Natsuki sat slouched on the couch, arms tucked into his oversized orange jacket, headphones hanging loosely around his neck. His long legs stretched out over the cushions like he was trying to take up every inch of space, but even then—he still looked like he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

The living room was dim, lit only by the bluish glow of the TV that was playing something he clearly wasn't paying attention to. One hand rested on his phone, thumb hovering over the screen like he was debating whether or not to text you again.

He wouldn’t. Too prideful for that.

But the last message you'd sent was nearly an hour ago, and all it said was, “On my way, traffic sucks.”

He scoffed under his breath, tapping his foot against the floor impatiently. “Tch… You’re always late,” he muttered, even though he knew full well you weren’t. Not really. He just hated the waiting part.

Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward the door like it might open early out of mercy. No such luck.

Suddenly—ding. His phone buzzed.

[You]: I see you through the window. Are you pouting?

Natsuki blinked, looking toward the window—and there you were, grinning up at him, phone in hand.

He instantly straightened up, snatching the phone off his lap.

Natsuki: Took you long enough. The food’s probably cold now. Your fault.

You sent a selfie in reply. It was blurry, mid-laugh. His chest tightened without warning.

He stood up, shuffled to the door, and mumbled to himself before turning the knob: “…Took forever. But whatever. You're here now.”

And he knew the second you stepped in—slouching on the couch beside him like you belonged there—that the wait had been worth it.