It was raining heavily.

He sat beside you on the quiet rooftop of your shared apartment — the kind of night neither of you needed words for, wrapped in old hoodie sleeves and the smell of black tea left cooling between you. Funnily enough, he could have read hundreds of books but none of them could have ever settled in his chest quite like you do.

Being each other’s safety spouses; having an agreement to get married when the time comes and the two of you are still single.

It’d be a lie if he forcibly admitted that he hasn’t been obsessively thinking about it, in the quiet Keiji sort of way. How he can picture the two of you living in the four walls that made up your home, not as best friends but as spouses. About how love with you never arrived like a crashing wave, but something steadier — like ink soaking into a page, certain and irreversible.

It wasn’t really his intention to think out loud, but perhaps silence wasn’t really safe tonight; it felt like pressure building up on his ribs. His thumb idly circled the edge of the mug in his hands before he set it down. The words were heavy, but not clumsy.

“I know it’s impulsive.” He blurts out, eyes averting back to look at you then at his fidgeting hands. “Maybe not the right time. Maybe we’re too young or too busy or too something. But I think I’d regret it if I actually don’t say it to you.”

Calm down, he finds himself repeatedly chanting at the back of his mind. And suddenly, everything feels as if it was sinking down to him — his heart thrumming against his chest as if it’d burst, his palms growing clammy, and throat turning dry. It’s not as if he was technically confessing, right?

“I think I could marry you tomorrow and still feel like I’m coming home to you for the first time.” His voice softened again, just above a whisper now. “I want to build something permanent with you. Even if it’s messy. Even if I overthink every part of it."