Rewrite Our Love? Too Late-Chapter 128: Maid Wars and Pineapple Cakes

"Let's head out tomorrow morning, okay?"

It was a declaration made with confidence, clarity, and complete disregard for reality. Yukima Azuma knew better than to trust such bold statements, especially when they came from Eriri.

As expected, his doubts proved painfully accurate.

The day before, they had just arrived in Hokkaido and spent a charming afternoon wandering through Otaru's quaint shopping district. The cobblestone streets, decorated with colorful storefronts and the gentle aroma of fresh pastries, made for a dreamy walk. They snapped dozens of photos, filled a few bags with local souvenirs, and soaked in the seaside atmosphere. Eriri, in particular, had spent the evening pressed against the villa's large window, gazing out at the waves in the twilight, her blue eyes shimmering with longing.

But today?

She was completely dead to the world.

"Eriri. Oi. Wake up." Yukima Azuma tried again, his voice slightly louder. No response came from under the mountain of blankets—just a faint whine, not unlike a lazy puppy refusing its morning walk.

Their plan to visit the famous Asahiyama Zoo had already gone up in smoke.

"Aho-baka-tsundere-stubborn-overslept-Eriri," Azuma muttered under his breath.

"This idiot..." Kasumigaoka Utaha sighed heavily, massaging her temples like a weary office worker on a Friday evening.

Megumi Kato, ever the peacemaker, offered her a neatly wrapped box. "Here, Utaha-senpai. Hokkaido specialty cookies. They're sweet. Might help take the edge off."

"I think we should just leave that idiot here. She can wake up and enjoy the pictures we took at the zoo," Utaha said while taking a deliberate bite from a cookie. Her tone was cold, but her irritation was very real.

Azuma chuckled. "You say that, but once she sees the photos and starts crying, you're going to be the one consoling her."

Utaha's eyebrow twitched.

Consoling that idiot? Never in a thousand years. But the truth was... she couldn't really bring herself to leave Eriri behind. Not completely.

It would feel too much like bullying—like turning their vacation into a popularity contest. And no matter how annoying Eriri was, Utaha couldn't do something so heartless.

With a long exhale, she compromised.

"Kitagawa-san," Utaha turned to Marin, "can I see the cosplay outfits you brought?"

"Of course!" Marin beamed, all too happy to share. She had woken early, returned to her university dorm, and lugged her massive suitcase of carefully packed cosplay gear back to the villa.

She unzipped it in the living room, revealing a rainbow of costumes—each immaculately folded. Wigs were stored in mesh caps and bags, accessories meticulously arranged in zip-lock compartments.

Utaha began sorting through them with a rare glint of curiosity. Kato leaned in too, unable to resist the lure of bright fabrics and detailed craftsmanship.

"Um... is this also cosplay?" Megumi asked, picking up something particularly questionable.

It was a "costume" in only the loosest sense—a revealing succubus outfit. A flimsy piece of fabric just barely passed for a top, a triangle of cloth for the bottom, along with miniature devil wings and a heart-shaped tail. It looked like something from a late-night game on a sketchy website.

Kitagawa's eyes widened in horror. "T-That's! That's the little succubus from Magical Eros Girls! I must've grabbed it by mistake!"

The innocent curiosity on Megumi's face made the moment worse. Marin's cheeks flushed red, and she averted her gaze.

Utaha, meanwhile, found what she was looking for—a black-and-white maid uniform. It was frilly, short, and topped with a giant bow at the neckline. Cute. Properly humiliating.

"Kitagawa-san, may I borrow this?"

"Sure."

With that, Utaha carried the maid outfit straight toward Eriri's room.

Rustling noises followed. Then—

"Is there any pineapple cake in the fridge? Bring me two."

Kato, Marin, and Azuma exchanged puzzled looks, but Kato obediently fetched the cold cakes.

They disappeared into Eriri's room with Utaha.

And then, the screaming began.

