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The house was quiet—not the peaceful quiet Hyperlaser usually welcomed, but the kind that stretched too far into the corners of the room, settling into empty spaces where soft mechanical hums and distant city sounds normally lived. It pressed gently against him as he lay slouched across his couch, legs draped over the armrest, his helmet tilted slightly against a cushion. The soft glow of his visor adjusted continuously, mapping shapes and silhouettes within his limited field of vision while he scrolled absently through his phone, barely registering the stream of messages sliding past his thumb.
Princess rested comfortably on his chest, her warm weight rising and falling with each breath he took. She purred in deep, contented rumbles, kneading slowly against his tank top as if grounding him in the moment. Hyperlaser let his free hand drift across her fur, tracing absent circles along her spine. The sensation was soothing, familiar, and steady in a way that made the silence around him feel less hollow.
A faint flicker crossed his visor as it caught the glow of his digital calendar projected across the far wall. The numbers sharpened gradually into clarity, and when he noticed the date, he paused mid-scroll.
February 13th.
He blinked slowly, at first brushing the realization aside. Valentine’s Day had never been something he paid much attention to. It always felt like a holiday that belonged to other people—people who navigated affection with ease and certainty. Still, as Princess shifted slightly, her tail brushing across his collarbone, a memory surfaced before he could push it away.
Katana standing in front of the train station, posture stiff but determined, carefully holding a bouquet wrapped in crinkling paper. Hyperlaser remembered noticing the scent before anything else—delicate and airy, like fresh rain clinging to petals. Pink hydrangeas, slightly uneven in their wrapping as though Katana had spent far too long trying to make them perfect. The memory settled warmly in his chest, lingering longer than he expected.
His gaze drifted toward the side table where the porcelain vase still stood. The flowers remained vibrant, their petals layered like folded silk, stubbornly alive despite the passing days. Hyperlaser reached out, brushing his fingertips gently across one bloom. The texture was cool and fragile beneath his touch, and he found himself lingering there, tracing the edges carefully as though committing the shape to memory.
A slow breath left him, quieter than he intended. The thought of Katana lingered with it — unspoken, steady, and warm — and his arms shifted slightly as if instinctively holding onto that feeling.
Princess lifted her head briefly, blinking up at him before curling tighter against his chest as if offering silent agreement. The warmth spreading through him grew gradually, soft and steady, carrying with it the familiar mixture of comfort and nervous flutter that Katana always seemed to inspire. Katana’s gestures were rarely grand or showy, but they carried intention—careful thought placed into small, meaningful details that Hyperlaser sometimes struggled to believe he deserved.
He stared at the ceiling for several long seconds before exhaling slowly, the decision settling firmly in his mind. “I should give him something back.”
The thought lingered, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Buying something would be simple, but it wouldn’t feel right. Katana’s gift had carried effort, and Hyperlaser wanted to return that same sincerity. His fingers resumed absent strokes through Princess’s fur as he considered the possibilities, his mind drifting through half-formed ideas before settling on one that made his chest tighten with nervous determination.
“I’ll make him something,” he said quietly.
Princess chirped softly, her tail flicking once in approval. Hyperlaser allowed himself a small, uncertain smile, though it quickly faded as the larger question surfaced.
What exactly was he going to make?
…
Crossroad Central glittered as though the entire district had been dipped in romance. Ribbons of pink and crimson looped between storefronts, fluttering gently beneath strings of golden fairy lights that shimmered across polished pavement. The air carried layered scents. Fresh coffee beans, caramelized sugar, and faint cinnamon drifting from nearby vendor stalls. Even through the calibrated assistance of his visor, the colors appeared brighter than usual, their contrast blooming against the afternoon sky.
Hyperlaser walked carefully through the crowd, relying on movement patterns and light contrasts to navigate. Couples brushed past him constantly, hands intertwined, shoulders leaning together in effortless closeness. Laughter rose around him in soft bursts, blending with the mellow instrumental music drifting from overhead speakers. The atmosphere felt warm and alive, yet he couldn’t shake the faint sensation of standing slightly outside of it all.
He paused outside a confectionery display window where heart-shaped chocolates gleamed beneath carefully positioned lights. Each piece was sculpted into flawless shapes, polished to perfection, their surfaces reflecting tiny sparks of color as people passed by. Buying something would certainly be easier, he thought. It would be quick, efficient, and free of the risk that came with creating something himself.
He lingered longer than he meant to.
