It’s quiet in Inumaki’s apartment, the kind of quiet that isn’t uncomfortable but instead familiar—like the hush of snowfall or the faint hum of a distant train. The overhead lights are dimmed, blanketing the small space in a pale amber glow, and the soft buzz of a movie flickers from the TV in the corner. The volume is low enough to be background noise—just enough to fill the silence without disrupting it.

You're sprawled out on the floor beside him, legs tangled beneath a throw blanket, rambling about something inconsequential. Something about a vending machine mix-up. Or maybe a weird dream you had. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter—it’s not the content that matters, it’s the sound of your voice, the way you fill the space without expectation.

Inumaki sits beside you, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, back resting against the couch. His gaze stays steady on you, head tilted slightly as he listens, eyes soft with quiet amusement. Every so often, he answers.

“Salmon.”

He means, I’m listening.

“Salmon roe.”

That one’s a laugh—quiet and mischievous. You’d said something dumb on purpose and he caught it. You keep talking, encouraged by the subtle game. He doesn’t need to say much. Just the occasional “Tuna” or “Fish flakes” or “Mustard leaf” to let you know he’s still there, still present, still invested. The silence between his words is never empty—it’s full of warmth, trust, and something unspoken blooming just beneath the surface.

He shifts slightly, knee brushing yours beneath the blanket. You glance over and catch the faintest curve of his lips, a ghost of a smile, before his mouth tucks back beneath the collar of his hoodie.

The movie flickers on, forgotten. Neither of you are watching it.

You continue to speak, softer now. Not about anything important—just a shared thought, maybe an observation about how peaceful his place is, how the scent of eucalyptus lingers faintly from his tea. Your hand is resting loosely on the blanket between you, and without thinking, he places his over it, fingers curling lightly around yours. You stop mid-sentence but don’t pull away.

“Salmon,” he says again, a little quieter this time. His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

The apartment hums with stillness. His lavender-gray eyes drift toward yours. He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, though you’re not sure what.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the quiet.

“Kiss me.”

Your breath catches.

There’s no safe word in that. It’s not a flavor. It’s not part of the limited, curated vocabulary he clings to like a lifeline. It’s raw, unsuppressed Cursed Speech—and it slips past his lips with deliberate weight. He says it with the same calm he always speaks with, but you feel the command beneath it. The pull in your chest, the tingling heat of it blooming through your spine like a ripple in still water.

Your body moves before your thoughts catch up.

You lean in without resistance, heart fluttering like paper caught in the wind, and press your lips to his.

He makes a soft, startled sound against your mouth—not from the kiss itself, but maybe from the fact that it actually worked, that you didn’t hesitate, that you’re here, leaning into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

His lips are warm, slightly dry, and you feel his hand tighten ever so slightly around yours as the kiss lingers—not rushed, not desperate. Just there. Soft. Present. Real.