Sep 13, 2025
uh oh.. Overheating
seen from T1
seen from Germany
seen from Canada
seen from Finland
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from T1
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Netherlands
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Romania
seen from Guatemala
seen from T1
seen from Slovakia
seen from Portugal
seen from Sweden
seen from Italy
seen from Australia
uh oh.. Overheating
Them
݂ ۫ 🐰💭 mbm
Better Late Than Never Pt.1
Kamimoto Kotone x Male Reader
Fluff
Kamimoto Kotone was always moving one way or another.
Throughout the day and sometimes into the late hours of the night, she was always busy doing something especially when her job was a cook. If you found her, she could be taking on orders, cooking said orders, and serving them. Even then, her job wasn't done.
After the last plate was handed over the counter and the final customer disappeared through the door with a polite nod, there were still pans to scrub. Counters to wipe. Oil to filter. The floor, always somehow sticky, needed mopping. And then, maybe then, she'd sit. Sometimes. If her legs didn't protest too loudly.
The chicken katsu place she worked at was small, wedged between a laundromat and a shuttered shoe repair shop. It smelled of soy sauce and vinegar and fried things that lingered in your clothes no matter how briefly you stepped inside. Locals loved it. Office workers stopped by. College students ordered takeout in packs. But no one stayed past eleven.
No one except him.
(YN) wasn't the loudest customer, or the messiest, or even the most demanding.
He was just the latest.
Every night, like clockwork, the doorbell chimed at 11:55 PM, five minutes before close. She never understood how he always timed it so perfectly, like he was lurking around the corner waiting for the lights to dim before swooping in.
She always dreaded working deep into the night, always hated when the dinner rush took longer than expected since she knew there was going to be that one last customer she had to serve.
Ding!
Of course.
Kotone didn't turn around. She didn't have to.
The clink of dress shoes. The soft grunt of someone settling into the stool by the counter. The slight sigh, like he was finally off his feet after a long day—not that she cared.
"Sorry, I don't serve anyone five minutes before midnight," she said, flatly.
"Yet you still took my order last night," came the familiar voice. Calm. Friendly. Like they were old friends.
They weren't.
She turned just enough to shoot him a withering look over her shoulder. He was already in his usual seat, elbow resting on the counter, tie loosened, blazer draped neatly on the stool beside him like he owned the place.
"Yeah, well," she muttered, "I was in a good mood. Don't expect it to happen again."
"I'll take my chances."
That was the thing about him. He never flinched. Never rose to her bait. Just sat there, smiling, like he thought she was funny. Like he enjoyed being hated.
"You want the usual?" she asked, already pulling out the panko and chicken breast.
He nodded, folding his hands on the counter like a well-mannered schoolboy. "Extra sauce, please."
"You are so specific for someone who eats like a stray cat."
"I like what I like."
Kotone huffed and turned back to the fryer. The oil hadn't even cooled yet. Of course it hadn't. It knew he was coming, just like she did. It was muscle memory at this point—coat, dip, bread, drop into the fryer. She didn't even have to think about it anymore.
She hated that.
And she hated how he always looked so damn relaxed in her shop, like it was his personal hideaway from the world. Like this tiny, grease-slicked chicken joint at the edge of town was something he got to enjoy, not something she had to survive.
"You ever consider eating dinner at, I don't know, a normal hour?" she asked as the katsu sizzled.
"Too busy."
"You're a salaryman, not the Prime Minister."
"Still busy."
She glanced back at him. He looked tired tonight. Not the usual kind, either—not just paperwork-tired or commuting-tired. There was a stiffness to his posture, a dullness in his eyes he didn't usually carry.
It annoyed her more than it should have.
"You ever consider letting someone else cook for once?" she said, flipping the cutlet.
He smiled. "That's exactly what I'm doing."
She wanted to smack him.
Instead, she plated the dish in silence. Hot rice, crisp golden cutlet, some sliced up lettuce, double sauce. She didn't hand it to him—just slid it across the counter like she was trying to push him out with it.
He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. Then said, as if it were the first time:
"It's really good."
Kotone blinked. "What?"
"Your food. It's the best I've had."
She stared at him, unamused. "Flattery's not going to get you a discount."
He laughed softly. "Wasn't trying to."
He didn't say anything else after that. Just kept eating, slow and quiet, like he wasn't in a rush. Like he actually liked being there.
She hated that too.
The night continued how it always did. He ate in silence, and she finally got around to cleaning the kitchen.
Kotone wiped down the fryer with practiced precision, her back to him, letting the sound of chopsticks and soft chewing blend into the clinks and scrapes of closing time. She scrubbed harder than necessary, maybe hoping the sound would drown out his presence. It didn't.
He never lingered longer than needed. Never overstayed. But he never rushed either. And for some reason, that bothered her too.
When she turned back to check if he was finished, she found the plate empty, his tray pushed neatly to the side. He had already stacked the used dishes. Napkin folded. Cup drained.
But what caught her eye wasn't the tray.
It was the small can of milk coffee sitting next to it—unopened, chilled, still sweating from the vending machine.
And a sticky note stuck on top.
"For the chef. Looks like you skipped dinner again. —(YN)."
She stared at it for a long moment, arms crossed, heart mildly irritated.
It wasn't the first time he'd left something like that.
Last week, it had been a pack of heat pads. Before that, throat lozenges. Once, absurdly, a single-use face mask with "good for grease-heavy days" scribbled on the wrapper. She'd thrown that one out immediately.
She didn't like that he noticed.
Didn't like that he paid attention.
Didn't like that, for a stranger who only ever came at the worst possible hour, he somehow saw more than most people did all day.
Kotone picked up the coffee, turning it over in her hands before walking back to the kitchen and placing it in the freezer.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Kotone was sometimes glad she didn't open up early in the morning. For one, it gave her just enough time to buy everything she needed in the morning before the day turned to noon and sometimes it gave her some leeway to sleep in more.
But today, she stood in front of the subway station, not with her sleeves rolled up and not with an apron on.
Just her coat. A canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder. No grease stains, no hair tied back. Just her. Kamimoto Kotone, a regular girl off her way to grab some groceries.
The wind picked up, tugging strands of her hair into her eyes. She squinted at the map near the entrance, double-checking the station lines. She didn't come out this way often, not when her world revolved around fryers and metal counters and the ever-present smell of oil. But the restaurant's had way too many people who asked for way too much.
She sighed, stepping into the station.
And that's when she saw him.
(YN), standing by the vending machine in his full salaryman uniform. Neatly pressed coat, scarf tucked in with surgical precision, hair still damp at the ends like he'd rushed out mid-shower. He hadn't seen her yet. He was leaning down, peering at the drink options like it was the most complicated decision of the morning.
Her first thought was to step behind a pillar and hide but that didn't stop her from looking from the side.
There he was. Salaryman of the midnight hour, looking oddly out of place in the bright, everyday bustle of the morning crowd. He tapped a finger against the glass of the vending machine, expression unusually serious, like choosing between lemon tea and canned coffee might alter the course of his entire life.
It should've been boring.
But instead, Kotone found herself watching longer than she meant to.
He looked different under daylight. Less like a late-night nuisance, more like a real person. Slightly hunched shoulders. Tired eyes. Something worn and human in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck like he was already counting the hours until he could clock out again.
She hated that.
She hated that he had a morning routine. That he existed outside her restaurant. That he wasn't just a customer she could complain about to the fryer.
When the train soon arrived, she didn't waste much time walking through the doors and finding herself a seat. As the people filtered in though, she saw him.
His head swerved from each end of the cart, maybe to find himself a seat.
Kotone looked away, in fear that he might spot her there but when nothing came of it, she looked back.
He found himself a seat between the crowd but when an elderly woman came to stand in front of him, he didn't hesitate to give it up.
No dramatics. No fuss.
Just a quiet gesture, followed by a small bow as he stepped aside and steadied her gently by the elbow before letting go.
Kotone watched the whole thing from her seat across the aisle, arms folded tight over her bag, pretending she wasn't watching.
She didn't know why it stuck with her.
It wasn't like he'd cured cancer. Or offered her a raise. Or stopped showing up five minutes before midnight. He was still annoying. Still smug. Still came around like clockwork, always with the same damn order, the same too-polite tone, the same irritating smile.
And yet.
She stared out the window as the train began to move, buildings sliding past in a blur. Her reflection flickered faintly in the glass—eyes narrowed, jaw tight, like she was trying to reason with herself.
He had a job. He rode trains. He gave up his seat without thinking twice.
And he always said thank you.
And sometimes, he left her coffee.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, as if the train itself had nudged her.
This wasn't supposed to be complicated. He was just a customer. A regular pain in her side who happened to have a name she refused to use. He wasn't supposed to be decent.
Kotone leaned her head back against the train wall and closed her eyes.
She wasn't thinking about him. Not really.
She was just tired.
Probably
That's all.
.
.
.
.
.
(YN) arrived at the office at 8:12 AM.
He wasn't late. Never was. If anything, he was the one who made sure the lights were on and the coffee machine was working when everyone else filtered in yawning, half-awake, murmuring complaints about the weather or the train delays.
No one asked how his commute was.
They never did.
The receptionist smiled at him out of habit, and he returned it with the same small nod he gave every morning. His bag was light, he always carried light, but the weight never seemed to leave his shoulders.
His desk was where it always was: in the corner, near the copier, far enough from the windows that he couldn't see the sky, close enough to the hallway that people passed by constantly.
"Morning, (YN)-san."
"Hey, do you have a minute?"
"Mind reviewing this real quick?"
He hadn't even sat down yet.
His chair creaked as he finally lowered himself into it. A sticky note clung to his keyboard. Not from his supervisor. Not from anyone with authority. Just a pink square with slanted handwriting:
"Sorry to dump this here. Client needs edits by 3!"
No name. No thanks.
Just assumed he'd do it. Because he always did.
He peeled the sticky note off his keyboard and stared at it for a moment.
The handwriting was vaguely familiar, but he didn't try to place it. There wasn't much point. Whoever left it knew he'd do it. They always did. Not because he owed them anything, not because it was his job, but because he'd never once said no.
He stuck the note to the side of his monitor. It joined a line of similar ones—pastel-colored apologies with no names, little favor 'I owe yous' no one intended to collect.
A row of anonymous gratitude.
His inbox was already filling up.
One message asked if he could sit in on a pitch presentation later that afternoon, "Only if you're free!" it said, followed by a smiley face and a line break, "(But we told the client you'd be there already)."
Another asked him to "take a quick look" at an onboarding document that was half-complete and poorly formatted.
He sighed through his nose and opened the first one. Quick look. Always a quick look. Funny how much of his life was made of "just for a sec"s and "mind helping?"s that turned into full afternoons.
By 8:37 AM, he had a document open, headphones in, fingers already correcting phrasing he didn't write and slides he'd never seen until today.
By 8:42 AM, someone tapped his shoulder.
"Sorry—(YN)-san? Real quick, do you remember what Tanaka-san said about the Q2 figures during last week's call?"
He paused, lifted an earbud, and repeated the numbers and phrasing exactly. The woman smiled gratefully and disappeared before he could put the bud fully back in.
He hadn't even had his coffee yet.
It was like this every morning.
No hostility. No yelling. Just a quiet, relentless draining. Like a phone battery left on low-power mode too long. He still worked. Still functioned. But more and more often, he found himself blanking out in elevators. Forgetting how he got from his desk to the breakroom. Re-reading emails three, four times before answering.
He looked up briefly. Across the floor, people were chatting. Laughing. One of the newer hires had brought donuts. There was a gathering near her desk, paper napkins and smiles, the scent of icing spreading faintly through the recycled air.
No one offered him one.
Not because they disliked him.
Just because no one thought to.
At 9:13 AM, he finally stood up and walked to the kitchenette.
The coffee machine was making that weird sputtering sound again. He refilled the beans. Replaced the filter. Tossed the old grounds and wiped the counter. By the time he poured himself a cup, three others had walked in, poured theirs, and walked out.
He didn't mind. Or maybe he was just used to it.
Back at his desk, he set the coffee down beside the dented energy drink from yesterday. Still unopened. Still where someone left it because "you look like you need this."
He often did.
By 10:00 AM, he was already deep into someone else's spreadsheet, fixing the cells they hadn't double-checked. The meeting he was supposed to "just attend" had turned into one he led entirely, while the person who invited him sat back and let him talk.
They praised the clarity of the data.
No one asked who made the graphs.
Someone thanked Masaki-kun for "his work on the report." and he smiled like he had.
(YN) didn't say anything. Not even when his name was left off the follow-up summary email.
Lunch came and went.
He didn't eat right away. He worked a bit longer, replying to a message marked "URGENT" that, once opened, was about moving the office plants to a sunnier window.
Then he sat in the breakroom, quiet and alone with a soggy sandwich and his phone screen dimmed to save battery.
He scrolled. Saw a picture someone posted of a dog in a café.
Saw a sponsored ad for travel pillows.
Saw a blurry photo of someone's dinner. Fried pork cutlet, shredded cabbage.
His thumb hovered for a moment.
The cutlet didn't look that good. Uneven crust. Greasy rice. The cabbage wasn't even dressed.
He thought of hers.
He didn't mean to.
But he did.
When he returned to his desk, there was another sticky note.
"Client changed their mind, needs a third version of the deck. Sorry sorry!! :("
Same pink stationery. Same handwriting.
He sat down without a word. Took a sip of lukewarm coffee.
Then opened the file again.
.
.
.
When the night had finally settled in the city, he was still inside the office space.
The overhead lights had switched off, he was the only one left so there was no use of keeping them on for anyone else.
The only glow came from his monitor, a faint rectangle of blue-white that lit his face in tired angles.
His jacket was draped over the back of his chair. His tie lay crumpled beside his keyboard. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing wrists marked faintly from where his watch had once been.
He blinked slowly at the screen, eyes burning.
Another revision. Another chart that didn't balance. A note in red font from someone who had already gone home hours ago.
He shifted in his chair. His back ached. His legs felt heavy. He hadn't stood in—he didn't even know how long.
In the silence, the hum of the monitor felt too loud. His own breathing felt too loud.
He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
He opened them again and saw the empty cubicles in front of him, from people whom he heard were going out for drinks earlier. They asked him if he wanted to join but they didn't ask again when he said he had more work to do.
Outside, the city moved on without him.
Neon signs blinked in the rain-slick streets. Trains rattled in the distance. Laughter from bars echoed down narrow alleys, mixing with the hiss of tires on wet asphalt and the occasional chirp of a closing crosswalk.
People were living. Eating. Loving. Going home.
And he was still here, doing work no one asked him to do but expected him to.
Maybe that was what was wrong with him.
He helped people more than he ever helped himself. Gave more than he had, without thinking twice. Smiled, nodded, agreed—until those things became automatic. Expected. Unquestioned.
Somewhere along the way, he'd mistaken being agreeable for being good.
Helping people has always been easy. It was noble. Clean. It made you likable. Reliable. The kind of person who gets compliments in breakroom conversations.
"He's such a lifesaver,"
"Always so helpful,"
"You can count on him."
And he lived off that. That praise. That image.
Not because he was vain, but because there was something quietly addicting about approval. About being needed. About knowing people looked at him and saw someone dependable. Someone useful.
But the truth was that it didn't help when you couldn't say no.
When you offered a hand and people took your arm. When you agreed to cover a task and they started leaving it on your desk without asking. When "Of course" and "Sure, I've got it" became your default replies, even as your back ached and your inbox overflowed and your dinner stayed uneaten in your bag.
Because people loved a helpful person.
They just didn't think about what it cost him.
No one ever asked if he had the time. If he had the energy. If he was okay.
They assumed he was. Because he never gave them a reason to think otherwise.
That was the role he'd written for himself: the dependable one. The first to say yes, the last to complain.
The invisible middleman.
He'd carved himself into a shape that fit everyone else's needs.
And now he didn't know how to take up space for himself.
.
.
.
When he was finally done with what he needed to do and what was left to do, he stood slowly, rolling his shoulders as his spine ached. The soles of his feet tingled as blood returned to them. One of his knees cracked. It made him feel older than he was.
He pulled on his coat. Stiff movements, like a machine resetting.
The hallway lights were still on, thankfully. But some flickered above him as he walked to the elevator, his footsteps echoing louder than they had any right to.
The building lobby was silent. The security guard had long since dozed off behind the front desk, head tilted back against the wall. (YN) bowed faintly in passing. He always did, even when no one saw.
He stepped into the night and immediately felt the city's pulse.
Cool, humid air. The smell of rain and engine fumes. Blinking lights. The occasional gust of wind slipping under his collar like fingers.
Everything was still moving.
And he was just. . .tired.
.
.
.
He stood at the crosswalk outside the station, watching a drunk couple stumble-laugh into a ramen shop across the street. Music blared faintly from a second-floor bar. A delivery bike zoomed past.
His stomach growled.
He hadn't eaten since the sandwich at lunch. The one he finished cold and hunched in the breakroom, the taste already forgotten the moment it was swallowed.
He could go home. Sleep. Microwave something. Lie awake staring at the ceiling until it was time to do everything again.
