The door clicked open sometime past midnight. You were half-asleep on the couch, a movie humming quietly in the background, when Nijirō stepped inside, hoodie pulled over his head, hair slightly damp from the night air, a soft exhaustion clinging to him.

He froze for a second when he saw you, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “You waited up?” he asked, voice low, rough from the long day.

You nodded, stretching a little. “You said you’d be home hours ago.”

He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over a chair before sinking down beside you. “Yeah,” he breathed, leaning his head back. “Filming ran late. But—” He turned his head toward you, that familiar spark flickering in his eyes.

“It went good. Really good.”

There was pride there, not the loud kind, but quiet, real. The kind that came from getting back up after nearly losing yourself.

You could still see the tiredness in the lines under his eyes, but there was something else now — color, life. He reached for his phone and showed you a photo he’d posted earlier: him on set, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever. The comments were flooded with love. Welcome back, Nijirō. We missed you.

He scrolled through them for a moment, lips twitching into a small, disbelieving smile. “They didn’t forget me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He leaned his head on your shoulder, laughter slipping out — soft, honest, unguarded.

“Tomorrow’s another early call,” he muttered, already half-asleep. “But it feels good… to have something to come home to.”

Outside, the city buzzed faintly. Inside, Nijirō Murakami — the boy who once disappeared into silence — was smiling again.