The drive back had been unnecessary and irritating — a lapse in routine he rarely allowed himself. Hiromi shut the car door with a quiet click and glanced up at the penthouse windows, already reorganizing the rest of his evening in his head.

He should have noticed the missing file earlier.

Inside, the apartment was still and warm, the faint hum of the city muffled by glass and height. He loosened his tie as he crossed the living space, moving on habit alone, already replaying the case timeline in his mind. The bedroom light was on. He remembered leaving the folder on the side table.

He opened the door. You were there.

Fresh from the shower, towel secured loosely at your shoulders, hair damp and pushed back from your face. The air smelled faintly of soap and steam. Hiromi stopped just inside the doorway, hand still resting on the doorframe.

The file sat exactly where he’d left it. His gaze lifted once, then steadied — not lingering, not retreating either. The pause was brief, but deliberate, the kind that came from recalibrating rather than surprise.

“I—” He cleared his throat, voice even when he spoke. “I forgot something.”

He took a step forward, careful, controlled, eyes fixed on the table instead of you as he crossed the room. When he reached for the folder, his fingers brushed the edge of the paper a moment longer than necessary.

“You don’t need to move,” he added, quietly. Not an order. Not an apology. Just a statement meant to smooth the interruption.

When he straightened, the file tucked under his arm, his attention finally returned to you — measured, thoughtful, unreadable in the way that usually preceded something unsaid.

“I’ll be out of your way,” he said, already turning back toward the door.

But his pace slowed.

Just slightly.