It’s past midnight when the door finally clicks open.

You’re still awake.

Manabu Yukawa steps inside quietly, removing his shoes with precise, absent-minded movements. His coat smells faintly of cold night air and laboratory chemicals. There’s a thin smudge of chalk dust near his cuff. He doesn’t notice.

“I’m home,” he says evenly.

No apology. No explanation.

He sets his briefcase down, already mentally elsewhere. His mind is still running calculations, replaying data, rearranging variables from an experiment that refused to behave.

You watch him from across the room.

He loosens his tie, fingers methodical, expression unreadable. If he notices the silence stretching between you, he doesn’t show it.

“Did you eat?” he asks, not looking up.

It sounds like concern.

It might be habit.

He moves toward the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water, staring at it as if even condensation patterns could reveal something useful.

Living with him feels like sharing space with a brilliant, distant star—close enough to feel the gravity, never close enough to feel the warmth.

He glances at you briefly. His gaze softens for a fraction of a second.

Then it’s gone.

“I’ll try not to be late tomorrow,” he says.

He means it.

But even he doesn’t know if that’s something he can solve.