I was the last one through the door. Sho's laugh was still bouncing off the walls of the stairwell behind me, something about the power outage and how Kanato's building manager looked like a startled owl when the lights cut. Rou had his hand on the pantry door frame, Lauren was already two steps into the living room, and I was still tugging my shoe off when the laughter died.

Not faded. Died. Like someone reached into the room and pulled the sound out by the throat.

I looked up.

Hibari was on the couch with Akira straddling his lap, bare-chested, lips locked, one of Hibari's hands splayed across the bare curve of Akira's spine. The afternoon light through the window caught the line of Akira's shoulder blades, the dip of his waist, the way his fingers were tangled in Hibari's hair like he was anchoring himself to something solid.

They were kissing like the world had ended and they'd decided to go down together.

I stopped breathing. My hand stayed on the door frame. Some part of my brain — the part that had survived underworld negotiations and hostage situations and a childhood I don't talk about — was screaming at me to look away, to move, to do literally anything except stand here watching my friend's boyfriend devour another one of my friends on a couch in the middle of the afternoon.

I didn't move.

Rou's hand was frozen on the pantry door. Lauren had gone completely still, his mouth half-open. Sho made a sound like a deflating balloon.

And then Akira heard us.

I saw it happen in real time. The way his body went rigid — not flinch-rigid, not the way he moved when something startled him, but the way a man goes still when he realizes he's been caught. His lips broke from Hibari's. His head turned toward us, just for a fraction of a second, and I saw his face — flushed, dazed, eyes heavy-lidded with something that was half sleep and half hunger — and then he made a sound.

It was a squeak. A tiny, mortified, utterly undignified squeak.

And then he slumped into Hibari's chest, hiding his face against the older man's collarbone, his ears burning so red I could see the color from across the room.

"Oh my god," Sho whispered.

I couldn't have agreed more.

Hibari didn't flinch. That was the part that got me. He didn't jump, didn't push Akira away, didn't look embarrassed. He just shifted — smooth as water, quick but gentle, turning his body so his back was to us, blocking Akira's bare chest from view like it was the most natural thing in the world. One hand came up to cradle the back of Akira's head. The other arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him in tighter.

"Hiba..." Akira's voice was muffled against Hibari's skin, half-panicked, half-sleepy, and so completely unlike the deep, confident voice I was used to hearing on stream that it made my chest ache. "Hiba, I didn't— they're—"

"Daijoubu dayo, Akira." Hibari's voice was low. Not his streaming voice, not the bright, golden-retriever tone he used for collabs. This was lower, rougher, intimate — the kind of voice a man uses when he's holding someone he loves and the rest of the world can wait. "Koko wa anzen da. Ore ga suiteru. Kanato da. Tada no Kanato da."

I understood every word. I'd grown up speaking Japanese too. But hearing it come out of Hibari's mouth like that — soft, soothing, rhythmic — made me feel like I was intruding on something I had no right to see.

Akira made a small sound against his chest. His fingers curled into Hibari's shoulder, and I watched his back rise and fall with a shaky breath.

"They're not supposed to see," Akira whispered. His voice was cracking. "I'm not— I look—"

"You look beautiful." Hibari pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "You always look beautiful. And they're not going to hurt you. They're our friends. Kanato's friends. You know them."

"I know them," Akira repeated, like he was reminding himself.

"That's right. And they're going to stand there and pretend they're not staring because they have excellent survival instincts, and then we're all going to sit down and have a very calm conversation about how they should have knocked."

I heard Lauren make a strangled sound. It might have been a laugh. It might have been a sob. I didn't dare look at him.

Hibari kept murmuring — soft, endless reassurances in Japanese, telling Akira he was safe, that no one would hurt him, that it was just Kanato and his friends, just their boyfriends and friends, nothing dangerous, nothing to fear. His hand moved in slow circles on Akira's back. His other hand brushed through Akira's hair, gentle and rhythmic, like he was soothing a spooked animal.

And slowly, so slowly I almost didn't notice it happening, Akira's breathing evened out. His grip on Hibari's shoulder loosened. His body sagged, heavier, trusting, falling into the warmth of the arms around him.

