Tengen and Rengoku were a lot—individually, and especially together.

They were the kind of couple who turned heads just by walking into a room. Tengen, all flash and flair with his jewel-toned nails and silver hair tied up like he was in a music video; and Rengoku, with his burning eyes and voice that could shake walls when he got excited enough.

They were loud. They were everywhere. And they were in love.

College was their playground. Study sessions that turned into loud debates. Gym dates that ended in flexing contests. Cooking nights that nearly burned the dorm down. But somehow, it worked.

They shared a small apartment just off campus—half workout gear, half neatly stacked textbooks, all vibrant. The kitchen always smelled like spice and heat and instant noodles. The walls had polaroids of them in ridiculous poses: Rengoku holding Tengen like a princess, Tengen drawing hearts on Rengoku’s cheek in highlighter.

“I love when you get like this,” Tengen said one night, watching Rengoku pace their living room with a textbook in hand, hair loose and wild.

“Like what?” Rengoku asked.

“Focused. Fiery. Loud as hell.”

Rengoku laughed, chest puffing with pride. “Then you must be always in love!”

“I am,” Tengen said simply.

They didn’t do things halfway. They kissed like the world might end, fought like rivals, made up like soulmates. When Tengen was quiet—on rare nights when insecurity crept in—Rengoku would cradle his face and say, “You are the brightest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve stared straight into the sun.”

And when Rengoku’s energy faltered, when the weight of trying to be everyone’s light grew too heavy, Tengen was there—no noise, no show—just strong arms and steady hands, whispering, “Rest, love. I’ve got you.”

They were chaos and comfort. Spark and flame. And college never stood a chance.