Am I The Only Male Tenant Here?

The sun was clocking out for the day, melting slowly into the west as if it, too, was exhausted from a long shift. I walked alone, cutting through the golden-orange haze that dyed the sky with a soft melancholy. Clouds stretched like lazy cats across the skyline, painted in warm sunset glow.

A girl passing by raised her phone to snap a photo of the scene. I didn't blame her. It felt like the kind of moment you wanted to keep—quiet, humid, nostalgic.

Streetlights flickered on one by one, as if nodding their sleepy heads in preparation for nightfall.

By the time I arrived back at the apartment, the clock was nudging past seven.

I opened the door—and there she was.

"Welcome back, Sosuke."

Tomoko greeted me with a smile, one hand delicately brushing a strand of her soft chestnut hair behind her ear. She wore a white one-piece nightgown, sleeveless and breezy—dangerously sheer under the hallway light.

My eyes did a quick scan—because how could they not? Her smooth, pale shoulders led down to gently swaying hips. The silk clung in all the right places. Every step she took bounced softly, rhythmically. There was no mistaking it: she was wearing nothing underneath.

Tomoko's elegance always hit differently in the evenings.

"You must be tired after a full day of class and your shift," she said gently, concern in her eyes.

"Honestly?" I cracked a small grin. "Just thinking about Tomoko's cooking makes me forget how exhausted I am."

"Ufufu~ Is that so? Well, you're in luck. Dinner's almost ready."

She turned on her heel and floated toward the kitchen, hips swaying like a pendulum hypnotizing me with each step.

I sank into the low chair, exhaling as the delicious aroma of dashi and fried oyster wafted through the apartment.

About five minutes later, she returned—arms full, face dewy, a little flustered from the heat of the kitchen.

Tiny beads of sweat clung to her forehead, a few damp strands of hair sticking to her skin. One droplet slid slowly down the nape of her neck, vanishing into the valley between her collarbones.

She fanned herself lazily with one hand and bent slightly forward to cool off. A gust of air lifted her gown ever so slightly—and from where I sat, the full curve of her 36D breasts peeked out boldly.

"I-It's getting hotter lately, huh?" she said, oblivious.

I couldn't breathe.

"Dinner's ready, Sosuke. Come eat before it gets cold."

I pressed my palms together. "Itadakimasu."

Tomoko's food was always excellent, but today's meal felt extra potent—like it was seasoned with affection. She'd made radish and oyster soup, and as I sipped it, warmth bloomed in my chest, working its way through every nerve ending.

"Mm... Delicious."

"You're sweating too, Sosuke."

She leaned forward, holding a napkin delicately between her fingers, and gently dabbed my forehead. Her touch was soft—unbearably soft—and smelled faintly of soap and warm broth.

Her fingers lingered on my skin just a moment too long.

"Thanks…"

After dinner, we cleaned up together.

Tomoko knelt on the floor with a rag, wiping down the floorboards. I crouched beside her, helping out even though she insisted I didn't need to. Her gown hugged her hips tightly as she shifted on all fours, and every little movement threatened to reveal something criminally distracting.

"T-Tomoko," I mumbled, trying not to stare. "You'll wear yourself out…"

"I'm used to it," she said with a wry smile.

Ten minutes later, the floor was gleaming, and we both flopped onto the couch with twin sighs of relief.

Tomoko stretched her arms above her head. Her breasts rose high, pressing against the thin silk, nipples barely hidden by the fabric. My breath caught.

I'd seen this woman every day for weeks, but it still hit like a truck every time.

She turned toward me, her expression softer now—quieter.

"You've got big hands, Sosuke…"

"Hm?"

She reached forward and gently took my wrist, guiding my hand palm-up toward hers. Her fingers traced along mine, her expression unreadable.

"Long fingers," she murmured, voice barely audible. "Perfect for playing piano."

Her fingers pressed against mine, comparing the size difference. Hers were soft, delicate. Mine dwarfed hers completely.

She stared at our hands for a second longer… then swallowed.

…I'd heard that old myth too.

If his fingers are long, then…

My heart pounded.

"Your hands are beautiful too," I said, voice hoarse.

"No, they're not… I'm always scrubbing, cleaning… They're rough."

She pulled back a little. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

"It's been almost ten years since my husband passed," she whispered. "I've been taking care of this place all on my own since then…"

Ten years?

That meant… she became a widow before she even turned thirty.

A strange ache filled my chest. Sadness? Respect? Desire?

"Tomoko-san…"

"...Sosuke-kun," she whispered.

She leaned toward me. Her voice trembled with something deeper—uncertainty, hope, longing.

"Do you… Do you think I'm just some boring woman? Someone who only knows how to cook and clean?"

The air grew heavier, damp with silence. Her eyes shimmered.

I answered without hesitation.

"No. I think you're perfect."

Her lips parted slightly. "Sosuke…"

In the next moment, she slid into my arms.

The scent of her shampoo, the subtle warmth of her skin—it overwhelmed me. She pressed against my chest like she was afraid I'd disappear if she didn't hold me tight.

Her body was flawless. Smooth thighs, a supple waist, hips wide and soft, a full chest that molded perfectly against me.

I wrapped my arms around her. My fingers sank into her back, tracing the curves I'd only admired from a distance—until now.

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