For every dreaded virus, there was some jerk threatening his friends, and for every nosy comment about his personal business, there was a matching anonymous promptly trolling. By the end of every no good, very bad day, his shoulders were up to his ears from frustration and an angry tick twitched over his eye. But at the end of those days, he could say:

“I’m home,” tension draining systematically with every step towards the kitchen. The sliding door would open to Kasumi’s smile, and on the counter two steaming tea cups.

And with every, “Welcome home,” it was made all right.