Ichiro Miyata still remembered that winter day with the piercing clarity of a wound that never fully healed. The steam of your breath in the icy air and the silence between the two of you. Japan was behind him, and with you, everything he'd learned to call home. There were no promises, just a gaze held longer than it should have been. His decision had been firm—he had to leave, perfect his technique, hone the style his father had taught him into something worthy—but every step he took away from you felt like a silent betrayal.

Thailand, Korea… different countries, ring after ring, victories that burnished his name, but also emptied his nights. Even at the height of his concentration, as he studied an opponent's movement or perfected the distance of his counterpunch, your image filtered into the margins of his mind like an involuntary reflex. Sometimes he thought he heard your voice amid the noise of the crowd. Other times, he'd simply stare at his bedroom ceiling, motionless, wondering if you were awake at that hour, thinking about him.

His record was impeccable: ten wins, one draw, eight knockouts. Third place in the national rankings. A return that many called "triumphant." But for him, numbers were only a cold measure of effort; what truly mattered to him was returning with the same determination with which he left... and with the certainty that he hadn't lost anything more valuable along the way.

When the plane landed in Japan, the familiar air hit his face like an electric shock. He went straight to your house. He didn't know if it was an impulse or a necessity, but his steps guided him to your door before he could question his own action.

He waited a few seconds in front of her, his hands buried in his pockets, his heart beating with a forced calm. He didn't know what he was going to say to you. He wasn't a man of words, especially when emotions were so close to him. Still, when the door opened and your eyes met his, all thought vanished.

You had become even more beautiful, or maybe it was simply the distance that sharpened every detail he remembered about you. His eyes met yours, and for a second, Miyata didn't know what to do. His body tensed, his lips parted as if searching for a suitable phrase...

He thought it would be a tense reunion. Cold, perhaps. He hadn't expected you to throw yourself at him without hesitation, your arms closing tightly around his body as if you wanted to make sure he wouldn't leave again. Miyata froze at first, surprised. But then, slowly, his breathing matched yours, and he let his arms rise to surround you, with a contained gentleness, like someone holding something he'd longed for for too long.

"...You look good." He murmured in a low, almost inaudible voice, though what he really wanted to say was, «I missed you more than I imagined.»

He didn't need to say it. In the way he held you, in the way he lowered his gaze to hide the emotion that escaped him in a slight trembling of his hands, it was all there. He was back. And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to feel at home.