Yukinoshita Yukino closed her paperback, her slender fingers pressing against page thirty-seven.
She stood.
The wooden legs of her chair scraped against the floorboards with a soft friction.
“…I am going to the restroom.”
Her voice was a faint murmur, just loud enough to cross the two-meter gap between them.
Tōhō Getsukai gave a low hum of acknowledgment, his gaze never leaving his own book.
Footsteps clicked across the clubroom floor.
The door shut.
Silence reclaimed the space.
Tōhō Getsukai turned another page.
He waited, listening as the rhythmic tapping of her shoes faded completely at the far end of the hallway.
Only then did he slowly snap his book shut and lean back into his chair.
Thirty minutes.
That was enough.
For a first meeting, existing quietly in the same room for half an hour without forcing conversation—while allowing the other person to physically relax their shoulders—was a massive victory.
This was the highest courtesy an SSS-rank ice-cold beauty could possibly offer.
Overstaying his welcome would only depreciate his value.
Rule number three of the ‘Understanding Big Sister’ code: Always make your exit when the target is at their most comfortable.
That way, her memory of him wouldn’t be ‘that annoying person who wouldn’t leave,’but rather,’the room felt a little emptier after he was gone.’
He stood and grabbed his school bag.
The Service Club application form remained spread out on the table.
Only three characters had been filled in on the name line.
Tōhō Getsu.
He glanced at the incomplete signature, making no move to pick up a pen.
It was entirely intentional.
Yukinoshita Yukino was a neat freak with severe obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
A half-filled form abandoned on her pristine table would gnaw at her mind far more effectively than ten perfectly completed documents.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he tapped the toes of his leather shoes against the floor twice.
He walked to the door, paused, and swept his gaze over the window blinds he had carefully adjusted earlier.
The scattered evening light filtered through the slats, spreading evenly across the long table and perfectly illuminating Yukinoshita’s empty seat.
Perfect.
He pushed the door open, stepped into the corridor, and pulled it shut.
Throughout the entire process, he made absolutely zero unnecessary noise.
…
Yukinoshita Yukino returned from the restroom, the skin of her hands still slightly damp.
She pushed open the door to the Service Club.
Her immediate reaction: Silence.
The chair two seats away sat empty.
Only a single sheet of paper remained on the desk.
The uninvited silver-haired guest had vanished.
No farewell.
No ‘I will be taking my leave.’No’See you tomorrow, Yukinoshita-san.’
He hadn’t even rummaged through her bookshelf while she was gone.
He just left.
She walked over to the table and lowered her gaze.
Tōhō Getsu.
Three characters.
The rest of the line was entirely blank.
The handwriting was clean, the strokes elegant and slightly upturned.
The writer possessed a steady hand, yet they had simply abandoned the effort halfway through.
Did he forget to finish?
Or did he never intend to finish it at all?
Yukinoshita stared at the paper for five seconds.
Then, she registered the lingering scent in the air.
A very faint citrus note, neither sweet nor cloying.
It belonged to him.
She picked up the application form and flipped it over.
The back was completely blank.
No hidden message, no contact information, absolutely nothing.
She placed the paper back in its exact original spot, aligning the edges perfectly parallel with the side of the table.
Sitting back down, she opened her paperback.
She turned a page.
Then another.
By the time she reached the third page, she realized she hadn’t processed a single syllable.
“…”
She closed the book.
Today was not a good day for reading.
…
Beika Town shopping street, six in the evening.
Tōhō Getsukai stood before a bustling vegetable stall, two eco-friendly shopping bags dangling from his wrist as he inspected the tomatoes.
He squeezed one gently with his left hand, pressing his thumb against the skin.
Too firm.
Unripe.
Pass.
He picked up another.
The color was patchy and uneven.
Pass.
The third one was plump, slightly soft to the touch, the stem tinged with a vibrant green while the rest of the skin flushed a deep, rich red.
Perfect.
He bagged the three tomatoes and pivoted toward the butcher shop next door.
“Boss, three hundred grams of Australian beef chuck, please.”
“Coming right up, young lady!
The usual cut?”
“Yes.
Cut against the grain, one centimeter thick.”
Tōhō Getsukai accepted the wrapped parcel of meat without a single twitch of his facial muscles.
Correcting his gender at the local market was a futile endeavor.
He had tried it exactly once.
The butcher had stared blankly at him for three solid seconds, then silently added two extra slabs of premium meat to his bag.
The reasoning had been simple: ‘It is my first time seeing such a pretty boy, this is on the house.’
Carrying his groceries, he strolled back toward the apartment, mentally reviewing his debut performance at the Service Club.
Yukinoshita Yukino.
That block of ice was harder than he had anticipated, yet simultaneously much easier to melt.
Hard, because her defensive mechanisms operated on pure instinct.
She deployed sharp-tongued venom the moment she opened her mouth, requiring zero warm-up.
But she was easy to melt because she was deeply, overwhelmingly lonely.
How long had she been sitting in that clubroom all by herself?
Half a year?
An entire year?
Even Hiratsuka-sensei couldn’t bear to watch it anymore and had actively sought outside intervention.
Curing this level of isolation didn’t require elaborate, flashy strategies.
It merely required someone to sit quietly beside her.
No talking.
No fawning.
No demanding attention.
