When the morning light fell across my eyelids through the skylight, my first instinct was to pull the blanket over my head.
The scenes from yesterday replayed in the darkness: standing before the counter, voice trembling as I said, "I want to keep you"; Reze's initial bewilderment followed by her laughter; the way her eyes had suddenly sharpened to a deep green; the weight of her hand on my shoulder and mine covering it; that vow of "I swear." Finally, there was the sight of her retreating back, slightly more hurried than usual, and the paper bag she had left in my hands.
"How could I say something like that…?"
I buried my face in the pillow, the fabric soaking up my hot breath. My cheeks were still burning as if I were running a fever. Yet, my fingertips still held the residual sensation of touching the back of her hand—her skin was warm, there were thin calluses at the base of her thumb, and her knuckles were firm.
And then there was that fleeting crack in her eyes. When I had vowed that I would do it, the icy layer in her gaze had truly fractured for a split second.
What did that mean?
I didn't know.
All I knew was that when I had carried that paper bag back to the attic and opened it to find the new, cream-colored apron, I had burst into tears without warning.
It wasn't out of grievance or regret. It was something more surging, more alien—like river water finally breaking through the ice of frozen earth, crashing and thrashing to find an outlet.
I wanted to be good to her. That thought hadn't faded despite last night's embarrassment; instead, it grew like wild grass watered by rain, becoming even more headstrong and justified.
At 7:10 AM, I pushed open the door to the cafe.
The morning light slanted in, and the dust floating above the wooden floor looked like golden motes. I took a deep breath and began the opening preparations: wiping tables, mopping, restocking sugar and creamer, and checking the coffee bean inventory.
I slowed down every movement deliberately, as if using these familiar routines to soothe my racing heart. The sound of the mop gliding across the floor, the friction of the cloth against the tables, the click of the coffee bean canisters opening—these were real, mundane, and safe.
At 7:40 AM, the lock on the back door turned.
My spine stiffened instantly.
The footsteps were light, bringing with them the morning chill. Then came the sound of apron strings rubbing against fabric and the beep of the espresso machine powering on. My back was turned to the door as I pretended to be intensely focused on adjusting the position of a chair—one that was already perfectly straight.
"Morning."
Reze's voice came from behind the counter, steady as ever, devoid of any abnormality.
I slowly turned around. "G-good morning, Miss Reze."
Today she wore a light gray long-sleeved shirt, her hair still in a low ponytail, but she had left more of her bangs loose to hang softly by her cheeks. She was leaning over to check the grinder settings, her profile appearing gentle in the morning light.
"The beans we need to restock are listed on the blackboard," she said without looking up. "Check the inventory and note down what's missing. I'll go pick them up this afternoon."
"...Okay."
I walked over to the small blackboard behind the counter. Her handwriting was neat: "Brazil Yellow Bourbon – 500g short," "Ethiopia Yirgacheffe – 300g short." My eyes swept over the words, but I didn't register a single one. From the corner of my eye, I watched Reze organize the coffee cups—the way her fingers gripped the handles, the order in which she lined them up, her focus as she checked the rims for chips.
Everything was exactly the same as yesterday.
And yet, somehow, it felt different.
The first customer was Mrs. Fujiwara. The moment she pushed the door open, Reze was already walking over with a glass of warm water.
"Good morning. The usual hot black tea?"
"Yes, a bit weaker today," Mrs. Fujiwara said, taking off her glasses. "I actually slept too well last night; my head feels a bit heavy this morning."
"Understood." Reze turned to me and lowered her voice. "Lower the temperature by two degrees. Reduce the steeping time by fifteen seconds."
I nodded and walked to the bar to begin brewing. Warming the pot, measuring the leaves, pouring the water—the height of the stream, the tension in my wrist—I had practiced these movements countless times. But today my hand was exceptionally steady, as if I were using this mechanical precision to prove something.
Three minutes later, I strained the tea and placed it on the tray. I hesitated for a second, then instead of the usual small cookie, I selected a slice of lemon pound cake from the display—refreshing and not too sweet.
When I reached the table with the tray, Mrs. Fujiwara was reading the newspaper. I set down the tea and cake, whispering, "You mentioned wanting something refreshing yesterday. This lemon cake was made fresh this morning."
She looked up, her reading glasses sliding to the tip of her nose, and peered at me over the frames. "You remembered?"
"Yes." I nodded, my face growing warm. "You mentioned it once last Wednesday."
Mrs. Fujiwara stared at me for two seconds, then gave a soft "Hmph," though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. "A mindful child, aren't you?"
The morning rush started a bit later than usual. It wasn't until nine-thirty that office workers began rushing in for takeaway coffee. Reze and I stood behind the counter like two gears that had long been synced.
