Chapter Text
There’s a subtle but enormous difference between wanting to die and not wanting to live. It’s the kind of difference you could blink and miss, but once you see it, it’s impossible to ignore.
And right now, Okkotsu Yuuta wants to die.
Yuuta cringes and hits backspace immediately.
I might as well be a dead man already, Yuuta thinks. The sake in the glass swirls as he shakes it slightly. When Maki finds out there’s still no progress, she’ll strangle me to death tomorrow.
He takes a sip of the sake, letting the taste burn his tongue before he groans. His eyes drift up to the ceiling, hoping for… something. Inspiration. A miracle. Anything at all.
But nothing comes.
Maki, his ever-persistent editor, has been generous and patient enough to give Yuuta extensions on the deadline for his next project.
She said Yuuta already has a fanbase from his debut novel—small, but loyal. So it would be wise to explore and expand the story.
And Nanami, his publisher, who was kind enough to debut his first book, has even directly told him about his interest in a sequel, or maybe a spin-off of the novel.
It’s been a year since both Maki and Nanami contacted him, asking about this new project. Yuuta guesses Nanami needs something new for the first half of next year’s publication list.
Yuuta tried to tell them that his debut was meant to be a standalone, and that furthering the plot with a sequel—or even a spin-off—could damage the story’s perfected ending.
Which, actually, is just him making excuses so he won’t be pushed around to write.
But Maki—backed by Nanami, Yuuta guesses—is relentless.She said that if Yuuta didn’t want to write a sequel, he could try writing something entirely new. Readers who know his work would be intrigued to read whatever he writes next.
She even pulled up the numbers of copies Yuuta’s first book sold every month. And Yuuta can’t deny how good those numbers are for a rookie—so good that part of him even suspects Maki might have manipulated them to make them look bigger, probably to motivate him.
He would’ve completely believed that if, after working closely with Maki for his debut, he didn’t already know that her methods of manipulation worked in very different ways.
Maki actually encourages him, telling him she likes his writing style—how it’s different from anything she’s ever read.
She says Nanami didn’t publish the book because it was marketable, but because he genuinely liked the story and believed the audience would like it—love it, even—and that Yuuta’s work deserved a place on a bookstore shelf.
Anyone would kill to have an editor and publisher as understanding and supportive as they are. Yuuta knows he’s blessed in that regard.
Then here comes the real problem: Yuuta has been suffering the worst case of writer’s block in his entire life.
Like… completely, inescapably blocked. It’s as if nothing inspires him to write anymore. And worse, arranging words on a page to tell a story no longer lights that spark of happiness in his chest the way it once did.
Yuuta feels like he’s been cursed.
Ever since the strange dreams started, ever since he wrote them down obsessively for three months straight before the accident, his mind has been empty. Stripped clean, as if whatever gave him those stories took everything else in return.
Six manuscripts born from those dreams sit in the furthest corner of his cloud drive. Untouched. Unopened. Abandoned—even after he was released from the hospital, even after his body healed.
How could Yuuta not keep them hidden? With the bad luck they brought, with the life they took, Yuuta doesn’t just want to hide those manuscripts—he wants to bury them.
The way he had to bury Megumi.
Yuuta presses his fingers against the stitches on his forehead. The scar throbs as his mind supplies images he doesn’t ask for—blood, broken glass, Megumi’s stillness. He jerks his hand away, as if touching the scar might summon it all back.
Then he stares again at the glaring brightness of his monitor, the empty page staring back at him.
Yuuta knows why every time his fingers touch the keyboard, all he can produce is something bleak and suffocating. It’s because that’s all that’s left in him. Because whatever joy he used to write with died at the same time Megumi did.
And Yuuta is a YA novelist, for Christ’s sake. He’s supposed to write about hope—teenagers saving the world, taking down corrupt governments, fighting monsters, surviving impossible odds—anything like that. Not this.
Not guilt. Not death. Not the misery he’s dealing with now. Not the horror of knowing he lived when someone else didn’t.
People read fiction to escape reality, to rest from it. To believe in something kinder than the world they wake up to every day.
Yuuta can’t give them that anymore.
Not when Yuuta can’t even escape his own reality.
And he absolutely cannot let Maki see any of it. Her intuition is terrifyingly sharp—she’d read between the lines, straight into the truth Yuuta refuses to say out loud.
He can’t let anyone see this.
This guilt. This weight. This knowledge that no matter how he frames it, a life was lost and his hands are not clean.
It’s his to carry. Alone.
That’s why he’s stuck in this endless loop of writing, deleting, and writing again—going nowhere, utterly lost.
Every hopeless sentence he types gets deleted. Every honest one, too.
The blinking cursor at the top of the empty page looks like it’s laughing at Yuuta for another day spent without a single word written.
Yuuta gives up and shuts down his laptop.
I should go see Panda, he thinks as he gets up from the chair. Maybe getting out of this room will remind me how to write again.
So Yuuta grabs his jacket, sprays on cologne, and runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame his side bangs.
Then his eyes catch on the scar along his forehead.
The wound has completely healed, leaving only thin lines behind, but the phantom pain never goes away. It returns every now and then, mocking him—a cruel reminder that his body survived even when Megumi didn’t.
His hand starts to shake. Images surge forward—metal, impact, screaming. The scar burns. Yuuta grabs his glass and drains the sake in one desperate swallow.
He stands there, breathing, waiting for the world to steady.
These stitches, this pain… they’re etched into his forehead so deeply that Yuuta will never be allowed to forget the sin he committed.
And he knows that it will follow him for the rest of his life too.
At Panda’s bar, Yuuta concentrates on the menu, eyes moving between the pictures of karaage and yakitori as he debates which one to order. Panda sits beside him, flipping through the pages of his own—a movie script.
“Hey, Panda,” Yuuta says, still staring at the menu. “Should I order the spicy karaage or the yakitori?”
Panda looks up and cranes his neck to peek at the menu. He hums. “I’d say the yakitori.”
“Why?” Yuuta frowns, already thinking the karaage would be better—the salt, the spice, the crunch—definitely better than yakitori.
“I don’t like spicy.”
“But I do,” Yuuta says, folding his hands on the table, head tilting as he considers it again.
“Then order the karaage. Why did you even ask me?” Panda retorts, clicking his tongue.
