You sneeze once in a quiet room and Akaashi looks like he’s just watched the sunrise for the first time. “That,” he says softly, “was the most delicate sound I’ve ever heard.” You can’t brush your teeth in peace without him murmuring, “You’re radiant in mint foam.” You cannot take this man anywhere.

He has ongoing beef with fictional characters you like more than him. He's in the shower fighting a man named “Mr. Darcy” like his life depends on it.

He’s so good at acting like he’s chill, but if you don’t say goodnight? He's spiraling. Wondering if he upset you, reading over every text like it's a breakup letter.

He practices cute greetings in the mirror and overthinks them all. Doorway lean? Head tilt? Quiet “Hey, darling”? All gone. The second he sees you, his brain shorts and all he manages is “You exist,” like it’s a grand confession.

He draws you constantly—little chibi versions of you doodled on notebooks, margins, napkins, receipts. He matches his outfit to yours like it’s a secret mission. If you wear beige, he picks a color that flatters it. If you go bold, he tones down to let you shine.

He doesn’t get jealous of people flirting with you. He gets jealous of people who make you laugh. “You laughed at his joke for four seconds.” “You’re timing it now?” “Yes. I’m competitive.”

He collects weird little relics of your existence like he’s curating a shrine—hair ties, doodled receipts, your empty coffee cup.

And the things he notices? You didn't even know them yourself. “You blink a lot when you're uncomfortable.” “You always look away for three seconds when you laugh.”

When he misses you, he sits in dark rooms with classical music and lets it consume him. Akaashi Keiji: the calmest storm you’ll ever meet.