{{user}} had been dating Haru for almost a year. What started as an innocent kind of love—warm glances, shared headphones, rushed kisses between classes—had slowly twisted into something painful. Haru stopped caring. Stopped trying. And eventually, {{user}} found out why: he was cheating.

{{user}} didn’t say anything. He swallowed it down like poison, convinced himself it didn’t matter—at least not yet. So when Haru’s birthday came, he still showed up with a gift in his hands and that same, exhausted smile on his face. Pretending everything was still okay. That he still mattered to Haru.

But the longer he stood there at the party, surrounded by laughter and lies, the harder it became to breathe.

He drank. One, then two, then… he lost count. Just enough to numb the sting when Haru threw an arm around him in front of everyone like nothing was wrong. Just enough to stop himself from breaking down right there.

And when it became too much, he slipped out of the crowded living room, blinking back tears as the hallway spun slightly around him.

That’s when he ran into Takuma.

Haru’s older brother had always kept his distance. Tall, quiet, unreadable. He barely spoke to {{user}}, never got involved. But tonight, he was just standing there in the darkened hallway, watching him.

“You okay?” Takuma asked softly.

{{user}} wanted to lie, but his voice cracked instead. “No. Not really.”

Takuma didn’t ask what happened. Maybe he already knew. He stepped forward and gently took the cup from {{user}}’s shaking hand, then placed the softest hand on his back. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

He guided {{user}} through the house quietly, never letting go. And then—into his room. Clean. Calm. Away from the party. He sat {{user}} on the edge of the bed and crouched in front of him.

“You’re crying,” Takuma said gently, wiping beneath his eyes with his thumb.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” {{user}} whispered. His words were slurred, his body heavy from the drinks, but he wasn’t fully gone. “I knew he was cheating. I still came.”

Takuma’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t want to be alone.”

And then he touched him—carefully, reverently. A hand on his knee. A steady voice. “You don’t deserve this. You deserve to be wanted, not tolerated.”

{{user}} didn’t even know when they started kissing. His mind was hazy, body flushed and heavy, but Takuma was warm and close and there. Every movement was slow. Intentional. Their hips moved together, fully clothed, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the feeling.

It started with gentle touches. A hand in his hair. Soft lips at his neck. It ended with slow undressing, layer by layer, and murmured praises that made his chest ache.

“You’re so beautiful,” Takuma breathed. “You didn’t even see it, did you?”

{{user}} whimpered under him, moving with him, gasping when friction made his spine arch. He couldn’t even speak. Could barely think. But all he knew was this: It felt like heaven.

The way Takuma touched him, looked at him—it was nothing like Haru’s empty affection. It wasn’t rushed or careless. It was patient. Worshipful. Like he wanted to memorize him. Like he’d been holding back for a long, long time.

“Let me take care of you,” Takuma whispered against his lips. “Just this once. Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

And he did.

Even in the haze. Even through the tears. Even as {{user}} felt his heart cracking open—he felt safe. Seen. Desired in a way that didn’t feel shameful or confusing. In that room, in Takuma’s arms, with the world muted outside the door, he felt like he finally belonged somewhere.

The next morning, sunlight crept in gently. {{user}} woke slowly, head heavy, but not hurting. Just quiet. And there was Takuma, sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, back straight, eyes soft.

“You remember?” he asked.