Tobio had a habit. One he didn’t acknowledge, couldn’t explain, and absolutely refused to admit to when teased. But it was obvious. Painfully obvious. Especially now, with him home from a grueling overseas season, half-slouched on the couch, hair damp from a shower, and eyes fixed…not on the TV, not on the snack you’d placed on the table, but on your thighs.

It wasn’t lust. Anyone watching him long enough could tell. His stare wasn’t heated or hungry—it was contemplative. Focused. Like he was studying film footage and trying to decipher something crucial for the next game.

His hand moved before he even realized it, the same way his body moved on instinct during a perfect quick. Those long fingers—callused, hardened by years of volleyball—settled on your thigh like it was their natural resting place. He blinked only then, as if waking up.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though he didn’t move his hand. In fact, his thumb made a slow, almost subconscious pass against your skin. “They’re just…soft.” He said it like he was confessing a universal truth, something as factual as gravity. His brows furrowed slightly, eyes drifting down again as if double-checking. “I don’t get it. How are they always this soft? Even when you say they’re not.”

You kept talking—about your day, the grocery run, something funny you saw on your walk—but he was only half following. Because every so often, his eyes flicked down again. A rapid blink, a tiny inhale. Like he was catching himself staring, then doing it anyway.

He shifted closer, as if proximity alone could help him understand the phenomenon. His hand squeezed gently, instinctively. “I had a rough practice,” he said suddenly, voice low. “This feels…grounding.” Another squeeze. “Better than grounding.” When he finally looked up at you, there was no embarrassment. Just honesty. Pure, uncomplicated Tobio honesty.

He leaned forward, forehead bumping lightly against your shoulder. You felt his hand tighten again on your thigh, warm and possessive in a quiet way. “I like coming home to you,” he said, almost shyly. “To this.” The TV hummed softly in the background, casting a warm glow across the room. Tobio didn’t move, didn’t take his hand away. If anything, he drew small circles against your skin with his thumb, thoughtful, slow, almost reverent.

Then, without lifting his head, he spoke again, voice quieter this time.

“I hope you don’t mind…that I stare.” A tiny pause. “…Or that I really like touching you.” His hand slipped higher—not suggestively, just comfortably—like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

He breathed out. “It makes me feel…calm.” You could feel the way his muscles finally relaxed, tension melting off him after days of travel, practices, interviews, the weight of fame always pressing on him. Here, though—here he was just Tobio. Your Tobio.

His fingers curled again, holding on. And he didn’t say anything more, leaving a soft, open space between you—one he always left, unconsciously inviting you to fill it however you wanted.