Akira's POV
The apartment was quiet in the way it always was after a gate run, thin walls, the low continuous hum of the city's residual mana field pressing against the glass, the faint metallic aftertaste of dungeon air still coating the back of my throat.
I stood under the shower longer than the water justified. It ran cooler than I usually preferred. The temperature did nothing to clear the imprint left behind the column.
I kept tasting him. The pressure of his mouth, the controlled heat of it, the way his thumb had rested against the hinge of my jaw as though he were measuring something precise and private.
The cool stone at my back. The solid breadth of him in front of me. The way he had not asked permission. The way I had not stepped away.
I dried off with the same methodical care I used for every post-mission recovery protocols and pulled on the softest shirt I owned, loose cotton that hung off the narrower set of shoulders this body had inherited.