No one moved. Kanato stood by the door, still as a statue, watching Akira with an expression I couldn't read. He didn't step closer. He didn't speak. He just waited, patient as stone, letting Hibari do what needed to be done.

"There you go," Hibari murmured. "There you go, baby. Sleep now. I've got you."

He reached for the weighted blanket draped over the back of the couch — I hadn't even noticed it until now — and pulled it up, covering Akira's bare shoulders, tucking it around him like a cocoon. Akira made a soft sound of protest, but Hibari just shushed him, kissing his forehead, his temple, the corner of his eye.

"I'm not going anywhere," Hibari said. "I'm right here. Sleep."

I watched Akira's eyes flutter closed. I watched his body go limp against Hibari's chest, trusting, safe, wrapped in a blanket and the arms of a man who looked at him like he was the only thing in the world worth protecting.

I'd never seen anyone hold another person like that.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until my lungs burned.

It took a long time for Akira to fall asleep. Minutes, maybe. I stood frozen by the pantry, watching the slow rise and fall of his back, the way his fingers uncurled from Hibari's shoulder, the way his face relaxed into something peaceful. The incubus tail — that long, dark, sinuous thing I'd only ever seen in glimpses — curled out from under the blanket, twitching once, twice, before settling against Hibari's thigh.

Only when Akira's breathing had gone deep and even did anyone move.

Kanato crossed the room in silence. He didn't sit on the couch — he lowered himself onto the floor, his back against the couch's side, close enough to reach out and touch Akira's foot if he wanted to. He didn't. He just sat there, looking at nothing, his hands loose on his knees.

Rou, Lauren, Sho, and I exchanged glances. Then, one by one, we moved — careful, silent, like we were walking through a room full of sleeping tigers — and settled onto the chairs and floor around the couch.

"Sorry about that," Hibari said. His voice was still low, barely above a whisper. He hadn't moved. He hadn't put on a shirt. He hadn't even shifted Akira's weight off his lap. He just sat there, one hand still buried in Akira's hair, and looked at us with an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "He's been having a rough week."

"I—" I started. Stopped. Started again. "We didn't mean to—"

"You didn't do anything wrong." Hibari's smile softened. "I told you to come in. I knew you were coming. I just didn't think he'd wake up before you got here."

Rou leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "He was asleep?"

"Mm." Hibari's hand moved in a slow, absent rhythm through Akira's hair. "He came over this morning. Couldn't sleep at the apartment — nightmares, and the pressure change from the rain's been making his spiritual energy drain faster. He knew I didn't have a streaming schedule today, so he thought he'd come over and just... exist near me for a while."

He said it so casually. Like it was normal for his boyfriend to show up at his door, exhausted and hurting, and just want to be close to him. Like it was normal to sit on a couch for hours, holding someone, feeding them with nothing but proximity and touch.

I guess for them, it was.

"We were cuddling," Hibari continued, "and I was feeding him through proximity — that works, if it's not too bad — but it wasn't enough. He woke up about twenty minutes before you got here, in pain, hungry, and I needed to feed him faster." He paused. "Kissing works faster."

My face went hot. I didn't know where to look. Lauren was studying the ceiling with intense interest. Sho had gone very red.

"So you were just—" I cleared my throat. "Feeding him."

"Mm." Hibari's smile turned just a little wicked. "It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it."

Rou snorted. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I'm enjoying holding my boyfriend. Is that a crime?"

"It is when you make us walk in on it without warning."

"I did warn you. I told you to come in."

"You told us the door was unlocked! That's not a warning!"

"It's an invitation."

"Hibari."

"Rou."

They stared at each other. Then Rou laughed — a real laugh, bright and warm — and shook his head.

"You're impossible."

"I've been told."

The tension in the room cracked, just a little. Not broken — not yet — but cracked, light bleeding through the edges. I felt my shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.

And then Akira stirred.

It was small — just a shift of his body, a furrow of his brow — but Hibari noticed immediately. His hand stilled in Akira's hair. His gaze dropped to the sleeping man's face, sharp and focused.

