Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hydrangeas are in full bloom.

You can see them through the window: the sea in each blossom, the radiant blue of them veined through with white, ocean and foam detailed in petals. They nod with the rain, weighed down by the fat droplets.

There are two men that keep passing through the sea of hydrangeas like ships, leaving little eddies of blooms in their wake. They must be vendors considering they’re weighted down by boxes, though neither seems bothered by their load.

You watch them for a moment. They’re both efficient, unbothered by the slow, steady drizzle. You rest your chin on your cupped palm, eyes drawn to the shorter man. There’s a few strands of hair peeking out from beneath his hat, the hazy gray of it—black-tipped like thunderclouds—an odd contrast to his lean, toned body.

He makes his way through the courtyard, and you lean forward to keep him in sight, your nose almost pressed against the foggy window pane. He steps carefully around a drooping hydrangea bloom, his calm face visible for the first time, and something threads through you for a breath unraveling too quickly for you to place.

He ducks beneath the eaves and out of your sight.

Just in time, too. The rain picks up drumming gently against the ground, carrying a few loosened petals with it. The other man—broader and taller but no less graceful for it—spits out a curse. He hurries forward until he too is gone from view.

“Told you it would rain,” Abe says from behind you, making you yelp. She presses in next to you. Her breath billows over the window pane blooming hazy against it, a marine fog.

“You did,” you say with a laugh. “So did the weather channel. Almost a full week before you did.”

She scoffs. “Yes, but that’s their job. Mine was sheer instinct.”

“And listening to the weather channel?”

“Must you slander me?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling, but your gaze returns to the courtyard where the hydrangeas are bleeding petals under the rain’s heavy cut.

“Are you nervous?”

You meet Abe’s gaze in the reflection of the window pane. Her dark eyes are warm and soft, and maybe a little bit sad.

“Should I be?” you ask.

She wraps a small hand around yours and you realize you’ve been tapping your nail against your water glass, a crystalline symphony.

“No,” she says firmly. “You shouldn’t.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, sprouts like flowers between the cracks in the concrete. You lean into her. She sighs, long and put-upon, but she tilts towards you, opens her body to you. It’s an invitation you know well. You rest your head in the crook of her shoulder and stare out the window.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’re right.”

“Always am.”

“That’s debatable, Natsu.”

She grumbles but starts to pull away without comment when the kimono stylist calls out for her. She pauses for a moment. She leans in and adjusts your shiromuku carefully, her fingers deft. Then she squeezes your hand softly, familiar and warm, like a song you’ll always know. You squeeze back.

You watch her reflection in the window until it blurs at the edges. She’s already bickering with Yoshikawa by the time it fades entirely from the foggy windowpane, their voices carrying. You’re sure that they’re curled together over Yoshikawa’s phone, flicking through the itinerary you’ve already forgotten most of.

There’s movement beyond the window and you perk up as the man from before walks by. He’s kept under the eaves by the increased rain, and you can see the way it’s dampened his hair to something closer to slate.

There’s a gleam of amber above the boxes he’s carrying; the briefest flash of his eyes, bright and keen. He sweeps by the window almost close enough to touch, and you press your fingertips against the cool pane without thinking.

It’s this closeness that lets you see his phone—a flip phone, of all things, with a little charm you can’t quite make out dangling from it—slip from his pocket. You wince as it drops out of view.

He keeps going though, utterly unfazed. The rain has overshadowed the noise you realize, and you’re darting outside before you even know it, the shoji rattling slightly from your force. The summer humidity rolls over you, so stark against your aircon-chilled skin that you shiver with it.

“You dropped your phone!” you call out after the man, hurrying along the engawa to scoop it up, careful of your shiromuku’s hem. The tiny charm is a stylized stalk of rice, you realize, the little panicles at the top colored with shimmering golden paint. It’s cute. A little at odds with his utilitarian flip phone, but cute nonetheless.

Ahead of you, the man goes still.

He’s turning around when his name unfurls inside of you.

The movies hadn’t said it was anything like this.

There’s no passion ripping through you like forest fire, no lightning strike sizzling his name into your very bones. It’s slow and soft, like slipping into bathwater after a long, hard day, the heated kiss of it a balm against all of your bruises. Like the bloom of the first crocuses, a promise of spring after the long winter.

“Oh, Shinsuke,” you breathe, and you think you’ve never known a name so well, that each curve of it was made to fit upon your tongue.

The man—Shinsuke—stares at you. And then his lips tilt into a faint smile, tender like the oncoming dawn; a watercolor sky burgeoning with sunlight, a world coming awake. You think you could build a home in the way he looks at you.

“There you are,” he says softly. “I’ve been waiting.”

You know.

You’ve known for years that he’s been waiting for you; it’s been scrawled on your skin this whole time. He has always, always been waiting for you.

Your soulmark pulses faintly. For a breath, you think you can see it glow despite the heavy layers you have on.

“Shinsuke,” you say again. It’s a helpless little sound, the edges of it catching in your throat like burrs. You need to say something else. You know you do. You know what you have to tell him, but he’s looking at you so softly that the words keep getting lost.

Your grip on his phone tightens until the little rice charm is cutting into your skin.

His smile starts to fade. It curls in on itself, wilting at the edges, like the last of the summer flowers.

He’s been looking at only you, you realize. Just you. Your face, most likely, but it feels like something more—as if he’s seeing down to your marrow, as if he’s flayed you open beneath his tender gaze. He’s only been looking at you. Nothing else.

He’s been looking at you, but you think he’s seeing the rest now. Your careful makeup. Your pristine hair.

Your lavish shiromuku—carefully embroidered with the elegant sweep of cranes’ wings and with delicate petals unfolding into bountiful chrysanthemums—that fits you perfectly, the heavy silk of it as white as driven snow.

You couldn’t find the words for it, caught up in the gentle sun of his joy as it pooled golden around you, but he’s finally seeing what you couldn’t say.

It’s your wedding day.

Your soulmark appears when you’re twelve, all without you even noticing.

Summer is in full bloom in Toyooka; the wet lick of a heatwave has settled oppressive over the countryside. It’s relentless. Even the rice fields seem to feel it, the verdant green ripple of them becoming a honey-slow shiver under the wind’s gentle touch.

In the heat the cicadas’ call goes lazy; the storks only come out in the earliest parts of morning. They wade carefully through the still waters of the rice paddies, their beaks flashing in the weak sunlight as they needle down into the murk.

The rental house is tucked carefully between two farms, a lone house amid the rippling rice plants. It’s old but well-maintained, a perfect little hideaway for your mother to finish her study. In the heat, she keeps the shoji doors open wide to let in the dancing, citronella-scented breeze. The first day you wander around the house to weigh the papers down with a mish-mash of items: the fruit bowl, pilfered from the kitchen counter under your father’s nose; encyclopedias long outdated; a pair of petal-flecked garden shears.

It helps it feel like home.

Abe and her mother have come to Toyooka too; your mothers spend their days bent close together, talking in a language you know by heart but still can’t understand. Caught up in their research, they leave you to your own devices.

Away from all of your other friends and the bustle of the city, you and Abe roam free like a pair of stray cats. You spend the days without chores wandering through town, your arm hooked through hers, both your tongues stained sky blue from the Gari-Gari Kun popsicles from the conbini. The grannies wave at you as you pass by them; the two of you wave back with sticky fingers.

You flit in and out of the rice paddies, scooping up tadpoles from the murky water. The farmers grow used to your presence quickly; they greet you cheerfully, accepting the onigiri you bring with little nods.

After you splash through a paddy to coo over them, Watanabe lets you feed his ducks. He pours the feed from his hands into your smaller ones with a grunt. His hands are strong but aged, the dark skin on the back of his hands papery in the sunlight, wrinkled like old parchment. He teaches you both how to sprinkle the feed into the water just right so the ducks go arrowing across the water, little ships without sails.

The days are long and short in the same breath.

At night, Abe’s flashlight flickers in her window like a firefly, long after you are both meant to be in bed. You flash your own message back, little secrets wrapped up in ribbons of light, never mentioned after dawn. The two of you are woven together as only childhood friends can be.

And it’s Abe that sees your soulmark first.

It’s midday and the clouds are rolling in across the clear blue sky hanging heavy and low, a gray promise of afternoon thunder. The two of you trace shapes in the clouds, shaded under a massive camphor tree, bumping into each other’s arms as you go.

There’s a rabbit in your cloud, the puffy edges of it extending into fluffy gray ears that wisp and sway with the growing breeze. You’ve just traced along the little curve of its nose when Abe—who has been burbling away like a spring brook, her chatter weaving a spell around the two of you—goes silent.

Then she shrieks and grabs your arm.

“When did it come in?” she asks breathlessly. She’s shaking you too hard for you to see what she’s talking about, but there’s only one thing that tone could mean.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. For a moment, you consider closing your eyes, as if that will keep it from being real. As if that will rewrite your fate.

You think of all the quotes you’ve scrawled in your notebooks late at night, and hope for all of them and none of them.

Abe gives you another little shake. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! It’s so early! How long have you had it? Has anyone said it yet? What do you—”

“I don’t know!” you say, shaking her off and scooting backwards, pulling your arm towards your chest.

She scowls. “How do you not know?”

“I didn’t notice it.”

You hadn’t. Maybe it was the sleepy haze of summer days running together.

Maybe you hadn’t wanted to see it.

Now that you know, it’s easy to see your mark. It’s already settled into your skin, the kanji tucked carefully into the tender flesh of the crook of your elbow. The characters are neat, precise little things, delicate at the edges. It shimmers silvery in the sunlight. A winter moon’s glow inked into your skin.

Abe plants her hands on her hips. “You didn’t notice your soulmark?”

You shake your head. “You know I would tell you!!”

She huffs. “I guess. You really didn’t know?”

You yank on a tuft of grass. “Nope.”

“Idiot,” she says, but it’s fond. She nudges closer to you despite the heat. “Who doesn’t realize their mark was written?”

“Me, I guess.”

“Guess so. Lemme see,” she says, making grabby hands at your arm; you let her yank it close with a sigh. She peers down at your mark with heavy concentration.

“You look like Granny Takada right now.”

She pouts. “Do not!”

“You do,” you tell her. “You’re all squinty.”

“Do you want me to read it to you or not?”

You take a second too long to answer, the words caught in your throat, tangled on your tongue. Abe glances up. Something passes over her face; it’s too quick to know, a fleeting summer storm. She drops your arm with a sigh.

“The kanji are complicated,” she complains. “Too hard to read. Leave it to you to have a soulmate like that.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, wrinkling your nose even as you relax, your muscles uncoiling.

She snorts. “Nothing, nothing,” she coos, smacking your hand away when you swat at her. “Let’s go, it’s gonna rain. We can’t track mud inside again.”

“That was you, not me.”

Abe ignores you, popping up to her feet and rocking back on her heels. She takes off before you can stand her braids streaming behind her like kite ribbons, and you yelp out a protest as you scramble to your feet.

“Nat-chan!”

“Keep up!” she shouts, halfway to the rice paddy that edges the little meadow, and you take off after her.

The skies open on the two of you when you’re almost back to the rental, the rain relentless and heavy as only a summer storm can be. You both shriek but the water is warm, and you giggle at the way Abe’s bangs are plastered to her forehead even as you keep running.

You tumble into the genkan just as the first lightning strike splits the sky. You’re practically tripping over each other. Abe knocks into the getabako, jarring a pair of your father’s shoes, their well-worn soles rolling upwards like the barnacled hull of a capsized boat. She grunts with the impact.

“Quiet,” you hiss.

“I’m being quiet,” she hisses back, just as your mother rounds the corner and fixes the two of you with an unimpressed raised brow.

Abe’s mother peeks around the corner too, her lips thinning as she sees the water dripping from the two of you. “You’re soaked,” she says. “And you’re making a mess of the genkan, Natsumi.”

“Sorry,” she mutters.

Her mother sighs. “Weren’t you supposed to be back earlier? Before the rain?”

“We got distracted because her soulmark came in!” Abe says, pointing to you with no remorse.

You gape at her.

“What?” she says. “It’s in a pretty obvious spot.”

“Natsumi,” her mother says, exasperated. “You’re always jumping in feet first.”

Abe grumbles, but goes quiet when her mother eyes her.

“Chieko,” your mother says. “Do you need umbrellas for the walk home?”

“If it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Of course not.”

You and Abe engage in a rapid-fire round of mouthing things to each other as your mothers search for umbrellas, too close to risk actual words. Abe speaks fast, even in exaggerated slow motion, and after you think she says something about snails, you decide it’s too incomprehensible to keep trying. You wave her off with a quick tilt of your head. She scowls but stops, crossing her arms with a soggy squish.

The scowl disappears from her face as soon as her mother steps up beside her, handing her one of your umbrellas. She traces a finger over the nearest little cat design, petting lightly at its fabric ears.

“Let’s go before you catch a cold,” Chieko says. “Say goodbye.”

“Bye,” Abe says, her voice stilted.

“Bye,” you parrot.

“Alright then,” Chieko says after a moment. She looks at you, considering. You bite the inside of your cheek, running the tip of your tongue against the pinched flesh.

She sighs. “You’ll figure it out,” she says softly.

You should have known that she wouldn’t offer congratulations. The relief spreads over you like a balm, soothing the scrape you hadn’t even known was there.

You nod.

“See you tomorrow,” your mother tells her.

She and Abe disappear out the front door and into the downpour; Abe throws you one last look before the door closes behind them. You look away.

Your mother is quiet for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“I—I don’t think so.”

She considers you. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll get you a towel and then you need to go change before you get sick.”

“Okay.”

She disappears down the hallway without another word.

You look down to your soulmark. At the thin kanji of it, the gleam of them like spiderwebs caught in a moonbeam, an ethereal silver. When you touch it, tracing a fingertip carefully against the crook of your elbow, it just feels like skin. As if it’s always been there. As if it’s always been a part of you.

Upside down, the kanji are difficult to parse. You run your fingers over them once more, and then your mother is there with a towel. You yank your fingers away as if burned. She doesn’t react, just handing you the towel and corralling you upstairs to dry yourself off.

Dinner is quiet that night and you go up to bed early, tired from the ups and downs of the day.

You’ve just finished brushing your teeth when the flickering catches your attention. You spit out the last bit of foam and rinse out your mouth before padding over to your window.

A little light bobs up and down across the way; at moments, you can make out the vague outline of Abe’s face when she brings the flashlight up with a sharp jerk that almost hits her chin. She’s cycling through the attention-getting code you’d made up a few years back.

You consider pulling your shade down entirely.

Instead, you pad over to your dresser drawer and pull out your own flashlight. You settle into bed with it heavy on your lap. You pull at the edge of the faded sticker slapped below the switch, tearing a little piece of it off. You flick it on for a second. Just enough to let Abe know you’re there.

It’s not your normal greeting, and Abe’s window stays dark for a long, long moment.

Mad at me? she finally flashes, little pulses of starlight in the dark.

You are. Soulmates are different for the two of you. You’ve grown up hearing all of the jargon for your mother’s study, and you know that she has too. You know the low rate of soulmates meeting, and you know the distant look in your father’s eyes as he wraps tender fingers around his blackened mark.

It’s different, and you thought she knew that.

Sorry, her flashlight blinks out. I am.

You think of how she complained about the kanji of your mark despite being the most proficient in your classroom.

Mad at me?

You wonder how you would have told your parents that you’d received your mark when you can barely acknowledge it yourself.

You raise your flashlight.

No, you send off. Not anymore.

Good, she immediately sends.

You talk until your eyelids are drooping and your jaw is cracking with non-stop yawning. It’s easy to say goodnight, knowing you’ll see each other in the morning. You pull down your shade and climb into bed.

You fall asleep with your hand cupped over your soulmark.

It takes you three days to finally ask what your mark says.

Evening is coming to life, the sky darkening into plum, the faintest hint of cotton-candy pink lingering on the horizon. As your father sets the table, you’re unable to resist the quiet call of what fate has scraped into your skin.

He blinks, trading a look with your mother, but then he smiles softly.

“After dinner,” he tells you. “Okay?”

You nod.

It’s your mother who reads it to you later, the two of you whispering together on the engawa surrounded by the flicker of the summer fireflies. You curl tight into her side, a rib returned.

“There you are,” she reads softly, stroking a thumb gently over the kanji. “I’ve been waiting.”

Her voice is a honeyed drip, sweet and steady, and though she is smiling, you think she sounds sad. She shifts to press a hand tight over her stomach as if it’s the only thing holding her together, as if she’s suddenly too big for her body. You know her mark is there. The kanji has gone sour and black, an eclipsed moon.

“I don’t know if I want them to wait for me,” you whisper to her.

She presses a kiss to your hairline. “You don’t have to know, tadpole.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She shifts beside you. “You don’t have to wait for them, you know,” she tells you.

“Really?”

“Really,” she says.

“Do you think I’ll meet them?” you ask, kicking your feet and looking out into the night. A firefly flares bright, and you consider running to catch it. You’ve always been quick enough. The fireflies have always been trusting enough.

She nudges a knuckle against your cheek. “The chances are low,” she admits, because she has never lied to you about soulmates. “And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Why?”

She sighs. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

She still has her hand pressed hard against her ribcage.

You bite your lip and don’t ask anything else.

The two of you stay curled together under the stars, watching the trucks trundle down the road as the late-working farmers return from the paddies. Eventually, she ushers you inside, and when she thinks you aren’t looking she knots her fingers in your father’s shirt. The fabric winds tight around her fingers, cutting into the softness of her skin. Her shoulders are trembling. Your father cups the back of her head and brushes a kiss to her hairline.

You go up to your bedroom without a word because even this young, you know there are things you aren’t meant to see.

Not long after that night your mother and Abe’s mother publish the study. It’s a culmination of years of grueling research on soulmates, of half-written notes on napkins when you go out to restaurants, of simmering arguments between her and Abe’s mother, of death threats and poisonous words.

It covers the concept of soulmates like kudzu, winding over the romance of it and smothering it beneath statistics and a dissection of societal impact alike.

It gets a nickname soon after publication, and your mother’s smile is a melon rind curve, bitter at the edges.

They call it the Heartbreak Study.

Summer comes to an end.

You leave Toyooka on a rainy afternoon, the light drizzle sending water droplets racing down the train window. The storks huddle together in the paddies, their wet feathers gleaming like the moon. Abe is warm at your side curled into you, already half-asleep from the underlying hum of the train. It picks up speed and the rolling green of the countryside blurs like a watercolor, smearing across the horizon as you head back to the city.

It feels like you’re leaving more than the countryside behind.

Still, the city is a comfort, the bustle of it a familiar song, and you’d missed the neon lights that dot the streets like little flowers. With the return of school just around the corner it’s nice to settle back into the rhythm of city life, so different from the steady, unyielding heartbeat of Toyooka.

You unpack your clothes and yourself too, slotting everything back into your city life, trying to fit back into it like a well-worn pair of shoes.

“Oh,” Yoshikawa says lazily the next day, when you and Abe find her sprawled out on a bench by the conbini, sucking on a popsicle. She peers up at you, her long hair flowing around her shoulders like weeds in the current, softly swaying with each little movement. “You’re back.”

“She got her soulmark!” Abe says, dragging you forward by your wrist to display your mark.

“Natsu,” you groan, ignoring the way she tugs at your wrist to pull you even more into Yoshikawa’s space. “Really?”

“What, you weren’t going to tell her?”

“Yeah,” Yoshikawa drawls, her dark eyes sly. “Were you not gonna tell me?”

“Shut up, Yocchan,” you say. “You know I was going to tell you.”

“You sure?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbows. “Doesn’t quite sound like it.”

“Yocchan.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop teasing. Can I see?”

You hesitate for a breath.

“You don’t gotta,” Yoshikawa says, biting into her popsicle with a loud crunch. Her lips are blue with it, the same color as the mid-morning sky. It drips down her elegant fingers, catches on the small scars littered across them. She licks at them absently, but her gaze is keen.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I’m just…still getting used to it.”

She hums.

“Great,” Abe says, using her grip on your wrist to tug you forward again. “Look, look, look!”

Yoshikawa pushes herself the rest of the way up slowly, tucking her popsicle between her teeth as she reaches for your arm. Her fingers are sticky against your skin. She’s quiet as she reads your mark, her brow slightly furrowed.

She lets you go after a minute, and you try not to fidget.

“Romantic,” she says. She lays back down on the bench.

Abe makes a strangled noise. “That’s all?”

Yoshikawa blinks slowly, but there’s a smug curve to her lips. “Is there something else to say?”

Abe stamps her foot. “There’s so much to say! She got her mark! The first of us! The first in our year!”

“Nah, Sasaki got his right before the break.”

“He did?”

“He did?” you echo. Relief blooms in you, rooting in the cracks of you, and you let out a tight breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Yeah,” Yoshikawa says. She closes her eyes and raises her face to the sun. It bathes her, turns her golden, an offering at the ending summer’s altar. “Our moms are friends. Heard them talking about it.”

“Oh,” Abe says, pursing her lips. She glances at you, and you don’t know what she sees in your face, but her eyes go soft. “I guess it’s better that way. It won’t be as big of a deal. It’ll be fine.”

“You think so?” you ask. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

She nudges you with her hip. “Yeah,” she says, her voice gentle. There’s a promise in it. “I do.”

Yoshikawa hums her agreement as she bites off the last of her popsicle, ignoring Abe’s wince. She sucks the stick clean and glances at it. “Oh,” she says mildly. “I won.”

“What?” Abe cries out, practically clambering on top of her to grab the stick. “How do you always win?”

Yoshikawa grunts under her sudden burden, stretching out one long arm to keep Abe from grabbing the stick. “S’not my fault you have bad luck.”

“C’mon, you already had a popsicle today!”

You watch them struggle, Abe doing her best to blanket Yoshikawa’s lanky frame with her tiny one. The laughter bubbles out of you, spills from you like an overflowing urn, loud and unrestrained.

They turn to you in unison, brows raised.

“Let’s go to the park,” you say, laughter still sweet on your tongue. “Don’t want to waste the day.”

They eye you for a moment. They look at each other and shrug.

“Conbini first,” Abe says. “I want something.”

“You can’t have my popsicle,” Yoshikawa says.

“I don’t want your stupid free popsicle!”

“You were just trying to grab it!”

“Well I don’t want it anymore! I want mochi instead!”

This time you swallow down your laugh, let it spread warm through you like bottled sunshine. You follow the bickering pair into the conbini. They wait for you at the door, and you link pinkies with them both so they can drag you down the snack aisle.

For the first time since getting your mark, it feels like everything is going to be okay.

School starts up again.

It’s still warm, the last dregs of summer lingering in the air as you walk languidly to school with your friends. Abe flits ahead, her dark hair shimmering under the morning sun, and you think of a little darting fish on a reef, a quicksilver flash of scales. She greets other classmates easily. They always have a smile for her, and she falls into step beside them for a moment, chattering away.

But in the end she always turns around and waits for you and Yoshikawa.

She’s off in the distance when Yoshikawa glances down at the silver peeking out of the crook of your elbow, exposed by the summer uniform’s short sleeves.

“No wrap?” she asks.

“No wrap,” you say.

You’d thought about it, but wearing a wrap screams that you’ve gotten your mark. With yours tucked tender into the crook of your elbow, you might be able to get away with it. At least you hope so. You know how many eyes will be on you when people realize, and you shift on the balls of your feet, pressing closer to Yoshikawa.

She hums. “Alright.”

You know that tone.

“Do not cause any problems,” you warn her.

She blinks slowly, like a smug cat with a patch of sunshine all to itself. “I would never. Do you want some toast?”

“Do I what—”

She pulls a handkerchief filled with toast out from her bag, little oily spots of butter bleeding through the hand-embroidered cloth. “Toast,” she says, holding it out.

“Don’t try to distract me,” you say irritably, but when she nudges the toast in your direction you slip a piece free of the handkerchief. You’ve eaten breakfast but no one makes bread like Yoshikawa’s mother, a hobby she’d picked up in her year abroad as a teen. Any of her loaves crackle perfectly under the bread knife, each slice thick and hearty, woven through with herbs and spices.

“I would never.”

“Liar,” you mutter, sinking your teeth into the toast.

“So mean,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“Hurry up!” Abe shouts back to you both, her hands cupped over her mouth to unnecessarily amplify herself.

Yoshikawa ignores her, sauntering along as your fellow students pour past you both. She moves like a river current, languid and flowing, and immoveable from her path.

“You’re the worst,” Abe tells her a few minutes later, when you’ve finally caught up to her.

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t ignore me, Yocchan!”

“I’m not,” Yoshikawa says, holding out the toast again. She always brings enough for all three of you. “You just say it so much that it’s lost all meaning.”

Abe grumbles, but she snags a piece of toast. It crunches beneath her teeth, a crackling symphony. “This is bribery, you know,” she says through her mouthful, scrunching up her nose.

Yoshikawa shrugs.

“C’mon,” you say, poking at them both. “We’re gonna be late.”

Abe links arms with you. Your mark flashes bright with the movement, glimmering like snow in the moonlight, all prismatic ice.

She hums, shifting her arm just enough that your elbows are interlocked, hiding your mark as she tugs you towards the school gates. “Let’s go then,” she says.

Yoshikawa falls into step on your other side. She leans over and softly bonks her head against yours, her long hair a veil for you both. You press together for a breath, then she pulls back and links her arm through your other arm as you enter the school grounds.

You make it two whole periods before someone notices.

It’s Hasegawa, of course, her deep brown eyes going wide as you reach into your bag for your textbook. She says something to her seatmate, and Honda’s eyes snap to you.

You keep arranging your supplies. You set your pencil down next to your notebook and line them up as precisely as you can, nudging it back and forth until it’s perfectly aligned as they whisper to each other. They keep glancing at you until Yoshikawa leans back in her seat and flashes them a razor-edged smile. Honda squeaks, and they both go quiet after that.

But there’s no escaping it. You can feel eyes on you all day, and murmurs follow you everywhere. You barely eat at lunch, pushing the pieces of your bento around as Abe and Yoshikawa crowd you on either side.

You almost make it to the end of the school day, but then Ueda and Nakajima stop you in the hallway. You bow to your seniors as they look you up and down.

“We heard you got your soulmark,” Nakajima says, swaying in place just slightly, like kelp caught in a current. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” you say, trying not to fidget with your sleeve.

“When?” Ueda asks, frowning.

“Over the break.”

“Early to be getting your mark,” she muses. She doesn’t have hers yet, you think. Only a handful of people in her year do.

“They say the earlier the mark manifests, the stronger the soul bond,” Nakajima says.

It’s a common belief, one of the oldest wives tales there is, but you’ve spent too long listening to your mother. You know better. Still, your stomach twists.

“What does yours say?” Ueda asks.

You bite your tongue; the pain flashes through you like lightning, bright and sharp and bitter. The bitterness lingers, fills your mouth until you have to swallow it down. It stings the whole way.

Ueda waits.

When you tell her, it feels like each word is being torn from you, as if they’d rooted into your very flesh.

(You suppose they have.)

For a breath, Ueda’s face twists. You think of the first hint of rot in ripe fruit, when the scent goes too sweet, a promise of decay. It isn’t the first time you’ve seen jealousy over a mark, but it’s odd to have it directed at you.

I didn’t ask for this, you want to tell her. I don’t know if I even want this.

“Oh, how lovely,” Nakajima murmurs, moon-eyed. “You’re lucky to have such a devoted soulmate.”

You smile, but you think it’s a poor imitation of one, soured at the edges as it is. “Yeah,” you say, because she’s looking at you expectantly. “I am.”

“Well, congratulations. Right, Machi?”

“Yeah,” Ueda says, flashing you a tight smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you say, the words ash on your tongue.

Nakajima tilts her head, bird-like, but Yoshikawa comes to your rescue, calling out your name from down the hall. You bid your seniors a quiet goodbye before hurrying to her.

She slings an arm around your shoulders, squeezing lightly.

“Okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She hums her disbelief but leaves you be.

With her by your side, smiling pleasantly and radiating danger, the day passes without anyone else approaching you. Abe joins you again, looking proud of herself in a way that means she caused a problem, and you wonder what you did to deserve both of them.

They come home with you when school ends, waving to your parents as you head up to your room. You collapse face-down on your bed and Yoshikawa laughs, low and deep and a little bit sad.

She and Abe curl up around you like cats. They talk about everything and nothing, filling up your room with their presence until you start to go lax against them. They shuffle closer as you do and they’re warm against you, like sunbaked stone. You sink into that warmth and breathe out deeply.

The next few weeks will be filled with questions, with murmurs behind your back, with everything that comes with getting your mark so early. You know that, but there’s one other thing that you know, too.

With them, you know you’ll make it through.

The school year blurs past in a watercolor of seasons. Fall gives way to winter, curling up under the biting cold; spring chases away winter in a riot of color, the sakura buds unfurling as your upperclassmen graduate, each bloom inset into the branches like a little jewel. As summer beckons, the days warming as the promise of rain hangs heavy in the humid air, Kimura gets her mark.

She’s only the third person in your year to get hers and she’s coy about it, wrapping it in a ribbon, the burgundy silk luscious against her skin. It’s as eye-catching as she meant it to be.

It’s elegant in its own way, though the ribbon wilts slightly as the day goes on, mostly from the way she keeps touching it. She strokes along the ribbon as she talks with her friends. You’re not sure she realizes it.

