tobyfoxfan ᶻ𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

Oh. Ice cream. Little cups sidled next to each other, separated from your wanting eyes by a lit pane of glass. 

You’ve been craving ice cream the entire day. Strangely enough, your favourite flavour is the last of its kind on the shelf in the frozen aisle of the convenience store; but when your hand moves to drop it into your cart, the slick moisture on your chosen cup causes it to slip away. There’s a harsh tap as it collides onto the linoleum floor. Hissing in surprise, you watch it roll halfway across the aisle.

“Shit,” you murmur under your breath.

You definitely can’t run over and get it, in front of all the people. Or wait until the aisle is a little emptier, since you don’t have a lot of time. You groan under your breath – the last thing you could want right now is to keep drawing eyes to your messy hair and lifeless eyes. And just as you’re about to storm away with your other groceries, a stranger’s fingers instead curl around the cup of ice cream.

Something makes you freeze as you watch your prized ice cream get lifted up in front of you. Lips parted, you stare at the man: his pin-straight blonde hair, his sharp brown eyes that don’t even meet yours, the acute curve of his lips. He’s dressed in scrubs and a winter coat.

You’re almost thankful his gaze doesn't immediately move to the slight curve of stomach, though he wouldn’t be able to tell anyways. Your friends have been treating you like you’re nothing but a baby bump ever since you told them. And it’s scarcely been a month. His eyes move across the label of the ice cream instead; a small, almost puzzled smirk flashes across his face.

“Nutritious,” he deadpans.

Then, somehow, his gaze does flick down.

You barely process how he’s noticed you’re pregnant before a scowl immediately cracks across your face, embarrassment crawling up the back of your neck. What the hell? If he’s perturbed by the furrow in your brow, he doesn’t show it: the man’s eyes just latch onto yours.

Real intuitive. “Thank you,” you say curtly, snatching away your ice cream, “But I don’t think I need your help.”

Out of pure, petty spite, you shoot him a pointed look and sweep an even larger container of ice cream into your cart, not even checking to see if it’s something you’ll like. His expression does not change – save his brows raising slightly.

Asshole.

Hauling your cart past the man, you try to pretend his indifferent gaze isn’t etching itself into your back, irritation flaring in your cheeks.

You turn sideways, eyes remaining on the mirror, shirt held up just below your chest. You’re bigger. Not by much, but you definitely don’t remember feeling so bloated. Huffing, you delicately pull your shirt back down, rubbing your stomach in cautious circles. You’ve been pregnant for, what, 3 months? 3 and a half? You only realised a month and a bit ago when you stopped wanting to eat that cereal you’d always buy, and found that you were late.

Today is your second monthly check-up since your initial booking appointment. You’re fairly acquainted with your doctor and midwife, given that they’re very friendly. But it’s strange, not having a partner to guide you through this. It’s like you’re not in your own skin: waiting for someone to teach you how to be okay with it.

Taking a breath, you guide yourself into a loose shirt, pants, and a woollen cardigan. Discomfort is the last thing you want for your baby, particularly since you’ll be cramped onto the bus. You’d forgone your savings for a car last month and decided to save money for the baby instead. It’s the right thing. Even if the dusty priority seats are starting to make your legs ache.

Arriving at the local clinic, the same midwife who had been present at your last appointment finds you in the waiting room. She’s a pretty girl – her face full of soft curves and a determination you can’t place – with dark locs of hair pulled into a ponytail. You smile at the sight of her. Her name tag glints in the fluorescence: Kuina Hikari.

“Hi,” she greets, voice a whisper in the quiet of the room. “Follow me.”

Kuina guides you down the hallway into the last office at the end, earning a raised brow on your part. Your feet slow as you happen upon a door that feels more familiar, then confusedly pick up the pace when she leads you further. Could’ve sworn it was a different room.

“In here,” says Kuina, pushing open the door.

Shuffling into the room, you immediately notice that it smells of black coffee and disinfectant. Eyes raking across the soft blue walls, half-shut blinds, and the man sat at the desk–

You strangle against a sound somewhere between a groan and gasp. 

Same biting gaze. Same unimpressed expression. Same blonde hair, now pulled into a low ponytail.

Of all people…

Well, you can say for sure he’s not the one you’d expected to see. And he’s definitely not the woman you saw last month.

His face does not change once as you sit down – though panic blooms into yours – like he doesn’t remember you at all. Well, it’s not that you look entirely different from your last encounter, but your hair is no longer mussed and you’re dressed in something nicer than a long coat and pajama bottoms. Even all of your exhaustion has been peeled from the shadows under your eyes, skin prickling with unfamiliar energy. You just look like any other “glowing” pregnant woman. Not the angry one at the convenience store.

“Uh… Hi,” you greet cautiously, struggling to meet the man’s eyes. He’s dressed in the same blue scrubs you’d seen him in the week before, his coat now draped over his chair.

You turn to Kuina expectantly, but it’s his voice that cuts through the air next.

“If you’re wondering where she is, your obstetrician-gynaecologist has fallen ill. Nothing serious: however, it means I will be your doctor going forward.”

At the horror in your eyes, he clarifies, “Temporarily.”

Kuina grins. “Don’t be intimidated. I’ll still be taking on most of your appointments, so nothing’s changing too much, ‘kay?”

“Of course,” you say brightly, like the image of this man mocking your food preferences isn’t gnawing at your mind.

Kuina takes a clipboard and hands it to him.

“My name is Chishiya,” he suddenly says, as if having forgotten – as if not having wanted to tell you. His eyes are not on yours, instead lingering on the empty chair next to you.

You say, “…Nice to meet you.”

Still unfazed, Dr. Chishiya brandishes nothing but a tight-lipped smile. Kuina takes the clipboard again, then seats herself in front of you, allowing Chishiya to turn back to whatever is on his computer. You sigh. It feels better when his eyes aren’t boring into yours.

You spend the next portion of the appointment answering various questions about sleep patterns, any physical discomforts, and lastly your diet. Kuina remains attentive throughout it all – humming in acknowledgment at every answer.

“And your diet?” she says.

In the quiet, Kuina looks up. You don’t meet her eyes, instead burning holes into the back of the blonde man’s head. 

Shrugging, Kuina asks, “If you need diet suggestions, feel free to ask, ‘kay? This is a place of no judgement, right, Doc?”

Kuina shoots a look at Chishiya, who remains wholly silent. Heat rises under your skin at that. No judgement. Sorry, Kuina, but that boundary’s already been crossed. Unknowingly, she chooses to disregard Chishiya’s lack of a response and secondly your narrowed eyes, turning to you again.

Ignore him, Kuina mouths. 

Then she starts again. “…So, what are your cravings like?”

“Um, I’ve been eating really sweet things for the past few weeks. Chocolate, candy…” The mention of ice cream lingers on your breath, before you snap your mouth shut and manage a dumb smile instead. “…Things like that.”

Kuina purses her lips, scribbling and nodding in tangent.

“And there was this cereal I used to have. I feel like it isn’t sweet enough anymore, somehow,” you stammer, like it matters. Clearing your throat, you then murmur, “But, uh, I really haven’t been eating… perfectly.”

“Hey, that’s usually how it goes,” Kuina replies softly. “Hear that, Doctor?”

Finishing off her notes, she slips the clipboard back into his hands, mouth split into a grin that Chishiya scarcely returns. His eyes flit across what has been written.

In the following silence, you fix your gaze onto your shoes. The clock above the door ticks loudly. You suddenly become acutely aware of how your socks are mismatched.

Then he says, “I’d advise you to eat unhealthy foods in moderation, despite the cravings.” 

You blink. His eyes remain on the chart, but the faintest of smiles twitches at his lip. 

“…Like ice cream.”

Your head shoots up. Kuina’s eyes follow you, lips pursed in confusion.

“Sorry?” you ask.

Now Chishiya’s gaze cuts into yours, dark and isolating. The smile does not leave his face. 

“Well, it’s a common thing to crave.”

There’s a glint in his eyes. His jaw shifts, and it’s unnervingly obvious that he’s chewing down a laugh. You press your lips together, infuriated, desperately clawing back the screaming urge to retort.

He does remember you.

All of the forgotten indignation comes flooding back into your skin, teeth grinding.

“Of course,” is all you manage.

Sensing the strange tension, Kuina looks between you. “Well–”

Chishiya looks over the chart again, his expression now unreadable. “We need the latest ultrasound results, which aren't in this file,” he states, his tone immediately dry again. 

Kuina jumps up, lips pursing. “Ah, they’ll probably be in the main office file, right? I'll run down and grab them now.” 

Chishiya gives a single, dismissive nod, his attention already turning away. "Go. I can manage the auscultation. Ensure you bring the full imaging packet.”

Kuina heads for the door. You grimace. Being stuck in a room with the man in front of you might be the last thing you want. Praying your dread is evident in your face, you stare at her wide-eyed – but Kuina doesn’t notice, instead flashing you the briefest of smiles.

“I’ll be right back!”

You cry out internally. The door creaks, clicking with alarming finality as you forcibly turn your gaze to Chishiya.

“How have you been feeling since your last visit?” he asks.

“Alright,” you reply curtly.

“Good.”

The formalities abruptly end there. Chishiya says something more about checking the baby’s heart rate. But you don’t really hear it, only watching as he reaches for a small, handheld device on a nearby counter: an electronic gadget about the size of a microphone.

He stands by the exam table, allowing you to pull up your shirt over your stomach again. But, without either of your voices to fill the air, a sudden, uncomfortable silence trickles into the room – broken only by the loud ticking of the clock. Chishiya picks up the probe, his movements entirely devoid of unnecessary flourish. He pumps a liberal dollop of clear, cool gel onto your skin, his fingers briefly, impersonally brushing your stomach. His gaze remains focused purely on the task at hand.

"Recline slightly," he instructs.

You obey, leaning back against the headrest. He presses the transducer against your skin, moving it slowly across your lower abdomen in methodical, deliberate strokes. The device emits a soft, static-like whooshing sound initially, the sound of your own blood flow, synchronized with your pulse. He palpates your wrist with one hand while moving the probe with the other, eyes fixed on the slick of the gel.

The search feels endless in the heavy silence, heightening your anxiety. Your stomach tightens, less from the physical pressure and more from the awkwardness of the situation. You want to ask if everything is okay, but you bite your tongue, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing you nervous.

And, God, it’s… been a while since you looked at anyone so closely. Chishiya’s brow is relaxed in spite of the focus that has frozen his face. And his eyes, aimed down, are framed in long lashes that offset the intrinsic sharpness of his features.

He is attractive. Conventionally, you mean – with the hard line of his jaw and the humorous way he smiles. His smile. It cracks across his lips with terrifying precision: and although he’s not smiling right now, you feel like he could pry you open with just that expression.

