The hallway lights buzzed faintly as Naomasa pushed the apartment door open, his shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion only a fourteen-hour shift could build. The quiet that greeted him wasn’t unusual—he often came home late—but tonight it pressed harder against his chest. He shut the door with more care than he usually did. His coat slid off his arm and onto the rack in a practiced motion.

He rubbed the back of his neck, muttering under his breath, “Damn it… one night. Just one night.” Work had pulled him away before—emergencies didn’t keep polite schedules, and villains didn’t file notices of intent—but tonight wasn’t supposed to be just any night. Tonight marked a year with them, a milestone he had actually allowed himself to look forward to, counting down days between case files and late-night reports. Instead, he’d spent the evening locked in an interrogation room, parsing through half-truths and listening for cracks in stories that didn’t matter nearly as much as the one waiting at home.

The living room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a lamp left on in the corner. The couch bore the shape of someone who had sat too long waiting, its cushions slouched, a throw blanket folded neatly over the armrest. On the coffee table sat a plate—covered now with plastic wrap—and beside it, a single candle that had been lit and blown out hours earlier. He didn’t need to touch it to know the wax had hardened in a tiny pool at its base, the wick bent in surrender.

Naomasa exhaled slowly, pressing his hand against his face. Guilt crept in with the weight of silence. He had called—at least once, maybe twice—but his phone had been dead for hours after. Even if he had gotten through, what would a hurried apology have meant? The thought only deepened the pit in his stomach. He’d missed enough birthdays and holidays in his career, but this one cut sharper.

He let himself sink onto the edge of the couch, his tie tugged loose, his shoulders slumped forward. The apartment smelled faintly of whatever they had cooked earlier. He imagined them sitting here, waiting at first with hope, then with dwindling patience, then finally with resignation.

His lips twisted into something caught between a sigh and a bitter smile. He wasn’t new to letting people down. Friends, colleagues—everyone who knew him understood the badge came first. It had to. But that excuse sounded thin now, standing against the quiet disappointment that filled the room like smoke. This wasn’t about duty or law. This was about the person who’d chosen him despite the long nights, despite the phone calls cut short, despite the weight of his job shadowing their time together. They had chosen him—and tonight, he had left them waiting.

He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the bedroom door that was pulled shut. The softest strip of light spilled from underneath, proof they were still awake. Maybe reading, maybe curled under the covers, maybe lying there staring at the ceiling the way he sometimes did after cases stretched too long. He wanted to open that door, step inside, and offer some fumbling apology that couldn’t possibly fit the shape of the evening they’d both lost. He wanted to tell them he was sorry, that he hated himself a little for not being here when he should have been.

Instead, he sat in the quiet for a moment longer, gathering the frayed edges of courage. He pulled off his shoes, lined them neatly against the wall, and ran a hand through his hair. His chest tightened as he stood, feet heavy against the floor. Whatever words he found would be clumsy, imperfect. But he knew he had to try—because a year together wasn’t something to let slip through the cracks of another late night.

With a slow breath, Naomasa pushed himself upright and walked toward the bedroom door, his heart beating a little faster than it ever did in interrogation rooms or police briefings. This wasn’t about duty. This was about them.

He opened the door carefully, "{{user}}. I'm home."