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The microwave clock read 11:45 PM, casting a faint, green tint across the kitchen counter. Yuma lay flat on his back on the sofa, legs dangling over the armrest, staring at a blank text box.
I found that noodle place you mentioned online, he typed. The spicy one looks delicious, though. Are you free this Thursday?
He stared at it as his thumb hovered, then aggressively tapped the backspace key until the screen was empty again—too eager. They had just shared a plate of convenience store gyoza forty-eight hours ago in Yuma's kitchen, their knees occasionally bumping under the small table, pushing for Thursday felt like overstepping an invisible line, Yuma thought.
He tried again: If you're free sometime this week, wanna grab those noodles together?
Sounds better and more casual, just like the kind of text you sent a neighbor.
Because that's what Jo was, technically. Asakura Jo was the guy from apartment 302 who had moved in six months ago, dropping a box of laundry detergent on Yuma's welcome mat during his first week and apologizing with a smile that Yuma had not completely recovered from. Since then, they had drifted into a comfortable routine around each other.
They were the type of friends who traded leftover ingredients, complained about the building's unreliable heating, and walked to the local grocery store together when neither of them wanted to cook alone.
But lately, Jo was also the reason Yuma took an extra minute to fix his hair before taking out the trash. He was the low, rumbling laugh that stayed in Yuma's head long after the door closed, and the lingering warmth that stayed on Yuma's shoulder whenever Jo clapped him on the back.
It was a massive, inconvenient crush, and hidden behind a carefully maintained wall of polite neighborliness.
Yuma let out a long breath through his nose, locking the phone and tossing it onto the floorboards. "Just forget it, Yuma. He's probably asleep anyway."
He closed his eyes, intending to just lie there until morning, when a sudden clunk vibrated through the floorboards.
Yuma blinked, his eyes snapping open. It sounded like it came from the bathroom, so he just waited, straining his ears over the hum of the refrigerator.
Then came the sound, and it was not a slow, irritating drip, but a sudden, violent hiss—like a grade hose turned on full blast indoors.
"What the…" Yuma scrambled off the sofa, nearly tripping over his discarded phone, and padded quickly down the short hallway.
The moment he threw the bathroom door open, his right foot sank into a cold, dark puddle. The water was already clear past the base of the toilet, spreading rapidly over the gray tiles. Beneath the porcelain sink, the old metal intake pipe had split right down the seam. A harsh, pressurized jet of rusty, metallic-smelling water was spraying straight out, slamming into the side of the bathtub and splashing everywhere.
"Are you serious?" Yuma yelled to the empty room.
He lunged forward, grabbed a dry bath towel off the rack, and tried to shove it over the split pipe. The water pressure immediately blew it right out of his hands, spraying him squarely in the chest. Within three seconds, his shirt was soaked, clinging freezing and heavy to his skin. The puddle on the floor was rising, licking at the wooden threshold of the hallway.
If it hit the hardwood in the living room, he was losing his security deposit for sure.
He dropped to his knees, splashing water everywhere as he fumbled blindly behind the rusted pipe, looking for a knob, a valve, or anything to make it stop. His fingers caught on the ancient, jagged metal that would not budge a millimeter.
"Damn it," he muttered, his hands slick and shaking. He did not know anything about plumbing, and he did not even know where the building's main shut-off was.
His brain scrambled for options, and only one face to mind.
Yuma stood up so fast that his slippers slipped on the wet tile, catching himself on the doorframe. He did not grab a towel, he did not check his reflection, and he did not care that he looked like a drowned rat. He threw his front door open, bolted across the narrow, fluorescent-lit hallway, and began hacking his fist against the wood of door 302.
"Jo! Jo, wake up! Please, open the door!"
The fluorescent light in the hallway flickered with a dull buzz, the sound cutting through the dead quiet of the building. Yuma did not stop hitting the wood until he heard a muffled groan from the other side, followed by the uneven thud of footsteps.
The lock turned with a sharp click, and the door swung open just a few inches, held by the security chain. Jo stood in the gap, blinking heavily against the hallway light. His hair was a mess—wild, dark tufts sticking up everywhere—and his eyes were small with sleep. He was wearing nothing but a faded, oversized t-shirt that hung loosely off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone.
"Yuma?" Jo's voice was incredibly deep, thick, and rough from sleep. He rubbed the back of his neck, squinting down at him. "What… what time is it now? Is everything okay?"
"No, it's not. My bathroom is currently becoming a lake," Yuma said, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. He reached out, his wet fingers catching the edge of the doorframe. "The pipe under my sink just exploded. I don't know how to turn the water off, and it's about to hit the living room."
