Volume 2 Episode 06

When I open the chest of drawers where I keep my loungewear, Miyagi’s clothes catch my eye.

It’s the T-shirt she lent me during spring break, after my uniform was drenched in soda—a shirt I once tried to return.

In the end, Miyagi refused to take it back, and it somehow became mine. I can’t bring myself to throw it away, yet I’ve never worn it. It’s been sitting here ever since, tucked away with nowhere to belong.

My fingers brush lightly against the fabric.

I’d washed it before returning it, so there’s no trace of Miyagi left.

Closing my eyes briefly, I pull out a tank top and head for the bathroom.

Maybe because it’s Friday night, even past 11 p.m., the light in the living room is still on. I slip quietly down the hall and take a bath. I don’t linger in the hot water—just rinse off, get out, grab a chilled plastic bottle from the fridge, and return to my room.

On my desk, my phone lights up.

While replying to a few messages, I drain half the bottle of tea. Then, with my phone still in hand, I collapse onto the bed.

I wasn’t planning to think about today, but the memory creeps in anyway.

Stripping in front of Miyagi, and making her strip too.

Setting my phone down by the pillow, I let out a heavy sigh.

Seeing her three times a week isn’t a bad thing.

I want to spend my days off with friends, go out, have fun. If you’re close, that’s natural. Meeting Miyagi during break isn’t all that different—at least in theory. We’ve kissed before, and that still feels within bounds. My lips have touched her skin plenty of times, and she’s done the same to me.

So far, so fine.

But taking off clothes—making someone take them off—breaks the unspoken rules.

That rainy day, I should’ve pushed her hands away the moment she started unbuttoning my uniform, told her she was being ridiculous. Accepting that one broken rule has let everything drag on.

I sigh again, staring at the ceiling.

The me who once pinned Miyagi down in this room quickly grew to despise that version of myself. I’m still cursing her now. That curse has been slowly wrapping around my heart, twisting everything I feel.

Undressing Miyagi. Touching her.

I start to imagine going further, then shut the thought down.

“That’s bad, right?”

I shouldn’t be thinking like this.

Ever since Miyagi came here, my head’s been crowded with things I can’t tell anyone.

Like how I should’ve just kissed her.

Or left a mark that wouldn’t fade.

I keep thinking about things like that—pointless, dangerous things—and now here I am.

This isn’t me.

I’m usually sharper, more efficient. I know how to socialize, how to keep a good position. Since starting high school, I’ve managed to keep a balance I plan to maintain until graduation. These feelings for Miyagi are nothing but an obstacle.

'I actually like you quite a bit, Miyagi.'

I hadn’t meant to say that to her face, but I can’t deny it. I blurted it out because she insisted there was nothing she liked about me, but if it were just mild fondness, it wouldn’t be a problem.

It isn’t.

I like her more than I realized, and I can’t control it.

So today, I tried to pull myself back into shape.

I let out another sigh.

When a glitchy phone acts up, sometimes a restart fixes everything. I thought maybe I could reset myself the same way.

If taking off clothes feels like a big deal, it creates tension. But if I treat it like nothing—like changing in the locker room—then maybe it won’t.

I told Miyagi to give the order, and I took off my clothes like it was nothing.

Tricking myself. Brushing it off.

Even if I can’t erase my feelings, maybe I could at least put them in order. Like last year, when her annoying little commands were just a way to kill time, and I’d sold her a few hours of my week.

That was the plan.

It didn’t work.

Undressing her, or ordering her to undress—that’s fine in theory.

I gave her two choices, and she, predictably, told me to strip.

I’m good at hiding my feelings. I can take off my clothes without so much as a flicker on my face. But that wasn’t enough. My emotions overran my reason, and I ended up undressing her too.

No—that’s not exactly it.

The truth is, I couldn’t stop wanting to undress her. Even if I looked calm, the intent was there, and now all that’s left is this stubborn urge to touch her more.

Even now, while regretting it, I’m remembering how soft she felt, how good it was where we touched. My thoughts stray into places they shouldn’t.

It’s unsettling—how much I don’t feel like myself.

