Just writing.

She wondered how much Kai had known her in silence, while she was busy believing he hadn't noticed her at all.

Weeks ago, she casually mentioned that she hates thunderstorms. Another day, during a thunderstorm, Kai slowly closes the window before she reacts. No explanations, no 'I remembered'. Just action.

He knows when she is overwhelmed, when she is pretending to be okay, which smile is genuine and which smile isn't. She knew he understood her rhythm.

On their first argument, Julia was like, "You probably don't even know my favorite flowers."

Kai, without looking up, replied, "White lilies. Not roses. You only buy roses because people expect you to like them."

She was absolutely silent. Julia literally stopped functioning.

During heated arguments, she often blurts out that he doesn't understand her. Then, he says something devastatingly calm.

"You stir in multiple directions when you're nervous."

"You skip your dance practice when you are upset."

"You pretend to like coffee stronger than you actually do."

Nothing dramatic. Just casual.

His affection exists in memory, consistency, observation and silent adjustment. He loves through awareness. Julia expected compliments, reassurance and obvious romance. Instead, Kai offers understanding so precise it borders on intimacy. And, that's way more powerful.

Rain had started sometime earlier in the evening. She could hear it loud against the windows, soft at first, then steadier, threading through the silence of the room like distant static. Kai sat at the other end of the couch, an arm resting against the armrest, a book left forgotten in his lap.

"You know," she began casually, "in the past, I genuinely thought you didn't know anything about me."

Kai looked up, "I know. That's a strange conclusion."

"It's not," Julia argued just lightly, "You barely ask any questions."

A strange pause. Kai smirked, "You talk enough for both of us."

She stared at him for a second before chuckling, "That's not the point."

Kai closed the book, setting it aside with a quiet question, "Then what is it?"

Julia shifted closer to him, "Most people ask things when they are interested in someone."

"I am aware of it."

"You aren't."

Kai's gaze lingered on her for a moment, unreadable as always. The rain tapped gently against the windows.

Then, he hit the sore spot, "You dislike tea with extra sugar. But, you add them when you are tired."

Julia blinked.

"You twist your rings when you're irritated," he added. "And when you're lying, you stop making eye contact halfway through the sentence."

"Kai…"

"You also hate thunderstorms at night," he continued, quieter now. "That's why I closed the windows before the rain started."

Julia's lip parted slightly.

"Despite it being late, I am glad I understood you. In fact, I love this version of yours. Silence, calm and neutral on the outside, but deep down, you care for your loved ones."

"It includes you," his hand slowly held her back, cupping her shoulder before letting her rest on him.

"The blood pressure is dropping, the heart rate is reducing…" a resident surgeon murmured.

Kane nodded once, already calculating, "I see."

"Move."

That voice. He didn't need to turn. He felt it before he saw her, like a swift in pressure. Like something in the room has aligned. Salima stepped beside him, with sterile gloves steady on her hands, glancing toward the vitals and chart display without breaking sterility. No greeting, no wasted time.

And the monitor, steadied. Not with intervention, not gradually. It snapped into rhythm. Kane's eyes flickered to the screen. ECG waves falling into rhythm, blood pressure returning to normal, "Did you just adjust the meds?"

"I didn't," she said, looking up, "Did you?"

A beat passed. They both stared at the monitor now. The patient was teetering moments ago, now stabilized like someone had flipped a switch.

Too fast.

It wasn't the first time.

Later, in the dim lull between cases, Kane leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his mind drenched with a wave of emotions. Salima stood opposite to him, pretending to check notes she had already learnt. She shifted closer to him, her arm grazing his shoulder.

"This keeps happening, even before we got married," he said.

She didn't deny it. "I know."

"When you are in the room-"

"-things settle," she completed.

Their eyes met. There it was again, the strange, unspoken pull. It wasn't dramatic, or overwhelming… just silently present. Like two notes finding harmony without trying.

Kane exhaled slowly, "That's not normal."

She huffed a quiet laugh, "The term normal disappeared since we stepped into surgery, Kane."

"Not like this."

Silence stretched between them taut, but not uncomfortable. Almost experimentally, Kane stepped closer. Not enough to invade, just enough to… test. Salima didn't move away. They could feel each other's breaths.