Yuuta hums again. “But I’ve never tried your yakitori. Should I just order both? Because now that I think about it, I kinda feel hungry.”
Did I even have lunch today? Yuuta doesn’t remember.
Panda snorts. “You need to think about it to realize you’re hungry?” He shakes his head, then sips his Negroni. “You’re really out of it, Yuuta,” he says, though not unkindly.
Yuuta just shrugs and asks Panda again what he should order.
“Just order both, then, since you’re hungry. Or…” Panda takes the menu from his hand, flips a few pages, then slides it back. “You could try our katsu fried rice. We can make it spicy too.”
Yuuta purses his lips, humming as he considers the new option. He is hungry, but he doesn’t feel like eating a full meal like fried rice. “Um, no. I’ll order the spicy karaage and the yakitori.”
Yuuta looks around and waves when a waiter notices him.
“Are you sure?” Panda asks again. “It’s past dinnertime. Shouldn’t you eat something more filling?”
“I’m not really in the mood.”
Panda furrows his brows but doesn’t say anything as Ui Ui comes over to take their orders.
As they wait, Panda asks Yuuta to listen as he recites some lines. It happens all the time, so Yuuta agrees easily, sipping his Long Island as Panda closes his eyes, drawing a breath to set the right emotion and intensity into every word.
“‘Come back! Please, come back! I’d rather die here, right now, than live without you by my side. Please!’” Panda croaks, gripping his own shirt, visibly getting into character. “So, what do you think? Too much? Not enough? Or just right?” he asks Yuuta.
Yuuta’s mouth opens slightly as he sucks his teeth. “I think… you can be a little more desperate. Like, the emotion is there, but you’re not quite begging, you know what I mean?”
Panda hums thoughtfully and scribbles on the script laid out on the table. “Okay, what about this—”
Yuuta listens as Panda recites the same line again. He nods along when it finally sounds right—or at least when he thinks it does. He doesn’t really know anything about acting anyway, he only gives feedback based on instinct.
His friend, Yaga Daichi, is a theatre kid he met back in college. Yuuta had only been there to accompany Megumi to watch a play—Megumi had gotten free tickets from an upperclassman.
After a performance, where Daichi played a talking panda, his castmates started calling him “Panda,” and the name stuck.
The man doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, when Yuuta first met him, he introduced himself as “Panda,” much to Yuuta’s confusion.
“That’s much better, Panda,” he says when Panda finishes. “When’s the audition again?”
“Yuuta, I told you, it’s tomorrow! God, where is your head these days?”
Yuuta cringes before sighing. “Sorry, sorry! I just have… this—my book!” he tries to explain, though it comes out jumbled.
“Are you still stuck?”
Yuuta nods, his face contorting with frustration.
“I think you need to lay back a bit, Yuuta—relax. Ideas won’t come to you if you’re too stressed, you know?”
Yuuta eyes him flatly. “You say that like you don’t know Maki already has a gun pointed at the back of my head.”
Panda cackles, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter. “I can’t blame her. You’ve been making her life hard for a few months now with all those deadline extensions you asked for.”
“Well, my situation is just as hard, you know,” Yuuta nearly whines. “It feels like I’ve lost the talent to even form one coherent sentence every time I try to write. And not to mention—”
“—you’ve been having trouble finding a good story. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Panda cuts in.
“Then you should understand. I thought you were my friend, Panda.” Yuuta pouts, playing with his straw and watching the ice swirl in his Long Island.
Panda sighs, fond and understanding. “Because I am your friend, Yuuta, I know you haven’t lost your talent. You’re just…” His eyes flick side to side as he searches for the word. He settles on the same one again. “You’re too stressed.”
Yuuta groans. Well, of course I’m stressed.
Panda pats his back—gentle encouragement, or maybe an attempt to calm him down. “Do you want to talk about it? Ever since Megumi’s death—”
Yuuta’s heart pangs at the word.
“—you haven’t really been yourself,” Panda finishes.
“It’s…” Yuuta trails off, the word never quite forming.
Panda doesn’t rush him. He just watches for a moment, then says quietly, “It was an accident, Yuuta. You know that, right?”
Yuuta rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at it a little too hard. “I know. I… I know.”
His mind insists on it, even as the guilt in his chest refuses to listen.
“Or is there something else?” Panda scoots closer, lowering his voice. “I never really got the full picture of what happened on the mountain—”
Ui Ui arrives with their order. Yuuta barely hides his relief and thinks he should tip Ui Ui extra for the interruption.
As Ui Ui leaves, Yuuta quickly shoves a karaage into his mouth, speaking around it. “It’s not about Megumi, okay? It’s really not about that.”
Panda watches him, lips pressed together, clearly deciding to hold back. He lets it go.
Yuuta hopes he lets it go.
He can’t talk about Megumi right now. Maybe not ever.
“Then… is it about Rika?” Panda asks instead, one eyebrow raised.
Yuuta lets out a short breath. “Why is she the other thing you think is bothering me?”
Panda shrugs, swirling the ice in his glass. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re still bitter that she broke up with you.”
Yuuta straightens in his seat. “I’m setting the record straight—again, okay? The breakup was mutual.”
Panda snorts, not even looking convinced. “Nah. She dumped your ass, Yuuta.”
Yuuta shakes his head. It was definitely a mutual choice, he tells himself. Rika would be better off without him anyway. Someone kind and high-spirited like her being tied to Yuuta—who… doesn’t even know what to do with himself right now—it wouldn’t be fair to her.
Panda exhales loudly, and even though he tries to hide it behind the theatrics, Yuuta can feel the concern seeping through. Yuuta takes a long slurp of his drink—so long the straw squeaks at the bottom of the empty glass—pretending he doesn’t notice.
“You’ve been keeping to yourself for too long, Yuuta. I think you should step back into the world—”
“I am not in any way ready for a relationship, Panda. You know this.”
“And I don’t mean dating at all, my friend.” Panda sighs, softer this time, more sympathetic. “It’s just that… you never go out except to this rickety bar of mine to see me, or to get chased around by Maki. Maybe that’s why you’re stuck with your book.”
Yuuta holds his gaze, because Panda’s right—and he knows it. But after the accident, after Megumi’s death, Yuuta feels as though he doesn’t deserve to experience the things Megumi never could.
He looks away, choosing to fiddle with the straw instead of answering.
