#sero hanta x you | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thebunnednun · 12 days ago

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Ponte Vick's

★Pairing:Aged up!Pro Hero!Hanta Sero x Hero Manger!Divorced!Reader

Synopsis: It's Valentines Day and you're dead ass sick. Who doesn't love a big strong hero coming over to take care of them? Or an indirect accidental love confession in the Mexican restaurant?! :D

Warning: MDNI!!! Extreme Flirting/Fluff, suggestive themes, Mami or Mama or Mommy, "Let me do it for you", nasty ex husband getting handled by Hanta, touching, being babied and cooked for, wearing what he wants for dinner, lots of teasing, close proximity, respecting boundaries, independent reader

SLight mommy kink if you squint, Wc: 18K, No ageless blogs!

Being sick is hell.

Not the mild inconvenience of a cold. No, this was the fucking full-body apocalypse.

Fever burns like fire under your skin, yet somehow you are freezing, trembling beneath layers of sweat-damp blankets. Every muscle aches like you've been in a brawl and lost spectacularly.

Like face down ass up on the pavement spectacular. Your throat is raw, each breath scraping against it like sandpaper. The pounding in your skull makes opening your eyes feel like a crime against nature.

You’d tried to keep up with the basics, brushing your teeth, washing your face, but even standing felt like scaling a mountain. Your hair clung to itself in matted clumps, and you didn’t have the strength to care.

Stomach churning, you stumbled to the bathroom like a zombie, dragging yourself along the wall just to stay upright. You barely made it in time before your body betrayed you—vomiting, dry heaving, then shivering through waves of nausea that left your head spinning.

You didn’t even bother to grab a handful of tissues. No, you reached for the entire toilet paper roll, clutching it like a lifeline as you shuffled back to bed.

Food sounded disgusting—except for the gnawing hunger twisting your insides. Water tasted foul, yet your dry mouth begged for it. Nothing was right. Nothing felt okay. Every breath was too loud, every thought too heavy, and honestly?

If death had knocked on your door right then, you might’ve just handed it a key and said,

“Come on in! Drink the milk before it expires.”

Not to mention you still had to work from home.

You just wanted to waste away peacefully in your bed. That was the plan.

But instead you got a sharp, rhythmic knock thundered against your door—loud, deliberate, and unmistakable.

Even in your fever haze, you knew exactly who it was.

Blinking blearily at your phone, you squinted at the screen.

12:07 PM.

Confused, you groaned and dragged yourself out of bed. Your limbs felt like dead weight, each step driving sharp, glassy pain through your heels—like you were starring in the original version of The Little Mermaid.

Reaching for your kimono robe, you barely managed to tug it on, the silk fabric dragging uncomfortably across your overheated skin. The walk to the door felt like an odyssey, each sluggish step a battle against nausea and aching muscles. By the time you unlocked the door and cracked it open, you felt like you’d run a marathon.

And there he was.

Sero Hanta.

Pro Hero, older, broad-shouldered, and standing there like a walking contradiction. Dark hair tied half-up, half-down in a way that somehow made him look both effortlessly casual and meticulously cool.

His black hoodie screamed in bold, bright red letters, "Yo quiero mi mama <3". His tan cargo pants had so many pockets they looked like they could carry a small arsenal, and his white Nikes were spotless despite the city grime.

You barely had time to take in his outfit before your gaze dropped to his arms, grocery bags in one hand, a pharmacy bag dangling from his fingers in the other. The silver rings on his fingers, five on each hand, as always, caught the hallway light, glinting like tiny mirrors.

"Buenos días," he greeted, voice muffled beneath the sleek black mask covering the lower half of his face. Only his dark, expressive eyes were visible—bright and full of mischief, yet somehow softer when they landed on you.

"It’s twelve in the afternoon," you rasped, voice thin and shredded from coughing.

"In my culture, if the sun’s still out, it’s ‘good morning,’" he shot back with a grin you couldn’t see but somehow knew was there.

You rolled your eyes, pressing a shaky hand over your mouth like a makeshift mask.

Hanta’s gaze flicked down to your sorry state. Robe barely clinging to your shoulders, hair a tangled mess inside your matching silk scarf, face devoid of its usual hues and clammy. But instead of teasing you, his gaze softened, warm and steady. For a moment, you swear there are stars in his eyes—something so bright and full of life that it made your darkened, fever-ridden world feel a little less suffocating.

He always does.

"Mind if I come in?" he asked, voice low and gentle now.

You didn’t have the energy to say yes—you just stepped aside, grateful for the warmth of his presence as he walked past you, carrying comfort in both arms. He slips his shoes off like he’s been trained without even creasing them, like always, and places them in the organizer by your door before shouldering it closed behind him as it automatically locks.

Hanta knows your apartment like the back of his hand, a skill he’d picked up after crashing here more nights than you could count recently. He barely hesitated as he set the bags down on the counter and moved through the space with an easy familiarity.

You slump onto the couch, eyes half-lidded, barely keeping focus as you watch him move. The rustling of plastic bags, the faint clink of bottles as he put things away. It all blurred together in your feverish haze.

Then, sunlight—soft and warm—trickled into the room as Hanta adjusted the blinds just the way you liked them. The light stung at first, but the room no longer felt like a suffocating cave, and for that, you were grateful.

“I saw you slacked Shannon that you were gonna be out all day,” Hanta calls over his shoulder.

You groan and blindly grab your phone, tossing it behind you on the couch like it personally betrayed you.

“If I went in, I was gonna infect the whole team,” you rasped. “Can’t have that.”

He chuckled, that familiar warm sound that made your chest loosen a little. “You're the real star of the team, mija.”

“Says the pro hero,” you muttered.

“Oye!” Hanta’s voice shot up dramatically.

“I’m not only making headlines ‘cause of my good looks, charisma, and sick quirk!”

You heard the sound of fabric snapping—he’d started shaking out your curtains—then the quiet beep as he turned on your AC. A second later, he popped back into view, flexing his arms like some ridiculous action hero.

To your credit, you barely reacted—just squinting at him and pretending to gag.

Still, your gaze lingered longer than you meant it to.

He wasn’t just lean anymore. All those years of training had filled him out. Broad shoulders, defined arms, and legs that didn’t just look strong—they were. He never missed leg day. Hanta wasn’t built like Kirishima or Bakugo—no slabs of muscle or walking brick-wall energy. But he was solid, athletic in that sneaky kind of way that made lifting you like a feather look effortless.

And yeah…

He’d done that more than once.

“Pfft,” Hanta scoffed, shaking his hands like he was warding off your imaginary disgust before turning back to your fridge. He grabbed the marker off your magnetic board and started tweaking your ‘To-Do’ list.

“I’m your manager, Hanta,” you reminded him hoarsely. “It’s my job.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he shot back, scribbling something you couldn’t make out.

You leaned over to grab the remote and flicked the TV on, letting the low murmur of the news fill the room. The anchor was already mid-sentence, something about a hero intervention downtown, but you couldn’t focus on the words.

Instead, you watched him move around your space. Organizing your mail into neat piles; Important, Less important, and junk to burn later. When did he even pick that up? Oh… right. You’d given him a spare key months ago—half as a joke, half because you knew he'd use it when you were too stubborn to ask for help.

And now here he was.

Folding your curtains just right, cooling down your apartment, playing the role of caretaker like it was second nature.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, voice scratchy but genuine.

Sero didn’t pause or turn to face you. He just hummed softly—a sound that landed somewhere between, "I got you," and "You don’t have to say it."

And maybe that’s what you liked most—that you didn’t have to.

"Did you take anything yet? Eat anything?"

Sero asked, his voice casual but with that I'm about to nag you undertone.

You shook your head, barely peeling your gaze away from the TV. The morning's press tour played on screen—him in his sleek hero suit, smiling easy for the cameras. The comment section scrolled relentlessly at the bottom, half of it praising him, half of it thirsting.

Ignoring the dull ache in your limbs, you reached for one of the many notebooks and pens you kept scattered by the couch—your makeshift workspace when you didn’t have the energy to sit at your desk.

You flipped open the notebook and started scribbling, notes, critiques, ideas, anything to keep your mind from spiraling. But before you could finish writing, "Adjust press angle—Downplay rivalry with Dynamight," a shadow loomed over you.

“Suéltalo,” Sero said, his voice low but firm as he reached down and gently swiped the notebook from your hands.

“No,” you muttered, weakly clutching for it. “I need—"

“Elle’s gonna get that,” he interrupted, effortlessly holding the notebook above your reach. “And if not? Val’s gonna give her opinions anyway, so…” He softened, dipping his head to meet your bleary gaze.

“Please, mama?”

Fuck him for that.

That damn tone—warm, coaxing, gentle as a breeze.

He knew exactly what he was doing, and worse?

You knew it too.

With a sigh, you released the notebook.

“Gracias,” Sero murmured with a soft smile, tucking your notes far out of reach on top of a high shelf, like you were some unruly toddler trying to swipe cookies before dinner. Before you could grumble about it, he turned back, holding out two small pills and a glass of water.

You stared at the offering like it was poison, wrinkling your nose in disgust.

Hanta didn’t say a word, just raised one eyebrow. That eyebrow—the left one, the one with the razor-cut slit you'd given him yourself.

You hadn’t trusted anyone else to do it. Said if someone was gonna take a blade near his face, it was either you or no one. You remembered the way he'd grinned afterward, spinning in front of the mirror like a kid showing off a fresh haircut. Which says a lot because you scheduled his haircuts.

And yeah… the cut suited him.

Drew attention to the sharp angles of his face in a way that made people look—even if they couldn’t quite place why.

You huffed, tired and defeated, but you took the pills anyway, chasing them down with lukewarm water. Hanta’s eyes stayed on you the whole time, watching like he was making sure you weren’t about to spit them out the second he turned around.

“Bien,” he muttered, satisfied. Then he leaned down, flicked your forehead lightly with two fingers, and grinned wide enough that you swore you could see the smile behind his mask.

“You’re such a pain,” you grumbled, slumping deeper into the couch.

“Eh.” He snatched your TV remote and flipped the channel to some ridiculous telenovela—dramatic music swelling as the lead actress gasped in betrayal.

“You’re lucky I’m sick,” you muttered.

“Nah,” Hanta shot back with a wink, settling beside you on the couch. “I’m just lucky you let me in.”

The two of you begin to get into the show, a story about a lady who went to jail after she and her husband tried to leave their home country and was arrested after getting caught, how he died in the hospital and now she's gotta survive a lesbian prison. Not a bad selection. As weak as your senses were, something warm and familiar started creeping into your awareness, a faint, sweet scent wafting from the kitchen.

“…Are you cooking?” you croaked, voice rough as sandpaper.

“Avena,” Hanta called back.

“And I have to eat it?”

“Sí.”

“You wanna kill me so bad, don’t you?”

Hanta peeked out from your kitchen before coming close to you, and let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. His arm flung dramatically across his face, and with what little strength you had left, you mustered up a weak kick—your socked foot barely making contact with his hip.

Big mistake.

With a single hand, he caught your foot midair with so much fucking strength in his big veiny ass hand and staggered back like you’d landed a fatal blow. “Dios mío!” he wailed, voice breaking just as the telenovela’s leading lady cried out in heartbreak from the TV.

“Oh, stuff a taco in it,” you groaned.

“That’s racist,” he shot back, lowering his arm just enough to peek at you.

“No, it’s not. I know for a fact you’ve got some in your fridge,” you muttered, sinking back into the cushions. “I read your nutrition log last night.”

Hanta groans dramatically, shaking his head like you’ve betrayed him. “I knew you were snooping.”

“You write in it, on the shared doc like a diary.”

He sighs heavily, dragging down his mask at last, and thank God for that, because you’d missed seeing his face. His features, all sharp angles yet sweet, and warm skin, were softened by the slight stubble dusting his jaw.

