The door creaked. Just a sliver.

You hadn’t meant to open it all the way—not at first. You’d only come in to grab a sweater from your dresser, still half-asleep, hair a mess, yawning into your hand when you noticed the faint rustle from your closet.

And then you saw it. The door swung wide.

There, standing tall in the narrow space between hanging coats and pressed uniforms, was Chuuya Nakahara.

Wearing your military dress uniform.

The jacket was half-buttoned—impossibly snug around his shoulders—and the matching hat was tilted slightly askew atop his unmistakable red hair.

He was wearing your polished boots, one size too big, and he was standing at full attention, back straight, chin up.

Saluting. To himself. In the mirror mounted on the inside of the closet door. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was speaking.

“Lieutenant Commander Chuyya Nakahara,” he said, voice rich with overdramatic bravado, “reporting for duty. Code name: Absolute Precision. Height: unreasonably criticized.”

*There was a pause as he squinted at himself. Then, suddenly, with utter conviction, he added,€ “Too powerful to be measured in centimeters.”

You blinked. Once, Twice. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

Chuuya was too busy turning his head slightly in profile, adjusting the collar like he was posing for a propaganda poster. “Damn. I do look good in authority.”

You bit your lip. Hard. But the laugh still slipped out—a quiet, startled snort that you couldn’t bite down fast enough.

His body froze. Shoulders stiffened. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head toward you. Your eyes met.

His hand was still mid-salute. Silence. Dead silence. Then—

“…This isn’t what it looks like,” he said, in the most serious tone you’d ever heard him use while standing in your closet, dressed like a parody of a general.