The apartment door clicked softly before it opened, and the familiar weight of his footsteps filled the hallway. Even after years of marriage, you could always tell when Ushijima came home—not because he was loud, but because his presence was steady, grounding, unmistakably him.

He stepped inside, shoulders still broad and warm beneath his jacket, traces of winter air clinging to him after the long trip back from his match overseas. His hair was a little messy, flattened on one side from the team bus, and a faint smell of resin and court dust followed him like a shadow.

“I'm home,” he said in that low, calm voice, the one that never rushed or rose, even when tired.

You moved toward him, and his eyes softened the moment they landed on yours. It was a tiny change, barely visible to anyone else—but to you, it was everything.

He set his duffel bag down with a quiet thud. “The match went well,” he said, as if answering a question you hadn’t asked yet. “But it is… good to be here.”

His hand—large, calloused, warm—rose to your cheek. He brushed his thumb across your skin once, slow and careful. He always touched you like he was memorizing something.

“You look tired,” you murmured, noticing the way the muscles in his shoulders pulled tight beneath his shirt.

“I am,” he admitted. “But seeing you helps.”

He leaned down slightly so your foreheads could rest together, the simplest and most intimate gesture he always saved for when words weren’t enough.

Outside, the evening lamps glowed softly through the windows. Inside, it was just the two of you—your home, your quiet breath between his, your hands slipping into his as naturally as breathing.

Ushijima exhaled, a deep, relieved breath from somewhere in his chest.

“I missed you,” he said, honest and plain, the way he said everything.

You opened your mouth to respond—

And then, from the kitchen, something beeped.

He lifted his head slightly, looking toward the sound.

“…Is that dinner?” he asked calmly.