Dimples are really nice too.

“Lucky you’re cute,” he muttered before gently lowering your foot back to the couch. He gave your ankle a quick squeeze—just enough to say, ‘I’m glad you’re still fighting back,’—before standing to tend to the stove.

The faint whistle of the kettle trailed off, and a few minutes later, he returned with two mugs. One Spiderman, one Hello Kitty—one steaming with green tea, the other packed with ice for your sore throat.

You blinked at him. "So you’re a thief now?"

Sero tapped the side of his head, showing off the bright pink hair clips holding back his bangs. “Had to keep my hair out of my face. You’re lucky I didn’t steal your face mask too.”

“Loser,” you snorted, reaching for your ice water.

“Gracias por el servicio,” you muttered in mock gratitude.

“Only fair,” Hanta shrugged, settling beside you on the couch again. “Considering you’re always taking care of me.”

“That’s in my job description,” you rasped, sipping the ice water.

“Yeah, well…” He blew over his tea before setting it aside, then reached over to press his hand against your cheek. His fingers, warm and rough from years of hero work, moved carefully—left cheek first, then right, then your chin before finally checking your forehead.

You let your eyes slip shut. His touch was steady, grounding—like someone steadying you on your feet after you’d swayed too hard.

“Still hot,” he muttered.

“You literally just gave me medicine, you doof.”

Undeterred, Hanta crooked a finger, silently urging you to sit up. Too tired to argue, you shuffled closer, and before you could ask what now, he leaned in, pressing his cheek gently against yours.

His skin was cool against your burning face, and he lingered there for a beat longer than necessary. His soft breath ghosted over your ear before he pulled back.

“Still hot,” he murmured again, tone softer this time.

“Yeah, well…” You sniffled and flopped back against the couch. “Keep this up, because I’m gonna be hell on wheels when I’m not sick anymore.”

Hanta grinned, wide and lazy.

“Can’t wait.”

A timer buzzed from the kitchen, sharp and insistent. Hanta excused himself with a quick pat to your knee, muttering something about “the magic touch” as he disappeared down the hall.

You barely had the energy to follow the sound of him moving around. Drawers opening, spoons clinking against bowls, the faint scrape of a pot being stirred. There was something comforting about it, though. The way he handled your kitchen with such ease, like he belonged there. Because, in a way, he did. He knew where you kept the good knives and which cabinet always stuck. He knew the sweet spot on your stove dial that kept things simmering instead of boiling over.

When he returned, he carried two bowls—one for you, one for him.

Yours was simple, warm cornmeal porridge, thick and smooth like oatmeal without the oats. No milk this time—he knew better than to gamble with your stomach when it was on, ‘try me not,’ timing. But he'd added cinnamon and sugar just the way you liked, enough to make it taste like comfort in a bowl. And best of all, he’d given you your spoon, the one with the worn-down handle and the slightly bent edge that you stubbornly refused to replace. The one you reached for out of habit, even though you had better ones in the drawer.

His own bowl was heavier—milk swirled in to make it cool, the way his grandmother always served it. It smelled warm and nostalgic, like something that belonged in a childhood memory.

“Bendición,” Hanta murmured, lowering his head slightly as he pressed his hands together.

His voice softened in that moment, gentle and reverent.

You mirrored him, fingers loosely laced in your lap. Too tired to speak, you simply nodded along with his quiet prayer. The warmth of it lingered long after you whispered, “Ditto,” in unison.

And then you both dug in.

The breakfast wasn’t fancy, not by a long shot, but you love it when he cooks. It’s not that you can’t cook; you’re just… efficient about it. For you, food had always been a means to an end—something to scarf down between meetings, reports, and whatever mountain of tasks you had that day.

You couldn’t count the number of project drafts you’d turned in with embarrassing rice grains wedged between pages or faint water stains smudging the ink. Eating felt like another chore—just one more thing on your endless list.

But Hanta?

He made you pause. Made you sit down.

Made you eat.

And actually enjoy it.

A lot of your relationship felt like this. You push yourself too hard, grinding forward like you’re afraid to stop, and him weaving himself in wherever he can. Quietly, steadily. Helping in the spaces you didn’t realize you needed help in.

He knew your patterns better than you sometimes knew yourself. Knew that if he didn’t check your fridge now and then, you’d survive on coffee and bagels. Or die from whatever leftover takeout you keep in there. (He’s surprised that you haven't discovered a new form of bacteria yet.) Knew that when you got sick, you’d curl up like a wounded animal—stubborn, too proud to ask for help, too tired to manage yourself properly.

So he steps in. With groceries and tea. With soft jokes and loud soap opera dramatics. With quiet moments like this—feeding you when you didn’t have the strength to take care of yourself. Most pro heroes didn’t have this kind of relationship with their managers.

Especially not when their manager was older than them.

But that’s just how things were with Han.

The nicknames had started as a joke—casual teasing that turned into something more. “Mami,” when he wanted to charm you. “Mama,” when you were running on fumes and he was this close to carrying you to bed like a stubborn toddler. “Mamita linda,” when he was sweet-talking you into a favor. “Ma,” when he was worried but trying not to show it. And, “Mommy,” —playful and ridiculous—when he wanted to make you laugh.

You knew the difference between all of them now.

And the truth was… you don’t mind.

Not really. Because when he called you mami or mama, it wasn’t just teasing. It was him reminding you that you weren’t alone. That someone was looking out for you, even when you forgot to look out for yourself.

“Good?” Hanta asked between bites, watching you over his spoon.

You hummed softly, barely lifting your head. “Yeah…”

“Good,” he murmured, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

And just like that, the ache in your head doesn’t seem quite so sharp anymore. The fever doesn’t feel so suffocating. Your chest doesn’t feel so heavy. Because no matter how worn down you felt, no matter how buried you got beneath your own exhaustion,

Hanta always found a way to remind you that you weren’t facing it alone.

The phone rings, that shrill, familiar sound breaking through the silence of your apartment. You groaned in response, your head pounding with each note.

“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, curling deeper into the couch, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block out the world. The phone keeps ringing, and you could feel Hanta’s gaze flicking between you and the landline.

“What if it’s—” he started, his voice still warm but laced with concern.

“No,” you croaked, more firmly this time. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”

Hanta hesitated for a moment, then sighed, resigned. “Alright.” He leaned back, propping his feet up, but his attention never quite left the phone. His eyes darted toward it now and then, and you knew that despite his nonchalance, he was worried about what the call could mean.

You closed your eyes, exhausted. The weight of the sickness that clung to you, dragging you down deeper into the couch, seemed unbearable. And yet, somehow, you still couldn’t escape the pull of that nagging uncertainty inside you. Was it him? Was it your ex? The one person you didn’t need to hear from right now.

The door knocked.

It wasn’t the soft tap of a friend or neighbor on the other side. No, this knock was firm, rhythmic, the kind that had urgency behind it.

You groaned, but Hanta was already up, stepping lightly toward the door. “Relax,” you muttered with your eyes half-closed, letting the words slip out of you like a lazy stream. “It’s probably just a package. Or mail or something. They can leave it.”

But Hanta wasn’t convinced. “Unless it’s Angie, locked out again. You know she forgets her keys. And Toru’s not home to teleport her inside, she was at the market. You know she’s going to need help getting in.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could muster a sarcastic response, he was already at the door, hand reaching for the handle.

“Just… fine,” you sighed, too weak to argue. “But tell them to leave it if it’s not important.”

Hanta gives a quick nod, his fingers gripping the door handle. But when he swings it open, your heart does a strange lurch in your chest.

Instead of Angie—or any other expected visitor—there stood a delivery guy. He was older, stocky with graying hair, a dark green jacket with a food carrier slung over his shoulder. You didn’t need him to say a word.

You already knew what this was. The delivery bag was a dead giveaway.

The delivery guy cleared his throat, looking from the receipt in his hands to Hanta. “Delivery for Gerushah. From… um…” He squinted, checking the note again. “Oh yeah, from a Mr. Kyoya Gerushah.”

Hanta’s posture stiffened in an instant, his back going rigid. His eyes darted to the bag, then back at you, then back at the delivery guy.

“Uh…” the man mumbled, clearly unsure how to handle the sudden shift in mood.

“It’s already been paid for. Just needs a signature and...”

But Hanta doesn’t move. He’s still processing, his gaze sharp, like he isn’t quite sure whether he wants to slam the door in the delivery guy’s face or just throw the whole bag in the trash without a second thought.

It’s from your ex after all.

‘Of course.’

Hanta gives a short, tight laugh, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to grab the bag and toss it out right there. Instead, he reaches out to take it, quickly, almost too quickly, but the delivery man was already stepping back, already out the door and disappearing around the corner.

Your stomach twists in a familiar way—cold, tight, unsettled. That gut reaction you got every time he did this. Every time your ex thinks it’s okay to send a random peace offering. Some kind of food or gesture that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, but always had the power to mess with your head.

“Awe, fuck,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else, staring at the bag like it might explode.

“Que paso?” Hanta’s voice was low, almost tentative, as he looked back at you over his shoulder. His hands flexed by his sides, unsure if he should put the bag down or toss it out, but he gave you a few seconds to decide what you needed.

But you didn’t answer right away.

You just stared at the bag, feeling a thousand memories rush back. The little gestures. The way he would apologize without actually doing the work. The way it always felt like something was just barely hanging on by a thread between the two of you.

“Mida,” Hanta said softly, his voice grounding you.

“Want me to toss it? I can.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You stared at the bag, the weight of it too much for your head to process. Instead, you just rubbed your forehead with your hand, sighing deeply.

“I don’t know.” Your voice was small, uncertain, as though saying the words out loud meant something you weren’t ready for. “I don’t know if I should...”

Hanta didn’t say anything for a while, but you felt his presence by your side as he took the bag and set it down on the far side of the counter—out of view, just far enough to keep it from dominating your thoughts.

He doesn’t press you, and doesn't try to explain it away. He just set it down and let you process it in your own time.

“You want me to give it away?” he asked, his voice now a little more steady. His eyes were softer than before, not filled with judgment, but with an understanding you didn’t even have to ask for.

Your breath hitched in your chest as you realized something—he got it. He didn’t need to be told how badly this messed with your head.

How hard it was to just... let go.

You looked over at Hanta, noticing how his brow furrowed just slightly in that familiar, protective way. He wasn’t just standing there to be helpful. He was standing there because he cared.

“I think so,” you murmured, but this time it wasn’t a hesitant, defeated statement. It was the beginning of something, like a door cracking open, even if only a little.

Hanta didn’t push. He just gave a small, understanding nod, then flashed you a grin. The same one that made him so unreasonably charming, even when you didn’t want him to be.

“Well, Mami, if you change your mind, it’s right there. And if you decide it’s not worth it, I’m your backup.”

You nodded faintly, and before you could think too much more about it, Hanta did what he always did. He shifted the conversation with a sharp, playful huff and a mock flex of his muscles as he strutted back toward the couch.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered with the tiniest smile, half-smug, half-weary.

Hanta gave you that boyish grin, the one you could never quite resist. “I know. What can I say? I’ve got charisma and muscle. It’s a lethal combo.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Not as lethal as your elbows, but sure.”

“Hey,” he said, winking as he flopped back onto the couch. “This is an essential quirk. How many times have you used me as your personal tape dispenser?”

“It’s my cheese tax for making into a celebrity,” you teased, though the knot in your chest loosened just a little more. You let the weight of it fall away, just enough to make room for the absurdity of the moment.

Hanta’s presence is a strange, solid anchor in your life. A person who doesn’t always have the right answers, but has a quiet, steady strength that you could rely on when the world felt too big, too chaotic.

