Kasumigaoka Utaha's gaze lingered on the large package in Yukima Azuma's hands.
What did he buy?
For a brief moment, curiosity flickered in her mind.
Then—she crushed it.
It doesn't matter.
Whatever he bought had nothing to do with her.
With that, she quickened her pace, filling her tumbler with water.
Meanwhile, Yukima Azuma took his time.
Instead of opening the package, he pulled out a pair of white slippers from a shopping bag and placed them neatly on the shoe rack by the door.
A small, almost imperceptible action.
Yet Kasumigaoka Utaha noticed.
Her grip on her tumbler tightened slightly.
Why?
Why was he doing things like this now? What's the point?
Shaking off the thought, she turned toward the stairs—
Only for Yukima Azuma's voice to stop her.
"Kasumigaoka-senpai."
She turned back, her elegant eyebrows furrowing in deliberate irritation.
Her expression clearly said—
"Don't talk to me."
"…What is it?"
Yukima Azuma remained unfazed.
Of course, he knew her well enough to not take something like that personally.
This was just how she was—a hedgehog who pricked first and decided later whether to let someone close.
"Would you like to have lunch, Kasumigaoka-senpai? I can make some for you—free of charge."
His tone was light. Casual.
For a moment, she just stared at him.
Then, without a word, she turned away and walked up the stairs.
"Not interested."
Her voice was cool. Detached.
And yet—
As she reached her room and closed the door behind her, she found herself frowning.
Memories That Shouldn't Matter Anymore
She sat on the edge of her bed, arms crossed, irritation bubbling beneath her calm exterior.
Since when… did he learn to cook?
Yukima Azuma had never known how before.
Back then, he relied on her.
Even something as simple as egg-fried rice—he couldn't even make that properly without her help.
Back when they were together, Kasumigaoka Utaha would visit his tiny Tokyo apartment about three times a week to cook for him.
She wasn't a master chef, nor was she the epitome of a "perfect Japanese woman"—but she had always scored well in cooking classes. Enough to make simple, home-cooked meals.
And every time she placed a dish in front of him—
He would stare at her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not in an over-the-top, romanticized way.
But intently.
Almost as if the food in his mouth wasn't what he was savoring—
But the person who made it.
And now?
That same Yukima Azuma had casually asked if she wanted him to "whip up" a meal for her.
Like it was nothing.
Her fingers curled slightly.
What an annoying man.
A Morning of Restlessness
Time passed.
Kasumigaoka Utaha spent the morning tidying her room—organizing her books, setting up her workspace.
Yukima Azuma had clearly done a thorough cleaning beforehand, but even so, moving things around inevitably kicked up some dust.
Opening her window and door, she let the air flow in, planning to clean again later.
And that's when she heard it.
Thud-thud-thud.
The unmistakable rhythm of a knife on a cutting board.
Followed by—
Sizzle—sizzle—
The sound of ingredients meeting a hot pan.
From just the sounds alone, she could tell.
He was skilled.
And then—
The aroma hit her.
Rich, savory, undeniably enticing.
Unlike traditional Japanese cooking, which focused on delicate flavors, this was the kind of scent that made your stomach clench in hunger before you even realized it.
"Grrrr…!"
Her stomach betrayed her.
The timing was cruel.
She had been too busy all morning to eat, and now, the very thing she had stubbornly rejected was tempting her from downstairs.
Kasumigaoka Utaha clenched her jaw.
Because the worst part wasn't just the hunger.
It was the fact that Yukima Azuma had learned to cook after they broke up.
Had he practiced for someone else?
Had he ever cut his fingers while learning, wrapping them in bandages?
Had he ever placed a carefully prepared dish in front of another girl, hiding his injured hands behind his back?
"Bang!"
She slammed her door shut.
Storming to her suitcase, she dug out a pineapple pastry she had brought along.
She had planned to eat it for lunch on moving day.
But now, as she bit into it—
It was tasteless.
A Man Who Understands
Downstairs, Yukima Azuma calmly plated his meal.
A single portion.
He knew Kasumigaoka Utaha too well.