A few people glance your way, their eyes flickering to your elbow, but their attention is as fleeting as the first snow. Their gazes return to Kimura, to the bruised burgundy of her ribbon.

Something loosens in you, unravels from where it’s been knit tight around your ribs.

Honda gets hers next, and then Watanabe gets his.

Slowly, mark after mark comes into being, words unfurling across skin. As more of your classmates receive their marks, yours fades into the background. It becomes common and you sink into that commonality, having long waited for the spotlight on you to cease.

Your mark fades into the background, like a star just after dawn—known only to those who know where to look. You try not to think of it. Sometimes you even succeed.

In your second year of high school, there’s Takao.

He’s a quiet boy. Stoic, even, his face almost stony as he introduces himself as the new transfer student. But he has a dandelion tuft smile, downy soft and fleeting, carried off by the wind not long after it blooms across his lips.

You like it, his smile.

You watch Kimura—your class rep, a position she’s held since middle school—get to her feet. Takao is setting up his desk when she approaches, methodically laying out his supplies. He keeps them in neat rows and you can’t help but smile when you see that his eraser is a battered little Keroppi, its round eyes almost flattened into a straight line on one side.

The class’s chatter softens, a few people glancing towards Kimura and Takao. You can’t see her face, but her fingers are trembling, just a bit. He looks unbothered. There’s not a trace of nerves in him, until you realize that the tips of his ears have gone faintly pink.

Kimura’s voice doesn’t carry when she greets him so you don’t hear what she says, but you see the tension bleed from her after Takao speaks.

Not soulmates, then.

She relaxes, and from the way her hands are moving she’s starting to outline the classroom expectations. You shift in your seat, starting to turn away, when a flash of movement from Takao catches your eye.

He looks at you from beneath the fan of his eyelashes from across the classroom. He has a small spray of fading freckles, you realize, speckled over the bridge of his nose like a cluster of stars. He gives you that smile again. It takes a moment to realize you’re staring, and you look away, your cheeks hot.

“You’ve got a crush,” Abe sing-songs at lunch a few days later, jabbing her chopsticks into your bento and stealing a piece of pickled daikon.

“I don’t,” you say, moving your bento away as she tries to steal another piece.

Yoshikawa snorts. She’s sprawled out on the grass next to you and Abe, her long skirt caught up around her calves. There’s grass caught in her black hair, the verdant blades swaying as she moves, as if floating in the whirling eddies of the darkened sea.

“If you’re gonna lie,” she says, turning over onto her stomach, “at least do it well.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Liar.”

“Such a liar,” Abe agrees. “You stare at him all the time.”

“No I don’t!”

Abe’s grin goes sly. “I didn’t say who,” she tells you.

“I—it doesn’t matter who, I don’t stare at anyone!”

Yoshikawa raises an eyebrow. “So you don’t stare at Takao.”

You scowl down at the ground, ripping up a small chunk of grass. You rub the blades between your fingers until they’re a fine pulp, and the scent of a freshly mowed lawn permeates the air.

“See?” Abe says. “Told you.”

“Are you going to talk to him?” Yoshikawa asks, peering up at you. She’s sly-eyed, her gaze keen despite the way she yawns.

“Not yet,” you say. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re cupping a hand over your mark, rubbing your thumb over the thin skin just above it.

Yoshikawa smiles, warm and soft and knowing, and doesn’t say anything else. Instead she moves closer to you, curling around you like a crescent moon, her head padded on her discarded blazer. You settle into the cradle of her.

Abe is grinning wildly. “I knew that you had a crush,” she says, popping another bite of your rice into her mouth.

“Oh, like we haven’t seen the way you moon over Takeda!” you say.

She shrugs. “She’s cute.”

You huff and reach over to steal some of her tamagoyaki. She yelps, scrambling to pull her bento away as you snatch at the last piece. “Mean!” she says, watching as you eat it, the fluffy egg practically melting on your tongue. “I want the rest of your daikon!”

“Get your own!”

She reaches for your bento and you swat at her. The two of you bicker for the rest of lunch, only ceasing when you return to the classroom and take your seats.

Out of the corner of your eye, there’s a flicker of movement. When you glance over, Takao is already watching you. There’s a smile tucked sweet into the corner of his mouth, a sliver of a thing.

It’s you who looks away first.

You’ll talk to him eventually, you think, cupping a hand over your soulmark once again.

Just not yet.

Not yet lasts longer than you thought.

You and Takao trade glances across the classroom for one week, then another, and then another still. Each look is a fleeting thing, like a shooting star streaking across the sky.

But you don’t speak to each other.

You learn the sound of his voice through others when he speaks to your classmates and teachers. It’s quiet, steady, with a warm rasp to it that makes you think of billowing smoke. He blushes to the tips of his ears when it cracks. It’s cute in a way that makes you ache.

You learn the sound of him, but never for yourself.

Still, you gravitate towards each other. He offers you a tangerine one morning, his smile small, soft, and earnest. When you nod he uses his fingernail to split open the peel, unfurling it in a smooth motion. The peel curls bright around his hand. He separates out a segment and gives it to you, his fingertips damp with sticky juice. They leave shy little imprints across your palm.

The fruit bursts across your tongue like sunshine, golden and warm. Takao is watching you with hopeful eyes. You grin, and hold your hand out for another.

He sits down next to you to share it. The classroom is full of chatter, but the two of you are quiet, wrapped up in your own world. Suddenly, it’s not so much that you’re scared of speaking, but that maybe you don’t quite need it. Not yet.

It would be nice, you suppose, but as time passes, you and Takao find ways to fit together without speaking. Instead, you learn the tilt of his mouth and the crinkle of his nose and the way his fingers run through his hair.

It works. It’s not quite enough, but it works.

And so not yet lasts just a little bit longer, the two of you steering away from the cliff’s edge looming in the distance.

Another month goes by.

You spend hours with Takao, the sight of you together a common thing to the point where your classmates ask you where he is when they’re looking for him. You can usually tell them. You’re incredibly aware of each other, caught in each other’s gravitational pull.

Sometimes it feels like you’re destined to only orbit each other, to never truly touch.

But sometimes you almost speak.

It’s a golden afternoon, the wind rustling through the leaves like a lullaby, filling the space between you both. You’re tucked together on one of the benches in the school’s yard watching the flow of students as they head to their clubs.

Takao is sunstruck, haloed in gold, and it makes his dark eyes even deeper, an obsidian sheen. You’ve seen it before, but there’s still something about it that makes your stomach flip.

He shakes his head, trying to get his hair out of his eyes. It doesn’t work, and he does it again. You think of a wet dog and try to stifle your laugh.

When he does it for a third time, you reach out and brush your fingers through his hair, sweeping it back from his face. He turns into the touch, just slightly.

Someone shrieks out a laugh, and you look up to see one of the girls in the other classes batting lightly at her boyfriend. He murmurs something to her, and her smile grows wider.

Your stomach twists, coiling tight as you watch them banter with each other. The gaps between your ribs seem to grow, until the empty space is what you’re made of.

You want, you want, you want.

You wonder if you’ll ever have.

Takao senses your change in mood but you say nothing, and the two of you separate not long after.

Your father is watering the plants when you come home. They fill the windows of your home, the sun streaming through the verdant leaves, leaving emerald patches of light on the floor, nature’s stained glass.

He’s quietly humming to himself, each note off-key, but he stops as soon as he sees you. He eyes you for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say.

“You were better at lying when you were little,” he tells you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now what’s wrong?”

You tell him. It spills out of you like an oil slick, coating everything it touches. You tell him about Takao, about the silence, about it all. You hadn’t realized how much the quiet was eating away at your bones.

“So what is it, exactly, that you’re worrying about?” your father asks when you’ve finished. It’s a sharp question, razor-edged, but his eyes are soft.

“What if he’s not my soulmate?” you ask him.

He blinks. “Does that change how you feel about him?”

You take a moment to consider. You think of Takao’s smile, and the way his fingers linger against the palm of your hand when he hands you the erasers to clap; the way he lets you take pieces of his bento, all without a word.

“No,” you say. “I don’t think so.”

“There you go, then.”

“But if he’s not my soulmate—”

“You know the statistics as well as I do,” he says. “If Takao isn’t your soulmate, that doesn’t mean you can’t be with him.”

“They’re waiting,” you whisper.

“That doesn’t mean you have to,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to make your own choice.”

You’re not sure that you are.

“What if he is my soulmate?”

Your father puts down the watering can. You see a flash of his soulmark. It’s blackened, a charred smudge against his skin, and when you glance up at his face, there’s something old in his expression. For a breath, you don’t know him at all.

It’s gone as soon as it came, like a shadow beneath the summer sun. He smiles at you. “Then your mom and I will have to meet him, won’t we?”

You balk.

He laughs, a sound that shimmers in the air. “I’m joking, tadpole,” he says. “And if he is—you’ll figure it out. There’s no point in guessing before you even know.”

You fidget with your sleeve, rubbing your thumb over the fraying hem of it.

There are worse things than losing something you never had, you think.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

But things are easier said than done.

It’s not easy, not with Takao. It’s hard to find the words when you’ve spent so much time living in the space between them.

You find yourself on the rooftop with him during lunch. It’s unseasonably warm, thick puffy clouds sitting high in a robin’s egg blue sky, and you’re sitting side-by-side, close enough to touch. Close enough, but not quite.

Takao hands you some anpan; you give him one of your onigiri, peeling the packaging open for him. He nudges against you, a silent thank you, and something in you breaks.

“This is stupid,” you blurt out, loud enough that a few heads turn your way.

You clap your hand over your mouth immediately.

He blinks, staring at you with his lips parted, and your cheeks start to heat. And then he laughs, the sound like woodfire smoke, billowing out of him in low, slow tones. It sweeps over you, settles on your skin, and though your cheeks heat more the sight of him sparks something in you.

He laughs freely and warmly, his eyes crinkling at the edges. It doesn’t stop; if anything, it flows more strongly, like a river to the ocean. You find yourself swept up in it, laughter bubbling up inside you.

When it spills out of you and joins his, it sounds like a song.

“I cannot believe that’s what you said,” he says, and oh, you’ve ached to hear his voice when it was meant for you. You drink it in, swallow it down, something for you alone. “Of all the things.”

He laughs again, short and sharp with delight, but your smile is wilting, going brittle at the edges.

You finally have Takao, only to lose him a moment later.

You’re not soulmates.

It changes things.

You don’t mean for it to happen, but it does. Suddenly, the language between the two of you is different. Too used to speaking without words, neither of you are prepared for actual speech. You stumble over conversation, the words caught in your mouths like pebbles in a wave, spinning over and over until they’re worn down to nothing.

“You’ll figure it out,” Abe says, lounging upside down on your bed, tapping away at her controller, her brow furrowed as she smashes at the buttons. “You just gotta adjust, that’s all.”

You sigh. It’s not something you can explain, really. How one space was filled and another emptied. It leaves something in you aching.

Yoshikawa hums from where she’s sprawled on your floor, barely paying attention to the tv as she hits combo after combo, much to Abe’s annoyance. “Soulmate stuff is weird,” she says. “But it’s up to you.”

“It’s up to him, too,” you remind her. “Not everyone wants to date someone who isn’t their soulmate.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Abe says. “He likes you. It’s kinda gross how much.”

Your cheeks heat. “Shut up.”

She sticks her tongue out at you. “Make me.”
You throw a pillow at her face, relishing her little yelp as she tries to scramble out of the way and almost falls off your bed.

“Brat,” she says, tossing the pillow back. “He does, though. Like you.”

“I know,” you say, something vast filling you.

“Is this about the waiting thing?” Yoshikawa asks, putting down her controller and turning to face you. She hooks her chin over your knee, looking up at you with knowing eyes.

You bite at your bottom lip.

You know the rates better than anyone; you’ve spent your whole childhood hearing a language all its own. Percentages, probabilities, and all manners of complicated academic jargon, all focused on stripping away the whimsy of soulmates.

Your mother has only ever wanted to understand. But in that coveting, that hunger, she pressed understanding upon you as well, until you’re caught up in yourself, a tangled skein, so knotted that the beginning can barely be found.

“What if I do meet them?” you ask. “And they really have been waiting?”

Yoshikawa hums; it reverberates through you. “Dunno,” she says. “But what if you don’t meet them?”

You glare. “Thanks, that’s helpful.”

“Yeah, Yocchan,” Abe pipes up. “Super helpful.”

Yoshikawa tosses another pillow at her. “I don’t see you offering anything!”

“I already said it’ll be fine!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did!”

You laugh, the sound light but loud. Your friends pause, looking incredibly pleased with themselves.

“Oh good,” Abe says. “You’re back.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Nothing,” she says, but you think there’s a bit of sadness to her, in the waning moon of her smile. “Are you gonna play with us now?”

She shoves a controller at you and you take it with a huff. “Get ready to lose,” you tell her.

“What else is new?” Yoshikawa asks, moving away from you to grab her own controller again.

“Shut up, Yocchan,” Abe says, scowling. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too.”

You ignore them both to pick your character, but you can’t help the smile that plays across your lips as they continue to argue with each other. Abe curls herself around you, sticking her tongue out at Yoshikawa. You shift to give her room and your mark catches the light, reflects it back like morning dew.

For a moment you stare down at the words that have already changed your life so much. Sometimes you wonder how much more they can take from you.

“It’s my choice,” you say. You freeze, not having meant to say it out loud, but Yoshikawa just hums, settling warm on your other side

“Yeah,” she says with a little hum. “It is.”

But it isn’t just your choice.

You can’t quite understand Takao’s smile anymore. The nuances are lost in the space between the two of you, a language half-forgotten. The structure is there, but you’ve lost some of the words.

You can’t quite understand his choice, either.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you, a scant few weeks after you realize you aren’t soulmates. The tips of his ears are pink, the color of the early dawn, and his eyes are glassy. “It’s just that—”

“We’re not soulmates,” you finish for him. Your heart is thrumming behind your ribs, a hummingbird battering against its cage. “Right?”

He winces. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

Maybe you should have known that it would.

He winces again; his hands tighten on the strap of his school bag. He stares at you, looking helpless, and you hate that you want to cradle his face in your hands. That you want to make it better for him.

“It—”

He cuts himself off. His lip trembles, wobbling like a spinning top, and it comes to you all at once. It’s written in the space between you, in a language you’ve both been speaking for months, one that’s all your own.

Takao’s lying.

“Tell me the truth,” you demand, clenching your fists.

He looks away. “We’re not soulmates,” he says. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Liar.”

“Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he says. “Please.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Fine,” you say. “Fine.”

When you walk away, he doesn’t come after you.

You hide yourself away among the hydrangea bushes that line the library, settling yourself in a sea of powder-blue petals. You curl up, pulling your knees up against your chest, and cry quietly until your uniform skirt is damp.

“Well, that’s not good,” Abe says.

You glance up to see her and Yoshikawa leaning over the hydrangea bushes, looking down at you with tender expressions. You immediately cry harder, starting to sob aloud.

“Oh shit,” Abe says, pushing through the puffball clusters of flowers and dropping to her knees beside you. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s okay.”

“Takao?” Yoshikawa asks.

You nod.

She smiles, sharp and mean. “Abe, stay with her. I’ll be back.”

You shoot to your feet, grabbing her by her uniform sleeve before she can take off. “No!” you yelp. “No, Asako, don’t do anything!”

“Why not? He made you cry.”

“He just—it’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“He doesn’t want to be with someone who isn’t his soulmate,” you say softly. “That’s…he’s allowed to make that choice.”

She clicks her tongue. “He didn’t strike me as the type.”

“Me either,” you mumble. “I think he’s lying.”

“Why would he lie?” Abe asks, tilting her head.

“Don’t know,” you say. “But it just…it just seemed like he was. Please leave him alone.”

You don’t know how to explain it. You’re not sure you can. It’s a strange little language, the language that forms between two people who haven’t spoken to each other, and you’re not sure anyone who hasn’t created that language between themselves and another could even begin to understand the alphabet of it.

Yoshikawa hums; her sly eyes are narrowed, the deep brown of them darkened to almost black. “Fine. But if he makes you cry again, all bets are off.”

“Yeah,” Abe says, nudging you up to your feet. “And we know where you hide, so no point in trying to keep it from us!”

Your laugh is watery, but it’s light as it leaves your lips.

Abe loops her arm through yours. “Let’s go,” she says. “It’s lunchtime and Yoshikawa has a good bento today.”

“And it’s not for you,” Yoshikawa says lazily, stuffing her hands in her pocket as the three of you start to walk. “So don’t even try it.”

You laugh again and they bicker all the way to the classroom. You’re in the middle of grabbing your own bento when you feel eyes on you and when you look up, Takao startles, looking away quickly. You bite your lip as the tips of his ears go pink once more.

He glances at you again, and his eyes linger on your face. When his lips curl down into a small frown, you realize he knows you’ve been crying. He looks away as the twist of his lips goes pained.

Yoshikawa steps in front of you, blocking your view of him. “C’mon,” she says softly, chivving you towards her desk where Abe is already sitting. “Let’s go.”

You follow her after one last glance in Takao’s direction.

It develops into a routine over the next few weeks. You get used to the feeling of eyes on you all over again. Takao’s gaze feels silken against your skin, and though you shouldn’t, you bask in it. Maybe you’re too used to it; it reminds you of the beginning, when all you had was fleeting looks and quiet gazes.

But now he looks away every time you look up, though his ears always give him away.

Still, there’s a comfort to it. It doesn’t go away, even as you simply circle around each other, caught in each other’s orbit once more. This time, at least, you know that you’ll stay this way.

Except two months after you go your separate ways, you’re assigned to work on a project together.

Your hurt has waned; it’s a healing bruise, now, only flaring to life when you press on it. The hopeful look on Takao’s face barely even causes an ache. You stay in your seat, but he gets to his feet and comes to you as the teacher leaves.

“Hi,” Takao says, fidgeting with the strap of his school bag. “I’m—if you want to switch partners to someone else, I understand.”

“Do you want to switch partners?” you ask.

“Not really,” he blurts out, and this time, his blush is bright, the apples of his cheeks dusted in heated red. “I mean, no. I don’t.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. It feels nice, somehow, looking at him, at his small, timid smile and the way the sun catches golden on his skin. “I guess I’m fine with it.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m—I’m glad.”

“Let’s talk after clubs,” you say. “We can figure out our topic then.”

He nods. He stands there for a moment; it’s only when you raise an eyebrow that he jolts and heads back to his desk. When you look over, he’s got his hands pressed against his face. You think you see him mutter “idiot” to himself.

The smile tugs on your lips without you even realizing it.

“I miss you,” Takao says, fifteen minutes into your third project session. “I miss you so much.”

You go stiff.

The project has gone well so far. You’ve found yourself falling into easy communication with Takao, but you’ve kept it strictly to the project, rarely going into your lives outside of school. Still, it’s easy in a way it hasn’t been in a while. You find yourself smiling, and sometimes he even makes you laugh.

“Okay,” you say, sounding wooden even to yourself. “I—I don’t know what you want me to say to that.”

He winces. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says.

You mean to say okay, but what you say instead is—

“I miss you too.”

Takao blinks. And then a smile is spreading across his lips, slow like the dawn and just as warm. “Really?” he asks.

Your cheeks heat, but you nod.

“Do you think we can be friends?” he asks, almost shy.

You bite your lip. “I think…I think we can try.”

“I’d like that,” he says softly. “I’d really like that.”

You smile at him, slow and sure. “Me too.”

He smiles back, and the two of you turn back to your project.

You find that it takes time to learn how to be friends with Takao. It’s not like Abe and Yoshikawa with the fluid ease of childhood friends, forged by years and years at each other’s sides, memory after memory built into a firm foundation. Nor is it like your other friends.

Takao seems to inhabit a space all his own. Maybe he always will. It seems right that he would; it doesn’t surprise you that he carved himself a place in your world without even trying.

It takes time. Eventually, even Abe and Yoshikawa warm up to him, until the four of you are spending summer nights together, popsicles melting down your fingers in the heat. You laugh through sticky lips and sit side-by-side despite the heat.

It feels good to have him back in your life, and high school goes by in a whirlwind of seasons, the years melting together until you graduate. He’s by your side when you do ,along with Yoshikawa and Abe, the four of you taking pictures on the school lawn surrounded by your peers.

The four of you spend as much time as you can together before you head off to college, just a few scant weeks after graduating.

It’s easy with Yoshikawa and Abe; the three of you are woven together, a tapestry of home. College is just another stitch, with the three of you attending the same one. You find a cute apartment just off campus, in a slightly worn building with wisteria dripping down the sides like honey. Yoshikawa and Abe like to hang laundry from the balcony; they says it comes back with a floral scent. The dishwasher is broken more often than not, the rooms are tiny, and you love it. So do they, and the three of you build a home together.

With Takao, it’s harder. You drift away from each other in college, pressed in on all sides by classes, studying, and local friends. It feels hard to find the time to breathe, let alone text Takao anything other than a fleeting check-in or a picture of something that reminded you of him.

Unlike before, it feels natural. It isn’t without its edges but they’re dulled, so that they press against your skin instead of cut. He simply fades from your everyday life until the ding of his text message is a surprise instead of a given.

When he walks back into your life in your third year of college, it’s like getting hit by a lightning bolt.

The izakaya is tucked away at the edge of the city, sandwiched between two small apartment buildings that have ivy spidering up the side of them. You watch as a sheet billows on a clothesline, rippling like water, the clothespins holding firm despite the strong breeze.

The fat tabby lazing on the edge of the izakaya steps doesn’t even lift its head to look at you. It’s sheltered under a verdant fern frond, part of the little forest of plants clustered around the entrance. Some of the plants are spilling out of their pots, sprawling out in great clusters of leaves, the tiny flowers dotted in them barely visible in the light of the nearby vending machine.

You crouch down by the cat unable to resist, and it blinks itself awake slowly, turning slate gray eyes your way. It sniffs at your knuckles when you reach out to it. It rubs its cheek against your hand once, and then gets to its feet, stretching mightily as your friends laugh from just inside the entrance. You try to pet it again but it pointedly turns away and curls up again under the frond, further in than before, a little forest deity hidden amid lush scenery.

You stare at it for a moment longer, looking at how its cheeks squish up against its paws.

“Pouting doesn’t affect Momo,” someone behind you says.

You look up, and then go still.

“Hi,” Takao says, warm like the early morning sun. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” you say, as if he hasn’t knocked the breath from you. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good. You?”

“Are we really going to do this?” you ask, standing up from your awkward crouch.

He smiles, and you think he might be swallowing down a laugh. “Do what?”

You scowl at him. “You know what,” you say. “The small talk.”

“It’s polite.”

“Is that your main concern? Politeness?”

This time, he does laugh, low and sweet. “No,” he says, his eyes glittering. “You are.”

Your cheeks heat. “You can’t just say that.”

“Just did,” he says. “Are—are you here by yourself?”

“With friends.”

“Do you think I could steal you away for a drink?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I think you can.”

He smiles at you. “Good.”

He ushers you into the izakaya. It’s warm inside despite the open windows, and the scent of fried food lingers in the air. People’s chatter fills the room up to the rafters, little laughs peppered in like champagne sounds, little pops of joy. There’s another cat curled up on a barstool tucked away in a corner, a ball of white fluff that makes you think of dandelions.

Yoshikawa sees you first; when she sees Takao behind you, she raises a single elegant brow before turning back to your group of friends. She says something with a lazy roll of her shoulders, and suddenly, all of your friends are trying very hard to not look at the entrance.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

Takao laughs, the huff of air stirring against your nape. “They’re pretty obvious,” he says. “Should we go say hi?”

“Later,” you say.

He follows you to the bar. He’s close, and under the scent of fried food you can make out the faintest hint of his woodsy cologne.

You sit side by side, close enough to feel each other’s warmth but without touching. The bartender brings you your beers, and you look to Takao as he taps the neck of his bottle against yours.

“It’s so good to see you,” he breathes, his dark eyes soft.

“Yeah,” you say. “It is.”

One drink turns into two until you’re both sliding closer to each other in your seat, pressing into each other’s sides. You barely keep yourself from curling into him. He leans in close when you’re speaking, so that his voice is rumbling low in your ear.

You share some takoyaki and then one of the biggest okonomiyaki you’ve ever seen, the pancake stuffed to the brim with filling and heavily topped. When the food arrives, so does the white cat, meowing quietly at your feet as it winds its way around the rungs of your barstool. Takao holds you steady when you lean down to pet it, his hand firm on your lower back.

By your third beer, Yoshikawa and the rest of your friend group leaves. She gives you a little wave on her way out the door.

“Sorry,” Takao says. “I didn’t mean to take up your whole night.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s been…really nice.”

“Just nice?”

“Great,” you admit. “It’s been great.”

He smiles, and it’s that same dandelion fluff smile you remember, sweet and fleeting.

“Good,” he says, taking a sip from his beer. You watch the way his forearm flexes. “Listen, do you want to meet up again?”

“Yeah, I would.”

His eyes crinkle. “Great,” he says.

You bite down on your smile.

The two of you finish your beers between lazy chatter. It’s comfortable, as if you never fell out of touch.

When you leave, Takao waits as you pet the white cat once more, delicately bumping your knuckles against its cheek as it rumbles out a purr. It meows pitifully when you stop, opening its blue, blue eyes with a disgruntled look on its face, and you laugh to yourself, kneeling to give it a few more pets.

You look for the tabby as you exit the izakaya but it’s gone, likely curled up amid some of the planters further back. You and Takao both stop at the sidewalk, carefully making sure you’re out of the way of any pedestrians, and for a moment, you just look at each other.

“See you soon?” Takao asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “See you soon.”

“Good,” he breathes, with his eyes so soft that it makes your cheeks warm.

You say goodbye, and each of you heads home. When you glance back Takao is already looking back at you from the street corner. You give him a little wave, and he jolts before hurrying off.

You smile your whole way home.

“It’s so hot,” you complain, flopping down next to Takao on the park bench. “Can we go to the conbini?”

“Popsicles?” he asks.

“No, I want onigiri.”

He raises a brow. “How does that help with the heat?”

“It doesn’t,” you tell him. “The aircon does.”

He laughs. “Oh, of course.”

You head to the closest conbini, practically swimming through the humid summer air. The air is so thick that you could cut it; there’s rain on the horizon, promised in the encroaching gray-blue clouds hanging low in the sky.

Inside it’s blessedly cool, the aircon hard at work. The two of you scour the aisles, picking out varying snacks and pointing out new flavors to each other—you try to make him buy a cream stew Gari Gari Kun popsicle, but he refuses—before you head to the cashier.

You settle in at one of the tables, opening your drink as Takao unwraps one of your onigiri, handing it to you before he busies himself with his own food. He gives you a little swat when you reach out for his snacks, making you retract your hand with a laugh. As you pull back, you wonder when the two of you fell back into rhythm.

It’s close to the one you had in high school, but not the same. There’s something new twining through the rhythm, a swirl of notes that resonates through you. It’s an easy flow, a soft ebb and tide, like the calmest of seas.

“Hey,” Takao says gently.

“Hmm?”

“Where did you go, just then?”

You blink and take a sip of your peach tea. It lingers sweet on your tongue as you meet his stoic gaze. His mouth tilts, just slightly, something tucked up secret in the corner of his soft lips.

For a moment, you just look at him. He meets your gaze easily; he lets you look your fill, as patient as ever.

“Sorry,” you say. “Nowhere important.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head. “You’re so—” you break off.

“I’m so?”

You bite at your lip. “You,” you say. “You’re so you.”

His smile is small, but it grows, as steady and sure as the sun’s rise.

“I hope so,” he says, almost flippant, but there’s something soft in his gaze; it brushes over you like silk.

“Shut up,” you tell him.

He just laughs, quiet and low.

The two of you chat as you eat, talking about Yoshikawa’s upcoming art show at a trendy new gallery. You’ve been waiting patiently ever since the curator first picked her up as a featured artist. It’ll be nice to go with Takao, for the four of you to be side-by-side again, something that’s becoming as constant as it was in your high school days.

When you’re finished Takao takes all the wrappers and folds them up neatly, creasing them until they’re practically origami. You bite down on your smile.

The summer air rolls over you as you step back into it, licking across your skin as only wet heat can. You shudder with it.

Still you meander through the nearby park, ducking beneath low-hanging branches hanging heavy with fruit, the citrus of them permeating the air. It’s quiet, with just the distant shouts of the playground and the whisper of the leaves in the stirring breeze to accompany you both.

You find yourself at the koi pond without meaning to and Takao wordlessly heads to the food meter as you settle yourself on the rock wall that edges the pond. The surface ripples, orange and gold scales muted in the murky water like a sunset covered by clouds. You trail your fingertips over the surface, and giggle as they mouth at them.

Takao presses some feed into your palm when he comes back; the heat of him lingers there. Your mark glimmers in the light as you toss in the feed, a needlepoint flash of silver. You can feel Takao’s eyes on it. But then the koi come up in great, arcing splashes, the quiet pond roiling like the angry sea in their fervor, and you laugh as you dodge the worst of it.

Takao chuckles, and he settles down next to you to hand you the last of the feed.

You curl into him despite the heat, skin against skin, a slick slide of a touch before you fall still. The koi are still churning up the water, their gaping mouths breaking through the surface, and you give them what they want. Scales flicker by, a mesmerizing firework show caught beneath the surface, and so it catches you off guard when Takao suddenly says—

“I’m sorry.”

You go still.

“For what?”

He shifts beside you; when you glance at him, he’s staring into the distance, his dark eyes caught on something that only he can see.

