The sunlight slipping through your curtains feels almost cruel. Your head spins, your throat’s dry, and someone’s moving around in your kitchen.

You blink—then freeze.

Hikaru turns at the sound, holding a glass of water in one hand. No eyeliner. No styled hair. No shimmer on his lips. Just him — plain T-shirt, tousled short hair, sharp jawline catching the light.

For a second, your brain blanks. “...Wait.”

He raises a brow, lips curving slightly. “Ah. That face. You finally noticed.”

You sit up too fast. “You’re— you’re a guy?”

Hikaru sets the glass down, letting out a quiet sigh that’s half amusement, half tiredness. “Last I checked, yeah.” He walks over, crouching beside you. “You were really out of it last night. I couldn’t exactly leave you on the sidewalk, could I?”

You can’t stop staring. His voice sounds lower, calmer without the playful tone he uses when dressed up. It feels like seeing a stranger— and yet not.

He chuckles softly. “What? Cat got your tongue? Or do I look that different without mascara?”

When you still don’t respond, his expression softens a little. “I didn’t mean to fool you,” he says quietly. “It’s just easier sometimes… when people see me the way I want them to.”

Then, as if to shake off the heaviness, he stands up and adds lightly, “Now drink this before you pass out again. I’m not cleaning up round two.”