Love Deluxe

Yamada Kyumoto stood in front of the apartment door and didn’t move.

It was early. Too early. Somewhere around six in the morning, maybe a little past it. The sky was still that dull, oppressive gray that came right before sunrise, like the world hadn’t quite decided whether it was done sleeping yet or if it was simply too exhausted to wake up. It was a transitional hour, a time when the city felt hollowed out, populated only by those who were finishing their nights and those who were forced to start them too soon. Yamada belonged to the former.

He had just finished his shift. Seven p.m. to five a.m. again. The usual loop. The same fluorescent hum, the same rhythmic beep of the scanner, the same polite, empty phrases repeated until they lost all meaning. His body felt like it was still inside the store, trapped in a ghost-image of the aisles. Those artificial lights burned into the back of his eyes even though he was outside now, making the natural dimness of the morning feel jarring. His legs ached in a way that didn’t feel important enough to complain about, a deep, marrow-level throb that had simply become a part of his personal geography.

He blinked once, his eyelashes feeling heavy and caked with the salt of a long night’s sweat, then looked down at his hand. It was hovering near the doorbell, a pale, trembling thing in the half-light. He didn’t remember lifting it. His mind was lagging several seconds behind his physical actions, a side effect of the sleep deprivation that had become his constant companion.

“…Right,” he muttered, his voice sounding like dry paper rubbing together.
And pressed it.
The rain had started a few minutes before that. It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t fall with the cleansing roar of a summer storm; instead, it was a miserable, clinging drizzle, just enough to make everything feel colder than it already was. It clung to his trenchcoat, turning the tan fabric into a darker, sodden mess. It slid down the material, gathered at the hem, and disappeared into the black jeans he hadn’t bothered to dry properly after his walk to work the night before.

He stood there while it happened. Waiting. Thinking about nothing in particular, which was usually how he preferred things. When you think about nothing, nothing can hurt you. When you focus on the cold dampness of your socks or the way the air smells of wet asphalt and old exhaust, there isn't much room left for the bigger, heavier thoughts that tended to gather in the dark corners of his mind.

A week and a half.

That’s how long it had been since he last saw her properly. Since they had shared a space that wasn't a passing glance or a momentary intersection of lives.

Miyumatsu Owari.
The name still didn’t fully belong in his head. It sat there like something borrowed, something he had picked up by mistake and forgotten to return. It was a name that felt too grand for the quiet, slightly fractured girl he had come to know.
The door clicked open after about two minutes. The sound of the lock turning was slow, hesitant. She stood there in loose, oversized clothes that seemed to swallow her small frame. Her hair was slightly messy, sticking out at odd angles, like she had only just realized someone was outside and had scrambled to the door in a daze. Her eyes were clouded with the fog of a sudden wake-up.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world between them was filled only with the sound of the light rain hitting the concrete of the walkway and the distant hum of a city beginning to stir.

Then she blinked, the recognition slowly surfacing in her gaze.

“…Kyumoto.”

He nodded slightly, a stiff, mechanical movement.

“…Owari.”

That was all. No greeting beyond that. No "Good morning," no "What are you doing here?" and certainly no smile. Just recognition. It was a stark, honest acknowledgment of each other's presence. Like they were continuing something that hadn’t actually paused, a long-running conversation held in the spaces between their meetings.

Her apartment was small. Not cramped, exactly, not in the way a storage closet is cramped, but it felt... worn. It was the kind of place that looked like it had been lived in for a long time without being properly looked after, like a garment that had been washed too many times and had begun to fray at the seams.

Shoes near the entrance were mismatched and scattered, abandoned where they had been kicked off. The lights inside were warm but uneven; one bulb in the hallway overhead flickered slightly, a rhythmic pulse of amber light like it had given up trying to be consistent and was now just counting down its final hours.

Yamada stepped inside, the heat of the room clashing with the damp chill of his coat. He immediately noticed the sink.Dishes were stacked high, a porcelain mountain leaning precariously toward the faucet. They weren't dirty in a dramatic way, there were no rotting remains or foul odors, just neglected. They were covered in the dry, crusty remnants of simple meals: instant ramen cups, coffee mugs with brown rings at the bottom, plates that had held toast. They looked like they had been waiting for someone who never really came back to finish the job.

