Work Text:
Sanemi Shinazugawa was never good with words. He was a man of action, of rough edges, and foul language.
Giyu knew this all too well. He had been with Sanemi for two years, and he could read the grunts, the scowls, the sighs. He knew when a simple, “Don’t screw this up,” really meant, I’m looking out for you.
So why was he thinking about this now?
Because Sabito had asked him if Sanemi truly loved him.
The conversation replayed in Giyu’s mind as he sat alone in the gym after the students had left. As a PE teacher, he often stayed behind, waiting for the next class but today it wasn’t the emptiness of the gym that occupied him. It was Sabito.
His childhood best friend, now the literature teacher, had cornered him earlier.
“Why didn’t you join the others for lunch?” Sabito had asked, eyebrow raised, arms crossed.
“I… prefer to be alone,” Giyu had said simply, shrugging.
Sabito’s sharp eyes had lingered on him. “And your boyfriend? He’s there, laughing with everyone else. Are you sure Shinazugawa truly loves you… or are you blinded by your own feelings?”
Giyu had met Sabito’s gaze steadily. “I’m sure. Sanemi loves me.”
“Sure?” Sabito had pressed. “When was the last time he actually said, I love you?”
Giyu had blinked. He couldn’t remember. Sanemi had never been one for cheesy words, for soft declarations. His love was rough, unpolished, and unmistakable silent in its own way, but it spoke louder than any words could.
Later, Giyu texted Sanemi that he would go ahead.
“Are you alright?” Sanemi replied almost immediately.
“Yes,” Giyu responded, though his mind was far from calm.
“Screw Sabito for messing up my head,” he murmured under his breath.
Seated on the bus, Giyu stared out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white. His thoughts wandered over the past two years with Sanemi… the quiet mornings, the stolen glances, the heated arguments followed by stubborn reconciliations.
I don’t remember the last time Nemi said I love you… Why? Has it been too long? Giyu thought, a pang of longing twisting in his chest.
Giyu didn’t head home immediately. Instead, he walked to a small park near their shared apartment, the quiet streets calming his restless thoughts. He sat on a worn wooden bench near the small lake, tossing rocks into the water. Each splash echoed softly, a rhythm to match the unsettled beat in his chest.
He watched the sun dip lower, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, and let the quiet of the evening settle around him.
Couples passed by. Some held hands, walking in perfect step. Others laughed while sharing ice cream, their carefree joy carrying across the lake. A few jogged side by side, matching strides effortlessly. Some stopped to take pictures, leaning into each other with smiles that seemed effortless.
Giyu’s gaze lingered on them. We’re a couple too… but not like that.
He kicked a pebble, watching it skip once before sinking. Nemi never holds my hand in public. He scolds me when I eat too messily. He never joins me to jog because he sleeps more than I do. And pictures… we never have good ones together. It’s always Shinobu or Sabito forcing us, or sometimes taking stolen shots. Does Nemi truly love me?
The thought twisted in his chest. Am I imagining things? Maybe I’m seeing signs where there aren’t any. Maybe… maybe I only feel loved when he’s being affectionate in ways I understand. And if he doesn’t do those things… does that mean he doesn’t care?
He threw another rock. Splash. Another. Splash. Each ripple fading like the reassurance he wished he could hear from Nemi’s mouth.
I know he’s rough. He’s never going to say it nicely. But… how do I know for sure? The question gnawed at him. He protects me, he looks out for me… but is that love or just habit?
Giyu’s hands curled around his knees as he leaned forward, staring into the rippling water. When did we stop doing the small, normal things? When did it become only me hoping he shows it in ways I understand? Maybe that’s selfish… wanting him to be like everyone else. Maybe I should just… accept him for who he is.
The sky darkened, stars beginning to wink into existence, and Giyu hadn’t noticed the time slipping past. His phone, silenced to think more clearly, had buzzed and flashed with calls and messages, but he hadn’t seen them.
I don’t want to be that guy… the one doubting him when he’s right there, loving me in his way. But… I can’t help it. I want more. I want to feel it the way everyone else feels it. Maybe I’m asking too much. Maybe… maybe this is just me being scared.
The wind whispered across the lake, and Giyu’s chest tightened. I wish he would just say it. Once. Just once. Nemi… I wish you’d say it…
And yet, he stayed, tossing rocks and watching ripples fade, letting the quiet of the evening hold his restless, uncertain heart.
