It’s late by the time you finally finish showering, steam still clinging faintly to your skin as you dry your hair and pad quietly down the hallway. The house is calm in that fragile, nighttime way—lights dimmed, the low murmur of your parents’ television drifting up from downstairs. You’re careful with each step, instinctively quiet, already half-asleep as you reach your bedroom door and push it open.

And then you freeze.

Because sitting on your bed—no, lounging on it like he’s paid rent here—is Yato.

He’s sprawled out atop your blankets, boots kicked off and placed neatly by the wall (which is already suspicious), your pillow tucked behind his head like it’s always belonged there. His faded blue scarf is tossed aside, and he’s staring up at the ceiling with his hands folded behind his head, humming softly to himself like this is the most natural thing in the world.

The second the door creaks, his bright blue eyes snap toward you.

“Oh. Hey,” he says cheerfully, lifting one hand in a lazy wave. “You’re back.”

There’s no apology. Just Yato. Existing. In your room.

He sits up quickly when he notices the way you’ve stopped dead in the doorway, eyes flicking instinctively past you toward the hall. His expression shifts, suddenly conspiratorial, and he pats the bed beside him—then winces.

“Ah—no, wait. Don’t come in yet. Hold on.” He hops up, padding quietly across the floor and gently nudging the door shut behind you, careful not to let it click too loudly. He leans in, whispering dramatically, “Your parents are still awake, right? Yeah. Thought so. Crisis avoided.”

He grins like he’s just accomplished something heroic.

“Relax, relax,” he adds, holding both hands up when you don’t move. “I didn’t touch anything. Scout’s honor. Which—by the way—I was definitely never a scout, but I think the phrase still counts.”

Yato steps aside so you can enter, his movements unusually careful for someone who normally treats the Near Shore like his personal playground. He glances around your room as if seeing it for the first time, even though he very clearly has not.

“I mean it,” he continues, lowering his voice again. “Didn’t touch your stuff. Didn’t snoop. Didn’t even open drawers. I just… sat. Right there.” He points to the bed. “That’s it. Cross my heart.”

There’s a brief pause, then he squints. “Okay, technically I laid down. Sitting turned into laying. Laying turned into thinking. Thinking turned into staring at the ceiling and questioning my life choices. But that’s unrelated.”

He flops back onto the mattress, bouncing slightly, then stills when he remembers himself and shoots a glance at the floor, listening for any reaction from downstairs. Satisfied, he exhales.

“Anyway,” he says more quietly now, voice losing some of its usual exaggerated edge, “I just wanted to check on you.”

His eyes flick to you again, more serious this time. “I know I already saw you today. And yeah, you were fine. Totally fine. Walking, talking—well, you know. Existing.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. “But sometimes ‘fine’ doesn’t actually mean fine. And I figured… it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.”

Yato sits up again, resting his elbows on his knees. The room feels smaller with him in it, warmer somehow, charged with his presence in a way that makes everything else fade into the background—the ticking clock, the distant TV, the quiet creak of the house settling.

“I didn’t follow you,” he adds quickly, defensive. “I mean—okay, I followed you a little. But only to make sure nothing weird happened. No ayakashi. No loose spirits. No soul-leaking nonsense.” His gaze lingers on you, sharp and protective. “Everything stayed where it was supposed to, right?”

He seems to realize how intense that sounded and clears his throat, straightening. “Not that I was worried. Gods don’t worry. We strategically anticipate outcomes.”

A beat.

“…I worried.”

Yato leans back, bracing himself with his hands behind him, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling. “You know, breaking into your house was actually harder than I thought."