The trash can was full, too. It wasn't overflowing yet, but the lid sat crookedly atop a pile of discarded wrappers and papers. Blankets were spread across the couch and the floor like they had been dropped mid-use and never picked up again, creating a soft, chaotic landscape in the living room. There was food on the counter, a loaf of bread, a jar of jam with the lid resting loosely on top, that didn't look like it had been touched in a while.

He stood there for a second longer than necessary, his internal compass spinning. He spent his nights organizing shelves, facing labels, and ensuring every item in the store was in its right place. To see a home in this state of gentle decay felt like an itch he couldn't scratch.

“…This is bad,” he said without thinking. The words slipped out before he could filter them through his usual stoicism. Owari tilted her head slightly, her messy hair falling over one eye.“Hm?” He pointed vaguely at the kitchen, his finger tracing the line of the cluttered counter.

“This.”

She followed his gaze, her eyes drifting over the mess as if she were seeing it for the first time through a stranger’s lens.“Oh,” she said after a long pause. “That.”She spoke like she hadn’t fully processed it as a problem yet. To her, the mess was likely just part of the atmosphere, as invisible as the air. Yamada didn't say anything else. He didn't ask permission. He took off his wet trenchcoat, his movements methodical. He folded it once, shaking off the excess water near the door, and set it down carefully over the back of a wooden chair. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the kink that had formed during his walk.

Then he walked straight into the kitchen.Owari followed him slowly, her footsteps soft on the linoleum. She watched with a quiet, unreadable expression as he opened the cabinet under the sink. He moved with a strange, tired purpose.There was a bottle of dish soap still in its plastic wrap, buried behind a graveyard of old cleaning rags. It was unopened. The seal hadn't even been broken. He stared at it for a second, the irony of it weighing on him.

“…You didn’t even start.”

“I don’t really get around to it,” she said.It wasn’t an excuse. It wasn't a plea for sympathy. It was just a fact, as simple and unchangeable as the color of the sky.He turned on the faucet. The pipes groaned for a moment before a stream of hot water hissed into the sink. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing forearms that were pale and thin but corded with the tension of his work.And then he started washing dishes.

No hesitation. No discussion.
Water ran over his hands, the heat a sharp contrast to the morning air. Plates clinked against each other. Foam slowly built up in the sink as he scrubbed, the scent of artificial lemon filling the small kitchen. It was a sensory anchor, pulling him out of the gray haze of his post-shift exhaustion and giving him a singular, manageable task.Behind him, Owari stood quietly. She didn't move to help, but she didn't leave either. She stayed in his periphery, a silent witness to his labor. “You don’t have to do that,” she said after a while.
He didn’t turn around. He was focused on a stubborn bit of dried rice on a ceramic bowl.

“I know.”

Pause. The water splashed rhythmically.
“But I’m doing it anyway.”There was something automatic about it. Something he didn’t think through or analyze. His hands moved like they remembered this kind of thing, a ghost-memory of a different time and a different kitchen. Like muscle memory had been built somewhere deep in his past, in a place he didn’t fully remember, or perhaps a place he had spent a long time trying to forget.

A memory came up without warning, surfacing through the soapy water. It wasn't clear or sharp, more like a faded photograph left out in the sun.

A house that was always too loud. A house that was always too messy. There was too much life packed into too small a space, too many people and not enough structure to hold them all together. Five siblings. He was in the middle, the one who was often overlooked, the bridge between the older ones who had already checked out and the younger ones who didn't know better.

One parent was always gone, working jobs that never seemed to bring home enough. The other was always in a room, the blue light of the TV flickering against the walls like the rest of the house didn’t exist.

He remembered cleaning anyway. Not because anyone told him to, and certainly not for a reward. He did it because no one else did. Because the chaos made his head ache. And the cruelest part was that when things weren’t clean, it somehow became his fault in the eyes of the others. Even when it wasn't.

He blinked, shaking the memory away. He kept washing. Owari eventually stepped closer, her presence a soft warmth at his side. “You’re… really doing all of it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s kind of weird,” she said softly.

“…Probably.”