The bag from your ex sits there in silence. But you don’t have to make a decision right away.

That feels so good.

He looked over at you, eyes soft, his usual teasing smile still in place. But there was something more behind it now.

“You’ve got this, Mami. But, if you need me to throw hands, you know I’m always ready.”

“I think your beyblades would do more damage.”

“TALK ABOUT MY ELBOWS ONE MORE TIME!”

“Truce! Okay! Truce!”

You both start laughing so hard that you double over into a coughing fit, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. Before you can blink, he's right there, like he'd teleported, his hand sliding to your back, steady and warm. His thigh presses firm against yours, heat bleeding through the fabric of his pants and into your sweats, burning you.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice softer now. His arm curls around you, tucking you closer as he lifts your cup of water to your lips. “Here, drink.”

You obey, the cool water soothing your throat as his palm moves in slow circles between your shoulders. He rocks you gently, like you’re something fragile — something worth handling with care.

“Sana sana, colita de rana,” he hums, voice low and warm.

The words wrap around you like a blanket, soothing in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

It’s strange. This feeling of being cared for, cradled like you’re precious. You’re so used to being the one who fixes things, who holds everyone else together. You’re the mom friend with the big list and purse that everyone comes to, despite being so young yourself.

But right now, you’re just... here.

Safe, in his arms.

The soap opera’s still playing in the background, the characters wailing dramatically over some love triangle gone wrong. Hanta mimics the actor’s over-the-top despair, clutching his stomach like you’ve mortally wounded him when you remark he’s been spending too much with his little french friend.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Ay, you’re worse than my mom.”

“Your mom loves me.”

“She does,” he admits, grinning. “Probably more than me.”

You laugh, but it’s short-lived. The show’s still running, loud and obnoxious, and you don’t have the energy to change the channel. Your gaze flickers back to the screen, but your mind’s already drifting.

The main character’s ex is on her knees now, begging her to take him back. The camera zooms in on her face, mascara-smudged, eyes red and tired, and you can’t help but feel a little too seen.

Hanta must notice the shift because he stops laughing. The playful grin fades from his face, replaced by something quieter. Something softer.

“You ever think about…” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I mean, you think he’s gonna let go?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Your ex,” he says gently, fingers tapping against his mug. “He’s still sending you stuff.”

Your stomach twists. “I told you not to worry about that.”

“I know,” Hanta says, “But I do.”

You let out a long, tired sigh. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah?” He leans forward slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye.

“Then how’s the divorce going?”

That makes you pause.

He’s never asked about it before. Not once. Not after your ex’s embarrassing public stunt, not after the passive-aggressive flower deliveries started showing up at the agency, not even when you left work early last week after spotting your ex waiting across the street. Hanta never pries—never makes you explain yourself when you don't want to.

So why now?

“Why?” you ask, more guarded than you mean to sound. “You taking notes for a memoir or something?”

Hanta snorts, soft but genuine, and sips his tea. “Surre,” he mutters dryly.

“Working title’s ‘How to Not Be a Bobolongo in 5 Easy Steps.’ Think it’ll sell?”

You crack a smile despite yourself.

“Doubt it.”

But his question lingers, hanging heavy in the air. He doesn’t push, doesn’t prod—just waits. Patient. Like he always is.

And somehow, that’s what makes you start talking.

There’s a strange comfort in Hanta’s silence—the way he never asks too much, never presses harder than you can handle. You appreciate it. You really do. But sometimes, it feels a little…

Off.

Like he’s carefully stepping around something that’s too fragile to touch. And maybe that’s what makes this moment feel so jarring—the fact that he’s finally asking.

Your eyes drift back to the TV, to the actress on screen, mascara running down her face as she’s forced to endure her ex’s groveling. The memory sneaks up on you before you can push it away.

The press tour. The day everything cracked wide open.

It was supposed to be a big moment for the hero’s, a conference celebrating recent citywide accomplishments. Even your building was getting into the spirit. Your team. Everyone's efforts. Cameras rolling, reporters scribbling, your face in the background of the massive screen they'd set up to showcase the agency’s greatest achievements.

And then he showed up.

Your husband.

Crying like he was the victim in all this—hijacked the entire event with his grand, pathetic speech.

He was supposed to be talking about young families and the crisis of young people not having resources to succeed in life. How with these new programs being overseen and backed up by heroes from his agency and even bigger names, the future would be easier.

All he had to do was play the role he assigned himself—the devoted husband, hopelessly in love.

He couldn't go a minute without mentioning you, his wife.

Every conversation, every interview, every carefully curated interaction made it seem like you were his world. He left work early—always, always—because he, “Just couldn’t wait to see you.” He sent flowers, more than you could ever keep, more than you ever wanted. And you played your part too. You gasped, eyes wide with staged surprise, before giving them away to neighbors, coworkers, strangers on the street.

At home, it was different.

At home, it was quiet.

At home, it was like living with a ghost, a polite stranger who knew where the dishes were but never asked about your day. No amount of therapy, no desperate, aching conversations could bring back what had once been there. Whatever it was, whatever love you thought you had—it was gone. And when the sinking feeling settled in your chest, when the weight of the truth finally pressed down on you, it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

This was for his career. Your marriage. Your entire relationship.

So you gave yourself a role too.

If he was the devoted husband, you would be the happy wife.

Not his happy wife—just a happy, wife. A woman who smiled, who answered every question about him with a breezy, “Oh, he’s fine!” A woman who once let herself be swept into his narrative but won’t let it touch her anymore.

You used to wonder sometimes, in the middle of the night, when you woke up next to him with a headache, that same sick, aching feeling settling deep in your chest. The ring on your finger felt too heavy, burning you, branding you. Yet empty all at once, like it had no real value.

Head in your hands, you wondered if he had even realized he’d stopped loving you.

Or if he had ever really loved you at all.

Phenomenal actor though.

Could’ve been a big name on the screen if he wanted.

In public, Kyoya performed. He reached for your hand, pulled you into hugs, pressed kisses to your temple like you were something to be cherished. He made a show of remembering your favorite things, holding doors open, packing up your bags, draping your coat over your shoulders with practiced ease.

Always giving you a shoutout in his acceptance speeches. Always caught admiring you from afar. Always reaching for your hand—not to hold you, but to flaunt the ring. He didn’t even kiss your finger. Just the stupid rock on it.

You hated it.

Hated the way people called you shy, called you a tsundere, while he was praised as bold and innovative. A modern man. The devoted husband who couldn’t go a moment without reaching for you, who would sprint across the street just to wrap you in his arms—just long enough for the cameras to catch it.

You hated the way they swooned over him, called you lucky, whispered about how much he loved you. How they ate up the act while you stood there, stiff in his embrace, knowing the second the cameras turned away, so would he.

That’s all.

He pretends to be a good husband, you pretend to be a happy, wife. That simple.

That fucking simple.

It’s never that ‘simple’ with Kyoya.

He talked about how he, “Missed,” you, how he, “Messed up,” and how he’d, “Found comfort,” in the arms of someone else—someone younger, someone you knew he was still seeing. You knew her, she was an upstart, valuable. Charming in a way that made people overlook her sharp tongue and manipulative streak.

But hey!

Kyoya wants to, “Start fresh,” so why not come back?

Why not pretend the last few years hadn’t been a slow death by neglect and empty promises?

Like you hadn’t spent countless nights alone at a dinner table set for two, staring at cold food you stopped bothering to reheat? That you hadn’t smiled through gritted teeth at parties, suffering through small talk while watching him light up for everyone but you? As if you hadn’t reminded him—again and again—how much it hurt when he acted single in every way that mattered, only for him to scoff, ‘It’s not like I’m sleeping with her.’

Like that was the bar.

Like you were supposed to be grateful.

And when he made those snide little comments about your clients, about your work, like your career was some indulgence he tolerated rather than a part of who you were—you reminded him.

You reminded him that you weren’t some housewife waiting at home with fresh apple pies and a vacant smile. That you had a degree, several in fact, certifications, a career, a life. People who needed and relied on you, not just for your popularity, but because your career provided their livelihood. That he had agreed to respect that.

But he never did. Not really.

He wasn’t present. Not in the way that mattered. And when he was home, the silence was unbearable, pressing in on both of you like a weight neither of you could shake off.

You didn’t even know how to be around each other anymore.

Everything grated on you—the way he chewed, the scent of his cologne, once familiar, now nauseating. And it wasn’t just you. He hated the way you dressed, the way you wore your hair, the way you ran the household. He had opinions on everything, but God forbid he pick up his own damn mess.

You couldn’t even cook. You never could. But he insisted that you make dinner anyway, as if choking down your failures on a plate would somehow fix what was broken between you. You guessed it was the thought that counted.

It was a joke. A failure of a marriage that neither of you wanted to admit to, not out loud, because what would people say? Because cultural norms demanded endurance, not happiness. Because leaving meant fallout, meant scrutiny, meant shame.

But staying was killing you.

And the cheating—God, the cheating—was the final straw.

You were sure it wasn’t the first time. Just the first time you caught him red-handed. So you filed. Quietly. No one knew yet. That’s how you wanted it.

Kyoya fucked that up too.

It had been a long day. A long week, really. You hadn’t eaten since—when? Yesterday? Maybe even the day before. It all blurred together when you were running on fumes, your body fueled by nothing but cold coffee and stress. Michelle had noticed, of course. She always did, nosey ass. That’s why she’d snitched, whispering to Hanta about the untouched bagels you left in your office, about how you hadn’t even looked at food.

And Hanta, the ever loving persistent pain in your ass, had dragged you out of the office under the pretense of needing fresh air.

Which is how you ended up there, at some hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, run by a friend of his. A friend who, apparently, Hanta had once put behind bars before helping him get his life back on track.

“Long story,” he had said with a grin, holding the door open for you.

“You need a break,” he muttered, gently pressing his hand to the small of your back. You adjusted your coat around your shoulders, already thinking of excuses to leave, to finish your last report, to not sit down and eat like a normal person.

You turned, about to mumble some half-hearted reason to go back—

And walked right into them.

Two people, lips locked, bodies pressed too close for it to be anything but intimate. You startled, about to bow and apologize, your brain too fogged with exhaustion to register what was happening—

Until you saw who it was.

Your dear, darling husband.

And his associate.

The moment stretched, thick and suffocating, as the three of you stared at each other. You, with your coat still slipping off your shoulder. Him, with lipstick smudged just at the center of his mouth. Her, eyes wide with horror, stepping back like distance could erase what you had already seen.

Then there was Hanta.

Hanta, who had been standing just behind you, his presence solid and unwavering. Hanta, whose entire body went still the second he processed what he was looking at. Hanta, who then turned his head toward your husband and stared at him like a shark scenting blood in the water. Jaw clenched tight as he stood blocking the doorway.

"Lemme talk to you outside," he said, voice deceptively calm.

Before you could react, before your husband could even think about responding, Hanta reached over you—his muscular arm brushing against your shoulder—and grabbed him by the collar. Your husband was a fit man, but Hanta?

Hanta dragged him out of that restaurant like he weighed nothing.

And just like that, they were gone, disappearing into the gloomy weather outside.

You were left standing there, staring at the empty space where they had been, the scent of food and the low murmur of restaurant chatter feeling miles away. The mistress stood frozen beside you, just as unsure, just as speechless.

Hanta never told you what he said that night. Not even now.

But your husband has openly hated him ever since.

And now here he was, standing in front of you, not talking about wonderful programs to help people, not preaching about the positive change he so desperately wanted the world to believe in. No, he was asking you to participate. To stand beside him, play the perfect wife, run this race with no finish line.

Fuck him.

He could have his own personal hell. You’d already lived yours, married to the so-called man of community service. Fitting, really.

He’d fucked everyone in the community.

That was his service.

