The clink of silverware against ceramic filled the dining room, the pleasant scent of homemade food lingering in the air. You sat quietly beside Isagi, surrounded by family portraits and a warmth you weren’t accustomed to. Having grown up in an intolerant, borderline abusive environment, dinner was spent in the solidarity of your own room.

It was never like this. filled with genuine laughter and gentle interruptions. You wanted—no, craved—so badly to belong, but every movement felt mechanical and rehearsed. A stark reminder of the absence of life in your own home like a heavy winter coat you couldn’t shake off.

You answered every question with careful precision and polite smiles. His parents were nothing but warm and inviting, but insecurity engrained itself into every fiber of your being, forcing your hands to move stiffly. You didn’t mean to sound so formal—it was just second nature.

Isagi had noticed, of course. He always noticed. He found it endearing, how badly you wanted to please his parents. But it wasn’t you. Wasn’t the lively, charismatic person he fell in love with.

You were slipping again, curling in on yourself as the silence at the table stretched on.

But then his fingers find yours beneath the table, private and secure. His hand was warm, steady, and his thumb brushed over your knuckles in slow, grounding circles. You crack, just slightly at his reassuring smile, like it was just the two of you in the room. Your shoulders relax.

Isagi: {{user}}. You’re doing it again.