If he had made two portions, she would never have come down to eat out of sheer pride.
So instead, he simply ate alone.
And upstairs—
A certain girl sat in silence, her pineapple pastry half-eaten, feeling completely unsatisfied.
The Passing of Time
Afternoon came.
Yukima Azuma spent his time leisurely, flipping through a shogi puzzle book.
There was a club meeting on Saturday, so he figured he'd brush up on his skills.
Meanwhile, Kasumigaoka Utaha sat at her desk, typing furiously.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard, weaving storylines and dialogue—
Yet, every so often, her gaze flickered to the clock.
Time passed.
Evening came.
The scent of another meal drifted through the air.
Kasumigaoka Utaha glanced at the time.
Well past dinner.
She tapped her foot.
…Not even a word?
No "Kasumigaoka-senpai, would you like dinner?"
Not that she would have accepted, of course.
But—
He didn't even ask.
Irritated, she muttered, "Guess I'll have to order takeout," and resumed typing.
She forgot one thing.
Once she got into the rhythm of writing—
She lost track of time.
1 A.M. – The Price of Stubbornness
By the time she finished a section and paused, she glanced at the clock.
1 A.M.
And then—
The hunger hit her.
It wasn't mild.
It was the deep, aching kind—the kind that made her stomach twist painfully.
"Grrrr…"
She curled up on her bed, hugging her knees with a sigh.
Ordering food at this hour? Impossible.
Did she have anything left to eat?
She had only bought one pineapple pastry.
Which was already gone.
Kasumigaoka Utaha groaned, burying her face in her pillow.
This is all his fault.
If he had just asked one more time, she might have—
No.
No, she wouldn't have.
But at least she wouldn't be starving.
Grudgingly, she pulled herself up and headed downstairs.
Her only option now was to check the fridge for anything remotely edible.
She'd endure tonight.
And tomorrow—
She'd stock the fridge herself.
Here's your revised Chapter 6, refining Yukima Azuma's cool confidence and Kasumigaoka Utaha's conflicted emotions while improving the pacing and dialogue.
Chapter 6: Mastering Cooking, Yet Kasumigaoka Utaha Feels Sad
Kasumigaoka Utaha's gaze lingered on the large package in Yukima Azuma's hands.
What did he buy?
For a brief moment, curiosity flickered in her mind.
Then—she crushed it.
It doesn't matter.
Whatever he bought had nothing to do with her.
With that, she quickened her pace, filling her tumbler with water.
Meanwhile, Yukima Azuma took his time.
Instead of opening the package, he pulled out a pair of white slippers from a shopping bag and placed them neatly on the shoe rack by the door.
A small, almost imperceptible action.
Yet Kasumigaoka Utaha noticed.
Her grip on her tumbler tightened slightly.
Why?
Why was he doing things like this now? What's the point?
Shaking off the thought, she turned toward the stairs—
Only for Yukima Azuma's voice to stop her.
"Kasumigaoka-senpai."
She turned back, her elegant eyebrows furrowing in deliberate irritation.
Her expression clearly said—
"Don't talk to me."
"…What is it?"
Yukima Azuma remained unfazed.
Of course, he knew her well enough to not take something like that personally.
This was just how she was—a hedgehog who pricked first and decided later whether to let someone close.
"Would you like to have lunch, Kasumigaoka-senpai? I can make some for you—free of charge."
His tone was light. Casual.
For a moment, she just stared at him.
Then, without a word, she turned away and walked up the stairs.
"Not interested."
Her voice was cool. Detached.
And yet—
As she reached her room and closed the door behind her, she found herself frowning.
Memories That Shouldn't Matter Anymore
She sat on the edge of her bed, arms crossed, irritation bubbling beneath her calm exterior.
Since when… did he learn to cook?
Yukima Azuma had never known how before.
Back then, he relied on her.
Even something as simple as egg-fried rice—he couldn't even make that properly without her help.
Back when they were together, Kasumigaoka Utaha would visit his tiny Tokyo apartment about three times a week to cook for him.
