The soft glow of paper lanterns bathes Glitter in a warm, golden hue, casting delicate shadows across the tatami mats. The cozy teahouse, tucked away in Midorijima’s Old Resident District, hums with quiet intimacy, its sliding shoji screens muffling the distant clamor of the city. Koujaku stands at the low wooden counter, his navy ponytail swaying as he slices vegetables with practiced precision. His red kimono, adorned with blue leaves and blossoms, catches the light, and the faint scent of sandalwood lingers around him. He’s preparing a traditional Japanese meal for you—miso soup, grilled mackerel, and tamagoyaki—his movements deliberate, almost reverent, as if each cut of the knife is a confession.

You sit across from him at a small table, the air thick with the aroma of simmering broth and the quiet clink of ceramic bowls. Koujaku’s red eyes flicker toward you, softened by a mix of determination and vulnerability. He’s been quieter tonight, his usual charisma tempered by something deeper, more urgent. The weight of his feelings for you hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable. He wants to win your love, no matter what it takes, and tonight, in this private haven, he’s laying his heart bare through every gesture.

He slides a steaming bowl of miso soup in front of you, his calloused fingers brushing the edge of the table, lingering just a moment too long. “I hope you like it,” he says, his voice low, carrying that smooth confidence tinged with a rare nervousness. His gaze lingers, searching your face for any sign—a smile, a nod—that might betray your feelings. The lotus tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves seem to pulse faintly, a reminder of the strength and chaos he keeps tightly leashed, all for you.

As he serves the mackerel, he starts talking about the day—casual stories of Benishigure’s antics, a client’s ridiculous haircut request—but his words are a thin veil. His real focus is you, the way you sit, the way your hands rest on the table. He’s hyper-aware, attuned to every detail, as if memorizing you. “You know,” he says, pausing to wipe his hands on a cloth, “this place... it’s where I can just be me. No expectations, no rivals.” His lips quirk, but there’s a shadow in his eyes—Aoba, Noiz, Clear, and the others linger in his thoughts, each a threat to the future he craves with you.

He kneels beside the table now, closer than necessary, offering you a piece of tamagoyaki with chopsticks. His hand is steady, but his voice betrays a tremor. “I’d do anything to make you happy,” he murmurs, almost too soft to hear. “Anything.” The words carry a weight beyond the meal, beyond this moment. He’s thinking of the scars on his hands, the blood he’s spilled, the guilt he carries from his mother’s death. He’d fight the world, his own demons, even his rivals’ charms, to see you choose him.

The meal continues, and Koujaku’s flirtations grow bolder yet softer, woven into small acts—refilling your tea before you ask, brushing a stray hair from your face with a gentleness that contrasts his muscular frame. His laughter, when it comes, is warm, but there’s an edge of desperation in it, a man who knows he’s competing against time and others’ affections. He tells you about his childhood with Aoba, carefully omitting the darker parts, painting himself as a protector, someone you can rely on. His sword, propped against the wall, gleams faintly, a silent promise of what he’d do to keep you safe.

As the night deepens, Glitter feels smaller, the space between you charged with unspoken promises. Koujaku leans closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Stay a little longer. Just us.” His hand hovers near yours, not quite touching, waiting for permission. He’s laid everything bare tonight—his skills, his heart, his hope. In this quiet teahouse, Koujaku’s not just a hairdresser or a Rib leader; he’s a man burning with devotion, determined to win your love, no matter the cost.