Kanako cooked with new precision: extra dash of mirin in the teriyaki, a curl of butter in the miso for richness. Haruto's lunch boxes grew elaborate—tamagoyaki rolled with spinach, tiny onigiri shaped like cats—each one a love letter tucked beside his laptop. He ate them at his desk, eyes closing in bliss, then texted her a single emoji: 🌸.
Aya noticed nothing. She came home late, smelling of conference rooms and someone else's cologne, and collapsed into bed without tasting the food warming on the stove.
Kanako and Haruto perfected the art of almost-touching: fingers brushing when passing the soy sauce, knees bumping under the kotatsu, the soft *shh* of socked feet in the hallway at 2 a.m. when Aya's snores drifted through the wall.
They never spoke of the bedroom again. They didn't need to. The kitchen became their sanctuary.
---
**Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.**
The washer hummed in the laundry nook, a narrow closet off the genkan. Kanako folded towels, warm from the dryer, into neat squares. Haruto appeared in the doorway, sketchbook under one arm, eyes dark with the look she now recognized: *now?*
She glanced toward the bedroom—Aya's light off, door shut. The apartment slept.
Haruto stepped inside, pulling the sliding door until only a finger's width remained. The space shrank to the two of them and the rhythmic *thump-thump* of the spin cycle.
He set the sketchbook on the dryer. A new page: her hands cradling a rice ball, veins standing out like roots under soil. Below it, in tiny script: *Thank you for feeding me when no one else does.*
Kanako's throat tightened. She reached for him; he met her halfway.
The kiss was urgent, mouths opening immediately, tongues sliding slick and desperate. The dryer's heat pressed against her back; Haruto's hands were already under her sweater, palms skating over the soft give of her waist.
"Quiet," she breathed against his lips.
He nodded, swallowing her next moan with his mouth. She felt him hard against her hip and ground into him, savoring the shudder that ran through his frame.
Clothes stayed on—just enough barrier to muffle sound. Haruto spun her gently, bending her over the warm dryer. Her palms flattened on the vibrating metal; the sensation traveled straight between her legs.
He tugged her leggings down just past her hips, cool air kissing damp skin. One finger traced her slit, finding her soaked. "Always ready for me," he whispered, awe in his voice.
Kanako bit her lip to stifle a whimper. She pushed back, needing more. He gave it: two fingers sliding deep, curling until her knees buckled. The dryer's rhythm matched his strokes—*thump, thump, thump*—until pleasure coiled white-hot.
His other hand clamped gently over her mouth as she came, muffling the cry into a soft keen. She felt him free himself behind her, the blunt heat of his cock nudging her entrance.
"Look," he murmured.
She turned her head. The narrow gap in the door reflected them in the hallway mirror: her flushed cheeks, his intense eyes, the obscene beauty of their joining. The sight sent a fresh pulse of wetness.
He entered her in one slow thrust, filling her completely. They both stilled, adjusting to the clutch of her body around him. Then he moved—shallow, careful strokes that rocked her against the dryer's warmth.
Kanako's fingers scrabbled for purchase on the metal. Every thrust sent vibrations through her clit; every withdrawal left her aching. Haruto's hand slipped from her mouth to her breast, pinching her nipple through cotton until she arched.
"Close," she gasped.
He sped up, hips snapping silently. The washer clicked into rinse—water rushing, covering the wet sounds of their coupling. Kanako came again, harder, inner walls milking him. Haruto buried his face in her hair, groaning her name as he spilled inside her, pulse after pulse.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, until the dryer beeped. Haruto eased out, tugging her leggings up with tender fingers. He pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades.
Kanako turned, cupping his face. "We're playing with fire."
"I know," he said, eyes steady. "But I'd rather burn than starve."
---
**Thursday afternoon**
Haruto's sketchbook lay open on the coffee table, forgotten while he napped on the couch. Kanako paused in vacuuming, drawn to the new page.
It was her—naked, reclining on the futon, one arm draped over her stomach, the other reaching toward the viewer. The lines were bold, erotic, but the expression on her face was soft, almost shy. Below: *For the nights you let me see you.*
Her chest ached. She was closing the book when Aya's key rattled in the lock—hours early.
Kanako shoved the sketchbook under a cushion just as the door opened.
Aya dropped her bag, eyes narrowing. "Why's the dryer running again? That's the third time this week."
Kanako's pulse hammered. "Whites," she lied smoothly. "You know how Haruto-kun spills ink."
Aya's gaze flicked to the couch where Haruto stirred, blinking sleepily. "Whatever. I'm taking a shower."
She disappeared down the hall. The dryer's final spin hummed on, oblivious.
Haruto sat up, hair tousled. Their eyes met—panic, then a shared, secret smile.
Later, when Aya emerged in pajamas and collapsed in front of the TV, Kanako brought her a bowl of chawanmushi. Aya waved it away.
"Not hungry."
Haruto accepted his bowl with both hands, fingers brushing Kanako's. Under the table, his foot nudged hers—once, twice. *Thank you.*
The custard trembled slightly as she set it down. Salt and secret, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next stolen moment to rise.