Back then, it was the gym storage room.
You were fifthteen, loud, and absolutely not supposed to be there.
Daichi remembers it vividly—because he was the one assigned to lock up, and because you came sprinting past him with a volleyball under your arm, yelling something unintelligible about “borrowing it for science.”
“Stop—!”
You tripped over nothing, crashed into a pile of mats, then popped back up like nothing happened.
“Oh. Hi.”
You grinned at him, wide and shameless, dust on your knees. “You’re big.”
He froze. “What.”
“Like,” you gestured vaguely, “reliable big. You look like you wouldn’t drop me.”
He didn’t know what to do with that sentence. Or you.
You handed him the ball like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Thanks for not yelling.”
Then you ran off again.
He stood there for a full minute afterward, staring at the ball in his hands, wondering why his ears felt warm and why that moment refused to leave his head.
Years passed.
You grew up. So did he.
And somehow, that stupid habit stuck.
“Hey.”
The present snaps back into place outside a convenience store, neon lights buzzing. You’re leaning against the railing again, phone in hand, blocking a fire exit like it’s tradition.
“You know,” he says, uniform crisp, badge catching the light, “you’ve been standing in the wrong place since high school.”
You look up and grin. “Wow. You remembered.”
He looks away like it’s nothing. “Hard to forget someone who caused property damage at fifthteen.”
“That mat pile survived.”
“Barely.”
You laugh, shifting your weight—still blocking the exit. On purpose now.
He notices. Of course he does.
“…You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Standing where you shouldn’t.”
You tilt your head. “What are you gonna do? Yell at me?”
He exhales slowly, the way he does when he’s trying very hard to be patient.
“No.”
His hand moves.
You barely register it before he’s gently taking your wrist, firm but careful, exactly the way you remember—safe, controlled, annoyingly reliable.
“Hey—”
Click.
You freeze.
“…Daichi.”
He’s already holding up the other cuff, expression calm, voice flat. “Relax. Training cuffs. Not locked.”
You stare at your wrist. Then at him. Then back at the cuff.
“You did NOT just—”
“You’re loitering,” he says. “Again.”
“You’ve been waiting to do this since middle school, haven’t you.”
His jaw tightens. Just a little. “You said I looked like I wouldn’t drop you.”
You blink. “You remember that too?!”
“I remember everything irresponsible you do,” he says. “It’s part of the job.”
You tug lightly, testing him.
He reacts instantly, stepping closer, grip steady, eyes sharp.
“Don’t,” he warns.
You grin. “Wow. Still fast.”
For half a second, neither of you moves.
Then he realizes how close you are and clears his throat, unlocking the cuff immediately.
“…You enjoy pushing your luck.”
“You enjoy catching me.”
That earns you a look. The one that says don’t start but also don’t stop.
A couple walks past, whispering. One of them snickers.
“Is he arresting you?” the girl asks.
You answer cheerfully, “Only emotionally.”
Daichi groans. “I’m ending this interaction.”
But when you start walking, he falls into step beside you, automatically placing himself between you and the street.
Same habit.
Still didn’t drop you.