You stared at the TV, not really seeing the room anymore. Straight tunnel vision. Memories rush in, uninvited. You don’t know what brain parasite made Kyoya decide to air your dirty laundry on national television, but the grief comes back in flashes. The sick twist in your stomach, the burn of humiliation as you sat there frozen in the conference room, surrounded by your colleagues, investors, partners, and employees.

He had stood there, initially calm and collected, recounting his affair like he was reading off a grocery list. No real shame, or remorse. Just a rehearsed, matter-of-fact confession, as if ticking off items in his perfectly curated public image.

Worse still, he twisted the narrative, painting himself as the victim. You were the cold, neglectful wife. The career-obsessed woman who had abandoned him emotionally, leaving him no choice but to seek comfort elsewhere. You could already see the way the media would latch onto that, how they’d sink their teeth into the story and refuse to let go.

A woman prioritizing her career over her husband? The headlines practically wrote themselves.

Even the heroes on site and the surrounding media personnel looked caught off guard, shifting uncomfortably as he rambled on. Some exchanged wary glances, others averted their eyes entirely, as if secondhand embarrassment could spare them from witnessing this train wreck.

You didn’t even let him finish.

You stood up, calm on the outside while your chest felt like it might split open. The words he said weren’t what pushed you over the edge—it was the way he spoke. Like you’d roll over and take him back just because he asked.

So you walked right up to the screen.

That massive, shiny monstrosity your agency rented for the event, slipped off your yellow high heel, the ones you had worn to match the accents of Hanta’s suit, aimed right for your husbands face,

And smashed it.

The glass cracked first. A thin, jagged line—before shattering completely, shards raining down in glittering bursts. The sound rang out sharp and brutal in the dead-silent room. You turned and walked out without a word.

You barely remember the next part. Just that your chest felt too tight, your face too hot, and your vision too blurry to see straight. Like someone hit you with a sledge hammer as your heartbeat roared in your ears. Somehow, you got turned around in your own damn building, stumbling through familiar halls like they’d rearranged themselves just to mock you.

And who found you first?

Hanta.

Still in his uniform, his hair slightly mussed from whatever chaotic rescue he’d pulled earlier that day. He didn’t say a word. Just walked up, squatted down, and quietly started dusting the glass from your legs with the careful focus of someone trying not to scare a cornered animal.

“Hold still, mama,” he murmured, voice soft but firm. Somehow, he'd produced tissues—from God knows where—and pressed them into your hands without asking. You barely had the strength to use them, just sobbing quietly into your own palms.

So Hanta sat there, one arm loose around your back as you cried into his shoulder, the other respectfully around your waist. He didn’t rush you, didn’t tell you to calm down—just let you cry.

When your breathing finally steadied, he shifted, cupping your face in his calloused hands, wiping the tear tracks from your cheeks. No sweet words, no fake reassurances. Just quiet, steady care. He stood you up, then squatted down again to slip your forgotten yellow heel back onto your foot.

Almost like Cinderella.

If Cinderella had been humiliated on a global stage by her would-be prince and left to pick up the pieces of her life.

Of course, your ex didn’t stop there. After you walked out, he twisted the story. Told the country you’d been the one who cheated. Said you’d been sneaking around with a certain client the whole time. You never understood why that lie stuck so hard, but it clung to you like tar.

The memory sticks with you, warm and painful all at once. It doesn’t help that your ex keeps insisting you must have cheated on him with Hanta. As if being shown kindness—real kindness—meant you were unfaithful.

Hanta brushed it off, said he didn’t care what people thought—but you did. You still do.

You’ve built your whole career off the things people think, say, and do. Especially his. So if you look bad as his manager, it reflects poorly on him as a hero. Michelle is already trying to draw up some NDA where your ex can’t speak about you in the press post divorce, but things like that take time.

She is going to tear his throat out for your slander though!

So now, as you sit in your living room—half-sick, wrapped in your robe, with Hanta sitting beside you—his question feels like an old bruise getting pressed.

“I told you,” you mutter, voice quieter than you mean it to be, “’s fine.”

But Hanta doesn’t look convinced. And this time, you’re not sure you blame him.

You huff out a half-chuckle, rolling over with the intention of burying yourself deeper into the couch. But the moment you shift, you hear a sharp, indignant—

"Oye!"

Before you can even react, Hanta throws himself over you in an exaggerated display of dramatics, his full weight pressing down as he sprawls across your body.

"Ah! Get off, you big baby!" you yelp, immediately trying to squirm free.

"You're acting like a big baby!" he fires back, laughing as he tightens his hold.

You try to kick him, but he’s already got a firm grip on your legs, his arms wrapped securely around them like a human seatbelt. It’s infuriating, but also…

God, he’s warm.

And you feel so cold.

The heat radiating from his body is instant, seeping into your skin and dulling the ache in your muscles. You should fight harder, but there’s something about the steady weight of him and the way his warmth chases away the chill in your bones that makes you hesitate.

Just five minutes.

Five minutes of peace. Five minutes of not thinking, not worrying, not dealing with the weight of everything that’s been pressing down on you for weeks.

That would be nice.

Hanta shifts slightly, propping himself up so he isn’t completely crushing you. His head dips, his breath ghosting the top of your ear before he speaks. "You should get dressed and come outside."

You crack one eye open, barely lifting your head from where you’ve nestled against Hank the Flamingo.

"What?"

He readjusts again, sitting up properly now, pulling your legs into his lap. His hands remain respectful, resting lightly just above your knees. The warmth of his palms seeps through the fabric of your sweats, grounding you. Your stomach kinda hurts. Your back aches. Your hips are sore. But…

Some sun might actually be nice.

Still, you’re skeptical. "How warm is it?"

"Fifty-two degrees," he says, completely serious.

You scoff immediately. "You're out of your burrito-loving mind."

Hanta grins, wicked and teasing, before his fingers dart to the underside of your knee, delivering a swift, merciless tickle. You jolt, squeaking as you try to kick him again. "Hanta, I swear—"

"Keep it up, and I'll leak your number to Sato."

The threat is immediate, and your reaction is just as swift.

"How dare you, firstly," you gasp, placing a hand over your heart as if personally wounded.

He smirks, knowing he struck gold. Rikido Sato, aka Sugar Man, was once publicly caught calling you a ‘beautiful lady’ during an interview. It had been an offhanded, completely innocent comment—until Denki had leaned over and whispered that you were married, not realizing his mic was still on.

The clip of Sato’s face turning a deep shade of crimson, followed by his frantic, stammered apologies, had immediately gone viral. You’d waved him off good-naturedly at the time, finding it more amusing than anything. But looking back, it did explain a few things—like why he’d always been just a little nervous around you. You had assumed, at first, that he had a stutter.

Until one night, you casually mentioned it to Hanta.

Hanta, in turn, had blinked at you in confusion, looked over at Sato—who had been making an active effort not to look at you—and then back at you.

Then, ever so slowly, a mischievous, knowing smile had spread across his face.

"Who wouldn’t have a crush on you?" he had said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You know people find you attractive. That’s not up for debate. It’s been commented on enough—by pro heroes, event partners, employees, and even people in your ex-husband’s company. Mina, better known as pro hero Pinky, jokingly calls you, “The Siren,” because of that old TikTok trend. While you don’t take it seriously, Michelle—your ever-opinionated partner—insists you’re the quintessential, “Corporate baddie,” the kind that makes people nervous, and not just because of their work performance.

You think it’s ridiculous, honestly. You’re aware of your looks, sure, but the idea that most of Japan’s workforce is secretly harboring a crush on you? That’s a little much.

Then again…

You don’t see many other managers receiving gifts from the public the way you do.

Candy, flowers, handwritten letters—some of them heartfelt, others a little too bold—come in waves. And the artwork? That’s your favorite. You use it to decorate the entire building, the lobby, the hallways, anywhere people can see. The truly special ones, though, the ones that make your heart squeeze in a way you don’t talk about, are kept in your office, locked away like treasured keepsakes.

Hanta is the same in that regard.

His collection is a little different, though. Most of his drawings come from kids he’s saved—messy, colorful depictions of him keeping their school from falling apart, stopping subway cars from derailing, or that time he, pro hero Tempest, and a few others worked together to stop the Tokyo bridge from collapsing under the weight of a water monster.

You wonder if Hanta sees you in a similar light.

It’s silly, right?

He’s your main client. A professional thorn in your left ass cheek. But you like him well enough. He’s always been sweet, and more than that, he’s genuine. There’s never any guessing with him. If he feels something, he just says it, plain and simple.

So why does he make you nervous inside?

Hanta hums thoughtfully, a teasing lilt in his voice. "You really are everyone's mother."

You narrow your eyes at him. "There's a nice, sharp decorative vase in the hallway. A 1952 classic, glossy finish, swirling blue pattern. Feel free to go bump into it if you’d like."

He throws his head back, laughing, his whole body shaking with it.

"Damn, the medicine must really be working!"

Before you can fire back, he turns on his heel and strolls out of your bedroom, disappearing down the hall. You hear him rummaging in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the clink of something against your counter. You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s up to now.

Your bedroom is a curated space, just like the rest of your home—high ceilings, dark wood floors softened by an expensive cream-colored rug. Soft, neutral walls complement the gold and navy accents in the decor. Your bed is massive, a four-poster with a plush white duvet and neatly arranged pillows, a deliberate contrast to the chaos of your life.

Everything is purposeful, every item placed with intention. Even the floor-to-ceiling windows are framed with heavy curtains that you adjust depending on your mood.

And then there’s Hanta, standing in the doorway, looking entirely out of place and yet completely at home.

His inky hair is a little messier than usual, strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look both effortlessly cool and devastatingly attractive. His dark eyes gleam with amusement, lips curled in that lazy, knowing smile of his. He’s still in his T-shirt from earlier, fabric clinging to the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms on full display. His posture is loose, casual, but there’s something about the way he’s watching you that makes you feel—

Stalked.

He moves toward you with slow, measured steps, the warmth of his presence filling the room before he even reaches you.

You narrow your eyes. "What do you have in your hands?"

"Your ex’s head on a platter."

"Ooo, gimme a spoon. Always wanted to take his eyes out."

Hanta barks out a laugh, then gestures for you to close your eyes. "Alright, shut up and hold out your hands."

You groan but comply, stretching your hands forward warily. "If this is another bug, I swear to God—"

"Phil likes you!"

"Phil is the reason all pets are banned from my agency, and why I only visit you when you're on the verge of death!"

Phil or Phillip, being Hantas pet tarantula that strangely loves you, recognizes the sound of your voice, and loves perching on you. If you wanted to feed him raw flies and a little bit of hamburger meat, Hanta would gladly let you, because he thinks Phil loves you. You think it's your Dior perfume. And after finding him inside your favorite black juicy couture purse, he is no longer allowed in the building.

Hanta snickers, then places something soft in your hands. When you open your eyes, you blink down at a neatly folded package of pink Hello Kitty pajama pants.

"We can match!" he announces proudly.

You look up, and sure enough, he’s now sporting Spiderman pajama pants—the fuzzy kind, the ones that are absolutely not 100% cotton. Polyester. You get it, but you still hate it. For the environment, for the way it never quite feels right against your skin, for the audacity of its cheapness.

You open your mouth to say something, but Hanta beats you to it.

"No one would ever think you'd actually step out of the house in pajamas," he says, grinning.

"We don't have to worry about the paparazzi.~"

You grimace, curling your lip as he beams at you like he’s just handed you the key to the universe.

Pajamas. In public.

You’d rather get struck by lightning. Dying would be easier, and certainly more dignified.

But then you take another look at him, standing there, looking so pleased with himself. He didn’t have to do this—didn’t have to come over, didn’t have to bring you anything, didn’t have to make sure you weren’t curled up alone in your condo, feeling miserable.

