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I stare up at the water-stained ceiling in the dark bedroom of our cramped apartment, suddenly awake. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Ever since I—against all logic and reason—married him, my body’s thermostat has become completely dependent on the grumpy, middle-aged furnace that is Keiichirou Nagumo. Without him, I get cold instantly. Just like now.
A month ago, after a case that nearly got us both killed, his few remaining contacts in the force staged an intervention. They strong-armed him into taking a “mandatory sabbatical.” I think they just wanted the old fossil to finally have a proper honeymoon, something we’d never had. Between his stubborn refusal to admit he wasn't twenty anymore and my final year of university, our “marriage” had consisted of passing each other in the hallway of this tiny apartment and sharing instant noodles over case files. We were partners, roommates, but rarely a couple.
But finally, the stars aligned. No cases. No excuses. Just us.
(So where is he?)
I reach for his pillow and press it to my face, inhaling the familiar scent of cheap coffee, old books, and that stubbornly masculine cologne he’s worn since the Showa era. It smells like him, but it’s cold. It doesn’t radiate the warmth I’ve grown addicted to.
I let out a frustrated groan, so loud it’s a wonder the neighbors don’t complain. I swing my legs out of bed, my toes searching for and finding my ridiculous, worn-out rabbit slippers—a gag gift from me that he pretends to hate. I pull on his old, stretched-out university sweater over my tank top, the wool scratching but comforting, and pad out of the bedroom. The door is ajar. Of course. He’s considerate like that when he sneaks out, the idiot.
I’m halfway to the kitchen, convinced he’s finally succumbed to a 3 AM instant ramen craving, when I see it. The door to the nursery is slightly open. A sliver of soft yellow light cuts across the dark hallway.
(I know I closed it. I always do.)
My heart does a funny little flip-flop. A detective’s instinct, or maybe a wife’s. I approach silently, a master of stealth after years of following him on stakeouts, and peek through the crack.
The air leaves my lungs in a silent rush.
There he is. Keiichirou Nagumo, the man who complains about everything, who calls children “noisy, sticky goblins,” who once solved a murder because the culprit’s kindergarten macaroni art was “suspiciously competent.” He’s holding our three-month-old daughter, Sumi, in the crook of his arm as if she’s the most fragile, precious piece of evidence in the world.
And he’s humming.
It’s not a tune I recognize. It’s something old and off-key, probably from his youth. His voice is a low, rumbling gravel that should be scary but instead is the most soothing sound I’ve ever heard. My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a disbelieving, utterly smitten giggle.
He stops humming and starts to whisper, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“...and that’s why the suspect’s alibi was completely illogical, see?” he murmurs. “The train schedule from that era didn’t support his… oh, you’re not interested in that, are you? Your mother says I have a one-track mind.”
He shifts her gently, and I see her little hand curl around his calloused finger. He doesn’t pull away.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” he whispers, his tone full of awe. “Too clever for your own good. You’ll be trouble, just like Mashiro. A beautiful, infuriating trouble.”
He lifts her up and presses the gentlest of kisses to her forehead. My own eyes prickle with tears. He carries her to the window, pointing a thick finger at the smoggy, light-polluted city sky.
“See that? That faint, miserable speck? That’s supposed to be Orion. Pathetic. The stars where I grew up… you could see the whole galaxy. They were so bright, they felt… magical.” He chuckles, a soft, private sound. “When you’re older, I’ll take you to see them. If your mother approves. She’s the boss, you know. Don’t tell her I said that.”
He sighs, a contented sound, and nuzzles her downy hair.
“I have a confession, Sumi. But it’s classified. Don’t put it in your baby report.” He takes a deep breath. “When your mother told me she was pregnant… I thought it was a prank. A cruel one. A man my age… a fossil like me… having this? With a brilliant, young, vibrant yet wild woman like her? I was prepared for her to come to her senses. I’m still waiting, most days.”
He holds her a little tighter.
“I’ve solved countless mysteries, but you… you are the greatest miracle I never dared to try and solve. The best case I’ll ever close.”
That’s it. I can’t breathe. The love in my chest is a physical, painful, wonderful pressure. I want to burst in there and hug them both until they squeak, but I can’t ruin this. This is his moment. The great detective, utterly and completely solved by a three-month-old girl.
I retreat silently, a mess of emotions, and slip back into our cold bed. The chill is almost welcome now, a counterpoint to the warmth blooming in my heart. I curl into a ball, pulling the blankets up to hide my stupid, happy, tear-streaked face.
Almost instantly, the bed dips behind me. Two strong, familiar arms slide around my waist, pulling me back against a solid, wonderfully warm chest. I melt into him on a sigh.
“...Your sneaking is getting worse, Mashiro,” he mumbles into my hair, his voice thick with sleep. Or pretend sleep. “I heard your obnoxious slippers from a mile away.”
I don’t answer. I just place my hand over his where it rests on my stomach.
A long silence stretches out, comfortable and deep. Then, so quietly I almost think I imagine it, I feel his lips brush the shell of my ear.
“...Love you, you annoying brat.”
That does it. I flip over in his arms, my hands coming up to frame his face. In the faint light, I can see the faint blush on his cheeks, the embarrassed shock in his eyes that he’s been caught.
“You sentimental old man,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Love you more. So much more it’s stupid.”
And I kiss him. It’s not slow or sensual at first; it’s desperate and smiling and a little wet from my tears. He grunts in surprise, but his arms lock around me, one hand tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. He kisses me back with a shocking lack of his usual gruffness, all raw, unguarded emotion. It’s a confession all its own.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless. He looks at me, his expression stripped bare of all its cynicism, showing only the vulnerable, deeply feeling man I fell in love with.
“You’re…,” he starts, then clears his throat, struggling for words. “You and Sumi. You’re the only mystery that matters.”
I bury my face in his chest, listening to the frantic, happy rhythm of his heart—my favorite sound in the world.
“We’re your family, you idiot,” I say, my voice muffled by his sweater. “Your weird, messy, perfect family.”
He holds me tighter, and I feel the rumble of his laugh in his chest. “...Yeah. Case closed.”
He’s here. Grumpy, warm, and all mine. As I drift off to the sound of his heartbeat, I dream of our future. It might be chaotic, filled with his complaining and my teasing, but it’s ours. And I know, with every fiber of my being, that it will be brilliantly, wonderfully, magically bright.
Case closed.