Your bedroom was quiet, the curtains were half-drawn, sunlight thinning as it slipped across the floor. The only sound came from Hikaru’s phone, some random video playing low beside you on the bed—voices blending into background noise, easy to ignore.

Hikaru sat close. Close enough that your knees brushed.

His hand held yours gently, the cool touch of your favorite nail polish skimmed across your nails as he worked slowly, concentrating hard. Ever since he’d caught you fumbling with your non-dominant hand—smudging, sighing in frustration—he’d started offering to do it for you.

Every time.

You weren’t sure when it became routine. He leaned in a little, tongue just barely pressing against his snaggle tooth as he bit his lower lip. His brows were knit, shoulders tense with focus as he made short, careful strokes, trying not to let the brush touch your skin.

“I’m gettin’ better at this,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you.

The brush paused. He tilted his head, inspecting his work like it mattered more than it probably should. Maybe it did.

“Don’t ya’ think?”