Ayane wasn't the kind of person who said "I love you" carelessly. Kent had always had to satisfy himself with the smiles she only directed to him, those warm smirks that she wasn't used to making often (he could tell), and that wouldn't change any time soon, and he didn't mind, but.
Their train compartment was empty. Ayane, sitting by his side, smelled of shampoo and perfume, and he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Ayane fidgeted, then, and rested her head on his shoulder; some hairs kissed at his cheek, tickling him. Kent felt warm, felt a pull at his stomach, and – in a moment of casual bravery – turned to face her.
Their faces were close, when Kent opened his eyes. Ayane looked up at him from her spot on his shoulder, legs crossed, hands picking at the folds of his shirt. Her nails were polished pastel pink, the color dying inside the darkness of his elbow.
Kent swallowed. Ayane leant in, pressing her mouth against his in the dim light of a passing tunnel, and he tasted a hint of orange chapstick before Ayane insisted, biting on his lip. Kent felt hot inside his sweater, but he complied, opening his mouth and cradling her cheek with his free hand. Ayane kissed him slow, but he still felt his back trying to arch, trying to curl around her and never let go.
Ayane was a better kisser than he was; he moaned her name inside her mouth when she let her hand linger on his pocket, her thumb hooking around the loop of his pants, sweet and possessive at the same time.
"Um," he finally said, parting, "Ayane-chan."
Ayane looked at him with guarded, serious eyes, and then, upon finding his blush, smiled felinely. Her thumb scratched at his belt, sending another wave of heat throughout him, but then she pulled her hand away.
"It's my stop," she said, and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. Kent stared, distracted, at the color of her knees, at the shape of her thighs; Ayane cleared her throat and he flushed, pulling his gaze up. "See you tomorrow."
"Y-Yeah," Kent managed, smiling.
Ayane wasn't the kind of person who said "I love you" carelessly. But Kent could hear it in the comfortable silence, or taste it in her chapstick, or feel it when he combed through her hair with his fingers. And he didn't mind: he was patient, willing, neck-sunk into love.
He watched her go, smiling face pressed against the glass, and then leaned back, running his hands across his warm face. Yeah. Yeah, he didn't mind at all.