“For high school.”

You breathe out through your nose. “So you’ve said.”

“I was scared.”

“So you’ve said,” you repeat.

He glances at you, then, and his eyes remind you of the vastness of the unending night sky, dark and glittering.

“I’m not scared anymore.”

You suck in a sharp breath. He waits, ever patient.

“Me neither,” you say, curling your pinky around his, twining around him like thread.

He cups your cheek, his touch almost reverent, and presses his forehead to yours. “Okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He leans in and kisses you. It’s careful and sweet.

It feels like coming home.

He breaks the kiss when you’ve stolen each other’s breath away.

“Our soulmates—” he starts.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say breathlessly, kissing him again. He’s smiling against your lips. Warmth floods you. You love him, you love him, you love him. That’s all there is. That’s all you need.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say again.

He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re right,” he says. “It doesn’t.”

Until suddenly, it does.

You and your soulmate—Shinsuke, you think, still tasting the honey of it on your tongue, Shinsuke Shinsuke Shinsuke—watch each other.

The only sound is the steady fall of the rain.

It’s picked up again, sending the hydrangeas eddying, spinning in a lazy current as their puffball blossoms catch the droplets. More petals flutter to the ground. The blue of them is stark against the dirt, and you think of what a storm leaves in its wake.

Shinsuke lets out a deep, slow breath, and you wince. His amber eyes have dimmed and the last of his smile has washed away, leaving just the dregs of emotion behind, too faint for you to read.

You feel too small for your skin; your heart is fluttering, a hummingbird thing, trying to press through the gaps in your ribcage. You take in a shallow breath. It tastes of the earth, of drenched soil and summer heat. You choke on it.

Shinsuke’s brow furrows as you take in another breath, even shallower than the last, and your heart is thrumming, and his eyes are so sharp, so knowing, so kind. You’re caught in the amber of them, the resin of his gaze pouring over you.

Even the rain seems quiet now.

His lips part.

Your ribs start to crack; your heart thumps harder against them. Too strong, too fast, too loud.

His lips part, and you do the only thing you can.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp.

You run.

Chapter Text

Shinsuke almost catches you.

You’re still whirling around to run, a jewelry box ballerina wobbling in place, desperate to stay on her feet, when his fingers graze your wrist. They’re warm. Callused. They trace along the delicate skin there, sending sparks skittering beneath your skin.

His fingers flex, start to close around your wrist.

But they don’t.

They fall away, until there’s only the ghost of him lingering on your skin. He speaks, too, his steady voice almost pleading, but your thrumming heartbeat is filling your ears, echoing inside you, a wild hymn of instinct.

His touch falls away, and you’re through the shoji before you realize where you’ve gone. You whip past your friends, their shocked expressions blurring at the edges like watercolors, and into the hallway.

It hurts to breathe.

You dart into one of the shrine’s empty tea rooms, chest heaving. You slam the shoji shut behind you and sink to the floor, your shiromuku pooling around you, gleaming like moonlight in the dim. You knot your fingers in the fabric. Your fingertips brush over the heavy embroidery, over the graceful sweep of a crane’s wing, and your grip tightens.

Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, the red string of fate wound fast around you, your ribs its spindle, cinching tighter with each passing moment. The world wavers.

You come back to yourself on the other side of the room. You’ve shed your shiromuku; it’s in the middle of the room, an empty husk, a cocoon broken open too early. Your next breath is shaky.

Faintly, you can hear people rushing through the hallway. Their voices wash over you like waves on a distant shore. You bury your face in your hands.

You don’t look up when the door opens. Abe and Yoshikawa have always been able to find you, no matter where you hide.

The door shuts, and then—

“Hi,” Takao says.

You go stiff.

“Hi,” you say, refusing to look up.

You feel Takao settle next to you; the fabric of his kimono is soft against you. He sets his hand on your knee. He’s warm, as always. It’s the soft heat of freshly washed sheets, of the spring sun’s tender touch. You curl into him.

It feels like home.

Quiet falls. It settles between the two of you like the night, a shroud of your own making. Takao leans back. He sighs; it sounds like it comes from between the gaps in his ribs, from the very depths of him.

It sounds like saying goodbye.

“Please don’t leave me,” you say, and you sound small even to yourself.

“I think that’s my line.”

You wonder if the words taste as bitter as they sound. If they linger sour on his tongue. Takao seems to realize it at the same moment, but he doesn’t apologize, and you don’t ask him to.

“I’m not going to leave you,” you say.

He hums skeptically, low and resonant, and it chips away at your bones, scrapes you down to your very marrow.

“I’m not,” you insist, low and desperate. You barely recognize yourself. But you want to keep Takao, to keep this man you’ve spent years learning, spent years loving. Leaving him would carve you open, and Kita may be your soulmate, but even the most careful stitches can’t always keep a wound shut. “We said it didn’t matter.”

“We did,” he says. “But I think it might.”

“He’s a stranger, Aoshi,” you say. “I don’t know him, not the way I know you. Not the way I love you.”

“It’s different, though, isn’t it?” he asks. “With soulmates.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“But it is.”

You swallow down the sob.

He shifts next to you, giving you more space to curl into him. You take it, burrowing into his side and pressing your face against the soft fabric of his haori. He sighs.

“Do you feel—” he starts. You can feel the way the words rumble in his chest. He stops and runs a hand through his hair; he blows out a big breath. “Do you feel connected to him?”

You bite at your bottom lip. You remember Shinsuke in the sea of silken hydrangeas, the deep blue of them eddying around his legs like the tide as he moved through them. You think of how your eyes had caught on him then. How his companion had faded into the background.

How well you’d known the taste of his name on your tongue.

“I don’t know,” you say.

“Yes, then.”

“I don’t know, Aoshi,” you snap. “I don’t know anything except that we were supposed to get married today and now it’s all—”

“Fucked,” he says when you trail off. “It’s all fucked.”

You nod, sniffling miserably.

“I think we need some space,” he says.

“From?”

“Each other.”

You pull away from him.

“What?”

“I think we need some space from each other,” he repeats. He’s not looking at you, his dark eyes focused straight ahead, as if he can see through the shoji and find all the answers right there.

You want to shake him.

“I don’t need space from you,” you bite out. “I need you.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says. “I need space from you.”

“Aoshi, what? Please, I don’t understand.”

He blinks. His eyelashes are wet; they’re clumping together. There’s a stray one caught on his cheek like a dandelion seed. You catch yourself before you reach for it.

“You have a choice to make,” he says. “And I don’t think I can watch you do it.”

“My choice is you!”

He looks at you, then. He looks at you, his eyes night-sky dark, and there is something terribly tender to him when he says, “I don’t think you know that yet.”

You sob.

It’s pulled from somewhere deep inside you, an animal sound that you didn’t know you were capable of making, something that lives behind your bones. It guts you, that sob, flays you open from neck to navel.

Takao sucks in a sharp breath. His hand flexes by his side. You sob again, softer this time, but no less wounded for it.

“You’re not being fair,” you tell him.

“Neither are you.”

You grit your teeth, wondering if there’s such a thing as fairness, in a moment like this. You think it’s unlikely.

“You don’t get to make my choice for me,” you snap.

“There are no choices being made today,” says a new voice, and you close your eyes as your mother’s perfume wafts around you. She smells of summer irises and the honeyed earth of saffron, and you breathe her in as she gathers you into her arms.

You curl up into her, a child once more, and start to cry in earnest.

“Go,” she says to Takao. If she says anything else, you can’t hear it over your own sobs, over the great, gasping breaths wracking your body.

You feel Takao leave, the warmth of him fading away, and it takes everything you have to not reach out to him. You sob again, choking on his name.

“Oh, tadpole,” your mother says. She presses a kiss to your temple. “Let him go for now.”

“I’m supposed to be getting married,” you tell her.

“I know, tadpole.”

“Why is this happening?”

She cradles you close. “I wish I knew.”

“You said—”

“I know.”

“Mama,” you murmur. “Mama, what do I do?”

“I don’t know, tadpole,” she says, and you feel one of her hands shift to press against her stomach, to cradle her own soulmark’s blackened kanji. “I don’t know.”

You turn your face into the crook of her neck and cry all over again.

She hums to you, soft and soothing, but lets you cry your fill. She pets at your back, her strong hand firm, keeping you grounded in your own skin.

Your sobs have just started to abate when the phone rings.

It cuts through the heavy air of the tearoom like a knife. Both of you jolt with it, and you furrow your brow. It’s a classic ringtone, the one all phones come with, and you immediately know whose phone it is.

You push yourself up and out of your mother’s arms, glancing to where your shiromuku still lays, a collapsed chrysalis. You chew on your lower lip, but go to it, kneeling in front of the beautiful fabric and picking it up carefully until you can see Shinsuke’s utilitarian flip phone. It jingles, the ringtone continuing, and you reach for it with trembling fingers.

Miya Osamu, the lit screen reads.

You sit with the phone cupped softly in your hands, your pulse thrumming. You trace a finger over the edge of it.

You flip it open before you can convince yourself otherwise.

“Hello?” you ask.

“You picked up,” Shinsuke says.

You suck in a sharp breath. You had known, but it’s so different, hearing his voice. The steadiness of it, even though the edges of it sound worn down.

“I did.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Me neither,” you confess.

“Are you alright?”

You close your eyes. This would all be so much easier if he wasn’t good. But you know he is—you can hear it in his voice, in how earnestly he asks.

“Not really,” you say. The least you can do is give him the truth. “I assume you need your phone back?”

He goes quiet. You listen to him breathe, and something in you aches, like a healing bruise being pressed. You wish you were better, that you were kinder, that you could handle this with grace instead of inelegantly side-stepping it.

“Yes,” he says. “And I’d like to talk.”

You bite your lip. “Yeah,” you say. “We probably should.”

The two of you agree to meet in the tearoom in thirty minutes. Which is good, because even with your shiromuku shed, the kimono you wear is clearly wedding garb. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, stark white and painstakingly stitched, and you desperately need to be out of it.

It’s your mother who helps you disrobe, her fingers careful as she unwraps the pristine obi, the gossamer fabric as delicate as a spider’s web, gleaming in the low light of the room. You stare out the window as the attendant takes it and folds it up for storage. She’s glancing at you occasionally, her dark eyes wide, and you wonder what she’ll tell the people she knows. How she’ll spin the story of your misfortune. If she will tell it as a blessing instead.

The obi is followed by the kimono itself, slipping from your shoulders like water, and your mother brushes a hand against your cheek before she hands you your street clothing. She and the attendant leave you to remove the rest yourself. You leave the nagajuban pooled on the floor as you dress.

Once you’re dressed, you wander over to your kimono, carefully hung next to your shiromuku. The attendant has smoothed most of the wrinkles from the silk, and you trace a finger over the long lines of it.

You wonder if you’ll ever get to wear it again.

By the time the attendant returns to retrieve the garments, you’re sitting by the window, staring out into the pouring rain. The lush plants of the courtyard—heavy, ruffled ferns with massive fronds and vining shrubs with blossoms like little stars dotted between verdant leaves—sway under its touch, dancing to a tune that only nature knows.

Behind you, the shoji clicks open and shut.

You turn around.

Shinsuke gives you a soft smile. It’s wan, but there’s still a sweetness to it, somehow. His hat is gone; his gray hair gleams silver in the light, the black tips all the darker for it, and you think again of thunderclouds.

“You’ve been crying,” he says, his brow furrowed, and that almost sends you into a fresh wave of tears.

You let out a watery laugh. “A bit,” you admit. “It’s fine, though.”

He watches you, those vulpine eyes shining. He clearly doesn’t agree.

“Here,” you say, reaching out. “Your phone.”

He moves closer and takes it from you with quiet thanks. He lingers there, and you bite your bottom lip, trying to figure out what to even say to him.

“I’m sorry for running,” you say.

He smiles, soft and sad. “I understand.”

“I just—I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s alright,” he says calmly. “We have time.”

We. He says it so easily. Your stomach roils.

“I can’t,” you say. “I can’t do this.”

Shinsuke’s expression doesn’t change, but he’s different, suddenly, like a guttering flame finally blowing out. You swallow down a sob.

“I understand if you need space,” he says. It’s barely there, a wisp of a thing, but there’s pain in his voice. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Your laugh is wild at the edges, an unraveling stitch. “If we’d met an hour later, I would have been married.”

His fingers flex.

“I just—” you catch yourself as your voice cracks. Your lips are tingling; you bite down on the bottom one to make it stop. “I can’t do this right now. Please. Shinsuke, please.”

The tilt of his lips is edged with sorrow. “It’s fine,” he tells you. “We’ll trade phone numbers for now.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He nods. You trade phones, his fingers sweeping over your palm. They’re callused, rough against your skin, and you feel the ghost of them long after he’s drawn back. When you take your phone back, you’re careful to keep from touching him.

Kita Shinsuke, his contact reads, and you can’t help saying it aloud, letting your tongue roll over each inch of his full name, now that you know it.

Shinsuke—no, you think, he’s Kita, stranger that he is to you—smiles. He says your name too, his voice soft like the spring sun. Your stomach churns.

“Thanks,” you say, drawing back into yourself, curling up like a fern frond. “We’ll—we’ll talk soon.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but he must see something in your face, because he simply nods. There’s something you can’t quite understand tucked up secret in the corner of his mouth.

“Alright,” he says. “Soon.”

He glances back at you once, just before he disappears into the hallway.

The shoji has barely clicked shut behind him when it’s opened again, and Abe and Yoshikawa tumble into the room. They sweep you into their arms without a word and your knees give out. They cradle you as they lower you to the floor, and Yoshikawa hums quietly as you knot your fingers in their kimonos.

“C’mon,” Abe says, the gentlest you’ve ever heard her. “Let’s get you home.”

“Aoshi’s not there,” you sob.

Yoshikawa’s grip tightens.

“That’s fine,” she says, as steady as the sun’s rise, “because we will be.”

You wake to sunlight streaming in through your window. It cradles you like a lover, plays gently over your face, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Aoshi,” you grumble, “you forgot to close the curtains last night.”

There’s no response.

You crack an eye open, peering to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty. When you press your hand against the worn cotton sheet, it’s cold.

It all comes pouring back in, a riptide of memories, washing over you like a stormy sea.

“Oh,” you say quietly, curling up so that your knees are pressed against your chest. You blink back the tears. “Right.”

The sunlight thickens, pools like molten gold around you, and you turn your face up to it, a winter flower searching for warmth. You don’t know how long you stay like that; you’re only roused by the faint sound of clattering in the kitchen, followed by the purr of your coffee maker. The scent of it fills the house, and you put on your house slippers.

When you enter the kitchen, your father is snipping away at your neglected bonsai, trimming the needles back with careful, sure hands. He glances up at you.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says. “You’re terrible at taking care of this.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, putting down the pruning shears. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Good.”

“Yeah,” you say, and quiet falls.

His lips have a faint downward tilt as he watches you, like a waning moon, and he sighs, thumbing at the soil of the bonsai. There’s a flash of his soulmark, blackened into a charcoal smear, a gravestone all its own. Your eyes catch on it.

“Did you love your soulmate more?” you ask. “Was it better with her?”

“Oh, tadpole,” your father says. He comes over and takes your hand, squeezing it lightly. “It was different. Not better, not worse. Just different.”

“But did you love her more?”

“I loved her differently.”

“You keep saying that, but what does it mean?” you ask, pulling away from him. “Either you loved her more or you didn’t!”

He sighs. “It isn’t that easy,” he tells you.

“It is!”

“It isn’t, tadpole.”

“It has to be.”

“It’s not black and white when it comes to soulmates,” he says gently. “You know that.”

“I want it to be,” you whisper. “It’d be easier.”

“It would be,” he agrees. “It would be.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

He sighs. “You don’t have to know, not right this minute.”

“What if I never know?”

He hums, picking up the pruning shears again. He brushes a soft hand over the bonsai tree, tracing over a winding branch, his fingers reverent against the old bark. A few blue-green needles come loose, pattering down to the counter. He sets the pruning shears against a branch, and the blades flash, catching the light as they come together. He catches the little branch as it falls.

When he looks up, he looks right past you. You think of early morning mist, how it swallows a person down.

“You will,” he says.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His gaze flickers to you, and when he smiles, it feels like something you aren’t meant to see.

The coffee pot gurgles. It breaks the spell, and your father’s smile warms at the edges, smoothing out the tender gash of his mouth.

“I made it the way you like it,” he says. “I thought you might need it.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

You’re halfway through your first cup when your mother emerges, already fully dressed for the day. She looks you over from head to toe, and her face softens, goes sweet at the edges.

“Did you sleep?” she asks.

You nod.

“Good.”

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“The shrine,” she says.

You wince.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Take care of what?”

“There’s a soulmate clause in the contract,” she says carefully. “They’re required to refund you. Mei is meeting me, though, and she thinks the clause is loosely worded enough that she can get them to hold a different day for you instead, if you’d like. It’ll likely be a less auspicious rokuyo day, but—”

“But if I marry Aoshi, it might be the best I can get.”

She nods. “At least you’ll have options.”

“I guess. Mei’s going?”

Mei is an old friend of your mother’s, and one of her prime sources for her study, a veritable treasure trove of data. She’s made for the courtroom, tiny and calm and whip-smart, and her grasp of soulmate law—tricky at the best of times, highly scrutinized as it is—is unparalleled.

“Yes,” she says. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

She comes over to you and cups your cheek. You lean into the touch, into the saffron scent lingering on her skin. “You aren’t alone, tadpole,” she murmurs.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

She pats your cheek lightly. “Good,” she says.

You miss her warmth when she pulls away.

She takes her purse from your father; they murmur to each other. Your father leans forward to press his forehead against hers and you look away.

The door clicks shut behind her, and your father starts to hum, low and off-key. The quiet, off-beat snick of the shears accompanies him. It’s like being a child all over again, and you settle into the hazy familiarity of it.

The morning stretches on. Yoshikawa and Abe appear during your second cup of coffee, and they drag you out to the new cafe you’ve been meaning to try. It’s a creperie filled with hazy pinks and soft greens, the warm air scented sweet. The three of you squish into a small booth as you have so many times before.

They keep you busy, plying you with sugary crepes dipped in rich, thick chocolate and decorated with fresh, perfectly red strawberries. They’re cut into little fans, pressed softly into the chocolate, almost like small flowers in the dough. The three of you peel them out of their paper cones, licking at your fingertips like little kids. You swap flavors, trading bite for bite.

You close your eyes as you reclaim your own crepe from Abe, sinking into the taste of it, letting the sugar wash everything away. Abe laughs, loud and bright, accompanied by the low purr of Yoshikawa’s voice. You let the sound of them encompass you and wonder how you ever got so lucky.

You check your phone as you leave the creperie. You bite at your cheek as your phone screen comes to life, Takao’s little smile carving out a piece of your heart. It’s an old photo, from when you first got together, and it’s still a favorite, even after all these years.

Abe takes your free hand and squeezes it softly. She doesn’t say anything, but then again, she doesn’t need to.

There’s still no message when you go home. Dusk is falling, the last fingers of sunlight playing across the horizon, and you hesitate on your own doorstep. Yoshikawa coaxes you inside with a firm hand on your back. When you glance back at her, her dark eyes are sharp but kind.

Once you’re inside, you can’t decide what is worse: Takao not being home, or the fact that he was. His favorite jacket is missing from the closet; his to-go mug isn’t by the coffee machine. One of the dresser drawers is still cracked open.

Yoshikawa and Abe talk to you, but you can’t quite hear them. They bundle you onto the couch and stay until late, when you finally shake the cobwebs from your thoughts. Abe bites her lip when you shoo them out the door, but she goes without a fight.

The house is quiet as you get ready for bed. The bed feels vast, too big for just you. You reach for your phone, perched carefully on the nightstand, untangling the charger from the trailing vines of the pothos it’s by so you can pull it closer. You squint against the brightness, texting Takao a simple good night.

He doesn’t reply.

You hadn’t known the living could haunt, but you go to sleep curled up around a ghost.

You go back to work.

There’s still days left of your soulmate leave, but you need the distraction. You ignore the quiet whispers and bury yourself beneath a new project. Caught up in your work, you float through the day, only coming up for air when your phone vibrates. You snatch it up each time, but it’s only stray notifications—a news alert; a pop-up saying that the recipe blog Yoshikawa likes updated; your IC card balance.

It’s never what you want it to be.

It carries on for two days; each day you wait for the ping of Takao’s text, but you receive nothing. On the second day, you wrap up your day late, staying behind to finish off a few notes on the new project. It’s not as if you have anything better to do.

The sun has set by the time you’re on your way home. The city has bloomed into a neon wonderland, little shocks of color blazing through the night. You watch a black cat scuttle across the sidewalk, its fur glinting fuschia from the nearby izakaya’s sign.

Your neighborhood is quieter, but it still has the hum of the city to it, a familiar song. There’s a sweet scent on the breeze, courtesy of the night-blooming flowers that coat the building next to yours. You trace your fingertips over a delicate petal. It’s silken against your skin, and you sigh, turning to your home before coming to a quick halt.

Golden light is slanting out your kitchen window. It pools warmly on the ground, and you suck in a harsh breath, almost running to your door. It opens with a click. You step inside and for a moment, the genkan looks undisturbed. But then you see Takao’s shoes tucked carefully into the getabako; his house slippers are missing. There’s a quiet rustle from the kitchen’s direction.

You slip off your shoes and drop your bag into its place.

“Hello?” you call out, wincing at how timid you sound.

The rustling stops. It starts again, and Takao rounds the corner just a few seconds later.

“Hi,” he says shyly. “You’re home late.”

“Worked late,” you say. “You’re back.”

“I am.”

You’re across the room in seconds, and he wraps you up in his arms as you barrel into him. “Please stay,” you say, knotting the soft cotton of his shirt up in your fingers. You can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. Something in you warms. “Please.”

He cups the nape of your neck, the warm span of his palm soft against the tender flesh there. You breathe him in, still nestled in tightly against him.

“You didn’t respond to me,” you murmur.

“I said I needed space.”

“It was just a good night text.”

“Let’s not do this,” he says.

Something in you wants to drag it out. To make him hurt the way you hurt. But you bite back on that part of you, swallow the poison down.

“Are you staying?”

He sighs and you go very, very still.

“I am.”

You slump into him with a sigh of relief. He cradles you close.

“You scared me,” you tell him.

“I know.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good.”

“You know, this is what I was afraid of, all those years ago,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your hairline. “That I wouldn’t be able to let you go if your soulmate came. And that I’d have to worry about you leaving me.”

“How many times are you going to make me say it?” you ask, gritting your teeth. “I’ve told you, I’m not leaving you.”

“You might.”

“We’ve been together for years,” you say, pulling back so you can meet his dark eyes. “He’s a stranger. He wants an idea, not me. Not really. So no, I’m not.”

He sweeps his thumb over the apple of your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

You kiss him then, a featherlight brush of your lips that lasts for just a breath before you pull back. He cups your jaw and chases you. He kisses you again. Deeper, more solid. When he pulls back, you open your eyes and look at him.

“I’m not, Aoshi,” you say. “I know. Trust me.”

He watches you. His eyes remind you of a summer’s night, encompassing and pitch-black, but warm. Always warm. He searches your face, his gaze so intent that it feels physical.

He nods.

You let out a low, soft breath.

Now you have to talk to Kita.

It takes time.

Your work’s soulmate leave is generous, but Kita is at the whim of his farm. The rice paddies don’t care about soulmates nor do they pay attention to weekends. And devoted as he is, he heeds their call, nature his kindest mistress.

It makes you think of Toyooka. You know the song of the fields, the rustle of the rice in the countryside breeze, an age-old tune that’s sunk into the soil. This close to harvest, the verdant fields go Midas-touched, gilded with the sweetest hint of gold.

You wonder what Kita’s farm looks like. If it looks like the summers of your youth. If he sits on the engawa in the hot months, eating crisp watermelon down to the white bone of the rind, juice dripping sticky down his fingers. If the taste curls thick on his tongue, sweet with the countryside’s unique freedom.

He’d offered his farm as a meeting point early on, but without a car, it’s too far. It’s too personal as well. He’s sown into the soil there, living in each grain he’s tended to. You think his hands were kind against the rice shoots, his long, thick fingers careful as he planted them.

It’s too much, the idea of being surrounded by him.

Your home is out of the question, because it’s not just yours.

You couldn’t do that to Takao, not when he’s stitched into every seam of your home. He’s in every atom of it—the slight imprint of his form in the memory foam mattress; his toothbrush, half-flattened by how hard he brushes, tucked neatly into a cup by the sink; the photos that line the walls, a tapestry of silken years woven together.

It’s also the one thing Takao’s asked of you.

(“Don’t bring him here,” he says one night, his voice flat.

You pause in the middle of drying a dish. He holds out the next, still soaked to the point that it’s dripping on the floor, and you hurry to finish. It almost slips through your fingers when he lets it go.

“I wouldn’t,” you say fiercely, even though you’d thought about it for one brief second. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think I would do that to you?” you ask him, setting the dish onto the rack. He hands you another, and you take it without thought.

Takao blinks. He turns to look at you, and his expression is beautiful and terrible, a tender underbelly flayed open.

“No,” he says. “I don’t, not really. I just want this home to have always been ours. Just ours. I just—wanted to be sure, I guess.”

You reach out and cup his face, cradling it between your palms. “It is,” you tell him. “It’s just ours. It’ll always be ours.”

He considers you. “Good,” he says, and he catches your hand in his. He turns his head; he presses a kiss against your palm. It’s devout, that brush of softness from his lips against the ley lines of your skin, as if he’s an acolyte at your altar, laying offerings at your feet.

The two of you press together for a moment, the warmth of his lips searing through your skin to settle in your bones. You take up his hand and press your own kiss to the center of his palm. His eyes go half-mast, and you can feel his smile against your skin.

He pulls back. Squeezes your hand softly, and then he’s turning back to the sink, already reaching for another dish.

You stand there for a moment. Your hand has gone cold without the heat of his skin. You flex your fingers, trying to make sense of the dread creeping over you.

Takao glances at you. He smiles, sweet and fleeting, a dandelion tuft caught in the breeze. For a breath, you’re in high school again, gazing at a boy you’ve never spoken to but spent hours with, the two of you balanced on a precipice. And then the past fades, until you are left with who Takao is now. With who he has become to you.

You smile back, and then take the next plate he hands you.

It’s easy, after that. He washes, and you dry, a rhythm you’d know anywhere. Takao is swaying, humming along with the radio, and he laughs when you start to sway with him, your hips bumping each time.

He doesn’t bring Kita up again.)

With both your homes off-limits, you’re back to square one.

Finally, Kita decides to drive to you.

You choose a little coffee shop on the outskirts of the city, both to shorten the drive for Kita and for its familiarity, a cradle of comfort for a conversation you’ll never truly be ready to have.

It’s a charming place, more rustic than modern, with little wooden tables and shelves draped with plants, their lush vines hanging down behind the counter. It’s always warm, the sunlight streaking through the windows to paint the counters golden. The shop is studded with flowers, too, bright buds spilling over the lip of water pitchers in a froth of color. Coffee is heavy on the air, but a note of sweetness threads through it, a sugary bite of fruit. The pastries are made in-house, and you know they’re sinfully good, little melt-in-your mouth slices of heaven.

You’ve eaten three since getting here. You’re on your second drink, too, having gulped down the first one—scalding your tongue in the process—so quickly that even the barista had seemed surprised.

It’s your own fault, really—you were almost a full half hour early. With nothing to do but wait, you’re all tangled up in yourself.

The woman tapping away on her laptop in the corner pauses to eye you warily as you shred another napkin. You’d folded this one into a lopsided origami bird before beheading it. You send her a polite smile; she turns back to her laptop without a word.

You try to make another origami animal, but you can’t remember any other patterns. You could make an army of birds, you suppose, but after the fifth one, you run out of napkins. When you consider getting more, the look on the barista’s face keeps you in your seat. You slouch down into it, your cheeks warm.

You look up just as Kita enters, the little bell at the top of the door chiming quietly. He finds you instantly, his amber eyes settling on you as soon as he’s through the door. He smiles, warm like the spring sun, his eyes crinkling with it.

He’s as handsome as you remember, leanly muscled with broad shoulders and casually graceful as he walks to your table. In the cafe lighting, his gray hair goes silvery, bright against the black tips of it, and you think of a moon being eclipsed.

“Hello,” Kita says, holding out a hand when you start to get up. “S’fine, you don’t need to get up.”

“Oh,” you say, caught awkwardly between sitting and standing. A smile drifts across Kita’s face like a summer breeze, a quick, soothing thing. You cough and sit back down. “Hi.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment. He’s watching you, drinking you in, and his eyes remind you of a sunlit forest, of the way the sun’s rays drip down between the trees like honey. It aches, the way he looks at you. It’s soft and sure. Steady and open and earnest.

Kita looks at you like you help make the world make a little bit more sense.

His gaze flickers down to the tabletop, and that same small smile blooms on his lips.

You suddenly remember your mini-army of origami birds, including their headless leader. You fight the urge to close your eyes in mortification.

“You should order something,” you say, fidgeting with your cup. “Their coffee’s nice.”

“Alright. D’ya want another?” he asks. “I’ll get it for you.”

You shake your head. “No,” you say. “Thank you, though.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say, and he nods.

