The apartment had begun to smell like a lie.
Citrus cologne on Aya's blouses. Ink and sex in the laundry nook. The faint lavender of Kanako's sheets clinging to Haruto's skin when he slid into bed beside his wife each night. Every room carried a different note, and none of them matched.
Friday evening, Aya came home early again. Her eyes were sharp, mouth set in the line Kanako remembered from childhood tantrums.
"Where's Haruto?" she asked, kicking off heels that left muddy prints on the genkan tile.
"Work call," Kanako said, stirring curry at the stove. The lie came easier now. "He'll be late."
Aya's gaze flicked to the two place settings, then to the sketchbook peeking from Haruto's satchel on the counter. She snatched it before Kanako could move.
"Don't—"
Too late. Aya flipped it open. The drawing of Kanako's hands. The reclining nude. A smaller sketch tucked between pages: Kanako asleep on the futon, mouth soft, one breast exposed where the sheet had slipped. Haruto's tiny notation in the margin: *3:12 a.m. – I want to wake up to this every day.*
Aya's face went white, then red. "This is *sick*."
Kanako's ladle clattered against the pot. "Aya, let me explain—"
"Explain *what*? That you're fucking my husband with *food*?" Her voice cracked like a whip. "God, the lunches, the midnight snacks— I thought you were just *pathetic*. But this?"
Haruto appeared in the doorway, phone still in hand, color draining from his face. "Aya—"
"Don't." She hurled the sketchbook at his chest. Pages fluttered like wounded birds. "How long?"
Silence. The curry bubbled, spitting fat onto the stove.
"Answer me!" Aya screamed.
Kanako stepped between them, hands raised. "This is my fault. Punish me, not him."
Aya laughed—ugly, broken. "Oh, I will." She lunged, shoving Kanako hard. Kanako's hip hit the counter; pain flared, but she didn't flinch.
Haruto caught Aya's wrist. "Stop. *Please.*"
Aya wrenched free, eyes wild. "You're choosing *her*? Over me?"
"I'm not—" Haruto's voice cracked. "I love you. But you haven't looked at me in months. You smell like Tanaka-san. You come home and fall asleep with your back to me. Kanako-san *sees* me."
Aya slapped him. The sound cracked through the kitchen like lightning. Haruto's head snapped sideways; a red handprint bloomed on his cheek.
Kanako moved without thinking. Her palm connected with Aya's cheek—sharp, shocking. The first time she'd ever struck her daughter.
The room froze. Aya's hand flew to her face, eyes wide with betrayal. Kanako's own hand burned.
"I'm sorry," Kanako whispered. "But I won't let you hurt him for seeing what you refuse to."
Aya's tears came fast, furious. "Get out. Both of you. I want you *gone* by morning."
She stormed to the bedroom, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. The lock clicked like a gunshot.
Haruto sagged against the counter, sketchbook at his feet. Kanako turned off the stove with trembling fingers. The curry was ruined—scorched, bitter.
"I'll pack," he said quietly.
"No." Kanako's voice was steel. "She doesn't get to throw you out like garbage. This is *my* home too."
He looked at her then, eyes red-rimmed. "Where do we go?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she filled the kettle, set it to boil. Some things required tea before decisions.
---
Later, when Aya's sobs had quieted to hiccups behind the door, Kanako ran a bath. The tub was small, meant for one, but Haruto followed her in without asking. Steam rose around them like forgiveness.
They undressed in silence. Kanako's hip bore a purple bruise; Haruto kissed it gently, lips trembling. She traced the handprint on his cheek, then the faint scar on his shoulder from a childhood fall.
The water was scalding. They sank in together, her back to his chest, his legs bracketing hers. The tub sloshed, but the building was old—pipes groaned louder than their breathing.
Haruto's hands moved over her with soap, slow circles across her breasts, down the soft curve of her belly. Not seduction—absolution. When his fingers slipped between her thighs, she was already slick, not from arousal but from the day's tears and the warmth of him behind her.
"Let me take care of you," he murmured against her ear. "Like you take care of us."
She turned in the tight space, water cascading over the edge. Straddling him, she guided his cock inside her with a sigh that sounded like surrender. They moved slowly, rocking in the sloshing water, her forehead pressed to his.
No rush. No hiding. Just the slide of bodies and the quiet *I'm here* in every thrust.
Kanako came first, a soft shudder that rippled through the water. Haruto followed, arms tight around her waist, spilling with a broken whisper: "I think I'm falling in love with the wrong person."
After, they stayed soaked and pruned until the water cooled. Kanako rested her cheek on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat slow.
"We'll fix this," she said. "Not tonight. But we will."
He nodded against her hair. "Together."
They climbed out, dripping, and wrapped themselves in towels. The apartment was silent—Aya's door still closed, the curry pot cold on the stove.
Kanako took Haruto's hand. "Sleep in my room tonight. Just sleep."
He squeezed her fingers. "Yes, ma'am."
In the dark, they lay fully clothed on her futon, his head on her breast, her arms around him like a promise. Outside, the city hummed. Inside, the broth of their lives simmered on the verge of boiling over—but for now, it held.
Morning would bring reckoning. Tonight, they had the weight of each other's breathing, and it was enough.