When he did, my brain took a second to accept that it was him.
Renji Fujimoto looked like he'd lost a wrestling match with his own laundry. His shirt—once white, I think—was wrinkled enough to suggest he'd slept in it, possibly on the floor. The buttons were mismatched, skipping one entirely so that the hem sat lopsided over jeans that had clearly seen better years, not just better days. His hair stuck out in three different directions, as if he'd tried to tame it with water, then given up halfway. There was an actual coffee stain on the sleeve, a ring-shaped reminder of a mug that probably wasn't even washed before reuse.
If I'd been in my own body, I would've stepped back, maybe coughed into my hand just to put a barrier between us. In Kairi's, the reflex was different—her body didn't recoil. It just blinked once, tilted its head slightly, a subtle assessment. But I was screaming internally.
Had I eaten breakfast? I couldn't remember, but if I had, it was currently in danger.
