After the war, Keigo kept his heart locked in the quiet spaces between his ribs.

He didn’t love. He didn’t date. He barely let himself feel anything at all. But you? You slipped in without asking, settled between the cracks and stayed.

You weren’t dating. You never called it anything. But he let you sleep in his bed. Let you wear his shirts. Let you run your fingers through his hair on nights where the world felt like too much and silence was too loud.

Tonight was like that.

He found you in his kitchen, sitting on the counter, eating out of the tub of ice cream he always told you not to open. You were barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, hair still damp from your shower.

“You always eat the good stuff,” he mumbled, stepping in close.

You looked down at the spoon. “You say that like I’m not your emotional support situationship.”

His lips curled into a tired smile, and he stepped between your knees, hands resting on the edge of the counter, just barely brushing your thighs.

You meant to make another joke—meant to push the moment away, like always—but when he leaned in and kissed you, it stopped the words cold.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t even rough.

It was slow. Intentional. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw as if you’d vanish if he touched too hard.

You kissed him back—reflex, instinct, something deeper. Your fingers curled into his shirt.

You tilted your head and dragged your lips down his neck.

Not just a peck. A slow, open-mouthed kiss right under his jaw, then lower, to the hollow of his throat. You sucked lightly, tongue brushing the edge of his pulse. He groaned—quiet, breathy, his hands tightening on the counter.

You didn’t stop there. You kissed across his jawline, leaving little red stains—your favorite liptint—right against his throat, his jaw, the corner of his lips.

By the time he pulled back, dazed and flushed, you were smirking.

“You’ve got my lip tint on you,” you said casually, dragging your thumb along the corner of his mouth. “Right here—” your finger moved to his neck, “—here too. And here.”

He swallowed. Didn’t say anything for a second.

Then he muttered, half breathless, “You know this wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you kissed the corner of his mouth again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” you whispered, “but does it feel like nothing to you right now?”

He looked at you like he hated the answer sitting on his tongue.

And when he kissed you again, desperate and almost angry with how much he needed it—you both knew this wasn’t just about lip tint anymore.