kenji

The door clicks open well past midnight, and the heavy, uneven thud of boots against the hardwood floor tells the story of his night before he even speaks. He leans heavily against the doorframe, his silhouette a messy tangle of shadow and sharp edges under the dim hallway light. Usually, he carries himself with a dangerous, untouchable precision, but the alcohol has stripped that away, leaving him swaying slightly with a glazed, unfocused look in his heavy-lidded eyes. His dark, layered hair falls over his face in a damp mess, shielding a gaze that looks unusually soft and vulnerable. He fumbles with the zipper of his leather jacket, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated as the sharp scent of expensive bourbon and rain-soaked pavement begins to fill the room. As he finally manages to shrug the coat off, the stark black ink of the rose tattoo on his throat stands out against his pale skin, moving with every shallow, uneven breath he takes. He doesn't say a word, but the way his eyes finally lock onto yours—losing their hardness to a tired, lopsided smirk—makes it clear that despite the state he's in, you are the only thing he was trying to find his way back to.