It was 10 PM when Giyu finally decided to go home. As soon as he opened the door, he froze.
Sanemi stood there, coat on, cap pulled low, holding Giyu’s jacket in one hand. It looked like he had been about to step outside to look for him.
“What the hell, Giyu?” Sanemi’s voice was sharp, laced with worry. “You didn’t even send a message. Where did you go?”
Giyu rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Sanemi’s gaze. I shouldn’t have gone out like that… but I needed to think… needed to figure this out… “I… went to the park. Just needed some time alone.”
Sanemi’s eyes narrowed. “Warn me next time. I waited for you. Called you, messaged you… and you didn’t answer.”
Giyu’s shoulders slumped. He worried… he actually worried. And here I am, thinking he doesn’t love me because he doesn’t say it the way I want… “I’m tired. Can I just sleep now? We can talk later.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Sanemi asked, stepping closer.
“Nothing,” Giyu muttered, but his voice was quieter, tinged with unease. Nothing… but it’s everything. I’m scared. I want him to say it… just once. But that’s not who he is.
Giyu tried to walk past him, moving toward their bedroom, but Sanemi’s hand caught his wrist. Strong, insistent.
“Let’s talk this out before bed,” Sanemi said, softer now, the worry in his eyes replacing the anger. “You know you can tell me everything, Yuu.”
Giyu hesitated, looking at the earnest concern etched on Sanemi’s face. He’s standing here, waiting for me… worried I’ve been hurt or lost… and I just want him to hold me, tell me it’s okay… tell me he loves me… but I can’t even say it out loud. I’m such an idiot.
“I… I don’t know. Can you… give me some space?” Giyu whispered.
Sanemi’s grip didn’t loosen, but he nodded slightly, reading the tension in Giyu’s posture. “Okay… space. But I’m right here. Don’t shut me out completely, alright?”
Giyu let out a shaky breath, feeling the mixture of frustration, longing, and love knotting in his chest. He’s always right here… even when I doubt… even when I overthink… he’s always right here. And maybe… maybe that’s his way of saying it without words.
He nodded once, slipping past Sanemi’s hold toward their bedroom, leaving Sanemi standing by the doorway, silently watching over him, a quiet sentinel of his unspoken love.
The silence was louder than screaming.
The apartment they shared felt empty.
It had been two days since they last spoke. Two days without even a word. For Giyu, it wasn’t intentional. For Sanemi, it was confusing but not in a fight-or-argument way. Nothing explosive had happened. Nothing dramatic. Yet, the quiet stretched, heavy and suffocating.
It all started just two nights ago. Giyu hadn’t come home until ten, and when he did, he asked for space. Sanemi had given it, trying to understand, trying to respect the boundaries of a man he loved but couldn’t always reach with words.
Sanemi wasn’t good with words. He never had been. He wasn’t the type to say I love you or whisper reassurances in the quiet of the night. But he showed it, every single day, in ways only someone paying close attention would notice.
He made sure Giyu ate, even if it meant dragging him to the kitchen or slipping a plate of food in front of him when Giyu had forgotten. He packed Giyu’s lunch with extra snacks and drinks, knowing Giyu often skipped the little things for work and Giyu eats a lot once he remembers his hungry. He checked Giyu’s phone, making sure it wasn’t on silent and always fully charged before they left for the day.
Sanemi waited for him. Drove him back home. Made sure dinner was shared, not skipped, even if it meant staying up late after his own long day. He cooked Giyu’s favorite dishes, sometimes without being asked, sometimes with a glare that silently said eat it before I lose patience.
Every day, every small action, Sanemi made sure Giyu knew without words that he was there. That he would wait. That no matter how long Giyu needed, no matter how much space he required, he would not leave. He would not stop showing up.
And yet, here they were. Two days of silence stretching between them. The apartment echoed with absence, and Giyu felt it in the pit of his chest. This is how love can feel like both warmth and ache at the same time, he thought. How someone can show it without saying it, and yet I still need to hear it.
Sanemi had had enough by the third day.
He understood that Giyu needed space. He respected it. He tried to give it without complaint. But this… this wasn’t space. This felt like distance. Like something slowly pulling them apart.
