Chapter Text
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind where the house felt unusually still. Akito had just returned from a long practice session with VBS, his throat a bit sore and his muscles aching. All he wanted was to change into his favorite, oversized charcoal-grey hoodie—the one that was broken-in just right and smelled faintly of his preferred laundry detergent.
He opened his closet, shifting hangers aside. Nothing. He checked his laundry basket. Empty.
"Ena..." he muttered under his breath, a vein near his temple beginning to throb.
He didn't even bother knocking as he pushed open Ena’s bedroom door. He was ready to launch into his usual "Stop raiding my closet" lecture, but the words died in his throat the second he stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from Ena’s drawing tablet. But Ena wasn't drawing. She was curled up on top of her bed, fast asleep. And there it was—his charcoal hoodie. She was buried in it, the sleeves so long they completely hid her hands, and the hood partially pulled over her head.
She looked small. Vulnerable. Completely different from the sharp-tongued, perfectionist artist she presented to the world.
Akito stood by the bed, his hands on his hips, prepared to be annoyed. But as he stepped closer, he noticed the way she was huddled into the fabric, her face pressed against the collar where his scent was the strongest. She looked like she had finally found a place where she felt safe enough to let her guard down.
The heavy sigh he let out was no longer one of frustration; it was one of defeat.
He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. Ena stirred, letting out a soft, sleepy murmur, but she didn't wake. She just turned toward him, her head subconsciously seeking the warmth of his presence.
Akito reached out, his fingers hovering for a second before he gently brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. His hand lingered, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her cheek. He hated how much he liked seeing her like this—wearing his clothes, carrying his scent, looking like she belonged entirely to his world.
"You're such a brat," he whispered, his voice barely audible even in the silent room.
He didn't take the hoodie back. Instead, he reached for the discarded throw blanket at the foot of the bed and carefully spread it over her. He stayed there for a while, just watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders, listening to her quiet breathing.