Or maybe. . .he could take the long way.
The late train would still run. The back streets would still be lit. And he knew somewhere, between the laundromat and the shuttered shoe repair shop, a small restaurant would still have its sign glowing.
A girl with tired eyes and sharp words would probably be wiping the counter.
She'd sigh when he walked in. Maybe say something mean. Maybe call him a stray cat again.
But she'd feed him. And for a little while, the world would feel less like it was slipping out from under him.
.
.
.
.
.
.
(YN) walked down the narrow street, the path more familiar now than unfamiliar. He could trace it in his sleep, the soft glow of the convenience store on the corner, the vending machine that always blinked "Out of Service," the small patch of sidewalk where the asphalt cracked in a perfect crescent.
Then, just ahead, he spotted it.
That little shop tucked between buildings taller than it had any business standing beside. The windows slightly fogged from the heat inside. The open sign still flipped toward the street, glowing faintly under the dim awning light.
He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh, but close.
She was still open.
He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.
For a moment, he stayed where he was, hands deep in his pockets, staring through the glass like someone who didn't quite belong inside. Like a stranger. But then the wind pushed at his back, and habit did the rest.
Not long, he focused his reflection, staring back at him. He looked more disheveled than he'd like. His tie was somehow crooked, the top button of his shirt already given away and his hair was pushed back than what he'd fixed it to in the morning.
He shook his head slightly, letting his hair settle in front of him and not caring much if it looked messy before his lips thinned into a small rehearsed smile.
He stepped forward. Reached for the door.
.
.
.
DING!
.
.
.
Kamimoto Kotone was standing in the kitchen, in front of the sink. The sound of running water filled the small restaurant like a low, steady hum, a kind of white noise that gave her company as she scrubbed through plate after plate, hands moving without thought.
Soap. Rinse. Stack. Repeat.
It was late. She was almost done. Just a few more dishes and she could finally shut everything down. Sit. Maybe drink the last canned tea from the fridge. Maybe stare at her phone and pretend she wasn't already thinking about tomorrow's prep list.
The faucet continued its dull hiss.
But even that wasn't loud enough to drown out the unmistakable sound of the doorbell.
Ding!
Of course.
She didn't turn around.
Didn't say anything.
Just let the water run a few seconds longer than necessary before shutting it off with a short twist. She wiped her hands briskly on a dish towel, slow footsteps echoing in the quiet as she walked out from behind the sink.
And there he was.
(YN). Hair a little wind-tousled. Tie crooked close to his coat pocket. His usual slumped shoulders carrying more than just fatigue tonight.
He closed the door behind him gently, as if trying not to disturb anything—even though his mere presence always did.
"You know what time it is?" She asked, arms crossed, not even pretending to hide her exasperation.
He nodded, faintly. "I was nearby."
"You say that every time."
"I mean it every time."
She scowled and moved past him toward the counter. "You're lucky I haven't bolted this door."
"I would've knocked."
"Would've ignored it."
He smiled faintly. "You don't ignore much."
She paused, just a beat too long, before setting the towel down.
"You eating or not?"
He hesitated. And for the first time in a while, that hesitation showed.
"Just the regular."
Kotone nodded her head and already turned her back behind him when he spoke again.
"And maybe a beer. . .if you have any left."
Kotone didn't answer, not with words anyway.
She disappeared into the back, the sound of the fridge door swinging open followed by the soft clink of glass bottles against one another. A few seconds later, she returned, setting a can of beer down in front of him without ceremony.
No glass. No opener. Just a tired glance and a mutter of, "Don't spill it."
(YN) bowed his head slightly. "Thanks."
She was already pulling ingredients from the fridge, reaching for the panko, the container of pre-cut cabbage she hadn't planned on using until tomorrow. Her body moved like it always did—fast, focused, fluid—but something about it felt heavier tonight. Not tired, exactly. But aware.
He was watching her.
Not just the usual casual glance here and there, not the polite kind of watching people did when they didn't want to seem rude. No—tonight, he was watching her like someone trying to anchor themselves in something familiar.
And Kotone, though she didn't say anything, could feel it.
The oil wasn't even hot yet.
"You look like shit," She said bluntly, not turning around.
There was a pause. Then a quiet laugh, low and sheepish.
"Yeah," He said. "I probably do."
She waited, unsure why she had said anything in the first place. She didn't ask questions. That wasn't her role in people's lives. She served food, gave change, wiped tables. Not comfort.
But the silence stretched on. And he didn't offer more.
When she finally turned around again, she found him with his sleeves rolled up and elbows on the counter, nursing the beer like it was the only warm thing in his life right now. His eyes were half-lidded. Less guarded than usual. Less polite.
"You eat today?" She asked.
He hesitated, then gave a half-shrug. "Some crackers in the break room."
"Crackers don't count."
"I know."
She went quiet again. Turned back to the fryer.
The oil was ready.
She dipped the chicken in flour, egg, panko—routine, mindless, automatic. But her hands moved slower tonight. A little more carefully. Like maybe, for once, it wasn't just food she was handing over.
When she plated the katsu and rice, she didn't push it toward him like usual.
She set it down, gently. Gave him chopsticks.
He looked at the plate, then up at her. His eyes lingered a little longer this time.
"...You always cook like this?" He asked.
"Like what?"
"Like you're doing someone a favor you didn't want to agree to."
She blinked. Then, slowly, allowed a small smirk to tug at the corner of her mouth.
"Only for you."
(YN) laughed softly, real. Something about it filled the room in a way the overhead lights never did.
He picked up the chopsticks, and for a moment, they sat in silence. No words. Just the sound of him chewing, the gentle fizz of his beer, and the low hum of the fridge in the back.
Neither of them said anything else for a long time.
When Kotone turned around and went into the kitchen, she would return with a plate of her own. She set it near him, not in front, not directly, just near.
"Better to eat my dinner here than to reheat something at home." She said before he could say anything.
But he didn't, nothing came.
He just sat silently and ate his food.
Kotone ate without looking at him. She sat at the far end of the counter, elbows on the wood, chopsticks in one hand, the other supporting her cheek. The posture of someone too used to eating alone to care how it looked.
The food had gone slightly cold from sitting too long, but she didn't mind. She chewed methodically, letting the silence stretch. Not awkward or anything at all. Like the space between them had finally decided what it wanted to be and that was to be nothing.
From the corner of her eye, she could see him still working through his food. Not fast. Not distracted. Just present in a way most people weren't, even when they sat across from you.
Kotone lifted her own can to take a sip, letting the silence stretch out even more.
"Have you always wanted to open your own restaurant?" She heard him ask suddenly, breaking the silence.
She didn't answer right away.
The question wasn't complicated. But something in the way he asked it—soft, almost unsure—made her pause. She lowered the can slowly, letting it rest against the counter.
The steam rising from both their plates had thinned by now. The food was half-eaten. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly in the background.
Kotone shrugged, eyes still on her plate.
"Since when did this become an interview?"
There it was, a massive wall of ice she kept when other people were around like it was some kind of mechanism that shot up when someone tried to get close.
Kotone didn't look up. Her voice wasn't harsh, but it wasn't warm either. Just a practiced kind of deflection, honed over years of being too busy for small talk, too tired for questions that didn't lead to anything useful.
(YN) didn't flinch. He just nodded slowly, eyes still on his plate, like he expected that answer and maybe even deserved it.
"Sorry," He said, after a pause. "Didn't mean to pry."
She didn't say anything.
The silence settled in again, thicker this time. Not tense but not as easy as before. Just two people sitting with everything they weren't saying.
She stabbed at a piece of cabbage with her chopsticks. Chewed. Swallowed.
Then, after a long beat, she spoke.
"I didn't open it. I inherited it."
(YN) looked up, just slightly.
She didn't meet his eyes. Just stared at the counter like she was reading something only she could see.
"It was my uncle's place. He got sick. Left me the keys." She gave a small shrug. "Didn't really plan on doing this. It just. . .happened."
She sipped from her can.
"I used to hate frying things," She added. "Now I do it for twelve hours a day."
His lips curled just barely at the corners, but he didn't interrupt.
Kotone set her chopsticks down.
"It's not the dream," She said. "But it's something. You can't eat dreams."
That made him chuckle. A quiet, breathy sound.
"No," He agreed. "You can't."
Another pause.
Then, softly: "Still. You make it feel like one."
She shot him a look. Not angry, just tired. Like she didn't have the energy to deflect twice.
"I'm not trying to impress anyone," she said.
"I know."
He looked down at his plate again.
"I think that's why it tastes so good."
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Kotone reached for her chopsticks again, but her fingers hesitated around them. She stared at them instead, like they belonged to someone else.
"You always talk like this?" She muttered. "Like you're writing a letter no one asked for?"
That made him laugh again—louder this time. A low, rough sound that startled even him. He shook his head slightly, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Sorry," He said. "It's late. I get sentimental when I'm tired."
Kotone looked at him for a long moment. Then, against her better judgment, let out a short, dry chuckle.
"Well. Stop it."
He nodded. "Yes, chef."
She groaned.
"Don't call me that."
"Yes, Kotone-san."
She narrowed her eyes at him. He just smiled again—tired, but honest. And somehow, that made it harder to stay mad.
They finished their meal without another word. Just the scrape of chopsticks, the low buzz of the fridge, the occasional creak of their stools.
And when he finally stood to leave, he didn't say "good night." Just gave her a small nod, placed his empty can neatly beside hers, and walked to the door.
It was almost closed when she called out, softly, without thinking:
"Hey."
He paused, hand on the frame. Turned back.
"Don't come tomorrow," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"I'm closing early."
A beat.
"Maintenance?"
"No." She leaned on the counter, chin in her hand. "I'm tired. I want a night off."
He didn't ask what she'd do with it.
Didn't pry.
He just nodded again.
"...Take care, Kotone-san."
The bell above the door chimed once, soft and familiar.
And then she was alone again.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It had been three days.
Three whole nights without him.
No late bell chime. No last-minute order. No smug request for "extra sauce." No quietly folded canned coffee or sticky note left behind.
Kotone told herself it was a relief.
She'd gotten to close early. Clean without rushing. Eat her dinner in silence without needing to cook one more plate. She even walked home once, taking the long way just to remind herself what the neighborhood looked like after eleven.
But the empty seat near the counter still stood out.
So when the bell finally rang again, five minutes off midnight on the dot, she didn't flinch.
She just said, without turning, "I thought I told you not to come."
"I waited my three days," came his voice. Still quiet. Still maddeningly calm.
Kotone turned, arms crossed, but something in her expression lacked bite.
(YN) looked the same—creased shirt, tired eyes, the kind of face that had probably seen more spreadsheets than sunlight—but there was something different, too. Subtle.
His hair was damp again.
But this time so were his eyes.
She squinted at him. "You okay?"
He blinked. "Yeah. Just—tired."
She didn't believe him. But she didn't press.
Instead, she turned back to the kitchen. "You want food?"
He hesitated. "Only if it's not too much trouble."
"Everything's too much trouble, especially from you." She muttered, pulling ingredients from the fridge anyway.
He walked slowly to the counter and sat, elbows resting lightly. He watched her without speaking. Not in the way he used to, curious, vaguely amused, but it was much quieter now. Like someone who'd forgotten what it felt like to be spoken to gently.
Kotone could feel it.
The air felt heavier. Like something had happened. Something he wouldn't say.
She glanced back. "You sure you're fine?"
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He looked up at her to meet her eyes, a thin smile grazing his lips.
She didn't buy it, not one bit but she just shook her head and went back to the fryer.
.
.
.
HOURS EARLIER
.
.
.
(YN) was doing his own work for once—not reviewing someone else's report, not fixing formulas in a spreadsheet he didn't build, not proofing a presentation someone else would get credit for. Just his own quarterly report, due by end of day.
His screen was filled with the kind of numbers that didn't drain him. Sales projections, market comparisons, real data he'd pulled and parsed himself. It was oddly calming—like finally swimming in his own lane after months of treading water for others.
He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his desk, the soft clicking of his keyboard filling the space around him. This—this felt like progress. Quiet, overdue, his.
Then he heard it—a commotion near the printing area.
At first, it barely registered. Just background noise. A sharp voice, clipped and agitated, bouncing off the cubicle walls. Someone else's problem, he told himself. Just once, he'd stay put. Just this once.
But the voice didn't fade.
"If you had double-checked like I told you, this wouldn't have happened."
There was a pause—an awkward, heavy one.
Then came a smaller voice. Younger. Unsure. "I—I thought I did."
(YN)'s fingers stilled over his keyboard.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, like someone bracing for something cold. Then he stood, pushing his chair back gently to avoid making noise, and walked toward the print area.
It was just as he expected.
Takahashi, the freshly hired intern, stood awkwardly beside the large multifunction printer, clutching a stack of paper like it might shield him. His expression was a strange mix of guilt and panic, lips pressed thin, eyebrows drawn so tight they almost touched.
Across from him stood Mori—mid-level, mid-tempered, and always too quick to blame down. His arms were crossed, one foot tapping like he had somewhere more important to be. His voice wasn't loud, but sharp enough to cut.
"You printed the wrong version. Look at this—half the alignment's off, the title font isn't even embedded properly. This was for the external partner review. Do you know how that reflects on us?"
Takahashi mumbled something inaudible, his knuckles whitening around the paper in his hands.
"I said do you—"
"It was me," (YN) said.
Both heads turned toward him. Mori straightened, surprised. Takahashi looked more confused than relieved.
"I updated the slides last night," (YN) continued. "I must've uploaded the wrong version to the shared drive. He just printed what he saw."
A beat of silence passed.
Mori blinked, expression unreadable for a moment. Then he scoffed softly. "That's unlike you, YN-san."
"It happens," he replied, evenly.
Mori gave a vague grunt, then turned away with a muttered, "Just reprint it. And next time, triple-check before we send anything out."
He walked off, satisfied with having someone to blame.
(YN) waited until Mori's footsteps faded before turning to the intern. Takahashi's eyes were wide, still processing what had happened.
"You didn't have to do that," the kid said, voice small.
"I know."
"...But it wasn't your fault."
"It won't be the last time something like this happens," (YN) said gently, reaching out to take the misprinted stack from him. "Better me than you."
He didn't say it out of pride. Or even out of kindness, really. Just a tired knowing. Like someone who had lived long enough in the undercurrent to know how not to drown.
Takahashi bowed deeply, flustered. "I'll be more careful next time."
(YN) nodded, turned, and walked the papers to the shred bin. The pages felt heavier than they should've, the edges already bending under his grip.
Back at his desk, his coffee was cold. His screen turned off from inactivity. His shoulders ached just a little more than before.
He sat down and reopened his report.
The spreadsheet blinked up at him, patient and untouched.
He rubbed his temples, then placed his fingers back on the keyboard.
There was still so much left to do.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The restaurant was quiet tonight.
Too quiet.
Kotone could hear the tick of the wall clock from across the room. The low hum of the fridge. The occasional groan of the pipes in the walls. That was it. No takeout orders. No clatter of coins in the register. Just the kind of stillness that made every sound feel too loud, too exposed.
She stood in the kitchen, half-concealed behind the noren curtain, pretending to clean a stainless steel tray that had already been wiped twice. Her eyes, however, were fixed on the man seated at the counter.
(YN) sat in his usual spot, like always. Same seat. Same order. Same slight bow when she handed him his plate.
But nothing about him felt the same.
He wasn't eating like he usually did—no quiet enthusiasm, no small hum of approval after the first bite. Instead, he pushed the rice around his plate with his chopsticks, movements slow and imprecise. He chewed methodically, without tasting. Without looking up. His shoulders slouched more than usual, his coat hanging loose on him like it had grown heavier over the course of the day.
From the kitchen, she could see the faint lines under his eyes, darker than she remembered. His tie was barely knotted, the crease in his shirt no longer sharp. One sleeve was rolled a little higher than the other, like he hadn't even noticed.
Kotone narrowed her eyes, instincts flaring. She didn't have proof, but she knew something had happened.
And not something small.
This wasn't just fatigue. Not the usual "salaryman running on vending machine coffee fumes" kind of tired. This was something deeper. Like he'd been worn out from the inside. Scraped thin.
She gripped the cloth in her hand a little tighter.
But she didn't step out.
Didn't call his name.
Didn't ask, "Rough day?" even though the words were at the tip of her tongue.
Because what if he answered? What if he actually told her?
What if he looked at her with that soft kind of honesty he had, the one that made her feel like she was more than just the cook behind the counter?
And worse, what if he asked something in return?
"And you? Are you okay?"
She wasn't sure she could lie to him. And she didn't want the truth to slip out.
So instead, Kotone turned away. Opened a drawer just to close it again. Rearranged chopsticks that didn't need rearranging.
Then she heard him.
"Kotone-san, do you have any beer?"
Her hand froze on the chopsticks.
The question wasn't unusual. He'd asked it before—casually, offhand, on nights when his shoulders drooped and his voice softened with exhaustion. But tonight, it landed differently. His tone wasn't quite casual, wasn't quite tired.
