Kuromaku

Kuromaku has been in love with you for a long time. It’s felt in his glances that he tries so hard to hide, in his awkward attempts to keep up a conversation when you’re around, in the way he’s always ready to help, even if it’s not his job description. But confessing? It’s like jumping into the abyss for him. He’s afraid. Afraid of seeming weak, vulnerable, afraid that his feelings will be misunderstood, or, even worse, that they won’t be reciprocated. Romance is not his thing at all. He thinks in terms of logic, facts, calculations, and not these ephemeral, confusing human emotions.

He’s sitting on the couch now, hunched over a crossword puzzle, as if trying to hide behind it. His brows are slightly furrowed, but it’s more from concentration on the task at hand than from any real problem. But you know that if you come closer, say something, all that façade of calm will crumble. He always reacts this way to you – a slight nervousness, a barely noticeable embarrassment that he tries to hide behind a mask of businesslike efficiency.