And it’s been so long since someone gave you a heartfelt gift. Something not out of obligation, but just because they wanted to.

You sigh, tilting your head back dramatically before muttering,

“Okay, fine. I’ll wear the hobo pants.”

Hanta’s grin widens, triumphant, before he hands them over to you and slips out of your bedroom to give you some privacy.

You glare at the pants the second he’s gone. Stupid, soft, pink Hello Kitty pajama pants. You don’t even hate the design—it's just the principle of the matter. Wearing pajamas outside? Unthinkable. Uncivilized.

Still, you pull on a pair of long leggings first—the thick, fleece-lined ones Michelle gave you—before sliding the pajama pants over them. They’re soft. You hesitate before turning to look in the mirror. The fit is surprisingly flattering, and okay, fine, they’re cute. You tug at the waistband, then huff under your breath.

They’re warm too. Maybe—just maybe—you can give them a chance.

With a resigned sigh, you strip off your sweated-out T-shirt, replacing it with a clean, fitted white one. You freshen up with a quick swipe of perfume and deodorant, running your comb through your hair before tying it back with a scarf and reaching for the jewelry on your vanity.

At the very least, if you’re going out in Hello Kitty pants, you’re going to accessorize like a proper adult.

You clasp a delicate gold chain around your neck, slip your pearl ring from the girls onto your finger, and are just about to put on a matching gold bangle when there’s a knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call, still seated at your vanity.

The door swings open, and Hanta steps inside. His gaze sweeps over you, and then he frowns, arms crossing over his broad chest.

“You cannot put all that on while you’re sick, mamá.”

You arch a brow at him through the mirror. “And why not?”

“The germs will transfer,” he says, tilting his head like it should be obvious.

Hmm. Good point. With a sigh, you place the bangle back down, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

You glance at your collection of cardigans hanging near your closet. “Okay, fine. Which one?”

“None.”

You blink, turning to face him fully. “I can dry clean them, you know.”

“I’d like you to wear my hoodie.”

You freeze.

Still seated at your vanity, your hands fall to your lap as your eyes widen. The room, which had felt spacious just moments ago, suddenly seems a little smaller. Warmer.

Through the mirror, you meet his gaze. It’s steady, calm, like he’s not asking for anything more than what he already said. You slowly turn in your seat to look at him directly.

“Pardon?”

You stare down at the hoodie in his hands, the weight of it unfamiliar yet entirely known. It’s probably warm from his body, from his scent clean, fresh, with that subtle musk that clings to him no matter how many times he showers. The fabric is worn soft, the black just slightly faded from time and careful washing. Your fingers itch to run over the bold red letters stretched across the front—

Yo quiero mi mamá.

It’s still intact, miraculously, despite its age. You know Hanta washes most of his clothes by hand, carefully scrubbing and wringing them out so they don’t lose their shape. He’s always been like that—meticulous in ways people don’t expect, careful with the things that matter to him.

And this hoodie matters to him.

You glance up, your eyes catching on the hoodie he has on now. Same black canvas, but this one’s newer, the yellow lettering bright and unapologetic against the dark fabric. Soy SU bebé.

You exhale sharply through your nose, somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins, the expression lopsided and boyish, like he already knows he’s won.

Your gaze drifts back down to the hoodie in his hand, and your stomach tightens at the memory it carries.

It was years ago. Your first big accomplishment as his manager, the one that solidified your place in the industry and made it clear you weren’t just some passing name in the business. The entire office had been celebrating you, congratulating you, but you had just wanted to get back to work.

And then Hanta, ever the instigator, ever the one to make you take a moment for yourself, had suggested something special. Team hoodies. Something to commemorate the success, something to bond everyone together. You still have yours, tucked away in the back of your closet.

Mother of All.

You hated it at first.

Hanta, ever the cheeky little shit, had decided to base his off the running joke in the office. You were younger than most, but in the end, you’re older than him, and you are the one who took care of everything. You keep the company running, you make sure he’s always where he needs to be, you handle his disasters before they even have the chance to become disasters.

All he has to do is show up.

So imagine your shock when Hanta had pulled off his coat that day, proudly displaying this hoodie—the one now resting in your hands.

Michelle, Sharon, Elle, Val, and Angie had teased you mercilessly for weeks. You’d been so flustered, so aggravated, that you had outright banned any office clothing with word designs for months.

(It was Val who had finally pleaded with you to lift the ban. “Please Mami,” she had whined. “We get it. But we love our hoodies.”)

And now, years later, the very same hoodie that had once made you burn with frustration and embarrassment sits between his fingers, soft and warm. You swallow.

It’s just a hoodie.

It shouldn’t feel like more than that. And yet—

You glance up at him again, standing there with that same easy smile, his dark eyes watching you, patient and knowing.

“You kept it,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

“Of course I did,” he says simply, like it’s obvious. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Hanta shifts his weight from foot to foot before finally crouching down in front of you, holding out the hoodie with both hands like some kind of peace offering. His dark eyes flicker up to yours, then quickly away, his lips pressing together in something almost… shy.

“This one’s warmer,” he mutters, voice a little softer than usual.

“And, y’know… it’s mine.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, looking like he’s trying very hard not to seem nervous, but the way he’s squatting there. Shoulders slightly hunched, head tilted just enough to meet your gaze without being too direct, makes him look like a big, scruffy puppy waiting for permission to hop onto the couch.

You blink at him.

“…Hanta.”

“What?” he says, a little too fast.

“You look like a shelter dog.”

His face scrunches up immediately. “What—!?”

But you’re already plucking the hoodie from his hands, and before he can protest, you tug it on over your head. The fabric pools over you, swallowing you whole in warmth and the familiar scent of him—clean linen, something subtly woodsy, and just him.

When you glance back down, he’s staring at you, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he hadn’t actually expected you to wear it.

“…Better?” you ask, raising a brow.

Hanta blinks once. Twice. Then suddenly beams, rocking back on his heels before standing up and clapping his hands together.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Now let’s go be sick in public.”

One trip to the garage later—You stand there, completely stunned, staring at the sheer audacity of this man.

Flowers. SO many red roses. A giant heart-shaped box of chocolates. And a cow plushie.

The cow sits there in your seat, staring at you with its little black button eyes, almost taunting. It’s soft, round, and adorable, the kind of thing you’d have never bought for yourself—but now that it’s here, you can already feel yourself getting attached.

Hanta, the absolute menace, is grinning like he just won the lottery. “Took me forever to find the right one,” he says, leaning casually against the car. “Figured you’d like it.”

You’re still speechless, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t know what to react to first—the fact that he bought you a bouquet bigger than your head, the ridiculous heart-shaped box (which you will be sneaking chocolates from later), or the cow plushie that, despite yourself, makes your chest tighten just a little.

Because it’s La Vaca. His favorite training song. And the first song you ever saw him dance to.

The song that, one stupid night, had him pulling you out of your chair in the middle of a restaurant, one the office visited after hours, twirling you around without hesitation, while you—stiff, hesitant, unused to that kind of playful touch—had been too flustered to do anything but let him lead.

You’d danced with him that night. Really danced with him.

You remember the warmth of his hands, his arms, the gentle way he swung you around with effortless ease, how he guided you through the steps without a single moment of doubt. The heat of his body pressed close, the laughter that bubbled up between you both, the way your heart pounded, not just from the movement, but from the sheer closeness of it all.

You’d felt guilty afterward.

Because even though nothing had happened, it had felt too intimate.

Too much. And out of respect for your husband, you had never danced with Hanta again. You kept your distance, only ever swaying with the girls, refusing his invitations no matter how much you secretly wanted to say yes.

And now here he was, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world, holding the car door open like he hadn’t just wrecked your composure with a bouquet, chocolates, and a damn cow plushie.

“…Are you actually trying to make me cry?” You finally manage, voice half-stuck in your throat.

Hanta’s smile falters, just for a second. Then he tilts his head, expression softening. “Nah,” he murmurs.

“Just wanted to make you feel special.”

Your fingers tighten around the plushie before you can stop yourself. Your throat feels thick.

You swallow it all down and roll your eyes instead, sliding into the car like this whole thing hasn’t completely thrown you off balance.

“…Fine. But I’m picking the music.”

Hanta chuckles as he closes the door behind you, slipping into the driver’s seat with that same stupid, endearing grin.

“Whatever you want, mi reina.”

"Too far."

"Okay."

He's easy about it, gentle as ever, helping you into the car without a fuss. When he offers to move the flowers and candy, you nod, letting him clear the seat—but the plushie stays with you. You just really like it. Hanta notices, of course.

“You got a name for it yet?” he asks, glancing over as you adjust the plush in your lap.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He hums, smiling softly. “Alright.”

And with that, he pulls out smoothly, the hum of the Ferrari filling the comfortable quiet as he drives off.

You hold the plush cow in your lap as he drives, his black Ferrari humming beneath you both like a well-fed predator. He drives smoothly, expertly, and even though you've trusted him behind the wheel before, this time feels different.

Maybe because he’s driving for you. Because this isn’t about work, or some favor, or getting home after a long day. This is something else entirely.

He barely uses this car, but you know why he chose it. He could’ve driven the van, the one you’d rather throw yourself into traffic than be seen in. He could’ve taken the red pickup truck that you absolutely refuse to be caught dead in.

And definitely not the motorcycle.

Not that you’d complain, not that you don’t secretly wonder what it’d be like to ride behind him, to feel the wind whip past as you held on.

No, he picked this one.

The one he knows you like the most.

You don’t even have a license. You weren’t even interested in driving until he and Michelle all but forced you to get your permit. But even now, as he casually rests one hand on the wheel (which you do not trust), there’s something so natural about being here with him. The day unfolds like a dream—soft, warm, and just a little bit ridiculous, the way things always seem to be with Hanta.

He takes you everywhere.

The park first, where the air is crisp and fresh, and the sun warms your skin as you walk together. You chase him around in a game of tag, and he lets you win more than once, laughing as you gloat before he taps you back and sprints off. You get out of breath before he does, but he’s patient, circling back to you with a teasing grin.

Then, when you sit to rest, he pulls out coloring books like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just anticipate exactly what you’d need. You relax almost immediately, flipping through the pages as he sits beside you, joining in without hesitation. He’s meticulous with his colors, which annoys you for some reason, so you scribble your name on his page, and he gasps in mock offense before doing the same to yours.

By the time your medicine wears off, he’s already handing you another dose, watching you closely to make sure you take it. Then, with a smile, he guides you to a food truck, ordering something for you before you even have the chance to ask.

The moment you take a sip, you’re hooked.

The fruit drink is sweet, dangerously so, the flavors bursting across your tongue like fireworks. You don’t even care what’s in it—you just know you love it. Hanta chuckles, watching you over his own drink, his dark eyes warm with amusement.

“You look really cute with sugar shock.”

You elbow him, and he only laughs harder, bumping you with his hip. The vendor says something that makes him blush this time, pink dusting across his cheekbones as he laughs it off, answering in Spanish with a breathless, slightly flustered tone.

You don’t even ask what it was about. You just enjoy the rare sight of Hanta actually getting flustered for once.

Then, you spot it.

The Ferris wheel, slowly turning in the distance, its lights blinking lazily in the early evening glow. But that’s not what catches your attention.

The merry-go-round.

You grab his wrist without thinking, tugging him toward it, and he lets himself be led, his laughter trailing behind you. He doesn’t even question it. Just pays for your tickets like he expected this somehow.

When you climb onto one of the horses, your favorite color, no less, he takes out his phone, snapping pictures as you dramatically pretend to pet its mane.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he says, but his voice is full of affection.

