The apartment smelled like soy and garlic.

Osamu stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, quietly plating the last of dinner—rice still steaming, chicken glazed just right. He heard the front door open with a soft click.

You stepped in, bag slipping off your shoulder, keys barely making it into the bowl by the door.

“Hey,” you called, voice hoarse from the long day.

Osamu turned, brow lifting slightly. “You just get in?”

You nodded, slipping off your shoes and heading toward him, drawn by the scent. “Yeah. Stayed late. I thought I’d beat them back.”

“Nope,” came Komori’s muffled voice from the couch, where he was face down, arms limp at his sides like a starfish.

Suna was curled next to him, feet propped on the coffee table, hair still damp from a rushed shower. He barely cracked an eye open. “We’ve been dead since five-thirty.”

“Practice?” you asked, already knowing.

“Hell,” Komori confirmed without lifting his head.

Osamu nudged a bowl toward you. “Dinner’s ready. Sit. I already yelled at them to eat, but they’re being dramatic.”

You walked into the living room, setting your bowl down beside theirs. Suna gave you a quiet, tired grin and patted the space between him and Komori. “Come collapse. You earned it.”

You dropped onto the couch, legs tangled with theirs instantly. Komori turned just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, mumbling, “Missed you.”