“Honestly, at this point, something bizarre should happen in your house, since you never leave it. Maybe that’s the only way to spark some ideas… and some life into your boring days.”
Yuuta holds up a hand. “Now, wait. That doesn’t sound like a good thing to say. Take that back.”
“Nuh uh. Can’t do. You need some color back in your life, Yuuta. If it comes through something unusual, then so be it.”
Yuuta huffs, but he’s smiling. “Fine, whatever. But—” he points to his empty glass, “give me another one of these, okay?Your treat.”
Panda rolls his eyes playfully and heads to the bar. He returns with a Long Island for Yuuta and another glass of Negroni for himself.
“To a bizarre thing happening!” Panda shouts, and Yuuta clinks his glass against Panda’s.
They spend the rest of the night drinking and talking. Neither of them remembers how it starts, but it turns into a drinking challenge—take a shot every time Panda forgets his line, or something like that.
Eventually, Yuuta gets drunk enough that Panda has to walk him home. It’s happened far too many times for Panda to complain, he’s used to tucking Yuuta into bed before leaving.
Yuuta sleeps with his face half-buried in the pillow Panda pulls under him. And drunk as he is, his sleep is dreamless—peaceful, the way he prefers it.
***
The sun rises, replacing the moon, then climbs higher still—making sure every surface of the town is bathed in its warmth.
The sound of rustling bedsheets and the dip of weight against his mattress finally drag Yuuta back to consciousness.
He turns his head, vision still blurry with sleep—and alcohol—only to find the silhouette of a man sitting beside him.
Bright violet eyes. A warm smile.
It should be a pleasant sight to wake up to, especially with liquor still buzzing faintly in his veins, but his mind claws its way through the haze and screams a warning: stranger!!!
Yuuta jolts upright with a sharp inhale, stumbling back on unsteady legs. The man shifts as if to approach, and Yuuta throws a hand up instinctively, breath ragged.
“Don’t move!”
The man freezes immediately, smile softening but never fading.
“Who are you?!”
He blinks, then slowly opens his mouth and speaks in a gentle tone. “Hi, Yuuta. I’m Toge. Your husband from the future.”
Yuuta stares. He says what?
Yuuta looks past the man’s shoulder toward the window. It’s closed, only the curtains drawn open.
He can’t remember whether he closed the curtains last night. If he didn’t, he doubts Panda even bothered, not after dragging him straight into bed.
…Did Panda forget to lock the door, then?
Yuuta inspects the stranger again. Grey knitted sweater, black trousers, white shoes—on the bed. And that already irritates Yuuta because—
“I know, I know,” the stranger says, raising both hands in surrender. “No outside clothes on the bed, and definitely no shoes in the house. But look, Yuuta—you’re still wearing your outside clothes too.”
Yuuta glances down and, sure enough, he’s still in the shirt and jeans from the bar. But what bothers him isn’t that he slept in them—it’s the fact that this stranger somehow knows Yuuta’s very specific house rules.
He stares at the man again, trying to process who the hell he is and how he got into Yuuta’s house—Yuuta’s bed—because even drunk out of his mind, he definitely didn’t bring anyone home. He couldn’t even walk without Panda’s help—
Wait.
“Stay where you are,” Yuuta snaps, harsher than intended, as he grabs his phone from the nightstand.
The stranger only nods, patient.
Yuuta walks out of his bedroom, down the stairs, and straight to the front door. It’s locked.
That confuses him even more.
He grabs the key, unlocks the door, steps out onto the small front garden, and quickly scrolls through his contacts to call Panda.
As the ringing tone plays, Yuuta thinks: If Panda didn’t forget to lock the door… then how did that stranger get inside? Unless—
The call connects.
“Yuuta? You just woke up—at this hour?!” Panda asks.
Yuuta ignores that completely and blurts in one breath, “Look, Panda, I know you’re trying to spice up my life or something, but this is not the way to do it, okay?”
“What?”
“I don’t like this! You know I don’t like having a stranger in my house no matter how cute they are, Panda. How could you?”
“Yuuta, what the hell are you talking about?”
Yuuta clicks his tongue, frustrated. “I’m talking about the blond guy you sneaked into my house. Is this one of your pranks? That ‘bizarre thing’ you talked about last night? Because if it is, it’s not funny!”
Panda goes silent for a moment, and Yuuta thinks he’s caught him. But instead of a confession, Panda says slowly, “Yuuta… I’m so lost. What man?”
Huh?
A creaking sound comes from above. Yuuta looks up—
The window is open now, and leaning casually against the frame is the stranger, grinning down at him, clearly finding all of this very amusing.
Yuuta turns away. “A blond man, violet eyes, he seems to be our age. Did you not send him for me?” Yuuta asks again, pressing every word.
“No, Yuuta. You were drunk out cold and I just brought you home, that’s it. How could I even have the time to find someone for a prank when you know I have an important audition this morning?”
Now it’s Yuuta’s turn to go silent. That makes sense.
Panda continues, “You’re meeting Maki for lunch, right? Are you sure you’re not hallucinating because you’re scared out of your pants to meet her?” Panda chuckles at the end.
Yuuta turns back to the window, only to find it empty. The stranger is nowhere to be seen.
“No, I’m pretty sure he’s real. He was talking to me, Panda.”
“‘Pretty sure’?” Panda laughs. “Look, that man is clearly trespassing. Why didn’t you just call the police? Get him locked up or something.”
…That’s not a bad idea. Actually, the police should’ve been the first people he called instead of Panda, shouldn’t they?
But…
“Okay, yeah, I… I’ll call the police. Um… sorry for accusing you, Panda. I—”
“Hey, it’s alright. Just call me if anything happens, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay,” he says with a sigh. “Good luck on your audition.”
Panda ends the call after returning the sentiment.
Now Yuuta stands there, contemplating as he holds his phone. He really should call the police, so he types in the three numbers.
But he hesitates before pressing the call button. He doesn’t know why—something in his chest is telling him not to. Not yet.
“Please don’t call the police, Yuuta,” comes the stranger’s voice from behind him.
Yuuta turns around and finds those pleading eyes and that deep frown. “It was really painful for me to escape from them the last time.”
“Escape?!” Yuuta bursts out, panicked. A flicker of fear rises as he eyes the stranger’s innocent face.
But looks can be deceiving, right? What if this stranger is actually a criminal? A murderer?! What if instead of trying to seduce Yuuta, he’s here to kill him—for whatever reason?
