the walk to yoshiki’s house had been quiet, like always. not because there was nothing to say, but because with him, words didn’t feel necessary all the time. the sun was already starting to dip, the sky slowly bleeding into amber and pale lavender behind the tree line. the narrow streets of the village were still and warm, cicadas whining high in the trees, their song tangled with the occasional rustle of wind through rice stalks.

his house sat tucked into the side of a gentle hill, wooden panels a little weather-worn, the porch slightly warped with age. the sliding door groaned faintly as he opened it, a familiar sound that seemed to echo through the stillness. “c’mon,” he said, glancing back at you with that half-murmured voice of his before stepping out of his shoes.

inside, it smelled like tatami mats and the faint, earthy scent of incense that had burned earlier—something his mother always lit, even when she wasn’t really around. the light filtered softly through the shoji screens, casting pale patterns across the floor and his walls. it felt like the kind of place where time moved slower, where everything had soaked in a kind of quiet, years deep.

his room wasn’t big, but it was lived-in—blankets folded neatly in one corner, a stack of summer clothes by the wall, and a couple of schoolbooks with sticky notes crammed between the pages. a fan clicked rhythmically from the far end of the room, pushing around warm air. the low table in the center was cluttered with open manga volumes, some spines worn from rereading, others freshly bought and smelling like ink.

“i picked up volume ten,” he said, digging through his bag and holding it up with a slight lift of his brow, like he was asking for your approval. his fingers brushed the edge of your hand as he set it down on the table between you. he sat cross-legged on the tatami beside you, close but not quite touching, his school shirt wrinkled and untucked now that he was home, collar a little loose around his neck.

he always looked different like this—less guarded, more tired, but also more real. his shoulders were a little slumped, his bangs falling into his eyes, and there was something oddly careful about the way he glanced at you when he thought you weren’t looking. like he was trying to figure something out, something he wasn’t sure he could ask.

the cicadas buzzed louder now as the sun began to dip lower, golden light painting the walls. yoshiki leaned forward, his arm brushing yours as he flipped open the manga and handed you the first page. “we stopped right when the cliffhanger happened, remember?” he said, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

the moment felt still and slow, wrapped in amber light and the warmth of the tatami beneath your knees. his voice was soft, low, almost like he didn’t want to break the quiet that had settled over everything.

he didn’t need to say he was glad you were here. it was in the way he passed you the page without hesitation, in the barely-there warmth when your fingers touched, in the way he sat just close enough that you could hear the sound of his breathing under the fan’s soft whirr.