"Medium latte, to go!" "Americano, for here!" "Cappuccino, extra shot!"
Orders came one after another. I was responsible for labeling, lidding, and giving change, while Reze handled the extraction and latte art. In the gaps, she would shift her body to let me grab sugar packets, or lightly touch my wrist when I almost grabbed the wrong cup.
There were no words. Just the occasional brush of fingertips, the accidental graze of shoulders, and brief intersections of our gazes.
But I could feel it—something was changing.
Before, when she touched me, it was "instructional": correcting my posture, pressing my shoulder to emphasize a point. Those were clearly the touches of a senior to a junior.
Now was different. Now, when her fingertips brushed my wrist, they lingered for half a second. When she stepped aside to let me pass, she gave me more room. When she looked at me, that professional, detached enthusiasm had faded, replaced by… something else.
I couldn't name it. It was like looking at a distant mountain through a thin mist—the outline was blurry, but you knew the mountain was there.
The afternoon sun became lazy. The shop held only a couple whispering in the corner and an old man reading alone by the window.
Reze was cleaning the group heads, while I was responsible for drying the portafilters. The water splashed loudly, and the residual steam made the air humid.
"About yesterday," she began suddenly, her voice nearly drowned out by the water.
The portafilter almost slipped from my hand.
"That bit about 'keeping' me." She turned off the water and leaned against the counter, looking at me. Her deep green eyes looked like two pieces of settled jade in the afternoon sun. "Have you calmed down now?"
The air suddenly felt thin. I gripped the rag in my hand, the fabric absorbing the sweat from my palm.
"I was serious," I said, my voice steadier than expected. "But… I know it was a stupid thing to say."
She smiled. It wasn't the boisterous laugh from last night, but a very slight lifting of the corners of her mouth, a shallow, almost tender layer of emotion rising in her eyes.
"It was a bit stupid," she said. "But…"
She paused and turned away, turning the tap back on to rinse her cloth. The sound of the water swallowed the rest of her words.
"But what?" I couldn't help but ask.
She didn't answer. But her ears—hidden beneath her dark brown hair—seemed to turn a very, very faint shade of red.
That blush was like a tiny spark falling onto the wasteland of my heart. Something clicked and began to burn.
At three in the afternoon, the shop was completely empty. Reze said she had some errands to run and asked me to watch the shop.
I sat behind the counter and pulled the envelope—my first official salary—from my apron pocket. The edges of the bills were soft from my constant rubbing.
How should I use this money?
Saving it was a given. But then what? Buy waterproof shoes, a thicker jacket, or…
My gaze drifted to the display case. The box of imported black tea on the top shelf—the one Mrs. Fujiwara always ordered—had a price tag that made my heart race every time I counted inventory. Reze never drank it herself, always opting for the most basic sencha.
And then there was the knife in the kitchen, so blunt it would squash a tomato before cutting it. Reze's brow would always furrow subconsciously whenever she used it.
I stood up, the bills clutched in my hand, possessing a heavy sense of reality.
When I pushed the door open, the wind chime rang clearly.
The kitchenware shop was two streets away—a tiny storefront with polished pots and knives displayed in the window. When I pushed the door open, the bell above chimed.
"Welcome." The owner was a white-haired man wearing glasses, busy repairing a pair of scissors.
"I want to… buy a knife." My voice was small. "For vegetables and meat. Something sharp."
The old man looked up, sizing me up over his glasses. "For yourself?"
"No… for the shop."
He nodded and pulled several boxes from under the counter. "These are all suitable for commercial use. Stainless steel, durable, good edge retention." He opened a box, and the chef's knife inside gleamed with a cold light. "This one, German-made. Excellent balance, comfortable grip."
He let me try holding it. The handle was dark wood, warm to the touch, and the weight distribution was even—it was far more comfortable than the flimsy knife at the cafe.
The price tag made me catch my breath—it was nearly a quarter of my salary.
But I pictured Reze's furrowed brow as she cut tomatoes, the way her wrist had to exert extra pressure, and that sluggish feeling as the blade sank into the skin.
"I'll take this one," I said.
The old man carefully wrapped the knife and included a whetstone as a gift. "Sharpen it regularly, and it will last you many years."
Next, I went to a high-end food boutique—the kind I usually only dared to look at through the window. The glass cases were filled with beautifully packaged teas, chocolates, and imported jams. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, spices, and cane sugar.
I stopped at the black tea section. Glass jars held tea from different countries: Darjeeling, Assam, Ceylon, Keemun… I couldn't read the foreign languages on the labels, but I could read the prices.
