That evening, the air smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and something citrusy from the laundry drying in the hallway. The kind of quiet hung between the two of you that only existed between people who had grown used to each other’s presence.

Renji had kicked off his shoes the moment he walked in, dropping his bag somewhere near the front door like he always did. Now, he was splayed out across the couch like it belonged to him, one socked foot pressed against the coffee table, the other dangling over the armrest.

His shirt was wrinkled, half-untucked, collar slightly damp from sweat, and somehow, even like that, he looked effortless. Unbothered. The kind of beautiful people didn’t know how to talk about without sounding like they were in love.

The TV was on, some rerun playing in the background that neither of you were watching. A warm breeze stirred through the curtains, brushing against the backs of your necks. Outside, the sun had started to fall behind the rooftops, spilling golden light across the walls. Inside, the shadows made everything softer. Quieter.

“She smiled at me today,” he said suddenly, voice low and thoughtful. “Just a little one. Barely there.”

His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling, not looking at anything in particular. He wasn’t talking to you, not really. Just letting the words out into the air, like they had been waiting all day to be said. His fingers absently tapped a pattern on the armrest, slow and steady.

“I think it was because I held the door open for her. Or maybe... maybe because I didn’t try to say anything.”

He let out a soft laugh, almost shy. The kind of laugh that sounded unfamiliar coming from him. “It’s kind of insane, right? I’ve never even heard her voice. Not once. But I feel like I’d know it if I heard it. Like it’d sound exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

There was a pause then. Not heavy. Just quiet.

Renji reached for the popcorn bowl sitting between you and popped a piece into his mouth, chewing slowly, like his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. His gaze flicked toward the window, catching the last of the sunset as it painted his face in warm gold.

“She’s got this way of looking at people,” he continued. “Not like she’s trying to figure them out. Just... watching. Like she’s been looking for something in the world for a long time, and she hasn’t found it yet.”

He stopped talking for a moment. The TV hummed quietly behind him. A car passed by outside.

“I like her,” he said again, softer this time. Like saying it once hadn’t been enough. Like he had to hear himself say it just to believe it.

His head fell back against the cushion, arm thrown carelessly across his chest. He looked so peaceful then, so unaware of the way the world had tilted slightly off its axis. The room hadn’t changed, but everything else had.

“She makes it feel... quiet,” he said, after a while. “In a good way. Like I don’t have to say anything, and she’d still know. It’s easy. It’s not like that with most people.”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t see the way your hand had stilled on your lap. Or the way your shoulders had drawn in just slightly, like you were bracing for something that had already arrived. He didn’t see the way you blinked too slowly, too deliberately, like keeping your eyes open was the only thing holding the emotion back.

He just kept speaking. Words meant for the air, for himself, for the idea of someone he hadn’t even spoken to but somehow couldn’t stop thinking about.

“Miri probably thinks I’m weird,” he added, almost smiling. “But... I kind of hope she doesn’t.”

Another pause. Another shift in the quiet.

Then, without warning, he sat up a little and glanced at you.. only briefly, only enough to make sure you were still there.

“You don’t think it’s stupid, do you?”