Chapter 12: The Sound of Running Water

‘The water runs, steady and fragile. Not everything that fades is gone—some things just soften.’

The night had settled deep over the city, quiet and heavy after the rain.

Through the open window, the faint hum of distant cars drifted in, mingling with the soft rhythm of breathing—uneven at first, then slowly steadying.

Ren lay sprawled across the couch, one arm hanging limply over the side. 

His face, usually composed, looked different in the dim light—gentler, almost boyish.

Arin exhaled, a small sigh escaped—somewhere between relief and disbelief.

“…seriously,” 

She murmured quietly, brushing away a strand of hair from her own cheek.

After making sure he was stable, she turned toward her bedroom. 

Her steps were soft, almost hesitant, when—

A faint sound.

A whisper.

And then—a sudden pull.

The faint pull on her wrist stopped her mid-step.

Arin turned—his hand, warm yet trembling slightly, had caught the edge of her sleeve.

「…なんで…なぜ…」

(“...why? …why…”)

His eyes were closed, but his brow was faintly furrowed, as though caught in a dream he couldn’t shake.

He murmured again, barely above a breath.

The words slipping out between sleep and waking. 

For a moment, she wasn’t sure if he was even aware of saying them.

Her heart tightened, just a little.

“…what is it now,” 

She whispered back, voice soft, almost fond.

She stood still, caught between instinct and hesitation. 

The room was dim—the faint glow from the hallway spilling across the floor, tracing soft outlines along his face. 

His usual calm was gone; what she saw now was something rawer, quieter—a kind of loneliness that words couldn’t cover.

Her fingers twitched where his hand held her. 

She could’ve pulled away.

She didn’t.

Her lips parted, the quiet words escaping before she could stop them.

“You really..” 

A sigh escaped — gentle, uncertain.

After a long pause, she knelt beside the couch, carefully freeing her hand. 

His grip loosened, but the warmth stayed—a small, fragile connection between them.

Arin stayed there for a while, watching his breathing even out. 

The clock ticked somewhere behind her, filling the silence that followed.

The morning sunlight was harsh, cutting through the thin curtain and painting the room in pale gold.

Arin blinked against it, groaning softly as she reached for her phone—the screen lit up, 12:03 p.m.

“…I overslept,” 

She mumbled, voice still heavy from sleep.

Her head ached faintly, memories of last night scattered and blurry—

Atsu’s text, Ren half-conscious at her door, the weight of his hand catching her sleeve.

She rubbed her eyes, brushing it all off with a sigh.

Padding across the floor, she opened the door quietly and stepped out.

Half-asleep, she made her way toward the pantry, intent only on finding a glass of water.

And then—she stopped.

There, in the living room, Ren was kneeling by the low table, his back straight, both hands resting on his thighs. 

His hair was slightly messy. 

The blanket he’d used last night was neatly folded beside him.

For a second, the scene didn’t quite register—then her breath caught.

Arin blinked again, still trying to wake up fully.

“You’re… awake,” 

She murmured, her voice soft with surprise.

Ren didn’t look up. 

His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn tight as though even acknowledging her presence was too much.

“What are you doing?” 

She asked quietly.

He didn’t answer—only pressed his hands against his knees, fingers trembling slightly.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment. 

“How long have you been sitting like that?”

A pause. 

Then, barely above a whisper—

「朝からずっと。」

(“Since morning… all this time.”)

She caught the faint shake in his posture, the exhaustion that clung to him even in stillness.

「…ごめん。」

(“I’m sorry…”), 

He murmured, voice thin, fraying at the edges.

「考えもしないで……ここに来てしまった。」

(“I… came here without thinking.”)

“Atsu brought you,” 

Arin replied, her tone even—not cold, just matter-of-fact.

His lips parted, as if to speak again, but no words came. 

Instead, his head lowered further, his voice almost disappearing into the quiet.

「…ごめんなさい」

(“…I’m sorry.”)

He repeated—softer this time, as though it wasn’t just an apology for showing up, but for something deeper he couldn’t quite name.

“Ren.”

Arin’s voice came firm this time—not harsh, but grounded enough to cut through the air.

Ren flinched slightly, his shoulders tensing.

“Get up,” 

She said quietly. “And wash up.”

Her words were simple, leaving no room for argument.

He gave a small nod, fingers clenching against his knees. 