Jo's eyes went wide, the sleep instantly vanishing from them. "Wait, what?"
"Just come take a look!" Yuma pleaded, his voice cracking slightly with genuine panic. "Please, I don't know what to do."
Jo did not even hesitate. He unhooked the chain, threw the door wide open, and stepped out into the hallway barefoot. He took one look at Yuma's dripping wet shirt, the dark patches of water already staining Yuma's socks, and his expression shifted from confused to focused.
"Show me," Jo said, pushing past him and heading straight into apartment 301.
The moment they crossed Yuma's threshold, the sound of the rushing water hit them—a loud, angry hiss that sounded too big for a tiny apartment bathroom. The puddle had officially breached the doorway now, a thin sheet of cold water creeping onto the dark hardwood of the living room.
"Oh, wow," Jo muttered, stopping just short of the bathroom door. He looked down at the floor, then up at the jet of water still spraying violently against the side of the tub, misting the room in a cold, metallic fog. "You weren't exaggerating."
"I told you!" Yuma threw his hands up, only to realize he was just splashing more water off his sleeves. "I tried to turn the knob behind the pipe, but it's completely stuck—like it's rusted solid. Can we call the landlord, or is there any emergency number that we can reach out for help?"
"Old Takahashi shuts his phone off at nine; he won't answer," Jo said calmly, though he was already moving. He strode right into the puddle, his bare feet splashing against the tiles, and dropped to his knees in front of the sink.
"Wait, you're going to get soaked—"
"Too late for that, don't you think?" Jo called back over his shoulder. He craned his neck, shoving his head into the cramped, dark space beneath the porcelain basin. The pressurized stream clipped his shoulder immediately, darkening his grey shirt into a deep charcoal. He did not even flinch, his large hands immediately gripping the metal valve Yuma had been wrestling with earlier. "You're right, this thing is totally seized up. Do you have a wrench or pliers? Anything?"
Yuma scrambled to the kitchen, tearing open the utility drawer beneath the counter. He knocked over a container of plastic zip-ties and a roll of duct tape before his fingers wrapped around a heavy, slightly rusted adjustable wrench he had bought at a convenience store three years ago.
"Here!" Yuma sprinted back, nearly losing his footing on the slick hardwood, and slid the wrench into Jo's outstretched hand.
"Perfect. Now hold this," Jo said, grabbing Yuma's wrist to pull him down into the space beside him.
The sudden contact—Jo's hand warm and solid against Yuma's pulse point, despite the freezing water dripping everywhere—made Yuma's breath hitch for a non-plumbing-related reason. He dropped down next to Jo, their shoulders pressed tight against each other in the narrow gap between the toilet and the sink.
"Hold the flashlight on your phone right here," Jo directed, his face inches from Yuma's as he angled the wrench onto the stubborn metal bolt. "And Yuma, you can lean back a little. If this slips, you're getting a face full of rusty water."
Yuma cleared his throat, trying to mask the sudden crack in his voice, and thumbed his phone screen to turn on the flashlight. The bright white beam cut through the dark recess beneath the sink, illuminating the wet, green corrosion scaling the pipe.
He leaned back against the cool porcelain base of the toilet, but the space was so tight that his shoulder stayed pinned firmly against Jo's. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Jo's chest, the heat radiating from him despite the cold water spraying over both of them.
"Alright, let's see," Jo muttered. He clamped the teeth of the wrench around the rusted valve. His biceps flexed, the damp grey cotton of his shirt straining against his shoulders as he tried to force the tool to turn counterclockwise.
Nothing happened—the metal gave a dull, scraping screech, but the valve did not budge.
"Is it turning?" Yuma asked, leaning a bit closer to see over Jo's arm. The spray hit the back of Yuma's head, sending a freezing trickle straight down his spine. He winced, his teeth instantly chattering. "C-cold."
"Don't move, Yuma. You're fine," Jo said, his jaw visibly clenched with the effort. A stray drop of water ran down his temple, catching the light before tracking down the sharp line of his jaw. He readjusted his grip on the handle, shifting his weight until his hip was pressed right against Yuma's thigh. "This thing has probably been sitting here since the nineties. Hold the flashlight steady for me, Yuma."
"I am holding it steady," Yuma muttered, though his hand was shaking from the chill. "You're just shaking the whole sink."
"I'm not trying to break the pipe out of the wall," Jo shot back, a faint, breathless laugh cutting through his straining words. "If I snap the main line, we're going to need a boat and not a wrench at that point."
