France was colder than you remembered. Or maybe it was just the shift—you were running on three hours of sleep, paperwork, and overpriced coffee when your radio buzzed with a dispatch. An incident at a nearby cafe. Minor, they said. Quick check-in.

You didn’t expect him.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice said as you stepped onto the scene. “If it isn’t a face from the past.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Tall, red hair under a hoodie, hands in his pockets, standing beside a very confused barista.

“…Tendou?”

He grinned, and that grin was unmistakable. “Satori Tendou, former middle blocker and full-time chocolatier. Now possibly suspected of coffee-related crimes.”

The barista cleared their throat. “He’s not in trouble. He just… caused a bit of a scene. Over croissants.”

“I just said they were underbaked,” Tendou shrugged, glancing at you with a spark in his eye. “Didn’t expect to summon law enforcement.”

You shouldn’t have smiled, but you did. Something about him—just like back then—made you fold a little.

Turns out, he’d been working in France for years. A chocolatier, of all things. Still dramatic, still unpredictable, but… softer. Mellowed, in his own way. You exchanged numbers. For professionalism, of course.

Then came the texts. The surprise pastries dropped off at your desk. The jokes that made even your worst days better. Somewhere between strange encounters and late-night check-ins, you became something more.

You used to walk past him in the Shiratorizawa halls, barely speaking. Now? He’s the first one who shows up when your shift ends, leaning against your car, chocolate in hand.

“You’re still as serious as ever,” he says one night, his voice softer than usual. “But I think I kinda like that about you.”