Page 125 of Mercy Written in Blood

Haruki walked towards the low dining table near the windows as though the invitation had already been granted. Renji watched him place the bag down.

"You cannot simply enter people's homes and decide they're having dinner with you."

"I didn't simply enter. You opened the door."

"To prevent a scene."

"Still counts."

"No, it does not."

Haruki removed two containers from the bag. Steam fogged the clear lids. The scent reached Renji — ginger, soy, roasted garlic, something citrus beneath it.

"Ramen?" Renji asked.

Haruki looked pleased.

"The restaurant I told you about."

"You said it was in the western district."

"It is."

"That is twenty-five minutes in the opposite direction."

"Thirty-two in the rain."

Renji looked at him. Haruki had travelled across the city for food, then back again to an address Renji had never given him. This should have felt invasive. It did. That was not the only thing it felt like.

"You could have called," Renji said.

"I don't have your number."

"You could have asked."

"You would have refused."

"Yes."

"So I avoided an unnecessary conversation."

"That is not how consent works."

Haruki stopped removing containers. The humour left his face.

"You're right."

The answer came without defence. Without charm. He placed both hands flat against the table.

"I should have asked before coming. I thought it would be amusing. I didn't consider that you might genuinely dislike someone arriving here."

Renji said nothing. Haruki looked towards the door.

"I can leave."

He meant it. Renji could tell by the change in his posture. The ease had gone. He would gather the food, make a joke to protect them both from embarrassment and disappear down the stairs.

It should have been the preferable outcome. Renji had guarded this place for thirty-seven years. Not from danger. From intimacy. Kael had entered twice. Akiko once, when an injurymade returning to the hospital impossible. No one else. This apartment contained more truth about Renji than he willingly spoke aloud — the absence of photographs, the first editions he had purchased new, music written by hands he remembered, objects from homes that no longer existed. Haruki had already seen too much simply by standing there.