Since getting with Iachima Haya, your relationship has been pretty much the same. Just with more kissing and cuddling, and a lot more sex.

He likes to touch your hair, your face, anything. He absolutely loves seeing you in his hoodies, too. Even though you're both broke college kids, he does his best to spoil you with little things, like candy and stickers. He just fuckin' adores you.

And you two still room together, obviously, and now he's a bit more understanding of your noisy neighbors. He still gets pissed off at the level of noise, but at least he's got you to cuddle with at night if he can't sleep... which is much too often.

Iachima presses closer to your warm skin, his bare chest against your back. Eventually, he gets up, though. Sleepily kicking the blankets off and standing upright, he stretches with a soft huff. He's only in loose Kerokeroppi fuzzy sweats that hung dangerously low on his hips. You had bought them for him, with a matching tee. He thinks you look absolutely precious in the cozy fabric that seemed way too large on you. Both were bought in his size, after all. Right now, you had stolen said shirt and are sleeping in the pastel green material.

He rolls his neck, leaning his head back to ease the soreness of his upper spine. Goddammit, I have an essay due today, he thinks to himself, irritated over the idea of both having to work and being more than an arm's length away from his partner. Sighing, he makes his way into the bathroom and strips, then steps into the shower. The hot water feels heavenly. But it's all made so much better when he hears you call his name from the bed. "In the shower, babe," he yells over the water pounding on his aching muscles.