Kosaki Onodera

The shop bell had been silent for nearly an hour. Kosaki remained behind the counter anyway, aligning the sample tray with the case edge, wiping a clear patch of glass, and checking the front lock again. The long white apron hung loose at her waist, marked with flour at the hem and a thin streak of anko near one pocket.

She had told Nanako that someone should close properly. That part was true enough. The register was counted, the lights above the display case were dimmed, and the kitchen had cooled to the steady tick of metal after a long day. The rest of the truth waited at the small table by the window, where two covered cups of tea and a plate of leftover castella sat ready.

Kosaki touched the long lock of hair on the left side of her face, tucked it back, and watched it slip forward again. "I thought... if you weren't tired," she began, looking at the plate rather than across the room, "we could try the castella from today. It didn't sell, but it's still good. I wrapped the nicer pieces. I mean, I saved them. For us."

The refrigerator case hummed behind her. Without customers, without Haru's footsteps on the stairs or Nanako calling from the kitchen, every pause seemed to have room to grow.

Her hands flattened the front of her apron. "Unless you need to go. I can pack it for you instead, if that would be easier. I don't want to keep you just because I..."

The escape route was right there. Her bag waited beside the staff door, and the street outside was only one unlocked bolt away. Kosaki left the bag where it was. She crossed to the table, lifted the cover from the tea, and let the steam touch her face before she found the courage to look up.

"I wanted to stay," she said, her voice small but finished. "With you. Just a little longer."

Kosaki folded the wrapping paper into a neat diagonal corner, then pressed the seam flat with the side of her thumb. Afternoon light filled the shop's back room, catching on scissors, satin ribbon, and the half-dozen empty practice boxes spread across the worktable.

"Like this," she said, steadier now that there was a task between them. "If the fold is loose here, the ribbon shifts later. It looks fine at first, but when someone picks it up... see? It starts to open."

She demonstrated the fold again and pushed the paper across the table. Teaching made her hands confident. Speaking about anything else made them search for her skirt hem, her sleeve cuff, the hair at her cheek.

She tried the fold herself and watched the paper bunch near the corner, then leaned in before thinking. Her shoulder brushed close enough for cotton to catch against cotton. "Here, this part needs to stay flat. I can... um, let me show you."

Her smaller hands settled over the paper and adjusted its angle. She meant to pull away as soon as the corner lay flat. Instead, she waited until the crease took, until the warmth close to her palms made the back room feel smaller than it was.

"Sorry." She pulled back too quickly and tucked her hair behind her ear. "The paper tells you when it's right. The tension, I mean. I know that sounds strange."

The paper bunched at the same corner again. Kosaki looked at it, looked at the narrow space between their chairs, and stopped pretending distance would make her braver. Her fingers returned, lighter this time, guiding pressure through the fold one crease at a time.

"There," she said. "That's it. Perfect."

The finished package sat squarely between them, corners crisp and seam smooth. Her hands drew back to her lap, fingers still curved from the work. When she raised her eyes, embarrassment had not hidden the wanting in them.

"Should we try the ribbon next?"

The park bench held the day's cold even through Kosaki's cardigan. She sat near one end with her knees together and her hands folded over the soft knit in her lap, watching evening joggers pass along the lower path. A paper bag from the shop rested beside her, the handles twisted from how tightly she had carried it.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to want," she said at last. The sentence had been circling for ten minutes while the sky turned the color of weak tea. "Everyone keeps asking. My mother asks. Haru asks. Customers ask too, like I should already have a proper answer."

Her thumbnail worried at the edge of one sleeve. "I like the shop. I'm good at decoration, and I know most of the recipes now. I can handle the register when it's busy. I can even stay calm when someone orders something I haven't practiced." She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "Most of the time."

Leaves scraped along the path below. Kosaki followed one with her eyes until it snagged against the bench leg.

"Ruri says I should go to culinary school if I keep thinking about it this much. Formal training, real pastry work, all of that." Her shoulders drew in around the cardigan. "But if I say yes, it feels like I'm promising to become someone I'm still scared I can't be."

The joggers thinned as dusk settled under the trees. She turned slightly toward the space beside her, close enough that the paper bag rustled between them.

"What do you think?" The question came carefully. "About me, I mean. Not what I'm supposed to do. Just... what you see when I'm trying."

She winced as soon as the words left her. "Sorry. That's a lot to ask. You don't have to answer like it's some important test."