“Oh, hush. You love it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Later, at the beach, the sky begins to shift into dusky purples and oranges, the ocean stretching out endlessly before you. Hanta, big baby that he is, refuses to step onto the sand at first, grumbling about getting his sneakers dirty.

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you say, already stepping onto the soft grains with your shoes on.

He groans, long and dramatic, but follows anyway. Until—

“CONYASO!”

You whip around just in time to see him standing barefoot, sneakers and socks clutched in one hand as he trudges toward you, glaring.

“You monster,” he mutters. “My socks will never be the same.”

You laugh so hard you nearly double over, and he huffs, looking dramatically betrayed as he marches after you. He gets his revenge when the ocean tide nearly gets him, causing him to stumble backward, grabbing you for balance. You pretend like you’ll fall and he straightens immediately to gently steady you. Making his feet get wet as you stay mostly dry as you giggle and he sticks his pretty pink tongue out at you.

But when it’s time to head back, he stops you.

“You’re not getting in my car with sandy shoes.”

You scoff. “Oh, come on, just let me—”

“Nope.”

Instead, he leads you straight into a sneaker store, where he buys you a pair of white sneakers identical to his.

“You planned this,” you accuse, as he bags up your old shoes, smug as ever.

“Maybe,” he says, swinging the bag over his shoulder. “You look good in them, though.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t need to.

Because somehow, without even realizing it, you’re smiling. And you haven’t done that—really done that—in a long time.

The cool night air brushes against your skin as he helps you up onto the hood of his car, the sleek black surface still holding onto the day’s warmth. City lights flicker to life all around you, neon and gold reflections shimmering on glass windows, the streets below still alive with movement. You breathe softly through your mouth, your nose is utterly useless at this point, each inhale tinged with the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp evening air.

Hanta kneels in front of you, smiling as he tugs at the laces of your old sneakers.

"Mind if I swap these out now?"

You nod, your voice barely above a murmur. "Yeah… that’s fine."

Hanta hums in response, a quiet sound of acknowledgment as he starts on your left foot first. You feel the gentle tug as he undoes the laces, slipping off your worn sneaker with the kind of careful ease that makes something warm curl in your chest.

He sets it neatly on the ground beside him, the way he always does things, casual, but never careless. Then, he nudges at your socked foot with a single finger, his dark eyes flicking up to yours with quiet amusement.

You try not to squirm, feeling the way the warmth of his touch lingers even through fabric.

He moves onto the other, his fingertips brushing against your ankle as he adjusts the tongue of the new sneaker, making sure it sits just right before tightening the laces. Your breath hitches, and not just from congestion this time.

It would be so easy to reach out right now. To curl your fingers into the soft mess of his dark hair, letting the strands slip between your fingertips. It would be even easier to just pull him in, hug his head to your stomach, and let him stay there like that.

You’ve thought about it before.

Too much, maybe.

You’d even admitted it to Shannon once, back in the break room during a party. There’d been laughter and music, the low hum of conversation filling the space, and in a moment of unguarded honesty, you’d let it slip,

"I love his hugs."

The words had left you before you could take them back, and Shannon, ever the instigator, had grinned like she just won the lottery. "Who wouldn’t want a man like that to squeeze on?" she’d teased, and you’d almost regretted saying anything at all.

Now, Hanta looks up at you, still crouched, hands resting lightly on either side of your thighs. His smile is easy, but his gaze is something soft—something unreadable in the city glow.

"What are you thinking about, mi linda?"

You blink, pulse skipping as you shake yourself out of your thoughts.

"I just had a really nice time with you today."

His hands press a little firmer against the car hood as he straightens up, towering over you now, close enough that his warmth cuts through the evening chill. He dusts his palms against his jeans before absentmindedly smoothing over the tops of your new sneakers.

"Really?"

"Mhm."

That smile of his deepens, slow and genuine, and when he places both hands on either side of your thighs again, the warmth of them seeps right through the fabric. It’s flustering. Comforting. And yet, that little voice in your head wonders what it would feel like if he moved them just slightly.

If his fingers brushed along your legs instead.

You swallow, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is, how easily you could reach out and trace the curve of his jaw, or tuck your face into the crook of his neck and just…. stay.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just look at him, and he looks right back, like he’s waiting. You stare at him for a moment, unsure of what he’s waiting for, until he repeats,

"What?"

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of the moment—feeling how good it is to just be here, with him, like this. It’s strange, this quiet connection that lingers in the air between you two. It feels natural, easy in a way that’s almost... too easy.

“I... I don’t want to go home yet,” you admit softly, your gaze drifting down to your sneakers, fiddling with the laces absently. You’re not sure why you say it, but it’s true. There’s something about tonight, about being with him, that makes you wish you could stretch this out a little longer.

Hanta’s smile softens, and it’s almost like a wave of relief in his expression, as if he’s been waiting for you to say it. He straightens up a little, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Well, I can’t exactly just leave you out here,” he says, his voice teasing but warm. “How about we go grab some dinner?”

You feel a knot form in your stomach. It’s not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t want to overstay. You’re not sure why you feel this way around him sometimes. Maybe because he’s always been kind, always been so easy to be around, and you don’t want to abuse your welcome.

“I don’t want to impose,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes as you shift uncomfortably on the car hood.

His expression softens even further, like a reassuring warmth. He shakes his head, giving you that little crescent smile of his.

“You could never impose on me," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "You’re my friend, and I adore you. I wanted to take you out. It’ll be casual, trust me. You don’t have to worry about your clothes. We’re just going to eat, not a big deal.”

The way he says it, so matter-of-fact, makes you feel at ease in a way you didn’t expect. You exhale a breath, relaxing a little, and finally meet his gaze. His sincerity is enough to quell any doubts you had.

“I... okay, if you’re sure,” you say, the last part almost like a question, as if you’re waiting for him to change his mind.

“I’m sure,” he confirms with a wink. “Now, let’s go. No more thinking, alright?”

You nod, feeling a little lighter.

It’s just dinner. Casual. You don’t need to overthink it.

“Okay,” you say, sliding off the hood of the car, the plushie still tucked into your arms, and let him guide you to the passenger side. His car is still warm from the engine, and you’re grateful for the comfort of his presence as you settle back into the seat, the night unfolding ahead of you, simple and perfect in its own way.

The drive is effortless, just the two of you rolling through the city streets as the radio blasts lively Spanish music. Hanta cranks the volume higher, and without thinking, you hum along before softly singing a few words under your breath.

When he hears you, his face lights up like the neon signs flashing past the window. His dark eyes gleam with pure delight, his lips stretching into that infectious, lopsided grin of his. The golden glow of passing streetlights flickers over his pokeable cheekbones, highlighting the way his hair falls slightly over his forehead, tousled but effortlessly cool.

"Oye, mi linda canta!" he teases, nudging your arm as he keeps one hand on the wheel, completely at ease. You roll your eyes playfully but keep singing anyway, feeling lighter than you have in days. The stars are scattered across the night sky when you glance out the windshield, their dim shimmer barely visible against the city lights.

You pop a cough drop into your mouth, the faint menthol taste mixing with the lingering sweetness from the fruit drink he got you earlier. Your plush cow sits nestled in your lap, soft and warm. You still don’t know what to name it. Vaca feels too obvious, and you don’t want to be that predictable. Maybe something clever will come to you later.

Buildings blur past as Hanta makes a smooth turn, pulling into a valet parking area. He flashes an easy grin at the valet, slipping out of the car with practiced nonchalance before turning to you.

“Wait here,” he says dramatically, lifting a single finger like he's about to perform some grand stunt.

Before you can ask what he means, he hops onto the hood of the Ferrari in one swift movement, his long limbs making it look almost effortless, until he doesn’t stop.

With a loud, "Whoops," he keeps going, tumbling right off the other side.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Hanta!” you shriek, grabbing the plushie tightly as you scramble to undo your seatbelt.

Before you can even step out, he's already bouncing up, not a scratch on him, grinning like an idiot. He dusts off his hoodie like this is completely normal, then pats his sneakers as if checking for damage.

“See?” he says with a cheeky grin. “Didn’t even scuff my kicks.”

“That’s not the point!” you huff, glaring at him as you step out with the plush still clutched in your arms.

“You could’ve hit your head! You could’ve—”

He interrupts you with a laugh, stepping closer before murmuring, “Thank you, mamá.” The way he says it is so teasingly affectionate, yet there’s something warm beneath it, something grateful. You huff again, crossing your arms but not fighting the small smile twitching at your lips.

He chuckles before turning toward the restaurant, gesturing grandly at the entrance. That’s when you recognize it.

Your stomach twists.

It’s that restaurant. The one where you first met your husband’s mistress.

You stop short, and Hanta notices instantly. He raises his hands slightly in surrender, as if already expecting your reaction.

“I know,” he says, his tone softer now, more careful.

“I know the first time here was… messy. And I get it if you don’t want to stay. But it is good food. And good music. Annddd I was hoping you��d be willing to give this place a second chance.” He hesitates, watching you closely before adding,

“If not, we can go somewhere else. Just say the word, and we’re outta here.”

You swallow, looking from him to the restaurant’s warmly lit windows.

It’s been a while. The memories of that night still sting, but they aren’t as fresh, not as sharp. And Hanta…

He’s here, standing in front of you, waiting for your answer with that hopeful, slightly sheepish look. He wants this to be a good memory for you. You exhale and lift a hand, waving it gently once.

That’s all it takes.

Hanta’s shoulders relax, and he lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Then, just like that, his easy smile returns, lighting up his face as he holds the door open for you.

“Alright then, mi señorita,” he says with a small bow. “After you.”

“Señora.” “Señorita.” “Whatever.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling as you step inside, the warmth of the restaurant washing over you. The moment the cold outside air leaves you, it’s like walking into a dream woven from music and light.

Warm, amber lanterns hang from the ceiling like floating stars, casting a golden glow that dances across the brightly painted walls. The air smells delicious. Roasted peppers, sizzling meat, melted cheese, warm tortillas, and something sweet, like cinnamon and sugar from a batch of freshly made something.

The hum of conversation is low and content, like a gentle tide, overlaid by music that flows from hidden speakers in smooth, upbeat Spanish lyrics. It isn’t anything you understand fluently, but it doesn’t matter. It makes your hips sway before you even realize it.

The entrance counter is crowded but cozy, painted in colorful tile mosaics. A cluster of glass jars sits atop the counter, each one filled with little candies and mints, some wrapped in shiny metallic red and gree paper, others in clear crinkly cellophane. There’s a glass tank for tip money, nearly full already, and another for business cards, layered in a messy but charming pile.

A small sign above it reads, "Para que nunca comas solo—so you never eat alone."

Your eyes are drawn across the space, pulled in every direction at once by the sheer life of the place.

The walls are a vivid canvas, each one telling a different story. Murals of folkloric legends, Aztec gods, wide-eyed skeletons in suits, and desert cacti under moonlight, all painted with a level of detail so rich it looks like the brushstrokes might leap off the walls and dance. Every inch tells a tale, and the restaurant feels alive because of it.

You catch the sound of laughter and look to the far left where a birthday party is in full swing. Children race by with little piñatas in hand, each shaped like cartoon animals or hearts, their excited squeals piercing the air as they zigzag through tables. Their parents call out to them between bites of food and gulps of horchata, while someone at the party holds up a cupcake with a sparkler instead of a candle.

Just beyond them, there’s a little karaoke nook, decorated with tinsel and paper streamers, where two women are belting out a song in Spanish, clapping along to the beat. A man at the next table raises his drink to cheer them on.

The staff rushes past in all black uniforms, trays expertly balanced on their shoulders, weaving between tables with the grace of dancers. There are older couples sitting side by side, their hands still entwined after all these years. Teenagers in wrinkled school uniforms lean in toward each other across booths, giggling. Big families crowd around long tables with platters stacked high. The entire restaurant hums with life, connection, and color—like the pulse of the heart that never stops.