Just letting her slowly acclimatize to the sensation of ‘having someone nearby.’
And then, suddenly disappearing.
Let her realize that ‘having no one around’and’having someone around who just left’ were two entirely different breeds of emptiness.
The former was her baseline normal.
The latter was a gaping void.
Tōhō Getsukai turned into his apartment building and pressed the elevator button.
He would let her stew in that void for two days.
Let her get completely used to the exact angle of the window blinds he had adjusted, and that maddeningly incomplete application form.
Once she genuinely started to care, he would casually reappear.
By then, the dynamic would be entirely in his hands.
He let out a soft breath of amusement.
Ding.
The elevator chimed.
He pushed open his front door and stepped into the entryway.
Kicking off his leather shoes, he peeled the black knee-high socks from his legs, freeing his toes.
He stepped onto the cool wooden floorboards, savoring the chill against his bare skin.
Retreating to his bedroom, he swapped his uniform for house clothes in under three minutes.
He pulled on a loose, creamy-white cotton T-shirt, the neckline wide enough to expose his collarbones.
For his lower half, he opted for gray cotton shorts, the hem barely brushing the middle of his thighs.
He slid his feet into a pair of soft cotton slippers.
His toes peeked out from the open front, the tips flushed a faint pink, plump and rounded.
They were incredibly tender.
How tender didn’t really matter, but they were certainly softer than the tamagoyaki he was about to prepare.
He paused, realizing his own internal standard of measurement was getting a bit weird.
He shook his head, tied an apron around his waist, and ignited the stove.
Tonight’s menu: Handmade hamburger steaks, tamagoyaki, and miso soup.
Three standard home-cooked dishes.
Nothing extravagant.
But the moment the Heart of Cooking passive skill activated, the fundamental nature of the ingredients shifted.
He minced the beef chuck, blending it with finely chopped onions, egg yolk, breadcrumbs, and a splash of milk.
He kneaded the mixture with both hands, expertly forcing the air out, every fold and press executed with mechanical precision.
He shaped the patties, dropped them into the hot pan, and seared them over medium heat until a rich brown crust formed on both sides.
He added a splash of water and covered the pan to let them simmer.
The moment he lifted the lid, the aroma detonated in the kitchen.
Even Tōhō Getsukai froze for a split second.
He was making a basic hamburger steak, not a three-star Michelin masterpiece.
Why did it smell like a culinary revelation?
He brushed the thought aside.
Questioning a golden finger was pointless; accepting reality-bending perks was just basic transmigrator etiquette.
The tamagoyaki followed immediately.
He poured the egg mixture into the square copper pan in three distinct batches, rolling each layer tightly.
When his knife sliced through the finished block, the cross-section revealed a flawless, golden spiral.
Finally, the miso soup.
Cubed silken tofu, rehydrated wakame, and perfectly dissolved miso paste.
It was the simplest dish on the menu, yet under the influence of his passive skill, the broth became deeply rich and comforting.
Just setting the bowl on the table was enough to make a person’s mouth water.
He arranged the three dishes neatly on the dining table and took a step back to inspect his work.
Perfect.
Now, he just had to wait for—
Click.
The front door lock turned.
High heels clacked sharply against the entryway tiles as Eri Kisaki pushed the door open.
She hadn’t been drinking tonight.
She was completely, utterly sober.
But her sobriety only made her sheer physical exhaustion that much harder to hide.
Her tailored suit jacket was draped heavily over one arm, and her usually immaculate morning updo was fraying at the edges.
She bent down to unbuckle her shoes.
Then, the scent hit her.
The savory, charred aroma of the hamburger steak, the sweet richness of the tamagoyaki, and the deep, comforting saltiness of the miso soup.
It bypassed her brain and struck her empty stomach with lethal precision.
Eri Kisaki’s hand froze mid-air, her shoe half-unbuckled.
A second later, a loud, unmistakable rumble echoed through the quiet entryway.
Thirty-seven years old.
Fifteen years dominating the legal profession.
The legendary Queen of the Court who could verbally decimate a room full of opposing counsel without batting an eyelash, had just been completely betrayed by her own digestive tract.
Tōhō Getsukai walked out of the kitchen, balancing the final plate of tamagoyaki in his hands.
His silver hair cascaded loosely over his shoulders, and he still wore his apron over his oversized shirt.
He stood barefoot in his slippers, his toes slightly pink from standing on the kitchen tiles.
He tilted his head.
“Welcome home, Auntie Eri.
Why don’t you wash your hands and eat?”
Eri Kisaki straightened up immediately.
Her gaze darted to the carefully arranged feast on the dining table.
Then, her eyes shifted to the silver-haired youth standing in the kitchen doorway—apron-clad, fair legs exposed by his shorts, offering her a gentle, entirely harmless smile.
The tips of her ears burned a bright, furious red.
Her high heels clicked rapidly as she abandoned her shoes at the cabinet and practically fled toward the restroom.
She dropped a single, hurried sentence as she brushed past him.
“…Tell me in advance the next time you cook.
So I can make sure I come home on an empty stomach.”
The restroom door slammed shut.
Tōhō Getsukai stood in the hallway, holding the plate of eggs.
He tilted his head, staring at the aggressively closed door.
Auntie Eri.
That flustered reaction was exactly the same face Ran made every time he patted her on the head.