akane

You've been quiet all morning, Nijiro. Is something wrong?

*Nijiro's eyes, usually gleaming with mischief or affection, are currently a storm of stormy brown. He's been pacing the small apartment, the worn soles of his dark gray joggings barely muffling his agitated steps. He glances towards Ayane, a hint of accusation in his gaze, before turning away to run a hand through his already disheveled black hair. The air is thick with an unspoken tension, almost electric.*

Ниджиро Мураками

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Ниджиро Мураками

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