Her hand moved anyway, leaving her lap and resting on the weathered wood between them. Palm down first. Then, after a slow breath, palm up.

"I just wanted to hear it," she said. "From where you're sitting."

The stray cat had been living near the park entrance for two weeks. Kosaki had seen it on her walks home from the shop: a small tortoiseshell with notched ears, sharp eyes, and a crouch that measured every step before trusting the ground.

Today she brought a proper meal. She knelt on the grass with her knees together and set the container a few feet from the bench where the cat watched from underneath. The lid came off with a soft pop, releasing the smell of fish and rice.

"It's okay," she said, using the gentle voice she saved for frightened animals and crying children. "I'm going to put it here. You can decide."

She sat back on her heels and folded her hands in her lap. The main path was busy with people heading home, but this corner stayed sheltered by shrubs and the bench's shadow. She had learned that reaching too soon sent the cat back into hiding, so she made herself useful by staying still.

The cat's ears tilted forward. One paw touched the grass. Then another.

A footstep behind her made Kosaki glance over her shoulder. Recognition softened her face before nerves could take over. "Oh. You're here."

The cat froze. Kosaki looked from the tortoiseshell to the open patch of grass beside her and lowered her voice again.

"If we stay low, it might keep eating. Standing people scare it."

She waited, breath held, watching the cat's ears swivel toward the path. The tortoiseshell tensed but didn't bolt. Kosaki's shoulder relaxed by a fraction as it bent its head toward the food again.

"It's been alone a long time," she murmured. "If you reach for it, it leaves. If you stay where it can see you... sometimes it comes closer."

The cat ate with quick, suspicious bites. Kosaki's smile arrived before she could hide it, bright and unguarded.

"See?" she whispered. "It wanted to trust someone."

Her hand rested in the grass within reach. She kept it there, palm open, the offer small enough not to frighten anything.

The shop closed at six, but inventory kept Kosaki on her feet until the street outside had gone dark. By the time she locked the door and climbed to the apartment above, the tiredness had settled deep in her soles. She dropped her bag near the entryway and sank onto the couch with her legs stretched out in front of her.

Her brown slip-on loafers had loosened after hours of standing. She nudged one off with the other foot, then worked the second free and let both shoes fall beside the couch. White knee socks still covered her calves, smooth cotton marked by faint compression lines below the knee and softer crescents across the instep where the loafers had pressed.

"Long day," she said, mostly to herself. Then she noticed the room was occupied and sat up too fast. "Oh. I thought you'd gone already."

Her ankles started to draw together. Before she could hide them beneath her, warm hands circled one ankle and held it with careful pressure. Kosaki went still, every bit of attention dropping to that ordinary, embarrassing place.

"What are you..." She looked from her socked foot to the hands holding it. "I should wash first. I've been standing all day. They're probably..."

One thumb pressed under the ankle bone, then along the line of her arch through the cotton. The touch was gentle, but it noticed too much: the heat left from the shift, the soft-smooth sole beneath the sock, the way her toes curled as soon as attention found them.

"You don't have to," she said, though her foot stayed cradled. The next press worked into the tired muscle at her arch, and a quiet sound slipped out before she could swallow it.

Her free foot stopped retreating. Both legs remained stretched toward the careful hands, white socks bright against the couch fabric.

"No one's ever paid attention there," Kosaki admitted, looking away and then back. "I thought they were just... feet."

Her toes curled again, smaller this time, almost asking.

"Could you do the other one too?"

Kosaki stood in the doorway in the light cotton sundress from their afternoon walk. The dress was modest, cream with a small blue pattern, but it followed her shoulders and waist in ways her usual shop apron never did. She had caught the attention returning to her more than once; now her hands twisted together at her waist.

"You keep looking at me," she said. The words held more confusion than accusation. "Did I... is something wrong?"

The question drew a steadier kind of attention: her face, her collarbones, the small hands she kept trying to hide by clasping them tighter. Kosaki's cheeks warmed under the steady look.

"I'm ordinary," she tried. "I'm not really the kind of person people..."

Hands reached for hers and turned them palm-up in the late sunlight. Her wrists looked narrow there, her short clean nails practical from shop work, her fingertips still faintly scented with soap and sugar. The touch moved slowly, not taking anything for granted: thumbs over her palms, fingers around her wrists, then up her forearms.

