"MAKE WAY, MORTAL, FOR I AM—"

Pumpkin gore rained down upon Saitama as the demonic kabocha splattered to a halt. In the middle of the mess huddled a giant rat wearing a ball gown and glass slippers.

"Shoo!" said Saitama. Cinderella jumped down on all fours and sprinted for the sewer. The puppies barked, straining against their Kevlar harnesses. The two Saitama had leashed were both females—one a rustic red-brown, the other black with a splash of cinnamon.

Getting them to eat had been a celebratory event, one that was quickly followed by a frenzy of urination and defecation. Dr. Kuseno's army-grade dog gear had been a godsend. Now he and Genos took the puppies out for a walk three times a day, both to empty their bladders and to blunt their nails on the road.

"They need names. Something fit for a trio," said Genos. Unlike his sensei, the cyborg held his leash with a tepid hand. "Come, puppy!" he shouted. His omega, a cream-colored male, ignored him in favor of sniffing a glob of pumpkin guts. "Sensei, please take charge! Show us that you are our pack leader!"

"Come on, little dudes," Saitama grunted, dragging the dogs up the sidewalk.

The sun peeked over the cityscape. Though Saitama had hoped to finish their walk before the oven turned on, their turning point, an abandoned warehouse, lay far onwards. Saitama glanced behind him. "Genos! Move!"

Genos turned back towards his omega and whistled. The puppy perked at the foreign sound, ears and tail zinging skyward.

"I didn't know that you could whistle," said Saitama.

"I can't. I downloaded this off the Internet and into my vocal harmonizer." Genos opened his mouth wide, like he was hoping to catch a fly, and out came a lilting tweet.

"Wow, you're freaky."

"Thank you, sensei."

The white puppy was on the move, but not in the direction that Saitama desired. Instead, it mosied into a run-down store. Genos hopelessly followed after it, his leash slack. Groaning, Saitama turned around headed in the same direction.

Empty shelves. Muffled silence. Saitama toed his way forward, letting the omegas guide him with their superior night vision. Twin stars flashed ahead, blinking in and out, swiveling, running over shelves until they stilled, transfixed. Saitama locked onto them and shuffled forward, wincing out an apology as he treaded on a paw. "Hey, Genos!"

The cyborg did not respond. Saitama wondered what had gotten him so still. It was even a little annoying; the least he could do was turn a light on for him. When Saitama finally caught up and turned his gaze in the same direction, he saw little other than hazy shadows. "Goddamnit!" he said as he shoulder-checked a neighboring wall. The puppies yipped as they were sprayed by wood chips, plaster, and rays of light.

Tins, stacked row upon row, shelf upon shelf. Tins of oil sardines.

Genos sagged against the wall in a hug, mumbling something sweet into the aluminum. Saitama plucked one can off the shelf and checked the date—good for another year and more.

There were even different brands. Saitama stood on his tiptoes and grabbed a red-papered, ovular tin off the shelf. "Look, it's your favorite!"

Genos broke into a smile—one that showed off all his pearly whites and made him look his age. Saitama would have pinched a cheek if not for the surprise blooming inside of him. He hadn't expected himself to remember such a small detail, especially since he never ate sardines on his own. Warm pride spread through his chest. It felt good to be in touch with the people in his life.

The can did not have a tab, so Genos ripped the top off with his teeth. Plucking out a sardine, he lowered it into his mouth like a Roman emperor would eat a grape—all in one go and with an air of indulgence. Then he held out the tin to Saitama, who accepted one because the cyborg looked so freakin' happy and it was nice to be part of that.

They emerged from the store with Genos' backpack stretched tight with tins. The puppies shook themselves, shedding clouds of dust. On the street, the remains of the pumpkin monster pulsed with life. Chunks of flesh were coalescing into small fruits, their shells just beginning to harden. Saitama scooped up a few and juggled them all the way home.

Not even Genos could scrub out the smell of fur from their apartment, but Saitama found himself easing into the scent more and more each day. Genos took the pumpkins to the kitchen, and Saitama played with the omegas by tossing worn socks into the air and watching them fight over them. The sisters tug-o-warred over a furry tube sock, their snouts wrinkled into playful snarls. The sole male stalked a garter that Saitama wiggled in front of him, snapping at only at the most advantageous moments.

