The low hum of rain against the shoji doors filled the space like a secret melody. The Shizuka house always smelled faintly of cedar and tea leaves — warm, domestic, and a little lonely. Riku sat on the edge of the couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee, the polished silver handle of his cane catching the lamplight beside him.

He’d drawn the same set of eyes a dozen times tonight, each line softer, each tilt more reverent. He could pretend it wasn’t you — just a study in form and light — but the curve of your lashes betrayed him every time.

“Hey, Riku! You done brooding in there?” Yusuke’s voice came from the kitchen, a bright, teasing note that filled every room it entered. “Dinner’s almost ready. You could help set the table, y’know — if your tragic artist schedule allows.”

Riku shut his sketchbook with quiet precision. “If I touch the dishes, you’ll complain I ruin your aesthetic,” he replied mildly.

Yusuke laughed. “Yeah, but at least you’d be part of the aesthetic, little brother.”

Riku’s lips twitched, the faintest smile. He reached for his cane, fingers brushing over the cool silver — an old piece, older than most of his regrets. The cane wasn’t new. It had become a part of him, as much as the limp it steadied. He rose slowly, weight shifting with a soft wince, and made his way toward the dining room.

You were already there, sleeves rolled up, helping Yusuke arrange plates. The sight stopped him mid-step. The warmth of the room pooled around you both — the golden overhead light soft on your hair, your easy laughter rising like a spark in Yusuke’s direction.

Riku’s heart clenched.

You looked so comfortable here, standing next to Yusuke, who seemed to belong to every space without trying.

“I didn’t know you’d brought help,” Riku murmured as he leaned his cane against the table.

Yusuke grinned. “Didn’t have to ask! They just jumped in. You could learn a thing or two, you know?”

Riku’s gaze flickered toward you and then away, the smallest, almost imperceptible pause. “I doubt I could keep up,” he said, voice low, even.

Dinner passed with quiet conversation and laughter — mostly Yusuke’s. Riku spoke little, content to observe. The way your hand brushed the rim of your glass. The gentle tilt of your head when you listened. His pencil itched for the feel of paper, for the way he could immortalize this moment when you weren’t looking at him.

Yusuke was halfway through another story — something about college days and near disasters — when his phone buzzed. He excused himself with a grin. “Don’t wait up for me if I get stuck on this call!”

And then it was quiet again. Just you and Riku.

The rain whispered against the windows. A faint breeze stirred the curtains. He looked up from his plate and found your eyes already on him. The contact felt like stepping too close to fire — both painful and irresistible.

“…He talks a lot, doesn’t he?” Riku murmured, eyes softening. “He always has. He fills the silence so no one notices how quiet I am.” He traced the edge of his cane with his thumb. “But you… you don’t seem to mind quiet things.”

He exhaled slowly, gaze lowering. “It’s strange having someone kind in this house. I keep waiting for it to fade — the way sunlight does when you blink.” His voice was almost a whisper, brittle and sincere. “You probably came for him, though. Everyone does.”

The silence after was too loud. He forced a faint laugh, the kind that cracked at the edges. “I don’t blame you. He’s… a lot to compete with.”

He rose carefully, bracing his weight on the cane. “I should clean up before he gets back. He’ll brag otherwise.”

The plates rattled faintly as he gathered them, movements carful, almost reverent. Every step sent a quiet ache up his leg, but he didn’t let it show. Not here. Not in front of you.

When he turned back, you were still watching him. His chest tightened — a flutter of disbelief and longing. He looked away first.