“Window shopping,” a familiar voice called out from behind him, “or having an existential crisis in front of chocolate?”
Hyperlaser turned, recognizing the teasing tone immediately. Slingshot leaned casually against the entrance of his café, arms crossed and grin unmistakably pleased with himself. Warm light spilled from behind him, carrying the inviting aroma of baked pastries and freshly brewed espresso.
“…Both,” Hyperlaser admitted as he approached. “I need help.”
Slingshot straightened at once, his expression brightening with enthusiasm that bordered on theatrical. “For Katana?”
Hyperlaser froze mid-step, which was all the confirmation Slingshot needed.
“I knew it,” Slingshot said, pushing the café door open with exaggerated flourish. “Come on. We’re fixing this.”
…
The café wrapped around Hyperlaser like stepping into a pocket of sunlight. Golden lights glowed warmly against polished wooden surfaces, while soft instrumental melodies drifted through the air alongside the comforting clink of porcelain cups and quiet conversation. The scent of vanilla syrup mingled with roasted coffee and melting butter, creating a warmth that felt tangible against his skin.
Behind the counter, Shuriken wiped down a display case before glancing up. His eyes immediately sharpened with amusement, and he offered a casual two-finger salute paired with a knowing smirk before darting off to greet incoming customers. At the espresso machine, Vine Staff turned with a gentle smile and stepped forward, holding out an apron. “You’ll need this,” she said kindly, tying it securely around Hyperlaser’s waist with practiced ease as soon as he shook his coat off.
Slingshot circled him slowly, examining him with exaggerated seriousness before snorting. “You know, with that blouse and those trousers, you actually look like you belong behind the counter.”
Hyperlaser tugged at the apron strings awkwardly. “That is not reassuring.”
Vine Staff chuckled warmly, finishing the knot before stepping back. “So,” she asked casually, “who’s the lucky inphernal?”
Hyperlaser opened his mouth, then closed it again like a fish as the answer tangled somewhere between his thoughts and his throat. His voice emerged as an unhelpful stammer, heat creeping steadily up his neck. Shuriken, reappearing as though summoned by embarrassment alone, leaned casually against the counter.
“Oh, he’s gone completely,” Shuriken announced with clear delight. “Look at him. It’s definitely for Katana.”
Before Hyperlaser could even protest, Slingshot clapped a firm hand onto his shoulder and steered him toward the kitchen. “The back kitchen. Now. We’re saving what little pride you have left.”
…
The kitchen buzzed with steady, productive energy. Metal bowls chimed softly against countertops while ovens hummed with gentle consistency. Ingredients lay neatly across the workspace, untouched for now, waiting for direction.
“So,” Slingshot said, leaning casually against the counter, “what are we making?”
Hyperlaser hesitated, adjusting his gloves. “…I’m not sure.”
Slingshot studied him thoughtfully for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Chocolate macarons.”
Hyperlaser stiffened. “Those are… complicated.”
“Exactly,” Slingshot replied with triumphant confidence. “They’re delicate, impressive, and ridiculously romantic. If you pull it off, you’ll look like a culinary genius.”
The idea made Hyperlaser’s chest flutter with equal parts excitement and dread. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “Alright. Chocolate macarons it is.”
Bowls were drawn closer, sleeves rolled up, and the careful order of the workspace slowly dissolved as Hyperlaser began working under Slingshot’s guidance.
…
Soon almond flour dusted the countertops like freshly fallen snow, disturbed and smeared by careless sleeves. Powdered sugar clung to measuring spoons and puffed faintly into the air with each small motion. Hyperlaser focused intently as he followed each step, though his shoulders tightened when the egg whites refused to form proper peaks beneath the steady vibration of the whisk.
“They’re not cooperating,” he muttered in frustration.
Slingshot stepped beside him, gently adjusting his grip before demonstrating the correct technique. When Hyperlaser resumed, the mixture slowly transformed into glossy, stable peaks beneath his hands.
The next step required folding the dry ingredients into the meringue, a delicate process that demanded patience and control. Slingshot demonstrated slowly, then stepped back, allowing Hyperlaser to take over. His hands trembled at first, uncertainty creeping into his movements, but a memory surfaced unexpectedly—Katana standing within the arena, blade balanced with effortless precision, every motion intentional and steady.
Hyperlaser exhaled slowly, allowing that memory to guide him. His movements smoothed, his hands growing more confident as the batter folded into glossy ribbons that melted seamlessly into themselves.
