The apartment smelled of cedar and miso. Kanako set the last dish on the low table—glazed cod, its skin lacquered bronze, still hissing from the broiler. Steam curled up like incense, carrying the faint sweetness of mirin.
Aya was already scrolling on her phone. Haruto sat opposite, shoulders folded inward the way they had been since the move-in six months ago. He wore the same soft gray cardigan every evening, sleeves pushed to the elbows, revealing the thin blue veins that Kanako had once teased her late husband about. *Like rivers on a map,* she'd said. Haruto's rivers looked dammed.
"Itadakimasu," Kanako murmured, the ritual automatic after twenty-five years of family dinners.
Haruto echoed her a beat late. Aya didn't bother.
He lifted a piece of cod with his chopsticks, careful not to break the glaze. The first bite made his eyes close for half a second—an involuntary prayer. "Kanako-san," he said, voice low, "the skin is perfect. Like… candy."
Aya's thumb froze mid-scroll. "Mom's cooking isn't *that* special," she said without looking up. "It's just fish."
The words landed flat, but the air curdled. Haruto's chopsticks hovered, then retreated to the rim of his bowl. Kanako felt the heat leave her cheeks the way broth cools when the flame dies.
"Thank you, Haruto-kun," she said, too brightly. "I tried a new brand of mirin."
Aya snorted. "Try a new brand of husband who doesn't kiss ass over dinner."
Silence swallowed the room. Even the refrigerator's hum seemed to hush. Haruto's ears went scarlet. He stared at the untouched rice in front of him as though it might offer an escape route.
Kanako's fingers tightened around her teacup. She wanted to say: *He was only being kind.* She wanted to say: *You used to thank me for onigiri, Aya, when you were seven and your knees were scraped.* Instead she swallowed both sentences with green tea gone lukewarm.
Dinner ended in the scrape of chairs. Aya disappeared into the bedroom with her laptop. Haruto cleared plates with the mechanical politeness of a hotel bellboy. Kanako lingered, wiping the same spot on the table until the wood gleamed like a warning.
---
Hours later the apartment slept, or pretended to. Kanako's futon felt too wide; widowhood had trained her for that, but tonight the emptiness pressed differently. She rose, slipped a cardigan over her cotton yukata, and padded to the kitchen for water.
The under-cabinet light was on—soft gold, the color of late-night confessions. Haruto sat at the counter, elbows on the granite, a mug of barley tea gone cold between his palms. His hair stuck up in the back where he'd raked fingers through it too many times. The depression on his face looked carved.
"Haruto-kun?" Kanako kept her voice to the volume of refrigerator hum. "Can't sleep?"
He startled, then offered the small, apologetic smile that had replaced his old easy grin. "Sorry. Didn't mean to haunt the kitchen."
She filled a glass at the sink, letting the tap run so the pipes wouldn't knock. "Haunting is allowed if you bring your own mug."
He huffed a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. Kanako leaned against the opposite counter, studying the slump of his shoulders. Twenty-six looked too young for that posture.
"Was it the cod?" she asked gently. "Too much mirin?"
"No." He turned the mug in slow circles. "The cod was perfect. Everything you make is…" He stopped, cheeks coloring again. "I just wanted to say thank you. Aya hasn't—in months."
The admission hung between them like the steam that had vanished hours ago. Kanako felt it settle on her skin.
"A home should taste like kindness, Haruto-kun," she said. The words came out steadier than her pulse. "If it doesn't, the recipe is wrong."
He looked up then. Really looked. The kitchen light caught the faint freckles across his nose—ones Aya used to kiss when they were newlyweds and the apartment still smelled of fresh paint. Now Aya kissed promotion spreadsheets.
"I feel like I'm failing her," he whispered. "Failing this family."
Kanako set her glass down. The small click echoed. She crossed the three steps between them and, without thinking, placed her hand over his on the counter. His skin was cool from the mug; hers carried the lingering heat of the stove.
"You are not the failure here," she said. "You are the one who still says thank you."
His fingers twitched beneath hers, then curled—tentative, like a plant testing sunlight. He didn't pull away. The clock above the stove ticked once, twice. Somewhere down the hall, Aya's laptop fan whirred through the closed door.
Kanako became aware of how close they stood: her hip brushing the stool, the faint cedar of his soap mixing with the miso still clinging to the air. She should move. She didn't.
Haruto's thumb brushed the ridge of her knuckle—barely a motion, more tremor than touch. The contact sparked up her arm and lodged behind her ribs.
Neither spoke. The silence tasted different now: not absence, but a held breath.
Kanako's heart beat against the inside of her yukata like a trapped moth. She lifted her hand—slow, giving him every chance to retreat—and rested it against the side of his neck. His pulse leapt beneath her palm, rabbit-quick.
His eyes, dark and a little lost, searched hers. "Kanako-san…"
The honorific cracked on his tongue.
She leaned in. Just enough that her forehead nearly touched his. The warmth of his exhale grazed her lips.
Then the floorboard in the hallway creaked—Aya shifting in bed, or the building settling, or fate clearing its throat. They sprang apart as if the stove had flared.
Kanako's hand flew to her throat. Haruto stared at the countertop like it might sprout answers.
"I—I should go," he stammered, already sliding off the stool.
"Yes," she managed. "Good night, Haruto-kun."
He fled, bare feet silent on the tatami. The kitchen light flickered once, then steadied.
Kanako stood alone among the ghosts of dinner. The cod platter sat in the sink, glaze cracked and cold. She pressed her palms to her cheeks and felt the burn of almost.
Outside, a late spring breeze rattled the window. Inside, the silence had a new flavor—one she wasn't ready to name.