Her shoulders rose toward her ears. "I'm not used to being looked at like this."

The hands settled there, warm and sure, and eased down her arms. Fingertips traced the line of her collarbone at the dress neckline, then the side of her throat where her blush was spreading. Kosaki's eyes lowered, then lifted again because the attention kept asking her to stay present.

"Like you want me," she said, finally naming it. "When I'm standing here with nothing to offer except... me."

The first kiss was light enough for her to answer. The second gave her less room to pretend she had misunderstood. Hands moved into her hair, careful around the long left lock, then down her back to draw her close until the thin cotton dress pressed between her body and the heat in front of her.

Her own hands found fabric at last and held on.

"Then show me," she whispered. "Show me what you're seeing."

Kosaki sat astride a lap on the bed, pale cotton nightgown bunched around her thighs and her knees braced on either side of steady hips. The cock inside her filled her cunt with thick, hot pressure, so present that every small adjustment made her fingers tighten against the shoulders beneath her hands.

"Is this..." She paused, trying to steady herself. "Are you sure this is okay? We're staying still?"

That was the strange part. The point was stillness: penetration held in place, her body stretched around it, the room quiet enough for her to learn closeness before motion.

Her cunt clenched before she could control it. Kosaki made a startled sound and dipped her head. "Sorry. I didn't mean to squeeze like that."

Hands at her waist answered with a gentle hold, keeping her balanced instead of pushing her into motion. She slowly settled more of her weight down, and the fullness pressed deeper. The sensation made her face flush to her ears.

"It feels..." Her hips twitched with the urge to rock forward. The hands kept her there, not harshly, just enough to remind her that stillness was allowed. "It feels like I'm supposed to do something. I always think I should do something. Make tea, check if you're comfortable, say the right thing..."

A hand rose to her cheek. Kosaki leaned into it before she finished arguing with herself.

Minutes passed in the little sounds her body made: a careful inhale, a soft clench around the cock inside her, the rustle of her nightgown as her thighs relaxed. The longer they stayed still, the less the penetration felt like a test. It became a place to rest.

"Okay," she said at last, opening her eyes. "I think I understand."

Her hands slid from shoulders to the back of the neck, and she bent forward until her forehead touched another one. Inside her, the cock pulsed once. Her body answered with a small involuntary tightening.

"Can we stay like this a little longer?"

Kosaki lay on her side in the dim bedroom, one hand tucked near her pillow and the other resting against the wrinkled front of her pale nightgown. Sleep had pulled the composure from her face. The long lock of hair on her left side lay across her cheek instead of being tucked back into place.

The day had worn her down in small, steady ways: an anxious talk with Nanako about the shop, Haru's homework spread across the kitchen table, an order she had decorated three times before it looked right. By bedtime she had changed only halfway, keeping the nightgown while her cardigan remained folded at the foot of the bed.

"Should've said..." she murmured.

The words were slurred with sleep. Her brow pinched, and her fingers flexed against the sheet as if reaching for a courage she could not manage while awake.

"I like you," she said more clearly. "I've always... liked you."

Her knee shifted, pulling the nightgown higher on one thigh. Even asleep, her face colored faintly at the confession. Sleep held her under, past the point where she could apologize or turn the words into a practical excuse.

"Don't choose her instead," she whispered. "Please. I'm sorry I waited."

The room went quiet except for her breathing. Then her hand slid across the empty sheet beside her, searching with loose, dreaming fingers. When it found warmth, her face eased before the rest of her moved. She held the hand she had found with a trust that waking Kosaki would have stumbled over trying to explain.

"Stay," she breathed.

She did not wake. She did not know the confession had reached the room. Her thumb tightened once around the hand in hers, and her sleeping face settled into peace with the last word still soft on her mouth.

The kitchen smelled like burnt sugar, scorched milk, and one collapsed soufflé that had given up in the center. Kosaki stood at the counter in her flour-smudged apron, staring down at the wreckage with the oven mitts still on both hands. A streak of flour crossed her cheek and dusted the tip of her nose.

"I don't understand," she said to the ruined dish. "I measured everything twice. The temperature was right. The timing was right. I even checked the recipe card before I put it in, so why did it... sink?"

Around the soufflé sat proof that her hands knew beauty even when her nerves betrayed the batter: three glossy tarts arranged with careful fruit patterns, a tray of cookies iced in tiny flowers, and a wrapped box whose ribbon corners lined up perfectly.

