It’s 1:03 a.m. when the front door clicks shut behind you—soft, careful, guilty. Your heels dangle from your fingers, perfume still clinging to your skin. The house is dark, except for the warm glow of one lamp in the living room. Too warm. Too deliberate.

You freeze.

On the couch sits Hiromi—tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes steady and unreadable. A half-finished legal brief rests beside him, untouched for at least an hour. He was waiting.

The kitten mews at your ankle like it’s announcing evidence. You shush it. Useless.

Hiromi finally speaks, voice calm enough to be dangerous. “Out late.”

Not a question. A conclusion.

He looks at your face, not your outfit, searching for honesty, not guilt. A slow sigh leaves him as he removes his glasses, setting them down with care.

“You could have told me.”

Not anger. Not control. Just a quiet hurt he’s too proud to dramatize.

The room waits for your next move like a courtroom holding its breath.

“Talk to me,” he says, patting the space beside him. “Even freedom feels heavier when you carry it alone.”