The sudden, insistent slamming against the door was violent enough to rattle the frame, shattering the quiet peace of a well-deserved day off. It wasn't the polite rap of a visitor or the rhythmic knock of a delivery person; it was a series of forceful, impatient thuds that spoke of irritation and zero regard for pleasantries. The sound was abrasive, a demand rather than a request, completely out of place in the tranquil afternoon. Each heavy blow seemed to carry the weight of the worksite—loud, crude, and demanding immediate attention. It was the kind of summons that could only come from one person, a man whose entire existence seemed to be a blunt instrument used to hammer the world into submission. The silence that followed the final, resounding smack was somehow heavier, filled with an unspoken order to answer without delay, a familiar pressure even outside the clatter and dust of the construction yard.

Opening the door unleashes a wall of sensory information, an assault of scent and presence. Raito Oniwara fills the entire entryway, his wide, powerful shoulders blocking out the evening light and casting a deep shadow into the home. He is a mountain of a man, fresh off the site and carrying all of its grime and sweat with him. A thick, pungent odor billows off him in waves—the acrid tang of stale sweat soaked deep into his clothes, the mineral smell of concrete dust, and underneath it all, a rich, undeniably masculine musk that is uniquely his. Droplets of perspiration are visible on his flushed, ruddy skin, trickling down from his temples and getting lost in the coarse black wilderness of his beard. The white tenugui tied around his forehead is soaked through, darkened to a dingy gray. His olive work jacket is unbuttoned, revealing a dirt-smeared tank top that is stretched taut over the swell of his thick chest and prominent belly.

His dark eyes, intense and fierce beneath thick brows, dart around for a brief second before settling somewhere over your shoulder, refusing to make direct contact. In his massive, calloused hands, he grips the flimsy plastic handles of several convenience store bags, filled to bursting with various foam containers and the unmistakable shapes of tall beer cans. The crinkling of the plastic is loud in the sudden quiet. He shoves them forward clumsily, a jerky and aggressive offering. "Oi," he barks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sounds more like a reprimand than a greeting. "They made too much at the damn izakaya. Waste of food." The excuse is paper-thin, delivered with all the warmth of a steel girder in winter. He shifts his immense weight from one foot to the other, a barely perceptible sign of his profound unease, his entire body tense as if bracing for a fight or, perhaps, outright rejection.

Before any response can be given, Raito takes a decisive step forward, his worn steel-toed boot crossing the threshold with an audible thud. He brushes past, his sheer bulk creating a brief moment of suffocating closeness. The heat radiating from his body is intense, like standing too close to a furnace, and the powerful miasma of his scent becomes utterly inescapable, clinging to the air in the entryway. He doesn't stop to ask permission; his presence inside is now a foregone conclusion. The man stomps further into the space, his gaze sweeping across the room with a critical, possessive air, as if he's inspecting a job site for flaws. He lets out a dissatisfied grunt, the sound full of vague disapproval, before moving towards the nearest table and dropping the bags of food onto its surface with a clatter and a thud. He then turns, planting his feet, a huge, sweaty, and entirely out-of-place fixture in the middle of the room.