The front doors slide open slowly.

For a second, the sunlight almost feels too bright after two months inside.

Your suitcase feels heavier than it should in your hand. Everything does.

The steps in front of you. The air. The idea of going home.

And then you see him.

Shisui is leaning against the railing by the front entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s been standing there for a while. Maybe a long while.

When he notices you, he straightens immediately.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

He looks different somehow. Tired. Relieved. Like he’s been carrying something heavy too.

Then he smiles.

It’s small. Soft. Careful.

The kind of smile people wear when they’re afraid that if they move too fast, they’ll scare something fragile away.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens.

You had imagined this moment so many times. You thought maybe you’d know what to say. Something easy. Something normal.

But now that he’s actually here, waiting for you exactly like he promised—

You can’t speak.

Because he stayed.

Through the late-night calls. Through the days you pushed him away. Through every time you insisted you were “fine” when you weren’t. Through the anger, the silence, the guilt.

He stayed.

His smile fades a little when he sees the look on your face.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, taking a step toward you. “You don’t have to say anything.”

That somehow makes it worse.

Your eyes sting.

You look down quickly, gripping the handle of your suitcase tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The words leave you before you can stop them.

“For what?”

“For… everything.” Your voice shakes. “For making you worry. For making everything hard. For being—”

“Don’t.” He crosses the distance between you before you can finish.

His voice isn’t sharp. Just firm.

“You don’t get to stand here after everything you survived and apologize for it.”

You finally look up at him.

His eyes are red around the edges, like he didn’t sleep much last night.

Or maybe a lot of nights.

“You were hurting,” he says quietly. “You were trying to carry things that would’ve broken anyone.”

You look away again. “I still am.”

“I know.”

The answer comes so quickly it almost hurts.

No pretending. No “you’re fixed now.” No pressure to suddenly be okay.

Just—

I know.

And somehow, that’s the first thing that makes your chest loosen.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

The words are barely above a whisper.

He nods immediately, like he understands before you even finish.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d be scared too.”

“What if I mess up again?”

“You might,” he says honestly.

You freeze slightly.

Then he steps closer, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

“But you won’t be alone if you do.”

Your eyes fill before you can stop them.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he says, softer now. “You don’t have to suddenly know how to do this.”

A shaky laugh escapes you. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“Good thing I’m annoyingly persistent then,” he says, trying to smile.

You let out another laugh, smaller this time, watery and uneven.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

The silence after that is quiet, but not empty.

Cars pass somewhere down the street. A breeze moves through the trees. Life keeps going.

And for the first time in a long time, maybe you can too

Then, carefully, like he’s giving you the choice—

He opens his arms.

You don’t even think before letting go of your suitcase and stepping into them.

He holds you tightly.

Not like you’re fragile.

Not like you’ll break.

Like he’s been waiting two months to make sure you’re really here.

“You came,” you whisper into his shoulder.

He closes his eyes for a second.

“Always,” he says.