"Do you have everything you need?"
"Are you sure you're not forgetting anything?"
"It's going to be a long ride."
"Are you sure you'll be alright there?"
"I packed you snacks. Just in case you get hungry."
"Please… be safe."
"I'll be praying for you."
"If you miss home, come back, okay? I'll make your favorite foods."
Her voice trembled near the end, like a violin string pulled just a little too tight.
"I love you."
"I'm proud of you."
And just like that, the air shifted. Those final words—those sacred, quiet words—wrapped around me like a blanket I wasn't ready to take off.
They were warm. So warm it hurt.
They were everything I had known. Everything I was leaving behind.
I turned to look at her—my mother.
Her small frame stood on the platform, shoulders tense, hands gripped tightly around the edge of her sweater.
Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks, glistening like raindrops on glass.
Her lips curved upward, trembling, trying to be strong. Trying not to crumble.
But I saw it.
I saw how much it hurt her to smile.
She waved. Again and again. That little wave. That same hand that once held mine through fevers, through nightmares, through scraped knees and growing pains.
It didn't stop. Not even as the train began to pull away.
The train jerked forward.
Her image blurred.
The station curved.
Her figure shrank.
And then, she was gone.
My mother.
My home.
My whole world… swallowed by distance.
And beside her…
Dad.
He never looked back.
His arms were crossed, his eyes fixed on something beyond the tracks, like he wasn't really there. Like he didn't care.
But I knew him.
The man who rose before the sun, who worked himself raw, who never said "I'm proud" but showed it in the roughness of his hands, in the worn soles of his boots, in the quiet dinners after a long day.
He was hurting.
But he'd never show it.
Not with words.
Not with tears.
He was pride made of flesh and silence.
And I—
I was walking away from everything he built.
I'm sorry.
For choosing a different road.
For chasing a dream too far from the fields he tilled.
For not being the son he could understand.
But I'll come back.
Someday.
I'll repay everything.
Every unspoken sacrifice. Every rough morning. Every second of love buried beneath his silence.
I closed my eyes.
I love you.
I miss you.
"Hey, hello, ahem, Mr. Ummm…"
Snap. Snap. Snap.
"Earth to Mr. Aizawa? Whoo-hoo?"
My thoughts scattered like startled birds.
I blinked and turned my head.
A girl stood there, smiling.
No—beaming.
Sunlight in human form.
"You were zoning out again," she said, laughing softly.
Her laughter… it was gentle. Like morning after rain. Like something I'd forgotten how much I needed.
I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly.
"Ah… s-sorry. Maybe it's been a long day for me."
"It's my first time this far from home, you know?"
She tilted her head, eyes full of something bright and kind.
Then she grinned, a silly thumbs-up raised like it could fix the world.
"Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay."
And for some reason, for the first time in hours, I almost believed that.
"Hey… um… I just realized I never asked your name," I said, clearing my throat.
Her eyes widened in mock surprise, then she let out a melodramatic gasp.
"Oh no! How rude of me!" She giggled. "I'm Hinata! Hinata Kagurazaka!"
She said it like the sun was behind her.
Like her name was something that made the world turn a little smoother.
"Pleasure to meet you," I said, still awkward, still fumbling, still painfully aware of how out-of-place I felt.
"Hey, about earlier…" I scratched my neck again. "I don't want to trouble you. I can just look for a capsule hotel or something. I'll be fine, really."
Her smile didn't waver.
If anything, it softened.
"Nonsense! I insist."
"You're new in town, and since we're technically coworkers, it's perfectly fine. Seriously."
I opened my mouth to protest.
She cut me off, crossing her arms with a smirk.
"Let's be real. If I let you go, you'd probably get lost again and miss your first day."
"And we can't have that, can we, rookie?"
I grumbled something about unfair assumptions, but she was already turning, walking ahead.
The night air greeted us with a soft, cool breeze.
The street lamps flickered to life like fireflies, humming gently as we passed under them.
The city felt different now.
Not cold.
Not distant.
Just… unfamiliar.
