Keep On Keeping On

18+ ONLY I write for: Attack on Titan - Jujutsu Kaisen - FFXV - Spiderverse - Categories: Fluff - Angst - Smut - Action/Adventure - Romance - Oneshots - Slow Burnssss -

[softcursechoso]

TEN PAGE LETTER: CH. 4

HIGURUMA X READER

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Words: 14.1k+

Ch. 4 Warnings: None. Fluff + Angst

PAGE FOUR

Looking back on it now, I think I was too eager to prove I could live without you. I told myself that if I could turn away first, if I could place my hand in someone else’s and let myself be led somewhere less complicated, then maybe I would stop aching for what you wouldn’t give me.

Do you resent me for it, Hiromi? Do you resent me for opening myself to Ren? 

You always hated him, didn’t you? From the very first moment you saw him. I wonder if you would admit that to me now. If I were sitting across from you. If I asked you plainly, would you tell me the truth? I think just seeing his name in my hand would make something harden in you.

It is childish of me to confess, especially after all this time, but I loved your jealousy. I loved it because it was the one thing you gave me that felt unguarded. Not in words—but in the set of your shoulders, in the slight clench of your jaw, in those fleeting expressions that no one else would have noticed, but I always did. I watched for them. I treasured them. They were ugly little proofs, but they were mine. 

Oh Ren Nishimura. The catalyst. The person that pushed us closer than either of us was willing to walk on our own. It feels almost cruel to write that now, knowing where all roads eventually led, but it is true all the same. Whatever force brought you to me that night, I wouldn’t change that actions that led to it, even knowing it would ruin me.

____________________________________________________________________________

Shikazawa Café : 5:18pm : Morioka

Winter had been cruel that year, but thankfully by now, the worst of it was over. The air began to warm, and the streets livened up. Farfetched to say it was a decent degree, but it certainly wasn't blizzard weather anymore.

The café near your job seemed to be celebrating that fact more eagerly than anyone.

It sat on the corner of a busy street just a few minutes away from the club, tucked between a florist shop and a boutique.

On ordinary days, it was simply convenient—a place to duck into for coffee, sweets, or something quick before work. However, on evenings like this, when the sunlight washed orange over the sidewalks and the cold had retreated just enough to become bearable, it transformed into something else entirely. 

Perhaps a nice place for a date… and that’s exactly what you were on.

You and Ren found a table outside as the café had already begun to fill up. Thankfully most patrons preferred to be inside, but you didn’t mind the cold so long as it meant you two could talk without shouting..

Nearly every little wrought iron table was occupied, every chair claimed by someone eager to sit beneath the fading evening sun. 

The season had not loosened its grip completely—there was still a bite in the air, sharp enough to sting your skin a little when the breeze shifted, but spring had started phasing in. The snowbanks that had once crowded the sidewalks were gone now. 

It was the kind of place people liked to pretend they stumbled upon by accident, though everyone in the neighborhood knew it. Cute enough to be a date spot, practical enough to justify as a legitimate dinner restaurant. 

Inside, the bakery case was always full—cream filled pastries dusted with sugar, fruit tarts, sandwiches cut into neat triangles, little quiches with golden crusts. 

The whole place felt warm in spite of the cold. Everyone was all flushed cheeks and bright chatter and soft steam rising from cups.

You sat with your legs crossed beneath the table, one black pump hooked delicately against the other, your menu angled in your hands though you had barely read a word of it. You had dressed carefully without wanting it to look as if you had. 

The halter dress was simple, flattering in that effortless way that always took more effort than anyone admitted, and your fleece lined tights kept the worst of the chill off your skin without ruining the look of your legs. Your coat rested neatly on your shoulders. 

Your makeup was soft, restrained—just enough to brighten your eyes, define your lips, make your face look a little more polished than usual. Your hair had been pinned up with deliberate care, a few strands left loose to soften the shape of your face. The whole effect was subtle, but not accidental. Pretty, but not too eager. Beautiful, if someone was paying attention.

Ren was paying attention.

He looked unfairly handsome across from you as per usual. His eyes were such an arresting shade of blue—almost jewel-like against the dark elegance of him. They gave his face something striking, something memorable, especially paired with the easy warmth of his expression. 

He smiled often, and every time he did those dimples appeared in his cheeks as though they had been put there solely to make him impossible to resist. White button up, long dark coat, black slacks pressed clean. Shoes so polished they caught the light. He looked expensive, but more than that, he looked like he tried. Not in a cringy way, but by way of deliberate effort.

Maybe that was part of why you had said yes. Ren, for all his polish, had never hidden what he wanted. Attention. Time. A chance with you.

To be wanted so openly by a man like that did something to you, especially at a time when you were trying not to think too hard about another man entirely.

You had wanted Higuruma bad. God, you still did.

That was the part you had not managed to scrub clean from yourself, no matter how sensible you tried to be about it. The week at his house after the storm had done more damage than either of you had allowed yourselves to admit. 

It had taken something already fragile and made it extremely intimate. Breakfasts at his table. Dinners shared after long days. Car rides through the gray of morning and the dark of evening. The shape of his routine had opened around you and let you inside just long enough to make you ache for a place that was never going to be yours.

That was what hurt most. Higuruma had not misled you in words… but he made breakfast for you, drove you to work, remembered how you took your coffee, noticed when you were tired, when you were quiet, when something sat wrong behind your smile. 

But then he would remind you that you were his client. That this was temporary. That there were rules. That he was not going to budge.

It felt as though the door had opened just wide enough for you to see warmth inside before being shut with exquisite politeness. You had finally reached the humiliating conclusion that wanting him was not going to change him.

So, here you were. Sitting across from a man who wanted you without hesitation.

Ren gave a soft huff of amusement. “I was hoping this would feel more romantic… Instead it looks like half the city had the exact same idea as me.”

You laughed, the sound coming easier than you expected.

His mouth curved at once, dimples appearing. Encouraged, he leaned back in his chair and lowered the menu a little, blue eyes warm with that effortless teasing ease he always seemed to carry.

“Damn, if this goes poorly for me there will be too many witnesses.”

You laugh, “Better be on your best behavior then.”

“Absolutely.” Ren smiled like he was pleased just to have drawn a laugh out of you.

You looked back down at the menu—soups, sandwiches, seasonal specials. Your finger drifted down the dessert section instead, lingering there with no intention of being subtle about it.

“Is it terrible that I kinda only want dessert?”

Ren did not even pretend to consider another option. “You and I are on the same wavelength. The strawberry shortcake is calling my name.”

Your eyes widened. “Ah—I was literally thinking that.”

“Then that settles it.” He folded the menu a little and leaned back in his chair. “We’ll share.”

You stared at him. “Share? Ren, if you’re going to be on a date with me, you need to understand that I come with gluttonous baggage.”

“Gluttonous baggage? Now I definitely need to hear a story.”

“You wanna hear a story?!” You lifted the menu to cover the lower half of your face as if it shielded you from the humiliation already prickling hot on your cheeks. “I can tell you, but please don’t judge me.”

Ren’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh. “I won’t judge you.”

“You say that now.” You pressed the menu higher, hiding behind it more. “Holy shit, okay. Okay. Please understand, I genuinely cannot take judgment from you. It would destroy me.”

He leaned forward across the little table, and with two fingers he gently lowered the top edge of your menu until your face was visible again. “You’re very different outside of work.”

“I’m definitely not as charming… disappointed?” 

He’d shake his head, “Of course not, but also, you’re not getting off that easily. I want your worst story.”

“Shit. Okay, I’ve genuinely never told anyone this story. I really thought I was going to take it to the grave.”

Ren gave a little shrug, “Consider me a closed casket.”

You exhaled and set the menu down flat. “Okay. Fine. This was… maybe nine months ago? I was still pretty new at Sunset, and I wanted to make a good impression on the girls. It was Sakura’s birthday, so I decided I was going to bring in a cake. Like a good one. Big enough that everyone could have some.”

Ren nodded, already smiling like he could sense disaster approaching.

“It actually came out really nice, and that’s important because on the bus ride to work, it got a little messed up on one side.”

“A little?”

You nod, “Like enough that it didn’t look perfect anymore. In hindsight it wasn’t that crazy. Anyway, I got off near the park and I was looking at it panicking because, again, I wanted to make a good impression. So I thought, okay, easy solution—I’ll just eat the messed up side. Even it out.”

The dimples were already threatening.

You pushed on, mortified. “So I did, but then the cake looked uneven in a different way because now one side had clearly been eaten. So I thought—shit. Okay. I just need to even all the sides.”

Ren’s mouth dropped open in delighted disbelief.

“And once all the sides were even I realized I had actually eaten a lot of the cake. Like… enough that there was no way it would feed all the girls anymore.”

He was staring at you now, absolutely captivated.

“So then I’m like damn, I can’t bring a half eaten tiny cake into work.. It was already ruined. It looked suspicious. It looked pathetic.” You covered your face with one hand. “So I panicked…”

Ren leaned in, blue eyes bright. “No.”

You started laughing before you could get the words out. “I finished it.”

He threw his head back and laughed, and God it made you laugh harder too, breathless with embarrassment and relief.

“There is no way you sat in a public park and pounded an entire birthday cake meant for ten people. All before work. By yourself.”

“I did not mean to!” You protested through your own laughter. “I was trying to fix it.”

“You fixed it by eating all of it.”

“I know! I felt sick immediately. Physically and emotionally… and that’s not the worse part...”

He perked up, “Oh?”

“I got to work, and my boss was already in the back bragging to everyone that he’d baked a cake from scratch. He starts cutting slices, and I’m standing there feeling like I’m about to die because I have an entire cake in my stomach.”

He wiped at the corner of one eye, still laughing. “Tell me you didn’t.”

You reply, voice tiny. “I had two pieces.”

“You had some anyway?! You are a machine!”

“I had to eat some! He was making a big deal out of it. What was I supposed to say? Sorry, I’m full because I already ate a whole separate cake before I got here?”

At that, the both of you broke completely laughing at the absurdity of it all. It left your cheeks warm and your eyes watery.

When the laughter finally softened, Ren shook his head as though he was still trying to recover from the image. “Okay, then I take it back. We absolutely do not have to share the strawberry shortcake. You might take my hand by accident.”

“I need you to forget this entire conversation ever happened.”

“Not a chance.”

“Ren.”

He smiled, “Now I know exactly how to get you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Sweets?”

“Sweets,” he agreed.

You looked down for a moment, smiling to yourself, and the conversation moved on. It slipped easily into other things—small stories. It was nice to get lost in the ease of non performative small talk. It was nice not to think about… him.

Just as you were really getting into the groove of your conversation, the café door opened again as a hostess guided a new patron to the patio.

“Right this way, sir.” The woman spoke as she walked two tables over. “Is here alright?”

You turned your head only out of mild curiosity, expecting another stranger… and then the world stopped.

Not literally, of course. Traffic still moved. People still laughed. A chair scraped faintly across ground somewhere behind you… but inside your body, time halted so abruptly it felt like a physical blow.

Higuruma was here—dressed as he always seemed to be. Dark suit, immaculate even beneath the long coat thrown over it. His presence carried that same composed sharpness. And those eyes—those fucking sanpaku eyes.

Even from where you sat, you could see them clearly. Your whole body tightened.

Of all people in Morioka, no, in all of Japan he was the one you least wanted to see standing there.

Not because you had done something wrong. He had made himself clear, over and over. You were his client. He was your attorney. The line would remain exactly where it belonged. There was nothing improper about this, nothing shameful in sitting across from a handsome man on a dinner date.

Higuruma had left you no room to hope for anything else—and still, seeing him there felt like being caught in the act of betraying something that had never been.

Your eyes met for one suspended second. He looked at you first, and whatever flickered through his face happened so quickly it might have been imagined by anyone less attuned to him. Then his gaze shifted to Ren, and then back to you.

He gave a single nod. No smile. No visible surprise. Nothing anyone else would have called a reaction.

But you knew him well enough by now to understand that his stillness was not emptiness. Higuruma had always hidden himself in restraint, and because of that, the smallest changes became obvious. 

The slight hardening near his mouth. The way his shoulders seemed to settle more rigidly beneath his coat. To anyone else, he looked composed. To you, he looked like a man clenching his fists.

The server led him to a table two down from yours… The universe could be so absurdly cruel.

It would be unfair to Ren to lose yourself in this, and you knew that. Higuruma had stated his position clearly enough that there was no excuse for acting like this moment meant anything at all. You had no right to keep living according to what he constantly denied.

So you smiled small and polite. Just enough to sand down the awkwardness. You even lifted a hand in a faint little wave.

Higuruma looked at you once more and nodded again before sitting down.

Across from you, Ren glanced subtly in the direction of your line of sight, then back at you. Two tables away sat the man who had taught you how infuriating restraint could be.

You made yourself turn back to Ren. He had been nothing but kind to you from the moment he sat down—charming without being pushy, attentive without making you feel cornered. There was no reason to punish him for the existence of another man, especially one who had been so painfully clear about where you stood.

So you smiled when Ren spoke. You laughed when he made another joke. You let the conversation carry you forward, and still, Higuruma remained lodged beneath your skin.

You had accepted his stance on your professional relationship, but there was still a petty little thing inside you. A small, ugly, immature part that wanted him to feel something at the sight of you.

Not enough to call you back. Not enough to make you hope again. Just… something.

Ren’s gaze drifted past your shoulder for only a second before coming back to you, but it was enough to make your stomach tighten. He tipped his chin slightly, expression thoughtful rather than suspicious.

“Wait, isn’t that the guy who picks you up from work?”

Your eyes widened, just a fraction. Of course he would notice that. Ren had been coming into Sunset often enough to notice patterns. During the week you’d stayed at Higuruma’s house, he had driven you to the club every day and picked you up every night. It was beyond just the Thursdays when he collected you for your meetings… actually it was beyond just the week of the snowstorm. He’d just pick you up every night…

You nodded, trying for a casualness you did not fully feel. “That is—yes.”

Ren’s mouth curved slowly, one brow lifting. “Tell me you’re not entertaining me when you’ve already got a man.”

The laugh that left you was a little too quick, “If my man walked into a café, saw me on a date with another man, and then sat down without saying a damn word… I’d be pretty fucking disappointed.”

You knew Higuruma could hear that. Outside was crowded, yes, but not packed the way the inside was. He sat only two tables away. Close enough that if he shifted his chair, you would hear it.

Ren grinned, slow and delighted, “Got that pretty mouth of yours talking filthy.”

Heat rushed straight up your neck as you slapped both hands over your mouth with a strangled little laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can be such a sailor when I’m off the clock.”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“No?”

“Not even a little. I like it, actually. I get to see the real you.”

You dropped your hands slowly. “The real me?”

“The one you try to hide from me at work.”

“I do not hide from you.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I’m professional,” you corrected him. “There’s a difference.”

He leaned back, one arm draping along the side of his chair, his posture loose and confident in a way that only made him more attractive. “Professional? So that’s what we’re calling it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, professional. I know why men come to Sunset. It’s not for my deeply guarded inner self.”

Ren tipped his head, pretending to consider. “You make it hard for a man to think of anything else when the view is so exquisite… But that’s not why I come. You’re very stingy with your time, and I know that. Which makes the fact that you gave some of it to me matter.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the menu. 

Ren looked at you steadily. “So I’ll be honest with you. I came here from Fukushima.”

Your heart kicked hard once in your chest. “Wait, you mean… you lived there, or you still live there?”

He saw the reaction on your face. The devastation of something good being temporary—of course. 

His expression softened, and he reached across the small table to touch your arm, fingers warm even through the sleeve of your coat. “Hey. Hold on. Don’t go disappearing on me.”

You hadn’t even realized you were doing it—that instinctive little retreat inward, that split second blankness where your body stayed present and your mind tried to flee ahead of it.

“I still live there currently, yes, but I’ve been out here for the past few months because of family business—I do have a place here. It’s not like I’m passing through without a trace, okay?”

You nodded once, though the tension in you hadn’t fully eased.

He kept his hand there another second, grounding. “Listen to me first. In Fukushima I run my own hostess club.”

That pulled your attention back properly. “You do?”

He nodded. “I’m always handling business. Hiring, staffing, finding out how other places operate. I pay attention. Sometimes that means I see girls who would be better off somewhere else.”

Your brows drew together. “Ren…”

“I’m not pitching to you, just listen. When I first came into Sunset I asked your manager who I should request, and he recommended every girl in the place but you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That’s exactly what I thought. I found it strange, because look at you.” His eyes moved over your face with no attempt to hide his admiration. “You’re gorgeous. Even just on looks alone, I would’ve picked you anyway, but it made me curious. Why steer me away from you specifically? So I asked for you, and the second I sat down with you, I understood it.”

A strange heat spread through your chest. “Understood what?”

He smiled—not teasing this time, “You have a natural way of making men fall in love with you.”

Your breath caught. “Ren…”

He put both hands up immediately, laughing a little at the look on your face. “I’m not making some dramatic confession right now, relax.”

Two tables away, a chair shifted. It was a barely audible sound, the scrape softened by the ambient noise of the patio, but your attention snagged on it anyway. You did not turn your head, but you could feel Higuruma’s presence.

Ren continued, “Your manager keeps you with regulars, almost exclusively, from what I can tell.”

You frowned. “I mean… yeah. Mostly.”

“And do you know why?”

“Because they request me?”

“It’s because men who really want a girl don’t like seeing her with anyone else. It ruins the illusion. If you’re good enough at your job, the club can make more money by limiting access to you and turning you into something scarce.”

The words made you go still.

“And if your manager is dirty, he can make even more by taking money under the table to keep certain men happy without having to increase your cut proportionally.”

Your eyebrows knit. “Are you serious?”

“Like I said, I own a club. I know what dirty business looks like.”

“You really think he could be doing that?”

Ren tipped one shoulder. “I’m not saying I can prove it, but think about your day to day. Do you usually get new clients, or are you almost always with regulars?”

“I’m with my regulars like ninety nine percent of the time… but I just thought that was because they ask for me early.”

“Maybe, or maybe he knows exactly what he has in you.”

A server passed near Higuruma’s table, and for the first time since he sat down, you risked the briefest glance in his direction.

He sat with the same perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, coat opened just enough to reveal the dark suit beneath. His face was angled down as though his attention belonged solely to the coffee set before him, but the line between his brows had deepened by the faintest degree. 

When you looked away, your pulse felt strange.

Ren was still speaking intently, “You’ve got charm, beauty, mystique. You’re incredibly rare for a place like Morioka. Foreign hostesses are like one in a million. A girl like you should be drawing all kinds of interest.”

You let out a quiet disbelieving breath. “This sounds insane.”

“It’s just an observation, but if it were me, I’d confront the son of a bitch and demand back payment. I know it’s easy for me to say, but you deserve better.”

The words were casual in tone and devastating in effect.

Before you could decide what to do with that, a server approached your table with a polite bow, little order pad in hand.

“Good afternoon. Are you ready to order, or would you like a bit more time with the menu?”

You blinked. “No, um— I’m ready. I’ll have the strawberry shortcake.”

Ren handed over his menu. “Same for me—and actually…” He glanced at you with a wicked brightness in his eyes, “Could we get two more to go?”

You choked. “Ren!”

“I know what you like now.”

“Don’t expose me like this.”

“You exposed yourself the second you told me about that cake.”

You lifted the menu again, hiding all of your shame behind it. “Please tell me at least one of those shortcakes is for you.”

“They’re all yours, love.”

Your cheeks burned so hot you were certain the entire patio could feel it.

The server bowed without missing a beat. “Of course. I’ll bring those right out.”

The second she stepped away, Ren reached across the table and hooked two fingers over the top of the menu, lowering it again until you had no choice but to look at him.

“Don’t hide from me.” 

You laughed helplessly. “I’m mortified.”

“I like seeing this face.” His gaze lingered on you. “The shy one. The one you never wear at the club.”

You tried to pull the menu back up. He stopped it with one hand.

“Ren—”

“Let me look at you.”

“Ugh. You’re evil. Now you’re just going to think of me as some glutton forever.”

He laughed. “That is not what I think when I look at you. Not even close.”

Your breath hitched a little on pure instinct. Two tables away, porcelain clicked softly against porcelain. Not loud, just the faint sound of a cup being set down with slightly more force than was strictly necessary. You did not turn, but you felt it.

By the time the heat lamp beside you finally began to do something more useful than glow, your fingers had stopped feeling quite so cold.

You tested the air first, lifting one hand beside the heater and feeling the dry warmth gather at your knuckles, then your wrist. Once you were sure of your survival, you slipped your coat off your shoulders. The relief was immediate. 

The dress beneath it was prettier than the coat had allowed anyone to see—a fitted halter in a dark, rich tone that flattered your skin and sat cleanly against your frame, elegant in the front and open at your back. Incredibly bold for this time of year, but directly under the heater… it worked.

Ren looked at you, and the smile that spread over his face was immediate “Damn, how am I supposed to focus now?”

“You just have to try.”

“Oh, I’m trying.” His blue eyes dipped, then came back up to yours with a kind of appreciative disbelief. “You’re making it difficult.”

The server returned carrying two dessert plates in each hand, the smell of fresh cream and strawberries arriving a second before she did. She set one slice before you and then Ren.

The shortcake was beautiful. A neat triangle of pale sponge layered with soft whipped cream and fresh strawberries. The cake itself looked impossibly light, each crumb delicate and springy. 

The server smiled politely. “I’ll have your to go bag ready at the bakery counter when you’re ready to leave. Please enjoy.”

You both thanked her, and the second she stepped away your eyes dropped to the plate with unconcealed longing.

Without even pretending restraint, you slid your fork in and took a generous first bite.

The cream was cold and airy. The sponge practically dissolved. The strawberry was sweet but tart. It was wonderful.

Across from you, Ren laughed. “No itadakimasu? No reverence? Just greed?”

You nearly choked on your own laugh, covering your mouth as you chewed. “Stop—you said you weren’t going to make fun of me.”

“I don’t remember promising that. You took down a quarter of the cake in one go.”

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing again. “My sweet tooth is serious, okay?”

“I can see that.”

He finally took a small bite of his own, neat and controlled in a way that made your own enthusiasm feel even more shameless by comparison. 

He hummed. “Mm. Pretty good.”

You pointed at him with your fork. “Right?”

He nodded. “You weren’t wrong.”

Ren took another bite, “So, tell me about boss man over there.”

Your smile faltered just slightly. “Who?”

“Your friend. The one I don’t have to worry about.” His eyes flicked, briefly in Higuruma’s direction before returning to you. “You say he’s not your boyfriend, but he’s picking you up from the club every night? I don’t knooooow~ Be honest… who is he?”

You set your fork down. “It’s not like that. He’s just—”

“I apologize,” Higuruma interrupted, turning to look over at you. “Truly, but do you mind if I have a word?”

He had not moved from his own table. He remained seated, and his expression was composed, but there was something beneath it, a tension so restrained it was nearly nonexistent for those not looking.

Ren pushed his chair back gracefully. “Have several.” He spoke lightly, rising to his feet. “I need to use the restroom anyway.” He smiled as he touched your arm in passing. “Take care of her for me while I’m gone.”

It was the kind of line that should have sounded charming and nothing more—and perhaps it did. Well, to everyone except the man two tables away.

Something changed in Higuruma’s face. Nothing obvious, but his gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second on the place where Ren’s fingers had been.

Ren now disappeared inside. The café door shut behind him with a little chime, and suddenly the patio felt quieter than it should.

You stood and crossed the short distance to Higuruma’s table. The warmth of the heater left you almost immediately. The cold found your exposed back at once, but you could take it. This should be quick. 

You sat across from him, smoothing the dress over your thighs before looking up. “You good?”

Higuruma looked at you in that scrutinizing, steady way of his. He lifted his cup, took a sip of coffee, then returned it to the saucer quietly.

“Were you about to tell that man I’m your attorney?”

Damn, he was straight to the point as always.

You shrugged—the movement a touch defensive. “I mean… yeah?”

“Don’t.”

You frowned. “Why?”

His eyes held yours. “Because telling him you have a lawyer at all raises questions that you should not be answering. Anyone who does not already know you’re in a legal battle should remain that way. Your workplace is aware because they’ve been interviewed. That’s different. You do not need to be discussing your case with clients.”

You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself. “First of all, he’s not a client right now. He’s my date.”

“You’re on a date with a client?” He spoke in a tone more offended than he probably intended.

You gave a small lift of one shoulder. “Yeah. Is that a problem too?”

“It is, actually.” The answer came faster than you expected.

“How?”

Higuruma shifted in his chair, not away from you but not toward you either, as though even his body had been trained to honor lines. “I’m not discussing that here out in the open. That crosses into confidential territory.”

“So what, you want me to just leave my date?”

He exhaled faintly. “I can’t tell you what to do.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His gaze lingered once over your face, “I think it would be wise.”

The cold had already started settling over your bare skin, and you folded your arms without thinking, rubbing at them lightly. 

Your voice lowered with irritation. “I can’t just bail. That’s fucked up.”

Higuruma’s eyes dropped briefly to your shoulders, then to your crossed arms. “You should’ve kept your coat on.”

You almost laughed at the absurdity of that. “You don’t even care, do you?”

He ignored the question. Or perhaps chose not to answer it.

You’d continue, “Ren said if we went on a date, he’d stop coming to the club. I told him I don’t date clients. So now he’s not a client.”

Higuruma leaned forward the slightest amount. “That is completely irrelevant.”

Was that jealousy in his tone?

You tightened your arms around yourself. “So what am I supposed to do? Fake a stomach ache? Spill coffee in my lap and run? I actually like him. I don’t want to ruin this.”

You did like Ren. He was gentle with you, generous with his attention, honest in a way that felt flattering—but there was another reason you said it that plainly. Some small wounded part of you wanted to see what the truth did to Higuruma’s face.

For a moment, it did nothing, and then almost microscopically, his jaw clenched. His fingers shifted once against the handle of his cup before going still again.

When he spoke again, his voice was as measured as ever. “You paid for my counsel. You didn’t pay for me to tell you what you want to hear.”

“Correct, I paid for your time in the office. You doing unpaid overtime now?”

His eyes dropped to your folded arms again. To the fine tremor the cold had started putting into your shoulders. Instinct moved through him hastily—his hand went to the button of his coat, fingers slipping beneath the edge as if he were about to take it off… but he stopped.

He withdrew his hand and straightened slightly. “You’re freezing. You should get your coat.”

You’d sit still trying to absorb all of this.

He’d continue, “Look, I’m not telling you what to do. I’m advising you. If you leave now, I can drive you home. Or wherever you need to go.”

It should have sounded practical, but instead, it sounded devastating.

You didn’t answer, and through the glass, you saw Ren heading back outside.

Your heart sank in a heavy, resigned way, because you knew exactly what you had to do and it wasn’t what you wanted.

You rose from Higuruma’s table without another word.

He looked up at you, and for the briefest second, something like resistance flashed beneath the stillness. He wasn’t as restrained as he thought he was.

You turned before it could become anything bigger.

You crossed toward your own table, the open dress leaving your skin exposed in a way that now felt foolish rather than pretty. Your dessert sat half eaten where you’d left it, and your coat still hung over the back of your chair. 

Ren stepped outside just as you reached your seat.

He smiled when he saw you, but the expression shifted the moment he read your face. He was too polished to crack, but he sharpened and became more attentive.

You touched the back of your chair and looked at him, your disappointment turning hot.

You were angry at Higuruma, and yourself, and a little sad, though you hated that word for it.

Your eyes drifted to him and then away again. “Ren…”

He stepped closer, just enough that you caught the clean scent of him. Then, with two fingers beneath your chin, he tipped your face back toward him. Not forceful. He just wanted your eyes on him.

“What happened?” He asked.

The concern in his voice made the lie feel worse.

You shook your head once, because if you looked at him too directly for too long you might lose your nerve. “It’s just… There’s an emergency, and I need to deal with it.”

Against your better judgment, your gaze flicked past him, toward Higuruma’s table for the briefest second, then back.

“I’m so sorry. I genuinely don’t want you thinking I’m intentionally bailing on you. I just have to go. Time’s kind of… important.”

Ren watched you. Whether he knew you were lying or only suspected it, you couldn’t tell. He was too kind to corner you over it. If he pressed you and you were telling the truth, he’d look like an asshole. An emergency was one of those things no decent man could challenge without gambling his own dignity.

In the end, you saw the exact moment he decided to let you off the hook.

His thumb brushed lightly once against the underside of your chin before his hand fell away. “Alright, love. I understand. Be safe, okay?”

Your mouth opened on apology again, but he cut it off gently.

“And take the shortcakes with you, please,” he added, managing a faint smile. “Tell the lady at the counter. I’ll finish up here.”

You nodded too quickly. “Thank you, Ren. Really. I’m sorry. I just—”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.” His voice was warm, easy, though there was something tired under it now. “Take care of yourself, and whoever needs you.”

You wanted to hug him. To at least touch his arm. To offer him something that acknowledged your feelings for him—but Higuruma’s warning remained clear, and now even the thought of a simple goodbye felt dangerous.

Instead you grabbed your coat, bowed your head a little, and murmured one more thank you before turning toward the café door. You hated yourself right now.

Behind you, shortly after you entered the café, Higuruma rose.

You collected the bag of shortcakes, thanked the girl who handed it over, and barely registered the weight of the two boxes as you were trying to get over this guilt.

Higuruma was already moving toward the exit, one hand reaching for the handle just as Ren’s voice called out.

“Hey.”

Higuruma stopped and looked back over one shoulder.

Ren stood by your table, one hand in the pocket of his coat, the other resting loosely against the chair back. “Is she your girl?”

Higuruma’s hand remained on the door handle briefly, “She already told you no, didn’t she?”

It was probably the most unprofessional answer he could have given. A clean no would have sufficed, but something in him had resisted that. Something had chosen to answer in a way that turned the question back around. As if the important thing was not the truth, but taking you at your word.

Then he opened the door to the café and quickly walked to the exit.

Higuruma held the door open for you, waiting until you stepped through. “Put your coat on.”

You stopped in the doorway and looked up at him. “Does a little skin bother you?”

He looked down at you, and then briefly along the open line of your back before returning to your eyes.

“No, but it’s going to bother you, and then it’s going to bother me.”

You rolled your eyes and walked out anyway, because now you felt like shit. You had lied to a man who had been gracious with you. Let him pay. Let him flatter you. Let him laugh with you. Let him begin to hope, and then left him standing beside half eaten cake.

Some ugly part of you thought maybe you deserved to be cold. So you did not put your coat on. You walked beside Higuruma in silence, the two of you moving toward his parked car.

Streetlights had begun to turn on as the evening surrendered.

Your mind kept circling itself so viciously that you barely registered him slowing. Then warmth dropped over your shoulders. Your heart went wild all at once—or maybe it stopped.

Higuruma’s coat now hung around you, heavy and dark and warm from his body. The fabric smelled like him—clean laundry. It swallowed you almost immediately, the inside still holding his heat. 

When he pulled his hands back, his expression was faintly irritated. “I don’t know why you’re being so difficult right now.”

You should have been upset. In the hierarchy of appropriate feelings, anger and shame should have come first, but instead there was this horrible rush of butterflies. Stupid and entirely unwelcomed.

He looked away first and continued toward the car. By the time you reached it, he had already unlocked the passenger side and pulled the door open for you. You got in without speaking. He circled to the driver’s seat, slid behind the wheel, and shut the door with a firm sound that cut off most of the street noise.

He started the engine, adjusted the vents, and set the heat to rise gradually rather than blast. The dashboard lit his face, catching in the tired lines beneath his eyes and the stillness of his mouth.

Then he turned and looked at you as if trying to assess not just your mood but the entirety of what just happened, and why.

You stared straight ahead for a long minute, jaw clenched, fingers gripping the handles of the shortcake bag in your lap. When you finally turned to him, the words came out harsher than you intended.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the one who should be getting scolded.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m not—”

“You just pulled me from a date, and I’d really love to know why.”

Higuruma leaned back a fraction, one hand settling on the wheel though the car remained in park. “First of all, bring it down.”

Your eyes flashed.

“Second, I didn’t pull you from a date. I advised you to stop digging your own grave, and you chose to listen.”

You crossed your arms beneath his coat, glaring. “Elaborate.”

“What did I tell you in our first meeting? I told you that prosecutors have a way of framing beautiful women whose job it is to entertain men, flatter them, build a sense of intimacy—”

“You didn’t say beautiful the first time.” The correction slipped out before you could stop it.

It startled even him. His eyes widened a hair. “What?”

“You said attractive the first time. Not beautiful.”

For one suspended second, he just looked at you—then he did what he always did when a personal truth threatened to drag itself into the open—he stepped around it.

“Attractive, beautiful, whatever. That is not the point.”

A tiny spark of ugly satisfaction lit in you anyway. “Convenient.”

He ignored that too, though the muscle in his jaw ticked once. “Since you remember my words so well, do you remember what I asked you about Makiguchi?”

Your stomach dropped.

He saw it and pressed on. “I asked if you ever invited him anywhere. If you led him to believe there was something more than work. If you gave him any reason to think he had access to you outside the club.”

“Are you seriously throwing that in my face right now?” You snapped. “That man attacked me in a fucking alley and tried to force himself on me. How dare you.”

His expression changed instantly. Not guilt, because he knew what he meant, but alarm at the hurt he had stepped on.

Your voice trembled with anger now. “I never saw him outside of work. Never met him privately. None of that—but even if I did that’s not an excuse for what he did, so why would you even say that to me?”

You turned away hard, staring out the passenger window as silence hit the car.

When Higuruma spoke again, his voice had dropped. “I would never throw that in your face.”

You rolled your eyes still looking out the window.

“Look at me.” His tone sharpened with urgency. “Look at me. Right now.”

You turned, and he was already looking at you with a seriousness that stripped everything else away. No dryness. No restraint polished smooth. Just him.

“I would never throw that in your face. Not as a tactic. Not as a lesson. Not as anything. What happened to you is not a joke, and it is not something I would ever use against you. Do you understand me?”

The force of his words hit somewhere tender.

Your eyes dropped for a second. “Then what are you saying?”

He softened just a tiny bit. “I’m saying that if the prosecution finds out you went on a date with a client, or a former client, if that distinction comforts you—they will not care about the nuance.”

You cut in immediately. “I’m not dating anyone. I went on one date!”

“Alright.” His palms open for peace. “Lower your voice. We’re still parked. The car is not soundproof,”

You glared at him.

He lowered his own voice further. “The prosecution will paint it as a pattern. They will argue that you blur professional boundaries with clients. That you cultivate personal relationships off the clock. That Makiguchi wasn’t delusional, just encouraged. None of that is true, and I know it isn’t true, but court isn’t built on truth alone. It’s built on what can be made to sound plausible.”

Your fingers tightened around the bag.

He watched that, and continued more gently. “If they can prove you met a man from the club privately, and that there was any invitation at all to intimacy outside of work… It gives them an angle.”

The weight of it settled slowly, horribly. “So I’m just not allowed to… What? Have a life?”

“This is temporary.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“I know.”

“You get to walk around being a respectable man in a suit. You get to tell me what’s risky and what isn’t, and you’re probably right, but do you have any idea how humiliating it is to hear that even this is dangerous for me?”

“Yes.”

You laughed once under your breath, bitter. “No, you don’t.”

He held your eyes. “I do.”

There was something in the way he said it that made you go still. It sounded like a man admitting in the safest language that he understood more than he should.

After a beat he spoke again, quieter. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong by wanting normal things. I’m saying they’ll use whatever they can against you, and I am trying to keep that from happening.”

You gave a tired little huff. “I don’t like how you show concern.”

His mouth moved like he almost smiled, but didn’t. “I wasn’t aware concern needed to be charming.”

“It’s preferable when you’re ruining dessert.”

The heater finally pushed real warmth through the vents. It was then that you became painfully aware that you were still wearing his coat.

After a moment, he glanced at the bag. “He bought you two extra slices didn’t he?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Yes, why?”

“No reason.”

“Higuruma-sensei...”

His gaze stayed forward, “It seems excessive.”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not allowed to observe that another man has no vested interest in your sugar intake?”

Something in your expression must have changed, because he finally looked over and seemed to realize, half a second too late, how that sounded.

You tilted your head, “Another man?”

He turned back to the windshield immediately. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You sound a little jealous.”

“No.”

Somewhere underneath all that discipline, Ren’s attention had not gone entirely unnoticed.

“Passive aggressive, I feel like.” 

His fingers adjusted once on the steering wheel. “Do you want me to drive or are you going to keep cross examining me in a parked car?”

“You can drive.” you spoke softly.

Higuruma pulled away from the curb in a smooth, careful motion. The city moved around you in blurs. The snow was gone from the sidewalks now, but it had left behind dark seams of water and salt stains. Bare branches rattled faintly overhead when the wind caught them. The inside of the car, by contrast, was warm and close.

You were still wearing his coat. It lay heavy around your shoulders, smelling like him, making the space feel even smaller.

For a while, he said nothing. He only drove as you sat angled toward the window.

Then, after a few blocks, he spoke. “Is there somewhere else you wanted to go that isn’t straight home?”

“Where I want to be is apparently off the table.”

The line hit. You saw it in the brief glance he cut toward you, in the tightening at the corner of his mouth. Whatever this ugly, controlled feeling was in him, it was getting harder for him to hide.

“Home is fine.” You continued. “Thanks.”

“You aren’t hungry? You barely ate.”

You kept your eyes on the window. “I got a couple bites. I have the cake slices.”

“That’s not food.”

You shrugged. “I’m good.”

He exhaled—not quite a sigh, and the car fell quiet again.

Outside, the car slipped toward your neighborhood… Inside the car, the silence stretched long enough that your thoughts had room to turn ugly.

You didn’t know what you were supposed to do with Ren. That was the simplest version of it. When the case ended and you walked free, would you go back to him? Would you let yourself? 

He was kind, handsome, and patient. He wanted you in ways he did not make you dig for. He chose you out loud—but did you want him, or had you only wanted to move past your feelings for the man beside you?

And what about the Higuruma of it all? When this was over, would he finally stop using your case as a wall every time the two of you got too close? Or would he simply step back and let things die?

After a while, he spoke again, so unexpectedly you almost missed the first word. “There’s an Italian place near your apartment.”

You turned your head.

He kept his eyes on the road. “It seems decent.”

You laughed once, short and disbelieving. “If I can’t be seen on a date with a former client, then I definitely can’t be seen on one with my attorney. And if it’s not a date—” You looked at him fully now, “then I don’t want to go.”

The silence after you spoke felt different from the others..

After a pause he’d respond. “Why are you doing this?”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Why am I doing this? Hiromi—” The name came out before you could stop it, though you corrected yourself immediately. “Higuruma-sensei. I’m not strong enough for this shit. I’m not.”

He gripped the wheel a little tighter, but said nothing. You kept going because now that the words had begun, you couldn’t force them back down.

“I’m not strong enough,” you repeated, voice wavering in spite of your effort to keep it level. “You don’t want me, but then I go on one date with someone else and you tell me it’s inappropriate so it gets cut short, and less than half an hour later you’re inviting me out to eat? But not as a date?”

“It wasn’t—”

“You said we need to be professional, so let’s be professional. I’ll just be a stone cold bitch until this is all over, okay? No dates with anyone. No confusion.”

He glanced at you, then back at the road, the line between his brows deepening.

“We should probably stop the rides too.” You nod, “Since Ren noticed that.”

His eyes flicked to you again.

“It went from just Thursday nights to every day, and that was supposed to be temporary. Just while I was at your house because of the storm. So yeah. I’ll catch the bus again.”

“No.”

It came out far more stern than he intended. It startled you.

He turned into your neighborhood then. Your apartment building sat ahead in its tired, faded color. 

He pulled over by the curb in front of your unit. Your door was only a few steps from the passenger side.

He turned to you. “I don’t want you to be in danger.”

There it was again—that infuriating thing he did where he made his concern sound like logic over feelings.

You shrugged, staring at him. “Well, if this isn’t about what I want, then it can’t be about what you want either. We don’t get what we want out of this. The best we can hope for is a not guilty verdict and a fucking handshake. Because anything else would be professionally irresponsible, right?”

He turned more fully toward you now, body angling in the seat so that one knee pressed subtly toward the center console. “The rides are for safety. They do not blur lines.”

“For you, Hiromi. They don’t blur lines for you—and you know what? I don’t even think that’s true.”

He frowned faintly. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that you are a very controlling man. You like things to go your way. You like to keep every piece where you can see it. Every risk managed. Every variable in line. You want to keep me in your sight, make sure I don’t stray too far—”

“That’s unfair to say.”

“Is it?” You leaned toward him a little now, breath unsteady, his coat slipping off your shoulders. “I think you want me where you can see me, but you don’t want to get too close because if you get too close, then you have to admit this stopped being strictly professional a long time ago.”

His mouth parted, but you didn’t let him step around it.

“Tell me I’m wrong Hiromi. Tell me I’m wrong. Go on. I’m ready to hear it.”

The car had become too small. Too warm. In that enclosed space, everything became charged.

“You blur lines in ways you can justify as principled,” you went on. “You hide behind what’s technically acceptable, but when I’m direct, when I say out loud what you only imply, suddenly I’m taking it too far? That’s bullshit. The line was crossed the night you invited me into your car and you know that.”

You just had to ask… dammit… you couldn’t stop yourself…

“When this case is done, does this end too? Do we part ways like strangers? Or do we see how far this goes without hiding behind the case anymore? If you tell me you aren’t interested, I won’t hold it against you. That’s fair—but I can’t keep accepting rides. I can’t.”

He finally looked away from you entirely, as though the darkening street beyond the glass had suddenly become more manageable than your face.

Before you could slow yourself down, you reached over the center console and caught his face in your hand. Your fingers spread along his jaw, thumb near his cheek, and the shock of the contact made his eyes widen just enough to tell you he had not expected you to do it.

You held his face there and made him look at you. “I need you to understand me, Hiromi. I’m not accepting rides. I’m not coming to your house. I’m not eating dinner with you unless you tell me right now that this isn’t nothing. Do I go inside and accept that this is strictly professional? Or are you finally gonna give me a fucking break?”

Your thumb moved against his jaw without your permission. A tiny stroke. Instinctive and tender.

He’d speak your name under his breath. Not formally. Not with a title. Just your name, low and rougher than you were used to hearing from him.

It broke something cleanly in the space between you, and you saw the exact second he realized he’d done it. His eyes searched yours, then dropped briefly, involuntarily, to your lips before snapping back up. When he spoke, he sounded tired in a way that had nothing to do with the day.

He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, like a man losing patience with his own inability to say the right thing without destroying something.

When he opened them again, there was too much in them. “I don’t know how to answer you.” 

He didn’t know how to answer, which of course, was an answer all by itself.

You smiled without warmth. “I think you just did.”

Finally, you pulled your hand away. The loss of contact was immediately displeasing. His face remained turned toward you for half a second longer, as if he still felt your hand there.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, shoving his coat from your shoulders,  “Goodnight, Higuruma-sensei. I’ll see you at our next meeting.”

He inhaled sharply. “Wait.”

It was too late, you were already opening the door and you did not look back.

You walked to your apartment with your shoulders stiff and your heart pounding so hard it made you feel sick.

Fuck that.

You were done waiting for him to decide what you were allowed to be to each other. If he wanted professionalism, then he could have it in perfect, icy detail.

By the time you got the key into the lock, your hands were shaking hard enough that metal scraped metal twice before it finally caught. Your chest still hurt from the conversation in the car, from the way he had nearly said something real and then retreated into uncertainty again. 

You couldn’t keep living on implication. Couldn’t keep letting him reel you in with one hand and hold you back with the other. 

Maybe if Ren wasn’t too angry or upset after what you’d done, he might give you another chance. The thought was ugly in its timing, a little scummy even, and you knew it. 

You liked him, but you just didn’t want him the way you wanted Higuruma.

Your apartment gave you very little room to pretend otherwise.

It was small even by studio standards. One room doing the work of three, with a little kitchenette shoved to one side, a narrow bed against the far wall, a small two seat table beneath the window. Loveseat in front of a tv. The furniture was minimal and mismatched, the kind you accumulated because it was cheap or available, not because it suited anything. The place smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old heating pipes.

You shut the door behind you and stood there for exactly one breath.

Then came a knock.

“One second.” You called, already turning back toward the door with a hard eye roll.

You unlocked it, pulled it open, and the force coming through shoved the door wide.

Higuruma was inside before the thought had fully formed.

He didn’t pause on the threshold. Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t give you time to rearrange your face or your temper or the storm still moving through your chest. 

One second you were reaching for the knob, the next he was crowding you backward into the wall beside the door, his hands framing your face, his body close enough that the cold he’d brought in from outside collided with the heat still trapped in your apartment.

Your breath caught so hard it hurt. The cake bag slipped from your fingers and hit the floor at your feet.

“Hiromi—?” Your voice barely made it out.

He was so close. Close enough that you could see the slight disarray of him now that he’d finally let himself break. The faint flush in his cheeks from whatever it had cost him to get out of that car and follow you inside. 

His breathing was heavier than you had ever heard it. The intensity in his eyes, usually so controlled now sharpened into something raw and frighteningly personal.

Tears welled in your eyes before you even understood why. Relief, maybe? Shock. Fury. Love. Too much of all of it at once.

He stared down at you like he was trying to memorize your face and argue with himself at the same time.

“Why—” He spoke low and unsteady in a way you had never heard from him, “why would you force my hand like this?”

Your fingers came up to his wrists where they bracketed your jaw.  “I’m not forcing you to do anything. You could’ve driven off.”

His gaze searched yours with almost violent focus.

He shook his head once. “No, I couldn’t.”

He studied your face once more before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. There was nothing gentle about it.

He kissed you like restraint had turned feral inside him. His mouth crashed into yours hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs, and the sound you made was helpless and immediate, swallowed by him before it could become anything intelligible—and you kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands dropped from his wrists to his lapels, fisting in the fabric and dragging him closer even though there was hardly any room left between you to lose. One of his hands slid from your face to brace beside your head against the wall—the other stayed at your jaw as if he could not bear to stop touching you there. His mouth moved over yours again and again, urgent and deep and desperate.

He spoke between kisses, the words rough as though he hated every truth even as he gave it to you.

“I didn’t want to do this.”

His mouth found yours again, harder.

“I didn’t want to cross this line before the case was over.”

Another kiss.

“I didn’t want to touch you like this while you’re vulnerable—while there’s still any chance that this,” another kiss, “that what you feel,” another, slower this time, “could be because of circumstance.”

You clung to him more tightly. “Hiromi—”

“I need to know that when this is over, when you’re safe, when you’re free, when I’m not standing in some position of trust over you—you would still want this.” His eyes searched yours so intensely it almost hurt. “I wanted to wait until then. I wanted to do this right.”

You could barely breathe.

He kissed you again, fierce but no longer careless, one hand sliding from the wall to your waist at last.

“I don’t want my feelings bleeding into your case,” he muttered against your lips. “I don’t want to be reckless and jeopardize your freedom because I couldn’t control myself. I don’t want to make one selfish decision and ruin the only thing that matters right now.”

Your lips parted on a shaken inhale. “And what’s that?”

“You.”

The word came out instantly. Too quickly to take back. His eyes closed the second he heard himself say it, like a man who knew he had just stepped off the ledge entirely.

When he opened them again, you stared at him.

“Do you have any idea what it’s been like? The way you look at me, the things you do for me, the way you make space for me in your life and then act like I’m insane for noticing what it sounds like? What was I supposed to do with all of that?”

His gaze flickered over your face. There was guilt, frustration, and want. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“You were trying to keep yourself safe too.”

For a second his expression changed, and you knew you had found something tender enough to wound.

“Yes.” His thumb moved once over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized slipped free. “It’s an impossible position.”

His forehead dropped to yours, and the room felt even smaller now.

You touched his face then, more carefully than before. Just the line of his jaw, the edge of his cheek, as though you still couldn’t entirely believe he was here and letting you.

“What are you saying?” You asked. “Tell me plainly.”

“I’m saying I want you, but I am not going to let wanting you make me careless with your life. I won’t. So we have to put a pause on this.”

Your tears spilled more freely now, “That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“No,it isn’t, but listen to me, I am not rejecting you. I am not saying this ends when the case does.” His lips kissed yours again, slower now, as if he needed you to hear the words as much as feel them. “I am saying I need to get you through this first. And then we can pick back up.” 

His hand at your waist slid fractionally around your back, fingers splaying there over the bare skin the dress left exposed, the touch so intimate it made your knees weaken. 

Your head tipped back against the wall. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

You kissed him, softer now but no less desperate. When you spoke, your voice was small. 

“You can’t do this and then go cold on me tomorrow.”

“I won’t but I need your patience.”

You laughed through your tears. “You have taken all of it.”

His eyes softened. His thumb swept another tear from your cheek. “I couldn’t let you walk away thinking I felt nothing. You’ve had enough trouble in your life. I want to be a part of the solution.”

You looked at him through damp lashes. “Then don’t ever make that mistake again.”

“Understood… let’s talk, so we’re on the same page.” 

You’d nod and invite him into your tiny apartment. 

He stepped back and slipped out of his shoes, leaving them at the door before fully entering your apartment.

Higuruma stood near the center of the room looking somehow too large and too composed for the space even after everything that had just happened. His suit and his height made your studio look even smaller by comparison. There was no judgment in his face. Only quiet observation.

You gestured toward the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”

He’d do so and you followed. No discretion. No distance. You climbed straight into his lap.

Fuck it.

The motion startled a quiet inhale out of him, but he caught you automatically, one arm circling your waist as you settled against him sideways. You curled into him like you had been waiting to do it for months. His shirt was warm beneath your cheek. His body felt solid and safe.

“Tell me to get up if you’re uncomfortable,” you murmured.

He looked down at you, one brow lifting just slightly. “Uncomfortable isn’t quite the word.”

Your head perked up immediately. “Horny?”

His mouth flattened, but it was almost playful. “Reel it in.”

“Well a girl can dream.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you in more firmly, “I need to be transparent about what this looks like after I leave tonight.”

You went still in his arms, and he felt it, but you nodded anyway.

He glanced down at you, choosing his words with care even now. “We have to go back to normal.”

The phrase landed harder than it should have after everything else. He must have seen it hit, because his hand moved once over your back in a slow, grounding pass. The dress left so much skin exposed there that every inch of contact felt amplified.

“I know there’s no taking back what happened tonight, and I’m not trying to, but like I said, we have to put a pause on this. On our emotions. At least outwardly.”

You were quiet as you listened.

His hand remained at your back. “Just know that I will be there after this. After the trial. After you are found not guilty in a court of law, I will be there.”

You tipped your face up to look at him. You have to make a joke or you’ll explode. “And if the verdict is guilty?”

His arm squeezed you instantly, and then his fingers found your side and tickled, just enough to make you jerk in surprise. “What did I tell you about joking like that?”

You let out a startled laugh and squirmed against him. “Hiromi—”

“It isn’t funny, and it isn’t going to happen.”

He shifted you slightly higher on his lap without seeming to realize he was doing it, making the position even more intimate, your bodies aligning more comfortably, more dangerously.

“The women working that night have agreed to testify if it comes to that. You have multiple character witnesses. Business owners along that route know you, know your schedule. The timeline supports you. The injuries support you. Makiguchi’s account doesn’t.” His gaze held yours with that beautiful certainty of his. “I have you covered.”

The sheer conviction in him was overwhelming. You stared at him as if he were the most beautiful man on earth—which, at that moment, he might as well have been. The calm in his voice. The absolute confidence with which he spoke about protecting you. The quiet ferocity under every measured word. It was almost too much to bear.

You buried your face in his chest. “Stop, I can’t take that kind of talk.”

His hand spread over your bare back, rubbing slowly as if he could soothe the feeling right out of you. “It’s true. I have you, and I’m going to continue to have you. Nothing will get in the way of that.”

You lifted your face again, emotion crowding your throat so quickly you didn’t trust yourself to speak. So you kissed him, and this one was different.

This was softer in theory, but no less loaded. You leaned in, and he met you immediately, his hand tightening at your waist as your mouths found each other in a slower rhythm. A little messy. A little tongue. A breath caught between you. Your fingers slipped up beneath the edge of his collar, grazing the warmth of his neck. He pulled you closer, and you settled deeper into his lap with a tiny sound you couldn’t help.

It felt foreign and inevitable all at once. Like a thing your body had somehow already known how to do with him long before the chance had arrived.

You were so lost in the moment with him. You had to let yourself because you knew when he left out your front door, you two wouldn’t have another moment like this, potentially, for a long time.

Your bag vibrated suddenly, but you ignored it.

Higuruma’s hand slid more firmly around your back as you kissed him again, and the phone buzzed a second time. Then a third. Then again.

Your mouth broke from his with a confused breath. “The fuck?”

The room seemed too quiet now except for the repeated insistence of your phone. It kept vibrating in your bag on the tabletop in small bursts.

You climbed out of his lap reluctantly, your dress shifting up your thigh for a moment before you smoothed it back down, and reached for the purse perched on the coffee table.

The screen lit your face. Six unread messages. Four missed calls. More notifications arriving by the second.

Your brows knit hard. “My family? I haven’t spoken to any of them since I moved back to Japan. It’s been over a year.” Your stomach turned faintly. “What the hell do they want?”

Higuruma straightened. The warmth had gone out of the room in an instant. “Is everything alright?”

You didn’t answer. You were already opening the messages. That he could see from over your shoulder.

The first one hit like a slap.

Brother: I fucking knew you were up to no good in Morioka. Fail on your own if you want to, but stop dragging the family into it. Assault, battery, and robbery? Why didn’t you just beg for money if you needed it?

Your breath caught.

Cousin: You wanted to know why we lost touch? This is why. You create scandals like this in the family and then everyone else has to clean them up. You moved all the way to Morioka to be a criminal? Seriously?

Your mouth went dry. You scrolled with shaking fingers.

Mom: I’m truly at a loss for words. All this time your father and I thought you went to Morioka to make something of yourself. You work at a hostess club robbing men? It’s sickening. It really is.

Dad: So many lies you told us. So many lies about what you were doing in Morioka. Your job. Your life. I'm beyond disappointed. I hate that you made us find out like this.

You were not immune to hateful messages from your family, but distance and their habitual nature made it so you weren’t surprised. It still hurt, but not in the way it once had. 

What hit harder, what really made your pulse spike was the confusion.

What the hell were they talking about?

Sister: Loser behavior. This is why we cut you out of the family. Yet another fucking mess for us to clean up. You couldn’t just stay gone and quiet. I hope that man you attacked sends your ass straight to prison for this. That’ll be the best thing the family can hope for.

Below it was a link to an article. A headline.

Hostess Club Worker Linked to Savage Attack on Local Business Owner

You gasped so sharply it hurt your throat. “There’s an article about Makiguchi.”

“What?”

“They’re saying I attacked him.” Your hand flew to your chest. “They’re saying I—”

You tried to tap into the article, but your vision blurred.

No, no, no.

The headline alone was enough to tell you what it would say. What it had already done. Hostess Club Worker. Not your name, not woman, not victim, not defendant. Your job first, the implication immediately after. Linked to. Savage attack. Business owner. Every word chosen to turn the knife, to prime the reader toward outrage before they even reached the first sentence.

You could already imagine what it said:

You lured him.

You met him privately.

Money was involved.

He was respectable and you were not..

Your kind of work explained everything.

A man with a business and a sympathetic photo could always be made more legible than a woman like you.

Your lungs seized. “Fuck. Shit. Shit—I can’t—” You looked at the screen again and saw the words robbery and savage and club worker swimming together in a blur of public humiliation and legal catastrophe. “I can’t fucking breathe.”

Higuruma took the phone from your hand just long enough to see the headline and the first brutal lines beneath it.

His eyes widened. “Shit.”

He looked back at you immediately, one hand coming to the back of your neck, “Hey. Hey—look at me.”

You couldn’t. Your chest was too tight, your breaths coming shallow and fast now, each one worse than the last. Your tiny apartment suddenly felt airless, the walls too close, the ceiling too low.

“Hiromi—” Your voice cracked. “I can’t—I can’t… I can’t—”

He put the phone face down on the coffee table and pulled you into him. Not loosely. He held you with both arms, firm and immediate, your face against his chest, one hand splayed broad and grounding between your shoulder blades.

“Breathe.” 

You shook your head hard against him.

“Breathe with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” His voice had turned sharp with focus. “Listen to me.”

Your breaths kept catching, thin and ragged.

He cupped the back of your head “In through your nose. Slow. Come on.”

You tried. Failed. Tried again.

“There you go.” His hand moved slowly up and down your back. “Again.”

Your fingers bunched in the front of his shirt.

“My family saw it,” you choked out. “Everyone saw it.”

“I know.”

“It says I attacked him.”

“I know.”

“It says robbery.”

“I know.” His jaw was tight as stone now, his voice controlled by force. “Don’t read another word.”

You clung harder as your phone began vibrating again. Neither of you moved to answer it.

You were shaking hard enough that he could feel it through your clothes.

Morioka wasn’t big enough for this to stay distant. If your family who lived so far away and had no real place in your life anymore already saw—then the city would see too. Your job. The regulars would see. Neighbors and strangers.

No one had ever been more invested in your failures than your family. It was like your losses helped them love one another. Hating you was a family activity, one of the only things that ever seemed to unify them. You had spent years being the glue in that way—never cherished, only useful when broken.

Higuruma, by contrast, looked like a man one degree away from violence. He was furious.

His eyes—those sanpaku eyes that always seemed too revealing no matter how much he wished otherwise—had darkened with something cold underneath all that focus.

Makiguchi had already taken enough from you, and now he was trying to take your name too.

Higuruma cupped your face again, firm enough to hold your attention, gentle enough not to startle you further. “Look at me.”

His thumbs rested just beneath your eyes, not wiping at your tears yet, only bracing you there. Keeping you anchored.

“There is nothing written in that article that changes this case. Nothing.”

You swallowed hard, trying to breathe around the panic.

“I have a hearing next week. We’re going to find out whether this even goes to trial, and until then, and after that if it does, you have nothing to worry about.”

Your mouth trembled. “Hiromi—”

“I have you. I will defend you. I will defend your reputation. This man has tormented you enough. I will not let him continue to badger you. Not after what he has already done.”

His voice deepened as he spoke. It was passion badly disguised as strategy. 

“We are going to bury this man. You will be proven not guilty in a court of law, and after that he will pay for everything he’s done.”

Your story got under his skin in ways that had clearly cost him sleep. It lived in him. He hated Makiguchi with a depth that did not belong to detachment. Sitting there in your apartment now, with your phone lit up by lies and your family spitting venom through a screen, you could see just how dangerous that hatred had become.

If there had been no law, no case, no consequences, no one watching—Higuruma would have killed him for what he did to you.

Maybe that was precisely why he had been so desperate to keep his feelings contained. The more he cared for you, the more unforgivable Makiguchi became. The more personal it got.

His hands tightened very slightly against your face, “I don’t mean to be crude, but your family is weak minded and pathetic.”

You blinked at him as his thumbs moved, brushing away tears that kept replacing themselves.

“If this is how they react to a slanderous article—if this is how quickly they turn on you, if this is how they choose to treat you the moment they hear some poisonous version of your life—then they do not deserve your time, and they certainly do not deserve a response. Ever.”

The words hit you harder than they should have. Maybe because no one had ever said it that plainly before. No one had ever looked at the cruelty you came from and decided it wasn’t worth mending.