When he goes to the counter to order, you hurriedly sweep the remains of your shredded napkins away, wincing as they flutter into your purse. Some of them stick to your sweaty palms, and you rub them vigorously against your thighs until they curl up into little paper pearls. They patter to the ground quietly. You send out a quiet mental apology to the cafe workers.

“You alright?” Kita asks. He settles down across from you, and you envy his assuredness, how serene he looks.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He eyes you for a moment, those golden eyes all too knowing. But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to wind his hands—lightly tanned and slender, with a constellation of small scars scattered over his skin—around his cup.

It’s tea, you think, the faintest hint of it reaching your nose, and it fits him in a way you can’t quite put into words. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he takes a small sip and you look away.

“I’m glad we could meet,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say, already wishing you had another napkin to shred. “I think it’s important to talk.”

“It is, but I just wanted to see you.”

He says it so simply. Kita speaks with the surety of the sun’s rise; he means every word he says. There’s a sweetness to him that could only come from earnesty. He leaves no room for doubt.

You break in the face of it.

“I can’t be with you,” you blurt out.

He goes still. The smile on his lips fades. “What?”

“I can’t be with you,” you repeat.

“We’re soulmates,” he says, and it’s the most rattled you’ve ever heard him. His fingers flex. He looks lost, those amber eyes hazy, and you think of the morning mist, how it swallows down the sun. There’s a tiny quiver to his lips.

“I know.”

“We’re supposed to be together,” he says.

You ache for him.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. “But that’s not enough. I can’t leave him. I don’t want to leave him.”

Kita’s quiet. The silence stretches on. And then—

“You love ‘im,” he says softly.

You nod.

“You’re happy?”

You nod again.

Kita leans forward and cups your cheek. He skims his thumb over your cheekbone, a careful glide. It comes away wet, his skin salt-kissed, and you lean into his calloused palm.

He wipes away another tear. His touch has the same aching tenderness of a fresh, swollen bruise.

“Okay,” he says. “I can live with that.”

That quiet, easy capitulation makes it worse. You can see he means it; it’s reflected in his eyes. If you’re happy, that’s enough for him.

Your stomach hurts.

You sniffle, pulling away from his warm touch and wiping at your eyes. Your cheeks are hot, and they get hotter as you see a few people glancing your way. Kita lets out a slow, deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” you say, staring down at your coffee cup. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

It’s not an “it’s okay,” but you suppose that would have been asking for a lot from him. You look at him from underneath your eyelashes, and find that his amber eyes are distant, like the sun at the very edge of the horizon.

You wonder where he’s gone, and then think that perhaps it’s best that you don’t know. You fidget with your cup. The porcelain of it scrapes against the table, and Kita’s eyes clear. Still, they’re not as keen as they usually are, and you shift in your seat. He takes in a soft breath, a whisper of a thing, and then his eyes flicker to you.

“I’d like to stay in contact with you,” he says.

You jolt, almost knocking your cup off the table. “What?”

“I would rather have you in my life.”

“Shin—Kita, that’s not fair to you.”

“Please call me Shinsuke.”

You ache for him, something bone deep, that no salve will help subside. “That’s exactly why this isn’t fair,” you say gently. “You’re going to want more than I can give you, and we both know it.”

“I know,” he says. His eyes are keen as they flicker over you; the tilt of his mouth makes you look away. “And I’m sorry. But I won’t ask anything of you, except for this.”

“Kita—”

His fingers flex, but he doesn’t correct you.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” you ask. Your hands are trembling; the words are sour on your tongue, the lemon tang of a promise that’s going to hurt.

“Yes,” he says, steady as stone.

You sigh. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

You nod, toying with a sugar packet as he sips at his tea. You fold and unfold the edge of the package, until the paper starts to wear thin, a few tiny crystals of sugar spilling loose to plink against the table.

The silence that falls is heavy, weighing you down like an anchor. There’s the quiet background noise of the cafe: the chatter of the barista and other customers, the soft tinkle of the bell as someone else enters, the hiss and purr of the espresso machine, but it seems distant.

“I’m gonna go,” you say abruptly. “I think that’s for the best.”

You’re already starting to gather up your things when Kita stands. “It’s okay,” he says. “You should stay. I need to be gettin’ back to the farm anyway.”

“You just got here,” you say helplessly. “You drove all this way.”

He glances at you. His expression is complicated; you can’t quite parse it.

“I drove here for you,” he says gently.

You open your mouth and close it again, a koi-like gape. You sit down slowly, settling into the booth again. He picks up his cup of tea—still piping hot, little wisps of steam rising from it like smoke—and gives you a little smile that doesn’t quite reach his striking eyes.

“Get home safe,” he says.

“You too,” you say faintly.

You watch him leave, the way each of his steps is steady and sure. You don’t think you’ve ever known someone so at home in their own skin. But there’s a curve to his shoulders now, the broad width of them collapsed inward. It’s minute, but it’s there, and your stomach roils again, a sour brew of emotion welling up in you.

He pauses to ask the barista something; she gives him a to-go cup and watches as he carefully pours his tea into it. He hands back the other cup with a little nod of his head.

The cafe door clicks shut behind him, bell chiming, a clear, porcelain sound that cuts through the chatter of the cafe. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands, choosing instead to look down into your nearly-empty cup. The dregs of it are dark, and you wonder if your future is written out in them.

You blow out a soft breath and scrub at your face with your hands. When you glance up, the barista is carefully not looking your way. To avoid seeing the way her lips have twisted, you glance out the window, into the haze of the mid-morning sun, still spilling golden over the tiny parking lot. You immediately balk.

Kita’s still there.

He’s in his truck, half-hidden by the glare of sun against the windows, but you know it’s him. You can’t see his eyes, but you can tell he’s staring straight ahead. His mouth is a thin, tight line. You chew on your lower lip.

One hand comes up to scour beneath his eyes. It comes away with a wet sheen catching the sunlight and shining bright. You wince, glancing away.

You stare down into your coffee cup again. When you down the last of it, the dregs of it, it’s sharp and bitter on your tongue.

It almost erases the heavy, metallic tang of guilt.

Almost.

Your phone pings.

You grab it without looking away from your monitor, typing in your passcode one-handed as you mutter the last line of the email to yourself. You flick the notification to pull up the text without checking the name and pause.

It’s a picture of the rice fields, rippling in the breeze like a current, the stalks going gilded as harvest draws closer. Beyond the sea of them, there are rolling hills of green, with only a few power structures—standing tall on their metal legs as they reach into the sky—to mark a human presence. It’s all framed by the bluest sky you’ve ever seen, filled with puffy white clouds that you think are likely being whisked along by the breeze.

It’s so vivid you can almost smell the fresh air.

There’s also only one person that could have sent it to you.

Trying to keep in contact with Kita has been an exercise in awkwardness. You feel bad, but you’re trying to figure out how to temper it, since you’re caught between what you know he wants and what you’re capable of giving him.

To his credit, Kita never pushes. You suspect that he prefers calling—he seems the type—but he mainly texts, following your lead.

(“I feel like I owe him this much,” you tell Takao one night, when Kita has texted you while the two of you are curled up on the couch watching a movie.

“I don’t think you owe anyone anything,” he says, but he never asks you to stop.)

There’s still a hint of stilted awkwardness to it, but it has gotten better than it was.

It’s stunning, you text back. It reminds me of summers in Toyooka.

He doesn’t reply until dusk is settling, but that’s not unusual, considering how diligent he is with his farm. You reply quickly, bored with the TV show you’ve been watching as you wait for Takao to pick up dinner, and the two of you fall into conversation.

He asks about Toyooka and you tell him. You tell him about catching summer fireflies and playing in the fields with Abe. You’re about to tell him about Abe’s duckling that followed her everywhere one summer when you realize exactly how long of a paragraph you’re sending.

Before you can second guess yourself, you delete the paragraph and send a different message: I think this might be easier as a call.

I’d like that, Kita replies.

You hit call, knowing you’ll balk if you give yourself time to think.

He picks up instantly.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi,” you say, a little awkwardly. “How are you?”

He chuckles, but it’s kind. “I’m good,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“That’s good,” he says. Silence falls for a moment. It’s not a comfortable one, and Kita shatters it by saying: “You were talking about your summers in Toyooka?”

“Yes,” you say, and you launch into the tale of Duck (“She named the duckling Duck?” “We were six.”) and how he’d followed Abe through the sea of paddies, all the way up to the genkan of the rented house each and every day.

Kita’s a good listener. He seems happy to let you chatter away. He asks questions here and there, and tells a few stories of his own, but mostly he’s quiet, just the soft whisper of his breath echoing on the line.

The two of you talk until you hear the door to the house open. Takao calls out a greeting, a familiar song, and you call one out in return. Rustling accompanies him and the faint scent of spices starts to waft into the living room.

“I should go,” you say into the phone. “Dinner’s here.”

“Alright,” Kita says softly. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Takao comes into the living room as you hang up; he presses a quick kiss to your lips. He tastes suspiciously like your favorite appetizer.

“Hey,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “Did you eat some on the way home?”

“Yup,” he says cheerfully. “A toll for my labor.”

“You haven’t finished your labor yet. I set the table, so go unpack the food.”

“Yes ma’am!”

You bat at him; he dodges with a little laugh. He leans down and gives you another quick kiss, this time at the corner of your lips, sweet and fleeting. When he pulls away, he heads towards the kitchen, lightly swinging the bag of takeout as he goes.

You’re getting to your feet to follow him when your phone vibrates in your hand, buzzing along your skin. You glance at the notification and see that it’s Kita. You flick it open.

It was good to talk to you, he’s texted.

You pause for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. You can hear Takao humming to himself in the kitchen.

Yeah, you reply. It was good to talk to you too.

It’s easier, after that. You stop agonizing over each word. It doesn’t completely fade; you will always be more careful with Kita than you are with anyone else. It’s the kindest thing you can do for him.

The two of you start to text more, each message a string drawing you closer to each other. He texts you photos of his ducks. You repay him with photos of the conbini’s cat, a spoiled little thing often found lounging in the front windows, little face turned up to the sun.

You start to call too. It’s sparse at first, often a continuation of a text chat that simply would be better on the phone, but it grows more frequent as the weeks pass. Some nights it’s short; other nights, you feel lost in time, as if only seconds have gone by when you’ve talked for much longer.

You grow used to seeing Kita’s name pop up on your screen. It’s nice, if you’re honest. You like talking to him.

“What’re you makin’?”

You glance towards where your phone is propped up. At some point, today’s call became FaceTime, mainly so you both have your hands free to make dinner. It gives you a glimpse into his kitchen; a glimpse into him.

His kitchen is meticulously clean and inherently practical. Everything seems to have its space, whether it’s a row of well-maintained pots and pans or a knife block with an assortment of handles jutting out from it, a sharpener carefully tucked in beside it.

But there are other little touches of Kita scattered about: the apron hanging from the rack is embroidered with tiny rice paddies, each stitch painstakingly made by his grandmother’s steady hand; the strawberry plant in the window is heavy with small, glistening berries despite the season; there are neatly folded handkerchiefs tucked loosely into a drawer by the cleaning supplies.

Even through a phone screen, it feels warm. Homey in a quiet way.

Kita moves back into frame with a bowl in his hand. He’s got a brow raised, and you remember he asked you a question.

“Nikuman,” you tell him, gliding the cabbage over the mandolin’s shining blade. You work it carefully, watching the ribbons of white-green flutter down onto the cutting board. “Oyakodon too. You?”

“Tofu hamburger.”

“That’s your favorite, right?”

A small smile blooms on his lips. “You remembered.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” he says. “It’s just nice.”

You hum, finishing up with the cabbage and dumping it into a bowl. Kita keeps chopping as you pour rice into a pot and start to wash it. “Ugh,” you murmur to yourself. “Almost out of rice.”

“What rice do you use?” Kita asks.

You point at him with a wet hand. “No,” you say. “You’re gonna judge me.”

“Over rice?”

“You’re a rice farmer!”

He chuckles. “And?”

“That means you know rice secrets. Like better brands.”

“I could always give you some.”

“Some rice secrets?”

“Some rice.”

You hum. “Thanks, but I don’t want you to have to go out of your way,” you say. “Shipping it seems inconvenient.

“I was thinkin’ I could bring you some. I have a delivery in the city soon.”

You pause. Kita’s stopped preparing his dinner, instead turning his gaze on you. Even through the phone, his amber eyes almost glow. You think of the last vestiges of a sunset, of the deepest sheen of gold threading across the horizon.

“Kita…”

“You can say no,” he says quietly. Quietly, but no less steady for it.

You sink your hand into the rice that’s settled at the bottom of the pot, still covered by water. When you flex your fingers, the grains slip through them like darting little fish. You do it again. The water ripples around your wrist.

“I can’t, Kita,” you say.

He nods, his gray hair a lightning strike gleam. “Alright,” he says. His shoulders dip low, an exhausted Atlas, and you sigh.

“Not yet,” you say. “But one day.”

He nods again. For a moment, you think he’ll say something else, but he simply gives you a crooked little smile. When you change the subject, he doesn’t fight it. The two of you settle back into conversation as you cook.

You hang up as Takao returns home. Dinner has just finished cooking, the oyakodon perfectly golden, the scent of it lingering savory in the air. You settle in at the table, talking about your day as you eat, until you finally put your chopsticks down.

“Kita asked me to meet up.”

He puts his chopsticks down as well.

“I said no,” you say, meeting his gaze. “Well, I said not yet.”

“Not yet? You want to see him?”

“I think I’d like to,” you tell him, because you will always be honest with him about this. “But I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t want to stop you from doing something you want to do.”

“I will, though.”

He runs a hand through his hair; it flows through his fingers like water, little rivulets of dark hair catching between his fingers. “I know,” he says.

“I’ll choose you, Aoshi,” you tell him. “As many times as it takes.”

He reaches over and cups your cheek with a warm hand. “I know,” he says. “It’s not my favorite thing, but if you want to see him, you should.”

You cover his hand with your own and turn into his touch. You press your lips against his palm, against the leylines that are carved there, a future you don’t know how to read.

You press another kiss to his palm, a quiet gratitude for his trust.

He leans over to brush a whisper of a kiss to the corner of your lips.

As you turn back to your meal, you think of the waver to Kita’s smile, like the sun hidden behind passing clouds.

One day, you promise him. One day.

One day comes quicker than you’d thought.

It’s early, the sun still hovering over the horizon as the blue of dawn fades away into something brighter. The sunlight catches on the city buildings, the windows shimmering like a mirage, a promise of what’s hidden behind them. The streets aren’t empty—they never are—but the frantic pace of them has slowed to something leisurely, as if the city is still waking up too.

You weave your way through the streets. The route is familiar and you pay little attention to where you’re going, choosing instead to watch the vendors begin to open their stores. The florist is already putting out buckets of flowers, a riot of color, from the dawn hues of a ruffled ranunculus to the deep purple of the elegant, leggy irises rising over the rest. He’s half-lost in the blossoms, pushing his way through petals to lay out more of his wares. Some of them catch in his hair.

Next door, the conbini is still aglow. It’s always a beacon in the night, but it’s softer in the day. You head in and grab a quick snack for later, giving the half-asleep cashier a little smile.

The bustle of the street has grown when you leave the conbini, the stream of people burgeoning into a river. But you still hear it when someone calls your name.

You glance around and find Kita just a door down from you, coming out of a small grocer’s. He smiles at you softly and you almost duck back into the conbini.

He waits there, leaving the choice of approaching up to you, but you’ve run from him enough. You slip through the crowd and join him by a flat of dusky peaches, the air around them faintly sweetened.

“Hi,” you say. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He nods towards the inside of the grocer’s shop. It’s small, clearly family owned, but it’s well-stocked. There’s a kid—no more than ten, you think—carefully putting shining apples into a basket, their face scrunched up in concentration.

“Tsukada stocks my rice,” Kita says, and now that he’s said it, you vaguely remember him mentioning this neighborhood when you’d talked about his delivery route a few weeks ago. “I’m very grateful for it.”

A scoff comes from behind the register. An older woman peers out, her brow raised. Her eyes are wrinkled at the edges, her crow’s feet papery, but the thickest line is clearly a laugh line.

“It’s good rice,” she tells you. “Simple as that.” She eyes you curiously, tilting her head to the side. Her thick black braid thuds against her shoulder; it’s streaked with gray, like pebbles just visible through a river’s darkened waters.

Kita inclines his head to her, a small smile on his lips. “You’re kind,” he says.

“Just tellin’ the truth.” Tsukada settles back, disappearing behind the register again. “Take some fruit with you when you go. I know your granny likes peaches this time of year.”

“I will,” he says. “Thank you.”

She waves him off with a gnarled hand, barely visible from your vantage point.

Kita returns his attention to you. “It’s good to see you,” he says, all summer warmth. “I don’t suppose you have a little time? My next delivery isn’t until later.”

You purse your lips. He tracks the movement, his eyes dimming, and you sigh.

“I have a little time,” you say. “Coffee?”

He lights ups. “Perfect,” he says. “D’ya know a place near here?”

You nod. “I think it has tea, too.”

He smiles at you. Then he’s calling a respectful goodbye to Tsukada, gathering a few of the peaches to put in the bag slung over his shoulder. You watch him pick them, his long fingers tender against the soft flesh. He brushes his fingertips along a stubborn leaf still attached to the stem. You half expect him to tear it loose, but he leaves it in place.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

The two of you wind through the streets. He stays by your side but gives you space, only pressing close when the stream of people on the sidewalk thickens to a river.

The coffee shop isn’t far. When you duck inside, the scent of coffee billows over you, sharp and thick and a little bit bitter. You both order—Kita offers to pay, but he doesn’t look surprised when you decline—and then find a little booth tucked away by a small window. The sun has warmed the seats. It streams through the glass in whirling colors, catching in the stained glass decal pressed close to the window. It dapples Kita with pink, like he’s been flecked with sakura petals, and you hide your smile in your coffee cup.

He seems to notice, an answering smile tugging at his lips, but he doesn’t mention it.

“How’s the farm?” you ask.

“S’good,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. You can smell it faintly, even through the coffee, an earthy kiss. “The ducklings are fully grown now, since I know that’s what you really want to know.”

“You caught me,” you say with a laugh. “Can you blame me? They’re so cute!”

“Yeah,” Kita says, his gaze steady on you. “They are.”

“And you’ve been skimping on the pictures.”

“I sent you one just yesterday.”

“Yes, exactly! Just one!”

He chuckles softly. “I’ll do better,” he promises.

“Good.”

“And how’re you?”

“Working a lot,” you say. “It’s starting to feel like it’s all I do, but my project should be done soon, so I can have a bit more time. I want to meet Abe’s new girlfriend, but I haven’t had a chance yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet her soon.”

“Hope so. How are your Olympians? This is what, their second one coming up? I’m looking forward to it.”

He grins. It’s broad and bright, brimming with pride and joy. “They’re not mine,” he protests, but his grin doesn’t falter. “But yes, their second, and they’re good. Workin’ hard. It’s off season, though, so hopefully they’ll come ‘round to visit.”

“I’m sure Aran will.”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” he says. “Granny’ll go get him herself if she’s got to. He’ll get an earful about it, too.”

You smile into your cup. “I’d like to see that.”

“It’s sure something.”

“I can only imagine.”

Kita takes a sip of his tea. Not for the first time, you’re struck by the way he moves, the careful surety of it, steadiness edged in grace. You wonder if it’s from his time playing volleyball, or if he was always like this.

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask.

“Sometimes,” he says. “It made sense, y’know? Learning something, repeatin’ it, then using that repetition to move forward.”

“It doesn’t sound that different from farmwork.”

He chuckles. It’s low and warm, like the first true rays of light pouring over the horizon. “I suppose they have similarities.”

“Seems like it to me.”

The two of you keep chatting. It’s easy to pick up the thread of the last time you spoke, and you weave it into today’s conversation.

You bask in the glow of the morning sun as it streams over the booth. Under the sun’s warmth, the world goes honeyed, a slow, sweet drip of time. You shift sleepily. Kita breathes out what could be a little laugh at the sight, but when you look at him, he’s got his face tilted up into the light. It gilds him, his half-closed eyes going from amber to pure gold, as if he’s Midas-touched.

You sigh.

He blinks, the fan of his long eyelashes casting a soft shadow on his tanned cheeks.

“I have to go,” you tell him. “But this—this has been nice.”

“Very nice,” he agrees.

“Let’s do it again sometime.”

His breath catches briefly. You pretend to not hear it.

“Yes,” he says, a quiet hope lining his voice. You hate yourself a little. “Let’s.”

You give him a little smile as you rise to your feet. He gets up too, despite his unfinished tea, and the two of you head out the door together.

The humid air rolls over you; you can already feel the heavy stickiness on your skin. You huff, rolling up your sleeves, and a tiny smile appears in the corner of Kita’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything, though, and you bid him a quiet goodbye.

He returns it, his eyes soft, and you head down the street.

When you turn the corner, you can’t help it. You glance back at where you left him.

He’s already gone.

Autumn makes itself known.

It encroaches on the hazy, honeyed nights of late summer slowly, a creeping first frost. The cold is soft edged, more a kiss than a bite. Still, the hydrangeas that line the path to the municipal office have faded under its touch, the blossoms leeched of color and gone brittle at the edges. They rasp out a dry, harsh song as the breeze picks up.

You shiver and lean into Takao’s warmth as the two of you walk to the office, your kon-in todoke clasped tight in your hand. The ink of your seals is still fresh, done hurriedly at the kitchen table when you realized that you were going to be late for your appointment. Abe’s seal is almost too far out of the witness’s section to count; she’d still been bleary-eyed, her first cup of coffee only partially drunk. Yoshikawa’s seal is perfectly in the box for it. She was still teasing Abe when you and Takao left.

“Nervous?” Takao asks, twining his fingers with yours. His palm is slightly sweaty; you hide your smile in your scarf.

“A little. You?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“Yoshikawa,” you say promptly. “I don’t think marriage would rattle her at all.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I can see that.”

You slip inside the office; the chatter of it settles over you. You shrug off your scarf as you orient yourself, reading the signs plastered all over to figure out where the two of you need to go.

The clerk who processes your kon-in todoke is young. She has a kind smile, and she flashes it as she takes the form from you, along with your koseki tohon. She holds out a hand for your IDs and her nails are baby blue, dotted with tiny white clouds, a perfect summer sky. You can’t help your smile.

You lean into Takao as she scans your forms. He gives your hand a little squeeze; when you glance up at him, the tips of his ears have gone dusty pink. You almost laugh. He seems to realize it, delivering a nudge to your side that makes you pinch at him.

“Everything looks in order,” the clerk says. “You have your soulmate form as well?”

“Yes,” Takao says. He hands it to her; you stare at the bulletin board behind the clerk’s head so that her face is blurry. Her keyboard clicks away, but she doesn’t say anything, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

She examines your forms again, her eyes sharp as she reviews them, and then she’s shuffling them together and forming a neat stack. She flashes that same sweet smile.

“Congratulations,” she says. “You’re officially married.”

Takao squeezes your hand before letting go. He turns to face you and he’s glassy-eyed, his lower lip trembling. He cups your cheek and pulls you close to brush a barely-there kiss against your lips. You chase him when he starts to pull away, deepening the kiss for a brief moment.

“Hi,” you say when the two of you break apart. “Husband.”

“Wife,” he replies. There are roses blooming in his cheeks, the blush spreading from his cheekbones up to his ears. He nuzzles his nose against yours.

The clerk coughs, but when you glance at her, your cheeks heating, she’s still smiling.

“Thank you,” you tell her.

She nods, gathering the rest of your paperwork and handing the small stack to you. You collect them carefully before handing them to Takao so he can put them in the small folder he’d brought.

The entire trip home feels unreal, the cityscape swirling together in a watercolor blur, neon melting into the harsh sheen of metal, softened by a hint of greenery. Takao’s touch is grounding, though, and you squeeze his hand from time to time, as if making sure he’s still there.

He always is.

The two of you exchange rings in your sunwarm kitchen. You have no vows, but you think you don’t need them. It’s enough to see the look on Takao’s face as he slips the ring into place; it speaks a language from long ago that you still know by heart. Abe and Yoshikawa cheer when you’re done, and then the rest of the day rushes by, filled to the brim with mini-celebrations. Your friends have gone out of their way to provide what the shrines will not, and you once again wonder how you’ve gotten so lucky.

Dusk is falling when the last of your guests leave, the sunset spilling over the horizon like fire. The last dregs of light fade as you curl up next to Takao on the couch. He presses a soft kiss to your hairline; you chase him for a real kiss. You lace your fingers together when you break apart. You thumb at his wedding ring idly, the metal warmed by his skin.

“We’re married, huh?” you say.

“Seems that way.”

You laugh. “Don’t sound too excited, now.”

He pinches at you. “I’m not excited,” he says, deftly avoiding your return pinch. “I’m happy. There’s a difference, you know.”

You lean into him. “I think you’re right.”

“It happens sometimes.”

“It does?”

He pinches at you again. You shove him away, but he pulls you back in and cradles you close. You play-struggle for a moment and then finally relax into him when he tightens his grip.

“Are you?” he asks softly.

“Am I what?”

“Happy.”

You turn in his arms, reaching out to cup his jaw. You stroke your thumb against his cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say. “I am.”

He kisses you then, his mouth soft and sure. You would know his touch anywhere, you think. It settled beneath your skin long ago.

“Good,” he says. “Good.”

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin on your parted lips. His breath wavers. You press a kiss to his pulse.

“I have a phone call to make,” you murmur into his skin. “And I need to do it soon. It’s important.”

He tugs you back up so that you’re looking at him. His eyes—as deep and dark as the night sky—flicker over you. You wait. His brow furrows for a moment and then understanding blooms on his face. He leans forward to press a ghost of a kiss to the corner of your lips.

“Okay,” he says, letting you go and getting to his feet. He pauses, as if he wants to say more, but he heads to the kitchen without a word. You watch him go before grabbing your phone and dialing.

You take in a deep, slow breath as the line rings.

Kita picks up quickly. The two of you exchange pleasantries for a few minutes, catching up with each other briefly. There’s an easy flow to it, but he pauses after a moment.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

You bite at a hangnail.

“I got married today,” you say softly. “I—I thought you should know.”

He’s quiet. It reminds you of the deepest parts of winter, when even the air is still. You ache with it. He’s a bruise that will never quite fade, you think, and you can only imagine what it’s like for him.

“Thank you,” he says eventually, his voice soft but steady. “For telling me.”

“It didn’t feel right to not,” you confess. “I’m sorry, Kita.”

“I know.”

The call doesn’t last much longer. There’s not much left to say after that, and your husband is patiently waiting for you.

Once you’ve hung up, you head into the kitchen and find Takao slicing up a small cake. It’s a froth of delicate frosting topped with crystalline spun-sugar flowers. Abe had insisted that you have a wedding cake and you hadn’t bothered to argue.

He glances up when you wander in. His smile is incandescent, a starlight thing, and you go to him with a matching smile tugging at your lips. You kiss him once, then again, and then a third time still. He laughs.

You wind your arms around his waist as he finishes cutting the cake, pressing your forehead between his shoulder blades. He smells of home; there’s the faintest hint of his cologne under the scent of your laundry detergent. You press closer.

“Hard call?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, muffled by his shirt.

“It’s over now.”

“So it is.”

He puts down the knife and turns around in your arms. He draws you close. “I love you,” he says. “Enough that I’ll even share this cake with you.”

“Oh, wow.”

“I know.”

You laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, knowing you sound terribly, disgustingly fond. You start to pull away but he tightens his arms around you. “Aoshi!”

“You gotta say it back.”

“I love you,” you tell him softly. “I really do.”

His smile is tender and fleeting, a dandelion seed caught on the wind. You kiss it from his lips. His hands come up to cup your jaw; you feel the metal of his wedding ring against your skin.

It feels incredibly ordinary.

You hope it always will.

You shiver as you pull the door to the onigiri shop open, burying your face in your scarf even as you step into warm air. A gust of wind whips in behind you, carrying a few rare snowflakes—fat and fluffy, a perfect pure white—inside. You pull the door shut behind you quickly.

It’s blessedly warm in the shop and the air is spiced with enticing, savory aromas. For a moment, you think of your father’s kitchen: the clutter of ingredients spread across a chopping board, an organized mess; the weight of a worn soft apron; the warmth of a heating stove. You open your eyes, not realizing you’d closed them as you breathed in.

It’s a cozy shop. There are plush looking booths and a few small tables, plus a handful of stools at the counter the chef is working behind. He’s a broad man, his forearms flexing as he shapes an onigiri. He snaps something at one of the men sitting on the stools, reaching out to smack the blond’s hand as he tries to grab something behind the counter. The blond squawks, pulling back and looking deeply offended.

You cough out a laugh.

Both of them snap their gazes to you. They’re twins, you realize, encountering two identical faces. The chef’s furrowed brow smooths out into something placid. He pushes the blond back into his seat with a big hand.

“What can I get ya?”

“Oh,” you say, caught off guard with how easily he’s switched up. “I’m not sure yet, I’m sorry.”

“Menu’s over there if you need one,” he says, pointing to a stack you hadn’t noticed. “Sit wherever you like.”

“Thanks,” you say, and suddenly, the man next to the blond looks up. He’s handsome, tall even while he’s sitting down, his shoulders just as broad as the chef’s. He’s also oddly familiar; he says your name and you blink.

“Aran?” you ask.

He beams. “It is you! It’s been a while. Are you staying to eat?”

