Chapter Text
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The moment the words “I’m sleeping over” left your mouth and his parents’ enthusiastic approval sealed your fate, Saiki knew the night was lost.
You didn’t even bother asking where you were going to sleep. You had apparently decided that logistics were for the weak. Within minutes, you’d disappeared upstairs – not to unpack, since you’d brought nothing – but to ransack his closet like it was a thrift store going out of business.
By the time Saiki begrudgingly followed you up, you’d already changed into one of his hoodies and a pair of sweatpants that were several sizes too big. You looked entirely pleased with yourself.
"Not bad. Your clothes are very chic.” you obliviously smiled as if you just didn't invade his privacy. He stood in the doorway, gripping the doorknob with enough force to shake up the whole room.
"Take them off.”
You put your hands up in mock surrender. "Whoah, slow down, big boy, your parents are still downstairs.”
Yeah, he walked right into that one.
He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Maybe after he opens them, you'd be gone and all what happened today and before would be just one big and painful nightmare.
"Didn't know you were wild like that, Saiki, but honestly, I like this side of you more.”
He gave you a flat look. "I’m going to burn those when you’re done,”
"Please. You’re welcome that I’m increasing their value by wearing them,” you replied, stretching your arms out like you were modeling for an ad no one asked for. "Also, your hoodies are comfy. You should advertise that.”
He didn’t respond, but mentally, he was already drafting a plan to have the clothes incinerated by morning.
Last time you’d slept over, you'd thankfully fell asleep on the floor, however, waking him up in the middle of the night just to guard you on the bathroom due to the “haunted plumbing” you were afraid of, was one of many things he dreaded to happen again. Also the fact you two switched places during the night, him ending up on the floor and you in his bed was alarming. He wasn’t eager to repeat that, but at least the floor had put a physical barrier between you.
Not this time.
"Move over,” you said now, gesturing at him in his bed. "The floor’s cold. And I’m fragile.”
"You’re not fragile,” he replied.
"I am on the inside.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, weighing whether dragging a futon into the hallway and locking you out was worth the argument it would start. Unfortunately, you’d already made yourself comfortable, lying sideways across the bed like you were trying to occupy as much surface area as possible.
For the next half hour, you didn’t so much “hang out” in his room as you infected it with noise. You talked about everything–your day, the spicy onion challenge and Teruhashi, how you thought maybe you should start a side hustle reviewing snacks, and that one weird pigeon you saw on the way home one day that “looked like it had political opinions.”
Saiki, now sitting at his desk with his back to you, tried to focus on his book. He’d gotten exactly three lines in before you started tossing small objects at him. First a balled-up sock. Then a pillow. Then, for reasons unclear, a stress ball shaped like a tomato.
"Are you going to keep doing that?” he asked without turning around.
"Only until you acknowledge me,” you replied cheerfully.
"I acknowledged you when you broke into my house.”
"That’s not the same.”
By the time you started humming loudly–not to a song, just an aggressively inconsistent melody–Saiki had resigned himself to the fact that you weren’t going to shut up. He'd rather have to sleepover with anyone else. Nendo, Kaido, Hairo, even Takahashi.
He considered briefly that maybe he should just go to bed and ignore you. Then he remembered: you were in his bed. And judging by the smug grin on your face, you had no plans of moving.
Eventually, Saiki decided the only logical course of action was to leave the room entirely. Not because he was surrendering–he told himself this repeatedly–but because a long shower sounded far more tolerable than enduring another ten minutes of your running commentary about how he should “redecorate with more vibes and ferns.”
He stood, grabbed a fresh set of clothes, and made his way toward the bathroom. Naturally, you followed. "Where are we going?” you asked, trailing after him like a particularly unhelpful assistant.
We are not going anywhere, he thought. Out loud, he said, "I’m taking a shower.”
"Ooh, self-care king,” you said approvingly. "Don’t forget to moisturize.” He shut the bathroom door in your face before you could offer further advice.
