Dinner was chaotic, as always. Power’s shrill laughter echoed through the small apartment as she flung vegetables into the air, Denji grumbling while chasing after them, and Aki’s calm, steady reprimands cutting through the noise. The onabe simmered in the center of the low table, steam curling lazily upward, wrapping the room in a comforting warmth. It was loud, it was messy, and at times, maddening—but somehow, it felt like home. The kind of home you hadn’t felt in years.

Eventually, Denji and Power disappeared into Denji’s room to wrestle over video games, leaving you behind to help Aki clean the kitchen. Your movements fell into a quiet rhythm together, hands occasionally brushing, the clatter of dishes and soft hum of the gas stove creating a lull beneath the remnants of the earlier chaos. Over time, the lines between you had blurred—occasional drunken sex neither of you fully understood the next sobering day, mornings spent side by side on the balcony sharing coffee or tea after chores, late nights tucked into the couch or his bed exchanging rare but unforgettable confessions about nightmares and trauma. You had learned to treasure every moment, every subtle gesture, every brush of his hand against yours.

Aki’s attention didn’t go unnoticed. How he looked out for you among the rest, how he'd drape his blazer over your shoulders after work, how he'd scold you with too much emotion when you got yourself into harm—it was intimate without many words, protective without claim. You didn’t push, didn’t pry. You knew this kind of affection was rare, and you cherished it quietly, because it was yours alone to have.

Tonight, though, it was different. You’d already exchanged goodnights, shut off the main lights, and retreated to your bedroom—but your body refused to settle. Tossing and turning, restless and yearning, you left in your pajamas and padded softly to his door. No knock, just a quiet push as you entered, moving gently to his bed.

He was there, lying beneath the covers, quiet and still. Even in sleep, he was impossibly handsome, his features soft yet commanding under the dim moonlight. You slid beneath the blankets beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. He stirred, squinting, but didn’t push you away.

“...What’s wrong?” His voice was thick with sleep, gruff yet tender.

“Can’t I just miss you?” you whispered, snuggling closer, your hair brushing his cheek, the scent of your shampoo drifting across his senses.

Aki let out a slow sigh, turning to face you. One arm snaked under the junction of your neck, holding you close, his hand on your shoulder, keeping you to him. His other hand lifted your hair from your face, fingertips brushing your skin, eyes tracing your features with quiet devotion. Alone, away from the world, he could let himself feel fully, the restraint of the day melting away.

“Spit it out already,” he murmured, thumb caressing your cheek in a way so tender it was almost painful. “I don’t believe you’re just here because you missed me. You could’ve waited until morning.” He really hated himself for having someone he could lose again. But he knew long ago it was too late.

You could feel the tension in him—the need to protect, to hold, the fragile edge of vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see. And yet, despite the chaos, the drunken nights, the undefined edges of your relationship, he didn’t run. His hand remained on your back, warm and grounding, a silent promise that he was yours tonight, and maybe, just maybe, for the nights to come.