Morning arrived soft and gold, dragging the lake awake with it. Light spilled across the tatami in long, gentle bars; dust flecks turned lazy in the beams like drifting pollen. Somewhere downstairs, the coffee machine gurgled. Someone yawned. Someone else swore in a whisper after stubbing a toe on the edge of the kotatsu.
"Roll call," Suki announced from the hallway, voice already too bright for this hour. "Sunlight present. Troublemaker present. Genius present? Artist present? Mystery queen present?"
"We have names," Ryuzí said, emerging from the washroom with damp hair and the expression of a man already regretting his life choices.
"Names are a suggestion," Suki said. "Vibes are eternal."
Kenji poked his head out of the kitchen, chopsticks dangling from his mouth like a pirate's toothpick. "We have eggs! We have rice! We have… suspicious mushrooms!"
Aoi appeared behind him, plucking the chopsticks from his mouth in one smooth motion. "Those are shiitake. You labeled them 'suspicious' with washi tape."
"Because they're watching me," Kenji whispered.
"Because you stuck googly eyes on the jar," Aoi deadpanned, setting the sticks in a cup.
Miyako crossed the threshold last, hair braided loose, sweater sleeves tugged down to her palms. She smiled when Suki waved at her, a small, tidy smile that never quite reached her eyes. She hadn't slept much. The "Do you miss me?" message still hovered behind her eyelids like text burned into a screen. She'd muted the number and put her phone face down. She'd told herself it meant nothing.
"Breakfast committee," Aoi said briskly, pulling a small notepad from her pocket like she'd hidden admin duties in her pajamas. "Kenji, you're on eggs. Suki, rice station. Ryuzí, slice fruit. Haruto—"
He straightened, startled. "Yes?"
"Take Miyako and plate everything when it's ready."
Miyako lifted her hands. "I can—"
"You can sit," Aoi said, softening. "You were up late."
"How would you know that?" Kenji asked, cracking an egg one-handed with a flourish.
Aoi raised a brow. "Because you both kept refilling the tea kettle after midnight. The pipes hum. This house is a tattletale."
Kenji winced. "Terrifying."
"It's efficient," Aoi said, then added almost shyly, "and it's good you were talking."
Suki nudged Ryuzí with his hip as they moved past each other at the counter. "Look at Aoi with the quiet compliments," he whispered. "Character development."
"Focus," Ryuzí muttered, though his mouth tilted.
By the time the coffee finished and the third batch of rice fluffed, the kitchen sounded like a small orchestra—knives against wood, oil snapping, soft voices overlapping, the window open to let in lake air and bird sounds. Haruto set plates in a neat line and cut parchment squares to keep the tamagoyaki from sticking. Miyako filled tiny bowls with pickles and miso soup, hands steady, shoulders a little high.
"You okay?" Haruto asked, almost without looking at her, as if eye contact might scare the answer away.
Miyako folded a napkin, then folded it again. "Fine," she said lightly. "Just didn't want to waste a quiet night."
Haruto nodded. He believed people when they wanted space; it was one of his specific kindnesses.
Suki set a bowl in front of Miyako with a flourish. "Chef's special: Distinctly Legal Eggs."
"That's not reassuring," Aoi said, passing chopsticks around.
They ate scattered across the dining area and veranda, slippers soft against the wood. Conversation drifted. Kenji narrated the weather like a sports commentator. Suki tried to convince everyone a sunrise jog would be "romantic team-building." Ryuzí said the romantic thing would be letting his coffee work in silence. Haruto watched the way the light traced Aoi's cheekbones and tried, without success, to look away on purpose.
When the plates were mostly cleared and the last of the tea cooled, Suki clapped once. "Agenda!"
Ryuzí stared. "Please don't have an agenda."
"He has an agenda," Kenji whispered behind his hand.
"I have an agenda," Suki confirmed. "Day Three of Sunlight Retreat: pure chaos. Morning—team games. Afternoon—lake path, photos, snacks. Evening—homemade dinner challenge. Night—stargazing. Optional add-on: excessive cuddling."
"That last item isn't optional," Ryuzí said dryly.
"Okay!" Suki bounced on his heels. "Game one: The Chair Circle of Truth."
Kenji gasped. "Truth or dare!"
"Modified," Aoi said, already pulling extra chairs out. "Limited dare, no injuries, no illegal acts, no 'text your ex,' and no 'jump in the lake,' Suki."
"Cruel," Suki said, but he was smiling.
They formed a circle in the living room. Pillow barricades went up. A blanket became a cape on Kenji because no one could stop him. The rules were simple: draw a card, answer the question, or pick a mild dare. The stack had been curated by Aoi, which meant half the prompts were practical ("What do you wish you'd say no to more often?") and half were emotionally devastating ("What does 'home' smell like?"). Suki had slipped in three wildcards ("Bark like a seal." "Do your best Ryuzí impression." "Confess a crush… on a food.").