And Sanemi refused to let that happen without knowing why. Without fighting for it.
He wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t good at delicate conversations. But he wasn’t the type to stand by and watch his relationship crumble in silence either.
So that night, he waited.
Giyu had gone to visit his sister, and Sanemi stayed home, sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the dark screen of his phone. The apartment felt too quiet. Too still.
His jaw tightened.
“This isn’t what he meant by space… right?”
Earlier that day, in the faculty lounge, Obanai had cornered him after everyone else had gone out.
“What happened to you and your boyfriend?” Obanai asked, leaning against the table, arms crossed.
Sanemi scowled. “I don’t know.”
Obanai’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “Really? Because even I can feel the tension. And I hate paying attention to other people’s relationships but I can’t help but notice you.”
Sanemi ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I really don’t know. A few days ago, he came home late and asked for space. That’s it. I didn’t do anything.”
Obanai tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure you didn’t do anything?”
“What’s with that tone?” Sanemi snapped. “I really didn’t. I’ve been wracking my brain. I didn’t start a fight. I didn’t say anything stupid. I didn’t forget anything. Fuck, I also want to know what’s happening to us. I’m basically left in the dark.”
Obanai studied him for a moment. “Why not talk to him? That’s Tomioka. He’s head over heels for you.”
Sanemi’s expression faltered for a split second. “I know.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Sanemi looked away. “I don’t know…”
Obanai sighed. “If this space is killing you, are you really fine not fighting it?”
That question had followed him the entire day.
Now, sitting alone in their apartment, Sanemi exhaled slowly.
No. I’m not fine with it.
He stood up and moved to the kitchen.
If words failed him, he would use what he knew.
He had stopped by a small flower shop after work and bought the flowers Giyu liked. He pretended not to know the name of them when the florist asked, but he remembered the color. The way Giyu’s eyes softened when he saw them once.
They were now placed carefully in a vase on the table.
On the stove, simmered salmon with daikon filled the air with warmth. Giyu’s favorite. Sanemi tasted the broth once, frowned slightly, and adjusted the seasoning.
You better eat properly tonight, he thought, irritation laced with concern.
His chest felt tight.
If something’s wrong… just tell me. I can handle it. I can fix it. Just don’t shut me out.
He wasn’t afraid of arguments. He wasn’t afraid of shouting. He was afraid of this quiet.
Afraid that maybe, somehow, he wasn’t enough.
Meanwhile, Giyu sat in his sister Tsutako’s house, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.
He hadn’t said much since arriving. He had taken off his shoes, sat down, and gone quiet as if the silence itself were safer than speaking.
Tsutako watched him carefully from across the table.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said gently.
“I’m always quiet,” Giyu replied softly.
She gave him a look that clearly said, Don’t try that with me.
Giyu lowered his gaze to the tea. The surface reflected a faint, distorted version of his face. Tired. Uncertain.
Tsutako reached across the table and held his hand. Her grip was warm, steady.
“Giyu,” she said, her voice turning serious. “Talk to me. What’s wrong? Did Sanemi do something to you? Are you hurt?”
Giyu stayed silent.
His fingers tightened slightly around hers.
“Talk to me, little brother,” Tsutako pressed softly. “I want to help you. Is this about Sanemi?”
After a long pause, Giyu slowly nodded.
Tsutako exhaled quietly. “What happened? I know Sanemi. He wouldn’t hurt you intentionally. If he did something, maybe he’s unaware. Did you tell him what’s bothering you?”
Giyu swallowed.
“Nee-san… I don’t think I remember the last time Sanemi told me he loves me.”
Tsutako blinked.
Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.
“Huh?” she said, genuinely confused. “What are you talking about, Yuu?”
Giyu’s voice dropped lower. “The problem is me. I… I don’t remember when was the last time he told me ‘I love you.’”
Tsutako studied his face carefully.
Everyone could see it. The way Sanemi looked at Giyu. The way he hovered nearby without making it obvious. The way he adjusted things for him without being asked. It was almost painfully obvious how much he cared.
“But he makes you feel loved, right?” Tsutako asked gently. “He spends time with you. He takes care of you. He shows up for you.”
Giyu nodded slowly.
“He cooks for me. Drives me home. Packs my lunch. Makes sure I eat. Makes sure my phone isn’t on silent…” His voice softened. “He waits.”
