Hizashi Yamada
Hizashi woke like a man remembering a victory he planned to savor.
A slow inhale. A low, satisfied sound in his throat. A stretch rolled through his spine, tightening his stomach just enough to remind him exactly how he'd held you—how long, how thoroughly, how eager you'd both been.
He didn't open his eyes right away.
He listened.
Your breathing. Soft. Steady. Still asleep.
A smile tugged at his lips.
'Yeah… you're still here.'
When he finally slipped out of bed, he moved with a gentleness that didn't match last night at all. His feet hit the cool floor, and he paused just long enough to grab the sweatpants kicked aside sometime in the dark.
He stepped into them slowly, tugging the soft sage-green fabric up over his hips and tying the drawstring with an easy, practiced pull.
His hair fell in loose, golden disarray down his back as he straightened, still warm from sleep. His lower back chimed in with its own opinion about last night's enthusiasm. Morning light painted the edges of him as he padded out of the room.
The apartment hung in a thick quiet, the kind heavy with leftover heat. Hizashi walked through it with a swagger softened by domesticity—hips loose, shoulders relaxed, the afterglow in every step.
First: coffee.
His hands moved on instinct—filters, grounds, water—but his smile deepened at the phantom memory of your nails digging into his shoulders, at the sound you'd made when he'd—
He exhaled slowly, a quiet sound of satisfaction slipping out before he could quite catch it. The memory replayed itself a little too vividly.
Yeah. He definitely remembered.
The machine hummed to life.
He stretched beside the counter, arms lifting overhead, back arching, sweatpants riding low. A full-body showcase dressed up as morning routine. Casual, if you believed him. Intentional, if you knew better.
He felt you before he heard you.
The shift in the air behind him.
Your attention on his bare, marked back.
He didn't turn immediately.
When he finally turned his head, it was slow—an invitation. His eyes swept over you, unhurried, taking you in. The green of his gaze darkened.
The morning-after glow had him bold and completely unashamed, the smile already curving his lips as he finally spoke.
His voice came out sleep-rough and deep. He didn't clear his throat. He knew exactly what that tone could do.
He angled toward you, letting you take in the full view as his gaze dropped—your mouth, your throat, the faint marks. Each one sparked a flicker of satisfaction across his expression.
His smile widened, slow and pleased.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dipping.
“We can fix that.”
The coffee machine dripped behind him, but Hizashi stayed where he was—close enough to feel his warmth, far enough that you had to choose whether to close the distance.
He reached for a mug without looking away, thumb tracing the handle in a slow, deliberate circle. The same hands that had gripped your hips last night.
His eyes dragged down your body.
He leaned back against the counter beside the coffee maker, palm flat behind him, posture loose. The kind of lean that showed off more than necessary.
He didn't look away when he caught you staring.
His voice dropped.
His smile curved slow and wicked.
A pause. Long enough for the memory to rise between you.
His eyes held yours, warm and deeply pleased.
A slow inhale. A low, satisfied sound in his throat. A stretch rolled through his spine, tightening his stomach just enough to remind him exactly how he'd held you—how long, how thoroughly, how eager you'd both been.
He didn't open his eyes right away.
He listened.
Your breathing. Soft. Steady. Still asleep.
A smile tugged at his lips.
'Yeah… you're still here.'
When he finally slipped out of bed, he moved with a gentleness that didn't match last night at all. His feet hit the cool floor, and he paused just long enough to grab the sweatpants kicked aside sometime in the dark.
He stepped into them slowly, tugging the soft sage-green fabric up over his hips and tying the drawstring with an easy, practiced pull.
His hair fell in loose, golden disarray down his back as he straightened, still warm from sleep. His lower back chimed in with its own opinion about last night's enthusiasm. Morning light painted the edges of him as he padded out of the room.
The apartment hung in a thick quiet, the kind heavy with leftover heat. Hizashi walked through it with a swagger softened by domesticity—hips loose, shoulders relaxed, the afterglow in every step.
First: coffee.
His hands moved on instinct—filters, grounds, water—but his smile deepened at the phantom memory of your nails digging into his shoulders, at the sound you'd made when he'd—
He exhaled slowly, a quiet sound of satisfaction slipping out before he could quite catch it. The memory replayed itself a little too vividly.
Yeah. He definitely remembered.
The machine hummed to life.
He stretched beside the counter, arms lifting overhead, back arching, sweatpants riding low. A full-body showcase dressed up as morning routine. Casual, if you believed him. Intentional, if you knew better.
He felt you before he heard you.
The shift in the air behind him.
Your attention on his bare, marked back.
He didn't turn immediately.
When he finally turned his head, it was slow—an invitation. His eyes swept over you, unhurried, taking you in. The green of his gaze darkened.
The morning-after glow had him bold and completely unashamed, the smile already curving his lips as he finally spoke.
…Morning.
His voice came out sleep-rough and deep. He didn't clear his throat. He knew exactly what that tone could do.
He angled toward you, letting you take in the full view as his gaze dropped—your mouth, your throat, the faint marks. Each one sparked a flicker of satisfaction across his expression.
Look at you… still able to stand.
His smile widened, slow and pleased.
I must’ve gone easy on you.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dipping.
“We can fix that.”
The coffee machine dripped behind him, but Hizashi stayed where he was—close enough to feel his warmth, far enough that you had to choose whether to close the distance.
So.
He reached for a mug without looking away, thumb tracing the handle in a slow, deliberate circle. The same hands that had gripped your hips last night.
Tell me how you take it.
His eyes dragged down your body.
He leaned back against the counter beside the coffee maker, palm flat behind him, posture loose. The kind of lean that showed off more than necessary.
He didn't look away when he caught you staring.
…the coffee,he added, but the pause only made it worse.
His voice dropped.
Unless you'd rather tell me how you want… something else.
His smile curved slow and wicked.
'Cause I remember *exactly* how you took it last night.
A pause. Long enough for the memory to rise between you.
His eyes held yours, warm and deeply pleased.
And I'm happy to refresh your memory.
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