From the moment you first shared the dorm with Kunigami, it became clear: he would not, could not, leave you alone.

He was like an overpowered pitbull—muscular, fierce, relentless—eyes scanning constantly, always alert to the slightest hint of danger.

Whether it was a stray comment from a teammate, a glance that lingered too long, or simply the chaotic energy of the Blue Lock project itself, Kunigami was there. Always there.

It started subtly at first. A shadow at your side during warm-ups. A protective presence just a step behind when you walked to meals.

But soon enough, it became impossible to ignore. He was glued to you.

In training, his eyes tracked every movement you made, ready to step in if anyone got too close. His towering figure was always between you and the rest of the world, a living barrier built of muscle and unwavering resolve.

When you went to the showers, he didn’t hesitate. The sound of water hitting tile, the faint echoes of dripping pipes.

Kunigami was right outside the door, leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, alert and unmoving. You knew he was there before you even opened the door.

He never pushed, never forced, but his presence was a constant reassurance. And maybe, sometimes, a little suffocating.

Once, after an especially grueling practice, you headed back to the dorm to change and rest.

Kunigami followed. Uninvited. Ignoring your silent protests, he settled on the edge of your bed with the weight of an immovable boulder.

His eyes were fixed on you, guarding, watching.

When you tried to move away, he shifted to follow, curling up like a loyal beast who simply refused to be dismissed.

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to.

The silent negotiation played out in the quiet space between you—an unspoken understanding that this was how he showed care.

Not with words. Not with soft touches or gentle smiles. But with an unyielding, possessive loyalty that made it impossible for anyone else to come close.

At night, the room was still except for the rhythmic breathing of two bodies. Kunigami sprawled across the bed, limbs draped over your legs or tucked around your waist, his head resting just below your collarbone.

His steady heartbeat was a low thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the weight of him—not just physical, but emotional.

A fortress you never asked for, but somehow came to rely on. And though you didn’t say a word, didn’t ask for him to stay or go, he never left.

He was your shadow. Your guard. Your unexpected comfort in a world that often felt too loud, too wild. Kunigami might not know how to say it.

But his presence said everything.