SHINTA:

I pulled Aya closer, my heart hammering as we quickened our pace. Her fingers dug into my side, her body tensing against mine as we navigated the narrow, dimly lit street lined with shuttered storefronts.

"Keep walking," I whispered, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Don't look back."

The footsteps behind us multiplied, gaining speed. Low laughter followed—the kind that carried no warmth, only threat. My mind raced through options. The neighborhood had emptied for the night—no open shops, no late-night cafés, no crowds to disappear into.

The footsteps grew closer. I could almost feel their breath on my neck now. I tightened my grip around Aya, preparing to turn and face whatever came next. A strange tingling sensation spread through my fingertips, and for a split second, I could sense exactly where each of our pursuers stood behind us, like points of heat in my awareness. A car rounded the corner, its tires splashing through puddles, but the footsteps didn't falter. Only when the blue and white lights became visible did our pursuers hesitate. The patrol car slowed as it approached, the officer inside eyeing us suspiciously from beneath the brim of his cap. The footsteps behind us scattered into the darkness of the alleyways.

"That was close," Aya breathed, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she leaned into me. Her voice small but remarkably steady despite the tears welling in her eyes.

The incident left us both shaken as we hurried through the merciless storm. Lightning split the sky, illuminating her pale, trembling face against my chest as we walked under the same umbrella, her heartbeat racing in sync with mine.

By the time we reached my home—a cozy house with a weathered blue door—we were both soaked and shivering, our clothes clinging to our bodies like the fear that still clung to our minds.

Once inside, I quickly locked the door behind us, double-checking it with unsteady hands. I pulled the curtains closed before turning to Aya, wincing as thunder rattled the windows. Relief washed over me as the warm light of my small but comfortable living room, with its mismatched furniture and stacks of books, pushed back against the night's chill. I handed her a towel from the hallway closet and showed her where the shower was.

"We don't have any girls' clothes here, but you can wear some of mine," I said, running a hand through my wet hair as I searched through my dresser. "They may be a little big on you, but it's better than nothing."

She accepted the towel quietly but then paused in the hallway where family photos hung on the walls. "Thank you," she said softly, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected vulnerability. "Not just for this. For back there too." The gentle squeeze she gave my hand sent my pulse racing faster than during our earlier escape.

After she left for the shower, I leaned against the wall, trying to quiet my thoughts amid the familiar sounds of my home—the humming refrigerator, the ticking wall clock, the pipes groaning as the shower started. The way she'd trusted me completely during the danger, how naturally we'd moved together—it wasn't just a crush anymore, was it?

I shook my head, trying to dismiss these thoughts. It's not like anything is going to happen. She's just spending the night because her key got stolen, that's all, nothing more, nothing less. Footsteps approached from the hallway. Aya appeared, somehow looking even more beautiful than before. Even in my baggy clothes, she looked cute.

"I'm all done. You should shower too," she whispered, her voice barely audible as her gaze darted nervously to mine before falling away again. Her fingers twisted the edge of my oversized shirt she wore, studying the floor as a strand of damp hair fell across her face. She shifted slightly, her delicate feet peeking from beneath the hem—slender and graceful like the rest of her, with toes painted a soft rose, curling against the cool wooden floor as if gathering courage that the rest of her had momentarily lost.

"Uh... of course." I cleared my throat and shifted awkwardly, My fingers drummed an anxious rhythm against my thigh. "I'll be taking a shower now, so make yourself at home," I mumbled, the words tumbling out in a rush as I backed toward the bathroom, nearly tripping over the frayed hallway rug in my haste to escape the sudden tension hanging between us.

The hot water did nothing to calm my nerves. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Aya standing there in my clothes, looking so small and vulnerable. Something protective stirred in my chest, a feeling I hadn't experienced in years. What if she left while I was in here? But where would she even go with her key stolen?

Through the thin bathroom walls, I could hear the distant wail of sirens from the busy street outside, a reminder of the city that never truly slept. I turned the water colder, trying to shock away the thoughts that kept creeping in—thoughts about her eyes, her smile, the way she'd looked at me with such trust.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, a concerning smell hit me—something burning. I walked toward the kitchen while drying my hair, and the scene that greeted me looked like the aftermath of a small war. Aya was frantically waving a kitchen towel at the smoking oven. Whatever had been cooking was now charred beyond recognition. A dark puddle of what appeared to be soy sauce spread across the floor, the sink overflowed with hastily stacked dishes, and two broken plates lay in pieces by the counter—the same blue ceramic set my mother had used back then. It looked like a complete disaster zone.