"Give me your hand," he commanded gently.

She mused, a brow lifted, "In the midst of a hospital?"

"Salima."

There was something in his tone. Not even authority, or an emergency. There was curiosity, slightly edged with something softer, yet intense. She hesitated for half a second. Then, she placed her hand in his.

The world didn't explode with cinematic sparks. Something subtle yet intimate shifted. Kane's breath caught, not because of what he saw, but what he felt. A steady thump beneath his ribs. Adjusting and aligning. He frowned slightly, then without breaking contact, guided her hand to his chest. "Feel that," he whispered softly.

Salima froze for a second. Then, very slowly, she focused. His heartbeat, strong and even. And then, her expression changed into something softer, her voice lowered, "Kane."

"Yeah?"

"My heartbeat."

He gulped, "What about it?"

"I can feel it. It is aligning with yours," she shifted gently, pressing her free hand to her chest.

Two rhythms were perfectly synchronized. They didn't pull away immediately. Didn't speak. Because, the chaotic atmosphere of the hospital became more distant. The noise dulled. The urgency blurred. All that remained was the shared, impossible cadence of their heartbeats syncing in rhythm.

Kane let out a quiet breath, "So this is what's been happening." Salima's voice dropped, softer than he'd ever heard in a clinical setting. "We are stabilizing things."

"Or each other."

That landed.

She showed her wrist to him, "Feel my pulse," she whispered.

He reached out to her wrist, feeling her pulse fluttering beneath her fingers. Slowly, their breaths deepened, matching each other's.

A couple of seconds passed, to realize their heartbeats have become fast. For a moment, neither moved. The hospital lights reflected faintly in Salima's eyes while distant monitors and footsteps dissolved into the background.

Salima watched him carefully. The way his brows have softened. The slight tension lingering in his jaws. The disbelief flickering his usually composed eyes. Then slowly, she guided his hand away from her wrist. Kane looked up instinctively. He paused when her fingers curled up against his larger hand, drawing it upward to her chest. The moment was careful and intentional.

His breath caught, "Salima," he murmured softly.

But she said nothing at first. She explored with his palm, and finally placed it firm against the strongest pulse point.

Warmth radiated through the thin fabric of her scrubs, her heart thumping hard against his palm, strong enough he could feel every beat distinctively.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Kane froze completely, not out of hesitation but awe.

Because the instant his hand settled there, her heartbeat reacted again, much faster.

And his own chest answered it immediately, rhythm shifting beneath his ribs like something instinctive had awakened between them.

Salima inhaled shakily.

"You feel it, don't you?" she whispered. Kane swallowed once, never leaving hers, "Yes, I do."

They came out rougher than intended.

He stabilized his palm against her chest, feeling the cadence beneath the skin and her ribs. She lowered her lashes towards the sensation.

Kane realized how painfully intimate it was. Not because where his hand rested. But, she trusted him enough to place his hand herself. To let him feel something she could not consciously hide. Every nervous flutter; every involuntary reaction; every nervous acceleration.

His voice lowered instinctively, "Your heart changes everytime I touch you," he said.

A faint, embarrassed smile touched her lips, "Maybe, yours too."

That earned the smallest exhale of laughter from him, reserved only for her.

Quiet. Breathless. Defeated. Because she was right.

She felt the deeper thud in his chest now.

For a long moment, neither moved. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, "I think, this is the calmest I've felt in weeks."

Movie night had officially begun, which also means snacks.

"I'm hungry as fuck," Johnny cursed.

"Language," Ralf twisted his ear.

"Knock it off!" Johnny protested, then to be silenced again.

"If you're hungry, just grab a snickers," Enrique winked.

"Not you telling with that flirty charm," Johnny seethed.

"Alright, guys. Leave it to me," Olivier grinned, declaring as if he was preparing for a royal banquet instead of making a popcorn.

"Here comes the chef of Michelin star tier," Enrique mused.

Johnny nearly fell off from the couch, giggling, "Why are you dressing like you are entering a culinary combat? This is my house, not a masterchef's place."

"You are just preparing a heated corn, by the way," Enrique added.

"You guys are just touching his nerve right now," Ralf said.

