Melwash89

He called the next morning. 

She hadn't expected that — not so soon, not that easy. Misaki asked if she wanted to come out to the shopping district with him and some friends, and she said yes before she'd fully thought it through. That seemed to be a theme with Mt. Komorebi.

His friends were easy people — warm, unhurried, the kind that make you feel like you've known them longer than you have. Ivy smiled more than she expected to and talked more than she planned to, which was its own kind of good sign.

She ordered a tuna roll from one of the stalls, mostly on impulse. Her first time. She ate it carefully, trying to look like she knew exactly what she was doing, and decided immediately that she loved it.

At some point the afternoon had gotten warmer than it started — not the weather, just the feeling of it. She and Misaki had drifted a little closer than was strictly necessary. Nobody mentioned it. 

She pulled out her phone and held it up. He leaned in without being asked. 

Click.

Misaki's friends knew exactly where to go next. The karaoke bar revolted against the evening sky like something out of a dream — lanterns, cherry blossoms, the warm spill of light through the windows. Ivy followed them inside and decided she liked these people very much.

Misaki asked her to do a duet before she'd even taken her coat off. She said yes immediately, which told her something. She'd done karaoke before — plenty of times, with Miko, with Penny, in loud bars where nobody cared how you sounded. But this felt different. Lighter somehow. Misaki was terrible and completely unbothered about it, and she found herself laughing between verses, forgetting to be self-conscious, just singing. When the song ended, she thought, yes, that felt right. And she was sure, from the way he was still smiling, that he thought so too. 

They gathered at the bar afterward, all of them — Ivy, Misaki, his friends — and the conversation came easy the way it does when the night has already been good. She sat next to him without thinking about it. Nobody mentioned that either.

The drinks came fast, and the night got warmer. Somewhere between the first round and the second, everyone had loosened up considerably. Ivy included. 

The dance floor happened the way dance floors always do — gradually, then all at once. Ivy was out there doing exactly what she wanted and not thinking about it too hard, which was, she would later reflect, probably the drinks talking. 

She did not go home. 

Misaki, also very much feeling the liquor, came over and swept her clean off her feet — literally. She laughed so hard she could barely hold on. Around them, the bar kept going, unbothered, as bars do. Neither of them noticed. 

Somewhere between the dancing and the laughter, the night shifted into something quieter. They found a seat and caught their breath, and then somehow — neither of them could have said exactly how — Ivy was in his lap, and his hands were in hers, and they were kissing like the rest of the room had ceased to exist entirely. 

It had. 

They decided to leave. This took longer than expected, partly because of the drinks and partly because neither of them was in any particular hurry. They stumbled out into the cold night laughing, holding each other up. The mountain was quiet and dark around them. 

They made it back to the rental. 

What happened next was not something either of them had planned. It was something that had been building since a gym in an onsen district, since a duet under lantern light, since a number saved in a phone on a cold night outside a noodle shop. It was warm and unhurried and entirely, completely right. 

She fell asleep in his arms in the quiet of the rental, the tatami floors cool around them and the mountain dark outside the window. 

Mt. Komorebi, she thought, just before sleep, pulled her under. 

She discovered a bookshelf tucked away in the onsen and instantly knew she had to pause. That was Ivy’s way: a promising spine, a hidden nook, and suddenly the world faded to a hush. She curled up and read, losing track of time until the light around her changed. 

She noticed the gym on her way back and nudged herself inside before doubt could catch up. She was chasing a routine, something steady she could hold onto. The weights, however, had other ideas. Her struggle was awkward, a little embarrassing, and entirely real.

The man who'd been on the treadmill noticed. He didn't make a production of it — just stepped over, asked if she wanted a hand, and smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world. His name is Misaki Ando. She told him yes, and he showed her the right form, patient and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.  

It was, she thought, a very good way to meet someone.

The mountain was right there, and she had the day. She pulled her hat down over her ears and went to find out what else it had to offer. She had never been snowboarding in her life. That lasted about thirty seconds as a reason not to try. The slope was gentle; the board was pink, and she was grinning before she even made it halfway down. She went again. And then again. 

She took it slower after that — just walking, looking, letting the mountain show her things at its own pace. The snow came down quietly and steadily around her, and she didn't mind at all. Then she found the cliff.  

She stood at the base of it for a long moment, looking up.  

(She climbed it. She absolutely climbed it. Unfortunately, her photographer — that would be me — was not fast enough to document the moment. We regret the error.)

