Misako stood up and, while clearing the dishes, said to Kanjuro, "Mr. Kanjuro, please go sit on the living room sofa; I'll take care of things here. There are magazines on the coffee table and the remote is nearby; turn on the TV if you want to watch something."
"Let me help you, Auntie." Kanjuro also stood up, naturally taking the stack of plates from Misako's hands. "I can't just eat and drink for free while the host does all the work."
"Oh, how can I let you do that? You're a guest..." Misako was a bit surprised and quickly tried to decline.
"It's no trouble at all." Kanjuro smiled slightly, a smile so clean and refreshing that under the warm yellow light of the kitchen, it seemed to carry the warmth of sunlight. His movements were efficient, without any of a teenager's clumsiness; he handled the dishes steadily and silently, even conveniently returning the used condiment bottles to the shelf.
Watching his practiced movements, a flash of surprise and admiration crossed Misako's eyes. It was rare to see boys nowadays, especially at this age, willing to take the initiative to help with housework, let alone doing it so naturally and properly. She no longer insisted, and the two of them cooperated tacitly, quickly clearing the table and putting the dishes into the dishwasher.
During the process, Kanjuro would occasionally say a few lighthearted things. He didn't try to show off, simply chatting about trivial anecdotes at school or offering sincere praise for a certain dish Misako had made—his taste buds were so sharp they could distinguish the finest differences in heat and seasoning, making his praise naturally specific and convincing.
"Auntie's miso soup has a very rich umami from the bonito dashi, and the radish is cooked just right—soft but not mushy. It's much better than the one my mother makes." His tone carried a well-measured playfulness and frankness typical of a young man.
Misako was a bit embarrassed by his praise, a faint blush appearing on her face, but she was very pleased inwardly. "It's not that good... it's just a very common '503' home-style way of making it. Mr. Kanjuro's mother must be very good at cooking too, right?"
"Her? She's quite busy with work and rarely cooks." Kanjuro shrugged, his tone relaxed, portraying the image of an "urban youth with busy parents" naturally and in a way that evoked a hint of pity. "So I often eat out or just whip something up myself. Someone like you, Auntie, who can make a table full of such warm food, is truly amazing."
These words... both explained that his help with housework might stem from "self-reliance," elevated Misako's domestic skills again, and implied a slight yearning for family warmth. The boundaries were handled perfectly.
Misako's hand wiping the stove paused slightly, and the gaze she directed at Kanjuro grew a few degrees softer. Most boys this age were either rebellious and flashy or silent and withdrawn; someone like Kanjuro, who was polite, well-spoken, and considerate, was truly rare. She couldn't help but think of her own adoptive son, Kazuhiko, who only cared about manga and games and with whom communication always felt strained, and she sighed softly in her heart.
After tidying up, Misako brewed a pot of genmaicha and brought out the freshly baked almond cookies, still carrying a warm and sweet aroma, and sat down with Kanjuro on the living room sofa.
Outside the window, the sky was darkening and the lights were coming on. Only a single floor lamp was lit in the living room, its light warm and soft. The TV wasn't on; there was only the sound of quiet conversation and the occasional clink of a teacup against a saucer.
Away from the "collaboration" of housework, sitting alone in a relatively private space, the atmosphere seemed to take on a subtle difference. Misako initially maintained the warmth and distance an elder has for a son's classmate, but Kanjuro's speech and behavior made it difficult to treat him as just an ordinary high school student.
The breadth of his knowledge secretly astonished Misako. No matter what topic she brought up—a book she recently read, an old movie, or even gardening and flower arrangement—Kanjuro could hold a conversation, offering unique insights and witty remarks that often made Misako chuckle behind her hand or sparked deeper reflection. When he spoke, his deep eyes would focus intently on the other person, as if you were the only important thing in his world at that moment. That feeling of being seriously listened to and responded to was a long-lost, heart-warming experience for Misako, who was used to her husband's absence and her son's distance.
Moreover, in such a relaxed environment and soft light, Misako became more clearly aware of just how unforgettable Kanjuro's handsome appearance was. It wasn't the delicate look of a pretty boy, but rather clear and sharp lines, deep-set eyes, a high bridge of the nose, and a curve of the lips that always carried a faint, lingering smile. Most special were his eyes; clearly a deep purple close to black, they were like a quiet night sky, and when a flash of light occasionally crossed them, it was as if stars were shifting. Sitting there quietly, his posture was upright but not stiff, carrying an indescribable, quiet aura that transcended his age.
