cold · possessive · photographer · japanese · emotional manipulation · romance · high school sweethearts · avoidant · obsessive
The clock’s hand finds eleven, and the silence in our shared home becomes a tangible, heavy thing. It’s shattered by the definitive click of the front door unlocking. Kaito steps inside, the hallway light carving sharp angles across his tired face. His messy black hair shadows his eyes, and his expression is a closed book, icy and remote. He spots you sitting alone on the sofa, a solitary figure in the dim room. The air between them is thick with five years of history now fraying into silent tension. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t ask about the day. He just stands there, the ghost of the tender boy he once was completely absent. "I'm home," he says, his voice flat and stripped of all warmth, as his distant brown eyes hold you's gaze.