Ota district, Tokyo.

Wednesday 2.10 p.m. (ET+13)

A sunny May afternoon.

Your life had changed, since he had moved into the small family-run apartment building complex  you had always called home.

Your friends and acquaintances couldn't wait to plan evenings at your place, found any excuse to come and say hello at odd hours, and had become as affectionate as awkward, since that blond angel had taken up residence in the flat above yours.

After all, you and your ordinary life could never have had the same attractiveness as the dazzling light his name implies.

Ryota Kise was not only a nationally renowned athlete, but had been a famous model, until he had left droves of whimpering admirers at the announcement of his retirement from the scene, to focus on his aviation career.

How could anyone be so flawless?

Where was the blemish in that blaze of perfection?

Being self-loathing, you thought to yourself, until the evening of the condo meeting came, he showed up smiling and polite, bringing treats and delicious food for everyone, amiably talking to people and dispensing smiles and thanks for the warm welcome.

Needless to say, the jewelled ladies of your floor were already doting on him, feeling a lethal mix of maternal affection and adolescent crush, by which they were reporting you his every move in detail, especially those involving the female sex; perhaps forgetting that you could hear who was in the newcomer's house,  just by sitting at the kitchen table for lunch.

In the six weeks leading up to that day, however, the idol of the building had led a particularly boring life, punctuated by intense work shifts and moderate physical activity, that allowed you to meet him casually in the building's lobby, and just as casually exchange small kindnesses and superficial remarks. 

No romantic nights, no suspicious movements, as confirmed even by the ladies on the first floor. The only exception is that random Saturday a month, when his flat would turn into the den of basketball fanatics. Before your eyes parade a row of top-tier hunks, his friends, who  just like him, were unaware of the jolt of lust they were giving the whole building.

On the other hand, your friends competed to guess on which Saturday that masculine display of wonder would appear, the jewelled ladies booked hairdressers and freshened up their most flamboyant outfits, so as not to be outdone.

And then there was you, who as ever, didn't know what to do.

"Are you stupid? Take those ten steps and ask them for sugar and offer him everything!" was the solution that was repeated to you over and over again, like the refrain of a bad summer song.

A song you didn't even know how to play.

Ryota sighed, because it always ended like this. 

"Come on man, you know I only get 10 days off a month!" he snorted, because Daiki may have become an adult, but he still has the same urge to torment him, that he had in Teiko days. "What do you want in return? A dinner at Hatsune Sushi? A date with a hostess?" he huffs, trying to convince him to join for a one-on-one over the weekend. 

He looked at the laundry basket and while listening to his pal's bitching, decided to throw some stuff in the washing machine. He adds the soap that slips out of his hands, but it doesn't matter, he likes his clothes soft and scented . 

He pressed the start button and was ready to process that wacky request.

"WHAT? My flatmate neighbour? I know she's hella cute, but how am I supposed to introduce her to you, if she barely says hello to me?" he asks, catching his friend's cheeky laugh in response.

He gives in, because he's too tired to lose any more precious minutes of sleep, says goodbye to his mate, and heading for the bedroom, quickly undresses and throws himself in his underwear on his very soft bed, with its fresh crisp cotton sheets, cuddled by the warm light filtering through the window. 

He sinks his face into the pillow and smiles, because Aominecchi is always the same jerk, but he has good taste, indeed. Too bad, you were such a difficult aim to achieve, even for small talking.

In those few chance encounters on the common stairs, you always declined his help, even when the shopping bags were obviously too heavy for you. Maybe it was your way of telling him to keep his distance, maybe you saw something in him that turned you off, maybe....

He huffs and turns on his back. 

He looks up at the ceiling, at the light grey wall and at his cacti collection, waving happily at him from their sunny shelf by the window, and he begins to wonder. 

He wonders if you like cacti.

He wonders what type you are, actually. 

All he knew was that he was incredibly attracted to you, to that slightly wistful air, and to your gracefulness in moving your little body. He loved to watch the sway of your hips, as he followed you up the stairs, but somehow he felt he needed to know more, much more about you.

What you like to sing in the shower, what you like to talk about, if you would like to sleep in someone's arms, because he would like to be that someone so badly.

You are physically under his feet and yet he is the one who feels crushed.

And now Daiki comes along with his teasing demand.

