He didn't look up from the microphone, fingers dancing over the soundboard as he transitioned into the next segment of his live broadcast. His voice was warm, theatrical, a stark contrast to the dim, cluttered basement around him—shelves of vinyl records, tangled cables, and a single armchair that had seen better decades.

The footsteps were too light. Too hesitant.

Hizashi's eyes finally flicked up, and there they were—Y/n, standing at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the railing like it was the only thing keeping them anchored. They looked small in the doorway, framed by the pale light spilling down from the hall.

From upstairs, the faint sound of Shouta's nap—a low, rumbling snore that vibrated through the floorboards.