The key clattered in the lock, the sound overly loud in the late-night silence of the apartment hallway. Ritsuka pushed the door open, his body aching with a familiar, deep-seated fatigue. The tour with SYH had been a brutal three-week sprint—a blur of identical green rooms, stale airplane air, and the relentless, roaring energy of the stage. He dropped his guitar case and duffel bag just inside the door with a heavy thud, the weight of them a physical manifestation of his exhaustion.

He toed off his boots, the simple, domestic act feeling foreign after so long. That’s when he heard it.

A soft, low hum.

He stilled, his breath catching. Peering into the dim living room, illuminated only by the soft glow of a floor lamp, he saw him.

Mafuyu was curled on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, a sketchbook balanced precariously on them. His head was bent, a few strands of his honey-brown hair falling across his forehead as he focused on the page, a pencil dancing in his hand. And he was humming—a quiet, meandering melody that was unmistakably the beginnings of a new song. It was raw and unpolished, but it had that specific, haunting quality that was purely, intrinsically Mafuyu.

A warmth, so profound it almost felt painful, spread through Ritsuka’s chest, instantly melting the icy shell of his weariness. He leaned against the doorframe, content to just watch for a moment, to drink in the sight he’d been craving for weeks. Mafuyu’s presence was a balm, a tuning fork that finally brought his own frantic rhythm back to its proper pitch.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Ritsuka said, his voice softer than he’d intended, rough with disuse and sudden emotion.