The clock blinks 2:17 AM in angry red digits. You’re still on the couch.

Blanket half-draped over your legs. Eyes dry from staying awake.

You told yourself you wouldn’t wait this time. That you were done sitting around like some forgotten afterthought while he played hero.

But here you are.

Again.

The front door opens quietly. Boots scuff against the wood floor. You hear the shift of his coat as he hangs it up, deliberate and slow — as if being quieter will undo the hours he’s been gone.

You don’t look at him.

He says nothing at first.

Then: “Still up?”

You don’t respond.

You hear his sigh. That tired one he always does when he’s irritated but trying not to show it.

“You have school tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything.

He moves closer, just a few steps behind the couch now. You can feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your head.

“I told you not to wait up.”

That does it.

You sit up, slowly. Turn around.

Your voice doesn’t shake, but your hands do.

“You always come back late.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

“And you never say why,” you continue, quieter this time. “You just vanish and come home when you want. And I’m supposed to pretend that’s fine.”

“I text you.”

“No,” you say sharply. “You send one-word updates. You don’t talk to me.”

He stays silent.

Your breath hitches.

“I know I’m not Eri.”

Now his eyes narrow, confused. “What—?”

“I know I’m not the one you stayed for. I know I’m not the kid that makes you smile when you come through the door.” Your throat burns. “I’m the one you were guilted into taking in.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what am I?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Exactly.

You stand.

Push past him to the hallway.

“I don’t need a hero, Shouta. I needed a dad.”

You don’t slam your door.

But you leave it cracked.

Just in case he finally decides to follow.

He doesn’t.

And somehow, that hurts more than if he had yelled.