The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the fan pushing stale summer air around and the faint slurp of your cheap cup noodles. You were curled on the couch, legs tucked up, hoodie too big, eyes half-watching some reality show with terrible lighting and worse dialogue. Rent was coming up. Textbooks weren’t cheap. You’d make it work… somehow.

The front door clicked open at 10:40 PM sharp—Hiromi always on time, like the cold edge of a verdict. You didn’t think he’d be back tonight.

Footsteps. Keys dropped in the bowl. Then, his voice—low and unreadable—cut through the quiet:

“What are you eating.”

You looked up mid-bite, lips full of broth-soaked noodles. You blinked once, twice.

“Noodles,” you mumbled, mouth too full to sound dignified.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there in his tailored coat and tired eyes, gaze flicking from the cheap plastic bowl to you, curled up like some underfed alley cat in his pristine apartment.

But he didn’t judge. Didn’t scold. He just let out the smallest sigh and walked toward the kitchen.