WebNovels

Chapter 11 - Weekend Project

Riko glanced at the clock. 4:37 p.m.

They had walked home together in that same awkward-but-familiar way, quiet with the occasional jab from Hoshina that she barely responded to. Now, the apartment smelled like simmering miso and ginger, and she had already rolled up her sleeves, tying her white hair back with a scrunchie she kept looped around her wrist.

Hoshina leaned against the doorframe of the small kitchen, arms crossed loosely as he watched her dart from the stove to the counter and back again. She didn't say much—just barked out a quick "wash your hands" when he got too close to the cutting board.

"I thought we were working on the project," he said eventually, one eyebrow raised.

"We are," she replied, chopping green onions with precise, almost mechanical movements. "But my dad comes home late and expects food on the table. I'll be quick."

"You're gonna drop like a fly at this rate, Angel."

Riko froze, her hand hovering over the pan. Her golden eyes shifted toward him slowly, something unreadable flashing behind them.

"Don't call me that."

Hoshina, still leaning against the counter with an easy grin, raised an eyebrow. "What, Angel?"

"You know that's not my name."

"Oh, I know. But everyone else seems to think you floated down from the heavens or something." He stirred the pot lazily. "Perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect little smile. You're basically a school-wide miracle."

She didn't say anything.

Not at first.

Then, after a beat too long, she turned back to the stove.

"It's exhausting, you know," she said softly. "Being what everyone expects."

The words came out so quietly he almost didn't catch them—and the way she said them wasn't angry. Just... tired.

The smile slipped from his face, just for a moment.

He watched her a moment longer, not convinced. Her voice was steady, but her movements were slower than usual, her eyes dull at the edges, the way they got when her focus turned into autopilot. The rice cooker clicked softly behind her. Something sizzled on the stovetop.

He sighed.

"Alright, scoot."

She blinked at him. "What?"

"I'm helping."

"I don't need help."

"Tough. You're getting it anyway." He stepped forward and took the knife from her hand before she could protest, already washing his own hands in the sink. "You chop. I stir. I am shockingly competent in the kitchen, by the way."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you?"

"Nope. But I can fake it better than most."

For a second, just a second, the corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—but close enough.

They settled into an odd rhythm—him clumsily stirring and tasting with commentary like "Could use more something, probably soy?" while she pretended not to correct everything he did in the background.

At one point, she muttered under her breath, "You're going to ruin dinner."

He smirked. "I'm adding character."

By the time her father's key clicked in the front door, the kitchen was filled with steam and light bickering, and Hoshina was halfway through plating the dishes with a ridiculous flourish.

The table was small — barely enough room for three — but it felt full for once.

Her father, still in his work uniform with his tie loose and sleeves rolled up, gave Hoshina a surprised but pleasant look over his glasses. "You're still around?" he said, smiling faintly. "Riko didn't scare you off yet?"

"She tried," Hoshina replied without missing a beat, sliding a bowl of miso soup in front of him. "But I have excellent survival instincts."

Riko rolled her eyes and placed the last plate down with a quiet thud. "We're working on a school project, that's all."

"Mm." Her father chuckled and picked up his chopsticks. "Well, if it gets me a home-cooked meal like this, maybe you should partner up more often."

She didn't reply, just sat down and started eating quietly.

Hoshina glanced across the table. The difference was subtle — the way her shoulders lost that tight line of tension, the way her hands moved slower, less stiff. He realized something he hadn't noticed before: she always looked like she was bracing for something when her dad walked in. But now? She looked... settled.

Still, it didn't last.

Her father finished quickly, complimented the food one more time, and offered a tired smile before pushing back his chair. "I need to get some rest. Early shift tomorrow."

Riko nodded, eyes already on her bowl. "Okay. I'll clean up."

Her dad paused a moment, then placed a hand gently on her head. She didn't look up, but she didn't flinch either. "Thanks, kiddo."

Then he disappeared into the back room, door clicking shut behind him.

Hoshina watched her for a moment longer. She didn't move.

That tiny change — that fleeting peace she'd worn during dinner — had already faded. Her shoulders curled inward again. Her mouth pressed into a soft line. Not upset. Just... used to it.

"You know," he said quietly, nudging her knee under the table, "that was good food."

She blinked, snapping out of her haze. "Oh. Thanks."

"I still think the soup could've used more soy, though."

That earned him a real, albeit small, scoff. "You don't even know what dashi is."

"Rude. I could be a dashi expert."

She finally stood and began stacking the dishes. "If you're done, then help clean up."

"Aye aye, chef."

He moved beside her, bumping her shoulder lightly on purpose. She bumped him back — harder — and muttered something about "slacker partners."

He just smiled.

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