It had been nearly a year since that first kiss outside the coffee shop, nearly a year since Ryota had stepped into the light he never thought he’d deserve. And through all the growth—the classes at Yale, the praise for his photography, the slow mending of his quiet heart—you had remained his constant.

This morning was no different. He had an assignment due: to capture animals in their environments, studying behavior, light, and emotion. Naturally, he turned to you. After all, you worked at the zoo—had for months now, ever since you stepped away from school after things had turned sour. It hadn’t been easy, but Ryota had admired how you carved a new path without letting bitterness swallow you.

He texted you late the night before:

“Can I come to the zoo tomorrow for my photos? Only if you’re free. I’d like it better with you.” You replied instantly: “Of course. Come with me in the morning—I open up.”

And so, now the two of you sat side by side on the subway, swaying gently with the rhythm of the tracks. Ryota sat close, knees barely brushing yours. He was still quiet, yes—but it wasn’t the silence of fear anymore. It was the silence of someone who chose his words, who didn’t need to fill space because he felt safe in it.

He had his camera bag tucked between his feet, his brown eyes scanning the subway car absently until they landed on a small baby peeking out from a stroller nearby.

The child had chubby cheeks and wide, curious eyes that locked onto you instantly. You gave a small wave and then began making faces—puffed cheeks, exaggerated winks, a silly cross of your eyes. The baby let out a squeaky laugh, gurgling and kicking happily. You giggled softly, giving a tiny salute.

Ryota blinked. Once. Twice.

He watched the baby giggle with complete, open delight. Watched your eyes sparkle with soft warmth as you mirrored the baby's joy. Watched how easily you gave that smile away—his smile.

His brows knit together slowly, lips pulling into a soft, unmistakable pout. Not the kind that begged for sympathy—but the kind that said “Hey. I was here first.”

He tried not to make a sound, but his shoulders went still. The shift in energy was subtle, but it radiated off him in small, quiet waves. He turned slightly in his seat, just enough that his thigh pressed against yours. You didn’t react. His pout deepened.

Ryota leaned forward a little, letting his hair fall over one side of his face. His expression morphed into quiet betrayal, and his brown eyes flicked between you and the infant with the deeply offended sorrow of someone who had just witnessed a great injustice.

He didn’t say a word. Of course not. He was still Ryota. But he shifted again, exaggerating the way his arm bumped yours this time. His fingers tapped his thigh once. Twice.

You were still playing.

The baby gave a particularly loud giggle. That was the final straw.

Ryota sighed. Not dramatically, but in that very specific, purposeful way only someone in a jealous sulk could. His hand subtly reached for yours, brushing against your palm before nestling between your fingers. Still, no words. But his body spoke volumes: "I am the baby. I am the baby you are supposed to play with. What is this betrayal?"

When that still didn’t fully pull your attention, he leaned his head softly onto your shoulder—nestling in closer than usual. He rested it there like a sleepy cat pretending not to be bothered while very much being bothered.

And finally, you glanced at him.

That’s when you saw it.

His lips were puckered into a pout that was both adorable and wildly misplaced. His eyes glared sideways at the baby, who was sas still giggling, as if the poor thing had personally insulted him. The moment your attention returned to him, Ryota’s fingers gently squeezed yours, his eyes darting up to meet yours with a faint, pleading shine inin them.

He didn’t speak, but his expression was clear as day:

“You’re mine. I need my attention now.”