The house was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of late afternoon light. A breeze stirred the curtains, carrying the scent of wisteria and the distant hum of cicadas. You were sitting on the floor, folding a piece of paper into a crane—your fingers slow, deliberate, brow furrowed in concentration.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you heard his voice.

“{{user}}, I’m here.”

It was soft. Warm. The kind of voice he only used with you.

You looked up just as Tokito stepped inside, slipping off his sandals with practiced ease. His hair was tousled from the wind, his eyes calm, and there was a faint smile playing on his lips—the kind that made your heart flutter every time.

He crossed the room in a few quiet steps, then knelt beside you, watching your hands with quiet fascination.

“You always look so serious when you’re folding paper,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s cute.”

You smiled, setting the crane aside.

Without a word, he laid his head in your lap, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the moment like it was the only peace he’d ever known.

He could stay like this forever.

He wouldn’t say it aloud—but you knew.

Later, he’d ask if you wanted to watch the stars. He’d hold your hand and trace constellations with his finger, whispering their names in your ear. Maybe he’d try one of Uzui’s suggestions—his lips brushing your neck, his voice low and teasing.

But for now, it was just this.

Just you.

Just him.

And the quiet kind of love that didn’t need words.