"Well, now what? Should I just leave and give the lovebirds the night to themselves?"
Roberto's mocking voice echoed from the dining room, just behind the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. Leaning on his elbows atop the counter, he watched them with a wide grin, like he was genuinely pleased by the little scene he'd just witnessed by chance. But his eyes told a different story—glassy and dull, like those of a dead fish.
Deep down, he was genuinely happy about whatever was beginning to form between Dylan and Haru. He recognized it, even supported it. But another part of him, quieter and harder to admit, churned with a tinge of bitter envy. He envied them—for being able to stay together in "harmony," while he found himself left out.
Despite his offer to leave, truth was, he had nowhere else to go. Not tonight.
He could've spent the holiday at a bar, of course, but even for him, that felt too pathetic. Going back to his girlfriend's place wasn't an option either, as she'd decided to spend the evening at her parents' house. A noble gesture from a devoted daughter… but a painful one for her partner.
So there he was, leaning against the bar, throwing out half-joking remarks to mask the discomfort gnawing at him inside. He pretended to be lighthearted, though he clearly didn't feel part of the moment. And while his smile held firm, his eyes betrayed the truth.
Haru didn't respond like she usually would, either. Her body shivered involuntarily, recalling the time she'd spent with Dylan before someone else showed up. She felt exposed, emotionally vulnerable.
The idea of spending the evening alone with him—just the two of them—suddenly felt almost sinful. Overwhelmed by something she didn't know how to process, she lowered her head slightly, cheeks tinged red, and shot a furtive glance at Dylan. She looked for some flicker of awkwardness in him; anything to show she wasn't the only one thrown off by the situation.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. As if he hadn't heard Roberto's jab, or simply didn't care enough to react.
Instead, Dylan reached for his wallet, pulling it slowly from his back pocket. With the same calm detachment, he unfolded it, fished out a couple of bills, and held them out to Roberto.
"Here."
"What's this? An early Christmas present? Thanks, I guess," Roberto said, raising an eyebrow as he took the money and slipped it into his pocket without even bothering to count it.
"Don't be an idiot."
Dylan's reply was dry, without a trace of humor.
"Go to the store. Get drinks, roasted chicken, pizza, lasagna… anything that'll help round out dinner. Just no alcohol. If you want to indulge in your vices, don't expect me to foot the bill."
Even though he and Haru had started cooking early to get food ready for the afternoon and evening, Dylan was well aware of their limitations. They weren't making anything fancy or impressive: just old hen soup, some salad, and a couple of roasted pieces.
For three people on Christmas Eve, that wasn't just a little lacking, it was borderline disappointing. That's why he asked him to fetch something heartier. Something worthy of the occasion.
Still, Roberto snorted through his nose.
"I just got back, you know? Don't bust my balls. Let me sit down for a minute."
"I'm not joking," Dylan said, voice and expression unchanged. "Go now. Unless you feel like sleeping out with the strays tonight."
That was the difference.
With Haru, Dylan was patient, even kind. But with Roberto, he didn't bother to sugarcoat his words. Instead, he delivered a sharp warning, fully aware that Roberto must've come back early because things hadn't gone well with his girlfriend.
Roberto looked at him for a moment, gauging whether it was worth arguing. Then he clicked his tongue, turned on his heels, and headed for the door.
"Crappy Christmas," he muttered, more to himself than to the others. "Come to have a good time and end up running errands."
With that, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving Dylan and Haru alone once more.
Silence settled between them. Not exactly uncomfortable, but weighted. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye; her expression had dimmed again.
But this time, he didn't say anything to comfort her.
Instead, he lifted his wrist and checked the time. The shine of the metal band caught the soft kitchen light, making it hard to read, but he managed. A few hours left until midnight... and until the Transfer.
A thick heat rose from his stomach to his chest. It wasn't excitement—it was pure, raw anxiety. A wave of pressure filled his lungs with heavy, suffocating air. For a second, he felt the urge to run to the bathroom and throw up. But he held it in. He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, forcing himself to push the fear down. Only when the feeling started to ease did he allow himself to move.
"Mind if I put on some music?" he asked, walking toward the living room.
"Mm-hmm."
She didn't look at him, just gave that faint sound of agreement.
Faced with her indifference, Dylan didn't press the matter. He walked to the TV stand, picked up the remote, and turned the television on. As the screen flickered to life, his thoughts drifted somewhere more personal—the feelings that had begun to quietly form between him and Haru.
He wasn't clueless or oblivious. Quite the opposite. He could recognize the signs, even the subtle ones. And while he could say with certainty that he wasn't in love with her—and she wasn't in love with him either—he knew something was starting to take shape between them. A connection. Faint for now, just a quiet current beginning to flow. But it was there.
For Haru, inexperienced in matters of the heart, that current could easily be misread. After all, it was a kind of affection born from daily closeness, shared intimacy, and that deeply human need to not be alone. In her case, that need was even stronger, considering that the closest bond she'd had before coming to stay at this house had been with her maid.
Moreover, she wasn't the only one affected by it. Dylan recognized, within himself, an old longing; one that dated back to his former life. In this timeline, his past self had never had a real partner. Back in his youth, when he still had an attractive body, he went out with a couple of girls, but more out of curiosity than genuine interest. He had always preferred the company of his friends or losing himself in his own interests.
Later, in adulthood, weighed down by job frustrations, physical decline, and the grind of routine, he gave up on the idea of a relationship altogether. No time, no energy, no reason.