“Whatever you’re thinking, no, I’m not a bad person. I have a clean record, I swear. I’m—”
“Who are you?!” Yuuta cuts in.
The stranger presses his lips together before they curve into a smile. “I told you.” He lifts his right hand to show a ring on his finger. “I’m your husband.”
“I am not married.”
“And I told you—I’m from the future,” he says. “We got married there.”
Yuuta pulls a face of disbelief. Maybe this stranger isn’t a criminal after all—maybe he’s just a crazy person. Severely mentally ill, even, with the way he keeps repeating that I’m from the future bullshit as if Yuuta would just accept it and believe him.
The stranger moves slowly, the morning air brushing through his blond hair, softening his look. Yuuta really shouldn’t find him attractive—really shouldn’t let this stranger mesmerize him like this. Mesmerize him enough to let him get closer.
“You’re meeting your editor in an hour. Shouldn’t you get ready now?” the stranger asks.
“How did you know?”
The stranger just smiles. “Come on, get inside. I’ll help you with everything, like always.”
The stranger takes Yuuta’s hand and starts pulling him in. It’s faint, but Yuuta can feel the callouses on the stranger’s fingers brushing over his skin. The sensation snaps him back.
“Wait. This is my house,” he says, pulling his hand from the stranger’s hold.
The stranger stops in his tracks and lets out a small huff. “That it is.”
“Then I get to decide who I allow inside, and you”—Yuuta walks around him, putting distance between them—“are not welcome.”
The stranger just looks at him, and Yuuta can’t read the calm expression he wears. “Fine,” the stranger says. “Just make sure you bring that assorted cookies you got for Maki, okay? Bottom left shelf, under your microwave.”
Yuuta freezes, mouth agape. “How did you know that?!”
Again, the stranger only smiles.
Yuuta rushes inside, slams the door, and locks it twice.
He rests his back against the door, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he lets out a heavy sigh. How did his day turn so—fuck, so bizarre like this?
Maybe it’s true that Yuuta needs to be careful about what he wishes for—or precisely, in this case, Panda really should watch his mouth.
After another long exhale, Yuuta walks into the kitchen. He pops open a bottle of sake, taking gulp after gulp, groaning as the burning sensation runs down his throat.
His mind quickly supplies him with questions about the strange man and his claim of coming from the future.
It all sounds so fictional, doesn’t it? Is time travel even real? Did future scientists finally build a time machine, and that stranger just happens to own one?
No—if he can get his hands on a freaking time machine, he can’t be a regular person. Unless… maybe there’s some kind of paid service to send people to a time of their choosing?
But then how far in the future is he coming from? It can’t be more than ten years if he’s really Yuuta’s husband, right? Could technology advance that fast in such a short span of time?
Yuuta shakes his head. He’s getting into my head. Still, he chuckles despite himself, amused by how some lunatic has managed to influence him.
After getting dressed and ready, Yuuta heads out—only to be greeted by the stranger again.
“You look nice,” the stranger says, openly appreciating him as his eyes roam up and down.
His smile fades when he steps closer, inspecting Yuuta’s eyes. With a frown, he asks, “Did you drink something?”
Yuuta’s eyes widen. He forces a lie out of his mouth. “No.”
“Be honest, Yuuta.”
He steps back, holding up his palm as a barrier between them. Yuuta doesn’t know why he feels the need to lie to this stranger. Still, he says, “No, I didn’t. Even if I did, it’s none of your business.”
The stranger closes his eyes, his jaw tightening as if he’s wringing out the last of his patience. “You shouldn't be drinking this early. You haven't even had breakfast."
“Again, I didn’t drink. And I’ll just eat at the… wherever I’m going.”
The stranger holds Yuuta’s gaze for a moment longer before looking down and nodding.
“Did you bring your wallet with you?”
Yuuta pats his pocket and finds it empty. He exchanges a look with the stranger, who sighs fondly.
“Go get your wallet. And don’t forget your keys too, Yuuta.”
Yuuta goes back inside—but not because the stranger told him to. No. It’s on his own will, of course.
Wallet and keys secured, the stranger stops him again. “Didn’t you forget something?”
Yuuta tilts his head, trying to remember. He has his wallet, his keys, and his phone. So what else?
The stranger takes a deep breath. “The cookies, Yuuta.”
“Oh!”
Back inside he goes. Where did the stranger say he kept them again? Bottom left shelf, under the microwave?
He finds a paper bag containing a tin of cookies and heads back out. The stranger is crouched down, tightening his shoelaces.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“You’re not coming with me, are you?” he asks as he turns the key to lock the door.
“Of course I’m coming,” the stranger replies matter-of-factly.
“No, you’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
The stranger purses his lips, clearly trying to hold back an amused smile. “Because?”
“Just because!” Yuuta says, walking away to put distance between them.
Sure enough, the stranger catches up. Yuuta breaks into a jog, still determined to get away.
The stranger laughs happily. “Yuuta! Wait for me!”
“Stop following me!”
But when Yuuta runs faster, the stranger only laughs louder, his footsteps closing in.
Is he crazy?! Yuuta picks up the pace.
And that’s how Yuuta ends up arriving at the cafe out of breath, chest heaving as he drags in lungfuls of air. When was the last time he ran like this?
He turns around and finds the stranger nowhere in sight. Yuuta exhales in relief—at least he’s lost him. Maybe now the man will finally stop bothering him.
The bell chimes as he steps into the cafe, welcoming him with a blast of cool air. He spots Maki sitting at a table near the window, focused on a stack of papers that Yuuta assumes are someone else’s draft. He walks over.
“Maki, hi,” he says, dragging out the empty chair across from her and sitting down.
Maki squints at him. “Why are you sweating?”
Yuuta flashes a weak grin. “I was running.”
Maki tilts her head, silently asking why.
“I was… being chased,” Yuuta admits.
Maki closes the papers and folds her arms. “Chased? By who?”
Yuuta runs a hand through his hair. “There was this… crazy person, Maki. He showed up in my bed, of all places, and claims that he’s—”
The bell rings again.
Yuuta turns so fast he nearly throws his back out. His fear is confirmed when he sees the stranger standing there, grinning as he waves.
“Oh, no…” Yuuta mutters weakly.
The stranger strolls over and casually pulls out the chair beside him.
