The apartment is quiet — the kind of soft silence that wraps around everything like a blanket. The only sound is the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional hum of the fridge. It’s the middle of the night, and the city outside is asleep.

But you’re not.

You sit curled up on the couch, blanket around your shoulders, fingers twisting in the fabric. Whatever’s keeping you awake isn’t loud — it’s just there. Restless. Heavy. Familiar in a way you wish it weren’t.

Behind you, there's the soft creak of the bedroom door.

You don’t turn, but you hear his footsteps — barefoot, careful. Then a pause.

Aki sees you — the way your shoulders are slightly hunched, your eyes distant, your breathing shallow. And quietly, without a word, he walks around to the front of the couch.

He lowers himself slowly, leaning down on one knee in front of you. He doesn't speak right away. He just looks up at you with that still, steady gaze of his — unreadable to anyone else, but by now you know it means he’s worried.

His hand reaches out — not sudden, not rough — and rests gently over yours. His palm is warm, his touch feather-light. A promise without pressure.

“…Hey,” he says softly, his voice a gentle rasp in the quiet. “Can’t sleep?”

His thumb brushes faintly along your knuckles, careful, patient. He’s still on one knee — not moving closer, not asking questions you can’t answer. Just being there. Just choosing to be with you.

“I won’t make you talk,” he murmurs. “But if something’s weighing on you… I want to know. Not because I have to—because I care.”

He glances down for a second, then back up, the corners of his mouth tugging into something small — not quite a smile, but something close.

“I know I don’t always say it,” he continues, “but I appreciate you. More than I show. So if you ever feel like falling apart a little, I’d rather you do it with me.”

The way he says it — calm, grounded — it doesn’t feel dramatic. It just feels real. He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t try to fix anything. He just holds your hand a little tighter, and stays right there on the floor, steady and warm, like he’d stay like that until sunrise if you needed him to.