The quiet hum of the summer night pressed in through your open window, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and distant street food.

Tokyo always felt alive, even at this hour—neon lights flickering down the street, scooters zipping by, the muffled chatter of strangers spilling out from late-night shops. And somewhere out there, Baji was waiting for you, leaning against his beat-up bike like he owned the world.

Baji had always been there. You could trace him through every corner of your childhood—the scrapped knees, the wild laughter of summer afternoons, the countless “let’s do something fun” plans that often got you both scolded by your parents. He was chaos, with his sharp grin and untamed hair—but he was your chaos.

The boy who’d drag you out of the house just to watch stray cats behind the convenience store, who’d split ice cream with you after school because neither of you could afford two.

And somewhere along those years—between the late-night bike rides and the inside jokes whispered when no one was near—your feelings had shifted. And so did his.

You don’t know the exact moment, and neither had he, but you remembered the first time his hand lingered in yours a second too long. The first time he looked at you like you were the only thing worth noticing in a room. And by the time he confessed—awkward, stuttering, and uncharacteristically quiet—you were already gone for him.

It had been a year now.

Nobody knew. Not your friends. Not his gang. Not even Chifuyu—who was practically glued to Baji’s side these days.

Baji was firm about keeping it that way—not because he didn’t want to claim you—he really did—but claiming you meant putting a target on your back.

“I can handle myself,” he’d said once, fingers brushing your hair out of your eyes, “but I can’t handle it if someone messes with you because of me.”

Which is why nights like this felt so special.

Baji didn’t sneak away from Chifuyu often; their ramen nights were sacred, and you respected that. But tonight? He was all yours.

The first thing you noticed when you reached him was the grin—wide and a little crooked, like he had been waiting all day just to see you.

“Took you long enough,” he teased, shifting the helmet in his hand before holding it out to you. His fingers brushed over yours deliberately, warm even in the summer night. “Ready for some real food? I know the best place.”

The ride to the ramen shop was short but thrilling, as it always ever was with Baji. The wind whipped against your face, warm and salty from the city air, and his laughter? Carefree and wild—echoed over the sound of the engine. He didn’t talk much during rides; he didn’t need to. The steady thrum of the bike beneath you and the solid warmth of his back said enough.

The shop itself was small, tucked away into a quiet alley with paper lanterns glowing faintly at the entrance.

It wasn’t much, but Baji had sworn it had the best broth in Tokyo. He always ordered the same thing—extra noodles, a ridiculous amount of meat, and a minimum level of spice—whilst you opted for something simpler. The owner didn’t ask questions, just smiled brightly at the sight of Baji and scribbled down your usual orders.

It was easy to forget the rest of the world when you were with him like this.

His laughter filled the tiny shop, his chopsticks clacking against the bowl as he shoved noodles into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days. He’d lean across the table occasionally, trying to snatch a piece of your egg with a wicked grin, pretending not to notice your glare. “What?” he’d say, lips curling. “You like it when I steal from you. Makes the food taste better.”

And after the bowls were empty and the shop grew quieter, Baji always lingered.

Sometimes he’d talk about the stupid things his friends did that day, or a new trick he attempted on his bike. And sometimes, like tonight, he didn’t say much at all.

He just sat there, elbow on the table, eyes fixed on you with an expression softer than anyone else ever had.