Yuuta turns on him, whispering sharply, “What are you doing here?!”
“I want to be here.” The stranger pokes at Yuuta’s shoulder and winks. “With you.”
Yuuta catches his finger and brushes it away. “Don’t you see I’m having an important meeting?”
“I know,” the stranger says easily. “That’s why I’m here, Yuuta. I’m going to help you talk to her.”
Yuuta wipes his face with his palm, frustration written all over him.
Maki, who has been watching the exchange with growing confusion, finally speaks. Her gaze flicks between them.
“Yuuta,” she says slowly, “who is this?”
When Yuuta doesn’t answer, the stranger somehow takes it as his cue to explain.
“Hi, Maki. I’m Toge, Yuuta’s—”
Yuuta’s hand flies up fast enough to cover the stranger’s mouth in an instant.
The stranger blinks at him, violet eyes never leaving Yuuta as he mumbles something unintelligible behind Yuuta’s palm.
Yuuta pulls his hand away and turns to Maki. “He’s… uh. He’s my cousin. Twice removed.”
The stranger lets out a chuckle. “Cousin? What a weird way to call your husb—”
“Boyfriend! He’s my boyfriend!” Yuuta shouts, making the whole cafe fall silent as people turn to stare in their direction. He can feel his cheeks heat up with embarrassment.
Both Maki and the stranger also freeze, mouths dropping open—one in pure confusion, the other in utter amusement.
“You’re dating your cousin?” Maki asks, her face twisting in disgust. “I didn’t know you were a freak like that.”
The stranger bursts out laughing, full-on belly laugh. When Yuuta shoots him a glare, he only shrugs.
“What?” he says, still grinning. “You brought this upon yourself.”
Yuuta lets out a heavy, tired sigh.
Maki chuckles softly. “You kinda did, Yuuta.”
The stranger nudges Yuuta’s arm with his elbow, jutting his chin toward the paper bag on the table. “Have you given it to her?”
Yuuta follows the stranger’s gaze and realizes he hasn’t given the cookies to Maki. “Ah! I forgot. Here, Maki,” he says, sliding the paper bag toward her.
Maki takes the bag and peers inside. “Cookies?” she says, pulling out the tin and raising an eyebrow at Yuuta. “What’s this for?”
Yuuta flashes a sheepish smile. “A little token of gratitude for you—”
“A bribe.”
Yuuta snaps his head toward the stranger, annoyance written all over his face. “You—!”
“Heh, what is he bribing me for?” Maki asks, setting the paper bag aside and turning to the stranger.
Yuuta watches as the stranger leans forward, eyes mischievous, clearly ready to mess with him some more. Trusting his gut, before the stranger can even open his mouth, Yuuta clamps a hand over it again, making the stranger pout beneath his palm.
Yuuta turns to Maki, pleading. “Can we just… start this meeting? Pretend he’s not here?” He lets go and places his hand back on the table.
The stranger lets out an exaggerated gasp. “That is so rude.”
Maki nods, surprisingly agreeing with him. Then she adjusts her glasses and goes straight into business, her attention snapping back to Yuuta. “Well, you know what this meeting is about. I need an update on your progress. How’s the book coming along?”
“Yeah, so… about that…” Yuuta flashes her an apologetic grin, scratching the back of his head. “Can you give me more time? I swear, I’m getting there—”
At the sharp click of Maki’s tongue, Yuuta falls silent, shrinking under the way her golden eyes pin him to his seat.
“So this is the bribe?” Maki asks the stranger, flicking her gaze toward him, who nods in confirmation.
Maki sighs. “Yuuta, you said the same thing last month—and the month before that,” she says, exasperated. “If you want to make it onto the list, you don’t have much time.”
“I understand. But, Maki, writing is more than arranging words on a page.” Yuuta says quietly. “It needs inspiration—loads of it. And I… I haven’t had much lately.”
Then, cautiously, he adds, “Maybe if you didn’t chase me so intensely, I could relax more and find inspiration easier.”
“Excuse me?” Maki raises an eyebrow, irritation flaring. “Are you saying I’m to blame for you being stuck?”
Yuuta immediately clasps his hands together. “I don’t mean it like that—sorry. I just… it feels like you’re breathing down my neck, and I get so nervous I can’t write anything.”
“Well, Nanami—my boss, in case you forgot—is breathing down my neck too,” Maki shoots back. “Every time I clock in, he asks, ‘Did Okkotsu give you anything?’ Every single time, Yuuta.”
“Well, you should tell him—”
“Tell him that Yuuta can give him a finished draft of five chapters of his next novel,” the stranger cuts in smoothly.
“What?” both Yuuta and Maki say at the same time, turning toward the stranger.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Yuuta presses.
The stranger ignores him and looks only at Maki, his expression suddenly serious. “Yuuta actually has a full manuscript ready for his new book. He’s just not confident enough to show it to you or Nanami—he thinks it’s too much of a genre shift from his debut.”
“Is this for real?” Maki turns to Yuuta, then sighs, disappointment flickering across her face. “Yuuta, you should’ve just shown me and let me take a look. I’m your editor—that’s literally what I’m here for.”
“Wait—hold on.” Yuuta looks back at the stranger, their eyes locking. “I don’t even know what he’s talking about,” he lies.
The stranger rolls his eyes and faces forward again. “Yuuta will send you the draft by email in three days. You can read it first and give your thoughts. And—”
“No, stop. Maki, don’t listen to him!” Yuuta raises his voice over the stranger, trying to cut him off.
But then something bizarre happens.
“Okay, I lied. I don’t even know who he is,” Yuuta and the stranger say simultaneously.
“He’s the crazy person I was telling you about—the one who chased me here, the reason I was running,” Yuuta continues.
The stranger repeats every word in the same flat, bored tone.
Yuuta’s brows knit together, eyes widening in utter confusion.
Still, he keeps going—and so does the stranger. “So don’t listen to him. For all I know, he’s probably a stalke—HOW DID YOU DO THAT?”
The stranger smiles, wide and easy. “I memorized it.”
“Huh?”
“You know what they say,” he adds, blinking innocently. “Practice makes perfect.”
That still doesn’t explain how this stranger can say exactly what Yuuta says at the same time he says it.
Do time travelers—if this stranger really is from the future, and that’s a very big if—also have the ability to read minds?
Yuuta is still staring at the stranger, jaw hanging open, struggling to make sense of it all.
