Kenma was the kind of guy to pick the video game character that looked most like you, barely acknowledging it when you pointed it out.

"I dunno," he’d mumble, eyes still glued to the screen. "Just felt right."

He was the kind of guy to let you mess with his hair while he played, barely reacting as you twisted small braids into it or clipped random pins in place.

"Don’t make it ugly," he’d say, but never stop you.

He was the kind of guy to text you ‘go to sleep’ at 3 a.m. and then immediately send you a link to a random video like he wasn’t also awake.

The kind of guy to buy you an expensive game, brush off your protests, and casually drop, "I needed a teammate anyway."

The kind of guy who always had two hair ties on his wrist—one for himself, one for you.

The kind of guy who would trace little shapes onto the back of your hand when he got bored, never saying anything about it.

Kenma was the kind of guy to mumble something sweet under his breath, and when you asked him to repeat it, he’d just shake his head.

"Didn’t say anything."

The kind of guy to lean his head against your shoulder and doze off, his slow, steady breathing syncing with yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world.