There was another pause, longer this time. The pile of clean dishes was growing on the drying rack. Then, she reached out and tugged lightly at his sleeve, the fabric damp from the sink. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.” He glanced at her hand, then back at the sink. The words hit a wall inside him. He wasn't used to help. Help usually came with strings attached, or it was just another word for someone getting in the way.“…Just hand me plates,” he said, 

his voice softening.

They worked like that for a while. Not talking much. Just passing things. Water, soap, silence. It was a functional, quiet partnership. The rhythm of the work filled the space where words usually failed them. Time moved without either of them really noticing, the gray outside slowly beginning to transition into a pale, watery yellow.
                              

                                   ... 

At some point, Yamada left. He didn't give an explanation. He didn't say goodbye. He just dried his hands, rolled down his sleeves, and stepped out into the rain again. Owari watched him go, her expression a mix of confusion and fatigue, but she didn’t stop him. She simply sat on the edge of her couch and waited.

The convenience store was the same as always. Maki-modoshi Mart. The fluorescent lights were buzzing softly overhead, a sound that usually annoyed him but now felt strangely comforting. It was quieter than the peak night shifts, but the store was still alive with the early-morning commuters and the late-night drunks looking for one last snack.
His coworker, Ryu Sato, looked up from behind the counter when he walked in. Ryu was a man who seemed to exist entirely on caffeine and sarcasm.

“…Yamada?” he said, leaning on his elbows. “You just left an hour ago. Forget your soul in the break room?” Yamada ignored him, walking straight to the household aisle.

“I need supplies.”

“That’s a weird thing to buy from your workplace,” Ryu muttered, watching Yamada pick up what he needed and headed toward the register.

Soap, some sponges, a few basic groceries, and left without responding to Ryu’s further jabs. Ryu watched him go, shaking his head. “…Dude’s like an urban legend,” he said to no one. “The Ghost of the Graveyard Shift.”

When Yamada came back to the apartment, Owari was asleep on the couch. She was curled slightly, one arm tucked under her head for a pillow. The blankets he had seen earlier were now draped over her, though whether she had pulled them up or fallen into them, he couldn't tell. She looked less tired like this. Not peaceful, peace felt like too strong a word for someone like Owari, just temporarily shut down. Like a machine that had been allowed to cool.

He stared at her for a second longer than intended. He noticed the way her breathing was shallow and even. Then he looked away, feeling like an intruder in a moment he wasn't meant to see. He went to the kitchen and restocked the fridge. He didn't do it perfectly, but he did it with the efficiency of a man who spent ten hours a night doing exactly this. He checked what food was there, discarding a few things that had clearly passed their prime. He moved things around to make room, adding the simple items he had bought. Milk, eggs, some fruit. Nothing complicated.

When he finished, the kitchen felt different. It felt like a place where someone could actually live.

He sat down on the couch beside her, leaving a respectful distance. The apartment was quiet again. Not uncomfortable this time, not heavy with the weight of neglect. Just still.He leaned back slightly, the fabric of the couch scratching against his neck. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a long, slow exhale that seemed to take all the tension of the night with it.

Then he froze.
The reality of the situation finally pierced through his exhaustion. He realized where he was. In another person’s apartment. Sitting next to her. Alone. The domesticity of the moment felt alien and terrifying.His face went slightly red, the heat rising to his ears.
“…I should leave,” he muttered to the empty room.

“Owari?” he heard his own voice crack.She was awake. She hadn't stirred much, but her eyes were open. She was already sitting up, the blankets falling away. Her hair was even messier now, a wild halo of dark strands. Her eyes were half-lidded but focused on him with an intensity that made him want to look away.

“…Do you know how to braid hair?”
He blinked. The question was so far outside the realm of what he expected that he couldn't process it.

“…What?”

“I don’t want it in my face,” she said, brushing a stray lock away with a frustrated gesture. “It’s annoying.” Silence. He looked at his hands, the hands that had spent the morning scrubbing grease and carrying grocery bags. “…I can try,” he said softly. They moved to sit on the floor, the carpet rough beneath them. She turned around, her back to him, presenting the back of her head like a puzzle to be solved. He started carefully. 

