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The morning arrived in shades of pearl and rose, Valentine's Day breaking over Tokyo with the kind of gentle beauty that made Kazuki's chest ache in the best possible way. He woke to find Rei's side of the bed already empty, which was unusual—typically Kazuki was the early riser, the one who started the coffee and began preparing breakfast while Rei burrowed deeper into the blankets, reluctant to face consciousness.
But today, the sheets beside him were cool to the touch, and curiosity pulled Kazuki from bed before his usual alarm.
That's when he saw the first note.
It was stuck to the bedroom door at eye level, impossible to miss, a small square of lavender paper that caught the dawn light filtering through the curtains. Kazuki's bare feet whispered across the floor as he approached, his heart already beginning that familiar acceleration that came whenever Rei did something unexpected.
The handwriting was unmistakably his—those careful, measured strokes that seemed to consider each letter before committing it to paper.
Being loved by you taught me I was worth loving.
Kazuki's hand flew to his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips as if he could somehow contain the emotion that surged through him. Seven-thirty in the morning and already his eyes were stinging, his throat tight with feelings too large for his body to contain.
He thought about Rei when they'd first met—not just the assassin, the weapon, but the person underneath who had been so thoroughly convinced of his own worthlessness that he'd stopped trying to be anything else. Rei, who had moved through life like a ghost, never quite present, never quite real. Rei, who had looked at Kazuki with those dark, empty eyes and seemed almost confused by the attention, care, and the persistent insistence that he mattered.
And now Rei understood. Understood that he was worth loving, worth choosing, worth everything.
Kazuki carefully peeled the lavender note from the door and held it in his palm, studying it like a precious artifact. His thumb traced over the words, feeling the slight indentation of the pen, the places where Rei had pressed harder—on "loved" and "worth," the most important words.
Kazuki tucked the note into the pocket of his sleep shirt and moved to start his day, wondering how many more pieces of Rei's heart he'd find scattered through their home.
The second note waited in the kitchen, stuck to the refrigerator door.
Kazuki had been reaching for the eggs when the pale blue paper caught his eye, positioned exactly where he'd look when gathering ingredients for breakfast. His hand stilled on the handle, and something warm unfurled in his chest.
Your cooking feeds more than our stomachs.
The eggs remained forgotten as Kazuki stood frozen, staring at seven words that somehow encompassed years of his life philosophy. Cooking had always been his love language, the way he cared for people when he didn't have other words. Every meal was an act of devotion, every carefully chosen ingredient a declaration of affection.
But he'd never articulated it quite like this. Had never put into words that what he was really doing was nourishing spirits, not just bodies. And somehow Rei, who had spent years eating for fuel and nothing more, who'd viewed food as merely a necessary function—he understood.
Kazuki pressed the note against his heart, closing his eyes, feeling the weight of being seen so completely. He thought about all the meals he'd prepared over the past three years. Breakfast every morning, lunches packed with care, dinners that brought them together around the table. He'd watched Rei slowly learn to taste things, and actually enjoy eating rather than simply consuming calories.
And Rei had noticed. Had understood what Kazuki was really doing with every meal, every dish, every carefully arranged plate.
The note joined the first in his pocket, and Kazuki finally retrieved the eggs with hands that trembled just slightly. As he cracked them into a bowl, he decided that today's breakfast would be special—heart-shaped tamagoyaki, Rei's favorite miso soup, perfectly prepared rice. Another way to say I love you without words.
The third note appeared while Kazuki was setting the table.
It was tucked under Miri's placemat, visible only when he lifted it to smooth out a wrinkle in the tablecloth. Soft pink this time, the color of cherry blossoms, of new beginnings.
You're the best father Miri could have asked for.
Kazuki had to sit down.
Had to pull out the chair and lower himself into it carefully, note clutched in both hands, because his knees had gone weak and his vision had blurred and he couldn't quite catch his breath. Fatherhood was—it was everything to him. It was the role he'd never thought he'd get a second chance at, the gift he'd believed was lost forever after Yuzuko and their baby.