“I’m sorry,” 

He whispered again, almost like a reflex.

Arin sighed, exasperation and concern tangled in her breath.

“I’m not mad at you,” 

She said, her tone softening.

“Let’s… talk properly later, okay?”

For the first time, Ren lifted his face—his eyes faint, but clearer now, tracing the outline of the person standing before him.

He pushed himself up, unsteady at first, nearly stumbling before finding his balance again.

Then, in a voice that finally sounded more like him—quiet, but steady—he murmured.

“Can you… ask Atsu to come? My phone, and my clothes — he still has them.”

Arin met his gaze, then nodded lightly. 

“Unn. Okay.”

She exhaled slowly, brushing her hair back as she reached for her phone.

Her thumb hovered over Atsu’s contact for a few seconds. 

The line connected after a few rings.

The doorbell rang.

Ren glanced toward the hallway before quietly getting up to answer it.

When the door opened, Atsu stood there—hair still messy, sunglasses pushed up lazily.

「よう…」

(“Yo…”)

Atsu’s voice came through, lazy but a little rough, probably hungover.

He greeted with his usual drawl, giving Ren a quick once-over.

Then his brow arched, half teasing, half concerned.

「お前、泣いてたんじゃね？　一晩中。」

(“You look like you’ve been crying all night?”)

Ren didn’t respond. 

He simply extended his hand, palm open—wordless, tired.

Atsu blinked, then huffed a small laugh before pulling out Ren’s phone and dropping it into his hand.

「ほら、これ。昨日は俺、ベビーシッターみたいだったんだぞ。」

(“Here. You left me like a babysitter last night, man.”)

He leaned sideways to set a small suitcase by the door, but his movement paused when he noticed another figure just behind Ren.

Arin stood there, arms folded loosely, her gaze sharp enough to pin him in place.

「やべ…」

(“Shoot…”)

He muttered under his breath, straightening immediately.

Then, glancing between the two of them, he gave a nervous grin.

「…もしかして、俺、トラの巣に送り込んだ？」

(“…Did I just send you into a tiger’s den or something?”)

Arin’s glare didn’t soften, and Atsu quickly raised both hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, hey, peace. I was just the driver.”

Ren sighed softly beside him—a quiet sound, almost amused, almost exhausted.

Atsu looked between them again—

Ren, still quiet, head slightly lowered, and Arin, standing firm with that unreadable calm in her eyes.

He let out a small exhale.

“Alright, I’ll take my leave then.”

He gave Ren a pat on the shoulder—firm, brotherly.

「ちゃんと自分のことも大事にしろよ。…それと、しくじるなよ。」

(“Take care of yourself, yeah? And… don’t mess this up.”)

Ren’s eyes flickered up at him, faintly uncertain. Atsu just gave a crooked grin.

「頭が戻ってきたら、電話しろ。」

(“Call me when your brain starts working again.”)

With that, Atsu turned toward the hallway. 

But before he left, he glanced once more at Arin.

Arin stepped forward this time, standing by the door, gesturing for Ren to head inside.

“Go shower,” 

She said simply.

Ren hesitated, then nodded and disappeared down the hallway, his steps still unsteady.

A moment later, the faint sound of running water filled the apartment—steady, fragile, like something trying to rinse away the weight of the night before.

Arin stood there for a while, the soft rhythm of water seeping through the silence.

Atsu shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck before looking at Arin.

“Sorry for dropping him like that yesterday,” 

He said, voice low but sincere.

Arin’s expression stayed composed, though her eyes softened slightly.

“It’s fine,” 

She said after a moment.

She didn’t sound angry—just tired.

Atsu let out a small sigh, he offered a faint, rueful smile, already stepping back toward the hallway.

“Don’t go too hard on him.”

As the door closed behind him, silence returned—only the soft hum of running water breaking through the stillness.

Arin leaned lightly against the wall, exhaling a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Outside, footsteps faded down the corridor.

Inside, the faint rhythm of water carried on—steady, fragile, like something quietly trying to start over.

Somewhere behind her, the water stopped.

A quiet shuffle of footsteps followed, and she turned slightly, her voice calm but firm again.

“You can use my room,” 

She said, motioning to the bedroom.

He nodded, silent, hair still damp from washing up.

For a while, neither of them spoke. 

The air was heavy, but not unbearable—just filled with the kind of silence that comes after everything’s been said, and yet nothing really has.