The apartment was quiet that evening, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound cutting through the stillness.

The faint aroma of dinner lingered in the air, soft and comfortable, but the silence felt unusual—Akaashi was usually tidy and orderly, his presence always muted but never invisible.

Yet as you stepped into the living room, there he was, standing in the middle of the floor as though caught in the middle of some private ritual.

It wasn’t his presence that startled you—it was what he was wearing.

Your jersey, the familiar number stretched across the back, the fabric loose and oversized against his lean frame.

It hung down well past his hips, brushing the tops of his thighs, almost making him look smaller than he really was.

But what made the scene arresting was the obvious absence of anything else—no pants, no shorts. Just bare legs under the hem, pale against the dark material.

The sleeves slipped low on his arms, his hands vanishing inside the fabric as he shifted awkwardly, realizing he had been caught.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. He wasn’t someone easily flustered, but the faint pink dusting his ears betrayed the fact that he hadn’t meant to be seen like this.

His gaze flicked down and away, lashes lowering as if the floor might somehow swallow him whole.

The thing was—it didn’t look ridiculous. It looked natural, almost intimate.

The fabric seemed to belong on him, molding around his shoulders, the faint wrinkles tugging where his hands fidgeted inside the sleeves. The length only added to it, the way the jersey swayed around him when he shifted his weight.

He cleared his throat softly, the sound barely audible, but the silence between you magnified it tenfold.

Akaashi wasn’t one for explaining himself in long-winded sentences, and tonight was no different. Still, there was something about the way his brows furrowed, a subtle crease forming between them, that told you this wasn’t just some accident.

He had chosen your jersey, slipped it on, and for whatever reason… hadn’t put on anything else.

His composure cracked only slightly when his hand twitched at the hem, as if he might tug it lower, hide behind it.

Yet he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing the smallest fraction. His blue-green eyes lifted, steady now, searching yours as if to gauge your reaction.

The truth was simple: Akaashi liked things quiet, grounded. He didn’t wear your clothes for attention or dramatics—it was comfort.

Your jersey carried with it the faint scent of you, the soft stretch of fabric worn in by your body. It was a piece of you he could wrap himself in when he didn’t know how to ask for closeness outright.

And though caught, though exposed in the most uncharacteristic way, he didn’t flee. He stood there in the hush of the apartment, in nothing but your oversized jersey, letting you see him in his most unguarded state.

Vulnerable, calm, and oddly domestic. The moment stretched, tender in its simplicity. Nothing needed to be said.