I want to touch her directly, not through fabric.

Miyagi. Again.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.

I wouldn’t want to with anyone else. But with her, the wanting keeps growing. These feelings pile up like snow in summer—refusing to melt.

“Maybe it’s a good thing today’s Friday.”

Seeing her again after just one day off would feel too heavy right now.

I like her, but I want to keep it to something harmless—like thinking her room is comfortable. I’ve already decided to leave after graduation, to attend a university outside the prefecture, and I have no intention of changing that.

I’m not aiming for a spotless, virtuous life, either. A little thrill is fine. As long as I don’t get too deeply involved, I can enjoy the surface-level moments in that room.

It’s an extreme, contradictory thought.

But Miyagi scrambles my reasoning. The more I think about her, the less I know what to do.

And it’s mostly her fault for giving such strange orders.

She says things that keep me from being the polished, well-balanced person I usually am.

So maybe a little contradiction is forgivable.

Besides—lately she’s been oddly considerate, which makes me uneasy.

This house has nothing to do with Miyagi.

When she’s not her usual self, it leaves me room to do things like today.

I shift the blame to her and glance at the wall separating this room from the next.

I haven’t thought this much about someone since the one in the next room. Back when my parents’ favoritism toward my sister became obvious, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I’m not the same person I was then, but seeing echoes of that version of myself irritates me.

“Ugh. Summer break, and I’m not even excited.”

I grab my phone and check the time—past 1 a.m. Maybe I should call Umina.

She’s a night owl; she’ll still be up. Wanting to change my mood, I dial her number. The phone rings once, twice… and on the fifth ring, her cheerful voice answers, sounding nothing like it’s the middle of the night.

“That’s rare—you calling this late.”

“Couldn’t sleep. You free, Umina?”

“My boyfriend passed out on the phone, so I’m bored.”

I don’t have anything in particular to talk about.

She’d probably talk to anyone just to kill time, but we both know we can keep a conversation going, so we chat about nothing in particular.

Her voice—so different from Miyagi’s—soothes me a little.

The words come easily. Our talk flows better than it ever does with Miyagi, though whether it’s actually fun is another matter. Since I saw Umina last week, it feels like we’re just retracing the same topics as before.

“This year, don’t you think Hazuki’s been kind of distant? Is cram school really that busy?” Umina asks, her dissatisfaction plain in her voice.

Last year, we hung out twice as often, so I can’t really blame her for complaining.

“Yeah, it’s been pretty packed,” I admit.

Cram school really is eating up most of my summer break. Add all the time I’ve been spending at Miyagi’s house, and my schedule’s even tighter.

Umina rattles off a list of places she wants to visit, urging me over the phone to make time. I say “sure,” though whether I’ll actually follow through is another matter. She perks up instantly, then suddenly adds—as if remembering something—“Oh, right. Have you finished your homework?”

“Pretty much.”

“Then let me copy it!”

“Sure. Want to meet up tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s today, right?”

It takes her comment for me to remember it’s already past 1 a.m.

“Oh—yeah, today.”

“Alright, today then. Oh, and there’s somewhere I want to go.”

She names a place that sounds far more important to her than any homework.

Truthfully, I don’t especially feel like seeing her. Last year, I would’ve been more excited.

I’m just… not in the mood.

Still, maybe getting out will help clear my head, so I agree to meet her.

✧✧✧✧✧

The next morning, I woke up feeling better than usual.

The reason’s obvious—Umina.

She dragged me around all day Saturday and again on Sunday, leaving me so tired I didn’t have the energy for useless thoughts, and I slept like a rock. I hadn’t planned on spending two full days running around, but forcing Miyagi out of my mind probably helped me rest well.

Thanks to that, I made it through cram school as usual and arrived at Miyagi’s house without issue.

If I ignore a faint awkwardness lingering between us, everything’s fine.

In fact, neither of us mentioned what happened on Friday. Miyagi simply handed me five thousand yen for tutoring, silently spread her workbook out on the table, and I’ve been methodically jotting answers in my notebook ever since. The room is calm—almost too calm.

