In Your Hands, I Breathe
Summary: You plan a private birthday celebration for Samatoki, just the two of you. Over a warm meal and soft conversation, you gently express your worry about how much he smokes and how it affects him. Instead of brushing it off, he listens. He lowers the cigarette, chooses you instead, and promises to try. The night continues with a slow dance in the room, no grand declarations, just the steady heartbeat of someone learning to lean on love instead of old habits.
The celebration wasn’t loud. It wasn’t crowded or flashy or full of troublesome people who picked fights just because they could. No, it was warm, quiet, and private. Blue and silver ribbons drifted in the air like soft waves of the Yokohama tide, and the lights glowed gently against the table you prepared.
A perfectly roasted dish, steaming dumplings, and a smooth bottle of liquor. No carrots. No bell peppers. Just the things he likes.
Samatoki sat casually at the chair, leg crossed, dressed in a deep blue suit that framed his broad shoulders. His shirt collar was left slightly open, revealing the necklace resting against his collarbones. His silver hair fell loosely, just messy enough to look unbearably attractive.
And those crimson eyes, focused entirely on you.
“Tch… so this was what you were up to,” he muttered, amusement in his tone. “Sneaky.”
You smiled. “I wanted today to be special. Just us.”
His lips curved, subtle but real.
“Yeah… I can tell.”
You sat beside him while he began to eat, pouring him another drink. Everything was peaceful - so peaceful he looked almost relaxed. The tension in his shoulders had eased into something softer.
After a while, he reached for a cigarette, a movement so natural to him it was practically muscle memory. The lighter clicked open.
“...Wait,” you said gently.
He paused. An eyebrow raised.
“What?”
You met his gaze, not stern, not accusing, just honest.
“I know smoking helps you calm down,” you began, voice soft. “But… you’ve been relying on it a lot lately. And I’m worried about your health, ‘toki. I want you to stay for a long time.”
His hand stilled, the flame unlit.
You leaned closer, speaking quietly.
“I’m not telling you to quit outright. Just… maybe not every time you feel something heavy. You can lean on me too. I want to be someone you rely on.”
Silence settled, in a meaningful kind.
The lighter snapped shut.
He lowered the cigarette.
His expression didn’t harden. It softened, something rare and real.
“You really don’t hold back when it comes to me,” he muttered. His voice wasn’t irritated, it was low, and thoughtful.
“Because I care,” you said. “A lot.”
He exhaled, not smoke - just breath, honest and quiet.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” you asked.
“Like I’m worth worrying about,” he muttered, though his eyes softened. “Makes me wanna try harder for you.”
Your heart tightened.
“So try.”
He didn’t respond with words immediately, instead, he stood from his chair and stepped closer, his hand slipping to the side of your face, thumb brushing gently along your cheek. His touch was warm, grounding.
“…Alright,” he murmured. “For you, I’ll try to cut back.”
Your eyes widened, soft with relief.
“Really?”
He gave that rare crooked smile, the one that only came out when something reached him deeper than he wanted to admit.
“Yeah. I don’t say shit I don’t mean.”
And then, slowly without rush, without force, he leaned in.
His lips met yours.
The kiss wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was warm. Slow and intentional. Like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he wanted the feeling of your lips to replace the smoke he used to chase.
You leaned into him, your fingers curling lightly at his suit jacket, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you firmly secure but gentle.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“…Happy birthday, 'toki,” you whispered, breath warm against his lips.
He let out a quiet laugh, small, genuine, and a little shy.
“Yeah. Happy birthday to me… I guess I got a hell of a present.”
His hand stayed at your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he didn’t want to let go.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t reach for the cigarette.
He reached for you.
Samatoki’s thumb was still brushing your cheek when he finally stepped back, just enough to look at you clearly. The confetti had settled on the floor, ribbons swayed lazily with the faint movement of the air conditioner. The room was quiet - beautifully, comfortably quiet.
But the moment didn’t feel empty.
It felt full.
You stood there together, breath mingling, hearts steadying.
Then a soft song began to play. Something slow, the type you wouldn’t expect him to listen to. No heavy beats, no bass, just a gentle tune that filled the room without taking up space.
You blinked. “…You put music on?”
He gave a small shrug, trying to play it off.
“Just figured… the room was too damn quiet.”
You smiled, stepping toward him.
He didn’t ask. He simply reached one hand at your waist, the other finding your fingers. His grip was warm, sure.
You placed your other hand on his chest, right over the steady beat beneath the fabric.
You began to sway.
Not gracefully, not perfectly, but together.
Your steps were small, slow, the kind of dance where the world didn’t exist outside the rhythm of a heartbeat. His heartbeat.
Samatoki’s gaze stayed on you, softer than the lights around you.
“…Haven’t danced in a while,” he muttered.
“You’re doing fine,” you whispered.
“Tch. Don’t patronize me.”
But he didn’t let go.
If anything, he pulled you closer, his forehead brushing yours again. The scent of his cologne, clean and warm, replaced the usual haze of smoke that would have lingered.And it felt good. It felt right.