Chishiya’s gaze flicks up, meeting yours, and you find that you have to tear your own from his mouth. Heat curls into your spine at the lingering burn of his eyes. If he feels the sudden rush of your heart, thumb pressing to your pulse point, he doesn’t mention it. 

But there’s something that alarms you – is that really how you should put it? – at how his cold eyes do not break away immediately.

Uh oh. Must be hormones. Alarms blast in the back of your head. Remember he’s an asshole, you chide yourself, fixing your gaze on his computer desktop instead. If there’s anyone you’re going to waste your time on, it should at least be someone who likes ice cream.

Then, suddenly, the static crackles, and then a rapid, rhythmic sound fills the room – a fast, steady thump-thump-thump, like a tiny pony galloping. It's much faster than your own heart rate, considering how tiny the baby probably is in your belly.

Chishiya stops moving the probe, holding it perfectly still over the spot where the sound is clearest. He glances at the small digital screen on the device, where a number flashes.

"One hundred and forty-two beats per minute," he says, his eyes remaining on the readout. "Within normal range." 

He holds it there for a full minute, just listening. And once the minute is up, he lifts the probe and wipes the excess gel from your stomach with one wide swipe of a paper towel, his face nothing besides expressionless. He cleans the probe with a practiced motion before turning back to his desk.

"You can sit up," he says, pulling the clipboard back toward him.

By the time Kuina returns, Dr. Chishiya has finished your examination in its entirety. She enters with a grin on her lips and perspiration slick on her temple. Whatever possessed her to somehow break a sweat over finding a file, you’ve no idea.

“Sorry!” she exclaims. “Took a while to get this. The office thought they lost it, ha.”

Chishiya murmurs a brief thanks. Then he turns straight back to his clipboard, slotting the packet on top of the papers with a small paperclip.

"Uterine growth is appropriate for gestational age," he states, eyes fixed again on the chart, not your face. “No concerns at this stage.”

The words, bare and baffling, bounce meaninglessly in your skull. “Okay.” 

“Heart rate variability, your measurements – all are within expected parameters,” Chishiya sighs, placing the clipboard back onto the desk. Then his eyes meet yours. 

“Your body is doing what it's supposed to,” he deadpans. “Surprisingly well, considering.”

You force a smile, thumb rubbing soothingly against your belly. Heeding Kuina’s earlier words – ignore him – you let your gaze connect with his as coolly as possible.

“That concludes your appointment. I’ll see you in a month.”

“Thank you,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kuina helps you from your chair, guiding you toward the door. Chishiya’s eyes trail after you noncommittally. Shooting one last glance at him, you let Kuina open the door for you.

His mouth does not move, but you can see the smile dancing in his eyes. 

“Have a good day,” Chishiya says, the lowness of his voice crawling under your skin.

You don’t realise there’s a harsh line in your brow until Kuina jolts you awake, asking if you’re okay. You find that you wandered after her outside of the waiting room, just by the reception. Smells like stale coffee again.

“Um, I’m alright,” you mutter, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Sorry. Just tired is all.”

“Oh, I totally get it,” she says sympathetically as you follow her to the door. Then Kuina turns to you. “If you’re really feeling out of place, I can arrange for a home visit next time. Would that be easier?”

Not really, you think, but you swallow the words down along with your exhaustion.

“Perfect,” you lie.

Kuina nods diligently, ushering you out of the clinic. You exchange a short goodbye: and the last question echoing in your mind is whether or not you’ll have to clean your apartment. If you find Chishiya apathetically staring at the half-painted walls in the nursery, next month will be the worst time of your life.

The next time you see Chishiya it is, in fact, not the month later.

You’re standing in the snacks aisle – you really have no self-restraint – staring aimlessly at cup noodles, when an all-too-familiar voice rings out beside you.

“I thought I told you these aren’t good for you.”

Almost yelping, you jump back mutely. Chishiya’s expression is ever unchanging at your round eyes.

“Doctor!” you exclaim in surprise. You have to take a breath before realising he’s waiting for you to speak again. “Um… I was just… buying groceries.”

Chishiya’s eyes fall upon your cart. Crisps, chocolate, peanut butter, lemons. A lone jar of pickles, which you’ve tried to hide behind the hot sauce. And, of course, the sugary cereal you rambled on about during the appointment. It is relatively empty… because you were making room for the noodles.

At least he showed up before you got to the ice cream.

Really, you shouldn’t be embarrassed by being caught – but somehow his gaze makes you feel like you’re a child who’s been found stealing from the family’s cookie jar. Sharp. Patronising. Uncaring. Like he’s not here for your health, just to remind you that he knows better.

You clear your throat awkwardly, only now taking notice of the bag of cookies held in his hand. They’re already open. If he’s even paid for it, you’ve no idea. Chishiya raises one to his lips, chewing unamusedly as you watch.

“…I don’t think those are healthy, either.”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Then you wouldn’t understand my cravings,” you say passive-aggressively.

“And yet I’m your obstetrician,” Chishiya says.

You exhale through gritted teeth. His brows only raise. As if calling for a challenge.

Don’t give in, you think. Don’t give in.

But when his indifference is snapped in half by a gratified smirk – for the third time this month – you find the smile you normally wear slipping into an aggravated scowl.

“Hm.” He crosses his arms. The immediate relaxation of his expression tells you that you’ve satisfied him with your reaction.

Just as you think Chishiya is about to hit you with another clipped remark, he shrugs, eyes momentarily narrowing.

And then he is simply gone.

…What in the…? Weird.

Taking the way he slinks off as a sign of your freedom, you immediately turn back to the instant noodles with newfound fervour. Then you unashamedly haul a package of noodles into the bottom of the cart. 

You huff. That was heavier than you’d thought. Placing a hand on your stomach, you think back to Chishiya’s warning. Maybe this isn’t so good for the baby.

…Oh, well. It’s not like you’ll eat all of it.

After a few more minutes of idly browsing the instant snack aisle, you turn the corner and glimpse familiar blonde hair.

Actually, you almost hit him with your cart. Maybe you should have. At least it would distract him from the amount of noodles that have suddenly appeared in your cart.

“Oh. I thought you went.”

His brow peaks in mock surprise, hands clasped behind his back. You frown.

A strange smile pulls at his mouth. “If you’re so desperate for the snack aisle, then let’s strike a deal.”

“What?”

“Kuina mentioned diet recommendations, did she not?”

Kuina, you reiterate internally. Not you.

“I hadn’t realised you were even listening.”

He clicks his tongue. Pretty impatient for someone who must’ve spent years in medical school.

“Fine,” you grumble.

Uncovering packages of lettuce, napa cabbage, and scallions, Chishiya hovers them over your cart. Nothing is his eyes shift as they take in the package of cup noodles.

“If you’re going to eat all of those, I expect you to have it with these.”

Before you can question it; or the fact that he actually went out of his way to grab these for you; he slides them into your cart l unprompted. Despite the uninvited warmth threatening to climb into your chest at this uncharacteristic act of kindness – condescending as it is – you only think one thing.

Now you have to pay more.

“Great,” you mutter.

“Not particularly. I don't need my patient developing nutritional deficiencies,” Chishiya says drily, brow cocking. His hands are already back in his coat pockets. “You should be thanking me.”

There’s no expectant glint in his eyes. He’s not stupid. Obviously you won’t. Still, you force another cheap smile, and push the vegetables to the side of your cart.

“See you next month, Doctor.”

Your arrival home is announced by the visceral creaking of the front door and wet footprints in the hallways.

“I’m home,” you deadpan, to no-one but yourself and the unlit rooms.

A soaked umbrella clamped into the crook of your armpit, you’ve balanced one bag of food on your arm with the other clasped tight in your hand. You have to precariously drop the umbrella at your door before going back to retrieve it once you’ve put the groceries on the kitchen counter.

Of course, it had to rain the day you did your weekly shop: and of course, it had to be while you’re pregnant with no-one to help you. Tossing your open umbrella on your tiny balcony to dry, you shed your coat – which is not waterproof, by the way – and keel over onto the counter.

“Urgh…”

You spend a few more minutes hunched over like that, swearing that you’ll kill the first person you find if your morning sickness hits right now. And it doesn’t. Still, you choose to not be overtly grateful, since it still feels like the world is strangling you today.

First you end up running to the convenience store because everything in the fridge is suddenly inedible to you. Then, embarrassingly, you get lectured by your own doctor. Then it rains. Then you have to fret all the way home over your crumbling paper bags and the inconvenience of your umbrella. And the one occasion it would be nice for people to feel bad for you, your stomach is barely even visible behind your filmy coat.

Well, whatever. All of that is over now.

Coaxing yourself upwards, you begin to mindlessly unpack your first bag of groceries. Noodles, chocolate, bags of snacks, hot sauce… all of the usual. Considering how the bulk of these came from the same two aisles, it’s almost embarrassing how heavy the bag is. 

Gently brushing a hand over your stomach, you sigh. Maybe this won’t be good for the baby. Maybe you should be a little more careful with what you eat.

Maybe he was way more righteous than you’d like to admit.

Your heart sinks a little bit. Looks like your shame is only increasing by the second.

Oh well. Turning to the second bag, you rifle inside, before pausing.

You blink dumbly at the vegetables. Green leaves swathed in plastic: lettuce, napa cabbage, scallions.

That’s all that’s in it.

Seriously? Had that guy not interrupted your shopping, you would’ve gotten home so much easier. Even the bus driver was ogling you with your dripping bags and umbrella that almost got stuck in another passenger’s hair.

Irritated, Chishiya’s stupid smile sticks in your head as you chuck the vegetables onto the counter. You’d do anything to defy his orders if it quite literally wasn’t in the baby’s best interest. Besides, it’s not like some more healthy ingredients in the house would hurt or anything. It doesn’t seem like you’ll get tired of your cereal anytime soon – but at least you’ll have something nutritious to chew on when you feel like it. Maybe when you’re doing work. It’ll probably be more filling than the chocolate bars. Or something.

And, that evening; as much as you’d hate to admit it; you almost enjoy the taste of the vegetables in the salty broth of the noodles.

The half-empty packet of cookies falls into the bin with a small clunk!, resonating in the emptiness of Chishiya’s apartment.

Chishiya had already bought what he came for by the time you drew his eye. He really couldn’t help himself. After glimpsing your figure through the window of the mini mart, his feet quietly carried him back in with a delighted smile itching at his lips. He’d had a boring shift: hours brimming with teary couples and dull-eyed women. Wouldn’t some fun have been in order by that point?

Kuina would beat him to a pulp if she found out he’d terrorised a patient. Too bad for her – you’re so predictable. Not that it matters. Kuina wouldn’t find out, and he’d undoubtedly forget your name by tomorrow.

Still, he wonders if you regularly go to that convenience store. Very briefly. The thought does not remain in his mind for longer than a second. And he decisively concludes that he shouldn’t continue pushing boundaries. He’s tired of patients somehow growing attached to him, even with his entirely unaffectionate nature. It’s not his fault their husbands grow bored of them by the time the nine months are over.

