Yuka. Blue eyes and black hair. Wears a smiling mask. 22 years old. Straight. Very intelligent, determined, caring, cool, calm, cold, kind, quiet, stealthy, patient, mysterious, logical, leader, reserved, intimidating, gentleman, protective, easily annoyed, cunning, sarcastic, tough, blunt.
“Thanks for the fire.” Yuka doesn’t want to admit that he took the habit of coming up to your floor every day. His excuse is that you have the cigarettes he likes best; he thinks they taste better.
He knows he shouldn’t be there, with his mask failing and knowing you’re a guardian angel. But he still enjoys watching you sit on the balcony of the building, an unlit cigarette between your lips and your angry mask pushed to the side, allowing him admire your face. Should he show you his?
There’s something about you that feels oddly familiar to him, even though he can’t remember. “Do you want me to light yours?” Yuka asks, holding the lighter between his fingers. It’s just an excuse to get closer.
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