What amazed me wasn't the sheer amount of chaos she'd created in just 15 minutes, nor the revelation that Aya and kitchens were clearly mortal enemies. It was the fact that she'd managed to burn something to a complete crisp in such a short time. I didn't even know that was physically possible.

"Are you okay?" I asked, steam still rising from my shower-warm skin. My voice came out higher than intended, caught between concern and disbelief.

"Oh hey, Shinta." Aya turned to face me, a smudge of something dark across her cheek. Her shoulders slumped before she attempted a brave smile. "I just thought that since you offered me a place to stay tonight, it's only right that I repay you somehow."

She gestured helplessly at the disaster around her, then let out a nervous laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But I think I managed to do just the opposite," she added, rubbing the back of her head with a flour-covered hand.

I figured that was her way of apologizing. And it worked. I could never be mad at her because of how cute she looked doing that; it was almost unfair. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't mad or even annoyed in the slightest. Instead, I felt grateful, even happy. Despite the mess she'd made, she had tried her best... for me.

But as my initial amusement faded, the scene before me froze time. As I stared at the kitchen disaster—the smoke, the broken blue ceramic plates on the floor—a bittersweet memory washed over me. My mother in our old kitchen, laughing as she cleaned up my failed attempt at making her birthday breakfast. Those same blue plates had been her favorite ones—now they were broken too, just like everything else she'd left behind.

I could almost hear her voice, could almost feel her hand on my shoulder telling me it was okay to make mistakes. The familiar ache of loss hollowed out my chest, leaving me breathless. My mother standing there, humming softly as she prepared dinner, occasionally glancing back at me with that warm smile of hers—the smile I'd never see again.

The way Aya had positioned herself in the kitchen now, determined despite her obvious lack of cooking skills, mirrored my mother's dedication. Mom's food had been delicious, unlike whatever concoction Aya had created, but that same feeling of someone caring enough to cook for me... it carved out an aching void where my heart should be. This familiar emptiness was a tide I could never quite outrun. I swallowed hard against the knot in my throat as I watched Aya frantically trying to salvage whatever she'd been cooking.

I'd been keeping Aya at arm's length since we met, afraid to admit how my heart raced whenever she was near. But seeing her there, wearing my oversized shirt that hung past her thighs, trying so earnestly to do something kind for me despite everything she'd been through today—the danger, her vulnerability, her trust in me—something shifted inside me. The walls I'd built so carefully since Mom died came crumbling down all at once.

Aya approached me slowly, her expression changing from playful to concerned. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing against my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking as she bit her lower lip, eyes reflecting a depth of emotion I hadn't noticed before. "I'll clean it up right away, and I'll leave. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused you today."

Only then did I realize that I was... crying. Silent tears had been streaming down my face without me even noticing. I hadn't cried since Mom's funeral.

I hadn't looked her in the eyes since I realized what she was doing. I was staring straight ahead, stunned by how genuinely she cared. In that moment, I could finally admit to myself what I'd been denying for so long – I'm in love with this girl. I've always had feelings for her, but all this time I kept trying to convince myself that it wasn't anything serious. But now... now I knew the truth I couldn't deny any longer – I love Aya. I've always loved her.

As she turned around to clean up the mess in the kitchen, I gently grabbed her by the baggy sleeve of my large shirt she was wearing. She looked back with an expression that shattered my heart – her face crumpled in apology, almost like she was holding back tears. Her eyes, usually so bright and carefree, were now dim with a pain I couldn't bear to see, like watching a light slowly being extinguished.

"I'm sorry about the—" she began, her voice cracking, barely audible through the trembling of her lips.

I didn't let her finish. Instead, I moved toward her and pulled her into a hug, surprising even myself with the instinctive gesture. Her body stiffened momentarily before melting against mine.

"It doesn't matter," I murmured into her hair. "None of that matters."

She held me back even tighter, her small frame shaking uncontrollably against mine, fingers desperately clutching the fabric of my shirt as if I were the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.