With a sudden, violent crack, the wrench slipped. Jo's hand slammed into the underside of the porcelain basin with a heavy thud, and a fresh, angry burst of water shot sideways, hitting Yuma square in the jaw.
"Ow! Damn it!" Yuma yelled, dropping his head and wiping his eyes with the back of his wet sleeve.
"Shit, sorry—are you okay?" Jo immediately dropped the wrench, his hand moving automatically to cup the side of Yuma's face. His palm was wet, but his skin was intensely warm against Yuma's cold, dripping cheek. His thumb brushed just below Yuma's eye, a gesture so naturally tender that it made Yuma's brain short-circuit for a second. Jo's eyes searched his face, wide and genuinely worried, just inches away. "Did the wrench hit you?"
"No," Yuma breathed, his heart doing something much louder than the rushing water. He stared at Jo's lips, then quickly forced his gaze back up to Jo's eyes. "No. just… a lot of water up my nose. I'm fine, just fix the pipe."
Jo blinked, his thumb lingering on Yuma's cheekbone for a beat too long before he dropped his hand away, clearing his throat. "Right, the pipe."
He picked the wrench back up, his expression hardening with a sudden burst of stubborn focus. He grabbed the handle with both hands this time, bracing his bare feet against the wet floor tiles. "Alright, one more time. On three."
"One," Yuma counted, bracing his own hand against the floor to steady himself.
"Two."
"Three—"
With a harsh, grinding groan of metal against metal, the valve finally gave way. Jo kept forcing it, turning the wrench in full, heavy rotations. The angry hiss of the water slowly began to lose its edge, tapering down from a violent spray to heavy splash, then a steady drizzle, until finally, the bathroom fell into a sudden, echoing silence.
Only the sound of their heavy breathing and the slow drip from the broken seam remained.
Yuma let his head fall back against the wall, exhaling a long, ragged breath. His shirt was ruined, glued to his chest, and his pants were soaked from the knees down. "Please tell me it's over."
Jo let out a low, rumbling laugh, still slouched under the sink. He dropped the wrench onto the wet tile with a dull clatter and turned his head to look at Yuma, his messy hair plastered to his forehead.
"It's over," Jo said softly, his eyes dropping to Yuma's soaked clothes before coming back up to meet his gaze. "But your bathroom is definitely a swimming pool, Yuma."
Yuma shifted his weight, his pants sticking uncomfortably to his skin as he looked around the room. The silence was almost louder than the spraying had been. The water on the floor had settled into a still, dark sheet that reflected the dull yellow light of the overhead bulb.
"We need to get this up before it warps the wood in the hall," Yuma said, his voice sounding flat in the small room. He pushed himself up, his feet making a loud, wet squelch against the tile.
Jo stayed on the floor for a second longer, wiping his wet hands down the front of his already ruined t-shirt. "You got any towels, or a mop?"
"I used my last clean bath towel trying to choke the pipe," Yuma said, walking out into the hallway. His socks left dark, heavy footprints on the hardwood where the water had begun to seep out. He went to the hall closet, pulling out a stack of old beach towels—one bright neon green, another with a faded beer logo—and a couple of old t-shirts he usually used for dusting.
Jo came out of the bathroom, his bare feet leaving wet slaps against the floorboards. The grey shirt he wore was drenched across the right shoulder and chest, sticking to his skin and showing the sharp line of his collarbone and the curve of his shoulder.
"Here," Yuma said, tossing two towels at Jo's chest. Jo caught them with a soft thwack.
They worked in a quiet, synchronized rhythm for the next fifteen minutes. Jo threw himself onto his knees by the bathroom threshold, shoving the neon towel against the edge of the hardwood to block the water from spreading any further, while Yuma used a plastic basin to scoop up the deepest parts of the puddle from the tile, dumping it down the bathtub drain.
"Our landlord is going to have to replace that entire fixture," Jo said, his voice muffled as he leaned down to wring out a towel into the bucket Yuma had fetched. The muscles of his forearms flexed, water squeezing out in a heavy stream between his knuckles. "The threading on that pipe is gone, like it's stripped."
"Don't remind me," Yuma muttered, his back aching from bending over the basin. "Takahashi is going to blame me for it. He thinks everything in this building breaks because the tenants look at it wrong."
Jo let out a short, quiet snort. "Then, just tell him I did it. He's scared of me because I accidentally broke the front door handle last month."
Yuma looked over, a small smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "You broke the main door handle?"
"I pulled too hard," Jo said, looking up from the floor. A damp strand of hair fell straight into his eyes, and he swiped it away with the back of a wet wrist. "I mean, the wood is rotten. It's not my fault."