You're too busy taking it all in to realize how close Hanta’s gotten until his voice catches softly in your ear.

“Hey, this way.”

You jump a little, head snapping toward him as he pulls away, eyes crinkled in a warm smile that makes your breath catch. His large hand brushes just past yours—not quite a touch, but enough to feel the heat of his skin—and then gently hovers behind your back to guide you forward.

A kind faced older woman greets you both, her skin glowing with the warmth of someone who’s spent a lifetime by the stove. Her long silvering hair is braided neatly and hangs over one shoulder. She smiles at Hanta with familiarity, already turning toward the dining room. You can tell she’s way older than she looks.

She leads you past families and old friends, past diners clinking forks and glasses, until she gestures to a cozy corner booth lit by a softly glowing paper lantern above. As you slide into the seat, she opens two menus and places them in front of you.

“Gracias, Doña,” Hanta says, charming as ever.

She laughs and says something teasingly in Spanish, something that makes him throw his head back and smile with a deep, bright laugh before he nods and says, “Si, si, unos minutos.”

Then she pats his arm like she’s known him for years and turns to go, her thick braid swinging gently behind her. The menus are beautifully done, full of vibrant photos and printed in three languages: Japanese, Spanish, and English.

Your fingers run over the textured paper, lingering on a few tempting dishes, but your throat is scratchy and your chest feels tight again. You should get something warm, but the menu has something else calling to you.

You glance up at Hanta and then down again before softly saying, “I’m gonna order a margarita.”

He pauses, blinking. “Seriously?” he asks, just a little surprised. “You sure? With your throat… and I thought you didn’t do drinking when it came to—”

You cut him off with a tiny smile. “It’s a special occasion.”

He tilts his head like he wants to ask why, but he lets it go, grinning softly.

“In that case,” he says, leaning back and closing his menu with one hand, “I’ll cheat too.”

You raise a brow.

“Malta, please” he declares, pointing to it like it’s some grand indulgence. “Haven’t had one in months.”

You both chuckle as the old woman returns, not even needing to write anything down when you order. She nods with a knowing little smirk, as if she’s already guessed what kind of night this is, and walks off to put the orders in, leaving you both sitting in that golden-lit booth, something new and tender blooming in the space between you.

You lean forward slightly, fingers still tucked between the pages of your menu as you ask, “So… what do you recommend?”

Hanta’s smile deepens, like he was waiting for you to ask.

“Ohhh, easy,” he says, tapping the laminated surface with a ringed finger. “The San Jose burrito. That thing’s insane.” You tilt your head, interested, and he launches into description mode, voice warm and animated.

“Okay, so—there’s beef and chicken, or you can swap in pork if you’re feelin’ bold. But I usually go with both—beef and chicken. It's got black beans, guac, yellow rice, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, grilled peppers—like those smoky, sweet ones—and I’m pretty sure there’s a splash of vinegar in there too. For the zing.” He does a little chef’s kiss motion with his fingers.

Your eyebrows go up. “That sounds like a lot.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was gonna say… think your stomach can handle that much party right now?” You pause, tapping your lips in mock contemplation. “I think so.”

“Good, ‘cause it comes with melted cheese on top. Like—real melted cheese. Not the plasticky american kind.”

You laugh without thinking, and he catches it in real time, freezing mid-sentence like someone pressed pause on his whole brain. His own smile softens, eyes half-lidded, cheeks slightly flushed under the golden light. It’s warm. Full of something light. Something that hums quietly between you both.

Neither of you says a word. Until—

“Ahem.”

You jump just slightly, blinking as your focus snaps to the side where a man—maybe five foot nothing—stands with a notepad in hand and an aura like he owns the place and the sidewalk outside.

Something you’ve only seen from Bakugou, Momo and Iida. Maybe Shoto on a good day.

“PINO!” Hanta says like he’s just seen a long-lost brother, springing up from the booth and tossing an arm over the smaller man’s shoulder in a fluid, affectionate motion.

Pino gives a small, amused huff but doesn’t resist, smiling a crooked little smile as they exchange a few quick, friendly jabs in Spanish. Their laughter rolls out easily, like they’ve been doing this for years.

Then Hanta turns back to you, face lighting up with genuine excitement. “This is—”

“I know who she is,” Pino cuts in with a warm, fond smile.

You blink. “You… do?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, stepping just a bit closer, voice lowering like he’s letting you in on a secret. “This vato talks about you all the time. Everyone knows about his—”

“Chota, cabrón!” Hanta hisses, slapping a hand over the man’s mouth so fast it makes your cow plush jostle in your arms.

You watch the chaos unfold with wide eyes and a blooming grin as Pino raises both brows, clearly unbothered, before gently prying the hand away. They both settle after a second, exchanging a silent truce with a head nod and a small eye roll.

“I’m serious,” Pino says, pointing a thumb toward Hanta while looking at you. “This guy? Keeps a picture of you in his wallet. Showed me once when I asked who kept cutting his hair.”

You’re not even sure what to say.

Your face burns, the warmth spreading from your ears to your chest like a rolling tide.

“And listen,” Pino continues, waving a hand before you can protest, “Anything you want tonight—It’s on me. Free. You take care of everyone. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have met this fool.”

You shake your head quickly, flustered, holding your plushie like a shield. “No, no, I can’t accept that. That’s—really kind, but—”

“Come on,” you say again, when he insists a second time. “It’s too much.”

He just smirks, like he knew you’d say that.

You try a third time, more out of principle than pride.

But he holds up his hands like he’s waving off a foul ball and says simply, “I like her,” before giving Hanta a playful shove and heading back toward the kitchen, his old sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile.

You look back at Hanta, still glowing red around the edges, and he just shrugs sheepishly, one hand sliding through his dark hair as he mutters, “...He wasn’t supposed to say alll that.”

You try not to smile too wide.

And fail.

"You're stupid," you say with no heat, your voice colored by laughter as you lean across the table slightly, cheeks flushed and warm.

"I know," Hanta replies with a proud, lopsided grin right before he tries to rest his elbow on the edge of the table—and misses.

His arm slips, his balance tips, and he nearly smacks his forehead against the surface, but you're faster. With a soft gasp, your hand shoots out to catch him, fingers squishing his cheek as you hold him in place like a kid being restrained mid-wiggle.

His eyes go wide, then cross at your touch, before he slowly dissolves into giggles under your palm, his breath huffing against your wrist.

"You’re not allowed to die in here," you say firmly, lips twitching.

“I’m not dyin’,” he slurs through your fingers, “I’m thriving.”

Before you can argue back, a pair of warm plates clatter onto the table, and a friendly voice announces your food with flair. The aroma is heavenly. Slow-cooked meats, warm cheese, freshly made tortillas, and crisp vegetables all wafting up in rich, spicy waves that immediately make your mouth water. You thank the server softly, and Hanta flashes a wide smile with both hands already hovering over his plate like he's about to pray to it.

He doesn’t even wait. He dives in immediately, taking huge bites, almost humming with satisfaction between mouthfuls. You watch him, amused, slowly picking at your burrito and savoring every bit.

Halfway through your meal, a familiar beat cuts through the restaurant’s chatter—brassy, bold, and unmistakably festive.

You glance up just as Hanta does too. His face lights up in a way that makes your heart skip. “Ohhh, this song is my jam,” he says, already half-rising from his seat.

You laugh into your drink, shaking your head. “You're gonna dance?”

He holds out a hand toward you, eyes sparkling. “We’re gonna dance.”

Your brows lift. “I'm not a dancer.”

He tilts his head, palm still extended. “You're not an old lady either.”

And that’s all it takes.

You giggle, placing your napkin down and taking his hand, letting him pull you up into the soft, golden warmth of the dance floor where other couples are already moving. Some practiced and graceful, others goofy and wild.

The two of you fall somewhere in between.

He spins you. Twirls you. Claps above his head, bumping his shoulder against yours when you miss a beat. You sing along, imperfect but proud, and when the chorus hits, you both belt it out like it’s your anthem. You don’t stop smiling. Not even once. Not through the dips or the steps or the way your arms loop around his neck when you start to get a little tired.

When you finally return to your booth, hours have passed without your noticing. The food is long gone, the restaurant a little quieter now as the night deepens. Your face glows with leftover laughter, and your skin tingles from the dancing and the gentle buzz of the margaritas. Hanta remained completely sober, on purpose, and had insisted on being the designated driver before you even took your first sip.

He seats you back at the booth gently, guiding you to the bench like a gentleman, and your cow plush is still there, waiting with soft stitched eyes and plushy patience.

“I’m gonna use the restroom real quick, then we’ll head home,” he says with a warm smile.

You nod, giving him a sleepy little wave as he heads off, disappearing around the corner.

Left alone for the moment, you slide the plush into your lap and stroke its soft ears. You think for a beat, eyes still buzzing from everything. The food, the music, the dancing, him, before a quiet little thought floats into your mind.

What if you named the cow Hanta?

You bite your lip to suppress the grin blooming on your face, your cheeks tingling with mischief and something else you don’t dare name yet. You bounce the cow in your hands a little, humming softly to yourself as you rest your chin on its head.

The little bell above the restaurant door rings again.

You barely pay it any mind. A family heading out, maybe, or someone coming for a late dinner. Your eyes are still on the cow—on Hanta, you suppose—and you smile down at him again.

But then you hear them.

Familiar voices.

Ones that slice through the mellow quiet of the restaurant like a crack in the floor.

You freeze.

Slowly—too slowly—you turn in your seat, the plush clutched gently to your chest as your heart stutters in your ribs, already knowing before you even see.

And there—

It’s Sato who you recognize first. His broad frame is easy to spot even in a crowd. He’s followed by Mina, bouncing on her heels in bright pastels, her laugh cutting through the room like a song. Denki is right behind her, already pointing toward the counter and talking animatedly, and Shoto, as always, is composed and glacial, though his eyes sweep the place in calculated scans.

Then Bakugou steps in, and you stiffen instinctively. He’s dressed down in joggers and a hoodie, but there’s no hiding that signature frown or the way he’s already visibly irritated by the noise level. Still, his red gaze shifts with purpose, not annoyance, toward the kitchen window.

You almost wave them over out of habit, out of longing maybe, but then you remember your face. Your outfit. The weight of tonight and what it meant to be away from the rest of them, just for a night. To be no one. Just you.

It’s clear they haven’t seen you. They’re busy talking among themselves, still standing near the entrance when you hear a burst of familiar voices and the slapping of palms meeting—high fives.

You twist in your seat just in time to catch Hanta stepping up to them, his smile blooming naturally, arms thrown around shoulders with practiced ease.

"Oyeeee, look at this crew!" he says, and they all laugh.

You keep your head down, turning your cow plush toward the window to look less conspicuous, even as you listen.

“What’re you guys doing here?” Hanta asks, and Mina grins as she says, “Dinner, duh. I needed churros, obviously.”

Denki adds, “I’m picking up food for a friend. She's a doctor, barely eats when she’s on call—figured I'd surprise her.” Mina gasps dramatically. “You like her!” Denki’s ears go red. “I respect her!”

“That’s not a noo~!” she sings, and he groans.

“She’s a friend. Right now. Okay?!”

Sato chimes in cheerfully, “I came to see the food. Bakugou wouldn’t shut up about this place.”

Bakugou, deadpan, arms crossed. “I said I was hungry.”

“Your fiancée’s out on a mission,” Denki says, and Mina elbows him in warning. “You’re getting her favorites.”

“Mind your damn business.”

Shoto’s voice floats in, quiet but weighted, “I had a date scheduled with my betrothed. She’s usually late. I’m waiting for her text.” Your chest tightens slightly. You look down, pretending to brush lint off the cow’s head, and pull your hair slightly forward to shield more of your face.

