The door shut behind Ryo with a low, ominous thud—like a horror movie where the killer was just emotional repression in a hoodie. Rain dripped from him in steady plops that screamed, "Hi, I've made bad life choices today."
He was soaked. Drenched. Offensively wet. The hoodie clung to him like a needy ex who wouldn't let go, and each step he took left behind tiny puddles of despair.
Kaito glanced up from his ramen, completely unfazed by the walking monsoon. "Back already? Did you swim home?"
Ryo grunted, peeling the hoodie off like it had personally betrayed him. It landed on the floor with a dramatic splop, limp and tragic.
"Swim?" he muttered, voice low and bitter. "More like… drowned."
"Was the umbrella fake? Or was it just… vibes?"
"Shut up," Ryo mumbled, kicking off his soggy shoes with the grace of a grumpy cat shoved into a bubble bath.
Kaito raised his bowl in mock salute. "Cheers to urban swimming."
Ryo dragged himself into the kitchen like a Victorian ghost with unfinished trauma. His hoodie dripped behind him like a trail of regret. He stared at the counter like it had personally insulted his ancestors.
Kaito, ever the unbothered roommate, nudged a fresh, steaming bowl of ramen toward him. "Eat. Before your soul leaks."
Ryo sat down like the chair owed him money. He picked up the chopsticks. Hovered. Poked the noodles with the emotional investment of a man filing taxes on his birthday.
"You good?" Kaito asked, stealing a glance his way—just for a second—before pretending to be way too focused on a rogue piece of seaweed.
Ryo stared at the noodles like they'd just called him ugly. "Do I look good?"
"Define 'good.'"
"Define 'shut the hell up.'"
"Mm. Moody. Classic Ryo."
They fell into a silence punctuated by the soft sound of rain against the windows and Kaito slurping like an uncultured gremlin. Ryo, meanwhile, stabbed a fishcake like it had personally triggered his trust issues. His eyes drifted to the corner of the room. Barely noticeable. Not lingering.
"She was there," he muttered. "That idiot."
Kaito's eyebrows rose like he was watching a telenovela. "Oho? Plot twist."
Ryo didn't response. Just aggressive poking.
"Did you talk to her?"
"She almost fell into a drain."
"Classic Haruka."
"I grabbed her."
"Oh-hohoho."
"It wasn't like that."
"Like what?"
"Don't give me that look."
"I'm not giving you a look."
"You're giving me the look."
"What look?"
"The 'I ship it' look."
"I do ship it. The chaos. The hoodie. The unresolved tension. It's fanfic fuel."
Ryo sighed deeply, like he was trying to exhale all his regrets. "She called me Hoodie Guy again."
"Honestly iconic. I hope she never learns your real name."
"She was wearing mismatched socks and talking to her dog about conspiracy theories."
Kaito blinked. "Still hotter than half the dating pool."
"I don't like her."
"I didn't ask."
"She's reckless. Messy. Possibly cursed."
"So are you."
"I'm selectively cursed. She's full-time."
Kaito grinned. "You caught feelings and now you don't know what to do with them."
"I didn't catch anything. I'm vaccinated."
"You caught the emotional flu and the symptoms are denial, sarcasm, and hoodie abuse."
"I will flip this table."
"You won't. That ramen's expensive."
Ryo stabbed a fishcake again with enough force to open a portal to the underworld.
"She's always doing something dumb," he muttered. "Slipping. Dropping things. Holding full-on therapy sessions with her dog."
"And you secretly find that adorable."
"I find it exhausting."
"You find it terrifying because your brain doesn't have the emotional RAM to process affection."
"I don't have feelings."
"Sure. And I'm a dolphin."
"She's chaotic. Irrational. Loud."
"So… your soulmate."
"I'm not interested."
"You're in denial."
"I'm in hell."
"Same thing."
Ryo shoved his bowl away like it was responsible for everything wrong in his life.
Kaito, with the calm of a man who's already ten steps ahead, leaned in. Elbow on the table. Smug mode: fully activated. He opened his mouth, paused—just for a heartbeat—and let his gaze drift toward the soggy hoodie still lying on the floor like a broken dream.
"You know," he said slowly, "you could try talking to her. Like a normal human being."
"She's not normal."
"Neither are you. You communicate through grunts and passive-aggressive hoodie choices."
"I don't want to talk to her."
"Then why do you look like someone cancelled your internet subscription mid-stream?"
Ryo stood. Abrupt. Dramatic. The energy of a man losing an argument in his own head.
"I'm going to bed."
"Tell your pillow you're not in love with her either."
Ryo flipped him off mid-exit, a soggy finger of doom.
Kaito cupped his hands and called after him, "Love you too!"
The door shut. Firm. Final. Angsty.
Kaito stared at the empty space Ryo had left behind, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Man's in deep. Poor bastard."
He stood, stretched, and picked up the hoodie with two fingers, holding it like it might whisper sad poetry at him.
He sniffed. Then squinted.
"…Smells like regret and Haruka."
There was a pause. Then, from the hallway, came the softest shuffle. Quiet. Subtle. The kind of sound that could be missed unless you were already expecting it.
Kaito smirked.
A fluffy white figure trotted into view like a soap opera character returning from the dead.
Momo.
The Samoyed gave the hoodie one sniff. Then another. Then, with all the grace of a dramatic prince, flopped on top of it like he too was burdened by Ryo's emotional constipation.
Kaito raised an eyebrow. "Traitor," he said, deadpan.
Momo snored.
Kaito walked to the counter, pulled out his phone, and opened a Notes app titled: Ryo's Emotional Crisis Log.
He typed:
> Day 5: Hoodie Goblin touched grass (and Haruka).
>Denial level: Olympic.
>Rain-soaked angst: Maximum.
>Progress: 0
>Mood: Delicious.
> Conclusion: They're both idiots.
"Oh yeah," he murmured, glancing back toward the hallway. "This season's gonna be wild. You and me, fluffball. We're watching a romance novel unfold in front seats."
Momo yawned in agreement.