Miyako drew first.
"What's something you forgive yourself for that took too long?" Aoi read, and the room exhaled in a single hush.
Miyako's fingers found the hem of her sweater. She looked at the ceiling, then at the lake, then back at the card like it might blink. "Not being… what I thought I had to be to be loved," she said finally, voice careful. "I thought if I performed right, I'd be safe. It took too long to stop apologizing for being… just me."
Silence, then a warm chorus of small noises—Suki's soft "hey," Kenji's inhale, Haruto's almost inaudible "mm." Aoi's gaze softened, proud and protective at once.
Kenji helped by ruining the atmosphere in the most helpful way. He raised a hand. "I forgive myself for wearing those zebra pants in middle school."
"You never wore pants," Suki said.
"Exactly."
Laughter loosened the room. The circle spun. Aoi confessed she sometimes rehearsed conversations in her head until her stomach ached. Haruto said "home" smelled like pencil shavings and miso and the inside of clean laundry—then went red to the ears when Aoi squeezed his knee under the blanket. Suki did a Ryuzí impression that involved standing very still, staring like a disappointed cat, and saying "Suki" in five different warning tones. Ryuzí pretended to be wounded, then ruined it by smiling where only Suki could see it.
When Miyako's turn came back around, she drew a dare card—the mild kind. "Do an impression of someone you like," Aoi read.
Miyako stared at the card, then glanced up at Kenji, who widened his eyes and slapped a hand over his heart like a court jester who'd just been knighted. She laughed, helpless. Then she lifted her hands and mimed… Kenji's terrible middle-school zebra pants walk.
Kenji collapsed backward. "I feel seen."
"You are," Miyako said, and her smile this time reached both eyes.
By late morning, the circle had devolved into charades. Kenji acted out "mango" like a Shakespearean tragedy. Suki guessed "existential dread" for "sidewalk." Haruto attempted "video editor" and Aoi guessed "keyboard raccoon." Every wrong answer made Ryuzí pinch the bridge of his nose like a teacher on his last nerve.
They broke for snacks and filled water bottles for the lake path. On the veranda, Kenji held court with a bag of potato chips.
"Okay, new rule," he said, stuffing a chip into his mouth. "Every time someone says 'teamwork,' we all have to point dramatically at the mountains and shout 'believe.'"
"Denied," Aoi said, sipping water.
"Compromise," Suki said. "Every time someone says 'teamwork,' we get a group hug."
Ryuzí glanced pointedly at the lake. "We will drown."
They walked the path anyway, camera tucked into Suki's hoodie pocket, Haruto's sketchbook under his arm like a passport. The air smelled like sun-warmed pine and water. A pair of herons lifted off the far bank and drew lines into the sky.
"Stop," Suki said, framing Haruto and Aoi against a slice of lake with his hands. "Okay—Haruto, look at Aoi like she's telling you a secret. Aoi, look at him like you just won an argument."
"I always win," Aoi said.
"That's the face!" Suki beamed and snapped the photo.
Further down, Kenji tried to convince Miyako to pose on a flat rock. She wrinkled her nose. "I don't know where to put my hands."
"In the pockets of that sweater you stole from—who is that, your sister?" Kenji asked.
"Borrowed," Miyako said. "Semi-permanently."
"Ah," Kenji said, impressed. "Grand larceny."
She laughed and finally let him take a picture: her profile against the glare, hair lifting slightly in the wind, eyes almost closed in the brightness. It looked like a memory pretending to be a photograph.
They took the long loop back and returned rosy and thirsty, the good kind of tired that meant naps were not so much a choice as a destiny. The afternoon thinned into a soft blur: Suki editing photos with his legs up the wall; Ryuzí reading a book absolutely no one could identify; Kenji napping facedown on the kotatsu like a fallen hero. Aoi woke Haruto from a doze by brushing her knuckles across his jaw and saying, "You look peaceful," which promptly annihilated the peace with a flood of color into his cheeks.
"Cooking challenge," Suki announced at five, resurrected by the prospect of chaos. "Teams of two. Thirty minutes. Theme: 'comfort.' No fire alarms allowed. Aoi is not allowed to bribe the judges."
"You are the judges," Aoi said.
"And I am incorruptible," Suki declared.
"Since when?" Ryuzí asked.
"Since I decided it just now."
They drew teams from a cup: Suki × Ryuzí; Aoi × Haruto; Miyako × Kenji.
"Victory," Suki whispered to Ryuzí. "We're unstoppable. We're the rice lords."
