The storm arrived at dusk like a debt collector. First came the wind, rattling the balcony doors, then the sky cracked open and poured. Kanako watched from the kitchen window as neon signs bled into puddles, the city reduced to watercolor.
Power flickered once, twice, then steadied. Aya's last text—**Still at the office. Don't wait.**—glowed on the counter beside a half-chopped daikon. Kanako set the knife down. Her hands trembled, not from the thunder.
Haruto appeared in the doorway, hair damp from the shower, wearing an old college T-shirt that clung to his shoulders. "Smells like rain and dashi," he said, attempting lightness.
She managed a smile. "I thought… comfort food. In case the lights go."
He stepped closer, peering into the pot where konbu floated like dark calligraphy. "You're making stock from scratch?"
"Old habit. My mother said storms taste better with homemade broth." She handed him the yuzu grater. "Want to help?"
His fingers brushed hers as he took it. The contact lingered half a second too long.
They worked in companionable quiet: Kanako skimming foam, Haruto grating citrus until the air sparked with bright peel. Thunder rolled overhead; the lights dimmed but held.
"Careful," she murmured when he reached across her for the ladle. Their arms aligned, skin to skin. Neither moved away.
The pot began its low song. Kanako lowered the flame. "Dashi is patient," she said. "You can't rush umami."
Haruto's laugh was soft. "Everything lately feels rushed. Except this." He gestured at the small circle of light, the rain, the two of them.
She turned to face him fully. The overhead bulb cast shadows under his eyes— exhaustion, yes, but something gentler too. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition.
"I feel like I'm failing her," he said again, the words slipping out like they'd been waiting for the storm's cover. "Failing this family."
Kanako's heart twisted. She reached up—slow, deliberate—and tucked a wet strand of hair behind his ear. "Sometimes the person who feeds you is the one who sees you clearest."
His breath hitched. The grater clattered to the counter.
Outside, lightning stitched the sky. Inside, the distance between them shrank to the width of a heartbeat.
Haruto's hand rose, hovering at her waist. "Kanako-san…"
She closed the gap.
The kiss was tentative at first—lips barely brushing, tasting yuzu and salt and the faint metallic edge of fear. Then his palm settled against the small of her back, warm through her apron, and the world narrowed to the press of mouths, the hush of rain, the low bubble of dashi.
Kanako's fingers found the nape of his neck, threading into damp hair. He made a small sound—half sigh, half surrender—and deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers with the careful reverence of someone tasting something sacred.
Thunder crashed. The lights flickered out.
Darkness swallowed them, but they didn't part. If anything, the blackout freed them: hands bolder, breaths louder. Haruto's mouth moved to the corner of hers, her jaw, the pulse beneath her ear. Kanako's head fell back against the cabinet; a spoon clattered to the floor.
"We shouldn't," she whispered, even as her hips arched into his.
"I know," he breathed against her throat. "I know."
But his hands were already untying her apron strings, fingers trembling. The fabric pooled at their feet. Kanako felt the cool granite at her back, then the heat of his chest as he pressed closer.
Another flash of lightning illuminated them: her yukata slipping from one shoulder, his T-shirt rucked up to reveal the lean plane of his stomach. Then darkness again, and the luxury of touch without witness.
She tugged at his shirt; he lifted his arms to help. Skin met skin—her soft curves to his quieter strength. He kissed her collarbone, the slope where neck became shoulder, murmuring apologies and gratitude in the same breath.
The stove's pilot light cast a faint blue glow. Enough to see the wonder on his face when he cupped her breast through her camisole, thumb circling until her nipple peaked against cotton. Kanako gasped into his mouth.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice ragged.
She answered by guiding his hand lower, under the waistband of her loose pants, until his fingers found slick heat. A low groan escaped him—part reverence, part hunger.
The storm raged. The dashi simmered forgotten.
Kanako's knees weakened; Haruto caught her, lifting her onto the counter. Bottles of soy sauce and mirin clinked like wind chimes. She wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling the hard line of him through thin layers of fabric.
"Please," she whispered—not sure if she was begging him to stop or keep going.
He kissed her again, slower now, as if memorizing the shape of consent. His fingers moved with the same care he'd shown grating yuzu—gentle, attentive, learning her the way one learns a new recipe.
Lightning flashed. For one frozen second, Kanako saw them reflected in the dark window: her head thrown back, his mouth at her throat, the storm framing them like a woodblock print. Then thunder, and darkness, and the slide of fabric as he eased her pants down her hips.
She reached for him in turn, freeing him from soft cotton. He was warm, heavy in her hand; they both shuddered at the contact. Haruto rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard.
"Kanako-san… I—"
The lights surged back on.
They froze, bathed in sudden fluorescent clarity. The pot hissed—dashi boiling over, foam licking the burner. The spell cracked.
Kanako's hands flew to her camisole, yanking it down. Haruto stepped back, cheeks flushed crimson, fumbling to cover himself. The air smelled of scorched konbu and sex interrupted.
"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I—"
"No." She slid off the counter, legs unsteady. "I kissed you first."
Silence stretched, broken only by the hiss of the stove. Kanako turned off the burner with shaking fingers. The dashi was ruined—bitter, over-salted by neglect.
Haruto found his shirt, pulled it on inside-out. "I should… check the breaker. In case."
She nodded, unable to meet his eyes. He fled down the hallway.
Kanako stood among the wreckage: spilled yuzu zest, her apron on the floor, the taste of him still on her tongue. Rain lashed the window like judgment.
She pressed her palms to her cheeks and felt the burn of almost—again. But this time, the flavor lingered, sharp and undeniable, like citrus left too long on the tongue.
Somewhere in the apartment, a door closed softly. The storm moved on, leaving only the low hum of the refrigerator and the quiet certainty that some recipes, once started, couldn't be abandoned halfway.