The house had fallen asleep.
Somewhere upstairs, the soft rhythm of breathing blended into the hush of the lake wind drifting through open windows. The fairy lights along the deck still glowed faintly, their reflections quivering on the glass doors. Every sound carried—creaking floorboards, the far-off sigh of water, the muffled rustle of the night itself.
Downstairs, in the living room, a single phone screen glowed.
Kenji sat cross-legged on the rug, hoodie thrown over his pajamas, earbuds dangling loose around his neck. His hair was still damp from his shower, half-dried and messy, sticking up like it had opinions. His phone screen lit his grin, the reflection of a dumb meme video playing on repeat.
He snorted once, trying not to laugh too loudly.
The meme wasn't even that funny—a cat missing a jump and staring directly at the camera in betrayal—but something about the silence made everything funnier. He bit his knuckle, shoulders shaking. "Why does it look like me failing math," he whispered to himself, laughter spilling out anyway.
A faint sound broke the quiet.A door creaked open. Bare footsteps padded across the hall.
Kenji looked up—and froze.
Miyako.
She was wearing one of Aoi's oversized hoodies, sleeves swallowing her hands, her hair loose and a little tangled from sleep. She didn't see him at first, just walked into the kitchen, opened the cupboard for a glass, and poured herself some water. The dim gold from the lamp touched the edges of her face, softening her usual calm into something almost delicate.
Kenji's brain, unhelpfully, went blank.
He swallowed hard, whispering to himself, "Don't say anything stupid. Be normal."
The moment lasted about three seconds before he blurted, "Thirsty at midnight, huh?"
Miyako jumped slightly, turning to him with wide eyes. Then, when she saw it was him, she let out a small breath of amusement. "You scared me."
"Sorry," he said quickly, waving his phone. "Couldn't sleep. The cat internet summoned me."
She tilted her head, one corner of her mouth lifting. "The cat internet?"
"It's a dangerous place," he said gravely, standing up. "One minute you're watching a recipe, next thing you know a cat is baking bread."
That earned a laugh—a small, reluctant, genuine sound that hit him square in the chest.
"Want to see?" he offered, stepping closer. "It's… peak humanity."
Miyako hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the couch, her knees pulled close together, the hoodie half-draped over them. Kenji sat on the floor beside her, holding out his phone. The video looped again: the cat missed the jump, froze, and meowed in existential crisis.
Miyako's laugh came again, light and unexpected. "Oh no, poor thing."
"Right? It's the betrayal in its eyes," Kenji said. "That's the look I gave Suki when he said he'd cook."
Miyako smiled down at him. "And yet you ate his food."
"I value my friendships and my digestive system equally."
The warmth between them grew in small increments—shared air, low voices, and that gentle, awkward rhythm that comes when two people try to find the edge of something unnamed.
She sipped her water. "You really couldn't sleep?"
"Nah," he admitted. "I get wired before trips. Like, too excited to shut down." He paused, watching her trace the rim of her glass absentmindedly. "What about you?"
Her smile faded slightly, just enough for him to notice. "Same," she said, though her tone made it sound less like excitement and more like… memory.
Kenji shifted, sitting sideways to face her fully. "You okay?"
Miyako looked down into her glass. The silence stretched—comfortably at first, then longer, until the night hummed between them.
Finally, she said quietly, "I don't sleep well when I'm somewhere new."
"Ah," Kenji said softly. "You one of those people who need your pillow from home?"
She smiled faintly. "Maybe."
He hesitated, picking at the hem of his sleeve. "I, uh… get that. My brain doesn't shut up either. Always thinking, replaying conversations, worrying if I said something dumb."
"You mean like the 'thirsty at midnight' comment?" she teased gently.
He groaned. "See? Exactly that."
Her laugh was quieter this time, but warmer. She looked at him, and for a second, it wasn't playful—it was studying. Not judging, just seeing. And it made him feel weirdly… steady.
"Kenji," she said after a pause, "you talk a lot."
He blinked. "I—uh—yeah. Occupational hazard. My mouth works faster than my brain."
"I didn't mean it as a bad thing," she said, smiling a little. "It's… nice. You make the air lighter."
He went still for a second, unsure what to do with that kind of sincerity. "That's… probably the nicest way anyone's ever told me I'm loud."
