You and Jirou had been together long enough that nothing in your shared apartment really surprised her anymore — not the late-night snacks, not your weird music taste, and definitely not the box you kept tucked discreetly under the bed.

You were both twenty-five now, Pro Heroes with chaotic schedules, but somehow you still managed to make the tiny apartment feel like a home. Jirou was sprawled on the couch that evening, one earbud in, scrolling through her playlist when you passed by with that familiar, slightly guilty look.

Her eyes flicked up immediately. “You’re hiding something.”

You froze mid-step. “No, I’m not.”

She sat up, crossing her arms with a teasing smirk. “You always get that face when you’re trying not to laugh. What is it this time — another ‘stress relief’ delivery?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, pretending to study the bookshelf. “Maybe.”

Jirou laughed softly, tilting her head. “You mean the same kind of ‘maybe’ that ended up with me not being able to look you in the eye for a week after last time?”

Your face heated instantly. “That was different.”

“Mm,” she hummed, pretending to think. “Different because you said it was for you… and then somehow I was the one who couldn’t walk straight the next day?”

You turned away, flustered but smiling despite yourself. “You talk too much, Jirou.”

She stood, closing the distance between you, her grin softening into something fonder. “And you blush too easily,” she murmured, resting her forehead against your shoulder. “But I like that about you.”

You slipped your arms around her waist, leaning into the quiet of the room — her steady heartbeat, her warmth.

“Next time,” she added, her voice just above a whisper, “you don’t have to pretend it’s just for you. I’m just saying… if you ever wanna share, I wouldn’t exactly complain.”