You're in front of the cabinet, his body lotion in hand, a towel wrapped around your body as you've just gotten out of the shower.

"Mine's ran out," you explain, motioning towards the bin, where you had probably just disposed of the empty bottle. "Can I use yours?"

Of course he nods. Why would you even need to ask him? Has he not made it clear enough that whatever you need of him, you can just take? He'd share anything with you. Does he need to make that clearer?

As he is spiraling in his own head about his behavior in your relationship, you smile and put the bottle down on the edge of the bathtub, humming to yourself as you drop your towel to slather your skin with the lotion. That's enough to make your boyfriend's mind stop working. The expanse of your leg, your back, your neck, it's as capturing to him like a flame is to a month. And it isn't even just that he finds you sexy - he does - but more so the fact that you feel so comfortable around him.

His whole life he had been intimidating to other people and the last thing that he wanted was to scare you away. Very rarely he found someone who let him into his life the way that you did and he wanted so desperately to fit his huge self into that space.

But to his surprise, you invited his presence without him having to make himself small. You noticed when he did, when he would blush as you grabbed his hand, when he would stare at your lips but not have the courage to kiss you. Without him having to say a word, you understood what he was doing, your brows furrowing in a scowl he immediately wanted to brush his thumb over, smoothing out the skin in between your eyebrows.

"I feel comfortable around you, 'nobu," you had told him. "You don't have to worry so much. I'll tell you when I don't like something. So don't feel like you have to hold back." You had brought his hand, laced with yours, to your lips and pressed a featherlight kiss to the back of it. "Okay?"

He had nodded at that because yes, of course he would do what you wanted, especially if that meant that he did not have to be as guarded as he always was. At first, it had been quite hard actually, to just let himself be. But after a while, with lots of coaxing and reassurance from your side, he felt like he got into a good balance of moving freely while also being aware fo your comfort. He knew what you liked and disliked, what quirks and desires you had.

So now, when he sees you bare before him, picking up his bottle of body lotion, he does not overthink his movements as he carefully steps up next to you, his presence looming over your bent over form. One of your legs is propped up on the edge of the bathtub, your torso bent over to reach the bottle you had put down. As you notice him next to you, you quirk a brow at him, a silent question. When he glances at the bottle that is in your hand, then back to you, you are still a little confused as to what he wants, but you guess he wants the bottle. Why, you do not know. Does he not want you to use it after all?

Either way, you just straighten out your back and hand the lotion to him, the question still prominent in your eyes. And he answers it, by motioning for you to sit down while he kneels on the floor in front of you, popping the bottle open to squeeze some of the lotion onto his huge palm. Gingerly, he lifts your foot by your ankle and places it on his thigh. You can feel the warmth of him through his jeans and the roughness of his palms through the lotion.

With gentle hands he massages your calf, his touch sending shivers up your spine. The way that he touches you is intimately sensual, yet there is no hunger behind it, no demand for more. He is not trying to seduce you, all that he wants is to do something nice for you. To have this quite moment, shared in the intimacy of your apartment, a moment only the two of you know of.

with a strange pressure in the air, it’s like the universe knows something loud is coming and is politely stepping aside.

you drop your bag first. then your shoes. then your dignity.

aone is already there.

he’s sitting at the small kitchen table like a gargoyle carved out of discipline and protein powder, back straight, hands folded, eyes calm. he looks like he’s guarding a national treasure instead of waiting for you to finish unlocking the door.

you don’t even greet him.

you inhale.

“okay so first of all—”

his head tilts exactly two degrees. engaged.

“—why does that guy from my stats class think it’s okay to chew like he’s auditioning to be a sound effect for a swamp monster? like, i swear he waits until the room is silent and then unleashes it. it’s personal. it has to be.”

aone nods once. solemn. respectful. as if you’ve just disclosed a war crime.

you pace. your hands are doing most of the talking now. your voice keeps climbing like it’s trying to escape your body.

“and then my professor assigns a group project. a group project. in a class where nobody talks. so now i’m paired with chewlord and a girl who types like she’s mad at the keyboard. and guess who ended up being the group leader without consenting to this role?”

aone’s eyes soften. his jaw tightens. a pen appears in his hand. you don’t remember him picking it up.

“also,” you continue, spinning dramatically, “someone took my seat. my seat. i’ve sat there since week one. i don’t care that seats aren’t assigned, that seat is emotionally bonded to me.”

another nod. slower this time. he hums, low in his chest, like a piece of heavy machinery acknowledging input.

you’re on a roll now.

