The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound soft against the evening quiet. Hiromi set his briefcase down by habit, loosened his tie, and placed a small paper box on the side table as carefully as if it were evidence.

Donuts. The kind you liked this week.

He followed the faint scrape of movement into the living room and stopped short.

You were on a stool, arms lifted, adjusting a frame on the wall. The sight pulled his attention upward immediately, his posture shifting as he crossed the room without comment. One hand came to the back of the stool, steadying it, firm and unannounced.

“Ambitious choice,” he said, voice even, eyes tracking the slight sway beneath you.

The box of donuts was nudged further onto the table with his foot. His other hand stayed where it was, solid and patient, offering balance without instruction.

“Next time,” he added, tone dry but calm, “wait until I’m home before redecorating at altitude.”

The frame tilted into place. His gaze lifted to it as you adjusted the angle.

A childhood photograph stared back at him — awkward haircut, stiff smile, too-large school uniform. Hiromi’s brows lifted a fraction. His mouth softened, the reaction quiet but unmistakable.

“…You found that,” he said. His hand remained steady at your side, thumb pressing once against the wood, grounding the moment before he looked at you. “I didn’t realize it survived this long.”