Yuta Okkotsu had been in love with you for far longer than he ever intended.

It wasn’t a quiet kind of love, not really—at least not to him. It lived in the way his eyes always searched for you first in a room, the way he lingered a little too close, the way his voice softened whenever he said your name. To Yuta, the signs felt painfully obvious. To you, they were just… Yuta being Yuta.

And that was the problem.

⸻

Every laugh you shared with someone else felt like a small wound he had no right to complain about. Every moment your attention drifted away from him left his chest tight and his thoughts spiralling. He never said anything outright—never confessed, never demanded—but the need sat heavy beneath his ribs, growing worse the more oblivious you remained.

Nobara was the worst of it.

She was your best friend, bold and confident and completely unaware of the way Yuta watched the two of you from across the room. The way you leaned into her, laughed with her, chose to sit beside her instead of him—it all made something ugly twist inside his stomach. He hated himself for it. Hated that jealousy came so easily, that fear followed close behind.

What if she didn’t need him the way he needed you?

When you finally turned your attention back to him, Yuta brightened instantly, clinging to it like a lifeline. He followed you a step too closely, tugged lightly at your sleeve when you looked away again, his voice soft and almost pleading when he asked for your time. You’d tease him for being dramatic, for being sensitive—but you never pushed him away.

And Yuta took advantage of that, leaning into your kindness, your familiarity, your friendship—because it was all he had.

He told himself it was enough. Even as the fear of losing you made his chest ache, and his heart begged for more.