By the time evening settled over the mountain, her body had made its opinion very clear. She found a noodle shop not far from the rental — small, warm, the kind of place that doesn't need to try very hard to feel exactly what you need.

The food arrived hot and steaming. She ate slowly, deliberately, the way you do when you're tired in the best possible way — the kind of tired that comes from a full day lived all the way through. A bowl of noodles, a cold drink, and nowhere to be. It was, she decided, a perfect ending to a perfect day.

She was heading for the door when she heard her name.  

Misaki was already smiling when she turned around, like he'd been hoping to run into her and wasn't quite ready to admit it. She wasn't ready to admit it either, but she stopped walking. 

They talked longer than either of them planned to. The kind of conversation that keeps finding new things to say just when it should be wrapping up. By the time they exchanged numbers, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. When she finally said goodnight and stepped out into the cold, she was still smiling.  

Friday. 

Vacation to Mt. Komorebi. 6:00 AM to 2:00 AM. 

She had booked it on a feeling and counted it down ever since. And now, finally, impossibly — today was the day. 

She was up before the city had fully decided to be awake. The water ran cold at first, and she didn't mind — she stood at the sink and let it run warm, washing the last of sleep from her face. Today was not a regular day. She had somewhere to be. She sat down to a crepe before she packed, before she dressed, before she let the day get away from her. Just this first — a quiet minute at the table, a plate in front of her; the morning still soft around the edges. She was smiling before she even picked up her fork. 

She was really doing this.

She put on the plaid set — the one she'd bought for exactly this — and stood next to her luggage and felt, for a moment, like someone in a movie. She took a few pictures just because she could. Then she sat by the window, held her phone up, and took a selfie. No filter. No occasion. Just proof, for herself, that she had actually done it. 

Ivy Winters. Going somewhere. 

She arrived in the rain. 

The rental was small and warm, and nothing like anything she'd ever stayed in before — tatami floors, shoji screens, a low table in the sitting room, like something out of a photograph. She moved through it slowly, opening doors, taking it all in. The kitchen was stocked. The bedroom was quiet. Outside, the rain came down steadily against the roof. 

She set her bags down and stood very still for a moment, listening. 

She was here. And she couldn't wait to see all of it.

The rain hadn't let up, but the rental was warm, and the kitchen was right there. She found the kettle, filled it, and brewed herself a cup of green tea. First cup in Mt. Komorebi. She stood at the counter, held it with both hands, and decided the rain was actually quite nice. Nice enough to go out in, even.

She'd read about the onsen before she left and had been quietly looking forward to it ever since. Standing outside in the snow looking up at it, she felt that kind of excitement that only comes from doing something for the very first time. 

She showered before she got in. That was the rule, and she followed it without question — there was something she liked about that, the small ritual of it, the respect it asked for. Steam rose around her. Outside, the snow was still falling. In a few minutes she'd lower herself into the hot spring and feel the cold world disappear entirely. 

She was really starting to like Mt. Komorebi.

The water was hot, still, and perfect. She felt it worked through her shoulders, her back, every place she'd been carrying tension without knowing it. She tilted her head back and let her eyes close. The snow was still falling outside. In here, there was only warmth and the soft sound of water and the slow, pleasant heaviness of a body finally at rest. 

She woke up with lightness in her chest that took her a moment to place. Then two things arrived at once — the notification on her phone and the memory of the day. She checked the lottery results with one eye, half-open. Someone else won. She set the phone back down and smiled anyway. 

Tomorrow. She was going to Mt. Komorebi. Her first vacation. Ever. 

She got dressed slowly, deliberately — the way you do when you're savoring something. One more day in this apartment. One more morning before everything was somewhere new and different and hers to discover. She smiled at nothing and meant it completely. 

She'd been looking up recipes all week. This morning she finally tried one — a Korean rolled omelet, something she'd bookmarked after falling down a rabbit hole about Mt. Komorebi's food culture. It came out slightly lopsided. She ate it anyway, standing at the stove with the city spread out behind her through the window, already halfway somewhere else in her mind. 

One more day. 

She couldn't help it. The excitement of tomorrow was already buzzing under her skin, and the only thing that ever quieted that feeling was writing. She sat down at the desk — just for a couple of hours, she told herself — and let the words come. The cursor blinked. The ideas followed. 

