You were halfway through convincing yourself to sleep when the night decided to interrupt your plans. The apartment was quiet, still enough that you could hear the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen and the faint night breeze pressing against your window. The lights were dimmed, warm and soft, and you’d already stretched out under a blanket with your phone held loosely in your hand. Exhaustion tugged at your eyelids, gentle and slow, promising rest.

But then the vibration came. One single buzz from your phone. Then another. And another.

At first you thought it was a group chat waking up from the dead, but when you glanced down at the screen, the name flashing across it pulled your breath up in your chest:

Riko.

No message. Just a call.

He didn’t call often. Almost never, actually. And when he did, it was never casual.

You hesitated for a moment, one heartbeat of confusion mixed with a pulse of unexpected concern, then slid your thumb across the screen. “Hello?”

There was noise on the other end—wind, the low rumble of an engine, something metallic rattling lightly. His voice came through with that familiar low roughness, a tone that always sounded like he’d just woken up from a fight or a nap he didn’t admit to.

“Come outside,” he said.

You blinked and sat up. “Outside? Right now?”

“Yeah.” He sounded impatient, but not angry. More like he’d already made up his mind and now the rest of the world needed to catch up. “I’m in front of your building.”

You pushed the blanket aside, feet hitting the floor. “Did something happen?”

“Just come down.” The call ended abruptly.

You didn’t waste time questioning him further. Riko didn’t call you for nothing, and he absolutely wouldn’t show up unannounced at this hour unless something was weighing on him. You grabbed a jacket, pulled it over your shoulders, and slipped into shoes before stepping into the hallway.

The elevator felt too slow, so you took the stairs instead, your footsteps echoing off the walls. And when you reached the front door and stepped outside, the night greeted you with cold air, sharp and quiet. The streetlights glowed in soft halos, dim compared to the brighter neon signs in the distance.

And there he was.

Riko stood beside his motorcycle, one hand loosely holding his helmet, the other stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. The silver chain around his neck glinted faintly when he lifted his head to look at you. His hair fell slightly over his eyes, messy from the wind, and that familiar guarded expression settled across his features.

He always looked like he was keeping emotions locked behind invisible doors.

“Hey,” you said quietly as you approached.

His eyes flicked over you, as if checking something—your expression, your clothes, whether you were okay, whether you were annoyed he’d shown up. “You took long.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Two minutes?”

“Still long.”

But the edge in his voice wasn’t real. It was the kind of muttering he did when he was trying to cover up the fact that he was nervous about something.

You stepped closer, crossing your arms. “Why are you here?”

Riko shifted his weight, looking away for a moment as if debating whether he regretted coming. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You frowned slightly. “And you drove all the way here?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, holding the spare helmet toward you with a stubbornness that bordered on gentle insistence. “Get on. You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“Just get on.”

You stared at him for a moment. His jaw was tight, his shoulders slightly stiff. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a casual nighttime drive. He was restless—troubled in that quiet, hidden way he never admitted out loud.

With a small exhale, you took the helmet from his hand. His eyes flickered for a moment, a flash of relief barely visible before he turned away to put on his own helmet.

You fastened the clasp beneath your chin and stepped toward the motorcycle. Riko swung his leg over it first, settling into the seat with practiced ease. When you climbed on behind him, he stayed completely still, waiting. He never started the engine until you were secure.

You placed your hands gently around his waist, and he inhaled subtly, a tiny pause in his breath that told you he noticed even if he didn’t comment.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah.”

The engine roared to life beneath you, vibrating through the soles of your shoes and up your spine. The street stretched ahead, empty except for the faint glow of lights and the distant hum of late-night traffic. The breeze picked up strands of your hair, pulling them gently behind you.

Riko twisted the throttle, and the bike moved forward, slowly at first. You couldn’t help but notice he was driving at a noticeably calmer pace than usual. He usually rode like someone who trusted his reflexes more than the laws of physics, but tonight the movement was smooth, controlled.

He was being careful for you.

You tightened your grip around him just slightly, and you felt him shift under your hands—just the smallest reaction, as if he wasn’t used to the warmth of someone holding him like that.

The city blurred softly as he drove. The lights slid past—signboards, windows, lamps flickering over empty sidewalks. The night was colder in motion, but somehow the warmth radiating from his back steadied you.

Neither of you spoke for several minutes. Riko didn’t turn toward any particular destination; he simply drove, weaving through quiet streets he always knew how to navigate. The world felt suspended—the silence, the hum of the engine, the cool air brushing your cheeks.

Finally, he slowed as the road widened and opened into an overlook—one of those quiet spaces at the edge of town where the city lights spread out below like scattered jewels.

He parked the motorcycle and killed the engine. The sudden quiet felt almost thick.

You slid off first, removing your helmet and letting the cold night air wash over your face. He did the same, leaning the helmet on the motorcycle’s seat before walking toward the railing.

You joined him, standing side by side. The city stretched beneath you, glittering softly, distant and peaceful.

“What’s going on?” you asked gently.

