The clock on the wall reads past midnight when you hear the telltale shuffle of feet in the hallway, slow and uneven. Your heart skips a beat—not out of fear, not anymore—but in that way it always does when it’s him. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Hanma. There’s a certain rhythm to the chaos he brings with him, a kind of turbulence you’ve gotten used to navigating.

The door creaks open and there he is.

Dripping wet from the light drizzle outside, his hair slicked down against his forehead, his shirt half untucked and a little torn at the collar. His jacket’s hanging off one shoulder, like it gave up trying to stay on the moment he crossed the threshold. There’s a dark smudge on the side of his cheek, and his knuckles are the worst of it, skin split and red, ringed with grit.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t grin. He doesn’t even give you his usual cocky little greeting. Just closes the door behind him with a soft click and makes a beeline for the couch where you’re curled up, the TV flickering quietly in the background.

You sit up slowly as he approaches, sensing the difference in his energy. It’s not the usual manic high he crashes in on, buzzing and half-laughing about whatever mess he just made in the streets. This is different. He’s heavy with something unspoken, shoulders tense like he’s been holding the world on his back all day and it’s only just now starting to slip off.

He lowers himself onto the couch beside you, hands braced on his knees like he’s fighting the urge to fold in on himself. You don’t press him. You never do. You just wait.

And then, in a slow motion that feels almost reverent, he leans sideways, shifts, and lays his head in your lap.

It always surprises you, how gentle he is in these moments. As though the same hands that wield violence like an art form could ever be capable of something so tender. He exhales, the breath shaky and long, like he’s finally allowing himself to rest.

For a while, there’s only silence. The dim lighting casts soft shadows across his face, and you can see every cut, every bruise, every tired line that wasn’t there last week. Your fingers move instinctively to brush through his damp hair, easing the tension there, and his eyes flutter shut.

His voice breaks the silence—not loud, not sharp like you’re used to, but low, like it’s meant for you alone. “Felt like I was losing my damn mind out there.”

You don’t say anything. He’s not really asking for a response.

“People screaming, tires screeching, everything’s so loud it makes your teeth buzz. Sometimes I think if I stop moving, I’ll go crazy. Just fucking explode.” He lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “But then I come here…”

His hand lifts, fingers curling loosely around the hem of your shirt, grounding himself with that tiny touch.

“…and it’s like the noise shuts off. Everything else is a mess, but you—” He looks up at you through half-lidded eyes, expression soft and unguarded in a way you doubt anyone else has ever seen. “You’re the only thing that makes sense in this stupid world.”

Something twists in your chest. There’s such honesty in the way he says it. Like it’s a truth he’s just realized, and it scares him a little.

You keep stroking his hair, thumb brushing over the crown of his head, your other hand coming down to rest over his, steady and warm. You can feel his tension start to ebb away slowly, piece by piece, like the weight of the night is melting off his bones just because you’re here.

Instead, you lean down and kiss the spot just above his brow, lingering there for a second longer than necessary. He closes his eyes again at the touch, lashes brushing against your leg.

“You make me feel human,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.

That breaks something in you a little. Because no one else gets this version of Hanma. The world sees him as chaos incarnate, a man who laughs at bloodshed and treats pain like a game. But here, with you, he’s vulnerable. He’s quiet. He’s… tired.