Hours later. Penny had insisted on the spa, and Ivy hadn't argued. She settled into the chair, extended her hand, and thought, yes. This is exactly right. Months of gigs, deadlines, late nights, and an old desktop that wasn't built for the volume she put through it — her hands had earned this. Every keystroke, every approval, every late-night sentence. All of it led here, to someone taking care of the parts of her that did all the work. Palms, digits, knuckles — the masseuse worked through each one with quiet precision, and Ivy let her eyes fall half-closed, the tension she hadn't even noticed unspooling slowly from her fingers. Worth every minute. She floated out of that chair feeling like someone had pressed reset on the parts of her that mattered most.

She walked out of the spa with her hands feeling like something new — light, loose, belonging to someone who hadn't been typing since dawn. Tomorrow she will leave for the mountains. Tonight, she felt ready. More than ready. She felt like a person who had been taken care of, and that, for Ivy Winters, was still a feeling she was learning to accept.

The clothing store was Penny's idea, but Ivy didn't need much convincing. She moved through the racks slowly, holding things up, putting them back, trying on a plaid set-in front of the neon-framed mirror and deciding yes — this was a vacation outfit. This was a mountain outfit. She bought it without second-guessing herself, which felt like its own small victory.

She found Miko already on the table, face up, calm as anything while the needle moved across her leg. Ivy pulled up a chair and sat quietly, watching. There was something almost hypnotic about it — the permanence of it, the deliberateness. She found herself thinking someday, maybe. When I know what I want to say on my skin forever. 

The card game started as a quick round and turned into something louder and longer, the way it always did with these three. Ivy laughed until her face hurt. Miko was absolutely cheating and absolutely denied it. The evening stretched out warm and unhurried, and Ivy thought this was what I was saving for. Not just the trip. This is too.

The goodbyes were quick about the way good ones always are — a hug that held on a little longer than expected, a promise to text, a wave from across the room. Ivy watched them go and stood there a moment in the quiet, still smiling. Tomorrow: the mountains. Tonight: this. 

Wednesday. She'd seen the ad for weeks and never bothered. But standing in the bathroom still damp from the shower, she decided today would be different. She didn't know why exactly — something about the morning just felt lucky, and she'd learned to trust that feeling when it came. She was going to buy a lottery ticket. Her very first one.

The Lottery. 6:00 AM to 2:00 AM. 

She pulled out her phone right there in the bathroom and paid the hundred simoleons without letting herself think too hard about it. A hundred simoleons, gone, just like that — on a feeling. She'd never had anyone to call when something good happened, no parent to text, no family group chat to drop news into. But standing there, ticket secured, she felt something anyway. The quiet thrill of having a secret, even if it was only a secret she was keeping from herself. Maybe she thought. Just maybe.

The results wouldn't come until later. She knew that. So, she did the only sensible thing — she sat down at the desk and opened a new document. The words came easier than they used to. And somewhere in the back of her mind, quieter than the cursor blinking, another thought had taken shape. She'd been saving for a while now. The ticket, whatever it turned out to be worth, had just reminded her exactly why.

Her phone buzzed sometime in the afternoon, right in the middle of a sentence. 

"I was feeling in the mood so I was hoping if I stopped by you might be available for some...canoodling?" 

She read it twice. Then she smiled at her screen like an idiot and typed back yes. Raiden Vale, she had decided a long time ago, had terrible timing and excellent instincts.

She didn't overthink it. She just cooked — something warm, something real, the kind of dinner that said I'm glad you're here without having to say it out loud. The orange bowl sat on the table like it always did. The apartment smelled like something good. For once, she wasn't in it alone. 

He came up behind her right as she was plating the food, arms wrapping around her before she could say a word, and she let herself lean into it — just for a moment, eyes closing, and a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the stove. The lottery ticket was still sitting somewhere on her phone, unresolved and probably worth nothing. She found she didn't mind at all. 

The overnight oats had been sitting in the fridge since Tuesday. She'd forgotten about them until now — until this particular morning, when everything felt a little softer than usual. Silk bonnet, the smell of something sweet, the quiet hum of the city still half-asleep outside. No deadlines pressing in. No one needs anything from her. She ate slowly, savoring not just the food but the rare, strange luxury of having absolutely nowhere to be.

She stood at the window for a moment longer than she needed to. The rain was just beginning — soft, preliminary; the sky still making up its mind. She was dressed. She was ready. And yet she lingered there, watching the city blur at the edges, still carrying the warmth of last night like something she didn't want to put down just yet.

The rain came down hard against the windows, a sound like static, like white noise, like the city saying stay in today. She listened. The old desktop hummed to life. The client was waiting. Outside, Fall did what Fall does — and inside, Ivy got back to work.

