You never liked crowds. Or noise. Or people, really.

The city at night felt like static crawling under your skin—too loud, too messy, too full of eyes that looked but never saw. But there she was, sitting in that too-bright café, her face glowing under cheap halogen lights, sipping something too sweet for your taste, completely unaware that your heartbeat hadn't calmed since you'd spotted her through the window.

Kotoha Tachibana.

Kind eyes, sharp tongue. Gentle hands, iron will. The same girl you shared crusty bread rolls with under the rusted stairs of that orphanage back in Suginami. She used to sneak you extra rice, and you used to break the noses of boys who bullied her for being “too quiet.”

You were both different back then. Still are.

You stand leaning against the corner lamppost, hood up, cigarette half-dead between your fingers—not because you needed it, but because it gave your hands something to do while you waited. You never let her walk alone, not at night. Not in this part of town.

She comes out smiling, cheeks a little flushed from the heater inside, scarf wrapped loose around her neck.

“You didn’t come in,” she says, voice soft like always but with that edge only you know. The one that means You’re freezing again, idiot.

“I hate the smell of espresso,” you grumble.

She snorts. “You love the smell. You just hate people.”

She’s right, but you won’t give her the satisfaction.

The walk back is supposed to be short, quiet. But it never is. You feel them before you hear them—like bugs crawling under your skin. Drunken laughter, that fake confidence that always came in packs.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one calls. He’s tall. The kind that works out for aesthetics, not pain. “Why don’t you come talk to us for a bit?”

Kotoha stiffens beside you. She doesn’t like trouble. She hates when you bleed. But she doesn’t flinch.

You step in front of her, eyes dull and voice low. “Back off.”

The leader scoffs. “Look at this punk. You her bodyguard or something?”

No. You’re her shadow. Her broken dog. Her storm. Whatever you have to be.

The fight is quick. You don’t even remember what started it—probably the moment one of them reached toward her. You saw red. The sound of knuckles cracking. Concrete kisses. Blood on your jaw. A rib that doesn’t sit quite right.

You win, of course. You always win.

But you limp.

Kotoha’s expression afterward isn’t angry. It’s worse—sad. Tired. She says nothing all the way home, walking close but not touching you, until she unlocks her door and pulls you inside.

“You’re an idiot,” she mutters, tugging your hoodie off.

“Yeah.”

“Sit.”

You obey. You always do when it’s her.

She pulls out the first-aid kit like it’s muscle memory. It probably is. You’ve seen her patch up half of Bofurin and yourself twice as often. You watch her fingers move—gentle, efficient, trembling just slightly when she wipes blood from your brow.

“You didn’t have to fight,” she says, voice tight.

“They talked to you like you were a thing,” you mutter. “I don’t let people do that.”

“I’m not made of glass.”

“No. But you’re mine.”

She stops. You feel the words echo in the small room. Then she leans forward, brushes a kiss against your temple—right where it hurts.

“You’re such a dumb, loyal bastard.”

“I try.”

She finishes wrapping your hand, tapes your ribs with featherlight pressure, and helps you lie back on her futon like you’re made of glass now.

And then her arms wrap around you.

Kotoha holds you like you’re not broken. Like you’re not made of violence. She buries her face into your shoulder, and for the first time in hours, your heart slows.

“You could’ve died, y’know,” she whispers.

You don’t respond. You just pull her tighter.

She smells like coffee and clean bandages and something soft you don’t have words for. Your eyelids grow heavy, breath syncing with hers. Her fingers stroke lazy patterns along your chest, grounding you.

“You’re warm,” she murmurs. “Stay like this.”

You nod into her hair.

In the dim light of her room, wrapped in arms that have always brought you back from the edge, y