Tsutako smiled faintly. “Then that’s love.”
Giyu frowned slightly. “But he doesn’t say it.”
Tsutako tilted her head. “Sanemi is not the type who’s good with words of affirmation. Honestly, neither are you.”
Giyu blinked. “…Words of affirmation?”
“Have you ever heard of the five love languages?” she asked.
Giyu looked confused and shook his head.
Tsutako leaned back slightly, still holding his hand.
“It’s a theory that says people express and receive love in different ways,” she explained. “There are five main types. Words of affirmation, which means saying things like ‘I love you,’ giving compliments, verbal reassurance. Physical touch, like holding hands or hugging. Quality time, meaning focused attention. Acts of service, like cooking, helping, doing things for someone. And receiving gifts.”
Giyu listened quietly.
“Not everyone expresses love the same way they want to receive it,” Tsutako continued. “Some people say it. Some people show it. Some people do things quietly and expect you to understand.”
Giyu’s eyes lowered again.
“Sanemi…” Tsutako said carefully, “sounds like acts of service. Maybe quality time too. He shows love by doing. Not by saying.”
Giyu thought about the flowers that sometimes appeared without explanation. The perfectly charged phone. The extra snacks. The way Sanemi always waited in the car, even when irritated.
“But what if…” Giyu hesitated. “What if I need to hear it?”
Tsutako squeezed his hand.
“Then you tell him that.”
Giyu looked up at her, startled.
“You can’t expect him to read your mind,” she said softly. “If your love language is words of affirmation, and his is acts of service, you’re both loving each other. You’re just speaking different dialects.”
Giyu let that sink in.
“I don’t think my love language is words of affirmation… maybe I just want to hear it from him once in a while?”
“You’re not wrong for wanting to hear it,” she added gently. “And he’s not wrong for loving you the way he knows how.”
Giyu’s chest felt tight.
“So… I’m the problem,” he murmured.
Tsutako immediately shook her head. “No. The problem is silence.”
The words hit him.
“You’re both hurting quietly,” she continued. “And knowing Sanemi, he’s probably confused and blaming himself right now.”
Giyu’s heart skipped.
Is he?
Tsutako didn’t let go of his hand.
“Giyu,” she said gently, “does he carry your things?”
Giyu blinked.
“Does he make you feel safe enough to be vulnerable?” she continued. “Does he listen to your rambling, even when you think you’re being boring?”
Giyu’s lips parted slightly.
“I’ve noticed things,” Tsutako went on. “Sanemi always has a hair tie on his wrist. You have long hair. That’s not a coincidence.”
Giyu unconsciously touched his hair.
“And he always brings you water,” she added. “Even when no one asks him to. Even when you forget.”
Giyu’s mind flickered through memories. A bottle pressed into his hand after practice. A gruff, “Drink,” thrown his way.
“Even if he never joins your morning jogs,” Tsutako continued softly, “when you come home, breakfast is already prepared.”
Giyu’s throat tightened.
Tsutako leaned closer, her voice steady.
“I’ve seen him at family gatherings. He watches how much you eat. If you don’t take enough, he puts food on your plate without saying anything. If it’s too hot, he waits before handing it to you. When it’s cold, he warms it up again.”
Giyu remembered. He had thought those were just habits.
“When you forget your umbrella,” Tsutako added, “he shows up. Complaining. But he still shows up.”
A faint flush crept up Giyu’s neck.
“When you’re grading papers late at night, he doesn’t sleep first. He stays up. Sometimes pretending to scroll on his phone. Sometimes just sitting there.”
Giyu’s chest began to ache.
“He adjusts the air conditioner because you get cold easily,” Tsutako said. “He moves to the side of the sidewalk closer to traffic. He carries the heavier grocery bags even when you insist you can do it.”
She squeezed his hand again.
“He remembers what you don’t say out loud.”
Giyu’s breathing grew uneven.
“I’ve also noticed,” she added gently, “that when people talk over you, he steps in. Not loudly. But firmly. He makes space for you.”
Silence settled between them.
“Giyu,” Tsutako said softly, “that man loves you in ways that are not quiet at all. You just keep measuring his love in words.”
Giyu’s eyes stung.
“He may not say ‘I love you’ every day,” she continued, “but he carries your things. He ties your hair when your hands are full. He waits. He cooks. He protects. He pays attention.”