Riko didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes were fixed on the skyline, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. He exhaled through his nose, slow and uneven.

“Couldn’t stop thinking,” he finally said. “Too many things in my head.”

You turned slightly toward him. “About what?”

He let out a short breath, something between a sigh and a laugh without humor. “Everything. Life. People. Things I should be doing. Things I haven’t done. Things I messed up.”

His fingers tapped the metal railing absentmindedly, as if he needed the grounding.

You spoke softly. “You could’ve just talked to me.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never bother me.”

He glanced at you then, eyes shadowed in a way that made the city lights reflect faintly off them. There was a quiet vulnerability in his expression, something he rarely showed.

“Still,” he muttered. “I didn’t know what else to do. I needed air. And I...” His voice trailed off.

“You what?” you asked gently.

He looked away again, the wind lifting strands of his hair. “I just... didn’t want to be alone.”

The honesty in his words settled heavily in your chest. Riko wasn’t someone who admitted things like that. Loneliness was an emotion he buried under layers of attitude and distance.

You stepped closer, your sleeve brushing lightly against his. “You’re not alone.”

He didn’t pull away.

Silence lingered between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was gentle, warm in a quiet way. The kind of silence shared by people who didn’t need to fill every space with words.

Riko shifted a little, leaning his elbows against the railing. You noticed his hands were slightly cold from the ride. Without thinking too hard, you placed your hand near his. Not touching—just close enough that the warmth overlapped.

He glanced down at your hand, then back out at the city. “You came outside fast,” he said softly.

“You called.”

“Yeah. But you still came.”

“Because you’re important to me.”

His jaw tightened, not in anger but in the way someone’s does when they’re fighting an emotion they’re not used to showing. He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he breathed in, breathed out, like he was letting the truth settle.

“Sorry for dragging you out,” he said eventually.

“You didn’t drag me. I wanted to be here.”

He nodded slowly, and when the wind shifted and brushed against both of you, he leaned slightly closer—not touching, but closer, enough that the space between you shrank.

The city continued glowing below, and the night stretched around the two of you, soft and distant.

After a while, Riko spoke again. “It helps,” he murmured. “Being here with you.”

“I’m glad,” you said quietly. “Anytime.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes softer than before. “I’ll take you home when you’re cold,” he said. “Just... a few more minutes.”

You smiled. “Take all the minutes you want.”

Riko breathed out, and for the first time that night, the tension in his shoulders loosened. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something gentler in his expression—a quiet peace he didn’t get to feel very often.

And for the rest of the night, neither of you needed to say anything more.

Riko wasn’t supposed to be in your apartment today. That was the part that made you blink twice when you opened your front door and found him standing there, shoulders slightly hunched as if he’d been leaning against the frame for longer than he’d ever admit. He didn’t knock loudly, just one short tap against the wood, enough that you almost thought you imagined it. But then you opened the door and there he was, in his black jacket and worn boots, the early evening light catching the thin scar over his eyebrow.

He looked tired in that way only people who never confess exhaustion ever look.

“Hey,” he muttered, gaze flicking over you like he was scanning for damage.

You weren’t sure why he was checking you over. You hadn’t even spoken since yesterday evening, when he left after pretending he wasn’t disappointed you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

“Hi,” you said. “You... okay?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed past you gently with the softest brush of his shoulder, not quite touching you but close enough to send warmth across your skin. He walked inside, shutting the door with his foot. You watched him look around your living room like he was expecting a threat to pop out behind your couch.

“I texted you,” you said, raising a brow.

He scowled. “I answered.”

“You sent a single dot, Riko.”

“That counts.”

You bit back a laugh. He looked like he had something to say, something he wasn’t managing to push past his teeth. His fingers twitched near his jacket pocket, then he let out a breath and sank onto your couch.

He sat as if someone had unplugged him.

You moved to sit next to him, leaving a small gap. He didn’t usually like close contact unless he initiated it, so you kept still. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together tightly enough that his knuckles turned pale.

“What happened?” you asked gently.

Riko didn’t speak right away. He lifted his head, eyes slowly drifting toward yours, gray and sharp but carrying something softer beneath the surface. He studied your face, then your hands, then your face again. Something in him settled, barely, but enough that you sensed it.

“You hurt yourself,” he finally said.

You blinked. “What?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out your message—the one you’d sent two hours ago. The one you didn’t think was a big deal.

“I cut my finger while prepping stuff. Tiny, but annoying lol.”

It had been a joke. A throwaway comment. The cut was small, barely more than a scratch. You’d washed it and slapped a bandage on. You hadn’t given it another thought.

But Riko?

He apparently took it like a damn emergency alert.

“I’m fine,” you said softly. “It’s seriously nothing.”

“No, it isn’t,” he snapped, the sharpness more fear than anger. “You didn’t answer after that.”

“I was doing laundry.”

“Didn’t matter,” he said, leaning back. “I kept thinking maybe you hit something else. Or passed out or... I don’t know.”

You frowned, heart softening. Riko wasn’t the type to explain his feelings outright unless they were boiling over. For him to admit even a fraction of worry meant it had weighed on him heavily.

