Itoshi Rin always claimed he wasn’t into PDA. Said it was annoying. Said he didn’t see the point. But you learned pretty quickly that his actions never quite matched his words.

Whether it was holding your hand while walking through a crowd, resting a casual hand on your lower back in public, or absentmindedly playing with your hair during a movie—Rin always found a way to keep you close. Always touching, always near. He’d insist it was practical. “So you don’t wander off,” he’d say, as if you were some lost puppy.

Today was no different. You sat beside him in his car, music playing low, your favorite drink in the cupholder. One hand on the wheel, the other slowly drifted over to your thigh, resting there—fingers warm, steady, possessive in the quietest way. His hand settled perfectly between you and the gearshift, thumb brushing over the fabric of your jeans like it belonged there.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even glance your way. But his ears were slightly pink, and his grip tightened just the slightest bit when you smiled at him.

“Don’t read into it,” he mumbled, eyes on the road. “Just making sure you don’t fly out the window or something.”