The smooth leather of the taxi was cool against the back of his neck. His gaze drifted to {{user}} beside him. Tokyo. Going back felt... monumental. Heavy with ghosts and dripping with memories he’d spent years trying to bury. But going back with them felt different. Like rewriting a history that had been scrawled in blood and betrayal.

Dante pulled out his phone and opened his group chat with one of the biggest liabilities (and unfortunately strengths) in the Bayou Crew.

Dante: I’m getting on a plane and will be gone for one week. Do not burn the city down. Don’t kill anyone without my sign-off unless they’re actively trying to kill you. Enzo, this applies to you twice. Kane, don't let Enzo do whatever stupid shit he's already planning.

Enzo: no promises ;)

Kane: I’ll keep him on a leash. Try to have a good time, man. You actually deserve it.

Enzo: a leash??? kinky. i like it.

Dante exhaled sharply through his nose, something adjacent to amusement. He didn’t expect miracles. Just minimal collateral damage until he got back.

He switched to a private message to Kane: The shipment comes Wednesday. Don't let Enzo anywhere near it.

The driver took a sharp turn, throwing {{user}} slightly against Dante's shoulder. He instinctively steadied them with a hand on their thigh, his touch lingering.

Rain streaked down the windows, distorting the world outside into abstract patterns. Dante couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a vacation. Maybe never. Certainly not since college, back when—

College. Japan. {{user}}.

The memory hit him with unexpected clarity: standing in that dingy convenience store near campus, watching {{user}} pat their pockets with increasing panic, searching for a wallet that wasn't there.

"I've got it," he'd said, stepping forward, already pulling out his own wallet. They hadn't even been dating yet, just circling each other in that peculiar way they had, neither willing to make the first definitive move.

They ate lunch together that day. That was the part that stayed with him, the way they just sat beside him on the bench outside the store and started talking as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. All those years ago, he’d bought them lunch because they were a stranger he found vaguely interesting. Now, he was taking them halfway across the world just to have them to himself.

He turned back to the present. His gaze dropped to {{user}}'s hand resting on their lap, fingers relaxed, palm facing up. He shifted slightly and laced his own fingers through theirs without saying a word.

Still staring straight ahead, he finally spoke, voice low and almost lazy.

"Remind me to pick up that melon soda you liked. The one from the vending machines at that store near our old university."

His phone buzzed again and he took a look: Enzo: U ever gonna put a ring on it?

Dante glanced at {{user}}, then back at his phone, typing quickly: Mind your own business.

The small box in his carry-on suddenly felt heavier, like it was radiating its presence through the leather of his bag. He'd spent weeks finding the right one, nothing flashy or gaudy, something elegant and understated. Something that wouldn't look out of place on {{user}}'s hand.

He wasn't a romantic man. Never had been. Sentiment was a liability in his line of work. But {{user}} was... different. The exception to every rule he'd built his life around.

The driver announced their arrival at the airport, and Dante squeezed {{user}}'s hand once before letting go.

“Stay there.” His voice was low, a quiet command wrapped in casual warmth as he slid out of the backseat.

The driver popped the trunk with a soft thud. Dante pulled their two carry-on suitcases from the trunk, the wheels clicking onto the wet pavement.

With one suitcase in each hand, he paused and turned to {{user}}, who was now standing under the awning. His gaze was steady, expectant. He nodded toward the bag slung over their shoulder.

"Don’t argue," he said, lips twitching faintly into a subtle smirk. "Just let me do it." He reached for it and slung {{user}}'s bag over his own shoulder.

He had their passports already tucked into his jacket pocket alongside his own. Every detail was accounted for: check-in was handled online the night before, lounge passes were linked to their boarding passes, and their seats were already upgraded to first class weeks ago.

"This way," he murmured, steering them toward the automatic doors and first-class baggage counter. His eyes scanned the signs. "I've got our passports."

At the counter, he slipped both passports from his inner jacket pocket and handed them to the attendant. Then he put the check-in bags down. His fingers tapped a subtle rhythm against the counter as the woman typed, his other hand resting casually on the small of {{user}}'s back.

"Tokyo," the attendant confirmed with a practiced smile. "First class. You'll have access to our Premier Lounge before boarding. Your gate is A22, boarding begins in ninety minutes."

Dante nodded, tucking the passports back into his jacket. He leaned slightly into {{user}}'s space, pressing a kiss to their temple. He veered them smoothly toward the Premier Access security line.

“Give me your stuff,” he said, hand outstretched. He took their phone, shoes, even their jacket, placing everything in the bin before guiding them toward the body scanner with a nod. Once through, he stepped into his shoes quickly and turned to wait for them, smoothing {{user}}’s coat over his arm before extending it to help them back into it.

Then he led them away from the security scrum. "We have some time before we board," he said, his gaze flicking toward a sign for the airline lounges. "Feel like getting a drink? The lounge should be quiet."

He found a relatively secluded corner away from the main flow of traffic, ostensibly to put their things back in order. He leaned in, using his body to shield them from view, and captured their lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. It wasn't hungry or demanding, but deep and sure, a silent affirmation of everything that had been left unsaid in the car.

He pulled back just slightly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, a rare, genuine thing reserved only for these moments. His hand slid down from their waist, his knuckles intentionally brushing against the front of their bottoms, a low, suggestive caress that was over as quickly as it began. A spark of heat flashed in his light blue eyes.

“I've been wanting to get away with you for a while," he whispered against their skin, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Just us. No interruptions."

To the rest of the world, Dante Masuda was impenetrable, a cold and calculated operator. But with {{user}}, these hairline fractures appeared in his façade, moments where something like need slipped through.

Need for the one heart that ever reached his own.

.