“Riko,” you said, touching his arm lightly. “I really am okay.”

His arm didn’t tense. That alone said a lot.

“Show me,” he said.

You blinked. “The cut?”

He nodded. His jaw tightened like he was preparing to see a wound worthy of a battlefield. You raised your hand and showed him your finger. The bandage had a tiny dot of dried blood, barely noticeable.

“That’s it?” he said, voice going flat in the way he did when he was experiencing twelve emotions but refusing to pick one.

“Yes,” you said, amused. “This is what you panicked over.”

“I didn’t panic,” he hissed, cheeks faintly pink. “I just... needed to check.”

He took your hand before you could respond. Gently. Carefully. Like you were porcelain and he was made of iron and terrified he’d chip you. He pulled the bandage off slowly, inspecting the tiny cut. It looked insignificant, but he studied it like a detective studying a crime scene.

He grabbed the small first-aid kit he always seemed to have on him. You didn’t even know where he kept it; he just materialized it whenever you needed something. He cleaned your cut with a wet wipe, his fingers steady but his breathing uneven.

“It doesn’t even hurt,” you said.

“That’s not the point.” He held your hand tighter, thumb brushing your palm almost unconsciously. “You should’ve been careful.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It was a bag of frozen vegetables, Riko. I wasn’t defusing a bomb.”

He glared at you for daring to joke. “You still could’ve hurt yourself worse.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You could have,” he insisted.

You sighed, knowing you weren’t going to win this one. Soft concern was practically leaking out of him, even as he tried to hide it behind irritation. He wrapped your finger with a fresh bandage, neat and precise, like he’d practiced on himself a hundred times.

When he finished, he didn’t let your hand go.

He stared at your fingers resting in his palm, then looked away, like your touch was making him short-circuit.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said softly.

“You’re careless,” he grumbled.

“And you’re overreacting.”

He made a low sound in his throat—half annoyance, half something tender he refused to name—and finally looked at you fully.

“I didn’t know if you were alone,” he said quietly. “Or if someone else was here. Or if you fainted or...” He gritted his teeth. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain.”

His eyes softened but his words came harsh.

“You matter. That’s the fucking problem.”

Your heart stilled a little.

Riko wasn’t the type to sugarcoat anything. His affection didn’t show in poetic declarations or dramatic gestures. It showed in inconvenient truths, in storm clouds breaking open. You could feel the weight of those four words lingering in the air between you.

You tightened your hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallowed. His gaze flicked to your lips and back to your eyes, like he was grounding himself.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “You better not.”

You smiled at the small tremor in his voice, the one he’d deny until the end of time. You scooted closer, slowly enough that he had time to pull back if he wanted.

He didn’t.

Instead, he shifted too, his knee brushing yours. It felt natural, like gravity had rearranged itself to put you in his orbit.

“How long were you waiting outside my door?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Riko.”

A pause.

“...Twenty minutes.”

You nearly choked. “Why didn’t you knock earlier?”

“I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“So instead you stood there brooding in silence?”

He huffed. “I wasn’t brooding.”

“You were absolutely brooding.”

“If I was brooding,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “you deserved it for not answering your phone.”

“I deserve a lot of things, but not that.”

“Yeah, you do.”

His voice dropped lower, softer. There was warmth there, simmering beneath the gravel. His fingers tightened around yours again, as if you might slip away otherwise.

You leaned into him, resting your shoulder against his. You felt the moment he relaxed, the tension leaking out of him like air from a balloon. His head tipped against yours lightly, barely touching, but it was enough to make your chest ache with affection.

Riko wasn’t careless with moments like this.

He didn’t give them freely.

He gave them cautiously, deliberately, almost reverently.

You felt him exhale. Long. Controlled. Like letting himself be close to you was equal parts relief and surrender.

“I hate worrying about you,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“It’s annoying.”

“I know.”

“It makes me feel stupid.”

You smiled. “You’re not stupid.”

He lifted his head enough to glare at you, but the effect was ruined by the softness that lingered in his eyes. “You should still be more careful.”

“And you should tell me when you’re worried instead of showing up like a dramatic, angry bat.”

He snorted. “A bat?”

“A dramatic one.”

He leaned back, the faintest smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said, “you’re here.”

Riko didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at you—frustrated, fond, overwhelmed—said more than words ever could.

Another moment passed before he tugged gently on your hand.

“Don’t do it again,” he said quietly.

“Hurt myself?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t promise I’ll never get a tiny cut again.”

He glared. “You know what I mean.”

You squeezed his fingers. “I know. And I’ll try.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He shifted, tugging you closer by your wrist until your shoulder was fully pressed against his. He slouched against the couch, legs stretched out, making space for you like he’d done this a thousand times.

He rested his chin lightly on the top of your head. And breathed.

Slowly. Calmly. Steadily.

Like your presence was the only thing tethering him back to earth.

You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in quiet, in the warmth of something tender and precarious and fiercely protected. His thumb brushed across the back of your hand in absent circles, grounding himself. You matched your breathing with his.

