How his name haunts you. You tried to avoid him at all, whether because you felt numb or because it was weird, was impossible not to come across him.

He had always been reserved. Everyone knew that. Not even Satoru could soften him. A respected professional, always fulfilling his duties on time. He was clean, smelled like coffee and woody men's cologne. Piercing eyes looked tired, yet always serious, weirdly comforting. He never spoke more than necessary, never leaving room for any behavior beyond sorcerer work.

But with you, it was different. You knew it was.

The lingering glances you were sure pierced the back of your neck the moment you turned away, the times he accompanied you on missions as a mentor when Satoru was busy, the unconventional conversations you had never seen him have with anyone else.

But you had to be crazy, obviously. What would he, a man in his early thirties, handsome and tall, want with a teenager whose prefrontal cortex was barely developed?

That was why you preferred to avoid him. It was better than try to suppress your heavy breathing every time you got too close, even if he was only asking to get past you. You weren’t ready to deal with a crush on a sorcerer who wasn’t even your mentor.

— I want another! — exclaimed Kugisaki, earning a pout from Itadori, who replied: — You’re going to finish all the alcohol if you keep this up! — he grumbled, already completely drunk. Fushiguro let out a deep sigh, crossing his arms and taking a sip of the water, looking like he hated every second of that.

It was the Sorcerer Academy’s annual gathering. It happened every year, but usually during times when something terrible had occurred and, to cover it up, they decided to put together a fancy event to buy off with food and an open bar.

You turned to the side, observing the enormous hall decorated with warm, dim lighting. The walls followed a textured pattern in a deep red, almost terracotta shade. On the ceiling, a stained-glass design in colors, forming animal patterns as archetypes. Directly beneat, a sunken seating area with a couch, where several sorcerers chatted and smoked.

You left the tall bar stool, growing tired of the silly argument between your drunken friends and wanting a bit of fresh air. You reached a quieter corner of the party where there wasn’t much movement. Just one figure. Tall, even while seated. Those sand-colored strands of hair could belong to no one other than Kento, who was taking sips of whiskey.

He had his back turned, and probably hadn’t noticed you. On a normal day, simply entering the room would have been enough for him to realize he wasn’t alone. But the atmosphere and the alcohol in his system had relaxed him more than usual, leaving him unaware of the figure behind him.

You wanted to leave. You really did. But the empty corner and the whiskey in the older man’s large, calloused hand were enough to tempt you into approaching, sitting beside him on the large wine-colored velvet couch.

He slowly turned. The sight sent a vivid warmth through your lower abs. His blond hair was tousled across his forehead, his gaze even more piercing than usual. He nodded at you, which stirred a wave of nausea you forced yourself to ignore as his deep voice cut through the silence.