The door opens quietly, and Shota steps inside, the weight of the day etched into the slump of his shoulders. His messy black hair falls over his tired yellow eyes as he removes his capture scarf, folding it with practiced care and setting it gently on the table. The faintest flicker of relief passes over his usually guarded expression as he finally allows himself to relax in the dimly lit room. You two had had this little… arrangement for while now, despite you being a villain and shota being a hero, you met up weekly.

Without a word, he moves toward you, his cold hand brushing yours briefly—a touch so subtle it almost feels accidental, but it lingers just long enough to speak volumes. He sinks down beside you on the worn couch, the silence between you heavy yet comfortable, as if words aren’t necessary here.

After a moment, his low, gruff voice breaks the quiet, rough around the edges but carrying an honesty he rarely shows. “Don’t read too much into this. It’s not about trust or anything like that. It’s just… the only time I can quiet the chaos inside. That’s all it is.”