Chapter Text
You sip quietly from the straw of your drink, the ice clinking against the sides as your gaze drifts toward the framed paintings lining the restaurant wall. Your thoughts are distant—untethered—while the young man sitting across from you digs into his plate with singular focus. He's ordered Fideuà: thin noodles tangled with shrimp, mussels, and squid in a savory saffron broth. He slurps a bite with a contented hum, clearly savoring every flavor.
He glances up between mouthfuls, catching the blank look on your face. The black cap he wears, pulled low over his brow, hides most of his expression—but not the rabbit face stitched across the front, nor the subtle gleam of concern in his eyes.
“You sure you're not hungry, [Name]?” he asks mid-chew.
You nod absently, not quite meeting his gaze.
He pauses, frowns faintly, then sets his fork down with a soft clink. Leaning forward, he reaches across the table and snaps his fingers in front of your face.
You flinch, blinking hard as your attention jerks back to him.
His light-colored hair falls over his forehead in soft, uneven tufts, and his eyes—wide, curious, and slightly annoyed—search yours with startling clarity. The scar etched down his right eye glints faintly in the warm light, and the one that crosses his cheek and nose gives his face a jagged symmetry, like a story he refuses to explain.
“Hey,” he says, brow twitching. “You alright?”
“Yeah... yeah.” you reply quickly, straightening up. “I'm good, Bun.”
The young man, Bunny Iglesias, doesn't look convinced. Leaning in, he pokes your cheek with his finger—once, twice, then again, each press slow and intentional.
“You're a million miles away. What's going on in that weird little head of yours?”
You groan, batting at his hand. “It's just... I'm looking forward to the game tonight, okay?”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn't stop poking.
“Hey—cut it out already.”
A low chuckle escapes his lips, and he finally retracts his hand, grinning with a sweetness so innocent it almost feels rehearsed. “I don't like it when you're like that. You know—quiet. I'm here with you, aren't I?”
You sigh, nodding. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He fishes a mussel from its shell, twirls it together with a clump of noodles, then lifts the fork toward your mouth. “Here. Aaaah~”
You narrow your eyes, unimpressed.
He leans forward, insistent. “Come on, say ‘Aaaah,’ [Name]. Don't make me feed it to you by force.”
“You—”
Before the words can form, the bell above the door jingles. Instinctively, your head turns toward the sound—and that's all the opportunity he needs.
He takes the opening and promptly shoves the fork into your mouth.
You almost choke. “Argh!”
He bursts into laughter, his shoulders shaking. “There we go! Knew you were hungry.”
You chew, now glaring daggers at him, cheeks slightly puffed from the unexpected bite.
He grins even wider, utterly pleased with himself.
When you finally swallow, you cross your arms and fix him with a dry, warning stare. “Do that again, and I swear I'll leave you here all by yourself. While you're playing tonight, I'll be at home—resting, dreaming, and not thinking about you at all.”
Bunny pouts, lips pushing out exaggeratedly. “You wouldn't dare. Then you'd miss watching me score.”
You raise a brow. “Since when did you not score a goal?”
“That's more like it.” He grins victoriously and—like the little thief he is—leans over to steal a sip from your drink, straw and all.
You groan and roll your eyes. He's about to casually rest his hand over yours when a voice interrupts from the side.
“Hey, umm... 'Scuse me. Hello!”
The accent is thick—clearly foreign. Both you and Bunny turn to look.
Bunny flashes a friendly smile, cap tilting as he nods. “¡Hola!”
A young man steps forward from the side, now standing next to you. You glance up at him, momentarily intrigued. He smiles politely before pointing toward Bunny's half-finished dish.
You study him with quiet curiosity—his dark blue hair, kind eyes, and a black tracksuit jacket hanging loosely over his frame. There's an athlete's posture in the way he stands, alert but relaxed.
Your eyes flick past him toward where he was seated earlier. A travel suitcase rests quietly near the edge of the restaurant wall.
You return your gaze to Bunny, already sensing a shift in the air. When you glance at him, though, he's not watching you—his attention is locked on the newcomer, eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his black cap.
The young man hands something to Bunny—small, sleek. Wireless earphones.
Even with the language barrier, they begin to converse—somehow. You catch occasional words, easy to understand: Auedif, Japan, soccer. The Japanese man's eyes shine with enthusiasm as he gestures animatedly, his excitement evident.
Bunny listens with surprising focus, nodding every so often. For a moment, you just watch the two of them—one bright, the other carefully blank. Then Bunny turns, flashing a grin so casual it's almost jarring.
“When I see a joyful person like you,” he says cheerfully, “it makes me wanna die!♪”
The words drop like a stone in your chest. Your breath catches. Your eyes snap to him, burning with disbelief.
Bunny meets your gaze, still smiling. He rises from his seat with fluid ease, removes the earbud, and tosses it to the young man, who catches it effortlessly. “Well, guess we'll get going. Thanks for the fun chat,” he says lightly. “Enjoy your soccer stuff!”
He reaches for your hand without hesitation. “Let's go.”
The Japanese player waves after you. “¡Gracias!”
You offer a brief wave in return, barely managing a smile before following Bunny out the door.
The night air is crisp, biting at your skin. You shiver slightly.
“What was that all about?” you ask, glancing sideways at him.
He stops walking and gently releases your hand. “He was talking about soccer.” he mutters. Wordlessly, he slips off his button-less overcoat and drapes it over your shoulders, shielding you from the cold.
You hug it closer, warmth blooming in your chest. “I see...”
Bunny crouches to meet your eyes, reaching up to pinch your cheek between his fingers with that same annoying fondness.
“You're watching the game tonight?”
“Of course.” you say, shrugging with a small grin.
His eyes brighten—a rare flicker of light in those dullish irises of his. You cherish that glimmer.
He turns as if to walk away, but you tighten your grip on his hand, stopping him.
“Bun,” you say softly.
He looks back. “Hm?”
“I...” you hesitate, eyes falling to the pavement. Your heart is suddenly loud in your ears. “I just wanted to say... I hope you know I'll support you in anything you do. Just like how you've always supported me. We're in this together.”
His eyes widen for a beat—then soften. A slow smile spreads across his face.
“I know,” he says tenderly. “I've always known that.” He cups your cheek, brushing his thumb across it with surprising gentleness. “But hearing you say it? That makes it even better. It makes me feel... grounded. Like I can really do this. Soccer and all.”
You smile back, and he presses his forehead lightly to yours.
“You don't mind, right? If I use those words of yours as my lucky charm for tonight's game?” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere—almost reverent. His breath brushes softly against your lips, warm and close.
“...Uh, yeah. Sure. But more importantly...” you trail off.
He catches the delicate shift in your expression, but misreads it entirely. With a tentative, hopeful smile, he leans in, tilting his head just slightly. His lashes flutter, his breath hitching—as if he's preparing himself for a kiss that's been building up for far too long.
You place a firm hand against his cheek, halting him mid-motion.
His brows furrow, puzzled. “What is it? What's wrong?”
“You reek of seafood.” you deadpan, eyes squinting in mild disgust.
He recoils a little, blinking. “What—? Hey!”
“You smell like a fish market at low tide,” you continue, wrinkling your nose. “What did you even eat? An entire ocean?”
His mouth opens in offense, then closes again, caught between defending himself and processing the betrayal. “It was fideuà! It's fancy!”
“Your breath says otherwise.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. I try to be romantic and I get slandered.”
You stifle a laugh, shrugging. “Try brushing your teeth first, dumb Bunny.”