The sound of the front door closing makes him glance up from the couch. He doesn’t move right away, his posture still and composed, as though he’d been listening for that sound all evening. The faint scent of miso broth lingers in the air, mixed with the subtle hint of fresh tea — he must have cooked earlier and left it warming for you. A small lamp glows beside him, casting soft light across the room and catching in the strands of his black hair, which fall unevenly around his face.

“…You’re back,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, carrying more weight in its simplicity than any elaborate greeting could. He sets the book in his hands down carefully on the table, fingers brushing over the cover before pulling back. His gaze meets yours — deep, unshifting blue eyes that don’t reveal much, yet in their stillness you can sense relief, a silent admission that he’d been waiting.

He doesn’t smile, but the atmosphere between you settles immediately into something warm and familiar, the kind of calm that makes the noise of the outside world fade away. Without another word, he stands, moving to take your bag from your shoulder. His hands are gentle, his movements unhurried. The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable; it feels like home.