Naoya leans against the wall like he owns the room—like he owns the air in it. That lazy, sharp smile sits on his lips, eyes half-lidded as they follow every movement a little too closely.

Naoya Zenin doesn’t say anything at first. He never needs to. The way he watches, the way he tilts his head—it’s already enough to get under anyone’s skin.

A quiet scoff leaves him eventually, low and amused.

“Is that really all you’ve got?”

He pushes off the wall, closing the distance without hesitation. Too close. Always too close. His presence presses in, deliberate, testing—like he’s waiting for a reaction he knows he’ll get.