You don’t even remember falling asleep. The makeup is still on your face. Your phone is dead in your hand. The couch beneath you feels too stiff, your dress too tight now that the adrenaline has faded.

The soft click of the door unlocks sometime after midnight.

You don’t stir at first. You’re too tired. Too disappointed. And too heartbroken over something you didn’t even know you were hoping for.

He steps inside quietly.

You hear the door close. Then nothing. No footsteps. No greeting.

And then you feel it — the faintest pull of the blanket over your shoulders. Gentle. Hesitant.

You blink yourself awake. Eyes adjusting to the low light. He’s crouched beside the couch, still in his suit, his tie loose, hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop. His eyes meet yours.

He looks... tired.

“I thought you left for good,” he says softly.

You sit up slowly. “I did. And I would’ve stayed gone if my phone hadn’t died.” You pause. “Why were you still at the restaurant?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“For hours?”

He nods once.

“You didn’t text. You didn’t call.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

You glance down at your phone. The screen is black. You forgot to charge it before you left in a hurry. Your throat tightens.

“I thought you bailed,” you murmur.

“I didn’t,” he says. “I finished work late. I thought maybe you'd wait. I didn’t think you’d leave without saying anything.”

“You’re one to talk,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. “You made me wait two hours, Nanami. On Valentine’s Day.”

His jaw tenses slightly, but he doesn’t raise his voice. “I know. That’s on me.”

There’s a silence between you. Thick and tired and full of things neither of you want to say.

“I got all dressed up,” you say quietly, staring at the floor. “I even curled my hair. You know I hate doing that.”

“I noticed,” he says. “You looked… beautiful.”

You glance up, startled. He never says things like that. Not even when you were dating. Not when you married. Not when you had to sit across from him at a dinner table every night pretending this wasn’t all a deal your fathers made.

But he means it. You can see it.

You shift slightly on the couch. He stays kneeling beside you, as if he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to stand right now.

“I waited outside the restaurant for an hour after it closed,” he says. “In case you came back.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“I did,” he says. “I keep messing this up. I know you didn’t want any of this. But I wanted tonight to be different.”

You don’t answer.

He glances down at your hand. At your dead phone. Then back at you. “I should’ve told you I was going to be late. That’s on me. But I didn’t forget. I never forgot.”

The silence isn’t cold anymore. Just... quiet.

You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then shift to the side.

“You can sit,” you say.

He does. Slowly. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

You lean your head against his shoulder. You don’t know why. You just do.

His body is warm. Familiar. And after a moment, he exhales like he’s been holding something in all night.

“I’ll do better,” he says.

You don’t answer. You’re too tired.

But your head stays there, resting on him. And when his hand finds yours under the blanket — just a quiet touch, no pressure — you don’t pull away.