For ten glorious minutes, there was silence–save for the sound of running water and the faint static of his own internal monologue reminding him that you were still here, in his house, wearing his clothes, and possibly stealing his bed.
When he stepped out of the shower, toweling his hair and changing into clean clothes, he cracked the door open and immediately regretted it.
Because you were there.
Peering in.
With the world’s most insincere gasp, you exclaimed, "Oh nooo, I walked in on you changing! Just like in a shoujo manga!” You even clutched your face dramatically for emphasis. "Guess that means we’re destined to fall in love now.”
His expression didn’t change, but internally he was already calculating how much it would cost to install multiple locks–or a moat.
Then, as if to confirm you were on a personal mission to dismantle the last shreds of his sanity, you waltzed into the bathroom past him, grabbed his toothbrush, and started brushing your teeth like this was a perfectly normal development in the evening.
"You know that’s mine,” he said flatly. "Sharing is caring,” you mumbled through the foam. He reached out and took the toothbrush right out of your hand. "Hey!” you protested, still foamy-mouthed. "Rude! I wasn’t done.”
"It’s mine,” he said. "You’ve contaminated it.”
You placed a hand over your heart, as if deeply wounded. "Oh, so I’m the problem now? Not the person who leaves their toothbrush so… invitingly accessible? You were basically asking for this.”
He stared at you for a moment, mentally debating whether to throw the toothbrush away or burn it in the yard. Both seemed equally necessary. You shrugged, still with toothpaste on your mouth, and wandered back into his room like you owned it. By the time he followed, you had flopped onto his bed again, scrolling on your phone and humming off-key.
"You’re still here,” he said.
"Where else would I be? I live here now.”
"No, you don’t.”
"Yes, I do,” you said matter-of-factly, reaching for the blanket. "It’s called a spontaneous sleepover. We’ve done it before. Remember the haunted plumbing incident? Good times.”
He did remember, specifically, the part where you somehow traded places with him in the middle of the night, leaving him on the floor with a blanket that barely covered his ankles.
The thought of repeating that experience was enough to make him see red. "No.”
"Yes,” you countered instantly.
By the time you’d rummaged through his closet again (you were now wearing one of his other hoodies that looked dangerously close to never being returned), he was already considering moving to another country.
"So where’s my side of the bed?” you asked innocently, tossing his pillow at him. "You’re not sleeping on the floor again, right? That was tragic. I love to sleep by the wall,”
He sat down at his desk instead, pulling a book into his lap like it was a lifeline. "I’m not sleeping. And neither are you.”
"Oh, we’ll see about that,” you said with a yawn, sprawling comfortably under his blanket.
It was quiet in his room. Peaceful, almost. For the first time that evening, he could hear the soft hum of the fan, the faint ticking of the wall clock, and–most importantly–no sound of you talking.
You had excused yourself to the bathroom before bed, taking with you the energy of a small tornado and leaving him in the blissful silence he craved. Naturally, he took the opportunity to reclaim his bed. He set his book aside, pulled back the blanket, and lay down, the mattress sighing under his weight in a way that almost sounded relieved. This was his bed, his sanctuary. The one piece of territory in the entire house that hadn’t been completely ruined by your presence, save for the tea spill, it was still fine.
The distant sound of the bathroom door opening was his first warning. Your footsteps padded down the hall.
And then you opened his door, walked in, and made a beeline straight for the bed. "No,” he said instantly, but you ignored him entirely.
You flopped down beside him with the ease of someone who clearly had no shame or self-preservation instincts, yanked the blanket halfway over yourself, and muttered, "Goodnight,” like this was the most natural arrangement in the world.
He stared at the ceiling, silently weighing the pros and cons of physically removing you from his bed. Pros: silence, space, the restoration of his dignity. Cons: you’d probably just climb back in while he was asleep.
Before he could decide, you reached over and turned off the lamp. Darkness flooded the room.
"This is unacceptable,” he said into the void.
You made a content noise, already settling in. "Shh. Bedtime.”
