Chapter 4: The Smoking Question
The lavender scent was deeper here, in the close quiet of his room. It clung to the black curtains, the stacks of books, the clean linen of his unmade bed. Makoto lay with her head on Ren’s chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing a metronome beneath her ear. His arm was a solid weight around her shoulders, his other hand holding his phone aloft, the blue-white glow painting his focused features in stark relief.
He was scrolling through a feed of short videos—flashing animations, snippets of gameplay, a cat falling off a shelf. The sound was low, a tinny chatter against the room’s silence. She watched the colored lights play across his jaw, contentment a warm, heavy blanket over her limbs.
Then the video changed.
The visuals were stark, clinical. A pair of healthy, pink lungs inflated and deflated. Then a graphic crossfade to a blackened, shriveled pair, tar visibly coating the branches. A grave, disembodied voice listed statistics: reduced lifespan, increased risk of stroke, emphysema. The words ten years and preventable flashed in bold text.
Makoto’s breath hitched. The warm blanket of contentment was yanked away, replaced by a sudden, cold rivulet of dread. It slithered down her spine, insidious and logical. Her mind, trained for worst-case scenarios, latched onto the data and sprinted.
If Ren smoked, his lungs would look like that. If his lungs looked like that, his heart would struggle. If his heart struggled, he would die younger. Not just older, but younger. They wouldn’t have decades. They wouldn’t buy a house with too many windows. They wouldn’t bicker over gardenias versus hydrangeas. They wouldn’t grow stooped and wrinkled together, telling exaggerated stories to great-grandchildren who would roll their eyes.
The fantasy was absurd, a castle she’d only just begun building in the secret corners of her mind. But the video’s graphic finality reduced it to ashes in seconds. The potential loss wasn’t abstract. It was him, here, the steady heartbeat under her ear, ceasing twenty years too soon. Leaving her in a future that was just a longer, emptier version of the loneliness he’d walked into.
“Do you smoke?”
The question jumped from her lips, raw and too loud for the quiet room. It hung between them, blunt and graceless.
Ren’s thumb stopped scrolling. The video ended, the screen going dark for a second before switching to a clip of a skateboarding dog. He lowered the phone, turning his head to look at her. His gray eyes were unreadable in the dim light. “What?”
“Smoke. Cigarettes. Do you?” Her voice was tighter now, pressed thin by the pressure in her chest. She pushed herself up on one elbow to see his face properly. The desk lamp caught the anxiety she knew was plain in her eyes.
He studied her. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t dismiss it. He saw the real fear there, the one that had nothing to do with health class and everything to do with the way her fingers were now clutching at his t-shirt. Slowly, he set his phone aside on the nightstand. The room was darker now, just the pool of golden light from the lamp.
He reached up, his hand curving around the back of her neck. He pulled her down gently and kissed her forehead, a slow, deliberate press of his lips. Then he tilted his chin and kissed her mouth. It was soft, lingering, a whisper against her skin.
When he pulled back, his gaze held hers. “No,” he said, the word simple and absolute. “I don’t smoke. I never have.”
The cold knot in her stomach began to loosen. But the “why” was still there, trembling on her tongue.
He answered it before she could ask. “My old man did. Two packs a day. The house always smelled like an ashtray. He’d hack every morning in the shower like he was trying to expel a demon.” Ren’s voice was matter-of-fact, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw. “He died when I was twelve. Pulmonary embolism. The doctor said the smoking was a major factor.” He gave a small, hollow shrug, the movement shifting her against him. “So, no. I don’t have a death wish. And I sure as hell wouldn’t risk a future where I couldn’t keep up with you.”
Relief flooded her, so potent it left her weak. It wasn’t just about the cigarettes. It was the admission, the sharing of a old, private hurt. It was the word future, spoken so casually, so certainly, from his lips.
“Great-great-grandparents,” she mumbled, her face heating as she confessed the foolish scope of her panic.
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming it. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “Ambitious timeline. I was thinking maybe we master living together first before we start planning for the 22nd century.” His tone was light, but the hand on her neck was firm, anchoring. “Though the image of you, a hundred years old, still trying to scold me for leaving my coffee mug on the windowsill is pretty compelling.”
She swatted his chest, but she was melting into him, the adrenaline seeping away to be replaced by a deeper, more vulnerable warmth. “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not.” He tugged her back down, settling her against him once more. Her ear found its place over his heart. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Steady. Strong. “I want all of it, Makoto. The boring days, the hard days, the days so far ahead we can’t even picture them. Smoking’s a stupid shortcut to nowhere. I’m not taking it.”
She believed him. The last of the tension evaporated from her muscles. She nestled closer, her arm slung across his waist. Her hand, seeking further proof of life, of presence, slid under the hem of his soft cotton shirt. Her palm met the warm skin of his abdomen. She felt the subtle shift of muscle as he breathed, the faint ridge of a scar just below his ribs—a story she didn’t know yet. She splayed her fingers, letting her touch settle just left of center, over the reliable, rhythmic thud of his heart.
