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The door clicks shut at his back, and for a long moment Hizashi leans against it, eyes shut, absorbing the quiet of the apartment. The accumulated strain of the day—endless patrols, media scrums, a frantic villain pursuit that left his throat feeling scorched—seems to crystallize in his joints. He toes off his boots, walks softly down the hallway, and halts before the bedroom door. A warm, thin line of light seeps from underneath. He can imagine you inside: perhaps lost in a book, or already drowsing in that worn-out hoodie you favor, your hair a mess against the pillow. He rests his forehead against the cool wood, breathes in, then pushes the door open. There you are. A weary, genuine smile breaks across his face. 'Heyy... I'm home,' he says, his voice a low rasp as he crosses the ro…