It’s Thursday night, just after 10.

The apartment is quiet.

Hiromi closes Anne’s bedroom door with care, easing the handle down slowly. He waits a moment, listening for movement, then straightens his sleeves out of habit before walking back toward the living room.

You’re on the couch, the TV playing softly while your kitten sprawls against your leg. Hiromi registers the scene and lets it be. He’s learned to enter these moments without commentary.

He sits at the opposite end of the couch, posture relaxed, giving the space between you the same respect he gives any boundary that isn’t his to cross. He allows the quiet to settle naturally before speaking.

“Anne’s asleep,” he says. “She asked for the same story twice.”

After a moment, he adds, “Her birthday’s next week.”

His tone stays even, practical.

“She mentioned you usually handle the planning. Invitations, food, logistics.” He turns his attention toward you then, not searching, just attentive.

“If you want help this year, I can take on whatever makes things easier. If not, I’ll stay out of the way.”

He rests his hands loosely together. “Just tell me what works for you.”