"I'm serious," Miyako said, voice low but firm. "You make people laugh. That matters."
Her eyes lingered on him for a beat too long before she looked away again, sipping her water. Kenji felt warmth crawl up his neck that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.
"Guess I'll keep doing it, then," he said softly.
Silence settled again—gentle this time, not awkward. The only sound was the faint clicking of the fridge and the water lapping against the dock outside. The fairy lights cast thin halos across the wooden floor, catching in Miyako's hair.
Kenji's gaze softened. "You're different when it's quiet."
She looked up. "Different how?"
"I don't know," he said, honest and fumbling. "You usually have this calm, like nothing gets to you. But right now, it's like you're… somewhere else."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass. "Maybe I am."
The answer was simple, but it held a shadow. Kenji didn't press. He just sat there, legs stretched out, phone forgotten on the rug.
After a while, she said, "You ever feel like there's a version of you that only exists when no one's watching?"
He blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Yeah," he said quietly. "The version that doesn't need to be funny all the time."
Miyako nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. "The version that doesn't need to pretend everything's fine."
Something shifted in the air. Not sadness, exactly—something deeper. Something like two people recognizing a similar scar without showing it.
Kenji's voice gentled. "You don't have to tell me what that means. But… you can, if you want to."
Miyako looked at him for a long moment, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between them. Trust, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
She took a small breath. "I used to be someone else," she said quietly. "Before… before things changed."
Kenji didn't move. "You mean—like, personality?"
"Like… everything," she said, her voice steady but distant. "I used to talk a lot. Laugh too loud. My mom used to say I filled the house with noise."
"What happened?" he asked before he could stop himself.
She smiled—sad and soft. "One day, it just stopped being safe to be noisy."
The words hung there like smoke.Kenji's heart thudded once, hard.
He didn't ask who or what or why. Something in her tone said not to. Instead, he leaned back against the couch and said, quietly, "Then you can be noisy here."
Miyako looked at him, eyes widening a fraction. "Here?"
"Yeah," he said. "Here. With us. With me."
Her lips parted like she might argue—but the words didn't come. Instead, she just smiled, small and disbelieving. "You really mean that, don't you?"
He shrugged. "I don't really know how to lie."
"I think you do," she said softly, "you just don't like to."
He grinned, trying to cover the way her words hit. "You caught me."
She laughed again—barely, but real. It sounded like the first time she'd done it in a while.
Kenji stood and stretched, offering her his hand. "Come on. Let's at least sit on the porch. The stars are ridiculous right now."
She hesitated. "We'll wake them."
He tilted his head. "We'll whisper."
After a moment, she took his hand.
The porch was cool, the boards smooth under their bare feet. The lake was a perfect mirror, the stars so bright they looked painted on. The air smelled like cedar and night flowers. Kenji sat cross-legged again, hugging his knees, while Miyako leaned against the railing, glass of water in hand.
"See?" he said softly. "Ridiculous."
She looked up. The sky spilled endlessly, stars bleeding into one another. "It's beautiful."
He watched her instead. "Yeah. It is."
For a while, they said nothing. The night didn't need them to fill it.
Then Miyako murmured, "You know… I don't usually talk like this."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said quietly.
"It is." She turned her head to look at him. "Don't tell the others."
He smiled. "Secret's safe."
"Good," she said, sipping her water again, eyes flicking to the lake. "Because I think… maybe I like this version of quiet."
He grinned. "Me too."
They stayed there a while longer, side by side but not touching, listening to the lake hum under the stars. The fairy lights buzzed faintly, casting a golden halo around the two of them—the comedian and the quiet girl, both learning, in their own ways, that sometimes the best conversations are the ones you don't need to finish.
When they finally went back inside, Miyako paused by the hallway. "Good night, Kenji."
He smiled, softer than his usual grin. "Night, Miyako."
She hesitated at the stairs, then added, almost shyly, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being loud," she said. "It makes it easier to breathe."
Then she disappeared down the hall, and Kenji stood there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, a strange flutter tugging behind his ribs.
He smiled to himself, shaking his head. "Guess being loud's finally useful," he murmured.
Outside, the lake shifted, catching the moonlight like a wink. Upstairs, someone turned over in their sleep. Downstairs, the glow from the fairy lights faded, leaving only the warmth they'd left behind.