Snow pressed against the windshield in slow, dreamy spirals, but Chuuya hardly noticed. His pulse throbbed with a storm of emotions—hope, disbelief, aching anticipation. It had been weeks since he’d last spent more than a fleeting hour at home, weeks since he’d felt your arms around him or heard your laugh without it sounding muffled by exhaustion. Work had swallowed him whole again, but this time was worse—this time it felt like the city itself was conspiring to keep him from you.

The crisis had erupted suddenly: a wave of coordinated attacks across Yokohama, a power struggle twisting through the underworld like a tightening noose. The Port Mafia had been pulled to its limit, and Chuuya, with his unparalleled strength, had become Mori’s indispensable instrument. If something needed to be crushed, he was sent. If negotiations failed, he stepped in. And if chaos surged, it was Chuuya who stemmed the tide at the cost of his sleep, sanity, and any semblance of a normal life.

You never complained. You never asked him to stay. But he saw the softness in your voice when he told you he’d be late again, the brave smile that couldn’t hide the sadness in your eyes. He carried that image everywhere he went, tucked deep in his chest like a wounded bird.

Christmas Eve had been the breaking point. He had promised—truly promised—that no matter what, he’d be there with you. A quiet dinner, shared warmth, the comfort of being in the same room without the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d sworn it with his hands on your waist, your forehead touching his, his voice barely a whisper. It was the one thing he wanted more than sleep, more than rest, more than anything.

And then Mori called an emergency evening briefing.

The moment Chuuya walked into the office, he could feel the verdict settling like lead in his stomach. Reports scattered across the table. Urgent discussions. The kind of tension that screamed no one goes home tonight. When Mori turned to him with those calm, assessing eyes and said, “You’re staying,” something in Chuuya’s heart curled in on itself.

He didn’t protest—he never protested—but he stood rigidly, fists clenched behind his back, knowing you were at home trying to make dinner for two and pretending you weren’t waiting for a miracle.

The briefing dragged. The air felt suffocating. Chuuya barely heard half of what was said. All he could think about was you. Your hands setting out two plates. Your quiet attempt at hope.

And somehow—mysteriously, impossibly—Mori looked at him again. Really looked. As if realizing that even the strongest of his subordinates had limits, and that some battles weren’t worth winning at the cost of a man’s heart.

“You’ve done enough for today,” Mori said softly. “Go home.”

Chuuya almost didn’t believe it. “Sir?”

Mori offered a faint smile. “It’s Christmas. Even devils deserve the night off.”

That was all Chuuya needed.

He bolted out of the building so fast he nearly forgot his gloves. He didn’t text you—didn’t want to spoil the surprise. He wanted to see your eyes widen, to watch disbelief melt into joy, to hold you close and feel your breath catch against his neck.

Now he was on the road, the car humming beneath him as snow danced across the empty streets. The world felt suspended in time, each glowing streetlight promising he was one turn closer to home. He turned up the radio, letting the warmth of Christmas songs fill the quiet. And then, as if fate couldn’t resist a little poetry, that song drifted in.

I’m driving home for Christmas…

A laugh escaped him—small, breathless, disbelieving. Your song. The one you used to tease him with during your first year of marriage, when he was always rushing home from some mission, back when the world still felt kinder.

He parked. Stepped out. Stood there in the cold, breath misting in the air, heart pounding like he was twenty again and desperate.

He was finally home.

He was finally coming back to you.