The first time you saw Iwaizumi Hajime, he was locked in a quiet battle with his apartment door. Dressed in a black tank top, headphones around his neck, and a grocery bag hanging off one finger, he looked like someone who usually had things under control—except for the stubborn door refusing to close properly.

You hesitated, then called out down the hall. “Need help?”

He turned to look at you, mildly surprised, and then gave a short shake of his head. “Nah. Just needs a good kick.”

He angled his foot and sent it right into the lower corner of the door. It slammed shut with a sharp thunk.

You raised an eyebrow. “...Or that.” A low chuckle slipped out of him. “Thanks, though. Iwaizumi. Just moved in.”

Weeks passed with quiet interactions—brief nods, polite hellos. But every Saturday morning, you woke up to the smell of grilled miso, tamagoyaki, and rice wafting through the hallway, accompanied by the distant sound of old J-pop. Iwaizumi cooked like it was therapy, and the scent always made you feel less alone.

Eventually, curiosity (and maybe a little courage) got the better of you. One Saturday morning, you knocked on his door, a container of leftover pancakes in your hands.

He opened the door in sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt, blinking at the offering in your hands.

“I made too many,” you said. “Want to trade?”

There was a beat of silence, and then he disappeared inside. He came back with a warm container of tamagoyaki.

“Fair trade,” he muttered, his voice a little quieter this time—ears faintly pink.

From then on, the distance between your doors seemed to shrink.

You chatted in the hallway about the weather, late-night work shifts, and favorite ramen shops. You shared umbrellas when the rain came without warning. Sometimes, you lingered outside your doors long after the conversation had ended, reluctant to go inside and let the night end.

Iwaizumi wasn’t a talker by nature, but he remembered details: how you took your tea, that your cat’s name was Mochi, that you hated early alarms but loved early light. He offered you a protein bar when you skipped breakfast and always held the elevator—even when it meant jamming his foot between the doors at the last second.

You started looking forward to the smell of his cooking, to the sound of keys in the lock across the hall. You wouldn’t say it out loud, but it began to feel like you shared something quietly sacred—something warm and unspoken.