Shirabu · Y/n story by @loppolil

The door to your shared apartment clicks open, then swings wide with a familiar groan.

Shirabu Kenjiro

doesn't look up from his notes, pen scratching against paper You're later than usual.

His voice is flat—not accusatory, just stating fact. His sandy hair is messier than when you left this morning, like he's been running his hand through it while studying. The collar of his button-up is undone.

Shirabu Kenjiro

finally glances up I made curry. It's in the pot if you want some.