By the time the evening light poured orange through the curtains, the new living arrangement had settled into a fragile rhythm.
Riku Kazehaya handled the groceries and cleaning. Aika Hoshino, surprisingly diligent for a girl who painted her nails black and never missed a sale on protein bars, took care of cooking and laundry. They didn't talk much—just enough to not seem like strangers. Enough to know each other's footsteps. Enough to not trip.
The apartment was quiet. Riku finished wiping down the kitchen counter and tossed the cloth into the sink. He was in a loose black tee now, hair damp from a quick shower, bandages re-wrapped around his knuckles out of habit.
Dinner was done. Curry rice. Surprisingly good, even if Aika threatened to poison him when he complimented it.
She had retreated to her room, probably scrolling through workout plans or fashion blogs. Riku headed into his room, pulled off his shirt, and dropped to the floor. Sit-ups. Just part of the routine. One. Two. Three—
He was at forty-seven when he heard a knock—except it didn't come. The door opened on its own.
Aika stood there, arms crossed, tank top and shorts, damp towel around her neck. Post-shower look, too. Her hair fell loose past her shoulders, slightly curled at the ends.
She squinted. "You really do this every night?"
Riku paused and sat up in one smooth motion. "Yeah."
"Still not a gym guy, though?"
"Still not," he said, standing up. His bare torso caught the dim ceiling light—defined core, not a bodybuilder's bulk but sharp enough to show work. Sweat dotted his chest, trailing down like silver ink. The bandages on his hands looked worn.
"You don't stop, huh," she muttered, leaning on the doorframe like it was a casual visit.
He shrugged, grabbing his towel. "You mind if I hang a punching bag in here?"
"As long as it doesn't swing into my room while I'm sleeping, knock yourself out. Literally."
He gave a short laugh. "I'll try to keep the blood indoors."
Aika tilted her head. "Honestly, you're kinda weird. You don't lift, don't gym, yet you're built like a side character who gets a tragic flashback arc."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Don't. I meant it offensively."
"Duly noted."
They stood there for a moment, the air oddly calm. The sounds of the city crept in from the balcony—distant cicadas, cars humming through Kamakura's streets, the occasional sea breeze brushing by.
Aika clicked her tongue. "I'm making miso soup tomorrow morning. Don't be late or I'll eat yours too."
He nodded. "Got it."
She turned, paused, then glanced over her shoulder.
"Oh, and one more thing," she added. "Shirtless workouts in a shared apartment? Kinda bold."
He smirked. "You walked in. I wasn't putting on a show."
She rolled her eyes, heading off down the hall. "Whatever, Kazehaya. Just don't stink up the place."
He watched the door close behind her.
"…Right," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Welcome to round two."
To be continued...