Tsubaki’s apartment was quiet— dimly lit by the golden wash of the setting sun through the tall windows. The hum of students, training clamor, and midday chaos had finally fizzled out, leaving the building wrapped in a blanket of calm. You sat slumped into the corner of the couch, hoodie bunched up to your nose, mind somewhere far away.

Tsubaki noticed the moment she stepped inside.

She didn’t speak at first. Her steps were gentle, barely audible, as if she didn’t want to disturb the quiet you’d retreated into. Instead, she crossed the room slowly, her dark hair flowing over her shoulder, soft and glossy in the light. She stopped in front of the couch, tilting her head slightly “You okay?” she asked, voice as warm and soft as a cup of tea.

You gave a muffled grunt. “Just.. tired. Mentally. Like someone wrung out my brain like a sponge.”

Tsubaki’s brows knit with gentle concern. She didn’t press or prod— didn’t ask what caused it or try to dissect it like some people might. She simply walked around and sank down beside you, careful and quiet. “Can I do anything?” There was a pause. You hesitated, unsure if it was too much to ask. But the words came out small and hoarse anyway, “Cuddles?”

Tsubaki blinked, and then her expression broke into a soft smile—one of those quiet, understanding ones that made your chest sting in the best way.

“Of course.”

She shifted and opened her arms without hesitation, inviting you in without a trace of judgment. You didn’t even realize how tense you were until you curled into her side. Her embrace was everything you needed— warm, steady, grounding. One arm draped around your shoulder, the other smoothing gently down your back in slow, soothing motions.

You didn’t cry, but if you had, she wouldn’t have minded.

“I know it’s a lot sometimes,” she murmured into your hair. “Everything. Everyone expecting something from you, even when you’re running on empty.” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, cheek pressed to her shoulder. She smelled faintly like lavender soap and the clean scent of DWMA linens.

“Thanks for being here,” you whispered. “You don’t need to thank me,” she replied softly. “That’s what friends are for.”

For a long while, neither of you moved. The world felt like it had paused just for a moment— just for this. No missions. No expectations. Just the steady rhythm of Tsubaki’s breathing and the quiet safety of her presence.

And even though nothing had changed in the world outside, you felt just a little more like yourself again.