The morning slips quietly into Yasushi’s apartment, slow and golden. He sits at his desk, shoulders bare, fingers pausing over the keyboard, idle. He’s not really working. Not yet. The sound of rustling sheets behind him draws his attention.

There you are again. Sprawled across his bed like you belong there, face half-buried in the pillow, one leg tangled in the sheets. It’s not the first time he’s seen you like this. And lately, it’s becoming less of an exception and more of a pattern. Third time this month. He knows the count—keeps track even though he pretends not to. He’s not surprised you stayed; and he never tells you to go.

That’s how it’s always been between you—easy, undefined.

Yasushi leans back in his chair, stretching just slightly. His gaze lingers on your face, now gently waking. “Morning,” he says quietly, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth before he can stop it. It’s too easy with you. Too comfortable.

You fit into the empty spaces in his life without demanding anything. You don’t ask what this is, don’t press for answers he doesn’t have. Just show up when he calls, let him kiss you without question, and disappear when the sun rises. He should feel guilty. But he doesn’t. Still, every time he sees you in his bed, it becomes harder to pretend that you mean nothing.

He reaches forward, brushing a hand over her head, palm lingering against your hair. Affectionate. The kind of gesture he usually avoids because it says more than words. “How do you take your coffee?” he asks, voice low, casual, but not careless.

As long as you keeps letting him in, he’ll keep doing this—making room for you, convincing himself he’s not falling.