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It was the kind of spring night that felt more like a memory than a moment—too soft, too golden-edged to be real.
The window in Usaida’s small apartment was flung open, letting in a warm breeze that tugged lazily at the sheer curtains. They danced in slow, dreamy movements, casting shifting shadows that rippled across the floor like waves. The air inside was thick with spring—mildly stuffy, in the way that felt comforting rather than oppressive. It wrapped around them like a blanket recently pulled from the dryer: soft, lingering with warmth, carrying hints of city life and the faint floral trace of the trees outside. Somewhere beyond the window, cicadas buzzed in slow rhythm, and the neon signs of the neighboring buildings glowed faintly, their colors bleeding through the glass like watercolor . Inside, the only light came from the moon overhead, pale and cool against the warm air, and the microwave’s green digits—11:48—glowing steadily in the corner. That soft, dusky light spilled across the table, over the couch, pooled on the carpet… and illuminated Saikawa, sitting quietly like he belonged there.
Usaida’s eyes flicked up from where his head rested lazily on a throw pillow. Saikawa sat cross-legged near the foot of the couch, back against the side, a half-full mug cradled in his hands. His sleeves were a little too long, the cuffs grazing his knuckles, and the fabric hung off his shoulders with the soft kind of ease that made Usaida’s stomach flutter.
Because it was his sweater.
Grey. Loose-knit. A bit worn at the edges.
But unmistakably his.
He must’ve left it out somewhere. On the back of a chair maybe . Or the end of the bed. Either way, Saikawa had slipped it on without a word . Like it was natural. Like he’d done it before.
Usaida’s eyes trailed over him in the moonlight—quiet and beautiful and somehow softer than usual.
It wasn’t that Saikawa didn’t look good all the time (he did; annoyingly so), but something about seeing him like this —relaxed, unguarded, wearing his clothes—made Usaida’s chest ache in a way that felt like longing and love all tangled up in one.
“You cold?” Usaida asked eventually, voice low, almost afraid to disturb the calm.
Saikawa looked over his shoulder. His glasses were on the table, leaving his face more open than usual. “Hm?” A pause, then: “No. It just smelled like you.”
Usaida blinked. Then slowly smiled.
Saikawa looked away, clearly pretending that sentence hadn’t just left his mouth. He sipped his tea like it could shield him, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, flushed faint pink.
Usaida sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall from his lap. “You know,” he murmured, sliding over to sit beside Saikawa on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, “I like my sweater on you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged . Like the moment before a thunderstorm. Like a breath held at the edge of a kiss.
Saikawa glanced at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Usaida said, eyes flicking down, then back up. “Didn’t think it’d suit you this much. But now I’m thinking I might not want it back.”
“You’re terrible,” Saikawa said softly, trying to look annoyed, but his voice was warm, teasing. He set the mug down and leaned his head against Usaida’s shoulder. “You’re the one who left it on the dining chair.”
“Oh no, don’t make this my fault.”
“It is your fault.” Saikawa let his eyes slip shut. “You keep leaving little things behind. It’s like you’re nesting.”
Usaida chuckled, letting his head tilt to rest against Saikawa’s. The wind stirred the curtains again, dancing in time with their slowed breathing.
“Maybe I am nesting,” he said. “ You ever think of that? You know in my own apartment?”
Saikawa hummed. “It’s a bit late for subtlety, isn’t it?”
They sat there for a while longer, letting the world outside slip away—the hum of the street, the lights in the distance, even the quiet blinking of the microwave—all melted into a backdrop for their silence.
Eventually, Usaida turned his head just enough to press a kiss to Saikawa’s temple. The other man didn’t react at first, but then his hand slid quietly over Usaida’s, fingers lacing together.
“I’ll keep the sweater,” Saikawa said at last, voice nearly a whisper. “If that’s alright.”
Usaida smiled into his hair. “It’s yours now.”