Chapter 7: Caregiver and Stranger

The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, casting a warm hue across the monochrome apartment. Aria stood in the sleek, sterile kitchen—more like a showroom than a place where meals were ever cooked—wrestling with the toaster that seemed to have a personal vendetta against her.

The eggs had burned. Twice.

Now the toast was threatening to join them in a blackened, crispy mess.

She sighed and reached for the butter, determined to make the morning special, even if it meant turning Ichiro's perfect kitchen upside down. The coffee machine beeped, and two mismatched mugs—one gray, one red—sat ready on the counter. She picked the red one for him. It stood out in his sea of grayscale. Maybe, just maybe, a little color wouldn't kill him.

When everything was plated, she tiptoed into his bedroom.

He was still asleep—or pretending to be. Hair tousled, glasses off, jaw tight even in rest.

Aria leaned over the bed and gently nudged his shoulder. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

He stirred, eyes fluttering open. "What is it?"

"Breakfast's ready," she said brightly. "But first, help me help you wash up. You're not eating like a grumpy bear in bed today."

He groaned softly but didn't protest, allowing her to help him sit up. She guided him through his morning routine—awkward and clumsy at times, but with a gentle steadiness that softened the edges of his resistance.

Once cleaned and dressed, she wheeled him out to the dining table.

The setup was modest: eggs, toast, fruit, and coffee in their mismatched mugs. She even folded the napkins, just to make it look like she knew what she was doing.

Ichiro stared at the spread with a blank expression, then attempted to lift his fork. His hand trembled. The utensil slipped from his fingers, clattering against the plate.

Silence.

He clenched his jaw and tried again, only for his wrist to give out once more.

Aria said nothing.

She simply rose from her seat, circled the table, and sat beside him. "Let me feed you."

He didn't look at her. "I can—"

"You can," she interrupted gently, picking up the fork. "But today, maybe let me?"

His silence wasn't consent, but it wasn't refusal either. She took that as permission.

Her voice turned teasing, light, a flicker of flirtation in her tone. "Come on. Say 'ahh,' Doctor Grumpy."

He sighed, defeated. "You're ridiculous."

"And yet, here you are, letting me feed you eggs that are only slightly burnt."

He opened his mouth reluctantly, and she grinned as she guided the fork to his lips.

"There we go," she said, beaming. "See? Not so bad."

He chewed silently, eyes fixed on the table, but something in his posture eased. Not acceptance, but something close.

They finished the meal slowly, awkwardly, with Aria occasionally sneaking in little jokes, light brushes of her fingers against his, subtle attempts to chip away at the icy wall around him.

And when it was done, she helped him back to the couch, fluffed the pillows behind him, adjusted the throw blanket like it was second nature.

Ichiro didn't thank her. But he also didn't stop her.

As she cleared the dishes, humming softly under her breath, Ichiro glanced at the white gold ring on his finger—cold, unfamiliar—and for a moment, he didn't feel quite as alone.

That night, Aria curled up on the couch outside his bedroom, hugging a pillow to her chest. She whispered to herself, "One day, you'll let me in."

And in the next room, Ichiro lay awake in silence, wondering why her voice stayed with him longer than his own thoughts.