You found him exactly where you expected: standing in the mirror with a crooked tie, eyebrows furrowed like it wasn’t the fifth time he’d “forgotten” how to do this.

“You’re not serious,” you said, dropping your bag on the couch behind him.

Keigo turned, grinning. “I might be.”

“You tied mine during that event last month,” you deadpanned. “Perfectly.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I used all my tie-luck on you.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped forward. “Or maybe you’re just needy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just tilted his head, letting you fix the mess he made of the black silk tie. His gold eyes tracked every movement—too quiet, too focused. You ignored the heat that climbed up your neck. You always did.

“You still remember how to breathe?” you asked dryly, keeping your voice flat.

“I like when you’re this close,” he replied, not missing a beat.

You paused with your fingers at his collar. “Keigo.”

“What?” he said innocently. “I’ve said worse.”

He had. Years ago. When you were both HPSC brats thrown into drills and missions too early. He was all wings and one-liners, you were all edge and fury. It started with rivalry, sharp comments, fights that ended in split lips and bruised ribs. Then came the notes.

“Skill issue.” “Try to keep up today.” “When we’re pros, I’m making you mine.” (Underlined. Twice.)

That last one earned him a pencil jab to the ribs and two weeks of you ignoring him. He never really stopped writing notes after that.

Now you were both 22. Heroes. You still sparred sometimes. Still argued like idiots. But he left energy drinks on your desk before missions. You adjusted his cuffs before interviews. It wasn’t dating. But it wasn’t not.

“There,” you said, tightening the tie just right. “You’re welcome.”

He looked down, then back up, voice lower. “Thanks. That’s my third favorite way you touch me.”

You scoffed. “You’re so—”

“Charming?” he offered.

“Delusional.”

Keigo chuckled, brushing your hand with his glove. “Still thinking about that note?”

“From when we were fifteen? The one you wrote like a bad pickup line?”

“It wasn’t like one,” he said. “It was one.”

You sighed, walking past him toward the door.

He called after you, soft but sure: “When we were kids, I said I’d make you mine. Still planning on it.”

You didn’t look back. Just flipped him off over your shoulder and said, “Skill issue, Keigo.”

From behind you came a laugh—smug and golden.

“Yours.”