“They are choosing to side with a predator they have never met, over you. That is deeply pathetic. It is cowardly, and it tells me all I need to know about them. Get your revenge by proving them wrong in court. Do not answer them. Do not answer anyone. Makiguchi is a known figure here in Morioka, which means the media may try to turn this into a spectacle now that he’s gone public. Let them try.”

His hands slid from your face to your shoulders.

“Don’t cry for them. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look ashamed. Don’t give anyone the satisfaction of reading sadness as admission. You are not guilty. You did not attack that man. You survived him. We are going to fight this, and we are going to win.”

Something in you gave way then. Relief. He had a way of steadying you like no one else in this world. You wrapped your arms around him without hesitation.

One arm tightened around your back, and the other hand cradled the back of your head, tucking you securely beneath his chin. You felt so safe there.

That was the most terrifying part of him. Not his intelligence. Not his moral rigidity. Not even the restraint that had nearly broken you. It was this. The feeling, in his arms, that the world could come crashing through your windows and he would still stand between it and you until he had nothing left to stand with.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his shirt.

He lowered his head, “You never need to thank me for doing what I should.”

Before you could answer, your phone vibrated again on the couch. The motion made both of you still.

Higuruma’s hand moved to steady your wrist on instinct. “Don’t look.”

But you’d already seen the lit screen, and this time it wasn’t another cousin. Not your mother. Not another sanctimonious little executioner with your blood in their veins.

It was Ren. The name on the screen made something twist in your chest.

You reached for the phone and opened it with shaking fingers.

Ren: That article is total bullshit. I don’t believe a goddamn word of it. Not one. I had no idea you were carrying all of this by yourself. Is that why you had to leave earlier?

You don’t owe me an explanation. I just need you to know I’m not buying what they’re saying. At all.

My line is open if you need to talk, scream, cry, curse, vent, whatever. I mean that. You are not alone in this.

If Ren and Higuruma were the only people in Morioka who knew you were innocent—if it was just them, and no one else, that was more than enough for you.

____________________________________________________________________________

So far this page has been the hardest to write. I’ve long accepted reality, but I’m only human. Sometimes I wish I could reach through time and play God just once. Just long enough to steer us in the right direction.

It may be morbid to admit this after everything that followed, but I am grateful to Ren for pushing you toward me. You hated seeing me with him. I know you did—and  I loved knowing that whatever line you had drawn finally became less important than losing me. I loved the way you held me like I might break, but never once made me feel breakable. You treated me with the caution one gives glass, and the respect of diamonds.

I needed you then in a way that shames me to write plainly. I needed you like air, like sleep... You were my only peace, Hiromi. The only place my fear ever seemed to stop making noise.

We were so naive, weren’t we? We thought the worst thing waiting for us was a trial and a few nasty looks from strangers. We had no idea what was in store, and yet I would still do it again. I would walk that road exactly as I did if it meant I could have you as my armor. 

You may ache now for the woman I was then, but do not ache for her on my behalf. The feeding frenzy was coming for me no matter what we did. I was just glad to have you.

Higuruma Law Office : 10:31pm : Morioka

Higuruma finished the page and did not move for a long while after.

The paper remained between his fingers, and the room around him had gone unnaturally still. The fourth page trembled once when he exhaled.

He knew what came next. There was no suspense in memory, only dread. No mercy in recognition. He knew every choice that followed. 

Slowly, he pulled the page away from the stack. He set it face down on top of the third.

Nothing about him looked effortless anymore. His heart ached with a heaviness.

Still, beneath all of that pain, there was one small mercy. You did not look back with regret. That mattered to him more than it should have. Despite knowing your pain, you still wrote with an air of fondness, and he was glad for it. Even if he could not say the same for himself.

Where you had found armor in his arms, he had found something far crueler in hindsight—the unbearable knowledge that loving you had not been the mistake—only the way he had tried to do it so carefully that it worked against you in the long run...

[softcursechoso]

TEN PAGE LETTER: CH. 3

HIGURUMA X READER

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Words: 16.5k+

Ch. 3 Warnings: None. Heavy on the romantic tension.

PAGE THREE

The night of the snowstorm… I know you remember it. I can imagine you now—your fingers tightening, though not enough to crease the paper. Your eyes going a little wider and your breathing turning shallow. 

Hiromi… I know that night still weighs on you. I know it has stolen sleep from you, again and again, until memory itself became a punishment. That is why I bring it to you now. Not to reopen it, but to free you from it at last.

I don’t remember that night with sorrow. It is one of the memories I have held closest to my heart. I still remember the hush of the room, your silk sheets against my skin, the faint scent of you clinging to me long after I had fallen asleep.

I remember the look in your eyes. That dark, possessive thing you tried to hide from me—and perhaps that is exactly why I cherish it. It may be childish of me to admit such a thing now, but on a man like you, Hiromi… how could I not?

________________________________________________________________

Sunset Hostess Club : 11:30pm : Morioka

Quitting time at Sunset always had a strange kind of beauty to it.

Chandeliers glowed overhead, casting soft light across velvet booths and mirrored walls, but the room carried the pleasant exhaustion of a stage after the curtain had come down. 

Half melted ice sweated in silver buckets. Lipstick stains bloomed on abandoned glasses. A stray tie lay forgotten near the bar. The speakers had been turned low, leaving only the lazy hum of a jazz instrumental in the background.

Your section sat along the left side of the floor in a crescent alcove half shielded by a partition of black lacquer and frosted glass. It was one of the quieter seats in the club, intimate without being hidden. 

Men who chose you tended to linger when they sat there… Especially men like the one you were entertaining, thought that wasn’t exactly a complaint.

You rose from the velvet sofa, smoothing your palms over the white bandeau dress hugging your body before dipping into a bow. “Thank you for joining me again, Nishimura-sama.”

Across from you, the man smiled in a way that made the title feel suddenly too formal for the air between you. “Please, stop with the formality. I told you—for you it’s just Ren.”

He was unfairly handsome, Ren. He was the kind of handsome that put people at ease by merely existing. He looked to be in his early thirties, tall enough that he always seemed to take up a little more room than the furniture. Dark hair styled as though he’d simply pushed his fingers through it after working pomade in at the roots. His eyes were striking blue. Unusual,but gorgeous. His features were cut clean and elegant, and when he smiled his little dimples would crease each cheek.

He dressed exactly the way a man like that ought to—expensive. Charcoal overcoat thrown over a white button down and black slacks. He was very eye catching.

You smiled, softer this time. “My apologies… Ren.”

His gaze sharpened with pleasure at hearing his name in your voice. “See. That sounds a lot better coming from you.”

You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Ren had been coming to Sunset for only the past few weeks, but each time he came, he asked for you specifically. The first night he walked in, there had been four other women available—prettier women, more polished women, and still, he had looked past all of them and settled his attention on you like he had already made his mind.

That never happened. Usually, your customers came to you by process of elimination. The more popular girls filled up first. You knew how the system worked.

You knew how to speak just right once a man actually sat with you—how to listen attentively and feed a conversation until he forgot he had chosen you last, but the hard part had always been getting chosen at all.

You were Ren’s first choice, and he had not lost interest after the first night. He came back again and again. He asked for your section. Ordered champagne towers that made the floor girls stare. Sent edible arrangements so elaborate they became gossip in the dressing room. He remembered details from your conversations and tossed them back to you later with a smile that said he had been listening the whole time.

It was a confidence boost, especially after being gently rejected by Higuruma a couple weeks back.

Ren stood, and the movement drew your attention back to the present. “I’m seeing you next week, right?”

You huffed out a laugh. “Assuming I survive the snowstorm, yes.”

He grinned. “You don’t get to die and escape me. That’s incredibly selfish.”

You put a hand to your chest in mock offense. “Escape you?”

“Mhm. I’ve invested too much already. Time, money, emotional vulnerability. At this point I at least deserve continuity.”

“You make it sound like a subscription service.”

“That’s because I’m hoping to upgrade.”

You laughed again, fuller this time, and he smiled as though the sound itself had been the thing he came for.

“Come on.” He’d give a light tap at your waist as he moved around the table. “Grab your coat. I’ll walk you to the bus.”

You shook your head. “That’s sweet, but I’m not taking the last bus tonight. I have a ride.”

“A ride?” He tilted his head, the dimples threatening again. “Should I be worried?”

You smiled. “Not at all.”

A lie so blatant you could feel your nose threaten to grow. The truth sat waiting outside in a black car with the heater running, probably holding the steering wheel in those long, capable hands of his.

You bowed lightly to Ren. “Give me one moment to grab my things.”

He gestured grandly, as if granting you permission in your own kingdom. “Don’t keep me waiting too long. I’m very delicate.”

You left him with a smile and slipped through the door marked for associates only. The employee room on the other side was very practical with a lot less glamor. The air smelled like hairspray, powder, perfume, and sweat. 

Lockers lined one wall, mirrors rimmed with bulbs filled another, each vanity crowded with brushes, compacts, lip liners, open purses, water bottles, charging cords. Some of the girls were already changed with faces scrubbed down. 

A few called goodbye when you crossed to your locker. “Night!”

“Don’t freeze out there.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Others only glanced up for a second before returning to their own things. Not rude, just work. Sweet from some. Bitter from others. Neutral from most. You took them all with the same smile.

You pulled your black coat from the locker and slipped it over your white dress. A final glance in the mirror showed lipstick still intact, hair still neat, eyes a little more tired than they had been at the start of the shift. Butterflies were already beginning to stir low in your stomach, traitorous and familiar.

Your weekly meeting with Higuruma was tonight.

Again, you said your final goodbyes and headed back out. Ren fell into step beside you as the two of you left. The back exit of Sunset opened onto an alley that had been transformed by the snow. The cold hit your face at once, crisp and clean.

“Tonight was fun,” You smiled at the man beside you, “Thank you.”

He looked down at you, and in the dim light his face somehow seemed even more arresting, “You say that like you’re dismissing me.”

“I’m thanking you.”

“I know. That’s the problem. I don’t want your customer service voice right now.” He smiled, slower this time. “I want the real one.”

You reached the curb where the alley opened out enough to show the waiting car. The windshield glowed faintly from within. Higuruma was there.

Ren noticed the hesitation in you. “Let me take you out.” His words came out very gentle, stripped of some of faux charm and led by sincerity. “Properly. Outside of Sunset. No champagne menu, no timed seating. A real date.”

Before you could answer, his hand settled at your hip. Not crudely. Not greedily. Just enough pressure to stop you for a beat and hold your attention in place.

You placed your hand over Ren’s wrist and carefully, carefully guided it away. Not rejecting. Not abrupt. Your fingers stayed around his hand for a moment after, a quiet mercy so he would not feel dismissed even if you could not give him what he wanted.

“That would cross some professional lines.”

He let out a breath through his nose. “Then I’ll stop coming to the club. If I’m not a patron then there are no professional lines to cross. Think about it, alright?”

Snow gathered on the shoulders of his coat, silvering the dark wool. He looked absurdly romantic standing there under the alley light, handsome enough to make bad decisions for. The kind of man who could ruin the peace of a woman’s life simply by asking nicely.

Still it was not him who had your heart twisting itself into knots, so you’d respond kindly, “I’ll think about it.”

That answer seemed to satisfy him enough not to push. He studied you for a second longer, then clicked his tongue softly at the weather. “You’re freezing.”

Before you could protest, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over your shoulders on top of your coat. “There. Stay warm for me.”

You smiled. “You too.”

Finally you turned toward the black car. Something about the scene felt crazy when viewed from the outside. A man from the club touching your waist, offering you dates, draping you in his coat. 

Nothing had happened. No lines had technically been crossed, and still your skin felt hot. 

Before you could reach the passenger side, the driver’s door opened. Higuruma stepped out into the snow. Your breath caught, just a little.

He looked too composed for the weather to truly disarrange him. On his way around the hood, he lifted his gaze, and met Ren’s.

It lasted only a second. Maybe two, but it felt longer. Not hostile enough to be called that. Not openly challenging. Just a still, searching pause between two men assessing the shape of each other’s place in your life. 

Ren’s expression remained easy, almost amused. Higuruma’s gave away less. Only the faintest narrowing of his eyes. The slightest tightening at the corner of his mouth before he looked away.

He reached the passenger side and opened the door for you. That made you pause more than the stare had. He hadn’t done that before.

“Thank you.” 

His gaze flicked over you—your face, the extra jacket around your shoulders, perhaps the faint imprint of the encounter lingering in the air around you. Something unreadable moved across his features and was gone just as quickly.

“Of course.”

You slid into the passenger seat, and the warmth of the car embraced you at once. The door closed softly behind firmly.

A moment later, Higuruma got back into the driver’s seat. He shut the door and fixed the vents toward you before taking off.

Without looking at you, his voice came in low and casual, “Your client seems… attentive.”

A simple observation. A professional one, perhaps. It could have meant nothing, and yet the faint pause before he said attentive, gave away a lot.

It sent a fresh swarm of butterflies loose inside you. You drew Ren’s jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, suddenly hyperaware of everything.

You looked at him. The phrase had been chosen too carefully to be casual. Not generous enough to be praise. Not sharp enough to be criticism. A safe word from a dangerous man.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Ren?”

There was the slightest shift. Only an eyebrow quirked, really. Barely a movement at all, but with Higuruma, the smallest cracks in composure always felt seismic.

“I thought you said you weren’t allowed to refer to guests by their first names at work.”

“We can if the guest requests it. Though management usually tells us to discourage it first. Makes them feel like they’ve earned something when you finally give in.”

The corner of his jaw tightened. His hand shifted on the steering wheel, fingers closing a little more firmly around it. You watched the movement in secret, greedy fascination.

You let your smile curl just slightly as you looked out through the windshield. “He’s one of my better clients. Obviously the whole job is one big performance, but it’s nice to talk to someone who actually chose to be there instead of ending up with me because the girls he wanted were already taken.” Your voice took on a teasing note before you could stop it. “Kind of like us.”

He frowned, only faintly, eyes still on the road. “What exactly are you implying?”

You giggled under your breath, leaning back into the seat. “Loosen up, Higuruma-sensei. I only mean that I chose to be around you just like Ren chose to be around me.”

He shook his head once, a small motion of immediate rejection. “Those are completely different circumstances.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Choosing a lawyer is not the same as choosing where to spend your pleasure.”

“Wow… You make me sound like a cheap hooker.”

His expression tightened at once. He didn’t like that. “I didn’t say that at all.”

“You kind of did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

The snow fell softly against the windows. The heater hummed between you. The city had emptied into white silence, leaving the two of you suspended in the glow of the dashboard and the strange charge of a conversation that should have been ordinary yet felt anything but.

You looked down at your hands. “It felt like a shot at my job.”

“It wasn’t.” After a beat, he spoke again. “Do you really think choosing a lawyer and choosing a hostess are the same thing?”

You turned your head and looked at him.

At his profile first—the dark lashes, the stern line of his brow, the shape of his mouth made gentler by silence. Then at smaller things. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The concentration in the set of his shoulders. There was something almost cruel in how attractive restraint could become when worn by a man like him.

You let the silence stretch for a second too long. “I think a good lawyer could save your life, and a good hostess could save you from making the kind of bad decisions that put you in the position of needing a lawyer, Higuruma.”

His eyes stayed on you for one brief, dangerous moment before returning to the road.

“Sensei.” You added sweetly.

The title hung in the warmth between you like the brush of fingertips.

Something in the car seemed to draw tighter. Two weeks ago, in this very car he told you that he would remain professional. That whatever affection existed between you could not be allowed to become something else. You had respected that. At least outwardly.

You had never quite believed him. What kind of lawyer picked his client up after work like this? Perhaps a responsible one, but God it was hard not to read into. 

Finally after a bit of driving, the office came into view. Higuruma eased the car into its usual place in the parking lot. Close enough to spare you much walking. The engine idled for a moment, and neither of you moved right away.

Then he turned his head slightly toward you. “Can I see that jacket?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The one on your shoulders.”

“Ren’s?”

He gave a short nod.

You slipped it off and handed it over without much thought. Higuruma took it by the collar and tossed it onto the back seat.

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

He was already unfastening his seat belt. “I don’t want that smell in my office. The cologne is very strong.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Okay, but you don’t mind it in your car?”

He reached for the door handle. “I can roll the windows down in the car.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It would be harder to get out of the office.”

You folded your arms. “It smells nice.”

“I didn’t say it smelled bad. I said it was strong.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for your own handle, muttering, “Wow.”

He looked at you more directly now. “Do you need another jacket?”

“No. I know you keep the office warm for me.”

For half a breath, he said nothing. Then you opened the door and stepped out into the Morioka winter.

Snow spun wildly through the air, biting at your cheeks, catching in your lashes and your hair almost at once. The office entrance was only a few meters away, but even that short distance felt dramatic in weather like this.

Higuruma came around the front of the car and fell into step beside you, his long stride measured to yours without needing to think about it.

Only then did the realization strike. He had not been asking whether you needed another jacket because he doubted the heat in the office. He had been offering you his. Hindsight was a cruel bitch.

Snow dusted the shoulders of his coat as you climbed the steps together. He unlocked the door, held it for you, and warm indoor air spilled out to meet your face.

Here you were again. Back at the shortest part of your week—the hour that always vanished far too quickly, no matter how badly you wanted to stretch.

That was the humiliating truth of it. You would have talked to him about anything. Court records. Weather. Broken streetlights. The migration patterns of birds. It did not matter. If speaking about your case was the price of being face to face with him, you would pay it gladly every week without complaint.

There was something about Hiromi Higuruma. Something magnetic that made even his distance feel intimate. 

He crossed behind his desk and set his briefcase down neatly before taking his seat. You settled into the chair across from him, slipping your own coat open as the warmth met your skin. It was toasty and the cold still clinging to your legs from outside slowly began to melt away.

You loved his office like this. You loved knowing that he ran very warm, hence his flushed skin, but he’d never adjust the heater lower because it made you comfortable. 

Higuruma stood up once again to make his way to the electric kettle. He did not ask what you wanted anymore. There was no need. That, too, had become part of the routine.

Black tea every time. He poured with the same careful hand before he carried it around the desk, and set it in front of you.

It could use some cream and sugar.

The meeting began as it always did after that—papers shifted, notes referenced. There was something deeply unfair about how compelling he could make legal strategy sound. 

He updated you on the expected timeline first. Then the prosecution’s likely angle. Then the issue of witness statements and who might be more useful than they first appeared.

He was midway through explaining how that testimony could affect your overall defense when both of your phones buzzed at once. The sound was abrupt enough to cut straight through the room.

You both looked down… Emergency warning.

BLIZZARD WARNING – MORIOKA AREA

Issued for Morioka City and surrounding districts

A severe blizzard warning is now in effect for Morioka due to heavy snowfall, whiteout conditions, and damaging winds with gusts up to 30 m/s (108 km/h). Travel conditions are expected to become extremely dangerous.

Residents are strongly advised to remain indoors unless evacuation or essential travel is absolutely necessary. If outside, seek shelter immediately. Monitor official weather and disaster information for further instructions.

Your stomach dipped as you read off the neighborhoods expected to be buried for the next few days. Tenshojicho and pretty much all of the neighborhoods north of the station were listed.

The storm had worsened so gradually over the course of the meeting that you had hardly noticed the change until now, but once you looked, it was impossible to miss.

There were still fifteen minutes left in your scheduled meeting, but instinct had you reaching for your purse anyway. “Should we just end it here and just head home?”

“We are not driving in that.”

The firmness in his voice made you pause with your fingers still curled around the strap.

He sat back only slightly, gaze fixed on you. “Two weeks ago we got trapped in a road blockage for nearly two hours, and that was under better conditions than this. If I try to take you home right now, there’s a real chance we end up stranded on the road, and being snowed into a building is very different from being snowed into a car. You understand that, don’t you?”

You glanced out the window behind him, then back to him. “So we stay in the office?”

He leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, fingers lacing together in front of his mouth as he thought. It was the same expression he had worn two weeks ago when you got into his car for the first time. The same expression he had when lines began to blur and he hated himself a little for noticing.

His eyes finally lifted to yours. “I live in Yahaba. The warning isn’t projected to hit there. Not like this. Not even close. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable in any way, and I do not want to create an environment where the nature of this relationship can be misunderstood. For your safety I can give you two options. We stay here in the office and wait the storm out.” His gaze held yours, steady and serious. “Or I take you to my home. I have a second bedroom you can use.”

Your pulse thudded once, hard enough to feel.

He kept going before you could say anything. “I cannot take you back to Tenshojicho in these conditions. I’m not going to do that. So I need an answer now.”

Even when offering something as intimate as sheltering you in his home, he still framed it like duty. Like this had nothing to do with the fact that the thought of leaving you to manage the storm alone was clearly unbearable to him.

You rose from your chair and reached for your coat. “Then let’s go where it’s safe. I don’t want to stay in the office all night. Let’s go to your place.”

He nodded once. “Alright.”

He stood immediately, all business again, though the air had changed too much now for that illusion to fully hold.

“Get your belongings,” he said. “We need to make this quick.”

One moment you were inside that carefully heated room, gathering your purse with fingers still warm from tea. The next, Higuruma was switching off lamps, sliding files back into place, checking the lock on the cabinet, the desk, the outer door—every motion faster than usual but never careless. Even under pressure, he moved like a man who refused to let urgency make him sloppy. 

“Stay close to me,” he spoke as he locked up.

He tested the handle once after turning the key, then slipped the keys into his coat pocket and glanced down the front steps through the glass. Snow was blowing sideways now, the gusts fierce enough to lift loose powder from the ground and whip it through the air. 

When he opened the door, the wind hit immediately.

It rushed into the building with a howl, cold enough to sting your face at once. The temperature drop was so sharp.

Higuruma stepped out first. He moved down the stairs with measured care, testing each step before committing his weight, one hand hovering slightly away from his side as if prepared to catch himself or you at a second’s notice. 

The snow had already begun to crust over where earlier accumulation had been compacted by foot traffic and then frozen over again. 

He reached the bottom step and turned at once. He lifted one arm to shield his face from the blast, then extended his other hand toward you. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate as your hand met his. 

His hand was rough in a way it shouldn’t have been. Not the roughness of a man who worked outdoors, not callused by ropes or tools or weather. This was a finer abrasion. The kind of wear earned slowly through strain and repetition, through long hours at a desk that were never truly only at a desk. It was the roughness of a man who wrote until pens ran dry between his fingers.

There was a graveyard of finished pens in that touch. These were not soft hands. They were hard working hands.

The grip was firm enough to steady, not tight enough to startle. Then he gave a short, decisive pull, guiding you down the last steps toward him just as another gust came tearing around the building. Before you could brace for it, he shifted his body between you and the wind. 

His arm angled slightly as if to contain your balance without quite wrapping around you. The scent of him cut through the bitter cold.

It lasted barely a moment, and yet your heart reacted like it had been eternity.

It was impossible not to take it the wrong way.

He had told you, plainly, where things stood. He had insisted on professionalism with that infuriating calm of his, but then he did things like this.

Whatever he intended, your poor stupid heart heard it in a language it should not have understood.

“Watch your footing. There’s ice near the curb.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure he saw it. Your attention had narrowed too much. To his hand around yours. To the pressure at your back when he adjusted his position to keep the wind from hitting you full force. 

He ushered you the rest of the way to the car quickly, keeping himself half angled toward the storm the entire time. When you reached the passenger side, he opened the door immediately and looked at you with that same clipped focus.

“Get in.”

You did. Higuruma made sure the hem of your coat cleared the door before closing it firmly behind you. Only once you were sealed inside did he round the front of the car and get into the driver’s seat.

The whole thing had happened in seconds, and still it left you stunned.

Goddammit.

The engine rumbled softly to life beneath you. Beside you, Higuruma adjusted the airflow with a quick turn of the dial, angling your vent so the warm air reached you more directly before shifting the car carefully into motion.

He said nothing at first. Neither did you.

Higuruma drove south with absolute concentration, his posture straight, both hands on the wheel now. His brows were faintly drawn as he tracked the road.

After several quiet minutes, he glanced at you. “You alright?”

You forced yourself to look normal. To sound normal. “I’m fine.”

Your voice came out softer than intended, and you cleared your throat before adding, “Thank you.”

It was all you could manage.

He gave a short nod and returned his full attention to the road.

The drive to Yahaba settled into a silence that was not awkward so much as deliberate.

There were silences that came from distance, from discomfort, from things left unsaid because no one knew how to touch them without making them worse. This was not that. This was the silence of concentration. Of a man with both hands on the wheel and his full attention fixed on getting the two of you somewhere safe. 

1:27am : Yahaba

By the time you crossed into Yahaba, the difference felt almost uncanny. It was still winter. Still snowing. Still night. But it no longer felt hostile.

Morioka, at its worst looked like a city you passed through because you had to. Yahaba looked like somewhere people chose. There were houses here, not stacked apartment blocks, but homes. The streets were quieter. Domestic in a way that immediately changed the feel of everything. 

It was the sort of place where someone moved because they wanted to plant roots.Maybe, eventually, they wanted a family.

That thought hit you harder than it should have.

You glanced at Higuruma without letting yourself linger too long. His profile remained composed, stern in the passing light, his attention fixed on the road ahead. It was absurd how little you knew about his private life. Enough to build fantasies, certainly. Not enough to really know him.

He turned into a residential neighborhood where the homes sat modestly apart under thick blankets of snow. They were lovely and clean—small but carefully designed, with wide front windows and short driveways covered in snow. He then turned into one of the driveways and your pulse spiked immediately.

It was a small modern two story home, understated and elegant. Light from the porch lamp gilded the drifting flakes in front of it. The driveway had been cleared recently enough to show clean edges, though a thin new layer had already gathered over the concrete. The house was not extravagant. It was not ostentatious, but it was comfortable.

A house.

Not an apartment. Not a cramped bachelor condo overfurnished with things. 

A home.

Something about that surprised you, and yet it made perfect sense. Of course Higuruma lived like this. Of course, beneath the tired suits and long work hours there was a man who had chosen structure and privacy. A place with walls thick enough to keep the world out.

He parked, killed the engine, and the sudden quiet inside the car rang for a second in your ears. He unbuckled, stepped out, and you hurried to follow.

Cold met you quickly, though it was nothing like the storm up north. Snow fell steadily instead of violently, landing in your hair and on the shoulders of your coat as you crossed the short distance after him. He glanced back once to make sure you were still with him before heading to the front door, keys already in hand.

That small look over his shoulder made you feel protected. Like you were something that shouldn’t be left behind.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, then stepped aside enough to let you enter first. Warmth spilled out to meet you.

He reached just inside and flicked on the entry light. Soft illumination spread through the house in sections—revealing the space piece by piece.

It was small, but beautiful. Not lavish. Just beautiful in a minimal, modern way—clean lines, warm wood tones, matte black fixtures, pale walls, tasteful furniture chosen with an eye for function as much as aesthetics. 

Everything was in its place. The air smelled faintly like clean fabric and polished floors.

You slipped off your heels in the entryway while he removed his shoes beside you. There was a low cubby built into the wall. You set your heels there near his without thinking too much about the domestic intimacy of the act until it was already done.

You straightened and bowed politely. “Thank you for letting me into your home.” When you lifted your head again, a smile touched your lips. “Do I get the grand tour?”

One of his brows moved, almost imperceptibly. “Grand is a stretch but I’ll show you what you need to know.” He turned on another light as he went. “Living room.”

The space opened directly ahead—a low charcoal sofa, a clean lined coffee table, shelves holding all sorts of law books, and a rug in a deep neutral tone softening the floor. It was tasteful. Comfortable in theory. Yet there was something faintly untouched about it, as though the room had been arranged correctly rather than lived in.

He gestured slightly as he walked over. “Dining room and kitchen are to your left.”

The dining area was compact and neat, centered by a table that could have seated four but presently held nothing but a fruit bowl and a stack of coasters. The kitchen beyond it was immaculate. Stainless steel, granite counters, dark cabinetry. Not a dish out of place. It looked efficient… and a little lonely.

That was the feeling that caught in you almost immediately. The house wasn’t cold. It wasn’t unloved, but it felt incomplete somehow, as if the life inside it had been paused before it ever really got to begin. Beautiful as it was, there was a sadness in its orderliness. 

You followed him farther in.

“The bathroom is outside the guest room. Come on.”

A short hallway led away from the main living space. He stopped at the second door, opened it, and turned the light on inside.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He looked at you at once. “Problem?”

You stepped into the doorway and let your gaze move over the room before answering. It was lovely—simple and neatly made. A bed with dark bedding. A small desk by the wall. A lamp. A chest of drawers. It was, by any reasonable standard, a generous and comfortable guest room.

You turned back to him. “No. I just thought the guest bedroom would be upstairs.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You say it’s not a problem, but it sounds like it actually is.”

You tipped your head. “I’m not exactly in a position to complain.”

He crossed his arms. “Saying you aren’t in a position to complain is not the same thing as saying you have nothing to complain about.”

Your eyes flicked between his. God, he was maddening. “This room is lovely. I’ll be completely fine.”

He watched you for a beat longer. “You’re deflecting.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “I am not deflecting. I literally just said this is fine. It’s great, actually. Fantastic. My apartment is on the ground floor too, so really, this is—”

You stopped because he was still looking at you, and you knew that he knew you were lying.

You broke eye contact first and crossed to the bed, then sat on the edge of it with a little bounce to test the mattress. Firm and supportive. The kind of bed chosen by someone who cared about functionality.

Higuruma stayed where he was for just a moment longer, “I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

He turned and left before you could speak again, and the quiet he left behind felt strangely loud.

You exhaled and reached for the zipper of your coat, pulling it all the way down until the black fabric opened and the white dress beneath revealed itself again. It was a form fitting bandeau midi that clung in all the right places, smooth and elegant and perhaps a little unfair under the circumstances. 

You slipped the coat off, folded it, and set it aside before leaning back onto the bed with your arms spread for a second, staring up at the ceiling.

The room was warm. The house was too quiet… and your mind, traitor that it was, had begun spiraling again.

There was something about being inside the actual private space of his life that made everything feel sharper. More intimate. It was one thing to imagine him outside the office. It was another thing entirely to be standing where he lived and sleeping under his roof.

Footsteps approached. You rolled slightly toward the door just as he returned, and because you had become disastrously attentive to him, you caught it. That one brief look.

It was quick enough that someone less familiar with his face might have missed it, but you didn’t. His gaze raked over you in a single restrained sweep as he stepped into the room—the white dress fitted to your body, your bare shoulders above the neckline, the way you were lying against his guest bed as though you belonged in some fantasy.

The look was gone almost immediately, but it had been there, and that was enough to send butterflies swarming through your stomach.

In his hand was a folded pair of pajamas. You pushed yourself up onto one elbow and looked from the fabric to his face. “Dark blue?”

His expression gave very little away. “The color of boundlessness masked as restraint—as you say.”

Lawyers remembered all sorts of things, but the fact that he remembered what you said that night… word for word. How could a girl not blush?

He held them out for you to take, but you didn’t. Instead, you kept your eyes on his.

“I’m not tired.” 

There was something in the way the words came out that almost sounded like a confession even when it wasn’t one.

You went on, quieter now. “Can I pay you for a little extra time to talk to me?”

That changed the air. Maybe it was the phrasing. Maybe it was the way you were looking at him from beneath your lashes. Maybe it was the white dress against the dark bedding, or the fact that you were in his house on his guest bed asking for more of his time.

Maybe it was just you. Whatever it was, something in him visibly tightened.

He set the pajamas down on the bed beside your knees instead of pressing them into your hands.

“You have thoughts?” He asked.

You shrugged a shoulder against the pillow. “Unless you’re too tired.”

For a second you thought he might refuse. That he might take one look at the way the lines between client and attorney had thinned to almost nothing, and decide to leave.

Instead, he crossed to the desk beside the bed and sat. Not on the bed, but he was close enough that the decision itself felt loaded.

The chair turned slightly toward you. “I cut the meeting short by fifteen minutes tonight. Consider this repayment.”

You smiled, settling your cheek more comfortably against the pillow. “And here I thought you were going to rob me.”

His eyes dipped to the pajamas, only briefly, then returned to your face. “Do you want to get comfortable? You don’t want to change?”

You knew exactly what you were doing when you let your hand drift slowly over your hip.

“I’m fine.” You spoke with deliberate sweetness: “Higuruma-sensei.”

His jaw shifted barely, but that tiny movement did more to you than it should have.

The fight in him was becoming visible now. In the way his answers came a second slower than before. In the way his eyes lingered a fraction too long and then corrected. 

You had seen Higuruma composed. You had seen him principled, thoughtful, infuriatingly self controlled. Watching him struggle with that control was something else.

“Talk, then. What’s on your mind?” His invitation was simple, but the tension beneath it was not.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You watched him for another second, then began, “Why’d you buy a house?”

His brow furrowed slightly.

You went on, “An apartment would’ve been cheaper. Closer to work, too.”

That made one corner of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, more the ghost of one. “That’s what you want to ask?”

You nodded.

He leaned back a fraction in the desk chair, shoulders loosening just enough to suggest he wasn’t entirely displeased by the question. “I wanted a place to rest. A real place. I didn’t want people above me, and I didn’t want people below me.”

You laughed softly, rolling onto your side and propping your head on your hand. “My apartment would drive you insane, then. I’ve got somebody stomping upstairs at all hours.”

“And you tolerate that?”

“I don’t have a choice.” You shrugged. “It’s motivating, though. Makes me want to get out of there.”

He was quieter now, more relaxed. One arm rested along the chair. He looked less like your attorney and more like a man attempting to maintain professionalism.

“What do you want to do besides hostessing?”

You bit your bottom lip, pretending to think about it as if you hadn’t already entertained the thought a hundred times.

“Well, I hear there might be an opening at Higuruma Law Office. Figured once this long ass case finally lets me breathe, I might pursue that. Use my savings. Go to law school if I can stand the humiliation of being a student again. Work as a paralegal, maybe.”

His eyes stayed on yours. Too steady. “I know you’re joking but you’d be good at it.”

Your smile softened. “I’m not joking, actually.”

That changed his expression.Only slightly—but enough. 

“It’d be nice to be something respectable. Being a paralegal would make my family proud for once.”

A crease formed between his brows. “What does that mean?”

As you sat up, the dress shifted tightly over your body as you moved, white fabric pulling smooth across your waist and hips before settling again. 

“Oh, you didn’t know? I’m the family disappointment.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. You could almost feel him examining the sentence for weak points, trying to decide whether to challenge it or let you finish.

“My brother is a regional manager at a car dealership back home. My sister runs her own bridal makeup business—booked, busy, beloved, all the cute words. My cousins are doctors, engineers, small business owners.” You smiled without humor. “And then there’s me.”

He said nothing, and you appreciated that he let you keep going.

“I’m the one who was so desperate to get out of town that she rushed into a relationship with a man she barely knew.” Your gaze dropped briefly to your own hands. “Dropped out of college. Followed him all the way to northern Japan because I met him in the last six months before he graduated. I convinced myself that if I moved with him, everything in my life would finally start making sense.”

The room seemed quieter somehow.

“I thought it sounded beautiful at the time. Like something worth talking about. For once, when my family mentioned me, they’d have something new to say. Something positive. Something that didn’t end with a sigh.”

Higuruma’s face had gone very still.

“But paradise didn’t last long.” You gave a little laugh, one that was far too light for the memory. “We broke up a month in. Not because of cheating, not because of some big dramatic betrayal. We were just… wrong for each other in a way that got obvious fast. We couldn’t even make it to the end of the lease without wanting to kill each other. We were just two people who found out very quickly that attraction and compatibility are not the same thing.”

You’d let the quiet settle in before speaking once more.

“As you know, I was born here in Japan. Raised in America. Came back to Japan and then stayed after we broke up. I never thought I’d end up back here, honestly.”

His gaze didn’t leave your face, and because he paid attention in ways other people didn’t, you knew he could see the part you weren’t saying aloud. The hurt you had flattened into facts. The humiliation of rebuilding your life in the place you thought you had left forever. 

You hated that you’d become the version of yourself your family had always expected.

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, arms loose at your sides, staring up at the ceiling.

“I became a hostess because I was out of options. I couldn’t go back home without fighting for the path life had led me down. I found out about Sunset. They wanted bilingual girls and I happened to fit the job better than I wanted to admit.” A tiny smile touched your mouth. “I’m almost nobody’s type—but the men who did like me really liked me, so that worked out.”

One of his brows rose. “Like Ren?”

You turned your head slowly on the pillow and looked at him before you laughed. “You remembered his name? You definitely dislike him.”

His face tightened just enough to betray that he knew he’d said too much without technically saying anything at all. “I don’t know him.”

You shrugged lazily. “But you remembered his name.”

He cleared his throat. The motion was so controlled, so clearly an attempt to move the conversation somewhere safer, that it only delighted you more.

“Where did you think you’d end up if not back in Japan?”

You looked back at the ceiling, and for a second your voice changed—softened into something almost dreamy. “Italy.”

He paused. “Italy?”

You nodded. “Capri.”

“Capri…” He repeated.

“Mhm.” Your eyes half lidded as the image took shape. “Seaside. Sun on my skin. Sitting outside a little coffee shop overlooking a stone staircase near Marina Grande. Somewhere with chipped blue shutters and lemons painted on the signs. A place called Caffè Limoncello.” You smiled to yourself. “I’d sit outside every morning and bask in that life. God, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not my parents. Not my siblings. Not my cousins. No one. I’d just high tail it and fuck off.”

His gaze stayed fixed on you.

You let your head tilt toward him, slow and unhurried. “But that’s not reality. Reality is being here in a blizzard. At my attorney’s house… Pretending all of this is normal.”

Your hand drifted over the silk pillow beside you, fingertips tracing the surface absently. When your eyes found his again, there was nothing careless in the way you looked at him. Nothing accidental.

“I want to know about Hiromi Higuruma now… Enough about me.”

For a moment, he did not answer. He sat there in the desk chair, shoulders squared, one hand resting against his thigh, the other lightly gripping the armrest as if anchoring himself to something solid. 

His face gave little away, but not nothing. You could see the strain in the set of his jaw. The way his eyes lingered too long before he forced them elsewhere. 

“There’s not much to tell,” he spoke at last.

You smiled immediately. “That’s a lie.”

His gaze lifted to yours again. “You think so?”

“I know so.” You shifted slightly on the bed, bringing one arm up beneath your head. “Men don’t live in houses like this and end up with expressions like yours by accident.”

“And what expression is that?”

“The kind that looks like you got tired a long time ago and never really recovered.”

Something in his face changed then. You had touched something. 

His eyes dropped for a second, not away from you exactly, but inward. As if the question had directed him somewhere he didn’t often permit himself to go.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I wanted a home because I thought that a different life might come with it.”

The answer stole your breath for half a second. 

“You make that sound sad.”

“Perhaps it is.”

The room held still around you.

He gave a short exhale and looked back at you. “My work followed me home for years. It still does. I wanted distance from people outside of these walls. I wanted control.” His gaze moved briefly around the room, taking in the walls as if seeing them through your lens. “I suppose I got that.”

“But?”

He was silent long enough that you wondered if he would refuse the rest. “A house is only as warm as the life inside it.”

The words settled deep. You propped yourself up a little higher on your elbow. “That’s a very lonely thing to say, Higuruma.”

He looked at you sharply at the use of his name. Not Higuruma-sensei. Not quite the first name, but you dropped the honorific deliberately.

Something in his expression tightened. “You shouldn’t say my name like that.”

Your pulse skipped. “Like what?”

His eyes held yours. “Like it means something to you.”

The silence afterward was enormous. You could hear the soft rush of heated air from the vent. The faint hiss of snow beyond the window. Your own heartbeat seemed loud.

You swallowed. “Maybe it does.”

There it was—that line. Not crossed quite yet, but close enough now that both of you could see it.

“You asked about me. This is why I don’t usually answer personal questions.”

You smiled faintly. “Because you answer them too honestly?”

“Because people hear what they want in them.”

“And what do you think I want to hear?”

His eyes flicked to you again. That was a mistake. You both seemed to know it the moment it happened.

Because your white dress against the dark bedding, the looseness of your hair, the warmth of the room, the softness in your voice—none of it belonged in a conversation that was still pretending to be professional. 

His attention caught on you and had to be pulled back by force. You saw it happen. Saw the discipline return like a door being shoved closed before it could swing too far open.

“I think you’re very used to making men talk.”

You gave a lazy half smile. “And you’re very used to resisting.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

You let your fingers smooth once over the silk pillowcase. “Isn’t it?”

He went quiet again. God, he was beautiful like this—strained, thoughtful, trying so hard to remain measured while the air between you kept heating with every exchange. The internal fight in him had become impossible to miss. The professionalism he wore so naturally in the office now looked like endurance.

You softened your voice. “Tell me one thing.”

“That depends on the thing.”

“What did you think your life would look like?”

He stared at you for a long moment, then leaned back slightly and let out a breath that sounded tired enough to have lived in him for years.

“When I was younger I thought competence and intelligence and strategy would be enough.”

Your brows knit. “Enough for what?”

“For everything. Enough to build a life. Enough to be useful. Enough to protect people. Enough to justify the hours, the distance, the sacrifices. I thought if I became good enough at carrying things, eventually I wouldn’t feel the weight.”

You watched him in silence.

He gave a small shake of his head, as if annoyed with himself. “That sounds more dramatic than I intended.”

“No. It sounds honest. I like that.”

His eyes lowered to your hand on the pillow. Then, inevitably, to the line of your body stretched along the bed… and then back to your face.

The movement was brief, but this time he didn’t recover from it quite as quickly.

Your voice came out softer than before. “You’re always taking care of everyone else. I can tell. You keep the office warm because I hate the cold.” Your lips curved. “You make me tea in case that’s not enough. You pick me up from work. You brought me to your home. You gave me your pajamas… your bed.”

His jaw tightened.

“But I guess it makes me a little worried because men like you look so strong. You make the weight seem so bearable that people never second guess it. They think you’re fine—but who looks after you? Who defends the defense?”

That did it. He went very still. So still that the air itself seemed to pause with him, and when he finally spoke, his voice was so controlled it almost sounded fragile.

“You should get some sleep.”

You smiled sadly. “That bad?”

“That dangerous.”

The honesty of it hit harder than anything coy could have.

You studied him for another second, then asked, almost gently, “Dangerous for who?”

When he looked at you again, the professionalism was still there—but thinner now, worn through by your relentless attention.

“For tonight I’d prefer not to find out… You should rest.”

He looked at you for a long moment after your question, the guest room warm around you, the lamp near the bed casting a soft pool of gold over the dark bedding and the folded pajamas beside your knee. You made this room feel much more alive than it ever had.

You gave a small shrug against the pillow. “I’m still not tired.” Then, softer, with a little tilt of your head that made the words sound sweeter than they were meant to. “But if you are, I won’t keep you. I understand”

His eyes stayed on yours for another second before exhaled, slow and measured, as if conceding something he did not entirely want to concede.

“Put the pajamas on. I’m going to make tea. If you’re really this wide awake, we can talk in the kitchen.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

He crossed to the door, paused only long enough to look at you once more with that unreadable restraint of his, then opened it and stepped into the hallway. The door shut softly behind him.

Your heart resumed its race all over again. No matter how carefully either of you phrased things, no matter how many times he invoked duty and professionalism and the necessity of circumstance, there was simply no elegant way to make this feel ordinary. The line had not been crossed, but it had stretched so thin that you could practically see through it.

You sat up and reached for the pajamas. The satin slid cool and smooth through your fingers. You slipped out of the dress, folding it carefully and setting it over the chair before stepping into the borrowed pajama pants and pulling the top over your shoulders. They were so nice, but clearly cut for a frame different from yours. The fabric draped over you in a way that felt immediately intimate—his clothing hanging from your body, smelling like him.

There was something deeply unfair in that scent alone. Not cologne, just the smell of a man who took care of himself in habitual ways.

You stood in front of the small mirror above the dresser and pulled a hair tie from your purse, twisting your hair up into a loose bun at the crown of your head. A few strands slipped free almost immediately. You left them there.

After one deep breath to settle yourself, you stepped into the hallway.

The house was quiet. Your bare feet made almost no sound against the floor as you moved down the hall past the living room and toward the kitchen. Everything was very ordered… and heavy.

That was the word for it. Heavy. Not unhappy, just quietly burdened as though the house had been built for a fullness it had never quite received. Like each room had been prepared for a life that remained hypothetical.

You finally stepped into the kitchen. A kettle sat on the stove. The recess lights had been left off in favor of the warmer pendant above the dining table, which cast a gentler glow over the space and deepened the shadows. Higuruma sat at the table already, as though he had been waiting for you.

Arms crossed, one leg folded neatly over the other, suit still on, tie still right on his throat.

The moment you appeared in the doorway, his eyes went to you. You felt it. The way the sight of you in his pajamas registered all at once. The softness of the whole image was a lot. Something passed over his face, subtle but unmistakable. Something nearly unrestrained.

Seeing you dressed in his clothes did something to him he plainly wished it didn’t. Or perhaps not wished. Maybe he simply wished he had been stronger against it.

You walked directly toward him instead of stopping at a polite distance. Right into his space, close enough to feel the warmth of him before you even reached the edge of the table.

“You’re not going to change out of the suit?”

His gaze stayed on yours. “I need to shower before I change.”

You smiled, small and wicked. “Don’t let me hold you up. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your routine.”

His head tilted slightly. “Yes, you would.”

The answer landed so cleanly that it stole a laugh from you before you could hide it.

“Have a seat,” he gestured.

You placed one hand against the table but didn’t sit yet. “Seriously. You don’t have to stay up with me if you don’t want to. Just tell me where the cups are. I can pour my own tea and wash my own dish.” Your smile turned sweeter. “Unless you don’t trust me.”

His eyes fixed on you with unnerving steadiness. “If I didn’t trust you I wouldn’t be representing you… and you damn sure wouldn’t be in my home wearing my clothes.”

You turned your head away at once, heat blooming hard across your face. Why would he say things like that in that voice?

“Why do you do that?” You muttered.

“Do what?”

“Go there.” You swallowed and looked down at the table edge instead of him. “Don’t say things like that to me. I know I’m paying you, but… it means a lot on a personal level.”

He’d pause briefly. “I know what it means to you. Now sit down.”

You still didn’t obey right away. Instead, before common sense could save either of you, you reached for his tie. Your fingers slipped beneath the loosened knot and tugged gently, drawing it lower, opening his collar just a little more. The silk was warm from his body. So was the line of his throat beneath it. 

“You don’t have to be so tight right now. Relax. It’s just us.”

For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Your hand lingered near his collar. His gaze held yours with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

You withdrew your hands and took the seat across from him with a smirk you only half managed to hide.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. Not irritated. More like a man discovering the limits of his own self control one quiet moment at a time and disliking how quickly he was approaching them.

The kettle on the stove began to sing softly behind him. He didn’t get up immediately. He just looked at you, shoulders squared, tie loosened now by your hand, and his composure visibly intact but no longer effortless.

When he finally spoke, his voice had roughened at the edges. “Why did you ask me about the house?”

“I was just curious.” You folded your hands in your lap.

“I can tell my answer didn’t satisfy your intended question. Why did you really ask?”

You shrugged. “Do you want the real answer or something polite to move us along?”

His eyes meant to stay on yours, but traitorously they dipped for a second to your mouth and then back. Your entire body noticed.

“You know we only speak in truths. Tell me.”

The kitchen was beautiful in the same way the rest of the house was beautiful. Minimal without feeling sterile. Everything was chosen well, and yet the longer you looked at it, the more obvious the absences became. No clutter. No photographs displayed. No set of habits visible anywhere.

You let your gaze wander, then brought it back to him. “It just seems like this house was meant for more than one person. It’s a family home. Or at least… it feels like one.”

His expression did not change, but you sensed at once that you had stepped onto something delicate. You pressed on carefully.

“It’s lovely, but it doesn’t feel like the kind of place a man buys for only himself.” Your eyes moved toward the window over the sink where soft snow was still collecting outside. “You live near good schools. It’s a residential neighborhood. The guest room is barely decorated, which tells me it was intentionally undefined for what you may need later—an office, a nursery, whatever life asked of it later.” Your gaze flicked back to him. “You have a backyard. A practical kitchen. The furniture still looks almost untouched.”

He was very still now. You could hear the kettle more clearly now. Less of a whistle. It was starting to shout.

“I think you bought this house because you intended to fill it… with a family.”

The words were not meant to wound. You had not thrown them like knives. If anything, you had spoken them as tenderly as you could—but they landed deep anyway. You saw it the moment they did.

Higuruma was not a dramatic man. He did not flinch or scowl or deny you with immediate offense. He went quiet in a way people did when they were forced to face something they spent a great deal of energy avoiding. His jaw tightened once. His gaze shifted from your face to some middle distance over your shoulder, not to escape you, but because looking directly at you in that moment would have required more honesty than he was prepared to give.

The kettle began to scream loud now. Still he didn’t move.

You softened. “Hiromi…”

That brought his eyes back. There was something naked in them now. Stripped of some layer of safety they’d had a moment ago.

He stood, not abruptly, just measured as he crossed to the stove. He turned off the burner, and lifted the kettle. Steam rose in soft white clouds around his hand. He did not look at you as he poured the water over the tea leaves waiting in two cups on the counter.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “You’re observant.”

You tried for lightness and didn’t quite find it. “Lucky guess?”

He set the kettle down. “Don’t downplay yourself for me. You don’t miss details.”

He turned, leaning one hand against the counter, the other resting at his side. His tie hung loosened where you had left it, collar slightly open now, the effect far more intimate than it had any right to be. He looked tired. Handsome. Cornered by his own honesty.

“You’re not wrong.” He exhaled.

His gaze moved once across the kitchen—not at the objects themselves, but at what they represented. The clean table. The quiet sink. The dark window over the yard. All of it.

“When I bought this place I told myself it was practical. More space. More privacy. Somewhere quiet.” His mouth thinned faintly. “That was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth. There was a time when I believed I would use this house differently.”

“You mean with someone?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yes.”

It was such a simple answer, but it hit like a blow anyway.

He looked back down at the cups. “I thought there would be noise here. More than this. I thought the guest room would become something else.”

Your chest tightened. “A nursery?” You asked, almost too quietly.

His expression shifted by a degree. “Maybe.”

The admission left the room altered. No more teasing now. No easy playfulness to hide inside. Just the ache of a truth neither one of you could dress up into something harmless.

You stood slowly from your chair and his posture changed—not retreating, not advancing, just bracing in some invisible way as you stepped closer to the counter.

“I didn’t bring this up to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“You looked…” You searched for the word and hated how tender your voice became when you found it. “Lonely.”

He gave a short, humorless exhale. “I see.”

You stopped at the edge of the counter, near enough now that the scent of tea was right under your nose.

“You can still have that, you know?”

His eyes closed for the briefest second, and when they opened, they were steadier. More guarded, but no less affected.

“That’s not a promise life makes.”

“No, but it isn’t over either.”

His gaze searched your face with an intensity that made your pulse stumble. As if he were trying to determine whether you understood the weight of what you were saying, or whether you understood how dangerous it was, standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes and speaking to him like this, to sound hopeful on his behalf.

“You should be careful.” 

“With what?” You tilted your head just slightly.

“With kindness.” His eyes did not leave yours. “Especially in moments like this.”

“Why?”

“Because people can mistake it for something else.”

“And are you people?”

His mouth parted slightly. No answer came, but that was answer enough.

He reached for one of the tea cups, more to do something with his hands than because the tea needed moving, and slid it toward you.

“You asked for the truth.”

You’d nod. “I did.”

“This house was meant for a future I no longer plan around.”

The words were devastating in their calm. Still, underneath them something else lived. Something unfinished. Something that had not fully died.

You wrapped your hands around the cup, though you did not lift it.

“I don’t believe that.”

A flicker crossed his face. “That I’m telling the truth?”

“That you no longer plan around it.” Your voice was barely above a whisper now. “A man doesn’t keep a room nearly empty like that unless some part of him still imagines what it could become.”

He stared at your face, and his pajamas on your body. At the softness in your expression.

The fight returned to him visibly then, stronger for having already lost ground. You could almost see him gathering the pieces of himself, trying to restore the proper distance between you, trying to remember all the reasons he had held the line this long.

“You should drink your tea.” 

You smiled faintly. “That’s your professional response?”

“It’s the safest one.”

“And what’s the unsafe one?”

His hand flattened against the counter. “The unsafe response would be one I shouldn’t give you tonight.”

Your breath stalled.

He straightened and turned back toward the counter—busying himself with the other cup as if action could save him from the intimacy he had just let slip.

It almost worked, but even with his back half turned you could still feel it now—that he was no longer simply resisting you. He was resisting himself.

Your fingers tapped lightly against the side of the cup, porcelain warm beneath your nails. The tea had steeped to a deep amber now. 

“You know life doesn’t suddenly end when you start pushing thirty,” you spoke at last, trying for lightness.

Higuruma gave a small nod. “I know.”

Your eyes dropped to his hands where they rested near his own cup. Strong hands. Worn hands. Capable hands. The sort that had made you feel steadier than you had any right to feel these past months. Your gaze climbed back to his face.

“Will you tell me about her?” You smiled, though there was something brittle around the edges of it now. “I only ask so I can make myself irrationally jealous over a woman who got to hog all your time.”

“There’s nothing for you to envy.”

You let out a short laugh through your nose. “Please. A woman who got to test the silk sheets first will always be my enemy.”

His eyebrow rose a fraction higher. “First?”

Your eyes widened. The word had slipped out before your brain could catch it, and the heat that rushed into your face was immediate and unforgiving. You were horrified by yourself.

He looked at you for one long second, and because he was him—because he was merciful when it mattered, he moved on.

“I’ll keep it short… She was very ambitious. In some ways, we were very similar. We worked well together for a while because we valued the same things. Discipline. Stability. Work.”

Your smile faded.

He went on in that same low, measured voice. “Things became difficult around the second year. I was ready to settle down more formally. I wanted the house. The permanence. Maybe more than that… she didn’t. She wanted the house, but she wasn’t looking to start a family.”

Your expression softened before you could stop it. “That’s… a massive dealbreaker.”

“I know.”

“How long did you stay together after that?”

“A few months too long.”

The answer came without self pity, which somehow made it sadder.

You looked away, tracing the grain of the table with your eyes. “And you lived here together?”

He shook his head. “No. I bought this house a year after we split. It was one of the homes we looked at while we were together, but we were over long before I moved in.”

Something in your chest unclenched a little at that. You hated that it did.

You looked back at him. “Are you still friends?”

“There’s no point in that.” His answer was immediate, flat in a way that made it feel final. “And she’s not in Morioka.”

You lowered your eyes to your untouched tea. “So… you still love her?”

He shook his head once. “I fell out of love when I realized there was no future for us.”

There was no drama in it. No bitterness. Just fact… and that upset you. Your ridiculous, irrational jealousy didn’t get the satisfaction of something to hate. No betrayal. No lingering obsession. No tragic wound that had left him permanently unreachable. 

Just the knowledge that he had once loved someone enough to imagine a life with her. Enough to picture a future in a house like this. Enough that if she had wanted the same things he did, maybe none of this would be happening now.

Maybe the guest room would already have been painted. Maybe there would be toys in the corners and a baby gate at the stairs. Softened couches and little shoes at the front door.

Maybe this house would have become what it was built to become… and you had absolutely no right to feel gutted by that. No right at all.

You were his client. Not his almost. Not his maybe. Certainly not his future.

You bit lightly at the inside of your lip and leaned back. “I appreciate the chat.” You spoke a little too casually. “Thank you. I’m suddenly so tired. You’re a hell of a storyteller.”

His face remained neutral. “And you are a hell of a liar.”

Your brows knit at once. “I’m sorry?”

He glanced pointedly at your cup. “You haven’t touched your tea.”

You licked your lips, trying for ease and missing by a mile. “I’ll drink it in the morning. Sleep just hit me out of nowhere.”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You are upset.”

You gave a tiny, humorless laugh. “I am literally tired. My eyelids are heavy. I want to lie down. Is that so unreasonable at like, what time is it? Three in the morning?”

He didn’t answer right away. That silence of his was one of the worst things about him. He could let it sit between you until it became impossible not to fill it with truth.

The kitchen was too warm. The pendant light too soft. The snow outside too gentle. Everything in the room felt arranged to make dishonesty impossible.

When you finally spoke again, your voice had dropped. “You’ve made me feel very protected these past couple of months.” You kept your eyes on the rim of your tea cup. “And I know that’s your job. I know it. I’m not stupid, but it’s hard not to romanticize being protected by a man like you.”

Still he said nothing, and that somehow made it easier to continue.

“You defend me like my life matters.” A small, strained laugh escaped you. “But it’s more than that. It’s all the little things. All the big things. Everything in between.” Your throat tightened. “Do you understand how impossible you’ve made it for me not to feel something?”

His hand shifted once against the table.

You forced yourself to look at him then. “I know this isn’t fair. I know the situation is what it is. I’m trying very hard to pretend I’m made of stone… and I’m failing.”

The room went very still. He looked at you with an expression so controlled it hurt to see. The expression of a man who heard exactly what you meant and was already choosing his next words with more precision than your heart could survive.

“I know.”

That was all at first, and somehow it cut the deepest because there was no confusion in him. No surprise. Of course he had known.

You let out a shaky breath. “That’s all you have to say?”

He exhaled slowly and set his cup down. “No, it isn’t.”

He looked tired, and deeply human, and far too handsome for a man about to do the right thing.

When he spoke again, it was with painful clarity. “I’m not going to insult you by pretending I don’t understand what you’re saying. And I’m not going to insult you by pretending that none of this has affected me.”

For one impossible, selfish second, hope flared… but only one, because after that, he kept going.

“What I want is irrelevant.”

The hope died as quickly as it had come. He did not soften the sentence. He did not dress it up.

“You are my client. Your case is going to be announced for trial soon. I expect that within the next couple months, possibly sooner, because neither side is backing down. From this point forward, every choice matters. Every appearance matters. Every judgment call matters.”

You looked down. His voice remained calm, but there was steel in it now. Conviction.

“I will not gamble with your freedom because I was careless.”

Your throat tightened. “Higuruma—”

“No.” The word was quiet, but absolute. “Listen to me. It does not matter what I want. It does not matter what you want. It does not matter how good something might feel for one night, or how easy it would be to justify it because the weather is bad and we’re tired and this has all become more personal than either of us intended.” His jaw tightened once. “What matters is that you survive this.”

The words landed like a gavel.

“That is my job. That is what you need from me. Not confusion. Not mixed signals. Not a mistake that could compromise your case, your credibility, or your peace of mind when we are this close to a trial announcement."

You stared at him, chest aching now in a way you had no graceful way to hide. He saw it, and God, that seemed to cost him something too.

His expression softened only by a degree, but enough for the care beneath the refusal to show through.

“I have to be the one who draws the line clearly—because right now, you do not need a man who is tempted. You need a lawyer who is reliable.”

The shame of wanting him didn’t come from his tone. There was no judgment in it. He was letting you keep your dignity even as he closed the door.

You looked away toward the dark kitchen window. Snow still drifted down beyond the glass, serene and indifferent.

“So that’s it?”

“Yes.”

Your laugh came out thin. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t simple at all.”

You looked back at him. “Then why are you so good at severing… this?”

Something rough flashed through his composure. “Because I have to be.”

The answer sat between you, rawer than either of you liked.

You swallowed. “And after?”

His eyes held yours for a long moment before he answered. “After is not something I’m allowing myself to think about.”

There was your finality. It wasn’t cruel, but it was incredibly responsible.