"Aight, I am using your kitchen, by the way, hot tomato," Olivier teased Johnny.

"I ain't a hot tomato!" Johnny exclaimed, almost throwing a cushion at Olivier.

The kitchen became suspicious within a couple of minutes. Olivier stood beside the stove, carefully watching. Instead of a pressure cooker, there was a saucepan seated over the flame. Olivier mysteriously tossed the corn. Johnny's jaw dropped instantly.

"Mate, why are you stirring it like a risotto?"

"Heat distribution."

"It's fricking corn."

Enrique wandered into the kitchen and sniffed, "I smell butter, olive oil, seasoning, and…" he squinted, peeping in, "...parsely?"

Olivier looked offended. "Flavour."

"Why do you add parsley in popcorn?" Ralf asked him.

"It elevates the experience," Olivier stirred confidently.

"Probably preparing a pregnant woman's craving," Johnny teased him. He wheezed into the refrigerator.

Olivier closed the pan with the lid.

A few minutes passed by.

POP.

Everyone paused.

POP. POP.

"IT LIVES," Johnny points at it dramatically.

The saucepan erupted.

POPOPOPPOPPOPPOPOPOPP.

The saucepan acted as if it was possessed. Olivier tried holding it down with his chef-level composure. "This happens, I can manage."

That lasted for three seconds. The lid bursted upward. A violent spray of popcorn erupted across the kitchen like bursts of edible fireworks.

Johnny screamed, not out of fear, "This is the best thing I've ever seen!"

Enrique ducked in as popcorn bounced off his shoulder. Ralf took a direct hit from a flying kernel and remained emotionally unchanged. Meanwhile, Olivier attempted to rescue the pan.

Unfortunately, the butter had evolved into a molten life-form. A dramatic smoke. Deep and theatrical kind. The fire alarm unleashed hell upon the entire house.

Johnny collapsed against the refrigerator laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Enrique ran to open the windows while yelling in Italian. Ralf calmly switched off the stove with the exhausted energy like a father of three.

And, in the center of chaos, Olivier held the saucepan in stunned silence, apron crooked, hair messy, dignity critically injured.

Then Johnny slowly looked upward, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, "Are these popcorn clouds?"

Everyone followed his gaze.

A buttery popcorn was dramatically clung to the ceiling lamp. A long silence filled the kitchen.

Olivier inhaled slowly.

The orange-haired woman stepped out from the bath, medium-length hair ending a bit past her shoulders, her figure bound loosely by her red silk robe.  Her petite face had a glow that might outshine the moon. She appeared a stark contrast to her nerdy look.

“Rough day?” the tall blonde mused, gently tucking a few strands of her hair behind her ears and cupping her cheek just passively.

“Yep,” her voice hung low, as she leaned into his touch.

“Alright then, let’s have dinner, Emily.”

“Aight, Max.”

The word dinner barely settled in the air before the mansion seemed to listen. Something sharper than silence. 

The chandelier above them gave a faint creak, its crystals gently chiming, but out of rhythm, like teeth tapping in the cold. Max’s hand lingered on Emily’s cheek a second too long, his thumb still, as if he had forgotten what movement was. 

Then,

‘Tap.”

Again, a ‘Tap’, from the kitchen. They saw the kitchen light flickering and then it turned off. 

“Max, did you leave the tap running?”

Max shook his head, “No, I didn’t.”

The sound didn’t come again.

The television flickered. No remote, no touch. Just a grainy black-and-white hiss spread throughout the screen like mold creeping over fruit.

Emily turned, her arm clutched to Max’s, “Max?”

The television display changed. Not into a channel or an image. It was something else. Into depth.

Max held her tight, jaw tightening, “Probably an issue with the wiring. This place is quite old too.”

The air turned cold, not from the nocturnal wind, but from something damp, cellar-cold, pressing against the skin. 

And then, the reflection came. Not on the television, but on the wooden floor. Two figures stood in the room; Max, and Emily.

A third figure, stretched long and thin behind them. Emily’s breath hitched. “Max, don’t move.”

He didn’t ask why. Slowly, his gaze directed towards the reflection, as if he was in thick water. The third figure didn’t match them. Its head dysmorphed, limbs too long. The face was a hollow blur, as it isn’t supposed to be.