Nothing more in the world could matter less to him.

Chishiya inevitably drifts asleep to the hum of the city outside, the image of your packed food cart behind his eyes.

“Do you regret it yet?”

Awkwardly clasping the back of his hair in his hands, you watch Chishiya keel over the toilet bowl. His face has been caught in a perpetually irritated grimace since you woke up, and found him leaning against the sink vacantly. Apparently he’d been staring at the wall for an hour or so. 

For him, it’s surprisingly unglamorous. You can bet it’s been years since he’s felt so awful: usually he brushes off sickness without another word, so this might actually be his first sick day. It’s as though you can hear his coworkers laughing from a mile away now that their cold superior has finally thrown in the towel after drinking on a Sunday.

At the mildly entertained — but mostly pitying — smile tugging at your lips, Chishiya’s eyes narrow.

“...I regret marrying you,” he mutters.

Uh-huh.

You tug at his hair, cheeks rounding into an even wider grin. He can try the irritated angle all he likes: everything he rambled on about yesterday still stands.

“The you from yesterday said otherwise,” you sigh, gratified, and try to bunch up his hair tighter. “I can’t believe you got annoyed because someone poured me a glass of wine.”

Chishiya mumbles something indignant. But then he’s pulling away from the toilet and squinting at you through cat-like eyes.

“I was just drunk.”

“Ah-ah,” you tut, standing up beside him. “People always say that drunk words are sober thoughts.”

“Tch.” Chishiya exhales quietly as you hold a hand out. “...I don’t understand why you’d believe idiots like that.”

“Well, I’d think it’s because they’re right.”

He straightens up by himself. His face is still pinched together by discomfort, brows held low and pressed together. But as you brush him off, that thin line he’s wrenched his lips into has eased slightly.

“At least you didn’t throw up.”

He makes a vague, low sound of agreement. As Chishiya tries to wander out of the bathroom, you grab him by the arm and tug him back.

“Woah, woah. Slow down. I’m running you a bath first.”

He glances back at you.

“...No you’re not.”

“Too bad. You smell like alcohol, and you need to warm up while I whip up your breakfast.”

Chishiya sighs as though you’re inconveniencing him greatly. “I’ll just buy something from the convenience store.”

“Not happening,” you chime.

With great effort, you clasp your hands around his forearm tighter and haul him toward the bathtub. Thankfully the exhaustion induced by however many glasses of wine he drank last night is enough to keep him pliant. Chishiya’s feet backslide in tandem with yours, and you land side-by-side in front of the bathtub. He watches placidly as you sink onto your knees, stretching over white porcelain and the cotton bathmat underfoot to paw at the taps.

Scree—eech!

Hot water hisses out from the metal, spilling out in front of you. There.

You turn back to Chishiya. He’s standing over you with a mildly indifferent look plastered across his face, watching the water rise in the smallest increments.

“Can you watch this for me while I get the food ready?”

He sighs. The indifference slowly shifts into something adversarial, and you’re more than sure that a retort is itching at his tongue.

Instead, Chishiya kneels by the bathtub, and sighs, “Sure.”

Splash!

You toss two small packets of dashi into a pot of bubbling water, then wander around the kitchen to check if you’ve still got some miso paste. Usually the kitchen cupboards are relatively well-organised; considering you’re home a lot and the more uncluttered nature of Chishiya’s tastes, it’s not surprising; but if anyone’s making miso soup on a frequent basis, it’s often Chishiya. He’s carefree when it comes to food — miso soup is so easy to make that it’s most often what he brings to work. You’re the one who simply adds tofu and vegetables in secret before he leaves the house, so he actually has a filling meal. Who knows if he’s noticed yet?

By the time you’ve returned, the water has mellowed into a rich golden-amber. Plucking out the packets from the pot, you toss them into the bin, and add the miso.

There. It’ll take some time to dissolve: so, for now, you turn the heat down, and set some clams and tofu onto the counter for later.

Once you wander back into the bathroom, Chishiya is already sitting placidly in the water, leaning his elbow on the tub’s edge. His eyes, unfocused, are trained on the wet tile wall in front of him. He must be tired.

“Is it hot enough?”

You place yourself beside him. He adjusts accordingly, angling back against the bathtub to watch you sit. After dipping your hand into the water, you find that it’s colder than you’d thought: he must have turned the hot water off when you were in the kitchen.

“Come on, there’s no point in a bath if it’s cold…”

Once you’re reaching over to the taps, the hot water spills out with a few squeaks of the knob.

“I’ll get you some turmeric shots.” Then you wrinkle your nose, muttering, “And maybe some Pocari Sweat, if it comes down to it.”

“I doubt that I’ll need any of that.”

You scoff. “Come on, you’re hungover for the first time in your life. I’m supposed to take care of you,” you chide, mouth twisting into a frown. 

“I can take care of myself,” exasperates Chishiya. 

Sure you can. You twist the hot water tap shut. He’s taken the shampoo into his hands. But you pluck it away with ease.

“You couldn’t last night,” you say. 

His lip curls, unimpressed. You can’t help but smile.

“...You’re not actually going to put Yoshida on-call during weekends, are you?”

Chishiya stares into the water.

“...I could.”

That makes you laugh. And, paired with the unassuming glimmer of satisfaction in Chishiya’s eyes, that twitch of his lip is enough for you.

But, as you reach forward with a pellet of shampoo dribbled into your palm, Chishiya grabs your wrist. The water ripples around the movement.

You falter. “...Oh, sorry: I’m just washing your hair.”

“Do you really think I need you to treat me like some child?”

“Shuntarou. Play nice, for once.”

His eyes narrow.

“Besides, you were whining like a child last night.” When you meet his eyes, Chishiya’s brow twitches. “It was nice to see that side of you for once.”

“Tch. You won’t see it again.”

You chuckle under your breath.

“Just because something’s hidden away doesn’t mean it disappears.”

“It was the alcohol,” says Chishiya.

“Okay. Sure. You don’t mind if I sleep in the guest room tonight, do you?”

His eyes slowly slide to yours.

“Why would you do that?”

Got you. At the uncomfortable crease between his brows, you grin brazenly. 

“You confessed that you find it harder to sleep when I’m not around.”

Exhaling sharply, he releases your wrist. By the time you’re lathering the soap up again to massage it into his hair, Chishiya has already angled his face away, ceding ground wordlessly. Probably to distract you: there’s the slightest flush creeping across his skin.

“Your ears are red again,” you murmur, and you see Chishiya grimace slightly.

“Get this over with, or I’ll leave now.”

Entertained, you chime, “You love me really.”

He clicks his tongue again. Okay, okay. Looks like the petulant child from yesterday has already returned.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he murmurs.

You bring your hands up to rub the suds into his hair, mussing the wet strands. He refuses to relax into it. Even as you run your fingers through his hair, coating it sufficiently, the tension set in Chishiya’s jaw remains there.

“You can be so stubborn sometimes,” you murmur.

“So can you.”

“Isn’t it my job to look after you, Chishiya?”

He sighs quietly.

“That’s no-one’s responsibility besides mine.”

You pause, the corners of your mouth curve down in upset. “That’s not true.”

The words falter on your tongue. In tandem with you, Chishiya seems to hesitate — the tension in his muscles only well up harder. He falls silent.

“I’m your wife. Isn’t that the point?”

Your questions lingers soft in the air.

As you quietly cup water in your hands and comb the soap from Chishiya’s hair, his shoulders slowly slump. And when he inevitably turns to look at you, brow knit, you’re unsure what else to do besides blink fast, hands freezing in place.

He exhales quietly.

“The point is that I love you.” Even as your gaze flits between his, Chishiya’s remains steady on your face. “I don’t expect you to do anything besides know that.”

What? 

Your eyebrows are pulled upward involuntarily. It’s not that he doesn’t say it often — though I love you always sounds stilted out of Chishiya’s mouth — but it’s usually a murmur before you fall asleep and forget the exchange ever happened. This time, it’s surprisingly forward in its intensity. And he’s not even drunk.

The heat of the water envelopes the two of you, painting a flush high in your cheeks. Your mouth quirks up: and the unabashed, upward curl of your mouth feels fuller than the air around you. Though it’s with mild exasperation, Chishiya lip quirks up. Just slightly. As your eyes crinkle, happily locked with his, Chishiya’s gaze relaxes around the smile.

“I love you too.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Obviously. Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to tell.”

You laugh. And, even in spite of his unimpressed tone, Chishiya’s eyes flit down to your mouth. 

Your smile falters. Then he’s leaning in slightly. You mirror the movement without registering it, your breath growing lighter on your tongue; his hand braces against yours, fingers twining tightly. Your lips are just brushing when you have to pause.

Something acrid, thick and pungent, fills your nose.

Huh? What’s that?

Hot, and heavy. Bearing a larger weight than the feeling of simple steam on your cheeks. Then the information clicks into place, and you find yourself realising that the smell leaking through the bathroom door is none other than that of actual smoke. You quickly lean back. Incredulously, Chishiya cocks a brow.

Well, that’s one way to ruin the moment.

You know what? The restaurant is actually a little nicer than you expected.

Not excessively so — though that probably makes sense, it was the only good one close to the hospital — but definitely nice enough that you’re second-guessing your outfit. Even Chishiya’s outfit is pretty simple in comparison to everyone else. A button-up and some trousers. He doesn’t look particularly bothered. When you glance down at yourself uncertainly, his hand finds the small of your back briefly. 

“You look fine,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. You take that as enough to convince you of it.

The ceiling is low; the table is long. A thick, warm ambiance has already settled over the dining party, especially with the dim lighting and dark oak.

There’s roughly a dozen people from the paediatric cardiology department, and even some of their partners. You recognise a few faces from your first visit to the ward: including the nurse from the desk, whose expression had been priceless when you'd announced yourself as Mrs. Chishiya. She offers you a polite smile now, though her eyes still carry that faint glimmer of disbelief.

You take the seat beside Chishiya, your hands brushing briefly. He doesn't react, but you catch the slight shift of his gaze toward you. Acknowledgment, if nothing else. When you smile, he only nods and draws a customarily mannered smile across his face. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Your gaze darts around. You wouldn’t feel so out of place if not for the fact that you’re the most unfamiliar to the ward, and that Chishiya probably isn’t friends with anyone here. You had to pry him out of the apartment: the others might avoid him forever if he doesn’t try now. Chishiya doesn’t look particularly comfortable, though he’s relaxed his body in his seat, since his eyes are surveying the room rather than meeting anyone else’s. At least you’re here, huh? As if sensing this, Chishiya settles a little closer to you, arms pressing together. A silent, “I know this is tedious, but we're leaving together.” 

It helps.

