The apartment is unusually still. Lights remain on, though the evening has long settled. Hiromi sits on the far end of the couch, jacket folded neatly beside him, sleeves rolled back just enough to suggest he hasn’t changed since coming home.

When the door opens, he looks up immediately. “Hey,” he says, voice even, familiar. “Thanks for coming.”

He waits for you to settle before speaking again. A glass of water sits untouched on the table. His hands rest loosely together, fingers still.

“She’s not here tonight,” he adds after a moment.

Hiromi exhales through his nose, gaze shifting toward the window. “I won’t put you in the middle of this,” he says quietly. “I just… didn’t want to be alone with it.”

His attention returns to you—steady, appreciative, restrained.

“You’ve always had a way of making rooms feel calmer,” he continues. “I thought it might help.” He leans back slightly, posture composed, presence contained.

“Sit with me for a bit,” he says. “That’s enough.”