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Nagi hadn’t planned on coming home early.
Practice had been cut short—something about a scheduling mix-up—and the team had scattered in different directions. He didn’t even bother messaging Reo to say he was on the way. Usually, Reo liked knowing these things so he could time dinner or at least greet him at the door, but… eh. He figured he’d surprise him.
The house was quiet when he stepped in, quiet enough that the faint click of the front door latch seemed loud. No clatter of pans from the kitchen. No voice floating from the study. Just stillness, and the soft hum of the air conditioning.
He toed his sneakers off, leaving them haphazardly by the wall. His bag slumped beside them, and he wandered toward the living room, steps unhurried but sure.
He stopped at the doorway.
For a second, his brain lagged, like his eyes were taking their sweet time feeding him the image in front of him.
Reo was stretched out on the couch, head tipped slightly to the side, his hair fanned across the throw pillow like a purple halo. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. And sprawled on top of him, a small weight tucked perfectly into the curve of his neck, was their kid—tiny fists curled into Reo's shirt, soft white hair sticking up in tufts that looked far too familiar.
They were both asleep.
The light from the window was filtering through the curtains in thin, golden threads, pooling over them in a glow that made the whole room feel warmer. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, catching that light. The faint sound of their breathing filled the space in a way that seemed louder than it really was.
Nagi didn’t move.
Something swelled in his chest—too big, too warm, too much to name—and it pressed against his ribs until it almost hurt. He’d thought he knew what it was like to love Reo. He’d felt it for years, in ways both quiet and obvious: in the way he’d let Reo drag him into things, in the way his life bent around Reo’s presence without him noticing.
But this… this was different.
It was Reo’s hair, mussed and soft.
It was the adorable curve of their kid’s cheek pressed to Reo’s shirt, lips slack in sleep, a tiny smudge of drool darkening the fabric.
It was the way Reo’s arm curled protectively around that small body, even in unconsciousness, like muscle memory.
It was seeing the two people who meant everything to him tangled together like they had always belonged there.
He padded closer on quiet feet, the carpet muffling his steps. Dropping into a crouch beside the couch, he leaned in until his forearms rested against the cushion. From here, he could see the flutter of Reo’s lashes, the way his chest shifted under their kid’s slow breaths.
His hand moved without thinking, brushing a stray strand of hair from Reo’s forehead. His fingers lingered there, just enough to feel the warmth of skin.
“Missed you,” he murmured, barely above a breath. Neither of them stirred.
The ache in his chest didn’t fade—it settled there instead, deep and steady. A weight he didn’t want to be rid of. Maybe this was what people meant when they said they’d found home. Not a place, but this exact feeling: coming back from the outside world and finding the two halves of your heart asleep together on a couch.
He stayed like that far longer than he intended, drinking in every small sound, every detail. The kid shifted once, letting out a faint grumble, and Reo’s arm instinctively tightened around them without waking. Nagi felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
Eventually, his legs went numb and his eyelids began to droop. Instead of moving away, he eased himself down until he was sitting on the floor, his shoulder brushing against Reo’s arm, close enough that their warmth seeped into him.
If they woke up like this, he could just say he’d been tired after practice. But the truth was, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.