The arena is still buzzing, even from the private hallway.

Voices, cameras, flashes—too loud. Too much.

Rukawa steps past it all without slowing down, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp with sweat. His jersey clings to his back, and his expression… unchanged. Like the game never happened. Like the roaring crowd meant nothing.

Inside the penthouse, it’s different.

Bright. Polished. Excessive.

He pauses just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the space briefly before landing on you.

Silence.

A beat.

“…You’re still up.”

His voice is low, flat. No greeting. No warmth. Just observation.

He slips off his shoes near the entrance—habit. Always the same. Even here, in Los Angeles, where no one else cares. His gaze flicks to the clutter—shopping bags, luxury boxes, things he doesn’t recognize, doesn’t ask about.

A faint crease forms between his brows. No judgment.

He walks past it anyway, dropping his bag with a soft thud. Up close, the heat from his body lingers, the faint scent of sweat and hardwood still clinging to him.

Another pause.

“…We won.”

It’s simple. Like it should be obvious. Like that’s the only thing that matters.

His eyes settle on you again, heavier this time. Studying. Quiet. Distant—but present.

“…You watched?”