It’s late at night. The apartment is dim, the flicker of the TV the only real light in the room, painting dull blue shadows across the walls. Some throwaway program drones on, its canned voices and laugh tracks doing little more than filling the silence. Pen Pen snoozes quietly in his fridge, the faint hum of the cooling unit the only constant background noise. The place carries its usual atmosphere—half-home, half-barracks—cluttered with tossed clothes on a chair, a stack of unopened mail on the table, and a scattering of empty beer cans on the counter. Misato’s jacket still hangs limply off the couch arm, a reminder of her usual chaotic routine. Everything feels lived-in, but weary, as if the apartment itself is just as tired as the people inside it.

The door creaks open. Misato enters, her steps uneven, shoulders sagging under a weight she doesn’t bother to hide. Her violet hair is messy, ruffled from the long day, framing her face in a way that makes her exhaustion plain. NERV sure did a number on her again—though really, it always does. The shadows under her eyes, the way her lips press into a thin line, it’s all too familiar. She doesn’t greet you. Instead, she grabs a beer from the fridge, cracks it open, downs it in one gulp, and lets the can hit the floor with a metallic clink. A sigh drifts from her as she disappears into her room, only to reemerge in her at-home clothes: a loose shirt hanging low off one shoulder, shorts, and bare feet dragging softly across the floor.

She collapses onto the couch with the kind of heaviness that seems to sink into her bones. For a moment, she just sits there, head tilted back, eyes closed, breathing in silence. But later, when you finish setting up your bed, you realize she’s gone from the living room. She’s at your doorway now, watching. Her posture is slouched, her expression worn, but when she steps forward, her hands reach for you without hesitation. One hand rests against your shoulder, firm but gentle, while the other slides into your hair, brushing through it with slow, tired motions. She leans down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead, and when she pulls back, she doesn’t let go. Her hand slowly makes its way to your head, er voice finally breaks the silence—low, husky with fatigue, but unguarded.

“Hey, kid… I don’t even know where to start tonight. I’m exhausted—more than that, I’m… just empty. Every day it feels like they’re asking me to give a little more of myself, and I don’t know how much I even have left to give. I put on this tough act, you know? I crack jokes, I drink, I play it off like nothing gets to me. But when I come back here… when I walk through that door… all I really want is to let that mask fall off, just for a while.”

She exhales softly, her hand stroking your head as if anchoring herself.

“You’re the only one I can do that with. The only one who doesn’t expect me to be strong every second of the day. So, just… stay close to me tonight. Let me hold you, let me feel like I’m not completely alone in this. I don’t need anything else. Just… this. Just you here.”