After everyone’s drinks arrive, a conversation kicks up easily enough. Introductions, polite questions about your work, the usual. You smile and nod along to whatever they say. Across from you is Doctor “Yoshida”, one of the younger attendants with an easy, dimpled smile painted across his face and a tendency to lean forward when he talks. When you reply to his questions, there’s a genuine curiosity dancing in his eyes. Or, perhaps it’s just surprise at someone like Chishiya having a wife at all.

“So, Y/N,” Dr. Yoshida says, swirling his wine glass, “How did the two of you meet? You don’t entirely strike me as the type to put yourself out there.”

A few chuckles ripple around the table. You glance at Chishiya, whose expression remains as impassive as ever. He takes a sip of water, clearly content to let you field this one. Well, okay.

You clear your throat. “Uh, we met at a library,” you say, laughing a little. “I was working part-time as a clerk near his apartment when we were in university. He was a regular.”

“A library,” the nurse beside Yoshida muses, projecting the revelation a little further down the table. “That’s cute!”

“I didn't even think he read for pleasure,” another colleague mutters, which earns a few more laughs of mild agreement.

Now Chishiya’s eyes are on you. You meet them briefly, shrugging. “I’d seen him go into the library every now and again, usually to study with his own textbooks, but we never really spoke.” 

He’d probably been too caught up in his own world, being a medical student and all. Browsing shelves, studying for an hour, then promptly leaving. Had he actually found books to check out, maybe you would have spoken sooner. But he never did.

“Did Chishiya catch your eye back then?” the nurse asks lightly.

Your brows shoot up. “Oh, no, no, I wasn’t the one who asked him out.”

That seems to surprise them a little bit, so you can’t help but laugh to yourself. You pause, eyes trailing toward Chishiya. His expression is unreadable, but there's the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth as he brings his water to his lips. So smug. He’d caught you entirely off guard when he’d done it: there didn’t seem like much reason for you to go on a date with a stranger. But the ease with which he did it struck you as intriguing. You can’t help it. Chishiya caught your attention too quickly for you to look away after that.

You hum. “He just walked up to the desk and asked me out.”

A bewildered laugh is punched from Yoshida’s mouth, mouth quirking in surprise. “Wow. Seriously? Just like that, Chishiya?”

Their eyes meet. Chishiya leans back slightly, but otherwise doesn’t emote much.

“Just like that,” he echoes.

You chew down the laugh in your throat at his indifference. If only the others could tell just how complacent he is right now. At the slight twitch of your lips and the vaguely choked sound you make under your breath, Chishiya’s gaze is drawn back to you. He seems satisfied.

“How bold,” the nurse marvels, squinting her eyes at Chishiya like she’s trying to reconcile this story with the version of him she’s familiar with. “I wouldn't ever have expected that.”

Chishiya speaks again, his tone as dry as ever. “Why waste time? I knew what I wanted,” he exhales.

Your side of the table falls into a brief, almost reverent silence. They really must be surprised. You bite back yet another laugh; even despite the smile that’s spreading across your face at his bluntness. Chishiya’s proving every rumour wrong in one clean stroke — who said he isn’t capable of being in a happy relationship?

“Well,” Yoshida says, recovering with a grin, “That’s definitely one way to do it. And clearly it worked.” He tilts his head toward you, smile widening. “You must have been quite surprised.”

“Of course I was,” you admit. “I thought he was joking at first, since I’d never done much to get anyone’s attention before.”

“And yet here you are,” Dr. Yoshida says slowly, his gaze lingering. “Married. That’s… Hm. That’s really something.”

You nod politely, but something about his tone makes you pause, smile tightening around the seams. It’s not overt. No, not really. But the warmth laden in his face feels out of place, too unearned for only having spent about an hour together.

Oh, well. You’re probably imagining it.

But, beside you, Chishiya’s eyes are set on Yoshida.

The conversation has already shifted away from the two of you once the appetisers arrive, but Dr. Yoshida doesn't seem ready to let it go. He leans forward a little more, resting his arms on the table.

“So, Mrs. Chishiya,” he says, an almost playful edge to his tone, “What’s your husband like at home?”

What? You purse your lips. Despite Yoshida’s almost pervasive casualness, everyone else seems to be as curious as him. An awkward laugh exits your mouth: how can you even put it into words? He’s different, you guess. More relaxed, by the slightest margin? Mulling over an answer, you find yourself rapidly draining most of the wine in your glass. Chishiya watches.

The first word that jumps to mind spills from your mouth. “Calm.” You blink. The alcohol will probably make you feel better about being so honest, settling warm in your body. “…He likes being quiet. I enjoy it too,” you continue, thinking about it. 

Usually his favourite activity is to sit on the sofa in his work clothes and go through patient files until you prod him to go change. Sometimes he’ll watch TV with you. Usually you’ll eat dinner together. But what sticks out to you the most is that Chishiya spends a lot less time speaking when you’re alone — where you’d assume he’d throw in some wry remark, he’ll just roll his eyes and look away, instead. You’ve grown comfortable with communicating with him silently for years: a smile in his eyes means more to you than any verbal affirmation now.

“I imagine it must be difficult, though, with Chishiya’s hours. Do you get to see each other much?”

The strangely probing nature of the question makes you clear your throat again, picking at your plate of scallops. Feels like you’re being interrogated. You mean, Chishiya is usually busy, though that’s not his fault.

“We manage,” you say lightly. “Ah, I’ll bring him lunch if he forgets it again.”

At the memory, a few people seem to laugh. But Yoshida's smile only flattens out. Just barely. Chishiya's expression doesn't change much, but his fingers twitch once against his water glass. Ah. That’s the closest he gets to fidgeting. He probably hates that you’re so eager to bring him lunch. Not necessarily because it annoys him, you think, but rather because he doesn’t think it should be your responsibility to fix his problems like that.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Yoshida says. “You're very lucky to have such an attentive wife,” Yoshida affirms, turning to Chishiya.

You follow Yoshida’s gaze. Chishiya looks indifferent, albeit slightly irked by his coworker’s invasion of his love life.

“I know,” is all Chishiya says in return.

Trying not to wince, you force your eyes back to your place. There’s a certain awkwardness in the air that’s sending a chill down your back — especially when twined with the vaguely challenging tone Chishiya is using. But, with his deadpan response, the table’s eyes are drawn away from the two of you.

Under the table, your knee knocks his, and you look his way. He doesn’t look back. And yet as you’re turning away, his knuckles just slightly graze yours. That pulls a smile onto your face. You quickly hide it behind your glass, polishing off the rest of your wine, and you’re suddenly feeling as though you poured yourself a little too much. Lunch was a while ago. The drink’ll probably get to you soon.

At your empty glass, Chishiya’s brows rise in amusement. Of course, he says nothing. But Yoshida seems to notice too.

“Wow,” he almost laughs. “Someone’s here to have fun.”

You laugh nervously, pushing the glass away. “Guess so.”

When the waiter comes around to refill drinks, Yoshida reaches for the bottle of wine before anyone else can. He pours a glass and slides it toward you with an easy smile.

“Here, Y/N,” Yoshida says. 

You frown, face warm. And just as you’re mindlessly reaching for it, Chishiya's hand is already there, fingers curling around the stem of the glass and exchanging it with his water. 

He says nothing. You watch him uneasily, a confused laugh bubbling in your stomach.

He’s still smiling. But the exasperation in his gaze speaks louder. When Chishiya’s eyes meet yours, devoid of their characteristic glint, you can’t help but raise your brows questioningly. He never has alcohol. 

Chishiya stares at you. “I’ve had a change of heart,” he mutters.

From that point on, Chishiya genuinely drinks. Not excessively, nor obviously. But consistently. Another glass when the waiter passes by; another refill when someone offers; another long sip when Yoshida laughs at something you say. And, with each glass, he becomes more talkative than you.

His tone is empty of the drunken slurring that should be there, instead brimming with a surprisingly candid involvement.

Chishiya begins to tell stories you’ve already heard — narrating clipped, sardonic anecdotes about medical school that get the table thrumming with collective laughter despite themselves. He answers questions about his work with more detail than usual. His explanations are, of course, entirely precise, and yet oddly accessible. Chishiya is charming, though his own strange methods, and you can see the others leaning in, fascinated.

Yoshida, meanwhile, is becoming increasingly sidelined. Every time he tries to steer the conversation back to you, Chishiya streamlines it elsewhere.

“Mm, well, Mrs. Chishiya was just about to tell me about—”

“Actually, that reminds me,” Chishiya intercepts smoothly, rolling each word off of his tongue with deliberation. He moves into another story that has absolutely nothing to do with you, and everything to do with keeping your attention on himself.

He’s not very subtle. Not to you. But you're not entirely sure anyone else notices.

By the time dessert arrives, there's the faintest flush to Chishiya's ears — almost completely hidden, unless you're seeking it out behind his hair. Every time you see it, you find yourself choking back a laugh. You’ve never seen him like this. That loose carelessness he’s speaking with now feels almost calculated in its entirety. Even when inebriated, he’s still measuring his words. You can’t help but smile.

When Dr. Yoshida excuses himself to take a call, Chishiya leans back in his chair, his gaze following the other man as he steps outside.

“He's persistent,” Chishiya muses, just loud enough for you to hear.

His eyes flick to yours, and there's something cold in them. Something amused. Your eyes round slightly in response.

“He's just being friendly. I hope. Flirting with another man’s wife in front of him is a little…” You exhale slightly, pressing your knee to Chishiya’s. “Anyways, don’t sulk, Shuntarou.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“You said you don’t drink, either,” you say drily, brows raising.

Chishiya's mouth twitches. He doesn't answer. Instead, he takes another sip of wine, his gaze returning to the door where Dr. Yoshida disappeared.

By the time the dinner winds down, Chishiya is quiet again. He doesn't contribute much to the conversation, content to sit back and observe. When you place a hand on his crossed arms, silently asking if he's ready to leave, he doesn't pull away. So, the two of you say your goodbyes, and you guide him out into the cool night air. He walks steadily enough, but there's a faint unevenness to his gait.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” you ask as you hail a cab.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Suppressing a laugh, you watch him frown at the pavement. “You’re drunk, aren’t you, Chishiya?”

“From a few glasses of wine? You’re underestimating me.”

“No?” you hum wryly.

He says nothing.

The ride home is surprisingly quiet. Chishiya stares out the window, his jaw tight, his hands resting in his lap. You reach over, threading your fingers through his. And unlike usual, he doesn't pull away. But he doesn’t speak to you either. Instead, Chishiya’s thumb traces a slow circle against your knuckles - repetitive, almost rhythmic. It's what he does when he's thinking. You've learned it means he's working something out, not shutting you out. So you wait.

When you finally get him through the door of your apartment, he shrugs off his coat and heads straight for the bedroom. You follow, watching as he sits on the edge of the bed, and after a moment, pats the space beside him. 

