The apartment was dark when you walked in, only the low hum of the AC and the faint glow from the monitor in the corner broke the silence. Nijirō was sitting there, still in the same position he’d probably been in for hours. Headphones off. Screen frozen mid-game.

You dropped your bag gently by the door, watching him for a moment before stepping closer. His shoulders were slumped forward, one hand tangled in his hair, the other resting limply on the desk. You didn’t need to see his face to know that faraway look, the one that meant his thoughts had turned heavy again.

“Niji,” you said softly, just enough for him to hear.

He didn’t look up. Just let out a shaky breath, the kind that wasn’t quite a sigh but close. When you came closer, he turned the chair slightly, eyes finding yours. They were red-rimmed, tired, like he’d been fighting a quiet war with himself all day and lost.

You didn’t ask what was wrong — you knew better than that. Instead, you just reached for him, resting a hand on his shoulder before he leaned into you like gravity finally caught him. His forehead pressed against your chest, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

The only sound was his breathing, uneven at first, then slowly syncing with yours. You ran your hand through his hair, feeling the tension bleed out of him bit by bit.

The weight of the day still clung to him, but at least now, he wasn’t carrying it alone.