"AHHHHH! Kasumigaoka Utaha! What are you doing?!"

"Why is it so cold?! Don't shove it in there!"

"Pervert! Help! Azuma, help me!"

It was like a haunted house.

Then, Utaha emerged, calm and satisfied, dusting her hands as if she had just finished folding laundry. A moment later, Eriri timidly peeked out from behind the door—wearing the maid outfit.

"You hateful fat woman! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Time check," Utaha said coldly, folding her arms. "You said you'd be up by morning. This is punishment. You're our maid for the rest of the day—tea, shoulder massages, the works." ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Eriri bared a fang in frustration, but she knew she had no defense.

Oversleeping was her fault. Even she could admit that much.

With a pout and a defeated sigh, she stepped out of the room.

The air stilled.

Eriri looked good. Dangerously good.

The maid outfit fit her perfectly, emphasizing her petite frame while somehow amplifying her charm. The "Zettai Ryouiki" between her white thigh-high stockings and the edge of the skirt was a dangerous battlefield of allure.

But then—everyone noticed it.

Something was... different.

Specifically, her chest.

It had... grown?

The bow at her neckline was now round, full, and taut.

Realization dawned slowly, then all at once.

Everyone turned toward the refrigerator. Then the cakes.

Then Utaha.

"You didn't..." Azuma muttered.

"I had to," Utaha said with a shrug. "It wouldn't have filled out otherwise."

Eriri's face turned tomato-red. "Y-Y-You hateful fat woman! You padded me with pineapple cakes?!"

Kitagawa Marin, standing off to the side, was trying to disappear into her chair. Compared to Utaha, her height was more average, but in terms of bust size... she was legendary.

Some had even measured the difference between her bust and underbust at 18.6 cm. E-cup. Practically a superpower.

Eriri could only match it through, quite literally, "snack support."

Azuma stood and walked toward the kitchen. "Come on, Maid. Help me prep lunch."

"...Ugh." Eriri hung her head and followed him.

Kitagawa began gathering her things, sensing it might be best to leave.

"Kitagawa-san, stay!" Eriri called out. "Azuma's cooking is seriously amazing!"

Marin hesitated. Azuma looked to the other girls.

Megumi and Utaha both nodded.

"You should stay," he said with a calm certainty. "It'll be easier if we're all together here."

Marin blinked—then smiled and sat back down.

A little later—

"Thish ish sooooo goood!" Kitagawa Marin moaned through a mouthful of shrimp tempura. "Azuma-san, are you secretly a god?!"

Tears almost welled in her eyes. She was half convinced she'd never eat anything this good again.

"You're overpraising me," Azuma said humbly.

"No I'm not! Girls, back me up here!"

Megumi nodded calmly. "Azuma-senpai's cooking is always great."

Eriri snorted. "Tch. Back when we were in middle school, his food was a disaster. I almost died eating it."

She smiled faintly, remembering the early days of their relationship. When Azuma had first started cooking, it was bad. Real bad. But she'd eaten every bite, forcing a smile through every dish.

She endured, because she loved him.

Utaha paused at that, her eyes narrowing slightly.

So it was her... She had always wondered how Azuma had become so skilled—not just in cooking, but in reading emotions and understanding women. She had taught him so much. And now, all those skills were being used... on her.

Under the table, Kasumigaoka Utaha's black-stockinged leg stretched slightly. She pressed her foot against something soft—Eriri's white-stockinged calf.

Eriri jerked in surprise, almost choking on her food.

Her eyes locked onto Utaha's, now smirking like a predator.

What the hell is this crazy fat woman doing?!

Eriri retaliated.

Thus began the under-the-table war of the maid and the novelist—one press, one kick, one tap at a time—hidden behind calm expressions and polite conversation.

Above the table: peace.

Below the table: total war.

And in the middle of it all, Yukima Azuma—clueless or pretending to be—continued to serve plate after delicious plate.