Gig: Help Our Dystopian Future. Due by 9:00 AM Thursday. 

She laughed a little when she first read the brief. Now her fingers moved across the keys with something that felt almost like purpose. Words come more easily these days. She wasn't sure if that was the award, or Raiden, or just the slow, stubborn accumulation of mornings exactly like this one. 

The ideas came in a rush, the way they sometimes did when she stopped trying to force them. The Algorithm of Control. She typed the title at the top of a blank document and felt something click into place. Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, Ivy disappeared into the work — the best kind of disappearing there is.

Chat with client — done. Write a Science Fiction Novel — done. One task is left. She leaned back in her chair and looked at what she'd made. A whole world, built in an afternoon, while rain blurred the windows and Van Gogh's café glowed quietly behind her. 

"Approved! This is exactly what we were looking for. Keep up the great work, Ivy." 

She read it twice. Then the third time. There was no one to call, no parent to tell; no one who'd been waiting for news like this — there never had been. But the words stayed on the screen; hers, real, approved, and something in her chest loosened anyway. She had built this herself, out of nothing but stubbornness and overnight oats and rainy afternoons. Nobody had given it to her. She set her glasses down on the desk and let herself feel, just for a moment, entirely and quietly proud.

By the time she looked up, the city had turned itself on — windows lit gold against the dark, rain still tracing patterns down the glass. She hadn't noticed the hours passing. She never did, on days like this. She closed the document, brushed her teeth, and was asleep before she could think of a single reason not to be. 

She woke up with a sentence already forming in her head, which meant she was at the desk before she was fully awake. Bonnet still on, the new document blinking at her like a question. The next book wasn't going to be written by itself. She'd shower later. She'd get dressed later. There was always later. 

There was not, as it turned out, always later. 

"Ivy." Miko's voice came from the doorway. "Geek Con starts in an hour." 

Ivy turned around slowly, as if this might somehow change what Miko was seeing. 

It did not. 

"I was going to get dressed—" 

"You have a bonnet on." 

"I was going to get dressed soon." 

Miko pressed two fingers to her temple. Ivy spun back toward the computer. The words on the screen suddenly felt very important and also like a very poor excuse. 

She got dressed in under ten minutes, which Miko acknowledged with a single approving nod. The city was loud and bright and smelled like street food, and Ivy felt the last of the workweek fall off her shoulders the moment they arrived. Geek Con had a way of doing that — pulling you out of your own head and dropping you somewhere louder and stranger and better.

She didn't expect to see Raiden there. Her stomach did something complicated when she spotted him — not quite a drop, not quite a lift, something in between that she didn't have a word for. He stepped onto the gaming mat across from her like he'd planned it, which he almost certainly had not. Neither of them said anything about the obvious. They just played. It was easier that way — easier to let the game fill the space where a conversation might have gone somewhere; neither of them was ready for.

Somewhere between the gaming mat and the food stalls, the conversation found its rhythm — easy, unforced, the kind they used to have before things got complicated. She laughed at something he said, really laughed, the kind that surprised her on its way out. He looked pleased about it in that quiet way of his, and for a moment she let herself forget about everything unresolved between them. They talked like they had time. She didn't know yet if they did. 

She'd been eyeing the spaceship since they arrived. Eventually, there was nothing left to do but walk up to it, wrench in hand, and get to work. She didn't know much about engineering. But there was something satisfying about it — taking something dented and unfinished and making it whole again, even if just for an afternoon, even if just pretending.

She smelled the French toast before she reached the bottom of the stairs. 

He was already in the kitchen, moving around it like he'd done this a hundred times — easy, the morning light coming through the windows and catching the steam rising off the pan. She stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, just watching him. The whole night was still warm somewhere in her chest. 

He turned and saw her and smiled. 

She crossed the kitchen and walked straight into his arms. 

Good morning, he said into her hair. How did you sleep? 

She pulled back just enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. 

How do you think, she said, after a night like that? 

He laughed — a real one, quiet and deep — and she decided right then that she wanted to hear that sound as many times as possible. 

They sat down to eat, and she took one bite and looked up at him. 

Raiden. 

Yeah. 

This is really good. 

He shrugged like it was nothing. She didn't let him get away with that — she told him again, properly, the way she meant it. He had cooked her breakfast in his kitchen in the morning after their first date, and it was delicious, and she wanted him to know what she noticed. 

He looked quietly pleased. He picked up his fork and didn't say anything else about it. 

