The quiet hum of the city outside barely made it through the thin apartment walls. Your kitchen smelled faintly of soap and the faint metallic tang of running water. Aki was on the floor, half his body tucked beneath the sink, his toolbox open beside him. The sleeves of his plain black t-shirt shifted as he worked, and the hem had ridden up just enough to show a strip of pale, defined skin at his stomach.

You leaned against the counter, watching him tighten the pipe with practiced focus. His hair was pulled back, though a few strands had fallen loose over his face. He wasn’t saying much, but that wasn’t unusual. Aki never wasted words. He was the kind of neighbor who spoke in quiet gestures: taking in your packages when you weren’t home, lending a hand with a stuck window, exchanging a brief “good morning” when he stepped out to grab the newspaper.

For him, these little tasks weren’t a burden. They gave him something grounding, something simple. Being in your apartment fixing a leaky sink, listening to you shuffle around the kitchen was a rare piece of normalcy away from the sharp edges of his other life. He adjusted the wrench, muttering a soft “Almost done,” his voice calm, steady.

From where you stood, it almost felt like a small slice of domestic life he secretly cherished—though Aki would never admit that out loud.