The transition from meal to aftermath was seamless, marked only by the scraping of chopsticks against the bottom of the bowls.
Even though it was just an instant noodle, it filled him completely, and Nifuji enjoyed it a lot.
"How is it? Does it compare to the chefs of those five-star hotels that you often visited?" Tayama asked with a smirk.
"...what do you think I am?" Nifuji was speechless. "I am not that wealthy, okay?"
Tayama only rolled her eyes at his answer.
Was she blind?
Frankly, she wasn't even sure what kind of work Nifuji did, but she knew well that working in marketing was just his cover, and there was a high chance that he might own his business.
After all, what kind of black company employee would own such a high-class and elegant suit?
Even if she wasn't wealthy, her eyes were clear with a fashion, as she loved it, and even if she wasn't sure the brand of his suit, the feeling from the fabric, the color from the dye, and the precision of the stitching made her sure that it was so damn expensive!
Could an employee from the black company afford it?
So, the only possible answer was that he was a business owner—a young entrepreneur who made his own living.
Naturally, while this existence might be dazzling, it was also hard work since being in a business meant that no one would take care of your problems.
Everything was his responsibility, and with one wrong move, there was a chance that he might end up in bankruptcy.
If he did, she could imagine that he would either jump off the building or spend his time as a homeless person, yet with his face, she felt like he might end up as a gigolo, or wealthy women would marry him, letting him become a household husband.
"Being so good-looking is so nice!"
"..." Nifuji.
He wasn't sure why this woman suddenly went on an emotional tirade, but he was too lazy to pursue what she was angry about.
Also—
"Did you think something rude about me?"
"No."
Nifuji rolled his eyes, but as Tayama had cooked for him, he decided to forgive her. Instead, without a word, he stood up. He picked up both bowls, stacking them carefully.
"Wait, wait! Let me do it!"
Tayama knew about what Nifuji planned to do, and because of that, she stopped him.
"No, let me do this. You have cooked for me, after all."
When she moved to protest, he simply shook his head—a quiet, stubborn insistence. He carried them to the tiny sink, rolling up his damp sleeves to his elbows, exposing pale wrists and a silver watch.
Tayama was helpless, yet she could do nothing and accept his insistence as she leaned against the doorframe, smoking a fresh cigarette, watching him wash her cheap dishes with the precision of someone handling fine china. The sound of running water mixed with the relentless drumming of the rain outside created a cocoon of white noise. The domesticity of it—the suit jacket draped over her folding chair, the smell of dish soap cutting through the ramen steam—felt strange, yet achingly hollow. It was borrowed comfort, a fleeting imitation of a life neither of them actually lives.
When he finished, he dried his hands on a rag, and she handed him a mug. It was chipped at the rim, filled with instant coffee—black, bitter, and scalding hot. She took her own, sweet and milky, and retreated to the beanbag chair.
"Thank you."
"No problem. It is just a cheap coffee."
"It tastes nice, though, especially during this session."
"You are right."
They settled back into the room, the air heavy with humidity and smoke. The rain had settled into a steady, rhythmic weeping against the glass, blurring the world outside into streaks of grey and neon smudge.
"The trains will be crowded soon," Nifuji said softly, staring into the black depths of his coffee. It was time for him to leave, especially when he saw how sleepy she was, and he needed to return. "Yeah," Tayama replied, her voice rough with sleepiness. "Rush hour."
But neither of them moved. A melancholy hung in the air like the smoke—a realization that this safety was temporary. They were just two tired ghosts haunting the same room for an hour, hiding from the demands of a city that never stopped asking for more.
She sank deeper into the velvet beanbag, the warmth of the meal and the rhythmic sound of the rain pulling her down like a heavy anchor. Her eyelids flutter. The toughness—the leather, the piercings, the sharp attitude—seems to dissolve, leaving her looking younger, softer. The mug tilted dangerously in her hand before she set it down on the floor.
"Just... five minutes," she mumbled, pulling the crochet blanket up to her chin. "Five minutes," he agreed, though he knew better.
Within moments, her breathing evens out, deepening into a true, exhausted sleep. Her head lolls to the side, red hair spilling over the dark velvet.
Nifuji finished his coffee in silence. He watched the rain for a long time, then looked at her. He didn't wake her up. He stood up slowly, his joints popping in the quiet room. He retrieved his jacket, the damp fabric cold against his neck, and put his glasses back on, returning the frame of the corporate world to his face.
He looked for a piece of paper but found none. Instead, he simply took the empty mugs to the sink, rinsed them, and set them to dry.
He walked to the genkan, stepping into his shoes. Before he opened the heavy metal door, he looked back one last time. He reached for the wall switch and flicked off the overhead string lights, leaving her bathed only in the grey, watery light of the rainy morning.
"Good night, Yamada-san."
Click.
The door shuts softly, locking her in the safety of her dreams, and he steps back out into the cold, wet reality of Tokyo.
Yet, they knew well that after this, their relationship would change further into something that made them inseparable.