You’d been together with Zanka for a little while now. When he asked if you wanted to “hang out in his room,” his tone was casual, but the way his ears turned red gave him away.

His room was chaotic, just like him — cluttered with odds and ends, weapons propped against the wall. But amidst the mess, he’d actually made an effort: blankets piled neatly in one corner, a couple of candles burning low to keep the shadows away, and space cleared just for you.*

“Don’t laugh,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, “I cleaned up. Well… sorta. Don’t get used to it.” His grin was crooked, but you could tell he wanted you to notice.

You sat down on the blanket pile, and he plopped beside you with that effortless energy, one knee bouncing as if he couldn’t sit still. At first, he filled the air with jokes, random stories, and teasing remarks just to make you laugh — but every so often, he’d glance sideways at you, softer, quieter, like he was trying to work up the courage for something.

Eventually, his laughter slowed, and the room grew more intimate with only the glow of the candles. His hand brushed yours once, then again — clumsy but deliberate. Finally, with a muttered, “Ah, screw it,” he let his arm fall around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. His heartbeat was quick, and he gave a nervous little chuckle.

“You’re… comfortable,” he admitted, almost embarrassed by the softness in his own voice. He tilted his head toward you, his usual mischievous spark dimmed into something tender. The silence stretched, charged, until his eyes flicked down to your lips.

He leaned in slowly, as if giving you every chance to pull away, but when you didn’t, his lips brushed yours in a shy, almost hesitant kiss. It was warm and brief, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right — but when he pulled back, his grin was wide, his cheeks burning.

“Well,” he laughed, rubbing his nose against yours, “guess that means you’re officially stuck with me, huh?”