Saturday mornings at Kisaragi Middle are slow.
No whistles, no crowds, just the hum of vending machines outside the gym and the distant cry of crows on the fence line.
Aoi balances a cup of canned coffee on her knee while waiting for Ren. The can's still too hot; she keeps swapping it between hands. Her friends had begged her to skip rehab for one weekend—cat café, new dessert place, the usual—but she couldn't. Sitting still is easier when she can call it training.
Ren arrives exactly on time, cooler bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a shower that probably ended one minute before he left home.
"You're early," he says.
"I was bored."
He sets the cooler down. "You could've gone out with your friends."
"They talk too much," she says. "And they'd make me carry things."
"Tragic."
She narrows her violet eyes. "You're developing sarcasm. I'm not sure I like it."
"Side effect of spending time with you."
She almost spits out her coffee. "Excuse me?"
"Calf roller?" he says, pretending to look through the cooler.
Aoi shakes her head, half-amused, half-annoyed. "You're impossible."
"Better than predictable."
The first half hour passes quietly: stretching, heel slides, slow marches. The sunlight spills across the mats, dust turning in the air like drifting petals.
"Hold it," Ren says as she lifts. "Don't lock the knee."
She exhales through her nose. "You sound like a metronome."
"Someone has to."
"Do you even enjoy this?"
He looks up from the clipboard. "You mean physical therapy?"
"No, this." She gestures between them. "Babysitting me while everyone else runs."
Ren's mouth quirks. "You're not a baby. You just don't like slowing down."
"I hate it," she mutters.
"I know."
She opens her mouth to complain, then catches the faint curve of his expression—something not quite a smile, but warmer than usual. Against her better judgment, she laughs.
"What?" he asks.
"You finally made a joke."
He shrugs. "It happens sometimes."
Later, they take a break near the vending machines. The air smells like rain again even though the sky's clear. A cat—thin, gray, and unbothered—pads out from under the bench and circles their feet.
Aoi bends down carefully, hand extended. "Hey, little guy."
The cat eyes her brace, sniffs, and rubs its head against her ankle anyway.
Ren watches from the bench. "You attract strays."
"That supposed to be an insult?"
"Observation."
"Maybe it likes me because I'm injured," she says. "Sympathy among the broken."
"That's dark."
She grins. "You bring it out of me."
He shakes his head but doesn't argue. The cat hops onto the bench beside him, tail curling around his arm. Ren freezes like he's been chosen by divine accident.
"Pet it," Aoi says.
"I don't—"
"Just do it."
He hesitates, then strokes its back once. The cat purrs, loud and unapologetic.
"See? Even animals like you."
Ren looks unconvinced. "That's new."
"Don't ruin it," she says, and laughs again—real laughter, the kind that startles her own shoulders.
Back in the infirmary, the mood lingers. The exercises feel less like punishment, more like shared routine. When she stumbles during a standing march, he catches her elbow on reflex; neither moves for a second.
"Sorry," she says quickly.
"Don't apologize for gravity," he says.
She bites back another laugh. "You're getting weird."
"Occupational hazard."
They reset. She focuses on her breathing—inhale, exhale, the same rhythm he uses when counting her reps. For the first time, the silence between numbers feels companionable instead of heavy.
When they finish, Aoi leans against the wall while Ren logs notes.
"You ever take a day off?" she asks.
"From what?"
"Being calm. Being perfect. Whatever this is."
He glances up. "You think I'm perfect?"
She flushes. "Don't twist it."
"I'm serious."
"I think you're boring," she says. "But maybe in a peaceful way."
"I'll take it."
He caps his pen. "You walking home?"
"Yeah. Hana and them are busy. Why?"
"I'll walk with you."
She blinks. "You what?"
"It's downhill. I need to pick something up from the pharmacy anyway."
Aoi eyes him suspiciously. "You sure this isn't part of rehab?"
"Consider it post-session monitoring."
They walk the long path past the school gates, shoes tapping in sync. The air smells of fresh pavement; puddles reflect the sun like scattered mirrors.
"Feels weird walking together," she says.
"Why?"
"You don't talk much."
"I talk enough."
"For who, a monk?"
"For someone who listens."
She glances sideways at him, surprised again by how his eyes catch light—brown with small shards of gold, like someone lit a candle behind them.
"Still think you're boring," she says quickly.
"Good," he answers. "Consistency is important in recovery."
A laugh slips out before she can stop it. "You're unbearable."
"I know."
They stop outside the small pharmacy near the station. Ren nods toward the vending machine beside it. "You can wait here. Don't climb anything."
"I'll try to resist the stairs," she says dryly.
He disappears inside. Aoi buys another canned coffee, this one cold, and watches the people stream past—the noise, the color, the easy movement. The city feels like another kind of race she can't enter yet.
When Ren returns with a small paper bag, she asks, "Medicine for me?"
"Bandages for a friend."
"You have friends?"
"One," he says.
She raises an eyebrow. "Must be lucky."
He glances at her, unreadable. "Yeah. I think I am."
By the time they reach the fork where her street splits from his, the sun has softened into that golden hour glow that makes every color honest.
"Thanks," she says quietly.
"For what?"
"Walking. Talking. Whatever this is."
He nods once. "See you Monday."
She watches him leave until he turns the corner, the plastic bag swinging lightly at his side. The wind picks up again, lifting her hair, cooling the back of her neck.
She presses a hand to her knee and whispers, "Soon."
The word vanishes into the breeze, but it doesn't feel like a wish. It feels like a promise.