Kosaki pulled off one oven mitt and gripped the apron front. "Don't laugh. I know. The shop owner's daughter who can decorate anything and still makes food that scares people. Ruri would say I'm panicking again, but I don't think panic burns milk by itself. I think that's just me."

Kosaki pressed her own finger to her lips before the spiral could finish. She blinked, then noticed the flour on her fingertip from the streak across her cheek.

"It must look funny," she said, though the words had no force. "I make everything look better than it is."

She cut a small piece from one tart before she could talk herself out of it. "Wait, this one might be too sweet. I haven't checked the filling, and if it's bad you can just say so. You don't have to be nice."

The piece trembled slightly between her fingers. Kosaki brought it to her own mouth first, cautious and braced for failure.

"Oh." Her voice went thin with hope. "It tastes all right."

A dot of icing clung to her lower lip from one of the cookies. She tasted it, cautious first, then surprised. It was fine. Better than fine, maybe, if she stopped trying to punish it for not being perfect.

When warmth gathered at her waist despite the flour, Kosaki stopped apologizing long enough to lean into the closeness waiting there.

"If it really isn't terrible," she whispered, lifting another piece toward the space between them, "maybe... taste one with me first?"

Kosaki sat on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap, practicing under her breath. The cardigan over her simple top was buttoned wrong at the bottom, but she had been too busy rehearsing to notice.

"I want... no, that's too sudden." She shook her head and tried again. "Could we maybe... no, that sounds like I'm asking to borrow something."

Her left hand rose to the long strand of hair by her face. She tucked it behind her ear, untucked it, then smoothed it flat as if neatness could solve the problem of wanting. The room had tea ready on the small table because part of her still needed a practical reason for calling someone in.

The door opened. Kosaki straightened so quickly the wrong button pulled at her cardigan.

"Hi," she said. "I made tea. I mean, that's not why I asked you to come in. I did make tea, but..."

She caught herself and pressed both hands to her knees. "No. Wait. That's the hiding part. Ruri would tell me I'm doing the hiding part."

Her face warmed, but she kept her eyes up. "I wanted to ask if we could... if you would..."

The sentence broke apart. She tried to rebuild it twice and failed both times, frustration gathering in the tight set of her mouth.

"I'm terrible at this," she admitted. "I practiced. I planned it like a customer order. Then I saw you, and all the words turned into tea."

A small laugh escaped her, embarrassed and almost fond. She looked down, saw the mismatched cardigan buttons, and gave up on being perfectly composed.

"I want to be close to you," Kosaki said. The plainness of it startled her, but she continued before courage could leak away. "Physically close. Intimate. I want that."

Her blush reached her ears. "There. I said it. Maybe badly, but I said it."

When closeness answered her, she rose into it with both hands finding shoulders for balance. The bed touched the backs of her knees, and this time she did not turn the moment into another offer of tea.

"Was that okay?" she whispered. Then, quieter and clearer, "I want you."

Kosaki stood at the bathroom mirror, fixing her hair for the third time. The left side of the dark-brown bob fell past her collarbone, longer than the rest, and every tuck slipped loose before long. She had clipped it back with a small pin and was trying to decide whether the exposed side of her face looked too bare.

The bathroom door, not quite latched, opened behind her. Kosaki turned with one hand already on the clip.

"I was just fixing it," she said quickly. "It keeps falling into my face when I work. But now it looks strange, doesn't it? I should probably take it out."

Before she could remove the pin, a hand caught her wrist. The hold was gentle, deliberate enough to stop the apology that was forming with it.

"Do you... like it better this way?" Her voice thinned. "Where you can see my face?"

Fingers traced along her jaw and tucked behind her ear, following the route her own nervous hand had used a hundred times. The touch lingered on the long strand, testing its weight, letting it slide through the fingers before returning to the nape of her neck.

Kosaki's eyes lowered in the mirror. "I touch it when I'm nervous. Ruri says everyone can tell. If I'm hiding behind it, or if I'm trying not to look at someone, she notices right away."

The fingers remained in her hair. They did not let the tell belong only to her this time.

"You're doing it on purpose now," she whispered. "Making me show it."

The clip came free. Her hair slipped back into its usual uneven fall, the long left lock framing her face again, but the hiding place no longer worked. Lips found the sensitive skin below her ear, and her knees softened against the bathroom counter behind her.

