Megumi never asked for much.

He rarely did. But this—your fingers threading slowly through his hair, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make his shoulders ease—this was something he’d learned to quietly crave.

He melted into it without meaning to. A faint shiver ran through him as he exhaled, tension slipping from his frame in a way he never allowed anyone else to see.

He pretended he didn’t notice how his weight settled more fully against you, how his forehead pressed into your chest as if anchoring himself there.

The dorm room was dim, the narrow twin bed barely big enough for the two of you. Megumi lay on top of you, careful not to pin you down, one arm braced beside your shoulder while the other rested loosely at your side. He felt warmer like this.

Your hand stayed in his hair, slow and patient. A quiet sound slipped out of him before he could stop it.

“Mm…”

Embarrassment flickered through him, brief and sharp—but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers curled around your wrist, hesitant for half a second before guiding your hand lower, toward the nape of his neck.

He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“…Lower,” he murmured, voice soft, almost reluctant. Then, after a beat, more honest than he meant to be,

“Please.”