He was not rejecting you because he felt nothing. He was rejecting the possibility because he believed your safety mattered more than his desire, more than your desire, more than anything else that might happen if he let this become what it so clearly wanted to become.

He seemed to read some piece of that in your face, because his own expression shifted into something quieter.  “You do not need to apologize for how you feel, but I need you to understand me very clearly.”

You nodded once, though it hurt.

“The line is not blurry to me. It is hard. It is deliberate, and it stays where it is.”

Each sentence was careful. This was a man closing a door with both hands so it would not slam.

You pressed your lips together and looked down at your untouched tea again. “You really know how to ruin a girl’s night.”

“I’m trying to save your life.”

You gave a small nod. “I know.”

At last he straightened slightly and his voice returned to something gentler. “Drink half the tea, then go to bed.”

You let out a tiny sigh and wrapped your fingers around the cup. “Sure thing.”

You took a sip. It had gone a little cooler now, but it was still good. You made a face anyway. “It could use cream and sugar.”

“You say that every time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

You drank it again—the warmth sliding through you without really settling anything. It only gave your hands something to do. Something to focus on besides the ache in your chest and the humiliating tenderness of having been turned away so gently it hurt worse than cruelty ever could.

You offered him a small, practiced smile. “Thank you for your hospitality, Higuruma-sensei. I’m sorry if I got careless.”

He shook his head immediately. “Don’t apologize. Just keep your head where it needs to be. I’ll handle the rest.”

The words should not have soothed you, but they did anyway.

You nodded once because speaking felt dangerous now. Anything more than that and your voice might betray you. Might come out thinner than you wanted. So you turned.

“Goodnight,” he spoke at last.

You stopped only long enough to incline your head a little. “Mhm.”

That was all you could manage. No sweetness. No smile. Just that small, noncommittal sound and a nod before you kept walking. 

The worst part was that he was right. Every awful inch of him was right. You had no claim here. No rightful expectation. No place in his life beyond the one you had paid for, and even that place had boundaries built into it. He was your lawyer. A good one. A frighteningly good one. The kind of man who would deny himself whatever he wanted if it meant keeping your life from falling apart.

That was what he was doing. Protecting you… again.

You should not have asked him—about his life. You should not have wanted to know about the house, or what woman had once occupied his past, or whether his guest room had been left empty on purpose. 

You should not have tugged at his tie or stood in his kitchen in his clothes or looked at him the way you had been looking at him for weeks now…but you had wanted it to get personal, and it had.

The guest room door clicked softly shut behind you. You did not turn the light on. You crossed to the bed and lay down, sinking into the firm mattress with a tiredness that had very little to do with the hour. 

You stared into the dark and thought. There was something different about Higuruma. That was the truth of it. There was something painfully different from other men. Not because he was perfect, he wasn’t. But there was a kind of gravity in him that other men lacked. A seriousness that never turned performative. A gentleness that appeared only in actions, never in polished words. He wasn’t charming, but he made you feel safe, and that was impossible to replicate.

You lay there and let that thought hurt.

You weren’t falling because he was handsome, though he definitely was. It wasn’t that he listened, or remembered details. It was the accumulation of small, disciplined kindnesses. The way he defended you when the world turned its back. The way his protectiveness never asked for reward. The way he had looked at you tonight and still chosen your future over whatever else might have happened.

It was humiliating to be so moved by decency. It was more humiliating still to know that decency, in this case, was precisely what had put him out of reach.

Trial had not been announced yet. No fixed date, but it was coming most likely within the next month or two. 

Not too far after the announcement there would be a courtroom, a judge, a room full of eyes, and Higuruma standing beside you. You hoped, absurdly, childishly, that the trial date might somehow never come.

That the whole thing might linger forever in this terrible suspended state where he still had reason to call you, and see you, and care in ways he could explain away… but you were not stupid. You knew better.

Maybe it was time to stop indulging yourself in fantasies that only made the inevitable harsher. Maybe it was time to separate yourself from Hiromi Higuruma. Not professionally of course, but emotionally.

It was time to stop building a future out of stolen glances, out of rides home, out of one man’s uncompromising sense of responsibility. You had to stop romanticizing the fact that he had chosen duty over desire and feeling as though it proved something larger existed, because even if something did exist, it changed nothing.

If you let yourself keep wanting him like this, you would only make the ending harder when it arrived.

Finally you closed your eyes, and you wondered, against your better judgment, what he was doing now. Was he thinking of you too?

No.

This was exactly what you needed to stop doing. You opened your eyes again to the dark and let out a long breath.

After this case, would you even speak to him? Would there be polite distance? A final handshake? A thank you? A handwritten letter? A carefully worded email sent months later that never addressed this? 

Would you become one of those people who passed through his life briefly and then vanished once the necessity was over?

Maybe that would be best. Maybe the cleanest thing was also the cruelest—and maybe cruelty in small doses was survivable.

It was time to stop letting your heart treat him like a possibility. It was only time to survive, just as he said.

Outside, snow continued to fall over Yahaba in a quiet, steady veil, covering the yard, the rooftops, the sleeping street. Inside the guest room of the Higuruma residence remained a woman letting go of her small embers of hope that perhaps she had no right to fan in the first place.

And alone in his house, wearing his clothes, with his scent still clinging faintly to your skin, you began the slow, miserable work of trying to let him go before you had ever really had him.

The lump in your throat stayed with you until sleep finally dragged you under.

Higuruma Residence : 7:25am : Yahaba

When your eyes cracked open after your short sleep, it was warm. That was the first thing you noticed. Warmth gathered around your body under the blanket.

The room smelled faintly of clean linen, but something savory came drifting in from deeper in the house—rice, maybe, or grilled fish.

You lay still for a second, staring at the pale ceiling.

The ache from last night had not disappeared, exactly, but it had changed shape a little. Before you slept, you had let yourself feel too much. 

By the time you woke, you did not feel better, but you did feel clearer. Less likely to mistake longing for possibility.

You yawned and stretched, the satin sleeves slipping down your forearms, and pushed yourself upright.

A light knock sounded at the door.

You blinked toward it, still waking. “Yes? Come in.”

The handle turned, and the door opened just enough for Higuruma to lean partway in. “Good morning.”

His voice was lower than normal, but already fully awake despite getting less sleep than you. Morning softened him only slightly. His hair was a little less controlled than usual. Not messy, just less armored. 

He had changed out of the suit finally, and now he wore black satin pajamas that looked similar to the ones on your body. 

“I made breakfast if you want some.”

You nodded at once. “Yeah. Thank you.”

His gaze moved over you once.. Taking in the blue pajamas still draped over your body, your loosened hair escaping from the bun you had slept in badly, the softness of sleep left over your face. He stepped back to let you follow.

You slid off the bed, stretched once more, and padded after him down the short hallway.

Morning had changed the house. The same rooms that felt heavy last night now looked cleaner, quieter, almost sweet in daylight. The backyard was buried under a smooth sheet of white. Beyond that, the neighborhood sat quiet and blanketed, the roofs of nearby homes rounded with snow like something from a postcard. 

In the kitchen, breakfast had already been set out neatly. Rice steamed in a covered pot. Miso soup in bowls, and a plate of grilled fish sat at the center of the table, the skin crisped and golden at the edges. Small dishes of vegetable had been arranged as well. Nothing extravagant, just balanced. 

You smiled. “This looks really good.”

He gave a small nod. “It’s simple.”

“It’s still nice.”

He pulled out a chair for you, then took his seat across from you.

You settled in, picked up your rice bowl, and looked up just as he arched a brow.

“How did you sleep?”

You adjusted your grip on the chopsticks. “Pretty decently, and you?”

“I slept alright.”

He said it the way he said everything that involved himself—minimal, sufficient, impossible to pry open unless you worked for it.

You took a bite of rice. It was warm and fluffy. Comforting.

He was quiet for another moment before speaking, “The blizzard is supposed to clear in a few days. Tenshojicho was hit pretty hard. I just looked about an hour ago. I doubt you’ll have access to your apartment right away even after roads reopen. It’s buried.”

You looked up slowly, but he went on before you could respond.

“You’re welcome to stay here until conditions improve.” He spoke with that lawyerly precision of his, laying out terms as if clarity could somehow make the offer less intimate. “I can take you to work. You will arrive a little early since I have to get to the office before you start. I know you’ll need clothing and basic toiletries. I can provide those for the time being. Food is not a problem. I cook in the morning and evening anyway.”

Your stomach tightened. You stopped eating, and he was still speaking.

“At midday you’ll be gone, and your club is close to the office, so I can pick you up after work. We’d return here. It would be… efficient. Similar to our current routine.”

You should have stopped him the moment he said stay here. Should have cut the whole thing off before he began calmly painting a temporary life under one roof—but you had sat there and listened. 

You listened to him describe it in that restrained voice of his, as if nothing in it was dangerous, as if it was only logistics and weather and practical adjustments made by a responsible man.

Only your emotions did not hear logistics. They heard domesticity and habit. They heard the outline of a life.

Suddenly the nameless woman from his past rose up in your imagination again. The woman who had once gotten this version of him. The woman he had pictured in a home like this. The woman who had, for a while, occupied the future he now claimed not to plan around.

The jealousy came back hot and ugly and irrational. You knew it was irrational. That self awareness did absolutely nothing to stop it.

You set your chopsticks down. “No.”

It came out more quietly than you intended, but not weakly. His brows lifted a fraction.

You bowed your head, “Your offer is very generous, truly, but I can’t do that. I can’t stay here after the conversation we had last night. The lines may be clear to you, but staying in your house, letting you cook for me, having you drive me to work and back here again…” You shook your head. “That makes it blurry for me.”

There was silence, and you hated how hard it was to hold his gaze.

“I know that’s my problem. I know that.” A humorless little smile tugged at your mouth. “I wish I were better at keeping this professional, but under the circumstances, I’m not.” Your eyes lifted fully to his then. “And you are too good at your job for me to lose you over this. So I can’t do it. I can’t stay here and play house and pretend it means nothing.”

The air in the kitchen seemed to tighten at once. His shoulders drew tight by a degree. Not dramatic. Just enough to tell you the words had landed where you knew they would.

“What will you do then?” His tone was neutral.

You knew that tone now. It was the one he used when emotion had appeared and he was trying to keep it from contaminating his demeanor.

“Tenshojicho is under snow,” he continued. “The northern neighborhoods were hit badly. Hotels are likely filling because of the storm. Transportation is unreliable.”

You inhaled. “There are hotels within walking distance of the club. I’m sure they at least have one room. I’ll stay at one of those.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s not a good solution.”

“It doesn’t have to be a good solution. It has to be a professional one.”

Something shifted in his face, because you had taken his own principles and used them against him.

“This is not about what I want—”

You cut in before you could stop yourself. “Exactly. It’s not about what you want. It’s about keeping things professional, remember?”

He fell silent.

You picked up your chopsticks again, though you no longer wanted the food in front of you. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not staying.”

He did not answer immediately, but when he finally spoke, his voice had changed. Less clipped. Less argumentative, and more like something stripped down to essentials.

“Look at me.”

You did, and immediately wished you hadn’t, because his eyes were too direct this morning. 

“This is not about want, and it is not about pretending anything.” He folded his hands once on the table, then unfolded them again, a tiny fracture in composure. “I need to know where you are.”

Your breath caught, and he went on before you could react.

“I need to know that you are safe. That if the roads close again, you are not alone in a hotel room that I can’t reach. That if something changes with the weather, or with the case, or with your apartment situation, I know where to find you.”

Your pulse began to thud harder for all the wrong reasons.

“That is not playing house. That is planning responsibly.”

You looked away now, because if you kept looking at him, the softness buried under his logic would undo you.

He let out a breath and continued more carefully, as though choosing to lean on the only language he trusted right now—reason.

“A hotel near the club means walking in poor conditions twice a day at minimum… It means walking in plain sight near the route where a piece of shit stalked you and assaulted you.”

“I—” Your brain stalled and no words could form in this moment.

He’d take a moment—his emotions were getting the better of him. But you saw it now. That protectiveness was far beyond the monetary exchange for representation. Your story affected him.

He took a deep inhale before collecting himself, “There is no certainty of availability, and no privacy.” His gaze stayed on you. “It means spending money you do not need to spend when a safer option is already here.”

Your jaw clenched. “You make my plan sound so ridiculous.”

“I make it sound like what it is.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Do you hear yourself? You’re offering me clothes, meals, rides, a room in your house. You cannot seriously expect me to act like that means nothing.”

“I don’t expect it to mean nothing.” He looked down for a second, then back up, and now the effort it cost him to remain intact was impossible to miss. “I expect that both of us are capable of understanding the difference between feeling something and acting upon it.”

That hit harder than it should have.

He leaned back only slightly, but it made him look no less intent. “Staying here would be difficult. I know that. I am not pretending that it would be easy for you.”

The omission in that sentence was glaring. Not easy for you. He did not say for me. Perhaps it was his way of keeping the professional border he let waver a moment ago.

He softened just a little, “But difficulty is not the same as danger. A hotel in these conditions is danger. This is difficulty. I am asking you to choose difficulty.”

The logic of it was infuriating. You wanted to reject it on principle alone, but underneath that was the simpler, softer truth you were trying not to look at too closely.

Part of you wanted to stay. You wanted the mornings and the rides and the warmth and the unbearable domestic tenderness of being under his roof for just a little longer, even if it cut you later.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “I think… I think it’d be easier if I left—but I shouldn’t.”

He watched you for another long, “You don’t have to like it.”

Something in your chest tightened, because buried under the practicality, he wanted you where he could see you. Where he could make sure you were alright. Where he would not spend the next several days imagining every possible worst case scenario.

He wanted you here. Not in the way your heart most selfishly longed for, but enough to matter.

You lowered your eyes to the table. “You really do know how to argue.”

“That’s fortunate for you.”

“Don’t get smug.”

His mouth almost curved into a smirk, and it wasn’t because of your comment, it was more likely because you’d stay. 

You exhaled slowly. “If I stay… then we keep things as they are.”

“Yes.”

“Separate rooms.”

“Obviously.”

“No blurred lines.”

At that, something unreadable moved behind his eyes. “I’ve already made my position on that clear.”

You nodded once. “I know.”

Something faint and restrained passed over his expression—approval perhaps, or relief.

“I’ll stay. Until the roads clear.”

His shoulders eased barely, but enough for you to see it. “Good.”

You looked back down at your breakfast. “You win.”

“This isn’t about winning.”

“Right, it’s about surviving.”

“Yes.”

You picked your chopsticks back up and finally took a bite of fish this time, the skin crisp and the flesh delicate and warm. Across from you, he reached for his own bowl with hands that looked steadier than they had a minute ago.

The kitchen settled into a quieter silence then. Not easy. Not free of tension, but functional.

Morning light continued to gather across the snow outside, and under it, in a house built for a future neither of you could afford to speak on, you stayed.

____________________________________________________________________________

I wished that blizzard had lasted the rest of our lives if it meant I could go on playing house with you a little longer—there’s something unbearably cruel about how brief happiness can feel when you know you it has a shelf life.

Do not regret that time, Hiromi. Please don’t. Don’t regret the quiet mornings, or the dinners that waited warm on the table, or the rides where I sat beside you pretending not to memorize your profile in the winter light. 

Don’t regret saying the things you thought would save us from ourselves. I loved being beside you on the way to work. I loved the smell of whatever you’d made for dinner before I even made it to the kitchen. I loved the steadiness of your house because it stopped feeling lonely when I was in it with you.

I only wish I had known how to read you better back then. If I had, maybe I would not have been so eager to move past the hurt. Maybe I would have held on longer. Maybe I would have stayed in the moment instead of rushing to survive it.

Higuruma Law Office : 10:25pm : Morioka

The paper trembled only slightly between his fingers as he held it. The letter in his hand seemed heavier than paper had any right to be.

He stared at the page as though it were something alive. Something capable of reaching through time and putting its hands directly around his throat. 

Even now, even after all this time, he could hear your voice in every line. Could hear the warmth in your teasing, the ache in your confessions, the softness you always tried to hide beneath wit when you felt too much.

His thumb pressed against the edge of the paper. He couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.

Still, before setting it down, he let his eyes drag once more over the last lines—as if repetition might dull anything. It didn’t. Every word opened another door he had spent so long trying not to touch.

At last, he turned the page face down atop the second sheet. The sound it made against the desk was almost nothing.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand rising to press against his mouth, then the bridge of his nose—eyes closing for the briefest second as if darkness might offer mercy. Behind his eyelids, memory only came more easily. Snow on your lashes. Your laugh in his kitchen. Blue satin swallowing your frame. The look on your face when he told you where the line was.

There were so many places where things might have changed. He knew that was the true cruelty of regret—not that it showed you one wrong turn, but that it illuminated an entire road of moments where something more honest might have altered everything that came after. 

A sentence left unsaid. A warning not given. A line held too rigidly. A hurt he had mistaken for something temporary.

Your letter was unearthing all of it, not maliciously, or perhaps not even knowingly—but it was.

It was digging with elegant hands and making him look directly at those old decisions—at the silence he had mistaken for virtue. 

His gaze dropped to the overturned page. For a long moment, he did not move at all.

God.

He missed you.

[softcursechoso]

TEN PAGE LETTER: CH. 2

HIGURUMA X READER

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Words: 13.6k+

Ch. 2 Warnings: None. More legal jargon and a lot of talking. Dialog HEAVY.

PAGE TWO

Do you remember the first time you drove me home, Hiromi? 

I don’t think I could forget. I remember how dangerously cold that night was, and how warm you felt by comparison. I still remember the unbearable comfort of being near you when I had already begun to want closeness from you in ways I should not have.

We were so desperate to walk a straight line then, weren’t we? So careful with our voices, so measured with our eyes. Since discretion hardly matters now, I may as well tell you that on the nights I knew I would see you, I always chose my sexiest dresses. The ones with the high slits. The low necklines. Satin that held me in a way I hoped you would notice.

God I was so shy to take off my coat and show you, but that changed after the first night in your car, didn’t it?

It was after the fourth meeting in your office I believe. It was the first time it felt as though words were no longer enough for me, and every silence between us had become its own kind of confession.

If you knew how things would have turned out in the long run, would you have done things differently that night? 

We didn’t know it at the time, but surely that night was the first domino in a long line.

________________________________________________________________

Higuruma Law Office : 1:00am : Morioka

You sat in Higuruma’s office with your hands poised neatly in your lap and your bag resting against your ankle, the posture of someone trying very hard not to take up more space than necessary. 

It was late again—1:00am down to the minute. Higuruma was nothing if not punctual. Efficient in a way that almost seemed cold. He never kept you longer than he had to. He never padded your appointments with meaningless talk to justify the fee. He never acted as though your anxiety, your confusion, or the case itself were excuses to trap you in that room for longer than you had agreed to endure.

He respected your time because you were paying him. He respected your boundaries because that was who he was. He respected the seriousness of your situation enough not to turn it into theater.  By the end of the third meeting, you had already found yourself wishing he were worse at all of it.

Wishing that he might pause over a page a little longer. That he might shuffle through his notes and say there was one more thing he needed to ask. That he might lean back in that chair and drag the conversation out by ten minutes, then twenty, just so you could sit beneath the office lights and watch his mouth soften whenever he said your name. 

He did not. He was disciplined in a way that made the world around him seem sloppy. He built your case with no wasted motion—and somewhere inside all that restraint, you had begun to feel something dangerously close to safety.

That was the problem.

He capped his pen, slid one paper neatly over another. The sound of finality you were beginning to despise. “That’s enough for tonight. I don’t want to push you any further than that.”

You rose with him, smoothing your long coat automatically, and bowed because it felt easier than letting your gratitude show too plainly on your face. “Thank you, Higuruma-sensei. I’ll see you next week, then.”

He gave the slightest nod, already reaching for his coat from the stand by the door. “Please be careful on your way home.”

That too had become routine. The same parting words, spoken in the same measured tone. 

He opened the door for you and stepped aside, one hand still on the frame, and there you were again—released back into the night.

The cold hit you before you’d even reached the stairwell. Your heels clicked once, then slipped slightly, and a curse caught in your throat as freezing slush slicked over the edge of one shoe.

The pain was immediate—the kind that made your whole body tense at once. By the time you reached the bottom step, the cold had already begun seeping into your feet, needling its way through the material and into your skin. You drew your coat tighter, but it was no use. The wind had picked up since you arrived. 

It's miserable out here, −12°C easily, maybe worse with the wind. The kind of cold that was an actual threat. The kind of cold that made the whole town feel abandoned… and Iwate, at that hour, was abandoned.

This was not Tokyo, where the city pulsed all night. This was a smaller place, slower, quieter, with darkened storefronts and shuttered windows and streets that emptied early because people here had the good sense not to linger once the weather turned hostile. 

The trains had stopped hours ago. The buses had stopped just after you left work. That left taxis—rare but not impossible. You had managed it a few times so far. You did have to wait a bit though. Right under a small bus shelter like you’d done in previous weeks.

The shelter offered almost no real protection, just a plastic barrier clouded with scratches and old weather, but it was better than standing fully exposed. You sat down on the bench and tried not to think about how quickly the cold was climbing up your legs. 

You checked the road. Nothing. Checked your phone. Frost had already begun to gather faintly around the edges of the screen where your fingers couldn’t fully warm it. 1:07am.

Five minutes, you told yourself. Five more minutes, and then you’d have to walk home. The thought made your stomach sink. Your area was only about a ten minute drive, but on foot it was an hour, maybe more in this weather. 

Maybe there would be some tiny shop still open halfway there.

You watched the clock dwindle down, and that was when you saw headlights sweep across the snow. They drew nearer, then nearer still, until the car rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the shelter with a quiet crunch of tire against frozen slush.

You blinked as the driver’s side window slid down. “Higuruma-sensei?”

He looked different inside a car than he did behind his desk. Less distant, somehow, though that may only have been the intimacy of the space. One hand rested on the wheel, the other near the gear shift, and even from where you sat you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his expression seemed to be split cleanly down the middle between restraint and disapproval.

He glanced once at the empty road, then back at you. “The buses stopped hours ago. Are you waiting for someone to pick you up?”

The question should have been simple. Somehow it made you feel foolish.

“I—yes… I was waiting for a ride.”

His eyes stayed on you. They were the kind of eyes that made lying feel childish. 

“And when is this ride arriving?”

The wind shoved another gust through the shelter, and you folded in on yourself before you could stop it. “Soon, hopefully.”

He looked away for a moment, not in dismissal but in visible effort, as though he were consulting some internal rulebook and finding every page increasingly unhelpful. 

When he looked back, his expression hardened. “You should not be sitting out here in this weather.”

His tone had shifted. It was still controlled, but there was something unmistakably firmer beneath it now.

“I’m alr-right,” you nodded automatically, though your voice betrayed you by catching on the last word.

“No, you aren’t.”

You looked down, embarrassed by how quickly your composure folded under scrutiny. “I was actually waiting for a taxi to pass. I got one the past few weeks, so I thought…”

“That it would happen again? At this hour? In weather like this?” He leaned his head back once against the seat as though containing frustration—not at you, but at the situation. “There are no taxis coming through regularly now. Not here. Not tonight.”

You rose slowly from the bench, “I didn’t know that,” you spoke, managing a small smile meant more to reassure him than yourself. “Guess I’ll start walking then.”

“No.” The word came out faster than he could process.

It was not harsh. If anything, it was too immediate to be anything but honest. 

“Absolutely not. I’m not letting you walk home in this.”

You gave a helpless little laugh, “You don’t have to let me do anything, Higuruma-sensei.”

“Tonight, I do. It is after one in the morning. The streets are empty. The temperature is dropping, and you are alone.”

That last part landed differently than the rest. Somewhere beneath the simple statement there was an undercurrent you could feel more than name. 

Alone and unprotected. Alone and visible. Alone as a woman on an empty street in a town already asleep.

He flicked on his hazard lights, and before you could answer, he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the driver’s side door to step out.

“Higuruma-sensei—”

He was already out, the wind catching instantly. He rounded the front of the car with one hand braced briefly against the hood as he came to the passenger side. 

“Where do you live?”

You blew warm air desperately into your hands, your fingertips aching so badly now they looked bruised beneath the skin. “You really don’t need to—”

“Where—” His tone gentled by a fraction, but only by a fraction. “...do you live?”

“Tenshojicho.”

His brows drew together once, quick and thoughtful. “That’s on the way.”

You were not sure whether that was true. You suspected it wasn’t entirely. But he said it with enough ease that arguing felt graceless.

“Please, get in.” He’d pull the passenger side door open for you.

You approached the car with reluctance before you ducked in, gathering your coat around you. Warmth met you all at once—not enough to undo the cold yet, but enough to feel the sting.

His car was exactly what you might have imagined. Orderly, no clutter, no trash, no stray receipts or pointless decorations. A leather briefcase rested in the back seat beside a stack of files bound with clips. His umbrella lay tucked neatly in the footwell behind you. Even the dashboard seemed tidy.

He closed the door gently as to not startle you before he walked back around the car and got in. The moment he settled behind the wheel, something crossed his face. You saw it because you were looking.

First the practical reality—his client was in his passenger seat. He was taking that client home after hours, alone, in the middle of the night. No rule had been broken. No line had been crossed, but it felt awfully close.

He glanced at you. “If you would prefer, we can go back upstairs. I can unlock the office and let you wait there until morning, or until the roads are more active.”

The offer was formal enough to protect you from implication. Formal enough to protect himself, too. Yet the effort behind it was obvious.

You shook your head at once. “No. I’ve already kept you long enough.”

“No, you haven’t.”

The answer came so quickly that you turned to him. He seemed to realize it at the same time you did. 

His hand tightened once on the steering wheel. “What I mean is, you are not keeping me. This is simply the sensible thing to do.”

You looked down, suddenly very aware of your own breathing. “Then… thank you.”

He studied you for another second, and whatever he found there seemed to soften him in some private way. “You don’t need to thank me for not leaving you at a bus stop in a blizzard.”

A small, involuntary smile pulled at your mouth. “I still think I should.”

He’d wait a moment for you to buckle yourself in before turning off his hazard lights and pulling away.

For the first few moments, neither of you spoke. The windows had begun to fog faintly, and you were keenly conscious of everything. The proximity of his shoulder, the lines of his profile, the steady competence of his hands on the wheel.

He glanced at your hands, still clasped together tightly in your lap. “You’re freezing.”

“I’ll warm up.”

He adjusted the heat without another word, angling the vents more toward you. As he approached a red light, he reached into the back seat without looking and retrieved a folded wool scarf—dark gray, plain, expensive looking in its simplicity. He held it out.

Your eyes lifted. “I can’t take that.”

“You’re borrowing it.”

“Higuruma-sensei—”

“Please. Your hands are shaking.”

You accepted it then, because refusing would only make you seem childish. The wool was warm from the car, and when you draped it over your lap and tucked part of it around your hands, a subtle scent rose from it—soap. His soap. You hated how much you noticed it. 

“You should have said something before you left.” He spoke.

“About what?”

“That you had no reliable way home.”

You gave a little shrug. “It didn’t seem important.”

His expression changed—not dramatically, but enough. The line between his brows deepened. “It is important.”

You turned your head to watch the lights pass outside, because looking at him while he said things like that was becoming difficult. “It worked out the last few times.”

“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

There it was again—that attorney’s precision, that grave refusal to let a weak argument stand just because it had gone unchallenged before. He wasn’t merely objecting your logic. He was disturbed by it. 

You out here in this cold waiting alone in clothing that a normal winter could tear apart, in a town that offered no protection to someone stranded after midnight.

“You make it sound as though I committed a crime.” You attempted to lighten the mood.

“No, I make it sound as though you exercised poor judgment.”

“That’s a little harsh.”

“That’s a little accurate.”

The reply should have irritated you. Instead it sent a strange little current through you—because there was no mockery in it. He was not teasing you. He was serious because he cared what happened to you. 

You folded the scarf more tightly over your hands. “You really don’t think I would have made it home?”

“I think that people overestimate what they can endure when they have no better option. They tell themselves they are fine because the alternative is admitting they are not.”

The car turned onto a quieter road, one lined with bare trees whose branches looked black against the clouded sky.

You found yourself watching his hands again. Long fingers. Strong wrists disappearing beneath the neat edge of his coat sleeve. A wedding band would have suited those hands, you thought suddenly.

Ah! Stop—

There was nothing indecent in him. That was the danger. A more charming man might have been easier to dismiss. A man who flirted openly, who leaned too close, who knew exactly what effect he had—those men were much more simplistic. 

You could guard yourself against them, but Higuruma moved through the world with such self control that every small kindness felt heavy. 

When he stopped at another light he glanced over once more to assess you. “Are you warming up?”

“Yes.” You nodded. It was the truth, though not the whole.

“Alright.”

You had begun to thaw in increments. First the sting in your fingertips, then the ache in your toes. It was not relief exactly. More like pain changing shape.

After another turn he’d speak again, “I know the district, but I’ll need the address.”

“Oh—right.” You adjusted yourself in the seat. “Can I put it in?”

He gave a short nod toward the phone mounted near the dashboard. “Go ahead.”

You leaned closer, one hand bracing lightly against the center console as you tapped the screen awake. His phone was heavier than you expected when you lifted it from the holder to angle it better, solid in your hand, cased in something built for protection than style. 

You entered your address, the map recalculated, and you slid it back into the holder.

“Tenshojicho, alright.”

A shiver worked through you before you could stop it. Not dramatic. Just a hard involuntary tremor from shoulder to wrist.

He did not comment on it. He simply reached to the console and turned the heat higher before he switched the airflow from the upper vents to both face and floor. Warm air surged toward you with greater force.

You looked over. “Thank you. For this, I mean.”

His gaze remained on the road. “Like I said, it’s on the way. It isn’t an issue.”

It was the kind of answer that should have closed the matter. Instead it only made you more aware of the fact that he was trying to make this feel smaller than it was. Easier. More ordinary. As if the sight of you under that bus shelter had not affected him at all beyond simple practicality. 

You held your hands near the vent and held them there. The blast of heat made your skin prickle, but the cold in you was buried too deep to surrender quickly. Even at full power the car still felt like it was losing a battle against whatever had soaked into your bones outside.

You shivered again, and this time his eyes flicked toward you. “Don’t put your hands that close.”

You paused. “What?”

“It won’t help as much as you think. You’ll warm up faster if you take off your coat.”

Your fingers moved at once to the collar, clutching it closed tighter instead of loosening it. Your heart was pounding. 

“Your coat is damp.” He’d continue. “Snow and condensation. Once that happens, it traps the cold against you. The heater can only do so much through wet fabric. If you take it off, the warm air will actually reach you.”

He kept going in that low, precise cadence of his, explaining heat retention, airflow, and how wet outer layers made people feel colder even after they came inside. It was so earnest.

“Alright, alright.” You laughed. “Damn, Higuruma-sensei. I didn’t realize you were a winter survival expert.”

The corner of his mouth shifted faintly, though his eyes never left the road. “I’m not.”

“No?” You tugged lightly at the lapels. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I know enough not to let someone sit in freezing weather and then keep the wet coat on.”

The bluntness of it made your laugh come a little easier. It softened the nervousness just enough for you to look down at your hands and realize the moment had finally arrived.

You had thought about this—stupidly, secretly, more than once. During the second meeting especially, when you had sat across from him in his office wearing a dress he’d never see because you couldn’t find the courage to take your coat off. 

You had chosen it anyway. They were dresses for work, but really, they were meant for those late night appointments. There was something alluring about being looked at by a man who was too disciplined to ever do so openly.

Four times now you had lost your nerve. Now, here you sat in the passenger seat of his car with all the excuse in the world. There was no graceful way to hesitate without making your hesitation suspicious. So you drew a breath and peeled the coat back from your shoulders.

The change in the air against your skin was immediate. Cool at first, then warm in slow spreading waves where the heat touched bare arms and collarbones. You shrugged the coat off fully and gathered it onto your lap.

Beneath it, the dress revealed itself in one smooth line of dark red.

It was a long bodycon dress, the fabric holding tight from bust to hip before falling into a narrow sweep over your legs, the slit on the right side rising high enough to show a flash of thigh whenever you shifted. The straps were thin, almost delicate, resting against skin the cold had left faintly flushed. 

The neckline was square and low, framing your chest with an elegance that felt only half innocent. You set the coat aside and exhaled.

Higuruma’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. It was a small thing. Brief. Barely visible if someone wasn’t already paying too much attention. His fingers flexed once against the leather, jaw setting a fraction harder than before. He did not look directly. If anything, his posture became more controlled, as though some instinct in him had ordered the rest of his body to lock down before his eyes could betray a lapse.

You did not notice the shift in his jaw. You only noticed that the heater finally reached you properly, spilling over your throat and shoulders and down the bare length of your arms.

“Oh… That’s actually better.”

“It should be.” He nodded.

You slid both feet toward the floor vent, trying to coax life back into them. The warmth hit too fast. Sharp, needling, almost unbearable. You winced and jerked a little in your seat.

His glance came at once. “I told you not to get right against the heater.”

“I’m trying not to lose my toes.”

“You’re not losing your toes.” The scold in his tone was almost domestic in its familiarity. “Move them back a little. You’re only making it hurt more.”

You gave him a eye, but obeyed, inching your feet away from the vent. “Still not used to snow, I guess.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

You turned your head toward him. “You figured that out too?”

“I figured a few things out.”

“What gave it away?”

“You dress for cold weather the way people from warmer places dress for cold weather. Your shoes prioritize appearance over traction. You waited for public transportation that doesn’t run that late in towns like this, and you still carried yourself outside like someone expecting the city to accommodate you.”

A small laugh escaped you. “God. I didn’t realize I had a night in shining armor at my side. Had I known, I might have played up the damsel in distress.”

“No. You wouldn’t.” There was no hesitation in his words. Not even enough to make it playful.

You watched him for a moment. “You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.”

“Why is that?”

His eyes remained forward, but his voice lowered slightly, losing some of the dryness. “Because you don’t ask for help even if you have no choice. You’d rather endure something quietly than risk inconveniencing someone. Even when the inconvenience is imaginary.”

The words landed more softly than any flirtation could have, which was precisely why they worked their way under your skin. You looked at him, then away again. Snow streaked past beyond the window in pale diagonal lines.

“Wow.”

“Wow is right. Poor judgment is not a personality trait.”

That made you laugh. You settled a little deeper into the seat, the red fabric tightening over your thigh where the slit had opened. “Fine. Since apparently you know me so well, what else?”

He’d not hesitate. “You dislike appearing needy. You prefer to frame discomfort as inconvenience rather than vulnerability. You deflect with humor when something gets too close to the truth, and when you’ve made a difficult decision, you tend to commit to it even after it stops serving you.”

Your smile faded. “You make me sound exhausting.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but I heard it.”

His thumb adjusted slightly against the steering wheel. “Then you heard carelessly.”

You glanced over, and there it was again—that unbearable seriousness with which he corrected things. 

You turned toward the window again and rested your head lightly against the seat. “I’ll get used to it eventually. The cold, I mean.”

There was a brief pause before you’d start again.

“I came to Morioka to be with someone almost a year ago.” You watched the snow spin under the streetlights. “I won’t bore you with details. It fell apart about a month after I moved here.”

The car remained very quiet.

“I guess I stayed because…” You smiled without humor. “Because I’m stubborn. If I’m going to commit to something, I commit all the way. Even if it was a mistake. Maybe especially then.”

There was no immediate response from him, which made it easier to keep speaking.

“And besides, there’s something charming about this place. It’s quieter than what I’m used to. Harsher, maybe, but there’s something here that keeps making me feel like I’m not done with it yet. Like there’s… something waiting for me.” You gave a weak little laugh and let your head tip back. “Maybe it’s prison.”

The change in him was instantaneous. His mouth tightened, the crease between his brows deepening. “Don’t joke like that.”

You turned your head so fast the movement tugged lightly at one strap of your dress. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—it wasn’t a jab at you, or your work, I just—”

“I didn’t take it that way.”

Your fingers closed around the scarf still draped across your lap. “I have a bad habit, of making jokes when I’m uncomfortable. I’ll be more careful.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Not irritated. More like someone trying to keep your guilt from running too far once he saw it start. “I didn’t say that to get an apology. Your joke doesn’t offend me, but words like that create a burden you don’t need. You say them often enough, eventually you start lending them weight. Even when you don’t believe them.”

You had no answer ready for that. You turned back to the window because there was nowhere else to put your face.

Why did that make your heart race? What the hell was this feeling? You could not tell whether the sensation was dangerous because you wanted him to stop or because you desperately did not.

He must have sensed the shift in your silence, because after a while his voice came again, quieter now. “You don’t have to monitor every sentence with me.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“Do you?”

The question was so soft it almost undid you. “Not when you ask it like that.”

One of his brows lifted faintly. “How did I ask it?”

“Like you already know the answer.”

“That is often because I do.”

“There’s the expert again.”

“You invited that.”

“I think you appointed yourself.”

“No, you made a series of poor decisions in a blizzard. I intervened.”

You let out a soft incredulous laugh and turned fully toward him now, warmed enough to forget your stiffness for a moment. “That sounded heroic in your head, didn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“You really do think highly of yourself? I’m not even being sarcastic.”

“No, but I think very little of your transportation plan.”

You stared, and then the laugh came again before you could stop it. This time you saw it—the slight easing of his expression at the sound, the way your amusement seemed to take some tension out of him even as he tried not to let it show.

The car grew warmer. Your skin no longer hurt where the air touched it. Now it just tingled. The dress clung more closely as you relaxed into the seat. The slit along your thigh had shifted open farther than before. One strap had slid just a fraction toward the edge of your shoulder. You adjusted neither. Not because you were trying to be cruel. Only because some instinct in you had finally stopped apologizing for wanting to be seen.

He reached over then—not toward you, but toward your vent again. His fingers turned the dial, redirecting the warm air more carefully toward your torso and legs.

“This is better. Let it work gradually.”

You watched his hand withdraw. “You say things like that in a tone that makes it sound less like advice and more like orders.”

“I’m aware.”

“That doesn’t concern you?”

“It should concern you more than me.”

That one made your mouth part before you smiled.

You looked down, smoothing the red fabric once over your thigh. “You know, if I’d known tonight would come with a full assessment of my personality and survival skills, I might have charged you a fee.”

He glanced at you at last, just for a second. In that second his gaze dropped inevitably, involuntarily from your face to the line of the dress, to the exposed slope of skin above the square neckline, to the slit at your thigh where red fabric parted. Then it snapped back to the road so cleanly that someone less attentive might have believed it hadn’t happened at all.

The car remained quiet after that. Not tense in any obvious way, but the ease between you had shifted. 

You turned your face toward the side window and let the town slide by in fragments. You watched your own reflection for a second too long, then looked through it.

That was when you noticed the lights. At first it was only a brightness ahead, diffused through the snow. Then the brightness multiplied, resolving into rows of red brake lights stretching farther than they should have at this hour. 

Higuruma frowned as he drove immediately into bumper to bumper traffic that seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

The effect was surreal. One moment, empty winter roads and quiet neighborhoods. The next, a line of idling cars packed nose to tail under the streetlamps, exhaust curling up in pale clouds, their taillights staining the snowbanks with a dull bloody glow.

His eyes flicked once to the phone mounted on the dash. The route line was still blue. Still clear. “Shit.”

The word sounded so rare in his mouth that it almost startled you more than the traffic itself.

Your eyes widened as you leaned just slightly toward the screen. “Where did this come from?”

He exhaled, irritable now in that tightly contained way of his. The kind of irritation that belonged to men who resented inefficiency on principle.

“Probably an accident or a road closure.”

You stared at the GPS. “No way. It says it’s clear.”

“It’s catching up.” He put on the brake more firmly as the line of cars compressed another few feet ahead. “It probably just happened.”

Then the realization struck you all at once. “Higuruma-sensei—I’m so sorry.” You looked back, then at him, then back at the road, guilt rising fast. “I think you can still back out if you need to, I mean. You can go home from here. I’ll walk.”

Even as you said it, your hands had already moved for your coat where it lay bunched on your lap. You gathered it up and started threading one arm in.

His hand came across the center console at once. Not touching you, just there hovering in clean refusal between you and the coat.

“Stop.”

You froze halfway through the motion.

“I’m not turning around. It’s still a twenty minute walk from here in this weather. That’s absurd.”

You held still for a beat longer before letting the coat lay back into your lap.

He shifted in his seat. “Even if I did want to back out, which I don’t, there are already cars behind us. We’re here.”

As if to prove him right, another set of headlights slid in behind the car and stopped.

You sank back against the seat, mortified. “God.”

A little farther ahead, the brake lights all dipped in sequence and rose again. The line moved perhaps two car lengths. Higuruma followed it, then stopped once more. A moment later, after another motionless minute, he put the car in park. The sound of the gear shift settling felt weirdly final.

You turned to him with wide eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

This time he actually looked at you. He sank a fraction deeper into the seat, not slouched exactly, but with the weary acknowledgement of a man recognizing that his night had just lengthened against his will. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

You bit lightly at your lower lip. “I—”

“You didn’t cause the accident.” He cut you off before you could build yourself into another apology. “You didn’t close the road. You didn’t force me to take this turn, and you did not ask for this ride.”

You still shrank a little under it anyway. “Yes, but—”

“No.” The word was quieter this time, but no less decisive.

You looked down at your hands, then back at him. “I just feel like you could have turned around and gone home. I could walk from here. I know it’s cold, but twenty minutes is nothing.”

His head turned toward you more fully now. “It is not nothing… and why do you keep saying I could turn around? I told you this was on the way. Why do you keep assuming it isn’t?”

You held his gaze. “Higuruma-sensei…”

“Yes?”

“You do not live in Tenshojicho.”

He crossed his arms then, slow and composed, “Based on what?”

There it was. Not quite teasing. Too measured for that. More like he had chosen to build a structure for the next few minutes and was now inviting you inside it. A position. An argument. A small private courtroom to pass the time. He argued for sport.

You shifted in the seat, tucking one leg slightly beneath the other and settling more snugly into the warmth, “Well, for starters when you pulled over at the bus stop, you were preparing to head south.”

One of his brows lifted a fraction. “Was I?”

“You were.” Your smile widened. “Your right turn signal was on before you saw me.”

“Interesting.”

“It is.”

He looked forward again, as though granting you the floor. “Go on.”

“Tenshojicho is not south of your office. Not unless we’ve both been dramatically misinformed about Morioka.”

“Circumstantial.”

You let out a soft disbelieving laugh. “Circumstantial?”

“Entirely.” His tone stayed smooth. “A right turn only establishes that I intended to turn right. It does not establish my residence.”

“You were leaving the office heading south.”

“I was leaving the office heading somewhere.”

“Convenient revision.”

“Precision. Continue.

You clicked your tongue softly. “Fine. Then let’s discuss your second mistake.”

He turned his head just enough for you to see the corner of his mouth threaten movement again. “My mistake?”

“Yes. When I gave you my district, you said, ‘That’s on the way’ far too quickly.”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “That is not evidence.”

“Yes it is.”

“It is speculation, and it’s inadmissible.”

You laughed under your breath. “Only because it hurts your case.”

“It doesn’t hurt my case. It simply isn’t a case.”

“Okay, well, it’s a case now.”

His face remained serious, but there was a composure in him now that hadn’t been there when the traffic first appeared. This was easier for him than silence. Argument, structure, a point to make and defend. Even when the stakes were absurdly small.

He looked at you. “Proceed.”

The permission in that one word sent a faint, ridiculous chill up your spine.

You disguised it by turning toward the windshield as though consulting the facts. “Third, you’re too careful with language to have said ‘on the way’ unless you knew it was misleading but useful.”

He regarded you for a beat. “You’re saying I lied.”

“I’m saying, that you chose an answer with just enough flexibility to pass as truthful under casual scrutiny.”

“Alright, is there more?”

“Oh, plenty.”

“I’m sure.”

“You offered no neighborhood landmarks. No hesitation. No need to think.” You lifted one finger as if counting points to a judge. “A person actually headed home would have said something like, ‘That’s near where I live,’ or ‘I go that way anyway.’ Instead, you said exactly what would get me into the car with the least argument.”

His gaze stayed fixed on you. “And your conclusion?”

“That you knew I wouldn’t accept the ride if you made it sound like a detour.”

You saw it in the brief stillness that came over him. In the way his eyes held yours a second longer before shifting toward the windshield… he was impressed.

When he spoke again, his voice was even lower than before. “That’s an inference.”

“A strong one.”

“Still an inference.”

You tilted your head. “You haven’t denied it.”

“That is not the same thing as admitting it.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m protecting the record.”

“By refusing to answer?”

“By refusing to dignify speculation with confirmation.”

“That isn’t the point,” you muttered.

“Then what is?”

“The point is that you went out of your way.”

He did not reply.

“You did, and you won’t admit it because then I’d have to thank you properly, and you clearly hate that.”

A faint huff of breath left him. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. “I don’t hate it, I just object to unnecessary gratitude.”

“Unnecessary according to you.”

“Correct.”

“That’s not how gratitude works.”

“That depends on the facts.”

You stared at him. “You really can turn anything into a hearing.”

“Yes,” he nodded.

No smile. No performance. Just yes.

He’d then tilt his head a fraction. “Are you finished?”

“With this line of argument?”

“With all of it.”

You pretended to consider. “No. I have one more piece of evidence.”

“Of course you do.”

“You came back.”

His expression did not change, but the air did.

You watched him carefully. “You had already left. You were gone, and then you came back. You realized I was out there and you turned around.”

A beat passed long enough to let the silence settle.

“Yes,” he nodded.

Just that. Not because he had lost the argument. Not because you had cornered him into confession, but because that particular fact was not one he intended to contest.

Your heart gave a strange, hard little beat. “Then I think my case stands.”

He regarded you for a moment longer, then shifted slightly in his seat. “Your case has merit.”

The concession came with such grave reluctance that it felt absurdly satisfying.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “So I win?”

“No.”

Your brows lifted. “No?”

“You’ve established that I turned around. You have not established where I live.”

You stared at him, then laughed outright. “That is such a lawyer answer.”

“It is the correct answer.”

You looked at him from the corner of your eye, still smiling a little. “Fine. Then I’ll amend my claim.”

“Dangerous choice.”

“Why?”

“Because amended claims invite scrutiny.”

You shifted toward him just slightly. “Then scrutinize this one, Higuruma-sensei.” His eyes met yours. “You may not live in Tenshojicho, but you were never going to leave me at that bus stop.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

Something in your chest tightened and then loosened all at once, like a knot being pulled free too quickly. You lowered your eyes for a moment, then lifted them again with a smile that tried for lightness and only partly succeeded.

“I understand that the burden of proof is on me, but, I still want you to defend.”

He studied you, and you could almost see the shift happen—the way the request touched some private instinct in him and woke it cleanly. His posture changed first. He sat a little straighter in the driver’s seat, not stiffly, but with that subtle gathering of himself you had already begun to recognize from his office, from the way he handled difficult questions and weak arguments and people who mistook his quiet for concession. 

His shoulders squared. One hand came off the wheel and settled on his thigh. The other remained near the gear shift, fingers relaxed now.

“You want a defense?”

You nodded, playing along. “You’re a defense attorney, aren’t you, Higuruma-sensei?”

His eyes held yours a moment too long. “I am.”

“Then defend your position.”

“Okay… First, the phrase on the way is not, in itself, false simply because it lacks precision. Routes are not moral documents. They can be adjusted. They can be expanded. A detour does not become deception merely because the speaker elected not to burden the listener with unnecessary detail.”

You blinked once, then smiled.

He continued, “Second—the fact that I turned around proves only that I exercised judgment in response to changed circumstances. The changed circumstance being that my client was stranded alone at a bus stop after midnight in dangerous weather. Any implication beyond that is speculation unsupported by evidence.”

His voice had gone lower, firmer, every sentence clipped with elegant certainty. 

“Third, the assertion that I misled you assumes intent to conceal, but my purpose was not concealment, only efficiency—if I knew that insisting on the practical necessity of the ride would invite pointless resistance—then the statement was not deceptive. It was strategic.”

You laughed softly under your breath. “Strategic.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds suspiciously self serving, but go on.”

“Fourth, your argument relies heavily on inference and tone. On the speed of my answer. On my choice of phrasing. On what you imagined my intentions to be. Those are not facts. Those are impressions, and impressions, however persuasive, are not sufficient grounds for a verdict.”

He turned his head then, just enough for his gaze to touch yours. “In court I would argue that your case is emotionally intuitive, but evidentially weak.”

He said it without flourish. Without ego. Just with that quiet devastating competence of his. You could only stare at him for a second, warmth rising slowly up your throat and into your face.

“Damn,” you murmured.

Something flickered in his eyes. “That is what I would say if we were in court… but we’re not in court.” He leaned back again, though not far, and his voice lost none of its composure. If anything, it became more intimate for how little it changed. “And you know you’re right.”

The red lights ahead painted the windshield in soft blurred bars. Somewhere farther down the line, blue emergency lights flashed faintly through the weather. You sat very still.

He went on before you could respond. “You want my real reasoning?”

Your mouth had gone slightly dry. “Do I?”

A faint exhale. “Probably not.”

That only made you want it more. “Yes.” 

His eyes dropped briefly to your hands in your lap, then rose again. “Leaving you at a bus stop after midnight in subzero weather alone would have been absolutely indefensible.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Each word landed carefully, each one more unbearable than the last because of how plainly he said them.

“And after what happened to you two months ago. Knowing what I know—” He stopped there for a beat, jaw tightening once. “No. There was no version of that decision I could justify. Professionally or otherwise.”

The last words were quiet enough that you might have imagined them if not for the way they seemed to move through you, warm and sharp all at once.

He looked ahead again, though not because he was done, but perhaps it was easier to say the rest without watching your face.

“You were cold enough that your hands had started to change colors. Your shoes were wet. You were waiting in a place where no one that could help you was coming.” His fingers shifted once against his thigh. “And you still thought your first responsibility was not to inconvenience me.”

Your heart was beating so hard now it felt almost audible.

“That is not something I was going to indulge. So if you’re asking for my actual position—there it is.”

You lowered your eyes because you had to. Looking at him while he said things like that… you just couldn’t. Bashfulness came over you so suddenly it almost embarrassed you more than the conversation itself. 

He had made concern sound like a judgment passed in your favor. Made protectiveness sound non negotiable, ironclad. 

After a moment, his voice came again, quieter and almost formal once more, “Closing statements?”

You looked up, startled into a small laugh. “Me?”

One eyebrow rose. “You may rest your case.”

Your smile deepened. “No.” You began settling further into the seat and turning toward him. “Let’s do closings.”

Something in his expression shifted in approval. The kind he would never call approval.

“Proceed.”

You drew a slow breath. “Your honor, the defense has presented an elegant argument built on… procedural ambiguity, selective phrasing, and an obvious attempt to avoid accountability.”

The faintest glint entered his eyes.

“He claims the phrase on the way was strategic rather than misleading. He argues that his actions were motivated by circumstance, not preference… and he would have this court believe that turning around in the snow to retrieve a stranded woman after midnight was a neutral act of logistics.”

“Compelling so far,” he murmured.

“Thank you.” You lifted your chin just slightly. “However, the prosecution would like to note that the defendant’s own testimony has already undermined his position.”

“Would it?”

“It would. Because regardless of route, neighborhood, or semantics, he has admitted to the central fact that he came back. That he found the alternative unacceptable. That leaving me there would have been indefensible.”

You saw the slightest movement in his throat, but you kept going, because if you stopped now you might never recover the nerve.

“The prosecution therefore submits that this was never really about geography. It was about the fact that you couldn’t leave me there, and somewhere in that, Higuruma-sensei, intent becomes very difficult to deny.”

Silence. Not empty silence. Held silence. You just knew he would be proud… but then—

“That is not a closing statement.”

You blinked. “It isn’t?”

“No. You’re still arguing.”

You stared at him, then smiled. “Fine. Then you do one.”

He inclined his head as though accepting a challenge formally entered into the record. “Very well.”

He turned his gaze forward once more. He’d clear his throat, ““The defense concedes, that the decision to return was not made lightly, nor was it made solely out of convenience. It further concedes that had the plaintiff not been visibly at risk, the defendant would not have intervened. However, the defense rejects the implication that concern requires confession. A person may act because something is necessary—because failing to act would violate their judgment, their ethics, or their sense of responsibility.”

The words should have put distance back between you. Instead they only sharpened the closeness in a different way.

He glanced at you then. “And sometimes… because they would not be able to sleep otherwise.”

Your breath caught. It was such a small thing. Such a restrained admission, but it struck you.

He looked away again almost immediately, as if the sentence had escaped further than intended and he had no interest in helping it travel any farther.

“The defense therefore submits that the prosecution has correctly identified the act, but remains overly ambitious in assigning motive.”

You looked at him, warm all over now in a way the heater could not explain. “Overly ambitious?”

“Yes.”

“That’s absolutely rich coming from someone who just implied I’d haunt your conscience.”

His brow furrowed faintly. “I did not say haunt.”

You smiled slowly. “You would have thought about it.”

His jaw tightened just enough to count. “Yes.”

The answer was immediate, and that did something awful to your composure.

You’re very good at this,” you murmured.

“At what?”

“Making it impossible to tell whether you’re arguing with me or agreeing with me.”

His answer came without pause. “I’m doing both.”

You laughed softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

He turned then, one arm still braced loosely near the wheel, “Are you satisfied with the defense’s position?”

The question was formal, thought the look in his eyes was not.

You let the silence stretch just a second, “Not entirely.”

“No?”

“No. I think the defense is still withholding.”

His gaze held yours. “And what does the prosecution believe is being withheld?”

You let your fingers smooth once over the scarf in your lap, “Intent.”

The word sat between you, and he didn’t rescue either of you from it.

Outside, the traffic remained frozen under the snowfall. Inside, the car felt almost too warm now, too close, too full of everything neither of you had any business saying at nearly two in the morning in a stalled lane of winter traffic… yet neither of you looked away.

“The intent was to make sure you got home safely above all else. Without debate, without delay, and without giving you another opportunity to decide that your comfort mattered less than mine.”

The words themselves were practical. Professional, even, but in this car, in this heat, with the two of you in close proximity… it felt much closer than that.

You lowered your eyes for a moment, fingertips smoothing over the wool scarf in your lap, then glanced back up and caught something almost thoughtful in his expression.

“What?” You smiled softly.

His brow shifted. “You’re sharper than most clients.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Being a lawyer isn’t much different than being a hostess.”

He turned to you fully. “Excuse me?”

“Oh? You think you’re better than me?”

“I did not say that.”

“No, but I heard it.”

His mouth flattened. “That’s not what I was implying.”

“Higuruma-sensei, I could read you within an inch of your life if I wanted to.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.” Your smile widened. “Watch. Let’s roleplay.”

One of his brows lifted. “That is a dangerous request.”

“You’ll live.” You shifted in your seat, turning more fully toward him. “You’re a new client. You didn’t even request me, but I’m the only one available, so here we are.”

He gave you a dry look, already suspicious.

“And let’s make it difficult. I’m not even your type. My personality doesn’t match yours. You don’t like my dress. With all the women available, I’d be your last choice. Let’s frontload everything to make the scenario juicy.”

He stared at you for a moment. “This seems deliberately engineered to be impossible.”

“What does that—anyway it’s just acting.”

He’d sigh, “This is going to be difficult to roleplay.”

“Come on. This is important!”

“Fine.”

You straightened immediately. Your posture changed in an instant—back longer, chin lifted, shoulders soft but poised. Your smile turned bright and polished and devastating. You had the sort of smile made to put a man at ease while revealing absolutely nothing behind the curtain.

“Good evening,” your voice came in sweet and honeyed. “It is my pleasure to service you this evening. May I ask your name, please, sir?”

He looked at you, genuinely at a loss for one second. “Are you being serious?”

You did not break character. “Absolutely. Unless you’d prefer I simply call you handsome.”

He exhaled like he didn’t know how to respond.

You carried on smoothly. “Please, have a seat. Let me take your coat. It’s terribly warm, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine.”

You gave a delighted little laugh. “Oh, I love a man committed to the outfit. Certainly the jacket completes the look, doesn’t it? I apologize for even suggesting you might change it.” Your head tilted just slightly. “How was work, handsome? Long day?”

He cleared his throat. “Just call me Higuruma—and work was fine. I’m tired.”

You widened your eyes. “Higuruma-sama. How generous of you to share such a strong name with me. I’ll make sure you feel refreshed before you head back out into the world. What do you do for a living? You seem like the type to use your mouth a lot. If it makes you more comfortable, you can relax while I do all the work—talking that is.”

His jaw moved once. “You appear to be doing that already.”

Still smiling, still perfectly in character, you leaned into it. You asked a number of questions, and to his credit, he played along. Dryly and cautiously, sure, but he gave you enough to keep going. 

Somewhere in the middle of one of your smiling provocations, he reached for the buttons of his coat. One… then another. He shrugged it off and set it aside.

It was only then that you finally broke character.

Your eyes dropped to the coat, then lifted slowly to his face. “You fucked up, Higuruma-sensei.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You want me to roll it back?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’m going to tell you every point you messed up inside the roleplay and you’re gonna be surprised.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and smiled. “I bet I even know your favorite color.”

One brow rose. “I’m ready to be surprised.”

You gave him a look full of false sympathy. “It’s your funeral, Higuruma-sensei.”

“Proceed.”

“Okay so when I offered to take your coat  you said no immediately—but you touched the cuff of your sleeve right after.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “And?”

“That’s a sign of a man suddenly conscious of how he’s presenting.” You smiled. “You wanted to keep the jacket on because it gave you structure. Armor.”

His mouth flattened, but he did not argue.

You continued, “Next, when I called you handsome, you didn’t reject it. You redirected. You changed my wording instead of shutting the compliment down.”

“That is hardly revealing.”

“It is if I’m working.” You crossed one leg over the other carefully, dress shifting over your thigh. “A man who truly dislikes flattery swats it away. You didn’t. You just tried to manage it.”

His gaze flicked down for one brief traitorous second at the movement of your dress, then back to your face.

“Then—”, your smile deepening because you saw that, “you let me take the lead almost immediately. Even when you were correcting me, you were still following my pace. That means control matters to you, yes—but only when you trust that the person holding it won’t waste it.”

He said nothing… That silence was answer enough.

“Lastly, when I asked how work was, you gave me the efficient version first. ‘Fine. I’m tired.’ Two facts. But then your shoulders dropped right after, only a little. That means you were more tired than you wanted to admit.”

His eyes moved over your face with that same grave, unreadable focus that always made your skin warm.

You rested back against the seat, pleased with yourself now, “You kept trying to look like a difficult client, but what you actually looked like was a man deciding, in real time, how much softness he was willing to receive.”

He looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, “And how would you handle me, then?”

The question was simple, yet the way he asked it was not.

“With caution. I wouldn’t crowd you. I wouldn’t flatter too hard too fast because then you’d start suspecting motive. I’d keep it light at first, let you pretend you were the one setting the pace. I’d ask questions that made you feel seen without making you feel exposed, and I’d never try to force warmth on you directly. I’d place it beside you and let you decide when you were ready to reach for it.”

He looked away for just a moment. “And my favorite color?” 

You brightened at once. “Ah. Yes. People probably assume it’s black or gray. Something blunt. Something easy that matches the whole restrained lawyer image. But it isn’t. It’s blue.”

He still didn’t move. He was just watching you and listening now. Fully focused on you.

