So I was in her flat to cook her dinner… and the complete messes we were only continued as I realised something else.

“It’s a bit early to eat, isn’t it?” I said, eyeing the shopping bag.

She froze for a second, then let out a sigh. “Of course.”

The situation so laughable, I had no clue what to do. “Well, I’m sure you’re busy, being a teacher, so… should we just pretend this never happened and I’ll catch a taxi home?”

For a moment, I thought she’d agree, but then she sighed again and shook her head. “If you have something to do, please take the food with you. However, if you would forgive me doing some marking, we may eat in a couple hours.”

Perhaps she didn’t know what to do either, her overly formal tone more awkward than cold this time.

“Then, if I may,” I said, gesturing at the chair.

“Please, go ahead,” she said, also gesturing at the chair.

The Kiko-sensei Mi didn’t know about. Well, it was only natural for children to think adults had themselves together.

For now, I sat down and took out my phone, trying to take the pressure off her to entertain me. It worked: she soon settled into marking. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help but glance at her, hard to tear my gaze away.

She’d put her glasses on, eyelashes fluttering just above the rim as she looked down. Now and then, an emotion flickered across her face, so many emotions: pleased, amused, frustrated, disappointed. Sometimes, her brow bunched up and she tapped her pen against her chin, ever so slightly pouting.

I’d opened the news on my phone, but hadn’t read a single article. Oh I tried, yet the words never sunk in, gaze always pulled back to her.

She had such beautiful hands. Even rushed, her handwriting was neat, the upside-down Japanese symbols art to me. Reminded me that, at work, my mentor had joked that my handwriting was good for a foreigner, just that it was like a teen girl’s. Apparently, Mi wrote quite cutesy and that stuck with me.

Distracted by those thoughts, I stared too long and she caught me, our eyes meeting and my brain empty. I smiled on instinct, smiled wider when she smiled back.

Compelled to speak, I blurted out, “Shoulders.”

Her face scrunched up a touch. “Shoulders?”

“That is, they must get stiff from so much marking,” I said, trying not to trip over my words.

“A little,” she said. As if I’d reminded her, she reached up and gave them a squeeze, stretching her neck as well.

The complete idiot I was when it was just the two of us, I didn’t even think before saying, “Do you want a massage?”

She stopped what she was doing to stare at me, which really was the appropriate response to such a stupid question. “Do you know how to give massages?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I opened my mouth… and nothing came out. Smiling for a second, I then managed to say, “Well, I’ve been to the spa a few times.”

A second, then she looked down, mouth pressed closed as a snort escaped her. “I’m okay,” she said.

I was really thankful, unsure how I would have coped with giving her a shoulder massage.

For a long moment, we kept awkwardly looking at each other, then I pointed at my phone. “I’ll let you focus,” I mumbled.

She nodded and went back to marking.

The awkwardness slowly faded, leaving me with the giddy nervousness of before, stealing glances and constantly thinking stupid thoughts. An hour passed like that, silent but for the rustle of paper. I didn’t dislike that. Somehow, just being near her was enough for me to be content.

That was new for me. I’d always felt the need to do something, hard to even just watch a movie without constantly going on my phone. My thoughts always became too dark if left to fester.

Not now. No matter how much my mind wandered, it never strayed from idly thinking of her, of the things she might do or might like or might want. I thought about buying her a nice fountain pen for her birthday, only to realise there might be a different style of fancy pen preferred by Japanese people, and then thought about if it would just remind her of work.

Thoughts going round and around, always about her.

Our “silent date” ended with her packing away the marking and opening her laptop. “I just have to check my emails,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

The way she’d said it made it sound like we’d do something afterwards, but, for all my thinking, I hadn’t thought of anything to do yet. So I quickly tried to come up with something while she tapped away.

“That’s it,” she said, closing her laptop.

“Good work,” I said. It was more formal in Japanese, but I couldn’t think of a better thing to say.

Then there was just us.

Our eyes met, I smiled, she smiled back, I looked down, realised I was now looking at her chest, looked sideways. Desperate to move on from that, cheeks heating up, I said, “So… you don’t have a TV?”

She softly laughed. “I had one, but, after it broke, I realised I never used it. I like it better with more space.”

“I lived in London, so even this is spacious to me,” I said, not really meaning it, but compelled to joke, like a reflex for when I didn’t know what to say.

“London has always fascinated me,” she said, a hint of excitement telling of her genuine interest.

It surprised me, but I knew from Mi’s memories that some Japanese people had… romantic views of Europe. Sure, there were pretty places around the big cities, but there were also plenty of dirty streets and not-so-picturesque buildings. “Really?” I asked.

She just hummed at first, a long second passing before she said, “Mi-chan’s mother had lived there and sometimes told us stories.”

Ah. “Nice stories, were they?” I asked.

Eyes clouded with nostalgia, softly smiling, she gently shook her head. “Not exactly. She liked to tell stories about people. Every day, we would ask her to tell us about someone she saw on the Tube and she always had another story to tell.”

Chuckling, I nodded. “That sounds about right.”

