The rain drummed steadily against the windowpane, each droplet tracing a path down the glass like a ghost of a thought. Outside, the sky was an inky black canvas, lit briefly by flashes of lightning that shimmered across the rooftops. Thunder grumbled in the distance, low and heavy, a slow-spoken warning that the storm wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
Inside the small, cedar-scented bedroom, Haruki Tenma sat hunched on the edge of his futon, phone glowing faintly in his hands. The rest of the room was cast in shadows, the only other light coming from the desk lamp's dying flicker.
The message on his screen blinked like a heartbeat:
"Looks like the trains are suspended. Guess I'm crashing here tonight."
He stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen.
Simplicity with consequences, he thought.
The rules had been clear no weird couple stuff, no blurred lines, no letting the situation mess with their heads.
But storms didn't care about rules.
A sharp knock at the door echoed down the hallway. Moments later, the front door creaked open and slammed shut again behind her.
Miyako stepped inside the room, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. Her bangs clung to her forehead, and droplets clung to her jacket like tiny beads of glass. She toed off her boots, shivering slightly as she glanced around.
Haruki stood, arms crossed, doing his best to look unfazed despite the way his heartbeat had inexplicably quickened.
"No cuddling. No stealing covers," he said, gesturing toward the futon with mock sternness. "Official house policy."
Miyako grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Wow, I'm so tempted to break both those rules just to see what happens."
He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing witty came out. Instead, he pulled an extra blanket from his closet and laid it across a second futon he'd set out earlier parallel to his own, a cautious two feet away.
They moved in silence after that, both pretending they weren't aware of how weird this was. Miyako dropped her bag, dried her hair with a towel, and finally settled onto the futon with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.
Haruki climbed into his bed and turned to face the wall, blanket pulled high to his chin like a makeshift shield.
Time passed.
The rain outside whispered softly now, a lullaby of static and rhythm. The room was quiet save for the occasional creak of the wooden floor or the sigh of wind pressing against the glass. Miyako shifted every so often, her blanket rustling in the darkness.
Then, with a soft click and a whine of voltage, the lights flickered once, twice and went out completely.
"Great," Haruki muttered into the darkness.
Miyako laughed from her corner. "Looks like the universe really wants us to break the rules tonight."
A moment later, soft light bloomed in the dark.
Miyako held up a stubby emergency candle, flame trembling like a secret between them. "Found it in my bag. Girl scout instincts."
The flame cast golden rings across their faces, making the shadows on the walls stretch and dance. Haruki sat up slowly, joining her on the floor, their knees almost touching. The distance felt too close, and yet... not enough.
They sat there, cross-legged, facing each other in flickering silence.
"So," Miyako said after a beat, her voice softer now, less teasing. "What are we supposed to do? Talk about married life?"
Haruki scratched the back of his head. "We could try to sleep. Or, I dunno, argue over whose fault this whole symbolic marriage thing is."
She gave a mock gasp. "You're saying I'm the problem?"
He smiled. "I'm saying you were the one who marched us into the office without reading the fine print."
"Details, details."
A small laugh escaped both of them. Outside, the thunder rolled again, more distant this time.
Miyako picked up a strand of loose thread from her blanket and twisted it around her finger. "Do you ever think... maybe this isn't so bad?"
Haruki blinked. "The storm?"
"The whole thing," she said, meeting his gaze. "Us. Living together. This... weird in-between."
He looked at her, the candlelight catching the softness in her expression, the vulnerability tucked just beneath her usual boldness. For once, she didn't seem like the storm. She looked like the stillness after.
"I don't hate it," he admitted.
The night wore on.
Eventually, they both lay back down, candles burned low. The rain outside softened to a misty hush, like the world itself had grown tired.
Hours later, sometime between midnight and morning, the power hummed back to life. The heater buzzed, the desk lamp blinked on, and the fridge clicked in the hallway.
But Haruki didn't notice right away.
He woke to the light brush of weight on his shoulder.
Miyako, still half-asleep, had drifted toward him. Her head rested gently against his arm, lips parted in quiet breath, hand tucked beneath her cheek.
His body went still.
His heartbeat pounded loud in his ears so loud, he was sure she could hear it if she woke.
He didn't move at first. Just stared at her profile softer in sleep, peaceful in a way she rarely allowed herself to be when awake.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted just enough to keep her from sliding off him, cradling the moment in fragile stillness.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
But inside, something else was beginning.
A soft blur between lines they thought were permanent.
A warmth neither of them had words for yet.
And as Haruki closed his eyes again, one thought echoed gently through his chest:
This isn't just a storm.
It's something changing.