Page 127 of Mercy Written in Blood

"Accuracy."

Haruki followed him. The kitchen was not built for two people. Renji reached for the upper cupboard as Haruki stepped towards the drawer beside him. Their shoulders nearly touched. Haruki stopped. Renji became aware of the warmth beside him, the faint scent of rain and cedar from Haruki's coat, the space between them narrowing to almost nothing. Neither moved immediately.

Then Haruki stepped back.

"Where are the chopsticks?"

"Second drawer."

He opened it. Inside, utensils lay arranged with surgical precision. Haruki stared.

"You organise by size."

"It is efficient."

"You live like someone may inspect the kitchen."

"No one does."

"Clearly. You own three forks."

"I require one."

"What happens if you have guests?"

Renji took two bowls from the cupboard.

"I do not."

Haruki looked at him. The words seemed to settle differently now — not a statement of preference, but a fact accumulated over years. Haruki closed the drawer more quietly than he had opened it.

"You have one chair at the desk," he said.

"Yes."

"One cup by the sink."

"Yes."

"One pair of slippers at the door."

Renji turned towards him.

"You are cataloguing."

"It's difficult not to."

"Try."

Haruki leaned against the counter.

"Your apartment tells on you."

"Objects do not speak."

"Everything speaks."

"An imprecise claim."