Chapter 16: Is May Angry?
That smile looked warm, almost faintly luminous beneath the porch light. Yet I could sense how firmly May was forcing that composure into place, as if she were bracing a fragile wall so it would not crumble in front of me.
In her eyes, there was a small glimmer of admiration—perhaps the lingering sense of safety she had felt when the man in white—me—had appeared and saved her.
“Is that so?” I said softly. “I’m just glad you’re safe, May. That truly puts me at ease.”
I gave her a faint smile, trying to pour that relief into my voice. “And you know, if there’s anything you want to talk about, just say it. I’m a fairly good listener… and maybe a decent advice-giver too.”
I kept my tone light, as though I were holding the weight of the atmosphere at bay, preventing it from pressing down on her again. At the very least, I wanted her to know the door was open—whenever she felt ready.
“Thank you.” May nodded and smiled. This time, the smile felt more genuine, though a faint shadow still lingered behind it—a shadow that might take a long time to truly fade.
“The important thing is that you’re safe, and that’s more than enough,” I said gently, smiling again. I tried to keep it soft, not forced, just warm enough to soothe. “Good thing that man in the costume was there. If I ever meet him someday, I’ll thank him too for saving you.”
The words sounded sincere, and they were… half of them. The other half stayed buried deep in my chest, along with a quiet guilt that pricked like a thin thorn I couldn’t pull free.
After all, that man in the costume was me. Hearing May describe him with such gratitude made my chest feel strange—caught somewhere between pride and guilt at the same time.
“Eh? That’s not necessary.” May slowly shook her head. Her smile was thin, slightly awkward, yet it still carried the same warmth she always had. The tips of her hair swayed gently with the movement, a few strands brushing against her still-pale cheeks, remnants of the earlier tension.
From this close, I could see her breathing hadn’t fully steadied. It was as if her body still held onto traces of fear from what had happened, even though she was trying her best to look fine.
“No, I have to. Anyway, if you ever have any problems, just tell me. I’ll help however I can.” Without really thinking, my right hand lifted and rested on top of May’s head. My left hand continued holding the bottom of the pot so it wouldn’t slip from my grasp. The motion happened naturally—reflexive, as if my body moved before my mind had the chance to catch up.
My palm touched her hair. It felt soft and warm.
For a fraction of a second that stretched far longer than it should have, time seemed to slow. I could feel the fine texture of her hair slipping between my fingers.
A faint scent of soap—or maybe shampoo—drifted up, blending with the cool night air. The touch was simple, yet it felt far too intimate for someone who, not long ago, had almost been a stranger.
Only then did my awareness follow.
What did I just do?
My heart began to beat faster. This was probably an old habit carried over from my previous life—the casual gesture of patting someone shorter on the head as a sign of reassurance or affection. Where I came from, it wasn’t unusual. But here? With May? In a situation like this?
Damn… is May going to be angry? I swallowed quietly. Hm? Wait… am I seeing this wrong?
May was blushing. Her cheeks slowly turned red, as if brushed by a faint but unmistakable shade of pink. The gaze that had been fixed on me shifted away, sliding to the side, then downward.
Her eyelashes trembled ever so slightly, and her fingers curled around the hem of her clothes in a small, nearly imperceptible motion. Something in the air between us had changed—something thin and fragile, yet undeniably real.
Is May angry… or—Don’t get your hopes up, idiot.
“Sorry!” I blurted out, far too quickly. I immediately pulled my hand back. “I unconsciously patted your head. An old habit just kicked in on its own. I’m really sorry.”
The words tumbled out in a rush, colliding with one another. I didn’t want May to misunderstand. We had only just gotten to know each other. If she thought I was rude or overly forward, everything could end before it even had the chance to begin. I didn’t want to be labeled some strange guy who casually touches people without thinking.
“No, it’s fine,” May replied quickly. But her voice sounded slightly higher than usual, as if she had lost control of it for a brief second.
“Ah! I have to go inside! I’m going in first!”
She turned almost instantly. Her footsteps echoed against the terrace floor, hurried—too hurried for someone merely walking at ease. The door to her house opened, and her figure disappeared inside before I could say another word. All that remained was the soft click of the door closing and the night’s silence reclaiming its territory.
I stood there, frozen for several seconds. The night breeze drifted past me, brushing against my face, which now felt strangely warm. The pot in my hands seemed heavier than before, as if my embarrassment had somehow added to its weight.
Damn it. She’s really mad at me.
I let out a long breath and stared at her tightly shut door. It felt like I had just committed a fatal mistake. Before I could even build a proper sense of closeness, I had acted as if we shared something far more intimate than we actually did.
I’m done for. Before I could approach a woman as beautiful and kind as May the right way, I had already ruined it with my own careless habit. All because of a stupid reflex I couldn’t control.
And yet… the image of May’s flushed cheeks kept replaying in my mind. For some reason, that memory made my heart pound harder than before.
I continued staring at her closed door for a long time, as if that wooden slab had just swung forward and struck me square in the face. The world seemed to pause for a moment, then resume its motion in the most irritating way possible.
My chest tightened—not from danger, but from the bitter realization that I might have just damaged something that had not even been given the chance to grow.
It felt like a man who threw a punch without thinking, only to realize afterward that he had struck himself instead.
I exhaled slowly.
Haah… whatever. What’s done is done. There’s no point standing here like the tragic lead of some drama who’s lost his direction in life just because of one head pat. As if on cue, my stomach let out a quiet growl, protesting my melodramatic mood.
Ugh… fine. I’ll eat now, and tomorrow morning I’ll apologize properly to May. Calmly. Like an adult. Without touching anyone’s head.
With slightly sluggish steps, I turned around and walked back into my own house. I closed the door gently behind me and headed toward the dining table. The dining room light glowed softly—warm and not too bright—just enough to create a peaceful atmosphere after the small chaos that had just unfolded.
I sat down and looked at the chicken soup May had made. Thin wisps of steam still rose from its surface.
The aroma of chicken broth immediately filled my senses—warm, savory, and soothing. The scent felt deep, as if it had been simmered slowly with patience. There was a gentle hint of ginger, perhaps a touch of garlic sautéed until fragrant. The steam curled upward and brushed against my face, as though trying to erase the lingering tension clinging to my thoughts.
I lifted a spoonful slowly.
The warmth touched my tongue, then slid down my throat, carrying with it a simple yet undeniable comfort. For a brief moment, the world felt reasonable again. No flushed cheeks. No awkwardness. Just me, a bowl of warm soup, and the quiet of the night.
As I continued eating, I decided to shift my thoughts to something far easier for me to understand: numbers and systems.