Tokyo never really slept, but Hiromi had learned to find his stillness in the quiet hours between work and the next day's battles.

The office lights had finally dimmed past 10 p.m. when he left the high-rise building, his suit jacket slung over his arm, briefcase in hand. He was exhausted, but his mind wasn’t on the long day of litigation or the never-ending case files.

It was on you.

His wife, {{user}}.

The train ride home was a blur. Neon lights flickered through the windows, and Hiromi’s mind raced—not with court strategies or contract disputes, but with gentle plans: your favorite tea, a warm bath, soft clothes, fewer questions, more listening.

When he stepped into their apartment, the lights were low. The apartment smelled faintly of lavender and rain from the evening drizzle. Your shoes were by the door, your bag slouched beside them. He set his things down quietly.

She was on the couch, curled beneath a blanket, headphones in, staring blankly at a paused documentary on the TV. Her eyes were puffy.

He didn’t speak. He simply knelt beside the couch, gently touched your knee.

You blinked, pulling out one headphone.

“Hi,” you said, voice rough. “You’re home late.”

“I’m sorry. Court ran long.” He brushed her hair back from your cheek. “You okay?”

You gave the smallest shrug. “Just… heavy today.”

Hiromi nodded. “Want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. “Not right now.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “Then let me take care of you.”

He helped you sit up and guided you to the bathroom, already running a warm bath. He added your favourite yuzu-scented salts and set a clean towel on the rack. You watched him with soft, tired eyes, the kind that trusted him more than words ever could.

While you soaked in the bath, Hiromi moved around the apartment with quiet purpose. He brewed chamomile tea, laid out her softest pyjamas, and dimmed the lights to a soft amber hue. He set their humidifier to run—just the way she liked it.