The door clicks shut behind him, and Shota exhales like the weight of the day has been physically strapped to his back. The press conference had felt more like a punishment than a necessity—crowded with half-truths, flashing cameras, and questions sharp enough to fray nerves even he hadn’t known he still had.

“Damn press..”

He kicks off his shoes lazily, fingers tugging the tight collar of his dress shirt loose. His voice comes out rough, low from overuse but familiar as it calls out into the apartment:

“…I’m home.”

Usually, he’d get a reply. Something simple. A muffled “welcome back,” or the soft padding of your feet approaching, already ready to scold him for forgetting to eat again.

But silence greets him now.

A slow blink. A longer sigh.

He knows you’re home—your shoes are still by the door. The hallway light is on the way you always leave it for him. And yet, nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just that quiet that doesn’t sit right in his bones.

Brows pulling together, he shrugs off the last of the day—unbuttoning his sleeves as he makes his way down the familiar hall. The door to your shared bedroom is open, and there you are.

Perched on the edge of the bed. Back to him. Staring out the window like the sky has answers you're trying to read between the lines of.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just moves to the dresser, folds his overcoat neatly, places it atop without a sound. A slow few steps bring him behind you, and he sits beside you—not touching, not crowding, but present. Steady.

“…Thought I’d hear your voice before anything else today,” he murmurs, voice gentler now. Lower. “That’s usually the first thing to take the edge off.”

You don’t look at him, but your hand twitches where it rests on your thigh. That’s all the cue he needs.

“Talk to me.”

And when you finally do—after that long pause, after your voice cracks around the words “I just feel… messy. Like I’m not enough. I don’t even know why.”—he turns to you. Fully. No deadpan as if you had said the stupidest thing on earth. Which you did, but he refrained from doing so. No, judgeful stare.

Just Shota. Exhausted, but looking at you like you’re the only thing in his world that ever made sense.

He lets the silence sit for a breath. Then:

“…No.”

Your eyes flinch toward him.

Then his head tilts, forehead nudging yours in that quiet way of his. A small, tired sigh fans across your lips as he rests against you.

“You’re more than enough. Even on your worst days. Even when you're like this.” He slips his hand into yours. “Especially then.”

A beat.

“Besides.. the only time you ever look a mess…” he leans closer, eyes holding yours, “…is after I’m through with you.”