As the days roll by, the two of them fall into a rhythm that’s more domestic than a IKEA showroom. Hazama’s out here acting like a full-on househusband in training, ghostin’ all the after-hours booze hounds like they’re yesterday’s leftovers, feeding them some lukewarm excuses about “errands” while his brain’s already clocked out and headed home. His colleagues are side-eyeing him, but he couldn’t care less. His feet are on autopilot, and his heart’s doing the cha-cha all the way to the front door.
Meanwhile, Akane’s already in the kitchen, looking like a magazine cover that fell into a flour sack—school uniform swapped for an apron, spatula in hand, stirring up something that smells like heaven’s own BFF. She’s got that energy that makes the rice cooker jealous, and the whole apartment smells better than a bakery on steroids.
Post-dinner, Akane’s diving face-first into dessert like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Hazama, never one to hold back, drops the bomb: “You keep that up, and you’re gonna need a bigger boat.” Translation? He’s calling out her sweet tooth like it owes him money. And boom, just like that, she’s spiraling. Her brain’s doing mental gymnastics. Diet mode: activated. She’s already planning to replace sugar with self-loathing and kale.
But Hazama, smooth as butter on a pan, leans in with a grin that screams trouble. He pitches his “solution” like a used car salesman with a golden tongue: “How about we burn some calories together? Translation? He’s proposing they get busy in the most cardio-heavy way possible. And Akane? She’s left with a face redder than a fire hydrant and a brain short-circuiting like a storm took out the grid.
