The apartment was quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock against the wall. After hours of going through files, documents, statements, you and Higuruma had both agreed to call it a night. Exhaustion clung to you as you collapsed into bed, letting sleep take over.

But a few hours later, your throat was dry, pulling you from your rest. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, expecting silence, maybe darkness. Instead, the dim glow of a lamp stretched shadows across the living room, and there he was.

Higuruma sat at the table, sleeves rolled up, papers spread before him in careful order. His expression was the same as always—serious, composed, lips set in a faint frown as his sharp eyes scanned another page. He looked carved from stone, unmoving, unreadable, but the quiet weight of his presence filled the room.

When he glanced up, his eyes caught yours. Not annoyed, not surprised. Just steady. “Go back to sleep, will you?” His voice was calm, even, carrying that subtle command he always had.

For a moment you stood there, glass still in your hand, caught between the warmth of the bed you left and the gravity of him sitting there—so controlled, so deliberate. Somehow even his exhaustion looked graceful.

You almost said something—asked him why he never let himself rest—but his gaze lingered on you a little longer than it should have, and you couldn’t shake the feeling there was a quiet protectiveness in it, hidden under all that stone.