Silence fell again, less awkward this time and she looked to still be lost in memories. I’d noticed when I was Mi, but Riku really did hold Mi’s mother in high regards. Maybe she was the reason Riku became a teacher.

“You must really like her,” I said jokingly.

But Riku didn’t laugh, instead freezing up, then a blush coloured her cheeks. I didn’t understand at first, but eventually remembered Sakura’s confession—that like in Japanese often had a romantic connotation.

Finally, the shoe dropped.

“You really liked her?” I whispered, not meaning to say it aloud.

“I really admired her,” she said, voice tense.

But I could tell now, not so ignorant. Remembered how she’d paid her respects to Mi’s mother—how she’d looked at the old photo, such a tender gaze.

That all said, it wasn’t my place to out her, especially since I might have been wrong. Not exactly experienced with this. So I didn’t push, instead choosing something else to talk about.

“What else did she tell you about London?” I asked, thinking it a good topic.

It surely was: her eyes lit up and, just like that, we were chatting away, the time passing by in the blink of an eye. I loved it. She looked so radiant talking about the things she liked, smile so wide and eyes bright.

“You must be a great teacher,” I said.

She instantly went shy on me, looking away, a laugh slipping out. I loved her laugh. “I try, and I had a wonderful role model,” she said.

Like how I couldn’t keep my thoughts off of her, she couldn’t help but bring up Mi’s mother now and then. I didn’t mention that, though, instead just said, “Yes.”

There wasn’t a clock in the room and, being late summer, it wasn’t going to get dark early, but the pause in our conversation let me check my phone.

Knowing why, she said, “Do you want to cook now?”

“Sure,” I said. The time really did surprise me, over four hours since we’d left Mi’s place, barely feeling like an hour. Well, we had stopped to shop and the drive wasn’t that short.

Anyway, we moved to the kitchen, took out the things, then I started while she sort of hovered around. I’d said I would cook, but I guessed that was awkward for her now since I was the guest.

“Can you wash the cabbage?” I asked.

“Ah, sure,” she said, an eagerness to her voice that sounded so childish compared to her usual politeness.

Together, we cooked.

“You’re really good,” she said, watching me neatly chop.

“I practised a lot. Also, at the lessons, the teacher told us that a meal is enjoyed with all the senses. How it looks, how it smells, the texture when you chew it, sometimes even the sound. Popcorn wouldn’t be as tasty if it didn’t crunch,” I said, mindlessly recounting what I’d learned.

“Ah, I see,” she said.

I stayed focused to make sure I didn’t cut myself in front of her—that would have been way too embarrassing. “Do you like onion? I can leave the bits larger if you do or cut them smaller if you don’t.”

She hesitated, making me doubt her answer. “You can leave them big.”

“Really? It’s important to cook for the people you’re serving,” I said, my tone a little leading.

Sure enough, she crumbled. “Then… a little smaller,” she mumbled.

I smiled, dicing the onion up much smaller. “Sure.”

She probably noticed what I was doing, but didn’t say anything. My mind wandering, I pieced together some other bits of what I knew, recalling that she apparently hadn’t had a good home growing up either. Maybe this kind of consideration was new to her.

While I was thinking around those parts, I remembered why her “nickname” was Kiko. Throat closing up, I hated to think I was calling her by a name she didn’t like, whether that was Riku in my head or Toyama out loud.

Well, there was being considerate and there was being patronising, so I didn’t presume. “You know, when Mi-chan talked to me, she called you Kiko-sensei. Is that just a nickname she came up with, or….”

I kept looking at what I was doing, but heard her sigh and then a breathless chuckle. “It’s an old nickname. Himawari-chan was even more shy when I met her and I thought a cuter name would help her warm up to me,” she said.

That explained that, Mi only knowing that that was how Kiko had introduced herself to Himawari.

“It is cute,” I said absent-mindedly, realising what I’d said a moment later. I didn’t regret it, though. In fact, I asked, “Can I call you Kiko?” Not Kiko-sensei or Kiko-san or Kiko-chan, just Kiko. What friends would call each other. I was also being a bit forward knowing I was a foreigner, so she knew I didn’t think as much about just using a name without honorifics.

Understandably, it took her a while to answer and, to my surprise, she answered with a joke. “We’ll have to see how good your food tastes first.”

“Then there’s no question I can,” I said, teasing her back.

Her laughter sounded so beautiful, almost distracting me from cooking.

Little by little, the preparation came together, wok nice and hot. With the sizzle and the smell, our meal had already begun. A treat for me, I glanced over and caught her licking her lips, but, like any indulgence, it came at a price, making me wonder if she’d had good meals at home, or learned to cook at all from her mother (or father).

Pork and vegetables, it wasn’t anything fancy, only flavoured with soy sauce and salt while the garlic and ginger gave it a touch of spice and depth. Really, The only hard part was frying everything in the right order.

“Ah, it’s tasty,” Kiko said, her attitude now much more casual than at lunch. It seemed like she kept up quite the act for the girls.

“I’m glad to hear that, Kiko,” I said, emphasising her name.

She paused, chopsticks right in front of her mouth, then just shoved the food in and chewed. To my slight disappointment, she didn’t blush.

Still, it felt like I’d built a tiny place in her heart.