It was past dinner, past bath time, past the hour he promised he’d be home. The classroom lights had stayed on longer than they should’ve, papers piling up, lesson plans rewritten. He’d meant to be home hours ago.

Sugawara unlocked the front door quietly, slipping off his shoes with the practiced grace of a man who’d done this too many times before. He expected scolding. Maybe pouty faces or cold leftovers on the counter.

But what he found stilled him mid-step.

The living room was warm, quiet. The TV played soft lullabies on low volume. His wife curled up on the couch, head tilted against the backrest, a blanket tucked around her legs—and nestled against her chest, one of their kids, tiny fingers still clutching a picture book. Another had fallen asleep on the floor next to the coffee table, toy blocks half-built and abandoned. The smallest was snuggled up in a pillow fort, thumb in mouth, rising and falling with deep, steady breaths.

They’d waited for him.

He swallowed hard, stepping closer like the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. His heart ached in the gentlest way.

Quietly, he crouched beside you, brushing a few strands of hair from your face before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry I was late,” he whispered, voice barely a breath.

You didn’t stir, but your hand twitched faintly, like you’d felt him there. And that was enough.

He sat on the floor beside his little fort-builder, reaching over to wrap an arm around both of you, gaze soft and full.

“Home,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Finally.”