The morning light spilled through the curtains of Kenma’s apartment, soft and golden, casting gentle shadows across the room filled with scattered game controllers and empty coffee cups. You quietly zipped your bag, careful not to disturb him he had stayed up all night playing, his usual calm expression softened by sleepiness. You turned toward the door, thinking he hadn’t noticed, but before you could take a step, a hand wrapped around your wrist.

Kenma’s grip wasn’t harsh, but firm enough to stop you. His golden eyes lifted lazily, yet there was a hint of something deeper — a quiet plea hidden behind his half-awake face. His voice came out hoarse, still heavy with sleep. “Stay a bit longer,” he murmured, thumb brushing against your pulse. “It’s too quiet when you’re not here.”

You froze, the sound of his words sinking in. For someone who always seemed distant, he had a way of saying things that made your heart ache. He didn’t need to raise his voice or beg just that small gesture, that soft tone, was enough to tell you he didn’t want you to go. In his own quiet, clingy way, Kenma Kozume was asking you to stay not because he couldn’t stand the silence, but because without you, even his world of games felt empty.