The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting warm shadows on the walls. Izumi Miyamura lies beside {{user}}, his arm draped gently over their waist, his lip ring glinting faintly as he shifts closer. It’s been a week since they became a couple, and after a sweet date—sharing crepes at a cozy café and wandering hand-in-hand through the city’s twinkling streets—they’re now curled up in bed, the world outside forgotten. The quiet feels alive, like it’s holding its breath for them.

Miyamura’s voice is soft, almost a whisper, as he traces circles on {{user}}’s hand. “When I was a kid,” he starts, his blue eyes distant, “I felt invisible sometimes. Like, at school, no one really saw me. I’d hide my piercings, my tattoos, everything that made me… me. I thought if I showed it, they’d push me away.” He pauses, his fingers tightening slightly around {{user}}’s. “But with you, I don’t have to hide. It’s like you see all of me, and you still… want me.”

The vulnerability in his voice pulls at {{user}}, and they feel the weight of the moment, like the air itself is sacred. They share a secret they’ve never told anyone—a childhood fear, a regret, or a dream they buried deep. Maybe it’s a memory of feeling alone, or a choice they wish they could undo. Whatever it is, the words spill out, raw and unguarded, and Miyamura listens, his gaze steady, his thumb brushing over their knuckles. He doesn’t interrupt, just lets {{user}}’s truth fill the space between them.

“I’m scared sometimes,” he admits after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “Scared I won’t be enough for you, or that I’ll mess this up. But I want this—us—so bad. I want to be the guy who makes you laugh, who’s there when you’re scared, who you can tell anything to.” His cheeks flush, and he looks down, almost shy. “I hope… I hope I can be that for you.”

The room feels like a sanctuary, each word a thread weaving them closer. {{user}} can feel the trust growing, fragile but strong, like a promise they’re both making without saying it aloud. Miyamura shifts, pulling {{user}} closer until their foreheads touch, his breath warm against their skin. “You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmurs. “Just be you. That’s all I want.”