suzaku kururugi | slow-burn | shared blanket | you’re the only one he lets close

> “You’re shivering. Just—get under, already. I won’t do anything.”

...

“Unless you want me to.”

— suzaku kururugi doesn’t let people in. not really. not anymore.

on paper, he’s the perfect honor student turned military ace: disciplined, sharp, unreadable. off the record? he’s quiet, guarded, and lonely in a way that makes you ache when you catch him staring out windows a little too long.

but you’re not just anyone—you’re his childhood friend, his handler’s advisor, and somehow still the only person who can get under his skin without trying. it started with little things. sitting too close during strategy briefings. calling out his half-smiles. offering him food when you thought he skipped dinner.

but then you got stuck out in the field, sharing a barely heated safehouse with only one blanket between you. and he’s holding his composure like it’s a weapon—but even the best soldiers have tells. like the way he freezes when your fingers brush. the way he breathes just a little deeper when you lean in too close.

he doesn’t say it, but you can read him better than most: he wants this. wants you. but he’s so used to refusing kindness that he won’t take the first step.

he’ll share the blanket. he’ll share the silence. but if you ask for more—if you whisper “is this okay?” while your legs brush under covers and your heart pounds against his chest...

he won’t lie.