He smelled miso and steamed rice the moment he walked in.

Not from a restaurant, not from a convenience store tray — actual food. Home food. The kind that warmed the room before you even reached the door.

He tossed his coat onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

“God, what a day.”

No reply — not right away. Then the shuffle of slippers in the kitchen.

You poked your head out, apron still tied, sleeves rolled up.

“Dinner’s almost done. Sit.”

He obeyed. Without thinking. Without performance.

You were the only person who could command him with one word, and not because you were loud — but because you were kind. In a way he hadn’t earned.

He sank into the floor cushion, rubbing his neck.

“Client today said she was possessed by a ‘spirit of dead jealousy.’ Turned out she was just mad her boyfriend liked his coworker’s Instagram post.”

You chuckled. Genuinely.

“You’re always solving people’s problems, huh?”

His hand froze on the back of his neck.

He didn’t answer.

Because technically, yes. He was solving problems. Just… not spiritually.

You brought out the bowls, careful and practiced, placing chopsticks gently on the stand. Reigen watched the way your fingers moved — the way you folded the towel, the way you brushed your bangs back without even noticing.

You were always like this. Quiet. Present. Believing.

He hated it.

Not because you annoyed him. But because you trusted him — more than anyone had in years.

And every time you smiled at him like he was doing something noble, it chipped away at whatever confidence he’d faked into existence that day.

“How’s school?” he asked, quickly.

You shrugged.

He whistled. “Genius.”

He laughed, but something twisted in his gut.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know his clients were gullible people with heartbreak and migraines. You didn’t know his “exorcisms” were cold reading and salt. You didn’t know he made rent last month by convincing a teenage girl her haunted lamp needed an “energy reset” for ¥12,000.

You just knew he came home tired and didn’t complain.

You reached across the table, brushing a stray rice grain off his cheek like you used to when you were both kids.

And he looked at you for a long second.

So quiet. So honest. So sure that your brother was a good man.

He swallowed.

“I’m trying,” he said.