Dating Tsukasa Shishio wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t fireworks or declarations or the kind of love that made people stare. It was quiet. Intentional. Like the way he walked beside you, never ahead. Like the way he waited at the corner until you caught up, even when you weren’t far behind.

He didn’t speak often. But when he did, it was with weight. With care. He didn’t waste words—not on the world, and certainly not on you.

You learned to listen between the silences.

He’d say, “Did you sleep well?”
And you’d hear, I missed you. He’d say, “Be careful out there.”
And you’d hear, Come back to me. He’d say nothing at all, and somehow, you’d still feel held.

He was strength without pressure. A presence that didn’t demand, only offered. His hand was steady when yours trembled. His gaze was grounding when yours wandered. He didn’t try to fix you. He just stayed.

People asked what it was like—dating someone so powerful, so stoic, so unreadable.

You said: It’s like standing in the eye of a storm and knowing it will never touch you.

He didn’t bring you flowers. But he remembered your favorite tea. He didn’t write you poems. But he walked you home every night, even when it meant taking the long way.

And when you curled up beside him, your head on his chest, his breath slow and deep beneath your ear, you knew.

This was love.

Not loud. Not wild.

But strong. And safe. And yours.