On the way home, Ryoma starts second-guessing himself. Refusing Kirizume's gym is easy. Refusing the food? That still stings.
It's a trap, he knows. But really, would it have hurt to let his stomach enjoy the manipulation?
By the time he reaches his apartment, it's nearly nine. His mom will be back from the barber shop any minute, and the kitchen is untouched.
He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, and exhales.
"Better apologize first."
Instead of going inside, he turns away and heads for the shop.
Lights at the barber shop are dimmed when Ryoma sees her mother still sweeping the floor inside.
Fumiko looks up, and instantly, her eyes narrow with that motherly sixth sense, the one that can spot a son who has not, in fact, cooked dinner.
"I know, I know…" she sighs, broom swishing. "This is what I hate about Sundays. Dead quiet all day, then suddenly every man in town needs a haircut right before closing."
Ryoma scratches his cheek. "…Uh, mom?"