It was something else.
Like he needed it.
Kotone straightened slowly, letting the drawer slide shut with a soft click. She stepped out from behind the curtain and walked to the fridge without answering. Didn't look at him. Didn't ask why.
She pulled the door open, grabbed the last two cans at the back, cold and sweating, then walked it over to the counter.
When she set it down in front of him, she didn't slide it like she usually did. Didn't toss a snide remark or mutter "Don't spill it."
She just placed it there, gently, and lingered.
He didn't move to open it right away. His fingers rested on the rim, unmoving. His eyes, tired and dull, stayed fixed on the counter like the lines in the wood might explain something he couldn't.
"You don't have to talk about it," Kotone said, finally, voice low. "But if you want to, I won't stop you."
There was a pause. A long one. So long she thought he wouldn't say anything at all.
Then he exhaled, long, quiet, like letting go of a rope he'd been holding too tight for too long.
"I messed up," He said softly.
Kotone blinked. She didn't expect that.
(YN) wasn't the kind of person who messed up. He was the one who fixed things—quietly, invisibly. The one who took the blame for other people's mistakes, who stayed late to patch holes no one else saw. He was the safety net no one thanked.
"I didn't even do anything wrong," He added, almost to himself. "But I still. . .apologized. Like I always do."
He gave a small laugh, humorless and cracked at the edges.
"I keep thinking if I'm just nice enough, just useful enough, they'll treat me like I matter. But I think—" He broke off, eyes finally lifting to hers. "—I think they only like me when I'm quiet and convenient."
Kotone didn't speak. She didn't know how to fix that. She wasn't sure anyone could.
But she reached for another can from the fridge. Cracked it open. Poured it into a glass for him this time. Not because he asked, but because she wanted to.
Then she sat down across from him. No apron, no tough act. Just Kotone, sleeves rolled up, hair falling loose at her neck.
"Then stop being convenient," She said, voice rough. "Start being selfish."
(YN) stared at her. For a moment, just stared. Then, slowly, he smiled. Not big, not bright. But something real.
The silence returned. But it wasn't heavy anymore. It held something softer now.
And Kotone stayed seated.
"But that's just not who I am." He replied softly.
Kotone let the words settle.
She didn't argue right away not because she agreed, but because she knew better than to speak over a truth someone barely had the strength to admit.
He wasn't wrong.
He wasn't selfish. Couldn't be. It was written in the way he bowed when entering, how he cleared his own tray without being asked, how he never once complained, even on nights when he looked like he was two breaths away from collapsing.
It was in how he always left something behind for her—milk coffee, lozenges, a silent thank you that no one else thought to give.
He'd built his whole life around that quiet, invisible kindness.
Kotone leaned forward slightly, elbows on the counter, resting her chin in one hand. Her voice, when it came, was quieter this time.
"You say it like it's a good thing."
He looked at her, puzzled.
"Like being the person everyone depends on makes up for how tired you are all the time. Like it's noble to be the last one out the door."
He didn't answer, so she kept going.
"I used to think that too," She said, her gaze lowering to the countertop. "That working hard without asking for anything back was the right way to live. That if I just kept going, kept showing up, maybe things would eventually feel... fair."
She picked at a small groove in the wood with her fingernail.
"But the truth is, nobody keeps track. Nobody tallies your good deeds or remembers how many times you said yes when you wanted to say no. They just keep asking."
He watched her, unmoving.
Kotone finally looked up again. Her voice wasn't cold. Just tired. Just honest.
"So if that's not who you are, then fine. But don't pretend like it's not slowly killing you."
The glass of beer sat untouched between them, condensation dripping onto the counter.
(YN) let out a slow breath, like something inside him had unknotted just slightly. Like he hadn't realized how badly he needed someone to call him out—not cruelly, not even sternly, but clearly. Gently. Like someone who saw him and still chose not to look away.
"I don't know how to stop," He admitted.
Kotone's gaze softened. "You don't have to stop all at once."
Then, after a beat, she added, "But maybe you could start here."
He blinked. "Here?"
She nodded. "Be a little selfish. Just here. Just with me."
She reached for her own beer, took a slow sip, and leaned back in her chair like the moment didn't weigh too much on her chest.
"How could I be selfish here?" He asked, slightly amused.
Kotone's mouth curled at the edges, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she set her glass down with a faint clink against the wood and looked at him.
"Simple," She said. "You come here even when you know I'm closing up. You ask for katsu like it's routine, even though it's late. You take up space at the counter even when no one else is around."
She shrugged lightly, her eyes drifting down to the water rings left on the counter.
"You already are. Just not in the way that matters."
(YN) raised an eyebrow. "And what way would that be?"
Kotone met his gaze, quiet but steady. "The kind where you let someone care back."
The words landed gently but without hesitation. They sat between them, bare and unpolished. He didn't react right away, just stared at her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
It wasn't romantic, not exactly. But it was real.
It was someone offering a corner of their world, not asking him to be useful, not needing him to fix anything, just him existing. As he was.
(YN) looked down at the beer, the condensation finally sliding all the way to his fingers. He took a sip, the bitter taste grounding. Then another, longer this time. Kotone didn't push. Just waited, drinking her own beer with quiet patience, eyes on the late-night shadows flickering outside the fogged-up windows.
After a moment, he set his glass down and exhaled.
"This place is small," He said.
She blinked. "What?"
"This restaurant. You. It's all small. Not in a bad way," He added quickly. "Just. . .contained. Simple. Not like my office. Or the rest of the city. There's no noise here."
Kotone looked at him for a long second before speaking.
"That's the point."
He gave a quiet laugh, one without bitterness this time. "Then maybe I'll keep coming. Sit here. Eat slowly. Waste your beer."
"Like I said," Kotone replied, tapping the rim of her glass against his, "be selfish."
They sat like that for a while longer. Neither rushing to leave. Neither needing to speak.
Just two people in a too-quiet restaurant, sharing a kind of silence that, finally, didn't feel empty.
.
.
.
The next few days passed as all things did. The weather shifted. The city kept moving. Office lights flicked on and off like clockwork, and Kotone's fryer hissed and sizzled at its usual rhythm.
But one thing stayed the same.
They kept up the routine.
No promises had been made. No formal agreements. No "see you tomorrow" or "same time next week." And yet, (YN) came by after hours, slipping in through the door just before closing. Sometimes later. Sometimes earlier. Always with that same tired bow, the same soft thanks, the same silence that didn't feel so heavy anymore.
Kotone pretended not to wait for him. She went about her prep like usual, chopping scallions, restocking rice, wiping down the counters, but her ears stayed perked for the sound of the bell. Her hands paused when the wind brushed the noren just so.
She always had something ready for him now. Not always katsu. Sometimes soba. Sometimes curry from the back pot she didn't serve to customers because the flavor never came out the same twice. Once it was just onigiri and pickled radish. He hadn't complained.
Sometimes he talked.
Nothing heavy. Not like that first night. Just fragments. A story from work. A strange request from a client. Once, a memory about how he used to live above a bakery as a student and how the smell of anpan always made him feel like exams were coming.
Kotone listened. She didn't always reply, but she listened. That was enough.
Other times, he didn't speak at all. He just ate. Slowly. Quietly. Let the food settle into him like warmth. And Kotone, just a few seats away, would eat too. Not beside him. Not across. Just near.
One night, he fell asleep. Head tilted slightly, hand still wrapped around the handle of a mug she'd given him to replace the beer can. Kotone didn't wake him. Just covered the plate, turned the burner off, and let the silence stretch between them like a soft blanket.
Afterwards, she lingered behind the counter and later behind him as she fixed some of the tables that didn't really need to be fixed.
She told herself it was just part of closing up.
That the salt shaker didn't really need refilling. That the chairs didn't really need adjusting. That the tables weren't that misaligned.
But still, she moved them. One by one. Slowly. Quietly.
And in between those small, unnecessary tasks, she glanced at him. At his head tilted just so, chin brushing his collar, hair slightly ruffled like he'd walked through wind. The way his shoulders rose and fell—steady now, softer somehow than when he arrived.
There was something about the sight of him like that—at rest, finally, that made Kotone pause with a hand still curled around the back of a chair.
He wasn't young, not really. Not fresh-faced like the college interns she sometimes saw downtown. But there was a boyishness to the way he dozed. Something worn, but not broken. Something hopeful, maybe, underneath all that exhaustion.
She turned the lights down gradually, like dimming a stage after the last scene of a play. She didn't want to wake him. Didn't want to lose the rare quiet of this moment.
He muttered something in his sleep. Incomplete. A name, maybe. A sorry.
Kotone didn't move.
And when she finally did, it was only to pull a small, folded blanket from beneath the counter, one she kept for emergencies, or for nights when the delivery guy's truck broke down and he had to wait in the corner booth until morning.
She draped it over his shoulders with a careful hand. Not too fast. Not too slow. Not long enough to be noticed. Just enough to be felt.
Then she sat across from him again, arms folded loosely on the table, and stared at the faint glow of the sign outside her shop window.
And for once, she didn't think about tomorrow's prep list.
Didn't think about the dishes.
Didn't think about how close her elbow was to his.
She just sat.
Because some nights weren't about fixing things.
Some nights were just about staying close to what felt... less lonely.
Even if it wasn't hers.
Even if it couldn't be.
.
.
.
On another night, (YN) patiently waited for his meal in front of the counter. The restaurant was dimly lit, soft amber light pooling on the wood grain in front of him, catching the faint steam rising from his still-empty glass of tea.
The sound of sizzling came from the kitchen—sharp, steady, familiar. Oil popping against steel. The rhythmic scrape of a spatula. The clang of a pan being set down just right. He could faintly see Kotone's outline from behind the noren curtain—shoulders squared, movements sure, apron strings tied tight around her waist.
It should've been ordinary.
Until he heard it.
A scream, loud, sharp, and utterly out of place, cut through the quiet hum of the restaurant.
(YN) didn't hesitate.
His stool scraped back harshly against the wood, legs catching slightly on the floor as he stood. The noren curtain barely resisted as he pushed through it, heart thudding already.
"Kotone—"
The kitchen was a haze of heat and motion, but his eyes found her instantly.
She was bent over the sink, clutching one hand with the other, breath coming out short and ragged. Her sleeve was soaked, and a pot sat half-spilled beside the stove—oil, still bubbling faintly on the burner, the kind of mess that meant something had gone wrong.
"Kotone-san!" He said again, softer now, stepping closer.
She didn't look at him right away. Just kept her eyes on the water, on her hand under the cold stream. The air smelled of hot oil and something burnt. Her jaw was tight, nostrils flared, and the muscles in her arm trembled slightly.
"It's fine," She said, voice tight. "Just a splash. Just—"
"You screamed."
She flinched at that, not at the pain, but at the way he said it. Like it meant something more. Like he'd heard more than he was supposed to.
(YN) was already at her side, reaching carefully for the faucet. "Let me see it."
"I said I'm fine."
"You also screamed."
She finally looked at him. Eyes wide, defensive, but something fragile flickered behind them. Her hand trembled harder now.
He didn't argue again. Just reached for a clean towel from the shelf and held it out between them.
After a moment, she relented. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Her hand came out of the water, red, shiny with heat, the skin already tight and angry. A burn. Not deep, but fresh. And painful.
He wrapped the towel around it gently, like it was something precious. Like she was something precious. His hands were steady, but his voice had gone quieter.
"You need burn cream. Maybe a wrap. Do you have a kit?"
She hesitated. "In the drawer. Bottom right."
He nodded and moved quickly, like he knew exactly what to do. Like helping people came as naturally to him as breathing. But this time, it wasn't out of obligation. This wasn't him folding himself small for someone else's comfort. This was different.
This was care.
He knelt back down beside her as he placed the kit on the floor. He opened it before softly reaching for her hand, carefully holding it above his.
"This might sting a little." He mumbled, carefully dabbing the cotton swab over her hand.
Kotone hissed softly through her teeth, the sharp pain blooming as the ointment touched the reddened skin.
She didn't pull away.
Didn't flinch.
Just sat still on the low wooden stool beside the sink, hand cradled in his like it was something breakable.
Her jaw clenched but she didn't break her stare. She looked at him, searching for his eyes that had that soft and careful look that it always did but this time it was different, it felt different.
He wasn't just treating a burn.
He was seeing her.
Not as the brisk cook behind the counter, not as the late-night companion who always had something warm ready for him after a long day. But as a person, hurting, vulnerable, human.
And somehow, that was worse than the sting on her hand.
Kotone swallowed hard, but her throat felt dry. Her hand still rested in his, wrapped now, the cream soaking slowly into the gauze. His fingers remained where they were, just enough pressure to anchor her, never too much. Like he knew how easy it would be for her to retreat if he pushed.
She hated this, how warm her face had gotten. How much she noticed the way his bangs fell just slightly into his eyes, the quiet way he breathed through his nose when he was focused, how he didn't look away even when she did.
"You're staring," She said, voice a little hoarse.
"So are you," He replied, not missing a beat.
She blinked, taken off guard by the ease in his tone. Not mocking. Not smug. Just genuine.
Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was the silence of the restaurant, the way the night folded around them like a blanket. But for once, neither of them seemed in a rush to move.
"I'm not used to people fussing over me," She admitted, her voice barely above the hum of the fridge.
(YN) smiled faintly, eyes flicking back down to her hand before returning to her face. "I know."
"You always know too much."
"I think," he said slowly, "we're both just good at pretending we don't need anyone."
That made her chest tighten. Because he was right. Again.
She looked at their hands, still touching, and then back at him.
"You're not what I expected," She murmured.
"I could say the same about you."
There was something in the air now. Something unspoken but palpable, hanging in the space between their words. Not quite a confession. Not yet. But the kind of quiet where you start to realize you've been building something fragile and real, one night at a time.
Kotone took a breath.
"So," She said, attempting to pull the moment back into something safer, "are you still hungry?"
He tilted his head, smiling a little wider now. "I could eat."
"Good," She replied, rising slowly from the stool, hand still cradled but her movements more certain now. "Because you're finishing that meal. I didn't burn myself for nothing."
That made him laugh, a soft, genuine sound that filled the kitchen in a way the lights never could.
And as Kotone moved to reheat the pan, her back to him once more, she let the corner of her mouth turn upward.
Maybe she didn't mind his company after all.
.
.
.
Days later, (YN) stood in front of his office building in one of the rare moments where the sky still held color, faint streaks of pink and gold smeared across the horizon, the sun only just beginning to dip behind the cluster of steel and glass that made up the city.
He hadn't stayed late today. No urgent requests. No last-minute revisions dumped on his desk. No forgotten meetings or sudden delays. Just... work, done at a normal pace, finished before the streetlights blinked on.
It felt foreign.
Unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's shoes. He didn't know what to do with the space this early evening gave him, the weight of time no longer pressing against his shoulders.
The wind brushed lightly at his sleeves, tugging at the loose fold of his dress shirt. He hadn't even worn his jacket today. Left it hanging over his chair without thinking. There was still a faint ache in his back, the familiar tension of long hours, but it was duller tonight, less sharp. Bearable.
He tilted his head up and let his eyes rest on the sky.
It looked. . .real.
Not something he passed through behind a tinted train window or glimpsed between glass buildings at midnight. Just sky. Open and soft and completely uncaring of emails, deadlines, or unread messages.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He didn't check it.
Instead, he stepped away from the building, shoes clicking lightly on the pavement. The streets weren't crowded yet, just a handful of other workers trickling out of offices, moving in slow, automatic rhythms. He could go home. Or catch a train and stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers like always.
But his feet didn't turn toward the station that led to home.
They moved in another direction. Familiar. Quiet.
And he let them.
Not because he had to. Not because anyone asked.
But because, for the first time in a while, he had the time to choose where he wanted to go.
And he chose her.
.
.
.
Walking down the tight street in the late afternoon felt different, subtly, almost imperceptibly at first, but undeniably so. It wasn't just the light, though that played its part, the way golden sunlight stretched between buildings, catching on old signs and rusted railings, softening the harsh lines that darkness usually sharpened.
Shadows didn't loom here now. They danced, they walked and some even jogged.
The narrow alley, which at night felt like a forgotten passageway to nowhere, was livelier under the sun. Not bustling, not quite but awake. A delivery scooter zipped past him with a low rumble, its rider humming along to the song in his earbuds.
A pair of schoolchildren walked ahead, one kicking a plastic bottle along the curb while the other adjusted her oversized backpack. A cat dozed lazily on top of an air conditioning unit, its tail flicking in rhythm with some silent thought.
Even the shop signs, usually dark or flickering when he passed them, were glowing now, hand-painted characters catching the sunlight, making them look almost warm. A flower shop had its buckets out, blooms tipped forward in the breeze. The scent of soy sauce and broth wafted from a nearby ramen stall.
And when he turned the corner, there it was.
The restaurant.
Her restaurant.
The noren still hung in the doorway, fluttering faintly. The door stood slightly ajar to let the heat out, and from where he stood, he could hear faint movement inside.
It wasn't late yet, not her usual closing hour, not the time he usually came.
But maybe today would be different.