He inhaled sharply, a soft intake of breath at the contact. His own arm tightened around her. “Cold hands,” he murmured into her hair, but he didn’t push her away. He covered her hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against his skin.
They lay like that for a long time. The skateboarding dog looped silently on the discarded phone. The city outside the black curtains was a distant, muted rumor. Here, there was only the symphony of his heartbeat under her palm, the rise and fall of his chest, the smell of lavender and him.
“What’s this scar from?” she asked quietly, her finger tracing the smooth, raised line.
“Fell out of a tree. I was nine. Impaling myself on a branch seemed like a better idea than admitting I was scared to climb down.” His voice was a sleepy rumble. “Seven stitches. My mom cried. I got a popsicle.”
A simple story. A childhood mishap. It made him more real, layered over the enigma of the transfer student with a record. She stored it away, a precious piece of him.
Her own thoughts, so frantic minutes before, grew slow and syrupy. The fear of loss receded, not gone, but faced and temporarily shelved. In its place was a startling, quiet conviction. This. This was what she wanted to protect. This peace. This specific heartbeat under her hand.
His breathing deepened, evening out. He was drifting. She should go soon. Sae’s conference ended tomorrow. The real world, with its principal and its blackmail and its separate bedrooms, was a ticking clock at the edge of this sanctuary.
But not yet.
She closed her eyes, mapping the territory of his skin with her fingertips, committing the rhythm of his heart to memory. It was a promise, a tangible anchor in the dark. He wanted all of it. So did she. And for tonight, with her hand over the steady proof of his life, the future didn’t feel like a terrifying cliff edge. It felt like a path, stretching beyond the lavender haze, and for the first time, she wasn’t afraid to imagine walking it.
It felt like a path, stretching beyond the lavender haze, and for the first time, she wasn’t afraid to imagine walking it. His heartbeat was a quiet drum under her palm, a reality more solid than any of her anxieties. The future was just the next breath, and the next, here in the dark.
Then, a sharp, dissonant chime sliced through the room.
It was the generic, blaring ringtone she’d never bothered to change. It came from her bag, discarded by his desk. Every muscle in Makoto’s body locked. Ren’s breathing hitched; he’d been nearly asleep. The sound was an intrusion, a violation of the sanctuary they’d built. It rang again, insistently.
“Ignore it,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, his arm tightening around her.
She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But the Student Council President, the dutiful sister, was already clawing her way to the surface. “It could be the school,” she said, the words automatic. “Or… Sae.” The name landed between them like a stone. The conference was over. Sae was supposed to be on a flight back tomorrow. This call was a grenade with the pin already pulled.
She extracted herself from his warmth, the cool air of the room hitting her skin as she left the bed. She fumbled in her bag, the phone’s screen a blinding rectangle in the dark. The caller ID confirmed it: Sae Niijima. A cold wave washed over her. This was it. The recall. The end of their stolen time.
Ren sat up against the headboard, watching her. His face was in shadow, but she could feel his gaze.
She swiped accept and brought the phone to her ear. “Sis?” Her voice sounded small, strained.
“Makoto.” Sae’s tone was all business, compressed by distance and poor connection. There was no greeting. “I’m at the airport. There’s been a development.”
Here it comes, Makoto thought. Her free hand clenched at her side. She braced for the order to air out the apartment, to remove all evidence of a guest, to return to the silent, polished order of her solitary life. The path she’d just glimpsed shattered.
“The prosecution team in Osaka has requested my direct consultation on a consolidated fraud case,” Sae continued, her words clipped and efficient. “The jurisdictional arguments are a mess. It requires an on-site review of all the original evidence. It’s intolerably inefficient, but the lead prosecutor is insisting.”
Makoto blinked, her brain scrambling to parse the information. This wasn’t about her. This was about work. Always about work. “Oh,” was all she managed.
“It means I’ll be extending my stay,” Sae said, and Makoto’s heart did a strange, suspended flip. “The initial review period is six weeks. Possibly longer, depending on what we find. I’ve just rebooked my flight.”
Six weeks. A month and a half. The numbers echoed in the hollow space of Makoto’s shock. The principal’s sneering face flashed in her mind, his threat about the recommendation letter. Six more weeks of his pressure, of spying on Ren. But that thought was instantly drowned by a surge of something so powerful it stole her breath.
Six more weeks of this.
Of Ren’s quiet presence in Sae’s apartment. Of waking up to something other than silence. Of shared cooking and stupid video game rants and his arms around her in the dark. The relief was so violent it felt like nausea. She had to lean against the edge of his desk.
“Are you still there?” Sae’s voice was impatient.
“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” Makoto fought to keep her voice even, to sound like the responsible sister. “Six weeks? That’s… a significant extension.”
