The smell of coffee drifted up the stairs, warm and earthy, mingling with a softer scent—floral, expensive. Not his mom's usual fragrance.
Ren Nakamura stretched in bed, blinking at the morning light. He sat up slowly, tousled black hair falling over his forehead. It was Saturday. No classes. No alarms. Just the vague promise of a quiet day at home.
Then he heard it: a laugh. Soft, low. Feminine.
Not his mom's.
He swung his legs off the bed, still in his worn sweatpants and white tee, and padded downstairs. The voices grew clearer as he neared the kitchen.
"Ren! Come say hi!" his mom called.
He stepped into the kitchen—and froze.
Sitting across from his mother at the kitchen island was a woman he hadn't seen in years, yet recognized instantly.
Dr. Ayame Fujiwara.
Long black hair twisted into a neat bun. Subtle makeup, perfect skin. A navy-blue blouse hugged her frame, tucked into a pencil skirt that made it impossible not to look twice.
Ren's heart skipped.
She smiled when she saw him. "Ren. You've grown."
He tried to say something, but his voice caught. "Uh—good morning… Dr. Fujiwara."
"It's Ayame now," she said smoothly. "You're not a child anymore."
He forced a polite smile and moved to sit down. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, warmer. His mom slid a mug toward him.
"Ren, Ayame's staying a few days," she said. "Work's been crazy for her. She needed a break from the city, so I offered the guest room."
Ayame took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes not leaving him. "Your mother's always been too kind."
Ren glanced away, focusing on his mug. But even out of the corner of his eye, he could feel her gaze—cool, assessing, amused.
"So," she said after a pause, "how's college life treating you?"
"It's… alright," he muttered. "Busy."
"You always were quiet," she said with a small laugh. "Even when you were ten. But now… You carry yourself differently."
His mom stood, stretching. "I need to run to the store. You two catch up—I'll be back soon."
Ren turned sharply. "You're going now?"
She was already grabbing her keys. "Won't be long!"
And just like that, the front door clicked shut.
Ren and Ayame sat in silence for a few seconds.
Then she spoke again, voice soft. "Do you remember our sessions?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. A little."
"You barely spoke. But you watched everything."
Ren's fingers tightened slightly on the mug. "Guess not much has changed."
She smiled, a little too knowingly. "No… something has."
She stood and walked to the sink, her heels clicking softly on the tile. From behind, Ren could see how the skirt shaped to her hips. She moved slowly, like every step was intentional.
"Back then, I used to wonder what kind of man you'd grow into," she said, rinsing her mug.
Ren stayed silent.
She turned, leaning against the counter. "And now here you are."
He finally looked at her, their eyes meeting.
"I'm still figuring that out," he said quietly.
She crossed her arms, her blouse tightening just slightly. "Well… I'd say you've made quite the impression."
He wasn't sure what she meant, but the heat creeping up his neck told him it wasn't innocent.
She took a step forward. Then another. Slowly, until she was only a few feet away.
"You know, it's strange," she said. "I used to tell your mom how mature you seemed for your age. How observant. Thoughtful. But now… you're different."
"How?"
Her voice dropped just slightly. "You're aware of it now."
He held her gaze. "Aware of what?"
She smiled again, turning toward the hallway. "Nothing. Just an old therapist thinking too much."
As she walked away, Ren exhaled slowly. Then she paused at the corner, glanced back over her shoulder, and said
"We'll talk more later. Just us."
And with that, she disappeared down the hall, her heels muffled against the carpet.
Ren stood in the kitchen, heart pounding.
He wasn't a kid anymore.
And Ayame wasn't just a guest.
Ren stood in the kitchen for a while, still gripping the mug like it could steady the strange, warm pulse in his chest. The house was quiet now, but it felt like something had shifted in the air—like the stillness wasn't empty, but charged.
He shook his head and turned toward the stairs. A shower might clear his mind. But as he climbed up, he caught a soft sound—a door opening.
The guest room.
Ayame's voice, low and humming, filtered down the hallway. She was talking to herself. Or maybe humming a tune. Ren didn't mean to stop walking, but he did.
Her door wasn't fully closed.
The faintest sliver of her room peeked through the crack—sunlight spilling across hardwood, her suitcase open on the bed, clothes neatly folded. Then she moved into view. She stood with her back to the door, blouse unbuttoned halfway as she reached for a new top.
Ren blinked—and turned sharply, heart racing. He didn't look again. Didn't even breathe until he was in his room and the door shut behind him.
He sat on the edge of his bed, jaw tight.
Was that… deliberate?
No, don't be stupid. She probably didn't realize the door was open. Right?
But something about her words downstairs, the way she'd looked at him, lingered. He wasn't sure what kind of game, if any, was being played. Only that he wasn't imagining it anymore.
He made it through a lukewarm shower and sat by the window in a fresh hoodie and joggers, letting the quiet neighborhood scenery distract him. His phone buzzed—a message from a classmate. Group project meeting rescheduled. He replied quickly and tossed the phone aside.
Then came a knock.
Three soft taps on the door.
He stood, hesitated, then opened it.
Ayame stood there, now in a loose off-shoulder sweater and fitted slacks. Still stylish, still composed—but more casual. More homey.
"Sorry to bother you," she said. "Do you have the Wi-Fi password?"
"Oh yeah. One sec." He grabbed the note from the shelf beside his desk and handed it to her.
Their fingers brushed—just barely. But the touch sparked something.
"Thank you," she said softly. "This house hasn't changed much. But you have."
He gave a nervous smile. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
She didn't leave right away.
Instead, she looked around his room, eyes lingering on the sketchpad on his desk. "You draw?"
"A bit," he replied. "Mostly for fun."
"May I?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
She picked up the pad, flipping through. Quiet portraits. Some practice anatomy. A half-done sketch of a woman's back—delicate shoulders, hair undone.
She stopped on that one.
"This is beautiful," she said.
He looked away. "It's unfinished."
"Sometimes, unfinished things are the most honest."
She placed the pad back down, gently.
Then, quietly: "You've always had eyes that see more than most people."
He didn't reply. Didn't trust his voice.
Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then she smiled again, small and unreadable. "Thanks for the password."
And she walked away.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Ren sat down slowly, the pad still open beside him.
He didn't know what this was.
But whatever had begun today—it wasn't ending anytime soon.