You glance between the three of them. The twins are staring at you now; the chef has a brow raised but is otherwise placid, while the blond gapes. You put two and two together and realize that they must be the Miyas. No wonder the name of the shop sounded familiar.

“You’re Kita’s soulmate,” the chef—Osamu, you remember—says. He sounds bland, but there’s a bit of a sneer tucked into the corner of his mouth.

“That’s her?” the blond—Atsumu, then—says. He looks you over from head to toe, his honey-brown eyes shining in the low light. His mouth twists into something lemon-edged, a faint hint of sourness lining his whole form.

Osamu ignores him, looking at you instead. “Kita’s here,” he tells you. “He’s droppin’ off some rice in the storeroom.”

You glance at the door of the shop.

“Dontcha want to see your soulmate?” Atsumu asks, a little bit mean.

You wince. You twist your scarf around your fingers, spooling it around your knuckles.

Aran sighs, looking very, very pained. “Don’t be rude,” he chastises.

“M’not being rude! I’m just asking! She’s not—”

“Atsumu.”

Kita emerges from the back, coming up behind the counter. His sleeves are rolled high on his forearms; there’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow. It turns his hair to the dark gray of a summer storm cloud. His mouth is drawn taut, a gash of a thing.

Atsumu goes pale.

“I’ll have the other part of the delivery for you later this month,” Kita says to Osamu. The dark-haired twin nods. There’s a little smirk on his lips, the bitten down delight of watching a sibling get in trouble.

Atsumu’s fidgeting, tugging at the hem of one of his sleeves with long, strong fingers.

“Hey,” Kita says, turning to you. “S’good to see you.”

“Yeah,” you say, still looking at Atsumu, who looks like he’s waiting for a death sentence.

“I didn’t realize you came here, I would have told Osamu to look out for you.”

“It’s my first time. A coworker suggested it.”

Atsumu’s shoulders are slowly lowering. There’s the slightest twitch to Kita’s lips, a little half-smile that you recognize. There’s a layer of mischief to it that you’re still getting used to.

“By the way, Atsumu,” he says, and the blond chokes. “Didya have something you wanted to say?”

Osamu snorts as his brother wildly shakes his head. It’s quiet but obvious and Atsumu scowls at him. Kita clears his throat and both brothers snap to attention.

Next to Atsumu, Aran looks like he’s holding back laughter. It’s a good look for him—he glows with it, his barely contained smile bright and true.

“Ya sure?” Kita asks, that same little mischievous tilt to his lips. Atsumu nods. “Alright then.”

He rolls down his sleeves as he steps out from behind the counter; he comes over to you and gives you a crescent moon smile, soft and sweet. The two of you step away from the group slightly.

“Hi,” you say, quieter this time, something just for you and him.

“You stayin’?” he asks. “You should join us.”

You shake your head. “I have to get back,” you tell him. “Another time?”

“Of course.”

Kita stays by your side as you order; he radiates a gentle heat, like the bricks of a hearth long after the fire has died down. You watch Osamu make the onigiri, placing each filling carefully. His big hands are gentle as they mold the rice. There’s care and pride in each movement and it lives in his face, too, in the swell of his smile as he completes each one.

They’re a lively group—Atsumu is growing louder and louder as he argues with his brother, something like a pout on his expressive face before it’s wiped away by indignance.

“Oi!” he says, pointing at Osamu, halfway out of his seat. “Take that back!”

“Nope,” Osamu says.

“You—”

Aran grimaces as he pulls Atsumu back into his seat. “You’re so loud.”

“Am not!”

“Ya are,” Osamu says. “Now shut up, you’re bothering the customers.”

Atsumu makes a noise that reminds you of a cat that’s fallen into water as Osamu hands you your order. The box is rather simple, with Onigiri Miya stamped onto it in a deep, rich ink, but it somehow reminds you of the bentos of your childhood. You think it might be how carefully the onigiri are tucked into it, each one nestled close to the next, a little mountain range of rice.

Kita walks you to the door after you say your goodbyes to the rest of the group. He holds your onigiri box as you put your scarf back on, looping it around your neck.

“Sorry you couldn’t stay,” he says. His fingertips linger when he hands the box back. “I promise my friends don’t bite.”

“Maybe not Aran.”

He laughs softly. “The twins are all bark and no bite,” he says. “Besides, I can keep ‘em in line.”

“I noticed.”

He smiles. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” you say. “See you soon.”

He holds open the door for you; a gust of wind sweeps over you, tugging playfully at the end of your scarf. You carry his warm smile into the cold winter afternoon.

You’re almost halfway down the street when you hear a familiar voice.

“Hey!”

You glance back over your shoulder. Atsumu is powering after you; he catches up to you in an instant, tugging you back until you’re both out of the way of other pedestrians. You’re halfway into an izakaya’s doorstep, the winter peonies surrounding it swaying around your ankles. A few early customers peer out the door at you but Atsumu pays them no mind.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks, a little too loud.

“Miya—”

“Kita’s traditional,” he says roughly. “It’s only ever gonna be you for him. You know that, right?”

Your stomach roils.

(I’ve been waiting.

He still is.)

“I’m married.”

He throws his hands up into the air. “He’s still your soulmate!”

“I don’t love him!”

“It’s Kita,” he shouts, startling a few passersby. “Everybody loves him!”

“I’m not in love with him,” you say, the words bitter on your tongue. You are so, so tired. “I’m married. I’m happy. Kita’s accepted it, so why can’t you?”

He snorts, honey-brown eyes narrowing. “You really think he’s accepted it? Or is that what you tell yerself so you can sleep at night?”

“Fuck you.”

The words snap out of you, brutally frigid, like river ice cracking beneath its own weight. To your utter horror, there are tears pooling hot in your eyes, threatening to spill over. Atsumu looks almost as horrified as you feel, but it’s of little consolation. You can feel a sob welling up inside you, rippling through you like oceantide.

You manage to bite down on it when it leaves you, muffling it just enough. Then the tears finally fall, carving their way across your cheeks like snowmelt, already bitterly cold from the winter air. You rub them away with the back of your hand.

“I didn’t mean ta—”

“But you did,” you say, knife-sharp and drawing him up short. “You did. Goodbye, Miya.”

He doesn’t follow you when you walk away.

The neighbors’ little girl loves the summer rains. She spends them running around outside, the murky puddle water splashing under the soles of her banana-yellow boots. She has a matching umbrella and sometimes you and Takao can see it from your bedroom window, whirling like a top.

“We should do that,” Takao says, his chin hooked over your shoulder. It’s pouring out. The rain hums against the roof, nature’s oldest song, and the neighbors’ girl—Aiko, you think—is dancing to it. You can just make out her long braid bouncing as she hops from puddle to puddle.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet and tugging you with him. “Let’s go.”

“Aoshi, it’s pouring.”

“Yes, that’s the point.”

You laugh and let him drag you through the house. He shoves your raincoat at you, shrugging on his own before the two of you race to the genkan, giggling as you go. You slip your boots on and run outside.

The rain sluices down on you, the humid summer heat already sneaking its way beneath your raincoat, the beginnings of sweat starting to gather. You pay it little mind, sucking in a deep breath instead, taking in the scent of the wet concrete as Takao grabs your hand. He tugs you towards Aiko.

Before you know it, the two of you are swinging her back and forth between you, her little wrists clutched tight in your hands. She shrieks with delight each time she comes up off the ground; each landing creates a tidal wave in the puddle she crashes down into.

Takao is laughing, low and sweet, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. His dark hair is plastered against his forehead. Water droplets are beading on his long eyelashes before he blinks them away.

Your breath catches for an instant. And then Aiko is tugging on your hand, wanting to go again, and you glance away from your husband with a little smile.

You stay outside with Aiko until her father calls her in. Then the two of you tumble back into your house, stripping off your wet clothing with groans.

Takao cooks dinner as you lay everything out to dry. You’ve just clipped the last clothespin into place when he calls to you; you take the extra clothespins and clip them along the little storage space you’d added to the balcony for them, a short length of bright blue twine.

He’s made curry, the type that warms even your bones. The two of you curl up together on the couch to eat. You lean into him, ignoring his groan as you accidentally elbow him in the stomach.

“We should go on our honeymoon,” he says after a moment. “It’s almost been a year and we still haven’t gone.”

“We should,” you say, scraping your bowl clean and licking the last of the sauce off of your chopsticks. “Where do you want to go?”

“Haven’t thought that far.”

You snort. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

“It’s a step by step process, you know. First we have to decide to actually go, then we pick the place.”

He easily evades your little pinch.

“It’s gonna be hard to pick,” you tell him.

“Maybe.”

“We’ll figure it out, I guess.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.

“We always do.”

He’s right, you think. You always do figure it out.

Together.

The farm is dusted with snow.

It reminds you of powdered sugar, light and fluffy and easily blown away in the slightest breeze. It’s the first snow according to Kita. The true frost set in over the last week; the paddies have iced over, a cobweb of winter. You listen to the crackle of it settling and shiver, pushing deeper into your scarf.

“Ya warm enough?” Kita asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s just a little more mild in the city.”

He hums his agreement. The two of you keep walking along the worn dirt path, weaving through the slumbering fields. The snow crunches softly underfoot. In the distance, you can hear the rumble of a truck; it purrs and groans as it putters down one of the other roads.

“I’m glad you came,” Kita says softly.

He’s invited you several times, never pushing, but you’ve always said no. You don’t know why this time had felt right, but it had. You watch a crow circle overhead before it lands in a bare tree, a spot of darkness against the pale blue sky.

“Me too,” you say. “I’ve never been out here in the winter.”

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

“It is.”

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence as you wander further. You pass another farmhouse where two small children are playing outside, both of them bundled up to the point that they’re waddling more than walking. One of them has a crimson scarf, the deep color of poppies at night, the ends of it fluttering in the gentle breeze.

They’re sliding a puck back and forth on ice that’s creaking ominously. They wave to you with the branches they’re using for hockey sticks.

“Should we stop them?” you ask, waving back.

Kita shakes his head. “There’s only an inch or so of water, this time of year. They’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Did you ever do that?”

He laughs. “Course.”

“Play or fall through?”

“Both, actually,” he says. He takes hold of your arm as you slip on a patch of ice, keeping you upright with ease. “Careful now.”

He waits until you’re steady before he lets go. He presses a bit closer after that and you let him. The wind is too constant to really feel the heat of him, but you think you feel it anyway.

You fall back into comfortable silence. The wind is whistling softly through the bare trees, stirring the last clinging remnants of the leaves. You watch one of them tear free and blow away. It carries across the fields, which stretch as far as the eye can see.

You turn back when you get to the edge of the paddy you’re walking next to. By the time you’re back to the farm, you’re chatting about what to make for dinner. Kita’d taken you to the local market earlier in the day, letting you browse through the piles of daikon and leeks, each of them fresher than anything you would see in the grocery store.

“Oden?” Kita suggests as you enter the genkan and you nod.

“Sounds perfect,” you say, using the wall to balance as you start to take off your boots. Kita stops in the middle of taking off his jacket and kneels down in front of you to get the buckle you’re struggling with. “Kita, you don’t need to do that.”

“Already down here,” he says with a smirk. “So I might as well.”

You sigh. “Thank you,” you say, slipping off your jacket and hanging it carefully.

He nods, tucking his outerwear away neatly before getting to his feet. After he’s sure you’re all set, he heads down the hall, turning on the small kotatsu that sits in his living room. It’s an older one, the blanket slightly worn, patterned with white cranes. It was his grandmother’s, you think.

“Get warm,” he says. “I’ll start cooking.”

“I should help—”

“You can after you’ve warmed up a little bit.”

“Fine,” you say, ignoring the little smile on his face as you pout. You sit at the kotatsu and melt into the warmth as he heads into the kitchen.

You join him not long after. He gives you leeks to chop as he peels daikon; you spend a few minutes at his pristine kitchen sink, washing the grit out from between the leaves. The two of you chatter as you cook. The kitchen is slowly heating, until it’s like a banked fire.

His kitchen is small but set up well and the two of you move around it easily together. You rarely bump into each other, and hand off ingredients as the other needs them. It’s seamless and it doesn’t take long before the oden is done.

The two of you settle at the kotatsu to eat. Kita hands you a pair of well-worn chopsticks.

“You should come for longer next time, if you can,” he says.

“I’ll try to,” you say, knowing that you’ve only touched the surface of the farm. Of the life he’s built here, in the wide expanse of the countryside.

He smiles warmly. “Good.”

Time flies by, until Kita has to get up to turn on another lamp as night encroaches. When you peer out the window, the night sky sprawls endless above you, softly lit by the tender touch of the waning moon.

“I should go,” you say. “It’s late.”

He hums an agreement. The two of you bundle up in the genkan; Kita lends you a too-long scarf that’s messily knitted. You wrap it around your neck several times before you are willing to brave the cold.

The snow glistens under the moonlight as you trudge to Kita’s truck. There’s a stillness to the night, as if you’re on the cusp of something unreal, something otherworldly. You tilt your head back and gaze at the stars, scattered throughout the plush darkness, glinting like ice.

Kita cranks the truck’s heater to high as it rumbles on. It blows out a gush of cold air that makes you shudder, but it’s already warming by the time you’re pulling out of the driveway.

“Where does your farm end?” you ask.

“Just here,” he says, flicking on his blinker as he makes a turn down the road towards town. “Then it’s Suzuki’s place.”

“Do they—”

“Have ducks?”

“...Yes.”

His eyes flicker to you, the amber of them aglow in the silvery moonlight. “He does.”

You must look pleased, because he laughs, the sound low and warm, filling the cab of the truck like billowing smoke. The smile on his lips is wide and you think of the horizon, how it never ends, and hope that his joy never ends, too.

“Kita,” you say, unable to help yourself.

“Mhm?”

“I’m glad we’re friends,” you say softly.

Kita’s smile dims, the summer sun hidden behind thin, wispy clouds.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. He sounds a little sad. “Me too.”

The rest of the ride is silent.

Winter melts away in the face of spring’s burgeoning warmth. The crocuses come early this year, pushing up through the dregs of frost, unfurling quietly, steadily. Yoshikawa paints them; they’re bruises against the soft white of her canvas, the yellow stamen cradled between petals like golden treasure.

She gives you and Abe the paintings one day at the park. They’re carefully wrapped, no bigger than your hand, tied up with a piece of twine that you think she snipped from your gardening supplies.

“What’s this?” Abe asks.

“Find out for yourself,” Yoshikawa says, as if Abe isn’t already tearing into the paper. She hands you yours as you sit up from the pile of blankets you’d laid out on the grassy knoll of the park. You pull it open carefully.

“Pretty,” you breathe, tracing a finger over the long, elegant curve of the stems. “Are these the ones behind the house?”

She nods.

“These aren’t your usual style,” Abe says.

Yoshikawa shrugs, laying down on the blankets and shielding her eyes against the sun. “I’m trying something new.”

“It’s nice,” Abe says. “You should do more like it.”

“Maybe.”

“When are you going to paint me?”

“I already painted you,” Yoshikawa points out.

“That was in high school!”

“It’s still painting you.”

You tune them out and lie back down. You curl up so that you can pillow your head on Yoshikawa’s stomach. She shifts to give you more room. She smells like sweet, wet earth. You think of a garden after rain, when it’s gone lush and green. You sink into the oasis of her.

Abe wakes you up as the sun is starting to set. You groan but let her coax you up. The three of you gather your items plus a few things you hadn’t had at the start of the day: a heart shaped rock Abe tripped over; a box of okonomiyaki that’s perfuming the air with a savory, spicy scent; a few golden wildflowers, tied carefully together with a hair elastic.

You know the walk home by heart, so you spend your time looking at the city as it comes to life, a night-blooming flower. Next to you, Abe is chatting merrily at Yoshikawa, who is looking at her with a smile you know well. She glances at you and drops you a sly little wink.

“What was that?” Abe asks immediately.

“Nothing,” Yoshikawa says, taking your keys from you and opening the front door.

“It was something!”

“It really wasn’t.”

“Yes it was!”

You listen to them bicker all the way to the kitchen, trying not to laugh. Abe whirls on you. “Tell me,” she whines.

“It really was nothing,” you say. “She’s just winding you up.”

Abe huffs. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Yoshikawa says, opening up the box of okonomiyaki and grabbing three of her favorite plates.

“Sadly, I do.”

Your phone rings; when you glance at it, it’s an unknown number. You silence it and grab a plate from Yoshikawa. The three of you eat and chat, swapping bites here and there since you all got different fillings. The sun sets; the golden light pours in through your kitchen window and haloes your friends.

Your phone vibrates and you pull it out of your pocket, expecting it to be Takao. Instead, the same unknown number is calling you again. You frown and pick up.

A woman says your name. There’s something to the way she says it. You let out a soft, shaky breath as you listen.

You hang up. Your phone sits heavy in your hand.

“That was the hospital,” you say, sounding too calm even to your own ears. “Aoshi was in an accident.”

Abe and Yoshikawa’s heads come up.

“Is he okay?” Yoshikawa says, blade-sharp.

Your vision is going black at the edges, a slow, steady swallowing. You sit down carefully, the wooden floor cold even through your clothing.

Abe says your name.

She sounds scared.

“No,” you say evenly. “He didn’t make it.”

Chapter Text

You’ve been staying up too late.

Or maybe you’ve been getting up too early. You’re not sure you know anymore. The world spills foggy over your senses these days. The sun sets bloody over the horizon as you close your eyes, sinking your teeth into the tender flesh of a dusty pink peach, the juices running sweet down your chin. You open your eyes and there’s a mug shattered on the floor, coffee pooling around your feet, the scent of it heavy enough to taste. You close them again, and you wake up curled around a ghost.

Hours roll into each other, jagged fragments rounded smooth, seaglass blips of time. They slip through your fingers like grains of sand.

You miss the finer details of things. The wake is ephemeral, a cobweb snapping in the breeze long gone before you even know it. Only the ghost of incense on your skin tells you it occurred. Abe and Yoshikawa spend the night; they’re warm around you in the guest room’s bed, their arms thrown over your waist to keep you from shaking apart in the tender wound of darkness.

You curl up in the cradle of them. You can smell Yoshikawa’s mango shampoo as you press close to her, her long hair catching against you. She hums quietly and shifts to accommodate you. Abe scooches closer against your back, her forehead pressing between your shoulder blades.

You fall asleep like that, twined together like a litter of kittens, shifting into each other’s warmth.

You blink awake in your dimly lit kitchen. It’s late; the sickle curve of the moon is low in the sky. Your phone is heavy in your hand.

Kita picks up within a single ring. He says your name quietly, like it’s a secret for just you and him. It startles you out of your daze. You suck in a sharp breath as you realize you actually called him.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to call so late.”

“S’alright,” he says. His voice is rough with sleep; there’s a soft rumble to it, like far-off thunder. “You can always call.”

“Did I wake you?”

“S’alright,” he says again. “Do you want to talk?”

You bite at a hangnail. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to talk?”

“Please,” you say, your voice fraying at the edges.

He does. You lean against the refrigerator as he talks, your head tilted back against the cool metal of it. Kita tells you about the seedlings, how he could use a machine to sow them but that this year he’s chosen to do one or two of the paddies by hand. You imagine him crouching in the fields, his big hands tender against the delicate shoots, sinking them into the thin layer of murky water.

His voice is soft, steady, and warm. You sink into it, floating in it as you watch the moon set, a fishhook of light descending towards the embrace of the horizon. He spins out story after story. You think it’s the most you’ve ever heard him talk and something in you twinges.

“Will you come to the funeral?” you ask, the question spilling from you before you can stop it.

Kita goes quiet. You listen to him breathe. It’s steady like the tide, in and out, ebbing and flowing in a way that soothes something in you, a balm against an unknown scrape.

“No.”

You flinch.

“If I come,” he continues, his voice gentle but firm, “it won’t be about your husband anymore. It’ll be about us.”

Kita’s particular brand of logic has always had a cold edge to it. You know he doesn’t mean it unkindly, but it stings to hear the truth spoken so steadily, with such assurance.

You curl in on yourself like a fiddlehead, bringing your knees up to your chest. You sob once, an earthen sound, deep and heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Silence falls. You tilt your head back further and stare at the ceiling, half-blocked by the fan of leaves from the plants perched precariously on top of the fridge. You can almost see him in the lines the paintbrush left behind, his lips thinned and his amber eyes somber.

“I know,” you whisper.

Kita breathes out a sigh. It’s a wisp of a thing. You think it must be bitter on his tongue, laced as deeply with regret as it is.

“Do you want to keep talkin’?”

You glance at the stove’s clock and wince. “You should go back to bed,” you tell him. “It’s late.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” he says, not unkindly.

You watch the clock blink over to the next number. It seems to take an eternity, a lifetime tied up in neon red.

“I don’t know,” you say and the tears are welling up, burning hot behind your eyes. “Shinsuke, I don’t know.”

“S’okay.”

The tears spill over, running down your cheeks in thick rivulets. They catch on your lips, fill your mouth, until all you know is sorrow salty on your tongue. “Shinsuke,” you say, desperate.

“I’m here.”

You curl forward, burying your face in your knees. You fist your free hand in your nightshirt, twining the soft cotton around your fingers until it hurts. You sob once and then catch the next one behind your teeth to swallow back down.

“You can cry, y’know,” he says. “You don’t hafta stop on my account.”

It sets you off. You sob like a child with your forehead resting against your knees, the tears dripping down to dampen your pj pants.

Kita murmurs something, too soft for you to hear over your own sobs. But his voice is sweetened with kindness. It settles into your bones, the warmth of it spreading under your skin, a soothing balm against the sharp, gruesome wound deep inside you. The first tentative stitch of many.

Your sobs peter out into quiet, shaky breaths.

“Good,” Kita says. “Keep breathin’, just like that. Slow and steady.”

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

“Don’t be. Yer hurting. Be more surprised if you didn’t cry.”

You give a watery laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I’m sorry anyway, though, especially for keeping you up. I know you get up early.”

“S’alright,” he says. “Like I said, you can call any time.”

“Thank you, Kita.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Of course,” he says.

“Go back to bed,” you tell him. “I’m okay.”

He hums. It’s a rich, sleepy sound, dripping down the line like thick honey. You press your phone against your ear a little harder and let the sound of him curl around you.

“I don’t mind staying up.”

“I’m okay,” you say again. “Just tired.”

“Alright.”

“Goodnight, Kita.”

“G’night.”

You hang up. A car goes by; its headlights pour in through the window, illuminating your kitchen. The light catches on the little vase of your favorite flowers tucked away on the counter top. They’re wilting, the edges of the petals shrinking back, like shy children covering their faces.

You can’t bring yourself to throw them out.

You tilt your head back against the fridge and close your eyes.

“Wanna come back to bed?” Abe asks.

You crack an eye open.

She’s haunting the threshold of the kitchen, softened by the dim. Her mouth is a tender gash. She waits.

“Not yet,” you say.

She pads into the kitchen. When you don’t protest, she slides down next to you, pressing warm against your side. It feels like childhood again, when you would crowd in close together to read the same manga under the covers with a flashlight.

“Okay,” she says softly. She leans her head against your shoulder as you close your eyes again. “Not yet.”

Another car goes by; the kitchen fills with light. It glitters against Abe’s dark hair for a breath and then it’s gone. In the aftermath, the kitchen seems darker still, Abe just a faint outline next to you, and perhaps that’s why you say, “I called Kita.”

She stays quiet, only shifting against you. Her silk pajamas are soft as they slide across your skin.

“I don’t know why,” you continue. “I just…wanted to hear him.”

“At 2am?”

You bite your lower lip. “I think,” you whisper. “I think that maybe I just wanted to make sure he’s still here.”

“He is,” she says softly. “He’s still here.”

You hum, the sound like river rocks rolling over each other, wearing away at each other. “Yeah,” you say. You scrub away the remnants of your tears with the back of your hand. “He is.”

Abe catches your hand as you lower it. She winds her fingers—bird-boned, all delicate architecture that makes you think of the arcing ceiling of a cathedral nave—through yours. She squeezes.

“Come back to bed,” she says, her words punctuated with a little tug. “You need sleep.”

You let her pull you to your feet. The two of you make your way down the hallway quietly; when you open the door to the guest bedroom Yoshikawa is already awake, her dark eyes gleaming through the dim. You sink into bed beside her. She curls up around you as Abe climbs in from the other side.

“You okay?” Yoshikawa asks.

You go still, a briar patch of cruel words growing sharp as they twine up your throat. “No,” you bite out. Abe goes stiff at your back. “Why would I be?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Yoshikawa’s voice is cool but it does nothing to hide the softness there, nor does it hide the hurt that lurks beneath.

You take a deep breath. “I’m tired,” you say, even though you know you should apologize. “Can we sleep?”

She cups your cheek and gives you a sad little smile. “Of course.”

Abe drapes an arm over your middle and gives you a little squeeze.

“Go to sleep,” she murmurs. “We’ll be here in the morning.”

You fall asleep knowing it’s a promise they’ll keep.

The funeral passes quickly.

It’s all flickers of things: a laugh quickly hushed behind hands, a tight-lipped smile on painted lips, the salt of tears lingering on the air like ocean spray, the sickly floral scent of the hanawas thick on your tongue, a wrinkled hand cold against your wrist.

You can barely look at Takao’s parents. He’ll live on in their faces, you think, in the curve of his mother’s lips and the shape of his father’s cheekbones, but you can hardly tell now. Their features are gnarled with sorrow, knotted like the old crabapple tree that you and Takao used to climb in their yard. Each hiccuping sob from his mother echoes in your ears.

You touch one of the flowers of a thick, bountiful hanawa just before it’s collected. The petal is silken between your fingers. It bruises quickly beneath your touch, the thin delicacy of it tearing. You let go.

It’s obvious amid the pristine lilies. You grab another creamy white petal and then another. By the fifth petal, there’s a path of mangled petals behind you, stepping stones of destruction.

“Hey,” Abe says, laying her hand over the top of yours as you reach out for another petal, “let them take it, okay?”

You blink. “Oh,” you say, seeing the funeral director lingering nearby, ready to take the hanawa to go with Takao’s body. “Of course.”

Before you step away, you tug off a single perfect petal, white as snow and faintly dusted with golden pollen. You roll it between your fingers. The satin of it crushes beneath your fingertips.

Abe squeezes your hand. Her touch is a song you’ll always know but it feels distant now, like music muffled behind an apartment’s walls. She lets go when you step away from the wreath.

You follow her to the entrance of the funeral hall. The koden ledger is there, surrounded by white envelopes stacked high. You nudge at one until the flap opens to show crisp yen notes. You stare at the notes until they blur at the edges.

Before Abe can say anything, you reach out and close the envelope up. The stiff mizuhiki knots are rough against your fingers. You trace along them for a moment.

“I didn’t think I’d see these any time soon.”

“I know,” she says softly.

“Someone will collect the ledger?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thanks.”

She leads you back to your parents and squeezes your hand again before she disappears. You’re not sure where she goes, but you wish you could go with her. Instead, you accept condolences for what feels like hours, each word grating on you, eroding you like a pebble caught in an ocean wave.

When it’s all over your parents bundle you into the car. The city blurs by like a watercolor, gray with splashes of neon streaking through it. People stream along the sidewalk too. You watch and you watch, a statue of old, bearing witness but unmoving yourself.

“Inside,” your mother says, startling you free of your reverie. You hadn’t noticed you’d stopped. She swings the car door open wider. “C’mon,” she says, gentler this time. “Let’s go inside.”

You follow her without a word.

“Tadpole,” your father says as you cross the genkan. “Your shoes.”

You look down to where you were about to step into the house proper; you’re still wearing your heels. “Oh,” you say quietly. “Thanks.”

Before you can reach down, your mother kneels before you. You try to protest, grasping at her elbows to raise her to her feet, but she swats you away and hunkers down to unbuckle them. Her fingers are careful and quick. She traces one of them over the strap of your shoe before she pushes to her feet again.

She cradles your face in her hands, her fingers warm against your cheeks. She rubs her thumb over the curve of your cheekbone to wipe away the tear stains. “Oh, tadpole,” she says softly. “My little girl.”

You bring your hands up and cup hers to you. You breathe her in, the honeyed earth of saffron mixed with the clear, soft scent of the summer irises as they rise proud amid the gardens.

“He’s gone,” you tell her.

She nods. “He is.”

“I’m alone.”

“You’re not alone. Just without him.”

“It feels like being alone.”

She brushes her thumb over the curve of your cheekbone again. “I know.”

When she lets go the heat of her lingers on your face, like how a fire lives on in the warmed hearthstones. You press a hand to your cheek absently as you slip off your shoes.

Your father bends down to take them. Just like your mother, he ignores your protest. He tucks them carefully beside a haphazard pair of Takao’s slippers. The soles are worn thin, especially compared to the thick, shiny soles of your heels.

You suppose you can take new slippers off of your shopping list.

“Go inside,” your father says. “You need rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You will be,” he says. He touches his mark gently, as if its charred kanji will crumble into ash beneath his fingertips. “You will be.”

You let them usher you inside. Your father tucks you in under the couch’s throw blanket—patterned with plump lemons, each with a tuft of bright green leaves attached to their stems—when you curl up into an armchair. It’s soft, warm, and it smells of Takao.

Your parents retreat to the kitchen. You can hear them puttering around, likely putting together some food for the next few days.

