Most women, as long as I showed a bit of interest, would eagerly come to me.
So why had I ended up with this leftover misfit…?
That night, I once again fell asleep to the sound of her pat-pat footsteps.
◇
Even on my day off, I was woken by a mysterious sound effect.
Thump… tap.
Thump… tap… thump.
Thump… tap… thump… tap… thump…
“What the hell… What are you doing this early in the morning?”
I checked the clock.
It was six AM.
It was my day off—couldn’t I sleep in just once?
Thump… tap… thump… tap…
“…”
Thump… tap…
“Oh, for god’s sake! This is driving me crazy!”
I threw off the covers and stormed to the kitchen.
Otoha was repeatedly slamming something onto the counter.
Her face was as serious as that of a veteran soba master—but with crescent-moon eyes.
“Good morning, Otoha. What are you doing?”
“Oh! Good morning, Rentarō-san. I’m making bread.”
She was kneading a bright white dough.
“You’re baking it yourself? There’s a good bakery nearby, you know.”
To be honest, I didn’t see the point.
No matter how much effort she put in, homemade bread would never taste as good as professionally baked bread.
Rather than wasting time, I’d prefer if she just bought a proper loaf from the store.
“I like making it myself because I can control the ingredients and avoid additives.
It’ll take a little longer, so you can go back to sleep.”
“...Fine.”
Honestly, I’d rather have delicious store-bought bread with additives than a mediocre homemade one.
But I didn’t say that out loud.
When she finally called me for breakfast, I was starving.
Otoha’s table setting was strange.
Unlike Akane’s beautifully arranged tables with expensive dishes, elegant glasses, and vibrant flowers, Otoha’s breakfast was served simply—on a wooden plate with oddly shaped bread just placed on top.
And yet, for some reason, it still felt luxurious.
A single wildflower, looking as if it had been picked from the roadside, stood in a small vase.
The food was simple—scrambled eggs and ham on rustic plates—
But somehow, the entire table felt warm and complete.
I had a feeling that if even a single fork or coffee cup were missing, the balance would be disrupted.
Somehow, everything on this table fit together in perfect harmony.
“…It’s a little firm, but it’s good.”
As I bit into the bread, the rich, buttery flavor spread across my mouth.
“It’s shio butter pan [salted butter bread].
I made it with a flavor I thought you’d like, Rentarō-san.
This one has cheese, too—try it.”
Otoha’s meals took forever to prepare and weren’t extravagant, but they had a strange depth to them.
Every night, I resolved to finally bring up divorce.
But then I ate her cooking.
And every time, I swallowed those words back down.
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