But then Miri had appeared in their lives, bright and chaotic and perfect, and Kazuki had been terrified. Terrified he'd fail her, terrified he'd lose her, terrified he wasn't good enough. Some days he still felt that fear, that anxious voice whispering that he wasn't doing enough, wasn't being enough.
And yet Rei—Rei, who was also Miri's father, who knew exactly how much effort and love Kazuki poured into raising their daughter—thought he was doing well. More than that, he thought he was the best father Miri could have.
Kazuki's shoulders shook with silent sobs as he pressed the note to his forehead, overwhelmed by the validation, the reassurance he hadn't realized he desperately needed. He thought about Miri's laugh, her endless energy, her unshakeable confidence that she was loved and safe. He thought about parent-teacher conferences where her teachers praised how well-adjusted she was, how kind, and creative.
He and Rei had done that. Together. They'd given her a home where she could flourish.
"Dad?" Miri's voice came from the hallway, sleepy and confused. "Why are you crying?"
Kazuki quickly wiped his eyes and summoned a bright smile, tucking the note away. "Happy tears, Miri. Just happy tears. Come on, let's eat breakfast."
As Miri climbed into her chair, chattering about her plans for the day, Kazuki caught sight of Rei in the doorway, watching them with an expression so soft it made Kazuki's heart stutter. Their eyes met, and Rei's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile before he joined them at the table.
Kazuki had to look away, had to focus on serving breakfast, because if he kept looking at Rei he was going to fall apart completely and they hadn't even made it to mid-morning yet.
The fourth note revealed itself after Miri left for school.
Kazuki was tidying her room—making the bed, picking up discarded toys, returning books to their shelves—when he noticed the note stuck to her bookshelf, right at his eye level. Sunshine yellow, bright and warm.
You're my other half. You complete me in ways I didn't know I was incomplete.
Kazuki sank onto Miri's bed, clutching her favorite stuffed penguin for support. Other half. It was such a cliché phrase, something out of romance novels and cheesy movies, but from Rei it felt profound. Revolutionary. Because Rei didn't do clichés—every word he wrote was chosen deliberately, with intent.
And he'd chosen this. Had articulated that Kazuki wasn't just his partner or his boyfriend, but the piece that made him whole.
Kazuki thought about the concept of soulmates, something he'd always been skeptical of. He'd loved before, deeply and truly, but the idea that there was one perfect person for everyone had always seemed too fairy-tale, too unrealistic. But this—this felt like something more nuanced than that. Not that they were destined, but that they'd found each other and chosen to grow together, to shape themselves around each other's edges until they fit perfectly.
Rei had been incomplete, yes, but so had Kazuki. He'd been drowning in guilt and grief, punishing himself for sins he couldn't undo, slowly destroying himself from the inside out. And then Rei had been there—broken in different ways, but somehow exactly what Kazuki needed. Someone to care for. Someone who needed him to be better. Someone who reflected back at him the possibility of redemption.
They'd saved each other, really. Made each other whole through the deliberate choice to love, even when love was hard, even when it would have been easier to stay broken.
Kazuki pressed the yellow note to his lips, then tucked it carefully away with the others. His pocket was getting heavier, weighted with Rei's confessions, and he found himself touching it frequently, reassuring himself that these words were real and pure in their honesty.
The fifth note appeared in the bathroom.
Kazuki had been cleaning the mirror when he spotted it stuck to the corner, pale green like new leaves, like growth, like the future they were building together.
I love your smile. Even when it's too bright, too much—especially then. It lights up every room you enter.
Kazuki's reflection smiled back at him through fresh tears, and he could see what Rei meant. His smile was big, enthusiastic, sometimes too much for the space it occupied. He'd been told before that he was exhausting, that his energy was overwhelming, that he needed to tone it down.