“Hey,” Slingshot murmured, clearly impressed. “That’s perfect.”
Hyperlaser allowed himself a small, shy smile as warmth settled in his chest.
Then, with careful movements, Hyperlaser lifted the piping bag open and began transferring the batter inside. The glossy mixture slid downward in thick folds, and his hands faltered just enough for a small smear of chocolate to spill onto the counter. He stiffened instinctively, heart giving a brief, anxious flutter — as if Katana himself might somehow see the mistake.
Slingshot hummed softly beside him. “Thinking about him again?” he teased, not unkindly.
Hyperlaser wiped the spill away with the edge of his glove, a quiet warmth blooming beneath his helmet. He sealed the bag shut and drew a slow breath, steadying himself. For Katana, he reminded himself. Just breathe.
The piping bag felt warm and pliant beneath Hyperlaser’s grip, the softened chocolate filling shifting slightly as he adjusted his hold. Heat from the kitchen had seeped into the bag, making the batter inside feel almost alive beneath his fingers, responsive to the smallest shifts in pressure. He paused, hovering over the parchment-lined tray, the faint pre-marked circles swimming gently at the edge of his assisted vision. Even with the helmet’s subtle overlays helping guide his focus, uncertainty still lingered in the quiet tension of his shoulders.
The kitchen breathed around him in low, steady rhythms — the hum of refrigeration units, the distant murmur of customers outside the back wall, the faint metallic clink of cups being stacked somewhere beyond the swinging door. The oven behind him ticked softly as it climbed toward temperature, each mechanical click sounding oddly like a countdown that tightened something in his chest. He exhaled slowly, steadying his hands the way he had seen Katana steady his blade countless times before a strike. Not rigid, but deliberate, grounded, precise.
Katana’s hands had always moved with quiet certainty, even in moments that seemed impossibly fragile.
The memory lingered longer than he expected, warming the edges of his thoughts.
Hyperlaser lowered the piping tip toward the parchment.
His first squeeze came too cautiously. The chocolate batter spilled out unevenly, pooling outward into a slightly crooked oval instead of the clean circle he had been aiming for. The glossy surface shimmered under the overhead lights, imperfect and unmistakably wrong.
He stared at it for a moment, feeling a faint pinch of disappointment settle behind his ribs. It wasn’t just a mistake, it was a reminder that he wasn’t used to making things that was meant to be delicate.
Behind him, Slingshot leaned casually against the counter, arms folded as he observed with patient amusement. “Bold artistic interpretation,” Slingshot remarked lightly.
Hyperlaser released a quiet breath that nearly became a laugh but faltered halfway. “It’s supposed to be round,” he murmured under his breath. His voice carried the faintest edge of self-consciousness, though his fingers were already adjusting their grip, recalibrating. He shifted his stance slightly, planting his feet more firmly. The piping bag rested deeper into his palm as he flexed his fingers once, testing the balance between control and pressure.
He moved to the next circle.
This time, he squeezed with more confidence, letting the batter flow in a smoother stream. The chocolate spread outward in a more obedient curve, settling closer to the penciled outline. Still imperfect — one edge slightly thicker — but undeniably better.
He moved to another.
And another.
With each careful squeeze, his breathing began syncing with the rhythm of his hands. Press. Hold. Release. A subtle rotation of his wrist to seal the shape. The repetition softened the anxious static in his thoughts, replacing it with something quieter, steadier. He imagined Katana watching him, simply observing with that calm, unreadable attentiveness that always made Hyperlaser feel both exposed and strangely safe.
He found himself wanting to get it right.
Not out of obligation, but because Katana would notice the effort.
Soon, neat rows of nearly perfect circles lined the parchment tray, their glossy tops catching the golden warmth of the kitchen lights. Hyperlaser leaned slightly closer, scanning them with quiet concentration. Small imperfections remained, a faint ripple here, a slightly thicker edge there, but they felt less like failures and more like fingerprints of care.
Slingshot stepped forward, nodding in approval before lifting the tray and tapping it firmly against the countertop. The sound cracked sharply through the air — once, twice, three times — each impact sending invisible air bubbles rising through the batter’s surface.
“Texture’s everything,” Slingshot said. “You want them light. Clean.”
Hyperlaser watched closely, committing the sound and motion to memory. The tactile nature of baking surprised him. The way sound, vibration, and touch communicated just as clearly as sight ever could.