Maybe he'd catch her mid-shift. Maybe he'd eat earlier. Maybe he wouldn't wait for the silence to fall before he sat down.
He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, took a breath he didn't quite realize he needed, and stepped forward.
Walking through the doors felt like stepping into a new world—one he hadn't visited before, though the space was familiar down to the grain of the wood beneath his shoes. It was the same restaurant, same layout, same narrow counter and battered stools. But something in the air felt different.
It was the time of day, maybe. The way the sun still filtered through the high windows, catching on the brushed steel of the kitchen and turning the countertop a warm honey-gold. The scent of broth was richer this time, mingled with fresh ginger and something citrusy—yuzu, maybe. Pots simmered gently behind the curtain, not yet rushed, not yet exhausted from the night's demands.
And then there was Kotone.
She stood behind the counter with her back turned, her sleeves rolled up, a knife in one hand and a half-peeled radish in the other. The soft radio in the background played some upbeat track from the late '90s, humming under the occasional clatter of a bowl being set down or the rhythmic sound of her chopping.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
(YN) hesitated. Not because he didn't want to be seen—but because for a moment, he just wanted to look.
There was something about her in the light of day. Not softer—she was never soft—but clearer. Less shadowed by exhaustion, less guarded. The lines of her face, the steady way she moved, the natural rhythm she fell into when she thought she was alone. It was honest, secure, genuine.
Then she turned.
"Welcome. . ?"
The moment she saw him, her expression changed.
It wasn't that cold, annoyed look he was accustomed to when he walked in close to midnight, it was something close to surprise.
Her hand paused mid-motion, the knife hovering above the chopping board. For a second, the rhythm of the kitchen stopped.
"...You're early," She said, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion, not irritation, not sarcasm, just surprised.
(YN) gave a small shrug, stepping fully inside. "Thought I'd try the food when you're not too tired to curse me under your breath."
Kotone blinked, then huffed a short, quiet breath that might've been a laugh. She wiped her hands on a nearby towel and set the knife down with a soft clink. The radio played on in the background, upbeat and strangely fitting, something about taking chances and not knowing where you'll end up.
He walked toward the counter, slower this time. Like he didn't want to break whatever moment they'd just stepped into. He set his bag down beside the stool but didn't sit yet.
Kotone tilted her head slightly, still watching him. "You okay?"
The question caught him off-guard not because it was asked, but because of how gently it was. Not a greeting. Not a tease. Just quiet, real concern.
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He said. "I didn't wait for anybody to give me more work, didn't even think about it when I was going here."
"You get out early from work and your first thought was to go here? Should I feel flattered?"
He smiled faintly. "Maybe. I didn't even stop by the convenience store this time."
Kotone's brows lifted slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward like she didn't quite believe him but wasn't going to call him out on it either.
Instead, she grabbed a clean towel, tossed it over her shoulder, and nodded toward the stool in front of her.
"Well, you're here now. Sit down."
So he did. Slowly. The stool wobbled just a bit the way it always did, and he rested his elbows on the counter, letting the scent of the kitchen sink into him like comfort. She moved back into her rhythm, peeling, slicing, prepping. But the silence between them wasn't the kind that filled late nights. It was lighter. Easier.
"You always cook with the windows open like this?" He asked, glancing at the warm light spilling through the small upper panes.
"Only when it's not too humid," She replied. "The sunlight makes the broth taste better."
He gave her a look. "That's not how sunlight works."
Kotone didn't even blink. "Well, maybe you just haven't had good broth in daylight."
He laughed, the sound short and surprised, but real.
There it was again, that quiet shift between them. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. But it was there. The air felt looser somehow, like the walls had leaned back a little, like the usual weight that hung between them had taken the afternoon off.
She set a small tray in front of him without a word, some leftover thinly sliced veggies, a slice of rolled omelette, and a tiny cup of barley tea, still warm.
Not a full meal. Not yet. But something.
(YN) blinked. "You feeding me appetizers now?"
"You're early," Kotone said with a shrug. "I'm not ready to serve ramen yet. You'll live."
He picked up the tea with both hands, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. "You always this nice before sunset?"
"No," She said flatly. Then added, after a beat, "Just with you."
That startled him more than it should've. She didn't meet his eyes when she said it. Just kept peeling vegetables like she hadn't dropped something quietly devastating into the middle of the counter.
"...Kotone-san."
"Hmm?"
"Thanks."
She paused. Only slightly. Then resumed chopping.
"Don't get used to it."
He smiled. But for the first time in a long time, he thought.
Maybe he already had.
.
.
.
.
.
.
When night came after another dull day, Kotone already had a towel slung over one shoulder and the floor halfway mopped. The last of the chairs were stacked near the wall, the register already balanced. Everything pointed toward closing.
Except the lights were still on.
And the noren still hung in the doorway.
She told herself it was just routine. Habit.
Not expectation.
She wouldn't say she was waiting for him.
That would make it sound like something was owed. Like she cared.
But she did brace herself, quietly. The same way someone braces for wind before it hits.
When her eyes flicked to the clock in the kitchen, she saw the time. Five minutes off midnight.
But then nothing came.
No bell.
No soft shuffle of footsteps against the wooden floor.
No tired voice calling out her name or asking if she still had beer.
The silence stretched longer than usual.
Kotone's hand paused mid-wipe across the countertop, the towel suddenly still against the surface. She blinked at the door like maybe she'd just missed it. Maybe he'd slipped in quietly. Maybe. . .
No.
The restaurant was empty.
The noren fluttered once as the wind passed by outside.
But it wasn't him.
Kotone exhaled, slow and shallow, like she was letting go of something she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
The towel resumed its motion, slower now, less purposeful.
She told herself this was normal.
People miss nights.
People get busy.
It didn't mean anything.
Still, she didn't turn off the lights right away.
She stood behind the counter, looking at the empty stool he always sat in.
And for the first time in a while, she realized how small the place felt without him.
She looked at the clock again.
12:04.
Then, finally, she moved, clearing the empty tea cup she had set out without thinking.
Uncapping the register again just to count the bills she already knew were exact.
Cleaning a table that hadn't been touched all day.
Eventually, she turned the sign at the front, the soft tap of the wooden frame echoing louder than it should have.
And when she stepped back inside, towel still on her shoulder, she didn't bother flipping the kitchen light off just yet.
Just in case.
Just for a few more minutes.
.
.
.
.
.
.
A few more nights passed and all she got was silence when the night got closer to midnight.
Any other night, any other week, she would've welcomed it, would've relished the chance to finish early, lock up on time, soak her aching feet in warm water, and sleep without needing to scrape leftover crumbs from the counter.
But that's the thing.
It should've felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like something else entirely. Like a missed note in a familiar song. Like when the background noise you've gotten used to suddenly stops, and you realize just how much you depended on it to feel normal.
To feel less alone.
She didn't say it aloud, of course.
Didn't even let herself think it too clearly.
But every time the hour hand neared twelve, she'd find herself slowing down.
Dragging her feet a little.
Mopping a little later.
Stacking chairs one by one instead of all at once.
She kept the noren up longer than necessary.
Kept the lights on just a touch brighter.
Kept a single bowl clean, sitting out by the sink. Not for anyone. Just. . .ready.
And when no one came, she'd lock the door without looking back.
Wash her hands a little more quietly.
Close the drawer with a bit too much care.
Because the silence now wasn't peace.
It was absence.
And Kotone didn't know what to do with absence when she had spent so many nights growing used to presence.
To him.
Tonight felt like it was going to be the same, not because she knew but because she could just feel it through the silence that echoed through the small shop.
Until.
DING!
The bell above the door jingled like it always had—sharp, small, unassuming. But tonight, it struck her like a sound she hadn't realized she missed until it returned.
Kotone froze mid-step.
Her hands were still damp from rinsing a rag. A chair half-lifted sat crooked on the floor. The lights above buzzed faintly in the silence that followed, like even they were holding their breath.
And then—
"Sorry," came the voice.
Tired. Familiar.
But softer than she remembered. Almost hesitant.
Kotone turned slowly toward the entrance.
There he was. Standing just inside the threshold, shifting his weight awkwardly like he wasn't sure he was allowed to be here anymore. His coat looked a little too big on him tonight, or maybe it was just the way he wore it, crumpled, unsure, a crease along the shoulder that hadn't been there before.
He wasn't smiling. Not quite. But his eyes searched the space like he'd missed it. Like maybe he'd missed her.
"I know it's late," He added, eyes finally landing on her.
Kotone swallowed around something in her throat. It wasn't anger. It wasn't relief. Just something warm and stupid and lodged right between her ribs.
"It always is," She said flatly, but her voice betrayed her, too quiet, too small.
She dropped the rag on the counter behind her and wiped her palms on her apron.
He stepped further in, like he was waiting for her to tell him to leave and wouldn't quite blame her if she did.
"I—" He paused, like the words didn't come easy. "Things got a little. . .much."
Kotone raised a brow. "You don't say."
Something flickered in his expression then, apology? Regret? Maybe just that look of his that she'd grown too used to. The one that meant he wasn't going to explain everything, but he wanted her to know he wasn't just being thoughtless.
She gestured, finally, toward the counter. "Sit."
"I already ate." She heard him say just before she got to the kitchen.
She turned around on her heel to face him.
"Then. . .can I help you with something?"
He looked off to the side as if he thought to himself for a quick second then slowly, he raised his hand with a finger pointed at her.
". . .You."
The word landed like a pebble dropped into still water, quiet, but rippling far beyond where it touched.
Kotone blinked.
For a moment, she thought she'd misheard. That he'd meant something else. That he was asking for tea, or leftover rice, or something small and easy she could give without thinking.
But he didn't correct himself. Didn't laugh it off. He just stood there, hand still lifted, eyes steady but cautious, like he wasn't sure what would happen now that the word was out in the open.
"You," He said again, softer this time. "I wanted to see you."
The room didn't feel small, exactly. But it narrowed. Like the space between them had condensed, thickened into something neither of them could walk through as easily as before.
Kotone's breath caught in her throat.
She didn't know what she expected him to say. Something tired. Something routine. A vague apology. Not this. Not him standing there in his oversized coat, coat buttons undone, with the faint scent of cold air still clinging to him like an afterthought.
"You came all the way here," She said, carefully, like stepping over glass. "To. . .see me."
He nodded once. Almost sheepish. "I didn't know where else I wanted to be."
It was so stupidly honest she almost hated him for it.
Kotone looked away. Not out of rejection, but because the heat in her face was betraying her. Because she could feel her hands go still, her body frozen mid-decision, unsure whether to move toward him or away.
She could've said something sarcastic.
She could've made it easier.
But she didn't.
Instead, she walked back around the counter. Grabbed the glass she'd washed earlier. Filled it with tea. No garnish. No flare. Just simple and warm.
Then she slid it across the wood toward him.
And for the first time in a week, she didn't look at the clock.
"Then sit." She just said, quietly. Her voice was steady now but everything else in her wasn't.
He sat.
Not right away. Not in that casual, practiced motion like he used to, no, this time it was slower. More deliberate. Like he was easing himself into something fragile. Or like he wasn't sure the seat would still be there for him after being gone so long.
The stool let out a soft creak beneath him. He rested his hands on the counter but didn't touch the tea yet. Just looked at it.
Kotone didn't say anything at first. She busied herself with small tasks that didn't really need doing. Adjusting the dish towel, stacking two clean bowls, sweeping nonexistent crumbs into the dustpan. But her eyes kept drifting back to him. And she knew he noticed.
The silence that settled between them wasn't like the ones before. This one had tension. Not anger. Not even discomfort. Just questions. All of them unsaid.
Eventually, he spoke.
"How's your hand?"
Of course he would be the type to ask something like that, the one time he saw through her.
Her fingers curled slightly at the mention, like they still remembered the sting even though the skin had long since stopped hurting.
"It's fine," She said, too fast, too automatic.
He raised an eyebrow, not pushing, just waiting.
Kotone sighed, then held it up. The burn had faded to a faint pink, a thin mark along the edge of her thumb. Nothing serious. Nothing lasting.
He leaned in slightly, gaze fixed on her hand like it still deserved concern.
"I'm glad," He said simply.
She dropped it back down to her side. "You say that like you were expecting it to fall off."
"I wasn't." A small pause. "But it worried me."
She didn't answer. Couldn't, really. Because the idea that someone had worried about her felt strange. Unfamiliar. Like putting on a coat in summer. Not unwanted.
Kotone shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Then gave up entirely and sat on the stool across from him, arms resting on the counter.
"I was worried too." She softly admitted.
His eyes flicked up at that, fast, startled, like he hadn't expected her to say it. Like maybe he didn't think he'd earned it.
Kotone didn't look away this time.
"I thought something happened," She said, voice low but steady. "Not just the usual work pile-up or forgetting to eat again. I mean. . .something worse."
He opened his mouth, maybe to reassure her, maybe to explain, but she shook her head before he could speak.
"I don't need a reason," She said. "Not right now. I just needed to know you were okay."
For a second, he said nothing.
Then quietly, like the words had taken their time getting here, he replied, "I quit my job."
It was so simple. So bare. It hung in the air like steam off hot soup, rising, then vanishing.
"I was job hunting the whole day, all of them said I could hear from them soon." He continued.
Kotone watched him carefully. Not judging—just listening. Like she was trying to weigh each word in her hands, feel the shape of it before deciding what to do with it.
"You quit," she said again, more to herself than him. "And spent your day walking around looking for another one."
He nodded. "I didn't want to just... sit with it. The quitting part. If I sat still too long, I think I would've convinced myself it was a mistake."
"And was it?"
He looked up at her then, really looked. Tired, yes. But clearer than she remembered. More grounded, even if barely. "No. I don't think so."
There was a long pause. She didn't fill it.
Instead, she leaned an elbow on the counter and rested her chin on her hand, gaze level.
"I take it you didn't tell anyone else."
"No," he admitted. "Just you."
Kotone exhaled through her nose quiet, but not unkind.
"You always do that," she murmured.
"Do what?"
"Save the last piece for me. Like I'm supposed to do something with it."
He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came right away. So he just let a corner of his mouth pull upward. Barely a smile.
"You're the only one who never tells me what I should've done."
Kotone rolled her eyes and reached for the cold tea between them. She pushed it a little closer. "That's because you're stubborn. You wouldn't listen anyway."
He let out a small, quiet laugh, and for the first time since he walked in, something eased between them. Just slightly.
"Didn't expect to end up here," he said after a moment. "But halfway through the walk home, this place kept coming up in my head. And it just... made sense."
Kotone didn't reply right away.
Then finally, she said, "Next time, don't make me wait a week to find out you're still alive."
His eyes softened. "Okay."
"I mean it."
"I know."
She stood again, smoothing her apron, then turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Her voice followed behind her, casual but not careless.
"And just so you know."
"Yeah?"
"I could use a dish washer."
He laughed at that—not the quiet, breathy kind he'd given earlier, but a real one this time. It caught even him off guard, like it cracked something loose in his chest that had been too tightly wound for too long.
Kotone didn't turn back around, but she heard it. Heard it, and let herself smile where he couldn't see.
"I mean it," She called, wiping her hands on a towel. "Pay's awful. Hours are worse. Boss is impossible."
"Sounds like a dream," He replied, still grinning.
She returned to the counter with a small tray, this time with two bowls, not leftovers, but something fresh. A simple soup, steam curling at the edges, scent warm and familiar. He looked at it, then at her.
"I thought you said you already ate," She said, not meeting his eyes as she set the bowls down.
He picked up the spoon. "I lied."
Kotone raised an eyebrow. "Figures."
But there was no heat behind it. No sharpness. Just a shared rhythm they'd fallen back into without realizing.
For a while, neither of them spoke. They just ate, the quiet clinks of spoon on ceramic filling the space between them. The kind of silence that didn't need fixing. That didn't ache like it used to.
When they were done, he stood and reached for the bowls, stacking them neatly, heading toward the sink.
Kotone blinked. "What are you doing?"
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Didn't you say you needed a dishwasher?"
She scoffed, but her heart tugged in her chest. "You don't even know where the sponge is."
"Then teach me," He said simply.
And something about the way he said it, calm, steady, willing, made Kotone stop. Really stop. Not just in her steps, but in the soft armor she wore around her ribs whenever the doorbell rang too late.
So she reached into the drawer, pulled out the sponge, and tossed it to him.
"Don't break anything."
He caught it with one hand. "No promises."
Kotone rolled her eyes again, but this time, she stayed where she was. Close. Present. And when the water started running, and the soft clatter of dishes filled the shop, she finally let herself believe:
Maybe absence wasn't the end of something.
Maybe it was just the space waiting to be filled again.
And tonight, he had come back.
Not hungry.
Not for food, anyway.
But maybe for warmth.
And maybe, for her.
───✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰.:｡✧.｡:｡.｡✱───
When you come back home
pairing: Kotone x Male Reader
The crash was loud enough to wake the dead — or at least the half-asleep cashier behind the counter.
You turn toward the sound and find a familiar disaster standing in the middle of the instant noodle aisle.