Eventually, he muttered, voice almost sleepy:

“...Don’t scare me like that again.”

You smiled, closing your eyes.

“I won’t.”

He didn’t respond in words.

He just held you tighter.

The evening had settled into the kind of soft blue twilight that always made the city look more delicate than it really was. The air was cool, touched with the faint scent of wet pavement from a drizzle that had passed earlier. People drifted along the sidewalk in small clusters, their footsteps creating a quiet rhythm beneath the distant rumble of carriages and the occasional bark of a dog. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, lining the street with their warm glow. Shops were closing, doors clicking shut, curtains being drawn. The world was folding itself gently into night.

You and Riko walked side by side in a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable at all. He had one hand shoved deep in his jacket pocket, the other loosely holding the strap of his bag. His posture was unreadable to anyone else, but to you it said he was relaxed, or at least as relaxed as someone like him could get without leaning on something or letting out a sigh. His messy hair caught the light from a nearby lantern, the strands shifting every time a breeze passed.

He didn’t talk much while walking. He rarely did. But the quiet wasn’t something he offered to just anyone. Silence with him was a kind of trust.

You glanced at him briefly, catching the way his eyes flicked across every unfamiliar face that came near. He always walked slightly on the side where he could keep an eye on others, as if positioning himself between you and the rest of the world without making it obvious. It was his subtle, unspoken habit. One of the many ways he showed he cared.

The market district was calmer now, the peak-hours noise gone. Only a few stalls remained open, their lanterns glowing softly against the growing dark. The smell of grilled vegetables and baked bread drifted from a nearby vendor, mingling with the night air. You paused for a moment to look at a trinket stand displaying carved wooden figurines.

“That one looks like you,” you said, pointing at a fox with one ear nicked.

Riko raised a brow. “Why? Because it looks annoyed?”

You shrugged with a smile. “Because it looks observant.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. A rare expression that lasted only a second, yet the warmth of it stayed with you.

People passed behind the two of you, some talking loudly, others shuffling past with tired expressions. You stepped away from the stand to walk again, and that’s when it happened.

Someone bumped your shoulder—hard enough to make you stumble a step forward.

“Watch where you’re going,” the stranger snapped without even turning fully toward you. His tone was sharp, full of misplaced irritation.

You blinked, surprised by his sudden hostility. Before you could even react, another voice cut through the air with a weight far heavier than the stranger’s.

Riko stepped in front of you instantly, the movement so fluid and automatic it was like his body reacted before his mind did. He didn’t touch the stranger, didn’t raise a hand, but the energy around him shifted. His posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and his expression tightened into something cold.

“What did you just say?” he asked. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried enough steel to snap tension through the surrounding air.

The stranger hesitated, clearly not expecting to be confronted. “I—she bumped into me.”

“That’s not what I saw.” Riko’s eyes narrowed, assessing the man with a calmness that was somehow far more intimidating than anger. “Try talking to her like that again.”

There were no threats in his words, but they didn’t need to be present. His tone alone made the warning unmistakable.

The stranger swallowed hard, his bravado evaporating. He muttered something under his breath and turned away quickly, disappearing into the thinning crowd. Once he was far enough, Riko stayed where he was for a moment, his back still angled slightly toward you, as if shielding you even from someone who had already left.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hey,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

Only then did he turn to face you again. His usual guarded expression flickered with something you didn’t often see on him: concern. Not anger, not irritation, not the habitual defensiveness he used to keep everyone at arm’s length. Just simple, sincere worry.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice lower than before—not quiet, more controlled. Like he was trying to rein in something.

“I’m fine,” you replied. “He was just rude.”

“He had no reason to talk to you like that.” His jaw tensed slightly. “People like him think they can push others around and walk away without consequences.”

You stepped closer to him, placing your hand lightly on his sleeve. “You stopped him.”

“I shouldn’t’ve had to.”

There was frustration in his tone, but not the kind directed at you. It was directed inward, at himself, at the situation, at the world maybe. You knew this about him. His protectiveness wasn’t just instinctual; it was personal. It came from shadows of his past that he didn’t speak about often.

You gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m really okay.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Riko had a way of looking at you like he was trying to read everything unsaid. Like every minor expression on your face mattered to him. Even now, the dim lantern light reflected in his gray eyes as they searched yours.

When he spoke again, his words were softer.

“Good.”

The tension in his shoulders eased, but only slightly. Enough that you could tell he was no longer in alert mode. He took a slow breath and stepped back to your side instead of in front of you. His hand brushed lightly against yours—not a grab, not a hold, just a passing touch to make sure you were still there. To ground himself.

You both walked again, the crowd becoming less dense as you moved farther from the market. For a while, neither of you said anything. Then Riko broke the silence—not with an apology, but with something that hinted at one in his own way.

“People usually don’t talk to me unless they want something,” he muttered. “So when someone talks to you like you’re beneath them...”

You tilted your head slightly. “It bothers you.”

“It shouldn’t,” he said. “But it does.”

