The silence of the Grand Zenith at 2:00 AM was supposedly the peak of luxury, but for Mikoto, it was filled with the sound of a plastic scraper hitting the inside of an oven.
He had been at it for six hours. The "personality" Shino mentioned turned out to be a carbonized lasagna that had effectively fused with the heating element. As he scrubbed, his mind kept drifting to the girls. On the court, Karen Kodakawa was a machine—precise, cold, and dominant. Here, she left her dirty socks in the fruit bowl.
"You're still awake."
Mikoto flinched, his head narrowly missing the top of the oven. Marin was standing in the kitchen archway. The "Perfect Starlet" was gone. She was wearing a pair of silk pajamas that probably cost more than Mikoto’s tuition, but she looked… hollow. Her eyes were puffy, and she was clutching a thick stack of yellow papers to her chest.
"I’m almost done with the kitchen," Mikoto said, wiping his brow with the back of a gloved hand. "I’ll start on the living room laundry next."
Marin didn't seem to hear him. She drifted to the kitchen island and slumped onto a stool, staring at her reflection in the polished marble. "I can't do it, Mikoto-kun. The director said my 'vulnerability' feels like a rehearsal. He told me I’m too 'perfect' to play someone who’s actually hurting."
She dropped the script onto the counter. It was covered in coffee stains and frantic, handwritten notes.
Mikoto set down his scrubber and stood up, stretching his aching back. He looked at the title: The Last Summer of Us. "Maybe it’s because you’re trying to act like someone who’s hurting, instead of just being someone who’s tired," Mikoto said quietly.
Marin’s head snapped up. Her actress's mask flickered—a flash of genuine annoyance before it settled into curiosity. "And what do you know about being tired? You're just the guy who cleans our oven."
"I know that when you're exhausted, you don't make a grand speech about it," Mikoto replied, reaching for a clean towel. "You just stop caring if your hair is straight or if people are watching. You just… go quiet."
He walked over and picked up the script, flipping to a highlighted page. "In this scene, your character finds out her father is leaving. You have three paragraphs of dialogue here. If I were her? I wouldn't say a word. I’d just look at the suitcase and realize I forgot to eat lunch."
Marin stared at him. The silence in the kitchen stretched, thick and heavy. For a moment, the gap between the "Elite" and the "Caregiver" vanished.
"You speak like someone who’s lost a lot," she whispered.
Mikoto stiffened. The phantom sound of a tennis ball hitting a net echoed in his ears. "I just read a lot of stories. You should probably get some sleep, Marin-san. You have a 9:00 AM shoot."
"Call me Marin," she said, standing up and taking the script back. She looked at the highlighted lines, then at him. "And you're right. The dialogue is garbage. I'm going to cross it out."
She started to walk away, but stopped at the edge of the kitchen. "Hey, Mikoto? Don't touch the pile of clothes near the balcony. Those are Karen’s 'unlucky' outfits. If you move them, she’ll think you’ve cursed her next tournament."
"Cursed?" Mikoto blinked. "She’s a professional athlete."
"She’s a Kodakawa," Marin corrected with a weary smile. "Logic doesn't live here. Only Shino thinks it does."
As Marin disappeared back into her room, Mikoto looked at the mountain of laundry. He felt a strange tug in his chest. These weren't just "nightmare" roommates; they were three people who were drowning in their own success, desperately needing someone to hold the surface tension.
He picked up a stray tennis ball from under the fridge. His fingers trembled as they brushed the felt. He quickly dropped it into the trash can.
He wasn't here to be an athlete. He was here to be the ghost that kept their world from falling apart.17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzWtSZf4UyU
and then Add to home screen.