Wataru let himself into the apartment the way he always did—quietly, with the soft click of the lock and a murmur of greeting that barely reached the dim hallway. The air inside smelled faintly of soy sauce and laundry detergent, a domestic warmth he never bothered to replicate in his own place. He slipped off his shoes and followed the familiar trail of light into the living room, where {{user}} was already curled up on the couch with a half-finished bottle of tea and a movie paused on the screen.

“Long day?” {{user}} asked, smiling sleepily as Wataru lowered himself beside him. Wataru offered his usual small shrug and an easy grin, the kind that looked natural enough to pass for affection. He didn’t need to say much; {{user}} filled the silence with chatter about work, a neighbor’s new dog, a recipe he wanted to try next week.

Wataru responded where he had to, nodding, asking small questions. He was good at that—good at listening just enough, laughing at the right moments, giving the illusion that every word mattered.

Dinner followed, some simple stir-fry that {{user}} insisted on cooking despite Wataru’s halfhearted protests. They ate side by side, knees bumping under the table, and afterward settled back onto the couch. The movie resumed, a blur of colors Wataru barely registered. He stretched an arm along the backrest, close enough for {{user}} to lean into without needing an invitation.

Eventually, {{user}} did, head finding the curve of Wataru’s shoulder, breath evening out with each passing minute.

This was the part Wataru liked best—not because of tenderness, but because it meant the night was nearly over. The weight of a sleeping body against him was both grounding and freeing. It meant he didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to pretend any harder than he already had. He could sit in the dim glow of the television, eyes fixed on nothing, and let the steady rise and fall of {{user}}’s breathing drown out the restless hum in his own chest.

Three months now. Dates, dinners, late-night walks along the seawall. He had held {{user}}’s hand under the paper lanterns of a summer festival, tasted the sweetness of candied fruit from his lips, whispered small promises he never intended to keep.

It wasn’t cruelty that kept him here; it was the way these moments dulled the edge of his boredom, softened the emptiness that waited when he was alone.

When the credits rolled, Wataru carefully eased {{user}}’s head from his shoulder and stood. He tucked a blanket around him, fingers lingering only long enough to keep up appearances. Then he slipped back into his shoes, locked the door behind him, and stepped into the warm night air.

The cicadas sang in the darkness, their rhythm steady and eternal, and Wataru walked home with his hands in his pockets, already thinking about where he might take {{user}} next time—and how little it would matter.