Chapter 42: A Quiet Return

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The elevator ride felt longer than I remembered.

Maybe because everything felt slightly sharpened—the cold metal rail against my palm, the soft hum of the cables, even the air that smelled faintly of polished marble and Kaito’s cologne. I hadn’t smelled that in seven days.

Seven long days.

My reflection stared back at me in the brushed steel doors. My hair was still a little wind-tossed from the morning train ride. My hands were still cold, even through gloves. I flexed them, trying to shake off the lingering nerves.

I shouldn’t be this tense. But my heart didn’t care.

Tomorrow is fine.

His last message had repeated in my mind all the way back to the city, even though I told myself not to overthink it. He hadn’t said anything strange. He hadn’t sounded upset. He always sounded composed.

But the way he’d looked in those press photos…

Tired. Pale. A little hollow around the eyes.

I tried not to think about it too much.

The elevator chimed.

Penthouse floor.

I stepped out, instinct guiding me toward the entry keypad. I unlocked the door, slipped inside—

And froze.

The air inside wasn’t the same.

Warmer, but heavy. Too still. Too quiet.

“Kaito…-san?” I called softly, out of habit more than expectation.

No answer.

My cleaning cart waited neatly where I’d left it before the scandal broke. I pushed it forward gently, wheels humming across the floor. I moved room by room: the foyer—untouched. The kitchen—slightly disorganized, which meant he’d probably eaten here instead of skipping meals entirely.

Good.

But the dining area was dim. The curtains half-drawn. Papers scattered on the table, as if someone had tried to work but couldn’t stay focused.

I stepped deeper inside, toward the living room—

And that’s when I saw him.

Slumped on the far end of the sofa.

Still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Head lowered, one hand pressed against his temple.

I stopped breathing.

“K-Kaito-san?”

He didn’t look up at first. His shoulders rose in a slow inhale—too slow. Then he lifted his head and blinked toward me, eyes struggling to focus.

For a moment, I thought he didn’t recognize me.

“Hana,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse. “You’re… back.”

“Yes,” I whispered, stepping closer. “I am. I—I just arrived. Are you… are you alright?”

He exhaled through his nose, controlled but shaky. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

That wasn’t tired.

That was pale skin, faint sheen of sweat, dark circles under eyes too sharp for someone who supposedly slept last night.

He looked like he was composed out of paper and stubbornness.

“You don’t look fine,” I said before I could stop myself.

His gaze flickered—something unreadable passing through it.

“It’s nothing,” he said, leaning back as if the motion took effort. “A cold. Stress. It will resolve.”

Stress.

Cold.

Two simple words, but something twisted behind them, something he clearly didn’t intend to share. Something heavier than the symptoms he listed.

I moved closer, unthinking. “You shouldn’t be sitting here like this. Did you sleep at all last night?”

A pause. Then a quiet, dry, “No.”

“Why?”

“I had work.”

But the papers behind him didn’t look worked on—only moved around. Touched and abandoned. A scatter pattern I recognized from my brothers during exam season: the shape of a mind that kept drifting.

His breathing wasn’t steady.

I set my cleaning cloth aside, kneeling slightly to meet his eyes. “Kaito-san… you’re sick.”

He didn’t deny it this time. Just closed his eyes for a brief second, jaw tightening—as if admitting it even nonverbally cost him pride that he usually kept razor-sharp.

“I’ll manage,” he muttered.

“You shouldn’t manage alone.”

The words slipped out before I could pull them back.

His eyes opened—quiet, unreadable, a hint of something fragile at the edges.

The silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable. Just… weighted.

He spoke first, voice softer than I’d ever heard from him.

“You didn’t need to rush back.”

“I didn’t rush,” I lied gently. “I just… came back.”

He studied me in a way that made my throat tighten—not intense, not calculating. Just quietly relieved.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

“Let me at least get you some water,” I said, standing quickly before the moment could swallow me whole.

He didn’t stop me.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t say anything except a soft murmur that might have been my name.

As I moved to the kitchen, heart rattling strangely in my chest, one thing became clear:

He had not taken care of himself while I was gone.

He looked like he hadn’t even thought about taking care of himself.

And I didn’t know why…

…but I knew I couldn’t just walk away from him like this.

Not today.

Not now.

Not after seven days of silence that had clearly cost him far more than he ever let on.