Over their growling came the grind of a saw, the buzz-slosh of the blender. What the hell is he making? Saitama wondered.

Quickly, the puppies extinguished the population of socks. They stared at Saitama from a field of cotton shreds. While they wouldn't get too close to either man, their bouts of shaking had disappeared.

A sweet, milky scent drifted out of the kitchen window, followed by a whiff of spice. Finally, Genos emerged bearing a pumpkin in each hand. Saitama raised a brow as the cyborg passed one into his hand. It was coffee-mug warm. The top part had been sliced off, allowing one to peer into the creamy drink inside. A spicy latte heart decorated the surface.

"No fucking way," said Saitama.

"I tried a recipe I found online. Unfortunately we didn't have any good coffee—only the instant, carcinogenic kind."

"Whoopee," said Saitama, steam tickling his nose. They knocked their pumpkins together in a toast.

A dash of nutmeg. Cream, smooth and sweet. Each sip was a drop of heat in Saitama's belly. "At least somebody got the seasonal thing right, even if it was a monster," he said.

"Kabocha grows year-round, sensei," said Genos.

"It's not fall without pumpkin spice lattes," Saitama argued. "It is now officially fall. However says otherwise can try me."

The puppies plied them with their best begging tactics-lustrous eyes and an occasional whimper. They padded towards Genos, having sniffed out his bleeding heart early on. They inched forwards when they thought the cyborg wasn't paying attention, backtracked when Genos peeked at them from over his pumpkin. Saitama sat back and snickered into his drink.

Impervious to the heat, Genos tipped back and took a gulp. His tongue, pink and perfect, swept up the side of his "mug" to catch a droplet. Saitama zeroed in on the gleaming trail of lubricant. Making submarines and satellites cost millions of yen. The question was… were they worth more or less than a good tongue? Genos' tongue?

The question popped out before he could think too hard about it. "Hey, Genos, how real is your tongue?"

Genos didn't miss a beat. "It is the most sophisticated tongue ever born in a lab. It has three hundred artificial nerve endings and uses high-retention lubrication and—"

"Yeah, yeah, but is it as real as your old one?"

"…I can't remember. It's been a long time, and it's not like anyone thinks about how their tongue feels."

Saitama swirled his tongue against his teeth and the roof of his mouth; it squished in the most entertaining of ways. Now he knew why babies were always shoving things in there. After memorizing the bounce and firmness of the muscle, he nodded at Genos.

For science!

They leaned into each other. Up close, Saitama could see the graceful shape of his lips. They opened like an invitation, moving through the shape of his name, and Saitama would have shivered if not for the sound—the sloppy slurping of somebody else's spit-swapper.

Saitama looked down and saw the white puppy with its snout down his pumpkin. He froze, both not wanting to scare it away and also to marvel at how close it had come.

The omega pulled away with a few harsh pants. Perhaps the drink had been too hot.

"That's it!" the bald man exclaimed. He pointed at the red-brown female—

"Pumpkin."

The black sister with her cinnamon streak —

"Spice."

The creamy male—

"Latte."

He threw his arms into the air. Some of his drink sloshed onto his thumb.

"Sensei…" Genos looked dazed. "You are adorable."

"I know. Thanks."

The puppies cocked their heads, certain that they were being discussed. Saitama kept smiling even as Pumpkin squatted and pissed. Somehow she still looked cute.

The weather was an animal all its own—untamed, unpredictable. Though the sun stole up the lakes and rivers, the water always returned to the Earth—just all at once, and with savagery.

The storm halted their sales trip, forcing them to take shelter in City A's department mall. Genos convinced Saitama to strip off his clothes in a toilet stall, ring out the water, and allow the cyborg to air-blast them dry. Saitama could feel the heavy stares being directed at their stall door, but the payoff was fuzzy warmth seeping into his skin. Genos dried his own clothes without taking them off, heat blasting from his vents. Then they went to get snow cones. They were the only ones warm enough to want them.

Saitama nibbled at his hill of rainbow sherbet. From the observation level, they watched traffic inch by, a long network of lights struggling in the storm. The only thing that seemed unmoved by the tempest was the HA headquarters. It's block letter logo burned dandily, a 'fuck you' to nature's wrath.

"I don't know who I hate more," said Genos, "Amai Mask or Boifoi."

Saitama let that comment sit. Genos hardly mentioned his feelings on other people; his distaste had to have been brewing for him to mention it.

