The aroma of sesame oil lingered in the air long before the doorbell rang. It was warm, nostalgic, with that delicate bitterness Hinoka always found oddly comforting.
The stovetop was still warm, remnants of steam gently curling upward from a pot of miso soup kept low on the flame.
Her hands, trembling only slightly now, placed a final bowl on the table—spinach with sesame dressing—and stepped back to inspect her arrangement.
The table had three seats.
A clean white cloth draped over the surface, ironed earlier that morning until every crease disappeared.
Three ceramic plates—slightly mismatched but lined symmetrically—anchored the setting. She had borrowed one of the chairs from the balcony to make sure they could all sit together.
It wasn't that she expected this to fix anything. But at the very least, it would be a starting point.
She checked her reflection in the microwave's black glass. Her hair was tied in a loose ponytail, a few strands falling messily near her ears.
Her sweater was simple, but clean, tucked neatly into a navy skirt. Not too casual, not too formal. Just honest.
There was a knock at the door—soft, measured, unmistakable.
Hinoka opened it to find Shinichi, carrying a small paper bag with a transparent window showing the familiar golden ridges of melon pan.
"You brought sweets?" she asked, voice half amused.
"I thought… it's kind of tradition now," he said with a small smile. "Besides, I owe you dessert."
"You owe me more than that," Hinoka said dryly, but the edge in her voice was faint—muted, tempered by the events of the last few days.
She stepped aside to let him in, and for a moment, their shoulders brushed.
Shinichi looked around. He had seen this apartment before, had even helped her move a shelf here once. But tonight it felt different—tighter, more personal.
The quiet hum of an old pop song played softly from her speaker, mixing with the clink of plates and the faint simmering sound of the soup.
"It smells amazing," he said.
"I cooked all day. Don't waste it."
She turned to the kitchen, ladling the soup into three bowls, just as another knock sounded—this one a little louder, a little more hesitant.
Koizumi stood in the hallway, wearing a cream-colored coat over a black blouse and jeans.
She had clearly taken her time getting ready. Her lipstick was a subtle rose shade, and her eyes were faintly lined—presentable, but not overdone.
"I'm not late, am I?" she asked, voice steady but quiet.
Hinoka held her gaze for a long second, then stepped aside. "Just in time."
Koizumi entered, immediately feeling the shift in the room's air. Her eyes landed on Shinichi, and the tension between them sparked again, though no words were spoken.
He nodded—respectful, formal. Koizumi returned it in kind.
They sat. One, two, three.
Three seats, three bowls, and three different kinds of silence.
For a while, the only conversation was between chopsticks and ceramic. The clink of spoons, the soft intake of breath after tasting something too hot, the occasional compliment murmured under breath.
"This tamagoyaki's sweeter than before," Koizumi said eventually, trying.
Hinoka nodded without looking up. "Used mirin this time."
Koizumi gave a small, appreciative smile. "It's good. It reminds me of… that picnic in second year."
A moment passed. The memory hung in the air. Koizumi waited—perhaps for someone to acknowledge it, perhaps for someone to pretend the nostalgia was mutual.
Shinichi simply said, "Yeah. That was a good day."
Hinoka didn't reply.
After the main course, as the plates were cleared and tea was poured, the real weight of the evening began to settle in.
It was clear from the start that this wasn't just about food. It was about acknowledgment. Reconciliation, perhaps. Or at least a reckoning.
Hinoka sat back down after rinsing her hands, the sleeves of her sweater still rolled up.
"I didn't call you both here just for dinner," she began, voice calm but anchored with intention. "There's too much history between us to pretend nothing happened."
Koizumi's fingers curled slightly around her teacup. "I assumed as much."
Shinichi, who had been quiet for most of the meal, looked from one to the other before setting his cup down. "Let's not circle around it. We owe each other honesty."
Hinoka nodded. "Then let's start with the truth. No more walking on glass."
She turned her eyes to Shinichi. "You said it clearly the other night. You chose me."
The words dropped like stone on still water. Koizumi flinched—barely, but it was there.
"I did," Shinichi said softly. "And I meant it."
Koizumi's voice was quiet, but unshaking. "I suspected. But hearing it out loud is… harder."
"You deserve to hear it," he said. "From me. Not in rumors. Not in silence. I chose Hinoka because I've seen her—truly seen her. Not just the parts that shine, but the parts she hides."
Hinoka blinked. That confession, even now, sent a tremor through her ribs.
Shinichi continued, "Back then, I was a coward. I let things happen around me because I didn't want to hurt anyone. But by staying quiet, I hurt you both."
Koizumi looked down at her lap. "I kissed you because I was scared of losing you."
"I know," Shinichi said. "But I should've said no. I should've told you then that I wasn't ready to love anyone—not when I didn't even understand what love meant yet."
Koizumi's voice cracked. "And now?"
He didn't hesitate. "Now I do."
The silence that followed was brittle—frail like thin ice.
Koizumi stood slowly, walked to the window, and stood with her back to them.
"You know," she said, her voice a whisper over the glass, "I used to think if I loved someone hard enough, they'd choose me. I thought love was something I could prove—like an exam, or a prize. But love doesn't work that way."
She turned around. Her face was pale, but her eyes held no bitterness.
"You chose Hinoka," she said. "And… I think a part of me already made peace with that. But I needed to hear it from you. I needed to sit here and not run away again."
Hinoka stood. "Koizumi…"
But Koizumi shook her head. "You don't owe me anything. Not forgiveness, not comfort. But… thank you for inviting me. Thank you for giving me this."
The tears that shimmered in her eyes didn't fall. She held them back like a dam holding a broken river.
"I'll leave you two alone," she said, stepping toward the door.
But before she could reach it, Hinoka spoke again.
"You're not leaving empty-handed."
Koizumi paused, surprised.
Hinoka disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, returning with a small plastic container—tamagoyaki wrapped in foil.
"Take this," she said. "Eat it tomorrow. For nostalgia."
Koizumi's throat tightened. She accepted the box with trembling hands. "Thank you," she whispered.
And then, with a small bow, she stepped out into the night, the door clicking softly behind her.
Inside, the room fell quiet again.
Shinichi walked to Hinoka's side, his fingers brushing hers.
"She's stronger than we thought," he murmured.
"So are we," Hinoka replied, turning to face him.
The distance between them now was no longer cautious. No longer full of doubt. It was familiar. Certain.
Shinichi touched her cheek. "I meant what I said, Hinoka. About everything."
"I know," she whispered. "And I'm still scared. But I think… I'm ready to try."
They stood there in the kitchen light, wrapped in the gentle hum of the city beyond the window. Somewhere far below, the wind stirred the trees.
Somewhere farther still, Koizumi walked alone with tamagoyaki in her hands and quiet dignity in her heart.
And in that small apartment, with dishes yet to be washed and tea growing cold on the table, two hearts finally beat in rhythm—under one roof.