Morning filtered in through the kitchen window, painting the tiled walls in soft gold.The restaurant below was still silent—Amelia wouldn't be downstairs for another hour—but the faint scent of coffee had already begun to drift through the apartment like a familiar song.
Emily sat at the table in an oversized hoodie, stirring creamer into her mug with lazy circles.A slice of toast dangled from her mouth, half-eaten and forgotten as she scrolled through something on her phone.
Ryunosuke entered quietly.
Not suspiciously quiet.Just… different.
Like he was trying too hard to walk normally. Trying too hard not to think.
Emily glanced up.
"You look like you didn't sleep," she said around the toast, voice muffled.
"I didn't," he muttered, heading straight for the cabinet.
No sarcasm. No dry remark.Just tea.
He didn't touch the breadbox. Didn't glance her way. Just stood at the counter, staring into the steam curling from his mug like it might whisper back the truth.
Emily lowered her phone. "Okay... what's up?"
"Nothing."
She raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Because you're radiating 'main character spiraling at episode seventeen' energy and it's kinda unsettling."
He let out a sound—part breath, part sigh. Maybe the ghost of a laugh.
"I just have stuff on my mind," he said, still not meeting her eyes.
Emily stood and leaned against the other side of the counter, arms folded.
She wasn't prying.She was present.
"Is this about your mom?" she asked quietly. "You two seemed… weird last night."
His grip on the mug tightened—so subtle you'd miss it if you weren't watching.
He didn't respond.
Emily softened her tone. "Look, I'm not trying to dig. But we live together now, y'know? I feel like I've earned at least… emotional co-tenant privileges."
That got the faintest twitch of a smile from him—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I appreciate it," he said, voice low. "But it's not something I can explain. Not yet."
She studied him for a beat longer, then nodded. "Alright. I'll wait. But if you start staring dramatically out windows with rain dripping down the glass, I'm calling an intervention."
This time, a real chuckle escaped him—quiet, but genuine.
The tension in his shoulders eased.
A little.
They stood in that soft, humming kitchen silence—the kind that lives between people who care but know when not to push.
Emily didn't say more.
But she noticed the sketchbook tucked beneath his arm as he turned to leave.
And she noticed something else:
He hadn't opened it in front of her once since yesterday.