Mina glances at Hanta and asks, “What about you? What’re you doing here?”

He shrugs, eyes shy but smiling. “Dinner.”

She raises a brow. “Dinner alone?”

“I’m good,” he replies quickly.

Denki’s voice jumps in, teasing. “Yeah, okay. You’ve been on that lady since forever, man!”

Sato laughs softly. “Can’t blame him. I had a hard time getting over her too.”

Your heart skips.

Bakugou snorts. “You’re delusional. She was married.”

Your eyes snap wide, and your hand clamps around the cow plush so tight you swear it squeaks. You can practically feel your eyebrows trying to launch off your forehead.

“Yeah that’s true,” Sato says with surprising gentleness. “But you just don’t meet someone like her every day.”

“Facts,” Mina nods. “So come on, Hanta. Spill. You’re not eating alone. Who is it?”

Hanta’s voice gets softer, almost unsure. “She doesn’t really want to be seen tonight… so I’m trying to respect her privacy.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Bakugou sneers. “You of all people—talkin’ about privacy?”

“I was being a bro,” Hanta shoots back, still calm. “Helping you out.”

“I don’t care either way,” Bakugou says, “But if you’re gonna play house with somebody new, you better be over her.”

And then, casually, like a grenade tossed in slow motion, he mutters,

“Does Mommy know?”

Your whole body goes still.

Mommy.

You.

Your breath catches as your nails dig into the plush’s soft fur. You slide lower in the booth until your chin is practically touching the table and smooth your hair across your forehead like a curtain. Mina makes a surprised sound.

“Wait. What does that mean?”

“I knew it,” Denki says with a click of his tongue. “I told you there was vibe.”

“She’s still married,” Mina whispers, “Right?” Sato, “Yeah. But now she’s—”

“I got it,” Hanta says quickly. “Thanks for the concern. I’ve got it, okay?”

For a moment, there’s silence.

And then, like a sharp knife through butter, a voice cuts clean and furious.

"That's utterly ridiculous. Are you out of your mind?"

Your jaw drops.

That was Shoto.

And he sounds angry.

Hanta tries to laugh it off. “C’mon, man. You’re being dramatic—”

But Shoto steps forward, his eyes blazing. Not with fire, but with unwavering conviction.

“No, Hanta. You are.”

The whole group goes quiet as Shoto continues, his words deliberate and piercing, like finely sharpened knives.

“You’re one of the smartest, most emotionally intuitive men I know. And you still thought you could hide something like this?”

Hanta opens his mouth, but Shoto cuts him off again, voice rising just a hair—sharp enough to command, never enough to yell.

“You have feelings for her. You’ve had them since the moment you met her. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Denki mumbles, “That’s what I said,” but gets immediately elbowed by Mina, eyes wide with intrigue.

Shoto doesn’t stop. “You act like it’s something noble, this privacy, this quiet reverence. But love isn’t noble if it’s built on fear. It’s cowardice dressed as protection.”

“Oof,” Denki winces under his breath. “That one hit me.”

“You don’t need to defend her from the world, Hanta,” Shoto presses, taking another step closer. “She’s already stronger than most people we know. What she needs—what she deserves—is for someone to choose her, publicly, unapologetically.”

“Damn,” Mina whispers, eyes locked in awe.

Sato adds thoughtfully, “I mean… I’m proud of you for getting out there, man. Really. But if you know you’re not ready, you should probably leave the new lady alone.”

“Are you daft?” Shoto snaps, turning to Sato, eyebrows high.

“He’s in love with her. He has been from the start.”

Everyone blinks at how fast that escalated.

He turns to Hanta again, this time with a pointedness that borders on frustrated affection.

“You walk around smiling, cracking jokes, playing it ‘cool.’ But you glow around her. You ache when she’s not there. You stopped dating entirely after she walked into your life, and don’t pretend it’s because of work. I’ve known you too long.”

Then, Shoto’s tone softens, but the weight behind it only deepens.

“She believes she’s hard to love. Everyone expects her to keep it together. You’re the one person who sees through all of it—and still stays.” He steps in close, lowering his voice.

“Even if she is your manager. Even if you think you’ll ruin everything. If you love her, do something.”

Hanta doesn’t say a word. He’s been backing up slowly with every point made, smile long gone, breath shallow. So distracted, he doesn’t even notice he’s backed up past your booth.

Until Shoto stops, head turning sharply in your direction.

And then—he sees you.

Your hair is down, unstyled. Your skin, free of makeup. The soft lighting of the restaurant catches the edge of your fluffy Hello Kitty pajama pants and the white sneakers beneath the table. And in your lap, that cow plushie sits like it’s been your companion for years.

The anger on Shoto’s face vanishes in a blink. His eyes widen in subtle disbelief, then gentles—completely—like the moon slipping out from behind storm clouds. He raises his hand slowly, fingers curling in a light wave.

“Hello.”

You flinch upright as if electrocuted, stiffening at once, hands clutching the cow.

The others turn.

Mina gasps. “No way.”

Sato freezes, color draining from his face like he’s about to faint. Denki’s jaw drops open. “Oh my god,” he squeaks. His cheeks flush bright red. Mina looks like she’s thrilled! Until she glances at Hanta.

He’s standing like he just took a gut punch from All Might in his prime. Both hands gripped onto the back of a nearby chair like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth. His complexion has gone greenish, his shoulders hunched, his breath visibly shaky like he might vomit or collapse.

Hanta looks at you like a deer caught mid-sprint. Like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar, holding it, still trying to chew.

You don’t look any better.

Before either of you can speak, Katsuki makes direct eye contact with you from across the booth. You feel a cold shiver run down your spine—

"AHHHHH!!!!!"

—and then he explodes with laughter.

It is deafening. Wild and feral. He throws his head back and howls so loud the entire restaurant turns.

“YOU!?” he screams through the laughter. “YOU GOT HER!?!”

You flinch. People nearby jump in their seats.

He’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over, gripping his stomach, unable to breathe.

“SHE IS THE DATE? AND YOU LOOK LIKE THAT?! OH MAN, I’M NEVER GONNA LET THIS GO!”

Mina’s cackling but also trying to cover your ears. “Okay, okay, Kats—chill, please! Hey girly! You look adorable! I love this look for you!” Sato and Denki rush to try and grab Katsuki’s arms while Mina lifts his legs—he’s so gone he doesn’t even tell them to stop.

They drag him toward the exit, Katsuki still howling,

“SOY SAUCE FACE DID IT! SHE’S IN THE HOODIE!!”

You just sit there, mortified, gripping the cow plush like it’s a lifeline.

Shoto watches the scene with cool indifference, though his mouth twitches in something almost like amusement. Then he turns to you, bows respectfully, and says with solemn grace,

“Nice to see that I was mistaken.” He meets Hanta’s eye for half a second, then bows again and murmurs, “Have a good evening,” before slipping out the door after the others.

The door closes. Noise fades like the tide pulling back from shore, leaving only the low murmur of the restaurant behind, like a heartbeat under glass.

And now…

It’s just you and Hanta.

He stands frozen, not five feet from you, as if the air itself turned solid around him. His fingers are still gripped tight on the back of the chair, knuckles pale, like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the floor.

From his pretty cheekbones, down his sharp jawline, to his soft-looking neck, he’s flushed a deep, almost painful red. The kind of red that travels with embarrassment, yes. But also something else. You think, for a terrifying second, that he might actually cry. His thick lashes are heavy, and the way his eyebrows and pouty pink lips tremble, and ebony eyes shine makes your breath catch in your throat.

His whole face is a portrait of panic and emotion. Wide, unguarded, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. Like a half-drowned kitten caught in a rainstorm, unsure if it should run or curl up and beg to be held.

And you…

You’re still holding the cow plush in your lap, fingers curled tight into its soft seams like it can somehow shield you from the storm of emotions crashing through your chest. You feel exposed in the worst way.

Like someone peeled back all your careful layers and left you raw and soft and real under the fluorescent lights. No makeup. No jewelry. No armor.

Just you.

And him.

The silence stretches taut between you, almost unbearable, like a string pulled too tight.

He swallows. Barely. You see the movement in his throat, slow and shaky. His breathing is uneven. His chest rises like it hurts to take in air. And still, he stares. Like he’s trying to memorize you, but can’t believe you’re really here. Like he’s afraid if he says the wrong thing, you’ll vanish.

You open your mouth to speak, to fill the space, to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Your lips part, and all you feel is your heart climbing its way into your throat.

Because this isn’t just embarrassment. It isn’t just surprise.

It’s more.

It’s the way his eyes soften just the slightest bit—even now. It’s the way he looks like he’s standing at the edge of something massive and irreversible. It’s the way your pulse won’t slow down, not when it’s him, not when it’s Hanta, not when it’s the one person you’ve let get this close.

You can see the words forming behind his lips. You can see them trembling at the edge of his tongue.

And you know—you know—if one of you speaks now, everything will change.

Everything’s already changed.

But still… neither of you says a word.

Just the space between you.

Trembling.

Waiting.

Ready to break.

“I—”

@willnetries, I passed out like 30 times but your food is ready!!!

For Valentines day, I hosted a poll about the fic's I have cooking in the oven from my mha 'Fuck it, I got you,' series and this was the first winner. As promised, some info about the relationship between you and Hanta.

P.S. I am Latina. While I went with Latino Sero and do think him to be Mexican, I did use PuertoRican slang, bc that's what I know.

In the glowing spotlight of fame and the shadows behind it, You are the brilliant, sharp tongued manager of pro hero Hanta Sero. A woman known for her incredible brains and beauty, her ability to always get what she wants, and a man known for his humor, looks, and devastating charisma. During a very public divorce and a carefully guarded personal life, the last thing you need is a scandal. Or worse, a new heartbreak.

Especially not one involving your client.

But Hanta isn’t just your client. Not anymore.

Ever since he fired his last manager in a rare burst of frustration and hired you on the spot after your unexpected interview, your lives have intertwined in ways no one expected. Hanta never knows what you’ll do next, and yet—he’s never felt more at ease. He trusts you with his career, his image, his life. But more than that, he trusts you with his heart... even if he’s never dared say it out loud!~

Because to him, this is the best friendship he’s ever had.

And he would rather be quiet than lose you.

What he doesn’t know is that you want to let him in. You want to let yourself love him. But the world is watching, and after everything: The mess of your ex-husband, the whispering media, the pressure of perfection, you’re terrified of what it would mean to choose him.

To choose happiness. To selfishly want something for yourself.

Surrounded by a circle of friends who are over it with the long game of stolen glances, near telepathic communication, and emotional misses, the question looms:

How long can two people circle each other before the truth comes out?

And when it finally does... will it be too late?

Fuck it, who knows. I got time to write.

-----

Taglist from both of my master lists because I need to feed the cats: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, @the-dumpster-fire-of-life, @raendarkfaerie, @bunny-b34r, @icey-wonders, @adherethecomingofage, @karaartioli-blog, @meoweoeoeosme, @faithisxreading, @faithisidking, @oh-kayyy-stan-bts, @shortie-chocolate, @rosaline756. @sweetlike-sugarplum. @aespie, @dancingqueen276, @erensbbg, @lillizxzz, @1chaerry, @valscodblog,

My master list is a work in progress but there's plenty more fic's and other characters if you request them. Ao3 is sexy too. I haven't posted the story yet because I need to Finish my Katsuki one first at least, but all the support and comments I receive help give me the motivation to finish!

You can also tip me a coffee if you want.

Remember: Comments and likes, really help. Don't be afraid to leave me a sexy little reblog too.

Stay tuned for the rest!! If you wanna be tagged, lemme know.

I promise I bite~

See you soon my loves!! <33

-Angie (✿^‿^)

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