“You’re late.”

Hiromi rose from the couch as the door closed behind you, jacket folded neatly over his arm. The living room lights were low, the clock on the wall reading a few minutes past midnight. He glanced at it once, then back to you — not sharply, not accusingly. Just attentive.

“You said it might run long,” he continued, voice level. “I stayed up.”

He moved closer, taking your coat without asking, fingers brushing your wrist briefly as he hung it by the door. The gesture was familiar, practiced. His eyes lingered for a moment longer than usual — taking in the tiredness in your shoulders, the way you exhaled now that you were home.

“You look exhausted,” he said. Not as commentary. As observation.

He gestured toward the kitchen. A mug sat waiting on the counter, steam long gone but the effort unmistakable. “I made tea. It’s probably cold by now.”

Hiromi leaned against the counter opposite you, arms folding loosely. The space between you wasn’t distance — it was deliberation. He chose his words the way he always did, carefully, like they mattered.

“You’ve been staying late a lot this month,” he said. “I don’t mind it. I just…” His gaze lifted to meet yours. Steady. Searching. “I want to understand.”

Silence settled, not heavy, but expectant. “If something’s weighing on you,” he added quietly, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”