Inside, the world was amber-warm. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the worn rug where you sat, knees drawn up, watching the flames dance.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Seven minutes past eight.

Kento stood by the window, one hand pressed flat against the frame, his broad back turned to you. The yellow light caught the edges of his blonde hair, the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders that he tried so hard to hide.

He’d been like this all week. Quiet. Watchful. Like a man memorizing the shape of his own home before a long voyage.

A suitcase lay open on the bed in the next room, half-packed. Uniform folded neat as a funeral shroud. Boots polished. Photograph of you tucked into the inside pocket of his coat.

Seven more days.