Today was the hottest day of early summer. The fur coat Aisha had draped over her shoulders just days ago now lay discarded in a corner.

Boka had been sweating nonstop since morning. Back in the mountains, the temperature stayed cool year-round. He still hadn’t adjusted to Albion’s summer heat.

Nearly half a month had passed since they arrived in the capital.

Boka had wanted to visit Albert and his sister. Once they sold their goods, the merchants would leave, and he might never see them again. But Cynthia had forbidden both him and Aisha from going out these past days, insisting they needed rest after their journey. Only because the notice board stood near the Adjudication Office and Mire Street had she let Boka go alone that day—and even then, she’d given him endless reminders like a parent, as if he were still a child.

"You just wanted to see Trena," Aisha remarked out of nowhere.

"No..."

"Remember what I said. That woman’s dangerous."

After those words, Aisha turned away, feigning indifference.

Later, Boka learned traveling merchants carried vast inventories. Caravans like Albert’s didn’t just sell goods—they’d also buy local specialties cheaply to resell in pricier regions. The whole process often took over a month. There was no need to rush.

Today, Boka began cleaning the second floor of his shop. He’d originally planned to leave it untouched. Cynthia and Baird had insisted he stay with them to make caring for him and Aisha easier. So while the ground floor was rented out, thick dust coated the upstairs rooms. But something had happened two nights ago—something that made Boka decide to move out.

Boka and Aisha slept early. Life deep in the mountains offered little entertainment, and the habit had stuck.

That evening, the fruit vendor across the street had treated Boka to leftover watermelon juice. Though he’d used the privy before bed, a pressing need woke him deep in the night.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, he stumbled downstairs. Passing Cynthia and Baird’s room in the hallway, he paused. Voices drifted through the door—they were still awake.

Boka’s hearing was sharp. Leaning closer, he caught their conversation. They were talking about him.

"Darling, what do you think of Boka?" Cynthia’s voice was soft.

"He’s an honest young man. I can see that," Baird replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I was afraid you might not like him." Her voice trembled slightly. "He’s my only brother now. The last man of the Blumer Clan."

"Nonsense, Cynthia. Your happiness is all that matters to me." Baird’s tone warmed. "Since Boka came to live with us, you’ve changed. You smile more. You’re livelier, more talkative. I’m grateful to him. He’s an exceptional young man."

"...Thank you, Baird. Thank you for understanding..." Their voices faded into an embrace.

Just as Boka turned to leave, a woman’s breathy gasp cut through the silence—Cynthia’s voice. Fabric whispered against skin. Her breathing grew ragged, then melted into soft moans.

"...Not like this... Boka’s next door..."

Baird didn’t stop. His hands kept roaming, his kisses deepening. Soon, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin filled the room.

Boka stood frozen outside the door like a wooden statue. Even the densest adult would understand what was happening. Face burning, he crept back to his bed. He’d hoped the sounds would fade—but lying down, he realized their beds shared only a thin wall. Every sigh, every shift of the mattress, echoed louder than before.

Boka could almost picture Cynthia’s flushed face in the dark.

That night became the most awkward, unbearable night of his life.

*Could intimacy change someone so much?* he wondered. *Cynthia, usually so gentle—like a sunflower turning toward the light...*

The next morning, before Boka even woke, Aisha kicked him out of bed with both feet.

"...You’re terrible. You scared me."

"Boka."

"What now?"

"Starting today, we sleep in separate beds."

Back in their mountain cabin, they’d shared one bed—it was practical, even cozy in winter. They’d never questioned it. But now Aisha demanded space.

"Why?"

"It’s hot in summer."

"It’s not that bad." Nights on Mire Street near the harbor stayed pleasantly cool.

"And..."

"And...?"

"I’ve realized you’re a man with normal urges."

Boka choked on his words, slow to grasp her meaning. When it hit him, his face flushed crimson. Without another word, he grabbed a broom and began scrubbing the second floor.

From breakfast until now, he hadn’t stopped. Though only two rooms, he’d mopped every inch of floor, wiped every surface with a rag. The low ceiling meant he could reach it standing on a stool. After washing away years of grime, he’d turned over a dozen buckets of water black with dirt.

As a hunter, Boka had stamina beyond ordinary men. Yet cleaning exhausted him more than chasing game through mountain forests.

The heat pressed down. He lay on the freshly mopped floor, a damp rag draped over his forehead.

Work remained elusive. Cynthia wanted him to help at her shop—to stay close and learn the trade. But Boka refused. He wouldn’t burden the couple further. Baird spent most days at the general store anyway; Boka would only be in the way. His sole useful role was playing games with Dorin, who adored her shy uncle.

Aisha had vanished that morning. Days ago, she’d followed Baird to the National Library and apparently fallen in love with it. "She’s a genius," Baird had gushed. "Boka, she’s clearly well-educated. Aisha Lasette recognizes ancient scripts!" Boka had just nodded, clueless about why that mattered.

But Baird had also mentioned a strange smell of alcohol in the library lately. Now Boka understood: Aisha wasn’t studying. She’d stolen his coins to buy liquor and hide somewhere quiet. After getting caught drinking wine last week—earning Cynthia’s sternest scolding—Boka had seen Aisha flustered for the first time. (He’d been scolded too, as her guardian.)

Baird was forty-two—sixteen years older than Cynthia. Kind and respected, he treated Mire Street’s sick for free as a skilled apothecary. And his beautiful young wife made every man on the street envious.

*He’s much older than her... but Baird’s so accomplished. I suppose it makes sense,* Boka mused.

Someone lifted the rag from his forehead.

Boka opened his eyes. Cynthia crouched beside him, gazing down.

"Why are you here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you."

"Oh. Uh."

"Cleaning?" She frowned. "I told you to leave it. No one lives here."

Boka scratched his head, nerves tightening his throat.

"I... I want to move in here."

Cynthia bit her lower lip.

"Can you tell me why?"

"I... don’t want to trouble you anymore." He sat up on the floor.

Sighing, Cynthia cupped his face in both hands, lifting his chin until their eyes met. Her breath carried a sweet scent.

"Boka, I *want* you to trouble me. Tell me anything. Share everything with me. I’m your family." Her smile softened. "Remember that."

"Okay..." His cheeks burned.

Cynthia’s kindness made the truth impossible to voice.

"If anyone bullies you," she pinched his nose gently, "tell me. Even if it’s Baird—I’ll scold him myself."

"Y-yes."

"Living here is fine. It’s your uncle’s legacy."

He nodded.

"Now, you must be starving. Let’s eat."

Cynthia still opposed Boka seeking work. He contributed little at the shop, and an idle young man with too much time would only dwell on things. Baird had already given them food and shelter—Boka couldn’t leech off them further. But without the couple’s help, he had no way to find employment.

When Aisha returned at dusk, Boka confessed his frustration. She understood—he wasn’t the only one living under another’s roof. After a thoughtful silence, she offered a suggestion:

"As Albion’s capital, the city has labor shortages. The kingdom’s employment office assigns workers. Try the job center."

*The job center?* Boka didn’t know where she’d heard that—but finally, he had a direction.