He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just chew properly."
He chewed. The food sat heavy in his stomach, warm and solid and real.
"When's the last time someone took care of you?" she asked.
The question caught him off guard. He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. The truth was too complicated, too tangled, too painful to speak aloud.
"I don't know," he said finally.
"That's horrible."
"I know."
They sat in silence while he finished his food. When the plate was empty, Tara took it from him and carried it to the sink, returning a moment later with two mugs of coffee. The smell was bitter and sharp, cutting through the lingering warmth of the meal.
"I don't drink coffee," he said automatically.
Tara raised an eyebrow. "You don't drink coffee?"
"It's too bitter."
"It's supposed to be bitter. It wakes you up."
"I don't want to wake up."
She set the mug in front of him anyway. "Drink it. I promise I didn't poison it."
He stared at the dark liquid. Steam curled from its surface, carrying the scent of roasted beans and something else, a faint, floral sweetness. Vanilla, maybe. Or cinnamon. Something she'd added to soften the bitterness.
"Please," she said, and the word was so gentle, so undeservedly kind.
He lifted the mug to his lips.
The taste hit him immediately, bitter and sharp and completely, utterly awful. His face contorted.
His throat tried to reject it. He forced himself to swallow, then set the mug down with more force than necessary, his whole body recoiling from the taste.
Tara burst out laughing.
It was surprised and genuine and warm, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep in her chest.
She covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking, her golden eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Your face," she gasped. "Your face, I've never seen someone react that way over a cup of coffee."
"It tastes like dirt."
"It's coffee."
"Then why do people drink it?"
"Because we're all miserable and we need something to suffer through that isn't our actual lives." She was still laughing, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "Oh, god. I needed that. Thank you."
"You're welcome," he said, and the words came out strangely sincere.
She noticed. Her laughter faded, replaced by something softer. "You really don't like it?"
"No."
"Do you want tea instead?"
"No. I'll... I'll drink it." He picked up the mug again, his fingers wrapping around its warmth. "You made it."
"All I did was pour warm water and add a coffee packet. You don't have to drink it."
"I want to."
She studied him for a moment, her head tilted slightly.
Then she nodded and moved around the table, settling onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. The cushion dipped beneath her weight, and he felt the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"You're strange," she said.
"I know."
"Most people would have just said no."
"I'm not normal."
"No, you're definitely not." She leaned back into the cushions, her shoulder pressing against his. "But I think that's a good thing."
They sat like that for a while. The coffee cooled in his mug. The city murmured beyond the window.
And Hoshimi felt something shift inside him.
His eyes started to burn.
He blinked, hard, trying to force the sensation away. But it was already too late. The tears were there, hot and unwanted, spilling over his lashes and tracing paths down his cheeks.
He didn't even know why he was crying. There was no single thought that had triggered it, no specific memory. Just the overwhelming weight of everything, the grief, the exhaustion, the bone-deep loneliness that had been eating him alive for weeks.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know why I'm—"
"Shh." Tara's hand found the back of his head. Gentle. So gentle. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."
"I should be-"
"You should be nothing. Just let it out."
He tried to resist. His body was rigid, his jaw clenched. But her fingers were threading through his hair now, slow and soothing, and the touch was so familiar, so achingly familiar, that he couldn't hold back anymore.
Tara pulled him down, guiding his head into her lap. He didn't resist.
Just let himself be moved, his body curling sideways on the couch, his face pressed against her thigh. The fabric of her jeans was rough against his cheek, but her hand was soft, stroking his hair, tracing circles on his scalp.
"She's gone," he choked out.
"I know." Tara's voice was quiet, steady. "I know."
Tara didn't say anything else. Just kept stroking his hair, her touch steady and grounding, as the tears ran their course.
The minutes passed. The coffee went cold. The city outside the window grew quiet and still.
And eventually, without meaning to, without wanting to, Hoshimi fell asleep.
He woke to the sound of running water.
It took him a moment to remember where he was.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. The couch beneath him was too soft, the blanket draped over his body too thin. The smell in the air was different, coffee and cinnamon and something floral.
Tara was standing at the kitchen sink, her back to him, washing dishes. The water ran in a steady stream, steam rising from the basin. The morning light.
"I fell asleep," he said. His voice was hoarse.
Tara glanced over her shoulder. "You did. For about six hours. You must've needed it."
He looked down at himself. The blanket was one he didn't recognize, a thin, worn thing with a faded floral pattern. She must have covered him while he slept.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to… that was-"
"Adorable?" She turned off the water and dried her hands on a dishtowel.
"Pathetic."
She shook her head, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the couch beside him. "I don't consider it that way."
He didn't believe her.
They sat in silence for a moment. The window showed a gray sky, the sun hidden behind clouds. He had no idea what day it was. Didn't particularly care.
Tara spoke first.
"You asked me earlier why I was helping you. I didn't really answer."
"You said you wanted to help people."
"That was a lie." She looked down at her hands, her fingers interlaced in her lap. "You just reminded me of myself, I used to be in a really really deep hole, there was no one to help me."
Hoshimi waited.
"I used to be pregnant," she said quietly. "A few years ago. Before I moved here."
"I didn't know the father. I was working. At a brothel downtown. It was the only job I could get after I lost my apartment. I was homeless, I had no skills, no family, no one to help me. So I did what I had to do to survive." She paused. "One of the clients got me pregnant. I never found out which one."
"Miscarriage. Fifth month. The doctors said it was probably because of stress. The kind of life I was living was terrible." Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it. "I was going to name her Lily. After my mother."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I think about her sometimes. What she would have looked like and the kind of person she would've been, I wonder If she would have had my hair or my eyes." She laughed, a soft, sad sound. "It's stupid, I know. She was never even born in the first place and I already miss her."
"It's not stupid."
"No. I don't think it is." She looked at him, her golden eyes meeting his. "Grief is grief. You lost your mother. It's not the same, but it's close enough to understand."
"I'm going to let you stay here for a while, if you want. Just until you figure out what comes next. The couch is comfortable. I have plenty of food. And I live alone anyways." She paused. "It gets lonely, living alone."
"You don't even know me."
"II don't need to." She released his hand and stood, walking back toward the kitchenette. "I know you're in pain and you've been running from it."
He watched her put the kettle on, her movements unhurried and calm. The morning light caught the edges of her silhouette, making her seem almost luminous.
"Okay," he said.
Tara glanced back. "Okay?"
"I'll stay. For a little while."
Her smile widened. "Good. Now. Do you want tea or are you going to be difficult about that too?"
"Tea is fine."
"That's what I thought." She set a mug in front of him a few minutes later, the steam curling upward, the scent of jasmine filling the small apartment. "Drink. It'll help with the headache."
He wrapped his hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into his palms, his fingers, his bones. He lifted it to his lips and drank.
It didn't taste like dirt. It tasted like flowers. Like patience. Like the first small step of a very long journey.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
For everything, he wanted to say. For the food. For the coffee that tasted like dirt. For holding me while I cried. For telling me about your daughter. For making me believe that maybe, just maybe, I can survive this.
"For the tea," he said instead.
Tara laughed. "You're welcome."
They sat together in the quiet apartment, drinking tea and watching the gray morning light creep across the floor.