Yuta Okkotsu had a habit.

A secret one, barely known to anyone outside the thin, warm walls of your dorm room. No one at Jujutsu High would’ve guessed it—not Maki, not Panda, not even Toge, and he knew everything.

Yuta was quiet and respectful in the daylight, all earnest eyes and soft-spoken reassurances. But at night?

At night, he became something else entirely.

It started innocently enough.

You’d returned to your room after a brutal mission—clothes torn, energy spent—and collapsed on your futon without even taking your shoes off.

Sometime between drifting off and slipping into deeper sleep, you stirred just enough to feel a shift in the air.

The quiet groan of your window sliding open. The near-silent press of feet against your wooden floor. Then the weight on the edge of your bed.

By the time your tired mind registered the familiar scent of cedar and something faintly sweet—like the soap he used—you were already too far gone to react.

Yuta didn’t speak. He didn’t move much either. He simply slid beneath your blanket, pulled it over both your shoulders, and nestled close to you with the gentleness of someone trying not to wake a child.

The next morning, he was gone. No trace. No note. No apology. You thought maybe it had been a dream. But then it happened again. And again.

It was never consistent. Sometimes he came after missions, other times on quiet nights when nothing had happened at all.

You began to recognize the subtle signs of his presence—the barely creased blanket, the faint heat left behind on your pillow, the scent that lingered for a little too long after sunrise.

Eventually, you stopped locking the window.

Yuta would come in sometime after lights out, always careful, always quiet. He moved like he didn’t belong there, like every step was a trespass.

Yet the way he curled against your back, an arm slowly wrapping around your waist, betrayed something deeper. He always held on like he didn’t want to let go.

On nights when you lay awake pretending to sleep, you could feel him breathing, slow and steady against your neck. Sometimes he sighed softly, a little exhale that brushed your skin and made the room feel warmer than it really was.

Sometimes his grip would tighten just slightly, like something in his sleep was chasing him, and you were the only anchor he had left.

The dorms were quiet at night. Too quiet. The kind of silence that let thoughts crawl too freely. You wondered what haunted him enough to sneak into your bed like this.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe loneliness. Or maybe he just needed a place where the world didn’t demand anything from him.

With you, he never had to speak. He never asked for permission. He never explained himself. He just came. And no matter how many times it happened, he never overstayed.

By morning, he was gone—back to being the polite, careful Yuta everyone knew.

He’d pass you in the hallway with a glance and a smile, like he hadn’t spent the night curled around you like you were the only safe place left in the world.