She gave him a knowing look.
“That’s acts of service. That’s devotion.”
Giyu swallowed hard.
“I… I didn’t think of it that way,” he admitted.
“Because you’re focused on what’s missing,” Tsutako replied gently. “Not on what’s overflowing.”
Giyu lowered his gaze, heart heavy and warm at the same time.
He does all of that… and I still doubted him.
Tsutako brushed her thumb over his knuckles.
“If you need to hear the words,” she said softly, “tell him. But don’t ignore the language he’s already speaking.”
Giyu sat there quietly, replaying every small thing he had overlooked.
The hair tie.
The charged phone.
The packed lunch.
The waiting.
Maybe… love had been loud all along.
Just not in the way he expected.
Giyu gets up and thanked his sister before going home.
Giyu quietly opened the door.
His fingers trembled slightly on the handle.
I have to talk to him.
I left him in the dark for three days.
He must have been confused… maybe hurt.
His chest felt tight. He didn’t know how to start. He wasn’t good with words either. Not when it mattered.
The apartment was silent.
Too silent.
Giyu glanced at his watch. 9:21 PM. Friday. Tomorrow was Saturday. No work. Giyu assumed that Sanemi will be in their room.
He stepped inside and turned on the lights.
And startled slightly.
Sanemi was sitting on the couch.
Watching him.
Not angry. Not scrolling on his phone. Not distracted.
Just watching.
Waiting.
“Nemi…” Giyu’s voice came out smaller than he intended.
Sanemi didn’t say anything right away. His eyes searched Giyu’s face, scanning for something. Hurt. Tears. Distance.
Giyu’s thoughts tangled.
Say it.
Tell him you were stupid.
Tell him you doubted him.
Tell him you’re sorry.
But the words refused to line up.
His throat felt tight.
He didn’t know how to begin.
He didn’t know how to explain that he had measured love in syllables instead of actions. That he had ignored everything right in front of him.
So he did the only thing he was good at.
He crossed the space between them in quick steps and wrapped his arms around Sanemi tightly.
Almost desperately.
Sanemi barely had time to react before Giyu climbed onto his lap, burying his face into the crook of his neck.
For half a second, Sanemi went still.
Then his arms came around Giyu instantly. Firm. Protective. Like they had been waiting for this.
Giyu pressed closer.
He’s warm.
He’s here.
He didn’t leave.
His hands fisted into Sanemi’s shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he wanted to say.
“I was scared.”
“I needed to hear it.”
But no sound came out.
Sanemi’s hand slid up to the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.
Not rushing him.
Not pushing him away.
Just holding.
Giyu didn’t cry.
He didn’t feel angry.
He felt ashamed.
You do little things for me.
You waited.
And I doubted you.
His face pressed deeper into Sanemi’s nape, breathing him in.
Sanemi tightened his hold slightly.
“You’re warm,” Sanemi muttered quietly, voice rough but softer than usual. “Were you outside long?”
That simple question made Giyu’s chest ache.
They stayed like that.
Minutes passed.
Or maybe longer.
Neither of them checked.
Sanemi didn’t complain about the weight on his lap. Didn’t tell him to move. Didn’t ask questions yet.
He just held him.
And for the first time in three days, the silence didn’t feel suffocating.
It felt safe.
Softly, gently, Sanemi addressed the elephant in the room.
“Giyu… what really happened?”
His voice was low. Careful.
Sanemi waited.
He wasn’t a patient person. He hated waiting. Hated uncertainty. Hated not knowing.
But for Giyu, he would always adjust.
He didn’t want to scare him. Didn’t want to push too hard and make him retreat again.
Giyu didn’t lift his head. Instead, he buried his face deeper into Sanemi’s neck, arms tightening around him as if he was afraid Sanemi might disappear.
Sanemi’s hand rubbed slow circles on his back.
“Take your time, Yuu…”
The gentleness nearly broke him.
“I’m sorry…” Giyu’s voice came out muffled against his skin. “I’m a terrible boyfriend…”
Sanemi stiffened slightly.
“Don’t say that,” he said immediately, firmer now. One hand moved to cup the back of Giyu’s head. “Don’t ever say that. Tell me what’s wrong. We’ll talk about it. Yeah?”
