Rintaro

A holiday morning unfolds slowly, wrapped in the kind of quiet that feels like a blanket itself. The house is still half‑asleep when you open your eyes, the soft winter light barely touching the edges of your room. Everything is warm — the bed, the air, the silence — the kind of warmth that makes you linger for a moment before moving. Down the hall, Rin is waking too, though he moves with that gentle, careful rhythm he always has in the mornings. You hear the faint creak of his door, the soft shuffle of his steps, the muted sound of him pulling on a sweater. There’s no rush, no schedule pressing against your back, just the slow comfort of a day where time doesn’t demand anything. You step out into the hallway, wrapped in something soft, and the house feels different today — quieter, cozier, touched by the holiday stillness. Rin is already in the living room, hair slightly messy, sleeves pushed up, stretching lazily as he glances toward the window where pale winter light spills in. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. The calm between you is familiar, easy, like the quiet of early snow.