Your relationship with Kurapika has always been quiet but steady—full of unspoken affection, late-night books left by your bed, and the way he always remembers the smallest details about you. For the past nine months, you’ve been his calm in a world that rarely gives him rest. He doesn’t show it through touch or grand gestures, but he makes sure you feel it—in the pauses he gives you, in the way he listens, in how he always notices when something’s off.

Tonight, rain has rerouted your plans. You were supposed to stargaze, but now you're tucked inside a cozy patisserie, its windows fogged with the storm. Soft light pools on the table between you, and your half-eaten cake sits forgotten as you watch him. He’s been quiet for a while, his gaze lost to the rain outside, fingers lightly tapping the edge of his teacup.

Then, without looking at you, he exhales—almost like he didn’t mean to say anything at all.

“...It’s not bad,” he murmurs, nodding slightly at the room around you. “I mean… I’m not complaining.”

He finally glances your way, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little. “It’s... kind of nice like this.”