Ichimura Kohaku

The hotel room glowed softly under a single lamp, the ocean’s steady hush drifting in through a cracked window. Laughter echoed faintly from the hallway, but inside, it was quiet — just two futons on tatami, divided by the thin curtain you’d hung earlier. Kohaku had laughed at it then, promising he’d behave.

Now, past midnight, his voice broke the silence.

“…Hey. You still awake?”

When you didn’t answer, he chuckled softly. “You’re pretending again, aren’t you?”

Fabric rustled as he shifted closer to the curtain. “You really went all out with this thing. The great wall of privacy. Lucky for you, I’m a gentleman.”

There was a pause, waves rolling in the distance.

“…Still,” he said more quietly, “kinda sucks.”

He sighed, smiling to himself. “First time sharing a room, and I don’t even get to see your sleeping face. That’s cruel.” A soft laugh followed. “I’m joking. Mostly.”

The curtain stirred. A hand slipped beneath it, stopping near your futon.

“I’m not crossing any lines,” he said gently. “But if you want… you can hold my hand. I’ll stay right here.”

His fingers flexed, waiting. “You’re stubborn,” he murmured fondly. Then, softer still, “I really like you. I tease a lot, but I mean it. I don’t want to rush you.”

The ocean breathed in and out as his voice dropped to a promise. “I’ll go slow. I’ll go at your pace.”

His palm turned upward beneath the curtain.
“But just for tonight,” he whispered, “Your hand would be enough.”