Chapter 11- Mistake

Kazama's First Mistake of the Day: Ringing the doorbell.

His second mistake? Not running away when it opened.

"Reiji-kun?"

Her voice was tired. Softer than usual. She stood in the doorway wrapped in a hoodie, strands of damp hair sticking to her face. Her eyes had bags under them. Her nose was pink. Her voice was barely holding it together.

"You look like you got hit by a bus," I said.

"…Thanks," she croaked. "Good to see you too."

So yeah. That's how I ended up inside Asuka Minazuki's apartment. Again. This time, not by the chaos of her daughter Yume, but because her body had decided to file for sick leave without notifying her first.

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Backtrack: 30 minutes earlier, school.

I was there late helping clean up from yesterday's club fair. Yume forgot her book—a children's picture book about a rainbow fox who learned to share. (Spoiler: the fox dies. I'm still processing that.)

I offered to drop it off since her place was on my way.

I didn't expect to find Asuka with a fever of 39°C, looking like she was one sneeze away from seeing God.

I should've said, "Oh no, get well soon," and left.

But then she swayed a little and said, "Could you just… help me boil water?"

So I became her unpaid nurse for the day.

---

Thirty minutes into "Operation: Don't Let Her Die"

I stood in the kitchen, stirring miso soup. Yume was at daycare, mercifully, so the house was unusually quiet.

She lay on the couch under a pile of blankets like a hibernating bear in a teacher-shaped skin.

"Reiji-kun…" she mumbled weakly.

"Still alive?"

"…Barely."

"Don't die on me. I don't have the emotional maturity to explain that to Yume."

She laughed. It cracked halfway through into a cough.

I handed her a glass of water. Our fingers brushed.

Stupid heart, don't start weird rhythms now. She's sick. That's not sexy. Focus on the soup.

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Mistake Three: Trying to help with laundry.

"I'll toss your stuff into the machine," I said, grabbing the basket.

"Wait—Reiji, not that door—!"

Too late.

I walked in.

The bathroom door creaked open like some kind of cursed treasure chest.

And there she was.

Asuka.

Dripping.

Wrapped in a towel.

Steam everywhere.

Hair clinging to her shoulders.

Time stopped.

My brain just… froze. All thoughts were replaced with the sound of static and the mental equivalent of a blue screen of death.

I dropped the laundry basket. Socks flew like shuriken across the tiles.

"I—I—I thought this was—! You said laundry was—!"

"OUT!!" she squeaked, yanking the towel tighter.

I turned. Slipped. Fell. Crawled out backward like some kind of exorcised demon.

"I'M SORRY I SAW YOUR SHOULDERS—!!"

---

One minute later:

I stood in the hallway, face burning, mentally scheduling my funeral.

The door creaked open again. She peeked out, wrapped in a different, safer bathrobe.

"...You didn't see anything, right?" she mumbled.

"Absolutely not," I lied, eyes staring hard at the ceiling. "I am blind. A blind, innocent monk."

She covered her face with her sleeve. "Let's pretend that never happened."

"Yes. Great. Never happened."

"…Thanks for doing the laundry."

I nodded like an idiot. Then fled to the kitchen like it was a war bunker.

---

Two hours later: Peace treaty signed

We sat on the floor, eating porridge. She looked better. Less like a dying goose and more like a sleepy otter.

"Thanks for staying," she said.

"Just wanted to make sure you didn't drown in your own snot."

"…You really know how to make a woman feel special."

"I try."

She smiled gently. The kind that made your chest hurt a little if you weren't careful.

Yume would be home soon, so we cleaned up quietly. The towel incident was not mentioned again. But my soul hadn't recovered.

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Evening — Asuka's Bedroom

She dozed in bed while I sat on the floor, back against her bookshelf.

She muttered something in her sleep. I leaned closer.

"…Reiji…"

My heart thumped once. Loud. Uninvited.

Don't read into it. She's sick. People hallucinate when they're sick.

Still.

I stayed there longer than I should have. Just listening to her breathe.

I didn't know what this was.

Not love. Not yet. But not nothing, either.

Something that made you want to stay, even when the world said you shouldn't.

---

Later, as I left

She stood by the door in her hoodie and said, softly, "Thank you again."

"Don't get used to it," I muttered.

"Too late," she whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

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Outside — Cold air, night sky

I walked home under the stars, the streetlights flickering. I felt like a criminal. Like a teenage idiot. Like… someone who almost didn't regret it.

I hated everything.

The awkwardness. The mistakes. The way my face still burned when I remembered her skin, the droplets, the way she said my name.

I hated how much I wanted to remember it.

But I didn't hate her.

Not even a little.

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