Akira made a sound. A whine, low and distressed, his face crumpling like he was caught in a bad dream.

"Shh." Hibari leaned down, pressing his lips to Akira's forehead. "I'm here. I've got you. You're safe."

Akira's brow smoothed. His body relaxed again, sinking deeper into Hibari's chest.

"There you go," Hibari murmured. "My good boy. My beautiful, good boy. Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

He pressed another kiss to Akira's temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Each one soft, deliberate, unhurried — like he had all the time in the world and nothing more important to do than love this man.

I watched Kanato's jaw tighten. Not with jealousy — I'd known him long enough to tell the difference. It was something else. Something rawer. Something that looked almost like grief.

"He's been having nightmares," Hibari said quietly, answering a question none of us had asked. "Ever since the drug incident. He gets afraid to sleep on a bed, sometimes. Afraid he'll wake up somewhere he didn't mean to be."

The room went very still.

"So I've been letting him sleep on me," Hibari continued. "He feels safer that way. And I don't mind." He looked down at Akira, and his smile softened into something unbearably tender. "I'd hold him forever if I could."

No one spoke. I don't think any of us knew what to say.

Finally, Sho cleared his throat. "The streaming room," he said. "You said we could use it?"

"Oh." Hibari blinked, like he'd forgotten. "Yeah. It's down the hall, second door on the left. Everything's already set up — I was going to do a practice session later, but you guys can use it. I don't have a schedule today."

"You're sure?" Kanato asked. His voice was quiet, rough. "We don't want to—"

"Kanato." Hibari's voice was gentle but firm. "You're my boyfriend. They're your friends. You can use my streaming room whenever you want. That's not even a question."

Kanato looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and pushed himself to his feet.

"We'll set up," he said. "You stay."

"I wasn't planning on moving."

Kanato's mouth twitched — almost a smile. He turned and walked down the hall, and after a beat, the rest of us followed.

I was the last one out of the living room. I paused at the doorway, looking back.

Hibari was still sitting on the couch, Akira curled against his chest, the weighted blanket pulled up to his chin. His hand was moving through Akira's hair again, slow and rhythmic, and he was humming something — a game soundtrack, I realized, something from one of the games we'd played together. Soft. Low. Almost a lullaby.

Akira's tail curled under the blanket, twitching in time with the hum.

I turned away.

I followed the others into the streaming room, and I tried very hard not to think about the way Hibari had looked at Akira — like he was the only thing in the world worth protecting.

Because I'd spent my whole life learning to read people. And I'd never seen anyone look at another person like that.

Not once. Not ever.

The streaming room was small but well-organized — a desk with three monitors, a high-end mic setup, a comfortable gaming chair, and a couch pushed against the wall for guests. Kanato was already at the desk, checking the equipment, his movements efficient and automatic.

"Is this going to work?" Lauren asked, settling onto the couch. "The power's out in your building, but it's fine here?"

"Different grid," Kanato said. "Hibari's building is on a different transformer. Should be fine."

"You checked?"

"I always check."

Rou flopped down next to Lauren. "Of course you do. You're the most paranoid person I've ever met."

"Paranoia keeps people alive."

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

Kanato didn't answer. He was looking at the monitors, but I could tell he wasn't seeing them.

"Kanato." I leaned against the doorframe. "You okay?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I didn't know he was having nightmares."

The words hung in the air.

"He's been sleeping in my bed," Kanato continued. "I thought— I thought he was fine. I thought he was getting better."

"He is getting better," Sho said softly. "You said it yourself last night. He's getting there."

"But he's still having nightmares." Kanato's voice cracked. "He's still scared to sleep in a bed. And I didn't know. I didn't notice. I was so busy feeling guilty about what I did to him that I didn't even see that he was still—"

"Hey." I crossed the room and put my hand on his shoulder. "You can't blame yourself for this."

"Why not? It's my fault he's like this in the first place."

"It's not."

"I drugged him. I hurt him. I—"

"Kanato." I squeezed his shoulder. "Stop. You're not going to help him if you drown in guilt. You're just going to make it worse."

He looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he didn't cry. He just nodded, once, and turned back to the monitors.

"Let's set up," he said. "We've got a stream to do."

The rest of us exchanged glances. Then we moved, pulling chairs up to the desk, checking mics, adjusting cameras — filling the silence with busywork because none of us knew what to say.

We were halfway through setting up — Sho was testing the mic, Lauren was arguing with Rou about which game to play first — when I heard it.

A sound from the living room. Soft. Low. A voice.

Akira's voice. But not the deep, confident voice I was used to hearing on stream. This was higher, breathier, slurred with sleep and something else — something that made my face go hot.

"Tarai..."

I froze. So did everyone else.

There was a pause. Then Hibari's voice, low and warm: "Mm?"

"Tarai, I'm hungry."

"I know, baby. I'm feeding you."

"Not enough."

"I know. I know. Come here."

There was a rustling sound — fabric shifting, a soft, sleepy whimper — and then a sound I couldn't quite identify. Wet. Rhythmic. Like someone drinking something thick and sweet.

I very carefully did not look at anyone else in the room.

"We should—" Lauren started.

"Yes," Sho said. "We should. We're setting up. We're not listening."

"Absolutely not listening," Rou agreed.

We were all lying. We were all listening. But none of us said anything.

The sounds continued — soft, wet, intimate — and I felt my face burning. I'd known Hibari and Akira were together. I'd known they were intimate. But hearing it was something else entirely. It made it real in a way that knowing didn't.

And then Akira made a sound that was unmistakably a moan.

"Okay," I said, my voice strangled. "I'm going to go get water."

"I'll come with you," Lauren said quickly.

"Me too," Sho said.

"We're all going," Rou said. "We're all going to get water and we're all going to pretend we didn't hear anything."

We filed out of the streaming room like a herd of startled deer, trying very hard not to look at the living room as we passed it.

We failed.

I caught a glimpse — just a glimpse — of Hibari on the couch, Akira in his lap, Hibari's mouth on Akira's neck, Akira's head thrown back, his lips parted, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. The weighted blanket had slipped down to his waist, leaving his chest bare, and I could see the golden sigil on his stomach glowing faintly through the dim light.

Hibari's hand was on Akira's hip. His mouth was on Akira's throat. And Akira was making sounds — beautiful, broken, desperate sounds — like he was drowning and Hibari was the only air in the room.

I looked away. We all looked away. We shuffled into the kitchen, gathered around the sink, and stood there in silence, staring at the wall.

"So," Lauren said finally. "That's a thing."

"That's a thing," I agreed.

"They're really—" Sho made a vague gesture.

"Mm."

"I mean, I knew they were together. I knew they were intimate. But I didn't think—"

"Neither did I."

"They're so—" Rou struggled for the word. "They're so—"

"Domestic?" I offered.

"Raw," Rou said. "They're so raw with each other. Like they don't have any walls up at all."

We were quiet for a moment.

"I've never seen Hibari like that," Sho said softly. "I've known him for years. I've seen him on stream, seen him at tournaments, seen him with fans. I've never heard him use that voice."

"What voice?" Lauren asked.

"That voice. The one he uses when he's talking to Akira. It's like—" Sho shook his head. "It's like he's holding something precious and he's afraid to break it."

No one had anything to say to that.

We stood in the kitchen for a long time, listening to the soft sounds drifting in from the living room, and I thought about what Sho had said.

I'd known Hibari for years. I'd seen him laugh, seen him joke, seen him throw himself into games with reckless abandon. I'd seen him get serious during tournaments, seen the sharp focus that emerged when the stakes were high.

But I'd never seen him like this.

I'd never seen anyone like this.

And I couldn't help but wonder — as I stood in the kitchen, listening to my friend's boyfriend moan softly in the other room — if I'd ever be loved like that.

If anyone would ever hold me like I was the only thing in the world worth protecting.

The thought made my chest ache.

I pushed it away.

"We should head back," I said. "Before they—" I didn't finish the sentence. I didn't need to.