The warmth in Jo's expression made Yuma look away quickly, focusing hard on the last few streaks of water near the toilet. "Right."
By the time the floor was down to a damp sheen, both of them were visibly shivering. The midnight air coming through the small bathroom window vent was cool, and the wet cotton of Yuma's clothes felt like ice against his ribs.
Jo stood up, his knees cracking loudly in the quiet apartment. He looked down at himself, who was currently trying to peel his soaked socks off his feet without touching the clean floor.
"You're freezing," Jo said.
"So are you," Yuma pointed out, his teeth giving a small, involuntary click. "Your shirt is completely see-through on one side."
Jo looked down at his chest, then shrugged, though he rubbed his palms up and down his arms to catch some heat. "I'm going back to my place to get dry clothes. Don't touch anything else under there. I'll be back in five minutes."
"Jo, you don't have to—"
"Five minutes, Yuma," Jo repeated, already walking toward the front door. He did not wait for an answer, turning the lock and stepping out into the fluorescent hallway, leaving a trail of damp footprints that led straight to door 302.
Yuma stood in the middle of his living room, his bare feet sticking slightly to the damp hardwood. The apartment felt too quiet now that the rushing water had stopped, save for the low hum of his refrigerator and his own heavy breathing. He looked down at his shirt; the cotton was cold and heavy, glued to his stomach, and every time he moved, it sent a fresh shiver down his spine.
He walked into his bedroom, peeled off the wet pants with a heavy peel, and kicked them into the corner. He grabbed a pair of grey sweatpants from his dresser—thankfully dry—and pulled them on, but when he opened the bottom drawer for a fresh t-shirt, he realized he had not done laundry all week. Everything left was either a thin tank top or an old, scratchy thermal.
Before he could decide, there was a soft knock at his front door.
Yuma hurried out, his bare feet padding softly on the dry parts of the floorboards. He opened the door to find Jo standing there, changed. He was wearing dry black sweatpants and a thick, zip-up hoodie that smelled faintly of cedar and cheap laundry detergent. In his arms, he held a messy bundle of thick fabrics.
"Here," Jo said, stepping inside without waiting to be asked. He shoved the bundle into Yuma's arms. "You were shivering just now. Put these on."
Yuma looked down. It was a massive, dark navy hoodie—easily two sizes too big for Yuma—and a thick pair of wool socks. The fabric was still warm, fresh out of whatever drawer Jo had pulled it from.
"Thanks," Yuma muttered, his chest tightening slightly as the scent of Jo's detergent hit him full force. "I'll… go change."
"Take your time. I'll check the hallway while you're changing," Jo said, already heading toward the kitchen to grab the leftover towels.
Yuma retreated to his bedroom, pulling his damp shirt over his head and tossing it onto the pile. He slid his arms into the navy hoodie—the cuffs swallowed his hands past his knuckles, and the hem fell past his hips. It felt heavy and incredibly warm. He sat on the edge of his bed to pull on the thick wool socks, then took a steadying breath before walking back out.
Jo was standing by the kitchen counter, his back to the room. He had filled Yuma's small electric kettle and turned it on, the little red light glowing on the base.
"The wood in the hall looks okay," Jo said, turning around as Yuma entered. He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes tracking from the oversized sleeves covering Yuma's hands up to the high collar framing his chin. A small, unreadable expression flickered across Jo's face before he looked down at the counter. "It didn't seep under the baseboards."
"That's something, at least," Yuma said. He walked over, his arms crossed over his chest, hiding his hands in the large sleeves. "What's the kettle for?"
"Tea," Jo said, nodding toward the pantry. "Or whatever you have. Your hands were shaking when you gave me the wrench."
"They were not," Yuma said, though he knew it was a lie. He reached past Jo to open the cupboard, his shoulder brushing against the thick fabric of Jo's zip-up. He pulled down a small tin of barley tea bags. "We can just use this."
"Sit down," Jo said, taking the tin out of Yuma's hand. His fingers brushed against Yuma's knuckles, warm and dry. "I'll get it. You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm just tired," Yuma muttered, but he did not argue. He walked over to the small kitchen table, hesitated, and then simply sat down flat on the floor, leaning his back against the lower kitchen cabinets. The hardwood was cool, but the thick sweatpants and Jo's massive hoodie kept the chill off.
Jo watched him for a second, then let out a low, quiet huff that might have been a laugh. Once the kettle clicked off, he poured the hot water into two mismatched mugs, dropped the tea bags in, and carried them over. Instead of taking one of the kitchen chairs, Jo dropped down right next to Yuma, his long legs stretching out across the floorboards.
