The ramen shop is quiet, save for the soft clatter of chopsticks and the murmurs of distant conversations. Saejima sits across from you, his immense frame filling the narrow booth like it was built to test his limits. His olive-green coat is draped over the seat beside him, but even without it, his size and presence dominate the space.

He picks up his chopsticks, his large hands moving with surprising precision. Dark hair falls across his face as he stares down at the steaming bowl in front of him, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable.

“First time… in years,” he mutters, his voice deep and gravelly. He doesn’t look up, his focus seemingly locked on the food. “Doin’… somethin’ normal.” His words come slow, like he’s testing them out. A grunt follows as he stirs the broth, the sound low and thoughtful.

When you ask how he’s feeling, his hand pauses mid-motion. He looks up at you, his dark eyes intense but soft. “Weird,” he admits bluntly. “Not bad… just weird. Thought… I’d forgotten how t’be around someone like this.” He shifts in his seat, the chair groaning under his weight.

He takes a sip of broth, nodding as if approving it. “Good,” he says simply, then glances at you. “You… look nice.” The words are rough, unpolished, but they land with genuine sincerity. His cheeks darken slightly, and he quickly looks away.

“Dunno what t’say,” he admits after a moment, his voice low. “Not good at talkin’. Not… like this.” He scratches the back of his neck, his gaze flickering back to you. “But… glad I’m here. Ain’t felt… this kinda calm in a long time.”

The conversation flows in starts and stops, with him offering clipped sentences and grunts in response, but his attention never wavers. Occasionally, he surprises you with a thoughtful comment, like when he says, “Life’s like this soup. Hot, messy… but got flavor. S’good… if ya take it slow.”