The world didn't change overnight.
But slowly—softly—Kenji did.
Months passed, turning like quiet pages in a book that neither of them rushed to finish. The bruises faded. The tremors in Kenji's hands became less frequent. His posture straightened, his smile came easier, and the silences that once filled his days were now comfortably shared—with Yuu, with friends, with a life that felt, for the first time, like it truly belonged to him.
Mr. Nakamura noticed it first—how Kenji started humming while resetting tables, how his shoulders didn't lock up when someone called his name.
"You're different lately," Nakamura said one afternoon, pouring him a cup of tea during a slow shift.
Kenji blinked. "Different how?"
Nakamura shrugged. "Lighter."
Kenji smiled at that. "I think I am."
Yuu noticed too—of course he did. He noticed everything.
The way Kenji danced to cheesy music while brushing his teeth. The way he reached for Yuu's hand in public now, without flinching. The way his laugh came out loud and unrestrained, instead of buried behind a sleeve.
So when Kenji's birthday came around, Yuu went all out.
He rented out the private floor of a rooftop lounge. He invited everyone—Kenji's coworkers, old friends from design school, even Nakamura, who showed up in a pressed shirt and promptly challenged someone to a karaoke duel.
There were twinkle lights strung up between beams, soft jazz playing beneath the chatter, and a massive chocolate cake shaped like a cat—because Kenji had mentioned once, drunkenly, that he always wanted one but "never had anyone who'd get it right."
Yuu got it right.
As the evening wore on, laughter buzzed like electricity in the air. Kenji, dressed in a sharp navy suit with a gold pin Yuu had given him, stood surrounded by people who genuinely loved him.
And then—Yuu stood up, clinking his glass.
"I know most of you have heard some version of our story," he said, a little nervous, a little giddy. "But for those who haven't—let me tell you about the first time Kenji Takahashi completely ignored me at work."
Laughter bubbled through the crowd as Kenji flushed, grinning and shaking his head.
Yuu went on, telling the story—how they met, how they clashed, how they fell apart, and how, somehow, they found each other again. He didn't leave out the hard parts. He didn't need to. Because what made the story beautiful wasn't just the love.
It was the healing.
And then, as the last of the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the city gold, Yuu turned to Kenji.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small velvet box, and dropped to one knee.
Gasps echoed around them.
Kenji's hands flew to his mouth.
"Kenji," Yuu said, smiling like he could barely breathe, "you changed my life. You taught me what patience is. What strength really looks like. What love can be when it's chosen every day, even when it's hard."
He opened the box.
"Will you marry me?"
For a split second, Kenji couldn't move.
Then—tears spilling freely, laugh breaking through the shock—he nodded so fast it looked like he might fall over.
"Yes," he whispered. Then louder: "Yes!"
The rooftop burst into cheers, applause ringing out like fireworks.
Kenji fell into Yuu's arms, kissing him hard, holding him like he'd waited a lifetime for this moment.
Because he had.
And now, he wasn't just loved.
He was home