We both know Friday is buried somewhere in that workbook, temporarily erased while we focus on solving problems. Our conversations—never especially lively—have dwindled further, but I don’t mind. Silence won’t kill us, and it certainly won’t end whatever this is between us.

It’s a bit too quiet, but better than noisy.

I pick up my glass and gulp down the cold barley tea. Miyagi seems to have stopped fussing over me, and the room’s warmer than I’d prefer.

I consider lowering the air conditioner a couple of degrees but stop myself. It’s still cooler than outside, and I don’t want a repeat of Friday.

“Sendai-san,” Miyagi calls out suddenly.

“What?”

“Were you at the station on Sunday?”

“I was. Why?”

I look up from the workbook and meet her eyes. Whatever impure thoughts I might’ve had seem to have been scorched away by the sun during my walk here, so her proximity isn’t bothering me much today.

“I saw you walking with Kinoshita-san,” she says.

I almost tell her she could’ve called out to me, but swallow the thought. We’re not on those terms.

“Were you with Utsunomiya?” I ask instead, just to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah, I was out with Maika and the others.”

“What were you doing?”

“Shopping.”

At the start of summer break, she wouldn’t tell me where she was going with Utsunomiya, but now she answers easily.

“What about you, Sendai-san?”

“Same. I was tagging along with Umina while she shopped.”

“Was it fun?”

Either bored with problem-solving or tired of the silence, Miyagi’s asking things she usually wouldn’t.

“It was alright,” I say shortly, earning a skeptical look.

I don’t know what I looked like from her perspective, but I doubt I seemed unhappy. I never look bored around Umina. Half of my answer was true—being dragged around was exhausting, but there were fun moments.

“What about you, Miyagi? Did you have fun?”

Fending off her skepticism feels like too much effort, so I toss the question back.

“I don’t do things that aren’t fun.”

“Oh? So what did you buy?”

“Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Her bonus round of answering my questions is over. Still, she genuinely seemed to enjoy herself yesterday—her voice wasn’t as cool as usual.

I don’t know much about Utsunomiya, but she’s clearly close to Miyagi. I’ve never asked how long they’ve been friends, but they probably are—real friends.

That’s something I don’t have right now.

Most of my relationships are calculated, and I find myself a little jealous.

Could Utsunomiya touch Miyagi without thinking about it?

It’s ridiculous to add a qualifier like “without thinking” to a friend—you shouldn’t have to. I was wrong to think my feelings had burned out; half of them are still smoldering, which is why I’m having thoughts like this.

—I’m the worst.

I toss my pen aside and let my forehead drop to the table with a dull thud.

“What’s that about?” Miyagi asks, startled.

Ignoring her, I say into the tabletop, “Any questions you don’t get? Tell me, I’ll explain.”

“I don’t have any questions except why you just slumped over like that.”

“Then keep working on the workbook.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“Just a little disappointed in myself.”

If I let my guard down, I might do something that repeats Friday, and I hate that.

I never thought my self-control was this fragile. I always thought Miyagi was the troublesome one, but maybe I’m worse.

“Don’t say weird things. Focus,” she says, using a tone I’d normally use.

“I was focused. All morning.”

“That’s cram school. Be serious here too.”

If studying could rid me of these pointless obsessions, I’d do it endlessly. But I doubt it will. A walk in the blistering heat might work better.

“Hey, Miyagi. Got any bread?”

She blinks. “Bread?”

“Yeah. And milk and eggs.”

“No. Why?”

“Don’t you want French toast?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I do.”

I answer immediately, ignoring her instant refusal.

We’re not close enough for me to suggest going for a walk, and I can’t just leave without a reason. So I’ll make one up.

I just want a change of scenery. If I come back, I think I could sit next to Miyagi and work without overthinking.

She doesn’t usually let food into this room, but once in a while, a snack together wouldn’t be bad.

“I’ll go buy the ingredients. Wait here.”

Whether she wants it or not doesn’t matter—I grab my bag and stand.

“French toast can wait. Study,” she says irritably, tossing the alligator-shaped tissue box at me. I catch it and set the alligator back in place.