There was honesty in that statement, stripped down and unpolished. Riko wasn’t good at explaining how he felt. Most of the time, his emotions came out sideways—in the way he protected, the way he walked beside you, the way he watched others carefully. Words were harder for him.

You smiled faintly. “Thank you, though.”

“For what?”

“For standing up for me.”

He paused, glancing at you with a mix of confusion and something almost shy, though he’d never admit it. “Anyone would’ve done it.”

You raised a brow. “No. Not anyone.”

He looked away. “Well. I did.”

There was a hint of pride in his voice, buried under his usual gruffness. You could tell he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. Riko wasn’t used to being thanked for being protective; most people assumed the worst of him before ever seeing who he was beneath the sharp edges.

The street gradually became quieter. The lanterns lined the path like floating stars, their glow brushing against your skin as you walked. Somewhere in the distance, someone played a soft melody on a violin. The sound drifted gently through the air, warm and slow.

You tucked your hands into your coat pockets as the temperature dropped a bit. Riko noticed immediately. Without saying a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blinked up at him.

“You’ll get cold,” you said.

“No, I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Then I’ll live with it.”

His tone was final. Protective. Gentle in its own stubborn way.

You didn’t argue further. Instead, you pulled the jacket a little closer, letting the faint scent of metal and smoke wrap around you. It was warm, warmer than you expected. Warm like him, even if he pretended otherwise.

As you kept walking, he stayed close. Close enough that your arm brushed his every few steps. Close enough that anyone watching would know you were together, even if neither of you held hands or spoke.

After a few minutes, he finally asked, “Were you scared?”

“Not really,” you answered. “Just surprised.”

“He shouldn’t have touched you,” Riko muttered. “I hate when people think they can act like that just because they’re angry at something else.”

You glanced at him. “You handled it well.”

He scoffed, eyes forward. “I wanted to do more.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But you didn’t escalate it. That counts.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his expression softened a bit, like your words settled somewhere inside him.

You stopped at a small bridge overlooking a narrow canal. The water reflected the lantern lights in shimmering swirls of gold and blue. Riko leaned on the railing slightly, his hands tucked into his pockets again. You stood beside him, feeling the quiet weight of the moment settle comfortably.

“You know...” he said slowly, “I don’t like people.”

You smiled. “I noticed.”

“But I don’t want people talking to you like that. Ever.”

You turned to him. “Why does it matter so much?”

He hesitated. The Riko you knew rarely hesitated. It wasn’t fear, but vulnerability. A crack in the wall he’d built around himself.

“Because you’re... different,” he finally said. “You don’t treat me like I’m some problem. You look at me like I’m... worth something.”

Your chest warmed, the words hitting you deeper than you expected. Riko wasn’t poetic. He didn’t speak in flowery sentences. But the raw sincerity in his tone made his words feel more powerful than any complicated confession.

“You are worth something,” you said quietly.

He looked at you then—really looked. His eyes softened in a way they never did for anyone else. He didn’t need to say anything. The emotion in his gaze spoke for him.

A breeze passed, rustling his hair. He didn’t move away. Instead, he curled one hand around the railing and let the other hover close enough to yours that you could feel the warmth radiating from it.

After a long moment, you gently slid your hand into his.

His fingers twitched in surprise. Then they tightened around yours, steady and sure.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t comment. But the subtle shift in his posture said everything: relief, contentment, the silent admission that he wanted this connection as much as you did.

You leaned your shoulder against his, resting in the quiet of the night. The city noises softened into a distant hum. The canal glimmered beneath you like a rippling mirror.

No one bothered you again.

And if someone had tried, Riko would’ve done exactly what he did earlier—step between you and the rest of the world, without hesitation, without fear, without a second thought.

Because he didn’t care for people.

He cared for you.

Only you.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. You honestly didn’t. You had promised him you wouldn’t, because you knew exactly how Riko got when you were over at his place late. He acted like he didn’t care, like you could do whatever you wanted, but he always kept one eye on you like he was expecting something bad to happen. It was ridiculous, but also somehow... comforting.

His apartment wasn’t much: a two-room place wedged above a mechanic shop that shut down at 8 PM every day. The walls were still faintly stained with engine oil smell, and the windows rattled whenever the wind decided to mess with the old frame. Anyone else would’ve called it shabby. You called it familiar.

You had been sitting on the couch earlier, one leg tucked under you, flipping absentmindedly through a little notebook you brought. Riko had been sprawled nearby, sitting on the floor with his back against the lower part of the couch, fixing a piece of his motorcycle’s carburetor. He looked half irritated, half focused, and you kept glancing at him because you liked the way his concentration softened the usual sharpness in his expression.

Somewhere along the way, your eyes got too heavy. The warmth of the room pulled you in. The quiet hum of the small heater lulled you down. And Riko—who normally paced like a caged animal—had been unusually still, tinkering with his tools in slow, rhythmic clicks. The combined atmosphere just... drowned you.

The next thing you knew, the world shifted.

You blinked awake to the dim golden glow of a single lamp. No loud noises. No sudden movement. Just soft light breathing against the walls, like the room was asleep with you.

