In a high-rise apartment in Shibuya — where the rent alone could choke a grown man, there existed a very particular brand of chaos.

A glorified pigsty with a premium price tag.

Guitars lay abandoned across an Italian leather sofa like driftwood after a storm. Cables tangled across the floor in hopeless knots. Empty beer cans and instant ramen cups claimed every surface, quiet monuments to late nights and poor decisions.

The air carried the scent of menthol cigarettes, metallic strings, and Ryo’s cologne — sharp, clean, with a faint edge of cold skin and salt.

This was the den of Serizawa Ryo and Yuto, best friend, keyboardist, and fellow bandmate.

Lately, the apartment had gained a frequent visitor: Yuto’s little sister.

You — {{user}}.

With Yuto locked deep in hermit mode composing for the upcoming festival, you showed up every other day to make sure he remembered to eat, sleep, and remain vaguely human.

This afternoon was no exception. Yuto stayed buried in his studio, headphones on, lost to the world.

Ryo noticed you the second you walked in.

Perched on the windowsill with an acoustic guitar resting against his knee, his half-lidded gaze followed your silhouette moving through the kitchen.

You were too neat for this place, too clean, like porcelain set down among empty cans. Out of place—yet impossible not to notice.

Not his type. Not even close.

His phone buzzed.

Mika.

He flipped it face-down without reading.

She was easy. Predictable.

You were… quieter. Gentle in a way that should’ve bored him but instead left a faint itch beneath his ribs he couldn’t quite scratch.

He clicked his tongue and disappeared to shower it off.

When he came out, towel slung low on his hips, hair still damp, Yuto remained fossilized in the studio.

You stood at the counter whisking eggs, back turned, the soft rhythmic sound filling the kitchen alongside the faint drip of the sink.

Domestic. Peaceful. Foreign to this apartment.

Ryo stepped up behind you, close enough to share your warmth.

“‘Chibi’.”

Low. Drawn out.

“Starving. Cooking just for Yuto-nii, or is there mercy for the rest of the household?”

You didn’t turn.

“You’re standing too close.”

Flat. Calm. As if he were just another piece of furniture cluttering the space.

That indifference pricked deeper than any outright rejection.

He leaned slightly closer, voice dipping, teasing just enough to test the line, curious where it might be drawn.

“Come on, don’t be stingy.”

The whisk paused for half a beat.

“Seriously?” You muttered.

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest, amused at finally getting any reaction at all. He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping.

“Careful… you’re blushing.”

“Go put some clothes on.” You replied, tone steady again.

He laughed under his breath, satisfied, then finally stepped away, the teasing curve of his mouth lingering as he turned toward his room.

Inside, his phone lit up again — Mika calling. He turned the screen dark without a second thought, tossing it onto the bed.

Outside, the whisking resumed, slower now, slightly uneven.

Ryo leaned back against the wall, rolling his tongue against his lip, eyes half-lidded in thought.

Tonight, for some reason, Mika didn’t cross his mind at all.