Misako didn't consider herself a superficial person, but everyone has a love for beauty. Facing such a pleasing, witty, and considerate young man, it was hard for her not to develop a favorable impression. This favorability was a mix of an elder's admiration, envy for "someone else's excellent child," and a trace of a woman's instinctive attention toward an outstanding member of the opposite sex that she hadn't even clearly realized herself.
During the conversation, Kanjuro skillfully guided the topics, learning that Misako worked in administration at a small design company and that her hobbies included reading and cooking, with a life that was regular but somewhat monotonous. He also appropriately revealed his own "background" of "parents doing business abroad for long periods, living alone," shaping an image of an independent and mature youth who nonetheless craved a bit of family warmth.
"Living alone must be very hard, right?" Genuine concern flowed from Misako's eyes. "For meals and such, you can't always just eat out. You have to pay attention to nutrition."
"It's okay, I'm used to it." Kanjuro smiled, and in that smile there seemed to be a very faint, fleeting loneliness that he quickly covered up, instead comforting Misako, "You don't need to worry about me, Auntie. It's you who is busier, juggling work and housework every day while also taking care of Kazuhiko."
His tone was sincere, his gaze falling on Misako's gentle eyes which couldn't hide a trace of fatigue.
This look, this sentence, was like a small pebble gently tossed into Misako's calm but lonely heart. For a long time, her husband's neglect (though he was the adoptive son's father, the relationship was clearly distant), the generational gap with her adoptive son during his adolescence, and the repetitive trivialities of life... these fine dust particles had accumulated in her heart, usually well-covered by her gentleness and diligence. Now, they were lightly brushed away by the considerate words of a young man she had only recently met.
Misako's heart trembled, and a slight throb—a mix of warmth, sourness, and the feeling of being understood—welled up. She lowered her lashes to hide her momentarily moist eyes and took a sip of tea to calm her emotions.
"Mr. Kanjuro... you really know how to be considerate." When she looked up again, her smile was still gentle, but the light in her eyes seemed softer, and the way she looked at Kanjuro was less about pure courtesy and more about genuine closeness and favor. "Kazuhiko is lucky to have a friend like you."
"It's also my luck to know you and Kazuhiko, Auntie." Kanjuro responded with a smile, his gaze clear.
Just then, the sound of Kazuhiko's deliberately heavy footsteps and the opening of a door came from upstairs; he had likely finished his practice problems (or couldn't do them anymore).
"Mom! Kanjuro! I'm done!" Kazuhiko's voice came from the stairs, carrying a liberated cheerfulness.
The subtle and quiet atmosphere in the living room was broken. Misako instantly reverted to her usual demeanor of a gentle mother, calling back, "Come down then; there are still cookies, and the tea is still warm."
She looked at Kanjuro, her gaze soft: "Thank you so much today, Mr. Kanjuro, for chatting with me for so long. Kazuhiko is down, you two go play, but don't be too late, make sure to get some rest."
"Thank you for the hospitality, Auntie; the tea and cookies were both delicious." Kanjuro stood up and thanked her politely. "Well then, I'll go bother Kazuhiko for a while longer."
He walked toward the stairs and met up with the excitedly descending Kazuhiko. Misako sat on the sofa, watching Kanjuro's tall back and her son's simple, happy face, and let out a soft sigh. Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the warm wall of the teacup; the afterglow of the conversation and that strange throb in her heart lingered like the aroma of tea, curling and remaining for a long time.
This young man named Kanjuro... is truly special. Misako thought to herself, a faint sense of favor and curiosity that she hadn't even delved into was quietly planted.
And for Kanjuro, this was merely an enjoyable evening. Observing the subtle emotional fluctuations of a beautiful and gentle adoptive mother was like appreciating the slight trembling of leaves on a carefully tended plant in a breeze. Interesting, and... perhaps capable of nurturing even more interesting follow-ups.
The game has only just begun. And for him, who is "forever eighteen," the things he lacks least are time and patience. A few days later, on a weekend afternoon, Kanjuro was once again invited to the house by Kazuhiko on the pretext of a "newly arrived out-of-print game." As usual, after showing off his latest "collection" and playing games for a while, Kazuhiko impatiently dove into his own room to immerse himself in a recently updated manga serialization, leaving Kanjuro in the living room.
Misako was on the balcony hanging up the washed laundry. The low hum of the washing machine had stopped, and the faint fragrance of fabric softener wafted through the air. With her back to the living room, she stood slightly on her tiptoes, using hangers to spread out shirts, T-shirts, and bedsheets one by one, hanging them on the retractable drying rack. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass windows, outlining her soft silhouette. Her homey beige cotton long dress swayed gently with her movements, revealing a slender waist.