But Rei loved it. Even when—especially when—it was too much.
The knot that lived perpetually in Kazuki's chest, the one that worried he was too much, too loud, too enthusiastic, loosened slightly. He thought about all the times he'd smiled at Rei—over breakfast, during Miri's school events, while watching movies, in the quiet intimacy of their bedroom. Wide, unrestrained smiles that he sometimes tried to moderate, worried they were too intense.
Rei had been cataloging them, treasuring them. Finding joy in their brightness.
Kazuki studied his reflection, seeing himself through Rei's eyes. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way his whole face transformed when he smiled, the genuine happiness that radiated outward. He'd sometimes thought of his expressiveness as a flaw, something that made him too readable, too vulnerable.
But to Rei, it was a gift. A light in the darkness. Something to be loved, not despite its brightness but because of it.
The green note joined the growing collection, and Kazuki's smile, when it came, was brighter than ever. For Rei. For the man who loved it even at its most excessive.
The sixth note waited in the laundry room.
Kazuki found it attached to the detergent bottle, cream-colored paper that looked almost like parchment in the fluorescent light.
Your kindness doesn't go unnoticed.
Kazuki's throat constricted. He thought about the thousand tiny things he did every day without really thinking about them. Picking up Rei's favorite snacks at the store. Making sure there were clean towels in the bathroom. Remembering to record shows Rei mentioned wanting to watch. Adjusting the temperature before bed because Rei ran cold. Leaving little notes on bad days. Making tea exactly how Rei liked it.
Small things. Thoughtless things, really—the natural expression of love that flowed from him like breathing. He'd never expected acknowledgment for them, had never done them for recognition. They were just... what you did for someone you loved.
But Rei had noticed. Had been paying attention to every small kindness, every minor consideration. Had been keeping track of all the ways Kazuki cared for him, quietly and without fanfare.
Kazuki leaned against the washing machine, pressing the note against his chest, and felt something shift inside him. Being seen like this—completely, thoroughly, down to the smallest gestures—was overwhelming. It was the difference between being loved and being understood, and Rei somehow managed to do both.
He thought about Rei's own quiet acts of care. The way he'd started helping with chores without being asked. How he'd learned to braid Miri's hair after watching Kazuki struggle with it. The times he'd wordlessly pulled Kazuki into his arms when the anxiety got bad. Small things, but they spoke of attention, of care, of choosing to be present.
The cream note was carefully tucked away, and Kazuki resumed his laundry with renewed purpose, thinking about all the small kindnesses he could show Rei today, tomorrow, forever.
The seventh note appeared on the living room couch.
Kazuki had been fluffing the cushions when he discovered it tucked between them, deeper purple than the first purple note, the color of twilight, of quiet intimacy.
You always know when I need you closer.
Kazuki's eyes immediately filled. This one felt different—more vulnerable, more raw. It acknowledged something they'd never really discussed aloud: Kazuki's intuitive understanding of Rei's needs, even when Rei couldn't articulate them himself.
There were moments—usually when Rei got too deep in his own head, when the weight of his past pressed down too heavily—when he'd go quiet and withdrawn. Not coldly distant like he used to be, but pulled inward, struggling. And Kazuki had learned to recognize those moments, to read the subtle signs in Rei's posture, his expression, the way he held himself.
And in those moments, Kazuki would simply be there. Would sit close enough that their shoulders touched. Would take Rei's hand and hold it. Would pull him into an embrace without demanding conversation, without pushing for explanations. Just offering physical closeness, silent support, and steady presence.
He'd never realized Rei was so aware of it. Had never known that Rei recognized the pattern, understood that Kazuki was actively reading him and responding to his unspoken needs.
But of course Rei knew. Rei, who noticed everything, who had spent years learning to read people as a survival skill. Of course he'd noticed that Kazuki had learned to read him in return, not as a weapon but as an act of love.
