The house felt exactly the same the next morning.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains at the usual angle. The kettle clicked off at the usual time. The scent of toast drifted from the kitchen.
Everything was normal.
That was the problem.
Meguri stood at the stove, humming faintly — not a song he recognized, something soft, something private.
"Good morning," she said without turning around.
"Morning."
Her tone was light. Balanced. Carefully balanced.
He watched her movements: precise, controlled, no hesitation. If he didn't know better, he would swear nothing had happened.
But something had.
He just didn't know what.
At breakfast she asked about his meeting again. Listened attentively. Nodded at the right moments.
But she didn't touch him.
She used to — a hand on his sleeve, a brief brush of fingers when passing the coffee. Small things. He hadn't realized how often they happened until they stopped.
At work, Nagano avoided him.
Not obviously. Just enough.
He answered questions too quickly. Didn't meet his eyes. Dropped a file when their fingers almost brushed.
"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked calmly.
"N-No, sir."
Too fast. Too stiff.
Something inside him tightened.
He told himself it was guilt. Embarrassment from the awkward "experiment." Of course Nagano would feel uncomfortable. Anyone would.
That didn't mean—
No.
He refused to finish that thought.
That evening he came home at the usual time.
Meguri was reading on the couch. She looked up and smiled — the same soft smile.
But it didn't reach him the way it used to.
"How was work?" she asked.
"Fine."
A beat of silence.
Then, casually, he added, "Nagano seemed distracted today."
Her eyes flickered. Just for a second.
But he saw it.
"Did he?" she asked.
"Yes."
She looked back at her book.
"I hope he learned something yesterday."
There it was again.
Yesterday.
Not "your experiment." Not "when he came over." Just yesterday.
As if it had weight.
That night she went to bed earlier than usual. Said she was tired.
He lay beside her in the dark, listening to her breathing — even, calm, as if nothing troubled her.
He reached out instinctively. His fingers brushed her arm.
She didn't pull away.
But she didn't lean in either.
Her body remained neutral. Present. But distant.
Like a guest under the same blanket.
His thoughts wouldn't settle.
He replayed the details: the misplaced cushion, Nagano's pale face, Meguri's wrinkled sweater, her quiet words.
"I think we both learned something."
About being seen.
Seen by whom?
The question slipped into his mind before he could stop it.
And once it entered, it refused to leave.
The next morning he noticed something else.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
She glanced at it quickly — too quickly — and turned the screen face down.
She had never done that before.
He said nothing. Just watched.
She continued making coffee as if unaware.
But her shoulders were slightly tense.
As if she knew he had noticed.
Later that night, while she showered, he stood alone in the living room.
The house was quiet again. Too quiet.
He sat exactly where Nagano had sat.
He looked at the empty space beside him on the couch. Measured the distance. Imagined two glasses on the table. Two people talking. Laughing. Confiding.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time, the image that formed in his mind wasn't harmless.
When the bathroom door opened, steam drifting into the hallway, he quickly stood up.
Meguri walked past him, towel wrapped loosely around her shoulders.
She paused.
Looked at him.
"Is something wrong?"
He held her gaze longer than usual.
"…No."
She studied him for a moment, as if weighing something.
Then she smiled again — soft. Unreadable.
And walked into the bedroom.
He remained standing in the hallway.
The space between them had grown.
Not physically.
But undeniably.
Something had shifted.
And he was no longer certain he had control over it.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Ordinary. Unremarkable.
The kind of day that should never carry consequences.
Meguri was in the shower again. The soft rush of water filled the apartment like white noise.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Once.
Twice.
He wasn't planning to look. He told himself that. He wasn't the suspicious type. He trusted. He believed in composure.
But it buzzed again, and this time the screen lit up just long enough.
Just bright enough.
Nagano.
His chest tightened.
It could be work. Of course it could.
He picked up the phone. Hands steady.
Until he unlocked it.
He didn't scroll far. He didn't need to.
The newest messages sat at the top, raw and recent.
Nagano: I can't stop thinking about yesterday.
Nagano: I'm sorry. I don't regret it… but I'm sorry.
Below them, her earlier reply:
Meguri: We shouldn't talk about it here.
Then one more:
Nagano: Did he suspect anything?
His vision blurred at the edges.
He placed the phone exactly where he found it — face down, just as she always left it now.
He stepped back into the living room and sat on the couch.
The same spot.
The same distance.
The same cushion still slightly out of place.
The water stopped.
Footsteps. Soft. Measured.
She emerged from the hallway, towel in hand, drying the ends of her hair.
"You're home early," she said gently.
He studied her.
Calm. Unchanged.
"How long?" he asked.
She paused, just slightly.
"Since when?"
His voice stayed perfectly even.
"How long has it been?"
Her hand stilled. The towel lowered slowly.
Silence filled the room — not confused, not surprised.
Just heavy.
"You looked at my phone," she said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
He didn't deny it.
"Yes."
She closed her eyes for one brief second. Not in panic. In quiet resignation.
He expected tears. Excuses. Denial.
Instead she met his gaze directly.
"It was only that night."
The words landed clean. No tremor. No hesitation.
"Only that night," he repeated.
"Yes."
His mind replayed the messages on loop.
I can't stop thinking about yesterday.I don't regret it.
"You don't regret it either?" he asked.
The hesitation that followed answered louder than any confession.
"Did you plan it?"
"No."
"Did you stop it?"
Another silence. Longer this time.
"I didn't," she said softly.
The truth didn't explode. It simply settled between them, heavy and unavoidable.
He felt something inside him click into place.
Not heartbreak.
Not rage.
Understanding.
He had created this.
He had suggested it.
He had smiled, closed the door, and walked away — certain nothing could change in three hours.
"Why?" he asked finally.
Meguri's shoulders lowered, just a fraction.
"Because for the first time in a long time," she said, voice gentle and devastating, "someone asked how I felt… and actually waited for the answer."
The words weren't cruel.
They were honest.
And that made them cut deeper than anything else could.
He stood slowly.
Walked toward the hallway.
Paused at the bedroom door.
"Was it just once?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
He didn't know if that made it better or worse.
Three hours.
He had thought nothing could change in three hours.
He had been wrong.
Without turning back, he asked the last question.
"Do you still love me?"
Meguri's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I don't know."
The words followed him into the darkness of the bedroom.
And for the first time, he understood:
What had shifted wasn't just trust.
It was the foundation itself.