The apartment woke to the smell of scorched curry and the low, metallic hum of the refrigerator. Kanako opened her eyes to Haruto's head still on her breast, his breath warm through her T-shirt. For three heartbeats she let herself pretend this was ordinary: a husband, a wife, a Saturday with no storms. Then Aya's door creaked.
Footsteps. Sharp. Purposeful.
Kanako sat up fast. Haruto stirred, blinking confusion. Before either could speak, the bedroom door flew open.
Aya stood in the frame, hair wild, eyes swollen. In one hand she clutched Haruto's duffel; in the other, Kanako's old navy apron—the one with tiny embroidered eggplants. The apron had been in Haruto's work bag since the laundry-room night.
"You're *stealing* my husband with *food*?" Aya's voice cracked on the last word. She hurled the apron. It fluttered to the tatami like a white flag of surrender.
Kanako rose, shielding Haruto with her body. "Aya—"
"Don't." Aya's laugh was glass dragged over stone. "I called Tanaka-san. He's picking me up. I'm done pretending this is a family."
Haruto stood, hands open. "Let me explain—"
"There's nothing to explain." Aya's gaze flicked to the rumpled futon, the two indentations side by side. "You chose. Pack your shit and get out. Both of you."
She turned on her heel. The front door slammed so hard the walls shook. Keys jangled, then silence.
Kanako's knees buckled. Haruto caught her, guiding her to sit on the edge of the futon. The room smelled of last night's bathwater and the ghost of curry.
"She hates me," Kanako whispered.
"She's hurt," Haruto said. "We did that."
He knelt, gathering scattered clothes into the duffel with mechanical calm. Kanako watched, numb, until the sight of her apron on the floor snapped her into motion.
"No." She stood. "This is my home. She doesn't get to exile us."
Haruto paused, a folded sweater in his hands. "Kanako-san…"
"I said no." Her voice cracked like Aya's had, but steadier. "We'll give her space. But we're not running."
She marched to the genkan, slipped on sandals, and opened the front door. The hallway was empty; Aya's heels echoed in the stairwell, fading fast. Kanako stepped out, heart hammering, and called down the concrete shaft:
"Aya! Come back when you're ready to talk like an adult!"
The echo swallowed her words. Somewhere below, a car door slammed. An engine revved. Then nothing.
Back inside, Haruto waited in the living room, duffel at his feet. The apartment felt suddenly cavernous—three people reduced to two, the silence louder than any fight.
Kanako closed the door. The click sounded final.
Haruto's shoulders sagged. "I should go. Hotel, maybe. Give you—"
"No." She crossed to him, took the duffel, and dropped it by the couch. "You stay. We face this together."
His eyes searched hers—lost, grateful, terrified. "What if she never comes back?"
"Then we build something new." The words surprised them both. Kanako felt them settle in her chest like stones in a garden. "But not tonight."
She took his hand and led him to the living room. The kotatsu stood in the center, low and familiar. Afternoon light slanted through the blinds, striping the tatami in gold.
Kanako knelt, pulled the quilt over the table's frame. Haruto hesitated, then joined her. The space beneath was warm, intimate. Their knees touched.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
"Me too." She reached for the hem of his shirt, tugged it over his head. "But I'm tired of almost."
He kissed her then—slow, deliberate, tasting of salt and apology. Clothes fell away in quiet layers: her blouse, his jeans, the soft cotton of her bra. Skin met skin under the kotatsu's blanket, the wooden frame creaking softly as they shifted.
Kanako straddled him, guiding him inside with a sigh that sounded like homecoming. They moved without urgency—hips rolling in a rhythm older than guilt. The quilt muffled their breaths; the table hid them from the world.
Haruto's hands mapped her back, her breasts, the curve where waist became hip. He kissed every inch he could reach: collarbone, the soft underside of her breast, the faint scar from Aya's birth. When he whispered "I choose *you*," it wasn't confession—it was vow.
Kanako's climax built gentle, inevitable, cresting with a soft cry into his shoulder. Haruto followed, arms tight around her, spilling with her name on his lips like a prayer.
They stayed joined beneath the kotatsu, sweat cooling, hearts slowing. Outside, a delivery scooter puttered past. Inside, the apartment held its breath—no footsteps, no slamming doors. Just the two of them, and the quiet certainty that some choices, once made, couldn't be unmade.
Later, Kanako rested her head on his thigh. "We'll need a bigger pot," she murmured.
Haruto's fingers combed through her hair. "For what?"
"For whatever comes next."
He smiled—small, real, the first since the cod dinner weeks ago. "I'll buy the biggest one they have."
The light shifted toward evening. Somewhere in the city, Aya was crying in a stranger's car. Here, under the kotatsu, Kanako and Haruto breathed the same air and planned a future one careful ingredient at a time.
The broth had boiled over. Now it was time to taste what remained.