"Didn't you just see her like... three hours ago?" Eli groans, one drumstick hanging from his mouth like a cigarette.

"She's in the next building, Kenshi. You're acting like she moved to fuckin' Paris," Roan mumbles, barely lifting his head from his arm.

Kenshin—leaning against the desk, rings clinking as he pockets his phone—ignores them. The collar of his leather jacket is popped, his tied-back hair loose at the nape, a streak of red peeking like sin.

"Text me if the prof comes back," he says without looking back.

"You're ditching class again?" Eli says, mock offended. "What happened now? Did her perfume fade from your memory?"

Kenshin freezes for a beat.

"...Actually, yeah."

Groans echo around the room.

Roan chucks a balled-up wrapper at him. "You're down bad, loverboy."

"Loverboy's gone," Shay calls from the hallway with a smirk, "He's in full-husband mode now."

Kenshin flips them off as he heads down the corridor, pulling his pack of cigarettes from his pocket—but not lighting one. He doesn't need a smoke.

He needs her.

---

The Walk of Shame (But Make It Sweet)

Kenshin stalks down the hallway like a demon in boots, passing the Principal's office with zero fucks. His presence turns heads: some girls giggle, one nearly trips, and a pair of freshmen take out their phones. But he's got tunnel vision.

The only thing that lingers is the irritating cloud of floral perfume wafting from his classmates earlier—fake, sugary, annoying.

None of them smell like her.

That soft vanilla-laced scent with something expensive and honey-sweet underneath. The one that stays on his hoodie whenever she steals it. The one that fucks him up.

He misses her.

And he hates that he's got to compete with every delusional girl on campus who "doesn't care he has a girlfriend."

---

*Her Classroom

From just outside the doorway, he hears it.

A familiar tune playing low from someone's speaker.

🎶 "They say I'm too young to love you, I don't know what I need..." 🎶 🎶 "They think I don't understand the freedom land of the seventies..." 🎶

And under the melody—her voice.

Humming. Soft. Angelic. The kind of sound that makes him wanna fall to his knees and thank whatever God handed her over to him.

His breath catches. He closes his eyes for half a second.

That song.

Their song.

It played on their first slow dance under the streetlights, back when they were high school idiots. It played again the first time he told her he'd marry her someday. Will marry her.

He presses a hand to the doorframe, smile twitching onto his face.

Then he walks in.

The girls in her class barely flinch—everyone's used to the sight of Kenshin Kurogane ignoring social norms and invading classroom space like he owns the place.

Shay looks up from across the room and gives him a thumbs up—no threats to report. No guy tried talking to his girl.

There she is.

Giggling with a few girls, face turned up in sunlight, pretty as ever. Talking with her hands. That perfume he's addicted to floating in the air. Her laugh hits him like a shot of whiskey straight to the chest.

He doesn't say a word. He just walks straight to her and slides an arm around her waist, tugging her against him.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs before giving her a soft, quick kiss on the lips.

Immediate chaos.

"UGH! Can you two not—some of us are terminally single!"

"There's single people in the room, I'm tryna breathe!"

"I hate happy couples," one girl whines, then adds dramatically, "but don't break up—I need to be uncle at the wedding."

Another wails, "I miss my ex," and full-on collapses into her boy best friend's arms.

Kenshin grins. Proud. Shameless. He turns to the dramatic one and says deadpan, "He's not coming back, babe."

The boy best friend snorts.

But his favorite part?

She instantly hides her face against his chest, flustered, cheeks warm. Just how he likes her.

He wraps his arms tighter and pulls her into his lap, sitting on her desk like he owns it.

"Let me see you, my girl," he mutters into her jaw, lips brushing her skin.

She shakes her head, still hiding. He chuckles.

Then his mouth presses to her neck—soft and lazy. He buries his face there, takes a deep inhale like she's a drug he can't quit.

Still not enough.

Without a word, he reaches into her bag, pulls out her perfume, and sprays it on himself.

"Jesus Christ," Shay mutters from the back. "He's down astronomically."

"You have a problem," one girl says.

"I know," Kenshin groans dramatically, clutching her tighter. "I miss her when she blinks."

Another girl claps. "He's so in love, I'm gonna hurl."

Someone yells, "Y'all are literally making me question if my situationship is worth it."

He just kisses her temple.

"Let them talk, wife," he mumbles, eyes half-lidded, satisfied now that he smells like her again. "They don't get it. We're real."