The apartment always felt a little too quiet around six in the evening.
Chuuya would notice it first in the way the light stretched across the wooden floor - warm, honeyed, patient. Waiting. Just like him.
He tied the apron around his waist with a small, habitual tug. It was ridiculous, really - he used to command rooms with a glance, used to carry himself like a storm in human form. Now he stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, auburn hair catching the glow of the setting sun while miso simmered softly on the stove.
And he had never felt more powerful.
Because this - this was for you.
He knew how demanding your job was. Knew how your shoulders tightened after long meetings, how you exhaled like you’d been holding the entire world in your lungs the moment you stepped through the door. He knew the faint crease that appeared between your brows when you were exhausted but trying not to show it.
So he prepared.
Rice fluffed perfectly. Your favorite side dishes plated carefully - balanced, thoughtful. He even chilled a small glass of wine, though he knew you’d probably protest and say you didn’t need fussing over.
You always said that.
He wiped his hands on the apron and moved to the living room. The cushions were arranged the way you liked. Blanket folded neatly. Your slippers positioned by the entrance - angled slightly outward so you could slip into them without thinking.
It wasn’t obligation.
It was devotion.
When you first started dating, Chuuya would have scoffed at the idea of being anyone’s househusband. He had too much pride, too much fire. He remembered the early arguments - not explosive, but sharp around the edges. You, insisting you didn’t need someone to take care of you. Him, insisting he wasn’t trying to reduce you to something fragile.
But somewhere between late-night conversations and quiet mornings tangled in sheets, something shifted.
He didn’t want to take your strength.
He wanted to guard it.
He wanted to be the place you could unravel without consequence.
The first time he cooked for you after an especially brutal week at work, you’d nearly fallen asleep at the table. He had clicked his tongue, muttering about you overworking yourself, but his hands were gentle as he guided you to bed.
The key turned in the lock.
His heart - traitorous thing - leapt every single time.
He didn’t rush to the door. He never did. He pretended composure, leaning casually against the wall as you stepped inside. But the moment he saw you - jacket slipping from your shoulders, fatigue shadowing your eyes - something molten and tender flooded through him.
“Welcome home,” he said, voice warm, steady.