Your phone is heavy in your hand. For a moment, you look at the contact you’d pulled up without thinking. The little rice emoji next to Kita’s name almost seems like it’s swaying in the wind, the golden panicles draping elegantly next to the kanji. You touch his contact and open your messages and stare at the last few you’d both sent. Even over text, Kita’s steadiness comes through.

You start to type. Stop. Start again and then stop once more.

“Shit,” you mutter, closing out of the message thread and tossing your phone onto the couch next to you. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, sinking into the couch even further.

When you wake up, it’s dark out. You blink. The streetlights have come to life; their fluorescent light slants into the living room, cutting through the dim. There’s a glass of water on the side table next to the couch. There’s a note under it, your father’s spidery kanji unmistakable.

You read it as you scrub a hand over your face, trying to get rid of the last vestiges of your nap. It’s a simple note. Just enough to tell you there’s food in the fridge and that they’re just a phone call away.

You push to your feet, folding up the blanket and putting it back in its place. Your footsteps echo as you head into the kitchen. Each one feels unnaturally loud. Like the tolling of a bell, deep and low, impossible to ignore. You bite at your lower lip.

Halfway through reheating your food, you give in. You grab your phone and dial.

“Hey,” Yoshikawa says as soon as she picks up. “Are you okay?”

“The house is so quiet.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I can, okay?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

“Seriously, over the phone is enough—”

“My shoes are already on.”

You blow out a big breath. “Thank you, Asako.”

She hums. “Want me to stay on the line?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She says a quiet goodbye before she hangs up.

You clear away your food, your appetite gone, and decide to water the plants while you wait. The kitchen plants are thriving; they’re bathed golden every morning and it shows. You murmur softly to them as you water them, filling the kitchen with the slow rush of running water and your own voice. The plants tremble as the water hits them, their thick, lush fronds dancing under the shower.

You also refill the vase on the kitchen counter.

You know it’s stupid. Cut flowers are just ghosts, unaware that they’re already dead. These ones are curling in on themselves, their edges going crisp, but you can’t bear to get rid of them.

The door to the house clicks open. You can hear Yoshikawa rustling around in the genkan before she appears.

“Hi,” she says.

You burst into tears.

She’s across the kitchen in a heartbeat, gently tugging the watering can out of your hands. She doesn’t say a word as she wraps her arms around you. You press your face into the crook of her neck and she cradles you closer.

Her skin is cool to the touch. It’s a balm against your heated face, like a breeze on a hot summer’s day. You lean into her even more.

She hums, adjusting easily. She pets at the back of your head. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, low and promising, and you cry harder.

She lets you cry your fill, holding you for as long as you need. You finally pull away when your head starts to pound. You sniffle as she sweeps her thumb under your eye to wipe away some of the remaining tears.

“Want me to call Natsumi?” she asks.

You shake your head. “She’s got that work thing tonight.”

“She’d leave it.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t call her.”

Yoshikawa hums. “Okay. Want to watch a movie?”

“Yes please,” you say and the two of you promptly get into an argument about what you want to watch.

You give in to her when it becomes clear that she has no intention of letting you win. You’d be annoyed but it warms you instead. Movie chosen, the two of you settle in on the couch again. You curl up against her and she weaves your hands together, giving you a light squeeze before turning her attention to the screen.

You stay tucked up against her as you watch. She doesn’t move, letting you cling to her like a limpet, and maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s how steady she is. Maybe it’s simply because she’s there. The credits are rolling, the music of them a gentle, swaying tune that makes you think of rippling rice fields. Yoshikawa shifts under you, and without thinking, you say:

“Do you think it’s my fault?”

She goes still.

“Is what your fault?”

You do not look at her. “Aoshi,” you say, his name heavy on your tongue. “Do you think it’s my fault?”

She shifts to look at you; when you stay staring at the screen, she cups your cheeks gently and turns you to face her. She studies you for a moment. Her eyes are night-sky dark and they gleam in the low lighting.

You don’t know what she sees in your face, but her mouth thins into a gash of a thing, sorrow tucked up into the open wound of it.

“How could it be your fault?” she asks.

“Soulmates,” you whisper. “We weren’t soulmates.”

“That’s true.”

“What if it was fixing that? What if he died so I could be with Kita?”

She sucks in a sharp breath but breathes it out softly. Her lower lip trembles. “It was an accident,” she says. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“But what if it does?”

She knocks her forehead against yours. “Four years of marriage seems like a long time for the universe to wait to course correct you.”

You stay quiet.

She searches your face again. “Listen to me,” she says. “It is not your fault. Do you blame Kita?”

“What?”

“Do you blame Kita?”

“No.”

“Then why are you blaming yourself?”

You twist your wedding ring around your finger. “I just—”

She waits.

A car goes by; the headlights play over Yoshikawa’s face. She gleams golden for a brief moment and you think of a shooting star. The words are heavy on your tongue, sickly sweet, like half-rotted fruit. You catch them there, behind the cemetery gate of your teeth, and swallow them down.

“You asked if I thought it was your fault,” she says softly. “I don’t. It’s not your fault, okay?”

You bite at your lower lip. Yoshikawa meets your gaze head on, her vulpine eyes sharp.

“It is not your fault,” she repeats.

You collapse in on yourself without a sound. Yoshikawa catches you and pulls you close. You rest your head against her breastbone and listen to the sound of her heartbeat.

“You’re sure?” you murmur into her sweater.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you say softly. “Okay.”

For now, it’s enough.

The next day comes too soon.

Yoshikawa leaves early. She examines you before she goes, her gaze careful, but she knows as well as you do that you have to face today without her.

The sky is a perfect blue as you head to the crematorium, the same shade as a robin’s egg, a true spring day. You greet Takao’s parents quietly and with great respect. His mother reaches for your hands and squeezes them. It takes everything you have to not flinch away.

The three of you enter together. You hesitate on the doorstep, your breath catching, but Takao’s father says your name. He’s gentle with it but it’s enough to make you walk into the building.

Takao’s father picks up the first bone. You lose yourself during the rest of the ceremony; all you know is the soft bell of your chopsticks against porcelain, a delicate death knell. You come back to yourself as the lid to the urn closes. Your fingers are so tight around the chopsticks that it hurts.

After, Takao’s mother finds you hunched over by the entrance. She trails a soft hand over your shoulders. You take a deep breath. She gazes at you with tears glimmering in the corners of her eyes. You can’t bring yourself to say anything, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Stay in touch,” she tells you.

You nod.

Her pained little smile says she doesn’t believe you.

You watch as both of Takao’s parents get into their car to go to the graveyard. His mother is clutching tightly at the urn, grasping at the last vestiges of her boy before they can slip away. You turn away.

The ride home is like being caught in resin; the world moves around you while you stay still. Once home, you bundle yourself up on the couch in the lemon-patterned throw. You curl up into yourself and swallow down the sobs.

It’s the next day by the time you pick yourself up off the couch. Your head hurts, a slow, steady pulse of pain that’s settled in your left temple. It’s joined by the steady ache of your body, a complaint from your joints that you aren’t as young as you used to be. You groan.

When you check your phone, you’re surprised to see how late you’ve slept. Your messages are a mess, but you ignore most of them, skipping to your group chat with Abe and Yoshikawa. Then you pull up your messages with Kita. You stare at the last few for a moment.

You start to type. Delete what you’ve written. Start typing again, only to stop and stare at your screen.

Finally, you hit call instead.

He picks up before the first ring has even finished.

“Hi,” he says.

You breathe out a soft sigh, his voice melting through you.

“Hi,” you say, your voice watery. “It turns out the bone-picking ceremony is the worst part.”

“Was that today?”

“Yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tender.

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay.”

You’re both quiet for a moment. You listen to him breathe; it soothes something in you, a scrape you try not to think about.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Kita asks.

You blink. “I’m not sure,” you tell him.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re gonna cook.”

“Kita, it’s the middle of your day!”

“And we’re gonna cook.”

“It’s fine, I can just grab something, you don’t need to—”

“I’m not sayin’ it a third time.”

“You’re so stubborn!”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Fine,” you say. “I’m switching to FaceTime, though.”

“That’s fine.”

As the camera comes online, all you can see is the little rice charm he still has dangling from his phone, something he’d kept even after the rain had ruined his flip phone. You hear him hum and the charm moves so he can fill your screen.

In the afternoon light he’s tanner than ever, his skin burnished bronze. His gray hair rustles in the breeze, even under his hat. He’s rosy-cheeked with exertion and something in you pangs. He gives you a small, fond smile, and you can’t help but smile back.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks like he wants to laugh. “Hi,” he says. “What do you have to cook with?”

You list everything off and he nods, looking thoughtful.

“That’ll work with a recipe I know,” he says. “I can lead ya through it.”

“Okay.”

You talk as you cook, but it’s subdued. None of the normal excited chatter is present, but Kita makes a valiant effort to keep the conversation afloat. He gives you time when you have to take a minute to recollect yourself. He’s patient but keeps you on task. He doesn’t give you time to wallow.

Soon, the savory scent is billowing through the kitchen. Your stomach growls. By the time you’re finished cooking, you’re starving.

“Go ahead and eat,” Kita says. “I can stay if you want.”

You glance at him. “Will you?”

He gives you a small smile. “‘Course.”

“Just for a bit longer,” you say.

He meets your gaze. Under the brim of his hat, his amber eyes have darkened to a deep brown, the color of the earth.

“As long as you need,” he says quietly, and you hear the promise in it.

You know it’s one that he’ll keep.

Spring, you find, is unconcerned with sympathy.

It keeps blooming into being, all golden sunlight and birds trilling. The trees are budding, little stitches of green sewn onto branches. Flowers unfold under the sun’s tender touch, turning their faces up towards the light like acolytes at an altar.

The world keeps turning and you can’t keep up.

“Shit.”

“What’s up?” Abe asks.

She’s lounging at your kitchen table, carefully trimming the ends of a lush bouquet that’s bigger than her head. It’s a riot of color, thick dahlias spilling over the paper it’s wrapped in, a sunset of a thing, with deep oranges flaring like fire and the bruised purple of the oncoming night. You think they’re for her girlfriend, but she rarely talks about her with you now.

Silently, you hold out the carton you’d picked up out of the fridge.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, okay, I can take it when I leave. Do you want me to do that?”

“Please,” you say, swallowing down the tears.

You hadn’t even realized you bought it. It’s Takao’s favorite juice, something you never drink, and it’s a brand new carton from yesterday’s delivery groceries.

It’s stupid, you think, to be so affected by something so small, but you can’t stand the idea of it sitting there, never to be drunk. You shove it back into the fridge and sink down to the floor.

Abe’s by your side instantly, crouching down next to you with a gentle hand on your back.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You’re okay.”

“Am I?”

It’s scathing, meaner than you’d meant it to be, but you’re so tired.

She winces. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I just meant it’s okay to grieve—”

Something ugly swells up inside of you and spills out from behind your ribs, an oozing miasma that you can’t swallow down.

“What do you know about grief,” you snarl, your voice a winter crackle of breaking ice. “What do you know about what I lost?”

She sucks in a sharp breath. She pulls her hand off of you; it leaves some of her warmth behind, a ghost of her kindness.

“That’s not fair,” she says quietly. “You know that’s not fair.”

“Oh, please.”

“Wow.”

“You know it’s true.”

“You don’t get a monopoly on grief,” she snaps and you surge to your feet.

“Get out!”

She pushes to her feet as well. She doesn’t look at you as she collects her bouquet and her bag. It’s only in the kitchen’s entrance that she turns to face you.

“I lost Aoshi too,” Abe says, tears brimming in her eyes. “I lost him too.”

She leaves before you can say anything else.

You stand there, breathing heavily, your hands clenched into trembling fists. The first of the tears start to slip hot down your cheeks.

“Goddammit.”

The couch is your familiar haven; you curl up on it as you scour away the tears with the heel of your hand. You watch the afternoon light shift, how it plays across the living room as the sun sinks in the sky. It swathes the room with gold that melts into the softest shade of blue. When true night sets in rendering the living room into darkness, you finally shake yourself into a semblance of reality.

Your stomach growls and you get to your feet. When you open the fridge, the first thing you see is the carton of juice.

The sound it makes as it falls into the garbage can is heavy.

You grab your phone from the counter. There are no messages from Abe; the group chat is solely Yoshikawa talking.

For a moment, you miss the regretful moments of your childhood, where you never had to worry about what to say. How you could flash a light in the window, a firefly apology, and simply move forward.

Instead, you don’t talk to Abe for three days.

“I just—I don’t know how to say sorry,” you tell Kita over the phone, worrying at the sleeve of your shirt. It’s starting to fray.

“‘Sorry’ is a good place to start,” he says.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Could be.”

You sigh. “Kita—”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“I hate it when you’re right.”

He laughs softly. “You’ll feel better,” he tells you. “But you already know that.”

“I do.”

He hums. It’s a low, sweet sound and you bask in it for a moment.

“I should go,” you say as the sound fades away. “The delivery should be here any minute.”

“Groceries again?”

You pick at your fraying sleeve. There’s no judgment in his words but they weigh down on you anyway, an anchor with a heavy chain. You’re still tilted off your axis; you cried in the vegetable aisle of the grocery store last time you went. You haven’t gone back since.

Most days, it’s easier to not leave the house.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

“Do you wanna cook together later?”

“I don’t want to take—”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t have the time.”

You twist the fraying thread around your finger. It cuts into you, making your finger swell as the blood is cut off.

“Not tonight,” you say after a moment. You just don’t have it in you. “But thanks.”

Kita hums again. This time there’s a sharper edge to it. You’re not sure he even realizes it.

But he doesn’t push today.

“Alright,” he says. “If ya change your mind later, just let me know.”

“I will. Bye Kita.”

He says goodbye, but there’s something melancholy woven through it, a thread so thin you barely catch it. It weaves its way through you. You sigh.

You don’t bother to put down your phone. Instead, you call Abe.

“You gonna yell at me again?” she asks as soon as she picks up.

You wince. “No,” you say quietly. “I’m gonna apologize for that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Natsumi. You were just trying to help.”

“I was,” she says softly.

“You deserve to mourn Aoshi, too. I’m sorry if I took that from you. It’s…hard to see past my own grief, sometimes.”

“I know.”

“It won’t happen again.”

She snorts. “We’ll see.”

“Hey!”

“You’re grieving,” she says simply. “Sometimes that means doing stupid shit. It’s not an excuse, but I can understand it.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I know.”

“You’re not supposed to agree!”

“You’re the one that said it!”

The two of you quickly devolve into bickering but it’s sweet at the edges, lined by fondness. Not for the first time, you think of how lucky you are to have the friends you have.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” you say, halfway through catching up on the past few days. “I couldn’t make it without you.”

She goes quiet for a minute.

“You could,” she says. “You could. But you don’t have to.”

The world goes blurry at the edges. You blink back the tears and clear your throat. Abe sniffs, the sound barely audible on the line.

“Are you crying?” you ask.

“No!”

The laughter wells up inside of you before spilling out like a waterfall, flowing fast and free. It fills your living room. You keep laughing until the room is brimming with it, the corners echoing with joy.

It peters out slowly. Even the air feels lighter, you think. Then your stomach sinks, a skipping stone gone too far and falling into the depths.

“Hey,” Abe says softly. “You’re allowed to laugh.”

She’s always known you best.

“It just feels wrong,” you whisper.

“I know. But he would want you to laugh. To be happy. Try to remember that.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” she says firmly. “Now let me tell you about—”

The two of you chat for a while longer. Abe regales you with stories that you’ve missed. There’s a shocking amount of them (“I’m a busy girl, you know.”) for the time frame you haven’t been talking. You hadn’t realized how much you missed her until now.

When you hang up, the emptiness of the house comes rushing back in. It’s a tide of a thing, rolling in against the shore of you like a storm, the waves of it lapping higher and higher. You take a deep breath.

You keep the TV on until bedtime, where you replace it with a book. You read and read and read until you can barely keep your eyes open, the kanji blurring at the edges. You put the book down on the nightstand and curl up with Takao’s pillow. You bury your face in it. It still smells like him, just a bit.

It almost lets you pretend that he’s still here.

The summer rolls in with a storm.

It’s the first of many, but you think the first is always the saddest. The ground churns beneath the fat droplets as they pelt against the dirt; there are petals scattered around, torn from their stems. You watch one of them float down to the storm drain, a pretty pink sailboat destined to capsize.

The clouds are blue-gray and heavy, bruising the sky. They’re the color of the winter sea and have teeth like it too. There’s no lightning but you can hear the promise of it in far-off thunder, just loud enough to make itself known over the hum of your dryer.

You watch the rain run down the window in rivulets. It’s a bleak picture; even the flowers have been dimmed by the thick gray of the storm, their bright pinks tamped down to a blush of light rose.

“You still there?” Kita asks.

“Sorry,” you say, glancing back at your phone to see him already looking at you. “Got distracted by the rain.”

“S’pouring here.”

“Mhmm, here too. It’s kinda nice for laundry day, though. Even if I can’t hang anything outside. And you get a day off.”

“I suppose.”

You laugh. “You don’t have to sound so put out about it.”

He sighs. “It’s fine. Good day for housework.”

“You keep busy, don’t you?”

“There’s always something ta do.”

You laugh. “True,” you say. “Oh, there goes the dryer, hold on.”

You bundle the warm laundry into the basket, taking a moment to sink your fingers into the mess of clothing, letting it heat your hands.

Kita’s in the middle of mending something when you come back to your phone. For a moment, you just watch him. He’s bent over it, his hair glinting silver in the light of his kitchen, the black tips of it all the darker for it. He moves with steady assurance, the needle flashing in and out of the fabric like lightning. His big hands dwarf the needle but it doesn’t seem to hinder him.

He glances up, his amber eyes finding you immediately. He smiles, soft and fond and a little bit teasing. “Something I can help ya with?”

“Just watching. You’re good at that.”

“Granny taught me,” he says as he finishes, running his finger over the mended tear to make sure it’ll hold. Satisfied, he bites off the thread, his teeth gleaming as he does. “And I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Guess so,” you say, moving your phone and propping it up so you can see him as you fold. You fold up a few of your pants, putting them beside you on the couch. You move without thinking, just talking to Kita as you work, when you come to a stop.

It’s Takao’s shirt. You hadn’t realized it was in the wash—you’ve been putting off washing all of his clothing, afraid that one day you’ll wake up and even the scent of him will no longer linger.

Kita says your name.

You ignore him, running your hands over the shirt instead. You lean down and sniff it and find only the scent of your detergent. You take in a deep, slow breath.

There are more in the basket. You lean down to touch them, grabbing the nearest one. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Kita watching you. He stays quiet.

You fold up another one of Takao’s shirts. It’s soft beneath your fingertips, the cotton worn thin with use. You trace your finger along the pattern. Loop around it, over and over again, until you’re half dizzy with it.

Something in you breaks.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you say, the words spilling from you like an oil slick, catching on your teeth and tongue and coating them with something sour. You fist your hands in the shirt. “Shinsuke, I can’t do this.”

He says your name, quiet and tender.

“It’s just so much,” you sob. “I don’t know what to do without him, I don’t know how to live without him, not anymore. And work—going to the office and smiling like I’m not empty inside, like there’s not this gaping wound inside of me. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

You suck in air in great, gasping breaths, your chest cinching tight, like a marionette caught up in her own strings.

“Breathe with me,” he says, his voice stern. You take in a deep, slow breath, matching his, and then another. “That’s it. There you go.”

Your chest starts to loosen as you breathe; you keep matching with Kita, following his careful lead. When you’re finally steady, you can’t help the way more tears brim on your lash line.

“How am I supposed to do this?” you ask quietly. “How am I supposed to survive this?”

“You’re already survivin’ this,” he says. “It might not feel like it, but you are.”

You lean back and stare out the window. Outside, the cicadas are calling even in the rain, a familiar song; you close your eyes.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” you say softly. “I can’t keep doing this. This big, empty house is killing me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Come to the country,” he says.

“What?”

“Come to the country,” he repeats.

“Visiting isn’t—”

“To stay.”

You suck in a sharp breath and bite your lip.

“Just for a while,” he says softly. “And not with me. There’s a granny outside of town who’s got a room that she rents out.”

“Kita…”

“It’s just an option,” he says. “But I think gettin’ out of the city might do you some good.”

You fidget with your wedding ring, twirling the thin band of metal in place. It’s warmed by your skin.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.”

The two of you lapse into silence as you scrub the remainder of tears away. Your cheeks are still hot and you grimace as a headache starts to make itself known.

“I’ve got a headache,” you say. “I’m gonna go lie down.”

Kita hums, his amber eyes tracing over you. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” you say.

“Okay. I’m just a call away.”

You soften. “I know.”

You bid each other a quiet goodbye. You move the laundry out of the way and curl up on the couch, one hand fisted in one of Takao’s shirts. You bring it to your nose and only smell detergent again. You tighten your grip and close your eyes.

You wake to Abe shaking you.

“C’mon,” she says, giving you another little shake. “We brought dinner.”

“Natsu?” you say blearily, rubbing at your eyes. You swat at her when it looks like she’s going to shake you for a third time. She dodges with a grin.

“Yocchan too,” Abe says as Yoshikawa flashes you a peace sign. “How long have you been asleep?”

“Dunno,” you say. “I was on the phone with Kita and he—”

“He what?” Yoshikawa asks, her sly eyes going sharp.

“I was having a…hard time,” you say. “I had a bit of a breakdown. He thinks I should go to the country for a while. Get out of the city.”

Yoshikawa hums, settling down next to you on the couch. She leans over and rubs her thumb over your cheekbone; you realize that there are still salt stains there. She tilts her head, sending her long hair rippling. It gleams in the light and you think of a lake at night, the surface gone dark beneath the moon’s tender touch.

“That might not be a bad idea,” she murmurs.

“No way,” Abe says, plopping down on your other side. “Unless you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” you say miserably, pressing your face into Yoshikawa’s shoulder. “I don’t feel like I know anything anymore.”

Yoshikawa presses her lips against your hairline. “You don’t need to know,” she reminds you. “It’s just an option. You can decide later. Have you eaten?”

You shake your head.

“We brought udon,” Abe informs you. “Because we’re the best.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “You are.”

They trade a glance you can’t quite make sense of. Then they’re chivvying you into the kitchen with gentle hands, pushing you into a seat at the table.

The kake udon is still hot. Steam wisps up from it in tiny curls before dissipating, each one undulating like kelp in a current. You stir it and watch the broth swirl.

“You’re supposed to eat it,” Abe says.

You glare at her. She grins.

You take a bite and flavor comes to life on your tongue, deep and rich. You close your eyes to savor the simplicity of it. When you open them again, Abe and Yoshikawa are watching you with fond little smiles.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” they chorus.

You narrow your eyes but don’t say anything. The three of you settle into a conversation, moving from story to story like a skipping stone, pausing only to take bites of your food. The chatter flows like a river, certain in its path, and you bathe in the easy familiarity of it.

You’ve just finished your udon when Abe puts her chopsticks down and says: “So. The countryside.”

“Natsumi,” Yoshikawa groans. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?!”

“You’re always jumping in feet first,” Yoshikawa grumbles.

“I’m just curious!”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “It might be good to talk about it.”

Abe sends Yoshikawa a victorious grin. Then she turns to you with a softer look on her face. “You don’t have to,” she says.

“I think I might want to.”

“Talk about it? Or go?”

“Both.”

Yoshikawa hums. “Do you think you might be running away?” she asks.

Abe winces along with you.

“It had to be said,” Yoshikawa says, not unkindly. “I can’t understand what you’re going through and I know that, but is going somewhere else really going to change anything? Or are you just running away from something inescapable?”

“Earlier you said her going might be a good thing,” Abe points out.

“It might be,” Yoshikawa says. “But it might not be either.”

“I don’t think I’m running,” you say. “I just think that maybe I need a break. A place that’s not so filled with Aoshi.”

“Okay.”

“What about Kita?” Abe asks.

You scrunch up your brow. “What about him?”

“Will he take it the wrong way?”

“No,” you say. “He knows I’m not looking for anything from him. That I can’t give anything to him.”

“You sure he knows that?”

“Yeah.”

They trade a glance but don’t say anything. You bite at your lower lip.

“Don’t decide tonight,” Yoshikawa says, getting to her feet and collecting the bowls from the table. She sets them down in the sink and pulls on a pair of dish gloves. “Or even tomorrow. You have time.”

“I know that,” you grouse.

She rolls her eyes. “Consider it a reminder, then.”

“Consider me reminded.”

“Don’t be a brat.”

“Oh, don’t ask for the impossible,” Abe says, throwing you an obnoxious grin when you scowl at her.

The conversation flows on into a different topic. The two of them keep drawing you into it, but you’re stuck in your own head, rolling the idea of the country around it like a pebble caught in a wave. You think of the sunshine bathing the fields in gold and the way the air smells different there. The countryside is a world all its own. A world not built around your life with Takao.

You think you might need that.

Kita picks you up from the train station a few months later.

“I could have arranged something,” you tell him as he takes your suitcase from you. “You didn’t need to come and get me.”

“I wanted to,” he says calmly. “This all you brought?”

You nod, already shedding your light sweater as the two of you emerge from the station, out of the aircon and into the countryside heat, a lingering remnant of summer. You follow Kita to his truck—old, but well-maintained, with a carefully stenciled rice plant over the passenger side door—and watch him heft your suitcase into the bed of it. He tucks it carefully into place, giving it a tug to make sure it won’t go anywhere.

As he does, you watch the ripple of his back muscles under his shirt. It rides up when he tugs on your suitcase, a crescent moon sliver of paler skin peeking out from under it. He turns around after thumping the truck bed closed, and you tear your gaze away.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.”

You climb into the truck, shutting the door with a solid thump. Across the cab, Kita does the same. The truck rumbles to life. He puts his hand behind your headrest to reverse out of the parking lot, his amber eyes brushing over you before he concentrates on driving. You breathe in through your nose, far too aware of the heat of his hand.

Once he pulls out of the parking lot, the two of you drive in silence. You gaze out the window, watching as the railroad tracks fade away into the town. The tracks are shiny and new, a testament to how recently the station was put in.

“It’s not a long drive,” Kita says, his voice soft. It rolls over you, steady and sure, an anchor of a sound. “Yoshida’s house is just outside town.”

“Okay,” you say. “Thank you for setting this up.”

He glances at you. He’s as stoic as always, but when he looks at you, something in him softens.

“Yer welcome,” he says. His smile is small but it settles over you like a quilt, warm and well-worn. You ache with it.

“Tell me about the farm,” you say, feeling your stomach twist. “How are the ducks?”

He shakes his head. “The same,” he says, that small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Happily gobblin’ up the little pests in the paddies.”

You lean back in the passenger seat, letting his voice wash over you. You’ve always liked the way Kita talks; he’s to the point and brief, but not impatient. Never impatient. Always steady.

The town gives way to the farmland. The truck trundles along the road, kicking up a little cloud of dust behind it. You can see it in the rear view mirror, lingering like smog. The road is lined by a sea of rice paddies that wave gently in the wind, an eddying tide of plants. They’re Midas-touched, gone gold with the season, and they glint like treasure in the sunlight.

You watch the world pass by and marvel at how big it is. In the distance, you can see the hills, rising green into the horizon’s gentle embrace, cutting through the skyline. There are power towers running along the edge of them; you trace along the lines with your index finger.

A cyclist goes by: it’s a young girl, her hair flowing freely in the wind. Her dress—periwinkle blue, almost the same shade as the sky—flaps around her, too, but her no-nonsense boots are steady on the pedals.There’s dirt smeared on her cheek. She waves cheerfully at the truck. Kita raises his hand in acknowledgement but doesn’t stop.

“You know her?”

“It’s a small town,” he says. “That’s Suzuki’s girl. His youngest. You’ll probably meet her. Her granny is friends with Yoshida.”

You lower your window and let the breeze play over you. It tugs playfully at your collar; it keeps the worst of the humidity at bay. Still, the heat rolls over you in a wet lick.

“S’hot,” you drawl, rolling your head around to look at Kita.

He glances at you and gives you a little smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Ugh.”

He smiles again and turns into a drive. “This is Yoshida’s,” he says.

The farmhouse is older, but it’s clearly been cared for through the years. The engawa has several types of windchimes hanging from it; they sing out a crystalline symphony as the breeze picks up. There’s laundry on the line in the front yard and a few small vegetable patches surrounding it. You see squash starting to fatten on the vines and the remnants of strawberry season, the very last of the berries gone a deep red.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your suddenly sweaty palms against your thighs as a woman appears on the engawa. “Right.”

“It’ll be fine,” Kita says, laying a hand over yours. His palm is work-rough, his fingertips callused, and you can feel the strength in each flex of his fingers. He gives you a little squeeze. “You’ll be fine.”

You nod and slide out of the truck at the same time as him. You fidget as he rounds the back of the truck, the bed popping open as he grabs your suitcase. The woman on the engawa comes to the edge of it; she reaches up with a gnarled hand and drags her finger along a chime carved from wood. Its sound is more of a hollow echo than a chime, but she smiles anyway.

Kita comes up beside you, your suitcase in hand. “Let’s go.”

“Right.”

You follow him up the drive and to the engawa. Yoshida’s a small woman, her black hair shot through with gray, like a river stone in dark water. She’s hunched in on herself slightly, and the skin on the back of her hands is papery with age, but her eyes are sharp.

“Shin-chan,” she says warmly as the two of you approach. “It’s good to see you.”

He gives her a little bow. “It’s good to see you too, Yoshida.”

“I’ve told you to call me Granny, boy.”

