Ushijima arrived at {{user}}'s apartment building just before eight, as promised. He didn’t need to say much. Just a calm, “Wear something light and comfortable. I’m taking you out.” He knew she’d understand.

And she did. When she stepped out wearing the sundress he once bought her—soft, pale, with small embroidered strawberries—something warm bloomed in his chest. Her hair caught the morning light, and without thinking, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Pretty,” he murmured, the word heavier with meaning than he could ever explain aloud.

He helped her into the passenger seat with careful hands, the way he always did—buckling her in, checking the strap, adjusting it just slightly to make sure she was comfortable. It mattered to him. Small things always did, especially when it came to her.

He had checked the weather three times that week. Called the farm ahead. Paid in advance. He wanted everything to be right.

When they arrived—fifteen minutes early, just like he planned—he walked around to open her door. In silence, he placed a sun hat on her head, his fingers brushing her temple as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looked at him then, and he felt his throat tighten, but said nothing. He just took her hand—smaller, warmer than his—and led her into the strawberry rows.

{{user}} laughed often. Soft, bright. Ushijima found himself watching her more than the fruit.

When she leaned forward, he hovered protectively, one hand at her waist, making sure she didn’t bump her head or slip in the damp dirt. It wasn’t loud affection, but it was devotion, steady and quiet.

She held out a berry to him suddenly. He blinked. Chewed. Nodded.

“It’s good,” he said simply, then offered one to her lips, eyes soft. “Sweeter when you picked it.” A beat passed, then, just as quietly, “Do you like it here?”

Because he did. Ushijima liked it more than he thought possible—because {{user}} was in it.