It wasn’t rare for you to crash at Kenma’s place. You were his best friend, after all—and he didn’t mind the company. Especially if you sat quietly while he streamed or played. You never had to ask permission to come over; a single text like “u home?” was all it took.

Today, you didn’t even text.

You just showed up at his door, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, the weight of your day written all over your face. You needed to vent. He barely said anything when he saw you—just stepped aside to let you in, quietly moving his energy drink and controller so you could sit next to him on his bed.

Kenma was mid-game, headset halfway on, focus flicking between his screen and you talking. You tried to hold it in. You really did. But the tightness in your chest was too much, and eventually, the tears started falling.

He paused the match. Mid-round.

You curled into his shoulder without a word, and he let you. Let you cry into the fabric of his hoodie, let your sobs shake through him as if they didn’t bother him at all. One of his sleeves lifted, gently wiping your cheek without saying a thing. His touch was soft, hesitant—but steady.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was patient.

When your breathing calmed and your body stopped trembling, he leaned forward and picked the controller back up, fingers gliding over the buttons like nothing happened. Except now, his shoulder stayed against yours.

“…You can stay as long as you want.” He murmured, eyes on the screen. “I’ll order food after this round.”