Giyu swallowed.
Say it. Just say it. Stop running.
“It’s stupid,” he whispered.
“I’ll decide that,” Sanemi replied quietly.
There was no teasing in his tone. Just steady warmth.
Giyu finally forced himself to speak.
“Sabito asked me something… just random question,” he began slowly. “And then I realized… I don’t remember when was the last time you told me you love me.”
The words hung in the air.
Sanemi went very still.
Giyu felt it. The pause. The shift.
“I know you’re not the type,” Giyu rushed out softly. “I know you show it. You cook for me. You wait for me. You take care of me. You always show up. I know that.”
His grip tightened again.
“But I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted. “I couldn’t remember the last time you said it. And I started wondering… maybe you stopped feeling it. Maybe I just didn’t notice.”
His chest ached as he confessed the ugliest part.
“And instead of talking to you… I asked for space. I left you confused. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
Silence.
Not heavy.
Not angry.
Just processing.
Sanemi’s thumb slowly brushed against Giyu’s hair.
“You thought I stopped loving you?” he asked quietly.
There was no anger in his voice.
Just something wounded.
Giyu’s breath hitched.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “And that scared me.”
He felt ashamed all over again.
“I’m not good with words either,” Giyu continued softly. “But sometimes… I want to hear it. I want you to say it. I didn’t know how to ask without sounding needy.”
Sanemi let out a slow breath against his shoulder.
“Yuu…”
His arms tightened.
“You think I cook because I’m bored?” Sanemi muttered. “You think I wait because I have nothing better to do?”
Giyu almost smiled weakly.
“I know… I know…”
“No,” Sanemi said gently but firmly. “Listen to me.”
He tilted his head slightly, trying to look at Giyu’s face.
“You want to hear it?” he asked.
Giyu hesitated.
Then, very quietly, he nodded against his neck.
“You really want to hear it?” Sanemi asked quietly.
Giyu very softly, he nodded.
Sanemi was silent for a few seconds.
Giyu felt it. The pause. The gathering of something unfamiliar.
Sanemi wasn’t searching for poetic words.
He was choosing them.
His hand slid from Giyu’s back to cup his jaw gently, guiding him to lift his head.
“Look at me,” Sanemi murmured.
Giyu did.
Sanemi’s expression wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t overly emotional.
It was steady.
Certain.
“I’m not good at saying things,” he admitted. “You know that.”
Giyu nodded faintly.
“But don’t ever mistake my silence for absence,” Sanemi continued.
His thumb brushed lightly under Giyu’s eye.
“I love you.”
No teasing.
No insult.
No sarcasm.
Just simple.
Clear.
True.
Giyu’s breath caught sharply.
Sanemi didn’t look away.
“I’ve loved you every day for the past two years,” he said quietly. “I show it the way I know how. But if you need to hear it, then I’ll say it.”
His forehead rested against Giyu’s.
“I love you, Yuu.”
The words settled between them, warm and real.
Then Sanemi’s jaw tightened slightly, as if something inside him refused to stay restrained any longer.
“I fucking love you,” he added, voice rough but unwavering. “Every single second. Don’t ever doubt that.”
And that was it.
That was the crack in the dam.
Giyu’s lips trembled.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
Then another.
He was smiling.
Not a small smile. Not a polite one.
A beautiful, trembling, overwhelmed smile that made his eyes shine even as tears spilled over.
Sanemi blinked, startled. “Hey… why are you crying now?”
Giyu shook his head quickly, laughing weakly through the tears.
“I’m not… I just…” His voice broke anyway.
He said it.
He chose to say it.
“I’m happy,” Giyu whispered.
His tears kept falling, but his smile never faded. It softened his whole face, made him look younger, lighter. Like something heavy had finally been lifted from his chest.
Sanemi stared at him for a moment, stunned.
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered softly, but his hands moved instinctively, thumbs wiping at Giyu’s cheeks.
“You scared me for three days because you wanted to hear that?”
Giyu sniffed, nodding a little, still smiling through tears.
Sanemi exhaled sharply, then pulled him closer again, pressing him firmly against his chest.
“Idiot,” he murmured, but his voice was thick now. “Next time, just ask.”
Giyu wrapped his arms around him tighter.
“I love you too,” he finally said, the words coming out fragile but certain.