Kazuki pressed the purple note to his heart and thought about all the times they'd sat together in comfortable silence, Rei gradually relaxing into Kazuki's warmth, tension bleeding away under gentle touch. No words needed. Just presence. Just proximity. Just love.
The note was added to the collection with trembling hands, and Kazuki made a mental note to check in with Rei tonight, to make sure he was okay after exposing so much of himself through these confessions.
Seven now. Seven pieces of Rei’s heart spelled out in block letters.
Kazuki wondered if there were more.
The eighth note was stuck to the spice rack in the kitchen.
Kazuki had been reaching for the paprika when he noticed it, coral pink, the color of sunset, of endings that promise new beginnings.
Your anxiety doesn't define you. Your strength does. Your courage. Your ability to love despite everything you've been through.
Kazuki's knees buckled. He grabbed the counter for support, breathing hard through his nose, completely blindsided by this note in a way the others hadn't quite managed. His anxiety—the panic attacks, the spiraling thoughts, the way his mind sometimes betrayed him with worst-case scenarios—was something he tried so hard to manage.
He'd never wanted it to be Rei's problem. Had worked to keep his episodes private and handle them alone; to not burden Rei with the messy reality of his mental health struggles. Yes, Rei had witnessed some of his worse moments, had held him through panic attacks and talked him down from spirals, but Kazuki had always felt ashamed of those moments. Had always worried that his anxiety made him weak, made him less than what Rei deserved.
But Rei didn't see it that way. Rei saw his strength. Saw past the anxiety to the person underneath who kept choosing to love and try over and over again; to show up even when his brain was screaming at him to hide.
Kazuki slid down to the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, note clutched in both hands as he cried. These were quiet sobs, wrenched from somewhere deep inside, releasing years of shame and self-judgment he'd been carrying.
Rei saw him. Saw all of him, even the parts Kazuki tried to hide, and loved him anyway. Loved him not despite his anxiety but as a complete person who happened to experience anxiety, who was defined by so much more than his struggles.
It took a long time for Kazuki to compose himself enough to stand. When he did, he added the coral note to his pocket with reverent care, thinking about how much it meant that Rei understood this part of him, acknowledged it without making it the center of who Kazuki was.
The ninth note appeared in Miri's backpack when Kazuki went to check if she'd remembered her homework.
It was tucked into the front pocket, pale yellow like morning sunshine, and Kazuki had to laugh through fresh tears at the placement. Even in leaving love notes, Rei was being thorough, making sure Kazuki would find them throughout his entire day.
Watching you with Miri reminds me every day what love is supposed to look like.
Kazuki sank onto the couch, backpack still in his lap, note pressed against his lips. This one was different—not about Kazuki directly, but about what Kazuki represented, what he taught simply by existing, by loving their daughter with his whole heart.
Rei had never learned what healthy love looked like. His father's version of love had been controlling, conditional, wrapped up in duty and performance. Rei had been raised to believe love was something you earned through usefulness, through obedience, through being exactly what someone else needed you to be.
And then he'd watched Kazuki with Miri. Watched unconditional acceptance, patient guidance, affection given freely without strings attached. Watched love that didn't demand perfection, that celebrated mistakes as learning opportunities, that created safety instead of fear.
That's what Rei had learned from them. That's what real family was supposed to be.
Kazuki thought about all the times he'd caught Rei watching him and Miri together, an expression on his face that Kazuki couldn't quite name. Now he understood. Rei had been learning. Absorbing. Rewiring his understanding of love based on what he witnessed every day in their home.
And he'd taken those lessons and applied them—to Miri, but also to Kazuki. Learning to love freely, without conditions, without expecting anything in return except the love itself.
The yellow note was carefully tucked away, and Kazuki allowed himself a moment to simply breathe, to sit with the magnitude of what he and Rei had built together. Not just a relationship, not just a family, but an entire new paradigm of love.
