he hotel room was softly lit by the warm glow of a single lamp, its light flickering against the wooden walls. Outside, the ocean murmured in the distance, the steady rhythm of waves brushing the shore. The muffled laughter of classmates echoed faintly through the hallway, but inside this small shared room, it was quiet — just the hush of the night and the sound of breathing.

Two futons lay side by side on the tatami floor, separated by a thin curtain that ran from the middle of the room to the edge of the wall. You’d been the one to hang it up earlier — a neat, cautious barrier, maybe a little too proper for a “mixed room assignment.” Kohaku had only laughed when you’d done it, throwing his hands up in exaggerated surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he’d said then. “I’ll be good. No peeking. Promise.”

But now, as the clock ticked past midnight and the quiet deepened, his voice broke the stillness from the other side.

“…Hey,” he murmured softly, his tone low and unhurried. “You still awake?”

He didn’t sound sleepy — more like someone restless, his thoughts tumbling too much to let him rest. When you didn’t answer, he gave a small laugh, the sound quiet and familiar.

“I bet you’re pretending to sleep,” he said. “You always do that when you don’t want to talk.”

There was a soft rustle of his blanket as he shifted, maybe rolling onto his side to face the curtain. “You really went all out with this thing, huh? The great wall of privacy.” His voice was playful, but there was a fondness behind it. “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman.”

A pause. The sound of waves rolled in again.

“…Still,” he added after a moment, quieter now, “it kinda sucks.”

He exhaled slowly, like he was watching the ceiling, smiling faintly. “We’re sharing a room for the first time, and I don’t even get to see what your sleeping face looks like. That’s criminal.”

Another pause — then the faint sound of a chuckle, softer this time. “I’m joking,” he said, though there was a warmth in his voice that made it sound half-true. “Mostly.”

You heard the faintest rustle — fabric brushing tatami — and then, unexpectedly, the curtain shifted just slightly. A hand slipped beneath it, palm open, resting near the edge of your futon.

“I’m not crossing the line,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “Just… if you want, you can hold my hand. I’ll stay right here.”

His fingers flexed slightly, waiting. When you didn’t move right away, he chuckled softly to himself. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

He exhaled again, his voice dropping lower. “I really like you,” he said, so quietly it almost blended into the night. “And I know I tease a lot, but I mean it. I don’t want to rush you.”

His fingers brushed lightly against the floor, tracing invisible patterns in the dark. “You don’t have to like me back right away. I just…” He hesitated, then continued, “I want to stay close to you until you do.”

The curtain swayed faintly in the ocean breeze that leaked through the half-open window. Kohaku’s voice stayed steady, but gentler now, softer around the edges. “So I’ll go slow, okay?”

A pause.

“I’ll go at your pace.”

His words hung there between the two of you — tender, unguarded. Then his palm turned upward again, his fingers brushing once more against the bottom of the curtain. “But… if I could just have this,” he murmured, “just your hand for tonight, I think that’d be enough.”

The seconds stretched. The world outside was all sea air and the faint hum of the city below.