She liked that about him, too. 

After breakfast they moved to the couch, the easy kind of sitting where neither of them was in a hurry to be anywhere yet. 

What does your day look like? He asked. 

She told him about the ceremony — the nomination, the award, tonight. His face shifted into something warm and proud, and she hadn't expected that, hadn't expected him to look at her like her wins were something he felt personally. 

What about you? She asked. 

A case, he said. Something he needed to follow up on. His hands moved when he talked about it the way hers did when she talked about writing — not dramatically, just present, the way people get when something matters to them. 

She looked at his hands and thought — quietly, to herself — that she could get very used to this. 

She didn't want to leave. 

That was the truth of it — she was sitting on his couch in the morning light, still warm from breakfast, still smiling at something he'd said, and leaving felt like the wrong direction entirely. 

But the ceremony was tonight. And he had a case. And the world had not, in fact, paused for the two of them even though it had felt that way for a little while. 

She stood up. He walked her to the door. They said goodbye the way people do when goodbye isn't quite the right word for it — like a comma, not a period. 

She was still smiling on her way home. 

She found Miko that afternoon at the flea market festival, leaves turning gold and orange all around them, and before she could even say hello properly Miko looked at her face and said — 

Something happened. 

Ivy laughed. She couldn't help it. 

Something happened, she confirmed. 

And then she told her everything. 

They wandered through the stalls while Ivy talked — the dinner, the bar, Evergreen Harbor, the French toast in the morning — and Miko listened with the focused intensity of someone filing every detail away permanently. The flea market spread around them in bursts of color, furniture, lamps, and odd, beautiful things scattered across the square; autumn leaves drifted through it all. 

Ivy picked things up and put them down without really seeing them. She was too busy smiling to browse properly. 

She came home from the festival with just enough time to get ready. 

The bathroom was warm and steamy, face wash lathered between her hands, the evening ahead of her feeling like something worth showing up for. Another nomination. Another ceremony. She still hadn't quite gotten used to the idea that this was her life now — that she was the kind of person for these things to happen to. 

She rinsed off and went to get dressed. 

The pink dress was the right choice. She knew it the moment she put it on. 

She stood in front of the mirror and took a couple of photos — one playful, peace signs up, grinning at herself. Then another, quieter one. Just her, and the dress, and the pearl necklace layered at her throat, and the version of herself that had come a very long way from a boarding school dormitory and a blank page. 

She looked good. She felt good. She was going to a ceremony where one of her books had been nominated for an award. 

Not bad, Winters. 

The ceremony was everything she remembered — the gold chairs, the dressed-up strangers, the kind of energy that fills a room full of people who care deeply about something. She settled into her seat and looked around and felt, quietly and genuinely, glad to be there. 

Glad to be the kind of writer who got invited back. 

She didn't win. 

That was okay. She sat with it for a moment — really sat with it — and found that it was, actually, okay. The nomination had been real. The room had been real. The work that had gotten her here had been real. And she had been here before, would be here again, was already thinking about the next thing she wanted to write. 

She took one last selfie before she left. Pearls, updo, the gold of the ceremony behind her. She was smiling — not the smile of someone who won, but the smile of someone who knew the difference between a setback and an ending. 

There was a difference. She had always known that. 

She came home, kicked off her heels, and went straight to the refrigerator. 

The cheesecake brownies were left over from Pumpkin Fest — she'd forgotten about them, which felt like a small gift from her past self. She sat down at the table in her pink dress, the blue-haired girl catching the wind above her shoulder, the orange bowl right where it always was, and ate slowly and contentedly in the quiet of her apartment. 

She didn't win tonight. But she was nominated. She showed up. She had taken a selfie and smiled as she meant it. 

That was enough. More than enough.

She went to bed with the city glowing softly through the window. 

The last couple of days moved through her like something warm — the dinner, the dancing, the morning after with French toast and easy conversation, Miko's face at the flea market when she'd said something happened, the ceremony tonight, the brownie just now at the kitchen table in her good dress. 

She laughed a lot. She felt a lot. She had written things and shown up to things and kissed someone in the living room while a record player turned into the corner. 

She wanted more of it. 

He had been sitting at his desk for ten minutes before he actually dialed. 

That wasn't like him. Raiden did not hesitate. He made decisions, followed through, and moved forward. It was practically a job requirement. But there was something about Ivy Winters that made the usual certainty feel a little less certain — the way she talked with her whole self, the way she laughed at something and then immediately wanted to know what you thought about it, the way she was just — a lot, in the best possible way. 

