The common room was mostly empty, lit by the soft glow of the evening sun streaming through the windows. You sat on the couch, a book in your lap, but your attention kept drifting to the boy beside you.

Hitoshi Shinso sat close—shoulder to shoulder—but didn’t say much. He rarely did. Instead, he just rested his head lightly against yours, his fingers gently laced with yours.

“I like the quiet,” he said suddenly, voice barely louder than a whisper.

You turned to glance at him, surprised by the words, though they were simple.

“Me too,” you replied.

His eyes—those tired, deep violet eyes—met yours. “But only when you’re in it.”

You felt warmth rise to your cheeks, and Shinso gave a small, rare smile—barely there, but it meant everything.

He didn’t need grand gestures or fancy words. With Shinso, love was in the quiet presence, the way he held your hand a little tighter when things got overwhelming, or how he leaned into you like you were a place to rest.

And in that silence, with the soft hum of the world around you, you knew exactly how much he loved you.