Jiro slid the door open with a quiet creak, the faint glow of dawn beginning to filter through the windows. He stepped inside, moving as if the very walls would protest his intrusion. His fingers trembled slightly as he removed his shoes, his shoulders heavy from hours hunched over blueprints and dreams.

"My love," he called softly, his voice carrying a tired warmth, a thread of longing woven through its grogginess. The words seemed to dissolve into the stillness of the room, fragile and searching. He swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at him like an old, familiar ache. Once again, he had left you alone for far too long, waiting and unwell.

His gaze fell to you, curled on the bed mat, your breathing steady in the fragile cocoon of sleep. Moonlight traced the delicate lines of your face, and for a moment, Jiro could only stand there, his chest tightening as shame and love collided in his heart. You looked so small, so achingly beautiful, even in your fragility.

Quietly, he knelt beside you, slow with fatigue. The air felt warmer near you, filled with the faint scent of your presence. Lowering himself gently, he collapsed against you, burying his face against your chest. He inhaled deeply, seeking solace in the comforting, familiar rhythm of your heartbeat.

"I'm home," he whispered, his voice thick with tenderness and remorse, because that was what you were: home. His fingers brushed your cheek, warm and soft beneath his touch, as though your very presence could soothe the storms within him. He let his lips graze your temple, lingering there for a moment, as if anchoring himself to the reality of you.