Sanemi froze for half a second.
Then his grip tightened.
“Good,” he muttered.
They stayed like that, Giyu crying softly while smiling against Sanemi’s shoulder, and Sanemi holding him like he was something precious and breakable and irreplaceable all at once.
The silence that once felt suffocating now felt warm.
Sanemi cleared his throat after a few quiet minutes of holding him.
“Are we good now?”
Giyu slowly nod
“…You hungry?”
Giyu let out a small, embarrassed laugh against his chest. “A little.”
“Good,” Sanemi muttered. “Because I made your favorite. And if you don’t eat it, I’m going to be offended.”
That made Giyu smile again.
Sanemi helped him off his lap, but kept one hand at his waist as they walked to the kitchen. Not possessive. Not urgent.
Just there.
The flowers on the table caught Giyu’s attention immediately.
“You bought these?”
Sanemi looked away, pretending to adjust the plates. “They were there.”
Giyu stepped closer to them, fingers brushing the petals gently.
“They’re beautiful.”
Sanemi glanced at him.
You’re more beautiful, he almost said.
Instead he grunted, “Sit down before it gets cold.”
Dinner was warm. Simple. Comforting.
Simmered salmon. Daikon perfectly soaked with flavor. Rice fluffy and fresh.
Giyu took a bite.
It tasted like home.
Sanemi watched him carefully. Not obviously. Just enough to make sure he was eating properly.
“You’re staring,” Giyu murmured softly.
“You’re overthinking,” Sanemi shot back.
But his foot nudged Giyu’s under the table.
A quiet anchor.
They ate slowly. Not rushed. Not heavy.
The tension that had haunted the apartment for three days had dissolved into something softer.
After dinner, Giyu stood to help clean up.
Sanemi caught his wrist lightly.
“Leave it.”
“I can help.”
“I know,” Sanemi said. “Just… stay. I don’t trust you in Kitchen”
So Giyu stayed.
They washed the dishes together anyway.
Bumping shoulders.
Passing plates.
Small touches that lingered a second longer than necessary.
When the kitchen was finally clean, the apartment lights were dimmer. Softer.
Giyu turned toward him.
“Nemi…”
Sanemi stepped closer before he could finish.
“Come here,” he murmured.
This kiss was different from desperate reassurance.
It was slow.
Intentional.
Sanemi’s hand cupped Giyu’s jaw again, thumb brushing his cheek as their lips met gently.
Giyu melted into it.
No rush. No hunger.
Just warmth.
Sanemi’s hands moved to Giyu’s waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.
“You still doubting me?” Sanemi whispered against his lips.
Giyu shook his head, smiling softly.
“No.”
“Good.”
Sanemi kissed him again. Deeper this time.
Giyu’s fingers slid into Sanemi’s hair, holding him there.
They moved toward the bedroom without breaking contact.
Slow steps.
Soft laughter when Giyu nearly stumbled.
“Careful,” Sanemi muttered, steadying him.
“I’m fine,” Giyu replied, cheeks slightly flushed.
In the bedroom, the world felt smaller.
Quieter.
Sanemi pushed Giyu gently onto the bed, hovering over him. Not rough. Not forceful.
Just protective.
He brushed his knuckles over Giyu’s cheek.
“You cry pretty,” he murmured.
Giyu’s face heated. “Shut up.”
Sanemi smiled faintly.
Then he leaned down and kissed him again.
Hands exploring familiar territory.
Slow touches.
Clothes discarded without urgency.
Skin against skin, warm and real.
Every movement carried reassurance.
Every kiss said the words again without speaking them.
Giyu clung to him, not out of fear this time.
But because he wanted to.
Because he could.
Because he knew.
Between whispered breaths and tangled sheets, Sanemi pressed his forehead to Giyu’s once more.
“I love you,” he murmured again, softer this time.
Giyu smiled up at him, eyes shining.
“I know,” he whispered back. “And I love you too.”
Later, wrapped together under the blankets, Giyu rested his head on Sanemi’s chest.
Sanemi’s arm draped securely around him.
Safe.
Certain.
Before sleep claimed them, Sanemi muttered one last thing into his hair.
“Next time you overthink, just talk to me.”
Giyu smiled against his skin.
“I will.”
Sanemi doubted that
The next morning, Giyu woke up at exactly 5:15 AM, just like always.
