The night in Komorebi City was acting like a jealous ex, wet and cold, trying to stick to everything.
Yasuo Hayashi, nineteen years old and currently smelling faintly of cinnamon and exhaustion, was locking up. He always made sure the back entrance of Mayonaka's Sweets was double-bolted. The bakery was more than just a shop; it was his whole world, his grandma's legacy, and the only place he felt safe being the quiet baker who secretly devoured BL manga in his spare time.
He pulled his keys out, ready for the quick, silent dash upstairs to the cozy apartment, when he saw the dark shape slumped against the old brick wall, right next to the recycling bins.
It wasn't a drunk. It was too still, too heavy.
It was Daisetsu Nakamura.
Yasuo knew him only as "Sensei". The guy with the impossibly crisp white shirts who came in every morning for his slightly burnt Anpan, always paying in exact change, always quiet and ridiculously stoic. He was twenty-four, a high school teacher, and seemed like the kind of person who had never made a mistake in his life.
Except, everyone in the neighborhood knew the rumor: Daisetsu Nakamura had a thing for dangerous street fights sometimes...
Now, the impeccable teacher was laid out like a broken doll. His white shirt was soaked, not just with rain, but with a horrifying, sticky crimson. The cut on his temple was ugly, bleeding sluggishly into the damp brick.
"N-Nakamura-sensei?" Yasuo whispered, his voice catching in his throat.
Daisetsu didn't move. He looked pale, even in the dim alley light. His usual aura of cold control was completely gone, leaving only a frightening vulnerability.
A wave of pure, protective panic hit Yasuo, washing away every ounce of his usual shyness. Forget the gossip. He's hurt. Badly.
Okay, Yasuo, think. You cannot leave him here. The old lady next door is a major gossip queen, and Grandma would absolutely murder me for leaving a handsome, injured man on the street.
He checked the alley. Clear. Thank God.
Moving quickly, Yasuo knelt down. The man was enormous. "Sensei, can you hear me?"
Yasuo slid his arms under Daisetsu's shoulders. The teacher was solid muscle, dead weight, and smelled like rain, blood, and a faint, expensive cologne.
Holy smokes, this guy weighs a ton, Yasuo's mind screamed, completely ignoring the fact that he was currently pressed right up against the hot teacher's chest. Get it together, Hayashi. Focus on the rescue, not the… abs.
It was a slow, humiliating drag, punctuated by Yasuo's grunts and near-collapses. He was careful to support Daisetsu's head, terrified of doing more damage. Finally, he managed to maneuver the unconscious man through the back door and into the small, familiar warmth of the back stairs.
The residual smell of rising yeast and cinnamon was the first thing that hit him, a comforting contrast to the metallic tang of blood that was now all over his own apron.
He somehow got Daisetsu up the stairs and onto the worn futon in the spare room. Yasuo collapsed onto the floor for a moment, chest heaving, his own small body trembling from the effort.
Deep breaths. Baker mode activated.
He rushed to the bathroom for the first aid kit. When he returned, the low bedside lamp was on, casting long shadows that highlighted the deep lines of pain around Daisetsu's mouth.
Yasuo got to work. He gently cut away the remaining strips of the bloodied white shirt, his hands shaking.
Oh, my god. He's huge. Why didn't I just call the ambulance? Because I'm an idiot who saves stray teachers, that's why.
As he cleaned the shallow, but ugly cut on the teacher's temple, he accidentally brushed his hand across Daisetsu's collarbone. The skin was hot and tight. Yasuo immediately blushed, the heat radiating off his cheeks. This was already too much intimacy for a shy baker.
But then he paused. As he finished cleaning the blood, he noticed a startling, complex scar—not fresh, but old, deep, and crisscrossed—on the curve of Daisetsu's left shoulder. It wasn't the clean line of a surgical wound. This was a scar that told a long, brutal story.
This isn't just a reckless teacher, Yasuo realized, his earlier panic replaced by a cold knot of dread. This is a professional fighter. Who is he really?
He ignored the overwhelming physical presence of the man and focused on bandaging the wounds, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. He wanted to run, to hide under his own duvet and read a chapter of his BL novel where the Uke wasn't tending to a very real, very wounded Seme.
Suddenly, a shudder ran through Daisetsu's body. Yasuo froze, his hand hovering over the teacher's chest.
Daisetsu's eyelids flickered, opening just a slit. His pupils were still unfocused, hazy with shock and pain.
Before Yasuo could say a single calming word, Daisetsu's instincts took over. His hand shot out, not with the lazy movement of a waking man, but with the terrifying speed of someone expecting a threat.
His fingers clamped down hard on Yasuo's wrist. The grip was powerful, possessive, and painfully strong.
Yasuo gasped, immobilized.
Daisetsu's rough voice, strained and hoarse from pain, cut through the quiet warmth of the bakery apartment: "Stay back. Don't look."
He then tightened his grip and, with a low grunt that sounded more like a threat than a question, he mumbled, "Who are you...huh?"