"We will burn water," Ryuzí said, already preheating.
The kitchen turned into a timed comedy. Aoi delegated gently; Haruto processed with quiet efficiency, sleeves rolled, hands sure. Suki narrated like a chaotic sports commentator while Ryuzí rescued a sauce that had curdled purely out of spite.
Miyako and Kenji, at the second counter, looked improbably competent. "You cook?" Kenji asked as Miyako whisked something glossy and fragrant.
"Older sister," she said. "Cooking or starvation."
"Relatable," Kenji said solemnly, chopping scallions with the concentration of a surgeon.
Time squealed. Plates landed. The room smelled like butter, soy, ginger, garlic, and something citrus-bright. The judges—who were also the contestants; logic took a nap—tasted each dish seriously for exactly five seconds before devolving into "oh my god this is good" and "I love us."
Suki × Ryuzí produced oyakodon with scallion oil and a crisp, vinegared cucumber side. Aoi × Haruto made miso-butter mushrooms over rice with roasted pumpkin wedges and a drizzle of sesame. Miyako × Kenji plated ginger-soy chicken with a bright salad and a luxurious tamago square because Kenji had "something to prove."
"Tie," Aoi declared, to avoid mutiny.
"Overruled," Suki said. "The winner is… the group. Gross feelings. Sit down before I cry."
They ate perched on stools and cushions. Laughter came easy. The lake turned mirror-dark beyond the glass. The house creaked like a friendly animal settling to sleep.
After dishes—and after Suki and Kenji "accidentally" sprayed each other with the sink sprayer—Aoi tugged Haruto's wrist and tipped her head toward the veranda. "Walk?"
He nodded, throat a little tight for reasons he could name only by not naming them.
The night had gone crystalline. Stars bleached the sky pale around the moon. The veranda boards were cool underfoot; the rail was cold in the best way.
Aoi stood with her elbows on the railing, looking without speaking. Haruto stood beside her, a careful distance—close enough to feel, not so close he'd crowd her, hands in his pockets, breath a little visible.
"I like it," Aoi said after a while, "when the noise turns into the right kind of quiet."
"What's the wrong kind?" Haruto asked.
"The kind that makes your brain feel like it's pacing."
"Mm." He knew that one too well.
She turned her face toward him in the soft dark. "You look… lighter," she said, almost as if discovering the word in real time. "Since the alley. Not because it happened—" her voice went tight for one breath, then steadied—"but because you didn't have to hold it alone anymore."
Haruto's eyes prickled. He looked at the lake; it looked back. "It feels like the world still expects me to fold small," he said quietly. "And then you tell me to stand up straight and my body remembers how."
Aoi's mouth tilted, not quite a smile. "I'll keep reminding you."
He turned toward her fully, something in his chest giving in with a soft, inevitable sound. "I want you to," he said, the words simple and impossible at once.
Aoi reached up, hooked two fingers in the neckline of his shirt, and tugged gently. "Good," she said, and kissed him.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't drama. It was the kind of kiss that starts because both people already know where they're going and have decided to walk there at the same pace. Haruto inhaled like light had hands. He touched her jaw with his fingertips, then steadied, then pressed closer, feeling every small place where they fit and the one or two where they didn't, and how those, too, could become a kind of fit.
Aoi's hand found his shoulder; his other hand found her waist; the world narrowed to the shared metronome of breath. When the kiss broke, it broke because they were laughing softly into each other's mouths at nothing except being alive.
"You blush all the way to your ears," Aoi said, a little awed.
"I'm aware," Haruto said, but his voice was warm and a little wrecked, and he didn't hide.
"Good," Aoi said. "I like proof."
He swallowed—a visible gesture—and then, braver: "Can I… again?"
"Yes," she said, and he did.
It leaned deeper, slower—the kind of kiss that made muscles in the back relax and time feel like a pet you could pat. Haruto tasted cinnamon from Suki's tea and the salt of the lake air. Aoi inhaled the faint soap that always clung to him and made her brain file it under safe.
When they finally stepped apart, the constellation of them had shifted a little. Aoi pressed her forehead to his. "You okay?" she asked.
He nodded, smiling helplessly. "Yes."
"Tell me if you're not," she said.
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise," he said, and the word held.
Inside, someone dropped a fork and cursed. Kenji's laugh snorted after it. They stood another minute, listening to the house, the lake, the sound of themselves calming.
"Come on," Aoi said. "If we stay out here, Suki will give us cocoa and a speech."
"About the triumph of love," Haruto said.
"And friendship," Aoi added, grim. "And team-building."
"Believe," Haruto whispered, and Aoi actually laughed, a small, surprised sound she quickly hid in his shoulder before dragging him back inside.