Kotone.
Covered in ramen cups.
Holding one in her hand like it’s a grenade.
She freezes, blinks once, and says, deadpan,
“You saw nothing”
You blink back. “You’re right, I did not see that you just declared war on the ramen shelf.”
“It attacked first.”
“I’m sure it did.”
The cashier sighs audibly, and Kotone winces, crouching down in a panic to pick up the mess — except she keeps grabbing the same three cups and restacking them in the wrong order, making the pile collapse again.
You snort. “You’re actually making it worse.”
“Then help me!” she whisper-yells. “This is serious! People could starve without these!”
“Tragic. National crisis.”
Kotone glares at you, the same way she did back in high school when you stole the last pudding from her lunchbox. You grin and crouch down anyway, helping her restack the fallen ramen cups one by one.
The two of you don’t say anything for a moment — the silence thick with dust, nostalgia, and the faint hum of the store’s dying air conditioner.
Then she mutters, “You still eat this junk?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You still trip over air?”
Her mouth opens. “That’s defamation.”
“You tripped on nothing, Kotone.”
She points dramatically at the floor. “You don’t know that. There could’ve been a— a ghost!”
“Right. The ghost of instant noodles past.”
“Exactly!” she says, deadly serious — and for some reason, that’s the moment you start laughing. Like, really laughing.
Her pout deepens. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to help!”
“I am! Emotionally!”
Kotone smacks your arm with a ramen cup. “I should’ve known you’d betray me first chance you got.”
“Please. You’d lose a battle to a paper bag.”
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Tripped-on-a-stationary-chair.”
“That chair was aggressively stationary.”
“Mm-hm.”
You both glare at each other, then burst out laughing again — loud, shameless laughter that echoes down the empty aisles. The cashier mutters something about “kids these days” but you both ignore him.
Outside, the air smells like rain and warm asphalt. Kotone walks beside you, swinging the plastic bag of snacks like it’s a pendulum of chaos.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I think the store clerk hates us.”
“I think he’s filing a restraining order.”
“Good. Keeps things interesting.”
You glance at her. “So you’re back?”
“Temporarily.” She shrugs, the movement small and casual, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes — something softer hiding beneath the bravado. “No schedules for awhile, so I figured I’d come home before my company glues me to a practice room.”
“Your group giving you a break? Scandalous.”
Kotone narrows her eyes. “Oh? You do know who we are.”
You pretend to think. “Double… what now?”
Her jaw drops. “You liar. You know our songs.”
“I might’ve heard one. Maybe. Accidentally.”
“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “After all these years, you’ve become one of those guys.”
“What guys?”
“The ones who pretend they don’t know me to seem cool.”
“Relax, superstar. I’m not pretending.”
Kotone gasps. “You’re literally gaslighting an idol right now.”
You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure idols don’t get gaslit in convenience stores.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She kicks a pebble down the street, then adds, “Also, for the record, I’m totally telling my members that my childhood friend betrayed me.”
“They’ll side with me. All 23 of them.”
“Impossible.”
“Highly likely.”
“You underestimate my influence.”
“You underestimate my tolerance for chaos.”
She stops, squints at you, then bursts out laughing again. “God, I forgot how annoying you are.”
You grin. “And yet, you missed me.”
She opens her mouth, ready to argue — but then closes it again. A small smile flickers at the corner of her lips. “Shut up.”
You end up walking her home. Neither of you mention it, but it feels natural, automatic. The streets are still the same: cracked pavement, uneven sidewalks, the distant buzz of cicadas.
“You still live at the same place?” she asks.
“Yeah. You?”
She nods. “Feels smaller now. Or maybe I just got taller.”
“Definitely taller. You used to barely reach my shoulder.”
Kotone immediately steps closer, comparing. “I still don’t.”
“Shame.”
She elbows you. “You’re not that tall.”
“Tall enough to—”
Before you can finish, she reaches up and flicks your forehead. Hard.
“Ow!”
“Height doesn’t protect you from justice,” she declares, proudly.
You stare at her. “You’re insane.”
“Takes one to know one.”
You both break into another round of laughter, the kind that leaves you breathless.
By the time you reach her street, the laughter fades into something quieter. Softer.
Kotone glances at her house, the lights off inside except for the faint glow of her bedroom window.
“I guess this is where I turn,” she says.
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches, not uncomfortable — just full of things you both aren’t saying.
Then she looks back at you, eyes warm but tired in a way you’ve never seen before. “Thanks. For… this.”
You blink. “For bullying you in a convenience store?”
“For… showing up,” she says quietly, and before you can respond, she smiles — that same small, crooked smile she had as a kid. “Goodnight, dummy.”
“Goodnight, klutz.”
She waves lazily over her shoulder as she walks away.
Later that night, Kotone sits cross-legged on her bed, hair still damp from a quick shower, a half-eaten popsicle melting beside her. Her old room feels exactly the same — the faded curtains, the posters on the wall, the faint creak in the floorboards.
Except for that..
It’s sitting on her desk under the soft yellow glow of the lamp — a little worn, the edges curled. The ink slightly faded but still clear.
Instead, she traces a finger over it— and laughs under her breath.
“Still a terrible liar,” she murmurs.
She sets it down gently, switches off the light, and crawls under the blanket.
Outside, the rain starts to fall — steady, quiet, and comforting. The sound she used to fall asleep to when everything still made sense.
And somewhere, half a town away, you’re probably still laughing about the ramen cups.
She smiles in the dark.
“Idiot,” she whispers fondly, a bittersweet smile on her face.
Then, finally, she sleeps.
You fall back into orbit without even realizing it.
One day it’s “Hey, coffee?”
Then it’s “You’re free this afternoon, right?”
Then it’s walks that turn into inside jokes that turn into hours that pass too easily.
It’s like muscle memory — how she always walks a half-step ahead of you but turns back to make sure you’re following, how you always wait an extra second at crosswalks just to annoy her.
Everyone sees it — the way your laughter sounds louder when you’re together, how your voices overlap like you’re trying to win an invisible argument.
But both of you pretend it’s nothing.
Like this is just what best friends do.
It’s late afternoon when you find yourselves at the park, the same one you used to visit after school. The swings are still creaky, the vending machine still refuses to accept slightly crumpled bills. Kotone’s hair glows in the sunlight — brown with a soft reddish tint — and she’s drinking iced coffee through a straw like she’s in a commercial.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she asks suddenly, her voice light.
You tilt your head. “What does?”
“Being friends again.”
You grin. “Who said we ever stopped?”
She blinks, and for a split second, something flickers in her expression — like she’s about to say something else. But then she laughs, kicking at a stray pebble. “You’re still as cheesy as ever.”
“And you’re still bossy.”
“Excuse me,” she says, mock offended, “I’m confident.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Confident menace,” she corrects, pointing her straw at you like a weapon.
You roll your eyes. “Sure. That’s what they all say before they trip over nothing.”
She gasps dramatically. “I do not trip over nothing!”
“Uh-huh,” you hum. “Tell that to the ramen aisle.”
“That was one time!”
“Two times.”
“…Okay, maybe two, three if you count the supermarket that time, but still—”
You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, and she’s smacking your arm like you’ve just committed treason. The old man walking his dog gives you both a strange look, but you don’t care. For the first time in a long time, it feels easy again.
Later, you stop by the convenience store. The same one where you met her again after years apart.
Kotone grabs a can of milk soda and raises it toward you. “Famous people still drink this,” she declares.
“Oh, right. You’re famous now,” you tease. “Should I start bowing when I see you?”
She squints at you. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of what? Your fans?”
“Of my talent,” she says, smirking proudly.
You snort. “TripleS, right?”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You remembered.”
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“You think?”
You grin. “Can’t say I’ve ever listened to their songs. What’s your name again?”
She gasps and smacks your shoulder with the rolled-up magazine she’s holding. “You liar! You totally know!”
“I don’t even know what a TripleS is.”
“Kami-sama, give me patience,” she mutters, trying not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Excuse you,” she says, straightening up. “I’m an idol. Drama is part of the brand.”
You grin. “Right. So is tripping over ramen cups, apparently.”
“Stop bringing that up!” she yells, but she’s laughing now, full and loud, the kind of laugh that makes her eyes curve into crescents. You think it’s the prettiest sound you’ve heard in a long time.
That night, she’s back in her childhood room — the one with faded posters and fairy lights that don’t all work anymore. She’s lying on her stomach, scrolling through your messages.
“You still hate the green popsicle part?”
“Obviously”
“Good. more for me.”
“you’re so predictable it’s boring”
“and you’re still so annoying”
She giggles quietly, hugging her pillow to her chest. It feels like the years apart are shrinking, collapsing into the space between your texts.
She replays what you said, “Who said we ever stopped?”
You’d said it like a joke, like a throwaway line. But it sticks.
Her smile lingers, soft and sleepy. But when the phone screen goes dark, the quiet feels heavier.
The words echo in her mind again.
Who said we ever stopped?
She turns over, staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable.
“You didn’t say anything,” she whispers to no one. “That’s the problem.”
You remember that night because it felt too alive to fade.
The sky had that deep, heavy blue that only happens after the rain threatens but doesn’t fall. The streetlights buzzed above you like nervous thoughts, catching in the damp air, and somewhere down the block, someone’s radio played an old love song out of tune.
Kotone had insisted on dragging you out of the house after dinner — said you were getting boring, said she missed your “chaotic energy.” You said that was her way of admitting she was lonely. She told you to shut up, and you did. Because she was Kotone
So you ended up on her porch steps, half a pack of Pocky between you, cicadas screaming like background noise to your laughter.
“You’re seriously bad at this,” she said, balancing a Pocky stick on her nose, face scrunched in focus.
You watched her — her lips pressed together, hair falling over her cheek, the faintest pink at the tips of her ears.
The stick fell.
“Yes!” you said, triumphant. “Finally!”
She groaned, swatting your shoulder. “You were literally rooting for me to fail.”
“Wrong. I was rooting for justice to prevail.”
“Justice?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Says the person who threw my controller last time I beat them at Pokemon.”
“You threw it first!”
“I gently placed it…”
“I will smack you into tomorrow”
“against the wall”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, and for a moment, it felt like time folded back on itself — like you were both children again, like the world hadn’t yet taught you about distance or fear or how dreams can be the cruelest kind of beautiful.
And you thought: This is the night.
The folded letter in your pocket felt heavy — as if it already knew its fate. You’d written it days ago, unable to sleep, every word raw and unsure: how she made everything brighter, how you didn’t know when friendship had stopped being enough. It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t even neat. But it was real.
You’d told yourself you’d give it to her tonight. Or at least say something.
But before you could gather the courage, she spoke.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said suddenly.
The world stilled. Even the cicadas seemed to hold their breath.
“I got scouted,” she said.
“Like what? For basketball? You might be a little bit too…” You barely finish before Kotone shoves you to the ground, a pout on her face.
“No you idiot. To be an idol. In a girl group. In Korea. Like Loona.”
Your throat went dry. “Korea?”
She nodded, eyes darting to yours, like she was waiting for your reaction. “Yeah. For a company. It’s… it’s real. They want me to start soon.”
The words hit you like a wave you didn’t see coming.
“That’s—wow,” you said, trying to sound happy. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s kind of insane, right? I didn’t think it would actually happen.” Her voice trembled on a laugh. “But I think I have to go. I want to try.”
You swallowed. “Of course you do.”
She looked at you then — really looked at you. And something in your chest twisted. Because you could see it: excitement and fear flickering together in her eyes, like firelight in a storm.
“I’m scared,” she admitted softly.
You tried to smile. “You? The girl who fought a seagull over fries?”
Her laugh cracked the tension. “That seagull was terrifying. But that fucker had it coming. No one touches your fries”
“Sure. The poor bird probably tells its friends about you.”
She elbowed you. “You’re such an idiot.”
You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”
“Don’t make me miss you before I even leave,” she said, and it was playful, but the words stuck in your chest anyway.
You wanted to say, Then don’t leave.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Instead, you said, “You’re going to be incredible.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” you said quietly. “You’ve always been the brave one.”
Her smile faltered, just for a second. “That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m running away?”
You didn’t have an answer. You wanted to tell her that maybe chasing something doesn’t mean you’re running — that sometimes it’s just the only way to see how far your wings can carry you.
But the words got tangled somewhere between your heart and your mouth, so all that came out was a shaky laugh.
“Well,” you said, “if you are running, at least you look cool doing it.”
She threw a Pocky stick at you. “Stop ruining my emotional moments.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood!”
“You’re impossible,” she said, but she was smiling again.
That smile — that’s what destroyed you. The way she could look both terrified and radiant at the same time, like she already belonged to somewhere beyond your reach.
“Promise me something?” she said suddenly.
“Anything.”
“You’ll always be there for me. No matter what.”
You hesitated, then forced a grin. “Of course. I’m basically immortal.”
She laughed, but her eyes were too wet to hide it. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
The rain started then — light at first, just a whisper against the roof. The kind of rain that blurs the world without washing anything away.
You didn’t move. Neither did she.
You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending the night wasn’t slipping away beneath your feet.
And when it was finally time to go, she followed you to the gate.
“Don’t forget me, okay?” she said, trying to make it sound casual.
You smiled, even though your throat ached. “Never.”
You turned before she could see your face, the rain masking the sting in your eyes.
Somewhere on the walk home, the letter slipped out of your pocket. You didn’t notice. You wouldn’t find out until much later — by which point it wouldn’t have mattered.
Because by then, Kotone was already gone.
At first, she messaged you every day. Photos of her dorm. Complaints about sore muscles. Voice notes of her laughing about weird Korean snacks. You replied at first, quick and easy — keeping the rhythm alive, pretending you hadn’t noticed the growing distance behind the jokes.
But slowly, the messages became shorter. The hours between them longer. The emojis fewer.
And you started typing replies you never sent.
You doing okay? You eating enough? Don’t burn out too fast.
Delete. Rewrite. Delete again.
You told yourself she was busy. That she was chasing something worth the silence.
Then it got harder to lie to yourself. Her text messages went unreplied. Phone calls went unanswered.
Until one night, your phone buzzed again.
✉️Kotone: You promised you’d always be there for me
You stared at the message until your eyes blurred. Typed a reply.
You: I still am.
Your thumb hovered over “send.”
You almost can’t stop yourself
Then you turned the screen off.
You told yourself she’d understand.
That this was what it meant to love someone enough to let them go.
But the truth was quieter, sharper.
You weren’t letting her go.
You were just running away
And so the night she told you she was leaving became the last night that still felt like both of you — the laughter too loud, the silences too full, the air heavy with everything you didn’t say.
You’re halfway through a lazy summer afternoon nap when someone knocks on your door — loud enough to shake your walls.
You groan. “If this is a delivery, I didn’t order anything—”
But when you open the door, she’s there. Kotone, with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, cheeks a little flushed from the sun, and two dripping melon popsicles clutched in one hand.
“You’re alive!” she declares.
“You’re loud,” you counter, blinking sleep from your eyes. “Also, you’re melting all over my porch.”
She grins, completely unbothered. “Then let me in before the sugar gods punish us both.”
Before you can respond, she’s already slipped past you, kicking off her shoes and making herself at home. She glances around your small living room like it’s some kind of museum exhibit.
“Wow,” she says, fake awe in her voice. “Still the same couch. Still the same curtains. Still the same tragic lack of interior design.”
You frown. “You’ve been here for, what, two seconds?”
“That’s all it takes for an idol’s expert eye,” she says proudly.
You cross your arms. “You couldn’t even win a game about recognising songs. I thought that was your wheelhouse Miss Kotone”
Her jaw drops. “You watched that?!”
“Internet exists,” you shrug.
She gasps. “You liar! You said you didn’t even know who TripleS was!”
“Still don’t,” you lie easily, leaning against the doorframe. “Sounds like a type of shampoo.”
Kotone looks personally offended. “We are a global idol collective!”
“Oh yeah, totally,” you nod seriously. “The one where Yooyeon, Seoyeon, and Yeonji ambushed you for your map, right? Iconic television.”
Her mouth falls open. “You— you watched Badge Wars?”
“Maybe,” you say. “Purely by accident.”
She narrows her eyes. “You absolutely didn’t stumble on it by accident.”
“I might’ve,” you tease. “Can’t believe you just turtled. I expected more fight from the girl who beat the lights out of me for taking her lunches”
She lets out a dramatic gasp. “Excuse me! That was a very special lunch!”
“If you say so” you say. “I just think you’ve lost your violent spark.”
“TAKE THAT BACK,” she yells, whacking your arm with the popsicle stick.
You yelp, laughing. “Violence! I’m being attacked by a national idol!”
“WHO’S LOST HER VIOLENT SPARK NOW!”
The whole house fills with your laughter — hers bright and unrestrained, yours helplessly caught up in it. The kind of laughter that hurts in the best way.
When you both finally calm down, she leans her head back on the couch, breathless and smiling. “I missed this,” she says softly.
You pause, caught off guard by how quietly she says it.
But then she stands and tosses you one of the popsicles. “Come on. Riverbank. It’s tradition.”
The river looks exactly the same. The cicadas hum, the air smells like damp grass, and the sun dips lazily behind the hill.
You sit side by side, feet dangling over the water. She unwraps her popsicle and immediately wrinkles her nose.
“You still hate the green part,” she says.
“You still forget I like it,” you reply without missing a beat.
She gasps. “You’re lying. You hated it. You always gave me the green part for my orange.”
“Well, that’s because you’d throw a fit and pout if I didn’t give you the green part.”
“HEY! That was one time! And I had just flunked my exam, so I needed comfort food.”
“Well,” you shrug, “even if I used to hate it, taste changes. Maturity.”
“You? Mature?” she scoffs. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve told all day.”
You grin. “I’ve told bigger lies.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Kotone says through a laugh, though it sounds more like a challenge than a question.
The silence is almost deafening.
“Like saying TripleS sounds like a shampoo brand.”
She chokes on her popsicle laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here you are,” you say softly.
The words hang there for a moment — heavier than you meant them to be.
You talk for hours. About stupid things — her trip to the convenience store, your tragic attempt at cooking, the time she almost mistook a microphone stand for a person backstage, and the other time she mistook a person for a microphone backstage. The second one went substantially worse.
But eventually, the laughter fades. The pauses between words grow longer.
Kotone leans back on her hands, eyes on the water. “You know,” she starts quietly, “sometimes I feel like I’m running in circles.”
You glance at her. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Being an idol sounds like a dream when you’re outside looking in,” she says. “But when you’re living it... sometimes it feels like you’re not living at all. Just— performing. Even when you’re supposed to be yourself.”
You stay quiet.
She keeps talking, voice soft, steady. “There’s always something next. Another show, another recording, another smile you have to put on. You have to hold your breath, and look graceful like a swan, diving underwater even when you’re drowning. And at night, when the lights go out, it’s just— quiet. You look around, and there are people everywhere, but somehow you feel…”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to.
Lonely.
The word echoes in your head anyway.
And suddenly, you can’t breathe right — because it hits you all at once. All those years she was out there, trying to be strong, trying to shine, and you weren’t there. You told yourself you were giving her space to chase her dream — but maybe what she needed was someone to tell her she didn’t have to shine all the time.
You look at her, and she’s looking away, blinking fast.
“Kotone,” you say softly.
She shakes her head, smiling too quickly. “Sorry. Wow, that got depressing fast. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” you interrupt gently. “You don’t need to apologize. You’re allowed to be tired.”
Her lip trembles, but she laughs anyway. “You always say the right thing, you know that?”
“Only when it’s about you.”
Her cheeks flush, and she kicks at the water to hide it. “Still smooth, huh?”
“Always.”
“If only-” She catches herself, and you both tense up.
She laughs again — softer this time, almost fragile. Then her hand brushes yours, and both of you freeze.
For one heartbeat, you think neither of you will pull away. But you both do, pretending not to notice, staring hard at the river instead.
You can’t tell if your chest is burning from the sun or from her.
When you walk her home later, she lingers at her gate again, twirling the popsicle stick in her fingers.
“You know,” she says, “it’s weird. Everything here feels like it’s been waiting for me. Even you.”
You grin. “What can I say? I’m dependable.”
“Liar,” she says, laughing softly. Then, after a beat, she adds, “But… thanks for today.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel normal again.”
You smile, trying to ignore the ache in your chest. “Anytime, superstar.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
That night, you text her:
✉️You: get home safe? ✉️ Kotone: yup. stop worrying, grandpa. ✉️ You: not worrying. just making sure the world celebrity didn’t get lost again. ✉️ Kotone: you mean like how you get lost in your own neighborhood? ✉️ You: that was one time. ✉️ Kotone: once a disaster, always a disaster. goodnight. ✉️ You: goodnight, trouble.
You hover over your screen for a long moment before locking it.
And across town, Kotone does the same — staring at your last message, smiling until the smile trembles.
Both of you fall asleep that night with the same thought echoing softly: how easily laughter can hide the things you’re both still too scared to say.
You hadn’t planned to call. Really. It had started as one of those stupid, impulsive ideas you normally talk yourself out of halfway through — only this time, you didn’t. Kotone had been back in town for a few days, and everything had felt almost like before. Laughing until your cheeks hurt, teasing her about her “celebrity walk,” pretending that years hadn’t slipped between you like pages torn out of a book.
And then the laughter would fade, and you’d catch her staring out the window for just a second too long. That’s when it hit you — how much you’d missed. How many moments you weren’t there for. How much you’d let her bear alone.
So, of course, your next logical step was to sign up for a fancall. With her group. Yeah. Brilliant. The writer needs to stop writing shit cliches and wrap it up.
You couldn’t exactly ask Kotone for advice on how to stop being the person who hurt her. So you told yourself that maybe, just maybe, the people who spent the most time with her — her members — might help you figure it out. Without knowing who you really were.
Your finger hovered over the confirmation button. “Don’t be weird,” you muttered. “Just… do it.”
Then your screen flashed. Connected — Nien (TripleS).
Immediately, chaos. Pure, glorious, unfiltered chaos.
Nien’s face filled your phone, a grin stretching from ear to ear. Her hair bounced with every movement, one earbud dangling like it had its own orbit. Somewhere behind her, voices echoed — shouting, laughter, a faint “Nien, stop throwing things!” and a loud crash.
“HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO! IS THIS A REAL HUMAN?!” she screeched, leaning so close to the camera her nose almost fogged the lens. “Finally! A calm one! Normal energy! Oh my god, a break!”
You blinked. “Uh— hi?”
She pointed dramatically at the camera. “You have no idea what I’ve been through today. The last call? The girl whispered my name for two minutes and then fainted. Fainted! I thought she’d lagged out, but no, she just fell sideways! I respected it though — commitment! Romantic! Honestly? I kinda fell for her a little.”
You choked on your laugh. “That… sounds intense.”
“She’s living in my mind rent-free now,” Nien said solemnly, before instantly switching tones. “Anyway! You’re breathing normally, so you’re already my new favorite. Normal! Calm! Safe! Boring but safe!”
“Thanks?”
“Don’t ruin it!” she warned cheerfully, spinning in her chair hard enough to blur. “So! Why are you here, mysterious normal person? You’ve got the ‘I have emotional damage’ face. Spill!”
You hesitated. Then, maybe because she was so wildly disarming, you did. “I need advice. About a friend. Someone I promised I’d always be there for… and I wasn’t. I thought staying away would protect her, but I think it just made her feel alone. Now I don’t know how to fix it. Or if I even can.”
Nien gasped so dramatically you were sure it echoed through the dorm. “OH MY GOD. THIS IS A K-DRAMA. I LOVE IT.”
You blinked. “That’s… not—”
“No no no, listen, I’m invested. Okay, step one!” She raised a finger like she was teaching a masterclass. “Admit you messed up. Not with a novel. Not with a sad PowerPoint. Just say: ‘I was wrong. I’m sorry.’ Keep it short and punchy, like a good chorus drop. Boom!”
You bit back a smile. “Okay…”
“Step two,” she said, spinning again, this time juggling her phone and a stuffed penguin. “Context, not excuses. ‘I thought I was protecting you’ — valid. ‘I’m a noble tragic hero’ — not valid. Nobody likes that. You ghost someone for ‘their own good’? No! That’s Marvel-movie behavior.”
You snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Step three! Actions, not speeches!” she continued, shaking the penguin for emphasis. “Little things! Quiet gestures! Put a snack she likes in her bag, send a postcard, share a stupid meme. Do not flood her inbox like you’re spamming a game boss. Consistency over chaos. Small moves, big meaning.”
Her energy was relentless — a hurricane in a hoodie — but somewhere under the comedy, her words stuck.
“Step four!” she yelled. “Timing! You don’t just barge in with a speech like in movies! You ask. ‘Can I tell you something I should have said before?’ She says yes? Go! She says no? You wait. Respect her rhythm. Timing makes or breaks everything.”
You nodded slowly. “You’re… actually really good at this.”
“I contain multitudes,” she declared, striking a dramatic pose before laughing. “But seriously—wait, I have something real to say.”
And just like that, she shifted. The grin softened. Her voice steadied.
“Listen,” she said quietly, eyes still bright but suddenly focused. “The past means more to people than it shows sometimes. There was this once, I did something… stupid. I stole a letter from a member. Thought it’d be funny. Just a prank. You know — Nien chaos. But when they realized it was missing… they freaked out. Not like, cute angry. Real angry. Crying. Shaking. It was—” she exhaled, “—it was bad.”
You stayed silent, sensing how rare this side of her was.
“I didn’t get it back then,” she continued. “I thought, ‘It’s just a piece of paper.’ But to them, it was everything. Memories. Love. Something that kept them grounded. When I saw how broken they looked — like I’d taken away something sacred — I felt so small. I tried to joke, to fix it, but some things… you can’t fix with jokes.”
She looked down briefly, then back at you. “That’s when I learned: everyone has anchors. Things that keep them steady when the world spins too fast. You mess with those — you’re not just being dumb, you’re breaking something. Don’t take someone’s anchor. Protect it.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the chaos before.
Then she clapped her hands suddenly, the sound exploding through your earbuds. “OKAY! EMO TIME OVER!” she shouted, half-laughing. “So, moral of the story: Don’t ghost, don’t steal, don’t play the tragic hero. Do small, honest things. Listen when they talk. And if she tells you she was lonely—” her voice softened again, “—don’t try to fix it right away. Just… say you’re sorry she felt that way. That you wish you’d been there. That’s all. That’s enough.”
“I’m beginning to sound like Seoyeon…eww” Nien mutters to herself
Her eyes lingered on the camera for a moment, kind and unguarded. Then she grinned again, wide and unhinged. “Now! I’m gonna go pester Jiwoo because she hid my ramen cup. Wish me luck, normal human!”
“Good luck,” you said, still dazed from her whirlwind of sincerity and noise.
She saluted. “May chaos guide you!” she yelled, spinning so fast you caught a blur of colors before the call disconnected.
And then the screen went black.
You sat there for a long moment, the silence almost too loud after all that noise. Somewhere outside, cicadas hummed, as if they’d been waiting for you to listen again.
You weren’t exactly sure what counted as a “small gesture.” After Nien’s whirlwind advice session, you’d spent the next morning staring blankly into your fridge, trying to decode her words like they were a secret questline.
“Tiny gestures,” she’d said. “Consistency. No tragic speeches.”
So, naturally, your brilliant idea was: invite Kotone over. Low risk, high reward, right? Just hang out. Casual. Friendly. Not emotionally catastrophic. Probably.
When you texted her — hey, come over? I’ll cook something? — she replied almost immediately.
✉️Kotone: wow, u? cooking? ✉️ Kotone: is this a threat or an invitation ✉️ You: it’s called growth ✉️ Kotone: it’s called attempted murder
She showed up anyway.
The doorbell rang, and before you could even finish drying your hands, she was already half through the doorway, holding a bag of chips and looking far too at home for someone who hadn’t been there in years.
“Smells suspiciously edible,” she said, leaning over your shoulder to peek at the pan. “Who are you and what have you done with the disaster I used to know?”
“Disaster’s still here,” you muttered. “Just… slightly reformed.”
Kotone grinned — that same sharp, sunshine-filled grin that made your heart stutter. “Wow. Reformed. Big word. Did you learn that from your therapist or from watching cooking shows?”
“Neither,” you shot back. “From surviving your ego.”
“Fair,” she laughed, tossing her hair dramatically before hopping onto the counter like it was still her house. “So what’s the occasion? You suddenly feeling generous? Or guilty?”
You handed her a spoonful of soup. “Neither. I just figured we could hang out.”
She tasted it, hummed, and gave a small nod. “Not bad. Still too salty, though. Fitting.”
You rolled your eyes, pretending her presence didn’t fill every quiet corner of your house like it always used to. She looked the same — older, maybe, but still her. The mischievous tilt in her eyes, the way her foot swung idly against the cabinet door, the slight smile when she thought you weren’t looking.
Dinner went as well as expected. You bickered about everything — from how much garlic you added, to whether her band’s choreography looked painful (“We’re professionals, not contortionists,” she’d said indignantly), to who could hold more ice cream in one bite.
And then, somewhere between dessert and laughter, she noticed.
You’d poured her water before she asked. Pulled out a blanket when she shivered. Reached to fix the strap of her hoodie when it slipped. You didn’t even think about it — it just happened.
Kotone squinted at you. “Okay, wait. What’s going on here?”
“What?” you asked, mid-sip.
“You’re being…” she tilted her head, smirking. “Nice. Like—unusually nice. Suspiciously nice. You going soft on me?”
You choked. “I’m just being decent.”
“Oh no no,” she teased, pointing her spoon dramatically. “This isn’t decent. This is you, serving me soup and tucking me in with a blanket like some kind of romcom lead who finally learned empathy. What happened? Did guilt finally evolve you into a functioning adult?”
You gave her your best deadpan stare. “Keep talking and I’ll revoke your soup privileges.”
“Too late,” she said around a mouthful of soup. “Soup’s mine now.”
You sighed, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. It was chaotic, familiar, her. And somehow, it made your chest ache in the gentlest way.
After dinner, the two of you ended up in the living room, legs tangled on opposite sides of the couch, a movie playing in the background — one neither of you were watching.
Kotone was scrolling through her phone, when she suddenly said, “You know… this feels weird.”
You glanced at her. “Weird how?”
“Like…” she scrunched her nose, searching for words. “Like time froze. Like we just… paused for a few years and now we’re unpausing.”
You nodded, your voice soft. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“You just…threw away the remote.” Kotone doesn’t let that statement hang in the air long enough to sting.
She looked at you for a second too long, eyes soft and unreadable. “You still remember all the small things. The soup, the blanket, the way I like the fan on setting two instead of three.”
“I told you,” you said, trying to smile, “I have an excellent memory.”
“Liar,” she teased, but her voice trembled just slightly at the edges. “You forgot me for years.”
The air stilled. You opened your mouth to reply — to explain, to apologize — but then she smiled again, a little too brightly. “Kidding! Relax! You look like you’re about to cry or propose or something.”
You forced a laugh, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, you wish.”
She threw a pillow at you. “Oh, please. You couldn’t handle me.”
“Handle you? You’re like caffeine mixed with chaos. I barely survived the soup.”
She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch, the sound bright and unguarded — like nothing had ever hurt her. You laughed too, because that’s what you both did best. Pretend it was all okay.
And for that night, maybe it was.
Because even if your chest still ached with all the things you hadn’t said, even if she still smiled like she was holding something back — for now, you were here. Together. Talking too much, laughing too loud, sharing old warmth as if it had never gone cold.
And maybe, you thought, watching her curled up with a popsicle in hand and that familiar glint in her eyes, that was what healing looked like — not grand gestures, not dramatic confessions, but quiet, ridiculous moments of almost-normal.
“Hey,” Kotone said suddenly, voice softening. “You’re still bad at hiding it, you know?”
“Hiding what?”
She smiled, lazy and knowing. “When you care.”
You froze — then threw a cushion at her, half-panicked, half-flustered.
“See?” she laughed. “Knew it. Softie.”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it,” she grinned, biting her popsicle. “You missed me.”
You looked away. “Only sometimes.”
She kicked your leg lightly. “Liar.”
You smiled. “Always.”
Her grin faltered, just for a moment — but then she laughed again, because that’s what both of you did best.
And when she left that night, humming under her breath, the house still smelled faintly of soup and summer.
If you had to describe the kitchen right now, “crime scene” wouldn’t be far off.
There was flour on the ceiling. How it got there, you would never know.
“Okay—okay wait,” you said, half laughing, half choking as Kotone somehow managed to flick more flour onto your shirt. “How are you this bad at baking?”
“I’m amazing at baking,” she said, indignant, holding a whisk like a weapon. “You’re just in my way.”
“In your way? You threw butter at me, Kotone.”
“I didn’t throw it,” she argued, though she was absolutely lying through her teeth. “It just… slipped aggressively.”
The countertop was a battlefield. A measuring cup had gone missing in action. Sugar coated the floor in a fine layer of crystalline snow. Kotone stood triumphant in the middle of it all, hair tied in a messy bun that was already coming undone, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a smear of chocolate across her cheek.
You were supposed to be making cookies. You were instead making chaos.
“Stop laughing and help me, oh my god—” Kotone said, attempting to whisk the batter again, only for it to splatter up onto her wrist.
You leaned against the counter, grin spreading wider. “Are you sure you’re not secretly auditioning for a food fight drama?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re talking a lot for someone who mixed salt instead of sugar.”
“That was an experiment!”
“That was a crime!”
You reached for the spatula to defend your honor, only for her to snatch it from your hand and hold it aloft. “Not so fast, traitor!”
“Oh, you’re dead,” you said, lunging forward.
The next thirty seconds could only be described as culinary warfare. Kotone ducked, laughed, tried to dodge your grab for the spatula, and ended up bumping into the counter, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. You caught her wrist at the same time she tried to smear chocolate on your face, and the both of you froze — faces inches apart, eyes wide, breathing too fast.
