The moment Genya Ayumu stepped out of his room, he saw his mother, Genya Eina, already preparing breakfast and bento boxes in the kitchen. During the first few days, Ayumu had quietly resisted cold meals and even enthusiastically made his own bento. But after Mizuno Hina turned down his gesture, he stopped. After all, he’d need to adapt to local habits eventually. Plus, Eina insisted he shouldn’t wake early daily for bento—so he gave in.
“Mom, why are you up so early today?”
Normally, Eina wouldn’t start bento prep until after 7:30. Yet it was barely 7:00, and she already looked like she’d been at it awhile.
“Hina’s here too—I need an extra bento. But you? Up this early again? Planning to strip your poor mom of her last shred of dignity?” Eina asked, feigning a pitiful tone.
Indeed, Ayumu stopped making bento partly because Eina felt it undermined her role as a mother. Their relationship had only recently mended; she remained sensitive. A passing whim? She wouldn’t mind. But if he seemed set on making it permanent, she might feel unneeded—and quietly hurt.
“I just wanted a quick morning workout. Breakfast and bento are in your hands.”
“Exercise is good,” Eina said after a reminder. “Just be back by eight for breakfast.” Then she turned fully to cooking.
Though waking early to cook was tiring, Ayumu sensed Eina took quiet pride in it. With her, he often marveled—at her ordinariness and her quiet extraordinariness.
Ayumu’s “workout” was simply a roadside jog. He didn’t sprint off immediately. Instead, he began with a brisk walk—a light warm-up—only speeding up once his body warmed gradually. He kept a slow pace; aerobic exercise didn’t require speed. After ten minutes, sweat dotted his brow, and a faint stomachache crept in. Ayumu frowned. With his stamina, panting after ten minutes? That didn’t make sense! The ache sharpened, forcing him to slow to a walk.
Gently massaging his sides while power-walking, he planned to resume once the pain eased slightly. Thirty minutes of cardio daily was the goal for real results.
“Good morning, Mr. Genya.”
A cool, mature female voice came from beside him just as he prepared to jog again. He didn’t need to turn—only Miyamoto Masami called him that.
He glanced over. Masami, also in sportswear, had sweat beading on her forehead and breathed slightly heavily. These small signs softened her usual sharp aura. She’d likely just finished her own jog and happened to spot him. To Ayumu’s surprise, he’d jogged all the way near her neighborhood—no wonder they crossed paths.
“Good morning, Ms. Miyamoto. Do you jog every morning?”
“Mm. Twenty minutes before work. It’s routine,” Masami replied calmly.
Though she spoke casually, Ayumu felt genuine admiration. As he glanced at her with respect, he suddenly understood her well-proportioned figure: girls who exercise regularly naturally have curves in all the right places.
“I started jogging today. Ran ten minutes, got a stomachache—taking a break before continuing.” He explained, hoping her experience might reveal the cause.
“Stomachache? Likely wrong breathing.”
Sure enough, she knew. Ayumu quickly asked, “What’s the correct way?”
“For light jogging, breathe only through your nose—it supplies enough oxygen. Mouth breathing sends unfiltered air straight to your throat, possibly causing coughs or stomachaches. Nose hair filters dust and bacteria. Also, keep rhythm: two steps exhale, two steps inhale—or three and three. It’ll feel much easier,” Masami explained carefully.
“Thank you, Teacher Miyamoto.” Ayumu deliberately used the title to show gratitude.
But Masami’s brows furrowed slightly. “What I shared is easily searchable online. I’m not your teacher—please don’t call me that, Mr. Genya,” she said earnestly.
“Then… please don’t call me ‘Mr. Genya’ either, Ms. Miyamoto,” Ayumu seized the moment.
Truthfully, Ayumu had been slightly bothered by her formal address. She was older, a working professional at a major firm—a woman of beauty, independence, and strength. Her using “Mr. Genya” flattered his ego but felt intentionally distant. He wanted to close that gap; it would help their teaching dynamic too.
Masami was slightly taken aback. A high schooler resisting flattery? Yet sincerity shone in his eyes—no empty politeness. She realized she’d underestimated him again. Perhaps this boy truly was different. She could no longer view him like an ordinary young man.
“Then… I’ll call you Genya-kun. You can call me Miyamoto-oneesan,” she said, her tone unusually gentle.
“Mm.”
After exchanging names, Masami headed home—she’d already run dozens of minutes. Ayumu continued. This time, using her breathing method, he jogged several kilometers at a quicker pace without a single twinge of discomfort.
