Free Web NovelChapter 200: 200. Having Breakfast At Noon. (Seems Normal For Me)
She fell silent, her gaze dropping to her hands, which were trembling slightly.
"The part I keep thinking about," she whispered, the confession spilling out before she could censor it, "is the wall... and the frustration."
"I was sitting there, so incredibly frustrated, and then you just... you were there." ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
"You weren’t trying to fix me, or manage my emotions, or play the role of the hero."
"You just occupied the space. And suddenly, the frustration was... easier to breathe through." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm
"It wasn’t an excuse, Mike. It was just an explanation of why the walls came down so easily."
"I know," Mike said, and for a split second, the playboy mask slipped, revealing a man who truly saw her.
"I wanted to say it because you deserve the accurate version," she said, looking up, her eyes bright with a sudden, fierce honesty. "Not the version where this was just a mistake that happened to me, like a fever or a storm."
"It was a thing I did. A choice."
Mike leaned in, his presence suddenly overwhelming, his eyes burning with the kind of undivided attention he reserved only for things that truly mattered.
"That’s more honest than most people manage in a lifetime," he murmured.
"I’m Japanese," she said, a defensive reflex, though her eyes remained soft. "We’re taught to be precise about responsibility."
"That’s a very broad generalization," Mike teased, though his gaze never wavered.
"It is," she admitted, "but it’s also what my mother told me when I was nine, and it’s a thought that has never left me."
She uncrossed her legs, her gaze drifting toward the kitchen doorway before snapping back to him. "Do you feel complicated about it?"
Mike took a moment, giving the question the weight it deserved. He didn’t give her the easy answer, the one that would soothe her conscience.
He gave her the truth.
"I feel like it was real," he said, his voice heavy and certain. "And I feel like you’re going to be fine."
She let out a frustrated, breathless laugh. "That’s not the same thing as answering the question!"
"No," Mike said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face as he moved a fraction closer, the tension between them reaching a fever pitch. "It’s not."
She held his gaze, the intensity of his stare a physical weight against her skin, until the silence became too much to bear. She was the one to break it, looking away first not out of defeat but because she realized the next question she wanted to ask was a trap, one she wasn’t ready to spring on herself.
"I’m hungry," she said, her voice a sudden, sharp pivot toward the mundane.
"That happens," Mike replied, his voice smooth and unbothered.
He leaned back, his eyes tracking the movement of her throat as she swallowed.
"Are there things in my kitchen?"
"There are the things that were in your kitchen last week," Mike said, a lazy, lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.
He was enjoying the way she was trying to force her life back into a predictable rhythm. "I haven’t exactly been playing housewife."
"I haven’t restocked them."
"Right," she muttered, a faint flush touching her cheeks. "That would have been... weird."
She stood up, her movements a careful dance of regaining her footing. The frantic, raw panic of the morning had subsided, replaced by a quiet, simmering tension that felt more permanent.
"I have eggs and bread."
"That’s a breakfast," he noted, his eyes roaming her figure in the oversized sweatshirt.
"It’s noon right now, Mike."
"It still counts as a breakfast," he countered, his tone suggesting that time was merely a suggestion when it came to him.
She moved toward the kitchen without arguing, a tactical retreat that felt like the only way to keep her composure. The apartment was small, and the sounds of her cooking—the rhythmic clack of the pan, the sizzle of the butter—seemed to amplify the heavy, electric silence between them.
Mike didn’t follow her immediately; instead, he slid onto a stool at the counter, his large, muscular frame making the space feel even more intimate, even more crowded. He watched her work, his eyes dark and predatory, tracing the line of her back.
He had sat at this counter before, in a different life, with different coffee and different conversations, but this version of Haruka, the one who was slightly unraveled, was far more intoxicating.
"I have a question," she said, her back still turned to him, her focus seemingly glued to the pan.
"Ask it," Mike said, his voice a low, inviting rumble.
He loved this part, the intellectual sparring, the way she laid her mind bare even when she was trying to hide her heart.
"Last night," she began, her voice dropping an octave. She cracked a second egg, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "When you came in."
"You sat on the edge of the bed and you told me to stop being angry for a minute."
"And... I did." She paused, the sizzle of the eggs filling the gap. "I didn’t decide to stop..."
"I didn’t fight it. I just... did."
"Because you told me to. And it’s been driving me crazy thinking about that."
Mike leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes locked on her silhouette. "What about it?"
"I don’t do that!" she said, turning slightly, her eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and wonder. "Usually... I’m not the kind of person who just switches off their emotions because someone gives them a command."
"I’m not... compliant."
"I didn’t tell you to stop feeling it," Mike said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, velvet register that made her skin prickle. "I told you to stop being angry for a minute."
"There’s a massive difference, Haruka."
She turned fully to face him, a spatula in one hand, her expression searching. "That’s a very precise distinction to make."
"The anger was real... I wasn’t asking you to lie to yourself or pretend you weren’t pissed off," he said, his gaze intense, stripping away her defenses. "I was just asking you to put the weight of it down long enough to catch your breath."
"You were drowning in it."
She stared at him, a long silence stretching between them.
"That’s what my grandmother used to say," she whispered. "Not those exact words, but the sentiment."
"She used to say that feelings were just luggage."
"You can put your luggage down to rest without abandoning it."
"Your grandmother sounds like a woman worth listening to," Mike said, his eyes softening just a fraction, a rare moment of genuine respect.
"She was." Haruka turned back to the stove, her movements slightly more subdued. "She’s the one with the notebook."
"The one... the one I haven’t opened yet."
Mike went quiet. He remembered the mention of the notebook, a fragment of a conversation from a different time and place.
He knew it wasn’t just a book; it was a legacy.
"You’re going to open it eventually," he said, his voice a steady, certain anchor.
"I know," she said, her voice small. "But I’m waiting..."
"I’m waiting until I feel like I actually have something to bring to it."
"What kind of ’something’?"
"I don’t know yet," she admitted, sliding the eggs onto a plate and walking over to set it in front of him.
As she leaned in, the scent of her warm skin and something faintly floral hit him like a physical blow. "Something that would make her proud. Or at least... something she’d find interesting."
She caught his gaze, her eyes bright and piercing. "She liked interesting people."
"She used to say that boring people are always the ones who think they’re interesting, and the truly interesting people are the ones who are constantly worried they’re boring."
Mike looked up at her, a slow, devastatingly handsome smirk spreading across his face as he reached out, his fingers grazing the back of her hand as he took the plate.
"Then you’re in trouble, Haruka," he murmured, his eyes burning into hers. "Because you’re the most interesting thing in this room."