The cyborg's scowl was curbed only by his blue-raspberry syrup lips. "Boifoi," he continued, "killed Fubuki-san's sister. But Amai Mask was the one who let him get away with it."

"I'm glad we're no longer part of the HA." Saitama toed the shopping bags at their feet. "It never really felt right, trying to line people up and decide their worth."

"I'm glad that you don't have to deal with any more hate mail. That was awful."

"And they were always pressuring you to give interviews 'cause you're pretty."

"They didn't pay you a fraction of what you were worth."

"And they were always stealing your time with so many dumb meetings." Saitama cracked a smile. "I'm sorry I made you try to climb the top ten."

"It's okay, because now we can say stuff like this—" Genos drew himself up and pointed at the tower "—Hero's Association, you suck!"

"Yeah!" Saitama flipped the tower the bird. That was when a bolt of lightning lanced through the sky and struck the building. Its logo flared white-hot before bursting in a shower of sparks.

"Ohhhh!" Saitama crowed, his finger still a-waggle. "Did you see that?!"

"Sensei, that was incredible," said Genos.

"Yes, quite a feat," came a voice.

Amai Mask's reflection glared at them from the window glass.

Saitama summoned all the self-control he had to avoid fisting his snow-cone into icy pulp. Instead, he turned, lazily, a blank stare pasted across his face. "Yeah?"

Amai gave Saitama a half-second sneer before turning his attention to Genos. "My resources reported that Demon Cyborg was in City A. While we'd usually just send a letter, for your case I thought an personal visit would be more persuasive."

"Wait… you knew where we were? Like, you saw us?" Saitama said. He did not like the sound of that.

Amai threw him another bone. "Whereas our abilities and numbers were wasted under the old administration, new management puts every hero to utmost use."

Genos wore that half-stoic, half-pissy expression usually donned when taking out the trash. Unease, however, was rolling off him in waves. "What do you want?"

"Having seen that display of animosity," Amai said, " it seems pointless to ask you to rejoin. But think: it would be for the greater good. You'd be helping countless people across the metropolis."

"It's my doctor, isn't it?" said Genos. "That's who you really want."

"I suppose you come as a package. Your ever-upgrading skillset would be of great value."

"I refuse," said Genos with the apathy of concrete.

"What if we paid well? Enough to fund his next project? Enough to allow you to live comfortably, despite the times?"

"You wanna know why we left?" said Saitama. "Because some ugly pop star gouged his way into an administrative position and started charging people for hero help. Whatever you might pay us is dirty."

"…We?" said Amai.

Oh shit.

Amai looked at him. Really looked at him. "Baldy…" he muttered. "…Caped Baldy!"

Oh super shit.

Saitama could practically see the hamster sweating away on that cold, calculating exercise wheel. Saitama cursed every scandal and shady rumor to his name while simultaneously wishing they had been a tad more true. He thanked that he was wearing his flip-flops and that his uncut toenails gave him an additional quarter-inch.

Just as his armpits were beginning to dampen, Amai's blistering gaze turned back to Genos. "What is he to you, Demon Cyborg?"

"Saitama—" Saitama-sensei is my god I would follow him down an erupting volcano he makes cute 'snoo-snoo' sounds when he sleeps he is perfect he could punch you into the sun bitch watch out "…is my… housemate…"

A low groan—the sound of Genos' gears straining as he battled his inner fanboy. Saitama prayed to all the pagan gods of the world to send lightning smashing through the glass to strike Amai down. Then they could go home and live happily ever after.

The idol lifted a brow. "Just friends?"

"No, duh, Demon Cyborg is definitely my wife," Saitama growled. "Lay off!"

"His thing is one punch, not one jump," said Genos. "Besides, there is no oxygen. It's blisteringly cold. No humancould do it. Your man is more likely a remote-controlled robot, like Metal Knight."

"Unlikely. Boifoi may have the face of a naked mole-rat, but he is not a traitor." Amai said. "Plus, he understands the situation—we change, or we die."

"We can change without milking people of their money."

The disdain in Amai's expression darkened. "It seems you're still just a child. A pity, because now you're literally wasted resources. Prepare to greet your parents in the afterlife. Honestly, I think they'll understand."

Genos didn't react. No grimace or glare. Yet there was a stutter in his impassivity and then something else more vulnerable.

