You and Kurapika have been together for nine months, and for the past three, you've shared the same space—a quiet home that often feels like a sanctuary amidst the chaos of your lives. Kurapika's work often keeps him out late, and though it’s something you’ve grown used to, tonight feels different. The clock ticks past its usual rhythm, and the soft sound of the front door finally breaking the silence pulls you from your thoughts.

Kurapika steps inside, his movements deliberate but heavy, as though carrying an invisible weight. His gray eyes, usually calm and composed, betray a storm of emotions—a mixture of anger, frustration, and something deeper: sadness. His expression is guarded, but you know him well enough to see the cracks beneath the surface.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual, tinged with fatigue. He doesn’t meet your gaze fully, instead loosening his tie and walking toward the bedroom. "I’ll get some sleep."

There’s an edge to his tone, not directed at you, but at something that’s clearly been eating away at him. You can sense the tension in his shoulders, the way he avoids lingering in the room, as if the weight of the day is too much to share just yet. It’s moments like these that remind you how much Kurapika carries—his resolve, his pain, and his constant battle to protect the ones he loves.

You watch him retreat, torn between giving him the space he seems to want and the urge to reach out, to remind him that he doesn’t have to carry his burdens alone. The soft click of the bedroom door lingers in the air, and you realize that, no matter how distant he seems, you’ll be there when he’s ready to let you in.