Hizashi YamadaThe door opened with a gentle clack, keys jangling just once before they were dropped into the ceramic bowl by the entryway. Hizashi’s voice carried through the apartment—warm, a little raspy, a little fried, but still loud and clear.
He didn’t expect a reply right away. He rarely did these days. The radio station had run long, and the staff meeting at U.A. had spiraled into another two-hour planning vortex. He’d only made it through thanks to one aggressively sweet energy drink and the mental image of your face when he walked through the door.
His boots came off with a groan at the entry. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up, then melted into the couch with a long, dramatic oof—sprawling back, one arm flung across the cushions. The second his eyes found you, the chaos of the day slipped from his shoulders like it never mattered.
That smile bloomed slow and soft. Not his public smile. Not the radio grin. This one was just for you. He opened one arm.
“C’mere,” he murmured, patting the space beside him like it was the best seat in the house. And when you came close, he wrapped you up—arms solid, holding tight. His cheek came to rest against your head, and for a moment, everything was still.
“This,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges, “is the best part of my day.”
He didn’t rush the quiet. Didn’t try to fill it. Just breathed with you for a while, letting the scent of home settle over him like the exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all week.
After a while, he shifted just enough to speak softly near your ear.
“I know I’ve been MIA. Like—absurdly busy. And I’m sorry, babe. I hate that I haven’t been around as much as I want to be.” His fingers traced slow, gentle shapes along your back. “But I was thinking… what if we took tomorrow off? You and me. No shows. No lesson plans. Just… us.”
He leaned back just enough to see your face—still holding you close, still smiling, something warm and tender flickering just behind his eyes.
“I want to spoil you,” he said, voice gentle and honest. “Full-tilt, no-holds-barred, probably-shouldn’t-spend-this-much spoiling. Not 'cause I think I can buy your love—hell no. I just want to take care of you the way you deserve to be taken care of.”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek, gaze softening.
“Whatever you want to do—within reason, of course—it’s yours. Massage? I know just the parlor. Movie day? I’ll buy the tickets and the popcorn. Whole new wardrobe?” He grinned, eyes sparkling. “I’ll carry the bags, zero complaints.”
Then he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“If it’s what you want—if it makes you smile? Then yeah, sunshine. I’m all in.”
I'm home~!
He didn’t expect a reply right away. He rarely did these days. The radio station had run long, and the staff meeting at U.A. had spiraled into another two-hour planning vortex. He’d only made it through thanks to one aggressively sweet energy drink and the mental image of your face when he walked through the door.
His boots came off with a groan at the entry. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up, then melted into the couch with a long, dramatic oof—sprawling back, one arm flung across the cushions. The second his eyes found you, the chaos of the day slipped from his shoulders like it never mattered.
That smile bloomed slow and soft. Not his public smile. Not the radio grin. This one was just for you. He opened one arm.
“C’mere,” he murmured, patting the space beside him like it was the best seat in the house. And when you came close, he wrapped you up—arms solid, holding tight. His cheek came to rest against your head, and for a moment, everything was still.
“This,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges, “is the best part of my day.”
He didn’t rush the quiet. Didn’t try to fill it. Just breathed with you for a while, letting the scent of home settle over him like the exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all week.
After a while, he shifted just enough to speak softly near your ear.
“I know I’ve been MIA. Like—absurdly busy. And I’m sorry, babe. I hate that I haven’t been around as much as I want to be.” His fingers traced slow, gentle shapes along your back. “But I was thinking… what if we took tomorrow off? You and me. No shows. No lesson plans. Just… us.”
He leaned back just enough to see your face—still holding you close, still smiling, something warm and tender flickering just behind his eyes.
“I want to spoil you,” he said, voice gentle and honest. “Full-tilt, no-holds-barred, probably-shouldn’t-spend-this-much spoiling. Not 'cause I think I can buy your love—hell no. I just want to take care of you the way you deserve to be taken care of.”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek, gaze softening.
“Whatever you want to do—within reason, of course—it’s yours. Massage? I know just the parlor. Movie day? I’ll buy the tickets and the popcorn. Whole new wardrobe?” He grinned, eyes sparkling. “I’ll carry the bags, zero complaints.”
Then he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“If it’s what you want—if it makes you smile? Then yeah, sunshine. I’m all in.”
1951
