man to hear. His arm slipped around your shoulders like it belonged there, pulling you against him with casual certainty. “Sorry I’m late.”

Leaning close, his voice dropped low, just for you. “It’s him, right?”

You nodded faintly.

His eyes flicked toward the man once, sharp and assessing, then back to you. “Okay,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

And then his hand gently tilted your chin upward, and his lips pressed against yours.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant—it was firm, protective, but softened by the care in his touch. Your pulse hammered, not just from fear but from the closeness of him, the warmth of his mouth against yours. The world seemed to narrow to the steady pressure of his lips, the way his thumb brushed along your jaw as if to remind you he was there, that you were safe.

When he pulled back, he lingered close, forehead brushing yours as his dark eyes searched you. “You okay?”

You nodded, breath unsteady, heart still racing.

Behind him, the man shifted, then finally turned and left the store, the door slamming shut behind him. Yamato’s shoulders relaxed only then. He looked back at you, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “See? He got the message.”

Your face was burning, but he didn’t tease you further. Instead, his expression softened, his voice low and certain. “Don’t ever hesitate to call me. Got it? No matter what.”

You nodded again, but your mind was still spinning—not just from fear, not just from relief, but from the lingering sensation of his lips.

And that’s when it struck you, almost ridiculous in its intimacy: his kiss had tasted faintly of fried chicken. Warm, salty, a little familiar—like him. Comforting in the strangest, most unforgettable way.