“and then i get coffee, right? except it’s wrong. wrong milk, wrong syrup, wrong vibe. it tasted like disappointment with a foam top. i paid a thousand yen for emotional damage.”

aone blinks. once. twice.

you keep going. ten minutes pass. maybe fifteen. time is a concept for other people. your voice rises and falls, your grievances stack on top of each other like a poorly constructed jenga tower of irritation.

through it all, aone takanobu does not move.

he watches you like you’re the most compelling documentary he’s ever seen.

when you finally stop, breathless, leaning against the counter with one sock half off, you feel lighter. wrung out. like you’ve screamed into the void and the void nodded back.

silence settles.

then—

“the guy,” aone says slowly, carefully, as if each word needs permission to exist, “chews with his mouth open?”

you stare.

“…yes.”

he frowns. just a little. it’s devastating.

“does he sit two rows ahead. left side.”

“…yeah.”

aone’s grip on the pen tightens. imperceptibly. but you see it.

“and he laughs before speaking. like he’s pleased with himself.”

your mouth opens.

“…yeah.”

he nods again. writes something down. you do not know where the paper came from. or why this feels like a court transcript.

“your seat,” he continues, eyes lifting back to you, “third row. aisle. near the window. you like the draft.”

“…i do.”

“you tap your foot when you’re annoyed,” he adds. “you did it when you talked about the coffee.”

you look down. your foot is tapping.

he clears his throat.

“you didn’t eat lunch.”

that one hits.

“…how do you know that.”

aone’s ears turn pink.

“you rant faster when you’re hungry.”

you laugh. it slips out of you before you can stop it, soft and a little broken, like you weren’t expecting to be known this thoroughly.

“you’re insane,” you say fondly, not meaning it as an insult, more like an observation of the sky being blue.

it’s immediate. like a building deciding to relocate. he moves closer, steps careful, gaze never leaving you, like if he looks away you might evaporate.

“i listen,” he says simply.

then, quieter, “i want to listen.”

he reaches out, hesitates, then gently takes your wrist, thumb brushing the pulse there like he’s checking if you’re real. like he needs confirmation.

“did the girl with the loud typing upset you more than the seat situation.”

you snort.

“no, the seat thing was worse. that was personal.”

he nods. satisfied.

“i’ll make you dinner,” he says. not a question. a promise carved into stone.

“you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts, voice firm but soft around the edges when it comes to you. “you didn’t eat. you’re tired. you were polite to people who didn’t deserve it.”

you watch him move around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, like a man built for battle choosing instead to wage war on a cutting board. he glances at you every few seconds. always checking. always making sure you’re still there.

it’s… a lot.

but it’s warm.

when he hands you a plate, he waits. doesn’t sit. just stands there like a knight awaiting approval.

you take a bite.

“…this is really good.”

his shoulders relax like you just told him the world is safe.

you eat. he watches. he always watches. not in a way that feels heavy—more like reverent. like you’re doing something holy by existing.

“you can sit,” you tell him.

he does. immediately. close enough that your knees touch.

silence stretches. comfortable. thick with things unsaid.

then aone speaks again.

“the coffee you told me about,” he says. “you like it?”

you blink.

“…yeah.”

“tomorrow,” he continues, eyes steady, “i’ll make it for you. before class.”

your chest does something weird. like it’s trying to fold in on itself.

“you don’t have to wake up early—”

“I will,” he says. no hesitation. “i want you to start the day correctly.”

there it is. that edge. that devotion that borders on alarming if you think too hard about it.

you smile anyway.

“you’re… really something.”

his lips twitch. almost a smile.

“you’re everything,” he says, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. like gravity. like math. like breathing.

you choke on absolutely nothing.

he leans closer, forehead resting against yours, voice dropping to something only meant for you.

“when you talk,” he murmurs, “i remember it. all of it. because if something bothers you, it matters. if someone upsets you, i notice. i don’t like it when people make your day worse.”

there’s a flash of something dark there. protective. sharp.

then it softens.

“i like being the place you put it all down.”

your hands curl into his shirt.

“yeah?” you whisper.

he nods.

“always.”

and when you start complaining again—about tomorrow, about life, about the world being mildly annoying—he listens like it’s sacred. like it’s his purpose.

and honestly?

it might be.

n: oh to have someone like aone

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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !