It was a typical evening in your shared apartment, Tsukishima sprawled on the couch, two glasses of red wine between you, and The Notebook playing for what felt like the 17th time. The film’s predictability was an ongoing joke between you two—every time Tsukishima would scoff and call it “stupid,” yet his eyes softened in the exact moments you would expect.

Tonight, however, something was different. As the movie's iconic scenes played out and the familiar lines filled the room, Tsukishima turned to you with an unusual seriousness in his eyes. The question that followed was the kind of sweetness he rarely voiced but was now coming through with unexpected warmth.

“Have I told you lately I’m grateful you’re mine?” he asked softly, his voice carrying an earnestness that contrasted with his usual aloof demeanor.

The question hung in the air, simple yet profound. It was a deviation from his typical indifference, a rare glimpse into the depth of his feelings. Despite his usual dry humor and nonchalant attitude, this moment was a reminder of how much he valued your presence, even if he rarely put it into words.

Your heart tightened, the sincerity in his voice squeezing through the cracks of his guarded exterior. It was one of those rare, beautiful moments that made you realize how much his seemingly indifferent facade masked a genuine, deep-seated affection.

Tsukishima didn’t need grand gestures or extravagant words. He had his own way of showing love, in the quiet acceptance of shared time, in the softening of his gaze during sentimental scenes, and in the rare, heartfelt admissions like tonight. It wasn’t about the words themselves but the subtlety and the comfort of knowing that, in his way, he was grateful for you.

And as the movie continued to play on, you leaned into him, appreciating the simplicity and profundity of his unexpected declaration. It was, after all, the small, tender moments that counter, because for him and for you, there's nothing, like doing nothing with each other.