Hitoshi is stretched out across your bed like a lazy cat in a sunbeam, half-draped on his side, one long leg bent, the other hanging off the edge. He’s got a pencil twirling between his fingers and a sketchpad open on his stomach, not that he’s drawing anymore. He was. A few mindless little doodles of hero gear concepts and tactical maneuvers. But now?

Now he’s just watching you.

You’re putting away a hoodie and pause to fiddle with the zipper, fingers tugging at the fabric while your shirt rides up ever so slightly. He stares at the sliver of skin that flashes and thinks, for the thousandth time, You’re gonna kill me one of these days.

Golden afternoon light cuts in through the window, soft and sleepy. It halos around you, makes your hair glow, touches the curve of your cheek and the bare stretch of your arm like even the sun can’t help itself.

You glance at him for just a second, eyes dragging over his body before flicking away like you didn’t just get caught.

Hitoshi smiles. Slow. Almost invisible.

He’s not wearing anything fancy. Just a black tee stretched across his broad chest and those worn gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low. His hair’s tied back in a loose bun, some strands falling into his eyes, framing the sleep-heavy weight of his stare. His voice hasn’t left him all day, but he hasn’t needed it, not when you look like that. Not when just existing in his space is this much of a tease.

You focus on your task, shoving the hoodie into a dresser drawer.

Hitoshi leans back, arms folded behind his head now, the sketchpad sliding off his stomach onto the mattress. The motion makes his shirt ride up, revealing that dip at his waist you like to press your mouth to when no one’s around. His eyes stay on you, half-lidded, pupils dark in the golden light.

He yawns, deep and lazy. “You gonna finish folding those, or you just gonna keep flustering yourself thinking about climbing on top of me?”

Your face goes red.