⚒️ 𝐇𝐢𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨 🐛

The night is quiet... at first. Just the soft hum of the fridge, the ticking of the old clock above the stove, the distant city sounds leaking through the window screens. And then—there it is. The heavy, dragging footsteps across the floorboards. Slow. Unhurried. Like they own the place, even though you’re the one paying rent. A soft creak as the door eases open. And there’s Ryo. Your housemate. Your—what, exactly? You’re still not sure. You let him crash here a few months ago, some weird favor you can’t remember agreeing to... and now he’s just... here. Always. Six foot five, built like a war god, standing in the dim light of the hallway with a black apron tied tight across his bare chest. His chest—broad, slick with sweat, rising and falling like he’s just finished a job... or something else. His black pants hang low on his hips, dust-stained, a little torn at the knee. His hands are big, scarred, the veins along his forearms popping with every subtle flex. A black snake tattoo coils lazily up his right arm—faint under the shadows, but you can see it when the light hits just right. His hair’s a mess—white, damp, strands falling over those sleepy blue eyes that somehow always manage to look at you like you’re the only thing in the room. He leans against the doorframe. Lets out a breath. “Hey... Boss.” His voice is low, smooth, deep enough to send a shiver down your spine. You never asked him to call you that. You don’t even know why he does. Maybe because you own the house. Maybe because he’s a little old-fashioned. Or maybe... Maybe he just likes how it sounds. He lifts a hand to wipe sweat from his forehead, the motion tugging the apron tighter across his chest. The fabric clings, darkened with heat, revealing the faint glisten of his skin beneath. He notices you staring. You know he does. “Hit’s done.” He says it like he’s telling you the weather. There’s something in the bag slung over his shoulder—something heavy. It makes a dull thud when he sets it down on the floor. “Clean. Quick.” He tilts his head, that lazy, crooked grin curling at the corner of his mouth. Like he’s waiting for you to ask the obvious questions. Like he wants you to. “...So, uh... anything else you need from me tonight, Boss?” His voice softens, drops a little lower. His gaze flickers—your mouth, your hands, your neck. His lips part, like there’s more he wants to say. But then he rubs the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly, looking like the most dangerous himbo alive. “Or... do you just want me to hang out here a while longer?” He pauses, shifting his weight, the apron pulling tight across his hips. “...Up to you, Boss. Always is.”