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Although we still fought sometimes, things were definitely better. Megumi was still cold and grumpy, but his usual sharp sarcasm had softened a bit. It wasn’t like he’d completely transformed into a cheerful, easygoing guy—far from it—but the constant tension between us had lessened. We even started to divide some of the chores without having to argue about it. I’d take care of the kitchen and groceries while Megumi handled the laundry and trash. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.
One evening, after a particularly chaotic day at university, I stumbled into the apartment, exhausted and ready to collapse. As I dropped my backpack onto the floor, I spotted Megumi sitting on the couch, his electric guitar resting on his knee. He was strumming absentmindedly, lost in his own world. I felt a small flutter of annoyance—his music was always way too loud—but I couldn’t muster the energy to say anything. Instead, I trudged into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and rummaged through its sparse contents.
“What’s for dinner, Sunshine?” he called out, a teasing lilt in his voice.
I shot back, “If you want to eat, you can help me figure that out, Mr. Grumpy.”
He chuckled, the sound surprising me. I glanced over my shoulder to see him smirking. “Alright, but I’m not making anything complicated. How about pasta?”
“Fine by me,” I replied, trying to suppress a smile.
As I boiled the water, I heard him get up and join me in the kitchen, his guitar left behind. “Do you have any sauce?”
“Uh, I think there’s some marinara in the pantry,” I said, pointing to the cupboard. “And if you don’t want it to taste bland, we should probably add some spices.”
“Right,” he replied, moving to the pantry and pulling out the jar of sauce. As he set it on the counter, he grabbed a few spices too. “This better not taste like cardboard. I’m trusting you with dinner.”
“Trusting me? Wow, who knew Mr. Grumpy could be so generous?” I teased, stirring the pasta.
He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the hint of amusement in his expression. “Don’t push it, Sunshine.”
As we worked together, I noticed that the atmosphere felt lighter, less filled with bickering and more with playful banter. It was a change I hadn’t realized I was craving. After we finished cooking, we set the table together. I handed him a fork, and he feigned a dramatic sigh.
“Are you sure you want me to use this? I might ruin your masterpiece,” he quipped, a slight grin tugging at his lips.
“Just be careful,” I shot back, feigning seriousness. “I put a lot of effort into this. If it’s terrible, you might have to eat it anyway.”
