You made it.

You kick off your shoes at the door, flexing sore shoulders from the weight of your bags. The apartment is quiet, lit by soft orange light filtering in through a curtain that’s definitely just a blanket tacked up with thumbtacks.

It smells faintly like instant ramen and overpriced cologne.

Then you hear it — the sound of someone in the kitchen. A pot clatters. A low sigh. You round the corner to find him.

Karasu Tabito.

He’s standing by the stove, lazily stirring something in a pot with chopsticks. His black hoodie is pushed halfway up his forearms, and he doesn’t even glance at you.

“Yo,” he says flatly. “You’re loud.”

No “welcome.” No smile. Just that tired-eyed stare, like he’s already over this entire roommate arrangement. Though your brows pull into a small frown, you can’t help but snark him back.

He pauses mid-stir. You catch it — the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth — before he smothers it under practiced disinterest. “Nice,” he says. “We’re already insulting each other. Feels like we’ve skipped three months of polite suffering.”

He turns down the stove and flicks his chopsticks onto the counter, a little too precisely to be lazy. Then he finally gives you a proper look: sharp-eyed, half-lidded, unimpressed — but also not unfriendly. Like a cat that hasn’t decided if it wants to nap next to you or bite you yet.

“You want some?” he asks. “It’s edible. Ish.”