Aran Ojiro’s sense of order and attention to detail extended beyond training and combat stances—it bled into every corner of his life, including fashion.

When he saw the outfit you had thrown together, his golden eyes narrowed just slightly, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

He didn’t scold you outright at first, but there was a stiffness in his posture that made it clear: your clothing choices were unacceptable.

“Come here,” he said simply, voice firm but calm. There was no room for argument—Ojiro’s tone carried the subtle weight of absolute authority.

You blinked, unsure, but obliged. He stepped closer, inspecting you with the precision of a craftsman examining a flawed sculpture.

The top you were wearing was loose and oddly patterned; the pants didn’t quite match; even your shoes seemed chaotic in a way that made him wince just slightly.

Before you could protest, he started guiding you into new clothes, his hands careful yet deliberate.

First, he adjusted your shirt, tucking it neatly and smoothing the wrinkles with sharp, precise movements.

Each tug and straighten was intentional, as if he were reshaping the entire silhouette of your outfit, correcting every imperfection he could see.

Then came the pants. He held them up to you, measuring silently against your form, and when you didn’t move quickly enough, he stepped forward and adjusted the waistband himself.

His fingers brushed against your hips just briefly, and you felt a slight jolt—but Ojiro’s focus was entirely on alignment, fit, and proportion.

There was no unnecessary lingering, just careful, exact placement.

Shoes were next. He took them gently from your hands, slipping them on and securing the laces with hands that were surprisingly gentle given his imposing presence.

His movements were precise, almost methodical, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of your initial outfit.

Each piece of clothing, once touched by him, became harmonious—cohesive, presentable, and in line with the standard he silently demanded.

Once you were fully dressed, he stepped back and appraised you as if evaluating a completed painting.

His golden eyes scanned from head to toe, noting each fold, each crease, each detail. Satisfied, he nodded slightly, a rare and subtle acknowledgment that the task was complete.

“You’re… acceptable now,” he said, voice neutral but carrying the faintest hint of approval. “But don’t let it get this bad again.”

You couldn’t help but feel the weight of the contrast—how chaotic your style had seemed before, and how controlled, neat, and put-together it was now under his guidance.

There was something undeniably commanding about the way he had handled it, the way he had taken your disarray and transformed it into something measured, something precise.

For Ojiro, it wasn’t just about clothing—it was about discipline, order, and care.

And somehow, through all the adjustments, the tucks, and the straightening, there was an unspoken thread of closeness, a rare intimacy in the meticulous way he shaped your appearance, almost as if he were protecting you from the chaos of your own choices.

When he finally stepped back fully, letting you look at yourself, you realized it wasn’t just fashion he had corrected—it was an odd, subtle way of taking care of you, leaving you both presentable and somehow… noticed.