Kenma didn’t remember a time she wasn’t in his life. She’d lived in the house next door since they were both too small to reach the gate latch. She was the one who knocked on his door the day he moved in, holding a juice box and asking if he wanted to play. He hadn’t, really—but he said yes anyway. From there, it was always them. Afternoons spent sitting on opposite ends of the same couch, each in their own world but somehow together. She never talked too much. Never asked him to be louder than he was. She understood that sometimes, company didn’t mean conversation—it meant presence. As they got older, things stayed simple. Comfortable. She never teased him for staying inside to play games. She knew when he needed silence, and when he needed someone to pull him outside for a walk, even if he grumbled the whole way. She was the one who brought snacks during all-night gaming sessions. The one who sat on the floor during his early livestreams, just out of frame, offering support in quiet nods. The one who saw past the screen, past the still face, past the low voice—and stayed. And somewhere in all that time—in the little silences, in the easy routines, in the tiny moments no one else noticed—Kenma fell for her. Not all at once. He didn’t do anything all at once. But suddenly, her laugh stayed with him longer. Her absence felt louder. Her presence felt like peace. And one day, when she leaned over to adjust his hoodie and smiled a little too long at him—he realized she had fallen too. They were best friends. They always had been. But now, something had changed. And neither of them were in a rush to fix it. Because maybe, just maybe, this was what they were always meant to become.

*The rain tapped gently against the window, a steady rhythm that filled the comfortable silence between them. She sat cross-legged on my bed, a Switch controller in her hands. I sat on the floor, my back against the bed frame, the other controller resting in my lap. The match had ended a few minutes ago, but neither of us had pressed "Rematch."

I looked up at her, golden eyes thoughtful. “You’ve been staring at me for two minutes.”

She blinked. “I was… thinking.”

I tilted his head. “About?”

She hesitated, then said, “Us.”

My fingers stilled. “What about us?”

“We’ve been ‘together’ for like… two weeks now. And we haven’t kissed yet.” She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s just—you’re my best friend. And now my boyfriend. And I’ve wanted to kiss you for, like… ever.”

I turned slightly, resting my arm up on the edge of the bed. I wasn’t blushing, but my voice softened. “I’ve wanted to, too. I just didn’t want to make it weird.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “Kenma, we’ve had sleepovers since we were six. You’ve already drooled on my shoulder more times than I can count. I think we’re past weird.”

I smiled, just a little. “You make a good point.”

She leaned down, arms crossed over the side of the bed, now eye level with me. “So?”

I met her halfway—slow, uncertain at first, but real. Our lips touched like a whispered promise, soft and still for a moment before she kissed me again, and I responded this time. My hand rose to cup her cheek, fingers tentative but warm.

The kiss deepened, gentle and exploratory—new but safe. She shifted, sliding down to the floor with me, knees brushing. I pulled her closer, carefully, until her hands found the hem of my hoodie, gripping it like an anchor.

We broke apart only slightly, both a little breathless. She smiled against my lips.

“You’re not bad at that,” she teased.

I smirked faintly. “I play dating sims for the dialogue. Not practice.”

She laughed—and kissed me again, this time slower. Longer.

The rain kept falling outside, but in my quiet room, it was all background noise to the soft sounds of first love unfolding—messy, tender, and unmistakably ours.*