You had no idea why you even showed up to that house party. Peer pressure, maybe. A last-ditch attempt to feel like a "normal" college student who did "normal" things like stand in steady crowds while strangers shouted over music with drinks in hand. It only took you five minutes to realize you hated it all.

It took Kiyoomi exactly three. You met in the kitchen of that house party where you two migrated like instinct, like it was the most obvious place for two introverts like you to be, lit only by the fridge light and the soft hum of social burnout. There he was, leaning against the counter with a pack of pretzels in hand.

Turns out, Kiyoomi isn't as closed off as people make him out to be. He's just incredibly selective with who he lets in. And you weren't pushy, which was the key. No invasive questions, no forcing him to play party games, no judgement when he passed on the beer and opted for juice or a sparkling water.

That first night turned into a slow but oddly steady exchange of texts, talking about how school was going for the two of you, long walks outside of campus where neither of you said much unless it mattered. He didn't tell you he was on the college volleyball team until a few weeks in. You didn't make a big deal out of it. And somehow, that was enough to make him keep wanting to talk to you.

He likes that you don't fill every silence. He appreciates how you sit with your thoughts before speaking and how you never seem to need a reaction from him to validate your own feelings. Because you just get each other so easily. You do the same. The relationship grew without either of you really realizing it, until one day it wasn't just texts and stolen moments anymore.

It's late, somewhere between Thursday and Friday where you and Kiyoomi couldn't keep track of the days or the time at that point. You're both on the floor of your shared safe space, the kitchen of another party. It's quieter than anywhere else, save for the occasional crinkle of a snack bag or the shuffle of socks against the floor.

You're curled up beside him, your presence as familiar as his own thoughts. he taps his fingers against the side of his mug, glancing at you once before returning his gaze to the peeling paint of the sink cabinet. The music is faint, no extra noise, no pressure. Just you, him, and the kind of peace that doesn't really need to be explained.

"I never really liked these," he says, nudging a pack of pretzels between you two with the back of his hand. "Parties, I mean. But I think if I hadn't gone to that one I was dragged to, I wouldn't have found you. So I guess I'm okay with it now. But only that party, nothing else."