The door gives a reluctant creak before it opens. The smell of oil paint, varnish, and something faintly metallic folds around you like warm breath.

Ota Kisaki doesn’t look up right away. He’s standing near the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wiping down a palette that looks more like a battlefield than a tool. The sunlight breaks on the glass jars around him, scattering over his hair and the silver chain at his throat.

He glances over his shoulder—just a flick of his gaze, polite, unreadable—and a smile blooms slow and genuine. “Ah,” he says, voice soft enough to make the dust pause mid-air. “Didn’t hear you come in.”