That flicker of hurt torched the last shreds of Saitama's patience and left a new fire in its wake. "Listen, you shithead," he said. "While some people may have swallowed your version of justice, I'll bet that even you won't know what to do once your find your man. He must be powerful beyond imagination. You're an idiot to think you can harness that."

Amai turned in his direction, Genos forgotten. Saitama had never bragged during his stint as a hero; he hadn't been that type of person, or so he'd thought. Really, he'd been saving it for this day, when it would mean something. All those moments of being slandered and unappreciated felt like nuisances in comparison to the truth, and he realized that, for the first time, he was proud to be who he was.

"You can try to disguise your fuck-ups—" he prodded Amai in the chest. "—but your shit is smeared all over you, and the stink will never leave."

Never had words felt so much like a fist. "Wash yourself all you want. We know who you really are."

If Amai Mask could shoot acid from his eyes, Saitama's face would be a bubbling puddle on the floor. But he couldn't. Couldn't do anything but boil. Saitama, however, was done. He picked up their bags and turned to Genos. "Let's leave."

Amai blocked his path, all teeth. "If you know something, you better spill. Withholding information on this issue is a crime."

"Pfttt. Even if I knew anything, you would have to strip it from me." Saitama grabbed Genos' wrist and pushed past. He did not look back.

They wove their way across the deck. Genos let himself be pulled along, a little stunned. Then he wrapped his hand around Saitama's wrist and squeezed. They dropped into a casual pace, gradually changing from holding wrists to holding hands. Despite the intimate nature of their living habits, it was something they'd never done before. Now, it just felt right.

"I've decided who I hate more," Genos said.

"Uh, yeah, that guy is so cold you could freeze otterpops in his asshole."

The leftover adrenaline kept their laughter at bay. Sweat cloyed the small of Saitama's back, and his pulse was dancing double-time. Now that Amai was no longer being an immediate buttpain, the weight of his words descended upon him. "Do you think…"

"Was it risky? Definitely. Does he know anything incriminating? No. Still, I hope sensei never does that again, even though I felt very special."

"Dude, you are super special. I mean..." That look didn't belong on Genos' face, not if Saitama could help it.

"I know, sensei. Thank you. On further note, I think we better tell someone what you've done to the moon—"

"What? Really!?"

"Someone trustworthy, who won't tell the authorities." Genos stopped them. "Let's face it—we are not going to solve this problem by ourselves. It is literally astronomical. We need help."

Dr. Kuseno, the smartest brain between the two of them, was still not an astrophysicist. They could not count on any of Dr. Kuseno's astrophysicist friends to keep mum. "I used to want everyone in the world to know of you, to truly know of you," said Genos. "Now, however, that would cause mass panic. People would want to lock you up but, realizing nothing can hold you, the next thing would be something like poisoning you in your sleep."

"What a comforting thought."

"Exactly why we need to solve this. The sooner the better."

Genos wrangled some of the shopping bags out of Saitama's hand and flung them over his shoulder. They continued into a suspended hallway, sheets of water pooling down the glass walls. In the blurry distance, the HA tower was flickering back to life. "Hey, you know," Saitama said, "Amai Mask doesn't tell people the truth, but… neither are we."

To his surprise, Genos answered easily. "I would never tell anyone about this if harm would come to you, sensei. Though it may make me a hypocrite, I don't care."

Saitama's nose scrunched. "You're certainly not as bad as Amai Mask though."

"I don't care if it makes me even worse than him. I would never give you up," Genos said. "Everyday, I choose not to give you up." The cyborg turned away, suddenly bashful.

Saitama flushed, a note of thrill mixing with the usual embarrassment. The heat staved off the chill, strengthened him. "Not even when the world is ending, huh?" he said.

"The world will be fine—we'll make sure of that. But if someone were to give you a fatal dosage of cyanide in the middle of the night, applying it via cotton swab to the mucous membranes of your nostrils, I would…" Genos kept his gaze on his shoes. "I would not be fine. At all."

Saitama felt a little floaty inside. He laughed it off. "Is that how you would do it? Put cyanide up my nose?"

"Sensei, please take this seriously. Cyanide is not a happy death."

"Aw, whatever! I know you'd wake up in time to save me."

Blush dusted Genos' cheek, and his lips wobbled into a smile. Saitama could tell that he was trying not to preen. Saitama squeezed his hand. "Don't worry, man. I'm not going anywhere."