“Pretty rare for you to say that, Miyagi.”

“When you suddenly start something, it always turns into trouble, so I want you to stop.”

“That makes it sound like I’m always trouble.”

“You are.”

“I’m not. I’m just making French toast today.”

I didn’t tell her I’m doing it to avoid trouble, but I wish she wouldn’t try to stop me.

“I’ll be right back. Want to come, Miyagi?”

I make it clear I won’t change my mind, adding a little “magic phrase” to nudge Miyagi into sending me off alone.

“I’m not going. If you want to go, go by yourself.”

Just as I expected, she replies exactly as I thought she would, then drops her gaze back to the workbook.

“Then wait here. And lock the door.”

If I could avoid it, I wouldn’t step outside into the midsummer heat.

Walking through a windless town beneath a cloudless, blazing sky is pure torture.

But right now, I have to venture into this sauna of a city.

Leaving Miyagi behind, I head out the door and into the elevator.

The moment I step outside, sweat beads on my forehead.

Something sweet will probably lift my mood.

There’s no real logic behind it, but I choose to believe it as I trudge down the sun-scorched sidewalk.

This is so typical of Miyagi.

I sigh, searching for a scrap of shade.

She’s inconsistent—always ready to bolt when something happens.

And maybe because we’ve been together so much lately, I’m starting to pick up her habits. I don’t want to believe I’m turning into her. I tell myself it’s just a coincidence—just for today.

I press my temples, trying to push her out of my head.

Bread, eggs, milk.

She’s bound to have sugar already.

I quicken my pace to finish this errand quickly.

The faster I walk, the faster the sweat runs down my forehead.

My t-shirt sticks to my back.

It’s hot—hot enough to melt away the uncharacteristic feelings I’ve been having about Miyagi.

Maybe the bread for the French toast feels the same way when it’s cooking, I think vaguely as I walk past the convenience store to a supermarket farther away. I buy what I need and head straight back to Miyagi’s apartment.

I get the auto-lock open, ride the elevator, and return.

A simple trip, really.

I didn’t linger, bought only the essentials, and came right back—so I wasn’t gone for more than an hour. But even that short time has shifted my mood a little.

The heat didn’t clear my head—it only made it hotter—but at least it chased away my more troublesome thoughts.

“I’m back,” I call, as Miyagi opens the door.

“I didn’t ask you to go.”

Her voice is sharp.

“I know. But let’s take a break.”

“I’ve been on a break the whole time because you were out shopping.”

With that, she heads back to her room. I follow her, supermarket bag in hand, and find her sitting on the bed, reading a manga.

“Miyagi, what about the French toast?”

“Use the kitchen.”

“That’s not what I mean. Let’s make it together and have a snack.”

Even after I clarify, she doesn’t move.

Fine. Time for drastic measures.

I set the bag on the floor and pull the book from her hands. It’s a manga I haven’t seen before.

So this is what she bought yesterday while shopping with Utsunomiya and the others.

“You can eat it by yourself,” she mutters, snatching the manga back.

She’s clearly in a bad mood.

“Oh, Miyagi—do you hate French toast or something?”

Sure, I went shopping without warning and ignored her telling me to study. That’s probably why she’s annoyed, but I offer a safer excuse.

“…”

She doesn’t even look at me.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

“…I don’t know. I’ve never had it.”

“There are people like that?”

I’m not mocking her—it’s genuine surprise.

But she clearly doesn’t take it that way. Her reply comes out in a low, sulky tone.

“I’m definitely not eating it.”

“No need to sulk. I’ll show you how to make it—just help out.”

“I’m not helping. Make it yourself.”

“This is an extracurricular lesson.”

“You always say that.”

She finally looks up from the manga, her expression steeped in dissatisfaction.

“Fine. I’ll bring it to you when it’s done. Stay here.”

Honestly, there’s no reason we have to make it together. Besides, cooking with her might undo my newly reset mood. I can make French toast on my own—probably faster.

The last time we cooked together—fried chicken—she cut her finger, and I ended up drinking the blood from the wound.

“I’m borrowing the kitchen.”