He smiles. “Yes, Granny.”

“Is this your friend?”

“Yes, this is her.”

You sketch out a respectful bow and tell her your name. She repeats it, testing the sound of it on her tongue. She gives a decisive nod.

“It’s a good name,” she says. “Come, let me show you to your room.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, reaching out to grab your bag from Kita. He sidesteps you easily, hefting it up and gesturing you forward. “Shinsuke—”

“Don’t make Granny wait,” he chides.

You scowl at him but head up on the engawa, ducking beneath a set of clear chimes that are scattering rainbows around on the ground and the side of the house alike. You toe off your shoes at the genkan and slip on the house slippers that Yoshida gestures to.

The farmhouse is cozy as you wander through it, the decor minimal but still homey. It smells warm, like fresh dashi simmering on the stovetop.

The room Yoshida leads you to is small but perfect. There’s a twin bed tucked into the corner and a desk with a little vase of flowers on it, their periwinkle blossoms waving in the breeze coming in from the open window. The quilt on the bed is handmade, each square featuring a different crop in the height of their season, beautifully stitched and filled with care.

You step inside and trace a finger over an embroidered daikon as Yoshida starts to go over the expectations for sharing the house. You listen as best you can but most of your attention is now on the window. It looks over the paddies. You watch them ripple with the wind, a golden sea of slow, sweet waves.

Kita nudges you lightly; you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He smiles at you knowingly, his eyes crinkled at the edges, and you refocus on Yoshida. She’s smiling, too, a little twinkle in her eye, but she doesn’t say anything aside from continuing to talk about shared cleaning duties.

“Any questions?” she asks, hands on her hips.

You shake your head. “No,” you say. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

She waves a gnarled hand. “You remember any questions, come find me,” she says. “I’ll let you settle in.”

She’s out the door before you can respond, closing it firmly behind her. You blink.

Kita nudges you again. “Where do you want this?” he asks. You glance at your suitcase, nestled carefully between his feet.

“Over there is fine,” you say.

He puts your bag where you gesture and then turns to you. He watches you for a moment, a small, fond smile tilting his lips up. “How’re you feeling?”

“Dunno yet,” you say. “It’s all so new.”

“S’fair.”

“I think it’ll be good, though,” you say slowly, glancing out the window again. The countryside stretches far before you, the rice stalks glistening in the sun, and something in you shifts. You toy with your necklace, rubbing your wedding ring between your fingers, ignoring how it tugs on the chain. “I think it’ll be good.”

“Good. I’ll let you settle in some more,” he says. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“Shinsuke?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Fer?”

“All of this,” you say, a little bit helplessly. “All of it.”

“Of course,” he says. His amber eyes are almost glowing in the afternoon light, the color of sunlit whiskey, a deep golden brown. He opens his mouth and then pauses.

You tilt your head, but he shakes his head and just gives you a small smile.

He leaves the room with the same confident grace he always has, his lean muscles coiling under his skin as he moves. For a moment, you just watch him. He moves with careful intent. Not a single motion wasted. It’s impressive, the control he has over himself, and he does it so easily.

You sit down on the bed as he makes his way down the hallway. You glance around the room again. You reach up to your necklace again, wrapping your hand around the wedding rings dangling from it. Tears burn in the corners of your eyes.

You lay back on the bed, into the patch of sunlight that’s pooling on the pillow. It’s hot. Outside, the countryside sings, from the quiet melody of the rice rustling to the calling of the storks. The breeze tugs at your clothes and hair as it spills in through the window. It feels nice. Real.

You close your eyes.

When you wake up, it’s gone twilight, night encroaching upon the last light of the horizon. The sky is a bruise of a thing, deep purple and glittering with stars. You rub the bleariness from your eyes and curse to yourself.

Your phone screen is bright in the dark; you wince as it sears your eyes.

Kita has sent you a message about how he didn’t want to wake you and promises he’ll see you soon. You text him back and scrub at your face again to wake yourself up. When that fails, you wander down the hall to the bathroom. The cool water wakes you up quickly. It’s crisp and clean and you wonder if it’s the country or if it’s just in your head.

“Yer up,” Yoshida says crisply when you step into the kitchen. Her words are almost sharp, but her eyes are kind. “I sent Shin-chan home—the boy looked like he was about to wait ‘round.”

“Oh,” you say. “I’m sorry if I kept either of you waiting. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

She waves you off with one hand. “Travelin’ is tiring,” she says. “I’m about to make dinner if ya’d like some.”

“Can I help?”

“You can chop.”

You sit where she gestures and take the squash she hands you. It’s as orange as a sunset, with thick ribs and a wide, sturdy stem. You get to work cutting it into little cubes per her instructions.

The two of you work quietly. The breeze flutters in from the open shoji; it’s still hot but it’s cooling off quickly with night settling in.

“It’s beautiful here,” you say absentmindedly, staring out the open door into the fields again. They’re moonlit, bleached to a soft white-gold, shimmering as they dance in the wind.

“It is. Been here my whole life and it’s never lost that prettiness.”

“I can’t imagine it ever does.”

Yoshida glances at you.

“It’s a good place to take time away,” she says, matter-of-fact. “It’s just different here.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m hoping so.”

She hums.

The two of you chat as you keep making dinner. Yoshida’s son—broad-shouldered and kind-faced—comes home from the fields just as you finish, earning a scolding from his mother for being so late. You politely look away but can’t stop the small smile from blooming on your lips. You cover it with a little cough.

He introduces himself sheepishly then joins the conversation easily and happily. The talk carries through the meal, warm and flowing. The night passes quickly with them.

As you get ready for bed, you can’t help but think that maybe this will work after all.

You settle into the farmhouse.

It’s easier than you thought. Maybe it’s the way Yoshida is brusque but kind; she’s not careful with you. It’s a refreshing change of pace.

You find yourself at her side most nights, chopping vegetables or marinating tofu as she tells you about growing up in the country. She spins stories like thread, weaving them together like the expert seamstress she is. Her son joins in some nights too.

You still get lost sometimes, though.

The early mornings are the worst.

The birds sing you to wakefulness, their song high and trilling, and you press your face into the pillow with a groan. “Loud. Shut the window, Aoshi,” you mumble, shoving out at him. Your hand hits empty space and your brow scrunches. You push to your elbows and find a room that’s not your own, though you blearily recognize the suitcase tucked into the closet.

You shift on the bed and realize it’s too small. A twin.

It all comes pouring back in.

“Fuck,” you say, low and quiet. The tears pool in your eyes, burning hot, and you try to blink them back to no avail. You curl in on yourself like a fiddlehead as you lie back down.

You do not move for a very long time.

The world has gone blue when there’s a knock on your door, twilight settling in like the ocean tide, easing its way across the sky. You don’t answer. Another knock comes and then there’s Kita’s voice murmuring your name.

You almost ignore him. But there’s something in his voice you can’t resist, a melancholy thread woven in through the syllables of your name. You get to your feet and open the door.

Kita studies you for a moment. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You blink. “Go where?”

“My place. I’m cookin’.”

“Shinsuke—”

“I know.”

You bite at your lower lip. Kita meets your gaze steadily, his amber eyes darkened to a deep, sweet brown by the dim lighting. There’s a promise in them too.

“Okay,” you say at last. “Let me get dressed.”

He waits downstairs as you throw on some clothes. You can hear him talking quietly to Yoshida. He gives you a little smile when you join him at the genkan.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

It’s true autumn now and the slight chill in the air proves it. The rice stalks are spun gold, swaying in the wind as the truck trundles down the road to Kita’s farm. You watch a stork wade carefully through the fields. It dips down with its long, elegant neck and disappears from sight.

The radio is playing quietly. Kita hums along with it sometimes, mostly at the old, crooning ballads. You watch the countryside roll by, the farmhouses little ships in the night, their lit windows a beacon as dusk falls.

He bundles you into the farmhouse when you arrive, handing you a pair of house slippers that have little radishes on them. You can’t help your smile.

You follow him into the living room and settle at the kotatsu when he points you there. It’s close enough that you can see into the kitchen through the open archway; he rolls up his sleeves and starts gathering ingredients from the fridge and the pantry.

“Can I help?” you ask after a few minutes, getting to your feet and joining him.

“Sure,” he says, handing you a freshly-washed daikon. “Slice that real thin, please.”

You make a cut. “This thin enough?”

He peers over. “A little thinner,” he says. “Can I?”

You nod and he takes your hands briefly, guiding them to the thinness he wants and pressing down. His hands are warm, his fingers and palm rough with calluses that catch lightly against your skin. He curls his fingers around yours, his tendons going taut, and pushes down. The knife slides through the daikon and stops against the cutting board.

“There,” he says. “Like that.”

“Okay.”

He nods and heads back to his cutting board which is laden down with a bright medley of varying vegetables. “What’re you doin’ tomorrow?'' he asks.

“Nothing,” you say. “Why?”

You sound more defensive than you mean to. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a sharp flicker of amber, but says nothing.

“Was thinking you could come out to the fields with me.”

“I don’t know,” you say.

“It’d be good for you to get outside,” he says mildly. “Rather than being up in yer room all day.”

Your knife thunks against the cutting board. Kita is unperturbed, only glancing your way briefly to make sure you’re not injured. He goes back to peeling carrots, his lean, strong hands moving quickly and with steady confidence.

You study him for a moment, taking in the set of his lips and the soft furrow of his brow. You sigh.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll come.”

He flashes you a tiny quirk of his lips, a smile that’s as fleeting as a summer storm and just as warm.

“Good.”

He keeps cooking as he talks, pulling you from your thoughts when you get lost in them, when the fog starts to roll back in like a marine layer. It’s uncanny, how well he can tell when you’ve been set adrift. He’s a mooring you didn’t know you needed.

Kita hums his thanks as you give him the daikon. He slips them into a pickling mix before handing you a cucumber.

“Peel and cut thin?” you ask.

“Yup.”

As you peel, you can’t help but watch as he moves about the kitchen. He moves as efficiently as ever, no wasted movement, but there’s something soft to it too. You can’t quite pin it down.

“Yer staring.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

You shrug, starting to cut up the cucumber. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing important,” you say, waving him off. “Tell me how Aran is doing, he and I haven’t talked for a while.”

The rest of the cooking goes by quickly as you talk and soon you’re both settled at the kotatsu. It’s radiating warmth. You snuggle deeper into it; with the sun fully set, it’s grown even more chilly outside despite the heat of the day. Winter is still a ways off, but you can feel the first touch of it hidden in the autumn breeze that leaks in through the window Kita had left cracked to keep the kitchen from overheating.

You glance over the food. Kita’s kept it simple but hearty. There’s steam curling through the air in little smoky wisps. You watch as it dissipates and then take the plate that Kita hands you with a small thank you.

It’s a good meal. The two of you talk through it with ease, never missing a beat and rarely with an awkward pause. When you lapse into silence, it’s comfortable.

“I should go,” you say eventually, glancing at the clock. “I don’t want to wake Yoshida when I come in.”

“Alright.”

He drives you home, the headlights of his truck cutting through the night. The moon is out now; it bathes the fields with light until they practically shimmer. The crickets are calling, their song audible even over the low purr of the truck’s engine.

When you pull up to Yoshida’s, there’s a light still on at the engawa, a soft glow to lead you home. It warms something in you.

Kita walks you to the door.

“How early do I have to get up tomorrow?” you ask. “Do I even want to know?”

He laughs quietly. “Ya don’t need to keep my schedule,” he says. “I’ll come get you after lunch.”

“Okay.”

He looks at you. His usual stoicness has faded into something warm and open; you take a deep breath. You bid him a quiet goodnight that he returns just as quietly, his amber eyes knowing.

You go to sleep with your hand wrapped around your wedding rings.

“Sunscreen,” Kita says, holding out the tube to you.

“I know, I know,” you grouse, taking it from him. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“You forgot last time.”

“Point taken.”

You apply the sunscreen as he gathers what he needs. He’s still rustling around when you finish. You turn your face up to the sun, letting the rays brush over your skin like a lover, a sweet kiss of heat.

When you open your eyes again, Kita is watching you with a tiny smile, a crescent moon of a thing. Something in you pangs.

You glance away from him and look to the rolling fields instead. In the bright sunlight, they’re Midas-touched, scorched gold with a hint of green at the bottom of each stem. It’s a sea of rice, rippling in the breeze like kelp caught in the ocean’s current, and it’s beautiful in a way that makes you feel small.

Kita comes up beside you and gazes at his farm.

“It’s pretty,” you tell him.

“It’s gotta get cut,” he says.

“I know.”

He glances at you. You blink as he reaches out and smudges his thumb against your cheek. It’s gentle, his touch careful despite the rough calluses on the pad of his thumb. “Ya missed some sunscreen,” he says, rubbing it in with a light sweep. He lingers for a moment before pulling away.

“Oh. Thanks,” you say, biting at your lower lip as he turns away.

“C’mon,” Kita says.

You follow him deep into the field, to a swath of already cleared land. The two of you settle at the edge of it. You watch as he lays out a woven bag with a label stamped on the front of it. He crouches down by the nearest stems of uncut rice and runs a hand over them, thumbing at the panicles with a deft movement.

You don’t think he knows he’s smiling.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask.

He glances back at you. “Can you lay out the bags? One at each pole should do.”

You nod and set to work. He starts cutting at the rice. He makes it look easy, slicing through the stems as if they’re butter. The rice stalks start to pile up beside him as you make your way down the field with the bags.

He’s made a significant dent by the time you’re back. He leans back on his heels as you approach again, wiping off his forehead with the back of his hand. His hair is clinging to him, dark with sweat, deepening the color to slate gray, like the winter sea. He smiles at you.

“Can I try again?”

He’d taught you how to cut last time after you asked, citing the fact that you’ve been coming to the field with him for almost two weeks without trying.

“Sure,” he says. He hands you a pair of gloves; you slip them on. “D’ya remember how to hold it?”

You kneel next to him, wrapping your fingers around a handful of stems. “Like this, yeah?”

“Thumb pointing up,” he says, reaching out and adjusting your grip. “And tighter.”

He tightens his grip around your hand to show you, his strong fingers flexing. You copy him and he lets go when he’s satisfied with your grip. He hands you the knife—curved with a wicked edge—and sits back on his heels again.

“15 centimeters, yeah?” you ask, setting the edge of the knife against the stalks there.

“That’ll work.”

You slice in a downward angle; the stalks part beneath the blade like silk. You hand off the rice to him to add to the pile. You keep working, feeling the sweat start to gather on your back, a few droplets rolling down before getting absorbed by your shirt.

“Good,” he says.

He lets you do a few more handfuls before he takes the knife back. You watch him work. He’s much quicker than you, moving with an easy grace.

“Why don’t ya head back to the truck,” he says, slicing through another handful of stalks. “I’m almost done.”

You listen to him, heading back to the truck and settling in the bed of it, swinging your feet off the edge. You lay back and turn your gaze up to the sky, watching as a flock of birds goes soaring past, their wings dark against the deep blue of the sky.

Kita joins you after a bit. You’ve been watching a hawk circle, riding the current high above you, and you don’t bother to sit up when you hear him approaching.

He climbs up into the truck bed. He settles next to you and then lays down beside you, staring up at the sky with you.

The two of you are quiet. You watch as the hawk wheels and wheels overhead before it dives down, dropping like a shooting star through the sky.

You turn towards him; he’s already looking at you. His amber eyes are soft and you suck in a breath, your stomach flipping.

“Shinsuke,” you say gently. “You know I can’t give you what you want, right?”

“I’m not askin’ you for anything,” he says, just as gently.

“I know. I just—I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, with Aoshi gone.”

He studies you for a moment. Then he smiles, warm and sweet and a little bit sad.

“It’s always what you’re willing to give,” he says. “Nothing more and nothing less. That’s the only idea I have.”

You suck in a breath, fidgeting with your sleeve.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

You both go quiet again.

Kita pushes up to his elbows; you peer up at him.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get going.”

“‘Kay.”

He hops down from the truck bed gracefully before holding out a hand to help you down. You hesitate. He waits patiently, looking up at you. You take his hand without a word, his calluses rough against your palm.

You’re both quiet on the drive back to Yoshida’s. You spend the time looking out the window, watching the fields roll by. There are other farmers still hard at work, their blades flashing in the last dregs of the sunlight, like a dance. It’s a sight you never tire of.

The sun has almost set by the time Kita drops you off. You toe off your shoes in the genkan and find Yoshida in the kitchen, scrubbing down the counter. There’s something savory in the air, rich and thick, and you spot a pot bubbling away on the stovetop, steam curling up from it like smoke.

She eyes you for a moment. You don’t know what she sees in your face, but she gestures you into a seat.

“The fields are doing ya some good,” she says, her eyes still on the soapy counter.

“Are they?”

She nods decisively. “Yer different. You’re coming back to the world.”

You bite at your lip, worrying the flesh between your teeth. It doesn’t feel like it to you; some days you think you’ll never be in step with the world again, destined to always be just a few paces behind.

“It’s hard to see it in yerself,” Yoshida says. “But it’s there.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

You can’t help the smile. A smile blooms on her lips too, small but sure.

“I need to weed tomorrow. Could use your help, unless Shin-chan is going to steal you away again.”

“I’ll help,” you say, ignoring the last bit.

She studies you with keen eyes, opening her mouth to say something, but the front door opens and her son calls out a greeting.

The rest of the night is quiet and morning comes before you know it.

You stare up at the ceiling as the sun rises, watery light leaking in through the sheer curtains. For a moment, you consider rolling over and going back to bed, but you can hear Yoshida shuffling around in her room. You resign yourself to getting up for the day.

A light breakfast later, you’re on your knees in the garden. The soil is still wet with morning dew and it sticks to your skin. The scent of wet loam rises around you, like the earth is welcoming you home. You let it fill your lungs.

The garden is a beautiful one, lush with autumn vegetables. You weed around the fat, sunshine yellow squashes, each one brighter than the last. The carrots are just peeking above the soil, little suns creeping up over the horizon. Their greens sway gently in the breeze.

You’ve forgone gardening gloves despite Yoshida’s offer. It feels good to sink your fingers into the dirt, to pinch the weeds’ roots and pull them up gently.

You’re still working when Kita’s truck trundles up the driveway. You sit back on your haunches and wipe the sweat from your brow as he gets out and comes your way.

“Hi,” he says with a little smile. “Hard at work, I see.”

“Gotta earn my keep,” you say, earning a snort from Yoshida who is working just a garden bed over.

“You have time for a break?”

“Depends,” you say, glancing at the bag he’s carrying. “Are those snacks?”

“Yup.”

“Then I do,” you say, pushing to your feet. “Let me go wash my hands.”

You eat together on the engawa, gazing out into the farmland. The wind chimes rustle above you, clinking lightly, a crystalline symphony just for the two of you. You sit back on your hands as Kita unpacks what he’s brought.

It’s onigiri. They’re still warm, steam curling up from them when you break one open. A little bit of the filling spills out but you’re quick to catch it on your thumb, popping it into your mouth.

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a nudge with your elbow. “They’re good.”

“Yer welcome.”

“You take care of me so well,” you say with a little laugh.

“I try,” he says, utterly serious.

You flinch. It’s tiny, but from the way his gaze finds you, a firefly flicker, he notices. But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to take another bite of his onigiri.

“Shin-chan,” Yoshida calls. “Come help an old woman with the watering.”

You glance up to see that she’s heaving a full bucket of water towards the garden. Kita pushes to his feet immediately, crossing to her in a few easy strides. He takes the bucket without even pausing, lifting it with a single hand.

“Granny,” he chides. “Ya could’ve gotten hurt.”

She shrugs. He follows her to the garden beds, glancing back to send you a little smile. You watch him as he carefully waters the garden under Yoshida’s rigid instructions. The sun catches in his hair, bronzes his tanned skin. That same smile he’d flashed you lives on his lips, a quiet contentment tucked up secret into the corner of his mouth.

Kita comes back to you when he’s finished watering, settling at your side on the engawa once more. He eats the rest of his onigiri quickly.

“I’ve gotta get back to the fields,” he tells you. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “Go do your job.”

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling with it.

He leaves soon after. You watch him go, until all you can see of his truck is the cloud of dust being kicked up behind it, until the horizon swallows him.

Yoshida stands next to you on the engawa, shading her eyes as she watches him go too.

“He’s a good man,” she says casually.

You glance at her.

“He is.”

“You could do much worse in a man.”

“It’s not like that.”

She raises a brow.

“It’s not. It’s just…complicated,” you say, winding your fingers through your necklace’s chain. Your rings clink against each other softly, the sound lost in the myriad of wind chimes surrounding you. For a moment you drift, tears pricking at your eyes before you blink them away.

“‘Course it is,” she says. “Most things are. But ah, pay no mind to an old lady. Let’s go harvest some of the squash.”

You spend the rest of the day in the garden, harvesting away. The first frost isn’t too far off and you need to make sure you don’t lose any of the vegetables to it. Yoshida tells you exactly what to pick and what to leave.

Night falls and you cook the first of the squash, painting it with a sweetened miso glaze that gleams stickily as you serve it. Yoshida makes a few side dishes too, putting them in pretty kobachi dishes. They’re delicate things, the soft silver of the moon, and you find yourself thinking of Kita.

You shake yourself free of the thought before it fully forms. Yoshida’s son pulls you into a conversation and you chatter the night away, until you’re yawning between sentences. You finally trudge up to your room.

The window lets in the faintest hint of gossamer moonlight. You gaze out into the night, into the endless countryside. You can just barely make out the next farmhouse, a lighthouse in the sea of darkness, its lights glittering on the very edge of the horizon.

It looks lonely. You think of Kita again, of the little island of his farmhouse, how it’s tucked between the paddies with no other home in sight. You think of him alone at the kotatsu, reading glasses perched on his nose, and feel something in your chest clench.

You pull the curtains shut and go to bed.

The rest of the week rolls by and so does the next. It grows colder each day, winter’s first kiss. The leaves are going orange, as if little fires are catching the edges. It sets the trees ablaze with color. You hop from leaf to leaf as you and Kita walk along the road, delighting in each little crunch.

“Having fun?” he calls out.

You turn around to face him, shading your eyes with one hand. His more sedate pace has left him lagging, but he’s quickly catching up now that you’ve stopped. “Can’t you tell?”

His breath mists in the air, a marine layer, and his lips quirk up into a little smile. “I can,” he says. “Just be careful, yeah? There’s still some frost lingering.”

You hum an acknowledgement and stomp on your next leaf. He chuckles quietly and you fall back to walk with him, shoving your hands into your pockets to ward off the cold.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You know my sabbatical is almost over, right?”

He nods. “I know.”

“I think I’m gonna go home midweek next week,” you say. “Just to give myself some time to settle before I have to go back to work.”

“Makes sense,” he says. “Let me know the details and I’ll get you to the station.”

The two of you keep walking, huddling into each other slightly when the wind picks up. Some of his hair wisps across your face, the touch like silk against your skin. You shiver with it and return your gaze to the countryside, to the rolling hills and the shorn paddies.

One or two of the trees are already fully bare; they reach towards the sky with long-fingered branches. There’s a murmur of swallows nestled in the nearest one, so numerous it’s as if the tree has leaves again. As you watch, they take to the skies, undulating through the soft gray-blue of it.

“I’ll miss it,” you say softly.

“Bein’ here?”

“Yeah.”

“Ya can come back anytime, y’know. There’s always a place for you.”

You glance at him. His stoic face has softened and you think of the thaw of a spring day. How the quiet warmth of it melts the chill away.

“Thanks, Shinsuke.”

“Mhm.”

The two of you walk together quietly before turning around to head back to Kita’s farm when the chilly breeze becomes a whistling wind. It whips through the fields to cut through your clothing and you press into Kita without thinking, seeking the warmth of his solid form. He unwinds his scarf and drapes it around your neck; you don’t bother to protest. He’s immovable about things like this. Instead, you burrow into the warmth of it.

You all but tumble into the genkan of the farmhouse. Kita follows you at a more sedate pace. You toe off your shoes and slip on your usual pair of house slippers. He does the same and you watch as he puts his shoes away carefully, arranging them perfectly within the cubby.

You both settle at the kotatsu, huddling under the thick down of the blanket. You trace a finger over one of the origami cranes patterned into it. They’re perfect, so different from the clumsy paper cranes you’d both made with some of the local children the other day.

Kita turns on the kotatsu. It starts to warm almost immediately and you sink into the heat of it with a quiet sigh.

“What’re you smiling about?” you ask him.

“You,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes. “Okay,” you say.

“D’ya want tea?”

“Sure.”

He slips out from under the kotatsu and heads into the kitchen. You turn enough that you can still see him; you like watching him make tea. He’s careful and respectful of the process from beginning to end, but you like how it loosens his shoulders, how he unfurls, a night-blooming flower.

He rejoins you at the kotatsu once the tea is made, handing you a steaming cup. The scent of it billows through the air. When you sip at the tea, it settles warm in your chest, pushing out the autumn chill.

“You’ll have to teach me how to make tea like this,” you tell Kita.

He smiles into his cup. “It’s not hard.”

“Says you.”

“Might not have time to teach you before you go,” he says with a frown. “The farm—”

“You can teach me when you visit.” You pause. “You will visit, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” you say, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You can teach me then.”

He agrees and the conversation flows until it’s late. You peer out into the darkness and see the moon—full-bellied with light—is beginning to set, sinking through the dark ocean of the sky like an anchor.

“Shit,” you say. “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“S’fine,” Kita says. “I don’t mind.”

“I know, I know. Ugh, I’m gonna wake up Yoshida when I get in.”

“You can stay, y’know.”

You glance at him. He meets your gaze steadily.

“I have a guest room,” he reminds you.

“Okay,” you say after a moment. “Okay.”

“You’ll have to get up early, though.”

“That’s fine.”

He smiles softly. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s finish cleaning up.”

You clean up the kotatsu quickly; despite the late hour, Kita still takes the time to wash the dishes. He washes them with careful concentration and something in your chest pangs.

“Go ahead to the guest room,” he says. “‘M almost done here. I’ll see if I can find you somethin’ to sleep in.”

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright.”

The guest room is homey, with a handmade quilt patterned with rice plants that almost look like they’re rippling in the wind. You trace a finger over one of them as you glance around the rest of the room, taking in the way the stark cleanliness is offset by the items scattered about: the fan patterned with cherry blossoms hanging on the wall; the plant at the window, lush despite the season; a paperweight on the desk, glass swirled through with blue and white, the ocean roiling within it. It’s not quite Kita, but you can sense him in it all the same.

Kita knocks on the door frame. You turn to look at him. “Here,” he says, holding out a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Thought you might need these.”

“Thanks,” you say, sending him a little smile. “Appreciate it.”

“‘Course.”

“Night, Shinsuke.”

“G’night,” he says. “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“Sounds good.”

He disappears into his room.

You get ready for bed and slide under the covers. The quilt is heavy and warmth builds quickly under it, like a banked fire. You turn your face into the pillow to hide from the moonlight slanting in through the window. The pillowcase smells vaguely like Kita and the simple detergent he uses.

Sleep comes easily.

So easily that it feels like you’ve only been asleep for a second when Kita’s knocking on the guest room door to rouse you for the day. Blearily, you slip on your clothing before trudging into the kitchen.

Kita glances up as you enter. His hair is still damp from the shower; it glistens like the gray winter sea beneath a bleak sun.

“Mornin’,” he says.

“Hi,” you grumble.

He breathes out a quiet laugh. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

You drowse on the ride back to Yoshida’s, just aware enough to hear the quiet hum of the radio as it fills the truck’s cab. The sun is starting to rise, the first fingers of light painting the horizon orange, like embers just beginning to catch. You turn away from it, curling into yourself in the front seat.

The truck rumbling to a halt wakes you. You grouse and Kita laughs again. He doesn’t bother to dodge when you swat at him.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you say with a yawn, one hand on the car door’s handle, already looking forward to crawling back into bed.

“‘Course,” he says. “You always have a place with me.”

You pause.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”

His eyes crinkle with his smile.

“Go to work,” you tell him.

“Yes ma’am.”

You hop out and head to the genkan. You hear the truck rumble to life behind you, the engine practically purring. By the time you make it to the genkan and look back, Kita is already down the road.

You watch until he’s gone from view.

This early, the train station is quiet.

The sun is still rising, casting pale golden rays across the parking lot. It haloes Kita in light as he pulls your suitcase from the truck bed, his muscles flexing with the movement. You take it from him and the two of you head towards the platform together.

“Travel safe, alright?” he says when you come to a halt just before the doors.

“Shinsuke,” you say, “thank you for everything.”

“Anytime.”

“You’ll visit?”

“I’ll visit,” he confirms. “You?”

“I’ll come back,” you say.

“Good.”

He smiles at you, a slow, sweet thing that makes you think of the sun’s rise. It’s steady and sure, unshakeable.

You throw your arms around him in a hug. He stumbles for a second, caught off guard, but he catches himself quickly and wraps his arms around you. He holds you tightly. You bury your face in his shoulder. He smells like plain soap, fresh and clean, with the faintest kiss of lemon, a touch of sour citronella that you know he uses for the fields.

When you pull away, the tips of his ears are pink.

“Bye, Shinsuke,” you say.

“Bye,” he says softly.

You head inside the station. When you glance back, you can just make out the silhouette of him, lean and strong. He must be able to see you, because he gives a little wave before he turns away.

The train is almost empty when you board it and you settle in a window seat. You close your eyes and turn your face towards the sun, the gentle rays just barely starting to warm as they brush against your skin.