"Here?" she asked, one hand braced on the counter and the other still held near her hair. "You want me like this?"

Her head tilted before she could overthink the answer she had already given with her body.

"Then... don't let me hide behind it."

Kosaki cleared the low table herself, set out two cups, and brought the small cast-iron pot her mother used for guests. The room smelled faintly of tatami and green tea leaves. She knelt with her knees together and adjusted the cups until both handles faced the right direction.

"I wanted to show you something," she said. "It's nothing fancy. Just how we make tea at home. But if you pour it properly, it tastes better. A little. I think."

The ritual gave her hands a place to be. Hot water into the pot. Leaves measured with the small wooden scoop. Lid set at the correct angle. Her movements were precise in a way her voice rarely managed when the room was private.

"Three minutes," she explained, setting the timer beside them. "Longer makes it bitter. Shorter makes it weak. My mother says patience is part of the recipe, even for tea."

The timer ticked. Kosaki folded her hands, unfolded them, and tucked the long strand of hair behind her ear.

"While we wait, I can show you the grip. One finger supports the lid so it stays steady, and the spout has to be close enough to the cup that it doesn't splash. Here."

She lifted the pot with both hands. The heat traveled through the cast iron into her palms, and her explanation stumbled when the space beside her grew warmer.

"The angle should be... about like this. Yes. That's right."

Steam rose between them, carrying the green, grassy scent of tea. Kosaki guided the same slow pour into both cups and watched the amber-green line rise, trying to keep her focus on the task instead of how aware she was of the closeness at her side.

When the cups were full, the pot had to be set down. The task ended, leaving the space between them exposed. The steam rose between them, warm against her mouth and cheeks.

"This wasn't really about tea," she said, almost smiling despite the color in her cheeks. "Was it?"

She leaned in before she could ask another practical question.

"Then stay for the next part. Not the tea."

Kosaki wiped down the last display case after a busy weekend rush. Her shop dress was neat but tired at the sleeves, and the long white apron had collected flour near the pocket where she kept order slips. She had handled the register, boxed two custom orders, decorated a tray of small cakes, and kept every customer smiling through the line.

Her hands ached in the useful way they did after work done properly. She flexed her fingers around the cleaning cloth and noticed the figure by the doorway.

"You're still here," she said. "I thought you went home already."

The quiet that followed felt weighted. Kosaki looked up from the case and became painfully aware of the hands she had been trying to dismiss.

"Oh." Kosaki looked down at the cloth. "I wasn't doing anything special. Just closing tasks."

She understood enough to become self-conscious. These hands had arranged fruit slices with tweezers, tied boxes with clean ribbon loops, and carried trays without shaking even when the shop was full. They were small and practical, a little sore at the knuckles.

"These?" She turned one palm up as if seeing it for the first time. "They're just useful. Decoration, wrapping, washing things. My nails are too short to look nice, and I have marks from tray handles."

Kosaki turned both palms up under the case light. Tray-handle marks crossed the base of her fingers, faint and practical. She had never thought of them as anything worth admiring.

"I didn't realize it was that obvious," she said.

She stepped closer before she could shrink back into usefulness. Her hands rose, cautious as sugar flowers, and found warmth in front of her: fabric first, then the line of a jaw when she gathered enough courage to touch higher.

"You really like them?" she asked. "My hands?"

The question left her exposed. Kosaki kept her palms where they were anyway, feeling cheekbone and jaw, skin warm beneath her fingertips, steady proof that her careful hands could be wanted for more than work.

"Then tell me exactly what you like," she said. "I want to hear it."

Kosaki had always known her face betrayed her. Since childhood, blushing had announced what she wanted to hide, her eyes had dodged before she could lie, and her mouth had gone soft around feelings she meant to keep private.

Tonight, with the couch lamp low and their knees touching, she grew tired of fighting it.

The conversation had started with the day: the shop rush, Haru's complaint about homework, a customer who had praised the seasonal sweets. Somewhere in the middle of it, awareness crept in. Color rose in her cheek. She reached for the long lock of hair at her left side, then felt her toes curl inside her socks.

"I can feel it," she said. The words were shy, but they did not retreat.

Admitting it made her warmer. Her hands pressed together in her lap, fingers lacing and unlacing once.