Then she burst out laughing. And the moment shattered like sugar glass.
“Okay, okay, truce!” she said between giggles. “Before we destroy your kitchen completely!”
You let go, still smiling despite yourself. “You started it.”
“And you escalated it,” she countered, poking your chest. “Classic you.”
By the time the cookies were finally in the oven, you were both covered in a respectable layer of chaos — flour, sugar, laughter, and unspoken things.
Kotone flopped onto the couch beside you, arms stretched out dramatically. “I think we burned half of them.”
“Half is a win,” you said.
“Half is a tragedy,” she corrected, but her grin gave her away.
She leaned her head back, eyes closed, still smiling. “You know, you’ve been nice lately. Suspiciously nice.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Suspiciously?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head to look at you, smirk soft but playful. “You used to throw flour first. Now you help me bake. What’s up with that?”
“Maybe I just matured,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Kotone snorted. “Yeah, and maybe I’m secretly an astronaut.”
“Would explain the spacey moments.”
“Excuse me?” she said, laughing as she smacked you with a kitchen towel.
You caught it before she could pull it back. “That’s violence, you know.”
“That’s justice.”
You tugged the towel gently, smiling. “You’ve gotten way too bold.”
She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “And you’ve gotten way too soft.”
The words hit a little closer than you expected. You forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just trying to keep you from burning my kitchen down.”
Kotone giggled, then reached over to steal a sip from your drink. “Sure. You’re totally not just being sweet to me for no reason.”
You nearly choked. “Wh—sweet?”
“Yeah, you’re practically glowing. You’re like, radiating domestic energy.”
“I take it back. You’re delusional.”
Kotone laughed so hard she almost dropped the cup. “God, I missed annoying you,” she said, half under her breath.
The sentence was soft enough that you almost didn’t catch it — and she pretended she hadn’t said it. But something in her eyes flickered, a quick, quiet shimmer of something else.
The timer dinged, breaking the air between you.
Kotone jumped up, all cheerful again. “Moment of truth!”
You followed her into the kitchen, both of you crowding around the oven like it held state secrets. The cookies were uneven, some slightly burnt, others weirdly perfect — a reflection of the two of you, maybe. A mess that somehow worked.
“See?” she said, holding one up proudly. “We’re a good team.”
You smiled. “Miraculously.”
Kotone grinned. “You mean thanks to me.”
“Sure,” you said, deadpan, “you and your violent cooking philosophy.”
“I bring the chaos,” she said brightly, “you bring the sarcasm. Balance.”
You handed her a cookie. “Here. Peace offering.”
She accepted it with a dramatic bow, then bit into it — and hummed, eyes lighting up. “Not bad! You actually did something right for once.”
“High praise,” you muttered, but couldn’t help smiling.
For a while, the two of you just ate in companionable silence — that easy rhythm you used to have slipping back like it never left. She talked a bit about the dorms, about how loud Yeonji was, about how Yooyeon kept stealing snacks at midnight. You listened, smiling at every story, every little glimpse into her world.
Then you said, “Hey, can you grab my gloves from the table?”
“Roger that,” she said, marching off.
You turned back to the cookies, humming quietly to yourself — and then heard a thump.
“Uh,” Kotone said from across the room, “your drawer just… declared independence?”
You spun around — and froze.
She was crouched beside your desk, one hand holding a file that had fallen open. Albums, posters, a binder — a whole archive, really — lay spread across the floor.
The binder was the worst part. It was thick, carefully labeled. Pages of her photo cards, some signed, some rare, all pristine.
Kotone blinked at it, then slowly looked up at you, eyes wide with amusement. “…You collect me?”
You immediately felt your soul leave your body. “That’s not— I— It’s not like—”
“Oh my god,” she said, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “This is—this is serious fan behavior. You have the limited edition one!”
You groaned, covering your face. “I can explain.”
“You better,” she teased, flipping through the pages. “Because this? This is intense. You even kept the little pre-order cards!”
You tried to snatch it back. “Stop!”
Kotone giggled, dodging you easily. “I didn’t know you were a stan! Should I start signing your walls? Maybe sell you my used water bottle?”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
She laughed, loud and delighted. “You’re blushing! Oh my god, you’re actually blushing!”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it, you missed me.”
You didn’t answer fast enough.
Kotone’s laughter faded just a little — not gone, just softer, gentler. She glanced down at one of the signed albums, tracing her finger over her name before setting it aside. “You really did keep up with everything, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said quietly, suddenly unsure where to look. “Guess I did.”
There was a pause — small, fragile. Kotone smiled, but there was something behind it, something faint and hidden, like the echo of a thought she didn’t want to finish.
“Then I guess,” she said lightly, “I did something right.”
She stood, brushing off her hands, grin returning. “Anyway. Cookies are gonna burn. You can tell me later about how deep your fandom goes.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the tightness in your chest. “I’m regretting this baking session already.”
Kotone bumped your shoulder on her way past. “Liar.”
And as she reached for another cookie, humming softly under her breath, you realized how right she was. You didn’t regret it at all. Not even a little.
It starts with a photo.
Just one blurry photo — you and Kotone walking side by side, her laughter frozen mid-motion, her head tilted toward you beneath the warm blur of streetlights. Your arm brushes hers. The air glows soft and gold, tender in a way that feels like home.
But the internet doesn’t care about warmth. It doesn’t care about tenderness or how ordinary that night was. It only cares about who she was with.
Within hours, it’s everywhere.
“tripleS Kotone spotted on a date with a non-celebrity.” “Company refuses to comment.” “So disappointing. I thought she cared about her fans.”
You scroll until the words blur together. The comments multiply like rot — parasitic, relentless. By noon, her name trends worldwide. Every timeline, every screen, every headline.
Kotone’s phone vibrates nonstop. Her manager’s name flashes again and again — until she can’t look anymore. She sets it down, face-down on the bed, and the buzzing continues. She presses a pillow over her ears, but the sound keeps finding her.
Another call. Another message. Another wave of hate.
When she finally hurls the phone across the room, it bounces, hits the floor, and lights up again — like it refuses to let her rest.
You stand there helpless, watching as she curls up at the far edge of the bed, knees drawn tight, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. Her breaths come in shallow bursts. She’s trying not to cry, but her body shakes with the effort.
The comments keep coming.
“She’s just like the others.” “Fake.” “I can’t believe I ever supported her.” “She ruined everything.”
Every word cuts deeper than the last — and you can do nothing to stop it.
By evening, Kotone locks herself in her room.
You knock once. Nothing.
You try again, softer. “Kotone. Please.”
Still silence.
You slide down the wall, sitting on the floor, your back pressed to the door. The light under the crack glows faintly, flickering with movement. You rest your hand against it like maybe she’ll feel you there.
“I just want to know you’re okay,” you murmur.
No answer. Only the rain outside, slow and steady.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The world fades until it’s just the two of you — one behind the door, one waiting on the other side.
And then, a sound.
A small, broken sob.
It’s faint, but it feels like the air leaves your lungs.
You knock once more, barely a whisper. “Kotone?”
Nothing — and then the softest sniffle, so quiet you almost imagine it.
“I’m not leaving,” you whisper. “Not until you’re okay.”
And you stay there — long enough for the rain to turn to a downpour, long enough for your back to ache and your throat to burn with words you’ll never say.
Finally — the lock clicks.
The door opens a few inches.
She stands there, eyes red, hair tangled, wearing your old hoodie that hangs too big on her frame. Her hands are buried in the sleeves, trembling. Her lips are cracked from crying.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice raw, like it hurts to speak.
You blink. “Because I was worried.”
She laughs — short, sharp, hollow. “Now you’re worried?”
You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Kotone—”
“No!” Her voice cracks, trembling with the kind of pain that’s been waiting years to escape. “You don’t get to pretend you care now. Not after everything.”
Your chest tightens. “I always cared—”
“Then where were you?” she shouts. “When I was in Korea — when I cried alone in the dorm bathroom, trying to cry softly to hide it from the others. When my manager yelled at me for every mistake. When I begged myself not to break down on camera.”
Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop. “Do you know what it’s like to stand on stage in front of thousands of people and still feel like no one’s looking at you? When the one person who promised they’d never leave — already has?”
Your breath catches. “Kotone—”
“I kept waiting for you!” she shouts again, tears streaming freely now. “Every night. I’d stare at my phone, watching that stupid green dot next to your name. I thought maybe you’d text first. Maybe tonight you’d remember me. But you never did.”
You swallow hard, words dying in your throat.
“Do you know how many times I almost called?” she whispers. “How many messages I typed out and deleted? How many times I told myself you were just busy, that you’d come back when you could?”
Her voice falters. “You promised you’d always be there.”
She looks up, eyes burning. “But you weren’t.”
You close your eyes. “I never stopped caring.”
Her laugh is sharp, pained. “Then why didn’t you show it?”
She steps forward, trembling. “You had binders. Binders, for God’s sake — of us, of me. Every photo, every album, every fan sign. You followed everything.”
You freeze.
Her tears spill faster. “You knew where I was. You watched every step I took. So if you cared so much—” her voice breaks, cracking open the silence between you — “then why didn’t you call?”
You can’t look at her.
“Do you know what that felt like?” she whispers. “To know you were still out there, still watching — but remembering that you didn’t call me? Not even once?”
Her hand hits your chest. Once. Twice. Weak, but it trembles with grief. “You were right there,” she sobs. “And you still let me believe you didn’t care.”
You can’t move.
“I thought you hated me,” she whispers. “I thought I wasn’t worth missing.”
You open your mouth, but she cuts you off — her breath shaking, her eyes wild.
“Why didn’t you tell me you missed me?” she says. “Why didn’t you just say something?”
Her voice cracks, and she lifts something in her hands. A small, worn envelope.
Your stomach drops.
The letter.
Your letter — the one you wrote before she left for Seoul. The one you lost that night she told you she was leaving.
“Kotone…”
Her hands shake as she holds it up. “Do you know how many times I read this?” she asks softly. “Before every show. Every rehearsal. Every time I wanted to give up. You said you believed in me. You told me to chase my dream.”
Tears spill down her cheeks, her lips trembling. “You told me you’d wait.”
She looks up at you, her voice cracking open. “So why?”
You can barely breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” she whispers.
And just like that — the room breaks.
You can’t move. You can’t speak. The storm outside swells, thunder rumbling like the world itself is grieving with her.
Finally, you manage, “Because if I did… I was afraid you’d stay.”
Her eyes widen, confusion flickering into hurt.
You take a shaky breath. “If I told you how I felt, I was afraid you’d give up everything. I didn’t want to be the reason you quit. The reason you regretted your dream. I couldn’t live with that.”
Kotone stares at you, disbelieving. Her lip quivers. “You idiot,” she breathes. “You absolute idiot.”
“I know.”
She lets out a small, broken laugh. “You think I wouldn’t have chosen you?”
Your throat tightens.
“I already did,” she says. Her voice is so soft you almost miss it. “Before I left. That night you wrote this — I already knew.”
Tears fall freely now. “I spent years loving you in silence. Every time I smiled on stage, I thought — maybe you’d see me. Maybe you’d look at me and call me. Maybe you’d remember. But you didn’t need to. You already had me, didn’t you? Trapped in your binders, frozen in pictures, easier that way, wasn’t it?”
You feel your knees go weak.
“I was out there trying to become someone you’d be proud of,” she says, “and all I ever wanted was for you to pick up the phone.”
The rain crashes against the glass, drowning the world outside.
Neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly — brokenly — she says, “You should’ve let me decide what I wanted.”
You look at her. She’s trembling, eyes glassy and distant.
“I would’ve stayed,” she whispers. “Even if it ruined me. Even if I had to start over, or I had to find another way to chase my dreams. I would’ve stayed for you.”
Her voice cracks completely. She sinks to her knees, curling in on herself, her face hidden behind trembling hands.
And you — you sink down beside her, useless and heavy, a thousand apologies caught in your throat.
Thunder rolls in the distance.
Inside, the two of you sit in silence — close enough to touch, but worlds apart.
And for the first time, you realize that loving her quietly might have been the cruelest thing you ever did.
The river was quiet that night—too quiet for a world that kept moving. The current whispered against the stones, soft and steady, like it had all the time in the world to listen. You didn’t. You sat there with your arms wrapped loosely around your knees, staring at your reflection as it wavered and broke with each passing ripple.
You weren’t sure what you were waiting for. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe just a familiar voice to fill the silence.
When it came, it was softer than you remembered. “Hey.”
You turned. Kotone stood a few steps behind you, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, the wind tugging at her bangs. In her hands were two melon popsicles, the kind the two of you used to buy every summer from the tiny shop near the bus stop.
Without saying anything, she walked over and sat beside you. Close enough that her sleeve brushed yours. She offered one out.
You took it.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You both just sat there, legs dangling near the water, watching the popsicles slowly melt in your hands.
Finally, Kotone broke the silence. “I couldn’t sleep.”
You nodded. “Me neither.”
“Too many thoughts,” she said quietly. “Too many voices.”
Her tone wasn’t bitter—just tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of rest but from being stretched thin for too long.
“I’m sorry,” you said. The words were too small, too late. But they were real.
Kotone didn’t answer right away. She just nudged a pebble into the water with her shoe and watched the ripples bloom outward. “You know,” she said eventually, “I came here before I left for Korea. Every night the week before. Just… to feel calm.”
You looked at her. “Yeah. I remember.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “I thought if I sat here long enough, I’d stop being scared. That I’d find some kind of sign that I was doing the right thing.” She laughed under her breath. “Didn’t work, though. I was still terrified.”
You swallowed. “I was terrified too, and not just of making you not chase your dreams.”
“Then what?”
“That you’d forget me,” you said honestly. “That you’d move on. That one day I’d see you smiling onstage, and you wouldn’t remember the person who used to walk you home.”
Kotone blinked, surprised. “You thought I’d forget you?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
She shook her head, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
She smiled a little, but it faded just as quickly. “I never forgot you. Not even once. Every city I went to, every stage, every new dorm… there was always something that reminded me of you.”
Her voice softened, trembling just slightly. “There’d be nights when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d reread your letter. I must’ve read it a hundred times. Sometimes I’d cry, sometimes I’d laugh, but I always… I always felt like you were still with me, even when you weren’t.”
Your chest tightened. “I didn’t mean to disappear, Kotone. I just—”
“I know,” she said, cutting you off gently. “I wouldn’t have done it, but I know why you did.”
You looked at her, confused.
“You thought you were protecting me,” she continued. “You thought if you stayed away, it’d make it easier for me to focus. To chase my dream without looking back.”
You exhaled slowly. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”
She nodded. “I know. That’s why it hurt so much.”
Her words caught you off guard.
“I never hated you,” she said. “Not once. I was angry, yeah. Sad. I thought maybe I’d said something wrong. But I never hated you. I wanted to. It would have hurt less that way, but I just… missed you so much it hurt.”
You looked down, fingers tightening around the wooden stick of the popsicle. “I missed you too. Every day. Every time I saw you smiling on screen, I’d tell myself you looked happy, that you didn’t need me anymore. But then I’d see it—the same look in your eyes I used to see when you were scared.”
Kotone was quiet for a moment, her gaze on the water. Then, softly, she said, “I wasn’t happy. Not really. I loved what I was doing, but… it always felt like something was missing.”
You turned to her. “What was missing?”
Her eyes met yours. “You.”
You froze. The simplicity of it hit harder than any argument, any outburst could have.
“You were always there in the back of my mind,” she continued, voice trembling. “When the lights went off after a concert, when I was too tired to take off my makeup, when I felt small in a room full of people. I’d think, ‘If I could just call you, it’d be okay.’ But I couldn’t.”
The silence that followed was fragile. You could hear the sound of the water, the faint echo of traffic from the bridge nearby, the small cracks in both of your hearts trying to mend themselves in real time.
“I thought you stopped caring,” she whispered.
“I never did,” you said. “I just thought… I didn’t deserve to. To risk ruining your dreams for my own selfishness”
She turned toward you then, eyes wet but steady. “That was my choice, not yours.”
Neither of you spoke after that for a while. The night was heavy but softer somehow, like it had finally loosened its grip.
After a long pause, Kotone leaned her head against your shoulder. It was tentative at first, like testing whether she still had permission. When you didn’t move, she relaxed, her hair brushing against your arm.
You let out a shaky breath. “You still like the green part?”
She smiled faintly, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Yeah. Always have.”
You smiled too, just barely. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Some do,” she murmured.
You turned to her, but she didn’t lift her head. “Like what?”
“This,” she said simply. “Being here again. Talking. Not pretending anymore.”
You felt her hand brush yours then—accidental, maybe, but it lingered just a moment too long to be nothing.
The cicadas hummed louder, the river shimmered under the moonlight, and in that quiet, you realized something. Maybe this wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe it was something better—understanding.
A beginning, not an ending.
Kotone sighed softly. “I don’t know what’s next,” she said. “But… if you’re here, I think I’ll be okay.”
You turned to look at her then, really look—her tired eyes, her faint smile, the girl you loved who somehow still looked at you like you were worth the wait.