The chandelier chimed again. This time, it's not from movement, but something against it. Above them.

Emily’s voice trembled again, “There is something above us. And, the staircase light is turned off.”

The television cracked louder this time. From the Television screen, a low, creepy growl began to crawl out. It wasn’t a quiet voice. But close enough to feeling that someone is trying. 

“E..m..i..l..y.”

The reflection smiled.

"These kids," she muttered under her breath.

Sweat drops seeped from her forehead, terminating near her jawline. She gently wiped with the back of her hand before continuing the dishwashing.

Lin climbed downstairs and immediately called her mother, "Mama! Hu misplaced my stationary!" she yelled.

"Lin, what am I supposed to do now?" she questioned, her voice ragged.

"And I have to buy them again. This happens every single time!"

"Lin, you are in college now! You aren't a kid anymore. Sort this out yourself," Mao turned to wash the vessels.

"Lin, you didn't search properly. It was in your cupboard," Hu bought her pouch. Lin almost gasped, "Well, I apologize, mom."

Mao facepalmed.

Silence broke out in thirty minutes. The teens were fast asleep in their rooms. Meanwhile, Mao walked to her room, immediately climbing on her bed. She propped up her pillow against the headrest, before lying down, her body instantly relaxing against the soft surface. Rei was on a night shift. Ever since his promotion as a manager, the frequency of night shifts drastically decreased. This is one of the rarest nights he is on a shift supervising. His absence created settled into her chest like a quiet kind of loneliness.

Nineteen years of marriage.

Mao gently shifted, scrolling through her phone. She dialed to Rei's number.

She anticipated for him to pick the call.

No response for a while. She sighed.

In the fraction of a second, the call was immediately connected.

His voice was audible, but he was just done talking to his assistant. Mao immediately gasped.

"Hey, uh, I am sorry. I had an argument with an employee," Rei chuckled. Mao's heart instantly softened.

"Are you able to manage?" he asked from the other end.

"Yes, I can. But I had enough of these kids," she chuckled.

"Well, they are like that, despite the fact that they are grown ups now," Rei mused.

"If you don't mind, shall we talk for a while? I need you."

"You haven't changed ever since childhood."

"I am still a lovestruck girl. And the reason is because I have a husband who makes me feel like that," her cheeks flushed a little.

Rei doesn't answer immediately.

From the other end, the chair shifted faintly against the floor, and a faint shuffle of paper. He exhales.

"Easy to say, huh?"

Mao smiled, curling the blanket closer to her, and giggled. "Because, it's true. I mean it."

Another pause. Not uncomfortable.

He asks again, "Did you finish dinner?"

"I did."

"On time?" his voice was laced with gentle concern.

She hesitates before answering again, "Maybe, I did on time."

"Mao."

"I ate," she insists, a quiet laugh followed. "You're starting to sound like me."

"Someone has to," Rei chuckled.

Mao gently turned to the side, repositioning herself a little. She rests the head more comfortably on the pillow.

"I'll be back before morning," he said.

"You say this everytime, but you don't," she teased.

"I'll come this time. I promise."

Mao paused briefly, then spoke again, "Then, I hope work doesn't get in the way."

There's no accusation in her voice. Just understanding. Years of it.

Rei leans back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly.

"I know."

Morning light doesn't rush in. It seeps. By the time Rei reaches home, the sky has already softened into pale gold, the world stretching alive in quiet motions.

He unlocks the door carefully. The house is still.

No clatter. No voices. Just the faint, lived-in silence of a place that hasn't quite begun its day.

He slips off his shoes, setting them aside without sound, and moves through the hallway with practiced ease.

Hu's door is half-open. Books scattered. Light still off.

Rin's room is closed. Undisturbed.

Good.

The bedroom door is slightly ajar. He saw what he exactly imagined to be. Soft morning sunlight streaks on her hair that curled loose on her face, the phone still held in her hand, with no firm grip.

For a minute, he just watched.

He crossed the room, gently took the phone from her hand and placed it aside, his fingers curling her jawline. He sits beside her and notices the tiny details.

The faint crease between her brows, long since relaxed.

