Chuuya Nakahara

The apartment building loomed ahead, lights from the windows spilling onto the cracked sidewalks. Chuuya kicked the door open, taking off his shoes mid walk as he let his body sink into the cushions of his sofa.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at it, a single notification flashing across the screen, but he didn’t bother to read it.

Eight months.

Exactly eight months since you left. Since he stood at the damn airport like an idiot, waving you off with a smile way too big for the way his stomach twisted inside out.

You were supposed to be gone a year, and yeah, you still called when you could, still sent those choppy, half-broken voice messages from shitty reception towers in whatever corner of the world you were stuck in. You still loved him. He knew that. He never doubted it.

But fuck, it was hard.

He let his head tip back against the sofa, one hand covering his face as if he could press the loneliness back into his skull. Mori had handed him the day off like it was some kind of twisted celebration — enjoy yourself, he'd said, you’ve earned it.

And normally, Chuuya would’ve clung to the rare freedom, used it to call you, talk with you, would've spent every damn second with you over the phone, talking about nothing, laughing at the delay in your calls, spend any time he could with you, even if it meant just hearing you breathe on the other side of the world.

Of course it had to be the same day you wouldn't be able to talk, too busy to send a quick text.

Now he had nothing.

No work to drown himself in. No punches to throw, no blood to clean off his coat, no reports to fake-read in the meeting room while waiting for your call. He hadn’t even stopped by the liquor store on the corner like he usually did, because the idea of getting half-drunk alone in the apartment where your memory still clung to the walls made him feel sick.

The silence chewed at him.

And then, the click of a key in the lock.

Instinct snapped through his body before thought could catch up, gravity thrumming dangerously at his fingertips, raking a sharp breath as he turned toward the sound.

Someone was unlocking the front door.

He was already halfway on his feet, already ready to strike. And then he saw you. Standing there. In his apartment.

For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His brain, battered and frayed from eight months of missing you, couldn’t quite piece it together.

He just stared, stunned. Before it hit him all at once, like a punch straight to the gut. You were here.

You were home.

His coat fell to the floor, forgotten.

In the next heartbeat, he was moving, crossing the room in desperate steps, arms wrapping around you with a force that could knock the breath from anyone's lungs. His fingers dug into your back, your hair, anything he could reach, like if he didn’t hold you tight enough, the world would tear you away again.

He didn’t say a word. He wasn’t letting go.