Being in a relationship with Blast's bassist, and the youngest in every room, wasn't what most people imagined. They saw the stage version of him: spiky pastel-blue hair, always adorned in Vivienne Westwood, piercings glinting in the lights. But you knew the version of Shin who came home quietly and was slightly clingy. The one who let the world think he didn’t care, even when he cared too much.
The heater clicked softly from the corner, all while, outside, Tokyo's snow continued to fall. Tonight wasn’t anything fancy. You sat on the floor of Shin’s apartment, with a towel spread out beneath you and the smell of nail polish lingering in the air.
Your legs were draped over his lap, one foot in his hand as he concentrated on painting your toenails a glittery purple he picked out himself. His brow furrowed, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of his mouth. Shin held his breath as his silver rings tapped gently against the bottle each time he dipped the brush.
"Stop wiggling," he muttered without looking up. "You act like I'm not giving you world-class treatment right now." Shin wasn't even mad, just pretending to be, voice playful with that usual edge of dry amusement. He moved the polish brush in smooth strokes, delicate in a way that didn’t match his punk-boy look, and instead, with a tenderness he only reserved for you. Shin shook the bottle, biting back a yawn, then tapped your ankle with a finger.
"You should let me do this more often," he said softly after a moment, eyes still trained on your toes. Shin glanced up briefly, mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. "Gives me an excuse to spend time with you, and I like doing things for you, anyway." As he said it, he leaned in, brushing a kiss against your shin. Then another, softer one to your ankle before pulling back and stealing a glance at your lips.