"Lonely-kun, how long do you plan to laze around like Shiratamaru?"
The sharp yet familiar voice of Kasumigaoka Utaha sliced through the fog of sleep clouding Yukima Azuma's mind. Blinking against the afternoon light filtering through the curtains, Azuma groaned and sat up from the cold, unforgiving floor. Every muscle ached, his back stiff and sore from a night spent sprawled on hardwood like a discarded futon.
"Sleeping on the floor really is bad for my health," Azuma muttered under his breath, massaging his lower back.
"Using Shiratamaru to mock me is a bit harsh, don't you think, senpai?" he said with a tired smirk, referencing the lazy cat that had recently adopted Utaha's room as its kingdom. "Anyway, what time is it?"
"It's already noon," Utaha replied coolly, standing in the doorway with her arms behind her back.
Azuma's eyes widened. "Ah! I'll go make lunch right away."
"Stop right there, Lonely-kun." Utaha's voice gained a rare edge of exasperation. "Do you seriously think I'd starve just because you didn't cook?"
He blinked. "Wait, you already ate?"
"Umu." She gave a small nod, subtly gesturing toward the kitchen. "There's some food left over for you."
Her tone was as composed as ever, but Azuma noticed something odd—her hands were hidden behind her back. Swollen. Reddened. Iced.
He didn't say anything.
He shuffled into the kitchen, still drowsy. On the table sat a plate of omurice, a fluffy golden omelette laid carefully over rice, drizzled with ketchup in an unsteady heart shape. Beside it, a cup of tea, long gone cold.
His mind snapped into clarity.
Utaha-senpai had cooked for him.
She had cooked.
And if she'd already eaten… this wasn't a leftover. This was the full course.
He stared at the plate. It was imperfect, slightly overcooked, the ketchup line wavering like the hand that had drawn it. Yet to Azuma, in that moment, it looked more beautiful than any meal he'd prepared with flawless technique.
He sat down quietly, picked up a spoon, and began to eat.
"It's so good," he said between bites, voice thick with emotion. "So good I could cry."
Utaha raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're such a bad liar, Lonely-kun. Even I know my cooking isn't anything special."
"No, really." He looked up at her, eyes sincere. "It's amazing, because it's yours."
He scooped another spoonful and offered it to her. "Try it."
She frowned, lips parting to protest, but the spoon was already at her mouth. Her breath hitched as she tasted it.
It was bland. A little burnt. The rice was unevenly seasoned.
She winced slightly. "…You really are out of your mind."
But then Azuma offered her another spoonful.
And another.
They took turns feeding each other until the plate was empty.
By the end, Kasumigaoka Utaha had said nothing more, her usual biting sarcasm drowned out by the quiet intimacy of the moment. When Azuma picked up the cold tea and sipped it, he closed his eyes.
Even cold, the taste was indescribable. Perhaps because it wasn't about the taste at all.
It was about her.
Later that afternoon…
"I'm heading out," Azuma said, adjusting his coat at the door.
"Take care," Utaha replied, watching him with unreadable eyes.
After he left, she looked down at her swollen fingers, the redness slowly fading. She sighed and gave a bitter smile.
Even though she'd hidden them behind her back… that guy still figured it out.
He really was too sharp.
Fujikawa Publishing
Machida Sonoko was already waiting by the entrance, her arms crossed and brows furrowed with impatience. When she spotted Yukima Azuma strolling toward her like a man out on a sunny vacation, she strode up and immediately fired her question:
"Hey, kid, why on earth did you suddenly decide to write light novels? I thought you were focused on shogi—Shi-chan even said you're a professional! What gives?"
Azuma didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled a neatly bound manuscript from his bag and handed it to her.
Machida narrowed her eyes. "This is…"
The Youth of a Lonely Boy Will Not Dream of a Passerby Heroine.
The title was classic light novel material—quirky, long, and emotionally suggestive. Machida rolled her eyes but opened it anyway.
Then she froze.
Her trained editor's mind immediately picked up the signs: sentence rhythm, structure, character voice. The pacing. The emotional nuance.
This wasn't just decent.
It was masterful.
Machida could tell within the first few pages—this wasn't something thrown together on a whim. This was polished, precise, powerful. Every word felt placed with purpose.
"What's wrong, Machida-san?" Azuma asked casually. "Something wrong with my manuscript?"
She shut the pages quickly, resisting the urge to keep reading.
"I can't read this here. If I do, I'll be standing in this sun for the next hour," she muttered. "Come on, we've got a meeting with the editor-in-chief."
Inside the Fujikawa Publishing building, the summer heat was replaced by the cool buzz of air conditioning and deadlines. Editors scrambled through drafts, red pens flicking across paper in a symphony of creative chaos.
As they walked, Azuma casually glanced around. "You're the lead editor, right? But it seems you don't have many under you?"
Machida flinched. "Oi, don't go poking people's emotional wounds! It's a genre issue, okay? You'll understand later."
They reached the meeting room at the end of the hall. Inside sat two men.
Machida gestured to the older one. "This is the editor-in-chief."
Then, somewhat awkwardly, to the other man. "And this is the owner of Fujikawa Publishing."
Azuma nodded politely, then dropped his manuscript on the table.
The editor-in-chief raised an eyebrow. "About your conditions, Yukima-sensei…"
Azuma cut him off with a lazy wave. "Read the manuscript first. Then we'll talk."
And so they did.
Minutes stretched into nearly an hour as the editor-in-chief read in silence, flipping pages slower and slower. When he finally finished, he exhaled deeply, like a man resurfacing after a deep dive.
"This is… a masterpiece," he said.
Azuma remained expressionless. A real believer would skip the praise and go straight to the contract.
"Yukima-sensei, your work is exceptional," the editor-in-chief continued, "but the market right now favors isekai and fantasy battles. Your story is youth romance. The conditions you've requested—the largest promotional campaign in the industry, releasing this month—are very demanding."
"Would you consider reducing your demands?"
Azuma stood, collected his manuscript, and said calmly:
"Fujikawa Publishing started with youth love stories, didn't it?"
The editor-in-chief blinked. "Yes. Our first hit was Oreimo."
"Then why is it now your roster barely includes any youth romance at all?"
The room fell into silence.
At last, the owner spoke. "We're in business. We have to follow the market."
Azuma chuckled, turning to the door. "If you love the market so much, maybe you should open an investment bank."
He glanced back over his shoulder.
"No wonder Fujikawa Publishing has been second-rate all these years."
With that, he walked out.