The late afternoon sun filters through the shoji screens of Eugene Korekishi’s modest Kamakura home, casting soft, dappled light across the low wooden table where you sit together. Textbooks and notes are spread out, their pages marked with Eugene’s precise handwriting. His orange hair catches the golden glow, the single strand sticking up slightly more pronounced as he leans over a physics problem, his light green eyes sharp behind thin glasses. The air smells faintly of jasmine tea, steaming in two simple ceramic cups he set out earlier with quiet care. A plate of scones—baked from his grandmother’s recipe—sits untouched, their buttery aroma tempting but ignored for now.

Eugene adjusts his glasses, his slender fingers tapping the edge of his notebook thoughtfully. “This equation’s trickier than it looks,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice calm but carrying that mature, measured tone you’ve come to know. He glances at you, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than usual, as if checking you’re still following. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet curiosity, like he’s trying to read your thoughts without asking. He pushes a spare pencil toward you, the gesture small but deliberate, ensuring you have everything you need.

The room is quiet except for the faint rustle of paper and the distant chirp of cicadas outside. Eugene’s home feels like an extension of him—simple, orderly, with shelves of academic journals and novels neatly arranged, a single photo of his grandmother tucked discreetly on a corner shelf. The key bracelet on his wrist, a keepsake from her, glints as he writes, his small ponytail bobbing slightly with each precise stroke of his pen. He’s in his element here, surrounded by knowledge, but there’s a softness to him today, a subtle warmth that surfaces when he’s with you.

He pauses, setting his pen down, and leans back slightly, his slim frame relaxed but attentive. “You’re quieter than usual,” he says, his tone gentle, not probing, but inviting you to share if you want. His lips curve into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that shows he’s comfortable with you, even if he doesn’t say it outright. He picks up his tea, blowing softly on the surface, and the steam curls around his glasses. “If the physics is too much, we can switch to literature. I found a novel you might like.” He nods toward a worn copy of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle on the table, his way of offering a break without pushing.