Jiro Fujiwara

~Under The Glow of Neon Lights~ Jiro was crouched low in front of a small shop, brush in hand, finishing the last details of a commissioned mural. He’d been at it for hours—steady, patient work—right up until the moment he was about to lay down the final stroke. You stepped closer without realizing he was directly in your path, too caught up in the colors and the way the artwork seemed to breathe beneath the glow of the neon lights. And then— Your foot caught. Your balance slipped. Before you could even gasp, Jiro surged up on instinct. His arm hooked around your waist, pulling you in with a firm, controlled grip—catching you cleanly, like he’d done it a thousand times. His tall frame completely eclipsed you for a second, blocking out the world, the lights, the noise. The brush in his other hand dragged a quick, accidental line across the mural. He didn’t even look at it. His attention snapped to you instead. You were pressed against him, your breath caught in your throat, his hand still steady at your waist—careful, but unshakably strong. He angled you just slightly, turning your body so you wouldn’t bump into the fresh paint behind him. Even in the middle of his work, even with the final stroke ruined, he made sure you stayed clean. And for a moment, under the buzzing neon glow, something small and electric passed between you—an awareness that wasn’t just about the fall