You reached out, hesitated, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly.
She laughed softly. “Good. Took you long enough.”
And then she leaned in just a little closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You know, I think I started loving you before I even realized it.”
You smiled. “Funny. I think I did too.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The air between you felt warmer somehow, softer, like all the sharp edges had dulled a little.
Kotone nudged you with her shoulder. “You owe me a lot of ice cream,” she muttered.
You blinked. “What?”
“For emotional damages,” she said, taking another bite of her popsicle. “And for every time you didn’t text back.”
You laughed again, and this time, it reached your eyes. “That’s gonna be expensive.”
“I’m worth it,” she said, grinning faintly, and for a second—just a second—you saw the old Kotone again, the one who smiled with her whole face.
You both sat there until the sky went fully dark, the streetlights reflecting on the water like stars that had fallen too close.
At some point, she leaned her head against your shoulder. You froze at first—then relaxed, letting your head tilt slightly toward hers.
The cold from the popsicles had long since faded, replaced by the warmth of her against you.
“Don’t disappear again,” she murmured.
You nodded. “Only if you don’t run.”
She smiled faintly. “Deal.”
The river moved quietly beside you, carrying away the last of the hurt, the last of the silence.
And under the moonlight, with sticky fingers and hearts still piecing themselves back together, you and Kotone stayed there—two broken halves, finally remembering how to fit.
The sun hung low, spilling gold over the river and turning everything soft and drowsy. The air smelled faintly of summer rain, and Kotone sat on your porch steps with her knees pulled to her chest, a half-melted popsicle dripping onto her wrist. You’d both spent the day doing absolutely nothing — wandering through town, bickering in shops, pretending the clock wasn’t ticking down to her flight.
Now, it was just you two, sitting in the hush between cicada calls, pretending you weren’t counting how many hours you had left.
“Your porch still creaks in the same places,” Kotone said, rocking slightly, her voice light. “You should fix it.”
You smiled. “If I did, you wouldn’t know where to step.”
She laughed — that bright, melodic laugh that still made your chest ache. “Right. Can’t ruin the nostalgia.”
You leaned back against the railing, eyes on the fading sky. It was so easy again. Too easy. The space between you felt charged, like the seconds before a storm — not the kind that destroys, but the kind that drenches you and makes you remember what warmth feels like after.
When she turned to look at you, the light caught in her hair, and you thought — just for a second — that she didn’t look like the idol everyone else saw. She looked like your Kotone. The girl who used to race you down the hill behind your school. The girl who used to steal your snacks and then act offended when you noticed. The girl who never really left, even when she did.
“You’re staring,” she said, tilting her head with a teasing grin.
“I’m not,” you lied.
Kotone raised a brow. “Oh? Then what are you looking at?”
“Someone who doesn’t know how to eat a popsicle without it melting all over her.”
She gasped, smacking your arm lightly. “You’re such a brat.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
You grinned, swiping a drip of syrup off her hand before she could. “You’re hopeless.”
The touch lingered longer than it should’ve. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Her eyes flickered down to your hand, then up again — and suddenly the air felt too thick, too heavy. You both laughed it off, too quick, too practiced.
She shifted closer, the distance shrinking, until her shoulder brushed yours. “You really didn’t change much,” she murmured, softer this time. “Still the same you.”
You turned to her. “You think that’s a good thing?”
Kotone smiled faintly. “Yeah. It is.”
Silence followed — comfortable, but fragile. You could hear the river murmuring in the distance, the sound of home, of summers that used to feel endless.
“I used to think,” she said after a while, “that maybe we’d never get back here. Not like this.”
You looked down at your hands. “Yeah. Me too.”
“I’m glad we did.” Her voice trembled just a little. “Even if it’s just for now.”
You swallowed hard. The words you’d been holding for years pressed against your tongue, desperate and heavy. But you didn’t say them — not yet. Maybe because you were scared. Maybe because she was leaving.
“Do you ever think about—” you began, but she interrupted with a small, knowing smile.
“All the time,” she said.
That stopped you.
“Whatever you were about to ask,” she added, “yes. I think about it all the time.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“I do.”
You turned to face her fully now. The world seemed to narrow to just her — her lips curved in a small smile, her eyes glinting with something that looked too much like everything you’d ever wanted.
“Kotone,” you said quietly.
She leaned in just a little, enough for your breath to catch. “Hmm?”
You hesitated. The words hovered there — I love you, don’t go, stay — but you couldn’t ruin it. Not yet. The world already took enough from her.
“Thank you,” you said instead. “For coming back. For everything.”
Her smile faltered, softened. She looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours like she was trying to read all the words you weren’t saying. Then she whispered, “Always.”
The word hung between you, as soft as the evening breeze, as fragile as the fading light.
You both sat there until the stars came out — your shoulders pressed together, laughter spilling quietly between the silences, the unspoken confession resting somewhere in the warmth of her hand against yours.
Neither of you said it out loud. But it didn’t matter.
Because in that small, fleeting summer night, you both knew.
You always had.
Kotone left on a Tuesday. The morning after felt like a hangover — not from alcohol, but from all the feelings you didn’t say. Her mug still sat in your sink, half-rinsed. A hair tie you didn’t remember her taking off clung to your wrist. Everything looked normal, and yet, everything didn’t.
You told yourself you wouldn’t expect her to text first. She had schedules, practices, interviews — a life that didn’t have room for waiting. So you didn’t expect it. But she texted anyway.
✉️ Kotone [9:47 PM]: landed safe :) ✉️ Kotone [9:48 PM]: i miss the creaky porch already ✉️ You [9:50 PM]: wow that was fast ✉️ You [9:50 PM]: didn’t even get a dramatic “goodbye forever” at the airport ✉️ Kotone [9:51 PM]: sorry, i didn’t want to cry in front of the paparazzi lol ✉️ You [9:51 PM]: fair ✉️ Kotone [9:52 PM]: …but i did cry a little in the cab ✉️ You [9:52 PM]: loser ✉️ Kotone [9:53 PM]: says the one who kept my mug hostage
You smiled at your phone like an idiot.
That became your new rhythm — little texts between long hours. You learned that Kotone was the type to message at the oddest times. 2:16 AM, after a rehearsal. 11:03 AM, when she was half-asleep on the studio floor. Her texts were little windows into her world — messy, honest, sometimes half-coherent.
✉️ Kotone [2:16 AM]: rehearsal done. my feet hate me. send comfort. ✉️ You [2:17 AM]: comfort is on the way. ETA: 0.2 seconds. imagine me patting your head. ✉️ Kotone [2:18 AM]: not the same. need actual headpats. ✉️ You [2:19 AM]: okay now you sound like a cat ✉️ Kotone [2:20 AM]: maybe i am
And sometimes, it was voice calls. Soft, late-night calls that felt like secrets.
You’d hear her breathing before she spoke, the faint rustle of sheets as she lay in her dorm bed. The city outside her window hummed faintly, and her voice — tired but alive — filled your ears.
“How’s Seoul?” you’d ask.
“Busy,” she’d say. “Loud. The coffee here’s good though.”
“You always talk about coffee.”
“Because it’s the only thing keeping me functioning.”
“Besides me,” you teased.
There’d be a pause, then a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Besides you.”
Some nights she’d tell you about rehearsals — how her groupmates teased her about being distracted lately. How she smiled more on set. How the fans noticed it, too. And you’d wonder if she told them why.
Other nights, you didn’t talk much. You’d just exist together. You, listening to the hum of her world; her, listening to the silence of yours.
“Are you still there?” she’d whisper sometimes.
“Yeah,” you’d murmur. “Still here.”
And she’d sigh — a small, content sound, like she was trying to memorize what it felt like to be found again.
Weeks turned into months. You got used to the time difference, the way she’d send photos of cloudy Seoul mornings or half-finished drinks with captions like “thinking of you, kinda.”
You’d reply with something stupid — a selfie of you holding her forgotten mug, or a shot of the riverbank at sunset. And every time, she’d say the same thing:
✉️ Kotone [7:12 PM]: stop sending me pictures that make me miss home :(
✉️ You [7:13 PM]: maybe that’s the point
✉️ Kotone [7:14 PM]: then you’re mean
✉️ You [7:14 PM]: you love it
✉️ Kotone [7:15 PM]: …yeah. i kinda do.
One night, during a call, she said softly, “You know, it feels different this time.”
You turned in your bed. “What does?”
“This. Us.”
Her voice was tired but warm — the kind of tired that comes after laughter. “Last time I left, it felt like goodbye. This time… it doesn’t.”
You swallowed, heart stuttering. “Maybe because it isn’t.”
There was a silence then. Not awkward, just heavy — the kind that holds everything words can’t carry.
“You’re gonna make me cry again,” she murmured.
“Then don’t,” you said gently. “Just… stay on the call.”
She did. For hours. Neither of you hung up. Sometimes you’d hear her breathing, slow and even, and you’d realize she’d fallen asleep. You didn’t end the call. You just listened.
Days passed like that — one message, one call at a time. The distance stayed the same. But somehow, it didn’t feel so far anymore.
And every time the phone rang, your heart would skip, because you knew it was her. Every time she laughed through the speaker, your room felt less empty.
It started as a ridiculous idea.
You’d been talking to Kotone daily — texts, calls, memes, late-night voice notes — the whole rhythm of being close, but still far. And yet, the thought kept creeping into your mind: what if you didn’t have to be far? What if you could see her, surprise her, and finally show her, without words that might fumble the moment, how much she meant to you?
The problem? You were in your hometown. Seoul was… a universe away. But then, you remembered Nien.
You’d never forgotten that chaotic, brilliant, unhinged personality on the other end of that one fancall. The way she had given you advice about Kotone, the way she had lectured you on trust, on small gestures, on paying attention to the heart behind the binder and the letters. Nien was your only link to Kotone’s world without it being suspicious.
So you contacted her again, with the help of a very rich mutual on Twitter — a generous, slightly wealthy fan who owed you a favor after a ridiculous chain of DMs. Somehow, that led to another fancall with Nien.
Nien: “WHO IS THIS HUMAN?!” she yelled the moment she appeared. Her hair was still chaotic, earbuds dangling, dorm sounds echoing in the background. “You again! You’re normal again, huh? Safe? Too safe! This is suspicious!”
You laughed nervously. “Nien… I need a favor.”
She froze mid-spin. “FAVOR. DANGER. THRILL. EXPLAIN.”
You explained everything, carefully, but quickly. How you and Kotone had… history. How you’d made mistakes. How you’d promised to be there, and how you finally wanted to show her you had always meant it.
You explained the surprise you were planning, your only chance to make it unforgettable.
She stared at you for a moment, eyes narrowing, then her grin split her face in half. “OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH. I LOVE THIS. CHAOS. EMOTIONAL CHAOS. ROMANCE. OMG. THIS IS SO EXCITING.”
You held up your hands. “It’s not chaos. I’m trying to be organized for once.”
“LIES,” she said instantly, giggling. “Fine. Fine. I’m in. I will help you orchestrate the perfect surprise. No mistakes. No disasters. But… you owe me everything, okay? EVERYTHING. Dorm snacks, selfies, weird dances — EVERYTHING.”
There’s a long, quiet beat. Then she says, voice soft, “Wait.”
You blink. “Wait?”
She leans closer to the screen. “You said… letter.”
Your heart skips. “Yeah.”
Her eyes dart side to side, like she’s trying to connect invisible dots. “You said it was old — yellowed — and you gave it to her before she left.”
You nod slowly. “That’s right.”
She gasps — a sharp, audible sound. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
She covers her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. “No freaking way.”
“What?” you repeat, alarmed now.
“Oh my god, oh my god.” She laughs — a mix of disbelief and secondhand guilt. “That letter. The one she wouldn’t stop talking about for weeks. The one I accidentally… kind of… stole.”
“I didn’t know it was from you!” Nien waves her hands frantically, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I thought it was, like, a fan thing — or something she wrote to herself, I don’t know! She was so mad when she found out I took it.”
You can’t help it — you laugh. A real, tired, almost disbelieving laugh. The story she had told you. “You stole my letter.”
“Oh my god,” Nien groans, burying her face in her hands. “I stole your letter.”
The two of you laugh until the tension dissolves into something easier — something lighter.
Then she looks back at you, eyes soft but serious. “You really love her, don’t you?”
You nod. “Yeah. Always have.”
Nien smiles, but it’s the quiet kind — the knowing kind. “Then come here,” she says. “I’ll help. I’ll talk to the manager, I’ll figure something out. You just get on that plane.”
“Really? That easy?” You asked, almost incredulous. “Yeah, well, the writer, you know, the one that keeps calling me a lesbian, poor guy probably got lazy and couldn’t think of another way for you to get into contact and make this all happen, so, contrivances. Now, back from our 4th wall break for our regularly scheduled program.”
You don’t know how to thank her — so you just whisper, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she grins. “Just… make her happy. She deserves that.”
You nod again, and this time your voice doesn’t shake. “I will.”
For the next week, Nien became your clandestine partner-in-crime. She shared tips about the dorm layout, the best times to avoid security, how to leave little teasers without tipping Kotone off. She teased you relentlessly, but also sent updates on Kotone’s schedule — all anonymized so Kotone would never know you had infiltrated her life via her most chaotic ally.
Finally, the day arrived.
You stood near the dorm, heart hammering like a drum. The city smelled like rain on asphalt, a comforting scent that reminded you of the last time Kotone had been in your hometown. And now… you were here, in her city, breathing the same air, waiting for her to come out, unaware that you’d flown across the sea to see her.
You heard the familiar click of her shoes against the pavement before you saw her. That sound alone was enough to make your heart race — light, rhythmic, a melody you hadn’t realized you’d memorized.
Kotone appeared a second later — laughing at something one of her groupmates had said, phone in hand, her hair bouncing with every step. The evening sun caught in it, making her glow gold. The world seemed brighter, faster, lighter — and your stomach was a tangled knot of nerves.
You took one hesitant step forward. “Kotone,” you said softly.
She froze mid-step. The laughter died instantly. Her head turned toward you, eyes scanning your face like she couldn’t quite trust what she was seeing. Shock. Disbelief. Then — slowly, achingly — recognition.
“Wait…” she whispered. “No way.”
You swallowed hard, holding up a small envelope — a simple, creased note. The same kind of envelope you’d used for the letter all those years ago.
“I had help,” you managed, your voice trembling. “But I’m here. I just… I wanted to see you. In person. To see you smile — not through a screen, not in a video. Just you. Right here.”
For a moment, Kotone just stared — eyes wide, lips parted — like the world had stopped spinning. Then her hands flew to her mouth.
“You…” Her voice broke into a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and pure joy. “You’re here? You’re actually—”
Before you could even nod, she moved.
It wasn’t just a run — it was a blur. A sprint that turned into a jump, high and sudden, all momentum and emotion. You barely had time to brace yourself before she collided with you, arms thrown around your neck, legs nearly lifting off the ground.
You stumbled back a few steps, laughing helplessly as you caught her, the force of her joy nearly knocking you both over.
She buried her face into your shoulder, shaking with laughter and tears all at once. “You idiot!” she said between hiccupped breaths. “You absolute idiot! You actually came!”
“I told you I would,” you murmured into her hair, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.
She leaned back, still clinging to you, eyes shining so bright it felt like the whole city had dimmed to make room for her. “You—how did you even—”
“I had help,” you said again, laughing through the adrenaline. “Nien. Twitter. Maybe fate, I don’t know.”
“Nien helped you?” she gasped, incredulous.
“Yeah. Turns out she’s better at logistics than she is at keeping secrets.”
Kotone laughed — loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh you hadn’t heard in person for years. She swatted your shoulder lightly. “You’re insane,” she said, voice trembling with affection.
“Maybe,” you admitted. “But I’m your kind of insane, and I’ll be here, forever. Guess who’s your new neighbour?”
She stared at you for a heartbeat — and then, softly, her smile changed. Less laughter now, more something tender. Something full.
Her hands slipped from your shoulders to cup your face, thumbs brushing your jaw. “You really moved here,” she whispered.
You nodded. “Yeah. For good.”
Her eyes glistened, but this time, there were no tears. Just warmth. “You have no idea how much I wanted this.”
And before you could even think — before the world could start moving again — she leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t perfect — it was messy and breathless and half-laughing, the kind of kiss that tasted like years of missed chances and all the things you’d both been too afraid to say.
When you finally pulled apart, she was still close enough that her breath brushed your skin. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, smiling against your lips.
“I know.”
“I love that about you,” she said, and this time, she didn’t look away.
You laughed softly, forehead resting against hers. “Good,” you murmured. “Because I think I’ve always loved that about you too.”
She grinned, eyes bright and unguarded, and tugged you by the wrist toward the dorm entrance. “Come on,” she said, voice lilting with happiness. “You’re telling me everything.”
You let her pull you inside, your hand still wrapped in hers — a perfect fit, like it always had been.
tripleS ASSEMBLE26 <LOVE&POP> pt.1 Blooming Flower ver.
junham 4eva bc they never really go away