The house was loud with celebration — glasses clinking, overlapping conversations, familiar laughter filling every corner. Hiromi stood near the edge of it all, half-engaged in a discussion he could have argued blindfolded, nodding at the right moments, responding with practiced ease.

His attention kept drifting anyway.

You were across the room, framed by warm lights and winter decorations, laughing softly at something a man beside you had said. Hiromi recognized him immediately — an old acquaintance of his father’s circle. Well-dressed. Confident. Too comfortable.

He watched the exchange longer than he meant to. Not because it was improper. Because it was easy. Because your laughter came quicker there, lighter, and the realization settled somewhere unpleasant in his chest.

When he finally excused himself, the room felt suddenly too large. You weren’t where he’d last seen you. Neither was the man.

Hiromi moved through the house without urgency, coat still folded neatly over his arm, expression unchanged. Only his pace betrayed him — measured, precise, faster than before. He checked the hallway, then the side door, cold air brushing his face as he stepped into the garden.

That’s where he found you.

The voices were low but sharp, cutting through the quiet. The man stood too close, one hand wrapped around your wrist, his posture insistent. Your body language was clear even from a distance — tension, resistance, control held tightly.

Hiromi stopped. He listened long enough to understand the situation. Long enough for the man’s voice to carry.

“Relax,” the man said, tone confident, dismissive. “It’s not like you’re actually in love with him.”

The words landed.

Hiromi stepped forward then, shoes crunching softly against frost-covered stone. His presence shifted the space immediately — not loud, not dramatic, just undeniable.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice calm, precise, cutting through the night with surgical clarity.

His gaze settled on the man’s hand.

“Remove it.”