The sound of something boiling over snapped Shinichi out of his daze.
"Crap, crap, crap!" he shouted, lunging toward the stove where a pot of miso soup was bubbling violently, foam cascading over the rim like an erupting volcano.
He fumbled for the burner knob, turned it off in a panic, and nearly knocked the entire pot over as he reached for the ladle. The smell of slightly scorched tofu filled the small kitchen, mingling with steam that clouded his glasses.
He stood there for a moment, panting, a towel slung over his shoulder, apron hanging crookedly on his torso. His hair clung to his forehead in damp, curling strands.
This was his third attempt at dinner, and the only thing he had succeeded in cooking so far was a mounting sense of frustration.
The rice cooker had betrayed him with undercooked grains, the vegetables lay raw and untouched on the cutting board, and the fried chicken he had tried earlier now looked more like coal.
"You need help," came a voice from behind him.
Shinichi turned sharply, heart racing. Hinoka stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms folded, dressed in her usual oversized hoodie and shorts that looked more comfortable than any outfit had the right to be.
She raised a brow at the disaster zone in front of her—oil splatters, rice like gravel, miso soup frothing like a witch's brew.
"Don't tell me you were planning to eat that."
"I was," Shinichi said, attempting dignity and failing. "Eventually."
She walked over and peered into the pot.
"You were about to summon a kitchen demon."
"Rude."
"True," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "Now move over. Let me handle this."
Before he could protest, Hinoka had taken over. In fluid motions, she chopped the green onions with a practiced rhythm, scooped out the scorched bits from the soup, and tossed the blackened chicken with a wrinkle of her nose.
"Where did you even learn to cook like this?" Shinichi asked, watching her from the counter, equal parts impressed and wounded in pride.
"TV shows. Trial and error. Not being stubborn."
"That last one feels directed."
She grinned but said nothing.
Just as she was stirring in fresh ingredients, the door opened again. A quiet breeze accompanied Koizumi's arrival. She stepped into the apartment with a plastic grocery bag in hand, her eyes wide as they landed on the scene in front of her.
"Oh," she said. "Is this an intervention?"
"Apparently," Shinichi mumbled.
Koizumi smiled gently and moved to place the bag on the counter. "I brought actual ingredients. You know, in case someone decided to make miso soup without miso paste again."
"It happened once!"
"Last week," Koizumi reminded him.
Hinoka snorted. "Twice, if you count the chicken stock incident."
"You promised you wouldn't tell."
The apartment warmed, not from the stove, but from the laughter that rose naturally between them.
The kind of laughter only long-standing bonds could create. The kind of ease that came from knowing each other's worst moments and choosing to stay anyway.
With the three of them in the kitchen, it was suddenly alive. Shinichi set the table—uneven as the placements were—and Koizumi helped with the seasoning, tasting every few minutes with her usual quiet precision.
Hinoka ruled the stovetop with the confidence of someone who found rhythm in movement, her voice directing Shinichi when he stood in the wrong place or forgot to wash something.
"Cut those radishes thinner," she told him.
"They're already thin."
"They're not Koizumi-level thin."
Shinichi raised an eyebrow. "Is that a real measurement now?"
Koizumi, blushing, looked away. "I… I don't mind."
The meal came together slowly but surely. By the time it was done, the scent of dashi broth and warm rice filled the air, overtaking the earlier scorched remnants.
They sat together on the floor around the low table, bowls of food steaming between them, chopsticks clicking softly against porcelain.
Shinichi took the first bite and visibly relaxed. "Okay. Okay, this is edible. More than edible."
"Thank you," Hinoka said.
He gestured vaguely. "I was talking about myself, obviously."
She kicked him lightly under the table.
The evening wore on in a gentle rhythm—shared dishes, idle conversation, the clink of cups, and refilled bowls.
Talk drifted between classes and professors, strange campus rumors, the ever-changing weather, and the absurd price of laundry detergent.
Time blurred. The walls of the small apartment felt less confining, more like shelter.
At one point, Koizumi stood to fetch tea, and Shinichi caught himself watching the way she moved—quiet, deliberate, the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly when she poured.
He turned away, only to meet Hinoka's gaze. She had been watching him. Neither of them said anything.
After dinner, the dishes were done in a semi-coordinated dance of bumping elbows and traded sarcasm. They ended up in the living room, sprawled across cushions and blankets, the soft hum of the old heater filling the silence.
Someone—Hinoka—suggested an old anime from their middle school days, and they watched, voices overlapping as they quoted lines from memory.
It felt easy.
Too easy.
Because beneath the surface of every smile, every touch of fingers brushing by accident, every shared memory, there was something heavier. Like a ghost pressing softly on each of their backs.
They were pretending, in their own way, that nothing had changed. That they were still the same kids under the sakura tree, dreaming of grown-up lives and eternal promises.
But they weren't.
Koizumi leaned her head against Shinichi's shoulder as the credits rolled. Her eyes were closed. He dared not move. Hinoka sat on his other side, cross-legged, staring blankly at the screen, chewing her lip.
"Do you think we'll always be like this?" she asked suddenly.
He blinked. "Like what?"
"Together," she said. "Or pretending to be."
Shinichi didn't answer immediately. Koizumi shifted slightly against him, but said nothing.
Hinoka glanced at him, something sharp in her eyes. "You're going to have to choose someday, you know. This... balance can't last forever."
"I know," he said, voice low.
And he did.
But for now, in that moment, with warmth on either side, with dishes clean and laughter still echoing faintly from the walls, he chose silence. He chose to let them both remain by his side just a little longer.
And neither of them moved away.