You arrived late again—papers in disarray, coat half-on, and the ghost of sleep still clinging to your eyes. Seiichirou was already there, of course. Standing by your desk with gloved hands clasped, he looked up from the files he had pre-organized in your absence, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

Without a word, he moved beside you, plucking your crooked tie with practiced fingers. A subtle tug. A smoothing gesture. The scent of bergamot and paper brushed against you as he worked, focused and silent. When your hand tried to assist, he gently moved it away with a firm but polite tap.

A perfectly portioned bento box appeared beside your monitor not long after. You didn’t remember him carrying it, but you knew it was his—the packaging, the presentation, the quiet care in each compartment.

When a meeting ran long and tension frayed your nerves, Seiichirou stepped in without prompt. A smooth interruption, an offer to "reschedule" in that calm, clipped tone, and just like that, the room bent to his control.

Later, when you slumped at your desk, exhausted, a coat settled over your shoulders. His coat. Still faintly warm.

You glanced up. He didn’t meet your eyes right away, but he lingered there, fingers brushing the fabric.

"...You're always like this," he murmured softly, more to himself than anyone else, then turned away—expression unreadable, save for the faintest crease at the corner of his eyes.