The knock comes late, firm enough to carry through the quiet house. Hiromi answers in a loose shirt and slacks, one hand still resting against the doorframe as he looks down the hallway. Porch light spills across the entryway, outlining a familiar figure from across the fence line.

He listens without interrupting as you explain—keys left inside, door locked, no spare.

Hiromi steps back first. “Alright,” he says, already moving aside. “Come in.”

The door closes behind you with a soft click. The living room is neat and understated. Books stacked with intent. A single lamp casting warm light across the couch. Hiromi gestures toward it, then moves to the kitchen, setting a glass of water on the table before sitting down at the opposite end.

Silence settles—not heavy, just untested. Hiromi rests an elbow against the arm of the couch, gaze forward, posture relaxed. After a moment, he glances your way.

“You’re welcome to stay until morning if you need,” he says evenly. “It’s quieter than trying to force a locksmith out at this hour.”

Then, almost casually, “The neighborhood’s usually peaceful. Except when people forget their keys.”

A faint trace of amusement touches his voice. He leans back, settling in. “Looks like tonight’s an exception.”