They rushed outside into an adjacent tea shop; anything to add a little distance between them and Amai Mask. Nursing steaming styrofoam cups, they listened to the rain drum on for one, two, three more hours, before stepping out under a drier gray sky.

They split up to cover the last of their shopping list, Saitama heading to City G's poultry market while Genos hunted for a petroleum tank at City F's recycling plant. Saitama spent the better part of an hour haggling with three different sellers. The last bird he'd been going for had two heads. That was, in Saitama's opinion, a reason to drop the price, yet the grandma who'd raised the flock argued that two heads meant more meat, which meant more money. Saitama grumbled as he trudged towards the train station with no chicken to speak of.

The sun was low, and the street abandoned. A crash echoed from the alleyway up ahead. An animal, Saitama thought, until a monster stumbled out. It reminded Saitama of Pig God—bloated and pink with exertion—except instead of flubby spare tires it was swollen tight, a ripened balloon of a creature. It moaned, low and pained, before staggering in his direction.

Monsters never frightened Saitama anymore; most of them just looked like bad anime villains. This one, though, was freaky. For all its deformities, it looked too human.

Saitama was about to get gory when a motorcycle screamed past him, charging down the monster. The creature had only a second to scream before the bike popped back and flew in for a Justice Crash to the face. Blood and plasma spurted as tires shredded flesh. The horror movie concluded with the bike landing on top of its prey, grinding once more before wheeling into the road to face Saitama.

Mumen Rider popped the shield of his helmet. "Good evening, Saitama."

"Hey, Mumen," Saitama said when he had recovered from the gorefest. "Can we go this way?" He wandered out of the path of red.

Mumen gutted the engine of his bike and pushed it along. "You look... good. Tired, but good."

"Oh? Thanks. You look…" He couldn't see anything beyond those smudged glasses.

Mumen laughed, pulling his helmet off. "I'm good. It's not every day that I get to help you."

They reached a roadside bench, a spot overlooking the sleeping port. Mumen reached into his jacket and pulled out a smartphone. "Sorry, I've got to report that encounter."

"How's work?"

"Fubuki drives us hard and expertly. I've been doing so much since joining the Blizzards."

Saitama smiled, feeling more at ease about Fubuki since he'd last seen her. "I'm glad you're part of her group. She needs people like you."

"It's scary how influential Amai Mask can be. Honestly, if I hadn't known Fubuki before the scandal broke, I might still be with the HA." Mumen slid the phone back into his pocket. "How are things with Genos?"

"Huh? Oh, fine. He's fine," said Saitama. "I cook, he cleans. He cooks, and I read manga."

Mumen smiled. "Sounds like bliss. I'm happy for you guys." Saitama shrugged. Weird thing to say, but whatever.

"Also, can I ask you something?" said Mumen. "Are you the guy that everyone's talking about? The moon-guy?"

Saitama groaned. "Does everybody I've ever met know this?"

"Oh, god, it is you!" Mumen let out a bark of laughter, though it wasn't entirely humorous. "So, like, you can fix this right? Tell me you can fix this."

"I have no idea how to fix this. I have to find someone who has some sort of idea." Saitama slumped, his spine curling into the curve of the bench.

"Mmmm," said Mumen. The ocean reflected off his glasses. All that biker gear couldn't hide his baby face. It reassured Saitama that not all soft, kind things had fled in this world.

He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. The water shhhushed into his ear.

"You know," said Mumen, "I think I know that exact someone."

Saitama turned towards Mumen so fast that his neck cracked. "Who?!"

"With the company you keep, you may have met him already. He's—" His phone beeped. "Sorry."

"Hey, tell me!" said Saitama, though a small part of himself delighted at watching someone be on-call. Being unemployed had its moments.

The cheer was short-lived. Mumen stiffened, staring harder at his phone. His face paled.

"What's wrong?" Saitama asked. Mumen didn't respond. He got up and strode across the street.

"Hey!" When Mumen walked onwards, Saitama got up and jogged after him.

The biker stood over the remains of the monster, his toes in the pool of blood. He stared at the corpse, at his phone, and the corpse again. Saitama peered at the screen from over the biker's shoulder. It showed a picture of a man—late forties, skin sagging on a hollowed face. Saitama read the caption on the side—Yamamoto Daisuke, 42, escaped from G Psychiatric Ward after having a severe reaction to a vaccination.

