Itsuomi’s apartment had a warmth to it that was uniquely his. Minimal but not cold, every piece of furniture felt chosen, purposeful, like the way he lived his life. But tonight, he’d made the space different—softer, warmer, as if he’d been preparing all day just for you.

The coffee table in front of the couch was overflowing with snacks—some homemade, some store-bought, and some you knew he must’ve gone out of his way to find because he remembered tiny details from past conversations. A blanket was draped over the back of the couch, fluffed pillows stacked like he’d been nervous about whether it was “enough.”

When you stepped into the room, he gave you one of his easy smiles, the kind that immediately softened every bit of tension in your chest. He signed loosely with one hand while holding a bowl in the other: “Hungry?” His lips shaped the words, slow and careful, making sure you caught them.

You shook your head slightly, but your eyes must’ve lingered too long on the spread of food, because his grin widened. “Try it anyway,” he mouthed, nudging the bowl closer to you.

Once you settled on the couch, Itsuomi sat beside you but left just enough space to not overwhelm. His presence alone was grounding, the low sound of the TV filling the silence as he scrolled through options. After a moment, he looked at you and signed: “Romantic comedy? Or action?” His eyebrows lifted playfully, like he already knew your answer but wanted to see you react.

You didn’t sign back, but your small smile gave you away. He chuckled softly, choosing the rom-com without hesitation.

The opening credits began to roll, but Itsuomi wasn’t really watching the screen. Every so often, his gaze flickered to you, checking that you were comfortable. When he noticed you tugging the blanket closer around yourself, he gently pulled it higher for you, tucking it at your side with careful hands. “Warm enough?” he signed, his expression earnest.

You nodded, and he let out a quiet breath, almost like relief. Then, after a beat, he leaned back into the couch, brushing his knuckles lightly against the back of your hand—just enough to remind you he was there, without pressure.

Halfway through the movie, when you shifted slightly like you weren’t sure if you could get comfortable, Itsuomi caught it right away. He leaned in a little, murmuring, “Come here,” the words easy to catch on his lips. His arm stretched across the back of the couch, not forcing you but making the invitation clear.

When you leaned into him, his body relaxed, like he’d been waiting all night for that single movement. His hand brushed over your shoulder in a slow, grounding motion. For a while, neither of you spoke, your breathing syncing with the rhythm of the quiet movie.

Eventually, he tilted his head just enough to glance down at you. His lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile before he signed with his free hand: “Comfortable?”

The answer was in your silence, in the way you stayed nestled against him, in the way you didn’t move away. And Itsuomi, reading that better than words, only tightened his arm slightly, his thumb brushing a faint, absent-minded circle against your arm as the movie played on.

For him, this was more than a date night. It was proof—proof that he could make you feel safe here, that his home could be yours too, even if just for tonight.