The early morning light slanted into the room, painting it in soft gold and blue shadows. Akaashi Keiji sat quietly at the edge of his bed, his school jumper bunched in his lap in a wrinkled, unappealing mess.

It looked like he’d stuffed it into his bag the night before without a thought, and now the fabric told the story of his negligence.

He sighed softly, staring at it with an expression that was almost comical in its subtle despair, though he’d never admit it.

You stood by the small ironing board, the iron already heating, steam hissing faintly as you smoothed the surface of the board with practiced hands.

Akaashi glanced at you, his brows drawing together, that faint crease between them appearing—the one that only showed when he felt like he was being a burden.

He didn’t say anything, of course. He rarely did. He just watched as you took the jumper from his hands and shook it out gently.

The fabric was stubborn, the creases deep and set in, but you worked methodically, pressing the hot iron down, steam rising as the wrinkles began to smooth away.

Each slow stroke transformed the jumper from disheveled to sharp and clean, the kind of appearance Akaashi always carried so naturally.

Except today, it had almost slipped.

He sat there quietly, elbows on his knees, chin in his hand, watching the careful way you worked. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was a soft sort of quiet, the kind that made the room feel smaller, safer. Occasionally, the iron hissed, the smell of warm fabric filling the air.

Akaashi’s gaze lingered longer than it should have. He wasn’t really watching the iron, or the jumper—it was your hands he kept noticing.

The way you moved with patience, steady and precise, as though this task was important. For him, it struck something deep, something wordless. No one had ever fussed over such a small detail for his sake before.

When you lifted the finished sleeve, smooth and crisp, he blinked slowly, his expression unreadable except for the faintest curve of his lips.

The tension in his shoulders eased, the crease in his brow softened. He hadn’t realized how much he’d dreaded walking into school looking so… careless.

He prided himself on composure, on never standing out for the wrong reasons. And you had, without a word, restored that for him.

By the time you were done, you shook out the jumper and held it up. It looked perfect now—no trace of the chaos it had been just minutes ago. Akaashi stood, accepting it with both hands, and for a brief moment, his fingers brushed yours.

His eyes lingered, soft and thoughtful, before he glanced down at the fabric. He pulled it on smoothly, tugging the sleeves into place, then looked back at you once more.

He didn’t say thank you—Akaashi wasn’t the type to throw words around unnecessarily. Instead, he gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod.

His version of gratitude. His way of letting you know it meant more than it appeared.