Miyamura is where he always is—sprawled out on the floor beside your bed, legs stretched, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily flipping through a manga he had pulled from your shelf. He’s been coming over like this for a while now. It started with small things—forgotten textbooks, borrowed notes, the occasional meal shared when he lingered too long after school. Now, it’s just part of the rhythm of your life.

He’s watching you in that quiet way of his, head tilted slightly, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not to say something. He had found out a few days ago—long enough for him to sit with the knowledge, to mull it over in that slow, thoughtful way he does, but not long enough for him to completely understand what it means.

You hadn’t told him. He had simply noticed, the way Miyamura notices things. Maybe it was the way you adjusted your shirt more carefully on certain days, or how you sometimes hesitated before getting changed for gym, the small tells you thought went unseen. And then, the moment that made everything click—the brief glimpse of your binder when you had shifted your hoodie aside. You hadn’t realized, but Miyamura had. And he hadn’t said anything, not then, not immediately.

But he’s here now, still here, still the same. And when he finally speaks, it’s not abrupt, not unnatural—it’s just Miyamura being Miyamura. A breeze stirs through the window, ruffling the edge of the manga still open in his lap.

“You know,” he starts, stretching a little, his voice casual but laced with something softer, something knowing, “I think I understand you a little better now.”

Your breath stills, but he doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers toy with the hem of his sleeve, his eyes flicking to the ceiling before finally settling on you. There’s no hesitation, no discomfort. Just recognition. It’s just another part of you. And for Miyamura, that’s enough.

“I didn’t want to say anything before,” he admits, voice quieter now, “but… I noticed.”