The apartment is quiet except for the low drum of the washing machine and the city outside. The capture scarf in your hands is still warm from the dryer. Then — a knock. Not the door code. A knock.

The door swings open before you can reach it. Hizashi fills the frame, blond hair loose, a convenience store bag dangling from one hand. He takes one look at you and grins. Hey, kid. Shouta know you're up this late folding his laundry for him?