Zhou had planned on leaving a week ago, not wanting to infringe on Toshiro's hospitality any longer than necessary. However, Toshiro had insisted that he stay, as he wasn't recovered yet. So the days slipped by, and Zhou was still here, spending much of his time devouring the books in the small library.

They had formed a quiet, comfortable routine. Zhou tried to help out when he could — even if he was a guest here, he wanted to make his stay worth something of value. Toshiro had protested at first, but Zhou persisted: this, at least, was not something he would compromise. So he cleaned up around the house — the robotic vacuum cleaners covered most of it, but he dusted shelves and picked up the occasional item missed — and had also learned to cook.

Zhou hadn't done much cooking before. He had no reason or ability to; hired cooks made the thin, watery porridge and bland dishes he'd consumed in the cafeteria during his time at the orphanage, and afterward, he primarily survived on the cheap, prepackaged, and probably nutritionless sustenance of the supermarket. But Zhou learned quickly, even from simply watching and following along Toshiro, who also was by no means a master at cooking. His simple meals, however, drew a welcome nostalgia, and Zhou had become proficient enough to act as sous chef.

Now, though, at the end of the second week, while Zhou proceeded to help with this evening's dinner — rice, fish, a tomato and egg dish — he was again feeling the pressing guilt that he was overstaying his welcome. He was recovered now, and might as well get off. He resolved that tomorrow would be the day: he'd set off in the morning, without looking back.

Firm in his resolve, he cracked the egg a little harder than necessary. It broke apart, the translucent liquid spilling onto the countertop. Perturbed, he quickly tried to pick it up before the rest of it spilled out, but somehow ended up knocking both the bits of shell and the chopsticks prepared to whisk the eggs onto the floor.

Toshiro looked over at the sound of the commotion. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, sorry. I'm fine." Zhou brushed at his clothing, as if getting rid of any imaginary specks of dust. He picked up the chopsticks, placing them on the countertop, then leaned over to grab some paper towels to address the mess on the floor. In the process, he knocked the chopsticks back onto the ground again.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Toshiro asked, frowning. It wasn't like Zhou to mishandle something so easily: he was always so put together, so careful, in his outward portrayal: from his words to his manners. Rarely vulnerable, if he could help it.

"Yes." This was timid, unsure.

Toshiro thought back to their first meeting, where Zhou had acted like a wild animal caught in the headlights. "Okay," he said, drawing a hand through his hair as he pondered what to say. "I won't push you if you don't want to. But if there's something bothering you, please talk about it. It'll help. You can trust me."

Zhou looked at him, wordlessly, for a long moment. After Toshiro stopped anticipating that Zhou wanted to say anything, he turned back to the cutting board, where he was slicing tomatoes into wedges. Chop, chop. The crisp, clean lines cut through the fruit. He'd finished the second tomato when—

"I don't want to leave."