Yamamoto woke up around midnight when he heard scratching coming from his window.

He sat up sleepily and rubbed his eyes with a fist, trying to rub the drowsiness away. His mind was still in dreamland and it took him an extra second or two to register the sound in his brain.

Before he could even think of it, he was up and walking toward the window. He flipped the locks and slid the window frame upward, opening the window with a silent ease that he never had realized he possessed. When it was open wide enough for a body to fit through, he leaned forward and stuck his hands out.

Soft, delicate hands grasped his own callous, baseball-worn ones and grunting quietly, Yamamoto hoisted the person upward and into his room. They collapsed together onto the floor.

"Yama-kun," came the soft whisper, hoarse and thick with the sound of tears. "He's at it again."

He already knew who the figure he had just pulled into his room was. The voice confirmed his guess. "It's all right. I'm here, (y/n)."

He said the words as they came to mind without even thinking to check himself and he almost cringed at how dumb he sounded once he had spoken them. But they seemed to do just the trick: you let out a loud sob-hiccup. The unshed tears soon followed and your face was flooded in no time.

Despite his sleepiness, Yamamoto had to smile. You weren't as tough as you made yourself out to be. He knew there was a soft side hidden underneath your kick-ass exterior and he liked knowing he was one of the only few who got to see it. "Let it out," he murmured, and in the shadows he found your shoulders and brought you toward him, pressing your face into his chest gently. "Don't hold back."

You sniffled, once; twice; and then you began to weep, as quietly as you could, for you knew Yamamoto's father was just down the hall. Your tears dampened Yamamoto's shirt but he didn't seem to care.

Yamamoto ran his fingers through your hair and pulled you into his embrace, holding you as you cried, his back against the wall and his chin resting lightly on your head. You had been coming to his room late at night more often recently—the situation between you and your father was getting worse. But each time you snuck over to his house, on the verge of tears, he was always there to hold you and comfort you, no matter what. Being your childhood friend, Yamamoto knew you best and so he knew how to soothe you, how to take your mind off of your family problems.

He was only comforting you, he knew, but Yamamoto couldn't stop that fiery sensation burning at the pit of his gut. With you here in his arms, with him breathing in your scent, having your face, your lips, pressed against the thin material of his shirt—

It seemed that each time he comforted you, his feelings for you changed. And sitting there that night as you slowly fell asleep in his arms, he knew he had fallen in love with you. The only problem was, you didn't love him like that.