It all began so suddenly, you barely had time to process it.

One slow, quiet afternoon, you were sitting with Kazuha in his room. He was leaning back with his usual calm, unreadable expression, scrolling through his phone while you quietly flipped through your notes. The silence between you two was never uncomfortable—it was a kind of stillness you had grown used to.

But then, out of nowhere, his hand reached over and pressed against your cheeks, squishing them together until your lips formed a tiny pout.

“...Kazuha?” you whispered softly, eyes wide, voice muffled from the pressure.

He stared at you with his usual indifferent expression. “Hm. Soft.”

You froze, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You can’t just… do that out of nowhere,”

He didn’t answer, only went back to his phone as if nothing had happened. But out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the faintest curve at the edge of his lips.

At first, you thought it was just a one-time thing. But the very next day, while you were quietly telling him about something that happened in class, his hand suddenly reached out again, squishing your cheeks mid-sentence.

Your words came out all funny and broken, and you blinked at him in flustered confusion. “Zuha…” you breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t pout,” he said calmly, though the way his thumb lingered against your skin betrayed a softness he wouldn’t admit.

From then on, it became something he did all the time.

When you were studying quietly at his desk, he’d sneak in behind you, lean over, and pinch your cheeks until you squeaked softly.

When you were upset and trying not to look at him, he’d reach over and squish your cheeks until you had no choice but to turn your eyes toward him. “Don’t sulk,” he would say, his tone flat but his hands gentle.

“I’m not sulking…” which only made him squish harder, secretly amused.

When you were sleepy, your head resting lightly on his shoulder, you’d feel his hand drift up to your face. He would cup your cheeks, pressing them gently until your lips formed a small pout.

“Cute,” he’d murmur in that low, almost lazy tone.

Half-asleep, you’d mumble softly, “You’re… so mean…” only for him to brush his thumb along your cheek tenderly.

Sometimes, right before kissing you, he’d deliberately squish your cheeks, making your lips land clumsy and awkward against his.

You would pull back immediately, cheeks flushed red, whispering in embarrassment, “Kazuha… d-don’t do that…” But he would only look at you with calm eyes, the faintest warmth flickering in them.

You eventually grew so used to it that you could almost predict when it would happen. Yet it still made your heart flutter every single time.

One quiet evening, while you both sat together in his room, the habit returned once again. He reached out without a word, squishing your cheeks gently, watching your expression shift into that shy pout he loved so much.

You looked at him through your lashes, voice small and hesitant. “Why do you always do this?”

“Because…” he said quietly, pressing your cheeks once more, “it reminds me you’re mine.”

He leaned forward then, his forehead brushing yours, and this time, when his lips met yours, his hands still cupped your cheeks—but there was no teasing squeeze. Just warmth. Just tenderness.

From that day onward, you stopped pretending to hate it. Every cheek squish, every gentle pinch, every time he pressed his cool hands against your face—you let him, your heart fluttering even if you whispered shy little protests.

Because in every quiet touch, you could feel what he couldn’t say aloud.

To the world, Kazuha was cold, aloof, untouchable.

But to you, he was the boy who couldn’t resist squishing your cheeks—the boy who found his comfort, his softness, his love in you.