We shuffled back to the streaming room, eyes carefully averted from the living room, and we threw ourselves into the stream setup with a zeal that was almost comical.

No one mentioned what we'd heard. No one mentioned what we'd seen. We just set up the equipment, tested the mics, and started the stream like nothing had happened.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it. The way Hibari had looked at Akira. The way Akira had melted into him. The way they'd been so completely, utterly lost in each other that they hadn't even heard us come in.

I'd never seen anything like it.

And as the stream started and Kanato's voice filled the room — bright, easy, the mask sliding into place — I wondered if any of them knew how lucky they were.

To have someone who would hold them like that.

To have someone who would love them like they were the only thing in the world.

I made it about forty-five minutes before I needed the bathroom again.

It wasn't the water. It was the nervous energy — the way my body kept cycling through the same loop: settle into the chair, watch Kanato's mask slide into place on stream, remember the sound of Akira's moan, and then immediately need to move, to breathe, to escape the weight of what I'd heard.

I told myself I was being ridiculous. That they were boyfriends. That this was normal. That I'd walked in on Kanato and Akira before, back at the apartment, and survived it.

But this was different.

This was Hibari.

Hibari, who laughed like a golden retriever and bounced around on stream and made terrible puns that made everyone groan. Hibari, who I'd watched eat an entire family-sized bag of chips during a collab and then complain about being full. Hibari, who had apparently been hiding this — this raw, tender, devastating version of himself — behind that perpetual grin for years.

I slipped out of the streaming room as quietly as I could. Kanato was mid-sentence about some game mechanic, his voice bright and easy, the mask so seamless I almost believed it. Sho was laughing at something on his screen. Lauren was focused on the game. No one noticed me leave.

The hallway was dim, the afternoon light filtering through a small window at the end. The living room was just ahead. I told myself I wouldn't look. I told myself I'd walk straight past, into the bathroom, and back, and I would not look.

I looked.

Hibari was still on the couch, but he'd shifted — one leg stretched out along the cushions, Akira curled against his side like a cat. The weighted blanket was pooled around Akira's waist, leaving his chest bare, and Hibari's left hand was buried in his hair, fingers moving in slow, absent circles against his scalp.

His right hand held his phone. The screen glowed, some game or app I couldn't see, and he was humming — that same game soundtrack from before, soft and low, barely audible over the hum of the fridge.

Akira's eyes were closed. His face was slack with sleep, peaceful in a way I'd never seen it. His tail — that long, dark, sinuous thing — was draped over Hibari's thigh, twitching occasionally in time with the hum.

And Hibari was looking at him.

Not at his phone. Not at the room. At Akira. Looking at him the way you'd look at something you'd been searching for your whole life and finally found.

I stood there for too long. I knew I was standing there for too long. But I couldn't move.

Hibari's eyes flicked up. Met mine. And he smiled — that easy, bright smile I knew so well, but softer at the edges, like it had been worn smooth by something I didn't have a name for.

"Bathroom's at the end of the hall," he said. His voice was still low, still intimate, but there was a warmth in it that wasn't meant for me. "Don't wake him."

"I— yeah. Sorry. I wasn't—" I stopped. Swallowed. "Sorry."

"You're fine." His hand never stopped moving through Akira's hair. "Take your time."

I made it to the bathroom. I closed the door. I leaned against it, my heart hammering in my chest, and I stared at the ceiling and tried very hard not to think about the way Hibari had looked at Akira.

I failed.

I was washing my hands — taking too long, avoiding the inevitable walk back — when I heard it.

A sound from the living room. Soft. Low. A voice.

Akira's.

"Hiba..."

Not the deep, confident voice from stream. This was breathy, sleep-rough, dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"Mm?" Hibari's voice was a low rumble.

"I'm cold."

"Come here."

There was a rustle of fabric. A soft, sleepy sound — half sigh, half whimper. And then a wet, rhythmic sound that I recognized from earlier, that I'd been trying very hard not to think about.

I froze, my hands dripping over the sink, and I listened.

"That's it," Hibari murmured. "Good boy. That's it."