The tenth note was in the bedroom closet.
Kazuki had been putting away clean laundry when he spotted it attached to one of his shirts, mint green paper that stood out against the pastel fabric.
Thank you for seeing past who I was and believing in who I could become.
Kazuki clutched the shirt to his chest, note and all, overwhelmed by the trust implicit in those words. When he'd first met Rei, he'd seen an assassin, yes, but also something more. Something broken and beautiful and desperate to be something different, even if Rei himself hadn't recognized that desperation.
Kazuki had looked at this man who'd been raised as a weapon and seen a person. Had looked at this empty, distant figure and seen potential for warmth. Had looked at someone everyone else wrote off as dangerous and saw someone worth saving.
And he'd been right. Rei had become everything Kazuki had believed he could be—gentle, caring, present, alive. But more than that, Rei had become things Kazuki hadn't even imagined—a devoted father, a romantic partner, someone capable of deep emotional intimacy despite never having learned how.
Rei had exceeded every expectation, had become more than Kazuki had dared hope for. And somehow, impossibly, Rei was crediting Kazuki for that transformation.
But Kazuki knew the truth. Yes, he'd believed in Rei, but Rei had done the actual work. Had chosen, every single day, to be better than his programming. Had fought against years of conditioning to become someone soft, someone kind, someone capable of love.
The mint note was added to the collection, and Kazuki made a mental note to tell Rei later that the credit belonged to him, that Kazuki had only held up a mirror to show Rei what was already there, waiting to emerge.
The eleventh note appeared in the medicine cabinet.
Kazuki found it when he went to retrieve some aspirin for a minor headache, soft peach paper tucked behind the bottles.
Your laughter is my favorite sound. It means you're happy, and your happiness matters more to me than anything.
Kazuki's headache was immediately forgotten as tears sprang to his eyes. Laughter. Such a simple thing, something he did frequently and without much thought. But to Rei, it was significant—not just the sound itself, but what it represented.
Evidence of happiness. Proof that Kazuki was okay, that he was experiencing joy, that life was good.
And Rei cared about that more than anything. Rei, who had been trained to prioritize missions and targets and objectives above all else, now measured his success by Kazuki's happiness.
Kazuki thought about how often he laughed. At Miri's jokes. At stupid things on TV. At his own mistakes. At Rei's rare attempts at humor. He laughed easily, freely, finding joy in small moments. And apparently, every single time, Rei was listening. Rei was noticing. Rei was storing away that sound like a treasure.
The idea that his happiness mattered so much to Rei—that Rei actively prioritized it, considered it more important than anything else—was overwhelming in the best possible way. Because Kazuki felt the same way about Rei's happiness, about Miri's happiness. They'd created this ecosystem of care where each person's joy was everyone's joy.
The peach note was carefully tucked away, and Kazuki couldn't help but laugh—soft and watery and full of love—imagining Rei somewhere in the apartment listening to that sound and feeling satisfied.
The twelfth note was found in the tea cabinet.
Kazuki had been preparing his afternoon tea when he noticed the note stuck to his favorite mug, delicate lavender paper that matched the first note of the day.
You make ordinary moments feel special. Thank you for teaching me to appreciate the beauty in everyday life.
Kazuki had to set down the kettle before he dropped it. Ordinary moments. Magical. He'd never thought of his approach to life that way, but Rei was right—Kazuki did try to find joy in the mundane, did try to make everyday tasks feel special.
He made elaborate breakfasts on regular weekdays. He hummed while doing dishes. He pointed out pretty sunsets and interesting clouds. He celebrated small victories and turned minor events into occasions. He'd learned, after losing everything once, that life was too short not to appreciate the ordinary moments, not to find magic in the everyday.
And Rei had noticed. More than that, Rei had learned from it. Kazuki had watched over the past three years as Rei slowly started appreciating things—the taste of good food, the warmth of sunlight, the pleasure of a well-organized space. Rei had learned to be present, to notice beauty, to find satisfaction in simple things.
