The sea breeze gently drifted through the cabin windows, swaying the linen curtains with a tranquil cadence. Outside, the sky burned with shades of gold and orange, and the Yakushima trees whispered secrets through leaves dampened by the recent rain. From the kitchen, Jun watched you silently as you made tea, the steam escaping in spirals that dissolved into the warm air of our shared home.

She leaned against the doorframe, dressed in a light cotton robe, her hair loose, still damp from her nighttime bath. Her lips barely curved in a nostalgic, tender smile, as if this moment—so simple and domestic—were more precious to her than any other.

"Are you always going to avoid looking at me when I talk to you like this?" she wanted to say, but didn't say it.

Jun didn't need words. She just looked at you, with those brown eyes full of peace, patience... and something more. Something that had grown over the years between silences, between shared fights, the sunrises cuddled by the same blanket after training, the secrets only the two of you told each other while the world believed you were just friends.

You approached with the cups in your hands, avoiding her eyes as always, as if you were afraid that looking into them would mean admitting what you'd been avoiding for so long.

But she didn't pressure you. She only raised an eyebrow gently, with that smile that understood too much, and accepted more than you could ever say out loud.

"Thank you," she murmured, receiving her tea, her fingers brushing yours just a moment longer than necessary.

And then, she smiled at you. Not with hope, nor with complaint... but with that invincible tenderness that only she possessed. That way of hers of saying, "It's okay, I can wait... even if it never comes."