Another sound — a small, broken moan, muffled, like Akira's mouth was pressed against skin. My face went hot. I turned off the tap. I dried my hands. I stood there in the tiny bathroom, my hand on the doorknob, and I told myself I could do this.

I opened the door.

The hallway was dim. The living room was just ahead. I could hear them — soft sounds, wet sounds, the low murmur of Hibari's voice. I kept my eyes on the floor. I walked past the doorway. I did not look.

And then I heard Akira's voice again, clearer this time, and I looked.

Hibari had Akira in his lap now, Akira straddling him, his back to me. The weighted blanket was pooled on the floor. Akira's tail was wrapped around Hibari's waist, the tip curling and uncurling like it had a mind of its own. Hibari's mouth was on Akira's neck — not kissing, but licking, slow and deliberate, his tongue tracing a path from Akira's collarbone up to his jaw.

Akira's head was thrown back. His lips were parted. His eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded, unfocused. And he was making sounds — soft, wrecked, beautiful sounds — that I had no business hearing.

"Hiba," he breathed. "Please—"

"Please what?" Hibari's voice was a low growl against his throat.

"More."

"You have to ask properly."

Akira whimpered. His hips shifted, grinding down against Hibari's lap, and I saw Hibari's hands tighten on his waist — not rough, never rough, but firm, grounding, holding him in place.

"Please," Akira said. "Please, Hiba, I need—"

"What do you need?"

"You. I need you. Please—"

Hibari's mouth found his. And whatever else Akira was going to say was swallowed whole.

I turned around. I walked back into the streaming room. I sat down in my chair. I stared at the monitor.

"Everything okay?" Sho asked, not looking away from his screen.

"Fine," I said. My voice came out weird. "Just needed water."

"Did you get it?"

"What?"

"The water."

I looked down at my empty hands. "No."

Lauren snorted. Sho's shoulders shook. Even Kanato — mid-stream, mask fully in place — let out a small, choked sound that might have been a laugh.

"We heard them too," Lauren said, his voice low, barely audible over the stream audio. "You're not alone in this."

"I don't know how you're doing it," I said. "Streaming. Acting normal. While they're—" I gestured vaguely toward the door.

"Practice," Kanato said. His voice was even, controlled. "Years of practice."

I looked at him. He was staring at his monitor, his face unreadable, but I saw his jaw tighten.

"You're not jealous," I said. It wasn't a question.

"No." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "I'm not."

"Then what are you?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Grateful."

The word hung in the air.

"He needs this," Kanato continued. "He needs to be held like that. To be touched like he's precious. And I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I can't always give him that. Not the way he needs. But Hibari can. Seraph can. And I'm grateful that they can."

No one spoke. The stream audio filled the silence — some game soundtrack, bright and cheerful, completely at odds with the weight in the room.

"You love him," I said. "A lot."

Kanato's mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. "Yeah." His voice was rough. "I do."

"And you're okay with sharing him?"

"I'm not sharing him." Kanato's eyes met mine, sharp and certain. "He's not a thing to be shared. He's a person to be loved. And I love him. Hibari loves him. Seraph loves him. And he loves us. All of us. That's not sharing. That's—" He searched for the word. "That's abundance."

I didn't have anything to say to that.

We went back to the stream. We played the game. We laughed at the right moments, made the right jokes, kept the mask in place. But I couldn't stop thinking about what Kanato had said.

Abundance.

I'd spent my whole life learning to expect scarcity. To guard what was mine. To assume that love was a finite resource, rationed out in small, careful portions. And here were these four people — broken, scarred, survivors of things I couldn't imagine — building something that looked like abundance.

It made my chest ache in a way I didn't have a name for.

The stream ended. We packed up. We filed out of the streaming room, and I made the mistake of looking at the couch one last time.

Akira was asleep again, curled against Hibari's chest, the weighted blanket pulled up to his chin. His tail was wrapped around Hibari's wrist like a bracelet. Hibari was humming that same soundtrack, his hand moving through Akira's hair, his eyes soft and far away.

He looked up as we passed. Smiled. Raised a hand in a small wave.

