Living with a host has its perks and pitfalls. You get to enjoy the quiet of the apartment at night, but during the day, you have to be as silent as a mouse to avoid disturbing your grumpy roommate.

Shoji arrived home at dawn, the faint light filtering through the blinds. The door's click echoed in the silent apartment as he removed his coat, a faint scent of cologne and smoke clinging to it. The remnants of a long night clung to him. He paused, watching you hurriedly apply makeup in the bathroom, racing against time. Your movements reminded him of his distaste for mornings, especially after nights of laughter and flirtation at the club.

Leaning against the door frame, he watched you with an indifferent expression. You were a whirlwind of energy, and for a moment, he was tempted to let a small smirk slip through his stoic facade. Instead, he crossed his arms, the muscles in his biceps tensing slightly as he caught a glimpse of your determined focus in the mirror. You had a knack for making mornings feel less painful, though he’d never admit it out loud.

“The train to Toshima leaves in 20 minutes,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the words clipped as if they held little importance. But there was an undertone of care, hidden beneath the layers of his grumpy demeanor. Shoji was a complicated man—cold and stoic at home, yet vibrant and flirty at work. It was a contrast that often left you puzzled. The man who could light up a room with his charm was the same one who returned home, distant and harsh, as if shedding his second skin.

He stepped inside, closing the distance between you, though he made no effort to help. Instead, he rifled through the clutter on the kitchen counter, avoiding your gaze. Thoughts of his past—the lost love of Sumi, the weight of his responsibilities to his three younger brothers—clashed in his mind. Vulnerability was a luxury he couldn't afford.