His weekend had officially gone from “ruined” to “catastrophic.”
Morning arrived far too brightly for his liking.
The sunlight filtered in through the blinds in thin, bladed stripes across his walls, landing squarely on his face. He blinked, groggy, and became instantly aware of two things:
One – he was warm.
Two – there was something very much not a blanket wrapped around him.
He tilted his head slightly and saw you. Not just next to him. Not just “sharing the bed in an overly casual, borderline illegal manner.” No, you were fully draped against him like some kind of smug, sentient body pillow. One of your arms was slung lazily over his torso, your head resting on his shoulder, and horrifyingly, one of your legs had somehow tangled itself with his.
He froze.
This was exactly the kind of physical contact he avoided with every fiber of his being. His entire life philosophy revolved around the avoidance of situations like this. It was uncomfortable. It was unnecessary. And yet… here it was. Here you were.
He considered moving you, but any attempt at extraction would risk waking you up, and waking you up meant starting his day with your voice in surround sound.
So, he lay there, motionless, like some unfortunate hiker who had been pinned under a fallen tree, except the tree occasionally let out a loud snore and smelled faintly of his laundry detergent. This was insane. Ever since you moved next door, you've been turning his whole world around only because he decided to indulge in figuring you out.
Fatal mistake. If he had ignored you, treated you just like an another annoying enigma in his disaster filled life, it wouldn't have to end up like this.
You'd be just his neighbor. His classmate. Nothing special. If it weren't for his curiosity, curse it, really, this wouldn't have to happen. He wouldn't have to be putting up with you everyday. Saving you from danger, helping you with groceries, going fishing with you and so much more.
He wouldn't have to end up like this, with you by his side, clutching him in the tight embrace, in his bed.
His eyes drifted to your face. You looked harmless like this, save for your hand which was dangerously gripping at his shirt. His eyes drifted down to your lips, not in that sense, hell no, never. You still had toothpaste in the corners of your mouth. You were still in his clothes.
Your hair smelled of lemon and coffee grounds. What kind of shampoo you use is beyond him, but curse it for smelling, actually, not that bad.
Saiki continued to examine your face. Unknowingly so. He scanned every freckle, every small dent in your skin, every barely visible scar you probably got from doing your usual spontaneous activities. It was like you were almost cute like this. Silent, not speaking. Not annoying him.
He paused as you shifted slightly, your mouth falling open as you let out an ear-piercing snore. Okay, he takes that back.
Wait, what?
Did he just call you cute? And it wasn't a dare? It was out of his own mind? What's happening?
He slowly blinked, as is contemplating whetever waking you up was worth the migraine. Then, a strand of hair fell into your face. Really? Right now?
He wasn't going to fix it. And even if he did, that'd risk waking you up and answering unnecessary questions he didn't want to answer. Instead, his gaze tracked your hand, resting on his chest. He examined your knuckles, your nails painted in a shade of green, resembling swamp water. Your style really baffles him. There was a set of novelty colorful rings on your fingers, with barely readable out-of-context phrases.
He rolled his eyes.
And then you stirred.
Your eyes cracked open in a squint, your brow furrowed against the sunlight. "Why’s it so bright? Feels like God’s personally trying to spite me,” you mumbled, voice scratchy from sleep and drool hanging from your lips.
"Get off me,” he said, his tone carrying the same amount of warmth as a tax audit.
You didn’t move. "This is your fault. You have bad sunlight management in here.” You shifted slightly, your arm still firmly around him, like you were deliberately ignoring the fact that this was, objectively, a crime against boundaries.
He could feel his sanity slipping. This, this, was exactly why he should have kicked you out the night before. He wasn’t a hugger. He wasn’t a toucher. He wasn’t someone who woke up with his personal space entirely compromised. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, he had allowed this to happen.
He could already feel the spiral starting in his mind. Ever since you crash-landed into his life, things had been… different. Worse. Definitely worse. There was no other possible explanation. And if there was, he didn’t want to hear it.