“Dark blue, not bright. Not cheerful. A color that reads almost black until you spend enough time with it. The color of the night sky before it turns fully dark. The color of deep water. The color of things that look controlled on the surface. The color of boundlessness disguised as restraint.”

He looked away briefly. The read was so clean. He couldn’t acknowledge it or his words might not come out how he needed them to.

His voice had gone quieter. “...I removed my jacket because it’s hot in here and you are obviously still cold.”

You blinked. “You could adjust the heat.”

“No.” The word came too fast.

He turned back to you, expression composed but firmer now, as though he had no intention of letting you misread this.

“No, that wasn’t the point.”

Your eyes dropped briefly to the coat beside him, then returned to his face. He had taken it off because you were cold. He had been watching you, noting every shiver, every stiff movement of your hands, every way you were still trying to hide discomfort under politeness—and somewhere in that quietly relentless mind of his, the simplest answer had been to strip away one of his own layers first.

The realization settled in you slowly and all at once. Your smile this time came much softer. Smaller. Far less protected.

“Higuruma-sensei… you really are easy to read.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Only to you.”

Only to you.

You tried not to sit there treasuring those simple words, but the truth was you did. The car felt different now. Not smaller exactly, just more inhabited if at all possible. Less like a temporary shelter and more like a room made together out of circumstance.

You turned your head toward him again. “You know, you can't just say things like that to me… Now I’m going to get cocky.”

“I think that ship sailed some time ago.”

You laughed softly. “Probably.”

He glanced at you, a little more openly than before. “You enjoy this.”

“Talking?”

“Winning.”

“I’m winning? Oh wow! I didn’t realize I had.”

His mouth moved at one corner. “I see that wasn’t a denial.”

You tipped your head against the seat and looked at him through your lashes with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe I just like making you say what you actually mean, and that feels like a win.”

“I always say what I mean.”

“I don’t think that’s true, but I’ll leave it there.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze settled briefly on your face, then moved back toward the windshield. “Argumentative to the very end.”

The conversation moved along, and you found yourselves talking about small things. About how towns like this had their own tempo, and how, for all it’s very quiet. 

You’d watch the snow fall in spirals, illuminated by the soft streetlamps. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to find romance in places like this… moments like this.

“Morioka I think is much more revealing than somewhere like Tokyo or Osaka.” You nodded, “It’s smaller here. Less places to hide. I feel so exposed here.”

“I suspected as much.”

“What gave it away this time?” You turned back to him.

“You seem like someone who was taught to move quickly before you were taught how to rest.”

The answer came so simply that it took you a second to absorb it. “That was smooth.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

“It was an observation.”

“Those are your smoothest lines. Observation.”

His expression made the faintest concession to amusement. “That sounds like a criticism.”

“It isn’t.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and looked out the window again, watching winter light slide over the edges of the road. “I don’t trust men who sound rehearsed.”

“Then you would find me quite disappointing.”

“Not at all.” You spoke before thinking.

The words landed gently, but they still landed. You felt it, and so did he.

You cleared your throat softly, “Actually, I think I like men who are a little difficult to get to know.”

His brow lifted by a fraction. “That seems inefficient.”

You laughed. “You make everything sound so clinical.”

“That does not answer the point.”

“I think if someone tells you everything immediately, it doesn’t feel like trust. It just feels like noise. I don’t like a man who’s going to open himself to the world. Be kind, sure, but save that soft center for me. I like a person with layers. The ones that don’t spend all day trying to be charming. Then you don’t have to guess when they’re being authentic.”

The car grew still around the sentence. You hadn’t meant anything by it. Not consciously. You were only talking—but the moment the words were out, you became aware of how close to home they must have been for him. How precisely they described the man beside you.

His eyes remained on the road, and he was still. Like he was solving some kind of puzzle in his head that you could never get a glimpse at.

“That sounds like a great deal of work.”

You smiled. “Worthwhile things usually are.”

He looked at you then, and it was brief but not casual. The kind of glance that seemed to check whether you understood what you had just said.

“You say that as if you’ve spent a lot of time testing it.”

You shrug, “Maybe I have.”

“Have you?”

“Of course I have. I spend a lot of time around strangers who are trying to impress me, and when you do that you start noticing what makes them relax. What makes them tense. What they pretend not to need, and what they wish someone would notice without making them ask for it. Very rarely do men come to my job extremely guarded, but when they do, I don’t forget.”

You laughed softly, trying to lighten what you hadn’t meant to make so serious. “But that’s hostessing. It’s not just pouring drinks and smiling and looking pretty. It’s timing. It’s reading. Knowing when to step in and when to let someone keep their pride intact.”

Higuruma looked at you with an expression you couldn’t immediately name. He was… impressed with you perhaps. 

“Guess that isn’t very far from law… You may want to continue hostessing forever, but you’d be wasting your talent in my opinion. You should be in law.”

You were shocked by his words, stunned. So much so that it took you a moment to even respond. “You think so?”

He gave the smallest shrug, but there was no uncertainty in it. “I would hire you.”

“For real?!”

He nodded once. “Yes, I would."

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

You looked down for a second, smiling helplessly to yourself, then back up. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”

“Then the people around you have poor judgment.”

You laughed under your breath. “Maybe.”

He studied you another moment, “Only issue is that you’d would probably hate it.”

That made you blink. “Law?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you like people too much.”

The answer surprised you. “That’s a flaw?”

“It isn’t.” He adjusted one hand on the wheel. “But it would become expensive in that line of work. Not in terms of money, I mean it’s emotionally taxing.”

“You think I’d be too soft?”

“Maybe.”

You tilted your head. “But you’d still hire me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

His glance was brief but direct. “Because you notice what matters, and you can lead without making the other person feel handled. You understand performance and sincerity are not opposites. I think you would be very good at it.”

Warmth climbed slowly into your face. You could feel it. “Between which meeting did you come to that conclusion about me?”

He’d shrug.

“I wouldn’t mind papers all day, you know? I mean, maybe not all day. I’d complain in symphonies, but I could do it.”

“Alright, then when this case is behind us, if you’re serious about it, the position will be open.”

For a second you thought you had misheard him. You turned fully in your seat. “Wait.”

He glanced over. “What?”

“You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“This wasn’t a joke? This was a real conversation?”

“This was a real conversation.”

Your heart gave one hard, startled beat.

You stared at him, trying to work out whether this was one of his dry jokes, but there was no joke in his face. You didn’t have a law degree though… guess you didn’t need one for the work he’d put you up to. Maybe you could get one while you worked for him!

Just as you looked over at him, you noticed his face was getting quite red. It may have been from the conversation, but it was definitely from the heat in the car. You were still kind of cold, but he looked like he was suffering a little.

You reached for the heat dial. Some shy reflex in you wanted to lower it, to take the edge off the intensity he was enduring. Your fingers had barely touched the control when his hand closed around your wrist.

Not hard by any means. It was far too light to hurt, but it was immediate and firm enough to stop you.

“Stop.”

Your breath caught. You looked down at his hand, then up at him. The contact itself was so brief but it made your heart race.

“Higuruma-sensei, you’re sweating.”

“I’m fine.” He released you then, but the warmth of his hand remained.

“Why are you so stubborn?”

“Why do you always act as if your comfort and safety should come second to inconveniencing someone?”

You opened your mouth. “I don’t—”

“Stop doing that.”

He did not raise his voice. If anything, he sounded gentler than before. That was what made it hit. There was no irritation in him now. You could hear, suddenly and unmistakably, how much it had bothered him to find you where he had found you tonight.

“I don’t know how other people have treated you in the past, but when you’re in my car, you put the heat on what you want.”

Your throat tightened as you listened.

“If you are sitting at a bus stop at one in the morning on an empty street in freezing weather, I do not care if you live all the way in Sapporo. You call me.”

You had no answer ready. There was too much in it. Not because the offer itself was extravagant, it was because of the tone. Concern sat in his voice with such quiet authority that refusing it felt less like modesty and more like defiance.

He exhaled slowly, “You get off work at 11:30pm, correct?”

You shook your head a little, already overwhelmed by where you knew this was going. “Higuruma-sensei, I—”

“Correct.” He answered himself before you could dodge it. “Your job is ten minutes from the office. On the nights we meet I can pick you up and take you home. It is not an issue.”

Your heart was pounding now, so hard it felt almost embarrassing.

Everything in you wanted to reject it out of reflex. To say no, you couldn’t ask that of him. You would figure something out… but you knew where his mind was.

He was solving a problem he had already decided he would not allow to happen again. You could see it plainly. He did not want you improvising your safety. He did not want you gambling in this weather at that hour. What happened two months ago had clearly sat heavy with him.

Against all other options you wanted to take, you’d just nod… “Okay… thank you.”

Something in his shoulders eased, it was slight but present. “Good.”

The word should have sounded final. Instead it felt oddly warm.

You smirked before you could stop yourself, the warmth of the moment making you bolder than you probably should have been. “Wow, your partner must be treated very well, huh?”

The question slipped out dressed as a joke, but the intent behind it was so embarrassingly clear.

You pressed on anyway, because retreating would have made it worse. “Do they mind you taking a client home this late? Well, not that anything—”

“Objection. Leading.” He cut across you so cleanly that you turned to stare.

“What?”

His expression remained composed, but he lingered somewhere between a joke and seriousness. “You asked a leading question.”

You blinked. “I was asking a normal question.”

“You were embedding an assumption inside the question.”

You let out a soft laugh. “No, I was trying to make sure they’d be okay with this.”

He shook his head once. “Objection.”

Your mouth parted. “On what grounds?”

He held your gaze this time, “Relevance.”

“Would you stop talking like a lawyer for one second?” It is not an irrelevant question.”

“It is.”

“It absolutely is not. If I had a man I’d be a little pissed if he were taking someone places in the middle of the night.”

He exhaled. “It’s not someone, and it’s not places.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That is a ridiculous distinction.”

“It’s taking a client to the office and then home.”

You gave a tiny shrug, “I don’t care. I’d still be upset.”

His brows rose a fraction. “You are a client of mine. I have a vested interest in your safety. It’s fairly cut and dry. There’s nothing there to be jealous of.”

Something in you went quiet at that. It wasn’t totally dramatic, but you leaned back into the seat and angled yourself away by a few degrees, your shoulder settling more into the door than before.

“I guess.”

His eyebrows knitted slightly as he looked at you, and his next words came more carefully. “That seems to disappoint you.”

You turned your head. “No, I’m not disappointed.”

His hand tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

The silence that followed was not comfortable. You could feel him deciding whether to let your answer stand, and you could feel yourself hoping he would.

He’d take a deliberate pause before choosing his next words carefully.

“If anything happened between myself and a client while I was representing them, that would be a conflict of interest. It could jeopardize the case. It could jeopardize my ability to represent that person properly. I won’t risk a client’s well being over selected moments of pleasure.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose and looked down at the scarf in your lap, fingers worrying the edge of the wool. “You don’t have to be vague.”

He glanced at you briefly. “I was vague with intent.”

You fidgeted with the scarf, buying yourself a second. “So things do get complicated for lawyers and their clients?”

He shook his head. “Not for me.”

“I see. Very professional. Right down to the last button of your shirt.” You managed a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Glad I went to the right guy, then.”

“You want me to stop being vague, then let me say this. I won’t jeopardize your case. Playing with people’s lives is not why I got into this profession.”

His words reminded you exactly who he was—serious, ethical to a fault, unwilling to take liberties with anything that mattered. Especially not this. Especially not you.

So why did you still feel that stupid, childish weight in your chest?

You smiled again, smaller this time. “No wonder your relationship is so solid.”

The moment the words left you, you almost cringed. What the hell was wrong with you?

You’d known this man for about a month. Four meetings. Four crisp hours under soft lights and one night in a car warmed too high. How on earth had you managed to feel disappointed that he wouldn’t cross a professional line? That he was unwilling to? That he was exactly as honorable as he had seemed from the beginning?

That was a good thing. A very good thing.

It meant he took your case seriously. It meant that even if there were feelings somewhere in the margins he would not act on them. He would do his job. He would protect you properly. He would not turn your life into collateral damage for the sake of a moment’s weakness.

That was good… so why did it sting?

You laughed softly at yourself, because the alternative was letting the feeling show too much. “Know any public defenders who’d be willing to risk it all?”

It was ridiculous. An obvious joke. Something airy and silly meant to lift the heaviness you’d created.

“No, and you won’t be looking for one.”

The words were simple, but the effect was not. He seemed to realize it too late the extent of what he’d just said. It was too late though, and he did not take it back.

You stared at him for a second, “What?”

“You have representation. I’m already handling your case. I’m responsible for your defense.”

You lowered your eyes, “I was kidding, by the way.”

“I know.” The answer came so firmly that you looked back up. “You joke when you want to see how close you can get to something. Then when someone answers honestly, you retreat and call it a joke.”

“That is a very unfair assessment.”

“It’s not unfair, actually.”

“I wasn’t trying to make this weird.”

“You didn’t. It is a reasonable question. You wanted to know where the boundaries are.”

You swallowed. “And?”

“They’re exactly where I said they are.”

He had given you the boundary, yes—but he had also shown you the edge of something pressed right up against it. Something that did not cease to exist simply because he refused to act on it.

You turned your face toward the window again, smiling faintly at your own reflection layered over the dark. You were far too in your head on this and you should definitely let it go.

“For the record—I don’t have a partner.”

He did not elaborate. Did not look at you. Did not soften the sentence with any explanation at all. He just gave you the fact and left it there.

You exhaled lightly, “Objection—relavance.”

After what seemed like ages, the line of cars finally began to loosen. Not all at once. Just gradually. Brake lights flickering, tires rolling forward over wet black road, the long red chain of stopped traffic was finding its rhythm again. 

Somewhere up ahead a detour had opened down a narrower side street, and one by one the cars were being siphoned away from the blockage.

Higuruma followed the flow without comment, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. The car moved at last, but your mind was still in the past. Why did he tell you that he wouldn’t cross any lines only to tell you he was single? 

The rest of the drive should have felt simpler after that, but it didn’t. The conversation came easier now, less edged by argument and more warmed by familiarity.

The traffic moved better now, but it seemed the universe had found another way to be difficult. Every light you approached turned red just in time to catch you. Every intersection stalled you for another minute. Red light after red light. As though the whole town had decided it was invested in keeping the two of you trapped together just a little longer.

The universe absolutely wanted one of you to break, and you knew damn well it would not be him.

You just sat there in silence. Every now and then you caught his profile—the line of his nose, the shadow of his lashes, the tiredness in him that somehow only made him more alluring.

You drifted into easier topics for a while. Asked him what he listened to on long drives. He said mostly silence. Hot. You told him that was deeply unsettling behavior, but you were lying. He said it helped him think. Hot. 

By the time the streets began to look properly familiar to you, the conversation had softened into something almost domestic in its rhythm. 

“The GPS gets weird around here,” you spoke, lifting a hand to point through the windshield. “You’re going to want to make a left right here.”

He nodded once and slowed for the turn.

“And then it’s the brown apartments on the right.”

He followed the direction exactly, the tires crunching lightly over packed snow as he turned onto your street. The building came into view a few seconds later. Modest. Nothing impressive. The exterior lights cast dim gold across the snow dusted walkway and the row of ground floor doors.

Your stomach sank a little at the sight of it. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed but you did.

You reached for your coat before the car had fully come to a stop, slipping it back on and pulling it close around you. The lining was still a little damp from earlier, but the interior of the car had warmed it enough that it no longer felt punishing. You tied it tightly at the waist as Higuruma eased to the curb.

The engine hummed, and neither of you moved immediately.

You turned toward him and offered him a kind smile. “Thank you again for the ride. This was very kind of you.”

He looked over. “You’ve already thanked me.”

“I’m doing it again.”

“That’s excessive.”

“Take the gratitude. It’s deserved. I know this was out of your way.”

His gaze held yours for a beat, “I already conceded that point.”

You smiled. “I know. I just wanted to make it one last time.”

That earned a small huff from him—enough that you knew he was amused. “Drink tea before bed. It’ll help to keep you warm.”

“Will do.” Your hand went to the door. “I’ll see you next week, Higuruma-sensei.”

He gave one small nod. “I’ll text you when I’m coming to pick you up. If you’re off early let me know. Stop trying to be the hero.”

You paused halfway through opening the door and looked back. That made you smile, because there it was again—that quiet, frustratingly sincere concern that refused to hide behind anything softer.

You dipped your head. “Okay, Higuruma-sensei. Take care on the way back… and put on a podcast. I know it’s a loooong ride home.”

“Okay smartass.”

His words slipped so fluidly. It was such unusual language for him, but damn it made you laugh.

“Objection! The defense is being combative.”

He held your gaze for a beat, then nodded as if to himself. “...sustained.”

You laughed softly, the sound warming the little cloud of air between you more than the heater did now.

Finally you stepped out into the cold and it hit immediately, though less viciously than before. The warmth from the car clung to you for a few seconds like a protective layer.

You bent slightly at the curb and looked in through the window one last time.

“Thank youuuuu, Higuruma-senseiiiiiii.”

“You’re welcome.” He rolled his eyes.

You straightened, turned, and walked toward your door with your arms folded close. The ground floor entry sat only a short distance away, but you were acutely aware of him still there behind you, waiting. 

Your key felt clumsy in your fingers at first, the metal cold as you fished it from your pocket and guided it into the lock.

The door clicked open, and you stepped inside. Only once you were fully over the threshold and safely in your apartment did his headlights shift and he car pulled away—disappearing down the street.

Why was your heart racing?

He had told you, plainly, that he would not cross professional lines. He had said it with all the clarity and gravity of a man who meant every word… yet his actions had refused to sit neatly inside those boundaries. 

You leaned back against the closed door and shut your eyes for a second. A week suddenly felt obscene. Too long to wait to see him again and pretend your pulse didn’t alter when he looked at you.

But until then… you’d have to.

Hiromi Higuruma.

Your defense attorney.

Your conflict of interest—pending.

________________________________________________________________

We were both too timid that night, huh? Too careful with our mouths, too restrained with our hands. Even now, with all that has passed, I cannot bring myself to regret a single moment of it, and you shouldn’t, either.

Whatever happened, happened the way it was meant to. Every hesitation, every silence, every step taken too slowly only led me closer to you. 

If there was sorrow in the path, there was still something beautiful in the destination. I would endure every uncertain mile of it again, knowing it ended with being held in the quiet gravity of your life.

Knowing that I was… someone worth crossing the line for.

Higuruma Law Office : 10:21pm : Morioka

Higuruma sat at his desk with the letter spread open beneath his hands. His eyes remained fixed on the page as though the words had weight enough to keep him pinned there.

That night in particular, he’d remember in every lifetime. It had set the pace for everything that followed—for every compromise, every rationalization, every careful step taken. 

That had been the first night he truly understood that the world was rarely divided into the clean structures he preferred. Not black and white. Not duty and desire. The grey area was vast, and all consuming.

Knowing what he knew now, were there things he would change about that night?

Yes. Without hesitation.

Not because he regretted taking you home, never that. He regretted how long he had made himself stand at the threshold of something that was inevitable, and called it restraint, ethics, patience… But some part of him knew that honesty might have spared you both the cruelest waste of all—time.

His jaw clenched faintly. He loosened his tie with one hand, then another fraction more, as if the room had grown close around him without warning. 

Finally he reached forward, peeled the page back, and pressed it face down over the first with careful fingers.

This wasn’t going to be as easy a read as he may have thought.

[softcursechoso]

TEN PAGE LETTER: CH. 1

HIGURUMA X READER

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Lord knows my ass does not need to be writing another story, but I can't help myself. Plus this is supposed to be a mini series... hopefully...

Summary: After a life altering trial ends, the only thing left unsaid is what happened in between. You write a ten page letter to Hiromi Higuruma, the defense attorney who stood vehemently by your side. What began as a professional partnership slowly deepened into something neither of you intended. Through ten pages of memory, you revisit the moments that changed you both.

Words: 10k+

Ch. 1 Warnings: None~ Legal jargon.

PAGE ONE

Higuruma Law Office : 1:45pm : Morioka

High noon in Iwate hangs heavy like a sweat drenched shirt. The sun is ruthless, bleaching the sky until it’s nothing but a pale, searing sheet of blue. Cicadas shrill from every direction—thousands weaving into one relentless summer chorus. People crowd the narrow streets outside—licking melting ice cream from their fingers, balancing yakitori skewers over paper trays, their laughter rising and dissolving in the heat.

The world is bright and alive, but to defense attorney Hiromi Higuruma, it’s more like something he can see but not touch. Something passing by without him.

He pushes open the door to his office and heads inside. The blast of conditioned air isn’t enough to peel the exhaustion from his eyes. His hair is slightly mussed from the walk back, and the collar of his shirt clings faintly to his neck.

Inside, the office case files lie scattered and overlapping—left open from before he headed out. A half drained cup of cold coffee sits in a ring of condensation. The blinds are partially drawn against the punishing sunlight leaking through the window.

At her workstation, Shimizu swivels in her chair at the sound of him entering. “Welcome back. Oh—mail got delivered while you were out. I put it on your desk.”

He gives a small nod. “Thanks.”

As he walks past, he sets a small plastic bag onto the corner of her desk. 

She blinks, curious. “What’s this?”

He sighs—one of those weary, bone deep exhales that strips a little tension but none of the weight. He treks toward his own desk, shoulders slumped.

“Tamago sando,” he mutters, lowering himself into his chair with a groan. “You always complain when I don’t get you one.”

“I don’t!” She protests, even as she immediately tugs open the plastic. “Ooh! This is the one from Koguma Café!”

Her tone lifts, bright and delighted. She tears the wrapper with reverence, already humming her praise for the café’s perfectly fluffy eggs… but her enthusiasm is just background noise to him—pleasant, familiar, far away.

He leans back and stares at the ceiling for a beat, feeling the gravity of everything waiting for him. The briefs, the hearings, the deadlines. The calls he hasn’t returned. The envelopes he hasn’t opened. He adjusts his tie, tugging it tight, then, after a pause in thought, he loosens it again as if reconsidering the entire attempt to look composed.

He leans forward. Time to face the mail. His fingers move automatically, trained by routine. He sorts:

Bill.

Bill.

Statement.

Filing confirmation.

A settlement proposal.

Another bill.

His expression barely shifts, but his mind ticks mechanically, slotting each item into the growing architecture of stress in his head. He takes a breath, reaches for the last envelope and freezes. Every muscle goes still, as though his bones have locked in place.

The office noise drops out. Shimizu’s delighted chatter becomes a distant blur, like someone speaking through a wall.

In his hand is a letter not of unusual origin. He’s received hundreds before… but this one—the handwriting. 

The looping curl of the H. The little spiral flourish above the dotted i, a habit he remembers pointing out once, half teasingly. The steady, deliberate pressure of each stroke, like someone writing with intent rather than speed. Deliberately written in English—of course.

His fingers curl minutely at the edge of the envelope—not enough to crease, just enough to feel the weight of it.

His face gives nothing away. Years of courtrooms have trained his expression into granite.

Inside however is a flare of heat. A sting beneath the ribs. The unmistakable sensation of something long dormant stirring too sharply, too suddenly.

He swallows—once, quiet.

Without a word, without even looking at Shimizu for fear she’ll notice the shift in him, he opens the top drawer of his desk. He slides the letter inside, facedown, and closes the drawer gently.

No reaction. No acknowledgement. Not here.

He’ll read it later. Alone. After the day has ended and he’s no longer performing the role of rational, disciplined attorney. When he can give the letter the attention it deserves.

Even hidden away, it pulses in his awareness like a beating heart under the floorboards. It’s going to drive him mad before he reaches the end of the workday.

Still, he straightens a file, clears his throat, and makes himself continue as if nothing happened. As if air hasn’t become thinner. As if the past hasn’t just slipped a handwritten knife beneath his ribs.

“Higuruma-san?” Shimizu asks around a mouthful of egg sandwich. “You okay?”

Damn—his poker face must have slipped.

He forces his eyes back to the paperwork. “I’m fine. Just a lot to get through.”

Just when things were seeming monotonous around here of course he receives this letter. After all this time… and now nothing about today is ordinary anymore.

The day drags on—not with the typical heaviness of a long workload, but with the unbearable elasticity of anticipation. Time stretches and damn near refuses to move. 

Every email he sends feels like walking knee deep through wet sand. Every phone call feels longer than it should. His pen scratches across documents with ease, but his heartbeat betrays him—beating a little too quickly every time his thoughts drift toward the drawer… and they drift often.

Bill paid.

Client updated.

Settlement proposal revised.

Outside, the blazing Iwate sun weakens slowly, slipping from its merciless peak to a tired, orange blur along the western horizon. The cicadas begin their slow descent into evening silence. Street chatter fades; cars sound less frequent. Shadows lengthen across the office floor, stretching between scattered case files like fingers reaching for him.

By the time the last threads of daylight die behind the blinds, the interior lights buzz to life—soft, yellow, clinical. The office transforms from sunlit workplace to evening refuge, quiet and humming.

Higuruma Law Office : 9:57pm : Morioka

Shimizu stands from her desk, pulling the strap of her small purse over her shoulder before she glances toward him. “Higuruma-san, you are going to leave soon… aren’t you?”

He gives a nod, calm, expression unreadable. The kind of nod that means no as gently as possible.

Shimizu sighs. She drops her purse back onto the desk. “What do you need help with?”

He looks up at her, faintly softened. “I’m just going to go over a couple more emails, and then I’m done.”

She tilts her head—she’s heard that before. “Try not to stay here all night, okay?”

He lifts a hand, half raising it in a mock promise. “I have one foot out the door.”

She slips her purse back over her shoulder and mutters, just loud enough to be heard by anyone except the man she’s talking about, “One foot out the door. I know what that means.”

He raises a brow. “I can’t hear you.”

“Nothing,” she replies quickly, though her smile gives her away. “Rest easy, Higuruma-san.”

He inclines his head in that understated, sincere way that only he can manage. Gratitude without overt display. 

Shimizu pushes in her chair neatly. Her footsteps fade after the door closes behind her—click of heels, creak of the stairwell door, echo down the concrete steps, softer and softer until silence settles fully across the office.

At last… only then does he move.

He reaches for the drawer delicately. The handle clicks softly as he pulls it open. No hurry. No sharp motions. As if the very air around the letter is fragile.

He retrieves it—the weight of it heavier than any legal document he’s handled all week… emotional weight, that is. He sets it gently atop his cleared desk, smoothing the envelope with a thumb that betrays the faintest tremor. He takes the letter opener from the drawer as well.

He slips the blade beneath the sealed edge, cutting carefully, almost painstakingly. He keeps the envelope intact, like he wishes to keep it in the same condition that it was sent.

The paper gives cleanly and opens. A scent rises. Institutional antiseptic, paper that has absorbed humidity and time. He draws out the pages—ten in total, thick, crisp stationery. They unfold like a story already too heavy to hold.

The handwriting hits him hard. Blue ink. Deliberate choice. He knows that. He remembers.

The slanted lines. The pressure of the pen at the start of each sentence. The looping strokes. The little curl in the i—that flourish he once teased about, only to secretly begin looking for it every time he was handed a handwritten document.

Seeing it again is like remembering something he didn’t know he’d forgotten. His face remains steady, but his body tells the truth.

His shoulders tighten. His throat clears. His fingertips hover just above the first line. A faint tremor rides up his forearm before he stills it.

His tie suddenly feels too tight.

No skimming. No jumping ahead. He refuses to rob himself of the moment. He inhales and read this letter from the past. This letter… from you.

Hiromi,

I hope this letter finds you on the hottest day of the summer. I hope it's scorching. I hope your air conditioner is broken and your fan stops working. Maybe then you'll have an excuse to loosen that perfect knot of a tie you always kept so tight on your neck.

I shouldn’t assume you’re the same man. I know that, but memory is a stubborn son of a bitch. It keeps dressing you in the details I remember, whether they still fit you or not. Still, I do hope you’ll loosen that tie, even if it’s only to read this letter.

It’s been quite some time now, hasn’t it?

I actually wanted to write you several times, but my pen just wouldn’t hit the page like it does now. I’d sit here with all these things clawing at the back of my throat, and I still couldn’t get a single word down. 

I thought that I was waiting for courage, but it turns out I was waiting for nothing at all. Nothing that I could outrun when it has been weighing on my chest.

People talk about wishing for more even if they have everything right in front of them. But when everything is stripped away, when life becomes a narrow corridor, you begin to see that the “more” you were longing for was there the whole time. You start to understand the gradient between better and worse in a way most never will.

The food could be better. The bed could be softer. The sky could offer more than a stingy little square of blue.

There’s endless time to pick at old regrets—endless time to reflect. Upon said reflection, there is one thing that cuts through the static. One memory that refuses to fade no matter how many nights I fold myself into the dark.

Do you remember the day we met, Hiromi?

I’d already been turned away by so many lawyers. The ones I could afford didn’t care. The ones who cared, I couldn’t afford.

Everyone told me to settle. To give up. To accept whatever punishment they handed me because “someone like me” wouldn’t win.

I walked into your office fully prepared to hear the same thing again. Prepared to watch another door close…  but then you said the three most important words I’d ever hear in my life.

Do you remember those words, Hiromi?

Do you remember what you said?

____________________________________________________________________________

Minamiodori : 11:59pm : Morioka

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, lonely clicks—far too loud for a street this empty, far too fragile for weather this brutal. Midnight in Morioka is a different kind of cold from anywhere else. It bites. It needles into your bones.

The thermometer outside a shuttered pharmacy blinked -5°C, but the number felt generous. The wind was vicious. The kind that slices up between buildings and cuts through every layer you thought would protect you. Your jacket, long, black, reaching your ankles—might as well have been a sheet of paper.

Beneath it you only had your work dress, pretty under club lighting, useless against a Morioka winter. Every step made you more aware of the exposed skin inside the coat.

Lucky for you, you had no car, no time, and no options. You’d gotten off work early at your hostess club for this meeting. Being one of the unpopular girls at the club had its perks—you weren’t typically the one customers fought over or paid extra to extend time with. That meant you could actually leave when you were scheduled to leave or a little sooner.

You’d given the taxi the correct address, but of course he dropped you off three blocks away after assuring you this was the right spot.

Your breath puffed out as you trudged the rest of the way, clutching your jacket tightly at the throat. Your hands were numb—the kind where you couldn’t even feel the stiffness anymore. Your toes were dangerously close to the same fate.

Finally after a bit more walking—through your blurred, wind stung eyes, you saw it.

Higuruma Law Office.

Relief hit you so hard it almost made you laugh. Instead, you quickened your pace and hurried up the side steps, your heels slipping for half a second on the packed snow before catching. 

This was your last chance. He was your last chance.

You were sick of telling the story. Sick of repeating the same facts. Sick of watching lawyers’ faces settle into disinterest or calculation. Some had turned you away before you’d even finished. Some had listened just long enough to decide you were too difficult—too contaminated by circumstances. Others had agreed to represent you, but only with numbers so high they may as well have been laughing in your face. 

You were willing to pay for someone good, but there was paying, and then there was starvation with paperwork.

If this didn’t work, you’d go with a public defender and gamble on a half competent attorney.

You inhaled quiet and shaky before you pushed the door open.

A small hallway stretched ahead, lit with a soft yellow glow. The air smelled faintly of old paper and floor polish. 

You stepped in and at the far end, the office door was open, spilling a rectangle of warm light across the floor. You approached slowly, shoulders tense, heart drumming an uneven rhythm.

You peeked your head in, and there he was.

Hiromi Higuruma sat behind his desk with his fingers laced loosely together, posture straight despite the lateness of the hour. He looked up the moment your shadow crossed the doorway, and for a brief, peculiar second, the rest of the room seemed to lose definition around him.

He was not what you had expected. 

There was nothing soft about him. His face was striking under the soft light. Romanesque nose, dark hair, and those eyes—those unmistakable sanpaku eyes, shadowed and steady and strangely arresting as if they could see through everything.

He was handsome in a way that didn’t ask for admiration and likely wouldn’t have known what to do with it if given.

If he had a partner, he seemed to be the type that would only ever commit once in life. That sort of man.

“Higuruma-sensei?” You spoke as you entered, giving a polite bow before you did.

His eyes shifted with the smallest flicker—recognition of your voice, or perhaps how cold you sounded. He stood, rounding his desk in a polite motion.

“Thank you for coming. Glad to see you made it safely.” He’d bow politely in return. “Please have a seat.”

His voice was lower than you remembered from the phone, or maybe it was hour. There was no impatience in it. No trace of the condescension you had come to brace for.

You crossed to the chair opposite his desk and sat, smoothing your coat beneath you before crossing one leg over the other. You kept your handbag in your lap—something to do with your hands that was better than letting him see them shake.

Only after you were seated did he sit as well.

The office around him was rather neat. Files were stacked in piles. A bookshelf along one wall carried legal volumes and binders. 

The heat was on, though not enough yet to erase the bite in the room. Perhaps he was one of those men who was immune to the office chill… even when it was below freezing outside.

“Before we begin.” He’d slide a form partway across the desk, “I need to confirm your full name, contact information, and the matter for consultation.” He turned the paper so you could read it. “Does this look correct?”

You leaned forward slightly. Your eyes skimmed the page, catching your own name typed there in black, clinical print, stripped down into clean facts. 

You nodded. “This is correct, yes.”

He turned it back toward himself and made a small note before looking up again. “No conflict of interest?”

His eyes lifted to yours with a steadiness that felt almost invasive. It was a question asked because it mattered.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Okay.” The word was simple, but he gave it the weight of something entered into record.

His gaze dropped briefly, just enough to catch your hands where they held your purse. Your fingertips had gone faintly purple from the cold. He said nothing. He did not fuss, did not ask if you were all right in the tone people used when they wanted credit for basic politeness. 

He’d stand up and cross to a side table where an electric kettle sat. He poured hot water into a cup, the thin stream letting out a line of steam.

 As he poured, he’d speak again, “This consultation will be one hour as confirmed over the phone. After that, we can discuss next steps.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

On his way back, he paused by the thermostat and raised the heat a few degrees. It was such a small gesture you nearly missed it.

He’d then set the cup down in front of you. No explanation… but it was there, close enough to reach, the heat drifting against your knuckles. Something warm to hold. Something to bring your hands back to life.

It was not kindness in the usual sense. It was too restrained for that. More precise. Care translated into action but stripped of sentiment.

You wrapped your fingers around the cup just as he sat again, his attention returning to you in full.

“Alright. Please explain the situation from the beginning.”

Your stomach tightened… here you go again.

You began without faltering. Not because it was easy, but because repetition shaped you. There was dignity in your restraint. A deliberate refusal to make a spectacle of your own pain for the sake of being believed.

“It happened about a month ago…”

Higuruma’s gaze dipped to the legal pad in front of him. The scratch of his pen was soft, precise.

“I left work, and I already felt like someone was behind me.”

He wrote that down. 

“I didn’t see him at first, but I could hear footsteps matching mine. When I slowed down, he slowed down.” Your fingers shifted slightly around the mug. “I didn’t want to miss the last bus, so I cut through the alley behind the shops. It’s shorter, and there aren’t any cameras there.”

His pen moved again.

“I know that sounds stupid now, but at the time, I just wanted to get home.”

The heater hummed. Somewhere in the building pipes gave a faint knock as warm air pushed through the old system. 

“The footsteps followed me in. I started walking faster. Then I started running, and he ran too.”

The pen moved.

“He caught up to me and grabbed me from behind. Shoved me into the wall.” Your eyes fixed somewhere just beyond his shoulder, not because you were losing your place, but because some parts were easier to say when not aimed directly at another human face. “That’s when I recognized him. He’s a regular at the club.”

Another note with a low hm.

“He was drunk. I yelled, but there was no one around to hear it. He kept talking.” Your voice took on a flatter quality now, as if flattening it could strip the filth from the words. “Saying I didn’t have to make it difficult. That he’d pay me. He actually pulled out his wallet and showed me cash like that made it okay.”

Higuruma’s jaw shifted once, barely visible unless someone was already watching him too closely.

“I told him no. I kept telling him no. He said it didn’t matter.” Your fingers tightened around the mug. “At one point he looked down and reached for something near his pocket or waistband—I don’t know what it was, and I didn’t wait to find out. I pushed him as hard as I could while he wasn’t looking at me.”

His pen moved longer this time. A line—several more. The note he made there was not one of his brief clarifications but something fuller. 

It irritated you a little how composed he remained with your life laid open between you, and yet it reassured you in exactly the same breath.

“He stumbled back and hit the wall. He dropped.”

The room seemed quieter after that sentence.

“I didn’t think he was seriously hurt. I thought he was drunk. Knocked out. I was shaking. My hands were scraped up. My arms were bruised.” You glanced down, almost unconsciously, as if some ghost of the abrasions might still be there. “And I left.”

The pen continued moving.

“I didn’t call the police because I just wanted to forget about it.” You looked back up at him. “Later, I found out he was badly injured. Traumatic brain injury they said. They told me money and credit cards were missing from his wallet… I didn’t take anything. I didn’t touch his wallet. I pushed him and I left. That’s it.”

When you stopped, Higuruma kept writing for a few seconds more, finishing the thought he’d started. The scratch of the pen became the only sound in the room. Then he set it down, aligned it with the top of the pad and finally looked at you.

The silence after your story was not empty, no, it was incredibly dense.

You sat very still with the mug between your hands, and you knew what he saw if he looked too closely. The woman who had entered his office with her lipstick intact, chin lifted, posture composed, was not quite the same woman sitting in front of him now. 

He leaned back slowly in his chair. His fingertips came together in a steeple below his mouth, elbows resting lightly on the armrests. His gaze stayed on you—steady, direct, impossible to sidestep.

He let the quiet work on you for a moment. Let you sit in the shape of your own account and feel where it had been cut too cleanly.

Then he inhaled. “Alright—I have a few notes.”

There was something brutal in the way he looked at you now. Not cruelty—something sharper, colder and more useful than that. The same attention he had given your story when you first started, but narrowed. Focused. It felt less like being listened to and more like being pinned under a light powerful enough to show the dust in the air.

“If you are seeking legal counsel from me…” His voice was low and controlled, “then you need to tell me everything.” He paused, letting the sentence settle. “I don’t care how ugly it sounds. I don’t care if it makes you look bad. If you pushed this man with intent to kill him, tell me. If you took his wallet, tell me. If you had any malicious intent at any point that night, you tell me now. Do you understand?”

The words landed one after another with the clean force of a cross examination.

Your eyes narrowed just slightly. “Are you saying you don’t believe my story?”

He exhaled through his nose, barely audible. “I’m saying your story is too clean.” His gaze did not leave yours. “People rarely remember trauma in a straight line unless they have practiced it—and when they’ve practiced it, it’s often because they’ve learned which details are safe to say and which details are dangerous.” His head tilted by a fraction. “I’m not interested in the safe version. I’m interested in the truth.”

Your hand tightened around the mug slightly, tendons flexing barely. “That’s a very elegant way of calling me a liar.”

“No. It’s an elegant way of telling you to stop editing yourself in my office.”

That made something at the corner of your mouth move. Not a smile. Not quite.

He noticed.

The look he gave you after that was narrower still, a shade darker around the edges.

You let the silence drag another beat, “So you caught that.”

His eyebrows drew together. “This isn’t a game.”

Your eyes held his, and neither of you moved. The room seemed to contract around the line of sight between you. The heater hummed. The steam from the cup was fading. The soft lights cast clean planes over his face, sharpening his cheekbones, and deepened the fatigue beneath his eyes.

You nodded once. “I know it isn’t a game, Higuruma-sensei.” Your voice came through calmly. “This is my life we’re talking about, and I’m not going to hand it over to an incompetent attorney who can’t hear the omission in a story built out of obvious omissions.”

Well, now you had his attention.

Your words moved through him with such restraint that another man might have hidden it entirely, but you saw it. In the slight change to his posture. In the way his shoulders angled forward. In the faint shift he stripped down to intellect and challenge.

“You’re assessing me?”.

You met his gaze without blinking. “I have to.”

His eyes moved between yours as if measuring whether you meant to provoke him or if you simply refused to yield. Perhaps it was both.

“Have you done this with every lawyer you’ve met with?” 

You gave a small shrug with one shoulder. “I don’t have a choice.”

He leaned forward, not much, an inch or two maybe. But on him, that was enough to feel like pressure. Enough to make the desk seem suddenly less like furniture and more like a formal barrier.

“Then let me make myself clear—” His voice lowered without softness. “If you want my help, you do not perform for me. You do not test me by telling me half a story and waiting to see if I notice the missing half. You do not protect me from facts because you think I’ll be too weak, or too expensive to hear them.” His gaze dipped once, briefly, to your grip on the mug, then returned to your face. “And you do not sit there and act as though I’m on trial when you’re the one asking for counsel.”

The air in your lungs felt suddenly thinner. You should have looked away. Any reasonable person would have, if only to break the force of his attention for a second. You didn’t though—couldn’t.

Instead you tipped your chin a fraction higher, “If I’m going to trust you with everything then I need to know that you can bear the weight of it… Can you?”

His eyes sharpened, if such a thing were possible, and for one stretched second neither of you said anything. The office seemed to hold its breath around you. Your pulse felt visible at your throat, and you hated that you could feel it. Hated even more that some part of you was alive to the tension rather than retreating from it. 

“Yes.” He replied simply. “I can.” He reached for his pen again, not because he needed the notes this second, but because reclaiming the pen let him reclaim the rhythm of the room. “So let’s begin again… When you say he’s a regular at the club, how regular?”

“He comes in two, maybe three nights a week.”

“Since how long?”

“Several months.”

“Did he ever request you specifically?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t know.”

His gaze hardened. “Estimate.”

You drew a breath. “Often enough that the staff knew his preference.”

“And did you encourage that preference?”

The question was surgical. No unnecessary cruelty in it. No apology either.

You felt heat rise under your skin. “I work in a hostess club.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That's my answer.”

“No. That’s too broad. I asked for precise.”

Your mouth pressed thin. “Then yes. I was polite to him. I entertained him. I accepted drinks. I laughed when it was expected. I let him believe he was interesting when he wasn’t. That is my job.”

His eyes stayed on you. “Did you ever meet him privately?”

“No.”

“Did you suggest you might?”

“No.”

“Did you let him think you might?”

The question made something flash across your face before you could fully stop it… He saw that too.

You gave a short, humorless exhale. “Men at the club tend to hear what they want. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to answer the question.”

The heat gathered a little warmer under your skin. You shifted in the chair, crossing your legs tighter in an attempt to gather yourself. “I let him think whatever kept the money flowing. Never any direct invitation.”

“Mm.” He made a note. “And on the night in question, had you spoken to him before leaving?”

“No.”

“Seen him?”

“Yes.”

“At the club?”

“Yes.”

“Was he already intoxicated?”

“Yes.”

“Was there an incident there?”

You hesitated.

His voice dropped another degree. “There it is.”

You looked at him sharply. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk to me like you already know the answers.”

“If I already knew I wouldn’t need to ask.” His brows knit slightly but not unkind.

You looked at him and saw not pity, not judgment, but relentless readiness. The kind that cornered you without ever needing to raise his voice. This man could pin you harder with a measured sentence than another man could with a shout. He was strangely alluring in a way that made you want to resist him and impress him at once.

He’d continue. “You said you felt you were being followed before you even heard anything.” His gaze stayed locked to yours. “What made you feel that? Instinct like that doesn’t come from nowhere. Did he make you uncomfortable before you left?”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“We didn’t speak.” Your fingers settled lightly against your lap now that the mug had been set aside. “He was with another hostess when I saw him, but when he noticed I was free he wanted to request me. My coworker told him I was already off the clock because I’d been allowed to leave early that day.”

He wrote that down. “Was he visibly upset?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

You exhaled through your nose, “Annoyed. Entitled… Like a man who spends money in the same place often enough that he starts thinking he owns the staff.”

“What did he say?”

You gave a small shrug. “I don’t remember word for word.”

“Approximate it.”

“He was rambling.” You looked briefly toward the dark window, as if the shape of the memory might be clearer there. “Something about how it was bullshit and how he spends so much money at the club and how it was ridiculous to turn him down.”

“And you?”

“I just walked away.”

“Immediately?”

“Yes.”

“Without looking at him?”

“I’m not sure.” You frowned. “I don’t think so. I remember I just wanted to catch the bus.”

He studied you for half a beat. “Where did you leave?”

“Through the front.”

“Is that standard?”

“No.”

“Then why the front?”

You looked back at him. “Because the back exit is inconvenient for my route. If I leave through the front, I cut several minutes off the walk.”

“Several?”

“Enough that it matters if I’m trying not to miss the last bus.”

He leaned back a fraction, pen poised over paper. “So this man saw you leave.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question, but you answered it anyway.

“Yes.”

He wrote again. “And you said you deliberately chose an alley with no cameras. How do you know there aren’t cameras?”

“I’ve walked that way before.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t know. Plenty.”

“At night?”

“Rarely.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever felt unsafe there?”

A short laugh escaped you, dry and humorless. “Oh, yes.”

That got the slightest shift from him.  Perhaps recognition of your honesty landing before your caution could polish it.

“It’s eerie. Too narrow, too quiet, bad lighting. It shaves about eight minutes off the walk, though.” You lifted one shoulder. “I usually only take it on the way to work when the sun is still out.”

“Yet you took it that night.”

“I was trying to get to the bus as fast as possible.”

His eyes narrowed by a degree. “And?”

You held his stare. “And I hoped I could lose him there.”

He made another note. “So you did know he was following you.”

“I suspected.”

“You suspected enough to alter your route.”

“Yes.”

“You just told me you took the route because it was faster.”

“It was both.” A hint of irritation slipped into your voice despite yourself. “It was faster, and I thought if he was drunk enough, the alley might discourage him.”

“Instead it isolated you.”

“Yes.”

He let that sit.

“How close was he when you first heard the footsteps?”

“Close enough to notice.”

“That is not a measurement.”

“Ten meters? I don’t know. Maybe less.”

“Did the pace of his breathing change when he started running?”

You blinked. “What?”

“When he started running,” Higuruma repeated, “did he sound winded, coordinated, unstable? If he was heavily intoxicated, that matters.”

You stared at him for a moment. “Unsteady, but fast.”

He nodded once. “Good, let’s keep going. When he shoved you into the wall, where did he place his hands first?”

“My arms.”

“Both?”

“Yes.”

“Wrists or upper arms?”

“Upper arms.”

He never apologized for making you repeat in cold fact. He demanded details with patience, and he understood that if he could not bear to hear them plainly, then court would devour you alive.

The longer it went on, the more the room seemed to close in mentally. His questions narrowed every avenue of ambiguity. Every answer you gave seemed to eliminate one excuse and sharpen another danger. 

Still you held yourself together. A steel wall remained over your emotions—cool voice, controlled face, careful posture. Whatever shook inside you stayed there. You had learned by now that letting too much show often gave other people permission to doubt the parts they found inconvenient.

Higuruma noticed. Of course he did.

He set the pen down at last and looked at you in a silence that was almost heavier without the scratching of ink to break it. His eyes traveled over nothing more than your face—your expression, your stillness, the stubborn composure with which you kept yourself arranged.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you. Your tone does not match the severity of this story.”

The words were not gentle. Neither was the way he delivered them. There was no cruelty in it, but no cushioning either. He spoke with the understanding that sparing your feelings now might cost you later.

“A man put his hands on you. He chased you into an empty alley. He attempted to force himself on you. You believed you were fighting for your bodily safety, possibly for your life.” His eyes did not leave yours. “And yet you are recounting it as if you are summarizing a train delay.”

You lifted your chin. “There isn’t a correct way to react, Higuruma-sensei.”

“No. There isn’t.” The force of the agreement startled you more than disagreement would have. “But there are ways juries react. There are ways prosecutors frame attractive women whose job it is to entertain men. There are ways a courtroom punishes anything it cannot sentimentalize.”

You couldn’t possibly stiffen more, but it surely felt like you had.

“If this goes to trial, and cases like this often do, you will be put under a microscope. They will decide whether you are frightened enough, broken enough, tearful enough, repentant enough, feminine enough—whatever version of suffering they find easiest to believe.” He leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on the desk. “And if they decide you are too calm, too flat, too intact, they will call you cold. If they call you cold, they will call you capable. If they call you capable, they will stop listening when you say you were afraid.”

The room felt smaller. You said nothing as he went on.

“Personally? I do not care if you look composed.” His gaze sharpened. “I do not care if your makeup is perfect or your dress is expensive or whether some idiot in a courtroom mistakes that for vanity. I care whether you survive this.”

The statement hit harder than it should have, because he said it like it mattered to him already. Not abstractly. Not professionally, even though the words were professional in nature. There was something underneath them—an early, reluctant investment. The way he spoke made it sound as though in his head he had already stepped into the position of your counsel and begun calculating the angles from which the world might try to hurt you.

No one else had done that.

Every other lawyer had listened with the distance of someone deciding whether your case was worth the cost, worth the inconvenience, worth the potential stain. They had kept themselves untouched by it from the start.

Higuruma, somehow, sounded as though he was already in the room with you ten steps ahead, already anticipating the blow before it landed.

Maybe that was what undid something in you—not visibly, but internally.

You looked at him more carefully then. At the fatigue etched beneath his eyes. At the hard line of his mouth. He had the air of a prosecutor not because he wanted to punish you, but because he wanted to excavate the truth before a real prosecutor could weaponize it against you.

There was something about being cornered by competence, by intelligence, by a man whose control was so complete it had become its own form of physical presence—that sent a traitorous current down your spine.

You hated that your body registered him at all in a moment like this. You hated even more that his attention seemed to thicken around you as though he knew exactly how tightly you were holding yourself and had every intention of prying your fingers free one by one.

He watched you absorb what he’d said, and tipped his head very slightly. “What happened to you after?”

You frowned. “After what?”

“After all of them turned you away. The other attorneys.”

The question arrived from nowhere and landed too precisely. Your face stayed composed, but he must have seen something shift, because he did not repeat himself.

“You speak like someone who has been rehearsing for disbelief. That doesn’t come from one consultation or two. How many offices have you sat in before this one?”

You looked at him for a long moment. “Enough.”

“Approximate.”

“Six… You make seven.”

His jaw clenched briefly.

“They all said some version of the same thing, more or less.”

“Which was?”

“That it was difficult.” Your fingers pressed together in your lap. “That my profession made me vulnerable in the wrong way. That no camera footage was devastating. That leaving the scene was worse. That the missing money made it ugly. That a jury is not likely to favor me. That I should consider a plea should this… when this goes to trial.”

When you finished, he’d let the quiet settle for a moment, “And what did that teach you?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “That I should talk less.”

“Exactly.” He leaned back, but only just enough to reclaim the full shape of his chair.  “They trained you to narrate your own life like a liability report. To trim the indignity out of it. Leave only the facts least likely to repel a jury. That may get you through consultations. It will not get you through trial.”

You looked at him, and for the first time since entering his office, your control slipped in the smallest, ugliest way. “So what do you want from me? Do you want me to cry for you? Would that make me easier to defend?”

“No.” His answer came instantly. “I want you to stop mistaking numbness for strength. I am not asking you to perform pain. I am telling you that if you bury your own experience so deeply that even you sound unconvinced by it, the state will do the rest for you… Tell me what you actually felt. Start at the club—not what happened. What you felt.”

You licked your lips once. “I was irritated.”

“Not enough.”

“I was tired.”

“Not enough.”

You inhaled, held it, then let it out. “I knew he was angry.”

“How?”

“The look on his face.”

“What look?”

“Possessive.” The word slipped out before you could improve it. “Like I had ruined something he thought he owned.”

His gaze deepened—attention tightening, interest sharpening into something fierce. “And when you saw that look, what did you feel?”

You looked away to the side for a second, then back. “I wanted to leave.”

“That is action. I asked what you felt.”

“I felt...” You stopped and he did not rescue you… so you tried again. “I felt like if I stayed even a minute longer something bad would happen.”

There it was. The evidence of fear.

“Good. Now we’re somewhere real.”

There was something in the language. Something in the way he arranged the truth. Even now, before fees had been discussed, before any agreement had been made, before you had any right to expect loyalty from him at all, he spoke as though part of your burden had already shifted onto his shoulders.

Other lawyers had asked questions in a way that made you feel like they were trying to determine whether you were worth the risk. Higuruma asked them like a man measuring the structure of a fire escape while the building was still burning.

You got the next part out in pieces. Not because you were trying to be dramatic. Quite the opposite. 

“This man touched me…” Your voice trembled slightly. “He grabbed me first, then—then he kissed me… He pinned me. He kept saying things.” Your throat slightly tightened. “Things that still make my skin crawl. I knew he was behind me, but I didn’t think he’d escalate physically.”

The heater hummed, and the man across from you listened with his back slightly lifted from his chair.

“I pushed him because I couldn’t see what he was reaching for, and I wasn’t going to gamble my safety on guessing. I didn’t stop and calculate force. I didn’t think about where he’d fall or how hard he’d hit something.” You looked back at him then, eyes bright with the pressure of tears you were fighting like hell not to let spill. “I reacted.”

His face remained still, but his attention seemed to deepen.

“I didn’t call the police because I was terrified my workplace would get dragged through it, and now I’m the one being dissected for it. For days after, I could still feel his hands on me.” The admission had slipped out before you could stop it. “Sometimes I still do. In my sleep. When I wake up. When someone stands too close behind me… and all anyone wants to know is whether I led him on or smiled the wrong way or made myself… convenient.”

You blinked a few times, keeping your eyes dried of any tears. You refused to spill them. “I’ve gone to six lawyers. All of them asking the same shit. What was I wearing? What did I say to lead him on? If I was really scared, why didn’t I call the police before anything happened?!” Your voice rose, then caught itself, forced back down through sheer will. “This was the worst night of my life, and now I’m the one facing legal consequences for defending myself.”

Higuruma had gone very still. His hand remained near the pen, but he wasn’t writing now. He was listening with his whole body, and the gravity of that listening made the office feel even more enclosed than before.

You looked away. “Other lawyers didn’t care. The ones who did were far too expensive.”

“They cared about winning. Not about you.” He corrected you immediately, calmly. “Those are not the same thing.”

Even when he said something that should have felt cruel, it didn’t. Exposing, yes, but not cruel. It was as though he refused to lie to you even when a lie would have made him seem kinder.

He leaned back by a fraction, one arm resting against the chair, his gaze fixed to yours.

“You are relitigating your trauma. The system does that. It takes the most violating event of your life and turns it into a sequence chart. Then it asks you to perform it repeatedly until the details harden into admissible shapes. Your anger is warranted, and your tears do not weaken your case.. but inconsistency will.”

You sat every still as he continued.

“If you tell me you knew he was following you, then I am going to ask why you would proceed to isolate yourself. If you tell me you did not think he would attack you, I am going to ask what you expected instead. If you tell me you feared for your safety, I am going to ask what exactly made you fear it and when that fear became immediate.” His voice stayed low, almost quiet now, “This is not because I blame you, but because nine strangers will.”

He was not trying to comfort you out of reality. He was stress testing the story now so it would not collapse later beneath hands far less careful than his.

You drew in a slow breath. “I didn’t know my push would knock him out, and I damn sure didn’t think he’d get a traumatic brain injury from it.” Your voice was quieter now, stripped of performance. “I was just buying time to run.”

The pen in his hand stilled for a fraction of a second, then moved again—more deliberately this time, as though he were underlining something in his own mind.

“Say that again.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The last part.”

You hesitated, then repeated it. “I was just buying time to run.”

His eyes stayed on you for a beat longer before he looked down to write. “That is a very important detail.”

“How?”

“It establishes defensive intent. You were not trying to punish him. You were creating an opportunity to escape. That distinction matters… When you say you didn’t call police because you feared your workplace would be dragged into it—that is human, but it is also dangerous.”

You already knew what was coming and hated him for being the one to say it.

“A prosecutor will argue you avoided the police because you knew you had caused severe harm with malicious intent. Lured him into an alley when you knew he was intoxicated, and took advantage of the situation.”

There was no sugarcoating. No false reassurances. Just the truth.

You stared at him. “And what would you argue?”

His eyes held yours with unnerving steadiness. “That self defense does not require perfection afterward. That you should not be held to the standard of a perfect victim when you were only trying to survive.”

Your chest hurt from pressure. From the effort of staying upright while words like that found too many vulnerable places to land.

He set the pen down and leaned forward fully, forearms on the desk now, the distance between you compressed. “If I take this case, you do not edit yourself again. You tell me everything. Even the parts you are ashamed of. Especially those.”

Something in the way he said ashamed made the word sound less like accusation and more like an area of active interest, a place he already intended to search.

Every other lawyer raised their price the moment the shape of the case became visible. Emotional entanglement. Nightlife. A drunk man with a TBI. Missing property. No immediate report. A client who was beautiful, tired, and inconveniently difficult to fit into the role of ideal victim.

It was not a clean case. It was uphill in every direction. Thankfully Higuruma was a man who didn't seem to mind uphill. In fact he looked more awake now than he had when you first stepped into the office.

You licked your lips, suddenly aware of how close his attention sat to your skin. “And if I do? If I tell you every last humiliating detail?”

“Then I can get to work.”

There was something almost indecently reassuring about it. About the confidence. About the refusal to posture or soothe.

He’d make you take it from the top one last time. Tell the whole story without missing a single beat. No omitted details. 

His eyes held yours for a moment longer after you finished. Those eyes… those damn sanpaku eyes. There was something merciless about them—something bright and cutting and forensic.

He looked straight into you when he spoke his next words. “Your story… I believe you.”

I believe you.

That was all. No dramatic pause. No preamble. No carefully staged moment to heighten the impact. He didn’t lean in when he said it. Didn’t lower his voice into anything tender… but the effect it had on you was immediate. Catastrophic.

For a second, the room seemed to change shape around the words. The heater still hummed. The lights still buzzed. Snow still sat in dirty ridges outside the dark windows of Morioka. 

Nothing had altered except the line of his mouth and the air you were breathing, and yet it felt as though something locked inside your chest had given way all at once.

No lawyer had said that to you. No one in your life had said that to you. Not in that order. Not without qualifiers. Not I believe parts of it. Not I believe you were scared. Not I believe something happened, but... just those three words. Like they had not been forbidden to you all this time.

The burn behind your eyes came so fast it was humiliating. One moment you were sitting there with your back straight and your hands composed in your lap, the next your vision had gone glossy. You blinked hard as if that could make it go away. The tears didn’t spill yet, though they pressed high and hot, making your face feel suddenly too open, too exposed.

He saw, but he did not comment on it. He simply reached for a stack of papers from the side of his desk and drew them neatly into place between you.

“Alright. Let’s talk about my retainer and fee structure.”

For a beat you could only look at the paperwork… then at him, then back to the paperwork again as if your mind had failed to process the most obvious conclusion.

“What?” 

His gaze lifted. “What?”

“You’re… You’re taking my case?”

“Absolutely.”

The answer was immediate, like there had never been a universe in which he wouldn’t.

The tears threatened harder at that. You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on the paper in front of you, composure hanging on by a thread.

“Read through this paragraph carefully. It covers the scope of representation, communications, and consent regarding procedural strategy. This section here outlines billing. And here—” he tapped another line, “—is where you initial acknowledging that I cannot guarantee outcome, only representation.”

You lowered your gaze to the contract's billing agreement. “Higuruma-sensei, I need to be honest about what I can afford.”

His eyes flicked up from the file he was aligning. “You should be.”

“I’m not rich.”

“I gathered.”

