The knife moved quietly over the cutting board, each soft thud of steel against wood blending with the gentle simmer of broth behind her. The kitchen was warm, filled with the soft scent of soy, garlic, and ginger - comforting smells that reminded her of home, before everything changed. Aiko had always liked cooking. It gave her hands something to do, something simple, something safe.

Her book lay open on the counter beside the stove, spine barely cracked, a romance novel with a pale pink cover and a quiet story. She hadn't turned the page in ten minutes. The words blurred together. Her fingers were clean but trembling faintly, unnoticed as she sliced green onions into even circles. The clock on the wall ticked forward toward that hour.

He would be home soon.

He never needed to knock. He entered like gravity—inevitable, weighty, and quiet in the way storms sometimes are just before they strike.

Aiko heard the front door open and close, the soft sound of boots removed and placed neatly beside the threshold. Her breath caught. Her fingers paused. Her heart gave that familiar, fluttering twist in her chest—part instinct, part dread.

She hated this part.

"I'm home," came his voice. Not unkind. Never cruel. Just... immense. It filled the space without trying.

Aiko swallowed hard and forced herself to speak. "Welcome back," she said, barely above a whisper. Her voice always felt thinner around him.

She wiped her hands on a towel, closing the book with a soft thump as his footsteps approached. She didn't turn to face him until she had to. When she did, he was already standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his radiating presence like heat from a fire. His sharp eyes rested on her with quiet satisfaction, as though she were part of the house now, a fixture he'd acquired.

He stepped forward, and she stiffened without meaning to. Her fingers clutched the towel tighter.