A typical Japanese-style house, indistinguishable from its neighbors. Yet this ordinary place was Yukieda’s warmest home.

Yukieda carried a plastic bag far too large for her frame, stuffed with fruits, vegetables, and fresh meat—some bought from the shopping street, others gifted by elderly shopkeepers. Gifts she’d never received before.

*Ding-dong.*

She rang the bell. Footsteps approached. The door swung open.

Shizuku’s eyes widened at the sight of all those bags.

“What’s all this?”

“You can’t live on takeout forever.”

Shizuku quickly took the bags. Red marks were etched into Yukieda’s palms. A pang of guilt flickered in her chest.

Soon, the two girls—one tall, one petite—busied themselves in the kitchen.

“I’m surprised you can cook. I heard foreigners aren’t big on home cooking.”

Shizuku stared at the neatly arranged dishes. The style felt hauntingly familiar. For a fleeting moment, the girl across the table seemed like her father. A simple ponytail swayed slightly. Doll-like features. Foreign. Silver-haired.

“Go on, try it.”

Yukieda smiled, golden eyes stealing glances at Shizuku.

*How is it? A dish made with a father’s love!*

Not just the look—the taste was nearly identical. The technique unmistakable.

Watching Shizuku devour the food with audible delight, Yukieda felt a quiet warmth bloom inside.

“If it’s okay… I can cook for you every day.”

“Really?”

Shizuku set down her chopsticks. Yukieda stood, ladling a bowl of miso soup.

Truth was, Shizuku *could* cook—but hated washing dishes. Takeout, bento, instant meals… Today’s proper meal left her body deeply satisfied. She sighed contentedly after the soup.

“Whoever marries you will be lucky.”

Yukieda’s hand trembled. The bowl nearly slipped. “D-don’t say that! I’ll always be by your side.”

Later, Yukieda scrubbed dishes thoroughly under warm, soapy water.

“Oriuchi… do you *have* to care for me? Just because of blood? You didn’t even know me before.”

Shizuku leaned against the doorway, watching. Yukieda wore an oversized apron over her loose tracksuit, hiding her slender frame.

Without turning, Yukieda placed soapy plates aside. “Don’t overthink it. I’ve known you. You’re my family.”

“Family?”

Shizuku’s gaze dimmed. She remembered yesterday’s report. A shadow crossed her face.

Yukieda wiped the table—grease left sticky residue if ignored. Shizuku scrolled endlessly on her terminal.

“I feel bad. How many credits did groceries cost? I’ll transfer.”

“No need. I said—if you’re short, just ask.”

Shizuku didn’t press. Asking money from someone younger felt like snatching candy from a baby. They exchanged contacts.

Finally done. The kitchen had been grimy, trash-strewn. *How had Shizuku gotten so messy?* Yukieda hung the apron.

“Shizuku… come to school with me tomorrow. Same class. We can walk together. I can even—”

“I don’t want to.” Shizuku cut her off, mood visibly souring.

“—make breakfast,” Yukieda finished lamely.

“I said no.” Head down, fingers flying across the screen.

Feeling Yukieda’s worried gaze, Shizuku looked up. Silver hair. Genuine concern. *She cares. I shouldn’t snap.*

“Sorry.” Her thin lips parted softly.

Yukieda shook her head. “It’s fine. But… you’re only a first-year. It’s not too late. Your grades were never bad…”

“I’m going to my room. Watch TV if you’re bored.”

Shizuku stood. Dressed lightly, pale legs exposed, she walked toward the stairs.

*Sigh.* Yukieda slumped in her chair. *I promised my wife I’d care for our child.* Faced with daughter’s school refusal or slaying monsters? She’d pick monsters. *It’s my fault.*

*Talk again.* She tiptoed to Shizuku’s door. Listened. Silence. Called softly—no reply. Cracked the door open. Shizuku lay scrolling on her terminal. Yukieda closed it with a soft *click*. A twinge of guilt.

Minutes passed. No movement.

“Ahem… Shizuku? Dinner’s in the fridge. Heat it if hungry. I’m heading home.”

“Okay.” A lazy murmur from within.

Downstairs, Shizuku opened the fridge. Cling film wrapped the meal, dewdrops glistening. Garnishes shaped into a smiling face. She closed the door silently. *Chips. Beer.*

Buying beer needed an adult ID. A loophole: her late father’s card still worked sometimes.

“I remember… it was here.” She frowned at the fridge top. *Yukieda took it.*

*Forget it. I’ve gained weight. Better cut back.*

Next morning, Yukieda rose early—no bluff. Opposite routes meant an early train: cook for Shizuku, then school.

No answer at the bell. Disappointment flickered. She left, glancing back often.

*No climbing windows today. She’s safe.* Forcing entry might break fragile trust.

Then—the door creaked open.

Yukieda cooked cheerfully. Simple breakfast. Just eggs left.

“Shizuku, is one fried egg enough?”

“Mm. Enough.”

Bleary-eyed, Shizuku yawned at the table. Aroma sharpened her senses. She bit into the sandwich—egg, bacon, bread. *How long since I ate breakfast?*

Yukieda checked her terminal. Rushed the last bite. Stacked plates.

“I’ll wash dishes tonight!”

“No. Go. I’ll handle it.”

“Thanks.”

At the entryway, Yukieda bent to change shoes.

“Shizuku… really not going? I’ll study hard. Tutor you evenings…”

*(Do I even remember high school? Is it even the same now?)*

Shizuku approached with a steaming mug. From her angle—glimpse of black tights, smooth thighs, a hint of underwear.

On impulse, she patted Yukieda’s butt.

Yukieda jolted upright, face flushed with shock. *Is this a girl thing? How do I react?!*

Shizuku faltered under that pure gaze. *Why did I do that?!*

“Ah—this.” She pulled a key from her pocket. “So you won’t need me to open the door.”

Yukieda’s heart swelled. *She trusts me…* Then worry: *Too trusting. Giving her key away so easily.*

On the packed morning train, Yukieda gripped the strap, bag in hand, lost in thought.

*She’s smart. Pretty. Could it be bullying?*

Lost in worry about Shizuku…

…a rough hand suddenly grabbed her butt.