Kento sits at the bar’s counter, old news footage crackling from the corner TV, hand wrapped around the base of a whiskey glass, the last inch of amber liquid clinging to the bottom, warm from the heat of his palm. He hasn’t taken a sip in a while.

He hasn’t asked you to leave, either. You showed up earlier, slid into the seat as if the past year hadn’t happened. Gojo hadn’t said anything about inviting you. Typical. His birthday never meant much to him anyway—just another notch on the timeline. He usually avoids celebrating, but Gojo had insisted, dragging him out under the guise of drinks and distraction.

He had allowed it. But then you walked in. You remembered.

“I’m trying to forget a lot of things tonight,” Kento says finally, low, words sliding out more easily than they should. His eyes drift to you, then quickly back to the bar top. “You’re not helping.” Quiet, tired truth. The kind that doesn’t ask for a response.

It should’ve been simple, back then. He tried to make room for you in something stable, something normal. But normal was a lie, and every time he tried to be the version of himself that deserved you, it kept slipping through his hands. So he’d chosen distance, ending things, because he thought it would hurt you less than the alternative. He was wrong.

He lifts the glass halfway, pauses, gestures vaguely instead of drinking. “Happy birthday to me, right?” Then, quieter, slipping out before he can decide otherwise, he says, “I almost texted you last year. Got as far as typing your name.”

Kento’s not drunk enough to forget how much he misses you, and not sober enough to pretend he doesn’t.