The living room had turned into a nest of blankets and pillows. Suki had indeed produced cocoa ("self-mixing mug 2.0!") and a speech ("—and that is why we should buy matching pajama pants"). Ryuzí had one eyebrow up and a fond exasperation that could have powered the grid.
Kenji, sprawled on the carpet like an artistic chalk outline, spotted Haruto and Aoi's joined hands and made a silent, jubilant face at the ceiling. Miyako, curled at the edge of the kotatsu, noticed too—and smiled, small and real.
"Movie or games?" Suki asked, brandishing a deck of cards and a streaming remote.
"Games," Miyako said quickly, before her brain could go checking shadows again.
"Games," Kenji echoed. "I will annihilate everyone at Speed."
"You can't annihilate at Speed," Aoi said, sitting. "It's not that kind of game."
"With me," Kenji said, "everything is that kind of game."
They fell into a rhythm of card slaps, loud commentary, bickering, and dramatic declarations of betrayal. Suki accused Ryuzí of cheating because his hands were "too elegant." Ryuzí accused Suki of being a distraction on purpose. Haruto played quiet and deadly. Aoi lost twice and then recalculated and stopped losing. Miyako laughed at Kenji's disasters until she realized her face hurt from smiling and felt, absurdly, grateful for the ache.
They kept it up until yawns became contagious. One by one, showers swished behind the hallway door. One by one, pillows found heads and blankets found shoulders. The house breathed with them.
Suki and Ryuzí cleaned mugs in the kitchen, bumping hips because that was how they said I like being next to you without saying it out loud.
"Hey," Suki said, suds on his hands, voice soft. "We didn't fight today."
"We don't fight every day," Ryuzí said, amused.
"I know," Suki said. "Just… I'm glad." He elbowed lightly. "We're good at this. Us. Even when we're bad at everything else."
Ryuzí dried a mug, set it upside down. "We're good at talking after we're bad at it."
"That too." Suki leaned into his side briefly, a full-body punctuation mark.
Kenji spread an extra blanket over a sleeping Haruto like a raccoon hoarding kindness. Aoi, already tucked in, watched the gesture and filed it under evidence: good friend.
Miyako pretended to scroll her phone mindlessly. The lock screen reflected in her eyes—faint, watery. She hadn't checked her messages since last night. She wouldn't. Not here. Not now. Not when the room felt like a buoy and she felt, for once, more like a person and less like an echo.
Eventually, the lights dimmed. The heater clicked. The moon shifted a little higher up the black.
Miyako lay on her side facing the window, the cool glass a few feet away, the lake a dark animal beyond. Her pulse had found a reasonable pace. Her head had, finally, stopped inventorying exits.
Her phone buzzed against the floorboard.
The sound was tiny. It might have been a soft knock on a far door.
She didn't move at first. Not because she was afraid of the words on the screen—she knew, more or less, what shape they'd be—but because the moment before opening felt like standing on shore looking at a cold lake and deciding whether to go under.
She exhaled once. Reached for the phone. Pressed her thumb. The screen woke, bright and indifferent.
Unknown Number (Muted):Do you miss me?Unknown Number (Muted):You look happy.
Miyako's throat went tight. She hadn't posted a photo. The last picture Suki had taken of her—on the rock by the lake—was still on his camera. She swallowed, heartbeat getting that old, familiar stutter.
Do you miss me?
You look happy.
She locked the screen and slid the phone under the folded sweater at the edge of her futon. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling until the wood grain turned into faces and then back into wood again.
Across the room, Kenji shifted in his sleep and mumbled something that might have been "zebra." Haruto sighed. Aoi turned over and tucked the blanket up under her chin like she'd always known how to take care of the cold. Suki murmured, "Don't burn the house," and Ryuzí murmured, "Sleep," and Suki obeyed in his sleep, of course he did.
Miyako put a hand over her sternum and felt the rhythm. She counted it. She matched it to the heater's soft hum. She didn't open the phone again.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would tell Aoi. Or Kenji. Or both. Tomorrow, under the sun, with breakfast and too-strong coffee and Suki's agenda and Ryuzí's quiet and Haruto's careful hands, she would say, "I think something is wrong." And they would say, "We're here."
Tonight, she let the house hold the part of her that shook.
The lake turned its black face to the moon and pretended not to see. The wind gave the pines a small, comforting voice. The vacation house kept its secrets like a good friend—no questions, just warmth.
Miyako slept. The phone slept. The message didn't. It waited in the dark, patient, like a tide that knew exactly when to come back.
And still, despite that, the morning would arrive. And despite that, they would laugh again. And despite that, on the veranda, someone would kiss someone else and remember that the quiet could be the right kind.
For now, the house exhaled with them, and the night, for all its edges, stayed gentle.