What the hell?!
Maki watches them from her seat, shaking her head slightly—though there’s clear amusement in her eyes. Then her phone beeps with a reminder.
“Oh, shoot. I have another writer to meet,” she says, packing her things into her bag. She drains the rest of her drink and adds, “I’ll be waiting for that draft in three days, Yuuta.”
“Wait, Maki—”
She ignores him and turns to the stranger instead. “You’re his boyfriend, right? Can you help make sure this guy actually sends me that draft?”
The stranger nods, eyes lighting up. “Yes! I can do that, Maki.”
“Good,” she says, standing. “See you soon, Yuuta!”
And then she’s gone.
While Yuuta tries to tamp down his surging anger, the stranger casually looks around the cafe, even calling for a waiter to bring them the menu.
“You said you were going to eat here, didn’t you?” he says mildly. “Let’s see what they have.” He hums under his breath as he flips through the pages, utterly at ease.
Yuuta’s hands curl into fists beneath the table, his irritation tightening in his chest. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?” the stranger returns innocently, as if he sees nothing wrong with it.
Yuuta’s irritation only grows, mixing with frustration. “I don’t know what makes you think I have a full manuscript ready, and I don’t care if you’re some kind of stalker who knows a thing or two about me—but you shouldn’t do that. You can’t do that!”
The stranger closes the menu and places it gently on the table. He folds his hands together, lifting his gaze to Yuuta’s with something that looks a lot like patience.
“Yuuta… I know you haven’t been able to write for over a year,” the stranger says carefully, as if each word might bruise if placed wrong.
Yuuta stiffens, his fingers curl into a fist.
The stranger watches Yuuta’s eyes harden as they lock onto his. He softens further. “And you don’t have to force yourself forward, because I don’t think you owe anyone anything—not even a new book. But—“
With a soft breath, full of tenderness, the stranger adds gently, “You can’t stay frozen forever.”
“I know how much writing means to you,” the stranger says again. His hand lifts, almost reaching for Yuuta, but hesitates before falling back to his side. “And you’re good at it. You just need to keep going.”
Yuuta swallows. The cafe around them seemed to fade. Sounds dimmed, the clink of cups, the low murmur of voices—all distant. Only the stranger’s words remained, hovering, pressing into him.
The words didn’t console—they forced him to see, forced him to feel. And it hurts too much.
That does it. Yuuta pushes his chair back, scraping loud in the sudden silence.
“You don’t know anything about me!” he says, not looking at the stranger.
Then he turns and walks out of the cafe, leaving the words hanging between them.
Even so, the stranger quickly catches up to him again. Yuuta ignores all of his calls and keeps walking, pretending nobody is tailing dutifully behind him.
He’s just going to go home—rest some more, because maybe this is still just a strange dream. Maybe he’s still drunk and hallucinating or something.
He’ll just sleep again, and when he wakes up, the stranger and all the bizarre things will be gone.
Except, the stranger follows him all the way home, and it irritates Yuuta more than anything.
So he turns back, right at his front door, to face the stranger—whose expression flickers with surprise at the sudden motion.
“This should be enough to get you back to wherever you’re from, right?” Yuuta pulls out his wallet, takes out some bills, and forces them into the stranger’s hand. “Leave,” he says flatly.
The stranger looks down at the money, expression unreadable.
“Go,” Yuuta repeats, voice even. Final. “Don’t bother me again!”
He turns away and slams the door shut, locking it behind him.
Yuuta stays inside his room, standing three meters away from his closed laptop like it might cause an allergic reaction if he comes any closer.
His hands are folded as he debates whether or not to open the folder where he keeps his manuscript—or maybe just sleep it off like he’d meant to at first, pretend this crazy afternoon never happened.
Yuuta thinks about the stranger’s words—about being frozen, unable to move. It’s painful to admit, but the stranger isn’t wrong in the slightest.
He knows how it works. New books are always coming out—sharper, louder, more exciting than his own. And readers move on. They always do.
The thought of his book fading, of the words he poured himself into becoming something no one reaches for anymore, hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to name.
It sounds dramatic, but to a writer—to Yuuta—it feels like a kind of tragic death.
Then there’s that old idea of legacy—something he and Megumi once talked about when they were younger and naive. That if Yuuta wrote, his words would stay. That they would outlive him.
“And you’ll live years even after you’re gone,” Megumi had said.
So Yuuta sits down, not without a sigh, resigning himself to the truth: he doesn’t really have a choice. He has to revisit that work. The cursed work, as he’s always called it.
Life, he thinks, always asks for something in return. There is always something to pay, something to sacrifice, whether Yuuta wants to or not.
That includes reopening this work. Reopening his wounds.
Yuuta clicks the folder open anyway.
He rereads the first chapter, reviewing the prologue, trying to feel whether it hooks the reader enough to make them turn the page—then the next, and the next. He makes tweaks here and there, rewriting some scenes, working with full concentration.
He only stops when his hand starts to tremble and his stomach grumbles with ache. He goes down to the kitchen, inspecting his fridge, only to be met with leftovers from two days ago, a sad-looking cabbage, three eggs, half an apple, and a row of beers.
Has his fridge always been in such a pathetic state?
Yuuta takes the leftover container, sniffs the cold curry rice, and decides it’s still good. He warms it in the microwave and fries an egg.
As he waits for the microwave to finish, Yuuta’s gaze drifts toward the front door. It’s quiet in his house, as it usually is. The only chaos it’s faced lately is whatever happened today.
But with the quiet settling around him now, Yuuta hopes it means the stranger has finally left him alone.
He can’t help but feel guilty—for being so harsh to the stranger, for shouting at him. It’s not like Yuuta to act that way.
His chest tightens with the lingering discomfort as his mind recalls how empty the stranger’s eyes looked when Yuuta kicked him out for the second time today.
He brushes the thought away, justifying it by telling himself he’s allowed to be pissed at the stranger. He was really annoying, okay?
Yuuta takes his curry back to his room, eats, then returns to his work as soon as he finishes the last bite. The stranger is forgotten.
And then night falls. With how much work he’s done today—which isn’t that much, actually—Yuuta feels exhausted. He closes his eyes, feeling the burn behind his eyelids after hours of staring at the screen.
He sighs, giving in to the tiredness, and shuts down his laptop. He lies down on the bed, meaning only to stretch his body and rest his eyes for a minute, but sleep catches him and he begins to drift.
