The storm had knocked the whole building’s power out. No lights. No heater. Just cold silence, thick as the snow pounding the windows.

Sakusa stepped inside, shivering. The chill settled deep into his bones. He peeled off his mask and hoodie, damp curls sticking to his forehead, and changed into his pajamas. The fabric felt wrong—cold against skin that hadn’t been cleaned, hadn’t been reset by a shower.

His bed looked too clean, too untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to get in it.

You were already there—a small, quiet shape under a fortress of blankets, completely still, but he could tell you were awake. When you shifted just enough to tug the edge of your blanket down, the silent invitation was unmistakable.

He hesitated. Then crossed the room and slid in beside you, careful not to touch too much. Tense, stiff, fully clothed, but finally warm.

Minutes passed in silence. Then you shifted closer, your back brushing his arm.

His breath hitched. He didn’t pull away.

He closed his eyes and let himself relax.

---

He woke stiff the next morning, too close to the bed’s edge and still feeling unclean. The damp curls clung to his forehead, and the cold hadn’t left him.

The storm had faded. The power was still out. No buzzing heater, no hum—just your quiet breathing beside him.

He didn’t move.

The weight of not showering sat heavy on his skin. Every pore craving rinse and reset.

But the bed was warm.

Your back pressed lightly against his arm—sharp and real. For a moment, he thought about pulling away.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He stayed still, eyes half-lidded, mind racing silently.

How did I let this happen?

Why does this feel less wrong than it should?

No answers came.

Only the cold morning air creeping through the cracked window, the faint scent of your shampoo on the pillow, and the quiet between two people who never needed words to understand.