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They lived like strangers playing lovers. Or maybe it was the other way around.
“You always do this,” Atsumu said without turning around, exhaling slow, like it meant something. “You shut down when I get too close. Like I'm some kind of disease.”
Sakusa didn’t answer right away. He never did. He watched the condensation slide down his glass, the way the water left a mark on the coffee table — temporary, but visible. Just like Atsumu.
“You like chasing ghosts,” Sakusa said finally. “I’m not one of them."
Atsumu smiled, bitter and gold. “Aren’t you?”
And when they kissed, it was never soft. It was desperate. Like they were trying to forget where they were, who they were, how none of it ever felt enough.
The thing is — Atsumu loved too loudly. And Sakusa loved too late.