I announce this and start to leave with the bag, but she tugs on my t-shirt hem.

“What?”

“I’ll go with you.”

I don’t know how she is with others, but Miyagi is never straightforward with me. She makes a fuss, yet still decides to come to the kitchen.

She says she won’t eat the French toast, but I’m sure she will in the end.

She could just say so from the start.

So irritating.

But this back-and-forth feels more normal than our study sessions—more like the usual Miyagi and me.

I walk down the short hall to the kitchen, but Miyagi stops at the living room counter.

“Miyagi, over here.”

I call to her, knowing full well she doesn’t intend to help.

“Why?”

“You came to help, didn’t you?”

I know I shouldn’t egg her on, but the words slip out anyway.

Nothing’s going to happen.

I’m back to being rational.

“No way. Do it yourself.”

“Come on—at least mix the eggs. Even if you’re terrible at cooking, you can manage that. Or can’t you?”

I take the milk and eggs from the bag and glance at her. She’s making a face.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” she says grudgingly, stepping into the kitchen.

“Can I use whatever dishes?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

I grab a bowl and crack an egg into it.

“Mix this.”

I hand her a pair of chopsticks—then realize something.

I forgot to buy butter.

I check the fridge and find a sad-looking lump of butter on the verge of expiration. When I ask Miyagi when she bought it, she vaguely replies, “A while ago.”

I decide to trust her and move on.

“Add a tablespoon of sugar and mix it with the milk.”

I give her the sugar and milk, then line up the bread on the cutting board.

Half a loaf should be plenty.

I could cut it into four for easier eating, but today I’ll just halve it.

Knife in hand, I glance over—and see Miyagi still adding sugar.

“Miyagi, stop.”

“What?”

“You’re putting in too much. How many spoonfuls?”

“Three… maybe?”

“I said one.”

“It’s better sweeter.”

“No, it’s not. Follow the recipe.”

Two spoons might have been fine, but three is too much.

Since I can’t take the sugar out, I crack in another egg, double the milk, and start mixing. Miyagi immediately tries to dump in more sugar.

“Hey—Miyagi.”

I grab her wrist mid-sabotage.

“Listen to me and I’ll let you boss me around later.”

“I’ve got nothing to order you to do.”

“There’s gotta be something.”

“Then drink this.”

She gestures at the overly sweet egg mixture.

“Are you serious?”

Even without the sugar overload, this mixture is for soaking bread—not drinking.

“That’s why I said I’ve got nothing to order. Why don’t you give me an order for once? I’ll give you the right to boss me around as thanks for making French toast.”

“That’d just be telling you to follow the recipe. Pointless.”

“Then I’ll follow three of your orders. That way, we can make French toast in peace.”

So she really was planning to mess with me.

If she won’t listen without some kind of bargain, I’d rather make it alone.

“Three orders? What are you, a genie in a lamp?”

I take the bowl from Miyagi and begin whisking the eggs.

“The genie in the lamp grants wishes—it doesn’t take orders. You’re the one being ridiculous, Miyagi.”

As expected, Miyagi’s the absurd one here.

Her orders count as orders, but mine? Probably not. I doubt she’d obey them without question, so at best they’d be “requests.” And even if she were a genie, there’s no guarantee she’d grant my wishes.

“Look, if you’re going to help, then help. Stop with the talk about orders. If you don’t want to, go sit over there.”

It’s rude, but I gesture toward the living room with my chopsticks.

Miyagi doesn’t move.

“You make up your own rules all the time. So it’s fine, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Then hurry up and give me an order.”

She turns to me with a tone that sounds like an order in itself.

Unbelievable. Why is the one who’s supposed to be following orders acting so high and mighty?

Even if I had three orders to give, they’d be things like: measure the sugar correctly, measure the milk correctly, and cook the bread over low heat. Hardly worth using an “order” on.

So, what should I say?

I lower my eyes to the golden egg mixture.

Something I want Miyagi to do.

Something I want to do to Miyagi.

Not that I don’t have ideas—but they’re not the kind of thing to say here in the kitchen.

I set the bowl and chopsticks down, then face her.

