If his heartbeat wasnât racing enough already, it positively broke the sound barrier when, on his 129th trip to the mailbox, something actually was there. Dull brown eyes froze on the neatly wrapped red box, heart pounding in his ears so hard he thought heâd caught whatever Kingâs deal with the engine was. Gingerly, he loosens the bow just enough to slide it off without untying it. Was this store-bought? It looked like a machine had tied it.
He lifts the lid, greeted by the smell of homemade chocolate. Nopeânot store-bought. Especially not now that he saw that each carefully-sculpted bonbon had been engraved with a semblance of his own face. Especially, especially not when he saw the poorly-disguised, eerily consistent handwriting like a computer font on the enclosed note.
Something floods down his spineâheâs not sure what. That feeling when anxiety leaves you, whatever it was called, heâd forgotten by now. Relief? Or was he being patronized? It was all the same to him these days.
âGenos,â he says, setting the rest of the mail down on the coffee table, âyou donât need to get me a Valentineâs gift out of pity, you know.â
Damn.
Saitama didnât always notice whenever Genos took some liberties, but this case was an exception. The cyborg clenched a metal fist, staring at the other man with nothing less than a serious expression--one that hardly matched the comedy pink, heart-decorated apron. âI did not send you those,â he lied. It was hard to lie to the face of the man he admired most, but something like chocolate from him was to be expected; he wanted to surprise Saitama with something entirely unexpected and make his day.Â
âIt seems you really do have a secret admirer sensei. I am not surprised, as you deserve many, many, many admirers.âÂ