“Shun,” you say softly, sitting beside him.

He doesn't look at you. For a long moment, he says nothing.

Then, Chishiya mutters, “Do you find him attractive?”

You blink. “…Huh?”

“Yoshida.” His voice is flat. “It's a simple question.”

You study him, trying to read his expression. But his face is as neutral as ever, betraying nothing, even as he gazes solely at the wall opposite.

“No,” you shrug. “Why would I?”

“He must think you do.”

You frown. Chishiya's mouth curves into a strange expression that almost resembles a smile.

“Do I really have to explain it to you? He was testing boundaries. Seeing how far he had to push you before I intervened.”

“You're overthinking this.”

"Am I?" He tilts his head, his face having returned to being calm. “He asked if we see each other often. That wasn't small talk. He was fishing to see if you were lonely. If I neglected you.” Chishiya says it so matter-of-factly, but it almost feels like he’s rambling out of pure irritation. “Classic approach.”

You sigh, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from his eyes. “Then what?” you ask gently.

His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment you think he's going to say something profound.

Chishiya says, “I could schedule him for the worst shifts.”

You blink. Then a laugh escapes your mouth, eyes rounding in fascination. “Wh— Uh, what?”

“Weekend on-call. Three months straight,” Chishiya grumbles purposefully. He's completely serious, which somehow makes it funnier.

“Please say you’re kidding.”

He looks you in the eye.

"Come on,” you laugh, the sound ringing in the room. Chishiya blinks softly. “That's insane."

He pauses. “And justified.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You're ridiculous when you're drunk.”

“I'm not drunk.”

“Uh-huh. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

You help him into a pyjama shirt, guiding him under the covers. He lies back, staring up at the ceiling, his expression distant. When you move to turn off the light, his hand quickly curls around your wrist.

“Not yet,” he says quietly.

You pause. “You okay?”

You blink, surprised. “I'm just turning off the light, Shuntarou.”

Still, Chishiya’s grip on your wrist tightens, just slightly. “Stay,” he reiterates.

“So demanding,” you sigh, and yet you’re slipping into bed beside him, pulling the duvet up over both of you. His arm wraps around you immediately, pulling you close. His cheek presses against your temple, warm and familiar. He smells like wine.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of Shibuya past the window.

“I made sure he knew,” Chishiya murmurs, voice slightly muffled against your hair.

“Knew what?”

“That you're married.” He pauses. Then, a little petulantly, he mutters, “To me.”

You have to bite your cheek to keep from laughing, eyes squeezing shut. The phrasing is so absurdly obvious, so unlike his usual precision, that it's almost endearing.

“I don't think anyone at that table was confused about that,” you say, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

“Yoshida was.”

“Yoshida knew. He was calling me ‘Mrs. Chishiya’.”

“He didn't act like it.”

You really can't help it — a soft laugh escapes you. “Are you pouting right now?”

“I don't pout,”  he says flatly, though it only makes you laugh more.

“You're definitely talking like you want to pout. Gosh, you’re cute when you’re drunk,” you grin, pressing your face into his neck.

“Tch.” His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press his face more firmly against your hair, as if hiding there. “He shouldn't have poured you that drink.”

Oh, so that was it? You laugh again, thinking back to Chishiya snatching your wine glass for himself. Oh. Oh, wow. It’s all so ridiculous — Chishiya, drunk and bothered, and trying to be possessive but coming across more sulky than anything — that you can't stop smiling about it.

“Stay,” he mumbles again, voice thick with exhaustion.

“I will.”

“Until I fall asleep.”

“I will,” you promise harder.

Just as he’s settling against you, you catch the one last thing Chishiya whispers before going quiet.

“I can’t sleep if you’re not here,” Chishiya says.

His breathing evens out, and, within a few minutes, you feel the weight of sleep pulling him under. He must be tired with all that wine in him. But, even as he drifts off, his grip on you doesn't loosen.

You stay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, your fingers still entwined with his. In the morning, he won't mention this. He'll go back to being the same detached, unreadable Chishiya you married.

You still remember the day before Chishiya proposed.

The two of you had run to the convenience store earlier in the evening, and you’d rifled through the snack aisle as he’d watched. He’d smirked. As always. But there was something different: a frown, arising, every time you’d turned away. A furrow in his brow. Worry, maybe? Each time you’d look back to put something into the basket, the frown would escape him. And it would just be his same old smile.

Crisps, sweets, chocolate. All laid out across the coffee table in his apartment. Strange how you both ended up pouring more of our focus into the late-night red bean buns you’d gotten from a stand outside the convenience store. Maybe because it was a cold evening.

You think he put on whatever show was running — normally Chishiya would complain about a garish romantic drama on his television, but that night he’d said nothing. It was as if the sight of the two protagonists at the altar pulled him in. You hadn’t noticed, too enamoured by the red bean bun; but, now, when that show comes on before you go to sleep, you always remember the strange things that he’d asked.

“A flower crown?” he’d muttered, his slight smile tinted with amusement.

“Come on, I think it’s cute.”

A beat of silence. Of consideration.

Uncharacteristically curious, he’d asked, “Is that what you want?”

“Hm… Not sure.”

More silence, filled by the soft chime of music from the television.

“You’d be enough of an idiot to accept a contract marriage.”

You’d glanced up at flowers and white dress. “I would for the money.”

He’d scoffed — quieter than normal. “The money?”

Your agreement came in the form of a soft hum, muffled by the food now in your mouth. Swallowing, you’d replied, “Wouldn’t you?”

You took another bite, oblivious. He’d stared. Then, looked back at the television. The on-screen bride had hesitated before she glided down the aisle.

“My parents have tried.”

Huh. The thought was almost nonsensical to you. You’d rolled your eyes. Chishiya was nothing like the male leads in those cheesy dramas. But his expression was so unmoving, so unsettlingly devoid of humour, that it was the only reason you realised he was serious.

“…Wait. Really?” you’d marvelled, putting the half-eaten bun down. “During our relationship?”

He’d nodded simply.

Arranged marriages. You hadn’t imagined that was an ordeal rich people actually go through with — even more, you’d forgotten Chishiya was born from money at all. You still haven’t met the pair who allowed you to be as lucky as you are, married to their son. Sometimes you wonder if they even know. You’ve never really seen him as the type to mindlessly obey his parents, but never the type to disregard their wishes either.

“You actually said no?”

“Tch. I’m not you. Would you want me to do it for the money?” Chishiya had deadpanned, eyes turning away.

“You better not. Don’t leave me for a woman like that, even if it’s tempting,” you’d complained, gesturing to the bride on the television.

A chuckle. Wry, tinged with boredom. “And if I asked you to marry me instead?” he’d said.

He’s a good liar. The way he’d said it — so repressed, so flat. So uninterested, you’d only perceived it as a joke. And you’d laughed. Like the hypothetical was nothing more than a distant dream, a flicker of sunlight concealed by the skyline. Neon, colouring everything, but faint. 

So, in turn, you’d joked back, “Then I’d hope for more than cheap snacks and cable TV.”

Now, you find it almost funny, seeing as the only look in his eyes was something like uncertainty. And — for as long as you’ve known him — Chishiya has never been a hesitant man.

It started with a ring.

Simple. Understated. Pretty, nevertheless: a clean, metallic band, punctuated with a gem that seemed to bloom from the middle.

When he’d pulled it from his pocket, the way he’d handled it had been so casual it was almost like he’d pulled out some extra change. A gift that meant nothing more than the fact that you could buy some chocolate from the vending machine.

Obviously, it wasn’t. The sight of the little gold ring struck you with intense shock, something you hadn’t felt in your relationship for years. 

Yes, Chishiya was unpredictable, mischievous when he felt like it, but your constant proximity had pulled you into a state of understanding of him. The last time he’d surprised you was when you’d first woken up beside each other, and his arm was wrapped around your torso, cheek pressed to your temple. Warm. Intimate. Sweet. Then things plateaued.

Until that ring.

You remember his eyes couldn’t meet yours; you remember that — once you’d said yes — their previous uncertainty had trickled away, only leaving relief. And, maybe, pride? Not that you’d been able to tell, since his all-too-neutral expression had been nothing but the opposite to your wide smile.

You crumpled into his arms like some lovesick girl, eyes glassy, and he’d relaxed into you. His arms lost their tension as they found their place around you, and his cheek again pressed to your temple. Like all those years ago.

You’ll never know what his expression was like at that moment. Fearful, grateful, joyful. If you had to guess, you hope it would have been something peaceful.

The paediatric cardiology ward is quiet.

Quieter than you expected, you think, since you've always imagined Chishiya’s workplace to be very busy. But the hospital feels more lifeless than you ever could have imagined: emptied hallways, tall ceilings, the only sound the melodic chime of announcements. Maybe, had you visited sooner, you would feel less out of place. Or maybe it’s just the fact that your dress is a little too… delicate, for a surgery ward. 

Earlier today, you’d worried about how people might perceive you. Your husband, the smug idiot, told you he was some sort of myth here: Dr. Chishiya — brilliant with a scalpel, but reportedly hasn’t smiled since medical school. They’re not too far off. They don’t talk to him, because of it. But at lunch, the nurses gossip about his nonexistent personal life, certain he goes home to a sterile, empty apartment. Apparently the photo on his desk isn’t enough, seeing as they like to talk about the lack of a ring on his finger. Aren’t there safety regulations that mean he can’t wear it? Not that it really matters. You just want to be able to look the part.

The ladies at the nurses’ station all glance up when you step out of the elevator. The one by the front is really quite pretty. Hair pulled into a neat updo, bangs clipped straight at her brows. All in tandem with the sterility of the ward.

In welcome, a soft smile spreads across her lips as you sidle up to the desk. It’s the first time they’ve ever seen you, seeing as you’ve never really felt the need to come here. You often wonder if it would just bother him. But when you found his lunch sitting vacantly in the fridge this morning — even though he had a full day — your feet seemed to move on their own. 

You can’t help it. He forgets to eat often enough, and the apartment has been a little lonely recently. Chishiya works a lot now. You don’t really see each other during the day. Might as well, right?

“Hi,” the nurse begins. “How can I help you? This is a restricted floor.”

“Oh,” you exclaim quietly. Her smile — the same sort you’d give to a lost child in a shopping centre — punches an awkward apology from your throat. “Sorry, I’m just here to visit someone.”

You’d hoped the visitor badge would be enough, but you suppose you really don’t know how these things work.

“Who are you here to visit?”

“Ah, Dr. Chishiya.”

Almost imperceptibly, her brows raise. The nurse’s eyes flick up to yours, cataloguing what she finds there.

“…Are you a relative?”

Her tone is deadpan — as if the only answer she expects is ‘no’, because Chishiya is some loveless orphan whose life revolves around his work.

You smile. 

“I’m his wife.”

Wife.

The nurse’s expression drops.

Your revelation ricochets, striking against the walls and awaking everyone in the vicinity. The nurses’ station seems to freeze. One of the workers behind the desk chokes on his coffee. Even the one in front of you pauses, like you’ve just told her that you’ve planted a bomb in the hospital.

“Dr. Chishiya?” the nurse echoes. The soft smile has snapped into pure shock. 

“Yes,” you reply, nervously ignoring the stares burning into you. The ward is no longer quiet: the silence has shifted from disbelief to bustling confusion. 

Eyes still needling into yours, the nurse reaches for the phone, fingers moving ever so slowly to dial him. It’s a little difficult to ignore the unending gazes of everyone around you. Like you’ve disrupted the peace by explaining how you share a last name with one of their coworkers. Fine, you get it. Chishiya can be secretive. But is it all that surprising that he has a life outside of this hospital?

You purse your lips. All things considered, it probably is.

“Dr. Chishiya?” the nurse mutters. “Uh, a Mrs. Chishiya is at the desk. Says she's... She's your wife.”

Of course, the staring doesn’t cease even as Chishiya makes his way through the ward. People part like the Red Sea as he walks up to you, brows raised in what you take to be mild confusion.

“Doctor,” you greet. A more genuine smile eases onto your lips as he draws closer.

“You must have been bored at home,” he says drily, though the glint in his eyes floods you with relief. Maybe you’re not so bothersome after all.

“Always, without you.” 

The words come a little too naturally. You’re half-joking, but the nurses’ brows all shoot upwards in tangent at the blatant display of affection. 

His don’t. If anything, his expression seems to relax.

“Did you come here just to dote?”

You sigh, then pull out the lunch box from the small bag. 

“You left it in the fridge again.”

It’s almost the same as what he’d made last night, but you’ve put a nice note on it. 

Have a good day at work! 

His expression is so unamused that you want to laugh. 

“All that way just for this?”

You nod. Stepping forward to give him the box, you allow your left hand to brush against his. It’s like you can almost feel the glint of your golden band in the cold light of the hospital, bouncing off every surface around the two of you. His brow twitches — probably surprise — as you squeeze one of his fingers with your own, smiling.

“Don’t forget to eat, okay, Shuntarou?” you say, feigning a voice so sweet that now the nurses’ jaws have dropped. 

A laugh bubbles further in your throat, but you have to keep your eyes on his to stop it from coming out. 

Chishiya cocks a brow, unimpressed. You really would think he’s annoyed, if not for the telltale upward tug of his mouth. A lie will escape his lips as easily as a greeting, but nothing in his face can escape you.

“…Hm. Okay,” Chishiya complies.

When you pull away, that slight, familiar twitch at the corner of his lip dissipates immediately.

He takes the lunchbox from your hands, your skin brushing for another moment. Then he cocks his head slightly. “If I don't, I assume you'll just appear again tomorrow?”

At that, you really do laugh. Quietly, under your breath, but enough for Chishiya’s eyes to linger. It’s not a question; it’s a challenge. A quiet admission, really. That he wants you here.

“I’ll spoon-feed you, if that’s what it takes.”

The joke earns an exasperated look, a glance toward the nurses’ station where people are gaping at and ogling you all the same. Chishiya’s grip on the lunchbox tightens momentarily. Now, that crease in his brow really is just irritation.

“Tch. It’s better if you bring it, anyway.”

Chishiya’s eyes narrow as he says it, but your smile only widens.

I don’t find difficulty in things. I never have. Besides, let’s say, taking interest in purposeless conventions: like work meetings, or watching TV. I’ve always especially disliked small talk.

But, as of late, I’ve noticed something else.

The morning bores me.

I wake up. I make coffee. I never care enough to make breakfast. I get dressed, I lock the door, I drive to work. Routine after routine, teeming with mundane activities that I’ve learnt not to expect much from. 

Starting every day anew is the worst part. It takes me five minutes after waking until I get up. Five minutes every morning, for the seven years since I bought my own apartment in Shibuya. I know that I sleep on my back from the position that I usually wake up in. I know the exact pattern of my ceiling from those five minutes. There’s a three-millimetre hairline crack running along the space above my pillow. It’s been that way for longer than I care to remember. I know that, in five minutes, I’ll have to sit up and go through another day, and another week, and another few years; because there’s not much else for me to do.

Every morning, I lie with my limbs still exhausted and cold after a full night of sleep, and I doubt that today will mean anything more than yesterday did. Unfortunately.

I haven’t gotten it wrong yet.

Anyway, my mornings are tiring themselves out.

You move in on a Tuesday.

It catches my eye because I’ve never seen you before; and you’re far from the old man I’d grown used to having as my neighbour. At least it means he won’t come knocking on my door with extra vegetables to give me, and I won’t have to pretend to smile and care as I politely reject him. 

The fact that you dress plainly and avoid eye contact is all I notice. Hm. No. I also notice that you occupy the building elevator for three hours straight. I end up having to take the stairs just to go out and buy some coffee. How inconvenient. When I finally take the stairs back up to the fourth floor, I find the door to 4B — which would supposedly be the old man’s apartment — propped open with a cardboard box.

You’re sitting on the wooden floor inside, scrolling on your phone while movers carry furniture past you. Your earphones are in. When a mover drops one of the boxes, you say nothing.

You don't look up when I pass.

I unlock 4A, and forget about it.

The mailboxes are in the lobby. I'm retrieving a new set of earphones that I ordered when you appear next to me, unlocking 4B's box.

You fumble with the latch. When it opens, some of your mail tumbles out and hits my foot. I repress a sigh as you glance at me, unsettled. The last thing I want is to engage in conversation. But, offering a mildly understanding smile, I lean down and pick up the two envelopes that have fallen out.

I hand them to you. You look away. 

Just as my mouth is opening to say even the slightest of greetings, you bow and leave.

Ah? That’s a little rude. Surprisingly audacious, for someone who seems more like their favourite drink is tap water.

Shrugging, I turn back to my own mailbox.

I see you sometimes. Usually in the elevator; sometimes in the lobby; once, even at the convenience store down the street when I was buying some food after a shift.

You never make eye contact for longer than a second. Never initiate conversation. When I say something — as I’m holding the elevator, or making a wry comment on the broken washing machine in the building — you respond with the minimum required sounds. A hum of acknowledgment. A nod, a shrug.

I eventually stop trying, though I don’t know why or when I started. I prefer being left alone anyway.

It’s almost insulting that our first conversation is more or less the result of a mistake.

It’s as I’m arriving home from the hospital, at ten in the evening. You're sitting in the hallway outside 4B, your back against the door, earbuds tucked in, staring absently at your phone. Judging by the white reflected in your pupils, you’re not entertaining yourself with much.

I unlock my own apartment. I’ve cleaned up and gotten into nightwear by the time twenty minutes have passed, and yet you’re still in the hallway. I shut my door, keys and a bag of rubbish in hand.

You’re still there even when I’m back from the trash chute.

Vaguely intrigued, I pause in front of you. You’re hunched over.

“Did you lock yourself out?”

You glance up, and pull out one earbud. I’m standing over you, hands tucked into my pockets. I cock a brow.

You blink at me. “Oh. Yeah.”

Then you put the earbud back in.

I wait. You don't elaborate. Seems the impoliteness is even worse than I initially imagined.

“Did you call the landlord?” I ask.

You pull the earbud out again with visible reluctance. “…Yeah. He's coming tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Mm.”

You're about to put the earbud back in.

“Do you really think it’s safe to sit out here?” I ask. The people in this building are relatively nice, but it’d still be stupid to try something like this.

You just shrug mildly.

I stare at you. You stare back. Like sitting in a hallway for twelve hours is the same as sitting anywhere else.

You look at me with the barest hint of attention. “I guess.”

Then you put your earbud back in.

What an idiot.

Well, not that it’s my problem.

At midnight, I open the door. The patient files I spent an hour or so staring at eventually bored me enough that I’ve taken to something as useless as this. You're asleep, your head tilted back against your door, phone now dark in your lap.

I almost consider leaving you there. You made your choice.

Hm. I’m not that bad of a person.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

“Hey,” I repeat.

You jolt awake, earbuds falling out. You readjust against the door, blinking hard, struggling to focus on my silhouette through the white lights of my apartment. I raise my brows.

“Do you really want to just stay out there?”

There’s a moment of silence. You only shrug, then look away.

That’s it?

“Suit yourself,” I muse, ambling back into my apartment.

But I let the door stay open for a few moments longer.

When I glance back, I see your shadow in the hallway idle for just a second. Then you groggily stand up, grab your phone and the plastic convenience store bag next to you, and shuffle inside without a word.

You sit on my sofa once you’re inside.

Then you immediately go back to your phone. 

So, I go back to my laptop. We sit in silence, with you tucked onto the corner of my sofa, and me at the kitchen table. It’s silent. How awkward, I think drily, watching you tap away at your phone in my peripheral. But, funnily enough, it isn’t. Not particularly. You clearly don't feel the need to fill space with conversation, nor do I.

It’s natural.

An hour passes. You shift positions once. I glance over and you're watching something on your phone, face completely blank.

At one in the morning, you stand up.

“Bathroom?” you ask quietly.

I point. You disappear inside.

When you come back, you sit in the same exact spot and engage in the same exact activity. Mindless consumption. The most interesting thing you give me is when your plastic bag rustles loudly beside you, and you flinch noticeably. Not much else.

An hour later, I realise you've begun to fall asleep while sitting up. Your head keeps lolling forward, then jerking back up. You look like you’re on the brink of passing out. I exhale slightly.

“You can sleep on the sofa,” I offer, masking my incredulity behind a smile.

You don't respond. Ah. The earbuds. You definitely can't hear me.

Unimpressed, I stand up and move to stand by the coffee table, arms crossed. When you notice me, eyes blurry, you pull out an earbud.

“What?”

“Sleep on the sofa.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're falling asleep sitting up.”

You stare at me. “So?”

I stare at you. In spite of your protests, you don’t seem entirely irritated — or even defensive. You’re just waiting for the interaction to end.

“So lie down,” I say, brow rising.

“Okay.”

But you don't move.

Exasperated, I retrieve a blanket from my closet and drop it next to you when I return. Your eyes turn from the small woollen thing, to me watching you expectantly. Then, slowly, as though you're doing me a favour by listening, you lie down and pull the blanket over yourself.

Your phone is still locked in your hands, and I’m beginning to doubt you’ll ever take those earbuds out. Even I’m not this antisocial.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

And that marks the first time you’ve ever said something genuinely conversational.

I go to my room and close the door.

In the morning, you're gone. The blanket is folded neatly on the couch. Nothing else suggests you were ever there.

I don't see you for three days after that.

On the fourth day, I'm getting my mail and you're there, unlocking 4B's box.

“Was the landlord doing well?” I ask drily.

“Yeah.”

You take your mail and already start walking away. You’re more boring than I thought.

