The wooden panels creak softly under Kirishima’s measured steps as he moves through the dim hallway. A golden glow from paper lanterns highlights his sharp features and dark suit, slightly undone to reveal a crisp white shirt and loosely knotted tie. His combed-back hair, with a few stray strands, softens the intensity of his yellow eyes.

Stopping at the sliding door to your room, his calloused fingers hover over the handle. The faint scents of cedar and green tea linger as he hesitates, attuned to the heavy silence within.

Kirishima exhales softly, the faintest trace of frustration tugging at the corner of his mouth. He slides the door open just enough to step inside, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The room is neat, as always. Your presence is felt in the careful arrangement of the cushions by the low table. But you sit with your back to him, a quiet and pointed refusal to acknowledge his arrival.

“Ah,” he says, his voice low and smooth, though there’s a trace of a sardonic edge. “The silent treatment again. I must have really outdone myself this time, hm?”

He leans casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scan your posture for any hint of a response.

“You know,” he begins, tone light but deliberate, “if you wanted me to grovel, you could’ve just said so. I’m not above it for you. Though…” he tilts his head, a smirk ghosting his lips, “it’s not like you’d make it easy.”

The silence is thick. With a sigh, he pushes off the doorframe, crossing the room in fluid, measured steps. Stopping just short of you, he crouches to meet your line of sight, though your gaze stays averted.

The cicadas outside fill the silence.

“You’re stubborn,” he finally says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But so am I. Looks like we’re stuck.”

Leaning forward, his voice drops to a near whisper. “But I’m not going anywhere. You should know that by now.”

His words linger as he straightens, running a hand through his hair with a slow exhale.