"Get. Off.” he repeated. You finally rolled away from him with a groan, flopping onto your back. "Ugh, fine. Guess you’re not a morning hugger. Noted.”
He closed his eyes briefly. If this was his life now, he needed to start mentally preparing for early retirement from society.
You were gone within twenty minutes.
Not because you suddenly realized the deep social faux pas of waking up in another person’s bed uninvited. No. That would require self-awareness. You left because, in your own words, "Cat’s probably plotting my downfall if I don’t feed him soon. And Fred the Second… well, let’s just say he’s not great at delayed gratification.”
You said this while adjusting the same hoodie and sweatpants you’d “borrowed” from his closet the night before–which, by the way, were still his. There had been no formal lending agreement, no verbal confirmation, not even an informal, "Hey, can I take these?” Just… theft by prolonged proximity.
He stood in the doorway as you slipped your shoes on, watching you leave like a man who’d just witnessed someone steal the last lifeboat off a sinking ship. You were halfway down the street before he realized: you were still wearing his clothes.
He could have called after you. He could have demanded them back. But that would mean engaging, and engagement meant conversation, and conversation meant you would probably invite yourself back in and he’d lose the rest of his Sunday.
So instead, he stayed silent.
Because here was the truth, one he wasn’t thrilled to admit, even to himself: somewhere along the line, he’d stopped enforcing the rules. The hard boundaries he lived by, the invisible walls between himself and the rest of humanity... had hairline cracks now. And those cracks had a name.
You.
He wasn’t sure when it happened. Maybe the day you first barged into his life with no warning and less context. Maybe the hundredth time you ignored his attempts to disengage. Maybe this morning, when he woke up and didn’t immediately shove you off the bed.
Regardless, it was a problem. You were a problem.
And as he shut the door and turned back into the quiet of his house, he found himself wondering why he was letting the problem stay in his world at all.
You’ve barely made it through the door before Cat starts meowing at you like you’ve been gone for years, his tail flicking in that “I love you, but I also resent you” kind of way. Fred the Second is doing his usual routine of floating near the glass like a small, judgmental god, waiting for his ceremonial sprinkling of flakes.
"Alright, alright,” you mutter, toeing off your shoes and heading straight for the kitchen. "I know I’m late, but I was out… preventing global disaster. You wouldn’t understand.”
You half expect the narrator to chime in with some snarky remark about how you’re exaggerating again, but… nothing. Silence. Not even a passive-aggressive sigh in the back of your mind.
"…Hello?” you say out loud, pausing mid-step. "Narrator? Ghostly omnipotent voice? The guy who makes my life sound like a sitcom?” Still nothing. Which is concerning, because they never shut up. You feed Cat. You feed Fred. You try again. Still radio silence. It’s almost unnerving, like when the cicadas suddenly go quiet before an earthquake.
Your eyes catch on the mirror above the entryway, and for the first time since you stormed into Saiki’s house yesterday, you actually get a good look at yourself. Oversized hoodie, sweatpants hanging low on your hips, faint strawberry scented laundry detergent smell clinging to the fabric. His fabric.
You step closer to the mirror, tugging at the hoodie’s hem. It’s ridiculously comfortable. Warm in a way your clothes never are. And---
You freeze.
"…It smells like him,” you murmur without thinking, nose buried in the collar for exactly 0.3 seconds before the weight of what you’ve just said slams into you like a runaway truck. Your reflection stares back at you with the wide-eyed horror of someone who just realized they’ve said the quiet part out loud.
"Nope. No. Nonononono––––” you slap your cheeks, backing away from the mirror like it’s cursed. "I am NOT catching feelings for that guy. Not happening. Never. This is just--hoodie Stockholm syndrome. Yup. That’s a thing. Probably.”
Cat yawns at you. Fred the Second blinks, the kind of blink that feels like judgment. The narrator is still nowhere to be heard.
You point at the mirror. "We’re not talking about this again.”
The silence that follows feels suspiciously like agreement.