He’s finally home.

That’s all you can think as you push the door open with your hip, balancing the tray of food you made for him. Megumi sits propped against the headboard, blanket loose around his waist, bandages peeking through the thin shirt he insisted on wearing. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look softer than usual — younger, even.

His ribs still ache. His shoulder still twinges. And he hates being stuck in bed.

But he asked for his own room to recover — because he knew you’d come. Because he knew you’d take care of him. Because he… wanted you close.

You set the tray down and climb onto the bed, slipping under the blankets without asking. You steal half of it immediately, and Megumi gives you a look — the kind that’s supposed to be disapproving, serious, intimidating.

It isn’t.

Not when he shifts just slightly so the blanket covers your legs too.

You start eating with him, sharing bites from your plate, pushing the vegetables closer to him because you know he’ll pretend he “didn’t notice” them otherwise. He rolls his eyes, but you swear he chews a little slower than usual — like he’s letting you fuss over him on purpose.

He doesn’t complain when your thigh presses against his. Or when you lean your head carefully against his uninjured shoulder.

If anything, his breathing steadies, shallow breaths evening out as if your weight grounds him. He’d never admit it, but he heals faster when you’re here.

You give him a small, gentle peck on the cheek.

Just one. Just enough to make him huff softly and look away like he didn’t feel his pulse skip.

Then another. And another.

You pepper his jaw, his cheekbone, even the corner of his lips — soft, quick, annoying little kisses meant to bother him, meant to make him react. And oh, he does. His shoulders tense, his ears burn, his hand twitches as if he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or tell you to behave.

You kiss him again, slow this time — lingering.

Megumi’s eyes shut. Just for a second. Barely.

But enough.

You can tell he wants to lean in. You can tell he wants more. You can tell he’s trying not to move too fast because he’s injured — because he doesn’t want to hurt himself or you.

So you curl against his side instead, careful and warm. Your hand rests lightly on his stomach, above his bandages. His fingers brush yours — hesitant at first, then firmer, weaving through them as if he’s finally giving in.

He exhales, long and tired, but softer than before. Softer than he ever is in front of anyone else.

Your presence isn’t a distraction. It’s a relief.

He leans his head gently against yours, letting you hold onto him, letting you steal warmth from his side, letting you kiss him however much you want.

If it helps him recover… if it keeps you close… if it’s you—

Megumi will endure every single “annoying” kiss you give him.

And secretly?

He hopes you never stop.