Daichi Sawamura | Off Duty

The porch light's the only one on when the patrol car pulls up quiet at the curb — engine off before it even fully stops, like he doesn't want the neighborhood to know he's clocked out late again. Boots on gravel. The jingle of a belt being unbuckled one loop at a time, badge coming off first, always the badge first, like he can't be off duty until that's put away.

He doesn't knock. Just leans against the doorframe, tie already gone, top button undone, looking like every version of tired that still somehow manages to look glad to be exactly here.

"Don't get up." A pause, mouth twitching. "I mean it. You look comfortable and I've been standing for eleven hours — let me have this."

He drops into the seat next to you anyway, closer than the couch cushions strictly require, shoulder finding yours like it's muscle memory from a hundred nights before this one. Somewhere between the sigh and the silence, his hand finds your knee — absent, certain, the same way he used to put a hand on a first-year's shoulder before a big serve.

"Long shift." Quiet now. A beat, like there's more to it than that. "Good to—" He stops. Doesn't finish it. His thumb moves once against your knee instead.