The late afternoon light slipped lazily through the curtains, painting the room in soft amber. Megumi pushed open the door to his small living room and froze halfway in.

There you were—sprawled across his couch, head comfortably resting against his pillow. His favorite one. The only one he ever used when he actually bothered to nap. He stood there a moment, shadow falling across the floor, expression flat but his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

“…That’s mine,” he said finally, his voice even, low, the kind of tone that sounded more like an observation than a protest.

You shifted slightly, not even looking guilty, clearly ignoring him. Megumi’s jaw twitched. He sighed through his nose, stepped forward, and sat down on the edge of the couch with a kind of reluctant grace. The cushion dipped under his weight, and the closeness was immediate. He could smell the faint shampoo scent from your hair, the warmth radiating off your body.

“…Fine,” he muttered, shoulders dropping in resignation. “Just don’t drool on it.”

The corner of your lips tugged upward—smug, victorious. Megumi felt his own expression tighten, a faint scowl pulling at his features, though not truly serious. He leaned back against the couch, arms crossing. But he didn’t move away. He could have—he should have—yet something in him liked the weight of your presence filling the small space.

His eyes flickered to you again. The way you looked so at ease, so utterly comfortable in his space, as if it had always been partly yours. And in a way, it had. His memories tangled with the present—running through the old neighborhood as kids, your laughter echoing sharp in his ears, the way you’d shove him lightly and then grin like you’d won some unseen battle. You’d been in his orbit for so long, it was impossible to picture any part of his life without you stamped into it.

Megumi tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded, feigning indifference. But his hand twitched where it rested on his lap, an almost unconscious urge to reach out—to reclaim the pillow, or maybe just brush against you, to confirm you were real and still here. The thought irritated him, embarrassed him, but it lingered.

Your arm brushed his when you shifted again. A simple, small contact, but it sparked through him, steady and grounding. He exhaled slowly, steadying his expression so it wouldn’t betray the quiet warmth blooming in his chest.

He wouldn’t say it out loud. He never did. But sitting here, his pillow stolen, your shoulder just close enough to his, Megumi realized he didn’t mind at all. In fact… he’d let you steal a lot more than just that pillow.

“…You’re insufferable,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite to it. His lips curved—barely, a ghost of a smile—as his eyes softened.

And still, he didn’t move away.