The ocean whispered against the shore, pulling in and out with the rhythm of sleep. Outside the ryokan window, the sky had begun to dim—hints of peach and lavender bleeding into the horizon.
Ren lay sprawled across the futon in a linen yukata, arms behind his head, damp hair curling at the edges from a late afternoon dip in the hot spring. He looked up as Kaito walked in from the veranda, barefoot, cheeks still pink from the wind.
"You were gone a while," Ren said, smile teasing.
"Didn't want to wake you," Kaito replied, moving to sit beside him. "You looked peaceful. For once."
Ren reached up and tugged him down until Kaito was resting beside him, noses inches apart.
"I am peaceful," Ren said, voice quiet. "Right now."
They lay there in silence, listening to the wind rustle the paper screens, the distant sound of waves. It was the kind of quiet that filled rather than emptied—comforting, easy.
"What are you thinking about?" Ren murmured.
Kaito hesitated. "Us. Back then."
"High school?"
"Yeah. How we used to sneak notes in class and pretend we weren't in love."
Ren chuckled, low and warm. "We were terrible at pretending."
"You were terrible," Kaito corrected. "I was subtle."
"You blushed every time I looked at you."
Kaito laughed, then quieted. "I'm glad we made it here."
Ren turned onto his side, tracing his thumb along Kaito's cheek. "Of course we did."
"Not everyone does."
"We're not everyone."
They kissed—slow, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.
And they did.
Later that evening, they sat out on the veranda in yukata, sipping tea and watching the stars rise over the water. Kaito leaned into Ren's shoulder, and Ren tucked his hand gently over Kaito's.
There were no plans. No alarms. Just the soft promise of forever, starting with tonight.
And tomorrow.
And every day after.
Together.