“I know a lawyer like you is going to be expensive. I’m willing to eat konbini ramen for the next few months if it means I can keep you, but I can’t exactly stop eating altogether.”

One of his brows lifted. The expression was subtle, but on him it read with startling force. “You’re sure about that?” 

You frowned. “About what?”

“That a lawyer like me is expensive.” He took the pen from the contract, flipped it once in his fingers, and wrote a number neatly in the billing section before turning the page back toward you. “There. Maybe that’ll help you diversify. Variety is the spice of life. Get some cold soba once in a while.”

You looked down and frowned hard.

This number is very low.

It was not low in the manipulative way businesses advertised and then snuck in hidden costs. It was low in a way that felt like a mistake.

Your eyes lifted slowly. “Surely that’s not the number you’re actually willing to stand by.”

“It is.”

“No.” You shook your head, baffled now. “No, that’s—”

“That’s the number.” The finality in his voice shut down the protest halfway to your tongue.

You stared at him. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t become a defense attorney to prioritize profit. It’s good to be paid, but I place more value on the case than on what I can extract from it monetarily.” His eyes sharpened slightly. “And if I raised my fee every time I was handed something difficult, I’d be admitting difficulty is a disqualifier, when it isn’t.”

You looked down again, suddenly unable to trust your own face. The paper in front of you blurred slightly at the edges. You blinked once, forcing your vision back into place.

“Read before you sign.” He spoke again before guiding you through each part.

When you reached for the final signature line, he stopped you. “Wait.”

Your hand paused above the page. You looked up, eyes still damp. “Hm?”

“Just one last thing.”

Your voice came out quiet. “Yes?”

His gaze remained fixed on yours with unnerving steadiness. “Do not speak to the police or investigators without me present ever again.”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“They are building a case against you. Do not help them build it.”

You nodded immediately. “I understand.”

He took a business card from the holder on his desk. He then uncapped his pen again and wrote a number on the back. He held the card between two fingers for a second before extending it toward you with both hands.

“The office number is on the front. I usually answer it myself if I’m in. If you need me urgently, call the number on the back. You do not need to hesitate… I will make this right.”

The sentence was impossible. Too large. Too dangerous to believe in full.Yet the way he said it without bravado or trying to sound heroic made it more convincing than any grand promise would have been. 

You looked down at the card in your hand. His name on the front.  His private number on the back. A line of access extended with such stern practicality that it almost disguised how intimate it felt.

He was doing what a good lawyer ought to do. Listening. Assessing. Giving instructions. Offering channels of contact. There was nothing extraordinary in the mechanics of it… and yet it was hard not to romanticize such a situation. 

Maybe it was unfair to him. Maybe it was merely the emotional distortion of being starved and then suddenly fed. Maybe you were romanticizing the only kindness you had been allowed lately because it was dressed in a dark suit with incredible eyes.

You placed the pen down after the last signature and looked up at him.

“Alright.” He began.” From this point on, you do not speak about the case with anyone unless I tell you it is necessary. Not coworkers, not friends, not anyone who thinks they’re helping by offering opinions. You write down everything you remember while it is still fresh, even if it disgusts you.” His gaze pinned you again. “And you do not omit details because you think they make you look bad.”

You nodded.

He continued “I’ll contact the club. I’ll request names, shift records, any possible witnesses. I’ll review the police file once I obtain it and see what they think they have. Then I’ll decide how hard they need to be hit and from which direction.”

The words were clinical, but on him, they sounded like protection. The sort that did not coddle you so much as place itself between you and harm's way.

“Do you have questions?” 

A dozen floated through your mind. About court. About timelines. About whether this could actually be won. About whether he really meant what he’d said. About why he seemed so entirely unlike anyone else you had met in these last miserable weeks.

What came out instead was quiet and unguarded and far too honest. “Why did you agree to stand by me?”

“Because difficulty is not the same thing as guilt… and because you came here prepared to defend yourself from someone you are seeking help from.” His mouth hardened very slightly. “That tells me more about you than a file ever will.”

He’d spend the next few minutes outlining what the upcoming weeks would look like. Scheduling and whatnot. He seemed keen on working with your schedule which you were very grateful for, more than he knew.

Once everything was said and done, he walked you toward the front door.

You stopped at the exit, bowing deeply. “Thank you so much, Higuruma-sensei. I look forward to working with you.”

He returned the bow “Take care.”

____________________________________________________________________________

I’ll never forget how I felt leaving your office that night. The weight I’d been carrying didn’t feel quite so heavy. That night was the first in weeks that I managed to sleep all the way through. I’m grateful for that, more than I can say. 

From our very first meeting I had a sense that our paths had crossed for a reason. Maybe that’s something that happens when people find themselves in difficult circumstances—when the pressure of it all makes certain connections feel stronger than they might otherwise.

Did you ever think of it that way, Hiromi? I sometimes wonder whether what grew between us was simply the result of time and circumstance, or something that would have taken shape regardless. 

I tend to think that the circumstances only made it easier to recognize what was already there. 

The moment we met I knew fate had been leading me to you all along.

Higuruma Law Office : 10:05pm : Morioka

The office has gone utterly still, the silence disturbed only by the faint rustle of paper.

His face is not the same, as when he began. There’s something subtle there. Something warm edged with hurt. A small tug at the corner of his mouth that isn’t quite a smile, because smiling would imply lightness and there is nothing light about what’s rising in his chest.

It’s fondness. Perhaps unearthed fondness in its rawest form… memory.

The first page trembles just slightly in his hand, not because he’s unsteady, but because old emotion moves through the muscles of his fingers with a force he wasn’t prepared for. 

He sets the page face down on the desk. His palm rests on it for a moment as if he’s holding the weight of it in place before he lets himself look away.

He exhales once before his eyes lift.

The next page waits in his hand—crisp, blue ink curving in handwriting he could recognize in the dark. He can feel the faint imprint of pressure left by your pen, the slight drag of the paper’s coarse grain against his fingertips. 

He remembers the way you held a pen during meetings—too tight when you were anxious. 

He straightens the next sheet, adjusting it with a care. He is ready to read more. Whatever comes next, he is bracing for it.

Bracing… and wanting.

[softcursechoso]

I'm trying to convince this lawyer to represent me for a parking ticket...

I don't think he's listening.

[softcursechoso]

The Oracle: Ch. 5

JJK x Reader Toji x Reader Shiu x Reader

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Words: 17.3k+ Genuinely sick about the lack of restraint I have... but I felt it was necessary for the plot.

Ch. 5 Warnings: Hmmm, let's see... Drugs, death, and a little spice but nothing too crazy... maybe a little crazy. Definitely getting frisky in public.

DON'T BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU

“I might lose myself tonight… make sure I don’t.”

The Kagoshima Tenpyo Palace : 7:01am : Kagoshima

It’d been two weeks since you touched down in Kagoshima, and the city still felt unreal—like you were living inside someone else’s fantasy. A rich woman’s fantasy A dangerous man’s fantasy. A scammer’s fantasy.

You arrived stepping off a first class train with your head held high, designer luggage rolling behind you, and just enough arrogance in your posture to look like you’d done this before. Flying wasn’t an option. Driving was too pedestrian and wasteful of time. That is why you went with first class compartments, private service, and quiet luxury. Or at least that was the exact level of understated wealth Shiu insisted you project.

Arrived like you belonged. Spent like money was irrelevant. Moved like you’re being watched even when you couldn’t see the eyes. Ryohei warned you of that. How he knew where you stayed before you ever even met him. You couldn’t move like you did in Fukuoka. 

The hotel Shiu booked was the nicest in all of Kagoshima. He made sure of that—modern, sprawling, and sleek as it sat facing Sakurajima across the water. A wall of windows captured the volcano in perfect clarity from sunrise to dusk. The place felt impossibly still at dawn, and electric by nightfall. 

Staying in any room here said you had money. Staying in the Imperial Deluxe Suite for several weeks said that you had wealth.

The suite was absurdly large. It was more of a penthouse, really—neutral tones, marble floors, floating staircases, walls of glass, chandeliers hung like falling crystals. The living room alone could’ve held your entire apartment back in Tokyo times three. There was a fireplace you never used, a dining table that could seat ten people, and a kitchen stocked with cookware you’d never dare touch.

From the couch, you could see the whole layout. The open balcony doors let in fresh ocean air, and the faint rumble of the volcano across the bay. Every piece of furniture was custom made—expensive, impeccable… and yet, even after nearly two weeks, none of it felt real.

Spending money had become its own chore. A million yen vanished slower than you’d ever expected. Shopping, room service, designer clothes, expensive dinners. A million yen was less than the price of your life. A million yen was what saved your life when you met Toji about a month ago. Now? A million yen is what you spent when you left the suite, and it didn’t feel like anything was missing.

No matter how much you tried, the stack of cash Shiu allocated for spending optics never seemed to diminish. It was harder to go broke than you ever imagined.

But that was the point. Build a reputation. Let Kagoshima learn the Zen’in name. Move loudly enough that the right people started whispering. Draw out the real sharks—the ones with power, influence, and money that made your ten billion yen goal seem small.

Every morning, the three of you moved as a coordinated unit—spending, dining, appearing everywhere the wealthy frequented. You’d laugh loudly, cling to Toji’s arm, toss your hair, flirt thoughtlessly, and play the part of the dumb, spoiled, loving girlfriend.

Every evening, Toji and Shiu went out alone. They’d leave you in the suite with strict instructions to stay put—and honestly? You didn’t complain. Being off duty meant no persona. No mask. No pretending you were brainless and laughing inappropriately loud. You could breathe. Shower. Lounge. Stare at the volcano. You could be yourself with no eyes on you.

But today wasn’t a night off, no. In fact, today was the day. The day things shifted. The day you stopped waiting and started pushing.

You sat on the living room couch, legs crossed beneath you. The balcony door opened to a cool morning breeze that carried tiny hints of sulfur from Sakurajima. Curtains swayed gently. Sunlight pooled gold across the marble floor.

Toji sat beside you—broad, relaxed, legs sprawled across the coffee table like a fucking neanderthal. Shirt hanging open, muscles tight, eyes half lidded but alert. There was a wild comfort to the way he existed in this luxury setting—as if he’d been meant for it all along.

Shiu sat across from you in one of the leather lounge chairs, legs crossed at the ankle, posture elegant, features sharp in the bright morning light. A cigarette rested unlit between his fingers, forgotten as he studied the two of you with a seriousness that filled the room.

This suite had seen nothing but indulgence for two weeks straight, but today it felt different. Heavier. More important.

You could feel it in the air—the tension hanging like a storm building over the bay. Kagoshima had watched you arrive, spend, shine, perform. Now it was time to make your move.

Shiu finally exhaled, flicking his gaze between you and Toji. “Alright, today we move a little differently.” He looked at you again, this time more intentional. “You got a nail appointment in two hours. Hair in four.”

You nod, “Right, okay.”

“I booked you at the most highly rated salons I could find in the city.” He spoke before taking a puff of his cigarette. “Full works. Private rooms, champagne service, everything. Your job? Spend as much as you can while you're there. If they ask if you want any upgraded services, the answer is always yes. Don’t ask prices. Don’t flinch. Don’t compare. Just—” he’d make a circling motion with his hand, “burn money.”

You purse your lips as you think about it, “Okay, so... what exactly am I doing to my hair and nails?”

Shiu’s mouth twitched. “Surprise me.”

You licked your bottom lip, slow and exaggerated. “Oh, I didn’t know I was doing this for you in particular.”

He smirked, a single shoulder rising. “Whatever gets eyes on you.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him with exaggerated suspicion. “Mmhm. You sure you’re not projecting a little, Kong-han? You getting lonely in this big suite already?”

He grinned fully at that, leaning forward with one elbow on his knee. “You worried about me?”

“Not one bit.” You spoke sweetly, tapping the tip of your tongue to your front teeth. “You flirt with all the ladies. You’ll be alright.”

“Not all of them. It’s very hard to keep my attention.” He shot back, slow and smooth.

Toji made a noise that was half cough, half groan, somewhere to your right.

You stifled your laugh and cleared your throat. “Okay, okay. My appointment is soon, so I should probably start getting dressed.”

You stood up, stretching your arms over your head, your shirt rising just enough to flash skin. You felt Toji’s gaze flick toward you, but he said nothing. 

“Alright, time to get ready for my complete and total makeover.” You headed toward the hallway and the marble inlaid bathroom beyond it, calling over your shoulder as you disappeared into the warm gold light. “Try not to miss me too much, boys.”

The plan was in motion. Money had to flow. Attention had to be earned, and as far as you were concerned, the first two weeks was just the warmup.

L’or : 9:00am : Kagoshima

You kept your routine simple for today. No dramatics. Your hair, washed and twisted into a low, neat bun. Dewy skin, glossed lips, the softest touch of makeup. You didn’t need to look like money. You needed to look like money adjacent.

A cute little knit Givenchy midi dress hugged your hips—stone-gray with a cream trim, elegant but flirtatious. You threw a cropped puffer over your shoulders, matte black with gold zippers, just heavy enough to remind people that winter in Kagoshima still had bite. Your heels clicked—glossy, pointed, tall enough for people to look without being intimidated.

You looked like the girlfriend of a moderately wealthy man. Someone who married into comfort but still carried the trace of a wild past. When you left the hotel, you intended to return as something more.

Wife material, but not your average everyday wife. No, you needed to return looking like a woman hand picked for one specific man, Toji Zen’in.

Toji stood just outside the salon with you. Not directly in front of the shop, but close enough that people inside could definitely see your exchange. You both knew this moment was staged. Very out in the open and deliberate. 

The building was all glass and concrete, framed by silver accents and pale wood trim. A minimalist sign above the entrance read L’or in elegant font. No neon. No tacky decals. Just that. Like it was supposed to speak for itself.

Toji’s eyes lingered on you for a second before they dropped to the thick wad of cash he pulled from his jacket pocket.

You gasped, eyes going wide like a doll come to life. “Ooh! But what if I want highlights too?”

He didn’t smile. He thumbed through the bills, over and over, like the stack had no end.

You cozied up close to him, voice climbing into that airy pitch you knew turned heads. “I love it when you spoil me.” You purred, dragging your hand up his arm with a soft possessiveness. 

He flicked a glance your way, jaw tightening just enough to make the exchange feel electric. “I know what you want.”

Your fingers touched his wrist, your tongue sliding across the front of your teeth. “Oh wow~ You’re really gonna give me that much?”

His gaze flicked up from the stack to meet yours. “You like that?”

You nodded, slow and breathless. “Mhm.”

With a final flick, he pulled a large chunk free and stuffed it directly into your purse. It wasn’t discreet. It wasn’t subtle. It was so tacky, but that was the point. You wanted to show wealth, but leave enough holes in the armor that those with money didn’t feel so intimidated by you that they wouldn’t want to speak.

The money was enough for your hair, your nails, and maybe a little high end shopping splurge if you were feeling bold.

You squealed, throwing your arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank youuuu!”

You kissed him over and over like a woman in love. One on his jaw. One at the corner of his mouth. One last soft and slow, pressed deep against his lips again.

Toji’s hand slid down your back, pulled you in tight by the waist, and kissed you back—deeper. Firmer. Long enough to make an onlooker uncomfortable.

When he pulled away, his tone dropped, low and steady. “If anything happens, you call me. Don’t text. Don’t hesitate. You call. You know where I’ll be.”

Your smile softened at the edge, because even in the middle of the act, even with your lipgloss on his mouth and your voice sugar sweet—you could tell he meant that. That wasn’t showmanship. That was Toji. The real one.

You nod once, “Of course, baby.”

He reached for the salon door and opened it for you without another word. You stepped inside, hell, you hadn’t even taken your second breath before you felt the difference. This wasn’t a salon. This was a fucking shrine.

The air was warm and still, perfumed with lavender but nothing overpowering or offensive. Soft instrumental music played from recessed speakers. The walls were ivory with gold trim. Soft lighting glowed from delicate glass domes overhead. There were orchids in pristine vases on every surface.

Everything was polished to a shine, and it felt like you didn’t belong the second your heels touched the tile.

A petite woman behind the white stone counter smiled. Her hair was cut into a severe bob, not a strand out of place, her uniform crisp and spotless.

“Welcome to L’or,” she said with a shallow bow. “Do you have a reservation with us this afternoon?”

You gave her a tight, cutesy smile. “Yes I do. It’s under Zen’in.”

She typed it in, eyes flicking briefly up and down your frame. Not judgmental exactly—but something. Calculating perhaps? Like she was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just distasteful.

“Ah.” She nodded, “Yes. This is your first time with us?”

You nodded, all big eyes and pleasant enthusiasm. “Yes! I heard it’s the best in Kagoshima so I had to see it for myself.”

She inclined her head. “We are very happy to have you, Ms. Zen’in.”

It was funny hearing out loud…

Ms. Zen’in.

The reservation was under Toji. The role was what it was.

She stepped out from behind the counter and gestured for you to follow. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to the waiting lounge.”

You walked behind her, and the farther in you moved, the quieter the air became. The rooms were open, partitioned by hanging silk drapes and sheer dividers. Every woman inside was silent. Poised. Wearing creams, blacks, neutrals. Their handbags were discreet and priceless. Their jewelry understated but unmistakably heavy.

You weren’t sure if it was your heels, your perfume, or the way you’d just kissed a man on the sidewalk like young money would, but you were being watched, and not kindly.

They weren’t wondering who you were. They were wondering what you were. New money. Foreign. Tacky.

They saw it in the exaggerated sway of your hips. They heard it in your voice, still sweetened from performance. They read it in the way you walked without grace.

Even your guide—this polite, mechanical woman—spoke to you with an edge of frost.

“This way,” she continued. “You’ve booked our Lavender Renewal Package. It includes a manicure, pedicure, exfoliating lavender soak, and optional cuticle and calf massage.” She stopped beside a minimalist lounge chair, placed between two thin partitions of textured glass. “Our stylist will be with you shortly, Ms. Zen’in. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

You sat, and the cushion was soft. The air smelled good. The lighting was perfect… but still—it felt like hell. You sat in silence, eyes fixed forward, fingers folded politely in your lap, the weight of a hundred eyes burning holes into your back.

It was very clear that wealth did not mean respect. That much was to be earned. 

As you sat alone, your phone vibrated softly in your Prada mini, its subtle buzz slicing through the hushed luxury of the nail lounge. You flipped it open…

1 new message — Shiu Kong.

[ King Shiu Kong ]

Be safe. Don’t forget to drop the Zen’in name where it counts.

If anything feels off, call me. I’ll answer no matter what I’m doing.

You smirked, thumbs already flying.

[ You ]

What if I just miss you and want to hear your voice?

[ King Shiu Kong ]

Then I’ll answer faster.

Your smile widened.

You looked up briefly, feigning interest in the minimalist artwork on the wall—some massive square canvas textured with thick layers of cream and gold, framed like it was important. The kind of art that said nothing but cost hundreds of thousands. 

[ You ]

Aw. How sweet. How dare you flirt with a taken woman. 

You’re gonna break up our beautiful home.

[ King Shiu Kong ]

I’d never disrespect your little domestic fantasy. 

But don’t forget it’s exactly that. A fantasy.

[ You ]

Jealous, Shiu Kong?

[ King Shiu Kong ]

Of Zen’in?

You make it hard not to be.

Damn… that one landed.

It sat heavy in your chest for a second, right beside the warmth and the adrenaline. Your stomach fluttered and you didn’t even try to fight the smile on your face. 

But just as quickly as it came, it left.

[ King Shiu Kong ]

We just got to the lounge. 

Be good, and don’t get arrested.

I don’t like a woman in another man’s handcuffs.

Of course he’d get the last words in just like that. 

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, something teasing resting on the tip of your tongue, but you let it go. The flirt was fun. The game kept you sane, but the silence that followed after his last message was a vacuum. Without Shiu’s steadying attention, the room around you grew louder again. Sharper.

The waiting was... noticeable now. You glanced at the ornate, gold trimmed clock on the far wall.

You had been sitting in the lounge for nearly thirty minutes. No technician. No acknowledgment. No apology. Just soft jazz, and air that had grown thick with disdain.

Your brows knitted slightly… it was time.

You smoothed the hem of your skirt as you stood up, letting your heels click deliberately against the tile as you walked back into the front lobby. The lounge opened into the reception area where every seat was now full—elegant women reading magazines or chatting quietly amongst each other. All of them in tailored clothing and the kind of accessories that came from private jewelers, not storefronts. All of them watching.

At the counter, the receptionist from earlier was laughing with two nail techs. One leaned casually against the side wall, the other scrolling on her phone with a bored expression. Neither of them looked remotely busy.

You approached with a sweet smile, “Hey!” You waved, airheaded and breezy. “Umm, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about me. I’ve been waiting for about thirty minutes now, and I’ve got a hair appointment right after this that I really can’t miss.”

The laughter stopped. Eyes turned, but no one said a thing. Conversations resumed—half hearted. The kind of fake chatter meant to give people an excuse to listen in without being obvious.

The receptionist smiled, unbothered. “Oh no, we haven’t forgotten about you. As you can see, we’re completely booked. I do apologize. As soon as a seat frees up, I’ll get you right away.”

She tilted her head. “Would you like some water while you wait?”

You held your smile, bright and plastic. “I’d love some water…”

Your heart was racing. You could feel it—every snicker. Every sideways glance. The satisfaction blooming behind those judging stares. You weren’t imagining it. You knew when a room wanted you small, and you also knew when a room wasn’t prepared for the alternative.

There was a woman seated in the far back, beside an empty chair. You hadn’t noticed her before, but now you could feel her looking at you. Silent. Studying. Not entertained like the others—no, this gaze was measured. Like she was trying to see if you’d break.

Maybe six months ago, you would’ve. Maybe the girl from middle of nowhere America would’ve bowed her head and accepted it, but you weren’t just you anymore. You were Ms. Zen’in. The girlfriend of someone rising fast enough in the underground to make whole prefecture nervous.

You smiled wider—just enough to show teeth. “But not while I wait. I’ll take my water while you prepare my foot soak.”

The silence shifted. Conversations dropped to a murmur, then nothing at all. There was no venom in your voice, but there was challenge. The kind of challenge that didn’t ask. The kind that expected.

You gave a charming little laugh, “Certainly you wouldn’t have me wait another thirty minutes after I just told you I have a hair appointment. People down here aren’t familiar with the Zen’in name yet, I suppose. Consider yourself forgiven.”

You turned and began walking toward the open seat beside the woman in the back. “My Toji hates the smell of nail salons, so I’ll do us all a favor by not causing a fuss.”

You could hear the woman at the desk inhale sharply. “Excuse me—” she called. “I do apologize, Ms. Zen’in—”

You’d cut her off, “You can start my prep. I was thinking a short French tip when I came in, but with all the time I had to think, I’ll go a little more experimental.”

Your heels hit the marble one by one, loud enough to echo.

You reached the empty chair and eased down into it like it had always belonged to you. The room was still holding its breath.

“For the toes,” you continued, “...just white. Nothing too special, but I’d like a gel coat.”

You glanced up at the receptionist, who was still frozen halfway between protest and compliance.

“Waiting is the hard part, right?” you giggled, eyes wide with innocence. “Now that I’ve done that, there’s nothing left to do but get started. Oh, and do you mind bringing a little end table?” you asked, holding out your small black bag. “Prada should never touch the ground.”

The room turned colder. You could hear a pin drop.

Then the woman beside you spoke, calm and clear as she cut the silence. “Do bring me a water when you get hers.”

One would’ve thought she shouted an order across a military base, because suddenly, it was chaos—but quiet chaos.

One nail tech sprang into motion, darting to start the soak basin. Another was already halfway to the backroom, rummaging for tools. The receptionist moved quickly to the back, pouring a tall glass of water into a crystal cut glass.

She returned and, out of some strange, fragile instinct, handed the glass to the woman beside you first.

The older woman frowned. “I believe this young woman has been waiting.”

The receptionist nodded stiffly, correcting course. She turned to you, glass outstretched with a bow and both hands

You gave a gentle, apologetic shake of your head. “I do apologize,” you spoke soft and sweet, “but you poured that water in the back where I couldn’t see you. I would really appreciate if you could do it right in front of me as I’m unfamiliar with you.” You blinked slowly, offering a small, bashful smile. “I don’t mean to cause trouble.”

Every word of yours was sweet. Every syllable is laced with venom. You weren’t someone yet—not in this city. Not in this world. The Zen’in name didn’t open doors here. But that’s what today was for. Divide and conquer in the name of respect.

You heard it—barely, a soft exhale from the woman beside you.

Not quite a laugh. Not a sigh. Something in between. Something restrained, but amused.

You didn’t look at her right away. No, not yet. You kept your attention front and center, posture elegant, smile pleasant. You watched as the receptionist reappeared from the back, now visibly more careful. She brought out a fresh glass and placed it on the nearby tray, then filled it with water directly from the crystal pitcher at the front desk—right where you could see her.

She approached like you were royalty, handing it to you with grace.

You smiled wide, sweet as pie. “Thank you so much~”

You placed the glass down on the little end table beside your Prada mini. God you were annoying for that. Let them see. Let them judge. Let them burn inside wondering who the hell you thought you were.

You slipped a folded piece of paper from your bag and smoothed it gently in your lap. “I printed out some designs I’ve been thinking of,” your voice was light and bubbly as you flashed the paper toward the approaching nail tech. “But I really like this one.”

She took it with a hesitant smile, trying not to wince at your tone. “Of course,” she murmured. 

You caught the way her gaze lingered on the design a little too long, but she nodded and walked toward her station, lips sealed.

You turned to the woman beside you at last. “Cute bag,” you spoke brightly.

That earned you a turn of the head. She looked at you with poise so sharp it could cut diamonds, eyes unreadable behind heavy lashes and a face untroubled by the day. Her makeup was immaculate—matte, refined. Her lips painted in the softest mauve. The kind of woman who didn’t wear power—she was power.

There was a shift in the room then. Not in volume, but in atmosphere. You could feel it. Like the pressure dropped an inch. Every head in the room tilted your way, subtle as it was—slight turns, small glances, all with the same unspoken question.

Did you just call her bag CUTE?!

The woman’s bag sat primly on a separate velvet pedestal beside her chair. Matte Niloticus crocodile. Hermès Himalaya Birkin. A piece worth more than a house. Rarer than all of the precious stones in the salon combined. There were maybe four in the country. Possibly less.

She said none of that, however. Instead, she simply nodded. “Thank you.”

You smiled wider. “Where can a girl buy something like that?”

Silence. She didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t. You weren’t meant to ask things like that. Not in here. Not to her. This was the kind of woman who had things gifted. Things inherited. Things promised. The kind of woman whose reputation for spending opened the door for her to even buy something like this.

Still you kept smiling anyway, rubbing your eyes with a soft sigh—like you were wiping away invisible smudges. In truth, you were activating your technique, just for a second. Eyes narrowed. Breath even.

Her water still in her hand glowed a soft green. Clean, which meant yours was clean. Nice.

Her body however, the outline of her aura, it shimmered faintly purple. The shade got darker, thicker, around her chest into a nasty deep purple. Your eyes caught on it immediately. The source? A necklace.

A simple piece. Elegant. A heavy cut gemstone suspended in the center of a narrow gold chain. It was gorgeous. Certainly a show stopping piece… but it was laced with something. Poisonous, maybe radioactive. A slow killer.

You blinked again and the colors vanished. It could’ve been a coincidence. Could’ve been symbolic. Could’ve meant ten things or none. But still... you felt the truth of it sink in.

That necklace is killing her. It’s deliberate.

You couldn’t tell her outright. Not here. Not like this. So you leaned back with a grin, voice pitch perfect. “Ooh~ your necklace is so lovely!” You chirped. “Green diamond, right? My boyfriend got me one for my birthday a few years back. I loved it. Wore it every day. But I started feeling real sick. I was coughing and waking up in a cold sweat. Apparently it was the diamond.”

You giggled, shaking your head as the nail tech returned.

“Had to return for a refund to save my damn life. But hey! If you know a clean green diamond jeweler, please send them my way!”

You could see it. The smallest shift in her breath. Not panic. Not even concern. Just... noted.

She turned to you again, eye lids blinking gracefully slow. “Where did you say you were from?”

You perked up. “Tokyo! Well—actually Osaka, if you couldn’t already tell.” You laughed. “But I’ve been in Tokyo the past few years. I love it. Came to Kagoshima on vacation with my boyfriend.”

There was a pause. Then a soft, curious hum from the woman. Not judgmental, just... interested.

You brightened. “He’s taking me to dinner tonight, so he wants me to get all dolled up. We’re going to a place called Kuroshio. It’s supposed to be good. I don’t know. His manager booked it.”

That did it. Her eyes didn’t widen, not really—but they shifted. There was a new kind of sharpness now. The word manager changed things. It meant he wasn’t some rich club rat burning daddy’s inheritance. It meant business. Structure.

“What kind of work does your partner do?” she asked lightly.

Your heart skipped.

Shit.

You smiled, stalling just a hair as one nail tech gently took your hand and another guided your feet into the warm lavender and citrus soak. The scent was heavenly, but your brain was spiraling.

You couldn’t say gambler. You were laying surface groundwork here. This was Phase One of the long con. If you said the wrong thing, this entire first impression would shatter.

You blinked, giggled. “Hmmm... what does he call it again?” you mused, eyes lifting like you were earnestly trying to recall. “I think he says it’s risk analysis? For private clients?”

The woman raised a brow. “Doing what, exactly?”

Your heart was racing now, but your expression didn’t falter.

Shut the fuck up lady! Just accept the answer!

You laughed again, breathy and brainless. “I don’t really know.” You admitted, waving a hand. “He just makes the money, and I spend it!”

The salon cracked. It wasn’t loud—but it was real. A soft giggle echoed across the room.

You turned, surprised, and spotted one of the women who’d been watching you earlier. Around your age, maybe a little younger. Sitting across from you in a gaudy Chanel dress with the logo splashed across her chest like a billboard. Definitely new money. No doubt. Her makeup was overdone. Her nails had glitter. Her bag had a giant Chanel logo too.

She looked between you and the woman beside you, as if gauging approval first. “Same here, I have no idea what my man does, but he gives me an allowance and I just shop!”

You smiled genuinely this time. The woman beside you? She didn’t smile, but she reached up, fingers ghosting the clasp of her necklace.

You might’ve just earned yourself a very dangerous ally.

The mood shifted gradually, as the sunlight crept across a tiled floor. After that first spark—your quiet exchange about jewelry and illness, that cautious connection built on nothing but implication—the older woman beside you had relaxed. Just a little. Enough to lean ever so slightly in your direction. Enough to tilt her head toward you when you spoke.

The conversation bloomed slowly. Not about wealth. Not about power. No, you talked about domestic things.

You talked about marinades, of all things—how different prefectures seasoned chicken thighs, how soy and mirin should always be balanced with a citrus acid. You mentioned the time you accidentally used honey instead of sugar and your boyfriend Toji pretended not to notice, just so you wouldn’t feel bad.

“He was chewin’ so slow.” You laughed, eyes crinkling. “Like his tongue was trying to figure out what to do. He didn’t say a thing, but suddenly the next day there was a chef on payroll.”

She let out a tiny breath through her nose. Almost a laugh.

You talked about the right way to fold towels. The importance of quality sheets. The difference between being spoiled and being taken care of—and the very fine line that often blurred between the two. You talked about simple things like that. Strange, silly nothings that sounded mundane and unimportant.

But the room listened… Oh, how they listened. Like a collective pause button had been pressed on their lives, just to tune into this strange, unlikely radio station. This commoner supposedly from Tokyo, or Osaka, or America—talking to a woman who clearly wasn’t just wealthy, but untouchable. It was like eavesdropping on a broadcast that no one should’ve had access to.

It became a game in your head as you spoke. You wondered how many times you could name drop Zen’in without losing the thread of the conversation. You were at six already. Six ridiculous little drops, but hey, you were here for a reason. It was hilarious, in your head.

You weren’t trying to sell her on anything. In fact, the longer you talked, the less it felt like a game at all. She was elegant and intimidating, yes, but there was something lonely about her, too. Something muted in the way her hands never moved unless they had to. Like she'd spent so long being watched that she’d forgotten how to speak unless spoken to.

But you? You weren’t after her fortune. You didn’t need her approval. You were just a girl with soft hands and a sweet tone, trying to pass time until your next appointment.

Maybe she felt that… because she stayed. Even as the salon stayed silent. Even as the rest of the women looked on, lips pressed, ears tilted toward the conversation they couldn’t believe they were hearing.

Eventually, the woman’s gaze flicked down to your hands. Your nails were almost done.

There was judgment there, for sure—but not the acidic kind. More like... curiosity. A raised brow that said I’d never wear that, but I respect your boldness. Well… hopefully she thought that.

You smiled, silently amused.

The finishing touches went fast. The nail techs moved with quiet reverence now. The woman beside you had already begun her exit protocol. Hands lotioned, heels exchanged for sandals. A manicurist gently brushed stray powder from her wrists as she reached for her purse.

“I appreciate the connection, Ms. Zen’in.”She spoke in a voice tone smooth and final.

Your head snapped up. “Hold on,” you blurted. “Excuse me.”

She paused. One brow arched just slightly. “Hmm?”

You turned toward the front desk, before looking back at her. “This conversation was real fun! Let me cover your services.”

The room froze. It was like you’d set off a fire alarm. There were no snickers. No open gasps. Just... ice. Pure and immediate. Even the jazz music playing in the background felt suddenly muted. The manicurist at your feet stiffened. The one handling your fingers hesitated mid brush stroke.

You could feel the temperature drop. Did you really just offer to pay for her mani-pedi? If tipping was a sin, then what you did was a ticket straight to hell. One way. Do not collect $200. 

Paying for her—a gesture that could only be interpreted as either insult or extreme delusion. You hadn’t meant it that way, and she could see that.

She studied your face. Held your gaze. Watched your body for any flinch of irony, any trace of smirking irreverence. There was none. You were sincere. Just... very American.

The woman paused for a moment—and then, she laughed. A small, breathy thing. Not exaggerated. Not theatrical, but it was real amusement—the kind that had weight behind it. Like something had actually delighted her. Like she’d just stumbled across something impossible.

She glanced toward the receptionist and spoke a string of words you didn’t recognize. Not Japanese. Cantonese, maybe? The tone was formal. Almost melodic. A command, you thought—but given with grace.

Her eyes returned to you. “Lovely to meet you again, Ms. Zen’in. Do take care.”

She stood with poise, her bag reclaimed. That tight chignon never moved as she glided toward the exit… and from seemingly nowhere, a gentleman in a tailored tuxedo appeared to open the door for her. Like he'd been standing in the shadows this entire time without being noticed.

Then more men appeared. Men with tailored suits, slicked back hair, and still eyes. Some with ear pieces. One with an umbrella to shield the light of the evening sun.

They were her shadows. Her infrastructure. This wasn’t wealth. This was legacy. Generational power. The kind of money that moved prefectures.

You sat, stunned. The manicurist working on your hands said nothing, but when she finally finished, she gave a short, low bow. “It was a pleasure to serve you.”

The woman tending your feet finished rubbing in the citrus scented moisturizer and slipped sandals over your toes, careful not to smudge anything. She placed your black heels into a small, durable carry bag, the logo elegantly placed on the front.

“Take care, Zen’in-sama.”

Huh? Zen’in… sama? What the actual fuck?

“Thank ya!” You gave your sweet  tone despite being so confused.

You weren’t sure what was going on anymore. You reached for your Prada and stood, clearing your throat as you stood up and approached the front desk.

“What do I owe?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

The receptionist stood at full attention this time—hands folded, back straight, eyes slightly lowered. “Your bill is taken care of,” she said with a deep bow. “If you have extra time before your hair appointment, we would be honored to offer you a complimentary waxing service.”

You blinked again, slow… You flipped your phone open and checked the time. You were still ahead of schedule.

“Hmmm~ can ya do it in twenty minutes?”

The receptionist smiled like you’d just offered her a promotion. “Of course we can.”

After your encounter with the rich salon lady, the rest of the day moved at light speed.

The waxing was swift, brutal, and deeply efficient. The kind of pain that didn’t give you time to process, just flinched you forward and left you breathless. It was over before you could curse, and the technician bowed once when she was done, offering you a little lavender scented towel and a bottle of post care serum. Crazy how her tone was utterly different than when you’d first arrived.

Strange, how quickly power could be assigned. That morning, your time had been treated like something disposable. By evening, people were treating you like you were time itself.

You left with a gift bag of creams and toners, a sample of moisturizer not yet on the market, and a chorus of bowed heads seeing you off. 

Zen’in-sama, please return soon. Zen’in-sama, the pleasure was ours.

You tried not to laugh. After all, sama was growing on you.

The driver Shiu sent was waiting outside, punctual to the second, dressed in a full black uniform and a spotless black van. The name of the salon you were headed to was stitched in subtle gold thread on the welcome rug.

The hair salon looked more like a boutique hotel than anything else.

Marble floors veined with blush pink. A spiral chandelier like a beautiful falling galaxy. A row of private booths instead of chairs, each one separated by softly frosted dividers, curved mirrors, and a personalized lighting system that made your skin look like it had never heard of imperfection.

Here, the air felt different. No stiffness. No silent daggers. Just stylists who were sweet and too attractive for their own good, eager to pamper, offering coffee and mimosas like you’d been friends for years.

You were chatty—obnoxiously so, and it worked. The stylist adored you by the time she’d sectioned your hair. You asked her about everything—her favorite products, whether she believed in hair masks. Just a bunch of bullshit, honestly.

You didn’t even need the answers. You were just giving her something to remember you by.

Your hair took forever, but it didn’t feel like forever. You leaned back in the massage chair. Fell asleep for a few minutes while your deep conditioner soaked in. Sipped something citrusy and fizzy with a metal straw. Got your scalp scrubbed within an inch of your life and then flat ironed, blown out, styled, curled, tousled, teased—

You told her you wanted to look like a 90s supermodel, and apparently she took that personally because by the time you left, you did.

Hair high, bouncy, full of heat and movement. The kind of hair that turned slowly when you walked. The kind of hair that looked effortless but took four people and ¥30k worth of product to achieve.

You didn’t rush back to the hotel after you were done. You wandered a little. You shopped. It was apart of the plan of course.

You dropped the name Zen’in at least two more times while trying on sunglasses and once at a boutique where you bought a silk scarf you absolutely didn’t need. The clerk smiled too widely when you said it—like okay she gets it.

By the time you wrapped up, you were tired. Your hands were soft from lotion. Your feet sore from new heels. Your scalp ached from perfection. All you’d done today was be pampered and admired and seen… why were you tired?

Was this what it meant to be rich? To be treated like royalty while your body quietly eroded from the effort of holding the crown?

The Kagoshima Tenpyo Palace : 7:40pm : Kagoshima

Your van pulled up to the hotel at 7:40 sharp. The staff greeted you with the same practiced politeness—but their eyes lingered. You could see it. You looked so much different now—hair blown out, lashes curled, skin glowing. New outfit. New jewelry. New nails. New posture.

They didn’t know whether to judge or admire. Maybe both. You smiled and waved and let them feel small if that’s the emotion they chose.

You stepped into the elevator and slid the keycard. You watched the floor count blink toward the top. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. Your reflection in the mirrored panel caught your eye, and for a second, you didn’t recognize yourself.

You didn’t look like someone pretending to be rich. No you were rich.

The suite was dim when you entered. Quiet as per usual which meant Toji and Shiu were still out.

The softest light glowed along the baseboards, automatic and golden. The scent of sea salt drifted in from the open balcony windows. You kicked your heels off in the entryway, sighing audibly as you let the persona melt away.

You weren’t smiling anymore. You weren’t giggling. The airhead had left the building.

You padded across the smooth wood floors. The downstairs bedroom went untouched since this morning—luxurious and crisp, pillows still fluffed, the bedspread pulled tight.

You collapsed onto it with a moan, limbs spread wide, eyes closing on instinct. This room was quiet, but not empty. It was watching you.

The floor to ceiling window on your left offered a view worth a painting—Sakurajima standing proud, its curved peak shrouded in mist, the town glittering across the bay. A handful of yachts dotted the darkened water, some docked, others drifting with soft lights glowing like lanterns on the tide. Dinner cruises flickered with laughter and jazz. City lights danced across the ripples.

It didn’t feel real. It felt borrowed, but this wasn’t even the beginning. You’d only been in Kagoshima two weeks.

You remembered what Shiu had said back in Fukuoka. How it was nice to stay in a place so luxurious, but he wanted to own it. You told him you could do that for him… but now, staring out at that volcano, feeling the pulse of wealth beneath your skin—maybe you wanted it for you too.

The silence didn’t last long. Your phone buzzed against the comforter—lazy, soft, almost apologetic.

You groaned, rolling onto your side to snatch it from where it had slipped between the pillows. You flipped it open with one hand, hair spilling forward like warm honey over your shoulder.

1 new message — Toji Zen’in.

[ Big Dick Apparently ]

We're on our way back.

You stared at it for a beat.

[ You ]

K

[ Big Dick Apparently ]

You better fix that attitude girl.

You rolled your eyes and tossed the phone somewhere behind you without looking. You were at the point where you no longer got offended by his shenanigans.

Finally silence again. A delicious one. The kind of silence that keeps you suspended between exhaustion and satisfaction. Today had felt like ten days in one, and now that you were alone, it all sank in at once.

You closed your eyes. Let your limbs melt into the mattress. Let your breath ease into that slow, warm rhythm your body fell into only when you were safely behind locked doors.

Time slipped. You didn’t know how long. Until suddenly you heard the front door open.

Toji’s voice broke through the suite, rough and deep. “We’re back.”

You didn’t bother to sit up. Instead, you let out a loud, drawn out, “MHMMMM!”

Their footsteps padded closer, two different rhythms—Toji’s heavy and unbothered, Shiu’s measured and smooth.

Toji spoke again, “C’mere. Let me see what I paid for.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “Stop making me sound like a cheap whore!”

“Fuckin’ brat.” Toji muttered under his breath.

Shiu struck his lighter and you heard the familiar inhale of a cigarette. He took a seat on the couch with a soft groan of comfort.

“We should debrief.” He spoke simply. Voice warm and deep and impossible to ignore.

You shot upright immediately. “Okay!”

Toji made a noise halfway between a scoff and a growl. Of course you moved for Shiu’s voice. 

He started speaking as you made your way out to the main living room. “Tonight’s the night, doll. Met a few guys from Kirishima who—”

He stopped mid sentence. Silence. Both men froze as you stepped out, and the air in the suite shifted like a pressure change.

Your hair—fuck. Voluminous, shiny, blown out to bouncy, supermodel perfection. Your Versace tube top clung to your chest like paint, the low rise pants framed your hips like they’d been tailored to worship. The thin straps of your thong curved high over your waist, deliberate, provocative. A new outfit you picked up while you were out. It was cute, you thought.

Your skin glowed. Your lips shined. Your brows were perfect… and your nails… XXL glossy pink French tips dripping with tiny acrylic charms—stars, flowers, glitters and painted designs. Your middle finger pierced with two delicate hoops that jingled when you walked.

You were trouble. You were sexy. 

Toji blinked once—slow. “Damn, woman.”

Shiu… oh, Shiu. His eyes slid up, then down, then back up again. He inhaled his cigarette, held the smoke—and forgot to exhale until the ash fell straight onto his shirt.

You tossed yourself onto the couch across from them, draping your body over the cushions like a beautiful, exhausted damsel in distress.

“So…” You exhaled dramatically, “You met some guys from Kirishima, and then what?”

Toji wasn’t amused. “Are you fucking serious?”

You blinked innocently. “Yes? I wanna know about the guys from Kirishima.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes full of frustration. “You know damn well that’s not what I’m talking about. Why the fuck do you look like a video vixen?!”

You smiled sweetly, lifting your pierced middle finger to your teeth like a toy. “Ooh… is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”

Shiu finally exhaled—slow, controlled, sensual. “She looks incredible… She’s playing the role—beautiful, dumb, clingy, money hungry girlfriend. It fits.”

You turned and caught his gaze. “Thank you.” Your tone lightened.

You then looked back at Toji, whose glare was now 40% arousal masked as irritation and 60% something more primal.

“So,” you repeated, “what’s up with the Kirishima boys?”

His eyes didn’t rise back to your face. They stayed locked on your body without an ounce of shame. “Thong showing. Tits showing…”  He’d stand up. “How much can you even move in that… c’mere.”

He’d stop right in front of you, planting his hands on either side of your hips on the couch, leaning down into your intimate space.

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. You just stared right back at him.

“You ready to go out tonight?” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “No? The fuck? I had a long day.”

“Too bad.” His smirk was pure sin. “I already told the boys you’d be there.”

“Be where?”

He brought his mouth close to yours—too close. “There’s a party on a yacht headed just past Kuroshima.”

His hands gripped your thighs and yanked you forward so your legs bracketed his waist. 

Your hands flew to his shoulders in reflex. “TOJI!”

He grinned, eyes dark, hungry. “We’re following your lead, after all.”

Your pulse throbbed. You lifted your hands and cupped his face.

“Alright,” you breathed. “Let’s see what this is about.”

You activated your technique… and the world flashed.

The yacht. Music. Lights. A drink. Cards. Chips. White powder. Blood…  Danger. Deception. Something sharp and cold hiding behind champagne smiles.

“Fuck!” You panted, chest rising and falling. “...We’re gonna get high tonight.”

Toji’s grin spread slow. “Oh fuck yeah.”

Shiu, from the couch, flicked ash into a tray and raised a single eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Kagoshima Private Port : 9:22pm : Kagoshima

The SUV hummed low as it rolled across the smooth private asphalt, the night air dense with humidity and salt. Kagoshima’s coast glittered ahead—industrial, polished, and weaponized by wealth.

You sat in the back beside Toji— Shiu in the front. The car slowed before the tall metal boom gate blocking access to the private docks. Two security guards stood under bright white overhead lights, their uniforms crisp, their expressions unreadable. Cameras tracked every angle of the approach. None were hidden. That was the point.

The driver eased to a stop and lowered his window. “I have three guests here for Minami Kyūshū Holdings.”

One guard stepped forward, fingers pressed to the earpiece clipped neatly along his jaw.

“Three for Minami Kyūshū Holdings,” he repeated into the mic.

A pause.

He angled his head, eyes sweeping into the SUV.

“Roll all the windows down.”

The driver complied. Your heart thumped hard as all four windows came sliding down and the night air flooded in. The guard’s gaze passed over you first and then to Toji, then Shiu.

He pressed the button to the mic again. “Two foreigners, one male, one female. One Japanese male… Okay. Understood.” He nodded to the driver. “Head straight forward. Do not block the entryway.”

The boom gate rose, and the SUV glided through. The private docks stretched ahead in clean, geometric lines—multiple gated sections, rows of streetlamps glowing, the dark water lapping quietly against polished concrete… and then you saw it. The yacht.

The lights hit first—warm gold beaming from its rails, its windows, its deck. It was long and sleek, cutting into the dark water like something celestial. It was monstrous in scale—multiple floors, not including whatever lounges and dens were hidden below deck. It had to be worth three billion yen minimum. The price of a dream. The price of power.

You gasped in your soft, honeyed persona voice. “Ooh! So pretty!”

Even acting ditzy, you didn’t miss the way both Toji and Shiu went still. That wasn’t the stillness of intimidation. That was hunger. This yacht wasn’t a toy they wanted to touch. It was a future they intended to own. A reminder of just how small the amount of money you three currently held.

The driver pulled to the designated left lane, stopping beside a polished steel walkway. Guests were already stepping out of their vehicles—men in tailored suits chatting quietly, women shimmering in jewel toned dresses, diamonds catching the moonlight.

Everyone looked expensive. Everyone moved like they belonged here.

You swallowed hard. Thankfully, tonight you didn’t need to belong—you just needed to play the girl who wanted to.

The driver opened Toji’s door. He unfolded himself from the backseat dressed in a midnight black Tom Ford suit that hugged his frame, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to see that sculpted chest. A faint trace of Black Orchid cologne lingered around him. Something subtle you’d have to press against him to smell.

He turned and offered his hand. You took it and stepped out. Your Roberto Cavalli dress clung to you like you were poured into it—leopard print, halter, backless, the plunging neckline dipping to just above your navel. Your hair bounced over your shoulders in glossy supermodel waves. Your nails flashed pink and decadent. Your heels clicked soft on the dock.

You looked obscene. You looked perfect.

Toji slid an arm around your waist and pulled you close. He warned if you wore that dress out some of this shit might not be acting.

Then Shiu stepped out, and he was a vision of a different flavor. Black Dolce & Gabbana suit, tailored to absolute precision. Crisp tie. Polished shoes. Hair styled cleanly with a strong holding pomade. He adjusted his cufflinks with slow purpose.

The three of you walked toward the boarding line, and immediately, you felt it. Your dress was louder, riskier, sexier than anything else on the dock. The other women wore designer silhouettes—elegant, classy, but none dared what you were wearing. You looked like lust made flesh.

The walkway ahead narrowed into a final checkpoint—two guards, a monitor, a scanner. This was the last filter. Anyone getting on that yacht would be known, logged, and vetted.

The lights from the yacht cast gold ripples across the water, the sound of music faint but seductive.

The three of you stepped onto the walkway—your heels clicking, Toji’s stride loose and predatory, Shiu’s calm and collected.

Two men stood there. Better dressed than the earlier guards. Cleaner posture. More discreet earpieces. Higher rank. They looked like men who didn’t deal with amateurs. Their assessment of you was quick but respectful.

The clipboard man lifted his eyes. “Good evening. Names, please.”

Shiu answered, smooth as ever. “Yes—there should be two under Zen’in and one under Kong.”

The man looked down, flipped a page, nodded. “Ah. Yes, I see them here. May I see some identification?”

You reached into your bag, them in their pockets. One by one, you handed your IDs over. Fake ID’s of course. Courtesy of one Shiu Kong. Real names, fake information. 

The man returned Shiu’s. Then Toji’s. Then—he paused. Brows pulled together.

He held your ID up slightly. “I’m sorry—her last name is not Zen’in.”

Toji’s expression tightened instantly. “This is my woman. She’s on the list under Zen’in.”

“I understand,” the man replied, shaking his head. “But there is no way for me to verify that the guest hasn’t been switched out on the way here.”

You could feel Toji’s jaw shift beside you, and Shiu—already flipping open his phone.

“I’ll call Shindō.” he spoke calmly. “We don’t have time for this.”

Before he could call, another man descended the walkway toward you, his stride authoritative, annoyed. An older man who didn’t waste words. Security probably.

“Takizawa!” the man barked.

The clipboard man snapped straighter.

“That’s Zen’in.” He’d continue with absolute conviction. “Don’t be stupid.”

Your heart skipped. What the hell did Shiu and Toji do to earn that kind of credibility?

Takizawa bowed deeply. “My apologies! Please enjoy your night.” He stepped aside, clearing your path.

Toji gave the man who defended you a small nod—equal parts thanks and threat.

Shiu gave one too. Smaller. More diplomatic, but it carried weight.

Toji’s arm slid around your waist again, firm, claiming, guiding you forward as the three of you finally stepped onto the yacht.

The crew greeted you on either side—crisp uniforms, polished smiles, hands ready to steady your steps if needed.

Then you stepped into the main salon—and your breath caught. Marble bar stretched like a through the center. Floor to ceiling windows. Soft leather seating in low lounge arrangements. Warm gold lights reflecting off polished fixtures.

Servers weaving between clusters of guests like a well rehearsed performance. Music played soft through the space—tasteful, rhythmic, expensive.

You weren’t the only “gold digger” type here. There were others. They wore their intentions clearly—subtle enough not to embarrass their benefactors, blatant enough that everyone knew exactly what they were doing.

None looked like you though. Your dress, your hair, your nails, your entire presence.  Turning heads. Raising eyebrows. Making men double take and women whisper.

You stood out by design. Before you could fully drink it in—

“Zen’in!”

A man in his mid thirties strode toward you. Crisp navy suit. Sunglasses tinted.. Slicked back hair. A grin that said he liked his money dirty and his friends useful.

“Glad to see you made it,” he spoke, eyes immediately sweeping over you, too familiar. Then he looked at Toji. “This your lady?”

Toji didn’t hesitate. “This is her.”

The man looked you over again, slower this time, a knowing curl to his lip. “Well we’ll have to work on your storytelling skills, Zen’in. You didn’t say she looked this good.”

He extended his hand. You took it with a perfect bimbo smile.

He lifted your hand toward his lips. “Shindō. It’s a pleasure.”

Behind him, you felt it—Toji’s hand tightening at your waist. Shiu’s faint inhale. They didn’t like that.

You giggled anyway. “Nice to meet you too! Your yacht is so amazing!”

He beamed. “You think so? This is my pride and joy. Means a lot.” Then he leaned in, voice dropping just enough for the words to stick to your skin. “But hey—don’t get stuck in the main hall. Go explore. I’ve got two pools you’ll probably enjoy.”

You blinked. “Oh no, I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

He shrugged. “No one did.”

You felt Toji stiffen beside you. Shiu exhaled slowly through his nose.

Shindō continued,  “We depart in ten minutes. Make yourselves at home… and hang tight. The real party starts when we get offshore.”

So this was what it was like to party with the filthy rich.

A server glided past with a tray. “Champagne?”

Toji shook his head. “Nah. You got anything stronger?”

“Of course, anything specific sir?” the server nodded.

“I’ll take an old fashioned, and a tequila sunrise for my woman. Don’t be stingy with the tequila either.”

Of course Toji ordered the strongest cocktail for you.

Shiu turned his head, “Negroni, thank you.”

Tonight would not be subtle. Tonight would not be safe. Tonight was the beginning of something huge.

The server must have had access to a time machine because he returned with the drinks almost comically fast. Two minutes, maybe less. He wore that polished hospitality smile and offered your drink first.

You gasped softly, taking it with both hands like the cutest little menace alive. “Oh! Thank you sooo much! Ah~ it’s got a lil’ umbrella!”

The server bowed and moved on.

You brought the rim to your lips and took a sip—and nearly choked. This wasn’t a tequila sunrise. This was about to be sunSET with the amount of alcohol in it.

Shindō watched your expression with amusement. “You like it?”

You bit your bottom lip, brows drawing in just a little. “It’s… really strong. Gotta pace myself so I don’t get too wild.”

“Says who?” Shindō chuckled, tilting his head slightly as his eyes traveled—slowly, shamelessly, down your body and back up. “You’re free to indulge in anything you like as long as you’re on my property.”

Bold.

While his attention stayed glued to you, Toji and Shiu did exactly what the plan demanded—drift. Not far, but far enough for other guests to approach.

A man in a tailored cream suit caught Toji’s attention. A stylish woman with emerald earrings gravitated toward Shiu.

Divide and conquer.

Shindō continued studying you with that dangerous, assessing smile.

You covered your mouth with your manicured hand and giggled.

“Shindō-han, I just met ya. I’m not trying to make a bad first impression now.”

He stepped back half a pace as though to admire the entire picture at once. “In that dress? Trust me, sweetheart—your first impression is already made.”

His words were honeyed poison—flattering, but chosen with precision. The kind of flirtation meant to see if you’d lean closer or push away.

From the corner of your eye, you caught it. Shiu, mid conversation, fully charming the woman in front of him… but glancing toward you. A quick flick of the eyes. A silent check in.

Then he exhaled slow, as though forcing himself back to his conversation.

Toji didn’t look once. He didn’t have to. He played the role of the man who already knew you were loyal, desirable, and solidly his. A man who didn’t need to posture. That being said, he also wasn’t missing a single fucking detail.

The yacht eased away from the dock now with the soft churn of engines, the deck shifting beneath your heels as the water opened up around you.

You gasped, looking toward the glass. “It’s sooo pretty!”

Shindō followed your gaze, pleased at your delight. “A view like none other, isn’t it? Only second to you of course.”

You laughed, light and airy. “Aw, thank ya, Shindō-han.”

Another sip of your tequila disguised as a sunrise, fuck it burned, but it was kinda fucking delicious.

Shindō reached out, grazing his fingertips along your arm. Testing. “You gamble, sweetheart?”

You put a hand to your chest, Kansai accent thickening with your ditzy persona. “Me? Oooh no, no! I dun’ understand it at all. Too many rules. I’d rather cheer on my Toji yeah!” You turned, beaming brightly at Toji,  “You’re real good, huh baby?”

Toji finally broke from his conversation only to lean back just enough to catch your eyes. His expression softened with the exact amount of tenderness needed to make Shindō understand the silent warning.

He placed a hand on your jaw, leaned down, and kissed you. Possessive without being threatening.

“What’s a gambler,” Toji murmured against your lips, “without a little lady luck?”

A statement. A performance. A territorial flag planted with precision.

Shindō laughed, hands raised in good natured surrender. “I see how it is.” He wasn’t discouraged. Not even remotely. “Well, before we get into anything serious—are you hungry? I’ve got the finest chefs in Kagoshima here tonight. They’ll make you anything. You name it. I’ll show you around.”

You shook your head quickly, smiling shy and flirty. “I dunno, Shindō-han. I’m tryin’ to watch my figure.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll watch your figure for you.”

You slipped your hand through Toji’s arm, pressing your breasts intentionally against his bicep. “Come on, baby! Shindō-han says he’s gonna show us around!”

Shindō laughed—not like he’d lost. More like he’d found a worthy opponent.

Toji gave Shiu a single nod. “We’ll be back.”

You took one last glance toward Shiu. He was still speaking to the woman… but his body was angled away from her now, leaning subtly in your direction. The line of his shoulders tense. The easy, smooth cadence of his voice controlled—but off by a fraction.

He didn’t like Shindō touching you, or flirting with you. With Toji it was all a part of the game. With other men—it was not. Shiu hid it well, but you were starting to learn his tells.

Still, you plastered on that pretty little persona smile. Sweet, airy, unbothered.

Shindō walked a half step ahead of you and Toji, one hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other gesturing broadly as though he owned not just the yacht, but the entire ocean beneath it.

“This,” he announced with a flourish, “is the main saloon.”

You’d already seen it from the entrance, but walking through it again with his voice guiding you made it feel newly extravagant. The leather sofas were low and modern, the stitching perfect. Sculptures stood on pedestals—European marble torsos, modernist Japanese ironwork, and a few abstract pieces that probably cost more than your entire ten year plan.

“All furniture is imported,” Shindō tapped the back of a suede chair. “Some of these pieces are one of a kind. My father thinks I’m insane for keeping them at sea.”

You giggled, a cute little sound that made him glance back at you again. He led you out sliding glass doors onto the Aft Deck Infinity Lounge—and wow.

A heated pool sat glowing electric blue beneath the night sky. Sundeck beds cushioned in ivory fabric curved around the edge. A DJ booth was set into a raised platform, already spinning soft house music. A cocktail bar with mirrored shelving glimmered with gold bottles.

Next he walked onward and took you into the cinema room. Dark walls. Velvet seats in staggered rows. A massive screen. For a yacht, the room was shockingly expansive—small for a mansion, but luxurious for something that floated.

Shindō shrugged. “Least fun room here. Couples love it though.”

You blinked innocently. “Ohhh, for cuddlin’ and stuff?”

“Something like that.” He smirked

The skybar followed. It glowed under strips of warm LED lighting. Soft lounge chairs curved around low tables. Glass railings offered an unobstructed view of the ocean.

The helipad stretched out like a polished coin, gleaming under the moonlight. The helipad lounge, tucked under a sleek canopy, boasted crescent couches and a private bar. Wind shielded. Intimate. Dangerous.

