It was late enough that the city had begun to soften.
Not sleep—just quiet. The kind that settled in after the last trains ran, after conversations thinned out and lights dimmed without ceremony. Mizuki and Riku sat on the floor of her apartment, backs against the couch, a half-finished movie playing on the television.
They had stopped paying attention to it a while ago.
Riku was stretched out beside her, one knee bent, head tipped back against the cushion. Mizuki sat with her legs folded, arms resting loosely in her lap. There was space between them at first. Not intentional. Just habitual.
The room was warm. The lamp by the window cast a soft glow, turning everything amber and unreal. Riku yawned once, wide and unguarded.
"Long day?" she asked.
"Long week," he corrected, eyes already half-closed. "I didn't realize how tired I was."
"You never do."
He hummed in agreement. The sound vibrated faintly through the quiet.
Minutes passed. The movie droned on, dialogue blurring into background noise. Mizuki felt him shift beside her, weight adjusting, seeking comfort the way he always did.
Then—lightly, without thought—his head tipped sideways.
And rested against her shoulder.
The contact was gentle. Natural. Like it had always belonged there.
Mizuki froze.
Her breath caught, just for a second. She didn't move. Didn't even shift to make herself more comfortable. She was suddenly acutely aware of her body—of the angle of her neck, the tension in her shoulder, the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat.
Riku sighed softly, the sound of someone letting go. His weight settled more fully against her, warm and trusting. His breathing evened out, slow and deep.
He was asleep.
Mizuki stared straight ahead, afraid that if she looked down, the moment would shatter.
This—this was what it felt like to be chosen by accident.
She felt the heat of him through her clothes. The subtle rise and fall of his chest against her arm. A faint trace of his shampoo, clean and familiar. Every small detail etched itself into her mind with painful clarity.
She thought of all the times she had imagined something like this, and how none of them had felt as real—or as cruel—as the reality.
From the outside, it would have looked domestic. Intimate. Like something that happened every night between people who belonged to each other.
But there was no belonging here.
He had not reached for her. He had not chosen her. He had simply found a place to rest.
Mizuki let her head tilt slightly, just enough to feel the crown of his hair brush her jaw. She closed her eyes, counting her breaths, willing her body to stay still.
Don't move, she told herself. Don't wake him.
Her shoulder began to ache after a while. Her arm tingled, slowly going numb. She welcomed the discomfort. It felt like penance. Proof that this was real.
She wondered if he would remember this tomorrow.
Probably not.
He would wake, stretch, apologize absently, maybe joke about using her as a pillow. He would think nothing of it, because to him, it was nothing.
To her, it was everything she could never ask for.
The clock on the wall ticked softly. Minutes slid into each other. Mizuki memorized the weight of him, the way his forehead rested just below her collarbone, the quiet trust in his unconsciousness.
She thought of the word he had used before.
Safe place.
This was what that meant.
A place where someone could fall asleep without fear. A place that stayed steady no matter how heavy the cost.
Her chest ached with a love so full it hurt to contain. She did not cry. She did not move.
She simply stayed.
When the movie ended and the screen went dark, the room fell into complete silence. Mizuki remained exactly as she was, Riku breathing softly against her shoulder, her heart breaking in the most silent way she knew how.
This was intimacy without permission.
Comfort without choice.
Love that had nowhere to go—but deeper.