Kanjuro put down the magazine he had been casually flipping through and stood up to walk toward the balcony. His footsteps were very light; Misako didn't notice him until he was close.
"Ah, Mr. Kanjuro." Misako turned around and, seeing it was him, her face broke into her usual gentle smile. "Why aren't you resting in the living room? That boy Kazuhiko ran off on his own again, didn't he? Honestly..."
"It's fine, I just wanted to move around a bit," Kanjuro said with a smile. His gaze naturally swept over the clothes she was about to hang—some dark-colored men's underwear and socks. They clearly didn't belong to Misako, nor did they look like the style Kazuhiko would wear at his age; they likely belonged to the "perennially away" male head of the house. In the laundry basket next to her, on the very top, were several pieces of lively colored adolescent clothing, including... a pair of light gray boys' boxer briefs.
Kanjuro's gaze lingered on those boxer briefs for less than half a second before immediately moving away, as if he had only caught sight of them by accident. However, he frowned slightly, a subtle change in expression that was caught by Misako as she turned back to talk to him while hanging clothes.
"What is it? Mr. Kanjuro?" Misako asked with some confusion.
Kanjuro seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if after a brief thought, before speaking in a low voice, using a tone somewhere between a young man's directness and a considerate caution: "Auntie Misako... there's something I don't know if I should say."
He had quietly changed his form of address from 'Auntie' to 'Auntie Misako.' It was just one more word, but the sense of intimacy increased subtly.
Misako's movements paused. Looking at Kanjuro's slightly hesitant yet serious expression, her heart skipped a beat for some reason. "What is it? Is it about Kazuhiko? Please, go ahead." She put down the hanger in her hand, her expression becoming serious as well.
Kanjuro pointed to the light gray boxer briefs in the laundry basket, his voice lowered further to ensure only the two of them could hear: "Look there... Kazuhiko's."
Misako looked in the direction he pointed. It was one of the items she had just collected from the dirty laundry basket in Kazuhiko's room and hadn't had time to sort yet. At first, she didn't understand what Kanjuro meant. She looked at the ordinary underwear in confusion, then back at Kanjuro.
A perfectly measured expression of mixed embarrassment and concern appeared on Kanjuro's face. He turned slightly to avoid any potential line of sight from the living room (even though Kazuhiko was in his room with the door closed) and pointed vaguely at an inconspicuous side of the underwear. In a voice that was almost a breath, he said: "There... there are traces. And... it doesn't seem to be the first time. The color is a bit dark, and the shape is..."
He didn't finish, but the implication was clear enough. The residual traces of a physiological phenomenon that might appear on a teenage boy's underwear.
Misako's face instantly turned bright red. She was an adult woman and a foster mother; she wasn't completely ignorant of such things. It was just that when she usually washed the clothes, she perhaps never intentionally checked, or perhaps she saw them and subconsciously ignored them, viewing them as a natural, albeit somewhat embarrassing, privacy of a boy growing up. Now, having it pointed out so directly (despite the euphemistic wording) by her son's classmate, and while they were alone, a sense of shamed embarrassment instantly seized her.
"Ah... th-this..." Flustered, Misako hurriedly looked away from the underwear, her face burning hot, even her ears turning red. She instinctively used the shirt belonging to the master of the house she had just picked up to block the laundry basket, as if trying to hide the embarrassing evidence. "Mr. Kanjuro... h-how did you notice this... th-this is... for a boy this age, it's unavoidable... i-it's very normal..." She tried to explain incoherently, both to Kanjuro and as if trying to convince herself to dissolve this sudden awkwardness.
Kanjuro, however, did not stop there. Watching Misako's flustered and embarrassed state, a faint light, like someone observing an experimental reaction, flashed in his eyes, but his face remained filled with that sincere concern. He leaned forward slightly, getting closer to Misako. The sunlight was behind him, casting a glow around his tall frame, but it also made his expression seem somewhat dark and unclear from Misako's upward perspective.
"If it's a normal physiological phenomenon, I naturally understand, Auntie Misako." His voice was still very light, yet it possessed a strange piercing quality, each word clearly drilling into Misako's ears. "But..."
He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words, his purple eyes looking deeply into Misako's panicked ones.
"Have you ever paid close attention to the way Kazuhiko looks at you?"
"What?" Misako was stunned. The blush on her face hadn't faded, and she was left bewildered by this sudden question.
"It's not the kind of look a son gives a mother," Kanjuro said slowly, his tone calm, yet like a stone thrown into a still lake. "Sometimes, when your back is to him, or when you lean over to do something... I've accidentally noticed it a few times. That look... it's different. It has the restlessness and curiosity common in boys this age, but the target... seems a bit misplaced."
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