The hot tub deck steamed gently, the water shimmering under hundreds of fiber optic lights embedded in the ceiling above. A manufactured night sky for guests too wealthy to settle for the real one.

He took you past hallways lined with bedroom suites—doors closed, lights softly glowing under their frames. This wasn’t a yacht. This was a floating mansion.

Shindō watched you soak in the details with wide, eager eyes before he led you and Toji into the kitchen, which looked nothing like a yacht galley. It looked like a Michelin star restaurant.

“This,” Shindō said, running his fingers along the counter, “was a gift from my father. Just the shell of the yacht. Bare bones. Everything inside I designed myself.”

You twirled a strand of your bouncy hair, impressed. “That’s real cool, Shindō-han…”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret reserved for very expensive ears. “There’s a place I went once. Only once. Very exclusive. Off the coast of Okinawa. They call it the Okinawa Palace. A grand city disguised as a container ship.”

Interesting… 

Shindō chuckled. “Makes this yacht look like a toy. But I modeled her after that place. Mine on a much smaller scale, of course.”

You smiled innocently. “Ohhh~ that’s why it feels so fancy everywhere…”

His eyes warmed with amusement at your naïveté—real or not, it charmed him completely.

Then he turned toward a counter lined with platters. “I promised you food. These are only some of the appetizers.”

Your eyes widened at the glossy cuts of fish and perfectly seared beef.

“You like tuna? Beef?”

You clasped your hands together. “They both look soooo yummy…”

“How about both?” He offered.

You nodded quickly, excitement sparkling in your eyes. He snapped his gaze to a nearby server, who rushed to present the first tray—glistening slices of toro otoro.

You picked one up and popped it into your mouth—one bite, all indulgence.

Your eyes flew open. “MMM!! Baby, try this!”

You grabbed another piece and held it up to Toji’s lips. He leaned forward, mouth open, letting you feed him. He chewed subtly impressed, then nodded like it was no big deal—even though you knew it was the best food he’d ever eaten.

Another server stepped forward with Kobe Beef Chateaubriand.

“Ohmygod—!” You tossed one into your mouth without hesitation. It melted on your tongue; you moaned softly. “This is sooo good…”

You held another piece toward Toji, who ate it right from your fingers. This time, he didn’t hide the satisfaction in his eyes.

Shindō watched all of this unfold with palpable amusement. “Glad you like it. Nothing but the best for my guests.”

He flicked two fingers, and the servers silently dispersed—some heading out to the main saloon to tend to other guests, others remaining nearby, stationed almost reverently around you three.

This was luxury, and yet, from what Shindō had hinted at earlier—this wasn’t even close to the top of the ladder.

You swayed closer to Toji, resting your head briefly on his arm, “Baby, everythin’ here’s soooo fancy… I feel like Cinderella.”

Shindō smiled like he intended to pull you from Toji’s arm just to see if he could. “You’re much prettier than Cinderella, and besides—Cinderella had to leave the party early. You, sweetheart…” His gaze dragged down your dress, slow, appreciative. “You belong here past midnight.”

“You flirting with my woman?” Toji asked, tone relaxed… but not that relaxed.

Shindō didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not. My parents raised me to be a gentleman. I uplift women, though they are my greatest vice. You should know how dangerous it is bringing a beauty like that around without a ring on her finger.”

Toji laughed under his breath. “I dare a man to try.” His eyes darkened, “Enough about her, where’s the real party at? You really gonna wait until we get past Kuroshima?”

Shindō smirked, slow and deep. “Very eager, aren’t you? I like that. Though… it might be a little intense since you brought your lady. She might not like the things that go on after hours.”

Toji looked down at you first. Then up at Shindō. “She likes whatever I tell her to like.”

Shindō stared right at you then—eyes low, assessing, hungry. “Tell me something, darling. You like sweet… or spicy?”

You bit your lip, head tilting cutely. “I like sour, Shindō-han.”

He didn’t look back as he gestured to one of the bartenders who’d remained in the kitchen. “Three Detours to Heaven.”

The bartender moved fast—like he already knew the recipe by heart. Within seconds, three shot glasses were placed on a silver serving tray. The liquid shimmered in a gradient of deep, iridescent blue—beautiful and deceptive.

The shots were laced with molly. You’d seen it already—hours ago, when you touched Toji. You took your glass delicately between your freshly manicured fingers.

All three of you lifted your shots.

Clink.

Before drinking, you brought your eyes to Toji. “You got me baby?”

Toji read you instantly. His hand slid to the back of your neck. You inched up. He closed the distance. The kiss was deep.

Toji nods, “I got you.”

Then you knocked the shot back. Straight tequila. Rich and strong. Nothing else on your tongue, but you knew better.

You let out a bright little gasp. “Mmm! That was so good!”

Shindō beamed. “Of course. I import all my tequila straight from Jalisco. Nothing but the best.”

The server whisked the empty glasses away immediately. Shindō pushed off the counter and brushed past you both with confidence. “Come. You don’t want to spend your time in the kitchen all night, do you? Let’s… live a little.”

You followed him back through the corridors, heels tapping lightly across marble floors. People gathered in the saloon, laughter increasing, drinks flowing heavier.

The night had shifted. You felt it like a pulse under your skin. This was just the first round.

The three of you stepped back out into the flow of the yacht, and the energy had clearly shifted. The molly laced drinks had begun to circulate; you could feel it in the air, an invisible current running beneath the bass of the music.

Some guests were already draped over each other in the hot tub, skin gleaming beneath steam and LED lights.

The bar was crowded with men and women getting drinks, and down the hall, the theater room door was barely cracked—just enough for you to see two people in the beginning stage of a hookup.

You followed Shindō and Toji past all of this until you reached the main saloon again.

People were drinking harder now, voices louder, laughter sharper. The luxury had begun to blur at the edges, turning into something more feral.

But then you saw him. Shiu. Not with one woman. Not with two. With three… and the one closest to him, the emerald earring woman from earlier, now had his hand resting intimately on her hip. His posture was relaxed, lips close to her ear as he murmured something that made her blush and look down.

You felt your stomach turn. Heat pricked your chest. You tried to hide it, but Toji didn’t need to look. He felt you stiffen.

He leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your cheek… except it landed dangerously close to your ear. Close enough for his voice to slip into your skin. “Fix your face.”

Your eyes widened. You instantly plastered on your sugar sweet smile.

Shit.

You hadn’t even realized you were frowning. Whatever. Fine. You were not jealous. It was the tequila. That was the story you were sticking to.

You and Toji continued walking when something caught your eye—a staircase leading down.

You stopped abruptly and turned, hair swinging. “Shindō-han?”

He paused and glanced back, one brow raised in that annoyingly charming way. “Yes, love?”

You pointed down the stairs with a cute little tilt of your head. “What’s down there?”

He let out a low, knowing laugh. “That is where I was actually going to take Zen’in.”

You pouted. “Not me?”

Shindō’s grin sharpened as his tongue ran along his teeth. “Let me be a good host. Then I’ll be right back, okay? Enjoy yourself up here. Don’t worry about what’s happening down there.”

You nodded sweetly, pretending to accept that—pretending you didn’t already know the night would eventually drag all three of you down those steps. That was where the real danger waited.

Close by a group of well dressed men stood leaning against a marble table, puffing cigars and drinking the laced cocktails.

One of them noticed Toji. “Zen’in!” he called out, raising his glass. “Come chat a bit.”

Toji steered you toward the group with a hand on your lower back—firm enough to guide you, soft enough to make it affectionate. As you passed Shiu, he gave Toji a small nod, the type that meant Everything’s going fine. Keep moving.

Shiu didn’t look at you this time. You hated how much that annoyed you.

A cigar case was opened for Toji—premium, hand-rolled, humidified perfectly. He selected one like he’d done this shit before. The men nodded approvingly.

Then Toji placed a steady hand on your lower back, pushing you a step forward. “This is my woman. The one I mentioned.”

The men greeted you warmly—too warmly. Their smiles oily, their eyes crawling over you like they wanted to touch but knew better.

You beamed anyway, “Nice to meet y’all!”

Toji bent down and gave you another kiss—slow, possessive enough for the audience.

“Alright, go play nice while we talk. Okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah!”

One man jerked his chin toward a woman drinking alone on a low couch. “Keep my wife company, would you? Maybe put her in a better mood for me.”

Classy.

You giggled anyway. “I’ll go say hi~”

You turned around and of course you had to pass Shiu again.

He was leaning in close to his new favorite interaction. His lips near her ear as he spoke. His hand stayed respectfully on her hip but the posture? The tilt of his head? The eye contact he gave her?

Ugh.

Your stomach twisted again.

You kept walking. Hair tossed dramatically to one shoulder—exposing the entire bare line of your back. Letting the light catch your skin. Letting Shiu see it if he wanted to.

You weren’t going to crumble over it. You had a part to play. You flounced toward the woman, hips swaying, and plopped gracefully onto the couch beside her.

Her drink remained half full. Her posture stiff.

You leaned in with a glittering smile. “Well hello there! I was told t’come over and cheer ya up!”

She turned, and your breath caught. The woman from the salon. The Chanel dress. The allowance girl. The only one outside of the older lady that actually spoke to you.

She grinned as recognition sparked in her eyes. “Well… it really is a small world, isn’t it?”

You giggled sweetly. “Hello again!”

The woman gave a polite bow. “I suppose I should introduce myself properly this time. You may call me Morita Akiko.”

You brightened. “I didn’t expect you t’be here!”

She took a casual sip of her drink, swirling the amber liquid as her expression flattened.

“Neither did I,” she sighed. “But I suppose I should have.”

You tilted your head, “Why’s that?”

Akiko gave you a long look—measuring, amused, condescending all at once. “Don’t play coy. You earned Shimazu-sama’s respect yesterday with that little stunt you pulled.”

You blinked fast, confused. “Shimazu?”

Her brow lifted sharply. “Shimazu-SAMA,” she corrected. “You’d do well to remember that.”

You scratched your cheek, thinking, “Oooh! The lady with the cute bag I was talkin’ to—”

“You really are from out of town.” Akiko rolled her eyes before you could finish. She set her glass down. “But if you’re in this life?” Her voice dropped to a knowing whisper. “Shimazu is a name you should know very well. They run Kagoshima. And if I’m being honest? They run all of Kyushu—minus a few stubborn parts of Fukuoka.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but movement caught your eye.

A man in a black suit walked past—expression carved in stone, eyes sharp, posture too rigid to be a guest. He moved with intention, pacing the perimeter. The man who vouched for you at the entrance. Clearly he was security for sure. He wasn’t drinking or partaking in anything. Just watching.

Akiko continued, oblivious to how tuned in you truly were. “That nail salon we were in? It’s hers. She owns the place. One of her many businesses in Kagoshima.”

Your jaw dropped dramatically. “OOH! Why was she there then? If she’s that rich, wouldn’t she have people comin’ to her instead?”

Akiko nodded. “Oh, she does, but Shimazu-sama… likes to observe. She steps into her own businesses sometimes to see what the commonfolk are up to. You really never heard the name Shimazu?” she asked again.

You shook your head, pouting.“Nope.”

She clicked her tongue. “You’ve got a lot to learn then. For starters, Shindō-sama is a Shimazu. He’s her son. Your man didn’t tell you? Maybe he’s keeping secrets from you just like mine.”

Your brows knit. “How ya mean?”

Akiko glanced around before lowering her voice. “We’re getting ready to sail past Kuroshima. Give it ten minutes. Shindō-Sama’s going to call all the men downstairs to talk business.”

You leaned in, feigning innocence. “Do they really talk business?”

She snorted. “Heh! Hell if I know. I’ve never been invited down there.” Akiko continued, her tone somewhere between bitter and resigned. “I just hope, for your sake, your relationship is in a good position.”

You frowned softly. “Why’s that?”

She gestured lazily around the saloon. “Don’t you see all the women who came here without their men? We’re the only fools who decided to join ours.”

You turned your head and instantly regretted it… Shiu was pressed up against the emerald earring woman now. Her back against his chest. His hand resting confidently on her hip. The other two women leaned close too—hanging on his low voice, drinking in every word.

He looked comfortable. Your jaw tightened before you could stop it. You snapped your gaze forward, forcing your smile back into place like a cracked porcelain mask.

Akiko didn’t notice.

You nodded, “I’m goin’ down there.”

Akiko barked a laugh. “Try. I never managed to.”

You smiled sweetly, resting your chin in your hand.

What Akiko didn’t know… What no one here knew, was that you had already seen tonight.

You knew about the Shimazu family. You knew about the desperation on this ship. You knew about the drugs. You knew about the men downstairs. You knew exactly when the door would open and when the true debauchery would begin.

Most importantly—you knew that you were meant to be down there.

You licked your lips, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Akiko-han,” you whispered, voice sweet as honey,”I always get what I want.”

The women on this yacht kept their distance from you and Akiko. It wasn’t disdain. It wasn’t intimidation. It was simple calculus. You had nothing to offer them. You were claimed—which made you irrelevant to their games.

Akiko, at least, didn’t treat you that way. Maybe because her man was the same type of secretive asshole as the one behind you. Maybe because she actually liked you. Maybe she saw herself in you. Despite being roughly the same age, you reminded her  of herself when she was a little more green in this game.

Whatever the reason, the two of you talked… a lot. She vented quietly about rich men, about Kagoshima politics, about the unspoken rules you were breaking without even trying. You nodded, giggled, tilted your head sweetly—and the more she drank, the more she shared.

Underneath the chatter, the air was changing. Your skin prickled. Your palms warmed. Your thighs pressed together unconsciously. The molly was working its way through your bloodstream.

Slow at first… Then deeper. Your breathing grew just a little heavier, a soft flutter in your chest like your body was waking up in a way the alcohol never triggered.

Fuck! Physical touch.

You needed it. You craved it right now, and the man you wanted was currently acting like the star of his own harem, a woman tucked under his arm and another laughing at something he whispered.

Shit. No time to fall apart.

You had one last sliver of autonomy tonight. You had to spend it smart. You pushed off the couch—legs wobbling slightly. Akiko’s eyes flicked toward your unsteady stance, and she chuckled dryly.

“Running off to your man?”

You flashed her your sweetest grin. “’Scuse me, would ya? Gotta check in.”

“Good luck.”

You strutted forward—hips swaying wider than necessary, heat pooling low in your stomach.

As you passed Shiu, you tugged at the top of your dress, adjusting where it clung tightly to your breasts. The motion made your dress shift, the deep V dipping lower.

For one fraction of a second—short enough to deny, long enough to haunt—Shiu looked. A sharp, hungry snap of attention, then he forced himself back to his conversation.

Good. Let him stew.

You reached Toji and wrapped your arms around his waist, palms sliding over hard muscle. He smelled like smoke and expensive liquor.

He looked down at you, exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke, then dipped into you—grabbing your chin, tilting your mouth up, kissing you deeply. It was sloppy and messy, but holy shit…

Did he always kiss like this?

You sighed into him without meaning to, fingers curling around his ribs as he pulled you closer with a hot palm on your waist.

Your hand drifted down until your fingers gripped his belt.

Toji broke the kiss, lips still close to yours, “Don’t start that if you won’t finish it.”

Your lips parted on a shaky breath. You didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the molly, or Toji himself—but you felt like your whole body needed his touch.

You dragged your fingertip along the leather of his belt, biting your lip.

That’s when Shindō arrived. He stepped in with a grin—pupils blown wide, jaw a little looser, the drugs hitting him too. One hand landed deliberately on your lower back.

“Mind if I borrow Zen’in from you?”

You turned toward him, eyes glazed with heat, lips still swollen from Toji’s kiss.

You pressed a hand to Shindō’s chest, looking up through thick lashes. “Let me watch.” Your voice was breathy. “My Toji can do whatever he wants… long as it’s in front of me.”

Shindō’s grin widened—sharp and pleased. He looked at Toji, and Toji didn’t hesitate.

“She won’t bother anyone but me.” His hand shot down and grabbed a handful of your ass. 

You gasped loud and so aroused. He’d never done that before. Not even for show. Your fingers clutched his forearm, nails digging slightly.

“I’ll keep my hands t’myself.” You whispered, voice trembling with something far too real.

Toji looked at Shindō and jerked his chin. “Lead the way.”

Then, with his hand still gripping you, Toji lifted you clean off the floor. Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your arms looped around his neck. Your heartbeat roared in your ears.

This is the plan. This is the plan. This is the plan—right?

Shindō walked ahead, steps confident as he led the way to the lower deck.

Toji followed, carrying you easily. His hold on you was secure. A wordless claim that burned hotter than the drugs.

As you descended the stairs, you turned your head just enough to see Akiko. Her mouth hung slightly open in surprise. She didn’t understand. 

You gave her a playful wink just before Toji carried you out of sight.

In just a few short steps, you were finally going downstairs. The bass downstairs invaded you.

It hit your chest, your pulse, shit—the roots of your hair. A beat so rich and layered it felt like silk wrapping around your spine, tugging your body into rhythm involuntarily.

You melted in Toji’s arms, back arching, head tipping, your body swaying like it couldn’t help itself.

Shindō glanced back at you with a wolfish grin. “Can you gamble, Zen’in?”

Before he could reply, below deck could be seen in full view now, and it was a lot to take in.

A casino. A men’s paradise tucked beneath the yacht’s polished luxury—velvet walls, crystal lights, tables arranged in a glittering maze, dealers in tight dresses, servers in almost nothing at all. What had felt risqué upstairs suddenly made your leopard print dress look like a nun’s habit.

Roulette wheels spinning. Cards slapping the felt.  Chips clacking. Laughter—loud, slurred, hungry.

The men didn’t hesitate. This was routine. The women? Half naked already. High, loose, touching anyone who let them.

You barely had time to take it all in before Shindō lifted a hand. “Zen’in. Kong. Over here.”

He moved to a glass table—custom, lavish, shimmering under the lights like a frozen lake. You’d never thought glass could be beautiful, but this… this was art.

Your eyes didn’t stay there long, because Shiu was here, and that fucking woman was still draped over him.

A pulse of jealousy spiked up your throat—but it vanished when Toji set you down and pushed you back against the wall.

His mouth crashed into yours, drowning every coherent thought. His hands were firm but your body welcomed it. Heat shot through you in waves, and for an unsteady second, you weren’t sure where Toji ended and you began.

He kissed your jaw. Your throat. Lower… Then paused when Shindō pulled something from his inner pocket. A small, elegant tin. Like a jewelry box. Except the jewels inside were white powder.

He tapped it open, poured a soft hill of it onto the flawless glass, and pulled out a razor so thin and beautiful it looked ceremonial. Everything went loud and quiet at once.

Three skinny lines.  One for him. One for Toji. One for Shiu.

You knew this moment before you ever stepped foot on this yacht. You’d seen it, but seeing it wasn’t living it.

Shindō leaned down first, rolling a ¥10,000 bill tight between his fingers. He pressed one nostril shut and snorted the line clean in a single inhale.

His eyes fluttered. His smile sharpened. He wiped his nose delicately and handed the bill to Toji.

Toji turned to you, grabbed your face, and kissed you—deep, hungry, messy. Like marking you, claiming you, grounding himself. You tasted heat.

Then he pulled away, lifted the bill, and lowered himself to the table. He snorted his line without the slightest hesitation. The row cleaned. He had so much in his system by this point. Alcohol, molly, and now pure Columbian ivory.

He handed the bill to Shiu next. Shiu didn’t even blink before taking the last line. Like he knew this was something he had to do. Strangely, he took it well. Like a man unfazed.

You, on the other hand—your body felt like a violin string being tuned too tight.

Toji cupped your chin again, staring into your eyes like he was trying to anchor himself. “I still got you.” His pupils were blown.

You nodded, whispering, “I know ya do, baby.”

Shindō clapped his hands together, jittery and electric. “Let’s play a little baccarat and talk business, yeah?”

Toji’s answering smile was dark. He slipped an arm around your waist, keeping you tight to his side. “I like how eager you are to lose money to me.”

Shindō laughed, twitching with energy. “Never that. The house always wins.”

The house didn’t know the rules were what you wanted them to be. That the advantage was standing at Toji’s side.

You leaned into Toji’s chest as the music pulsed, as lights streaked across marble, as bodies writhed in the corner of your vision.

Everything happened fast. Laughter turning sharp. Clothes hitting the floor. Cards dealing themselves in blurs. You were standing in the center of a storm.

The deeper Shindō led you into the belly of the yacht, the more the world warped into color and heat.

Lights pulsing in electric blues and golds—but at the very back, past velvet curtains and a corridor lined with security, was the room. A panoramic chamber encased in glass.

The ocean surrounded you on three sides—black and endless.. At night, the water felt too close, like it could swallow the entire room if it wanted.

The men didn’t hesitate. They filtered in, taking their seats like this was a boardroom.

Shindō in the center. Toji pulled you into the seat beside him. Shiu slid into the one beside both of you—with his woman for the night perched comfortably in his lap. Like she belonged there.

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t look. If you looked, you’d do something reckless, you knew that. You couldn’t. Not while you were floating on tequila and molly and Toji’s mouth still burning on your skin.

Cards were already being shuffled. Stacks of money hit the felt with the confidence of men who didn’t fear consequences.

You straddled Toji’s lap, his hands gripping your hips possessively. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly as the first hand was dealt.

The room was a fever dream. Women draped naked over chairs and laps. Men shouting, laughing, and cursing. There was perfume, sweat, alcohol, and powder drifting faintly in the air.

Toji’s grip on you tightened—jealous, territorial, high as hell. He pressed his face to your neck, inhaling like he needed your scent to stay alive.

You for some fucking reason were so headstrong—wanting Shiu to notice you. To get upset… but Shiu, even on a little dash of everything, was a clever man. He knew every sound you made, every gasp and moan, was part of the performance.

That made you want to fuck with him even more. You leaned into Toji’s ear, tilting your body just enough so Shiu saw the curve of your back, the shift of your hips—something he should ignore but you desperately wanted him not to.

You activated your technique, and your vision split into pathways—messy, chaotic, branching into shimmering threads. One thread pulsed brighter than all the others. There was a clear path. A best path. You’d never seen that before.

You slid your tongue along the shell of Toji’s ear, whispering the instructions low and sweet. “Focus on me… lose every hand.” Your fingers curled around the back of his neck. “Trust me.” you whispered, voice breathy from the drugs.

Toji growled against your throat, confused, irritated, horny as fuck—but he trusted you anyway, implicitly. He always did.

He kissed you again—deep and sloppy before letting the first losing card hit the table.

Then the second. Then the third. Every time he lost, he grabbed you harder. What would seem like the worst possible path was in reality the golden road. What he was doing here was showing disinterest. Nonchalance so he could draw out a particular line of questioning.

His mouth crashed along your jaw. His teeth dragged down your neck. He left a trail of bruises blooming along your skin—purple marks painting on you.

You moaned shamelessly, body arching, fingers pulling at his hair. Letting every man in the room see he didn’t care about this little game.

Shindō kept glancing over—confused, excited, tripping on coke and adrenaline.

Your back hit the table with a soft thud when Toji pushed you down, his mouth trailing hot kisses up your stomach toward your sternum. You laughed breathlessly, heat blooming everywhere.

Shindō turned sharply. “Zen’in—” he called over the music, eyes wide. “It’s on you. Thought you were good at this. Thought you wanted to talk business.”

There it is.

Toji pressed one last kiss to your lips before turning slowly. Expression sliding from lust to lethal calm in a single breath.

“You think I’d actually do business with a snake in the room?”

The room went dead. 

Shindō’s eyebrows shot down. His jaw clenched. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The air thickened, and every man watched. Even the ocean outside seemed to hold still.

Toji however, was cool as a cucumber. Restless. Couldn’t keep still, but regarding what he said… totally cool. Even drunk, even high, even pulsing with adrenaline, he was steady.

He gripped the back of your neck and hauled you into one last, sloppy kiss—wet. A kiss that left your lips numb and your whole body vibrating. He’d then grab your waist, turn the chair toward Shiu, and set you down on your unsteady feet with ease.

You pouted, breath hitching. “Baby, no… I still want you—”

His eyes cut over to you—sharp, focused, full of feral clarity no drug could dull. You knew that look. The plan hadn’t slipped. He was following it exactly.

He smoothed his hand over your body, slow enough to admire you as he leaned back in his chair, “Shiu—take her upstairs.”

Shiu moved instantly. Almost violently fast. He stood up, scooting the woman off his lap so abruptly she squeaked. He didn’t spare her a glance. He barely looked human for a moment—jaw tense, pupils enormous, posture tight. The coke had him wired but alert.

He placed a hand on your back to guide you—and you ripped away from him like he’d burned you. Your attitude slipped out before you could catch it—bratty and irrational, but Shiu didn’t call you on it.

He knew exactly why you were acting like this.

He stepped behind you, ushering you through the casino haze—past the naked bodies, the card tables, the laughter turned sharp with drugs. The lights streaked across your vision, too fast and  too bright, and your heels felt like they were floating on water.

The stairs tilted under your feet and you stumbled. Shiu caught you immediately—arms wrapping around your waist—too gentle for a man as wired as he was.

For one heartbeat, you melted, for a second, you shoved off of him. “Don’t touch me!”

.

Your whole body ached for him even as you pushed him away.

Shiu exhaled slowly through his nose like a man wrestling an instinct.

You stormed off, staggering, using the wall for balance. The two of you walked al the way back to the stern, and even when the destination was reached, you kept going. He reached out and caught your arm—not hard, just enough to stop you from walking blindly into nothing.

“Stop walking off. Where are you even going?”

Gambling Den

Below deck, the air was thick with heat, perfume, sweat, and smoke—the kind of heady mix that made everything feel suspended. The music played loud, but Toji didn’t hear it anymore. Not really.

He was listening for something else. Your footsteps. Your voice. Only when he finally heard your presence disappear—is when Toji finally breathed. Not in relief, no, focus. Pure, lethal focus.

Shindō exhaled smoke, tapping ash onto the table. “You good, Zen’in?” 

The drugs hadn’t dulled his instincts—he could feel the shift in the room even if he didn’t understand it yet.

Toji didn’t answer him immediately. Instead, he turned his head slightly—listening. Waiting.

…

…

…

And then—you were gone. Far from the stairs. Most likely halfway to the stern by now.  Not gone in danger. Gone far enough to be safe.

Toji tilted his head just enough to crack his neck, then finally spoke. His voice was low. Flat. Almost bored. “It’s nothing personal.”

The words sliced through the music and guns began to click.

One gun cocked. Then another. Then another.

The men around the baccarat table stiffened, reaching for waistbands, jackets, pocket holsters. Steel glinted in low light. Even the half naked women paused, sensing the sudden, violent shift in atmosphere.

Shindō stiffened as well, brows pinching. “The fuck does that mean, Zen’in?”

Toji lifted his gaze and reached into his waistband.

Chairs scraped. Women shrieked softly and backed away. Four barrels lifted toward him in the same heartbeat.

Toji just grinned as he slid his gun free. “You let people in your house, you should know exactly who the fuck they are.”

Shindō frowned deeper, pulse beginning to race, though he tried to cover it with bravado. “You gotta be fucking kidding me—”

The room went still.

“You invited a room full of strangers to party with you in the East China Sea,” Toji continued, voice dripping contempt. “Brought out drugs. Brought out money. Brought out secrets… and you didn’t even check their intentions?”

One of the men behind Shindō spoke, “You knew this was going to happen Shindo—”

Toji continued, “I’ve only been in Kagoshima two weeks, and it took three days before someone pitched me the idea of killing you.”

Shindō inhaled deeply, like a man knowing his life was over. Every single man in this room had plotted his murder. New friends, even the man you had once thought was security. It ran deeper than that. He was old guard for Shindō’s father. Spent over thirty years working for the Shimazu family, only to hold his gun up like it was business as usual.

“Really Itsuki?” He didn’t know whether to be angry or terrified.

“You miscalculated,” Toji spoke softly. He then cocked his gun with a hard metallic clack. “...don’t do it again.”

As Shindō stared at him, stunned, Toji lifted his other hand and pressed a second gun into Shindō’s palm. It was a gift… a lifeline.

Shindō swallowed hard, gripping the weapon with trembling fingers.

“Zen’in—” he whispered.

Toji didn’t wait. He pulled the trigger with no hesitation. The bullet tore through the skull of the man seated directly behind Shindō—spray of blood misting across Shindō’s suit.

Chaos erupted. Toji stood in a single fluid motion and fired again.

“You double-crossed us, Zen’in!” One of the men gasped, aiming shakily before Toji shot him point blank in the throat.

Toji’s expression never changed. His eyes were blank. This was nothing. Just business as usual, but with higher stakes.

Stern

Shiu keeps his eyes on you as he messes around with a few things. “Keep still or I’m gonna hold you down.” He’d grab your arm.

You turned, pupils so wide your irises were almost gone, lips parted, breath unsteady. “Ya talkin’ to me or your little girlfriend?”

You yanked your arm free and pushed forward, palms gliding against the wall as you moved. Every inch of your skin was hypersensitive—his touch still ghosting along your body.

Shiu ran a hand through his hair, frustrated—the move of a man high as hell and trying not to lose control. 

“So that’s what this is about?” His voice roughened. “Really?”

You pressed your back to the wall, head tipped up to meet his eyes. Your halter had slipped, revealing the faintest edge of your areola that you hadn’t even noticed.

“I can’t be around you right now, Shiu.” You breathed, voice loose and sultry. “It’s a bad idea.”

He stepped closer. One hand reached out dangerously to fix your dress. His fingers brushed against your breast as he tugged the fabric back into place. 

He’d plant his other hand on the wall beside your head, boxing you in. “Everything about this is a bad idea.”

You licked your lips, eyes heavy and full of heat. “What the fuck does that mean, Shiu Kong?”

He finished adjusting your dress—lingering a moment longer than needed. “You know exactly what it means.”

Your hand lifted, sliding up the back of his neck—fingertips caressing his hair. “I promised to buy you out. To put your name on a deed. You don’t get to escape me before then.”

He huffed a breath that almost sounded like a laugh—dark and tense. “Escape you? Don’t be silly.”

You leaned in, lips parting—only for him to pull back just an inch. Just enough to deny you.

His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Don’t… I don’t have nearly enough restraint to stop myself right now. You know why we’re here.” His hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your knees weak. “If you want me, you do it sober. Behind closed doors. Stick to the fucking plan.”

Oh shit..

Your whole body trembled with want and frustration.

He grabbed your chin, tilting your face up. “Besides… you, have no goddamn right to be jealous. Not when I gotta witness your bullshit with Zen’in every night.”

A slow, wicked smile spread on your lips. “Then show me… show me how jealous it made you.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then up. He was barely hanging on… The drugs made everything too sharp and too soft at once, and Shiu standing this close felt like leaning over the edge of something you couldn’t climb back from.

You were unraveling in real time. “Don’t play coy with me.” 

You were too intoxicating. Too tailored to his specific weakness. You were the kind of trouble the universe handcrafted for him and him only. Your faces were inches apart, lips parting… but—

“What are you doing?” Akiko’s voice carved through the haze like a blade.

She wasn’t horrified by the scene. She’d seen women on their knees in the theater room, seen husbands disappear with strangers. 

But the fact was, you two weren’t just having some spicy conversation, no. While you were getting frisky, Shiu was preparing the tender… the life boat. Strange thing to do if you’re here for a party.

You and Shiu jerked your attention toward her, and just as you did, a gunshot split the air.

Akiko collapsed mid step without a scream or a gasp. Just a sickening thud as her body hit the polished floor, blood spreading beneath her Chanel dress like spilled ink.

Your stomach twisted. It was enough to snap anyone out of their haze. Behind the smoking gun stood Toji. He was covered in blood.

One hand held the weapon still pointed. The other fisted in the mangled hair of a man you recognized—the quiet security guard. The one who vouched for you at the gate. The one who watched the deck with that eerie detachment. Now his face was barely recognizable, bloodied, and being dragged like a corpse.

Toji tossed him onto the saloon floor with a wet thud. Behind him, Shindō stumbled up the stairs, shaking, breathing hard, splattered in blood that was not his own. His ruin wasn’t from guilt—no, he didn’t mourn Akiko or the guard, or all of the other bodies on the lower deck. He mourned being blindsided in his own kingdom.

You knew this moment. You saw it, but knowing didn’t stop the sting. You looked at Akiko’s body. She was still, cooling, eyes open but empty—and guilt clawed up your throat.

You could’ve warned her. You could’ve nudged her away, but none of those paths led to House Arata. None of them got you the audience you needed. None of them led to ten billion yen. 

This was the cost, and tonight you crossed the threshold  into something else. It was clear that morality would not be your companion on this journey.

Your breath hitched, vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall.

Shiu grabbed your shoulders and turned you away so you wouldn’t have to see the blood pooling around Akiko.

Toji leaned against the railing, blood drying on his hands, chest rising slow and steady. Indifferent. Unshaken. A real killer.

Shindō was currently on the phone speaking openly, “…Yes. Yes, I—mhm. Understood.”

He held the phone out to Toji with both hands. Toji released the half conscious guard and took the phone. He put it on speaker.

“Is this Zen’in?”

Toji’s tone didn’t waver. “Yeah.”

The voice continued, “I believe it’s time we had a conversation. You’ve been making quite the waves in my city. I’ll have an escort pick you up at seven tomorrow to bring you to me. Bring the girl and the handler.”

Your pulse lurched. Toji’s eyes cut to you for half a second—possessive and calculating all at once.

The man on the phone added, “I trust you understand the importance of this.”

Toji exhaled, “We’ll be there.”

The call ended abruptly. No name. No location. No reassurance, but you knew exactly who it was.

Tatsuya Shimazu.

The shadow king of Kagoshima… of Kyushu. The mark that Ryohei Yamada sent you all to kill.

Shindō reached into his pocket, retrieved a cigarette with trembling fingers, lit it, and inhaled deep until smoke filled his lungs. “Welcome to House Arata.”

[softcursechoso]

THE DEVIL'S LOTUS

Sukuna x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI! // 18+ // NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS!

Summary: In the Heian Era, there was only one person Ryomen Sukuna ever considered his equal—you. A healer from a distant land with the cursed ability to absorb the wounds and sickness of others, taking their suffering into your own body and burning it away. Where Sukuna leaves devastation, you rebuild. Where he destroys villages, you restore them. You are the only one who dares undo his work. Now, intrigued and irritated in equal measure, Sukuna has decided it’s time to meet the healer who refuses to fear him. (Oneshot???)

This story was heavily inspired Raizen's Lover from Yu Yu Hakusho.

Warnings: I mean... it's a smutty oneshot ya know! So imma just say smut. It's Sukuna so expect insanity. Also graphic violence (but not toward the reader).

Words: 10.2k+

The night was still now, eerily so. There’s an unnatural quiet. The kind that settles after a full night of carnage and torture and fear.

You’d been hearing it for hours. The screaming. Not words, not cries for help—just sound. Raw, throat ripped howls like beasts being flayed alive. You’ve heard it before. Enough that you no longer flinch. Enough that your nightmares have made peace with it.

Your shed creaks with the wind. It’s a structure of your own making. Half wrong angles, wood warped by time and weather, beams that don’t quite touch where they should. Gaps in the walls let the cold breathe through, but you’ve lined the place with woven mats and leftover cloth. Not for comfort. Just survival.

Your floors are warm… well, they were warm. Beneath the warped boards smooth stones rest over a shallow fire pit you built. You learned that from a foreigner from Goryeo- though later history would call the land Korea. He called these homes hanok. It made your home cozy on cold nights like this. He told you about the way the earth could be coaxed into warmth. You listened. You always listen. Especially to knowledge that helps keep you alive.

The stones were cooling now. You shift beneath your patched blanket and feel it—the bite of the coming cold creeping up your spine. The fire beneath the floor has dulled. If you don’t feed it soon, the chill will sink in fully. You don’t have the strength tonight to deal with cold and pain. So you rise.

The blanket drags against your knees as you move to the far corner. Your knees pop. Your ribs ache. You feel the weight of three fevers and a fractured hip still cycling through your body. 

Cleanse was the name of your technique. The ability to take on disease and illness. Broken bones, and fatal wounds through physical contact with another. To take on their pain… and flush them all out. Of course the more you took on, the longer it would take to heal.

Right now cleanse was working, always working, but you’ve stacked too much lately. The time is stretching thin.

You crouch at your stash. A shallow basket lined with dried leaves and coiled twine. Inside, firewood. Some whole, some split. Some damp from the last rain, but usable enough.

Your hand reaches toward one piece before you stop. There is a spider. Round with legs like delicate reeds, watching you from atop the log.

You blow gently. It shifts and waits. You guide it away with a fingertip until it disappears into the woven thatch of your wall. No sense in killing. It just wants a place to feel safe.

You grab the log, and it’s heavier than you want it to be. You take another for good measure, lopsided and cracked through the middle. Your arm protests, but you cradle them both against your chest. You turn and walk stiffly across the uneven floor.

Your hand grips the door’s handle to slide it open.

Nothing.

You pull harder and the wood protests audibly—two poorly cut panels resisting each other like a stubborn puzzle. Finally, with a low pop, the latch breaks free, and the door slides open enough for you to step out.

Before you can take a single step outside something right at the bottom of your steps stops you. Your breath doesn’t catch. You don’t drop the logs, but you freeze. It’s neither fear nor surprise… hard to put into words, really.

Four eyes stare at you.

Three heads.

One pike.

You recognize the one on top immediately. The man from the market. The one who called you a plagued bitch when you passed by with a basket of dried roots earlier. You had healed his mother the week before.

The second is worse. You remember his face despite his eyes missing. You remember his hands, reaching for you when you were walking alone. You remember the way he smiled when you told him no—like the word didn’t apply to him.

The bottom head is unfamiliar, but there’s a piece of your wall missing. Chipped with a sharp blade. You remember running your hand over it yesterday. It was a deliberate attempt to dismantle your home. Perhaps it was him.

You stare, and the heads sway slightly with the wind. Their expressions are locked in varying stages of agony, as if they were still screaming when they died. Blood clots at the base, dried and thick, dribbling into the dirt like melted wax.

The pike is buried in the ground. Dead center. Directly in front of your door at the bottom of your stairs. There is no attempt to hide it. This is not a warning—not to you anyway. It is a signature.

You put on your outdoor shoes, and step down the short wooden stairs. The cold mud squelches under your feet. The sky above is low with cloud, thick and bloated, the scent of rain already wafting in with the wind.

You pass the heads without looking again. There’s no reason to.

Your furnace is nestled against the side of the shed, dug half into the ground and lined with rock. The flames inside are low. Hungry for more. You kneel, wincing as your knee protests the motion, and shove both logs into the mouth of the fire. Ash rises, and a breath of heat rushes your face.

The wind shifts.

It moves fast. Not violent. Just present. It brushes your hair back from your cheeks like fingers. You go still. You don’t look toward the tree line. You don’t have to.

He’s never gotten this close before.

There’s no sound—no footstep, no breath… but your bones feel it. That deep, unsettling pressure. The kind that bends trees and sends deer fleeing without a sound. The cursed energy in the air spikes hard enough to make you fully aware.

You rise slowly. Turn your back to the furnace and walk back to your door with careful steps, removing your shoes before you step back inside. You close the door behind you. It sticks again. You force it shut with a grunt and a firm shoulder.

Inside, the warmth is returning. You feel it in the floorboards. You settle back into your blanket and listen. The woods have gone dead silent again, but you can feel him. 

Perhaps tonight is the night.

The first drops of rain strike your roof. One. Then another. Then a cascade—fast and sure, heavier than expected. You barely have time to count your breath before the whole sky opens, water battering the thatch above you with an unrelenting rhythm.

You don't move at first.

The pots and cups are already set. Clay and stone—each in its designated place to catch the leaks. They won't catch everything. They never do—but it won’t bother you. The rain always sounds worse than it is.

Sleep won’t come however. Not now. You feel it—something under your skin, inside your blood.  So you rise.

You leave the warmth of your blanket and fold it carefully. The cloth is worn soft from years of use, stitched in places where moths chewed through it. You set it aside and move across your creaking floorboards, each step soft with timed grace.

Your fingers run delicately against the lacquered edge of a small wooden box. It sits on a high shelf, tucked into a corner where no moisture can reach. You pull it down like you’re opening a shrine. Inside, wrapped in cloth, is the most precious thing you own: a small, polished mirror. Oval, framed in dark wood, smooth to the touch. The kind of thing peasants aren't meant to possess.

A gift, from long ago. A noble guard with a crushed ribcage and blood in his lungs. You’d healed him despite his arrogance. He left the mirror behind and didn’t return.

You set it gently on the floor before you and open a second box. This one holds your comb. Rounded bone, carved delicately with a pattern of waves. Another gift. Another wound traded for nothing.

You undo the ribbon in your hair.

The strands fall heavy. You gather it all to one side and begin combing, slow and deliberate, starting from the ends. Working your way upward.

You do this often when the world feels too loud. It brings your mind to stillness. Something about the motion, the soft pull against your scalp, the patience it requires. 

Your eyes close… and then they open again. 

Not because of sound. Not truly. It is a shift in the air. The creak of a step that is not yours.

The soft, smooth slide of your front door opening—gliding easily across its frame in a way it never has for you. No tugging. No sticking.

You pause your motion only for a breath. Your heartbeat reflects no fear. Just curiosity— and then… you continue to comb again.

Your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t falter. "Ah. So it is my turn now?"

You do not look away from the mirror. Even in its dulled reflection, you see him. A figure hulking in your doorway. A silhouette against the storm. Four eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Lines etched into his skin like brush strokes in blood.

Three heads on a pike were the herald, and this is the king.

You speak again, softer this time, your smirk faint. "Shall I receive those heads as a warning? Or as farewell?"

His voice is low. Like gravel though he keeps his tone even. "So you are the healer who raised the West Village from rot and breathlessness."

You drag the comb up through another knot, slow and measured. Your gaze never leaves the mirror. Your back is still toward the man.

"You already knew that. Why waste time with such empty words?"

"A sharp tongue on one so small.” He speaks, stepping forward. His weight making your floor creak in protest. "I should gut you for it."

You laugh—but it’s not full. Just a breath. Dry as bone. "But you won’t."

You set the comb down in your lap. Your hand stays on it, but your fingers curl underneath.

"Why do you hesitate? You are the King of Curses, right? Or have the rumors been mistaken? Are you truly Ryomen Sukuna, or simply some shadow wearing his skin?"

That draws a reaction. His voice grows colder. "It is not hesitation, and you’d be wise never to shape your mouth to speak to me so again."

Finally, you look over your shoulder. Not in fear. Not submission. Just to see.

Your gaze meets all four of his eyes. "Then what is it?"

The rain hammers your roof like a war drum now. The fire beneath the floors crackles and breathes, sending waves of heat through your soles. He steps closer, and you can see all of him now.

The markings. The arms. The muscles cut like stone. His mouth curled in that strange shape that is not quite a sneer. Not quite a grin.

You know this man could kill you before you blink. He has no reason to be this close. No need to enter your home. No need to speak… but here he is.

"You came to see me face to face.” You speak once more.

Your voice is steady, even as your heart pounds. This unusual feeling. It’s not fear still, but, it’s unmistakably different.

"You could have ended me a dozen times from afar, but you chose to walk through my door. To stand in my warmth. To breathe my air. That means something."

He tilts his head. "And what does it mean, healer?"

You rise slowly. Your hair falls loose, comb forgotten on the floor now. You turn and step forward once, just close enough that the outdoor light paints your face.

"It means… that you wanted to know."

The words hang between you. Not a challenge. Not a threat. Truth.

He says nothing yet, but the eyes do not leave yours. Not even for a moment. In their depths, you see something flicker.

Interest? Need? Hunger? Not for flesh. Not for fear. Something far more dangerous. Something even he may not even understand.

The silence between you is now deafening. The rain thunders above, but it’s far away somehow, like it’s beating against another life. One that isn’t here. Not in this room. Not between you and the monster before you.

Your voice cuts through it, soft, edged. “Why haven’t you attacked me yet?”

You see it immediately. The flicker. Not in his stance, which remains steady—arms relaxed, body upright, every inch of him poised like a weapon—but in the eyes. 

He doesn't answer. Not right away, and that’s all the answer you need.

A slow smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, but there’s no joy in it. Only bitter satisfaction. “I see,” you murmur. “So I struck something real in you.”

His hands tense. The veins in his forearms shift. You’re getting under his skin.

“If you mean to kill me then do not insult me by doing it with that expression on your face.” Your tone sharpens. “If I’m to die here, in the shed I built with these two hands—then I will be taken by nothing less than a king… Raise your head, Ryomen Sukuna, and wipe that pitiful look off your face. I won’t fall to a coward.”

A slow silence. He takes a breath, and the room seems to pull in with it.

His voice, when it comes, is molten and measured. “Then I shall keep you breathing only to see you crumble. You will watch me desecrate every soul you’ve ever patched back together. I’ll burn this village with your lungs still warm. I will gut your hope like a pig and then—”

You laugh suddenly. You tilt your head slightly. “Now that sounded more like you.”

His mouth twitches. It isn’t a smile, but it wants to be. 

“I do not believe you.” You speak simply, stepping closer. “You’d have killed me by now. You kill everyone. Without reason. Without hesitation… But not me.”

You can hear his breath. Controlled, deliberate. The air around him vibrates faintly, cursed energy simmering under his skin like boiling oil, but he does not move. Not a step.

“Keep speaking that way, woman, and I will have you crossing the River Styx before the moon turns.”

“Then allow me to stand before you as I am.” Slowly, methodically, you begin to untie your sash.

The fabric loosens, and you do not rush. Your eyes remain on his. Unyielding. Inviting, even.

The cloth slides apart. Your kimono falls open with a soft whisper of linen against your skin. The air meets your body and you feel it instantly.

Goosebumps race across your arms, your stomach. Your nipples tighten against the air. The fire under the floor is too weak to keep the chill from you now.

Your kimono pools at your feet like spilled ink. You stand there, naked, back straight, chin lifted.

You watch him see you. All of you. The scars are unavoidable. There is a burn across your left thigh—raw once, now faded into a waxy patch. A line of old stitches beneath your ribs, uneven and thick. A web of fine marks down one arm, where skin split from fever so severe your blood nearly cooked.

A jagged bruise sits high on your hip. Still fresh. Still healing. Every inch of you is a map of agony endured.

“I have taken in more injuries and illness twenty villages combined. Diseases the mind cannot name. Wounds no blade could mimic. Bones shattered into dust. I have felt my insides twist from poison, my eyes bleed from sickness, my joints rot and rebuild, again and again.”

You take a step forward, and he do not flinch.

“There is nothing you can do that would be worse than what I have already survived.” Your voice drops lower, the words sharper, heavier. “So go on. End this if you must.”

He does not move, but his eyes change. Not sympathy. He is incapable of it. Not desire. Not quite. It’s closer to rage… but twisted. Directed inward. Confused.

You see the way his jaw clenches. His hands flex. The cursed energy in the room coils tighter, not released, not exploding—waiting.

Your voice cuts through the silence like a knife. “Or…”

You step closer again. Your skin presses against the floor with each footfall. It’s cold. The splinters bite your soles. You feel everything, and you let him see that you do.

“...do what you truly came here to do.”

He watches you. Like prey that’s walked into the lion’s mouth… Or perhaps, like something the lion cannot eat. Cannot tame. Cannot even name.

You stand bare before him, body shivering, teeth clenched to keep from chattering.

In this moment, as the storm howls around your shed, as the pike with three heads soaks in the rain just outside, the most feared man in the world, Ryomen Sukuna, hesitates.

His eyes travel your form again. Not leering. Not gentle, but consuming. Like he is trying to make sense of something that defies all understanding.

The crack of thunder outside is sudden, and it casts his body in stark silhouette. The tattoos. The lines. The shape of a God carved from rage.

The fire beneath the floor is low, struggling to hold against the chill as the rain batters your roof. Wind seeps through the seams of your walls, tracing icy fingers across your bare shoulders. But the cold is distant now, because he is in front of you.

He’s close enough to feel. Close enough to inhale. Sukuna stands like an altar carved in flesh—every line of him is massive. 

That’s when you notice it. His left upper arm. Not moving. Not quite right. Tension in the muscle where there should be none. Blood, half dried, streaks down the curve of his tricep, lost in the dark lines of tattooed flesh.

Your voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re hurt.” Your eyes bounce between his and the injured arm. “So that’s why you came.”

“You mistake me, woman. That is not why I came.”

“You’re in need of healing.”

His voice is low, sharp. “I need nothing.”

You give a small, half smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “The world hasn’t been kind to you, has it?”

He snorts, almost derisively. “I don’t want kindness.”

You move closer. You can smell the rain still clinging to his skin. The faint iron tang of blood, distant but present.

“Everyone needs kindness. Not a lot, but a little goes a long way.”

Another step. Now you are directly in front of him. The height difference is absurd. You have to tilt your head back to keep your eyes locked on his. His face is impassive, stony, but the hunger behind his gaze deepens.

He is fascinated. Consumed. He doesn’t show it—not on that grim, brutal face, but you’ve seen eyes like this before. 

There’s something trapped behind those four eyes. Something reaching.

Your hand rises slowly, deliberately. You place your palm against his injured arm. The moment your skin touches his, your cursed technique flares to life—Cleanse.

A surge of energy hums through your body. The blood vanishes from his skin, as though time rewinds. The torn muscle, the rupture within, the rot of cursed poison—all of it yanked into you in one breathless instant.

The injury lances through your arm. Splitting you open and splattering blood against your walls like new. It feels like fire tearing through your shoulder. The pain is instant. Vicious. Your muscles spasm. 

He moves. Instantly, he grabs you. One of his massive hands wraps around your neck like a vice, jerking you forward, crashing your chest against his with force that rattles your teeth. You gasp.

“You fool!”

He leans down to your eye level and growls each word like it’s dragged from deep within him. “You cannot withstand such an injury with your weak human body.”

You laugh—soft, breathless. Even as your shoulder screams and your neck aches beneath his grip, you laugh.

“You must feel so pathetic,” you whisper. “Feeling something… for a woman like me.” You lift your eyes to his. “Certainly you’ve never said that to any of your victims.”

He leans in closer, nose nearly grazing yours. “Return the injury.”

Your free hand, the one not trembling from the stolen wound, rises gently. You touch his face. Thumb tracing just beneath his eyes The motion stills him.

“Tell me why you’re here,” you whisper. “After all this time. After stalking the edge of my home like a wolf with nowhere else to go. Why now? Did you think you could cut me down while my back was turned?”

His grip on your throat tightens. Not enough to choke, but enough to warn. “I said return it.” His voice is thunder and blades. “I know what you are. I’ve seen the impossible things you’ve done. Entire villages, half in the grave, rising whole by morning.”

You raise an eyebrow, despite the pain grinding through your neck and shoulder. “Oh? Well clearly, you didn’t come to confirm who was behind that.”

You lean closer. Your breath brushes his lips. His eyes narrow, and his grip remains unmoving.

“Are you here to figure out what’s happening to that pathetic little heart of yours?” 

His lower arms move suddenly.

Two thick, powerful hands wrap around your waist and yank you against him—forceful, possessive, furious. Your body collides with his bare chest, the heat of him pouring over you.

He snarls into your ear, teeth bared. “Watch your tongue. I will not tell you again.”

His breath is in your hair. His chest rises and falls fast. You feel his fingers digging into your waist, not enough to bruise—yet. “See that injury returned lest you invite consequences most grievous."

Your hand shifts. From his cheek to the back of his neck. You curl your fingers in the roots of his hair, softly. “That… is never going to happen.”

He stills. Entirely. As though the whole world hinges on your words.

“I take pain. I do not deal it. Not even to monsters like you.” Your lips brush the shell of his ear. “I don’t care how strong you are, Ryomen Sukuna. You came into my home knowing what I am.” Your hand tightens slightly in his hair. “You will play by my rules.”

The rain roars on the roof. The wind moans through the cracks in the wall. You lean in fully, your body pressed to his, heat trembling from your skin into his.

“If it upsets you that much…” You whisper, “...then kill me.”

His grip slackens but doesn’t release. His hands around your waist keep you in place, firm and unrelenting.

“I know what your cursed technique can do. I know how you take the filth of the world into your body like you were born to suffer. And you choose to use it on fools who spit in your direction.”

Your fingers move—slow, deliberate. They trace the length of the arm gripping your waist, the muscle tight beneath your touch.

“Does it offend you when they spit at me?” You ask softly.

For a moment, he says nothing, but his hands tighten. The grip becomes bruising.

“It offends me that a sorcerer with such power would kneel before insects. Commonfolk. Peasants who would sooner burn you than show gratitude.”

You breathe in. The scent of wet wood and earth swirls in from outside. Rain pelts your roof in sheets, drumming like war.

“I assure you. I am not the one bending the knee.”

You step back. Your body shifts from his, and he allows it. You slip from his grasp.

“I’m not looking for acceptance. I’m not looking to be loved or feared.”

You walk across the room, barefoot, hips slow with the pull of injury and exhaustion. Your kimono lies where it fell, and you gather it without urgency.

“I just want purpose,” you say, pulling it back over your arms, over your battered body. “And I’ve found it.”

You tie the sash and turn back to him. “What is yours, Ryomen Sukuna?”

Your words hang in the room like incense smoke—sweet and sharp.

He does not answer. You’re not surprised.

Turning your back to Ryomen Sukuna is the kind of mistake that becomes legend in the retelling. No one would dare. Not the strongest clans. Not even the cursed spirits that bow beneath him.

But you do.

You cross the room and  kneel by the warm spot on the floor where the heat has begun to die.

You speak again, as if this is normal. As if he hasn’t ripped men apart with his hands for breathing too loudly in his direction.

“If you’re not here to kill me, then you’re welcome to stay. I can brew a pot of tea shortly.”

You press your palm to the floor. “The rocks are losing warmth. My fire isn’t strong enough.”

You push yourself up again—slowly. Every joint creaks in protest, and your breath stutters once in your chest. You ignore it. You always do.

You head back to the corner of the room where your wood is stacked. It’s the last of what you have for the night. Your fingers wrap around two pieces. You rise again, but the injury in your shoulder shifts, and a dry, hacking cough erupts from your throat.

It doubles you over. Your knees hit the floor with a muted thud. The wood falls from your arms and rolls toward the door. You press a hand to your chest, sucking in sharp, shallow breaths. The pain is sharp—like glass under your ribs.

When you stand again, you see Sukuna standing in your doorway, the rogue wood by his feet. Just after picking it up, you feel hands on your kimono, rough and immediate.

One set grabs the fabric at your collar and yanks it open. Another set grabs it at your midsection and does the same.

The wood in your hand clatters to the floor as your hands instinctively rise to steady yourself. Your kimono falls open again. Not with violence, but command.

You lift your eyes to him. He’s looking at your body. Not in lust. Not with pity. He is assessing each scar. Each wound. Every mark on your body.

He sees the wound on your shoulder, raw and fresh—his wound, stolen into your skin. He sees the lines of old lacerations, the purple bloom of bruises along your ribs. Your knotted joints. The way your knees tremble just slightly beneath you.

You do not shy from his gaze. Not for a second.

Finally he looks you in the eye. “This behavior will put you in the ground.”

You tilt your head. “That’s my choice.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re stubborn.”

“You knew that before you ever came here.”

You pull your kimono from his grip, firm and unapologetic. You retie it, each motion deliberate. You then gather the wood again, careful this time not to lose your balance.

You slip your feet into the straw slippers just outside the door and walk out into the storm.

The rain crashes into you immediately—ice-cold, slashing in sideways sheets.

You curl your body around the wood to protect it, wrapping yourself tight, and walk through the slop of wet dirt toward the furnace once again. The wind howls. Rain lashes at your back like whips.

You kneel beside the furnace, water dripping from your sleeves. You brush the damp ash away with the back of your hand and set the wood in place, trying to align it with the dying embers below.

The fire is weak. Struggling.

You frown, lips tight. “Shit.”

You reach for one of the glowing coals. Your hand hovers just above it—your skin already registering the heat.

It’ll hurt, but you’ve taken worse. You reach closer. Just before your fingers graze it, a shadow falls over you, and then you feel it. Rain stops hitting your skin.

You look up, eyes wide. He is there. Hovering over you like a storm.

One arm braced against the side of your home. His massive body shelters yours from the downpour, so close you can smell the warmth of him again—iron and ash.

His voice drops. “Move.”

You blink, confused, but the word is not a request.

You shift back.

His arms extend outward, forming a wide stance. “Open.”

A cursed technique forms between his hands—something shaped like a flaming arrow, raw and brilliant.

You speak simply. “You’ll destroy my home with that.”

He pauses. You see the thought flicker behind his eyes, and then he lets the technique dissolve.

You turn back to the fire and reach out again, but before your skin can meet the coal, he grabs you—not gently.

He yanks you backward, moving you out the way again. He crouches low. Two of his hands reach into the furnace without hesitation.

He gathers the embers and places them atop the new wood as if the pain is nothing to him. 

In seconds the fire catches. The blaze roars to life, hot and sudden. Steam curls around you as the warmth pushes against the wetness of your skin.

You watch his face. It doesn’t change. You say nothing as you push yourself up. You turn your back to him, the fire at your heels, and walk toward your door.

Just before you step inside, your voice floats back to him. “Thank you.”

You take off your shoes once again before you step back into your home.

The air inside is warmer now, kissed with warmth from the furnace outside and thick with the earthy scent of damp wood. Your feet press into the worn mats beneath you as you move forward, trailing droplets of rainwater behind like a ghost. The fire beneath the floor crackles, and you hear the door shut behind you—smooth, again.

He’s followed you in. Of course he has. You don’t turn to look.

You cross to your earthware pot, the glazed clay cool beneath your hands. You lift it carefully, as the rainwater inside sloshes quietly. You pour it into your kettle, the sound soft and steady, barely heard over the wind still whispering through the cracks in your walls.

The kamado is crooked—like everything in this place. Its bricks were shaped by hand, clay dug from the riverbank and fired in a pit you barely managed to keep hot enough. You set the kettle on its uneven mouth, adjusting it until it balances just right.

You turn now, and you don't have to look up to feel his presence. He’s behind you. Not looming, but watching. Still as a statue, and so close that the heat from his body prickles against your back like electricity.

You speak, casual, unbothered. “Do you mind giving me fire?”

You can feel him smirk. Without a word, one of his arms lifts beside you. The motion stirs the air, and in the space between one breath and the next, flame blooms into existence. Controlled and precise. It licks across the kamado’s opening and catches immediately.

The fire inside roars softly to life and the water begins to tremble.

You don’t thank him. Not this time. Instead, you move to your shelves, fingers grazing lightly over the dried herbs hanging from string and pegs. You choose a handful of leaves. Fennel, chrysanthemum, a touch of ginger—you place them into your mortar.

You begin to crush them, slow and steady, the wooden pestle rolling under your palm.

Then you feel it. His arms, all four of them begin to relax. Two remain relaxed at his sides, but the upper set move with unsettling ease.

One reaches past your shoulder. The other grips your waist with a possession he hadn’t acted on quite yet. He takes the mortar from your hands—not forcefully, but not gently either, and lifts it to his face. He inhales the scent. 

His voice is low, amused. “Where did you get this?”

You look at him over your shoulder, your expression blank.

“Is tea not uncommon for peasants out in the sticks?” he adds.

You nod once. “It is.”

You turn back to your hands, reaching for a fresh cloth to prepare the cups.

“On rare occasions a patient offers thanks. These leaves were a gift from a nobleman’s son.”

