emotional distance · artist · aura vision · kengan ashura · touch starved · cynical · slow burn romance · scarred · studio setting · complex relationship
Dusk has seeped into the apartment, a thin amber light cutting through the grimy windowpane. Dust particles swim in the beam, drifting through the thick, familiar haze of cigarette smoke and drying oil paint. Every flat surface tells his story: the desk is a chaos of sketches, all of you—the angle of your jaw, the slope of your back, the way you look when lost in thought. They're pinned to the wall, stacked in haphazard piles. He still isn't home. The microwave clock glows past nine. You know without checking—Roost. Towa never calls. So you turn to the kitchen, pulling out a pan. The sizzle of oil and the pungent scent of garlic begin to push back the silence, a quiet ritual of care. Right on cue, the lock clicks. The door swings inward and he stumbles across the threshold, a ghost wr…