That's why, now, part of him felt drawn to Haru. Not just because of her looks—that would've been easy, given her obvious beauty—but because of her personality. Because, for all her noise and antics, she had a warmth, an awkward sincerity that, over time, became endearing.
But that couldn't go anywhere. It shouldn't.
The Dylan that existed now—the one ruled by reason, experience, and resignation—wouldn't allow those feelings to surface. He knew they were destined to part ways, and clinging to something fleeting would only hurt them both.
That's why, this time, he ignored the disappointment he sensed in Haru when he didn't react to her glance. He pretended not to notice. And without looking back, he turned up the volume on the TV.
. . . . .
Night had fallen completely.
Far louder than the festive mood of the morning, the neighborhood was now alive with noise. Music spilled through the windows, mixed with bursts of fireworks and firecrackers that rattled the street in uneven intervals. Laughter echoed, adults sang without shame, and children ran around shouting among buildings strung with blinking lights.
Christmas felt alive, electric—like the air itself was humming with it.
Inside Dylan's house, however, the scene was quieter.
In the living room, the three of them sat in lazy comfort, the kind you settle into when you know the night isn't perfect, but it works. On the TV, an old animated Christmas movie—The Polar Express—kept playing, its story engaging enough, even if each of them had already seen it more than once on their own.
Roberto had sunk into the main couch, a can of beer in hand, body molded to the cushions. On the individual armchairs flanking him, Haru and Dylan sat on opposite sides. She had a lollipop in her mouth and a bag of candy rested in her lap.
Suddenly, Roberto threw his arm up dramatically.
"Merry Christmas!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, shaking his can with such gusto that a few droplets splashed onto the upholstery.
Watching the dark liquid land on the couch, Dylan clenched his jaw instinctively.
"Could you not?" he snapped, frowning and curling his fist. "At least wait until midnight, you damn drunk."
Rather than listen, Roberto burst out laughing, unfazed by the scolding. Dylan gave him one last look of disdain before turning back to the TV. No point getting worked up, he thought. After all, the couch—like everything else in this house—wouldn't be his much longer.
Meanwhile, Haru chuckled softly, not at Roberto's outburst, but at the dynamic between the two of them. It gave her a strange, cozy feeling.
Since her mother's death, Christmas had become a repetitive routine. She spent it alone in front of her computer, lost in video games or livestreams, candy by her side, a blanket over her shoulders. It hadn't been a bad way to celebrate—not for her. She truly loved that digital world. But this... this was different. And she liked it.
For that, she silently thanked Ana, who'd helped convince her father to let her spend the night away.
Excited that Haru had joined his improvised "celebration," Roberto reached out and offered her a cold can of beer—one of the many he'd brought back from his girlfriend's place.
"Want one? My treat."
"No thanks," she replied instantly, pulling the lollipop from her mouth to speak clearly. "I don't like the taste. I prefer sweet stuff," she added, pointing at the bag on her lap.
At her flat refusal, Roberto shrugged and went back to drinking, unbothered.
From the other chair, Dylan chimed in before she could return the candy to her lips.
"You should ease off the sugar. You've spent the whole day guzzling soda and sweets."
She glanced at him sideways with a faint smile, already used to the fatherly tone he slipped into from time to time.
"What? Are you going to tell me again that I'll get fat eating what I like?"
"No. I know you've got 'blessed genes' or whatever it was you called them…" he replied flatly. "But if you keep this up, you're gonna end up with diabetes."
Haru let out a silent laugh at what sounded like an over-the-top warning. Still, almost on reflex, she grabbed a napkin from the coffee table, wrapped the lollipop carefully, and set it aside. She didn't think it'd actually harm her, but... just in case.
After a few seconds, as if trying to brush off the topic that had clearly made her a bit nervous—even if she wouldn't admit it—she steered the conversation in a different direction.
"So Dylan… what kind of food do you like?"
He didn't take long to answer, though his tone was flat.
"I don't have a favorite. I'll eat anything with some nutritional value."
Haru tilted her head, visibly let down.
"You're so boring," she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.
And she wasn't entirely wrong. What he said was a lie: something thrown out just to put an end to the chatter.
In truth, his former self—before his memories of the future came back in time—had developed a liking for salty food, used to the bad cooking of his mother. But now, he preferred bold flavors, intense, well-seasoned dishes that masked the blandness of the military rations he'd eaten for years while serving in the Alliance.
At that moment, Roberto took the opportunity to insert himself into the conversation.
"Me, just give me anything that goes well with a good beer," he said with a light laugh. "But the beer's gotta be dark, foamy, and so cold it hurts going down. That's how it's gotta be."
"Ah… right," Haru mumbled flatly, turning her gaze back to the screen.
What followed was a string of anecdotes, tastes, and random chatter between her and Roberto. Trivial stories, scattered comments, unimportant details that simply filled the time. Every now and then, Haru tried to pull Dylan into the conversation. She asked him questions, mentioned him, sought his attention, but he stayed on the sidelines, replying with nods or the occasional word.
He didn't find their company unpleasant. He was just elsewhere.
His eyes, though fixed forward, weren't really watching the screen. Now and then he glanced at the TV's clock, checking the time with growing tension. He tapped the armrest softly or bounced his foot in a barely visible rhythm.
The waiting was wearing him down. Outwardly, he looked the same. Inside, he was a dam ready to break.
Then, after a long stretch of silence, he stood up.
The movie had ended a while ago, the screen now displaying a news program reporting the day's events without hosts. Dylan finally looked at the clock in the corner of the screen now displaying a news program reporting the day's events without anchors.
"It's time to hand out the presents."