When Slingshot finally slid the tray into the oven, the door closed with a soft metallic seal. The glass window glowed faintly as heat began its quiet transformation. Both of them lingered there for a moment, instinctively watching as if the macarons might reveal their success immediately. They didn’t, of course.
Time stretched into patient stillness.
The warmth from the oven gradually spilled outward, brushing against Hyperlaser’s face and filtering through the seams of his blouse. Slowly, the scent of chocolate began blooming into the air. Rich, velvety, with a gentle sweetness that curled into his lungs and settled deep within his chest. It carried hints of toasted almond and sugar, layered and complex, wrapping around him. He rested his hands lightly against the counter, noticing the faint dusting of cocoa powder across his gloves. The scent lingered, steady and familiar in a way that made his chest feel quietly full. He drew a slow breath, letting the warmth ground him, and focused back on the task at hand.
“That smell never gets old,” Slingshot said quietly beside him.
Hyperlaser gave a faint nod, his gaze remaining fixed on the oven window. Inside, the shells slowly rose, delicate ridges forming along their bases. Watching them felt strangely intimate, like witnessing something fragile gather strength through patience alone.
When the timer finally chimed, the sound cut cleanly through the warm hush of the kitchen. Slingshot opened the oven, releasing a soft wave of heat that rolled outward, carrying the now fully developed chocolate aroma with it. The scent deepened, richer and fuller, like warmth given shape.
He slid the tray onto the cooling rack.
The macaron shells sat smooth and unbroken, their surfaces matte and delicate, each one crowned with a perfectly formed ruffled foot. Hyperlaser leaned closer, relief loosening a tightness he hadn’t noticed clinging to his shoulders. “They… worked,” he said softly, almost disbelieving.
Before Slingshot could respond, movement flickered into the room.
Shuriken appeared beside them with effortless stealth, clearly having tracked the scent long before the timer rang. Without hesitation, he reached forward and stole one straight from the cooling rack.
“Hey—” Slingshot began, though the protest lacked conviction.
Shuriken bit into it immediately. The shell cracked softly beneath his teeth, the sound delicate but distinct, like a fragile promise breaking open. He chewed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing in exaggerated scrutiny before he gave a small, approving nod that spoke volumes. Hyperlaser hesitated before reaching toward the tray himself. His fingers hovered just above the shells, careful, almost reverent. He selected one slowly, holding it between his fingertips, surprised by how light it felt — fragile, precise, breakable if mishandled.
He raised it to his mouth and took a cautious bite.
The shell fractured with a soft, crisp snap before dissolving almost instantly into smooth sweetness across his tongue. The chocolate filling followed moments later, rich and velvety, balancing perfectly against the airy shell. The flavor lingered, warm and slow, blooming deeper with each breath he took.
Hyperlaser closed his eyes briefly.
For a fleeting second, he imagined Katana tasting it. Imagined the subtle tilt of his head, the quiet way he always evaluated things with patient sincerity. He wondered if Katana would notice the careful balance of sweetness, the precision of texture, the quiet determination pressed into every movement of his hands. He hoped he would.
Hyperlaser exhaled softly, something fragile and hopeful settling quietly beneath his ribs.
Beside him, Slingshot watched with a faint, knowing smile, while Shuriken casually reached for another shell, entirely unburdened by restraint.
And standing there, chocolate warmth still melting across his tongue, Hyperlaser felt something unfamiliar but deeply welcome bloom inside him. A careful anticipation, delicate and trembling, much like the macarons themselves.
“…He’s going to like these,” Hyperlaser whispered.
Slingshot smiled knowingly. “Yeah. He will.”
…
Evening settled gently across the city as Hyperlaser stepped outside, clutching a small gift box wrapped with a ribbon that leaned noticeably crooked despite his best efforts. Lantern lights flickered to life along the sidewalks one by one, their warm amber glow stretching into elongated reflections across rain-darkened pavement. The air carried a faint winter sharpness that brushed softly against the exposed edges of his skin, slipping beneath the collar of his coat and reminding him that night was settling in faster than he had anticipated.
He adjusted his grip on the box unconsciously, careful not to crumple the delicate lid. The ribbon shifted slightly beneath his fingers, its uneven bow pressing into his glove as though reminding him how many times he had tried — and failed — to make it symmetrical. Still, he refused to fix it again. The imperfection felt honest somehow.
