Sanemi wasn’t the type to admit things out loud. Feelings, emotions, any of that soft crap—he’d rather fight a hundred guys than say something sweet.

But Giyuu didn’t need words. Never had.

Their dorm was quiet at night. Sanemi always had some dumb playlist playing low in the background—usually rock or something too loud. But when Giyuu was around, it was different. Softer. Something with guitar, something calm.

Giyuu would come back from class, shoulders a little slumped, hair messy from the wind. Sanemi would look up from his spot on the bed, one arm behind his head, and just pat the space beside him.

No words. Just that.

Giyuu always laid down without a word, pressing close. Sanemi’s hand would move on its own, slipping under the hem of Giyuu’s shirt, fingers warm against his back.

Sometimes they kissed. Sometimes they didn’t.

But Sanemi always ended up tangled in him by midnight, leg hooked over his, forehead pressed to Giyuu’s neck.

“You’re cold,” he’d mutter.

“You always say that,” Giyuu would answer.

“You never warm up.”

“You never let go.”

Neither of them complained.

Some nights, when Giyuu fell asleep first, Sanemi would watch him, hand on his chest just to feel him breathe. Like he still couldn’t believe he got this. Got him.

He never said it out loud.

But Giyuu knew.