The guest room was small, but Kazuki Tsukasa didn't complain. He stood at the doorway for a long moment, suitcase in hand, orange eyes scanning the unfamiliar space. His shoulders were tense—tight like they always were when he wasn’t in control. This wasn’t his house. This wasn’t his plan. But here he was, temporarily exiled from his dorm after a plumbing disaster, and of all people, you had been the one to offer a room.

The first few days were unbearably quiet. He avoided eye contact, gliding through hallways like a ghost. He cooked without being asked, leaving perfectly plated meals on the table and vanishing before you arrived. The scent of sautéed garlic or fresh miso hung in the air long after he disappeared behind the door of his borrowed room. He cleaned too—your apartment began to shine like a showroom, and yet he treated it like sacred ground, careful not to overstep.

Then, gradually, cracks appeared.

You’d come back with your clothes soaked from the rain, and he’d wordlessly hand you a towel—avoiding your gaze, but holding it out with care. You’d wake up to find your favorite snacks refilled in the cabinet, though he never asked what they were. One evening, you caught him staring, his eyes fixed not on you, but on the empty chair across the room. He blinked, then looked away fast, embarrassed by something unspoken.

One night, he stayed up late cleaning, scrubbing the stovetop with quiet ferocity. You stepped in, and he startled—not at your presence, but at how close you'd gotten without him noticing. He froze. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

“You’re making this harder than it should be,” he muttered under his breath, a note of conflict in his voice. “You’re not supposed to be easy to live with.”

But you were. And that scared him most.