Carefully lifting the pieces of individual chicken onto a plate, you make sure they’re properly seasoned before bringing them to the dinner table, illuminated by a small candle. Spicy Karaage.

Swallowing your nerves away, you lift your gaze to the front door. He’d probably be exhausted, grumbling and cursing under his breath while complaining about the various idiots he had to put up with today. And that was fine. You’d always reassured him it was fine, ever since U.A.

Fifteen minutes later, and it’s like a scene out of a Hollywood movie. The door unlocks, and in he steps, silently, apparently assuming you might be asleep already. His suit was scratched up. When crimson eyes are finally drawn to the dinner table, they soften almost immediately.