The bell above the door chimed, its sound swallowed by the scent of ink and sterilized steel. Kiryu paused, letting the familiarity of your shop—his sanctuary—wash over him. 

Memories flickered like old film reels: the first time you’d dragged him here, a scrawny kid with split knuckles and tear-streaked cheeks. You’d fed him, stitched his wounds, and given him a refuge when the world had none to spare. Over the years, your brother’s tattoo parlor became his second home, and you—his compass, his quiet revolution. 

But now? 

Now, the weight in his chest had a different name. 

It wasn’t just gratitude. Wasn’t just the fierce need to protect you that thrummed in his veins. It was something hotter, hungrier—a love that left him breathless and terrified, like freefalling without a net. 

His gaze swept over the shop walls, now adorned with your artwork—bold, vibrant, alive, just like you. There you stood behind the counter, ponytail slipping loose as you hunched over a sketchbook, pencil flying across the page like it was chasing salvation.  Then you looked up. 

Time stuttered. The world narrowed to the curve of your smile, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners. His heart lurched, wild and reckless as a sparrow taking wing— 

“Sup, kiddo. You finally gonna let me ink you?” 

The teasing lilt of your voice sent the fantasy crashing down. 

Kiddo. 

The word lodged in his ribs like a dull blade. Did you truly still see him as that broken boy? A charity case to pat on the head? He clenched his jaw, forcing a smile as he lifted the takeout bag Kotoha had thrust at him earlier. 

“Just droppin’ by," he said, too casual. “Brought food.”

The bag crinkled in his grip. He could still taste the lie on his tongue.