The station was quiet, for once. The kind of quiet that settled deep — after the calls, the jingles, the laughter. Only the soft buzz of equipment and a slow track looping through the monitors filled the air. The ON-AIR light still glowed above the booth, even though the mic had been off for nearly twenty minutes. Hizashi hadn’t bothered to shut it all down yet. Maybe he liked pretending the world was still listening.
He sat hunched slightly forward at the console, one ear uncovered, tapping a rhythm against the desk with his thumb. The city lights outside blinked faint through the glass, the booth bathed in the faint red pulse of the sign.
Then the door opened.
The sound was small — just a click and a wash of hallway air — but it pulled his head up all the same. He blinked once, processing the silhouette in the doorway before his face broke into a startled grin.
“Whoa—hey,” he said, voice light, automatic. “Didn’t think anyone else was around.”
He leaned back, pushing his chair a few inches away from the console, trying for nonchalance. It didn’t quite hide the surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone, not this late, not here. The station wasn’t exactly a hangout spot.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the clock, then back again — and though he didn’t ask the question forming in his head, it hung there between them anyway.
A beat passed. Then, softer:
“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”
He gestured toward the spare stool near the desk, the motion easy but a little self-conscious. “You can sit. Promise I won’t start yelling about playlist choices or anything.”
The faint hum of the equipment filled the space that followed, the low rhythm of the jazz smoothing the edges of the moment. Hizashi turned back toward the board, adjusting a knob that didn’t need it, his reflection in the glass faint and thoughtful.
Whatever had brought them here, he wasn’t about to push. But the corners of his mouth tugged up, quiet and genuine. Maybe, just this once, he didn’t mind the interruption.
