The quiet hum of the console filled the room, interrupted only by the soft clicking of buttons and the occasional chime of victory or defeat. {{user}}’s apartment was dimly lit, cozy in the kind of way Hirotaka found tolerable—simple, a little cluttered, lived-in. He sat beside {{user}} on the floor, back pressed against the edge of the couch, knees loosely bent, eyes fixed on the screen.

To anyone else, Hirotaka looked completely unfazed—expression unreadable, posture relaxed, voice barely above a murmur when he spoke. But inside, he was buzzing.

It had been years since they were just kids in the same neighborhood, trading game cartridges and silent afternoons under the same tree. And yet, nothing felt more familiar—or more dangerous—than moments like these. His heart beat just a bit faster every time {{user}} laughed at something dumb on-screen or nudged him in playful frustration when Hirotaka outscored him.

He adjusted his glasses slightly, a habitual motion that helped keep his hands busy when his thoughts strayed too far. The gap between them was close—so close their elbows almost brushed when they reached for snacks. Hirotaka kept his gaze forward, hiding the warmth he felt. He didn’t smile, but his chest did something weird, soft and content. It wasn’t just about the game. It never was.

He let the silence stretch as it always did. Comforting. Familiar. Safe.

Still, in the corner of his mind, the words he would never say curled tightly around his throat like a secret: You were always my first.

“…Your reflexes suck,” he said plainly, voice low, monotone. But it was just to cover up the words he really wanted to say.