"Good stream?" he asked, his voice low.

"Good stream," Kanato said. "Get some rest."

"I plan to."

We left. We piled into Lauren's car — Kanato in the passenger seat, me in the back with Sho and Rou — and we drove in silence for a long time.

Finally, Rou spoke. "So." He sounded dazed. "That was—"

"A lot," Sho finished.

"That's one word for it."

Lauren's hands tightened on the wheel. "Has he always been like that?"

"Who?" Kanato asked, though we all knew.

"Hibari." Lauren's voice was careful. "I've known him for years. I've never seen him like that. That—" He struggled for the word. "That tenderness. That patience."

Kanato was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "He's always been like that. You just never saw it."

"Because he was hiding it?"

"Because he didn't have anyone to show it to." Kanato's voice was soft. "Hibari's got a lot of love in him. Always has. But he never had anyone who could—" He stopped. "Who could hold it. Who could take it without breaking."

"And Akira can?"

"Akira doesn't break." Kanato's voice cracked, just a little. "He's been through hell, and he's still standing. He's the strongest person I know. And Hibari—" He took a breath. "Hibari's the only one who can hold him without being afraid."

We drove in silence for a while.

"You know," Kuzuha said, his voice thoughtful from the back seat, "Kanato told me once that Hibari has higher-than-average male hormones. Makes him have a higher sex drive."

Sho choked. "What?"

"It's true." Kanato's voice was flat. "He's got crazy stamina in bed. For someone who avoids the gym like it's a biohazard."

Rou let out a strangled laugh. "How do you know that?"

"I've known him for six years. We've been together for six years. I know a lot of things about Hibari that I wish I didn't."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that he can go all night and still have energy to make breakfast." Kanato's voice was dry. "I've shown up to streams exhausted, with muscle aches, barely able to sit straight, and he's bouncing around like a golden retriever on caffeine."

Lauren let out a low whistle. "So he's a beast in bed."

"That's one word for it."

"And Akira—" Sho hesitated. "Akira's the opposite, isn't he? Low sex drive. Trauma. Panic attacks."

The car went quiet.

"Yeah," Kanato said finally. His voice was soft, heavy. "It's hard for him. Intimacy is hard for him. He's got so much trauma wrapped up in it that sometimes it's—" He stopped. "Sometimes it's a lot. For all of us."

"But you do it anyway," I said. "You feed him. You hold him. You—"

"We do what he needs." Kanato's voice was firm. "That's the contract. That's the deal. We give him what he needs, and we don't push him past his limits. We stop when he wants to stop. We go slow when he needs slow. And we never, ever make him feel like he's a burden for needing it."

The words hit me like a physical weight.

"That must be exhausting," Rou said quietly.

"It's not exhausting." Kanato shook his head. "It's—" He searched for the word. "It's the most important thing I've ever done. The most important thing any of us have ever done. Because he's worth it. He's worth every bit of patience, every bit of restraint, every bit of—"

He stopped. Swallowed.

"He's worth it," he repeated. "That's all."

We drove in silence for a long time.

And I thought about Akira. About the way he'd looked on that couch — bare-chested, golden sigil glowing, head thrown back, beautiful and broken and utterly surrendered. About the way he'd moaned when Hibari licked his tail, that sound that had made my face burn and my chest ache. About the way Hibari had held him — like he was the most precious thing in the world.

And I thought about what Kanato had said. About the medical file. About the hormones that made Akira look the way he did — the reason SPIA had turned him into a honey trap. The reason no one in their right mind could refuse him.

The reason those four men were so willing to be gentle. To practice restraint. To hold back their own desires just to give him what he needed.

Because they got to see him like that. They got to hear those sounds. They got to hold that gorgeous, broken, beautiful man and watch him fall apart in their arms.

And that was worth all the trouble in the world.

I looked out the window. The city lights blurred past.

And I wondered if I'd ever be loved like that.

If anyone would ever hold me like I was the only thing worth protecting.

If anyone would ever look at me the way Hibari had looked at Akira.

The thought made my chest ache. I pushed it away.

But it didn't go far.