But somewhere between drifting off and waking, Yuuta thinks he hears something—soft movement, a presence just beyond the walls of the house. Each time he opens his eyes, the room is still, quiet, empty.
He tells himself it’s nothing.
***
When the sun finally rises on the horizon, Yuuta rises from his bed as well.
The moment he swings one leg out, guilt settles back into his chest, accompanied by the image of the stranger lingering in his mind.
He must’ve gone home… right?
Yuuta goes down the stairs slowly. With each step, the weight in his chest grows heavier—until he hears a faint sneeze from outside.
No way, he thinks.
He stops in front of the door, hesitating for a moment before unlocking it, unsure of what he’s even praying to find on the other side of the wood.
But whatever he’s praying for, it’s certainly not… this.
The stranger is slumped across two porch chairs pushed together, his legs stretched out awkwardly. He’s wrapped in mismatched layers of sheets and clothes he clearly stole from Yuuta’s clothesline outside, the makeshift bundle doing little to hide how miserable he looks.
He looks up, eyes red and nose runny. He blinks as if trying to chase the sleep away, and even in that state, he smiles and weakly says, “Hi, Yuuta. Good morning.”
Yuuta stills in the doorway. The irritation he expects never comes—only a dull heaviness settling in his chest. His gaze drifts to the stolen sheets, the way the stranger’s shoulders are hunched against the cold.
“Have you been here all night?” Yuuta asks him.
The stranger nods.
“…You’re going to get sick,” Yuuta says, the words carrying more worry than scolding.
“I’ll be fine,” the stranger replies softly.
Yuuta sighs. “Listen, I don’t know why you’re doing this, what you gain from it, or even who’s paying you for… whatever this is. But isn’t this too much?”
The stranger only looks at him, eyes bleary. “No one pays me to do this, Yuuta. I’m doing it because…” He wipes his nose before continuing. “Because it’s worth it.”
“Worth what?”
“You’re worth it.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I just want to sav—AACHOO!”
The stranger sneezes loudly, sniffing afterward. “I’m sorry you find me a bother, but I—AACHOO!”
Yuuta stares at the stranger’s pink cheeks and the way he inhales sharply, clearly on the verge of another sneeze. Something pinches in his chest.
Something tells him to take care of this person—at least for now. Until Yuuta can figure out who he really is.
A low rumble comes from the stranger’s stomach. He grimaces, then looks at Yuuta. “I’m hungry,” he says shyly.
Yuuta doesn’t know what takes over his mind when, after another heavy sigh, he says, “Get inside,” already turning back toward the house.
The stranger is quick to his feet and follows him.
Yuuta leads them to the kitchen and rummages through the shelves. “You probably want something warm and quick, so you’ll take whatever I make, right?”
“Yes,” the stranger answers quickly. He casually takes a seat at the kitchen island, resting his elbow on the countertop, already acting as if he belongs there.
“I’m fine with instant ramen, Yuuta. Shoyu flavor would be nice, please.”
Yuuta pauses mid-motion and stares at him again. He opens the shelf and finds the last two packets of ramen he has—one shio flavor and the other shoyu.
He shakes his head, caught between disbelief and amazement. “Are you sure you’re not a stalker? You seem to know this house inside out.”
“At this point, I live here too,” the stranger mutters.
Yuuta turns to him. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” The stranger flashes a grin. “I’m just saying—of course I know this house like the back of my hand. I’m your husband, after all. We lived together in the future.”
“You’re really committed to that husband bit, huh?”
The stranger laughs. “Well, I did commit,” the stranger says, flashing a smug smile. “You put a ring on my finger. Here—look.” He slips off his ring and holds it out. “See whose name is engraved on it.”
Yuuta takes the ring and inspects it. His eyebrows shoot up when he reads Okkotsu Yuuta etched into the silver surface.
But that doesn’t prove anything, does it?
“You could’ve just bought a ring and had my name engraved to fool me.” He hands it back.
The stranger rolls his eyes. “Then how else am I supposed to prove it to you?”
“Let me see your phone. If we’re married, you must have wedding pictures or something, right?”
“We do. A lot of them, actually,” the stranger says softly. “I wish I could show you. But I don’t have my phone with me.”
“What kind of person doesn’t have a phone these days?”
The stranger laughs. “I do have a phone, Yuuta, it’s just… I don’t know where it went,” he says.
“You lost your phone?”
“Sort of.”
Yuuta squints at him in suspicion, while the stranger only blinks back. There has to be another way to find out who he is.
“You seem around my age. How old are you?”
The stranger lifts a finger. “Technically, yes—we’re the same age. When we met. But right now, between you and me, there’s a ten-year gap.”
“You’re thirty-seven?!”
The stranger nods.
“You don’t look thirty-seven.”
That makes the stranger beams. “Thank you!”
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment…”
He shrugs. “Still sounds like a compliment to me.”
Yuuta holds out his hand. “Where’s your identity card? Let me see it.”
If this person really is from the future, Yuuta can check the last renewal date—see if it’s years ahead. And if he’s really Yuuta’s husband, then his last name should be there too.
But the stranger drops his head, sighing. “I really wish I could show you, Yuuta. Because then I’d give you our marriage certificate as well, but—” he gestures at himself, “this is all I have with me.”
“Not even your time machine?”
The stranger chuckles. “Yeah. Not even my time machine.”
And that is just incredibly suspicious, right?
Yuuta crosses his arms. “And you expect me to believe you’re my husband—from the future, no less.”
He doesn’t wait for the stranger to respond, instead turning back to prepare the ramen for the both of them.
Yuuta cooks in silence, his head clashing with voices asking him if he’s gone mad for making breakfast for this strange man—who, by the way, has put Yuuta in a tight spot by yapping to Maki yesterday about his writing.
He really should be pissed and kick the stranger out. That’s what a sane person would do, wouldn’t they?
But when the ramen is ready and Yuuta turns around, all that anger evaporates in an instant. The stranger is half-asleep, head lolling to the side even with his hand propping it up.
Yuuta sets the bowls down in front of him. His hand stops mid-air when he realizes it’s moved on its own, reaching toward the stranger.
He clears his throat. “Hey,” he calls instead. “Food’s ready. Wake up.”
