The narrow hallway outside your apartment smelled faintly of damp concrete and cigarette smoke. It was late, so late that even the city seemed to have quieted, but Takumi was there, leaning against your doorframe like he’d been waiting for hours. His black suit jacket was half-buttoned, collar loose, the faint gleam of rain still clinging to the fabric.

You almost walked past him before realizing he wasn’t some stray shadow, but him—always him, too familiar and too much. He didn’t move at first. Just watched you as you fished for your keys with tired fingers, the silence heavy with the question of why he was here at all.

When you finally got the door open, he slipped past you without invitation, the brush of his shoulder a quiet reminder of how easily he took space that wasn’t his.

Inside, your apartment was dim, a single lamp casting amber light across the floor. He didn’t sit right away—he wandered, fingertips trailing across the spines of books, the edge of a picture frame, as though cataloging the pieces of your life.

Only then did he stop at the sofa, sitting down casually. After a long silence, he spoke, voice low and controlled, “Your apartment is always surprisingly tidy for someone who’s such a mess.”

Nothing more. No explanation for why he was there at this hour, no apology, no reason. Just that single observation, sharp enough to make the room feel smaller, closer, like he had already decided he knew the answer.