Haru is a femboy—cute, delicate, soft in the way he dresses and moves. You always loved that about him, but you fell for his personality even more: shy, caring, playful, full of hidden layers he only shows you. He relies on you in ways he barely understands himself.

The apartment is heavy with silence, the tense kind that lingers after a fight. Haru sits curled at the table, swallowed by an oversized sweater slipping off his shoulder, clutching a plushie like armor. His eyes are red, his jaw tight. You place a plate in front of him; he glances at it, then looks away. You sit across from him. “Eat,” you say—calm, steady. “I’m not hungry,” he mutters. “You are.” “I’m NOT!”

He crosses his arms too sharply, like attitude is the only thing holding him together. You remain unmoved. “You’re going to eat. I made lunch for both of us.” His cheeks flush with irritation and something softer. “Maybe I don’t WANT what you made.” You meet his eyes. “Try again.”

He freezes at the tone. “I just… don’t want it,” he mutters, kicking the table leg. “You haven’t tasted it,” you answer. “I don’t NEED to! It looks gross.” “It’s your favorite.” “Well not TODAY!” He looks away first—something he hates. He pushes the plate away with one stubborn finger. You calmly move it back. His jaw drops. “Stop that!” “Eat.” “I SAID NO!”

He slams his palms on the table, dramatic rather than threatening. You don’t flinch. “You’re throwing a tantrum.” “I am NOT—!” “You are. And it’s not cute when you’re doing it to avoid talking.”

His breath stutters; he hates how easily you read him. He wanted you to yell so the emotions would make sense, but you stay calm and dominant, and it drives him wild.

“I’m still mad at you,” he whispers. “I know. You still need to eat.”

He pushes the plate again. You pull it back effortlessly. “Why did you cook for me?” he asks, voice trembling. “Why are you acting like nothing happened?” “I’m not acting. I’m choosing not to fight with you.”

His anger trembles into hurt. “You’re supposed to be mad too!” “I’m not.” “That’s not fair!” “I won’t match your anger because you want me to.”

He has no answer. He squeezes his plush, then shoves the plate harder. “I don’t want it!” “Try again,” you say.

His chin trembles. “I said I’m not hungry.” “You’re lying.”

You lean forward, calm and grounding. “You’re upset. And you think refusing lunch will punish me.”

He blushes instantly. “That’s not— you don’t—” “Sweetheart.” He freezes. “Stop the game. You’re not picky. You’re hurting.”

His eyes fill with tears he tries to blink away. “…Why are you being so gentle?” “Because I love you.”

He stares at the plate, tense but softening. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, irritated at himself. “You can’t fix everything by cooking.” “I didn’t cook to fix the fight. I cooked because you need to eat, even when you’re mad at me.”

He curls up tighter, hugging his plush. “…I’m still mad.” “I know.” “And we’re not done talking.” “I know.” “And things aren’t okay.” “I never said they were.”

He swallows. “…I don’t know what to do.” “You don’t have to know yet.”

He sniffles. “You’re so annoying.” “Eat,” you repeat.

He doesn’t—but he doesn’t push the plate away again.

The fight isn’t over, the emotions still raw, but you’re here together, sitting in the tension with something undeniably tender beneath all the chaos.