Shoto sat on the couch beside you, legs stretched out, his head tilted just slightly against the back cushion. A faint steam rose from the tea in his hands — something herbal, earthy, nothing too sweet.

The TV played a nature documentary neither of you were really watching. He wasn’t talking much — but that wasn’t new. You knew when he went quiet like this, it wasn’t distance. It was contentment.

His hand brushed against yours on the blanket, and he glanced over.

“I like this,” he said simply.

He shifted a little closer, shoulder touching yours now. His tone didn’t change, calm as ever.

“Us. Not doing anything.”