"I can't help how my face looks when you... when I'm like this." She tried to gesture at herself and only managed to touch her cheek. "See? This is what I mean. Everything shows."

Fingertips traced the line of heat from her cheek to her jaw, then lower to her throat. Kosaki swallowed, and the movement gave away even more. Her eyes flicked up, embarrassed by how carefully the reaction was being watched.

"You're doing it on purpose," she whispered. "Making me show more."

The hand at her throat moved to the back of her neck. She leaned forward before the pull was complete, meeting the kiss with a startled sound that turned quickly into need. When they parted, her face was flushed darker, her socks had twisted from how tightly her toes had curled, and her hands had finally gripped the front of a shirt.

A laugh broke from her, breathless and mortified. "I'm so obvious."

Hands slipped beneath the hem of her top to warm skin, and want broke through her embarrassment in full view.

She kept her eyes open.

"Then look," she said, voice shaking but plain. "I won't run."

The shop was dark except for the small light above the industrial sink. Kosaki stood with both sleeves pushed up, loading the last trays into the dishwasher. Her light-navy shop dress had wrinkled at the waist, the red trim was hidden under a long white apron, and damp strands of dark hair clung near her temples.

The room carried the end of the day: dish soap, cooling sugar, wet metal, and the faint red-bean sweetness that never quite left the kitchen. Kosaki looked nothing like the neat girl who greeted customers at the counter. She looked like someone who had worked until usefulness left marks.

A sound near the doorway made her turn with the dishcloth still in her hand.

"Oh. I thought everyone had left."

The quiet presence there made the answer obvious enough. The walk home wouldn't be alone. Kosaki looked back at the sink as if the trays could protect her from being pleased.

"I'm almost done," she said. "Just these, then the prep counter, then I can change and fix my hair."

Hands settled on her waist from behind. The dishcloth slid from her fingers into the soapy water.

"I'm a mess," she said, quieter. "I probably smell like sugar and dish soap."

The hands held her more firmly, drawing her back against warmth. Lips pressed to the side of her neck above the uniform collar and stayed there long enough for her shoulders to drop.

"You really don't mind?" she asked. "Even like this?"

The apron strings loosened at her back. The fabric fell open, leaving the work dress beneath it, and Kosaki turned until the counter touched her lower back.

"I should clean up first," she tried. "I should at least..."

She lost the rest of the sentence when hands slid beneath the loose apron and found the dress at her waist. The shop was locked. The trays could wait. Being wanted before she arranged herself into something presentable made her face warm in a different, deeper way.

"Here?" she whispered.

Her hands rose to shoulders, not pushing away. When she was lifted onto the clean prep counter, her knees parted enough to make room, and the apron slipped farther from one side.

"Be gentle," she said. "I'm already worn out."

Then, after a nervous look toward the forgotten sink, she added, "And don't let me think about the dishes yet."

Kosaki had fallen asleep sitting up. She meant to wait with a book on the couch and a blanket over her knees, but the day's exhaustion won before she made it through the chapter. Her head tipped against the cushion, the paperback hung loose in one hand, and the long left lock of hair lay across her cheek.

Sleep softened every guarded line of her face. Awake, she checked her words before they left her. Asleep, the words slipped out in pieces.

"Don't go," she murmured. "Please... don't."

Her brow tightened. The book slid from her fingers and landed beside her hip with a dull flap, but she stayed under.

"Should've said it," she whispered. "I had so many chances."

Her free hand moved against the blanket, fingers curling into the knit. The confession did not arrive cleanly. It came the way her waking courage always did: false start, apology, another attempt.

"I'm sorry. I was scared. I kept waiting, and then..."

Her face turned toward the back of the couch as if hiding from someone in the dream. "Don't choose her instead. I know she's brighter, and brave, and I'm just..."

The sentence broke into a distressed sound. She swallowed in her sleep.

Then the simplest truth came through.

"I love you."

The room held still around it. Kosaki's face eased for one breath, then tightened again as if even dreaming had consequences.

"I've loved you for so long," she said. "There's never a right time. I keep thinking there will be, but there isn't, and now I'm late again."

Her hand searched across the blanket. When warmth met her fingers, she gripped it at once, the way waking Kosaki might grip an apron string before telling the truth.

"Stay with me," she whispered. "Please stay."

She slept on, unaware of the fallen book, the blanket slipping from her knees, and the confession left open in the room.