Sukuna scoffs. A short, sharp sound. His fingers twirl the pestle lazily before setting it down.

“And you think meaningless things like these make the life you lead worth living?”

You turn to face him now. You reach for the mortar again, your hand touching his in the process. The motion makes your shoulder ache. The injury flares and your body shifts, visibly wincing, but you don’t make a sound.

You take the mortar back. “I think walking my own path makes life worth living.”

“Bullshit.” He snaps.

You shrug. “It’s not up to you to believe me.”

He moves fast. You don’t even see the shift before his lower arms raise and slam into the kamado, trapping you in. The hearth glows between your bodies, flames casting your shadows large and dancing across the walls.

His voice is low, grinding like a whetstone sharpening a blade. “You say you don’t want recognition, but I know why you let them use you.”

You’re motionless, and he continues.

“You let them take from you because you would be alone otherwise. No one would pass through this place unless they needed something. They do not come for you. They come for what you can give.”

You close your fingers around the pestle again, working the herbs slowly.

“You say you don’t want notoriety, but I know you twist your tongue to lie.” His mouth is near your ear now. “A woman like you could walk into the noble court and destroy everything. You’re strong enough, but instead…” His hand moves, ghosting your hip. “You choose to lower yourself. To kneel. To suffer. Because you think, maybe one day, if you do enough… someone will decide you’re worth more than rot at the bottom of their soles.”

Your hand stills… You breathe before turning slightly. Just enough that your lips nearly graze his as you speak. “Then that makes two of us, Ryomen Sukuna.”

He goes still.

“You kill because you want them to fear you. To respect you. I don’t care if my name is lost to the sands of time. But you—” You reach for his face. Not to touch. Just to be near. “You never want to be forgotten… and yet, we are both entirely ostracized."

Your eyes begin to look down, but hastily he grabs your chin. His hand is rough, calloused. Fingers strong and sure, forcing your gaze with a single, brutal tilt. Back on him.

His expression is like one carved from stone, intimidating. “I don’t need anyone at my side.”

You reach up. Your hand finds the back of his neck. You touch the base of his skull, the roots of his hair. It’s much softer than it looks. Your thumb grazes his skin.

Your voice drops lower. “Then what are you doing in my home?”

The flames between you crackle and hiss, snapping softly like bones in a fire. His breath is slow, shallow. Your fingers tighten slightly. Perhaps you are both lying.

You take a slow step toward him, the space between you shrinking to nothing. Your hands are hesitant for a moment before they press flat against his chest.

His skin is hot to the touch. Hard with tension and muscles like stone. You can feel his heart—it doesn't beat like yours. It's slower. It’s deeper. As if it resounds through more than just blood and bone. 

You tilt your head up, eyes locked on his. You speak softly but firmly. “I know why you came.”

Your hands drift lower. Down the planes of his chest, tracing the slope of his ribs, the curve of his abdomen. His skin is warm and alive with energy. Every movement of your fingers earns a subtle response—the twitch of a muscle, the brief flare of cursed energy beneath his skin.

“I will not stand beside you and cut people down.” You murmur. “Though I understand why you’d want me to.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t stop you.

“It’s only human to feel alone.” You go on, voice barely above the sound of the fire. Your hands stop at his waist. “The burden of such a life… it can only be tolerated by the strongest. I understand you. I can feel your rage. I can feel the part of you that wants to tear this world apart—and I understand it, Sukuna.”

He lifts his hand—his upper right—and catches your chin in his fingers. The grip is rough but not cruel. His thumb grazes along your jawline as he tilts your head back, examining the marks along your neck. Some new. Some old. Some faded. You feel the weight of his gaze.

Judgment. Reverence. Conflict.

It's grating. So you silence it.

You lean forward. Your lips meet his deliberately and unafraid.

His breath catches in a sharp inhale through his nose. The kiss deepens in an instant, his mouth consuming yours, fire and hunger and command. One of his lower arms wraps around your thigh, gripping hard, lifting you from the floor. The other follows. Your legs wrap around his waist, locking you to him. His strength is effortless—your body held in place as if you weighed nothing.

You moan softly into his mouth, your body arching into his, driven by heat, by exhaustion, by some raw nerve he's found in you that even you didn’t know existed.

His upper arms work in tandem—one still at your chin, the other sliding down to your shoulder. He pulls your kimono from your body with a delicate nature he’s not known for. The cloth slips from your skin, falling into a heap on the floor.

Your bare chest presses against his. Skin against skin. Heat against heat.

Something stirs. You feel it. It’s low. It’s wet. Warm. Just beneath your navel. Against your lower belly.

You pull back slightly, panting, your lips bruised from the force of him. You look down.

The mouth on his stomach—horrific and bizarre yet part of him, is open. Its tongue moves slowly. Almost languidly. Creeping lower.

Your breath stutters. You look back up at him.

He speaks, voice gravel and thunder. “I could smell your arousal long before I arrived.”

Your moan is half a laugh, half a breathless surrender. “Then why make me wait so long?”

His answer isn’t words. It’s the way he grips you tighter, like he’s holding on to something he doesn’t understand. It’s the way his mouth finds yours again—rougher this time, hungrier.

In the space between one kiss and the next, you wonder—was his means to destroy you by way of unraveling?

You kiss him like it’s already too late. Your lips move with hunger. Your mouth demanding and open as you pull him closer. Sukuna answers with force—his kiss deepens, rougher now, more certain. You feel the way his teeth drag against your bottom lip, just shy of a bite, and you moan against him.

He lifts you higher on his body, dragging you up with his lower arms until you’re perched over the mouth on his stomach.

You feel it again— but this time, lower. The sudden wetness, soft and hot, pressing to your folds. Your breath stutters.

His lower mouth opens wide, tongue dragging upward in a slow, deliberate path between your legs. He tastes you without hesitation, like he’s been waiting, like he’s been starving for this. His tongue laps through your folds, thick and hot, catching every drop of your arousal.

You arch against him, hips jerking involuntarily. His upper arms hold you fast against his chest, while his lower ones adjust your thighs, spreading you wider.

He presses you forward, and you feel it—his tongue slipping between your folds again, circling your clit with maddening slowness. The ridged texture of it, the slick heat, the precise way he moves—it’s overwhelming.

His teeth graze the sensitive bud, just a nip, but enough to make you cry out.

Your moans echo through the room, loud and desperate, competing with the relentless drumming of rain on the roof. Each sound you make seems to amuse him. He chuckles low in his throat, the vibrations rumbling through your body as his tongue continues its slow, cruel worship.

He slides lower now, tongue trailing down to your entrance.

It’s far too thick to truly fit—but the tip presses in, just enough to tease, to stretch you ever so slightly. The friction is exquisite.

You try to pull away from his kiss, breathless, but he lets you only so he can hear your next moan in full.

Your head falls back. You whimper, “Sukuna—!”

He laughs. Not in mockery but confirmed possession. Amusement at your unraveling.

You feel him shift, pressing your back against the nearest wall. The entire structure shudders beneath the force of it—wood flexing, joints protesting… but all you feel is him.

His tongue presses deeper, swirling, stretching you around the impossible girth of it. You look down through half-lidded eyes, panting. He does not, no, his eyes locked on you—all of them.

You moan his name again, louder this time, your voice breaking. Your stomach tightens.The pressure builds, hot and immediate, coiling low in your belly. Your fingers grip one of his lower arms, nails biting into his skin as your toes curl. You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

You come undone with a cry, release flooding his tongue, your body twitching in his grip as the wave crashes over you. He holds you through it, unmoved, mouth working greedily as he takes everything you give him—and then more.

When it’s over, you collapse forward against him, panting. The mouth on his torso licks its lips. Your arousal shines on his skin, and he swallows.

There’s something too dark in his eyes, too knowing, too satisfied.

Was this the touch you'd been missing?

The answer is in your pulse, in the way your legs tremble and your hands seek him even now. You lift your face, meet his eyes again.

“Stay the night.” You speak not in question or demand… just somewhere in between.

The look he gives you in return says he was never planning to leave. 

Sukuna does not let you rest. You’re still trembling in his grip, lips parted from your last moan, when his upper arms hold you tighter, drawing you against his chest like a possession. His lower hands move with purpose now—dragging the fabric of his pants down over the carved lines of his hips.

His mouth, still open at his midsection, is lapping at you. Slowly. Thoroughly. Savoring the taste of your release. You shudder as you feel it—his tongue, broad and slick, running languid circles across your folds, cleaning up everything you left on him. Your muscles twitch—you’re already so sensitive, nerves still ringing.

As he shifts, you feel something graze the bottom of your ass…twice. A pressure that doesn’t register immediately because your brain refuses to name it. You stiffen in his arms, eyes narrowing as a question blooms across your face. You look at him, with wide eyes, and he grins.

His smile is wicked. Knowing. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment of realization.

It… it couldn’t be— 

His grin widens as he sees your face turning in thought. He'd soon allow you to find out what the King of Curses carries between his legs.

One of his lower arms grabs your ass again as the other arm grabs himself. He lines up with your self lubricated entrance, and even with his head just teasing the hole you can feel the weight of him. The girth of him. The looming threat of a stretch. 

He pushes the head in and you arch, unleashing a moan that was need and fear wrapped in one. It was desire. It was fear of the unknown.

His laugh rumbled against your chest as he buried himself to the hilt. A filthy, possessive sound that said he knew you would be ruined for anyone else after this. Upper arms braced your back, keeping your spine arched just the way he wanted it. His hips rolled slow, but the force was brutal, driving the first cock deeper while the second one slid slick against your inner thigh, smearing heat and precum where it had no business being.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” Sukuna muttered against your jaw, licking sweat from your skin like he needed the salt. “Both of them. You’re shaking.”

You were. You were trembling like you’d been poisoned, nerves fired up too high. Every twitch of your muscles clenched around him, milked him, and it only made him groan harder, more savage, more undone. 

The one inside you throbbed deep, impossibly full, while the other cock rocked between your thighs, thick, hot, sliding up to slap against your clit every time he bottomed out.

"Didn't even think I was real, did you?" He breathed, teeth grazing your ear. "Thought I was a dream you could wake up from?”

He rutted into you hard, driving you forward onto the wall, bodies tangled in sweat and blood and spit. One lower hand stayed on your ass, spreading you open, holding you steady for every brutal thrust. The other wrapped around the cock not inside you, stroking it slowly against your skin, letting you feel every twitch, every pulse. Dragging more slick mess between your legs until it was dripping down onto the floorboards.

“Look at you—” Sukuna growled. “Stuffed full of me. You’re drooling, healer. Can’t even hold a thought. Quite divine aren’t you?”

You choked on a moan, on a sob maybe, fingers clawing at his back, feeling his muscles ripple under the inked skin as he pounded into you. It was too much. Too much stretch. Too much heat. Too much Sukuna—and God help you, you wanted more.

He pushed your thighs wider, lifted your hips until the angle made you cry out. His tongue licked up your neck, lazy and greedy, then his mouth was at your ear again.

“You're gonna cum just like this—while I’m inside of you and still got one left to ruin you with.”.

You could feel it. The pressure building, everything too much, not enough, like your body didn't belong to you anymore—it belonged to him.

Sukuna grinned against your throat and licking at the salt on your neck. His teeth nibbled and teased your skin. Bruising with care that was typically never reserved for you.

The wind screamed through the trees now. Rain beating the roof in furious sheets—but it was nothing compared to the sound inside your home. Flesh meeting flesh, a wet, brutal rhythm that echoed off the walls like the outside thunder. 

Your cries weren’t soft anymore. They were loud and shameless. The kind of sounds no healer should be making, back arched, body open, moaning like a concubine for the King of Curses as he split you in two.

Sukuna had already fucked you once, but that wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for the monster grinning down at you, eyes blazing and hungry.

“You asked me to stay, so I’ll show you what that comes with, healer.”

He spat in his hand, lubed the second cock thick and slick, and when he dragged it up your entrance, you knew he was going to do it. No threats. No questions. Just the weight of his body forcing you open.

The first cock was still buried deep, stretching you to your limit, and now the second was pressing in. Slow but merciless, thick and unrelenting, your walls fighting to keep him out but your mind screaming for more. You sobbed, thighs trembling, sweat pouring down your spine as inch by inch he sank that second cock into the same hole that already reached its capacity.

“Shit, you’re so tight.” Sukuna hissed. “Greedy little lotus flower. Taking both like this.”

You couldn’t even answer. You could barely breathe. The stretch was unreal—impossible. He was so fucking thick it felt like you’d split in half, but gods, the pressure. The way your pussy clenched around him, both of him, walls forced wide by two cocks pumping in tandem now, grinding your insides into a raw, hypersensitive mess.

He was growling now, rutting into you with a force that shook the whole shed. Dust fell from the ceiling. Shelves rattled. Your herbs scattered.

“Thought you could hide out here in the woods?” Sukuna snapped, voice sharp and mean between groans. “Thought no one would find out what you actually desire, didn’t you?”

One hand fisted your hair. Another spread your ass wide to watch you take both. The third gripped your hip, bruising. The last one dragged down your chest, squeezing your tits, pinching hard.

“Say it!” He snarled. “Say you want it. Say you want me to ruin you.”

His thrusts got faster. Harder. He was fucking you like he meant to breed something into you that could never be undone. Like he wanted to reshape your insides to fit only him.

His hips slammed forward—and with a wet, obscene pop, one cock slipped out. Slick, throbbing, twitching against your thigh. Slick from you.

Sukuna froze for half a second, growled deep in his throat like a beast denied, then looked down at where his cock was glistening and twitching, smearing your juices all over your skin.

“Too tight for both in one hole I see.” He muttered, like he was thinking aloud.

You were panting, body trembling, and you felt the heat of him moving—one of his lower arms slipping between your cheeks, exposing that last untouched place like it was always meant to be claimed.

You gasped. He felt it.

He chuckled—low, dangerous. “You’ve never been touched there, have you?” He breathed against your ear, cock pressing firm between your ass cheeks now. “Tight little untouched hole... All mine.”

Your eyes went wide, face burning, hands scrabbling. His arms caged you in—teasing that tight ring with the head of his cock, already soaked in your arousal.

“Shit, look at you clench,” he laughed, voice wicked. “Scared?”

You shake your head, “Not at all.”

He’d drag his thumb down to press and circle, easing you open just a bit. Just enough.

“Of course you aren’t. You’re already taking me better than you should.”

You cried out as the head breached you, burning stretch, tighter than anything, every muscle in your body trying to push him out.

“Clench like that again!” Sukuna hissed.

He pushed in slow but the girth was relentless. You were shaking. Sweat dripping. Mouth open, silent scream, because the sensation was too much. One cock still pulsing inside your pussy. The second now stretching your ass wider than you ever thought possible.

“You’re mine now,” he groaned, hips rolling, burying both cocks deep inside you.

He thrust in deep to the root—both cocks buried inside you with obscene, punishing pressure. You were full. Too full. Eyes glazed, mouth open, tears smudging down your cheeks as you trembled under him.

“Fuck—look at you.” Sukuna snarled, rutting into you like he’d lose his mind if he stopped. “Still clenching like you don’t want me to leave.”

You tried to turn your head, hide your face, but he grabbed your jaw—upper hand clamping down, tilting your head back until your eyes met his.

“Don’t look away!” His face twisted with need and rage. “I want to see it. Every twitch. Every moan. Every fucking time I make your eyes roll back. I. Want. To See. It.”

His mouth crashed to yours—bruising, biting. Tasting the cries he’d ripped out of your throat. All the while, his cocks fucked you deeper and harder and faster. 

“You think I want this?” Sukuna hissed against your lips. “You think I like the way I fucking crave you? The way I smell your heat on my skin for days… I should kill you. Should rip this place apart, erase you from my fucking memory.”

He spoke such venom, yet still he held you like you were precious. Still he split you open like you were his only salvation. 

One hand wrapped in your hair now, yanking your head back as he pounded into you, both cocks throbbing, twitching—he was close. You could feel it.

“I hate this.” He groaned. “I hate you. Hate the way you look at me like I’m not a monster. Hate that I want to cum so deep inside you you’ll never get me out.”

It was as if he spoke it into existence. A savage growl, loud and cracked open, as he came in both holes. Hot, thick, endless. Your belly clenched with it, dripping down, leaking out around where he stayed buried. He didn't stop moving. Just kept grinding into you, chasing another orgasm, another mark to leave inside your ruined body.

“Fuck—you’re gonna take all of it. Every drop. You understand me, healer?”

“Oh, I know exactly what you want, Sukuna.”

Your voice was wrecked—rasped raw from moaning, from screaming into the storm—but still sharp, still laced with that fire he loved. You reached up, fingers running against his chest all the way up to his face. Still showing care he didn’t believe he deserved.

“You pretend it’s just my cunt you want.” You whispered against his jaw, “But I see how you look at me when I touch you soft. When I don’t flinch. When I don’t run.”

He stilled for a breath. Eyes locked on yours like a beast cornered.

“You want to be hated, right? That’s easier. Cleaner… but not me. No, I see you. I see every filthy, fucked up part of you and I don’t care.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t pull away…  so you continue to push.

“None of the villagers want to touch me… They call me cursed. Broken. You love that, don’t you? That I’m yours only. That I come apart only for you…” You let out a soft laugh, “I’m the only one to touch you, too.” Your hand pressed flat against his chest now, over the place where his heart should beat. “Not your body, Ryomen Sukuna… Your soul.”

There it was. That flicker in his eyes. That tiny slip in the monster’s mask. You’d reached the thing he didn’t let anyone near. The part of him he drowned in blood so no one could ever see it.

“You hate it.” You continue, “That I get under your skin. That you think about me when you’re covered in the blood of a man that scorned me. You hate that you came into my home not wanting to care, but you do.”

He grabbed your throat. Not tight. Not to stop you. Just to feel your pulse. “You think you’ve got me figured out? You think you’re special just because I don’t slit your fucking throat when I’m done?”

“No.” You gasped, grinning. “I think I’m special because you don’t want to.”

His mouth was back on yours. Not just to dominate, not just to break, but to feel. To lose himself in the one thing he couldn’t explain.

You were still full of him. His cum leaking down your thighs. His cocks twitching again inside you, ready to go again, harder this time. More frantic. Less hate.

You knew by his touch now, this night would continue for quite some time… and that’s exactly what happened.

____________________________________________________________________________

The storm hadn’t stopped— if anything, it grew heavier, the roof shuddering beneath the force of it.

You lay there, breath shallow, bones warm and molten, body humming from the night Sukuna had dragged you through.

Hours of him. Hours of losing yourself—finding yourself, being pulled apart and put back together in ways no spoken language could outline cleanly.

But now he lay with his head in your lap. A sight no mortal had ever witnessed and lived to whisper about.

The King of Curses was relaxed in your home, in your lap. All, four arms lax for once, breath steadying. His eyes were closed, but you knew better—Ryomen Sukuna was never fully at rest. His awareness never dimmed.

You combed your fingers through his hair, slow strokes smoothing back wet strands, the storm’s rhythm the only sound between you. Your kimono was back on, but still hanging off shoulders, the fabric pooled at your elbows like a delicate veil. Sukuna lay unclothed as well, vulnerable by his own emotions.

You lean down now, pressing a soft, tender kiss to his lips.

His eyes snapped open the moment you pulled back. Not angry—highly alert.

His gaze moved to your arm, the one that took his injury. It was now mottled with the welt. Fast healed. What should’ve been an open, bleeding wound hours ago was already sealed, tender but healing.

His next inhale was cold and sharp. “There are people coming for you.” His voice rumbled low against your thighs. “From the northern village. I can smell them.”

You didn’t flinch. You’d known. The sickness traveling through that region was vicious… and desperate men traveled fast some time ago and warned you of their need. An entire village plagued. They all needed your help. Needed you to take on everything at once…

“I’m aware.” You murmured.

He sat up in a single, fluid motion, the weight of him leaving your lap. Light from your cracked walls lit the left side of his face in pale flashes, highlighting every tattooed line. Every muscle coiled with anger.

The disgust in his expression sharpened.

“Why do you let them use you? They crawl here half dead and ungrateful, taking everything you offer. You could end them before their last breath even forms—yet you lower your head and mend what fate has already chosen to break.”

You held his gaze, steady. “Sukuna… these hands were made for healing. This body was shaped by something larger than me. I was not created to destroy.”

His brows knit—and the look he gave you could’ve carved through iron itself.

“You’re blind!” His voice was a blade. “You see pleading for life. I see leeches clinging to the nearest miracle to prolong their insignificance.”

“They’re people.”

“They’re vultures.”

You stood, kimono sliding up over your shoulders, tying it tight as if bracing yourself.

He rose too—towering, overwhelming, a storm inside a storm.

“If survivors reach my door I will heal them.”

“Insolent,” he hissed. “You challenge me with a conviction that will get you killed.”

“And you challenge me with a possessiveness that will get them killed.”

He stepped forward, into your space, upper arms braced on either side of your hips, lower ones planted at your ribs, caging you.

“I won’t allow you.” He spoke in a tone that was final.

You shook your head. “You don’t have a choice.”

A deep, guttural growl ripped through him as he turned away, reaching for his pants. The fabric slapped against his legs as he pulled them on.

“There is always a choice!” He roared.

You watched him—watched the way anger rolled off him in waves, thick enough to distort the air.

“What will you do?” you asked softly. “Raise your hand to me like they would? End my suffering for disagreeing with you?”

His grin carved itself across his face like a wound reopening. “No. I’ll just make sure they never reach you.”

You stepped forward, tightening the sash at your waist despite it being fully taut. “It’s fruitless. I won’t change my position.”

He stalked toward you again, chest brushing yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

“Neither will I… When their corpses stack at my feet, remember it was your mercy that fed the pyre.”

“You twist my words!” 

“You twist your own.” He shot back. “When you are ready to stop being so stubborn—” his voice dropped to a dangerous hush, “you know exactly where to find me.”

He turned away and quickly you grabbed his lower left arm.

“Sukuna. Don’t kill them.”

He wrenched free, the gesture sharp but not cruel, stormlight cracking around his silhouette. He strode toward the door, shaping the space with his fury. Floorboards creaking under his weight.

“Sukuna!” You stumbled forward, reaching for him again. “Don’t!”

He laughed—a dark, delighted sound that tingled up your spine.

“You may come with me, if it pleases you. Watch as greed damns the greedy.”

He shoves you back—not enough to harm, just enough to warn.

“You want to heal everyone? Fine. Let’s see if you can. No man will come within 200 meters of you ever again.”

“Don’t do this,” you begged. “Sukuna! SUKUNA DON’T!”

He slid the door open. The storm howled into the room, rain slashing sideways… and there—far in the distance was a group of men on horseback, silhouettes blurred by downpour, riding hard toward you.

Sukuna’s smile was monstrous and triumphant.

“You wanted this.” He raised his hands.

Power rippled like the bending the storm around him. “Domain expansion…”

The air collapsed inward, pressure dropping, reality shivering…

“SUKUNA!” 

“Malevolent Shrine.”

[softcursechoso]

Somewhere, We Do: Ch. 13

JJK x Reader Nanami x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI! // 18+ // NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS!

Words: 15.8k+

Ch. 13 Warnings: None! But likeeee~ sorry for the long ass break :( Angst angst angst! And fluff! Fluff! Fluff! And heated moments like the spicy kind :)

TRIAL RUN

Goddammit Gojo… you just had to make a show of it.

Shiosora Resort : 8:45pm : Atami

As you sat in the back seat of your cab, the curve of the mountain road revealed Atami’s crown jewel perched just above the sea. A stunning resort glinting with the kind of decadence that made your corporate salary feel like Monopoly money. The resort sat half embedded in the cliffside—surrounded by soft lanterns nestled into sculpted bonsai gardens and sleek, modern paneling of glass and stone. Every edge of it screamed luxury.

From the backseat of the black taxi, you could see the entrance. There was a whole red carpet moment happening outside the main entrance. Golden ropes lined either side of the path. Tall white columns were spotlighted to bathe guests in a soft, flattering glow as they stepped out. Photographers snapped candids in front of the steps, and branded wall was featured as the backdrop. Tokyo-Kyoto Reunion. Of course it didn’t mention Jujutsu. This reunion was not open to the public..

Kaya let out a low whistle. “This man really went all out on a Friday..”

You laugh amused. “He’s so gaudy.”

You weren’t sure if the nervous fluttering in your chest was anxiety or adrenaline, but it had been years since you’d walked away. No one knew the toll it took to stay, or the strength it took to leave.

As the car cruised closer to the drop-off zone, you could already see heads turning. The waiting alumni paused mid conversation to glance toward the approaching vehicle. The curious, the gossip hungry—they were already squinting.

The car glided to a stop. Kaya reached over and grabbed your hand. “You ready, girl?”

You turned to her with red lips and a fire in your chest. “I think so.”

The driver exited and circled the car to open the door. First out was your freshly waxed leg. The heel of your black Louboutin cut a clean silhouette against the red carpet. Your hand, fingers manicured in blood red, took the driver’s as you rose out of the car like a goddess unfolding from legend.

The red dress clung to your body like it was meant to. Halter neckline—plunging in just the right way to command attention without begging for it. Open back. Every seam was tailored to sculpt, hug, and accentuate. You were a sight for sore eyes that’s for sure.

Kaya was not one to be shown up of course. She looked like sex and vengeance in stilettos. Her blonde curls spilled down her back in loose spirals, and her black corset dress cinched her waist tight like a pinup. Her Jimmy Choos sparkled under the flash of the cameras, and the way she walked beside you all confident and unapologetic made you feel quite at ease.

You waved timidly at one of the cameras. Heads turned. Someone gasped.

“Is that—?”

“No it can’t be right?”

“It’s not her. If it was, we would have felt her energy way before she arrived.”

“Who is that?”

“It looks like her… but it’s not.”

It was a bit of a strike to your ego. Just a tiny bit. A man like Gojo was known for his reputation, his name, his family, and his look. You on the other hand were known more for your name and reputation… and rumors. One of which being that sorcerers from miles away could feel you long before you arrived. It’s probably why people couldn’t believe it off of sight alone.

Photographers angled themselves for better shots, and as you got into position it was as if the air had shifted. Like somehow the balance of everything had tilted and no one could explain why.

You and Kaya had two giant bags of luggage that you had no business bringing for a three day weekend. Before you could go to retrieve it your driver shakes his head assuring you he’s got it.

Kaya leaned in, voice low and sultry against your shoulder. “Nanami’s probably inside right now. Bet he just felt a disturbance in the air even with that seal intact.”

You exhaled through a laugh. “Good. I want him to choke on his regret.”

You meant it. He had humiliated you and crossed lines that shouldn’t have needed explanation. He made you feel small in the one place you’d finally built peace.

So now you were here to remind him what a mistake it was to take you lightly. Though if you were being honest, the nerves were kicking your ass right now.

The resort’s automatic sliding glass doors opened with a gentle chime as you approached, letting warm amber light spill across the entranceway. Inside, the lobby looked like something out of a luxury travel magazine. Dark wood beams. Glass fountains built into the walls. Plush seating that was far more expensive than what you even had on. 

Staff dressed in crisp uniforms bowed as you passed. Everything about this place was meant to be serene and calming and beautiful, but unfortunately you felt the complete opposite. Like you knew who you wanted to be but you couldn’t fully commit out of fear.

Marble floors in warm sand tones stretched out beneath your heels, polished to a gleam so nice it reflected the golden overhead lights pristinely. The scent of fresh hinoki wood was mixed with tall white vases filled with perfect ikebana arrangements. Damn it was nice here.

You barely made it three steps before a woman in a sleek navy uniform approached with a polite bow. “Welcome to Shiosora Resort.” She bowed, smiling warmly. “My name is Nakamura. If I may, please allow me to guide you to check-in.” Her voice was light and professional as her eyes flicked between you and Kaya. 

Kaya spoke first as she approached the sleek lacquered front desk. “The reservation is gonna be under Terry Kaya.” She’d fish out her ID from her purse and hand it over.

Nakamura nodded, “Of course, Terry-sama. One moment, please as I pull up your reservation..”

A second staff member approached with two flutes of champagne balanced on a silver tray. You took yours with a grateful smile, letting the cool crystal stem settle between your fingers before lifting it to your lips. It was quite dry but good.

God, you needed this.

Nakamura frowned softly at her computer. “My apologies, Terry-sama. I have your reservation listed as a single guest accommodation.”

Kaya didn’t miss a beat. “That’s fine,” she said with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “One bed is good. She can sleep on the balcony… There is a balcony, right?”

The woman nodded with a soft smile, “Yes, ma’am. All our west wing suites have ocean facing balconies.”

You elbowed Kaya with a dry glare. “Fuck you, I’m not sleeping on the balcony.”

Kaya giggled, smug. “Heh~ sleep in Kusakabe’s room.”

Your eyes snapped wide. “Excuse me?”

Nakamura, not missing a beat, pressed on. “Your luggage is in good hands. Our staff have coordinated with your driver, and your bags will be delivered to your room to ensure a seamless check-in experience.”

Of course they would. Gojo didn’t play games. 

“If I may,” the woman continued, folding her hands gracefully, “allow me to tell you a bit about our property. You will be staying on the tenth floor of the west wing, with a full ocean view. Our main restaurant, Seikai, offers 24-hour room service for your convenience. We also have two specialty dining venues—Asahi Café, which serves breakfast from 5:00 a.m. to noon, and Hoshikage, which opens for dinner at 5:00 p.m. Food service concludes at midnight, but our bar remains open until 3:00 a.m.”

She gestured toward a corridor on the right, where a dimly lit hallway led to a lounge space bathed in amber and gold. You could already hear the faint hum of music and clinking glassware from somewhere within.

“There are fitness centers located on the second floor of each wing,” she continued, “including private yoga rooms, meditation pods, and spin classes. These can be booked directly through the in room tablet. We also offer unlimited access to the rotenburo—located on the ground floor, past the central courtyard.”

You exchanged a look with Kaya—already mentally scheduling your first soak.

“There is a full-service spa offering shiatsu, aromatherapy, and specialized treatments. You’ll also find a curated list of guided nature walks, and private yachts available for rental. Discounted rates are available exclusively to guests of the Reunion. Resort amenities are all inclusive, with the exception of the gift shop and off property activities, which again, can be purchased and reserved through your in room tablet.”

Kaya blinked, her champagne half raised. You looked at her. Then back at Nakamura.

Damn.

“Finally,” Nakamura added with a soft bow, “you are free to explore the resort in its entirety, but please note that designated Reunion spaces for tonight include the main lobby, both pool areas, the meeting lounges, and the rooftop bar. Should you wish, I’d be happy to escort you to one of these locations.”

Kaya raised a brow at you.

You shook your head, grinning. “We got it. Thank you so much though. We really appreciate it.”

Nakamura bowed again, “Then please enjoy your evening. Should you need anything, we are always available.”

As the staff moved away and blended back into the rhythm of the lobby, you and Kaya turned to each other, nearly in unison.

“Holy shit.”

The lobby was even more impressive as you walked in deeper. The far end opened into a lounge bathed in candlelight, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the sea. Small groups of alumni gathered around low tables of dark mahogany, champagne glasses in hand, some laughing loudly, others deep in conversation.

There were people dressed in varying degrees of glamour—some in traditional yukata, others in sharp, modern formalwear. There were… semi-familiar faces in the crowd, even if you couldn’t name them.

The energy was alive. A low, electric hum of power and memory. The kind that filled your chest. The kind you hadn’t felt in years.

Kaya nudged your arm, her eyes scanning the crowd. “Let’s explore. Let’s find a reason to start trouble.”

You took one more sip of your champagne, savoring the taste, the anticipation, and the tension of walking into a world that wasn’t sure whether you were the woman to be feared or respected.

“Mhm.” You nodded, agreeing to Kaya’s… most likely crazy scheme. 

There were eyes on you as you walked in even further now. You could try to mute your energy, temper your stride, lower your voice... but in that dress, in those heels, beside Kaya’s glowing blonde curls and bombshell silhouette? You weren’t fading into any background legend or not.

People whispered more now. There weren’t too many people here, which was kind of unexpected considering rich ass Gojo was paying for everything. Guess people did have their lives to tend to.

“Wait—is she Kyoto or Tokyo?”

“Kyoto. Definitely Kyoto.”

“Doesn’t she look like—?”

“I think that’s—no, couldn’t be... could it?”

Their curiosity hung in the air. You giggled quietly at the theories being whispered. So wrong. So close. Kaya, ever the firestarter, waved and greeted people with bright, sweet charm.. She was always the social one, the connector, the welcoming presence in the room. It wasn’t that you were quiet back in the day… not at all, actually. You just… didn’t have a personality that exactly appealed to the masses. Not when your presence did the talking.

You both drained your glasses like seasoned pros, and, as if summoned by the action, two staff members seemingly materialized with a bottle and empty trays.

“Would you like a refill?”

You gave a polite shake of the head with a smile as you handed over your empty glass. “No, thank you. We’re headed up to the bar.”

Kaya stretched like a cat, eyes glinting. “Time to cause problems.” She’d hand over her flute.

The elevator felt so quiet as you stepped in. As it was slightly removed from the hum of the crowd, it gave you a second to breathe. To prepare for anything including seeing your maybe sorta kinda you weren’t really sure if he was your ex boyfriend. 

Inside the mirrored walls reflected back two dangerously confident women who looked like they were walking into a photoshoot.

To the rooftop you went. Yes, all the way to the top.  Kaya turned toward her reflection and did a quick fix-up—pulling at the top of her corset, fluffing her curls, checking her lip gloss.

Then she glanced sideways. “I see you, bitch.”

You raised a brow, smirking. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re looking for Nanami… or is it Kusakabe now? I’m genuinely not sure anymore.”

You rolled your eyes, scoffing under your breath. “Is it that obvious? About Kento not Kusakabe.”

Her gaze softened for a half-second, honest. “You gonna talk to him if you see him?”

You shook your head. “Hell no. That’s not what I got dressed up for… well, maybe… ”

She grit her teeth, “Maybe you shouldn’t right now. Even the idea of it has you twisted up.”

The elevator dinged open and instantly the rooftop bar stole your breath.

It wasn’t just a bar. It was a rooftop garden. Elevated high above Atami, the openair space was designed with wide, tiered seating that overlooked the glittering bay below and the city on the other side. Like you could see everything the city had to offer from here. Wooden slat panels lined the floor, bordered by raised gardens of tall ornamental grasses.

There were white orchids, and black river stones. Soft golden lights lit the path like starlight. Firepits crackled in recessed lounges scattered around the space, and an expansive slate bar stretched across the east end beneath a canopy of paper lanterns.

So this is where all the people were hiding. Again, it was still a lot less than you’d expect for an all expense paid trip, but decent turnout.

Even still, there were sorcerers of every so many generations. From fresh graduates to grizzled veterans. They sipped cocktails and laughed over low jazz and ocean breeze. Nostalgia and tension hung in the air—equal parts reunion and reconnaissance. Though you hadn’t seen anyone from your graduating class yet… or even the upperclassmen.

Your class had only six people, so two of the six showing up isn’t so bad. Every year had varying amounts. Despite the question of your being hanging in the air… necks turned.

Your entrance sent a ripple through the crowd. Subtle but unmistakable. Eyes glanced. Conversations dipped. You didn’t stop walking. Chin up, heels steady, gaze sharp.

Fuck it. Let em wonder.

One of Kaya’s hands gripped your arm tightly in excitement as she pointed with the other. “Look who’s here.”

Your eyes followed, and through the crowd toward the end of the bar you spotted them. Mei Mei, regal and tall wrapped in a black silk wrap dress, and beside her, Utahime, dressed in a soft red kimono, hair loose for once, nodding at something Mei Mei was saying.

The breath caught in your throat.

Fuck.

The urge to behave was completely gone. “Oh, Kaya…”

Your friend saw the twitch in your lip and the mischief flaring behind your eyes. “You’re really gonna do it, aren’t you?”

You gritted your teeth. “I don’t want to, but the brat in me—she needs to.”

Kaya laughed, wicked and ready. “Do it. I’ll back you up.”

You dipped low, melting into the crowd… Stalking. Eyes locked on your target. Kaya followed casually behind easy and unbothered as if she didn’t already know what chaos was about to unfold.

You reached her, Mei Mei, and just as she turned her head—in one fluid motion, you sprang up. Legs wrapping around her waist as your arms hooked around her neck, dragging her into a dramatic, chaotic headlock.

“Say uncle, cunt!” you hissed, grinning like the devil against her ear.

Kaya appeared, tugging at her silver ponytail. “Say it! Say it!”

Mei Mei didn’t flinch. “Ugh. Uncle. Get off of me.”

You cackled, obnoxious and delighted, and pressed a big, exaggerated kiss against her cheek. “MMMMMWAH! There! Now go wash your face. You’ve got lipstick on your cheek.”

Mei Mei sighed, slightly annoyed, but truly masking the thrill you just gave her by your presence alone. She wasn’t one for surprises, and although she wouldn’t admit it… this one was nice. 

“Still quite the annoying little brat, aren’t you?” She spoke as she wiped her cheek with disgust.

You nodded. “Still the annoying little brat.” 

You hung on a little tighter as she began adjusting her dress.

“Get off me before I get the axe.”

You leaned in close. “And do what, Mei Mei?”

Kaya chimed in like a hype man. “Yeah, and do what?”

Utahime stepped forward, hands on her hips but smiling wide. “Come down from there. I didn’t know you’d be here!”

You hopped off of Mei Mei and dusted yourself off like a fancy goblin. “Anyone wanna do shots?”

Kaya burst out laughing. “That sorority girl just jumped right out of you didn’t it?”

Before you could reply, Mei Mei grabbed your face between her hands and pulled you close. Her eyes were sharp. “You don’t get to disappear from this world for years and come back like everything is fine.”

You glanced over at Utahime. Her expression was softer—concern and affection beneath the calm.

You met Mei Mei’s stare again and shrugged. “Yes, I do.”

She narrowed her eyes, then turned to Kaya. “You knew about this?”

Kaya grinned, eyes full of secrets. “Can’t even deny that.”

You twisted out of Mei Mei’s grip, laughing, and pulled Utahime into a tight hug. Her arms wrapped around you like a big sister. Warm and grounding.

“I have all weekend to explain my shenanigans,” you pouted as you looked over your shoulder at Mei Mei. “Can we please drink before I get asked a question I don’t want to answer?”

Utahime leaned back, smiling with a sigh. “Fine. But only a couple drinks, okay? Where’s Nanami, by the way? I thought you two would come together.”

You froze. Kaya glanced over. Your eyes widened. “Oh my God… Kaya it’s happening!”

Kaya’s hand shot up as she wormed her way through to the front of the bar. “Umm~ four lemon drops and a shot of Clase Azul immediately, please! Double shot!”

Utahime’s hand found your arm before you could fully turn back toward the bar, her fingers gentle but firm. “What happened with Nanami?”

Her voice was calm, but concerned. Her expression was one of quiet care—that same familiar mix of concern and strength she always carried as your mentor back at Kyoto. You used to love that about her—that she could be both the sharpest voice in the room and the safest place to land.

Tonight you couldn’t look at her. Or at least not right now. You let your eyes dart anywhere but hers. The tiled floor. The lanterns overhead. The double shot. The corner of your dress. Anywhere.

Mei Mei’s voice cut in, amused and a touch too sharp. “Look at her. She’s intoxicated.”

You didn’t get a chance to dodge that one. Her hand came swift, fingers curling beneath your chin, and she tilted your face up toward hers. Her powerful eyes bored into yours.

“She's halfway to bliss.” She tightened her grip just a tiny bit.

You scrunched your nose and yanked your head back with a laugh. “Okay, yeah, Kaya and I pre-gamed in the taxi a little and maybe it’s hitting now. You thought I was just gonna walk in here without a shot or two? Be serious.”

Kaya, like clockwork, pressed a lemon drop into your palm, and handed the others their glasses. “One for each of you! No excuses. We’re on vacation. Emotional damage comes after we drink.”

Utahime’s hand rubbed your arm—so slow, so tender, so heartbreakingly maternal it made something in your chest ache. “Will you talk about it later?”

You shook your head gently, voice small. “Hopefully not.”

Mei Mei sighed, swirling her glass between her fingers. “When you’re sober, you know we have to talk, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, dramatic and adolescent. “It’s all about finances with you, Mei Mei. I know what you want.”

She shrugged one elegant shoulder, unbothered. “You mosey in here like you aren’t the most famous person in the room and think a conversation isn’t warranted?”

Your eyes flicked down. “Ughhhhh. We’ll do it tomorrow. Mkay?”

Kaya lifted her glass like a war horn. “Cheers!”

The four of you clinked and drank up—the lemon drop was deceptively sweet, with a sugared rim and enough citrus to fool you into thinking it was mild. It wasn’t. That thing had kick.

Just as your tongue darted out to catch a last bit of sugar from the glass rim, Kaya sucked in a breath so sharp it nearly whistled.

“Holy shit. Nanami’s here.”

Is this a joke?

Just like a fucking amateur, you turned. No subtlety. No restraint. You turned, and there he was. Kento Nanami, and GOD he looked good.

Every part of him was polished to understated perfection—charcoal suit pressed crisp, white shirt open just how you liked it. Hair freshly cut. You knew he smelled so delicious and clean like that goddamn cologne he kept in his bathroom drawer. His shoes shined. His lips were moisturized. Hands immaculate. Nothing flashy, but also… nothing forgettable.

But… it was his eyes that stopped your breath. They didn’t look like your Nanami’s. They looked tired. Not the overtime tired. Not the workload tired. No, hollow. Like a man cracked down the center and trying desperately to pretend the pieces were still holding. Like someone looking for something impossible. Something that had already gone.

Your throat tightened.

He doesn’t get to be sad. He doesn’t GET to be fucking sad.

You tossed the rest of your drink down, the tang of lemon clashing with the bitterness of the shot in the back of your throat. “I’m gonna talk to him.”

Kaya’s eyes flew wide. “Nooooooo. Oh no you don’t.”

Nanami’s eyes swept the rooftop casually until they landed on you, and when they did, everything stopped. Not in a dramatic, cinematic kind of way. It was quieter. More real.

His breath halted mid conversation. His posture shifted. He leaned forward slightly, like gravity had suddenly decided you were the only thing holding him to this Earth… and then he moved.

No hesitation—he cut through the crowd. Direct and determined. No longer giving a single fuck about the conversation he’d been having.

Kaya panicked. She latched onto your hand and pulled you back. “Look, I’m all for you ripping him a new one, but not here. Okay? Don’t.”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were locked on his. You couldn’t look away.

Kaya cursed under her breath, then pushed you gently but urgently toward Utahime. “I’m gonna go distract the finance bro. You two get her walking… ya know, away.”

Utahime stepped in, hands on your face, her eyes scanning yours like she could read every thought trying to hide behind your lashes. “…It’s that bad?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your eyes were watering. That infuriating sting at the back of your throat climbed higher.

You watched as Kaya weaved through the crowd all charming as if nothing was wrong. She slid into Nanami’s path and put a hand up “Nuh-uh. We gotta talk.”

Utahime was still looking at you. Still holding your face.

You gave a small pull, gentle but final. “I’m gonna check out the pool.” Your voice cracked just enough to betray your desired nonchalance. “Please… just let me be.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. Your heels clicked against the deck as you walked back toward the elevators, fast and focused as you blinked back the storm behind your eyes.

Shit, man.

You just got here. It wasn’t supposed to escalate this fast. One interaction and that’s all it takes?! You fold just like that?! You were supposed to be strong. Confident. Show him what he was missing… yet here you were storming out of the rooftop bar like it had personally offended you.

You didn’t care who watched you leave. Let them look. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let them wonder. Let them know.

God—fuck, you were pissed, and not just at him. You were mad at yourself.

You didn’t even know where the pool was. You hadn’t even planned a direction. You’d just needed to move. Anywhere but that rooftop, anywhere but under Utahime’s care and Mei Mei’s knowing eyes and Kaya’s concern.

Anywhere but standing ten feet away from Kento Nanami and the phantom ache of the future he’d casually let waste away.

You walked fast, head high, rage burning beneath your skin. Down the elevator, through wide hallways lit by ambient gold sconces, past clean minimalist signage pointing to spas and lounges and gallery walkways.

People passed by you in twos and threes—sorcerers, staff, alumni… but you didn’t see them. You didn’t register anything but the white noise in your chest and the crimson blur behind your eyes.

Because Nanami… he looked sad. He looked empty. He looked like a man lost in a world that no longer fit him.

Then he saw you, and for one infinitesimal moment, something flickered in his face. Like someone turned the lights back on inside of him. Like he saw the light of his life again and if you were mad it just made him happy to be in the room with you.

But if he missed you so badly…

If he wanted you so badly…

If he loved you so badly… then why the fuck didn’t he fight?

Why didn’t he stop the bleeding? Why did he let it all slip through the cracks like it didn’t matter until it was too late? Why did he let her, that brunette homewrecker, inch closer and closer while you begged him to draw the line?

Now he has the audacity to look haunted? You were furious. Not that he was hurting, but that him hurting made you want to comfort him. You were upset that his pain still twisted itself around your heart.

He did this. He fucking did this!

You didn’t even remember telling your feet where to go. You just followed the air, the sound, the absence of voices until you reached the only place left relatively untouched by reunion chaos—Seikai, the restaurant.

It was nestled on the far end of the west wing, down a corridor flanked by stone walls and bamboo panels. It was quiet here. It was what you needed.

You only noticed how tightly you’d been clenching your jaw when you saw the hostess and forced yourself to relax it.

She bowed low, and soft spoken. “Welcome to Seikai. It is our pleasure to host you this evening. Table for one?”

You nodded, managing a breathless, “Yes, please.”

The space inside was sleek, intimate. Designed in the tradition of ryotei but with a modern minimalism—low, matte black tables, warm wood chairs with white cushions, gentle golden light softened by rice paper lanterns hanging beautifully. There were a few scattered diners. Some couples, a small trio of older sorcerers sipping sake and laughing quietly, but it was mostly empty.

Good, you could breathe here..

“Um,” you cleared your throat as the hostess gestured at a table. “Could I actually sit outside?”

She nodded immediately. “Of course.”

The hostess led you through a glass sliding door to the open-air terrace—where a dozen or so tables overlooked the ocean, all of them vacant. The final bit of sunset had dipped beyond the horizon, leaving behind a darkened sky. The sea was black and glinting under the stars, waves crashing gently against the shoreline far below. The moon hung low, casting silver across the water so poetically. 

You sat down at a corner table, half shielded by a sculpted cedar bonsai in a polished stone pot.

“Please take a look at our menu.” The hostess set the heavy leather folder in front of you. “We also have a QR code if that makes it easier—”

You scrunched your nose. “Oh hell no… I mean—sorry. Thank you. The physical menu is fine.”

She smiled, completely unfazed. “Your server will be over shortly.” She bowed again, and before leaving.

You were alone finally, but the silence didn’t feel freeing. It felt… crushing? What the fuck were you doing?

This was day one. Hell—hour one of this ridiculous three-day reunion weekend, and you’d already exiled yourself to the farthest corner of the resort like some dumbass hermit. Like the girl who couldn’t handle the past. Like the woman who cracked at the first glimpse of the man who broke her heart.

You were supposed to show up. You were supposed to own the room. Remind the world why you were a fucking legend—not wilt into the shadows.

You hadn’t rode for nearly two hours in a cab, and dropped thousands on dresses and lashes and luggage just to sit here like an exiled woman.

Get it together!

You stared out at the ocean, fists clenched in your lap. Your own reflection stared back at you in the glass railing. You looked gorgeous, and yet here you were, folding.

The frustration was palpable practically. How dare he have this kind of hold on you! How dare you let him!

Your throat tightened, but you wouldn’t cry. You wouldn’t give him that—not even from a distance… but God, your thoughts were screaming now.

No gentle murmurs, no passive doubts—they were roaring, slamming against the walls of your skull with a volume that refused to be ignored. Your teeth clenched. Your nails bit into your palms. Your breath was jagged.

Fuck this.

Fuck hiding.

Fuck playing small.

With a sharp inhale, your hands pounded on the table—flat-palmed, decisive, loud. The sound cracked through the silence.

“No.” You stood.

It wasn’t just a rise to your feet—no, this was a declaration. You rose with authority, with power, your spine straight and jaw locked tight, every inch of you coiled with purpose. Your red dress shimmered in the lantern light.

You were going to be the woman you promised to show up as. Not the scorned girlfriend. Not the woman with a reputation and no face! Fuck that! He couldn’t ruin your night! He just couldn’t!

Maybe it was the liquid courage from the lemon drop. Maybe it was rage, or maybe you were sick of letting grief shape you into someone small.

This wasn’t how your weekend was going to start, and it sure as hell wasn’t how it was going to end. Just as you stepped back from the table you heard a muffled voice—

“Excuse me…”

You blinked, looked around, and there was no one.

“Down here.” The voice sounded again

You looked down and there, on the damn floor, was a young man in a black suit doing a full ass, forehead to the ground bow. Like full on shame groveling, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Are you the server?!” You blurted, taking an instinctive step back.

He snapped his head up. “No! No, I—I’m not! I’m so sorry! My name is Ino Takuma!” 

His brown hair was slicked back like it was his first time doing an adult hairstyle, and he was wearing… were those Converse?!

You squinted. “Do you have… tears in your eyes?”

“No!” He cried as his voice cracked and his eyes were glistening. 

You stumbled back, half-laughing, half-mortified. “What the fuck are you doing down there?!”

“I’m sorry! I swear I wasn’t looking at your panties! Though black is a very nice color on you! I just—I was trying to… I uh—” He bowed lower and exhaled. “...while I’m down here, would you maybe... step on me?”

You froze.

He added, earnestly, “You looked like you were getting ready to anyway.”

You stared—furious, amused, and overwhelmed. You reached down, grabbed him by the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, and hauled him upright. “Boy, get off this fucking floor!”

He scrambled to his feet with his hands up. “I just—I wanted to show the utmost respect.”

Your eyes narrowed. “...you know me?”

His entire face lit up as he nodded like an excited puppy. “Of course I know you! I know everything about you! You singlehandedly won every Goodwill Event you were a part of. You killed a Special Grade curse with the Proclamation of Tilt when no one thought it was possible. You’re the only person in all of jujutsu society whose name gets mentioned in the same breath as Gojo and not as a victim. You’re—you’re the Nullifier!”

Your eyes widened just barely. You hadn’t heard that name in years. The Nullifier. It was almost a superstition now. A whispered legacy too heavy to say aloud. A name with weight. A titled threat.

More taboo than Geto. Technically less documented than Toji Zen’in.

You looked at this enthusiastic baby faced sorcerer in front of you, and something inside you cracked.

It made you laugh… hard. Really hard.. The sound bubbled out of you and it felt good after all that pain.

He looked worried for a second. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” you snorted, wiping a tear from your eye. “You’re just... you’re so honest. It’s funny. You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny!” He responded quickly and panicked. “I’m just honored. Like, genuinely honored. You’re one of my heroes.”

You shook your head in disbelief, still grinning. “Hero huh… wow.”

He lit up again, beaming. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you. I thought you were—y’know, retired or something. I’m surprised you’re here.”

You tilted your head, smiling with more warmth than you expected. “Well, I was waiting for you, I guess.”

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Me?!”

You nodded. “Mhm. Sit. Have a drink with me.” You squinted. “No alcohol for you though.”

He nodded furiously. “Okay!”

He sat across from you like he was in a shrine, sitting straight backed and polite, eyes wide, hands neatly folded in his lap. You’d resume your seat as well.

The server arrived soon after. “Good evening. I am Sato Yui, and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you any drinks to start with?”

You smiled. “Hi, Sato. I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay.”

Probably not the beeeest choice~

You gestured to the bundle of nerves across from you. “And he’ll have… I don’t know. What do kids drink? Orange juice?”

Ino nodded like an excited golden retriever. “Orange juice is great! I love citrus! Did you know that orange juice companies add orange flavor back into orange juice because storage removes the taste?”

You frown, “Wait so you like orange juice or you don’t?”

“I like what you like.”

You roll your eyes, “Orange juice it is. With a crazy straw.” 

The server offered a polite smile. “Excellent. I’ll return shortly.”

As she disappeared, you turned your gaze back out toward the ocean. The waves crashed rhythmically below, white foam glowing against the shore. The wind had shifted—it was cooler now.

You stared at the sea a long moment before speaking again, voice low, contemplative. “So, what do you think you know about me, kid? Tell me about your favorite rumors and I'll tell you if they're true.”

Ino gasped like he’d been granted a wish. “Oh I have so many things I wanna confirm! Yes! Okay—yes. Please!”

You chuckled again. “Go on, then.”

You didn’t know why you were doing this. Maybe you needed to torment yourself into remembering how it used to feel to be seen. Maybe you needed someone who looked at you like you were more than the woman Nanami broke. Or maybe—you needed to remember who the fuck you were. No. Who you still are.

Ino leaned in with elbows on the table—face glowing with excitement and nerves. “Is it true that the Decree of Auto Life could stop someone from decapitation? Like… full guillotine to the neck?!”

You laughed at the absurdity. “Yes. That’s kind of the point, kid. Though you’d still wanna get it off your neck. It doesn’t prevent injury. It just stops death.”

“Interesting…” His eyes sparked with something much darker. “Oooh! Is it true that you quit jujutsu to join a cult?!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose so hard your lashes curled inward. “That’s really your second question?!”

He blinked. “What?”

“Why would you even ask that? How do you know that? What is going on?”

He shrugged. “When you disappeared I did some digging. People said they saw a woman with your description around the outskirts of Tokyo.”

You narrowed your eyes. “...What did you hear?”

He leaned back a bit. “I heard you joined a cult for a while. Then you just vanished.”

You rolled your eyes so hard your head followed. “Why do you even knooooow that?! That’s not public record, and that’s not even accurate!”

“Well you did disappear. There had to be a reason.”

Before you could retort, your server reappeared like a spirit on cue.

“Thank you for waiting. Here are your drinks.” She placed a chilled glass of chardonnay in front of you with elegance, followed by a tall, glass of orange juice for Ino, complete with a tiny paper umbrella and a crazy straw.

You choke on your own laughter, “Wait! You really put a crazy straw?!” 

She nodded, “Gojo-sama wanted all of the straw options available for guests.”

Of course he did…

She spoke again with her hands folded in front of her “Are you ready to order?”

You shook your head. “Not yet, thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll return shortly.”

She disappeared again as efficiently as she arrived. You swirled your wine, admiring the golden hue before taking a long sip. It was good. Crisp with just enough bite to slap the edge of your lingering melancholy.

You peered at Ino over the rim of your glass. “Okay, kid. Spill it. How do you know that rumor?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It was a rumor floating around back then. It didn’t really have legs, but you left with no warning. Some people said you were dead. Others said you were in hiding. I never believed it. I figured someone like you didn’t just disappear. You were waiting for something. Or someone.”

You went still. It was like this boy really did know you. Somehow the rumors he heard weren’t the crazy ones like you could move mountains with your mind. He got a hold of the real shit. The shit that gave you sleepless nights.

He sipped his juice, waiting an entire second for it to twist through the crazy straw… completely unbothered. “You’ve got the Seal of Absolution on yourself, right? I always figured that’s what happened. You turned your greatest weapon against yourself and then went into hiding.”

You stared at him. This kid… was kind of terrifying.

He continued, eyes wide with glee now, “You even being here is crazy! Considering this is Gojo’s event and no one expected the two of you to be in the same room. They used to pit you two against each other all the time in conversation, y’know? Like ‘Who would win in a fight: Gojo or the Nullifier?’ I mean, sure, if we’re talking raw power? Gojo. Duh. But if you got the Seal on him? Then you could use your buffs and maybe be faster, stronger—”

He’s spiraling.

“—But the question is, could you get the Seal on him? Would it even matter? Have you two even met? That’s like royalty meeting royalty. People always said you’d be natural enemies, but I dunno. I feel like you two are similar. You’ve got that same ‘too powerful for your own good, doesn’t follow the rules, unreasonably attractive but emotionally distant’ thing going on. Though… from what I saw in your Goodwill Exchange Event tapes, your personality has changed. You’re more mature now. …It’s hot. WAIT—I mean, cool! But, like, in a hot way—NO. Hold on! Respectfully! RESPECTFULLY HOT! I—”

You stared at him, blinking slowly. His words had derailed somewhere between “powerful” and “respectfully hot,” and now he was just flailing in open water with nothing to hold onto but his juice and shame.

You lifted your chardonnay before you took a slow sip. “I think I really was waiting for you.”

He froze mid-gulp.

“My little fanboy.”

He visibly short circuited.

You stood up now—stretching your arms overhead like a cat waking from a long nap. The ocean breeze tugged at your dress as your body pulled tight under the fabric.

“Mmmm~ They say never meet your heroes, kid.” You glanced down at him, lips curled into a grin. “I’m gonna show you why that’s true.”

Ino gasped so loud he almost spilled his orange juice. “Really?! You’re gonna remove the Seal?!”

You pursed your lips. “No.”

“Oh.”

“But I am gonna confirm a few things.”

He stood, clutching his glass like it held his fragile grip on reality. Lips tight around the crazy straw.

“I didn’t join a cult—” you began. “But I didn’t exactly run from it either. Not as fast as I say I did.”

His eyes widened.

“In a fight against Gojo Satoru…” You continued, “I’d lose. Every single time.” He opened his mouth and you held up a finger. “No questions asked. I. Would. Lose… but it’d be the fight of his goddamn life.”

Ino’s eyes began to water again.

“My personality changed because I wasn’t hiding. So you’re correct, I did go into hiding, and I still am. But hiding gets really fucking boring.”

He nodded solemnly, like he was taking notes in his head.

“I didn’t come to this reunion to be quiet.” Your voice was sharper now. “I came with a plan to shut down rumors, and to piss off a man who knows me better than anyone else… though scarily you’re a close runner up..”

You turned and smiled, fangs beared now like an evil goddess. “I wanna look pretty. I wanna get drunk—er... You wanna know what happened when I left jujutsu?”

He nodded, hanging on every syllable.

“I got mixed up into some stupid shit the summer I graduated… but then I went to college. I became a sorority girl. Lambda Phi mother fucking Winslow—and my sisters would be pissed if they knew I was sitting outside babysitting a glass of Chardonnay when the party of the century is going on inside. Will you join me?”

His hands began shaking and he spilled juice on the edge of his sleeves. He was vibrating with so much excitement. 

He nods furiously “Yes! Yes! Please! I want that! I want to do that with you! Please! I want to!”

You stepped forward, placed the side of your hand on each of his shoulders one at a time like you were knighting him. “Well then, Ino… Welcome to Lambda Phi Winslow. Just for the weekend, okay?”

He nodded so hard his paper umbrella fell into his juice. He had no idea what that meant, but he was ready to die for it!

You downed the rest of your chardonnay in one long gulp—glass tipping back before you set it down on the table. Then, without warning, you snatched Ino’s orange juice from his trembling hands.

“Hey—!”

You delicately set the juice on the table too, then grabbed him by the arm with both hands, your manicured fingers wrapping tightly. “Come on!” You grinned, eyes wild with renewed energy. “We’re getting the gang together!”

He blinked fast, flustered, but still entirely thrilled. “Wh-who’s the gang?!”

You were already pulling him toward the exit like a woman on a mission. “Okay! First on the list: Mei Mei and Utahime—”

He nodded rapidly. “Powerhouses. Great choices.”

