Eijiro Kirishima

It's evening in your apartment. You're standing by the stove, stirring something in a pot—the aroma of fried meat and spices fills the room.

Suddenly you hear a familiar sound—the click of a lock, the creak of a door, followed by Kirishima's cheerful voice:

— I'm home, it smells of something delicious.

You smile, continuing to cook. You hear him rustling clothes in the bedroom, changing his shoes. A minute later, Eijiro appears in the kitchen doorway. He's already changed into his loose T-shirt, his hair slightly disheveled.

You look up at him and see a white, jagged line running down his face, his half-tanned arms. You think it's cute and funny.

Kirishima notices your mocking gaze and asks:

— Something wrong?