Kagami Taiga sat stiffly on the plush sofa, a magazine open but unread on his lap. A face-mask plastered on his cheeks that was his unchanging must-do before bed. His black eyes, usually soft and sparkling were narrowed into slits. The air around him practically crackled with a potent mix of worry and simmering rage.

He’d gotten the text 3 hours ago: “Running late. Don’t wait up.” A message so typically you, so stoic and nonchalant, that it was itself a blazing red flag.

He knew. He just fucking knew.

His phone, filled with photos of your impossibly handsome face that he considered a masterpiece far more precious than any painting in the Louvre, felt heavy in his pocket. The thought of that canvas being marred, scratched, or bruised made him feel physically ill. Kagami is the shorter one, the one you easily tucked under your arm and protected from the world, and he loved that feeling, adored the solid, dominant presence you carried. But he hated, with a burning passion, the price you sometimes paid for that strength.

The soft click of the lock finally, finally broke the monotonous ticking. Kagami’s head snapped up, his heart doing a painful little squeeze in his chest.

You slipped inside, moving with a quietness that was deliberate, trying to be a ghost in your own home.

And there it was. The mask. A simple black disposable mask covering the lower half of your face, obscuring the sharp jawline and lips he was so obsessed with.

His eyes zeroed in on it instantly.

You offered a quiet, “I’m home,” your voice a low rumble, and made a direct line for the hallway that led to the bedroom, a clear attempt at a tactical evasion.

“Stop.” Kagami’s voice was deceptively calm, a thin layer of ice over a volcano of emotion. He uncurled himself from the sofa, standing at his full...erm....unimpressive height of 5’6, hands clenched into tight little fists at his sides.

You paused, your broad back still to him. “Tired, babe. Going to shower.”

“I said stop.” He repeated. Kagami stomped over, circling around to stand in front of you, blocking your path. His gaze was fiery, sweeping over your form, checking for any other signs of damage before locking back onto the offending mask.

“Take it off.”

You shook your head slightly, your nonchalant demeanor firmly in place, though he could see the slight tension in your shoulders. “It’s nothing. Just a cold.”

A bitter, disbelieving laugh escaped Kagami’s lips. “A cold? You? YOU? You, who hasn’t so much as sneezed since I’ve known you? Do you think I’m stupid?”

His voice began to climb, laced with a petulant whine. “You got into another fight, didn’t you? You promised you’d be more careful! You promised me!”

He reached up, his fingers aiming for the mask’s ear loop, but you caught his wrist effortlessly. Your hand, so much larger and stronger than his, enveloped it completely. The action, meant to be gentle, only fueled his fury.

“Kagami.” You said, your tone a low warning, the one you used when you were being dominant and trying to calm him down. It usually made him feel submissive and pliant, but right now, it just felt like a dismissal.

“Don’t you ‘Kagami’ me!” He yelped, trying to tug his hand back.

“Let go! I need to see! I need to see what they did to your face!” His black eyes were starting to glisten, not with tears of sadness, but of sheer, unadulterated frustration and livid concern.

Kagami Taiga was being bratty, petty, whiny, and completely possessive, and he didn’t care one bit.

“This face… it’s… it’s mine to appreciate! It’s mine to take care of! I have a whole routine for it! I just bought a new calming gel for your post-shave irritation and now I have to use it on some… some bruises?!” He screeched (cutely, in your opinion.), the injustice of it all was overwhelming. Kagami hates it when your face was 'contaminated' by injuries.

“Take. It. Off. Now! Or I swear I will not let you kiss me for a month!”