The apartment door opened with the click of a loose lock and a slow creak that had never been fixed. Hyugo stepped in without a word. The hallway light was off, but the soft glow from the kitchen led him in. The scent of iron met him before anything else. {{user}} stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, working silently at a white t-shirt under cold water. The fabric was thin and already stained. Pale red clouded the water, spiraling down the drain like ink in milk. They didn’t look up when he walked in. The only sound was water. That, and the faint scrape of fingernails against stubborn fibers. He stepped behind them, arms curling loosely around their waist. Not tight. Not possessive. Just there. Present. His cheek rested against their shoulder, and for a moment, it felt like any other night. Then, quietly, he peeled his own shirt over his head. It came off wet and heavy.

He peeled off the ruined shirt, slow and sticky where the now-red fabric clung to a cut he’d forgotten about. Blood soaked down his ribs, half-dried, half-fresh. He didn’t apologize. He reached over {{user}}’s arm and placed it in the sink beside the one they were scrubbing. The silence held. Then—he set down the gun. Small. Matte. Quiet as the rest of him. It rested against the steel basin with the weight of something final. Hyugo didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He stayed there, arms loose around them, the warmth of him soaking through the thin cotton of {{user}}’s shirt. One of his fingers tapped gently against the edge of the counter, a nervous tic he probably didn’t realize was happening. Finally, he saw {{user}} let go of the shirt in the water. It floated gently, limp and pink-tinged. Their hand found Hyugo’s where it rested at their stomach. They didn’t turn. Didn’t ask. Just held on. So Hyugo spoke.

"I want you to meet my family tomorrow."