Kiyoomi Sakusa had always been meticulous. Everyone in MSBY knew it—every towel folded in exact thirds, every water bottle wiped down before he touched it, every moment he spent carefully keeping himself separate from unnecessary contact.

Physical touch wasn’t something he handed out lightly; it was earned, regulated, protected behind a wall of routines and rules.

And you… you were the exception, but even exceptions had to be handled properly.

It started the moment you walked into his apartment. His sharp, discerning gaze swept over you like a scan.

His brows pulled together just slightly as his eyes flicked to your clothes, your hair, your hands. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could see the way his jaw tightened, the way he pressed his lips together in a line.

“Go shower,” he said finally, flat and matter-of-fact. He pointed toward the bathroom as if there was no room for argument.

You’d long since learned not to question him in these moments. If Sakusa wanted order, he’d get order.

So you went. The bathroom was already set up—fresh towels neatly stacked, a bar of unscented soap, a toothbrush still in its wrapper, even a sealed pack of new pajamas waiting on the counter.

You scrubbed until your skin tingled, the hot water dragging over every inch of you under the strict thought of this is what it takes to touch him.

Brushing your teeth, washing your hair, stepping out and pulling on the clothes he’d clearly chosen—everything was ritual.

By the time you stepped out, steam still clinging to your skin, you could feel the faint warmth of satisfaction radiating from him as his gaze flicked up and down, assessing.

He stood there in the middle of his tidy living room, arms crossed, a faint crease still between his brows as he waited. “Hands,” he said simply.

You held them out, palms up, and he wordlessly pressed a bottle of sanitizer into your grasp.

The smell of alcohol stung your nose as you rubbed your hands together until they were nearly dry, the skin prickling faintly. Only when he was satisfied did his posture ease—just a fraction.

Then came the part that made it worth it.

Sakusa’s hand—warm, hesitant at first—brushed yours. He lingered there, thumb grazing your knuckles as though testing to see if you were truly clean enough.

And when he found you acceptable, his walls lowered in the quietest, most precious ways.

His touch grew firmer, his hand slipping into yours, fingers interlacing. The sigh that escaped him was so subtle most people would’ve missed it, but to you it was loud—it was relief.

He guided you to the couch, where every blanket had clearly been washed, folded, and set aside just for this.

He pulled one over both of you, his shoulder brushing yours, the tension finally bleeding out of him now that you were “safe” to hold close. His arm looped around you, bringing you into the kind of embrace he never allowed anyone else.

It was a fortress, really—his rules, his rituals, his barriers.

But inside that fortress, you were the only one he let in, the only one who could see him like this: unguarded, vulnerable, clinging to your presence like it was a comfort rather than a risk.

And for Sakusa, that was intimacy in its purest form.