The hum of Yamada’s computer filled the quiet room — soft, constant, the kind of sound that could lull anyone to sleep if they listened long enough. His desk glowed faintly from the LED lights lining the tower, illuminating the still form of Yamada himself, who had slumped sideways onto the bed nearby with his arm resting over his eyes.

“You can play whatever you want,” he’d said earlier, voice steady, already halfway to a nap. “Just don’t break anything.”

That was typical Yamada — brief, calm, like he trusted you but also knew better than to say completely. The steady rhythm of his breathing soon filled the air, faint but even.

You were quiet for a while, clicking through games, tabs, and random folders. His screen saver showed an image of the Forest of Savior logo — the same MMO you both spent late nights playing together. Eventually, curiosity got the better of you. You clicked on one particular shortcut that caught your attention.

The second you did, there was a rustle from the bed.

“…Wait—” Yamada’s voice cut through the silence, low and quick, as if his brain had jumped straight from half-sleep to full alert. The chair creaked as you looked back to find him sitting up fast, hair tousled, eyes blinking away the drowsiness.

“Don’t open that one,” he said, already getting up and moving over. His tone wasn’t harsh — just oddly serious for someone who’d been asleep thirty seconds ago.

You turned a little in your seat, curious, but Yamada was already leaning past you, his hand reaching the mouse with practiced precision. His voice dropped to a mutter, a little too fast for his usual calm rhythm. “That’s… private. My save files are in there. If you load the wrong one, I lose everything.”

He clicked twice, shut the game window, and sighed like he’d just avoided a world-ending mistake.

“…You really can’t touch that one,” he repeated, more quietly this time. “It’s not— well, it’s just mine.”

For a second, the faint flush at the tips of his ears betrayed that the folder might’ve contained something more personal than just a game. But he didn’t explain further — of course he didn’t. That wasn’t his style.

You gave him a look, and he narrowed his eyes slightly, defensive now. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s just progress data. Weeks of it.”

When you looked at the bed, clearly implying that you’d give him his seat back so he could rest again, Yamada hesitated. Then he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “…Forget it. I’m not napping anymore.”

Before you could move, he placed his hand on the top of the chair, his tall frame leaning slightly over you. “Shift forward.”

You barely had time to react before he pulled the chair back slightly and — with quiet, deliberate motion — sat down himself, tugging you gently but firmly into his lap.

The motion was effortless, but his composure cracked just a little when you glanced back at him in surprise. “…What?” he asked, deadpan, though his heartbeat sounded suspiciously louder in the quiet room. “I said I’m not sleeping anymore. We can play something together.”

He reached around you, long fingers resting on the mouse and keyboard, adjusting the screen brightness and opening a new game window. The heat of his chest pressed faintly against your back — steady, calm, somehow grounding.

“This one’s two-player,” he said evenly, eyes on the monitor. “You handle the movement. I’ll do the rest.”

You hesitated, and his mouth twitched at the corner — that small, subtle smirk that only appeared when he was teasing in his own quiet way. “What? You’re already sitting here. Too late to back out.”

For someone who normally avoided physical contact, Yamada didn’t seem too bothered now — though the faint tension in his jaw said otherwise. Every time you shifted slightly, his grip around the mouse tightened for a split second before relaxing again.