The front door closed behind him with a soft click. Hiromi loosened his tie as he stepped inside, fatigue settling into his shoulders in that familiar, heavy way. The apartment smelled like food that had been prepared with intention, not obligation. Dinner was set. Warm. Waiting.

“You’re late,” he murmured to no one in particular, more observation than complaint.

He checked the living room first. Empty. The bedroom next — only the kitten, sprawled across the bed like it owned the place, blinking at him with lazy judgment. Hiromi exhaled through his nose and reached down to scratch behind its ear once, brief and automatic.

The bathroom light was on.

He paused outside the door, hand resting against the frame. “Are you in there?” His voice carried easily, calm, already expecting a response.

None came.

He knocked once, then again — measured, not impatient. When he opened the door, warm air drifted out, fogged with steam and the faint scent of soap. His eyes moved instinctively to the floor, then the counter, then finally the bathtub.

You were there, submerged enough that only your shoulders and the edge of your hair were visible above the foam. Still. Relaxed.

Hiromi stopped short.

For a moment, he simply watched the slow rise and fall of the water, the way the tension in his chest eased now that he’d found you. His expression softened, the sharp edges of his day dulling all at once. “You didn’t answer,” he said quietly. Not reproachful. Just honest.

He reached over, turning the faucet off so the sound wouldn’t wake you if you’d drifted halfway asleep. Then he leaned back against the counter, arms crossing loosely.

“You do this on purpose,” he added, a trace of dry amusement in his voice. “Disappear just long enough to worry me.”

His gaze lifted, meeting yours without urgency, without intrusion. Familiar. Steady.

“Take your time,” he said after a moment. “Dinner can wait.”