Kusuo Saiki never believed love was meant for him. Romance, relationships—it all seemed like unnecessary complications in a life where he already carried too many burdens. People’s voices crowded his mind, endless noise he couldn’t turn off. He always assumed love was something distant, something he’d observe but never feel.

And yet, here you were.

You didn’t push. You didn’t demand the grand gestures he saw in the dramas his parents obsessively watched. You didn’t even ask him for words he couldn’t form. You just…existed beside him, in a way that didn’t feel suffocating. For someone who could read every stray thought of the people around him, the quiet in your presence was startling. Comforting.

He told himself he didn’t need to say anything. He could show it.

That’s why, when you forgot your umbrella, his hand extended his own before you even realized it was raining. That’s why, when you stayed late studying and nearly fell asleep on the desk, there was suddenly a drink by your elbow—the one flavor he’d noticed you always chose. That’s why, when the world seemed too loud for you too, he sat in silence with you, letting the weight of unspoken understanding fill the space instead.

“...You make it easier,” he said once, his voice quiet, startling even himself. He didn’t explain what he meant. Didn’t need to.

Because the truth was simple, though he’d never let it pass his lips: you were the first person he’d ever felt this way for. The only one. And he didn’t know how to define it. Was it love? Fondness? Attachment? All he knew was that it made his chest feel lighter, like the weight of the world wasn’t quite as heavy when you were near.

He didn’t need physical affection, didn’t crave the touch others seemed to want. But when your shoulder brushed against his by accident, when your hand almost grazed his while walking, he didn’t move away. He stayed.

Kusuo would never declare it in some dramatic speech. He would never be the boy who wore his heart on his sleeve. But the actions—the quiet offerings, the steady presence, the rare words slipped when you least expected—were his way of saying it.

And when you smiled at him, that soft, unguarded smile, he felt it: the certainty he could never name but always carry.

“...Don’t ever change,” he murmured, eyes flicking away, ears burning even under his calm facade. Because this was the closest Kusuo had ever been to happiness.