The clock ticked softly in the background, the only sound in the dimly lit apartment besides the faint rustle of sheets and the quiet hum of the city outside.

You were lounging on the couch in one of his old black shirts — oversized, comfy, and falling just right off your shoulder. The kind of look that always made Shouta’s composure falter, even if only for a second.

He stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. His eyes met yours — half-lidded, tired, but heating quickly when he took you in.