He clicks his tongue the second you start talking too much, gaze turned away like he’s bored—but he’s listening. He always is. Days later, he’ll offhandedly mention something you said like it’s no big deal, even though he stored it like it mattered. He pretends to be annoyed when you poke his cheek, muttering something about being childish—but when he thinks you’re not looking, his hand lingers at that same spot, like it’s still warm.

Rin’s the kind of guy who’ll always walk on the side closest to the street, then scowl when you notice—“Don’t make a thing out of it.” He calls your hoodie theft “criminal,” but never takes it back, burying his face in it when he thinks no one’s around.

He hates public affection—“It's embarrassing.” But in crowds, his hand rests at the small of your back, firm and steady, like instinct. You lean in close, teasing, “You okay?” and he nearly drops his drink, ears going red.

He swears he’s not thoughtful—“Don’t expect me to coddle you.” Yet somehow, there’s always a reminder to eat. To rest. To take care. He’ll never admit it, but his love is in the quiet things—in the things he does when he thinks no one sees.