Finally, I chose the brand Mrs. Fujiwara always ordered—a British Breakfast Tea in a tin printed with a vintage rose pattern. A small tin, exactly the limit of what I could afford.
When paying, the cashier placed the tea in an exquisite paper bag and included a small sample of cookies. I stepped out of the shop carrying the two bags, the evening wind cool against my face, but my heart felt like it was cradling a small flame.
I did the closing cleaning with Reze as usual. She mopped, and I wiped the tables. The sound of the cloth on wood, the rhythm of the mop, and our occasionally intersecting footsteps wove a comforting melody in the dimming shop.
the last rays of sunlight shot through the western window, dancing on the tips of Reze's dark brown hair. She was standing on her tiptoes, wiping dust from the top of a cabinet, her arm extending in a graceful, sharp line.
"Miss Reze," I heard my own voice say.
She stopped and turned. "Hmm?"
I walked to the counter, took the two bags from my backpack, and pushed them toward her.
"These… I bought them with my salary." I didn't dare look her in the eye, staring instead at the gold-foiled logo of the food boutique. "They aren't anything expensive, but… I thought you might find them useful."
There was a brief silence. It stretched so long I could hear the sound of my own heart thumping like a drum in my chest.
Then, I heard the sound of the paper bags being opened. A soft rustling.
I looked up.
Reze opened the smaller bag first and pulled out the tin of tea. The tin turned half a circle in her hand, the rose pattern flickering in the light.
"Whoa," her voice sounded surprised. "The fancy stuff. How did you know?"
"Mrs. Fujiwara orders it every time," I said. "I thought… you might like it too. Even though you never drink it."
A smile hung on Reze's face as she looked at the tin. Her eyelashes dipped, casting small shadows on her cheeks.
Then, she opened the long, rectangular box.
As the lid was lifted and the chef's knife revealed its cold, sharp edge against the deep blue velvet lining—Reze's body tensed for an imperceptible fraction of a second.
It was fleeting, perhaps less than half a second. But I saw it. The knuckles of the hand holding the box turned white, her shoulder line stiffened, and her breath seemed to hitch. It wasn't curiosity or surprise; it was a near-instinctive, reflexive alertness.
Like… like an animal pinning its ears back the moment it scents danger.
My heart sank. Had I done something wrong? Was giving a knife too strange?
"The… the knife at the shop is too blunt," I hurried to explain, my voice trembling with nerves. "Whenever you cut things… you have to use so much force. I saw you cutting tomatoes; you have to press down so hard just to break the skin. So I thought…"
Reze looked up and met my eyes.
The alertness in those deep green eyes receded as quickly as a tide. In its place was a complex emotion I couldn't read—surprise, touch, and perhaps a sliver of… relief?
"So that was why," she whispered, as if to herself. Then her lips curved into a very slight smile, her shoulders relaxed, and she transformed back into the familiar, slightly languid Reze I knew.
Her fingers brushed the blade again, but this time it wasn't with caution; it was a touch that bordered on cherishing. Her fingertips glided over the stainless steel surface, from the spine to the tip, and back to the handle.
"It's a good knife," she said, her voice returning to its usual steady tone, even carrying a hint of lighthearted amusement. "Much better than some I've used before."
She carefully returned the knife to its box, closed the lid, and put it back into the paper bag along with the tea.
"Thank you," she said, turning to me, her eyes shimmering slightly in the twilight. "Really."
My cheeks were hot, and all I could do was nod vigorously.
She walked toward the staff lockers with the bags, her steps light. Halfway there, she turned back, that mischievous, teasing smile reappearing on her face.
"Don't buy such expensive things next time. Use your money to take care of yourself first."
"I-I know," I whispered. "But I just wanted to…"
"I know, I know," she waved a hand, her tone breezy. "But since you bought them, I'll accept them. After all—"
She paused and winked. "—it feels pretty good to have someone pay such close attention to the way I cut tomatoes."
The key turned in the lock with a crisp click.
It was nearly eleven by the time I returned to the attic.
I didn't turn on the light, walking to the desk by the glow from the window and opening my notebook. My ballpoint pen scratched against the paper:
"I got my first official salary today. I bought a knife and some black tea for Miss Reze."
"She said thank you. She rubbed the tea tin for a long time."
"She seemed to really like the knife, even though she was startled at first."
"She told me to take care of myself first, and she looked quite happy."
"I think things are already good enough as they are. I don't need to become someone else, I don't need to ask anything of that devil, and I don't need to prove anything to anyone."
I paused, then continued writing:
"I am already happy enough."
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My : https://[email protected]/AuAuMon
Chainsaw Man : The Chainsaw Man World Doesn't Need a Perfect Idol (14 Chapters – Ongoing)
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