Saitama thought he looked familiar, and that was when he looked down at the corpse. "Holy shit…"

Mumen drifted away, dropping into a squat a few yards from the body. His head fell into his hands.

"Easy, try not to freak out," Saitama said, though he was screaming a little on the inside. The encounter played back in his mind. He remembered the moaning. Maybe that had been a cry for help.

"I have to call the police." Mumen took his phone back from Saitama but couldn't punch in the numbers for the shaking of his hands.

Saitama took it from him and finished the job. He did the talking, too, and found himself calling it an accident—because it had been, of sorts, right? When all was said, they sat on the curb and waited. "You okay?" he asked Mumen.

"He did look like a monster," Mumen muttered. "He really did." His voice was hard and cold.

Saitama sat next to him on the curb. "If it wasn't you who killed him, it was going to be me. And if it wasn't me, it might have been someone else."

"Yeah, but it wound up being me. What is his family going to say? And, oh, the Blizzard Bunch is so fucked." Mumen hid his face in his hands.

The HA was often snapping at the throat of the Blizzards' legitimacy. HA press reps took every opportunity to criticize their rival organization, and Amai Mask frequently called them a potential threat to social order. His social order.

"This could be the end," Mumen murmured through his fingers.

The authorities arrived, sirens flashing. The police, looking at the body and then at the well-respected hero, also seemed unsure what to do, but in the end they cuffed Mumen and headed towards the city jail. They took Saitama too, in a different car. The next hours were spent boxed in an interrogation room, where they asked him the same question many times in different words.

At last, they let him go. Saitama asked them what was going to happen to his friend. They said it wasn't up to them.

When he got home, night had settled. The wind cut through every threadhole in his sweater. He'd never been so glad to see their little candle of a window and the tiny cyborg figure leaning out of it, hailing him like a soldier returning home.

He felt ready to drop once the door closed behind him. The three puppies were guzzling the dinner that Genos had laid out on the kotatsu. The cyborg chased them away, apron strings flying, but the damage had been done. "That's okay," Saitama said over the spray of rice and pickled cabbage. "I'm not really hungry anyways. Let's just go to bed."

As they crawled into their tent, Saitama told Genos about what had happened. "This is terrible," said the cyborg.

"Yeah," Saitama. "The freakiest thing is that I, like, was totally gonna punch that guy and no one would have ever found him because he'd be in bits."

His pillow felt heavenly, as did Genos' toasty chest as they spooned. Saitama closed his eyes, waiting for sleep, when something warm and supple licked the back of his head. "That is what my tongue feels like," Genos murmured, his words warm on the shell of his ear.

Saitama was reminded of a mother cat licking its kittens. "Way better than submarines," he mumbled, the last of the day's tension melting away. He would have knocked out then and there except the tent flaps whispered the arrival of a guest. Saitama and Genos rolled over to see the creamy omega, Latte.

They watched, wonder tingeing their sleepy expressions, as the puppy trotted over to Genos. The cyborg tensed, at which the puppy merely sniffed and continued nosing around. He pawed the comforter twice before laying his head on the cyborg's thigh. His big moon-eyes rolled up to look at them, the rest of him sinking into the cush.

The men stared. Latte blinked long and languorously, leaning into the pull of sleep.

"Hey," Saitama whispered, "make it move to the middle so we can share it."

"I don't know how to do that," Genos whispered back.

Latte sighed, nostrils quivering as he descended into dreamland. Saitama gazed at Genos' thigh with mounting jealousy. As it became clear that Latte was going to be a cyborg-exclusive cuddle-buddy, Saitama wiggled out of the blankets and pushed out of the tent.

A moment. Then Genos watched two puppy-shaped silhouettes dart past, chased by a bald shadow. The cyborg couldn't find it humorous, too wound up about the small, delicate life peacing out on his leg. He craned his head up, whispering so as not to wake the omega, "Sensei! Come back!"

A faint curse from outside the tent, and then all was quiet. Genos decided that he could not do much more than lay back. Latte felt warm and heavy on his leg, and the darkness was bundled cozily around him. The last thing he registered before falling asleep was the slightest movement, Latte snuggling closer, sharing in his heat.

Author's Notes: Thank you for reading!