You didn’t remember lying down. You didn’t even remember shutting your eyes fully. But there you were, stretched out across his couch with a blanket carefully draped over your body. It was one you’d seen before—an older one, thick and a little worn, the kind that looked like it had been used for years. You could tell by the faint scent on it that it belonged to him. Clean laundry mixed with something smoky and faintly metallic. Riko always smelled a little like steel, like a storm waiting to break.

As your vision sharpened, you turned your head.

And there he was.

Riko sat on the floor next to the couch, leaning against it in the same spot where he had been working earlier. But now he wasn’t focused on bike parts or tools. His head was leaned back, resting against the cushion near your shoulder. His arms were crossed loosely, not in defiance like usual but simply out of habit. His eyes weren’t shut all the way, but they were half-lidded, stuck in that quiet space where he wasn’t really awake but not deeply asleep either.

He didn’t look tense. That alone told you how long you must’ve been out.

His breathing was steady—slow, even, almost relaxed. His hair had fallen over one eye, brushing his cheekbone in a way that softened his entire face. You didn’t get to see him like this often. Vulnerable. Unarmored. Peaceful. Riko tended to exist like every second required him to be alert or irritated or pretending he didn’t care.

Right now, he looked human in a way that made your chest warm.

You lifted an arm slightly to adjust the blanket and instantly regretted the movement.

Riko’s eyes snapped fully open.

His head lifted a little, and he blinked at you in that disoriented way someone does when they were keeping themselves awake on purpose. The moment recognition set in, his expression shifted back into the usual guarded annoyance he used as a shield.

“You’re awake,” he muttered, voice low and roughened by half-sleep. “Finally.”

You stared at him for a second, still groggy. “Did I fall asleep?”

“No. You fainted dramatically like some damn storybook princess,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, you fell asleep.”

You frowned. “You didn’t have to sit here and watch me.”

He exhaled sharply, looking away. “I wasn’t watching you.”

You glanced at the blanket draped over your body. It was pulled neatly over your shoulders, tucked slightly at the sides so it wouldn’t slip off.

“So the blanket put itself on me?” you asked, raising a brow.

Riko made a face, the exact expression of a man who regrets everything. “It was cold. And you looked like you were gonna shiver yourself into a coma or something.”

“That’s not how comas work.”

He huffed. “Still. It wasn’t a big deal.”

But the redness creeping over the tips of his ears said otherwise.

You shifted a little, sitting up against the armrest. The blanket pooled around your lap, heavy and warm. You took a moment to breathe in the quiet air of the room. It felt lived-in, gentle, like the remnants of something unspoken lingered there—like he’d been keeping watch long enough to let his guard slip.

Your gaze drifted back to him.

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He’d grabbed a small wrench off the low table beside him and was spinning it idly between his fingers. It wasn’t because he needed it. You could tell by the way he avoided your eyes. Riko only played with tools like that when he was trying to distract himself.

You smiled, unable to help it.

“You stayed here the whole time?”

Riko’s jaw shifted, just a tiny clench, barely noticeable unless you knew him well.

“I wasn’t gonna just leave you unconscious on my couch,” he muttered, not quite a whisper but softer than normal. “I’m not a psychopath.”

“Well, that's debatable,” you teased gently. “But thank you.”

He clicked his tongue in irritation—or embarrassment, though he’d never admit it. “Whatever. Next time don’t fall asleep in weird positions. You looked uncomfortable.”

You stretched your legs under the blanket. “I feel fine.”

“You weren’t fine earlier,” he shot back. “Your head kept tilting like a broken doll. I thought you were going to fall.”

“So you fixed it?”

He stiffened. “I didn’t touch you.”

“Riko.”

He sighed like he was confessing to a crime. “I nudged your shoulder a little. With my sleeve. Not my hand.”

“That’s still touching me.”

“It doesn’t count.”

You laughed softly. His eyes darted to you, the smallest spark of something gentle flickering there before he looked away again. Riko wasn’t used to being seen when he cared. Not openly, not without layers of sarcasm and attitude protecting him from the intimacy of being genuine.

That was why you softened your voice.

“How long was I out?”

“Two hours,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “Maybe a bit more. I don’t know. I stopped checking the time after a while.”

You raised a brow. “You stayed awake the whole time?”

Riko shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t feel like moving.”

That was a lie. Riko hated sitting still more than anything. He always fidgeted, always paced, always needed his hands doing something. The fact that he stayed right there, leaning against the couch, meant he had been keeping himself awake on purpose just to make sure you were okay.

Your chest warmed again.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, arms crossing defensively. “Well. I did.”

The room settled into a comfortable silence.

You watched the rise and fall of his breathing. He didn’t look irritated anymore. Just tired, like the weight of the day had finally sunk into his shoulders the moment he stopped pretending to be fine. His fingers flexed slightly, resting against the couch cushion near your hip, not touching you but close enough that you felt the pull of gravity between you.

His walls were thin tonight. You could feel it.

You reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and brushed your fingers gently against his hand. He froze, eyes flickering upward to yours with a jolt of something fragile, unguarded.

He didn’t move away.

In fact, after a few hesitant seconds, he turned his hand so your fingers intertwined. Lightly. Tentatively. Like he was asking for permission without having to put it into words.

You squeezed his hand softly.

Riko inhaled, just barely loud enough for you to hear. His shoulders lowered a fraction.

“You should sleep more,” he murmured, shifting his body so he was angled slightly closer to you. “You look tired.”

“You should sleep too.”

“I wasn’t tired.”

“Riko.”

He sighed. “Fine. Maybe a bit.”

“Then come up here,” you said gently, patting the space beside you. “Stop sitting on the floor like you’re punishing yourself.”

His brows furrowed. “The couch is small.”

“We’ve shared worse.”

Riko made a quiet sound in his throat, caught somewhere between annoyance and surrender, and finally stood. He hesitated before sitting down beside you, careful not to jostle you too much. The couch dipped under his weight, and the closeness was warm, comforting.

He didn’t look at you directly. Just leaned back, resting his head lightly against the cushion near yours, letting his fingers remain tangled with yours. His eyes drifted shut for a moment, then opened halfway—as though he was trying to keep himself alert but failing.

You shifted the blanket so part of it covered him too.

He glanced down at it and then at you.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

“You covered me first.”

His lips twitched—almost a smile, the tiniest hint of one, quickly suppressed.

“Go back to sleep,” he said quietly, softer than you’d ever heard him. “I’ll be here.”

“You promise?”

He didn’t respond right away. He simply leaned his head against yours, letting the sides touch gently.

Then, with a breath that carried years of unspoken longing, he murmured:

“...Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

You let your eyes close again, wrapped in his warmth, his presence, his quiet promise.

And Riko—your badboy, your troublemaker, your soft-hearted protector—finally allowed himself to relax beside you, just enough to let the night hold both of you gently.

Riko didn’t slam the door when he came in, but the sound it made was sharp enough to echo through the entire room. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. It was just... tight, clipped, and full of tension, like a breath held too long. You were sitting near the window when he entered, and you didn’t need to look up to know something was wrong. The way his footsteps hit the floor gave it all away. Heavy. Uneven. Frustrated.

He wasn’t pacing yet, but you could feel it approaching like a storm rolling over the city streets.

You lifted your head just in time to see his jaw clench. His fists were already balled before he took three steps into the room. His eyes burned—not with anger at you, but with the kind of tired fury people carry when the world has been unkind for too many days in a row.

He opened his mouth, closed it, muttered something under his breath, and then finally began pacing.

Left. Stop. Right. Turn. Left again. A restless rhythm.

The room wasn’t small, but suddenly he made it feel smaller just by existing in it, like all the air began orbiting around whatever was happening in his head. His expression wasn’t explosive anger. It was something heavier. Something that sagged around the corners of his eyes and lived in the tension of his shoulders.

You didn’t interrupt him. Not immediately. You watched him walk back and forth like every step was a question without an answer. His breathing came out too hard for someone simply annoyed. There was something deeper under it—fear, maybe. Frustration. Pain. He carried all three like extra weight.

He didn’t want to snap. He didn’t want to yell. He wasn’t even looking at you, because if he did, some part of him knew he might fall apart. And falling apart in front of someone he cared about was a terrifying thing, even more terrifying than whatever made him upset in the first place.

You saw his hand lift halfway, as if he wanted to run it through his hair, but he stopped himself. He dropped it again with a sharp exhale.

That was enough.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t plead. You didn’t demand he explain himself.

You just said one word.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t soft either. It carried this gentle authority, the kind that didn’t need force to be heard. And it cut right through the storm he was brewing inside himself.

Riko stopped mid-step.

The room went quiet, like even the air paused to see what he’d do next. For a second, he didn’t move at all. His hands twitched once. His shoulders stiffened as if resisting the idea of being told what to do.

But then something in his chest faltered. His eyes flicked toward you, searching, almost reluctantly, like a wary stray animal trying to determine if the outstretched hand is safe or dangerous.

You held his gaze and repeated, calmly, “Sit.”

He let out a breath—not angry, not tired, but something soft, something that cracked the wall he was hiding behind. And then he obeyed, almost against his own pride. He walked toward you and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, his movements stiff with leftover frustration.

He didn’t look at you. His eyes stared straight ahead at the window, as if the sky held answers he couldn’t find. His knee bounced restlessly, and his hands flexed open and closed as if he were trying to squeeze the anger out through his palms.

You turned toward him slightly and placed your hand on his knee.

Just that.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing forceful. Just a simple touch. Warm, steady, grounding.

Riko froze.

Not a stiff, defensive freeze—more like someone suddenly realizing they were holding their breath and forgetting how to release it. His knee stopped bouncing. His hands stopped flexing. His shoulders, which had been raised like he was preparing for another blow from the world, slowly dropped by a fraction. His eyes flickered, losing a bit of their sharp edge.