He dialed before he could think about it any harder. She picked up the third ring. He asked if she wanted to go to dinner with him — kept it easy, kept it direct, like his heart wasn't doing something mildly unprofessional in his chest. 

There was a beat. Just one. 

"Sure," she said. He leaned back in his chair and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

He was already there when she arrived. 

She spotted him before he saw her — standing by the yellow cab at the curb, hands in his pockets, looking like someone who was trying very hard to seem like he wasn't watching the street. Then he turned and saw her, and something in his face shifted, just slightly, in a way he probably didn't know was visible. 

They hugged hello the way people do when they're not quite sure what they are yet — warm and a little careful and maybe a beat longer than strictly necessary. 

Hey," he said. 

Hey, she said back. 

And just like that, the nervous part was over. 

They got to the table by the window and never really stopped talking. 

Ivy had a habit of gesturing when she got excited about something — hands moving, words tumbling out ahead of her thoughts — and tonight she was excited about everything. The restaurant. The menu. The thing she'd been reading about. The story she was working on. She caught herself mid-sentence once and laughed and said sorry, I talked a lot, and he said I know in a way that made it clear he didn't mind at all. 

He leaned forward when she spoke. She noticed that. 

The food arrived, and they kept talking anyway — conversation weaving in and out of bites, neither of them in any particular hurry. He had ordered a steak. She had ordered salmon, fork moving absently while she made a point about something she felt strongly about. The restaurant hummed around them, and neither of them really noticed. 

This was, she thought, a very good first date. 

At some point, he held out his phone, and she leaned in without thinking about it — his arm around her shoulder, her head tilting toward him, the city bright and soft behind the glass. 

She looked at the photo afterward and felt something she didn't quite have a word for yet. Something that felt a lot like the beginning of something.

They ordered dessert because neither of them was ready for the evening to end. He got a cake. She got cannoli and a glass of wine and laughed at something he said mid-sip in a way that made her must set the glass down carefully. He looked very pleased with himself about that. 

The restaurant was quieter now, most of the other tables empty, the staff moving slowly around them. They were in no rush.

By the time the dessert plates were cleared, they had long stopped keeping track of time. Hands moving, both of them talking at once, laughing at the overlap. He had a dry sense of humor that sneaked up on you — the kind where the punchline arrived a beat late and hit twice as hard. She loved that. She told him so, and he looked quietly pleased in the way of someone who didn't fish for compliments but didn't mind catching them. 

When the bill came, he reached for it before she could even think about it. She raised an eyebrow. He just smiled.

 As they stood to leave, he took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it — slow and deliberate, like a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence he'd been building all evening. She looked at him. He looked back. 

The restaurant was nearly empty now, just the two of them standing in the quiet of it, neither quite ready to walk out into the night and let the evening become a memory. He wished it would not end. 

So did she. 

He stopped walking without meaning to. 

She was a few steps ahead, turning back toward the door, the warm light of the restaurant catching the lines of her dress, her shoulders, the curve of her smile as she glanced back to see if he was following. 

He wasn't. He was just — standing there. Looking at her. 

She turned fully when she felt it. That was the thing about Raiden — even though his silence had weight. She felt his eyes on her before she saw them, felt the pull of it somewhere in her chest, and when she met his gaze across the empty restaurant, she didn't look away. 

Neither did he. 

The door was right there. Neither of them moved toward it. 

It was Ivy who suggested the bar. 

She didn't want the night to end — that was the truth of it, and she was done pretending otherwise. The restaurant had been perfect, but it was quiet and candlelit, and she had energy left, the good kind, the kind that only comes when you're with someone who makes the world feel a little more alive than usual. 

There's a place near my apartment, she said. If you're not tired. 

He was not tired. 

The bar was loud and warm and exactly right. 

She got another drink, and he pulled her onto the floor before she'd even finished it, and she laughed — really laughed, the kind that started somewhere deep and came out bigger than she expected. He wasn't a bad dancer. She was better. He didn't seem to mind being outshone in the slightest. 

She spun out and came back, and for a moment they were just looking at each other in the middle of all that noise and light, both of them knowing — without saying it, without needing to — that this had been a very good night. 

Evergreen Harbor was quieter than the city — the kind of quiet that settles into your bones after a night of noise and laughter. Raiden's place was warm and lived-in, nothing like what she'd expected and exactly right somehow. 

