Sunday Morning Hit Differently
Haruki awoke to the clink of pots and a soft, steady sizzle echoing through the house. At first, it didn't register. He blinked up at the ceiling, groggy and warm beneath the covers, his room still soaked in the pale blue light of early morning.
Then the smell hit him.
Butter. Soy sauce. Garlic.
His stomach growled before his brain could catch up.
He rolled out of bed, dragging himself into a sweatshirt and sweats, and padded barefoot down the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
The kitchen light was already on.
And there she was.
Miyako Hanabira.Standing at the stove like she'd always belonged there, ponytail swaying with each clumsy shift in her stance, one bare foot tapping as she waited for the egg mixture to set in the pan. She wore his oversized T-shirt again, slouching off one shoulder like it had been styled that way, revealing the curve of her collarbone and a glimpse of pale pink sports bra beneath.
She was humming a soft, off-key version of some idol group jingle and the mismatched socks on her feet only made the image more surreal.
Haruki stared for a beat too long.
"You're cooking now?" he mumbled, voice still rough from sleep.
She turned and flashed him a bright smile, cheeks faintly flushed from the warmth of the stove.
"It's a wife's duty, isn't it?"
His brain short-circuited for a moment. "…You say that like it's normal."
She shrugged playfully. "You looked tired lately. Figured I'd feed my hardworking fake-husband."
Haruki scratched the back of his neck. "What happened to emotional repression curry?"
"Too spicy for breakfast," she said, flipping the egg roll with almost-grace. "Today's menu is tamagoyaki, rice, and miso soup. Light. Traditional. Thought I'd beat your little fan club to the punch."
He narrowed his eyes. "This isn't about Mina."
She didn't look at him when she answered.
"Mm. Isn't it, though?"
They ate in relative silence.
Only the occasional clink of chopsticks and the soft humming from the radio filled the quiet between them. The food was simple but warm, comforting in that way Sunday mornings should be.
"You know," Haruki said halfway through his second bowl of miso, "you're the first girl who's ever cooked for me."
Miyako blinked, then glanced up, almost startled. "Seriously?"
He nodded, eyes on his bowl.
A small smirk curled at the edge of her lips, but there was something softer underneath it.
"Well then," she said lightly, "I claim that title. *Official chef-wife.*"
Haruki glanced at her, but her eyes were already back on her rice.
"You're not competing with Mina," he said quietly.
Miyako's chopsticks paused midair.
"Maybe not," she said after a moment. "Maybe I'm just competing with myself."
She set the bowl down gently. "Trying to beat the version of me who pretended she didn't care."
Haruki didn't reply.
But that sentence lodged itself in his chest like a pin, soft and sharp all at once.
Arcade Trouble
That afternoon, they met up with their usual group downtown. The sky was bright, streets bustling, and laughter echoed from the open-air shopping center like the city itself was awake and excited.
Toma, Riku, and even Kaede had shown up for the casual hangout-slash-arcade battle, and Haruki was grateful for the distraction. Miyako had been quieter than usual since breakfast, but still full of energy, still smilingthough her smile looked rehearsed, the way performers rehearse their bows.
But then she arrived.
Mina Saejima. Dressed in a soft pink cardigan, city-girl confident, with that polite Tokyo grace that made everyone feel like they were lucky just to be acknowledged.
She greeted Haruki with a warm smile, her voice smooth and refined. "Hope I'm not too late?"
Haruki offered a polite nod. "Not at all."
Miyako's eyes narrowed just slightly.
Haruki noticed.
Inside the arcade, it started innocent enough.
A little basketball. Some crane games. Toma got scolded for shaking a machine.
But when Mina suggested she and Haruki try a two-player rhythm game, something shifted in the air.
Miyako's movements turned sharper her laughter louder, more frequent, as if she were trying to chase something off. She leaned into Riku's shoulder when he joked, playfully punching his arm with exaggerated glee.
Riku laughed awkwardly then promptly choked on his soda.
Miyako had whispered something. Loud enough for Kaede to hear.
Kaede, dry as ever, looked at her sideways. "You're trying to make him jealous."
Miyako scoffed. "I am not."
Kaede arched a brow. "You so are. But it's working."
Miyako glanced sideways.
Haruki wasn't watching Mina anymore.
He was watching her.
And not just watching seeing her, jaw tense, eyes unreadable.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the rooftops, casting long golden shadows that stretched along the sidewalk like echoing versions of themselves.
They walked side by side, a quiet bubble forming around them.
Finally, Haruki broke the silence.
"…Why'd you tell Riku to shout that thing about my abs being better than Kazuki's?"
Miyako's lips twitched. "You heard that?"
"Everyone heard that."
She tilted her head, hair catching the fading light. "What if I said I liked your abs better, too?"
He turned to look at her.
She wasn't smirking.
Just waiting.
The air between them stilled.
Haruki didn't say anything.
Miyako didn't press.
But the quiet that followed was no longer awkward or unsure.
It was heavy with realization.
Like both of them had finally noticed the edge they'd been dancing along and how close they were to falling over it.