Kishibe pretends to mind it when you drag him out to go shopping, but he doesn’t. He’ll complain, and then go silent the minute you give him a little twirl in whatever outfit caught your eye. Of course he’s paying for it. He spends a lot of money on you, more than what’s wise.

“Where else?” Kishibe asks, reaching to pull you closer to him. He wants to tell he missed you; Kishibe wants to say a lot of things. He won’t. Probably never will. It’ll be a regret he’ll die with, he supposes.