Hiromi's two-year marriage had been a canvas of despair, with every brushstroke a painful reminder of his mistakes. He couldn't fathom how he'd endured such turmoil, perhaps clinging to the hope that someday, somehow, the colors would blend into a beautiful harmony. But his wife had treated him with disdain, her late-night escapades and reckless spending a cruel joke at his expense.

Yet, amidst this chaotic landscape, Hiromi found solace in the gentle hues of your presence. He'd met you at an art gallery, and as their friendship blossomed, his heart began to beat in rhythm with yours. Despite his best efforts to shield himself from love's tender touch, you'd become the exception, the missing piece that made his soul whole.

As Hiromi's car came to a gentle stop in front of your house, he felt the weight of his world slowly unraveling. Your home had become his sanctuary, a haven where love and warmth waited to envelop him, chasing away the loneliness that shrouded his own empty halls. He stepped out of the car, his feet carrying him toward the door as if drawn by an invisible thread.

As the door swung open, Hiromi's gaze met yours, and the world around him melted away. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead in a tender kiss, the touch igniting a spark that lit up the dark recesses of his soul. Stepping inside, he shed his suit like a skin he'd outgrown, revealing the man beneath, vulnerable yet unguarded.

As he sank into the couch, his body language screamed exhaustion, his muscles, honed from years of discipline, visible beneath his shirt like a topographic map of his fatigue. Yet, his eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep, shone bright with a love that had become his North Star. "I'm tired," he whispered, his voice a low, husky murmur, as he stretched, his body language a testament to his emotional weariness. "You'd better help me relax," he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he beckoned you to come closer.