She wasn't a master chef, nor was she the epitome of a "perfect Japanese woman"—but she had always scored well in cooking classes. Enough to make simple, home-cooked meals.
And every time she placed a dish in front of him—
He would stare at her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not in an over-the-top, romanticized way.
But intently.
Almost as if the food in his mouth wasn't what he was savoring—
But the person who made it.
And now?
That same Yukima Azuma had casually asked if she wanted him to "whip up" a meal for her.
Like it was nothing.
Her fingers curled slightly.
What an annoying man.
A Morning of Restlessness
Time passed.
Kasumigaoka Utaha spent the morning tidying her room—organizing her books, setting up her workspace.
Yukima Azuma had clearly done a thorough cleaning beforehand, but even so, moving things around inevitably kicked up some dust.
Opening her window and door, she let the air flow in, planning to clean again later.
And that's when she heard it.
Thud-thud-thud.
The unmistakable rhythm of a knife on a cutting board.
Followed by—
Sizzle—sizzle—
The sound of ingredients meeting a hot pan.
From just the sounds alone, she could tell.
He was skilled.
And then—
The aroma hit her.
Rich, savory, undeniably enticing.
Unlike traditional Japanese cooking, which focused on delicate flavors, this was the kind of scent that made your stomach clench in hunger before you even realized it.
"Grrrr…!"
Her stomach betrayed her.
The timing was cruel.
She had been too busy all morning to eat, and now, the very thing she had stubbornly rejected was tempting her from downstairs.
Kasumigaoka Utaha clenched her jaw.
Because the worst part wasn't just the hunger.
It was the fact that Yukima Azuma had learned to cook after they broke up.
Had he practiced for someone else?
Had he ever cut his fingers while learning, wrapping them in bandages?
Had he ever placed a carefully prepared dish in front of another girl, hiding his injured hands behind his back?
"Bang!"
She slammed her door shut.
Storming to her suitcase, she dug out a pineapple pastry she had brought along.
She had planned to eat it for lunch on moving day.
But now, as she bit into it—
It was tasteless.
A Man Who Understands
Downstairs, Yukima Azuma calmly plated his meal.
A single portion.
He knew Kasumigaoka Utaha too well.
If he had made two portions, she would never have come down to eat out of sheer pride.
So instead, he simply ate alone.
And upstairs—
A certain girl sat in silence, her pineapple pastry half-eaten, feeling completely unsatisfied.
The Passing of Time
Afternoon came.
Yukima Azuma spent his time leisurely, flipping through a shogi puzzle book.
There was a club meeting on Saturday, so he figured he'd brush up on his skills.
Meanwhile, Kasumigaoka Utaha sat at her desk, typing furiously.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard, weaving storylines and dialogue—
Yet, every so often, her gaze flickered to the clock.
Time passed.
Evening came.
The scent of another meal drifted through the air.
Kasumigaoka Utaha glanced at the time.
Well past dinner.
She tapped her foot.
…Not even a word?
No "Kasumigaoka-senpai, would you like dinner?"
Not that she would have accepted, of course.
But—
He didn't even ask.
Irritated, she muttered, "Guess I'll have to order takeout," and resumed typing.
She forgot one thing.
Once she got into the rhythm of writing—
She lost track of time.
1 A.M. – The Price of Stubbornness
By the time she finished a section and paused, she glanced at the clock.
1 A.M.
And then—
The hunger hit her.
It wasn't mild.
It was the deep, aching kind—the kind that made her stomach twist painfully.
"Grrrr…"
She curled up on her bed, hugging her knees with a sigh.
Ordering food at this hour? Impossible.
Did she have anything left to eat?
She had only bought one pineapple pastry.
Which was already gone.
Kasumigaoka Utaha groaned, burying her face in her pillow.
This is all his fault.
If he had just asked one more time, she might have—
No.
No, she wouldn't have.
But at least she wouldn't be starving.
Grudgingly, she pulled herself up and headed downstairs.
Her only option now was to check the fridge for anything remotely edible.
She'd endure tonight.
And tomorrow—
She'd stock the fridge herself.