Chapter 10: Warmth in Small Spaces
By the time Monday arrived, the sky was a clearer shade of blue, the kind that felt tentative but full of hope. It no longer looked like winter, yet the air still whispered remnants of cold in the early hours.
Kazuki stood at the window, sipping his tea, watching a pair of pigeons flutter across the street's power lines.
He wasn't sure when the quiet had started to feel comforting rather than hollow, but he welcomed it now. Ayaka's presence had woven into the apartment like threads through cloth—natural, subtle, permanent.
Behind him, soft footsteps padded across the tatami.
"Morning," Ayaka mumbled, half-buried in her blanket like a burrito.
"Morning. You slept late."
"You were humming in your sleep again."
Kazuki raised an eyebrow. "Was I?"
"Mm-hm. Something that sounded like an old jingle. It was kind of funny."
He chuckled, rubbing his temple. "Sorry. I don't even remember dreaming."
"Maybe your brain is writing a musical. Without your consent."
"Let's hope it's a good one."
She shuffled over to the kotatsu and slipped beneath it with a contented sigh. "I don't want to go to school today."
"I don't want to go to work either."
"Then let's run away. Start a bakery in the mountains."
"We'd be broke within a week."
"You bake. I'll charm the customers. It's a solid plan."
"You charm anyone who walks within ten feet of you."
She grinned. "You included."
He pretended to study his tea with deep seriousness. "Took a while."
"Worth it."
She leaned her head on the table, eyes closing again. Kazuki watched her for a moment, then turned to gather his things for work.
Despite how comfortable their morning banter had become, time hadn't slowed for the outside world. There were still bills, still expectations, still responsibilities.
When he returned to the living room, Ayaka was sketching something in her notebook. A small smile played on her lips.
"I'm drawing the bakery," she said. "With cats in the window."
He smiled faintly. "I'll look forward to seeing it tonight."
"You'd better. It's going to have a very realistic you in a frilly apron."
He grimaced. "Terrifying."
But her laughter followed him all the way to the front door. As he left the apartment, he realized he was humming. Again.
...
The day passed like many before it—quiet shifts, polite customers, the soft whir of the register and the scent of fresh paper and roasted coffee beans. Kazuki worked efficiently, head down, thoughts occasionally drifting back to the apartment.
To her.
She'd become a part of him in ways he hadn't expected. Like sunlight seeping through curtains, uninvited but welcome.
During his break, he took out his phone and opened their shared memo app. Ayaka had started the habit—leaving little notes or doodles for him to find during the day.
Today's note was short:
"Don't forget to live, not just survive. (P.S. We're out of soy sauce.)"
He stared at it for a long time, then typed back:
"Living sounds expensive. Surviving is cheaper. Will bring soy sauce."
She responded almost instantly:
"Living is on sale this week. Buy one sunset, get one smile free."
He chuckled under his breath. His coworker glanced over but said nothing.
When his shift ended, Kazuki stopped by the store and picked up the soy sauce, along with a few extra things: her favorite yogurt, a new brand of tea, and a packet of sakura mochi he thought she might like.
Outside, the wind was milder. A breeze, not a bite. He zipped up his jacket anyway and started the walk home.
Back at the apartment, the scent of simmering broth hit him as soon as he opened the door.
"Welcome home!" Ayaka called from the kitchen. "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Don't you dare sit down and disappear."
"Yes, ma'am."
He placed the groceries on the counter. She peeked in and grinned.
"You bought the fancy yogurt. Look at you, splurging like a responsible adult."
"It was on sale."
"Sure it was."
They cooked the rest of the meal together. It had become routine—she handled the vegetables, he managed the protein.
They moved like a team, handing utensils wordlessly, adjusting the flame without asking.
By the time they sat down, the sky outside was streaked with indigo and faint gold. They ate slowly, savoring both the food and the quiet.
"So," Ayaka said after a while, "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Shush. I mean it. I think I want to try applying for art school."
Kazuki paused. "Really?"
"Yeah. I don't know if I'll get in, but... I want to try. I've always drawn for fun, but lately it feels like it could be more."
He nodded slowly. "I think that's a great idea."
She bit her lip. "I'm scared I'll fail. That they'll think I'm not good enough."
"Then fail."
She blinked. "What?"
"Fail. And then try again. Or don't. But don't let the fear decide for you."
She stared at him, then smiled. "You're getting wise in your old age."
"I'm eighteenth."
"Ancient. Practically dust."
They both laughed.
Later that night, they sat on the balcony for the first time in weeks. Wrapped in blankets, sipping tea, watching the city lights flicker.
"You know," Ayaka murmured, "I used to hate silence. I thought it meant something was wrong."
"And now?"
"Now it feels like a blanket. Soft. Familiar. Safe."
Kazuki looked at her. "You make it feel that way."
She looked back, eyes reflecting the distant lights. "You do, too."
The air between them shifted, just slightly. Not with tension, but with something unspoken, deep and gentle.
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Don't fall in love with me," she whispered.
He didn't answer. Not because he couldn't, but because he already had.
And maybe she had, too.
They sat like that until the stars blinked into place above them.
That night, as he drifted off to sleep, Kazuki thought of something Ayaka had once said: You don't complain about things made with love.
He thought of her drawings, her teasing, her warmth. Of miso soup and early plum blossoms. Of her hand in his by the river.
Maybe life wasn't about erasing the past. Maybe it was about layering the present over it—stroke by stroke, moment by moment, like paint over a canvas. The past still there, but no longer the only thing visible.
And maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something he hadn't dared to dream of.
The beginning of a life he wanted to live.