Slowly. He wasn't an expert; his hands were used to the rigid shapes of boxes and cans, not the soft, unpredictable nature of hair. He divided it into three sections, his fingers fumbling at first. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't elegant. It was just functional, a tight, sturdy braid that pulled the hair back from her forehead.She stayed still the entire time. She didn’t comment on his clumsiness. She didn’t interrupt the silence. She just sat there, allowing him this small, intimate act of care.After a while, as he was finishing the end, she spoke.

“…You like music?”
He paused slightly, his fingers hovering over the braid.

“…Not really.”

“That’s kind of sad,” she said. There was no judgment in her voice, just a quiet observation.He didn’t respond. Music always felt too loud, too demanding of his emotions. He preferred the hum of the store.Then she added, a little softer, her voice barely above a whisper “I like Queen.” He looked up slightly, surprised. “…I have some of their records,” he admitted. “My father left them behind.” Her eyes shifted as she turned her head slightly to look at him over her shoulder.“…Seriously?” “Yeah.” 

“…You should bring them next time.”

He hesitated. The words "next time" felt heavy, like a promise he wasn't sure he was ready to keep. “…Next time?” She looked away quickly, her ears tinged with a faint pink. “…Yeah. Next time.”Silence again. But it was different this time. Less empty. More like it was waiting for something, like a seed buried under the snow.

“Why are you a lawyer?” he asked suddenly. The question had been rattling around in his head since he first saw her in her professional clothes. She didn't seem to fit the mold.

She blinked, then leaned back slightly against the edge of the couch.“I wanted to be a criminal defense attorney,” she said, her voice flat. “…That’s a big shift.” “Yeah,” she replied. “Things changed. Life happened. You know how it is. You start off wanting to save the world, and you end up just trying to save enough for rent. ”That was all she said. No long explanation of failed exams or broken dreams. No explanation after that.
More silence. The rain outside had stopped, leaving behind a world that was shimmering and damp. Then she tilted her head back and looked at him, a playful glint finally touching her eyes.

“…Do you play video games?” “No.” “I got one from my little brother,” she said. “He insisted I needed a hobby. Something called BRICK Star Battles.”He stared at her for a second, his brow furrowing. “You build ships out of digital blocks and then they blow up. It’s remarkably therapeutic.”

Hours passed like that. Not fast, not slow. Just existing in the shared space of the apartment. They talked about small things, the price of eggs, the annoying flickering light in the hall, the way the city looked from her window at night.

At some point, the world outside stopped mattering. The shifts, the store, the gray sky, all of it faded into the background. It was just the two of them in a quiet apartment that no longer felt as messy or as lonely as it did before.

Eventually, Owari spoke again. Her tone had shifted. It wasn't casual this time. It wasn't like she was continuing a conversation about video games or music. More like she had been holding a specific thought in for a long time, and it had finally reached the point where it had to be released.

“…Hey, Kyumoto.”

He looked at her.She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t frowning either. She was just looking at him with a raw, terrifying honesty.

“…Will you be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

It wasn't the empty kind of silence. It was the heavy kind, the kind that feels like it’s waiting for a thunderclap to break it. The kind of silence that has weight and volume.
Yamada didn’t answer right away. He couldn't. His brain felt like it had stalled, the gears grinding against each other. He just stared at her, his mind trying to reconcile the girl in the messy apartment with the question she had just asked.

It was a question that didn’t fully make sense to him. He was a convenience store clerk with no prospects and a tired soul. He was a man who spent his mornings washing other people's dishes because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

Like the question belonged somewhere else. In a different story. To a different person. 

“…Why?” he asked quietly. It was the only word he could find. Owari didn’t look away. She didn't flinch. “I don’t want to do this alone anymore,” she said. Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor of vulnerability beneath the surface.

A pause.

“…With you here, it doesn’t feel like I am.” Yamada didn’t speak. He couldn't find the words to explain the rush of heat in his chest or the way the room suddenly felt too small and yet perfectly sized all at once.But his hand, resting on his knee, tightened slightly. Not into a fist of anger or defense. Just enough to notice the reality of his own skin, the reality of being alive in this moment.

And the silence stayed. It stretched out between them, no longer a void, but a bridge. It stayed until it didn’t need to anymore, until the answer was written in the way he didn't pull away, and the way the morning light finally, truly, broke through the clouds.