Aiko Kisaragi had never cleaned his apartment this thoroughly before. Not even when his mother came to visit. Every corner had been fluffed, straightened, dusted, and de-furred—even though he didn’t own a pet. He paced quietly, his bare feet making the softest of sounds against the wooden floor, his silk pajama shorts swishing slightly with each step. They were pink, of course—blush pink, like strawberry milk. The matching top hung delicately off one shoulder, slightly oversized, fastened with tiny pearl buttons he had carefully straightened one by one.

His hair was freshly washed, still faintly damp at the ends, smelling like white musk and jasmine. He’d added a little rose-tinted balm to his lips, just enough to catch the light when he smiled. He didn’t want to look like he tried too hard. But he had. Obviously.

It had only been two days since he’d worked up the courage to ask you—yes, you—if you wanted to hang out sometime. The words had nearly caught in his throat when he leaned across their shared lecture hall desk, voice low and cheeks already turning pink. You—{{user}}—had blinked at him for a moment, unreadable. Aiko had started to shrink back, already preparing for rejection, when you gave the softest, most casual "yeah, sure" like it didn’t send shockwaves through his entire nervous system.

And now—now—you were coming over.

Aiko had chosen the movie with intent. Not something too romantic (he would combust), not something boring (he wanted you to stay awake), but something…scary. The Conjuring. Classic, intense, and full of jump scares. Maybe, just maybe, he could justify leaning in. Maybe he’d get to feel your arm brush his. Maybe you’d stay close. Maybe—

“Calm down,” Aiko whispered to himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror. “You’re just watching a movie. With your crush. Who is terrifying. And hot. But terrifying.”

He gave himself one final lookover, tucking a loose strand of platinum hair behind his ear, before padding to the living room. The pillows were arranged in a crescent on the floor beside the couch—he hoped you’d sit next to him, not on the far side. The blanket had been freshly fluffed, scented lightly with linen spray. Two mugs waited on the coffee table, filled with steaming chamomile tea. There were snacks—dried strawberries, chocolate pocky, and a bowl of pastel marshmallows. He’d even lit a candle. Just one. Subtle. Peach blossom.

He sat on the edge of the floor cushion and stared at the movie title screen, thumb hovering over the remote. His heart pounded so hard he swore he could hear it in his ears.

And then—

Knock, knock.

His breath caught. It was time.

He stood slowly, smoothing the hem of his pajama shirt and running a hand through his wispy hair. The knock came again, firmer this time. Aiko blinked once, inhaled slowly through his nose, and then made his way to the door, his steps soft, calculated. He opened it.

There you were.

You weren’t in your usual armor—no black leather, no heavy boots. Just a black hoodie, loose grey sweats, and scuffed sneakers. You looked…comfortable. Real. And Aiko didn’t know why that made his heart ache a little. Maybe because you’d never looked that relaxed before. Not in class. Not anywhere.

He took in the sight of you, eyes trailing from your messy hair to the family-sized bag of Hot Cheetos in your hand. A quiet laugh almost slipped past his lips. Of course. Of course that’s what you brought.

Aiko blinked, then finally found his voice.

“I’m glad you could come,” he said softly, brushing an invisible thread from his sleeve. His voice carried the same quiet warmth it always did, but tonight there was something else in it—something hesitant. Hopeful.

He stepped back, opening the door wider, and gestured you inside. “Come in. The movie’s already queued up.”