“Any order’s fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t move.”

“…Huh?”

“I said don’t move.”

“Okay… but then what?”

She blinks at me, clearly expecting an instruction related to the French toast.

“Close your eyes.”

“…What are you planning?”

Even though I’ve just told her not to move, she takes half a step back.

“Just shut up and do it.”

“Shut up? Is that an order?”

“Yeah. You said you’d listen to three, right?”

She furrows her brow and glares at me. Her mouth starts to form a complaint—“Sendai-san”—but she swallows it, shutting her eyes slowly.

I didn’t think she’d comply so easily.

Her unexpected obedience throws me off. I’d been sure she would resist, anticipating what might happen next.

I touch the cheek of this unusually cooperative Miyagi.

She doesn’t move as my fingers slide over her skin.

Those irrational feelings I thought had burned away in the midsummer sun are still smoldering, and I can’t stop myself. The reason I’d regained during our shopping trip turns out to have been on loan—ready to crumble at the slightest push.

Slowly, like the closing of her eyes, I lean in. I shut my own eyes, blotting her from view, and press my lips to hers.

Even blind, I feel as though I can see her perfectly.

I press harder.

My heart’s pounding faster than normal.

I’m not used to kissing Miyagi so casually. Still, this second kiss—third, if I count every brush of lips—feels good. The soft warmth of her mouth melts what’s left of my restraint like butter on a hot pan.

I don’t dislike kissing.

I want it to last a little longer.

Something small like this during summer break is fine.

I tell myself a kiss isn’t a big deal.

My tongue grazes her lips, trying to part them. She pushes against my shoulders, harder than I expected, so I pull back—then press in for another kiss.

This time I just taste her lips, nothing more. But then she bites me, hard, and I end up shoving her shoulders.

It hurts.

I touch my lips and feel something wet. My fingers come away red.

“It’s not our first time, so you didn’t have to go that far,” I say sharply, the pain still throbbing.

“First time or not doesn’t matter. You’re the one who acted selfishly, Sendai-san.”

Her tone is irritated.

I’m not sure whether she means the tongue or the licking. She hadn’t resisted when it was just lips, so the kiss itself can’t be what she’s calling selfish.

“Maybe hold back a little.”

I keep it short. There’s plenty I could say, but arguing with her would just give her more openings to complain.

“Do you have a mirror?”

The wound might not be deep, but it still stings. Biting that hard—Miyagi’s insane.

“I’ll check it for you.”

“I’ll check it myself.”

“There’s no mirror here.”

She leans in—far too close for someone “just checking a wound.”

I start to ask, What are you— but before I can, she licks my lips like a dog or a cat.

I freeze, startled, and push her away.

“Disinfecting,” she says, stepping back with a flimsy excuse. “Blood doesn’t taste good.”

“Obviously. And like I said before, licking isn’t disinfecting.”

I know the taste of her blood—I’ve licked it before. It was just as unpleasant. She should already know that. It’s not hygienic, and it’s not something you do willingly.

But she leans in again.

“Hey, Miyagi.”

I stop her before her lips touch mine. My hands are gripping her shoulders. I’m not even sure why I stopped her.

“You’re the one who started it, Sendai-san.”

Her words catch me off guard.

Sure, I’ve been leading her on, but I didn’t expect her to say something like that.

“…You want to kiss me again?”

She doesn’t answer.

When I move closer, she murmurs, “I’ll do it,” and presses her lips to mine.

Her lips are soft, warm—pleasant.

The pain remains, but it fades beneath the sensation of her mouth.

As long as it’s just lips, Miyagi stays calm. I let the kiss linger a little longer this time before pulling away.

“…You really are a pervert, Sendai-san,” she mutters, glaring at me.

“You wanted to kiss too, so we’re the same.”

“We’re not.”

She insists, then reaches out and brushes her fingers over my wound.

“That hurts.”

Her touch only presses harder, making me wince.

Physically, we’re closer than before. But there’s still a distance between us I can’t cross.

Does Miyagi still want to see me make a face I hate?

Her fingers keep pressing against my lips, as I endure the small, persistent pain.