The moon floated above like a quiet guardian. Its glow spilled across the sidewalk, catching her hair in a way that made my breath catch.
She looked ethereal.
Not just pretty.
Not just cute.
But real in a way that made my heart ache.
"Just a little further," she said, not looking back.
I kept my eyes on the ground.
I didn't want her to see my face burning.
I didn't want another roundhouse kick if she thought I was staring.
"Hey… thanks again. For everything."
My voice came out lower than I intended. "I'll find a way to repay you someday."
She paused, glanced over her shoulder.
Her smile had changed.
Softer.
Quieter.
"I'm helping because I want to."
"That's enough for now."
And I felt it.
That strange, unfamiliar warmth blooming in my chest.
A feeling that made the silence between us… comfortable.
We walked.
Past vending machines glowing like quiet sentinels.
Past shuttered shops and rustling trees.
Past uncertainty.
Then, finally, she stopped.
A small, cozy-looking two-story house stood in front of us. A potted plant by the entrance leaned gently in the breeze.
"Home sweet home," she said, eyes shining with something that almost made me tear up.
I looked at the house.
Then at her.
And for the first time since I boarded that train…
Since I left everything behind…
I didn't feel like a stranger.
I didn't feel so alone.
Maybe… just maybe…
Things were going to be okay after all.
---------
"I'm home!"
She burst through the door like a gust of spring—fresh, wild, and full of light. Her voice echoed through the quiet house, filling it with a sudden, vibrant energy like sunlight piercing through clouds.
"Big sis!"
A tiny voice shot out from somewhere deeper inside. High-pitched, delighted, bursting with innocence and pure, unfiltered love.
Then came the pitter-patter—bare feet slapping against wood like a drumroll of excitement.
She appeared like a rocket of joy.
A little girl, maybe six years old at most, barreled down the hallway, arms spread wide like wings, her smile so big it looked like it might burst off her face.
"Big sis, you're ho—"
She stopped.
Dead in her tracks.
Eyes huge, frozen mid-sprint.
Her gaze landed on me like a full-body scan. Confused. Curious. Calculating.
"Who's he?" she asked, voice rising in pitch.
"Is he your friend? Why's he in our house? Why does he have a HUGE suitcase?"
A pause.
Her pupils darted around, then—
"Wait…"
You could almost hear the gears turning. You could see it happen behind her sparkling eyes—the lightbulb moment—the mental fireworks detonating one by one.
And then, like a festival firework finally exploding—
"WAIT. IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND?!"
I choked.
No—I imploded.
My lungs collapsed in on themselves and my brain blue-screened.
My hand shot up in panic like a student caught napping in class.
My face? Molten lava.
I dared a glance at Hinata.
She met my eyes.
Big mistake.
Eye contact.
Fatal error.
My soul tensed. I braced for impact. For a roundhouse kick. A slap. A flying frying pan.
But instead…
She blushed.
Soft, beautiful red bloomed across her cheeks like sunrise spilling over snow.
And then she turned away. Flustered.
The air crackled with something unspoken.
"No, no, you silly girl!" Hinata laughed, recovering with a sudden tickle attack that sent the little girl into squeals and shrieks.
"He's not my boyfriend. He's just a coworker. He's staying for the night because he's new in town."
We all laughed.
And just like that, the tension popped like a soap bubble.
"Sweetie, is that you?"
A gentle voice drifted from the kitchen. Warm. Soothing. The kind of voice that reminded you of being wrapped in blankets on cold days. The kind of voice that belonged in the sound of home.
Hinata's mother entered, wearing a beige apron dusted with flour. Her presence felt like the aroma of warm bread—comforting, calming, quietly radiant.
She smiled the moment she saw me.
Not suspicious.
Not judgmental.
Just… kind.
"Oh, sweetie, you didn't say you were bringing someone."
"Sorry, Mom!" Hinata said, rubbing the back of her head. "We ran into each other. He's the new guy at work and… well, he's got no place to crash tonight. Is it okay if he stays?"
Her mother turned to me, smile still intact, eyes full of warmth.
