Haru
Akira watches from the bar as Haru stretches one leg over her head. He stopped before her—he almost always drops out of practice ten to fifteen minutes before her and she never guilts him over it—but it just means he's got space to appreciate the fact that she's a fucking beast.
Beast or not, though, even she's had enough. She holds the pose for only a few seconds after the song ends, and Akira applauds with a deliberate, golf-like politeness. Haru huffs out a quiet laugh and plants her hands on her hips.
"That's not very enthusiastic," she points out.
"If I interrupt the class downstairs again, I think I'll wind up thrown out of the studio," Akira replies. "Besides, the best way to celebrate is food, not clapping."
As if on cue, Haru's stomach growls. She blinks down at it as if it's the first time she's ever heard it do that.
"I suppose it is," she agrees.
"Come on," Akira insists wryly, heading over to where their bags and street shoes are waiting. Soon enough, they're both ready to go, and Haru curls one hand around Akira's elbow when he offers his arm.
They make it down the stairs when Haru giggles and says, "I might have overdone it today."
Akira needs no further encouragement—he never needs all that much encouragement—to scoop her off of her feet. Haru squeals out a startled laugh.
"You can't carry me the whole way to your bike like this," she protests.
"Station, actually," he corrects her. "I took the train."
"That's even farther!"
Akira thinks this over for a second, before he shrugs melodramatically, sets her down, and crouches. "All aboard."
Haru huffs and rolls her eyes, even as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and lets him pick her back up.
"Some day," she predicts, "you will be a little old man with a terrible back, and everyone will know exactly why."
He grins over his shoulder at her as he starts walking. "Yeah, but then I'll just hold it over all of your heads and you'll pamper me."
"We would do that anyway, silly."