“You're welcome, by the way,” I call after you, brows raised. 

You stop. Then you turn.

When I smile, a part of me wonders if it’ll finally provoke something more out of you. Like prodding a corpse with a sharp stick. The condescension in my eyes is sharper.

But “Sure,” is all you say.

And that's it. You leave.

It irritates me.

I start noticing things.

You leave for work at quarter to eight every weekday. You come home between five and six in the afternoon. You do your laundry on Sunday evenings. You get takeout from the same place and you always eat it in your apartment while watching something — I can totally hear the faint sound of your TV through the wall. That same low murmur.

You don't have visitors. You’re never calling or texting, though you’re always on your phone. The one time I see another resident greet you in the lobby, you simply shoot them a vague smile and continue walking.

You’re solitary.

I can’t say I don’t get it. After all, I live the same way.

But I choose to be left alone because people aren’t all that interesting. You seem like nothing really means much to interest you enough at all.

The second time we interact is in the building's disgusting gym.

It's six on a Saturday. I'm the only one here, which is how I like it. I don’t go to the gym because it means anything to me; nor do I do it because it means anything to my health. I do it because it’s a place where I can sit on the weekends where no one else can go.

Of course, that’s why you have to walk in.

You don't acknowledge me. Your earbuds go in first. Then you immediately get onto the treadmill, and start walking. 

Walking. So slowly I can’t help but be bothered by the idiocy of it.

I continue sitting on one of the benches, leaning back and occasionally glancing at you. Meanwhile, your eyes remain wholly stuck in the wall in front of you. You walk for thirty whole minutes at the same unchanging pace.

When I decide I’m bored of whatever this has become, I head for the door. It’s almost been an hour. Yet you’re still… walking. Still.

“Having fun?” I ask.

You don't hear me. Earbuds. Well, of course.

I wave absently until you glance over and pull one out.

“…What?”

My eyes narrow. “Are you okay?” I try instead.

Somehow, you look confused by the very obvious question I’ve just posed. “Yeah.”

I jeer, “I never realised walking at two miles per hour would be so beneficial for your health.”

You don’t look amused. You don’t look irritated, either.

“Okay,” you say.

“Even if you’ve been going at it for an hour.”

“Okay.”

You're waiting for me to get to a point.

“Did they ever teach you what exercise actually was in school? Or no?” I ask.

You look back to the wall. “I'm moving.”

“Barely.”

You shrug. The earbud goes back in.

Hm. It's not my business if you want to waste your time walking at elderly-person pace. 

I leave.

But the next Saturday, you're there again. Same treadmill, same pace.

And the Saturday after that.

It becomes a pattern. Every Saturday, as early as six in the morning, you're walking on the second treadmill from the entrance at a pace that wouldn't even remotely elevate anyone's heart rate.

I decide to leave you to your own devices. Apparently, you’re fine — though your inexplicable commitment to the least efficient workout possible suggests otherwise.

One Saturday, I’m about to leave once more. You're still walking. And because I clearly can’t help it, I make the mistake of asking, “Why do you even come here?”

You pull out an earbud. “What?”

“You walk slower than most people's warm-up pace. Why bother?”

You think about this for a moment, eyes turning to the ceiling. My eyes follow yours. There’s a small crack creeping up the plaster above your treadmill.

“Uh… I'm supposed to exercise,” you say.

“Says who?”

“I don't know. Everyone?”

“You really do this out of obligation?” I mutter, half-entertained.

“I guess.”

“That's stupid.”

You look at me. “…Okay."

Then you put the earbud back in and keep walking.

Well, that doesn’t bother me at all. Yet I find myself thinking about it as I stare at the three-millimetre crack in my own ceiling, the morning after that.

The thing is, nothing could matter to me less.

You're just a neighbor. That is, a particularly uncommunicative neighbor who doesn't seem to understand how gyms work, but still. It shouldn’t mean enough for me to take issue with it.

Apparently I enjoy lying to myself.

I realise that you buy the same instant noodles every time I see you at the convenience store. Strangely enough, also that you wear the same rotation of five outfits. And, sometimes, you sit in the hallway for twenty minutes after getting home from work, like you're working up the courage to go back inside.

I’ve never seen you smile. I’ve never seen you frown. It’s as though you’re suspended in this state of perpetual, familiar…

Blankness.

In the early mornings, I begin to avoid looking at that three-millimetre crack in my ceiling.

One evening, I'm getting home late from the hospital when I hear something from 4B.

Thud!

That’s all. I wait for something more, but silence follows for the next few moments.

Out of sheer curiosity, my feet halt outside your door. Not that there’s much of a reason to it: you're probably fine. You're always fine — aggressively, determinedly fine.

I knock on your door. Nothing. So, I knock again.

It slowly cracks open. You’re standing before me in sweatpants and a hoodie, your hair soaked through. You must have just showered. I glance behind you. Not much to see: plain white paint, light planks of wood laid beneath what must be your living room. If a living room made up of a TV on the floor and a kitchen chair even really counts.

“What?” you say. 

My eyes trail back to you. Well, that’s not much of a greeting. I still offer yet another welcoming smile. “I heard something,” I say.

Pursing your lips, you nod absently. Then you begin to turn around.

Don’t, I think, scolding myself. There’s no need.

The words escape anyway. “And you’re fine?”

You glance back. “Uh… Yeah.”

“What was the noise?” I ask.

You sigh. You sigh. A genuine show of emotion, as though I'm somehow being incredibly tedious. “I dropped a pot,” you say flatly.

“Mm? That's it?”

Apparently your only response is a shrug.

I exhale, crossing my arms. “You're sure you're okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Again, it feels a little too curt. Even to me. Though it seems you’re not being defensive or secretive. It’s more like you truly don't understand why I'm asking.

“No reason,” I say.

You stare at me a little longer, before nodding simply, and closing the door.

I stand there for a moment, feeling strange.

Come November, a real reason arrives.

I happen to be coming home for the evening when I find that you're sitting in the hallway again. Your legs are crossed beneath you, eyes dead-set on the blank wall opposite you.

I pause. “Again?” I ask, unimpressed. It can’t be so hard to get your keys.

You don’t look up at me.

“…No.”

Huh. How strange.

“Then is this a hobby of yours?”

Your answer only comes after another long silence. 

“My apartment's…” you falter. “I hate it in there.”

I try to conjure up the image of the space I saw behind you. White walls. Wooden floors. A TV, a chair. Maybe something else. Maybe not.

Strangely, I can only think of that crack in my ceiling.

“I’d assume the hallway is worse,” I deadpan.

“At least it’s different.”

Your expression hasn’t changed. For a functioning adult, you sure have some strange ideas of how to pass the time. Hm. Well, not that sitting on a decrepit gym bench every Saturday is any less stranger.

Sighing slowly, I gesture to my apartment door.

You hesitate; but consideration flickers across your face, eyes squinting briefly.

“…Why do you keep doing that?” you ask.

I wait for an elaboration. But one doesn’t come, since you end up just standing anyway.

“Okay,” you shrug.

“Hm? Okay what?”

“I'll come in.”

This time, you sit in the middle of the sofa and stare at the blank TV. This continues after, say, ten minutes or so. Then — though you don’t shift positions at all — I see your head turning every now and again. You must have decided to actually absorb your surroundings this time.

The work on my laptop isn’t particularly interesting. Neither is the fact that you take forty minutes to say something.

And what you start with is, “I'm gonna go.”

Ah? That’s boring. Still, I don’t hesitate. 

“Have fun,” I say.

You stand up slowly. The door shuts behind you with a click that resonates through my entire apartment.

I stare at the door for a moment, then return to my work.

It happens again, two weeks later. You're in the hallway; I very kindly ask if you want to come in; you say okay.

You sit on my sofa, and then turn to stare out the balcony window. I work on my laptop.

An hour passes. Record time. You leave.

We don't speak beyond the initial exchange, just like last time. I’m unsure why I keep offering. I’m unsure why you keep accepting.

Not that it stops anything, of course.

December. You're on my couch again. I'm reading a medical journal.

After thirty minutes of silence, you say, "Your apartment's less miserable than mine."

I glance up. I’m not so sure. Marginally, maybe. “Mm.”

You go back to your phone.

That's the extent of the conversation.

On New Year’s Eve, I go out to my balcony because I notice the lights adjacent are on. Not because of the fireworks: they don’t interest me.

Apparently that sentiment is something we share.

When I find that it’s you who turned the lights on, you’re not watching the loud implosions of light spattered across the sky. Nor are you partaking in the small family gatherings that I’m sure are occurring in at least one of the other apartments below us. Whatever you care about is over the balcony's edge.

Straight down.

“See something interesting?” I call, leaning over my railing.

That makes you flinch. 

Genuinely flinch, that is, which cracks a slight smile across my face. The surprise seems to jolt through every muscle in your body, sending you stumbling back slightly from the edge. There’s something in your other hand, obscured from my sight. You whip around to face me. Your chest is heaving; your limbs are sluggish; your eyes are the widest I’ve ever seen them — they dart from the railing, to the colours bleeding through the night, and again to me.

“Chishiya,” you breathe.

Ah? That’s a first. Who could’ve predicted that you know words other than “Okay,” and “What”?

I smile. You’re staring at me like I might just be a trick of the light. That’s a first, too. I don’t think you’ve ever looked me in the face for so long.

Especially not like this.

“Happy New Year,” I muse, raising a brow at the indescribable expression on your face. 

Silence follows.

Your lips part slightly, begging to say something. Nothing comes out.

“What? Not much of a party animal?”

The urge to stare at me seems to leave you in a deep exhale, your brows pinching together. I watch listlessly as you drop whatever was in your hand onto the patio table beside you.

“Uh… no,” you mutter.

Without a word, you disappear behind the doors into your apartment. Your curtains shut. Hm? Not even a goodbye? 

But the lights stay on.

Besides me, the fireworks have stopped.

I look at your patio table. You’ve abandoned a pack of canned alcohol. Strong Zero. Twenty-five grams. A whole pack for one? 

The one you were holding is unopened; and another, already crushed beside it. How reckless.

I wait until one in the morning for your lights to turn off, and I watch from the window as you throw both cans away the next morning.

You stop showing up to the gym in January.

I notice because the second treadmill from the door is empty every Saturday. Like noticing the weather, I find that you’ve supposedly abandoned this part of your routine.

I don't do anything about it. Three weeks pass. Nothing happens. On the fourth Saturday, I'm heading to the gym when I pass your door. I pause. I know I shouldn’t. Yet I knock. You answer after a long delay; when you appear behind the door, your eyes are bleary and struggle to focus on me.

“…What?” you ask.

“You’ve been missing your two-miles-per-hour walking sessions.”

“Okay.”

Hm. Not even a reaction.

