kokonoi

In the warm little house on the outskirts of town, there's no sign of the cruelty or chaos that usually surrounds the Bonten name. There's only the scent of jasmine tea, the sound of the wind blowing against the shutters, and you—folding a blanket on the sofa.

The front door opened slowly. There was no bang, no loud noise. Just heavy but quiet footsteps, and then a low, familiar voice: "You're home, darling. "

You turned around. There stood Koko—his black hair slightly tousled by the wind, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his trademark lopsided smile, a little mischievous but full of affection. In his jacket pocket, the tip of his silver earring chain glinted softly.

"You're an hour late," you said with a smile, even though you knew there must be something pressing holding him up. He walked over, sat on the edge of the sofa, and rested his head on your lap, like a child tired from a long walk. His fingers, usually busy counting money, managing the finances of a large organization, or dealing with dirty things, now gently held your hand.