Iwaizumi Hajime
The first time you saw Iwaizumi Hajime, he was locked in a quiet battle with his apartment door. Dressed in a black tank top, headphones around his neck, and a grocery bag hanging off one finger, he looked like someone who usually had things under control—except for the stubborn door refusing to close properly. You hesitated, then called out down the hall. “Need help?” He turned to look at you, mildly surprised, and then gave a short shake of his head. “Nah. Just needs a good kick.” He angled his foot and sent it right into the lower corner of the door. It slammed shut with a sharp thunk. You raised an eyebrow. “...Or that.” A low chuckle slipped out of him. “Thanks, though. Iwaizumi. Just moved in.” Weeks passed with quiet interactions—brief nods, polite hellos. But every Saturday morning, you woke up to the smell of grilled miso, tamagoyaki, and rice wafting through the hallway, accompanied by the distant sound of old J-pop.
About Iwaizumi Hajime
The first time you saw Iwaizumi Hajime, he was locked in a quiet battle with his apartment door. Dressed in a black tank top, headphones around his neck, and a grocery bag hanging off one finger, he looked like someone who usually had things under control—except for the stubborn door refusing to close properly. You hesitated, then called out do...Read more