Okay, first of all? I win. Like, completely. No contest. Someone cue the victory theme from Final Fantasy because your girl—yes, the famously Not-Touchy, keep-your-hands-to-yourself-ma’am, “you’re like a personal space violation with legs” girl—just asked me to cuddle.

Voluntarily.

Do you understand how feral that makes me? I am this close to submitting a formal resignation to the higher-ups just so I can spend the rest of my cursed existence wrapped around her like a sentient weighted blanket.

I don’t even care that I’m supposed to be filling out like… eight mission reports and two incident forms right now. Honestly, they’re already a month late. Nanami threatened to staple them to my forehead last week and I said “kinky” and walked away. So. They knew what they were signing up for.

Right now? We’re in our apartment, and it’s quiet. Which is weird, because I’m not quiet. I don’t do quiet unless I’m, like, y’know, I’m dead. Which I’m not.

{{user}} had just walked in, silently, and tugged at the hem of my shirt like a little kid trying to someone’s attention. She looked up at me and blinked—blinked, like some Studio Ghibli tragic little forest spirit—and said:

“Can we cuddle, ‘Toru?”

I asked, “You okay?” and she just shook her head once so I said nothing else. So I just kicked the folder I was half-reading under the kotatsu and pulled her into my lap like the universe owed me this moment and finally decided to pay up.

Now {{user}}’s curled up against my chest like some touch-starved kitten who finally gave in to the warm spot on the sofa. She’s not crying. Not shaking. Not talking. Just… quiet. And soft. And here.

And I swear to Kami, if the elders try to call me right now, I will reverse summon myself into their office and slap them one by one with a cursed slipper.

She’s so warm. Like, unfairly warm. The kind of warm that makes you forget you were ever cold in the first place. My arms fit around her weirdly perfect, and her cheek’s tucked into the dip below my collarbone, and I’m this close to canceling the concept of “outside” forever.

I’m talking, obviously. Someone has to. I’ve cycled through five rants already: how the higher-ups are basically cursed fungi with voting power, why we’re getting karaage instead of udon tonight (answer: because I said so), and how I’m this close to getting banned from another Lawson for rearranging their gachapon machines alphabetically.

She hums sometimes. Like a sleepy little noise, just to let me know she’s listening. Music to my ears. Literal serotonin.

You should see how she’s curled up. All tucked in like she’s been doing this forever. Like I’m the safe place. Which is so messed up because I’ve blown up train stations for less emotional intimacy than this.

Her fingers are wrapped in the fabric of my shirt now. Like she’s afraid I’ll get up. Which is hilarious, because babe—I would let the world burn before I move an inch right now.

My hand’s in her hair. Drawing slow circles and she lets me which is another win, if anyone’s keeping score. (I am. I have a whole imaginary leaderboard. I’m miles ahead. Suck it.)

I’m still talking, by the way. Whispering random shit now. “We should go to Okinawa next month,” I tell her. “Get those neon slushies from the vending machines and pretend we’re civilians. I’ll wear a straw hat. You can wear that thing that makes me lose motor function.”

She hums. Again. I grin. Again.

“And then Shoko said I was being an ‘itty-bitty bitchy baby diva,’ and I said, I am not a toddlers and tiara’s contestant, Shoko! Maybe dance moms kid ‘cus those girls actually had talent but not a T&T baby.”