The apartment smelled like itself.
Yoru stood in the kitchen at seven AM in his hoodie — the large grey one, the one she had quietly adopted as her permanent domestic garment and had no intention of returning — and listened to the sounds of home reassembling around her.
The rice cooker. The morning light coming through the kitchen window at the right angle. The particular quiet of an apartment that had been waiting and was now occupied again.
She had slept well.
Better than she had in a while, actually — the specific deep sleep of someone who had put something down and had not picked it back up. The Okinawa air still in her lungs somehow. The beach and the waterline and okay said cleanly and a hand held without ceremony.
She started breakfast.
The sounds from the other room told her he was already at his desk — the keyboard, the quiet click of mouse, the blue light under the door visible even in the morning. She had checked when she woke up. The light was already on.
