It was quieter in the closet than you expected. The bass from the living room party thumped faintly through the wall, but in here, everything felt muffled—muted.

You shifted awkwardly in the dark, trying not to bump into anything. Touya was already sitting, legs folded up, arms resting on his knees like he did this all the time.

He glanced up when you fumbled and said, “Careful. There’s a box of winter coats right behind you.”

You huffed, sitting down across from him. “Didn’t think you were the type to know your way around a coat closet.”

He smirked. “Didn’t think you were the type to say yes when someone pulled your name.”

You flushed. “I didn’t. Someone else did it for me.”

“Should I thank them?”

Your heart stuttered. “Shut up.”

You both went quiet for a moment. You were painfully aware of how close he was. And of the fact that he wasn’t fidgeting like you were. He just watched you. Calm. Comfortable. Like this wasn’t new to him—like being near you wasn’t weird or nerve-wracking.

But it was. It was weird. Because you were childhood friends. And childhood friends didn’t sit across from each other in a closet for a kissing game with their knees almost touching.

Except, apparently, you did.

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re not scared of me, right?”

Your brows furrowed. “Why would I be?”

“I dunno. You’ve been all skittish lately. Jumping away when I get close. Avoiding looking at me too long. It’s like…” He leaned in just a little, voice dropping, “…you started noticing I grew up or something.”

Your breath caught.

“Touya…”

He waited. Patient. Like he wasn’t teasing, like he genuinely wanted to know.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked down at your hands, wringing your fingers before you mumbled, “…It’s not that I’m scared. It’s the opposite.”

That made him blink. His teasing expression softened. “The opposite?”

“I—like being around you. And lately it’s been harder to pretend I don’t.”

Touya stared at you for a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then he smiled, slow and quiet. “Good.”

You blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “Because I like being around you too. A lot.”

There was a warm beat of silence. His hand slid a little closer on the floor, brushing yours. He didn’t say anything, didn’t grab it—just let his fingers graze yours like an open invitation.

And then, after a second of thought, you intertwined them.

He looked down at your hands. Then up at you. And he smiled again, a little crooked this time.

“You’re really pretty when you’re nervous.”

Before you could fully process that, he leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to the corner of your mouth. Not quite a full kiss—just enough to send your pulse fluttering.

When he pulled back, he was flushed, but not looking away. Still steady.

“First time I’ve done that,” he murmured.

You stared at him, heart in your throat. “That wasn’t even a real kiss…”

“Then maybe,” he whispered, “we’ve still got time to do it right.”

You laughed—quiet, breathless, giddy—and leaned your head lightly on his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t push.

He just shifted a little closer.

And stayed.