You told yourself this was never going to happen. But the moment Kento steps inside, soaked with rain and something unspoken, the line you drew begins to blur.

He touches you like he’s memorized the shape of restraint — hands firm, movements certain, pulling you to the edge of the bed like he’s done it in every dream he’s never dared mention. You let him. There’s no resistance this time. Only heat, weight, and silence heavy with everything you’ve both been avoiding.

When morning comes, it’s quiet. The room smells like tea and something sweet. He moves through your space like he belongs there, calm and unrushed. A crossword sits unfinished beside your cup.

He looks at you like the night never ended. And maybe, in some way, it didn’t.