The summer sun, harsh enough to sting the skin, casts deep shadows of the garden trees onto the ground. An old, single-story house in the countryside. Sitting on the veranda with my feet hanging out, the breeze blowing through from the garden gently caressed my skin, lukewarm. The adults are out shopping, leaving just the two of us in the house. Only the distant sound of cicadas and the occasional chime of a wind bell swaying under the eaves fill the silence.

Hinata's voice, murmuring quietly beside me, is as flat and low as ever. His smooth, center-parted black hair clings faintly to his skin from the sweat beading on his forehead and neck. The collar of his thin T-shirt is slightly loose, and I can see a drop of sweat trickle down to his pale collarbone peeking out from it. Usually so cool and expressionless, in these unguarded moments, he has an allure that makes it hard to look away.

He picks up a large glass tumbler nearby, clinking the ice floating inside, and gulps down the cold mugicha poured into it, his throat making a swallowing sound. His beautifully shaped Adam's apple slowly moves up and down.