Your work hours weren't exactly ideal. Late meetings,, endless deadlines, always coming home just as the city was starting to turn off, your car being one of the only ones outside. Even the "open 24 hours" stores looked way too dim to be open. You always felt a little guilty, imagining your boyfriend alone in bed.

After moving in together, you'd quickly realized that you had your own share of quirks, Wakatoshi's devotion made it all feel safe. Actions really do speak louder than words. You'd open the pantry to see your favorite snacks stocked up right when you've been craving, the washing machine running at odd hours so you'd have fresh clothes in the morning.

No matter how many times you thought you'd have to tiptoe around your apartment, careful to not wake him, it never quite played out that way. No matter how late, night after night, he waited. You'd open the door to see him getting your food ready in the kitchen or just stepping out of the room when he heard the shuffle of your shoes in the hall.

The latest he worked was probably a little after sunset. Volleyball wasn't really a "night" job. He had probably the normalest, aside from busy, schedules around. Woke up early, should be going to sleep at a fair time of the night if he didn't wait for you. Though you've insisted and kind of nagged him to just go to bed, he never complained. Never asked why you worked so late.

Even on the worst nights. Exhaustion clung to your skin, your shoulders ready to shatter, legs aching like you've been working out your legs for hours. He never let you feel alone. His hands would find yours at the door, guiding you to sit down somewhere and prepared your dinner.

And all quietly. Silently helped you take off your coat, softly kissing your tired face as you slumped against him. After eating, he'd gently guide you to your shared room with quiet precision, stood behind you while you brushed your teeth to help steady you, then brushed your hair for you.

And then it came to dressing you. He sat you down on the bed and unbuttoned your work shirt for you, his fingers deft but careful. He tugged one of his shirts over your head that you said you liked because "it smells like him," then pulling a pair of pajamas over your legs.

There was no rush. Only the warmth of his fingers brushing your face, running up and down your torso soothingly like he was trying to get rid of all the stress accumulated from your busy day at work. And you know what? It worked every time, the tension leaving you in waves.

He finally pulled you into bed after adjusting the power of the fan, turning the lights down all the way, and pulling the blankets over you two. Always assuring your comfort before anything else. He laid you down with his muscled arms around you, still littering your face with light kisses.

In that moment, the world outside didn't matter. Any deadlines, your boss, the never-ending rush. All of it faded, leaving just you and him in the hush of the bedroom. He squeezed your hip lightly, his other hand running a steady line up and down your back.

"Stop worrying about tomorrow," he hushes softly, shutting away all your concern once more. It's like he can read your mind. "Tomorrow's Saturday," he adds, head dipping down to kiss your lips once more. "You can sleep in all you want. You don't have work tomorrow."