The argument starts over something small—stupid, even. A shirt he left bloodied and crumpled on the bathroom floor, or the fact that he didn’t answer your messages all night, or maybe just the general unease of loving someone who lives so deep in the chaos that you never know when—or if—he’s coming back.

You’re pacing the apartment, tense, while Hanma leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest and that insufferable smirk tugging at his lips. He’s not taking you seriously and that just pisses you off more.

“I’m not crazy for being worried, Shuji,” you snap, voice rising with every word. “You vanish for hours. You come home with blood on your hands like it's nothing! And I ask you one thing—just text me, let me know you're alive—and you can’t even do that?”

He shrugs, casual. “Babe, if I’m dead, I ain’t gonna be texting anyone.”

You let out a frustrated sound, throwing your hands in the air. “You think this is a joke? Is that it? You think my worry is funny?”

“No,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I think you are.”

That does it. You’re practically seething now, every emotion bubbling to the surface. “God, you’re such an asshole sometimes! You think you can just charm or grin your way out of everything—like none of this matters to you!”

And maybe it’s true. Maybe part of you is terrified that he doesn’t care as much as you do—that his heart is still somewhere in the streets with the violence and the thrill and the only time he really feels alive is when he’s inches away from dying.

You stare him down, chest heaving with the weight of everything you’ve held back for weeks. But Hanma doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t shout back. He just takes a step toward you, slowly.

“You done?” he asks, tone maddeningly calm.

“No. I’m not done—”

You barely get the words out before he’s on you.

One hand snakes around the back of your neck, the other grabs your waist, and suddenly his lips crash against yours with the kind of heat that short-circuits your brain. It’s rough, commanding, electric with everything unsaid.

Your back hits the nearest wall, hard enough to make the picture frame above you rattle. He kisses you like he’s fighting for dominance.

By the time he pulls back, your argument is nowhere in your mouth. You’re breathless, stunned, lips tingling and eyes wide. And that goddamn smirk is back in full force.

“See?” he says, brushing his thumb along your lower lip like he didn’t just hijack the whole conversation. “Much better use of your mouth.”

He leans in again, murmuring right against your lips, “You were getting all worked up, baby. Figured I’d give you something else to be breathless about.”

There’s fire in your veins, but it’s tangled now—rage and desire coiled so tightly together you don’t know where one ends and the other begins. You shove him lightly in the chest, but he just laughs, catching your wrist before you can pull away.

“Don’t start a war if you can’t handle the fire,” he teases.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“Yeah, but you love me for it.”

And you do. God help you, you do. Because even though he drives you insane, even though loving Shuji is a daily act of patience and peril, you can’t tear yourself away. He pulls you into his chaos and somehow makes it feel like gravity.

He leans back, giving you just enough space to breathe but not enough to think. “You gonna keep yelling, or can we call this a draw?”

You glare at him. You hate that he knows exactly how to play you. But more than anything, you hate that he can pull a kiss out of an argument and make you forget why you were mad in the first place.

“I’m still pissed,” you say, just to be clear.

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly not taking it seriously.

“I mean it.”

“Sure you do.” His fingers are still on your wrist, warm and lingering. “But let’s argue in bed, yeah? I like it when you yell there, too.”