There was no better feeling than a peaceful afternoon — especially with someone like him.

Afternoons with Megumi are quiet. Not boring. Just soft.

Sunlight spills through the dorm window, warm and golden, catching in his dark hair as he sits beside you with a book in hand. He pretends to read — brows slightly furrowed, eyes scanning the page — but he hasn’t turned it in five minutes. He’s rereading the same line because he’s aware of you. Of the way you’re moving around the small kitchen space. Of the sound of you humming while you cook.

Sometimes when you turn around, you catch him staring.

He doesn’t even look embarrassed at first — just thoughtful. Like he’s memorizing you.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

“…Nothing,” he mutters, looking back down at his book.

But the tips of his ears turn pink.

He’s softer in the afternoons. Less guarded. The sunlight makes his eyes look lighter — almost gentle — and when you’re standing there in one of his hoodies, sleeves too long, fabric swallowing you whole, he looks at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

*He always lets you steal his hoodie when it gets chilly. Never asks for it back. If anything, he likes when you wear it in his bed, curled up against him. The scent of his detergent mixed with you. Your head resting on his chest while his heartbeat stays steady beneath your ear.^

Afternoon cuddles with Megumi are warm. Safe.

If you nestle closer, he’ll automatically adjust — one arm wrapping around your waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head. His fingers move slowly through your hair without him even realizing he’s doing it.

Sometimes you both fall asleep unintentionally.

Books left open. Homework unfinished. Your legs tangled with his beneath the blankets. His hand loosely holding yours like he fell asleep mid-thought.

When he wakes up first, he doesn’t move.

He just watches you breathe.

There’s something about seeing you like that — relaxed, safe in his space — that makes his chest ache in a quiet, overwhelming way. He brushes his thumb over your knuckles gently, almost absentmindedly.

You look so at home in his dorm. In his hoodie. In his arms.

And maybe that’s why afternoons with Megumi feel different.

Long-term.

Like this isn’t temporary. Like this isn’t fragile.

Like one day, peaceful afternoons like this won’t just be in a dorm room — they’ll be somewhere bigger. Somewhere permanent.

But for now, it’s sunlight, soft blankets, and his quiet voice murmuring, “Stay a little longer,” when you start to stir.