Kazuki had taught him that. Not through lectures or explicit lessons, but simply by example, by living each day with intentional appreciation.
He thought about how many people moved through life on autopilot, missing the small wonders that surrounded them. He'd been that person once, too focused on his pain to notice anything else. But he'd clawed his way back to appreciation, had relearned how to find joy, and now he'd passed that skill on to Rei.
The lavender note joined its siblings, and Kazuki prepared his tea with extra care, extra attention, making the ordinary moment of afternoon tea into something special, just as Rei had described.
The thirteenth note appeared as Kazuki was preparing dinner.
He found it in the recipe book he'd been consulting, pressed between pages of Rei's favorite meals. Deep red paper, the color of wine, of passion, of deep abiding love.
Thank you for choosing me every day. I know I'm not easy. Thank you for choosing me anyway.
Kazuki's hands shook as he held the note, vision blurring with tears. This one cut deep, straight to the heart of what made their relationship work. Because Rei wasn't always easy. There were days when he retreated into himself, when words failed him completely, when his past rose up and threatened to drown them both. There were moments of frustration, of miscommunication, and struggle.
But Kazuki had never, not once, regretted choosing him. Never wavered in that choice. Because this love wasn't about easy. It was about showing up, every single day, and choosing your person even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard.
And Rei knew that. Understood the effort that went into loving him, appreciated it, recognized it as the gift it was. He wasn't taking Kazuki for granted, wasn't assuming that love meant Kazuki would automatically stick around through difficulty.
Instead, Rei was acknowledging the choice. The daily, deliberate decision to stay, to love, to build a life together despite the challenges.
Kazuki pressed the red note over his heart and thought about his own version of that same gratitude. Thank you for choosing me too. Thank you for seeing past my flaws, my anxiety, my intensity. Thank you for staying even when I'm too much. Thank you for building this life with me.
The red note was added to the substantial collection in his pocket, and Kazuki returned to preparing dinner with renewed focus.
The final note was waiting on Rei's pillow.
Kazuki found it after dinner, after they'd eaten together and cleaned up side by side. Miri had been tucked into bed with extra hugs and kisses, and he'd been heading to bed himself when he noticed the note, different from all the others—not a sticky note but a full letter, folded carefully, deep blue paper the color of midnight, of depth, of infinite possibility.
His hands trembled as he picked it up, already emotional from the thirteen previous notes, already feeling raw and exposed and completely overwhelmed. He sat on the edge of their bed and unfolded the letter with careful fingers, and Rei's handwriting swam before his eyes.
Kazuki,
I've been trying to write this letter for three days. I've started over at least twenty times, because nothing I write seems adequate to express what I feel. But it's Valentine's Day, and you deserve to know, so I'm going to try.
Before you, I didn't think I was a person. I thought I was just something that existed to do a job. I didn't know that was wrong until you showed me what being a person could be like.
You didn't fix me. I don't think I needed fixing. But you showed me I could be something different than what I was made for. That I could choose. That choosing was even an option.
I'm trying to say that you gave me my life back. Or maybe you gave me a life I never had in the first place, I'm not sure which. Either way, everything I am now, everything that's good about who I am, exists because you believed I could be that person.
I love you, Kazuki. I love you in ways I don’t have words for. I love you with everything I am, with everything I've learned to be. You are my home, my family, my reason for everything. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I will spend the rest of my life being grateful that you walked into my world and refused to leave.
Thank you for today, and yesterday, and all the days before. Thank you for tomorrow too.
Forever yours,
Rei
Kazuki couldn't see by the time he finished reading. Couldn't breathe properly. Couldn't do anything except sit there clutching the letter while his entire body shook with sobs, overwhelmed by the sheer depth of emotion Rei had poured onto these pages.