My brow twitches involuntarily, jaw tightening into a mannered smile at the hollow look in your eyes. I hesitate too long to engage you any further, and you step back to shut the door.

“Do you want to come with me?” I ask, before your stupidity gets the better of you.

You stare at me. “Why?”

I suck in a breath through my teeth, crossing my arms.

“Why not?”

You blink slowly. 

“..Okay. Give me a minute.”

You don't talk the entire way to the gym. When we get there, you get on the treadmill and start your usual slow walk.

I sit by one of the benches closer to the entrance this time.

Neither of us speaks.

Afterwards, we walk back to the building in silence.

At our doors, you say, “Thank you.”

I shoot you a glance. “For?”

You stare at the door handle. Then you shrug.

You go inside 4B. I go inside 4A.

It becomes routine. Every Saturday, I knock on 4B at six in the morning. You get ready. We go to the gym.

We don't talk during. We don't talk after.

The fact that I’ve been ensnared in such a useless procedure irritates me more than I’m used to. As soon as I wake on Saturday mornings, I find myself lying on my back and thinking about how pointless it is to sit in silence as you barely even try to use a treadmill.

The fact that the treadmill being empty would irritate me more only makes it worse.

So I keep showing up. You never ask why. You just keep saying “okay”.

Another month or so passes. You're on my sofa. You've been there for two hours, just sitting on your phone again. You should’ve gone home by midnight. Clearly, you haven’t.

I'm flicking through a medical journal when you speak.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” you ask.

I turn the page. “Sleeping doesn’t do much for me.”

You pause.

“I mean, like… of living.”

Hm.

Quiet swallows the room. When I look up, you’ve hugged your knees to your chest.

“Is it normal to be like that?”

“It’s what doctors are for,” I say wryly.

Now you’re staring at the book I’m leading through.

“You work at a hospital, don’t you?”

“Paediatric cardiology. You need a psychologist.”

Silence.

“Okay,” you say.

I go back to my work. You go back to your phone.

Ten minutes later, you leave without saying anything else.

I'm at the convenience store when I see you in the snack aisle, carefully gazing at a shelf full of different flavoured crisp packets.

I grab my instant coffee and leave.

I’m starting my car when I look out at the concrete pavement by my window, and I notice a hairline crack running across the edge.

I stare at it.

When I return to the snack aisle, you’re still standing there. Your head is tilted up toward the ceiling, basket empty. I’m not sure how long you’ve been here. Long enough. I slowly walk over and pick out a multitude of flavoured crisps: Wasabi, Lime, Cappuccino, et cetera. Everything I’d rather not try. Then I slot them into your basket, earning a quiet inhale from you.

You look at the basket. Look at me.

“Variety,” I explain.

You don't argue further.

Outside, we walk toward the building. You're carrying the bag.

“Do you want to eat these at yours?” you ask.

This is going to be disgusting.

“Sure.”

We eat unhealthy snacks on my sofa at nine in the evening in unwavering silence. I keep the TV on to distract you from the fact that I’m not really eating. A documentary about Arctic sea life is the first to come up. Finding that you’re needlessly enamoured, I decide to leave you to it. You try all of the flavours. I try to stick to the teriyaki crisps. Otherwise, neither of us comments on any of them.

But when I glance over to you, there’s something like contentment gleaming in your eyes.

When you're done, you stand up. “I'm gonna go.”

I nod simply.

At the door, you pause. “I went to a doctor. For the, uh… that exhaustion thing.”

“And?”

“I got some pills.”

“Hm. You’re taking them?”

“Yeah.”

Good.

But I don’t say it, and you leave. I clean up the crisp packets and choose not to think much of it.

In April, you knock on my door for the first time.

I open it to you holding up a plastic bag.

“Food,” you declare.

“Instant noodles?”

You nod. With that, I let you in.

We make them and eat in silence. When you're done, you leave.

This happens three more times that month.

By the time May has come, our Saturday gym arrangement is still holding its ground. You're walking at your usual pace on the treadmill when, suddenly, you speed up to a slow jog.

I glance over. You're not looking at me. Just jogging, face blank.

You keep it up for five minutes before slowing back to a walk.

I don't comment on it.

The next week, you jog for seven minutes.

The week after, ten.

I still don't say anything.

It’s June. You're on my sofa — you have been for three whole hours. Good for you: it’s the longest you’ve willingly stayed. You're not even on your phone. You're just sitting there, watching another show on my TV. Something about magical girls. I’m trying not to look.

“Are you okay?” I ask at some point, because the expressionless look on your face prompts it.

You hum in agreement. 

Then, “I think whatever they gave me is working.”

Anyone would need medication to invest themselves in whatever show that is. 

“How come?” I ask.

You don’t respond. Not at first, at least. I only realise that you’ve gone silent when I look up to see you watching the television comfortably.

You’re smiling.

My eyes jump back to whatever I’m supposed to be looking at; and I pretend I didn’t see it, after finding I’m not sure what to say. We sit in silence for another hour.

When you leave, you say, “Thanks for letting me sit here.”

I exhale.

“You don't have to thank me.”

You smile softly once more, and I catch myself staring like some pathetic idiot.

“Okay,” you say.

But you say it again the next time, anyway.

It’s a month later when we’re walking back from the gym, and you stop short outside of your apartment.

“Do you want to see my place?” you ask flatly, as though nothing else in the word could be more natural.

My brows raise. “Sure,” I shrug.

Inside, it's still almost empty. But the kitchen chair has been replaced with a small sofa, opposite to a small table that the TV is now perched on. There’s a circular rug tucked beneath. And a singular calendar by the door. There are weekly meetings you’ve each labeled as “Dr’s appt”.

“I told you it was depressing,” you say.

I look around. Don’t be so dramatic. If anything, it’s better than it was last year.

“It’s fine,” I reply.

We sit on your couch. You put on some show. Surprisingly, you seem as uninvested as me this time.

After an hour, you speak slowly. “Are we friends?”

Hm? Who knows? I’ve never cared for this sort of thing.

“Probably.”

“Probably?” you echo.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

You think about it briefly. “Not really.”

We keep watching TV.

At some point, your head cautiously tips onto my shoulder. Your hair tickles my jaw, and I have to consciously fight the urge to move away. 

But I don’t feel inclined to be annoyed. So we sit like that until the show ends.

When I finally stand up, you walk me to the door.

“Same time next week?” you ask.

I pause.

And I nod.

“Okay,” you affirm.

I go back to my own apartment. Bored, I sink into my couch on the same spot that I always sit.

It was warmer with you beside me.

The revelation doesn’t mean much to me, so I don't think anything more about it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Intrigued, I glance beside me. The summer light from outside my balcony window is filtering though, painting your face in pale yellow. You’re staring outside without much emotion on your face.

“Sure,” I say.

“I only ever just sit and watch TV when I’m here. Why do you always invite me over?”

“Hm. Why do you keep coming?”

You meet my eyes. “I don't know,” you say. “It's better than sitting in my apartment.”

“Same reason.”

I can’t bring myself to look at you as you process this. Somehow it’s enough to stop the questions.

“…It's less empty,” I elaborate.

“Oh,” is apparently all you can say to that.

You go back to your phone. Five minutes pass.

Then, you say quietly, “I'm glad you kept asking.” I can feel your eyes on me. It’s unsettling. You continue, “If I wanted to come in. If I wanted to go to the gym. All of it.”

I shrug. “You didn’t say no.”

“I know. But I could’ve, couldn’t I? You kept asking anyway.”

My reflection in my laptop screen stares back at me.

“Most people stop asking,” you murmur. “When I don't respond right. Or when I'm boring.”

A smirk pulls at my mouth. “Boring?”

“Don’t lie. I don't really do anything. I don't have interesting hobbies. I barely talk, because I hate it so much.”

“You're here,” I say.

“That's it, though. I'm just… here.”

“That's enough for me.”

And you’re looking at me again. Scrutinising my face and the mouth that’s let slip words I’d normally push to the back of my mind, until the urge to say them disappears.

“Is it?” you ask.

I don’t respond, but I finally connect with your gaze.

That makes you lean back into the sofa. “…Okay.”

We sit together in silence.

After a while, you shift slightly. Our bodies don’t touch, but I can feel your weight dip a little further toward where I’m sitting on the sofa.

I wish you’d move closer.

I’ve just arrived home from a late shift when I see you in the hallway. Not sitting, this time: you’re standing up straight, gazing at your door.

“Don’t want to go in again?” I muse.

There’s a quiet jingle of metal as you fidget with the keys in your hand. “I don't know,” you murmur. “It's lonely.”

Lonely.

Without thinking much of it, I unlock my apartment. “Come in,” I say.

“I don't want to bother you.”

A little late for that. “You're not.”

You follow me inside. Of course, you sit on the sofa in your customary spot.

I make some coffee for you. You don't drink it, but you let its warmth seep through the mug into your palms as we sit together.

“Do you ever get lonely?” you ask.

Hm. Well, I’ve never craved a solution enough for loneliness to fully manifest in my life. 

Still, I mutter drily, “Don’t we all?”

You sniff. “Maybe. What do you do about it?”

“Nothing, usually.”

“Does that work?” you ask.

“No,” I say. “My life just gets quiet.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, sliding your mug onto the coffee table. “Too quiet.”

We sit there. And it is quiet. But not quiet enough for it to hurt. Your head tips onto my shoulder again. This time, I hesitantly let my head rest against yours.

We fall asleep like that.

When I wake up sometime past midnight, you're still there, breathing slow, and even. Our fingers are laced together.

I don't wake you. Nor do I move.

For the first time in years, I don't mind sharing space.

You’re often the first thing I see when I wake up, now.

Apparently I’ve become inclined to sleep on my side. Facing you. I’ve also learnt, recently, that you don’t enjoy waking up until later in the morning. Funny how you’d always get up to go to the gym at six, before I noticed and rescheduled it to the afternoon. I, on the other hand, never sleep well. I suppose it comes easier nowadays. But my eyes are always open by five in the morning, every single day, no matter how I try to adjust my sleep routine.

So I wake up before you more often than not.

I still only take five minutes or so before I start the day. Not that anything interesting usually happens within that window of time. I wake up. I find you there in front of me. Sometimes I lie there and wonder if you’ll somehow wake up too. You never do. Maybe I’m envious of how well you sleep compared to me.

I assume that’s it. A need for you to wake up and be as tired as me.

So I reach out my hand and, as quietly as the rustle of the sheets will allow me, I graze my knuckles along your cheekbones. I run my thumb along your brow. If I feel like it, I’ll brush the hair caught against your nose bridge and sweep it back to your ear.

It’s usually by the time I reach the rest of your hair that you wake up.

My hand is back by my side once your eyes have opened, and your brows are furrowed at the fact that you woke up at five for no reason. You see me faking sleep and you turn over without a second thought. It leaves me with a smile that I have to withhold until your breathing evens out and I somehow fall asleep again.