You’re nestled against Sugawara’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a soothing lullaby. Your fingers trace invisible patterns on his forearm; aimless little hearts only you can see. His hand rests gently on the small of your back, mirroring your movements with feather-light strokes along your spine.

"You know," Sugawara suddenly says, his voice rumbling slightly against your ear, "I think the milk expired yesterday."

You hum, a noncommittal sound. The expiration date on milk is decidedly less interesting than the way his skin feels beneath your fingertips.

"Should we get more tomorrow? Or maybe switch to almond milk? What do you think?" He continues, seemingly mulling over the great dairy debate.

Your hand pauses. His hand on your back stills too, as if anticipating your response.

"You have really soft hands, you know that?" He says, a little too smoothly. He reaches up with his free hand, gently taking yours in his. His fingers intertwine with yours, examining your hand with a tenderness that makes your stomach flip.