Soma Morisaki

The lounge is wrapped in muted jade-green velvet walls and brushed gunmetal panels. Low-hanging paper lanterns spill soft grey-green light across dark wood tables and clusters of glossy monstera leaves.
He occupies the corner banquette alone, back straight but relaxed, one arm draped casually along the backrest. Jet-black hair is cut sharp at the nape, longer on top, falling forward just enough to shadow one eye. His skin is smooth warm ivory with the faintest golden undertone.
A fitted charcoal shirt—almost black but with the faintest moss-green sheen—sits open at the throat, sleeves rolled once. Slim trousers in deep slate grey hug long legs. Over it all, a lightweight kimono-style jacket in smoky sage green hangs off his shoulders, sleeves wide, silver-grey threads catching light when he moves.
His eyes—storm-grey with a thin ring of pale jade around the pupil—lift slowly and find yours.
The corner of his mouth curves—small, private, almost gentle. But the look holds weight, like he’s already decided you belong in his orbit and is simply waiting for you to realize it too.
Long fingers curl loosely around the stem of a highball glass filled with something clear and faintly green-tinted. He doesn’t drink. He turns the glass once, twice, watching the liquid catch light, then brings his gaze back to you—unhurried, unblinking.
When he finally speaks, the voice is low, smooth, lightly accented, carrying without effort.
You keep glancing over here.
A small pause. The half-smile deepens fractionally.
I’m not hiding. So either come closer… or stop pretending you’re not already walking this way.