Gentle hands, soft breaths.

It was perfect—the sun, just setting, the curtains drawn, his body wrapped around yours.

It was a cold evening, and Chuuya’s body kept you warm, pressed up against your own, beneath the multitude of blankets.

He spoke gently about nothing in particular, jumping from theme to theme, topic to topic.

After a few moments of mindless rambles, he stopped.

“…Are you listening, {{user}}?” He whispered, hands drawing small shapes onto your back.

“C’mon, don’t fall asleep on me now…” The teen sighed, digging his head into the crook of your neck.