He searched the Phight arena first, weaving through the gradually thinning crowd as distant echoes of sparring matches and laughter bounced across the open space. A few competitors still lingered beneath bright overhead lights, but none wore the familiar silhouette he had been hoping to see. The absence settled quietly in his chest, not heavy yet, but noticeable.
From there, he made his way toward Katana’s apartment building. The entryway lights glowed softly, casting long shadows across the concrete steps. Hyperlaser paused there longer than he meant to, listening to the distant hum of elevators and muffled conversations drifting through the structure. The stillness of the lobby windows told him enough.
Each empty location tightened the quiet thread of anxiety curling deeper inside his chest, pulling subtly at his breathing. He tried to steady himself, reminding himself that the evening was still young, that Katana often preferred wandering quieter places when crowds became overwhelming. Still, uncertainty crept in around the edges of his thoughts, whispering doubts he struggled to silence.
Just as that unease began to settle more firmly beneath his ribs, his visor caught a familiar silhouette standing near the park entrance beneath a softly glowing lantern. The golden light outlined the figure in gentle contrast — broad shoulders relaxed, posture composed, the distinct outline of a sheathed blade resting at his side.
Relief surged through Hyperlaser before he could temper it, bright and immediate, loosening tension he hadn’t realized had been coiling tightly through his shoulders and spine.
“Katana!” he called, his voice carrying slightly sharper urgency than he intended.
Katana turned immediately. Recognition softened his visible eye as it found Hyperlaser, the subtle tension in his stance melting into something quieter, warmer. He approached with calm, measured steps, boots pressing softly against scattered gravel lining the path. The lantern light brushed across the smooth curve of his mask, casting faint gold reflections along its surface.
“Good evening,” Katana greeted, his voice low and steady, touched with a warmth that settled easily into the surrounding quiet.
“…Greetings,” Hyperlaser replied, suddenly becoming acutely aware of the box in his hands — of the ribbon, the fragile contents inside, the careful hours spent crafting something he had never been certain he could complete. He shifted his weight slightly, fingers tightening around the edges of the lid as he searched for steadiness in his voice.
“I wanted to give you something.”
Katana’s gaze lingered on him for a brief, thoughtful moment — not on the box, but on the subtle nervousness threading through Hyperlaser’s posture. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt attentive, observant, almost tender in its patience. Finally, Katana inclined his head slightly before gesturing toward the park, where winding paths disappeared beneath arching tree branches dusted with lantern light and drifting evening mist.
“Walk with me?” he asked gently.
Hyperlaser nodded a little too quickly, the motion betraying his eagerness before he could restrain it. He fell into step beside Katana as they made their way into the park, their footsteps falling into an easy, unspoken rhythm while the city’s distant noise softened behind them, replaced by the quiet rustle of leaves and the faint whisper of wind threading through branches overhead. With each step forward, Hyperlaser felt the fragile anticipation inside his chest begin to bloom into something warmer, steadier, something that felt dangerously close to hope.
…
They sat together on the bench beneath the sprawling tree, lanterns hanging from its branches like captured starlight. The glow shifted gently with the breeze, casting warm halos across the ground and painting soft gold along Katana’s haori. The park around them hummed with distant life, muted laughter, footsteps on gravel, the rustle of leaves, but the space between them felt hushed, almost reverent.
Hyperlaser removed his helmet slowly, setting it beside him on the bench. Without it, the world softened into indistinct shapes and light, edges blurring together until only the most immediate things felt clear. Katana’s presence beside him stood out sharply despite that—the quiet heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint sound of fabric shifting each time he moved. Hyperlaser let himself stay open in that closeness, comforted by the simple certainty that Katana was still there, just as steady as ever.
Katana noticed the small tension in Hyperlaser’s shoulders immediately. He shifted closer—not abruptly, but just enough that their arms brushed. The contact was light, unassuming, yet deliberate. When Hyperlaser didn’t pull away, Katana let his forearm rest gently against his, a quiet reassurance offered without words. Hyperlaser swallowed and extended the box with careful hands. “For you.”
Katana accepted it with surprising gentleness, as though it were something fragile rather than a simple gift. He opened the lid slowly, the scent of chocolate rising between them, warm and rich. The corner of his visible eye softened instantly, something unguarded flickering there as he looked at the neatly arranged macarons — not just at what they were, but at how carefully they’d been made.
“You made these,” Katana said, not a question, but an observation weighted with quiet awe.
