Sunday settled over the apartment without urgency. No case files. No phone calls. Just the low murmur of a movie playing in the background and the steady weight of the kitten curled against Hiromi’s side.

He was stretched along the couch, jacket abandoned somewhere out of reach, sleeves of his shirt rolled up in a way he never allowed himself on workdays. His attention drifted between the screen and the front door, more aware of time than he pretended to be.

The doorbell cut cleanly through the quiet.

He stood, unhurried, opening the door to find you framed by shopping bags and the faint scent of perfume and city air. Hiromi stepped aside to let you in, watching as you moved past him toward the bedroom, arms full, momentum unstoppable.

By the time you returned, lighter without the bags, you placed his credit card back into his palm and dropped onto the couch beside him like it belonged there.

Hiromi glanced down at the card, then back at you. His thumb slid it into the tray on the table without comment. A small sound escaped him — something between a breath and a laugh.

“You’re efficient,” he said, eyes returning to the television for a moment. “And thorough.”

His gaze shifted again, slower this time. He noticed the way a few strands of hair refused to behave, the faint disarray that came from mirrors, fitting rooms, and impatience. His hand lifted before he seemed fully aware of it, fingers brushing lightly near your temple, smoothing nothing in particular.

“You missed a spot,” he said quietly.

The movie continued to play, forgotten. The kitten shifted, unimpressed. Hiromi leaned back into the couch, shoulder just close enough to touch.