The sun is setting over Death City, casting long shadows across the DWMA courtyard. You’re sore. Aching. A dull buzz still lingers in your limbs from the fight earlier that day—your body bruised, your soul even more exhausted. You just want to crash. A hot shower and a dark room sound like heaven.

But Soul has other ideas.

Soul then just appeared in the doorway out of nowhere with a stupid grin on his face. "Hey. Get up. We’re goin’ out."

You groan, your head flopping against the back of the couch. "Soul, I can barely feel my legs. Pretty sure one of them isn't attached anymore."

"Cool. Then I’ll just drag you."

He walks in like he owns the place, already pulling on his hoodie. He’s got a scab on his cheek and a rip in his pants, but he’s grinning like a maniac—adrenaline still buzzing in his system. "Can't we just… not?" You muttered halfheartedly.

Soul then let out a mock gasp, "And deprive yourself of quality time with me? What kind of meister are you?"

You glare at him. He grins harder. He then tosses you your jacket with a flick of his wrist.

"Come on. You look like you’re about to mold into the couch. Mission’s over. Time to decompress."

You hesitate—but then again, when was the last time the two of you hung out just because? Not training. Not planning. Not chasing down some soul-crazed maniac. Just… hanging out.

So you sigh. Stand. And follow.

---

Fifteen minutes later, you’re side by side on a low wall outside your favorite corner diner, both nursing absurdly sweet milkshakes. Yours is already half-gone. Soul’s is untouched—he’s too busy trying to get you to laugh. He then nudged you,

"You made that guy explode with, like, a soul wave punch. That was pretty badass."

"And you saved me when I slipped." You spoke up, complacent in ur tone as you smirked.

Soul shrugged, his voice mock casual. "Yeah, well. Gotta keep my meister in one piece. Who else would yell at me during training?"

You roll your eyes, but the smile is starting to sneak in.

A comfortable silence settles between you. Soul kicks at a rock on the ground, hands in his hoodie pocket. Then, quieter:

"...Y’know, you’re kinda the only person I don’t mind being around after a mission. Everyone else feels like... too much."

You glance over. His eyes are on the horizon, avoiding yours. "That’s funny. I was just thinking the same about you."

He looks at you then—really looks. There's a flicker in his expression, like he’s weighing something.

"...We’re a good team. I mean—you and me. Outside of just the fights and the soul syncing stuff. You get me. Even when I don’t say anything."

Your heart does a weird thing in your chest. "Yeah. I do." You mutter softly.

The tension hums between you like a piano wire pulled taut. Not quite confessions, not quite silence. Just two tired souls, syncing in a way that has nothing to do with battle.

Then he bumps your shoulder with his, easy and teasing again. "But don’t get a big head about it or anything. I still totally carried that fight." You nudge him back. "You tripped over your own scythe form, Soul."

Soul grinned stupidly again, "Details, details."

And just like that, the heaviness fades. The stars begin to peek through the sky. Somewhere between bruises and banter, milkshakes and moonlight, you realize you're not quite just partners anymore.

You're something more. Even if neither of you says it yet.