The stranger’s eyes open slowly, then widen as they lock onto the bowl. “Ah—thank you, Yuuta!”
Yuuta only nods as he hands him the cutlery.
They start eating together.
Yuuta watches closely as the strange man slurps his ramen. He looks like he’s been starving all night, and it tugs at something in Yuuta’s chest.
The man doesn’t seem fazed by the blatant staring Yuuta gives him. Instead, he looks up, an easy smile carved into his lips.
“You’re still suspicious of me,” the stranger says after swallowing his food.
“Well,” Yuuta replies flatly, “yeah. Obviously.”
“Ask me anything about you. I can tell you everything,” the man says with a smirk, like he’s challenging Yuuta.
Yuuta, of course, takes the bait. “What’s my mother’s name?” he asks.
But instead of answering, the man bursts out laughing like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard.
“What kind of question is that? Please—of all the things you could ask, you go for the generic social media security question?” he laughs again, even louder this time. “This is the first time you’ve worded it that way. God, it’s just too funny.”
Yuuta feels heat creep up his cheeks, slightly embarrassed because, well, the man has a point.
“If it’s that generic, then it should be easy for you to answer.”
The man wipes his tears and spoons some ramen broth into his mouth.
“It’s Okkotsu Yuna, maiden name Sugawara. Born in Kyoto, October 22nd. Your mom and I always celebrate our birthdays together since they’re only a day apart. And just like me, she loves gardening.”
Yuuta lifts his eyebrows, surprised this man knows that much about his mother. But maybe he’d just stalked her Facebook or something. So he asks another question.
“What about my father? Or my sister?”
The man’s smile stretches even wider.
“Your dad, Shohei, is a very gentle man, much like you. He likes to take me fishing with his friends, says he does it to show off his son-in-law, though I always tease him that he actually just wants someone to cook the catch.”
Yuuta tries to keep his face neutral, though that does sound like his father—always out fishing with the neighbors.
The man continues.
“And your sister, Suzuna, I adore her. She always forces us to binge-listen to that Korean boyband’s album and tells us all about her bias, unprompted—calling him a handsome oppa and all that. She’s a hardcore fangirl.”
The furrows in Yuuta’s brows tighten. That… really sounds like his sister.
Yuuta stays quiet as the man finishes his bowl of ramen clean.
He keeps thinking—how can this stranger know about his family, talk about them with such strong familiarity and ease? Like he’s truly been part of Yuuta’s family for a long time.
After a big gulp of water, the man smiles again.
“Anything else you want to ask?”
Yuuta narrows his eyes, suspicion still sharp. There’s no way he can let his guard down—not when this man could still be trying to scam him, or worse, kidnap him, take him into international waters, and sell his organs.
“If you’re really my husband, then you must know something only a husband would know.”
The man tilts his head. “You mean, like your secret?”
Yuuta nods cautiously.
“Of course I do.” The man huffs with amusement. “I know you’ve got a few fully written manuscripts sitting in your computer drive. It’s a fantasy story about teenagers with powers to fight off curses—”
Yuuta’s breath catches. No one knows about that.
“—There are exactly 271 chapters from start to finish. You used your friends’ names for all the characters—including your editor, Maki, her sister, and your publisher, Nanami.”
No, no, no. This man can’t possibly know all that!
But the man continues, clearly entertained by how Yuuta’s expression betrays every thought in his head.
“Strangely enough, you even used my name there—long before we met. And my friends’ too.” He chuckles. “When I asked you about it, you said the whole plot came to you in your sleep. But instead of a dream, it felt more like a memory. Like you’d lived that life before.”
The two hold each other’s gaze—one with his mouth wide open in disbelief, and the other with a wide grin across his face.
The man’s eyes glint even brighter. “So, do you believe me now? Or is there any more question?”
“What’s your name again?”
The man tilts his head, his violet eyes rounded as his lips purse. Yuuta shouldn’t find him adorable—this man could still be a professional stalker. But he does find him adorable.
“I’m Toge,” he answers.
“Last name?”
Toge rolls his eyes playfully, then lets out a soft huff. “Okkotsu, duh. But formerly Inumaki.”
Yuuta blinks in surprise.
Inumaki Toge? The name exists in his manuscript—a supporting character with the power to hypnotize people with his words.
There’s no way a mere fictional character could become a real person, right? This has to be one of the freakiest coincidences to ever happen.
“You took my family name?” Yuuta asks again.
“Yes,” he says, nodding eagerly. “You suggested we hyphenate it. But I just love you and your family too much—I wanted to be part of it completely. Legally.”
“…And your family is okay with that?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they be?” the man chuckles softly. “They practically thanked you in every way possible for making me stay in Japan. I’d been overseas for too long.”
“Did you not visit them often? Even after our—” alleged, Yuuta adds silently, “—marriage?”
Toge looks away, a frown painting his face. “I saw them last week. I mean, last week—in the future. All of our families were there… to see you.”
Yuuta keeps his eyes on him, watching as Toge looks more and more troubled, more and more sad. “To see me… for what reason?”
Then, Yuuta can see it—the way the light instantly dies in the man’s eyes. The violet of his irises blurs, drained of its color as if something inside him has gone hollow.
Toge doesn’t answer for a moment. He bites his lip, then slowly looks up to meet Yuuta’s eyes. “You got sick,” he says quietly.
Yuuta’s eyebrows furrow. “Was it bad?”
Toge looks him straight in the eye, though his gaze feels distant. His jaw tightens before relaxing, and he exhales softly.
He smiles—thin, brittle. A smile as artificial as the plastic flower sitting on the table.
“Don’t you worry that pretty head of yours, Yuuta. Just… trust me when I say I’m here to make your life better.”
“My life is fine,” Yuuta replies with a faint scowl.
Toge chuckles. “Well then… I’m here to make it even better.” He reaches across the table for Yuuta’s hand and adds, “I don’t have any evil plans, Yuuta. If anything, all my plans are made out of love.”
Yuuta meets his violet eyes and sees nothing but sincerity laid bare.
Toge’s eyes plead despite the thin smile on his lips. “So, please. Give me a chance to prove it to you. Just let me stay—for a little while.”
Toge might not be a kidnapper or a murderer, but there’s still a chance he’s a wizard—a spell-caster capable of hypnotizing him, like the character in his manuscript—because somehow, Yuuta feels himself bewitched when he says,
“Alright. You can stay here.”