After the spar ends, early-afternoon light spills into the room, carrying fresh air that chases away the stale heat of training. Ryoma breathes it in, letting the quiet settle where the system's warnings and phantom blows had been.
The bath comes next. He sinks into the hot water until it reaches his shoulders, muscles loosening inch by inch. The ache doesn't vanish, but it dulls, turning manageable.
He closes his eyes, counts his breaths, and lets the tension drain out of him. By the time he showers and lies down afterward, exhaustion pulls him under without resistance.
When he wakes, the clock has already crept past four.
Downstairs, the kitchen greets him with familiar stillness. He washes his hands, ties an apron, and begins preparing dinner out of habit, enough for two, like always.
But halfway through, with knife paused above the board, he stops.
"…Why not invite them too," he mutters.
