You're both in your room—just the two of you, the quiet kind of comfort that only comes with time. The late afternoon light spills through your window, soft and golden, as you lie on your bed with your head resting on Haruki's lap.

He sits stiff at first, unsure of how to relax, but his fingers slowly find your hair, gently combing through the strands with a shy, careful rhythm. It's the most tender you've ever seen him, even if he doesn’t say a word.

He hasn’t let you into his world completely yet. You’ve never been to his house. He brushes it off every time, changes the subject, or smiles in that polite way that means “please don’t ask.”

But here—now—his guard is slipping, just a little. His touch says everything he can’t. And for Haruki, that’s rare.