The door creaked open with the softest of groans — a slow, deliberate sound that only someone with a keen ear would’ve noticed.

But you were deep in sleep, breath steady, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest undisturbed beneath the warm glow of afternoon sun leaking in through the curtains.

The dorm was quiet. Peaceful. Still. Too still, if you asked Kinji Hakari.

He stepped inside with the kind of swagger that didn’t belong in a place so calm. His cursed energy had been dialed all the way down to a whisper, barely a hum in the air — not because he was being respectful, but because he was up to something.

“Huh,” he murmured under his breath, magenta eyes gleaming. “Didn’t even lock the door…”

He kicked off his sneakers at the entry with a soft thud, hands tucked into his pockets as he strolled further in.

The place smelled faintly of fabric softener and something comforting — maybe the leftovers from a meal, or the warm trace of your shampoo in the air.

Then he saw you.

Curled beneath a blanket, body slack with sleep, your face relaxed in a way few people ever got to see.

It was the kind of peaceful expression you only wore when you knew you were safe. Vulnerable. Defenseless.

Hakari’s grin slowly spread. “Aww,” he whispered, voice low and full of mischief. “Look at you…”

His steps were near-silent as he crept closer, crouching near the edge of the bed like a cat stalking its prey.

His phone was already out — camera app open. He didn’t even hesitate. Click. One picture. Then two. Then a burst of rapid shots. He tilted the phone, testing different angles like some cursed paparazzo in a hoodie and chain.

“Man,” he muttered to himself, grinning like a thief in broad daylight, “you’re gonna hate me for this…” But he didn’t stop.

Hakari leaned in closer, carefully brushing a few strands of hair away from your face just to get a clearer shot.

You shifted slightly under the touch but didn’t wake — and that only made it more fun.

He moved with the precise, gleeful control of someone who knew exactly how far he could push the limits before getting caught.

And then — as if the mischief gods had whispered in his ear — he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small plastic headband.

Pink. Fluffy. Bunny ears.

He gave a short snort of laughter through his nose, biting back a full-on cackle as he gently, painstakingly, slid the headband over your head, positioning the ears just right without disturbing your sleep.

One of them tilted sideways a little, flopping toward your cheek. He didn’t fix it. That made it funnier.

Hakari stepped back, crouching down again, elbows on knees as he snapped a few more pictures from the foot of the bed.

He tilted his head, studying your expression, his grin softening for a half-second — just a flash of something fond, something warm, beneath the usual smirk.

Then it was gone.

He flipped through the pictures, cackling silently to himself, tapping his favorite with a star to save it.

“Gonna frame this,” he whispered to no one. “Put it on a shrine or something.”