You open your eyes when the train starts to move, peering out of the window as the countryside speeds by. The rice fields are shorn short now but the gold of them hasn’t faded. The remains of the stalks reach towards the great blue sky, two expanses meeting. Beyond the fields, even the hills are going golden, though they’re slower, with green patches scattered across them like lily pads in a pond.

You think you might be leaving a part of yourself in the expanse of the country. That the fields have swallowed up some part of you, like the earth swallows a seed. It makes something in you pang.

Soon enough, the countryside melts away into the suburbs. Then come the neon lights of the city, streaking by like fireflies, little blips of color that blink to life here and there.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it.

The house is quiet when you step into the genkan; only the musical clink of your keys fills the space. The greeting is on the tip of your tongue, but you catch it behind your teeth and swallow it back down. You take in a deep breath and set your suitcase down before brushing by the photos in the entryway, most of them facedown.

It takes time to unpack. Most of your clothes are clean, but you run a load of laundry anyway, listening to the way the water swishes and spins, the low rumble of it filling the house. You text Kita to let him know you’ve arrived safely and then collapse onto your couch, staring up at the ceiling.

You don’t know how long you lie there before you hear the door to the house open. Muffled bickering floats to you from the genkan and you push yourself up just as Abe comes barreling around the corner.

She skids to a stop just before the couch and grins down at you.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” you reply. “Did you break in?”

“No,” Yoshikawa says, appearing from around the corner. She twirls something around her finger; it glints in the light. “Used the spare.”

“It’s funny,” you say. “I don’t remember inviting either of you over.”

She shrugs elegantly, her long hair swaying like kelp in a current. “Did you really think we were going to miss you coming home?”

“No,” you say with a little laugh. “I didn’t.”

“Good.”

You exchange hugs with both of them, holding them tightly and yelping when Abe spins you in a circle. Yoshikawa is more sedate but her hug is strong and warm. You blink away the tears before they can fall.

The three of you settle into the living room. You catch up with each other easily, swapping stories and laughing together, the sound billowing through the room to fill even the darkest corners with joy. Your heart aches as Abe throws back her head and laughs, her dark hair shimmering in the light, her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

“You’re too easily entertained,” Yoshikawa informs her, but there’s a smile playing at her lips too, downy-soft and deeply pleased.

“Shut up,” Abe says, still giggling.

For a moment, you just watch them, taking in their features, their smiles, the sound of them. You want to commit them to memory, parts of them that you’ve taken into yourself to treasure, to keep. Pieces never to be lost.

“Hey,” Yoshikawa says. “What’s wrong?”

You realize that your cheeks are hot and wet. You scrub a hand over your face as more tears fall.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just really missed you.”

She hums, but doesn’t push you on it, sending Abe a look when she opens her mouth. “We missed you too,” she says. “Do you want us to spend the night?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, thinking of how empty the house was before they filled it. “That would be great.”

“Okay.”

The conversation picks up again, only pausing when you order takeout as night falls. Though you’ve spoken consistently with them while you were in the country, there are still stories to tell. The three of you talk and talk, full of laughter and love, and it only feels a little bittersweet.

As the night deepens, Yoshikawa and Abe go to the genkan and grab the bags they’ve brought, much to your embarrassment. Abe pats you on the shoulder as you bury your face in your hands. Neither of them comment.

You tumble into bed with them in a mess of limbs. When the dust settles, you’re curled up on your side of the bed, almost pushed off the edge by Abe’s starfished limbs. You poke her in the stomach and she curls up with a groan. You reclaim the space quickly.

“Rude,” she tells you.

“You were taking up the whole bed!”

She grumbles but doesn’t bother to argue.

Quiet falls, only the gentle sound of breathing filling the room. You snuggle down into your comforter, pushing closer to Abe and relishing her warmth.

“I invited Shinsuke to visit,” you breathe.

Yoshikawa pushes up to her elbows behind Abe, peering down at you with her dark, knowing eyes.

“Here?” she asks.

You nod, the pillowcase crinkling against your cheek.

She hums, low and sweet, a honeyed thunder. “You’ll let him stay at the house?”

“I don’t know,” you say, thinking of Takao, the way he’d been flayed open when he asked you to not bring Kita to the house. “Aoshi—”

“Isn’t here,” Yoshikawa says gently. “You don’t have to hold on to that promise if you don’t want to.”

You blink against the tears as they swell up, beading on your eyelashes like little diamonds. Abe reaches out and cups your cheek.

“You’ll figure it out,” she says softly. “You don’t need to know now.”

You close your eyes, a few more tears trickling down. The pillowcase is damp beneath your cheek. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “You’re right.”

“I always am,” she says, and then yelps when Yoshikawa pinches her. “Ow, Yocchan!”

Yoshikawa ignores her, settling back down onto the bed with a yawn.

It’s contagious; you find yourself yawning as well and snuggle down deeper into the comforter once more. Abe shifts closer, seeking heat.

You fall asleep with her pressed tight against your side.

It feels like coming home.

Fall fades away.

The trees lose their leaves entirely, leaving branches that reach into the sky with scraggly fingers. Frost creeps over the windows in icy whorls, a cobweb of winter, fanning out in intricate patterns that melt when you breathe on them. The winter sun glows in the softened blue of the sky, only to be replaced with gray clouds.

The first snow is falling when you go to pick up Kita.

The flakes are fat and fluffy, perfectly crystalline. They flutter through the air like butterflies, spinning in great, lazy arcs as they drift to the ground. They melt as soon as they hit the pavement.

They catch in Kita’s hair as the two of you head into the house, little dew drops that make his gray hair shine. He’s cherry-cheeked with the cold, his face half-buried in his scarf. It’s cute. Something in you pangs when he sends you a little smile, only discernible by the way his eyes crinkle at the edges.

The two of you peel off your outer layers in the genkan. Kita puts his away carefully, at odds with your slightly haphazard method of kicking your boots away to find later.

“It’s future me’s problem,” you tell him and he just shakes his head, a small smile caught in the corner of his lips.

You show him to the guest room, freshly made up for his visit, and linger in the hallway as he stores his suitcase.

“Dinner?” you ask as he steps out into the hall again.

“That’d be great.”

“C’mon, I’ve got some things ready in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good.”

He follows you into the kitchen and insists on helping. You direct him to the plates as you check on what you’ve made. There’s colorful tsukemono, each pickled vegetable bright in its own way, stained to watercolors by the pickling liquid. The curry is thick and bubbling, with chunks of heavily marbled meat and vegetables coated in the sauce. The rice is steaming lightly and so are the nikuman, each bun pinched shut perfectly.

“Ya didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” Kita says, eyeing the food as he sets the table.

“Too late,” you say cheerfully. “Eat.”

He smiles softly, shaking his head, but sits down when you gesture. You join him and the two of you start to fill your plates.

You talk quietly as you eat, all easy chatter. Part of you can’t help but think of the beginning, when everything with him was stilted and careful. That’s changed through the years but it’s even easier now, the conversation flowing like a river, calm and unchanging.

When you’re done eating, Kita collects the plates and brings them to the sink. He rolls up his sleeves and turns the water on. You sigh but don’t bother to say anything. Instead, you settle in next to him with a dish towel in your hand.

He’s radiating a soft, gentle heat. It takes conscious effort to not lean into him.

He washes and you dry, falling into an effortless rhythm.

“Are you seeing Aran while you’re here?” you ask.

“He’s away trainin’,” Kita says, handing you another dish. “So’s Atsumu. I’ll see Osamu, but you know I’m here to see you, right?”

Your cheeks heat. “I know,” you say. “But two birds, one stone, y’know?”

He hums, rinsing off the final dish and drying his hands. He leaves his sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. For a moment, you watch the play of his muscles, the way they coil beneath his tanned skin as he picks up the dry dishes and brings them back to the cabinet. You look away when you realize what you’re doing.

You both go to bed early that night; Kita’s tired from his usual early wake-up and the travel. You try not to laugh as he bids you goodnight. It’s cute, the way he blinks sleepily, his amber eyes softened to a honeyed brown.

You can hear him as you get ready for bed, the quiet little noises of another person’s presence. It soothes something in you.

You glance at your wedding rings, ensconced in a little jewelry dish on your nightstand. They gleam in the light. You run your fingers over them, tracing the cool metal gently.

You put them away in a drawer before you go to sleep.

The snowstorm hits on the last day of Kita’s visit.

The wind whips between buildings, catching the snowflakes and tossing them about like ships on a stormy sea. The snow piles up into thick drifts, the silken white of it gone yellow beneath the glow of the street lights, like a melting pat of butter.

You and Kita watch the storm from where you’re tucked under the kotatsu. You’d pulled it out when you’d heard the forecast, the two of you working together to get it set up. It still works, luckily, and the two of you sit next to each other and bask in the soothing warmth.

The wind slows; you gaze at the snowflakes as they slow, drifting like dancers across the stage, each puffy flake a part of its own ballet. Everything has gone quiet, muffled at the edges. It’s like the world is waiting to take its next breath.

“What are you thinking?” Kita asks softly.

When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you.

“I don’t know,” you say, your voice just as soft as his. “All sorts of things.”

He hums quietly.

The wind picks up again; the windows rattle with it. You shiver, snuggling further under the kotatsu. Kita shifts. His leg presses against yours, a line of warmth even under the heat of the kotatsu.

You glance at him. He’s watching the storm. It reflects in his eyes, lightening them, taking them from amber to gold. You think of the rice fields at their peak, when they’re treasured gold, and can’t help the small smile that curls around your lips.

Perhaps he feels your gaze, because Kita turns to face you. In the low light, he’s softened at the edges, a watercolor being. His eyes are aglow, like sunlight pooling. He gives you a small smile.

“What is it?”

“I’m so lucky to have you,” you say quietly, the words pouring from you like a waterfall, something unstoppable.

He goes still for a breath, a statue of old. Then he softens again.

“You’ll always have me,” he says, and you used to hate how true it is. Now, though—now it feels different. Just a bit.

“Thank you, Shinsuke,” you say.

Something flickers over his face like heat lightning, too quick for you to comprehend. You think you might have disappointed him.

You turn your gaze away. It lands on a picture frame placed face-down. You suck in a deep breath. Before you can stop them, the tears are burning behind your eyes, starting to trickle down your cheeks. You scrub at them with one hand.

“Sorry,” you say to Kita.

“S’alright,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, even as another tear trickles down to pool salty on your tongue.

He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between the two of you. He waits.

You nod.

He cups your cheek and sweeps his thumb under your eye. His touch has the same aching tenderness of a fresh, swollen bruise. You lean into his palm, keeping your eyes on his, your cheeks hot as he smiles at you sadly.

He wipes away the tears before pulling back. You can see the gleam of them on his thumb.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Course.”

You scrub away the remains of the tears and then blow out a big breath. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

Kita studies you for a moment. You don’t know what he sees in your face, but he nods, giving you a soft smile. “Sure.”

“Great,” you say, pushing to your feet. “You choose.”

“If you want,” he says, standing as well and heading towards the living room. “No complaining, though.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll be there in a minute,” you call after him, leaning down to turn off the kotatsu. You tuck the comforter in, tidying it up lightly. You nod to yourself. When you turn around, you pause for a moment, your gaze settling on the face-down picture frame.

It’s a photo you know well, one of you and Takao on the beach, the ocean a vast expanse behind you, glittering with the searing blue of the tropics. You’re caught mid-laugh as Takao plants a kiss on your cheek. It’s always been a favorite.

Before you leave the room, you stand the picture frame back up.

You drop Kita off at the train station early the next day. You breathe him in as you hug him goodbye, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He tightens his grip around you with a little laugh.

“I’ll come to the farm in spring,” you tell him. “I promise.”

“Good.”

You wave goodbye as he enters the train station; he glances back right before he disappears through the doors. Something warm blooms in you. It settles in your stomach and flutters there.

When you’ve made it home, you pull out your phone. You settle onto the edge of the couch as it rings, your shoulders stiff.

It rings until the voicemail clicks on and Takao’s voice floods your ears. You close your eyes as his voicemail message plays, letting his voice wash over you like a summer storm, a warm, sweet rain. You listen to Takao talk, relearning the cadence of his voice, the way it rises and falls, the way his tongue curls around words. You hadn’t realized how much of it you’d forgotten.

“Hi,” you say when the tone beeps. “I miss you.”

You’re quiet for a moment; the line carries on, reflecting you breathing back to yourself.

“Shinsuke just left,” you say. “Aoshi—I think I like him. More than I ever thought I could. Is that alright?”

The line is silent.

“I didn’t mean to like him,” you say. “I really didn’t. But he’s good, Aoshi. He’s so good.”

You sniffle.

“I don’t know what to do,” you murmur. “I don’t know how to leave you behind. But I think—I think he’s okay with that. I just—it feels like giving in. Like our choice, the one we made over and over again, was for nothing.”

You take in a deep, steadying breath.

“I know that’s not true. I know that our choice was for everything. That it never really was a choice in the first place, not for me.”

“I just—I really think I like him, Aoshi. Is that alright? Please tell me it’s alright.”

The voicemail beeps; you’ve hit the end of the time you can record. You hang up and bury your face in your hands.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

You lay back on the couch, rubbing at your eyes with the heels of your hands. You curl in on yourself.

You grab your phone and dial again.

“Hi.”

“Natsumi.”

“Oh, shit, no nickname, that’s not a good sign.”

“I think I like Shinsuke.”

She pauses. “Is that a bad thing?” she asks gently.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“It just—”

“Feels like giving in?”

“...Yeah. Was this always going to happen?”

“Maybe,” she says. “But maybe not. You don’t have to be with him, you know. If you don’t want to, that is.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“I think you do,” she says gently.

“I don’t, Nat-chan.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me put it this way: is your only issue with Kita the fact that he’s your soulmate?”

“He’s not Aoshi.”

“No one is going to be Aoshi. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Liking Kita isn’t giving up on Aoshi. It’s not leaving him behind. It’s just moving forward. You’ll bring him with you no matter what, no matter how far forward you move,” she says, and you bite at your bottom lip until you can taste blood.

“I don’t want to be with my soulmate just because they’re my soulmate.”

“Do you really think you might like Kita just because he’s your soulmate?”

“...No.”

“It’s not bad to like him,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re not bad for liking him because of who he is.”

“I don’t even know if I really like him.”

“Sweetheart,” Abe says, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you didn’t.”

You go quiet. As her words settle in, you glance out the window. The snow on the ground is still pristine; it glimmers under the bleak winter sunlight. The neighborhood children are starting to stomp through it. They’re bundled up tight, practically waddling as they play. You take a deep breath.

“Maybe you’re right,” you say.

“I don’t know how many times I have to say that I always am before you believe me.”

“You’re wrong way too much for me to believe that.”

“Don’t be mean!”

You smile. “Thanks, Nat-chan,” you say softly.

“Any time,” she says. “You’ll figure it out.”

As you hang up, you know that you will.

Winter melts into spring.

The snow gives way to crocuses, which bloom like bruises, deep purple with stamen peeking shyly out of the center. The trees come to life, budding quickly, little specks of green dotted along the branches like stars.

And on the farm, there are ducklings, tiny and fluffy, their down pollen-yellow.

“Oh, Shin,” you say as he hands you one, dropping it carefully into your hands. It peeps its protest before snuggling up in your palm like a tiny sun. “I love them.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich. “I thought you might. Do you wanna name ‘em?”

“Really? You’ll let me?”

“Course.”

“I’ll have to think of good ones,” you say. “Can I have a few days?”

“Take as much time as you need,” he says. “They’re not going anywhere.”

You nuzzle up against the one in your hand; it peeps again, as if grumbling at you. When you glance at Kita, he has a fond smile playing on his lips.

He takes you around on some of his other chores. There are seedlings in the garden, tiny little things just barely poking out of the ground, a promise of green growth. You water them carefully, wary of their thin, delicate stems.

Finally, you find yourself back in Kita’s genkan. Your boots—a pair of his, really, laced tightly to keep them on—are muddy, so you stop just inside the door. You’re leaning down to untie the boots when Kita kneels before you.

“Shin…” you say and he glances back up at you with mischief in his smile. You decide it’s not worth it to try and stop him.

He makes quick work of the laces with his deft fingers. You watch his bent head quietly, taking in the thunderstorm gray of it, edged with blackened clouds. You catch yourself before you run your fingers through it.

“Up,” he says. You steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you step out of first boot; he wraps his hand around your wrist.

It’s not long before both boots are off. Before you can even start to move, Kita has your house slippers in hand. He takes your ankle in his big hand, waiting for you to lift your foot so he can slip on the first slipper.

You almost balk. But he looks up at you with his keen amber eyes and you can’t help yourself. You lift your foot and he slides the slipper into place. He does the same thing with the second slipper.

“Thanks,” you say, cheeks hot.

He nods. He pushes to his feet, a graceful ripple of motion, and tilts his head at you. “Lunch?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “That sounds good.”

You cook together with ease. You know his kitchen by heart now, able to pull pans from their place without looking, knowing which of his fresh herbs to clip without double-checking with him.

It makes something in you ache.

Kita returns to the fields after lunch. You choose to not go with him, deciding instead to curl up on the engawa with a book. You settle into place with your book on your lap and stare out into the countryside.

It’s just beginning to go green with the flooded paddies glinting in the sun, a false ocean. The water glimmers with movement as the breeze rolls over you. A stork prowls through the paddies, long and elegant, moving with slow precision. Its beak flashes as it darts down to snap up some little creature. It takes off after that, spreading its wings wide and soaring into the blue expanse of the sky. You watch until it’s no more than a dot in the vastness.

You curl up and start reading and don’t notice when evening starts to fall. That’s where Kita finds you when he comes home from the fields. You hadn’t even noticed his truck trundling up the driveway.

“Hi,” you say as he comes up on the engawa, marking your place and getting to your feet.

“Hi,” he replies. “Have you been here all afternoon?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.”

You eye him, trying to figure out what’s given you away. Kita stays stoic, as if carved from stone, and you huff.

You follow him inside, kicking off your outside shoes before he can even try to kneel, and hop up from the genkan. As usual he goes to shower, ready to rinse off the fields. You keep reading.

He comes padding back into the kitchen a while later with a towel wound around his neck. His hair is still damp and you can see a cowlick curling at the back of his head. His tan skin glistens.

“Dinner?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “What do you want to make?”

You discuss your options in front of the fridge, crowded in next to each other to see what he has. He’s still warm from the shower. You press closer to him and see him glance at you from the corner of his eye. He smiles, soft and sweet, and turns his attention back to the fridge.

Eventually, you finally decide. Kita hands you a handful of carrots and you start to julienne them thinly, your knife—perfectly sharp, the most well-maintained kitchen knife you’ve ever seen—flashing in the light.

He starts halving baby bok choy, little gems of green and white. The pan hisses when he drops them in, giving it a good toss before he moves on to his next task.

“Is it really okay for me to be here during such a busy season?” you ask.

He glances at you. “I wouldn’t invite ya if it wasn’t a good time.”

“True.”

“Besides, I told you there was always a place here for you, and I meant it.”

Your cheeks heat. “I know.”

“Good.”

Quiet falls, broken only by the sound of your knife against the board and the hiss of the pan as Kita stirs it again. It’s comfortable, though, and you feel no need to fill the air. The two of you cook away, moving around each other easily in his small kitchen, as if it’s a dance you’ve always known.

It’s comforting in a way you’d almost forgotten.

You take a deep breath, your stomach churning a bit, and Kita glances over at you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Just tired.”

He smiles softly. “If you wanna go to bed early, I don’t mind.”

“We’ll see,” you tell him. “Now finish up, I’m hungry.”

He laughs, but the two of you are done cooking not long after. You settle down to eat. You tell him some ideas you’ve had to name the ducks (“Duck is a perfectly good name, Shin!” “If ya say so.”) and he tells you about his day. It’s peaceful. Easy.

You’ve just finished eating when you reach out and cover Kita’s hand with your own. “Shin,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Fer what?”

You shrug, unable to put the jumble inside you into words.

He turns his hand over under yours and laces your fingers together. You don’t pull away.

“Yer always thankin’ me,” he says softly. “You don’t need to.”

“I do, though.”

“You don’t.”

You look at him. He meets your gaze easily, amber eyes gone whiskey-dark. He gives your hand a little squeeze.

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” he says.

You squeeze back. “I will, though.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue.

For another moment, you both sit there, hands intertwined. You watch each other. You can feel the strength in his fingers and the hint of sweat on his palm. It’s warm and solid and real. Something in your chest stirs.

You’re the one that pulls back first, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Kita lets you go without a word.

The rest of dinner is quiet; you both go to your rooms early, influenced by Kita’s schedule. You murmur a soft goodnight in the hallway. You can still hear him when you’re in the guest room, listening to him rustling around before it all goes silent.

You gaze out the guest room window, taking in the rising moon. It’s waxing, almost full-bellied with light, pouring over the fields. It reflects off the water of the flooded paddies, a distorted mirror of itself. Under the moonlight, the fields go silvery, delicate and gossamer as they start to come to life. It’s beautiful in a foreign way.

You curl up on the bed with your book, texting Yoshikawa and Abe here and there as your phone lights up. When the moon is high in the sky, you finally get ready for bed.

You fall asleep thinking about the weight of Kita’s hand in your own.

Something shifts between you.

It’s slow like a dune in the wind, the sand taking on a new shape, but neither of you have mentioned it. Maybe you don’t need to. Maybe it’s all said in each fleeting glance, a language written in the amber of Kita’s gaze.

The days pass in a flicker of quiet moments. You spend a morning naming the ducklings, tucked in close to Kita’s side so he can see which one you’re pointing to. You repeat yourself as he takes them in, his brow furrowed as he notes the name for each nearly-identical duckling.

Some days you join him in the fields, kneeling down into the muck to sow a shoot into place. He guides you with careful hands, his warm fingers wrapped firmly around yours. You eat lunch in the bed of his truck, mud flaking off of your boots, and bask in the spring sun.

It’s easy. It’s terrifying.

You think of the taste of ozone, how it crackles on your tongue. The slow, sharp bite of it.

You know something will give. That the storm will break over you and change everything in its path.

You think you might finally be ready for it.

You come awake with a jolt.

The sheets stick to you, caught in the layer of sweat accumulating on you. You sit up and press a hand to your heart, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings.

Once you’ve regained your breath, you stumble over to the window and pull it open. The countryside breeze billows inside. It still carries the sharp bite of winter, but it’s mellowed under spring’s tender bloom. You close your eyes and let it flow over you.

The breeze cools you, your sweat going tacky before it dries down completely. The dream rolls over you again and you shudder.

You find yourself padding down the hallway without realizing it. You stop just in front of the door. You tug at your lower lip with your teeth before taking a deep breath.

You knock gently on the door and then open it.

“Shin?” you whisper.

The lump on the bed stirs. Kita pushes up onto his elbows. He’s bathed in moonlight, his hair haloed silver, the dark tips a moon’s eclipse. He’s bleary-eyed but he focuses on you instantly.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Bad dream.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate.

“That bad?”

You shake your head. “I just…can I lay with you for a bit? Is that okay?” you ask, heart in your throat. You need to know he’s still here. That he’s real.

His eyes widen before they go soft. He pulls back the covers and scoots over to give you more room. You’re across the room in an instant, slipping onto the futon. It’s still warm with his body heat and you shiver, goosebumps dancing across your skin.

You keep a small distance between you when you lay down, but you let your head turn towards him. He’s still up on one elbow, the muscles in his bicep bunched with it, and he’s studying you carefully.

He’s handsome, you realize, not for the first time. He’s sleep-rumpled, his hair messy and ruffled and his shirt wrinkled and bunched up just enough to show off a silver of his paler belly. The moonlight plays over him like a lover, lingering on the arch of his cheekbones and the dusting of freckles sprayed over his nose. His thick lashes flutter as he blinks, showcasing eyes gone golden, and you almost sigh.

He lies back down when you don’t move. The space between the two of you is small but it feels massive, a gulf between your two bodies, separating the shores of you.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You shake your head.

He reaches out and hesitates halfway, his big hand hovering in the air. In the moonlight, the constellation of his scars is more visible, little nicks and cuts that gleam bone-white in the light.

“Can I?” he asks.

Your nod is tiny; the sheets crinkle with it.

He cups your cheek. His palm is rough against your skin but he’s careful with it, touches you as if you’re made of glass. It’s almost reverent. He sweeps his thumb across the apple of your cheek.

“What did you dream of?” he breathes.

“You.”

“Me?”

“I couldn’t find you,” you murmur, leaning into his touch. “I looked and looked, but you weren’t there.”

“I’m here now.”

You hum.

“I’m here now,” he says again and it sounds like a promise.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “You are.”

You shift on the futon. The sheets smell of him, of the faintest hint of the salt of his skin and his soap, and you close your eyes to let it envelop you. You nestle down into the pillow with a little yawn.

“Go back to bed,” Kita murmurs, caressing your cheek with careful fingers. “You’ll be tired in the morning.”

You stir under his touch, opening one eye. He’s watching you, his amber eyes unbearably fond, and something in you pangs. You press closer to him; he radiates a gentle warmth and you relax into it.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask quietly. “Please?”

You pretend to not hear the way his breath catches.

“You sure?” he asks.

You press closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna regret it when my alarm goes off at dawn,” Kita says, a smile written in his sleep-rough voice.

“I won’t,” you say. “Promise.”

He hums skeptically.

“Maybe you’ll regret it,” you whisper into the salt of his skin. “You might.”

He stills, and then he’s coaxing you up to look at him. His eyes gleam in the dim, a flash of amber, of the richness of the earth. He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours.

“No,” he says. “I could never regret you.”

He always hears what you can’t quite bring yourself to say.

“Never?”

He nudges his nose against yours.

“Never.”

His breath stirs against your lips, and you take it in, make it your own. You sway closer, undulating like kelp, half-dizzy with it, and then you sway closer still.

He waits for you.

(He always has.)

When you kiss him, it’s simple. It feels right.

Kita sighs into it, one big hand coming up to cup your face, his rough palm reverent against your skin. There’s no urgency to him; he’s honey-slow with it, melting into you under the cover of night.

You kiss him again, and again, like the tide against the shore, lapping at the edges of him until you’re etched into his skin. He meets you each time, sweet and steady.

You kiss him until he is all you know, and then you kiss him once more.

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he sweeps his thumb over your cheekbone.

You part your lips, and he presses a little kiss against them before he pulls back. In the dim, his amber eyes have gone whiskey-dark, deep and heady.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

You press your face into the warm crook of his neck again. He smells of plain soap and a lingering hint of citronella from the fields, sweet and stinging. You breathe him in, let the scent of him settle into you, a part of him to carry always.

Kita curls a gentle arm around you.

“Go to sleep,” he breathes, and you pull back to look at him. He watches you, his vulpine eyes unbearably fond, and he smiles against your lips when you kiss him again.

He cups your cheek and pulls you into a deeper kiss before he backs away. He sweeps his lips against yours in a chaste peck and says again, “Go to sleep.”

“Fine,” you murmur. You curl up into him as his breath starts to even out. You listen to the tide of it, the ebb and flow, a balm against a bruise you’ll always have, and close your eyes knowing that he’s right there.

You wake to the quiet beep of his alarm clock. He rises from bed with quicksilver ease, the thick muscles of his back rippling under his sleep shirt. It’s barely dawn; wan light filters in through the curtains like an azure sea, outlining him faintly as he moves around the room. He looks like something out of a painting, sketched out in broad strokes of soft shadows.

He looks too good to be true.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs as you shift on the futon. His sheets are well-worn, the type of broken in that comes with years of use and careful care. “It’s early.”

Instead, you get up with him, slipping out from beneath the warmth of the comforter with a soft sigh. Kita gives you a little smile, a crescent moon tilt of his lips, and your cheeks heat. You glance away and hear him huff out a laugh.

He disappears into the bathroom, and you make up the futon, smoothing your hands over the wrinkles until they disappear.

By the time he pads into the kitchen, the old coffeemaker is hissing and gurgling, spitting out a steady drip of liquid. He brushes by you to get a mug, his hand warm on your lower back as he sidles past. The heat of him lingers.

The two of you eat breakfast in a comfortable silence. He slides his portion of your favorite onto your plate without a word; you push your share of pickled daikon into one of his small kobachi dishes. He says nothing,, but his lips quirk at the edges, the faintest hint of a sweet smile.

He gets up when you’re both finished, pushing to his feet in one fluid movement. His muscles coil with it, going taut beneath his tanned skin. It’s more distracting than you thought it would be.

You peer at him from the corner of your eyes as he starts to clear the table. He moves with careful intent, his big hands steady against the delicate porcelain.

You want to kiss him again.

Instead, you get to your feet and finish clearing the table, handing him dishes when he gestures for them. You wash the dishes together. Over the whisper of the running water, you talk about your upcoming day, trying to decide if you’ll be able to eat lunch together as well. You can’t quite keep the smile from your lips.

When the dishes are put away, you walk with him onto the engawa. He cups your cheek, sweeping his thumb over the arch of your cheekbone, and smiles.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

“I’ll be here,” you say, soft and full of promise, and his eyes crinkle with his smile.

You watch from the engawa as he disappears into the distance, into the paddies, swallowed up by the verdant world he’s created with his own hands. He glances back at you once, just before he disappears from sight.

You raise your face to the gentle warmth of the rising sun.

It’s a new day.