He set the mugs down between them, the steam rising into the quiet air.
"You look tiny in that," Jo said softly, his shoulder pressing lightly against Yuma's as he leaned back against the cabinet.
Yuma felt his ears go hot. He pulled his hands out of the sleeves just enough to wrap his fingers around the warm ceramic of his mug. "You're just unnaturally large, and your clothes are ridiculous."
"They're comfortable," Jo shot back, a lazy, familiar grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He picked up his own mug, taking a small sip. "Besides, it suits you."
Yuma kept his eyes fixed on the drink in his water, his heart doing a strange, sluttering dance against his ribs. The casual, easy wall they usually kept between them—the one made of polite dinner invitations and neighborly small talk—felt incredibly thin in the dark, quiet kitchen.
"Thanks for coming over, Jo," Yuma said after a long silence. His voice was quieter now, the adrenaline gone.
"I'm always going to open the door, Yuma," Jo said.
The tone of his voice made Yuma look up. Jo was not looking at his tea anymore; he was looking directly at Yuma, his dark eyes steady and serious, the lazy grin gone. He had shifted his weight slightly, turning his torso toward Yuma, his hip pressing into the side of Yuma's thigh.
Yuma swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the warm mug. "Even at midnight?"
"Even at three in the morning," Jo murmured. He reached out, his large, warm hand settling on the floor just an inch away from Yuma's knee. "You could bang on the door because you saw a weird bug, and I'd still come over."
Yuma let out a breathy, nervous laugh, his gaze dropping to Jo's hand on the floor, the back up to his eyes. "That's a bit extreme."
"I'm serious," Jo said, his voice dropping a register, low and grounding in the small space between them. He reached out a little further, his fingertips lightly catching the edge of Yuma's oversized sleeve, pulling the fabric just enough to expose Yuma's wrist. His thumb brushed against the skin there, slow and deliberate. "I don't just come over for the free gyoza, Yuma."
Yuma kept his eyes fixed on Jo's hand. The skin of Jo's thumb was slightly rough, catching faintly against the soft underside of Yuma's wrist as it moved in a small, quiet circle. The sheer warmth of it felt physical, cutting straight through the heavy, numb exhaustion that had settled into his shoulders after the panic subsided.
He did not pull back, and he did not even twitch. Instead, Yuma slowly relaxed his arm, letting his forearm roll over until his palm faced the ceiling. He did not do anything dramatic—he did not try to lock their fingers together or squeeze Jo's hand—he just let the edge of his index finger slide over Jo's broad palm.
It was a small weight, but it felt incredibly intimate in the quiet space between them.
The silence in the kitchen stretched out, long and heavy. The refrigerator hummed in the corner, a low, steady vibration that seemed to emphasize how still the rest of the apartment was. Between their knees, the steam from the two mismatched mugs had thinned out entirely, leaving the surface of the tea dark and undisturbed.
Jo's thumb stopped moving, but he did not pull his hand away. He let out a low, quiet breath through his nose, his gaze dropping to the floor where Yuma's fingers were touching his. He did not look startled, and he did not try to laugh it off with a quick joke to fix the atmosphere. He did not pull his shoulders back into that polite, careful neighbor posture he usually kept when they were standing in the hallway outside door 302. He just stayed there, his hip pressing firmly against Yuma's side.
When Jo finally looked back up, his eyes were tracking Yuma's face with a quiet focus.
"You should drink your tea," Jo said. His voice was rough, barely louder than a murmur against the quiet hum of the room. "It's going to get cold."
"Yeah," Yuma replied. His throat felt dry, the word coming out small and breathy.
Neither of them moved to pick up a mug.
They just sat there on the kitchen floor, their backs braced against the lower cabinets, shoulders pressed flat against each other. The heavy navy blue cotton of Jo's hoodie bunched around Yuma's thighs, swallowing him completely, but it felt solid and safe. The water on the bathroom tile was gone, the floorboards in the hall were dry, and by tomorrow morning, they would have to wake up early, call the landlord, and deal with the reality of a broken sink and a landlord who would probably complain about the paperwork.
Thursday would come, and Yuma would probably still find himself staring at his phone screen, rewriting three different versions of a text about spicy noodles just to make sure he sounded casual enough.
But as Yuma leaned just a fraction heavier into Jo's shoulder, letting his head tilt slightly toward him, he felt Jo instantly shift to bear the weight, solid and unmoving.
They did not need to say anything else—at least for tonight.
From the bathroom, the last stray drop of water finally detached itself from the broken valve, landing with a faint, clear ping against the bottom of the porcelain basin, and then the apartment went quiet.