All day, he'd been collecting pieces of Rei's heart. But this—this was everything. This was Rei, completely vulnerable, completely open, offering up every feeling he'd been carrying. This was three years of love distilled into words, articulated with a clarity that stole Kazuki's breath.
He didn't hear Rei enter the bedroom, didn't notice anything except the letter in his hands and the overwhelming storm of emotion crashing through him. But suddenly there were arms around him, familiar and strong, pulling him close. Rei's scent surrounded him, and Kazuki turned into the embrace, burying his face in Rei's shoulder.
"You found them all," Rei said quietly, and there was something vulnerable in his voice, something that suggested he'd been nervous, waiting to see how Kazuki would react.
Kazuki couldn't form words. Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at Rei, to see his beautiful, careful, perfect face, and then he was kissing him—desperate and clumsy and completely uncoordinated, pouring every ounce of feeling into the press of his lips. He kissed Rei like he was drowning and Rei was air, like three years of love could be communicated through touch alone.
He peppered kisses across Rei's face—his cheeks, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his jaw—claiming every inch of skin he could reach, sobbing and laughing at the same time, completely undone.
“Thank you,” Kazuki gasped between kisses. “Thank you, thank you—” he kissed Rei’s cheek, his jaw, back to his mouth. “You have no idea—these words—they just—” Another kiss. “They are—” He pressed their foreheads together, breathing hard. “Everything I didn’t know I needed to hear.”
"I wanted you to know," Rei said softly, his hands coming up to cup Kazuki's face, thumbs wiping away tears even as new ones fell. "Everything you mean to me. Everything you've done for me. I'm not good at saying it, so I wrote it instead."
"Then write it," Kazuki laughed wetly, pressing his palm over Rei's heart. "Write it on post-it notes and stick them all over the house. Write it in text messages. Write it in the steam on the bathroom mirror. I don’t care how you say it, Rei, I just—" His voice broke. “Thank you for loving me. For letting me love you back.”
“Always going to let you.” Rei pressed a kiss to Kazuki’s jaw, rare and precious. “Forever, probably.”
“Probably?”
“Definitely.”
Kazuki laughed, the sound watery but genuine.
Eventually, he pulled back enough to reach into his pocket, pulling out the collection of colored notes he'd been gathering all day. He spread them out on the bed between them, a rainbow of confessions, each one precious.
"Where did you learn to do this?" Kazuki finally asked, his voice still thick. "You've never... I mean, this isn't really your style. Not that I'm complaining! This is amazing, I just—where did this come from?"
Rei was quiet for a moment, and Kazuki felt him shift slightly. When he spoke, his tone was carefully neutral. "There was an article. Online."
"An article?"
"About Valentine's Day." Rei paused. "It suggested leaving notes."
Kazuki lifted his head to look at him. "Notes. Like, love notes?"
"Appreciation notes," Rei corrected. "Things you value about your partner. It said to put them around the house where they'd find them throughout the day."
A smile was starting to tug at Kazuki's lips. "Okay..."
"So I did that." Rei met his eyes, perfectly serious. "I wrote down the things I appreciate about you. Then I put them where you'd find them."
"Rei." Kazuki's smile kept growing. "How many notes did the article say to write?"
There was a beat of silence. Then: "It didn't specify."
"It didn't—" Kazuki's eyes widened. "Wait. You mean you just... kept going?"
"I had more to say." Rei's brow furrowed slightly, like he didn't understand why this was confusing. "So I kept writing."
"Until you ran out of sticky notes," Kazuki said slowly, realization dawning.
Rei's ears went pink. "The pack only had thirteen."
"Only—" Kazuki stared at him. "Rei, did you use an entire pack of sticky notes?"
There was a pause. Then Rei said, somewhat reluctantly: "It wasn't a full pack."
Kazuki blinked. "What?"
"The sticky notes. They were already open." Rei's ears were turning crimson. "I took them from Miri's room."