"Of course. Welcome. I'm Sayaka, Hinata's mother. Please come in and make yourself at home."
I bowed slightly.
"Thank you, ma'am. I'm Haruki Aizawa. I really appreciate the kindness. I hope I'm not intruding."
"Nonsense." She waved her hand gently. "It's lovely to see Hinata helping someone. Come in, dear."
"And I'm Nanami!" the little girl shouted, puffing her chest proudly.
"I'm her little sister! But you can call me Nami! Short, cute, and easy to remember!"
She gave a salute so serious it could've belonged to a military parade.
"But are you sure you're not her boyfriend?"
We laughed again. Louder this time. Even I couldn't help it. It felt good to laugh like that.
And then—
"WHO'S THERE?!"
A voice boomed from upstairs.
Thunder.
Earthquake.
A boss battle alert.
Oh no. No. No no no—
And then he arrived.
A mountain of a man stomped down the stairs, chest like a wall, arms bulging with the weight of a hundred summer jobs. He wore a tight undershirt, and his aura could bench press cars.
I blinked.
Too late.
He lunged forward, arm around my neck like we were best friends from a lifetime ago.
"So this is the boyfriend, huh?!" he shouted, dragging my head into a crushing noogie. "Tall, but not taller than me. That's fine. Got decent bones. Smells like nerves though."
"DAD!"
"He's NOT my boyfriend!"
But he was already spinning into his next performance.
He struck a dramatic pose. Clutched his chest.
"My little girl… growing up so fast. Falling in love! Aizawa-kun, you rogue!"
He dropped to his knees like he'd just taken a sword to the heart, sobbing like a telenovela actor.
WHACK!
Hinata's chop fell with surgical precision.
He yelped.
The sound echoed. Like karma with a sound effect.
"Dad, stop being ridiculous! He's just staying for ONE NIGHT!"
The big man stood up slowly, rubbing his head with a sheepish grin.
"Are you sure, dear?"
"Yeah! What she said!" Nanami added, arms crossed, squinting at me like a suspicious cat.
I chuckled under my breath.
Like father, like daughter.
"Apologies, my good man," the father said, finally extending a formal hand. "Daichi Kagurazaka. Welcome to the jungle."
"Haruki Aizawa. Thank you for having me."
"Stay as long as you like." He slapped my back like we were old war buddies. "It's been too long since we had another man in this house. I've been drowning in estrogen."
He fanned himself dramatically, wiping imaginary sweat.
"Sorry about my dad," Hinata whispered, leaning closer. "He's a total dork."
"It's okay," I whispered back. "I kind of like it."
---
Dinner was warm.
No—it was alive.
The clatter of chopsticks. The aroma of grilled fish and miso soup. The soft flicker of lights overhead. Laughter bouncing between walls like children playing tag.
Nanami sneakily piling more rice into my bowl when she thought I wasn't looking.
Daichi slapping my back like we'd survived a battlefield.
Sayaka pouring tea with a smile so tender it made the whole room feel like a lullaby.
And across the table, Hinata caught my eye.
And smiled.
Not playful. Not teasing.
Just… soft.
True.
And something in me—something scared and tired and lonely—began to melt.
That night, the house was filled with laughter.
And for the first time since I stepped off that train…
I laughed too.
----------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note:
Thank you so much for reading this chapter!
This one was especially dear to me—it's where Haruki, our lonely fish-out-of-water, finally gets a taste of something he hasn't felt in a while: belonging. Writing Hinata's chaotic, loving family was such a joy. I wanted their home to feel like a warm hug, the kind that sneaks up on you when you didn't even realize you needed one.
If you smiled, laughed, or felt your heart get even a little bit fuzzy… then I'm doing something right.
There's so much more to come—awkward moments, emotional surprises, and yes… maybe a little romance (no promises though—Haruki's still figuring out how to breathe around girls).
Until next time, thank you for reading. And remember: sometimes, home isn't a place—it's the people who let you stay the night and stuff your rice bowl when you're not looking.
— Minazuki, Yuuma