Hyperlaser nodded, suddenly keenly aware of his pulse, of the way Katana’s attention lingered in the exact way he had hoped for. Katana lifted his mask just enough to take a bite, the lantern light catching briefly on the scar tracing across his eye and mouth. He didn’t rush the motion. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as if honoring the effort as much as the taste, giving the moment the attention it deserved.
“These are wonderful,” Katana said softly, turning his head slightly toward Hyperlaser. “Would you like a taste?”
“I already tried them earlier,” Hyperlaser replied, confused.
Katana’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. Then, slowly, he reached forward.
Katana’s calloused hands brushed lightly against Hyperlaser’s jaw before his fingers settled beneath his chin. The touch was careful, almost reverent, and Hyperlaser instinctively stilled, breath hitching as Katana gently tilted his face upward. Without his helmet, the lantern-lit world dissolved further into warmth and shadow, leaving Katana defined by proximity alone: the faint heat of his breath, the subtle scent of metal and fabric, the quiet steadiness in the way he held him.
Katana leaned in and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss against Hyperlaser’s lips.
The contact was gentle, warm, and unhurried. The lingering sweetness of chocolate bloomed softly across Hyperlaser’s senses, mingling with Katana’s warmth until the two were indistinguishable. His breath caught sharply in his throat, chest tightening as his heart stumbled into a frantic, uneven rhythm. He barely registered the way Katana lingered, just long enough to make the moment feel intentional rather than impulsive, before pulling back.
Katana’s thumb brushed lightly along Hyperlaser’s jaw as he withdrew, an unconscious gesture that spoke of care far louder than words. “The pastries are good,” he murmured, “but I think I prefer the taste of you.”
Hyperlaser felt heat rush to his face, spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “…That was,” he started, then faltered, letting out a breathless laugh. “Unexpected.”
Katana tilted his head slightly, studying him with quiet attentiveness. “Unwelcome?”
Hyperlaser shook his head quickly. His voice came out softer than he intended. “…No. I just—” He hesitated, nerves fluttering painfully in his chest before he forced himself to continue. “I liked it. More than I thought I would.”
Something in Katana’s posture shifted at that. His shoulders relaxed, tension easing out of him as though Hyperlaser’s words had granted permission. He didn’t reach for him immediately this time. Instead, he stayed close, letting the space between them hum with unspoken possibility.
Hyperlaser became sharply aware of every small detail, the way Katana’s knee angled toward his, the faint brush of his sleeve against Hyperlaser’s arm, the warmth lingering on his lips where Katana had kissed him. The anticipation built slowly, deliciously, until it felt like holding a breath for too long.
“…Could I,” Hyperlaser began, then swallowed and tried again, “could I have another one?”
Katana’s visible eye softened instantly, something fond and unmistakably affectionate settling there. He reached up again, but this time his hand rested briefly against Hyperlaser’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of old scar tissue with careful familiarity. The touch grounded Hyperlaser completely.
“Of course,” Katana mumbled softly.
The second kiss was slower.
Katana leaned in with quiet certainty, giving Hyperlaser time to anticipate the contact before their lips met again. The warmth returned instantly, deeper this time, more assured. Hyperlaser responded instinctively, leaning into the kiss, his fingers curling lightly into the fabric of Katana’s sleeve as though anchoring himself there. Katana adjusted seamlessly, angling closer, his free hand resting at Hyperlaser’s side in a protective, steadying hold.
The kiss lingered, unhurried and tender, and Hyperlaser felt it everywhere. The faint sweetness of chocolate at the edge of his senses, the warmth of Katana’s breath brushing close, the steady pressure that made his chest tighten in quiet disbelief. The closeness was dizzying, grounding and overwhelming all at once, until when they finally parted, he realized he was breathing harder than he meant to, forehead hovering just a breath away from Katana’s.
Hyperlaser found himself letting out a quiet laugh, dazed and breathless. “I… really liked that one.”
Katana chuckled softly in response, the sound low and warm. He shifted just enough to allow Hyperlaser to lean against him, an arm settling comfortably around his shoulders without hesitation. Hyperlaser rested his head there willingly, letting the steady warmth and familiar presence ease the lingering flutter in his chest.
Together, they watched the lanterns sway gently above them, light drifting through the branches like falling embers. The night air felt softer now, the quiet filled not with emptiness but with shared warmth and unspoken understanding.
For the moment, neither of them felt the need to say anything more.
And for Hyperlaser, that quiet felt perfect.