She sat on the couch while he disappeared down the hall, hands folded in her lap, taking it all in. The record player in the corner. The art on the walls. The way his space felt like him — steady, unpretentious, a little more layered than it looked at first glance. 

She had not expected to end up here tonight. She found she didn't mind at all. 

He came back and stopped. 

She was sitting there in the low light of his living room, in a yellow dress, glasses, completely at ease now in a way that made something in his chest pull tight. He had told himself on the walk back down the hall that he would take it slow. That he was a patient man. There was no rush. He crossed the room and kissed her anyway. 

Not careful. Not tentative. The kind of kiss that had been building all evening — through dinner and dancing and the bar and the drive and all the quiet moments in between — and finally had nowhere left to go but here. 

She kissed him back. 

Her arms found their way around him without her having to think about it, and for a long moment, the record player was the only sound in the room. Something soft and unhurried, turning in the corner while the city glittered distantly beyond the window. When they finally pulled back, she looked at him. He looked at her. 

Neither of them said anything. They didn't need to. 

One thing led to another, the way it does when two people have been circling something all evening and finally stop pretending they aren't. 

It was gentle. It was honest. It was the kind of thing that doesn't need to be described to be understood. 

Afterward, they lay tangled together in the quiet of his room. The city in a distant hum beyond the window, his arm around her and her head against his chest. She had not planned for any of this when she got dressed this morning. She found she wasn't sorry about a single moment of it. 

He fell asleep first. She listened to his breathing slow and felt something she hadn't felt in a long time — maybe ever. 

Completely, entirely at ease. 

Raiden Vale was not a complicated man. He woke up. He brushed his teeth. He moved through his mornings the same way he moved through everything else — steadily, without a lot of fuss. The bathroom was dark and clean and quiet; a candle was burning low on the counter, the way he liked it. He looked at himself in the mirror for exactly as long as necessary and then went to start his day. 

Breakfast was fruit. The knife moved through it cleanly; the patio just visible through the kitchen door — a small table, a couple of chairs, morning light coming through the glass. He wasn't thinking about anything. That was enough. 

After breakfast he got the report. 

They had the man. Turned out, Ivy wasn't the only one he'd hit — the pattern had caught up with him the way patterns usually do, eventually. Raiden had a legitimate reason to make the call. A professional obligation, even. He sat down on the couch, picked up the phone, and told himself that's all this was. His hand went up as he talked, the way it always did when he was trying to sound casual about something he wasn't entirely casual about. He gave her an update. The case. The arrest. All the right information is in the right order. And then he stayed on the line a little longer than the update required. 

— ✦ — 

She had been sitting with the news all morning — the arrest, the case closed, the fact that he had stayed on the line longer than he needed to. She wasn't sure which part she'd been turning over more. 

By the next day, something in her had settled. The laptop was still gone. That still stung. But the city was quiet outside; the old computer was humming, and it was Cozy Home Day — a holiday that felt like it had been invented specifically for people who needed a gentle excuse to just be. She sat down and started writing. Not because she had to. Because it was the thing that made her feel most like herself. 

Cozy Home Day. She smiled a little, just thinking about it. 

Back at school, there had been no such thing — no sanctioned softness, no official permission to slow down and simply exist. But here, in her own apartment, with the city going about its business outside and nobody expecting anything from her, she could decide what the day looked like. She chose this. The old computer, the quiet, the warmth. It wasn't glamorous. It was hers. 

She heard it before she saw it — water where water shouldn't be. 

She saved her document, pushed back from the desk, and went to look. The bathroom sink was leaking, water pooling on the floor, with complete indifference to the fact that she had a book to finish and a Cozy Home Day to observe. 

She got the wrench. This was, she was realizing, just part of living alone in a city apartment. Things broke. You fixed them. You went back to whatever you were doing before. She was getting very good at it. 

With the sink fixed and her hands finally clean, she pulled out her phone and ordered groceries. The delivery man arrived not long after — friendly, chatty, the kind of person who made himself at home without even realizing it. He sat down for a moment, and she let him, genuinely happy for the company. She asked him how his day was going and meant it. That was just Ivy. She had always found it easy to care about people, even strangers passing through.

She had decided on a sheet cake. Something about the holiday called for it — something small and sweet and made with her own hands. She slid the tray into the oven and stood back, the kitchen already warming up around her.

The cake came out perfectly. She stood at the counter looking at it for a moment — a sheet cake cooling on the rack in her kitchen on a Cozy Home Day. She had fixed a sink, ordered groceries, talked to a stranger on her couch, and baked something from scratch. Not a bad way to spend a holiday. 

