Chapter 11: “Back to Normal (But Not Really)”

The apartment was exactly how they left it.

Same weird squeaky front door.

Same faint scent of detergent and instant ramen.

Same cozy futon with the blanket that never sat quite right.

But as Yui stepped inside, rolling her tiny suitcase behind her and toeing off her shoes, she blinked slowly and thought:

This place feels smaller now.

Not worse. Not bad.

Just… smaller.

Because three days of living in a literal honeymoon suite had apparently recalibrated her brain. Now, instead of seeing this apartment as their shared space, she looked around and saw:

The counter Haruki always leaned against while eating pickles straight from the jar.

The rug she tripped on while trying to seduce him with sleepy eyes and accidentally face-planted.

The couch where she fake-punched him for winning the last Pocky duel and he called her “violently adorable.”

Every little object felt infused with meaning now.

Which was both sweet… and mildly terrifying.

Routine returned quickly.

They went grocery shopping the next morning—Yui still vetoing Haruki’s plan to buy five types of mochi for “emotional backup reasons.”

They cleaned the apartment that afternoon. Did laundry. Refolded the kitchen towels Yui had secretly been reorganizing when Haruki wasn’t looking.

It was normal.

Except… it wasn’t.

Because this time, while Haruki stood at the stove sautéing vegetables, Yui padded up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her cheek between his shoulder blades.

No teasing. No blushing. Just soft, sleepy affection.

He didn’t flinch.

He just smiled and leaned into her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Later that night, as she dried her hair on the edge of the bed, Haruki walked by, paused, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.

No warning. No fanfare.

Just a kiss.

Yui stared at him in dazed silence as he casually wandered back to the kitchen.

She was pretty sure her soul had left her body.

She also accidentally burned her ear with the hair dryer immediately after.

But as sweet as everything felt, Yui could tell something was… off.

It wasn’t dramatic. Haruki wasn’t being distant—he was still affectionate, still goofy, still hers.

But there was a tightness behind his smile.

A little too much effort in the way he hovered while she cooked, checking ingredients, adjusting timers, trying to be helpful in a way that screamed “Please validate me.”

She first caught it when she noticed the entire bathroom had been cleaned. Like, deep cleaned. Behind the toilet. The baseboards.

He had never voluntarily touched the baseboards in his life.

“Hey,” she said gently, peeking into the bathroom doorway, “did you just Lysol the faucet knobs?”

“I just thought the water pressure felt judgmental.”

“Haruki.”

“What?”

“You cleaned the tile grout with a toothbrush.”

“I like it when things are... good.”

That’s when it hit her.

He wasn’t cleaning because he was bored.

He was cleaning because he was scared.

That evening, she found him in the living room, wiping down the coffee table for the third time in an hour. His jaw was tense. His shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact.

Yui walked over slowly.

Placed her hand on his.

He stopped.

“Haruki,” she said softly, “why are you working so hard to impress me?”

He blinked. “I’m not—”

She just looked at him.

He sighed. Sat down. Let his head fall into his hands.

“I just… what if we lose this?” he whispered. “What if we stop being exciting? What if it fades, and we stop laughing, and one day we wake up and it’s just... nothing?”

Yui’s heart ached.

She knelt in front of him.

Reached up and gently cupped his face in both hands.

“You don’t have to earn my love, Haruki,” she said. “You already have it.”

He looked at her—really looked—and she saw the fear melt slowly from his expression.

“You love me,” he whispered.

“Of course I do.”

“Even when I wipe down surfaces with trauma energy?”

She laughed, eyes misty. “Especially then.”

He exhaled. “Okay. Good. I was really close to organizing the spice rack by emotional resonance.”

“Please never do that.”

“No promises.”

That night, they curled up on the futon, facing each other.

Their legs tangled naturally, their hands found each other without effort.

And in that soft, wordless moment, surrounded by the familiarity of home, they both realized something important:

Love didn’t need to be dramatic to be real.

Sometimes, it was just a warm apartment, a clean coffee table, and the quiet certainty of waking up next to someone who chose you—every single day.