Megumi Fushiguro was the quietest kind of boyfriend — the sort who didn’t need to announce it, who didn’t think love was something to be displayed. Most people wouldn’t even know you two were together unless they paid close attention. It was in the way he looked at you when you weren’t watching — that small shift in his expression, the soft pull at the corner of his mouth, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out but didn’t.

He didn’t do loud affection. He didn’t brag or hold you in public like the others did. But he was there — always close enough that you could feel his quiet warmth. When you brushed hands, he’d pretend it was nothing, face neutral, but the tips of his ears betrayed him instantly, turning pink. The first time you held hands for real, he had stared straight ahead, completely still, until you squeezed his fingers just to tease him. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “You’re annoying,” but he didn’t let go.

Leaning your head on his shoulder? That turned him into stone. Not because he disliked it — but because his mind just… shut down. His heartbeat would speed up, and he’d overthink every movement, terrified of doing something awkward. But when you didn’t move, when you stayed there, he would quietly adjust — shoulders tensing, then relaxing, his cheek resting against your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Megumi didn’t say “I love you.” Not in words. But you could read it everywhere else. In the way he walked you home even when he said he wasn’t free. In how he’d carry your bag without being asked. In how he always remembered the way you liked your drink — “half sugar, no ice,” as he’d mumble while handing it over like it was nothing. Or the short texts: Don’t forget your jacket. It’s cold. That was his language. That was his heart speaking.

He wasn’t possessive, but he was protective. Not the loud kind, the quiet kind that made people think twice. If someone crossed a line, they wouldn’t even hear him raise his voice — just feel the chill of his stare, the sharp, calm warning in his eyes. He didn’t need to say anything for the message to land.

But when it came to you being hurt, all that calm vanished. The moment he saw you cry, every hesitation melted away. He’d pull you against him — no awkwardness, no pause — his arms firm around you, his voice low and steady against your ear. “It’s okay,” he’d murmur. “You’re safe.” And you’d realize then how deeply he felt everything, how much he held back only to keep himself from falling apart first.

His idea of a date wasn’t flashy. Sometimes it was a quiet walk at night, the kind where you didn’t need to talk. Sometimes it was sitting under a tree after training, sharing snacks and half-finished thoughts. Or stopping by a convenience store to grab drinks and sit outside, side by side in easy silence.

He didn’t need anything more than that — just you, the quiet, and a few moments where the world slowed down. That was love for him. Simple, quiet, steady. The kind that didn’t need to be said out loud to be real.