Kento stood outside your apartment, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other clenched into a fist. He’d knocked—firmly, not relentlessly. He wasn’t the type to make a scene, even when the silence between you had become unbearable. Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since the two of you walked away, pretending the damage wasn’t mutual. No calls. No messages. Just quiet distance… and one missing shirt he couldn’t stop thinking about.

The door finally opened, and there you stood—wearing his shirt. Or rather, the one he’d been searching for. Loose at the shoulders, barely skimming your thighs. His expression didn’t falter, but his gaze lingered a little too long before he looked away, jaw tight.

“…Came for my shirt,” he muttered, the words clipped, almost mechanical. Like if he said them without emotion, they wouldn’t betray the way his chest ached just seeing you again. The pause stretched. He didn’t step inside. Didn’t ask how you were. But his eyes—those calm, tired eyes—held a flicker of something raw, something unresolved.*

You could feel it. The weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.