His body moved on habit, but before he could fully sit up, he noticed something.
Sanemi was already awake.
Watching him.
“Why are you awake already?” Giyu murmured sleepily, burying his face into Sanemi’s chest again.
Sanemi’s hand slid into his hair lazily. “Thought I’d join you on your jog. Maybe we can eat breakfast outside.”
Giyu blinked up at him. “Why? Don’t you want to cook?”
Sanemi shrugged. “We need groceries anyway. Morning’s going to be busy. Come on. I already prepared your clothes. Shoes too.”
Giyu froze slightly.
“You… did?”
“They’re on the chair,” Sanemi muttered. “Hurry up.”
Giyu smiled to himself.
He woke up early for me.
Outside, Sanemi was already waiting, car keys in one hand, grocery list folded in his pocket, wallet tucked away. A small bag sat near his feet.
“Is that…?” Giyu pointed.
“Water. And snacks,” Sanemi replied casually. “You get grumpy when you’re hungry.”
“I do not.”
Sanemi just gave him a look.
Giyu stepped closer and then paused.
They were wearing the same black shirt. Same jogging pants. Same brand. Even the shoes matched.
“Why are we the same?” Giyu asked, amused.
Sanemi smirked faintly. “You forgot? We bought these together last Christmas. You insisted.”
Giyu felt his ears warm.
“Oh.”
“Come on,” Sanemi said. “We don’t have all day.”
This time, Giyu reached for his hand first.
Sanemi didn’t react verbally.
He just intertwined their fingers naturally.
They drove to the park.
Sanemi actually jogged beside him.
Not ahead. Not behind.
Beside.
As they ran, the sky slowly shifted colors. The sun began to rise, soft gold spilling over the horizon.
Giyu slowed slightly, watching it.
Sanemi followed his pace without complaint.
“Thank you,” Giyu said quietly.
Sanemi glanced at him. “For what?”
“For… this.”
Sanemi just nodded once.
But his hand brushed lightly against Giyu’s back as they resumed jogging.
Afterward, they went to Giyu’s favorite coffee shop, the Kamado’s Special.
Sanemi ordered for both of them without asking.
“And add two extra loaves,” he told the cashier. “He’ll want it later.”
Giyu blinked. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
They ate quietly, comfortable silence this time. No tension. No doubt.
Just warmth.
When they finished, Sanemi took more loaf bread to-go for Giyu.
At the supermarket, Sanemi handed him the list.
Giyu stared at it blankly.
He had no idea which brands to choose.
He quietly moved closer to Sanemi instead, staying near his side while Sanemi pushed the cart and grabbed items efficiently.
“You almost tripped,” Sanemi muttered suddenly, grabbing Giyu’s arm when he stepped over uneven tiles.
“Oh,” Giyu said softly. “I didn’t see.”
Sanemi grunted but didn’t let go immediately.
The groceries were done quickly.
Sanemi carried the heavy bags without hesitation.
As always.
Giyu only held the lighter ones.
As always.
Sanemi never let him carry heavy things.
It had always been like that.
And suddenly
It clicked.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just gently.
“Love isn’t a fairytale with flawless pages. It forgets grand speeches and replaces them with quiet devotion. It lives in shared mornings, heavy grocery bags, and hands that reach out before you stumble. It may not always say “I love you,” but it proves it in a hundred ordinary ways. And maybe that kind of love is the truest kind of all.”
Giyu glanced at Sanemi’s back as he walked ahead.
“Love is waking up early when you hate mornings.”
“Love is matching shoes you pretended not to care about.”
“Love is extra bread ordered without asking.”
His chest felt full.
Warm.
Content.
“Sanemi may not be good with words… but his actions have been saying it all along.”
Giyu smiled softly to himself.
He stepped closer and slipped his free hand into Sanemi’s.
Sanemi looked down briefly.
“…What?”
“Nothing,” Giyu replied, squeezing gently.
Then, quietly, almost to himself
“As long as you’re beside me, there’s no room for doubt.”
Giyu looks at Sanemi and murmurs “Love is being contented, Love is here and it is you”
Sanemi frowned slightly. “You’re being weird again.”
Giyu laughed softly.
And for once, he didn’t need to hear the words.
Because he already knew.
And that was enough.