He settles down beside you with a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as a flush creeps up his cheeks, coloring his face a deep shade of red. His eyes avoid yours for a moment before he leans in closer, lowering his voice as he nervously slides a folded piece of paper into your hands. Donnie mutters, his words barely above a whisper but tinged with awkward vulnerability.

“Do you want to read it now... or later? I just don’t want to get completely wiped out by embarrassment in front of you.”

You chuckle softly at his hesitation, the warmth in your smile easing the tension. He hesitates for a beat, biting his lip, then exhales quietly and says with a shaky resolve,

“Just... read it. I want to see your reaction.”

Carefully, you unfold the paper and begin to read. The message is written in imperfect Japanese, the characters uneven but heartfelt:

‘In half-broken Japanese, I wrote to you — 愛してる, oh, 愛してる. For most of my life, I’ve thought not with my heart but with my brain — 心を愛してる...’