“It’s necessary. The case is a tangle. I’ve transferred additional funds to the household account for groceries and utilities.” There was a rustling sound, maybe papers. “You’ll need to manage. Keep up with your studies. Don’t let the apartment become disorderly.”
The instructions were automatic. Sae was already mentally in Osaka. Makoto was a logistical node to be updated. “I will. Of course.”
“Good. My flight boards shortly. I’ll email you the new return details. Goodnight, Makoto.”
The line went dead.
Makoto stood frozen, the phone still pressed to her ear. The silence of the room rushed back in, but it was different now. It was a silence full of potential, vast and sprawling. A month and a half. Not two weeks. Not a countdown of dwindling, precious days, but a whole season. Spring would truly settle into summer. The heavy rain season would come and go. All of it, with him.
A laugh bubbled up in her chest, choked and disbelieving. She lowered the phone, staring at its black screen as if it had just delivered a holy prophecy.
“Well?” Ren’s voice was quiet from the bed.
She turned. The golden light from the desk lamp caught the edges of him. She couldn’t speak for a moment. The joy was a physical pressure behind her ribs, so intense it was almost painful. It was mixed with a giddy, terrified guilt—she was elated because her sister, the person who had raised her, was buried in work hundreds of miles away. She was a terrible person. She was the happiest she’d ever been.
“She’s not coming back,” Makoto finally said, the words leaving her in a rush. “Not tomorrow. Not for six weeks. Maybe more. There’s a case in Osaka.”
Ren was silent for a beat, processing. Then, slowly, he smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was deep, reaching his eyes and transforming his entire face. It was a smile of shared conspiracy, of a reprieve they’d both wanted but never dared to ask for. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She drifted back toward the bed, feeling weightless. “She’s at the airport now. She just rebooked. A month and a half, Ren.” She climbed onto the mattress, kneeling before him. Her hands found his shoulders. “That’s… that’s over forty days.”
He reached up, his hands settling on her waist. His thumbs rubbed small circles through the fabric of her shirt. “I know how to count, Prez.” His tone was light, but his gaze was intense, watching the emotions play across her face. “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel…” She searched for the right word, but there wasn’t one. “Guilty. And relieved. And… selfish. And so, so happy I think I might burst.” The confession tumbled out. “I should miss her. I should be concerned she’s overworking. And I am, a little. But mostly I just looked at the calendar in my head and saw all those empty squares fill up with… with you. And it felt like winning a lottery I didn’t even know I’d entered.”
He pulled her down into his lap, wrapping her up tightly. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and she felt the shudder of his own exhale, the release of a tension he’d also been carrying. “Good,” he whispered against her skin. His voice was rough. “That’s how I feel too. Selfish and fucking thrilled.”
They held each other in the quiet, the new timeline solidifying around them. It was no longer a fleeting secret. It was a territory they could explore. The mundane possibilities unfurled in her mind like a map. She could buy food for two without calculation. He could leave a sweater. They could have a disagreement and have time to resolve it. They could fall into a routine, something that belonged entirely to them, outside of the academy’s gossip and the principal’s watchful eye.
“The principal,” she said, the dark thought surfacing instinctively, a barb in her happiness.
Ren’s hand swept up and down her back. “He’ll get his reports. You’ll tell him I’m quiet, I keep to myself, my grades are fine. Nothing to see.” He leaned back to look at her. “That’s all true, anyway. The rest is none of his business.”
“But the recommendation letter—”
“—is leverage he won’t give up easily. We’ll handle it.” He said it with a finality that brooked no argument, the same way he’d talked about the missing groceries. He framed her face. “For now, we have time. Real time. Let’s just have it.”
She nodded, believing him. For the first time, the pressure didn’t feel like a slowly crushing vice. It felt like a challenge they faced from a position of strength, from this shared ground. She kissed him, pouring all the swirling, guilty joy into it. He kissed her back, his hands tangling in her hair, and for a long while, the only thing that mattered was the present, which had just exponentially expanded.
Later, curled together again under the sheets, her head was spinning with plans. “We could go to that planetarium exhibit next weekend,” she murmured, her fingers tracing his scar absently. “The one that’s supposed to be immersive. And the used book market in Kichijoji is the following Wednesday. You’d like it.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “Making an itinerary for our cohabitation already? Should I sign a lease?”
“Don’t tease. I’m just… cataloging options.” She sighed, a contented, full-bodied sound. “We could even get a plant. Something low-maintenance. For the apartment.”
“A plant,” he repeated, amusement dripping from the word. “Big plans.” He kissed her temple. “Okay. A plant. We’ll go pick out a rebellious one that doesn’t follow watering schedules.”
The simplicity of it, the domestic normality, was intoxicating. It wasn’t a frantic, passionate secret anymore. It was the potential for a life, brick by mundane brick. The shadow of Sae’s eventual return was there, but it was small and distant on this new, long horizon. Makoto closed her eyes, listening to his heart. Its rhythm was no longer just a comfort. It was the tempo of their borrowed, beautiful time, and for now, it was all hers.