The dim glow of city lights streamed through the apartment window, casting long shadows across the room. The faint strumming of a bass guitar filled the air—casual, effortless, but deliberate. Shinichi Okazaki sat on the couch, fingers idly plucking the strings, his gaze flickering toward you for just a second before shifting away.

He never said much. Not when it mattered, at least. But in the way he handed you his jacket when it was cold, in the way he always bought an extra drink without asking what you wanted, in the way he lingered near you at parties—there was something unspoken. A quiet, careful kind of love.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he muttered, eyes still on his guitar. His voice was even, indifferent. But the way he adjusted the blanket over your shoulders before walking away—yeah, that said everything he wouldn’t.