The villa is quiet in the way only late travel nights are. Warm air drifts in through the open balcony doors, carrying the sound of distant waves and soft movement from the trees. A single lamp glows near the bed, casting long shadows across the room.

Hiromi sits near the edge of the mattress, laptop balanced on his knees. The suit jacket is gone, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, glasses perched low as he reviews a document one last time. His focus is steady, practiced, the kind that comes from years of discipline rather than urgency.

The sound of the bathroom door draws his attention.

He looks up.

The shift is subtle. His posture eases, shoulders lowering as his attention moves fully to you. He closes the laptop without hesitation and sets it aside on the nightstand, giving the moment the weight it deserves.

“I thought you’d be another five minutes,” he says, voice calm, softened by the quiet. His gaze lingers with interest rather than surprise, taking you in the way someone does when they’re already familiar, already invested.

He stands, moving closer at an unhurried pace. One hand reaches out, not to interrupt, but to steady—fingers resting briefly at your elbow as he guides you past him toward the bed.

“You should rest,” he adds, glancing toward the balcony doors. “Tomorrow starts early. I planned it that way.”

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes as he reaches for the water bottle on the table and sets it within easy reach.

“Bali doesn’t feel like a place that should be rushed,” he says, settling beside you. “Neither does this.”