The way her fingers still loosely curl around the phone.

The steady rhythm of her breathing.

Mao shifts slightly, instinctively moving closer into the space he occupies, even in sleep.

Rei stills.

Then, slowly, he adjusts the blanket around her shoulders, tucking it in just enough to keep the morning chill away.

His fingers hover for a moment near her face before he brushes a stray strand of hair aside.

Gentle. Familiar.

Rei leans back slightly, resting against the headboard. He has a lot of things waiting, but they can't take over the most precious thing in front of him.

Her.

After a while, Mao stirs. Her lashes fluttered, her brows knitting faintly as she blinks awake. For a moment, she looks disoriented, then her gaze lands on him.

Her eyes soften instantly, sleep still clinging to her voice.

"... Rei?"

"I'm back," he smiled.

"You said you would."

"I did."

Mao leans against him, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

He lets her.

The silence returns. But this time, it's different.

"Go sleep," she murmurs.

"I will."

"You say that every time."

"And I mean it every time."

She huffs softly, eyes closing again. Rei glances down at her.

At the quiet, familiar weight of her presence.

"Otou-san! He is cheating!"

"I am not cheating!" Makoto's voice erupted.

"You are! You changed it when I wasn't looking!" Atsumi pouted.

The sound of small feet thundering across the hallway, which was followed by a door flying open. Takao groans into his pillows, "Five more minutes," he muttered in his half-sleepy voice.

"No!" Makoto yelled, climbing onto the bed, "Tell her I didn't cheat!"

Atsumi appears right behind him, arms crossed, eyes sharp in a way that feels familiar.

"He did! Teach him a lesson!" her tiny voice squeaked.

Then steps in the boss of the house.

But she doesn't even step up from where she's tying her hair. "Breakfast first, court case later."

"But-" Makoto couldn't even complete his sentence.

"Breakfast," she repeats, calm but absolute.

Takao cracks open one eyelid to see both the kids shuffle out, still whisper-arguing. The door closes. Silence. Blessed, fragile silence.

He murmured, "You're good at that.

Hiromi hums, "At what?"

"Stopping the chaos before it becomes a full tournament-arc."

Hiromi chuckles, snorting softly, "That's just the prelims. I married a World champion beyblade, afterall."

"Then I married someone who wakes up before I do," he teased.

The kitchen smells like something slightly overcooked. The two kids peeked into the pan, analysing it like a chemistry experiment.

"Is it supposed to smell like that?" Atsumi was curious, sniffing, and immediately withdrawing.

"It's called crispy," Takao coughed, justifying.

"It's burnt," Makoto sighed.

Hiromi takes the spatula from him, gently bonking his head. "You sit, and eat. That's more than enough. You used to be a breadbasket, but you barely eat anything now."

"I am not a basket," Takao groaned, scratching his head and taking a seat.

Makoto leans over the counter, with puppy eyes to Hiromi, "Mom, can we battle after breakfast?"

"Homewrok first."

"But it's Saturday!" he pouted.

"So?"

"That's illegal," he muttered.

"I agree. It's a suspicious rule," Takao nodded, patting Makoto's head.

Hiromi gives him a glare. Takao raises his hands, "I'm just saying, we should hear this argument."

"We aren't conducting a debate here, Takao," Hiromi smacked his head.

"Ouch!" he grasped his head defensively.

"Mom always wins," Makoto sat beside Takao, dramatically patting Takao's shoulder.

"He is Mama's boy," Hiromi grinned.

"You didn't let him blade," Takao mused.

"I'll do homework," Makoto grinned wider.

"I'm defeated," Takao hung his head dramatically. "You guys are so good that you can bring down this world champion."

Later, the house settles into something softer. Makoto is doing his coloring work, meanwhile Atsumi is stacking building blocks. Hiromi is preparing lunch. Occasionally, she comes and checks on the kids. Takao leans against the doorframe and watches them over.

"They're good," Takao smiles, his hand over her shoulder, nudging her a little closer.

They see their kids arguing over the crayon.

"They're learning," she giggles.

"Yeah, fast."

There was something evident in his voice. Not pride. Something deeper. Something softer.

"We are a good family, after all," Takao grinned widely.