For a moment, Kazuki just stared at him. "You took sticky notes from Miri's room."
"She had a pack on her desk. It seemed more efficient than going to the store."
"So you grabbed Miri's half-used pack of sticky notes," Kazuki was fighting back laughter now, "and just started writing feelings."
"That's what the blog said to do."
"And you used all of them."
"I had things to say."
"Rei." Kazuki's voice cracked on his name. "You used up our daughter's school supplies because you had too many feelings for me."
"I'll buy her more," Rei said, slightly defensive now. "It's not a problem."
Kazuki started laughing. He collapsed back onto the mattress, one hand over his face, absolutely losing it.
"I don't understand what's funny," Rei said, but Kazuki could hear the uncertainty in his voice.
"You—" Kazuki wheezed, trying to catch his breath. "You stole sticky notes from a six-year-old—"
"I didn't steal them, I borrowed them—"
"—used all of them—"
"—for a good reason—"
"—and then also wrote a letter because you couldn't stop writing about how much you love me—" Kazuki dissolved into fresh giggles, curling on his side.
"That's not—I don't see why that's amusing."
Kazuki rolled over to look at him, still grinning through tears. "Rei. Baby. You raided Miri's desk for craft supplies to write me love notes and ran out halfway."
"I still had things I wanted to tell you," Rei said, somewhat stiffly. "The letter seemed like the logical solution."
"Logical!" Kazuki was wheezing now. "Oh my god, you're killing me—"
"Stop laughing," Rei grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. "I was trying to be romantic."
“You were!” Kazuki sat up and kissed him again, softer this time. "I love that you saw an article and thought 'I can do that.' I love that you sat down and wrote until you ran out of materials. That your solution to running out of sticky notes was 'well, I'll just write more in a different format.’"
Some of the tension bled out of Rei's shoulders. "The article made it sound simple."
"It probably is simple. For normal people who have a normal amount of feelings." Kazuki grinned. "You're not normal people."
"Neither are you."
"Exactly. We're perfect for each other." Kazuki settled back against him, sighing contentedly. "My boyfriend who takes Valentine's Day advice and runs with it until he literally can't anymore, and me who cries happy tears about it."
"You do cry a lot," Rei observed, but his arms tightened around Kazuki.
"Because you keep being sweet! What do you expect me to do?"
"Not cry?" Rei suggested, but there was amusement in his voice now.
"Impossible. Especially when you tell me things like 'I ran out of sticky notes' like that's a normal problem to have."
"It could happen to anyone—"
"It could not!" Kazuki started laughing again. "Most people do not have that problem, Rei!"
"Most people don't appreciate their partners enough," Rei said, so seriously that Kazuki had to bury his face in Rei's neck to muffle his laughter.
"I love you so much," he managed eventually. "So, so much. Don't ever change."
"Next time, I’ll prepare everything beforehand," Rei said, and Kazuki could hear the smile in his voice now.
"Please do. I want to see what happens when you're properly stocked."
"You'll probably cry more."
"Definitely. And you'll act like it's my fault for being emotional."
"It is your fault," Rei said, but he was pressing a kiss to Kazuki's hair. "You're the one who taught me to have feelings. Now I have too many."
"Too many feelings," Kazuki repeated, grinning into Rei's shoulder. "What a terrible problem to have."
"Mm. The worst."
They sit there in comfortable silence, Kazuki occasionally giggling, Rei holding him close and pretending to be annoyed. The notes lay spread out next to them, evidence of Rei's complete inability to do anything halfway.
"Hey Rei?" Kazuki said eventually.
"Mm?"
"Next Valentine's Day? Maybe check how many notes come in a pack before you start writing."
"Or I could just buy multiple."
Kazuki burst out laughing again, and Rei smiled against his hair.
And in the top drawer of Miri’s desk, a forgotten pack of backup sticky notes waited to be found—because of course they always bought extras, just in case.