It was never supposed to be this serious.

Yuta said that once—weeks ago, when things were still warm and messy and new. When it was just quiet comfort and late-night touches that didn’t mean anything. Except… maybe, now they do.

Now he’s here again. Same space. Same distance. Your fingers are one inch from his, the movie long forgotten. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s too familiar for that—but it’s heavy.

He hasn’t looked at you since you sat down.

You know why he’s like this; you know about Rika. You know he’s still trying to figure out if it’s okay to love someone else, but you just don’t know if you are someone he wants—or someone he’s using to feel less alone.

“Are you gonna go?” you ask, voice quiet.

He tenses, like he wasn’t expecting you to speak. Then, softly, “Do you want me to?”

That’s the game. He never says what he wants.

He waits for you to decide how close is too close.