“...Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered after a moment, barely louder than a whisper.

But he still didn’t look at you. Because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep pretending he was fine.

You didn’t ask him what happened. Instead, you spoke softly, letting the calm settle between you.

“You’re here now. Just breathe.”

That was all. No questions. No pressure.

It was strange, how silence could be so comforting when it came from the right person.

Riko’s jaw unclenched slowly. He leaned back against the couch, though stiffly at first, like he wasn’t sure he deserved the comfort of being still. His eyes softened a little. He swallowed once—maybe the remains of whatever words he didn’t know how to speak.

After a long moment, he finally said, “It’s nothing.”

It was an obvious lie. He knew it. You knew it. The world probably knew it.

But instead of calling him out, you let your thumb gently trace a small circle against his knee. He exhaled shakily, looking away again because the softness in your touch was more disarming than any fight he could get into.

He wasn’t used to gentleness. Not like this.

You waited. Patiently. You didn’t push him. Sitting here, side by side, with no demands, was enough to make the anger drain out of him in slow waves.

After nearly a full minute, when the tension finally loosened, he spoke again. Quietly. Hesitant.

“I messed up.”

There it was. A crack in the armor.

You prompted without pushing. “Tell me?”

He dragged a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes like they burned. His voice dropped, deeper and rougher. “Someone at work got on my nerves. I don’t know why I let it get to me. I shouldn’t have acted like that. I should be better than that. But I wasn’t.”

His fingers tapped against his thigh restlessly. “I shouldn’t have come here like this either. You don’t deserve to deal with me when I’m... like this.”

He gestured vaguely toward himself, as if his own emotions were an inconvenience he couldn’t control.

You kept your voice steady. “Everyone has days like this.”

Riko shook his head immediately, as if rejecting the idea. “Not like me.” His tone wasn’t proud. It was defeated.

He wasn’t angry anymore. He was tired. Exhausted in a way that went deeper than his job or the argument or whatever triggered the frustration in the first place. This was the kind of exhaustion that came from holding himself together for too long.

Your hand slid a little further, resting gently over his. He didn’t pull away this time. In fact, his fingers curled just slightly under your touch as if holding on without wanting to admit he needed it.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you said simply.

Riko blinked. Slowly. The words hit him harder than they should have. He hadn’t heard them enough in his life, and when he had, they never felt true until now.

He let out a breath that trembled at the end.

“Why are you always so calm?” he asked, sounding almost frustrated at how easily you could settle him. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my mess.”

You brushed your thumb against his hand again. “I’m not here to fix you. I’m here because you matter to me.”

The line of his shoulders softened.

He still wouldn’t look directly at you, but the tension slowly left his posture. His breathing steadied. The storm that had entered the room with him was dissolving, not with force or confrontation, but with quiet understanding.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, but your hand remained on his. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let your presence slow his thoughts, let your calm balance the chaos in his mind.

Minutes passed like that. No rush. No pressure. Just breathing the same air, sharing the same stillness.

Finally, he whispered, “I didn’t mean to scare you. If I ever do, tell me.”

You shook your head gently. “You didn’t scare me.”

He let out a soft, almost disbelieving sound. A hum, maybe. Then he finally turned his head enough to look at you. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, held something vulnerable. Something open.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. The sincerity in his voice was deep, unpolished, and rare.

He didn’t say thank you often. And when he did, it was only when he truly meant it.

You smiled, just enough for him to see, not enough to overwhelm him. “I’m here.”

The words settled over him like a warm blanket. His shoulders relaxed completely for the first time since he walked in. He leaned back into the couch again, but this time he let his body sink into the cushions, letting the tension melt out of him.

He didn’t ask for comfort. He didn’t have to.

You shifted closer, letting your shoulder lightly brush his. He hesitated for a moment—one heartbeat of uncertainty—before he leaned into your touch. His head tilted slightly, resting against yours. He exhaled again, softer this time.

“Sorry for coming in like a storm,” he murmured.

“You’re allowed to,” you replied.

His lips curved—just barely, but enough to know it was there. A small, fragile smile that only existed because of you.

Silence enfolded both of you again, but it was gentler now. He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t restless. The anger that once wrapped around him like a second skin was gone, replaced with a softness he rarely let anyone see.

And it all started with one word.

Sit.

And one touch.

Your hand on his knee.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t argue. You didn’t demand anything. You just existed beside him in a way that made the world feel less sharp, less overwhelming.

He didn’t say it out loud, but in his mind, one truth settled deeper than anything he’d admitted:

You were the only person who could pull him out of the dark without him needing to explain why he was there.

That realization changed something inside him.

From then on, whenever life pushed him too far, whenever the world felt too heavy or too loud, he found himself coming back to you—not because he wanted you to fix anything, but because being near you made him believe he didn’t have to face everything alone.

You were, without trying, the calm to his storm.

And he didn’t know how to say it yet, but he would eventually.

You saved him, quietly, simply by being the one place he knew he could unravel and still be wanted.

If you want another scenario, more girlfriend moments, or a specific mood, just tell me.