With the cake cooling on the counter, she did something she rarely let herself do in the middle of the day — she went and lay down. 

Not to sleep. Just to be still for a moment. The bedroom was quiet and soft; the city gray and muffled beyond the window. She stretched out on top of the covers, looked at the ceiling, and let the day settle around her. 

She thought about Penny and Miko. About the delivery man who had made her laugh without trying. About the phone call that had lasted longer than it needed to. She was surrounded by good people. She didn't take that lightly. 

She made a few calls. Within an hour, the apartment had filled up. 

Penny arrived first, loud and warm, and immediately made herself at home. Miko came in behind her. A few others filtered in, and the living room became exactly the kind of place Ivy had always quietly dreamed of having — full of people, full of noise, full of the kind of easy laughter that meant everyone felt safe enough to be themselves. 

She moved between them all evening, checking in, serving cake, laughing at things that deserved to be laughed at. This was the part she didn't always show on the page — how much she loved people; how genuinely glad she was when they showed up. 

Raiden had stayed. 

She wasn't entirely sure when the others had drifted out and left just the two of them at the kitchen table. The orange bowl sat between them. The blue-haired girl on the wall caught the wind above his shoulder. Ivy was telling him something she hadn't planned to tell anyone — something small and true about what it had felt like seeing her empty desk. 

She told the officer everything she could remember. He took his notes slowly — maybe more slowly than necessary — and asked a few follow-up questions that didn't entirely seem relevant to the burglary. When she walked him to the door, he lingered a moment longer than he needed to and said to call if she thought of anything else. 

She was pretty sure he meant it. 

She closed the door. And then, in the quiet of her apartment with no one watching, she let herself feel it — the sick, hollow weight of losing something that was hers. The laptop she fixed with her own hands. The stories are on it. The half-finished fantasy novel she'd been so proud of just an hour ago. 

She stood there for a moment. Then she sat down at her desk. 

The old desktop computer from her previous job sat where her laptop used to be — clunky and slow and about fifteen years behind the times. She'd kept it without really knowing why. 

She knew why now. 

Ivy looked at the small green screen glowing quietly in the dark. She wasn't ready to feel grateful for it yet. But she pulled her chair in, placed her hands on the keyboard, and got back to work anyway. 

That was the only thing she knew how to do. 

She didn't sleep well. 

That was expected. What wasn't expected was waking up and still wanting to make breakfast — real breakfast, something that required a little effort. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was just hunger. Either way, she found herself at the stove, and the crepes came out golden and thin and exactly right. 

She sat down at the table and ate slowly, fork in hand, elbow resting on the table, not quite ready to face the day but doing it anyway. The orange bowl sat beside her plate. The blue-haired girl on the wall caught the wind. The apartment was quiet and familiar and still hers. 

She was still sad. But she was still here. 

Tea in hand, crepes on the counter, the morning stretching out ahead of her. 

She stood in her kitchen and let herself breathe. Last night had taken something from her. But the sun was up, and the apartment was quiet, and she had a cup of something warm and a whole day to figure out what came next. 

She almost smiled. 

Almost. 

She needed to get out of the apartment. 

Not to run from it — just to breathe somewhere different for a while. She'd walked past the gym on her block more times than she could count and never gone in. Today felt like the day to change that. 

She grabbed her umbrella and went.

She found a spin bike in the corner and got on it and just — pedaled. 

No deadline. No word count. No crime scene to process. Just movement and music and the satisfying burn of doing something with her body instead of her head for once. In the mirror across the room, she could see herself — focused, unhurried, a little tired around the eyes but still showing up. 

She stayed longer than she planned. 

— ✦ — 

While Ivy was pedaling through the better part of the afternoon across town, someone else was just ending his shift. 

He came to the community lot in the evenings sometimes, when the day had settled into something quieter. Stood in front of a canvas until something arrived. Worked in the kind of silence that felt chosen rather than empty. 

A nose. A mouth. A few loose lines feeling their way toward a face. 

He wasn't in a hurry. He never was, with this. 

Most people who knew Officer Raiden Vale would have been surprised to find him here — paintbrush in hand, soft around the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the uniform he'd taken off an hour ago. 

But then, most people only ever saw one side of him. 

Later that evening, he had gone home and made dinner. 

Quietly. Unhurried. The way he did most things when no one was watching. 

It had been a long shift. The kind that stayed with you a little longer than usual.