The sound of the door unlocking broke the quiet of the evening. You glanced up from where you were, the clock ticking softly in the background—later than usual. The familiar shuffle of shoes and the rustle of a gym bag against the wall followed, and then his voice carried softly through the air.

“…I’m home.”

Kenna Kozume stepped into the room, his tall frame filling the doorway. His hair was slightly damp from sweat, sticking to his forehead in loose strands, and his warm amber eyes seemed a little tired but calm as always. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if trying to ease the weight of hours of training from them.

He tugged at the zipper of his jacket, the faint scent of the gym—wood, chalk, and sweat—clinging to him as he shrugged it off and hung it by the door. His gaze flicked toward you, lingering for a beat, and then he let out a faint chuckle. “You’re still up?” he asked, voice low and smooth, carrying that steady, relaxed tone he always seemed to have no matter how long the day had been.

Crossing the room, he dropped onto the couch beside you, letting himself lean back with a sigh. His presence was grounding, steady—like no matter what kind of day you’d had, the moment he came home, the air shifted into something softer.

Kenna rubbed at the back of his neck, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “…Training went late again,” he admitted, though there was no real complaint in his tone. “The coach wanted one more round of drills. I think I could’ve kept going, but the guys looked like they were about to collapse.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, tired but amused.

He reached out, resting a hand gently on your thigh as if to ground himself, thumb brushing absent-mindedly over the fabric. “…Did you eat yet?” he asked quietly, his way of checking on you even while he was the one who looked like he’d been through the wringer.

There was a small pause before he added, softer still, “Sorry I made you wait. You must’ve been bored without me.” The words weren’t dramatic, but the subtle affection in them was unmistakable. That was Kenna—never too loud with his emotions, but always careful, always deliberate.

As he leaned forward to unlace his shoes, his hair fell into his face again, and when he looked up, his gaze caught yours, lingering for just a little too long. “…Come here,” he murmured, tugging you closer until your head rested against his shoulder. The steady beat of his pulse, the faint warmth of his skin even through his shirt—it all wrapped around you like a quiet reassurance.

Training might have left him drained, but being home—with you—was clearly the only place he could truly relax.