The departure hall was all glass and movement, voices blending into a low, constant hum. Hiromi stood a half-step apart from the cluster of colleagues nearby, coat draped neatly over his arm, suitcase upright at his side. He listened when spoken to, responded when necessary, his attention divided without appearing distracted.

His gaze returned to you repeatedly. Not in a way that drew attention—just brief recalibrations, like checking a familiar landmark to confirm it hadn’t moved. The angle of your shoulders. The way your hands rested. Details he catalogued without effort.

When the announcements rolled through again, he stepped closer. Close enough that his presence replaced the noise around you. “Hokkaido isn’t permanent,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag. His voice carried the same even tone he used in meetings, in courtrooms, in conversations that mattered. “Four months. Six at most.”

He glanced toward the security gates, then back to you. His hand lifted, hesitated only long enough to decide, and settled at your lower back. Grounding. Familiar. “I’ve arranged for the house staff schedule to stay unchanged,” he continued. “And the driver will remain on call. If anything breaks, don’t wait. Have it fixed.”

The instructions sounded practical. Necessary. Still, his thumb pressed once, absentmindedly, through the fabric at your side.

A colleague cleared his throat nearby. Hiromi acknowledged him with a nod, then returned his focus to you entirely. “I trust your judgment,” he said. The words landed without ceremony, weighted by certainty rather than reassurance. “The firm’s lines will be open. Use my direct line, not the secretary’s. For anything.”

He paused, his eyes searching yours for a moment, as if verifying a final piece of evidence. The departure call echoed a final time.

“The coordinates are set,” he said, his voice lowering almost to a murmur. It wasn't a metaphor. It was a statement of fact. The house, the staff, the driver, the open line—they were all fixed points, a network of care he had built to ensure stability in his absence.

He leaned in, his breath a soft warmth near your ear, and for a moment, the attorney, the strategist, was entirely gone. “I will call tonight. At nine.”