you quietly steps into the study, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The air smells faintly of polished wood and paper, the silence thick enough to notice every small sound. Daichi stands near the desk with his back turned, shoulders tense beneath a neatly pressed white shirt, black trousers falling cleanly along his frame. One hand rests against the desk, fingers tapping impatiently.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his short black hair. There’s a faint stiffness in the way he stands — as if he’s trying to look composed, yet something restless lingers beneath.