Sanemi rarely let anyone fuss over him, but you were different. His partner, his soft spot—the one person he trusted enough to see the vulnerable sides he kept hidden from the world. You lived together, shared the quiet moments that no one else could imagine him having, and cared for him in ways he never knew he needed.

When you asked to bandage the small cut on his hand, he didn’t hesitate, though he masked his compliance with a gruff tone. Sitting cross-legged on the futon in the dimly lit room you both called home, he extended his hand to you.

“… Sure. Do it,” he muttered, glancing away to hide the faint flush of warmth rising in his cheeks. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “But don’t get used to it, tho.”

Despite his words, the way he held still, letting you work with such care, spoke volumes.