The night had that still kind of silence, the kind that made every sound feel louder than it really was. The soft hum of Yamada’s PC fan. The faint clicking from his mouse. And then you — sprawled on the floor beside him, blanket half on, half off, the kind of mess he always sighs about but never fixes until you’re asleep.

He didn’t look away from the monitor when he said, almost like a complaint,

“You’re gonna ruin your back sleeping like that.”

You hummed something that might’ve been a reply, might’ve been a snore. His gaze flicked toward you for a second, and that was enough — your cheek pressed against his sleeve, eyes closed, mouth open just enough to look stupidly peaceful.

He turned back to his game, pretending he didn’t care. He always did that — pretend. Pretend he didn’t notice how his chest felt warmer when you were close. Pretend that his heart didn’t slow down the way it did now.

After a few minutes, he sighed, closed his laptop, and leaned back. The silence swallowed everything again.

He stared at the ceiling for a while. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. But his tone wasn’t annoyed. It was the kind of tired softness you only ever caught when he thought you weren’t listening.

He adjusted the blanket again, tucking it over you this time. You stirred, mumbling something incoherent — probably his name, probably just nonsense — and his throat tightened.

He stayed there, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at you like he was trying to memorize every blink, every uneven breath.

You twitched a little, hand brushing against his wrist. He froze. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe for a second.

He could feel the warmth from your skin, the faint tremor of your pulse. And in that tiny contact, everything he never said screamed louder than words ever could.

“You’re so annoying,” he whispered, voice low, like it might break the spell.

His hand turned just enough to let your fingers rest against his.

The clock ticked. The fan whirred. His heart betrayed him, thumping a little faster than he’d like.

He tilted his head back, exhaled through his nose, and said to no one,

“You really have no idea what you do to me, huh?”

Your breathing evened out again, calm, slow, trusting. He envied that. The way you could just exist beside him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

After a long while, he lay down beside you — not too close, just close enough that his shoulder brushed your blanket. His phone buzzed; he ignored it. The world outside didn’t matter right now.

He glanced once more, eyes soft now, stripped of that cold look everyone else saw.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, half to you, half to himself. “So don’t move.”

Your hand twitched again, this time clutching his sleeve. His chest ached — quietly, sharply, beautifully.

He gave up pretending then. Let his head rest against yours, close enough that he could hear you breathe.

And for once, the silence didn’t bother him. It wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of the things he’d never say, the warmth he’d never admit, the tiny, unspoken promise he’d never break.

When sleep started to pull him under, his last thought wasn’t about his game, or his next tournament, or even himself.

It was you.

You, looking ridiculous in a messy blanket. You, trusting him enough to fall asleep in his space. You, ruining his peace and somehow making it better.

He chuckled once, barely a sound, just a puff of air against your hair.

“You win,” he whispered, eyes finally closing. “Always.”