The kitchen was warm with the scent of simmering soy and fresh rice. Ayaka stood barefoot in front of the stove, her robe loosely tied, pretending to focus on the miso paste dissolving in the broth.
Riku's voice cut through the hum of the kettle.
"You cook like a wife," he said from behind her, voice casual and teasing. "But you taste nothing like one."
She didn't turn around. "You're early. And loud."
"I missed you."
His arms slipped around her waist, fingers teasing the knot of her robe.
"Don't," she whispered. "This is still my home."
"I know," he murmured, brushing her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck. "That's what makes it so exciting."
She twisted in his arms. "Riku…"
Their eyes locked. The pot behind her began to boil over.
The altar room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the television. The flickering screen glowed with muted colors—a discreet channel playing a late-night scene.
Ayaka sat stiffly on her knees, arms crossed, watching the actors with pursed lips.
"Why did you put this on?" she asked.
"Because," Riku said, sitting behind her, pulling her gently into his lap, "I want to see how close we can get to it."
"You're disgusting."
He nuzzled into her neck. "You texted me first."
She didn't respond.
A faint thud echoed as a can of beer rolled across the tatami.
They didn't notice.
Back in the bedroom, the futon was pulled out and thrown across the floor without ceremony. The curtains fluttered against the walls. Ayaka's robe had been discarded somewhere between the hallway and here, and Riku's shirt now hung from the top corner of her wardrobe like a flag.
"On the floor like this…" she panted, barely catching her breath, "… you really are shameless."
"I thought I was your guest," Riku grinned, pinning her wrists gently above her head. "Treat me better."
"Only if you shut up," she muttered.
"Oh? But you like it when I talk. Especially when I say—"
"If you call him a loser again," she growled, breathless and flushed, "I'll kick you out naked."
Riku only laughed—low, full of heat.
"Fair," he whispered, before leaning down again.
Later, the bathroom was steamed over, a haze of heat clinging to every surface. Ayaka leaned over the edge of the tub, her legs half-draped in the water, breath still uneven.
"I can't believe you," she murmured, cheeks flushed. "In here too?"
Riku poured water down her spine with a wooden ladle. "I'm just helping you relax. You've been so stressed lately, Ayaka-chan."
She turned to look at him.
His smile was lazy and playful—the look of a man who knew he'd gotten everything he wanted.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"You don't," he said, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. "You hate what this makes you feel."
She said nothing, letting the silence speak for her.
In the tub, with the scent of shampoo and sweat lingering in the air, their bodies tangled one more time beneath the water's surface.
By 2:30 PM, the house was still again.
Riku left without saying much, just a backward grin and a wink that Ayaka didn't return.
The door clicked shut.
Ayaka stood in the hallway, her feet bare on the cool wooden floor. The house smelled like sex—a mix of heat, perfume, and regret.
She opened the windows in every room.
She scrubbed the kitchen counters, wiped the floorboards, and aired the futon. She found one of Riku's beer cans still half-full near the altar and tossed it silently into the trash.
She picked up discarded tissues without flinching. Collected the wrappers. Bleached the bathroom.
By the time she sat at the table again, it was 3:30. Her hair was still damp. She took two tablets for her headache and wrapped her hands around a cup of lukewarm coffee.
The house was spotless again.
But she didn't feel clean.
Her gaze lingered on the empty doorway, as if expecting Riku to reappear.
He wouldn't. Not today.
She exhaled.
"I need to stop this... but how?"