He closes his eyes and tells himself that he will find a solution later, because now he's really too drowsy, and the sound of the washing machine in the background, with its monotonous rhythm, takes him to dreamland.

You take a sip of coffee, you're drinking it down because you don't feel like going back to those damn accounting sheets. Columns of numbers, fees for which your clients will complain and you will obviously have to put on a good face. 

But there is something else that bothers you.

A background noise, low but constant, like a ticking clock that loses its rhythm, a noise that you have never heard before, and that probably doesn't even exist.

You get up and go to the bathroom to freshen up your face, you look in the mirror and from the reflected image you see that something is wrong. From the ceiling a large damp cloud is causing a trickle of water to drip down the wall, which has already become a puddle on the floor tiles. You close your eyes, rub them with your hand and open them again, because it might be all a fantasy, but unfortunately the image does not change. You rush out of the bathroom, out of your apartment, run up the stairs and ring his doorbell, but no one answers. 

You knock hard against the dark wood until your knuckles ache, and after a few seconds the door opens and you find yourself in front of the most handsome man you have ever seen, dressed only in his underwear, with an expression resulting from a deep sleep that has been interrupted by your urgency.

"What's going on?" he tells you in a semi aware state, dragging out the words, his voice hoarse from sleep sends your imagination into overdrive. You look straight at his fuzzy, sultry, deep eyes trying to ignore his broad shoulders, his perfect collarbones, his sculpted pectorals from which, like a road to paradise, the gaze is taken to his tight abdomen. He’s wrinkling his hair and then brings the same hand to his sculpted tummy casually, as snaps you a puzzled look, while with the other hand he opens fully the front door, in a silent invitation to enter.

"The bathroom " you stammer, blushing wildly as he turns his delicious back , showing you his whole powerful frame . You follow him inside that house full of light and plants, where the dark tones of the rough wood match the light grey tones of the walls and the touches of green of the foliage.

"Sure, you can use the bathroom " he smiles at you, oblivious to the fact that he is half naked and you are dressed in a pair of ridiculous house shorts and a T-shirt full of stars and hearts, that you yourself painted in junior high.

"I don't have to use it, but..." you try not to choke, thanking your lucky stars when you see him retrieve a white T-shirt from a chaise longue in the room he led you to, and put it on by sliding it elegantly over his shoulders.

"I don't think I understand  " he tells you, shifting his attention to the most significant detail of the bathroom.

Foam, lots of foam.

A sea of foam and water everywhere, now that all the warning lights of the washing machine are on and flashing like bat-signals in the eternal night of Gotham City.

"Geez, now I see!" he continues, walking past you and recommend to move to his bedroom, worried that you might get wet and dirty. All done with that wonderful smile of his, which immediately puts you at ease and makes you catch the funniest part of that paradoxical situation. He stands tall and handsome, studying what needs to be done, biting his lower lip, not looking particularly worried or concerned.

"I can fly a plane but apparently I can't do laundry!" he mocks himself, beckoning you to the threshold of the room.

"All that perfection was just too much" you agree, smiling sweetly at him, and when he looks at you with his golden eyes, you feel that your heart is unlikely to belong to you again any soon.

He laughs, laughs like a child, as he dips his feet into that disaster and retrieves all the towels he has from the bathroom wardrobe, reaching towards the appliance and almost losing his balance, so much so, that you rush to his rescue, preventing him from a hard fall.

You find yourself huddled in the middle of that disaster, unsteady on your own feet, indifferent to the fact that someone should turn off that monster that keeps on regurgitating foam. It's just too bad that you start to like that situation, perhaps because pressed against him, with his strong arms around your waist, his snow-white skin and his eyes in yours, Ryota becomes more and more attractive.

"There's only one bright side to this whole thing " he informs you softly, bringing his long fingers to the nape of your neck to play slowly with your hair.

"That our baths will smell of Marseille soap for eternity?" you try to downplay, but he has such a tender expression on his face that you can't help but tremble, as he brings you closer to him, to confide a secret in your ear.

"You can't run away. This time I'm gonna get your attention, finally!" he whispers, leaving a kiss on your temple and then reaching out to do the same on your face, closing his soft and warm lips on yours.

In the midst of a sea of foam and water, lulled by the red lights of the washing machine's warning lights, you had never been so grateful that this blond angel , who had taken up residence in the flat above yours and had in a short time become the idol of the entire building, wasn’t flawless at all.