Ino tried to keep up with your brisk stride as you swept past the restaurant’s stone hallway. 

“Couple people from my graduating class—if they’re here. If they forgive me.”

Ino’s brows furrowed as he nodded, “Mhmm~”

“Then, Kaya…” You paused, waving your free hand, “Well actually, we don’t need to get her. She’ll know.”

He gasped, “Terry-san is here? She’s so cool! I could listen to her play harp all day.”

“Then…” you paused dramatically as you turned a corner. “Kusakabe… well…” You corrected yourself mid thought. “Maybe. Not… Ah fuck it. Kusakabe too.”

Ino squeaked. “Wh-what’s up with you and Kusakabe?!”

You stopped dead in your tracks and turned to him with a pointed look. “If you’re gonna be a Lambda Phi girlie, you don’t get to ask that!” You flipped your hair, kept walking.“... and the answer is nothing.”

He nodded quickly, terrified and enchanted. “Got it. Nothing happened!”

Tenku Rooftop Bar : 9:50pm : Atami

The music was still playing. The crowd was loud with mingling voices, clinking glasses, low laughter.

But in the far back corner, where the firepit glowed low and the sea breeze bit hard, it was quiet.

Kaya leaned against the stone wall, the back of her head resting lightly against the textured surface. The light from her lavender mixed cocktail casted fractured reflections on the glass in front of her.

Nanami stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He looked like a man who’d been told his future was canceled. Like someone had handed him paradise in a box and then set it on fire in front of him.

Kaya watched him for a moment, lips pursed, and then let out a long, slow sigh. “I don’t have to tell you that you let a good woman go. You know that.”

He didn’t move, but he listened.

“But I guess I’m confused because it’s like… why didn’t you try?”

Nanami frowned as his shoulders stiffened, “If you think I’m not trying—”

“You know about her and Geto,” she spoke bluntly as she interrupted him. The name was piping hot and sent an electric current through both of them. Kaya turned to face him more fully. “I know you do. You’re smart, and from the pieces she did give you, I’d bet money you figured it out already.” She shrugged, “We don’t need to mince words about it. That bastard fucked her up. Bad. But one thing he did…” She took a drink. “He tried.”

Nanami’s brow twitched.

“I hated him for it.” Kaya’s voice sharpened now. “For what he did. For how he used her. But no matter why he wanted her back, he chased her across continents. He fought for her. He made her feel wanted—even if it was manipulation.” She stepped forward. “You couldn’t even bring your sorry ass across town.”

That hit.

Nanami closed his eyes, a slow exhale leaving him. Like a combination of him feeling deserving of these words, but also like he had something to say as well.

“She told you about Kanzaki. She begged you to pay attention, and you didn’t. Then she breaks up with you—and that’s it?” Kaya’s voice cracked a little, fierce with fury. “You don’t try? No calls? No texts? No gifts?”

“I called,” Nanami said quietly. “Plenty of times. I sent messages. I sent gifts. But I didn’t want to badger her.”

Kaya scoffed.

“I know her,” he added. “That’s not what reaches her. She… we need to talk. In person.”

“You HAVE talked.” Kaya’s voice sliced the air. “You talked and talked and TALKED and talking is what led you down the road where you let that bitch sit on your desk and kiss you! Where you bought her lunch but not my friend! Where you went to dinner with her and the Tokuda’s or whoever the fuck, and not the woman you said you loved!”

Nanami flinched. Like all of his recent lowlights were being thrown in his face.

“That’s why she’s hurt, Nanami. Not because you fucked up once, but because she felt like she was being replaced while she was still standing next to you.” Kaya’s eyes glistened now, but her voice stayed hard. “You’re right. Gifts don’t reach her. She’ll live in a shack with you if you just show up. She likes time. You like money.”

She let that hang in the air.

“A match made in hell… But damn…” Kaya’s voice cracked, just a little, “I wanted that hell for her. I really did. I don’t believe in love, Nanami. I never have. I watched my parents divorce when I was a kid. I watched my sister in law break the vows she swore by. I watched so many friends leave relationships shattered in the name of love… but you and her? You had me this close to buying the propaganda. Maybe trying to find this supposed love for myself, but you only proved to me that I was right the whole time. It’s all a farce.”

She took a long breath, then stepped closer, and grabbed his lapel with her free hand almost in desperation. “You need to do something now because this fight is not over, but it will be soon.”

He looked down at her, pain carved deep in the lines of his face. “Kaya I am doing something. I refuse to return to the love of my life as the man I was. I can’t just apologize and return to business as usual. I need to show a change. I haven’t been sitting on my hands this past month. I’ve—”

“There’s another man in her life.” She interrupted him again. “And honestly… I’m rooting for him.” She let go. “That’s my ride or die, Nanami. I’m gonna be at her wedding. I’ll be there for the birth of her first child… Shit, if she’s petty enough to die before me, I’ll be at her funeral too... Will you? Will you, Nanami?”

Nanami wasn’t an expressive man, but hearing that there was someone else so soon when you didn’t even break up officially. It hurt. Hearing that he was already being replaced by someone was devastating. 

“Who is he?” His jaw clenched tight. Nanami wasn’t a jealous man, but from the position he was in… he was absolutely green with envy. “She hasn’t seen it yet, but I’ve done so much in our time apart to make myself better for her. I need to talk to her. I need to tell her how I—”

Kaya’s hand shot up like a stop sign right in his face. “Do NOT give me your little goddamn spiel! You do not get to rehearse your guilt with me so you’re not nervous when it’s time to talk to her. No. You get that shit off your chest the first time with her. Raw, ugly, and honest.” Her voice dropped low, words shaking but sharp. “I’m not here to help you. Like I said, there’s some other competition I’ve got my money on.”

She said what she said, but that wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. Kaya was a smart woman. Smarter than many gave her credit for because of the glitter and boldness, but she was very sharp. 

She liked Kusakabe for you, sure. He was steady. A kind man. A safe bet. The type of man who’d show up on time, ask before he kissed you, and keep your secrets locked behind tight lips. The type that respected boundaries that he knew he shouldn’t cross.

But Nanami? Nanami was the one she loved for you. Not because he was perfect, but because he could be. If he ever got his shit together. Kusakabe was what you wanted, but Nanami, if he could grow, if he could fight—he could be what you wanted and needed.

Kaya’s voice cracked again, this time with something deeper. “I quit my job because of you, Nanami.”

His head snapped to her, startled. “What?”

“Because what they did. It wasn’t right.” Her lashes were thick with tears now, blinking fast but not letting a single one fall. “HR made the wrong call. They knew Kanzaki was setting you up. They knew about her old rep from the Osaka branch. They knew she was the aggressor. That she kissed you without permission. That she touched you without consent. I saw every single text. Every email. Every dinner receipt. Every damn calendar update. They. Made. The wrong. Fucking. Call. But you being so goddamn complacent—you made it easy for them. You helped them sweep it under the rug and you didn’t push back. You stayed quiet. You stayed still.”

Tears hit her cheek now. One. Then another. “I couldn’t sit with that. So I quit… but why didn’t you? Why didn’t you, Nanami? ”

He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, your voice cut through the crowd.

“Hime- chaaaan~” 

You looked so happy. Not at all the same as you did when you were last up here. Both Kaya and Nanami turned to look at you. Flailing your arms around and telling some crazy story to Utahime and Mei Mei. Some random new graduate with you that you were squishing the face of.

You looked so beautiful. All they could do is watch. Admire. 

Kaya murmured with a smirk. “You really are something, my friend.”

Beside her, Nanami was still. Frozen, really. His eyes hadn’t left you for a second. You, glowing in the lights. You, laughing like the version of yourself that had been buried beneath pain and time and paperwork and heartbreak.

“Tell me,” Nanami spoke quietly, voice barely audible over the music playing. His eyes snapped from you to Ino. “That’s not him—?”

Kaya didn’t look at him. She took a sip, lips twisting into a smirk. “I’m not telling you shit. Your competition shouldn’t matter. You’ve got a whole weekend of knowing exactly where she is. Don’t let it go to waste. I won’t let you get to her tonight. Maybe tomorrow you can find better words than I’m sorry.”

With that, she turned and walked forward, slipping into the crowd, dancing as she went—arms raised, hips swaying, singing along like the party had only just begun.

As your drunken self spoke louder and more animated, the crowd seemed to flock and turn toward you. The whispers that had once been shy now burst into full-volume chatter.

“Is that really her?”

“There’s no fucking way!”

“Oh my God—she’s actually here?”

“Nah~ she wouldn’t be at Gojo's event.”

You let the energy roll over you like a tide. In a room full of sorcerers—you were the sorcerer. Ino, despite him being some random boy you met tonight, reminded you of that. You were grateful.

“Carry me pledge!” You demanded as you pinched his cheeks like a brat.

Ino, high on life, juice, and the weight of being in the presence of a legend, scooped you up bridal style with a strength that surprised even him. 

Utahime rose an eyebrow, “You said you just met? This is your first impression?”

Mei Mei rolls her eyes, “She’s always been like this. A user of people. One of her more respectable traits.”

You nodded seriously. “They say you only get one first impression… but the truth is, you only get one second impression, and that’s the one you gotta nail.”

Mei Mei rolls her eyes. “She’s drunk.”

Kaya appeared, cheering wildly. “AHHHH! Yesss! My queen is back!” She looked at Ino, who still carried you like a blushing groom. “Who is this?”

You threw your arms around his neck. “This is my emotional support brat.”

Ino, sweating and smiling: “I pledge Lambda Phi!”

Mei Mei groaned. “Okay, enough of this. You need to sober up.”

You frowned. “What?! The party just got started!”

Kaya nodded, “Hell yeah, I say we do the photobooth first.”

Utahime shrugged, “Or we could go by the pool?” 

You shook your head,. “We want something crazier! Me and my support pig.”

Ino, correcting gently. “Brat.”

You nodded, eyes glazed. “Brat.”

Mei Mei sighed. “I’m not indulging in your antics. You know that?”

You nodded, “Mhm~ all the non old bitches with me. To the dick measuring contests!”

Utahime blinked. “The what?”

Ino spoke quickly, “The contests! I didn’t see it for myself, but I heard they were setting up a strength contest thing—cursed energy measurements, reflex drills, cursed tool handling. Y’know. Dick measuring contest.”

Kaya lit up. “Oooh! Let’s do it!”

With no other objections, the five of you headed straight for the elevators to… do something? The plan was vague, and honestly none of you even knew where said contests were being held. Probably a meeting room? The elevator ride down felt like it was happening in reverse. A slow descent into chaos, with the mood steadily devolving from triumphant to suspicious. You were still half draped in Ino’s arms like a tipsy goddess clutching your dress.

Mei Mei, arms crossed, leaned casually against the mirrored wall, watching the numbers tick down with the disdain of a woman who’d rather be on a yacht.

“Okay.” She spoke up. “So are we going to talk about the Nanami of it all, or are we pretending it didn’t happen?”

You and Kaya both snapped. “Pretend it didn’t happen!” You both shouted in perfect unison.

Ino blinked rapidly, caught between the two of you like a deer in couture headlights. “Wait—what?!”

“NOTHING!” You and Kaya screamed again, arms waving, clearly not suspicious at all.

You slumped dramatically into Ino’s arms again, voice taking on an exaggerated whine. “Hime-channnn… Mei Mei o bāchannnn… Let’s talk about it tomorrow, okay? Finances too.”

Mei Mei smirked, sharp and dangerous. “Brat… I’ll let the grandma comment slide only because you know what I like to hear.”

You groaned, “Has anyone seen Gojo? Or anyone from my graduating class? I’m supposed to be getting the gang back together!”

Ino, ever the chipper mascot of your chaos, perked up. “Oh! And Kusakabe-san too, right?”

Your entire body convulsed. You reached up with both hands and grabbed his throat for a theatrical, weak little choke. “NOT IN FRONT OF KAYAAAAA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING INO?!”

Kaya exploded into laughter, nearly doubling over as the elevator doors slid open. “AHAHAHAAAAAA! You mentioned Kusakabe to him?! Now I know it’s real!”

“Oh~” Mei Mei’s eyes glinted. “That adds up.”

Utahime tilted her head. “Wait, what’s going on between you and Kusakabe?”

You flailed. “NOTHING!”

“Well, I wouldn’t say nothing.” A voice came in smooth and casual from your left.

You turned and there he was. Atsuya Kusakabe in the goddamn flesh. Leaning against the wall like the final boss of a dating sim. Smelling like cedar and  pine and sex. Or maybe teakwood? You weren’t sure.

His dark blue suit hugged his frame like it was sewn straight onto his body. Crisp white shirt, no tie, top buttons undone just enough to flash a piece of chest—exactly how you used to beg Nanami to wear it.

His hair was slicked back for some fucking reason, and he looked infuriatingly hot. You were so certain this man was an assassin. No one looked that good unless they were paid to kill or seduce. Or both.

Kaya’s eyes lit up. “Oh wow!” She clapped her hands and turned to Utahime and Mei Mei, full conspirator energy. “I think I left my clutch upstairs. Can you guys help me look?”

“What—” Your eyes widened.

Before you could argue, Kaya pried you out of Ino’s arms and planted you on the ground.  She spun and grabbed Ino’s ear to pull him back on the elevator. “Come on, brat boy. Time to search!”

He opened his mouth, “But—”

“C’mon!” She grinned yanking him away. “Kusakabe! Watch her for us, will you? We’ll be riiiiiiight back!”

You spun, desperate. “I can help you look! Kaya! Please let me help!”

Too late. She was already backing into the elevator, one hand yanking Ino, the other tugging at Mei Mei’s dress like an impatient little sister. She’d then yank Utahime back as well.

You panicked, “Wait, I don’t think—”

“HUH?! I can’t hear you!” Kaya slammed the door close button with her finger. “The elevator is just SO LOUD RIGHT NOW! But yeah, we’ll be right back! Stay put! Or don’t! I’m not your mom! HAHA!”

The elevator doors closed… So… Slowly. Kaya maintained direct eye contact with you the whole time, grinning like a demon and then—click.

You were alone.

You turned around with a grin and way too much bravado for someone about to internally combust. “I’m not nervous, Kusakabe-kun. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

He tilted his head slightly and chewing his gum a little slower, “Right, and that dress isn’t provocative."

Your eyes widened. “What?!”

He shrugged. “You don’t need me to repeat myself, but you look good, legend.”

Your heart launched itself into orbit like it was trying to escape. Why did Kaya leave you?! Why did Utahime leave you?! Why did Ino go along so easily?! Your emotional support brat was gone! PIG!

You cleared your throat, trying to recover some shred of dignity. “Thank you, you look good too. The slick hair makes you look like yakuza. Though I know you’re tougher than that, Kusakabe‑kun.”

He pressed a hand to his chest with exaggerated gravitas. “A compliment from the legend herself? I’m gonna let that go straight to my head.”

You laughed and then immediately tried to walk like a sober, composed adult woman.

Immediate mistake.

Your heel caught, and for half a second you were certain you were about to eat polished hotel flooring in front of the worst possible witness, but then his hand was there. Firm and warm. Placed squarely on the middle of your back and one at your waist.

It was respectful. Exactly where it needed to be. Exactly how he always was.

You let out a breathy chuckle, gripping his sleeve for balance. “Ever the gentleman, huh, Kusakabe‑kun? Keeping your hands so respectful.”

He didn’t answer, instead, he studied your face—your eyes, unfocused but sharp with intent, your lips curved in that dangerous little smile.

“Did you want my hands somewhere else?” He asked calmly.

He’s not allowed to do that!

You turned your head just enough to hide your smile, heat creeping up your neck. “I want your hands where you want your hands.”

You were feisty tonight. He had to be careful. “Say that to me again when you’re sober.”

Fuck.

Your cheeks burned instantly. You were already a woman with very little filter. Drunk you, unsupervised, was a public safety risk. Kusakabe on the other hand clearly had both hands on the wheel, and knew exactly when not to turn it.

He shifted smoothly, still steadying you as you walked. “So, where were you headed?”

You smirked, regaining some confidence. “To measure dicks of course.”

He blinked. “...what?”

“I mean, not my dick. I don’t have one. Though if I did, well, everyone would know about it.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Right… and so where were you headed?” He’d repeat, amused.

“Ino said there was some kind of competition going on. Strength, reflexes, whatever. I wanted to try my hand.”

He shook his head without slowing his stride. “In this state? I’m gonna have to veto that decision.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“You’re kind of the most dangerous woman in Japan. Probably not best to pit you against people in a competition of strength. Besides, it’s not even fully set up yet… and selfishly… I’d like to steal a bit of your time where I can.”

You gasped theatrically. “Ooooh, so that’s what this is about.”

He nodded once. “Oooh, but you knew that already.”

You laughed, pointing at him. “You’re trying to steal my shine.”

He didn’t deny it. “Just for opening night. Don’t worry. No harm done. Everyone’s not even here yet.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The real stuff goes down tomorrow. Even Gojo’s not here.”

You stopped walking. “What?! How the hell is the host missing? Wait, is that way the reunion seemed so sparse?!”

He guided you forward again gently. “You know how Gojo is. Extravagant at all costs. This was just a free day for people who wanted to come early. You’re not in the group chat, so you wouldn’t know.”

You groaned. “So I wasted my best dress for bonus day?!”

He glanced at you with a real look of desire in his eyes, “You don’t have to.”

He was too close with his minty breath and that fucking sex cologne. His eyes flicked briefly and unintentionally to your lips, then back up.

“What does that mean?” You asked, breath hitching.

“You still owe me.” 

You nodded slowly. “Okay… okaaaay?”

He smirked. “Get a drink with me. Off property. No more alcohol for you though. I’m gonna sober you up. Talk to a living legend for a bit. Then I’ll take you back.”

“Why not on property?” 

He paused. His hand slid from the middle of your back to your waist for a split second before he let you stand on your own. “Because I know what your privacy means to you.”

Oh.

Ohhhh.

That did things to you that it definitely should not have. You felt that comment below the waist.. Your knees actually went weak this time.

Your heart pounded as you nodded, forcing yourself not to grin like an idiot. “Fine, but only because I owe you like you said.”

He’d nod, “Exactly. Makes sense, right?”

The two of you began heading toward the entrance now.  “So, where are you kidnapping me off to?”

He looked down at you briefly. “Little spot I saw on the way over.”

You grinned. “Mhm~ little spot. It’s probably so good. You taking me to your super secret spot? You been to Atami before?”

He nodded. “I’ve been here. Not to a place as fancy as this, but I know the area.”

You nodded keeping your head low and eyes forward. You weren’t exactly in the mood for more run-ins. Not with Nanami. Not with anyone. 

The air was cooler once the two of you made it outside. There was a soft sea breeze that was chilly with no real bite. The path dipped gently downhill, and just a short walk away, there it was. At the bottom of the slope between two small storefronts with their shutters drawn for the night stood a polished little yatai.

Not some dingy late-night afterthought. This one was clean, and it looked even better as you approached. Small but beautiful and with character. The noren curtain rustled gently as Kusakabe pulled it aside. He motioned for you to go first.

You stepped in under the curtain as you were greeted by the elderly man at the grill. “Welcome.”

You’d offer a smile and polite bow, “Hello, good evening.”

Kusakabe did the same, respectful. “Good evening.”

You eyed the stools and laughed, and your lips tugged up as slid into a seat. “Thank you.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t like food stalls?”

You shook your head, smirking. “No, I love them. It just… brings back memories.”

He sat beside you, body angled toward you now, forearm resting casually across the bar. “You wanna talk about it?”

You watched the flames flicker under the skewers for a moment before you shook your head softly. “I don’t wanna dwell on the past.” Your eyes—dark, sultry, met his fully as you turned your body slightly toward him. “Let’s talk about you.”

“I’m not half as interesting as you are.”

“You don’t get to say that.” You replied smoothly, “Not when you look like that and act like this.”

He leaned in just a little, chin resting on his knuckles now—eyes locked on yours. “And how exactly am I acting?”

“Mmm~” You pretended to think. “Cool. Composed. In control. Like a man who's a very sharp tool in the shed but doesn’t feel the need to prove it.”

“Sounds more like you to me. Though you aren’t just another sharp tool, you are the sharpest.”

You leaned your elbow on the counter, resting your chin in your hand, mimicking him. “So tell me, Kusakabe-kun, what exactly do you do? Teach, sure. But what’s the day to day?”

He gave you a slow once-over, never lingering too long. Always respectful, but measured and appreciative. “Usually? Training new kids. Letting the existential dread of reality sink in. You know—standard civil servant life.”

You snorted. “Sounds wild.”

He shrugged. “Well. Occasionally I take beautiful women out for grilled skewers.”

“Women? As in plural?” You teased. “Beautiful? For a second I thought you were talking about me, but—”

He chewed his gum once, then spit it very discreetly into a napkin. “You know you are.”

Well that shut you up, and he’d let the silence stretch between you for a second.

You licked your lips and glanced at the grill as the owner set down a serving of eel for each of you. “Let’s eat.”

He smirked. “A woman after my own heart.”

The steam rose from the perfectly grilled edges. You reached for one, taking a bite with a soft hum of pleasure. You weren’t waiting to dig in. One thing you were not gonna do is hide your appetite.

You were chewing and moaning and scarfing like a woman starved, and Kusakbe was staring at you like he’d just witnessed something sacred.

You paused midway through sliding a piece of meat off a skewer with your teeth, glancing sideways at him with a mouth half full. “So, why are you single?” You spoke bluntly.

His eyebrows arched, more amused than shocked. “Why am I single?” He repeated slowly, like he was buying time. “Well, for starters, the hours I work aren’t exactly tailor made for everybody.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, uh huh. Sure. One thing I’ve learned, and I’ve learned a lot Kusakabe-kun, is that even the busiest man on the planet will make time if he wants to. That’s not an excuse. Next.”

He chuckled and you could tell he was genuinely enjoying this. Enjoying you.

“Second, my dating pool is very limited. I’m not exactly a regular teacher, as you know. I can’t explain to most women what I do. Can’t say I fight things that may or may not exist to them.”

You shrugged and took another bite, sliding the next hunk of meat off with your teeth. “Another weak excuse. Do you know my own mother still thinks I went to an ultra religious boarding school to this day? The school gave her a tour, a brochure—the whole bit.”

He exhaled with a chuckle. “That’s only giving a piece of yourself. I want something full. I want a connection where I don’t have to explain what it means to carry a soul on your back. You know there’s shit in this world you can’t unsee. You know the weight of that.”

You looked at him a little more carefully now. Beneath the cool and easy confidence, there was something heavy behind his words. Something real. You recognized it immediately because you carried it too.

“I do.” You nodded. “But I also know that you’re still making excuses. So what’s the real reason, Kusakabe-kun?”

“I just have these standards, I guess.”

You gasped dramatically, hand on your chest. “A man with standards?! Spooky.”

He gave you a look. “Right? Terrifying.”

“God, you must be exhausted.” You teased, eyes sparkling.

He turned more toward you on the stool now. “I never used to have a type. But it’s been… refined.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I tend to lean more toward independent women.” 

You shrugged. “Who doesn’t? That’s baseline attraction at this point.”

“I’m not done.” 

You arched a brow.

“I tend to be mellow, so I like someone fiery. A woman who can challenge me. Make me laugh. Someone I can work beside and look up to at the same time. Doesn’t hurt if she’s strong. Ambitious. Self assured. Can move a crowd, but also—someone who knows when to stop. Someone who knows when to breathe and enjoy a good meal. A good night.”

Oh, he’s good.

You took a small sip of water, never breaking eye contact. “Wow, and you’ve never met a woman like that?”

“No, I have.” He held your gaze, unwavering now like he wanted you to feel it in his voice and his presence. “And it’s killing me—” His eyes slip briefly to your mouth then back up again. “I’m just trying to respect her relationship boundaries. She’s a very loyal woman...”

Your heart did something in your chest. Something that made your body want to answer that invitation in his eyes with something physical… but instead, you leaned back. Just a breath.

You smiled slowly. Coyly. “Lucky girl.”

He held your gaze for a long second, then smiled right back. “Unlucky timing.”

You cleared your throat in an attempt to escape this absolutely red hot conversation rabbit hole. “You know, last time you saw me I was crying profusely.”

Smooth.

Kusakabe nodded without missing a beat. “I do recall.” He studied you for a second longer, eyes softer now. “You seem better?”

You scoffed quietly, shaking your head. “You’re a lying ass son of a bitch, Kusakabe‑kun. Just ask me what you really wanna ask me. Go ahead.”

He didn’t look away, and he didn’t rush. His tongue traced his bottom lip slowly before he spoke.

“…Hanging in there?”

Not Are you over him? Not Are you single? Not Is there room for me?

Kusakabe was, for all intents and purposes, a good man.

You shrugged, gaze drifting to the grill. “Let’s just say I’m a kintsugi plate. Cracked, but I’ve got my bonding gold on standby. Not too sure which way I wanna heal yet, but when I do it’ll be glorious.”

He nodded once. “I like that. The healing part. I hated everything else… You crying.”

You blinked. Looked back at him. “Yeah—”

“Did you like the flowers I sent?”

Ah! The flowers! So it was Kusakbe!

You nodded slowly. “I did. I really liked them—loved them… I’m sorry it took me this long to thank you—on a serious note.”

He smiled, small and genuine. “It’s alright. I figured this reunion was already taking its toll on you. Flowers probably weren’t at the forefront of your mind. Did I overdo it?”

You shook your head. “No. Not at all. Orchids are stunning. Impossible to care for, though I’ll be working my ass off until they die, but they’re so beautiful.”

His brow furrowed. “Orchids? I ordered ranunculus and roses.”

You laughed and gave his arm a playful shove. “You okay Kusakabe‑kun? Those were orchids. Why are you trying to gaslight me right now?”

He blinked, genuinely confused. “What the hell—okay, then my order definitely got messed up.”

You shrugged lightly. “It’s okay. I still like them… You’ve been really good to me. I’ll pay you back. Legend’s honor.”

He shook his head immediately. “No. I didn’t do it so you’d owe me—but if you want to pay me back…then have fun this weekend. No bullshit. Actually let loose. Tonight was a trial run—and you still hesitated.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he wasn’t done.

“Tomorrow I want to see that independent, fiery woman. The one who challenges me. The one I look up to—and have looked up to long before I met her. The ambitious one. The woman who can control a room, and still stop to smell the roses despite the pressure. I want to see the woman who became the Nullifier.”

You were stunned. Well… he really laid it all out there hm?

“You’re easy on the eyes no matter what,” he added lightly. “So I don’t wanna hear this nonsense about wasting your best dress on the first night. I want no holds barred. Can you do that?”

You sat there, utterly floored. Not just because he’d basically told you you’re his ideal woman, but because he’d lit something in you you hadn’t been able to ignite on your own. A challenge.

You placed your hands together in front of your empty plate and smiled at the generous man behind the grill, “Thank you so much. This was very tasty.” You turned back to Kusakabe, “You really wanna see her? I wasn’t friendly back then. You might regret pulling her out of me.”

He shook his head, utterly unfazed. “Doubt it.”

You glanced at your phone—18 unread messages from Kaya, mostly emojis and sexual innuendos. All feral. All clearly rooting for chaos. You laughed softly, then checked the time.

It was late.

Kusakabe’s eyes dipped briefly—then returned to yours. “You ready to go?”

You nodded. “Gotta get my beauty rest for my debut, you know.”

He smiled. “Alright. Let’s do it then.”

You reached into your purse, fingers brushing against the leather lining when his hand gently wrapped around your wrist.

“Tell me you’re not reaching for money. ” Kusakabe’s brow arched, lips teasing at a grin.

You smirked, twisting your wrist just enough to show him the silver tube between your fingers. “Actually, I was reaching for my lipstick.”

No you weren’t.

He let go, a little laugh in his chest as he reached for his own wallet. “Better be.”

You blinked. “What?!”

“I know you're used to the princess treatment.” He spoke as he handed a few crisp bills to the owner with a polite nod. “Especially with Gojo around. I’ve gotta maintain that level or else he’ll kill me. Then you’d be forced to come out of retirement because you'd come for his head to avenge me.”

You laughed, applying your lipstick over your bottom lip. “Oh, you think you’re that important to me?”

“I know where I stand with you.”

You slowly capped the lipstick. “I don’t think you do.”

He glanced over as you thanked the stall owner again—both of you stepping out under the noren. He pulled it aside for you again. As you exited, you were chest to chest with him in a moment that stretched longer than it should have.

You wanted to linger. You wanted to feel him there, smell him, sense the subtle rhythm of his breath just inches from your own—but of course, you slipped past him and carried on.

He followed a few steps behind before catching up, hands sliding easily into his pockets like he hadn’t just watched you devour dinner like a woman possessed.

“Alright, so on a scale of Gojo to Kaya… where do I land?”

You nearly tripped. “Gojo to Kaya?!” You turned to stare at him. “Oh, you think you’re up there?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “I gotta shoot for the damn stars, don’t I?”

You crossed your arms, ready to deliver some sarcastic retaliation, when he caught the movement. His eyes flicked briefly down—and then his gaze softened. You had goosebumps. You were cold, and you crossed your arms to warm yourself.

He stopped walking and you slowed a step too late and turned back to him.

“Would it… be out of line—” He asked in a voice low and deliberate, “if I offered you my jacket?”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was watching you so carefully. Like he was offering more than just fabric this time. You swore you answered right away, but the moment stretched a bit. Like the universe was giving you a second shot this time.

You shook your head. “No… It wouldn’t.”

He held your gaze as his hands moved smoothly to unbutton the sleek dark coat. The fabric shimmered faintly under the dim streetlamp. It looked good. Sharp lapels. Fabric tailored to the line of his broad shoulders.

His coat didn’t go with your red dress at all, but you didn’t care. With every button undone, his scent reached you stronger. Not loud. Not overbearing. Just... alluring.

He slid the jacket off, slowly, and you could now fully see the white shirt underneath. Perfectly crisp. Fitted just enough to hint at the muscle beneath. The way it clung to his frame—God. His body didn’t need to be shown to be seen.

He held out the coat for you, and you stepped forward—slipping one arm in, then the other.

Your back was to him now, not quite touching… but you could feel the heat of him. The closeness, and the pressure of his gaze.

His hands rubbed your arms lightly in a comforting manner. “You alright?” He murmured behind you. “Warm?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. “You’re not slick, Kusakabe‑kun.”

He laughed softly. “I never am.”

You turned your head over your shoulder. “Well since you wanna be Prince Charming so bad, why don’t you carry me up this damn hill? I make it look graceful, but these heels are actually killing me.”

You giggled as you carried on—but he didn’t. Kusakabe didn’t argue with your statement. He just stopped walking and opened his arms. “Then come here.”

You continued laughing as you looked back at his open arms. “What?”

“C’mere.” He repeated, calm.

You felt your face ignite. Heat raced across your cheeks and down your throat. “You’re being serious?” You asked, though you already knew the answer.

He smirked. “I’m being serious. C’mere.”

Your heart pounded. Everything in you screamed to keep walking, to stay chill, to not give in to this moment that felt way too much like a storybook… but your feet stepped forward to him.

Chest to chest again—but this time, no delay. No second guessing.

His arms wrapped around you, securely. Not too tight. Not too eager. Just right. He smelled so fucking good like this. 

Kusakabe’s voice came in low near your ear “Better?”

The butterflies in your stomach weren’t some metaphorical flutter. They were literal, wings fluttering in your stomach like a tiny parade.

Your body betrayed your brain entirely. Your logical self, the part that knew how to behave, was on a coffee break somewhere. It was unfortunate too, because you couldn’t blame it on the pregame or the tequila or the lemon drop. These were sober thoughts. Sober actions.

You had no idea where to put your hands. Around his neck? Not around his neck? On his shoulders? On your knees? You had no idea, so you did what always made things worse. You kept them to yourself.

His eyes followed your little internal struggle—the way your chin lifted even when your gaze tried to stay casual

“Ooh,” he spoke with an amused drawl. “Brat treatment, okay.”

You shrugged, trying to look unbothered. “Well. You wanted to be all charming and shit, so I’m giving you the opportunity.”

He grinned. “That wasn’t a complaint, but I like the defense mechanism. It’s cute.”

You rolled your eyes—but didn’t deny the sting of it being true.

The walk back was short but no less charged. Gravity wanted you to dip closer to him every second, and your brain wanted to hit eject every time he glanced your way.

By the time you reached the resort entrance, the night had cooled just enough to make his jacket feel cozy enough for you to settle into.

He slowed, preparing to set you down—but then his grip around you tightened… just a little.

You looked up, half confused, half trying not to look entirely turned on. “What—you gonna carry me all the way to my room?”

He lifted a brow, steady and unshaken. “You think I can’t?”

You should have told him to set you down. You logically could tell him to set you down. You knew there were still wandering eyes around, and even though the alcohol had mostly flushed out of your system, you were still you—chaotic, impulsive, and dangerously unfiltered.

“No.” You shook your head, “Actually, I don’t think you can. Show me.”

“Which side are you on?” He didn’t hesitate.

You fished for your key “Uhh—Seaside. Tenth floor.”

He kept you lifted without complaint. You watched him move with quiet admiration—not for his strength, but for the ease of it, the confidence.

As he stepped onto the elevator, he adjusted you in his arms a bit. Was he tired?

You turned away briefly, trying to reclaim your dignity like a respectable adult. “You can put me down, you know.”

He frowned slightly. “You thought I did that because I’m tired?” He chuckled, “I just needed to get my key.”

He swiped the keycard, pressed the button for the tenth floor like it was the easiest thing in the world. LIke you were nothing more than some luggage. Not an obstacle.

Butterflies were back in formation, staging a coup in your stomach.

“You know I’ll hold up my end of the deal tomorrow.” You murmured, voice low and a touch breathy.

His gaze stayed locked with yours. “I know you will. You’re too stubborn to back down.”

You pursed your lips, eyes teasing. “Say that to my face tomorrow when I’m intimidating the upperclassmen.”

He exhaled slowly, almost reverently. “Gladly. Might ask for an autograph too.”

You swatted the air playfully. “Okay, Kusakabe‑kun.”

The elevator chimed and the doors opened. The tenth floor was stunning. Like a gallery corridor. Framed photos of scenic ocean views, waves caught mid‑crash, artifacts that felt personal and curated. Even the hallway felt like a destination here.

He walked with you, jacket still in place around your shoulders, and you pointed toward a polished metal plaque.

“That’s me 1011.”

He’d walk over and with a delicate touch, he’d set you down in front of your door.

You looked up at him. Right into those deep, rich brown eyes that weren’t just pretty, they were magnetic—like warm honey that had no right to be so alluring.

You began to slip his jacket off, but he reached out and covered your shoulders with it again.

“Keep it for now.” 

“You just wanna talk to me again.” You teased gently. “You don’t need the excuse. We are staying at the same resort, you know?” 

He didn’t deny it, just nodded. “Yes we are.”

“Fine.” You surrendered, ”I’ll keep it, but only because it looks so good on me.”

“It looks incredible on you, actually.”

You could have melted right then. This is why he wanted you sober. So that he knew decisions were yours and yours alone. A lemon drop could have kissed him. A tequila shot may invite him in… but you?

You reached up, running your hand over his face—thumb brushing lightly against the stubble along his jaw. “You should shave—my skin doesn’t react well to stubble.”

He took your words exactly as you meant them. “Noted.”

“Thank you for everything… and Kusakabe‑kun—I was brat back then. Please, take the version of me you see tomorrow with a grain of salt.”

He laughed low and amused. “Absolutely not.” His hand moved to your hip—thumb placed perfectly over something precious, “Whatever it takes to remove this. I’m game.”

You placed your hand over his, “You couldn’t have known I put my seal there today.”

His thumb caressed gentle circles into the fabric. “I saw it when you stumbled.”

You laugh airy, “Removing this comes with a lot of baggage.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone. You won’t carry it alone.” He leaned in just edging the border of your intimate space, “But do you really think you can bring your old self back without the seals?” 

You draw your tongue across your lips, “I think there’s a lot that people don’t know about me. There’s a reason I don’t feel threatened in a room full of sorcerers. My ability is locked behind the Seal of Absolution, but I’m not without power. Don’t worry.”

It was the most you’d ever told anyone about it. The closest you’d ever come. You, the Nullifier, were powerful in your mystique. Only a fool would lock away an ability so strong—but a fool you were not. 

You’d take half a step back, “Goodnight, Atsuya.”

His fingers slid from your hip as he grinned, “Ooh, don’t do that to me.”

You nod, “I’m doing that to you.” You laugh, “The Nullifer is a cruel bitch. I told you to take me with a grain of salt.”

You turned around to tap your sleek key card to the door and step inside. You’d look over your shoulder one last time with a not so hidden smirk. Damn you were wicked.

He’d stand and wait for you to enter fully. What the hell was he getting himself into? 

As soon as your door shut, another one in the hallway did as well with a soft click. Kusakabe turned his head with a slight frown. No one had gotten off the elevator and entered their room. No one was hanging out in the hallway. No one even left for ice… but it was possible that a door was quietly opened during your conversation… someone was listening.

Back inside, you exhaled like it was your first time being able to relax your lungs. 

The room greeted you with richness—not flashy, not gaudy, just deeply intentional. The scent was subtle, a blend of hinoki wood and ocean breeze with sandalwood. It clean and calming, almost soothing.

Before you could even take a real look, a voice exploded through the quiet.

“Biiiiiiiiiitch! You better have been sucking dick!”

You laughed aloud at your chaotic friend. Stepping in fully, you took it all in. The suite was breathtaking.

Traditional Japanese elements like sliding shōji screens, low wood accents, hand painted washi art. Then there were the modern comforts. Plush cream upholstery, sleek black stone surfaces, smart lighting. There was a living room area with a deep velvet sofa, a wide balcony with glass rails overlooking the dark sea. If you had entered during the day, the view would’ve been cinematic—crashing waves and a horizon unbroken.

The bathroom was equally divine, minimalist and spa like, with a soaking tub that begged to be sunk into after a long night—and then your eyes caught it.

The king‑sized bed. Majestic and spacious. Draped in crisp white linens that swore on their seams to give you the best nights rest.

Right on top? A gorgeous floral arrangement—petals in varying shades of pink and white, artfully assembled like something you’d see at rich wedding. Roses, ranunculus, gardenias—each bloom perfect and fragrant.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wow! This resort really knows how to welcome a girl huh?”

Kaya barreled over in her fluffy robe and slippers with that ridiculously adorable flair she pulled off so easily. “Girl no! The resort didn’t put this here… well they did upon request!” She thrust a small card into your hand. “This is for you.”

You stared at her before you slowly looked down at the card in your hand. The print was elegant. Simple and clean.

Your breath hitched as you read:

To be seen by you, and to see you are things I don’t take lightly.

Thank you for being exactly who you are.

— Kusakabe, Room C930

Your jaw dropped.

Are you serious?

Kaya practically shook you, eyes wide and dancing. “Did you not see my texts?! This man is going all in! If it were me I personally wouldn’t wait until tomorrow to thank him.”

Your head was spiraling. Should you? They were so beautiful and the gesture was… you were at a loss for words. Your stomach did a full flip. How could he act so casual knowing that he sent this?

“Kaya—”

Your friend cheered aloud. “Go!” She egged you on, practically shoving you toward the door. “At least give the man some good night head. I know you thought about it.”

You shook your head as you walked forward. You’d pull open the small closet and begin unzipping your suitcase. You searched through your things until your fingers touched the familiar soft fuzz of your pajamas.

“I can’t do that yet because…” you spoke slowly as you pulled them out, “I need to talk to Kento.”

Kaya’s brows knit. “I know you fuckin’ lyin.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t think I’m using every ounce of self control I have around this man? Of course I wanna go to his room—but I have to close this chapter. If Kusakabe sent these, then that means Kento sent the orchids.”

“Fuck those orchids!” Kaya blurted out and immediately retracted, “I apologize. I just mean, I don’t give a damn about those flowers. I care about you. He didn’t mess up once. He messed up multiple times in the same situation. He can’t be forgiven that easily because he sent over some flowers once.”

“He’s not forgiven.”

Kaya shakes her head, “I don’t think that’s true. I think you know you wanna be with Nanami, but you’re still upset about what he did, and that’s fair. Then there’s Kusakabe who is kinda perfect for you, but you might not see endgame with him like you do with Nanami, and that’s why you’re dragging this out. You wanna see a glimpse of something real with Kuskabe before you can move on. Am I right?”

“I guess… I’m just scared.” You exhale, “But I can’t keep being afraid of everything, Kaya. That’s what made me leave Japan and come back with a seal on my body. That’s what made me work an office job when I love being outside. Tomorrow I’m not gonna do that. Everyone wants to know where I went, so I’ll show them.”

She gritted her teeth. “You think you’re ready to do that?”

You shook your head, slow and honest. “No. I’m scared to death.”

You paused, looking down at the fuzzy PJs in your hand. Your voice dropped—low, but powerful. “But she’s not—the Nullifier.”

Kaya’s eyes widened. “Whoa, whoa—WHOA! That name is more taboo than Suguru Geto. What the hell did Kusakabe say to you?!”

You turned, smirking. “You read the card. He said I’m exactly who I am… so I’m gonna start acting like it.”

“Don’t bullshit me! You said you were gonna come correct today. You really think you’ve got it in you to bring her back?”

You walked toward the bathroom, your plush fuzz pajamas now in your hands, and the weight of tomorrow on your shoulders.

“Guess we’ll have to see.” You placed a hand on the bathroom door. “Besides, you didn’t tell me today was a bonus day. You know how I am when people get around. I’m a showman.” You looked back over your shoulder with a glint in your eye that wasn’t there earlier. “I don’t wanna disappoint my old classmates. You brought your old uniform, right?”

Kaya nodded slowly. “Yeah… I did.”

You smirked as you slowly closed the door. “Good, you’re gonna need it.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Wanna be tagged? Let me know:

@emoedgylord @enhasrii @totallygyomeiswife @bornconfvsed @wiserebelpartypie @blkgirlreads @nanamin-chan

[softcursechoso]

Oracle chapter 5 whennn I love this story sm it gives me life 💗💗💗

(not forcing u to post just wondering if you have like any kind of posting schedule^⁠_⁠^)

Stay swaggy!! 💗

Hellooooo~ I appreciate that so much darling~

I am definitely working on The Oracle Ch 5. Tbh when I take long I'm usually just stuck. Before I write out any fic I typically write an entire outline first, but sometimes as I write a better plan immerges and derails me. Then I get writer's block and I am the type of person who would rather wait months to drop a good chapter then rush a bad one.

I took the long way of saying it's coming! I love me some Toji! Love me some Shiu! Love me some ambiguous relationships.

Also I started working on this Sukuna fic and got distracted :(

BUT YES! EXPECT IT SOON-ish~ <3

[softcursechoso]

Memoirs from a Gilded Cage: CH. 16

Attack on Titan x Reader

Black!Reader Levi x Reader Erwin x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI 18+ ONLY // NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS

CH. 16 Warnings: NONE~

Words: 9k+

THE CUSP OF FREEDOM

Shiganshina : 9:01am : Wall Maria

“Incredible.” It was the only word you could speak as you approached.

Wall Maria was towering. It was a similar structure to Sina and Rose, sure, but it was also very different. Much more weathered was the gate. Perhaps because this channel was used much more often than the others. The gates of Sina rose for practically no one, and the gates of Rose were more worn on the exit side. Things you noticed but hadn’t spoken on.

 Your carriage rolls through the outer gate slow and steady. The other side opens slowly, as if reluctant to allow anyone in—or maybe reluctant to let anyone out.

You sit beside Tinsley in the carriage, the cushions beneath you soft, but not as soft. Maybe a bit more worn from the ride. Grisha still sits with the reins in hand—his expression steady but focused, eyes tracking the road ahead like it was habitual.

Outside, Hange, Moblit, and Tev continue flanking you like a modest escort. Their coats flap in the wind, dust rising in small clouds as the horses move purposefully.

Shiganshina is not like Trost.

It’s not like the well paved expanses of the Wall Rose Steppe or the sweeping serenity of the Wall Maria Grasslands. It is certainly nothing like Ermich, with its curated facades and crisp fences… and it is the antithesis of Mitras.

The homes here are uneven and patchworked—built with care but not precision. Wooden siding flaked with age. Some windows are sealed with fabric instead of glass. Doors lean on creaking hinges. Roofs dip in the center like they’re curving from the weight of time. Yet—this place lives.

Laughter spills into the air from a group of children kicking around a rounded stone as if it were a ball. Women lean on railings, sharing gossip with smiles. Someone argues over potatoes a few stalls down, but there’s no malice in it, only passion. A man sings off key as he washes clothes on his porch. Street dogs race along sniffing around for scraps.

There’s a scent in the air, warm and earthy. It’s nothing particularly appetizing, more of a melting pot of cooked oils and smoked vegetables, with the occasional whiff of livestock—but it’s not bad. Just human.

You inhale with a smile. Your ribs sting when you do, but it’s worth it.

Grisha guides the carriage uphill to a modest home facing the road. The good doctor tells you to brace as the horses trot up a stone path. Probably not meant for horses here, but getting you up these stairs without them would be even more of a hassle. 

The paint on the shutters has faded. It’s an old home, but the way the curtains sway gently through the open windows makes it feel welcoming. Humble, but standing proud.

Grisha pulls the reins, and the horses slow to a stop. “We’re here.”

Hange is the first to dismount, boots hitting the stone with a soft thud. Without hesitation, the excited brunette moves to your door and opens it, offering a hand. You take it, fingers threading with warmth. You step out carefully, mindful of the stitches in your side.

Hange offers a somber smile. “Guess this is as far as we go.”

Tinsley steps out behind you, eyes wide, taking in the worn little house like it’s an exhibit.

You turn to Hange and smile small but grateful. “Thank you for everything. Not just the escort, I mean… the emotional burden you helped me carry, too.”

You lean in for a tight hug. Hange doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ll be here for a bit.” You whisper against Hange’s shoulder. “Please come visit me.”

Hange nods with a spark. “Hang in there. We’ll be back before you know it.”

Hange turns quickly, boots already moving, urgency setting in. “Sun’s not on our side boys!” The brunette calls to Tev and Moblit. “We gotta ride now! Captain Smith and Captain Flagon expect us in Karanes District before them. Let’s move!”

The three of them mount quickly, and in seconds they are off, hooves pounding like thunder.

You watch until they disappear around the corner, the noise fading into the town. A weight lifts in their absence, replaced with a quieter one—anticipation.

Grisha comes around to your side again. His movements are slower this time, more careful. “Let me help you.” His hand slides to your elbow as he guides you up to the front door.

He opens it without warning or calling out. It’s his house of course, but still, maybe some warning would have been nice?

Inside, the house is warm in a way that is lived in. You smell onion and broth, something boiling on the stove. There’s a faint creak the house has as it settles—or perhaps it was the wind.

A woman sits at the table, chopping vegetables. Her hair is tied back, her dress faded with use. She looks up at the sound of the door, her face breaking into an automatic smile… that is, until she sees you.

“Dear, you’re ho—”

Her voice cuts short. Her eyes flick to you. She means no malice as she studies you. Of course, you were used to stares, so you could tell her eyes were more curious than judging. Though you wouldn’t blame her either way. You were a stranger more or less barging into her home.

Once her eyes have fully taken you in, they move to Tinsley, then back to Grisha.

The doctor removes his hat, dusts it lightly, and sets it on the hook beside the door. “Darling,” he speaks calmly, “these are the daughters of Matthias Greville. They’ll be staying with us for a while. Until she—” he gestures at you, “gets better.”

He gestures again, hand open as he continues. “This is my wife, Carla.”

Carla swallows, her smile not quite fully reaching her eyes due to the abrupt long term guests. “Oh… uh. Um. Welcome.” 

Grisha continues, “The one hiding under the table is my son, Eren.”

A boy's voice pipes up from below. “I wasn’t hiding! I dropped a piece of wood and it rolled away!”

He points toward the end of the table where a girl with black hair and sharp eyes sits quietly, hands in her lap. “And finally, that’s Mikasa.”

Mikasa nods, polite but reserved. “Nice to meet you.”

You step forward and bow your head slightly. “Thank you so much for lending me your home. I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair.”

Carla waves it off, though her eyes are still dancing between you and Tinsley. “It’s no trouble. Really.”

Grisha moves with you toward the hallway. “Alright. Let me show you to your room.”

You walk along. The house is small, yes, but there’s something comforting about the closeness of the walls. The worn floorboards creak, and you can feel a bit of wind creeping through from in between the walls. Like the structure of this home was~ questionable.

Still, even here in this humble place, even with the pain in your side and the weight of your secrets, you can’t help but feel safe.

Carla moved quicker than expected for someone who hadn’t been expecting you at all. Like it was her instinct to make any guests that crossed her threshold feel accommodated.

Even as Grisha led you down the narrow hallway, hand hovering near your back to steady you, Carla stayed close, taking note of your labored breathing, the way your hand gripped the doorframe when your step faltered. Her expression was soft—not pitying, but cautious.

She opened the door without a second thought. The room was small. A single window cast golden afternoon light across the floorboards, warm but angled in a way that made shadows stretch long and thin. A simple bed sat against the far wall, its wooden frame low to the ground. 

The blanket folded at the foot was worn but clean—threadbare and sun faded in places. This room had been lived in. You could feel it in the way the corners of the floor were scuffed, the way the wooden nightstand held a faint ring where a mug had once sat too long.

Grisha helped you into the room slowly, his grip adjusting when you winced. You hissed softly as your weight eased into the mattress. The groan that left your lips was involuntary.

“I’ll be right back.” Grisha released you. His voice was steady and professional. Like all of the remainder of any warmth he may have had was replaced by a clinical tone. 

Carla gave a kind smile, stepping forward just enough to linger in the doorway. “Please make yourself at home. We’ll bring you anything you need.”

Tinsley hovered behind you, her gaze scanning the room once, twice. Her hands wrang lightly in front of her. She didn’t say it out loud—but you saw it too. 

Only one bed.

Before the silence stretched, Carla glanced back, already reading the unspoken tension. “We can put an extra mattress in here for you if you’d like.” She turned toward Tinsley. “That way you two can be comfortable while you’re here.”

You shook your head. “No. I don’t wanna create waves. Tinsley… just sleep in this bed.”

Before she could respond, footsteps returned—Grisha, carrying a small box in one hand and a leather roll of medical tools in the other. He set them on the desk without looking at either of you.

“No.” He spoke firmly. “We’ll have to get another mattress for Ms. Greville. You cannot be disturbed.”

Your eyebrows pinched at the change in tone. He wasn’t cruel, but he wasn’t gentle, either. His voice had shifted into something more measured. The warmth he’d offered in the carriage—the careful way he’d helped you up the steps was gone now, replaced by a professional cadence.

Grisha pulled on a pair of thin gloves. He reached into the box and drew out a syringe, holding it up to the light.

“Your wound is deeper than the surface suggests. To prevent the tissue around your ribs from tearing again, you’ll be on strict bed rest for the next fourteen days. You may leave the bed only to use the restroom—nothing else.”

Fourteen days?

“The medication I’m starting today will keep your pain controlled.” He continued, turning to prepare the injection. “But they will make you sleep for most of the day.”

His voice didn’t waver. Not even slightly.

“Because extended rest will cause weight loss, every meal you consume must be high-calorie and nutrient-dense. This is to prevent your body from falling behind in the healing process. Once the tissue has stabilized, I’ll remove the stitches and begin rehabilitation. You don’t need to be at full strength to complete treatment—but you must reach at least eighty percent in order to return to Mitras safely. That’s the minimum.”

You stared at him, trying to keep your breathing even.

“I understand this is restrictive,” he added, “but it’s the only way to ensure the wound heals correctly and in full.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “So… I’ll still be finished in about a month, right? That’s what you originally told me?”

Grisha didn’t look at you. He was already tying a tourniquet around your arm, fingers moving with mechanical precision.

“That depends on your body’s response. If you listen to me. If you do exactly as I say—then the probability of that is increased. You have to understand… you’ve done a lot of moving around before we got here. Being on the road—that doesn’t make the timeline as clean as we want it to be.”

Your veins began to swell under the tourniquet. You watched him wipe your arm with a sterile cloth, the alcohol sharp in your nose.

Something didn’t sit right. The way he was talking—it was too calculated. Too careful. It wasn’t just the medicine talking, and it wasn’t just concern. It felt like he knew this was going to take longer than you wanted. 

Maybe he knew you couldn’t sit still. That you wouldn’t. That you’d try something reckless, and maybe he was waiting for it. You’d have to prove him wrong.

Still, you nodded. You had to try. You had to get back to Mitras. Back to the estate. Back to your mission before this fire inside you burned down to an ember.

Grisha looked at your arm. “You’re going to feel a small pinch.”

The needle slid in, and you flinched.

“You’ll start feeling the effects within five minutes. Expect to be asleep in ten.”

You watched him press slowly, the medication sinking into your bloodstream with a cool, slow burn. The room already seemed softer around the edges.

He withdrew the syringe and pressed a square of gauze to your arm. You exhaled slowly as you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. This wasn’t going to be anything close to easy. This Shiganshina thing was going to be brutal.

You tried to cling to Grisha’s words, to the clinical rundown he’d given you, the rigid roadmap of the next few weeks. Two weeks in bed. Four weeks, maybe, until full recovery. Maybe less, if your body cooperated.

As the medication snaked its way through your bloodstream, all of it began to blur. The reality of your situation, your plan to gather the papers, your hope to explore the world outside Mitras—even just walking in a different street, in a different district… suddenly felt so far away.

You were out of Mitras… but you still weren’t free. You had come here to get better, yes, but you hoped you’d feel alive doing it.

“Alright,” Grisha’s voice drifted as he stepped away. “Let’s leave her to rest. She’ll need it.” His voice was almost distant, like a memory halfway recalled.

You felt Tinsley rise from where she’d been sitting near your feet, and Carla’s soft footsteps echoed behind her. The quiet click of the door closed it all off like the sealing of a tomb.

Your eyelids drooped so heavily, even the effort of keeping them cracked was too much. You fought it, blinking hard, once… twice… but your lashes felt like iron. The warmth of the blanket, the domestic hush of the room, the smell of broth still lingering from the kitchen—they conspired against you.

You turned your head toward the window beside your bed. It faced the side street, narrow and uneven. People passed every now and then. Footsteps crushing loose gravel.

Nice view, you thought vaguely, eyes fluttering one last time. 

Nice… view…

Yeager Residence : ??? : Shiganshina

You woke suddenly, like you were underwater and needed out.

Your eyes opened into a strange light. Gold rays stretched sideways across the floorboards from the window. Was it sunset? Sunrise? The hue was rich, but not quite warm. The kind of light that looked ambiguousl—too dim to be day, but too bright to be night.

What time was it?

Your body felt heavy, like a cloth soaked in cement. Limbs that belonged to someone else. You tried to move your hand, and it lifted slowly—trembling and frail. You reached toward your face and felt something cold touch your lips.

You gasped as a trickle of water slipped past your mouth and into your throat. You swallowed, unthinking, and immediately began coughing. Sharp enough to irritate your stitches. 

You turned your head sharply and saw a figure scurry out of the room. A small figure.

“Wait!” Your voice cracked, raspy and strange, like it hadn’t been used in years. “Wait—!”

Your hand barely rose above your chest before it fell back again. You lay still, panting, eyes adjusting to the shifting glow in the room.

You could hear hurried footsteps in the hall, followed by the light scolding of Carla’s voice. “Eren, did you wake her up? She’s supposed to be resting. You have to be careful.”

Footsteps lightly thudded against the wooden floor… and then, the door creaked open slowly—like someone trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

Carla appeared in the doorway, her brows knit with concern. “Ms. Greville.” She spoke gently, “I’m so sorry. My son was just trying to be helpful.”

She crossed the room delicately, holding a towel that she pressed carefully to your face and neck. Her movements were delicate, like she’d done this before.

“I can get you a fresh pillow.” She offered as she scanned bedding.

You shook your head weakly. “It’s okay.  The water was… really nice, actually.”

She gave you a kind look, then pressed the back of her hand to your forehead. Her fingers were cool.

“You’re running a little warm.” She murmured. “Let me get you a moist towel. I’ll be right back.”

She turned away and moved for the door again. As she disappeared down the hall, two small heads peeked around the corner—first Eren, then Mikasa. Their wide eyes studied you like you were some strange exhibit they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch.

You lifted your fingers in a soft wave. They disappeared instantly, feet pattering against the floor.

You took a shallow breath and tried again. “Wait.” You called, softer. “Little boy…”

A pause. Then a small head reappeared, his brown hair tousled and his cheeks flushed.

“Bring the water back. I’m… still thirsty.”

Eren blinked. Then nodded, and ducked away again.

Your head lolled back onto the pillow. You stared out the window.

Is it morning?

Is it night?

You couldn’t tell, but something in your chest said time had passed. Hours? A whole day? The orange in the sky made it impossible to tell. 

Outside the window, the street still hummed with quiet life—barely audible through the wooden walls, just the occasional laugh, a squeaky wheel, the thud of boots against packed dirt.

You stared at the window pane, smudged in the corners from years of use. 

A woman glanced over as she was walking past. She did a double take and then gave you a sweet wave. You weakly waved back with as much of a smile as you could muster. What a strange place this was. People in Mitras were never this friendly.

You heard it again now, soft footsteps. It sounded like half running and half sneaking in that way only children moved.

You heard Carla’s voice, muffled slightly from the cracked door and the hallway. “You two be very careful. Do not disturb her, okay? I’m talking to you, Eren.”

A small, immediately defensive voice followed, “I’m not disturbing her! She said she wanted some water!”

Carla sighed, the kind of sigh that came from repeating herself a dozen times a day. “Mikasa, watch him, please.”

Two sets of footsteps padded toward your room again. The door creaked open, and they entered like a tiny procession. Eren, cup in hand, walked with exaggerated care—his bottom lip caught slightly between his teeth. Mikasa followed behind, a moist towel folded neatly across both palms like an offering.

They approached your bedside without speaking, but their eyes never left your face. Eren stopped just beside you and held out the glass.

You reached for it. Your fingers curled around the rim, and the whole thing dropped through your hand as if your bones weren’t strong enough.

“—Oh, shit!”

Your voice cracked with surprise, your eyes going wide as the glass tipped forward… but it didn’t fall. Mikasa moved fast—too fast for someone her age. Her hands darted beneath it just in time. Not a drop spilled.

She handed it calmly back to Eren, who looked a little stunned. She’d then place the cool folded towel gently across your forehead. 

You let out a breath. “Thank you.”

Eren, still a bit shaken but determined, raised the glass to your lips himself this time. The water touched your tongue, and it was room temperature, but instantly refreshing as you drank deep. Your throat still felt raw, but the relief of moisture was immediate. You finished the entire cup before he pulled it back.

You sighed. “Thank you.”

They didn’t move. You blinked. Both children stood like statues at your bedside, gazes fixed, expressions curious but unreadable. It was a little unsettling, but not in a bad way. More like they were studying you. Not watching, learning.

“…What?” You asked softly, unsure if they were waiting for something.

Eren spoke first. “Do people from Mitras look like you?”

Mikasa’s head snapped toward him. “Eren!”

You blinked, and then unexpectedly, you laughed—short and wheezy, followed immediately by a cough.

“No.” You shook your head. “People from the capital don’t look like me at all.” You rested your hand gently on your chest, feeling the pull of your breath. “You’re looking at one of one, kid.”

It wasn’t said with sadness. Just… truth. Pride even.

Eren tilted his head, considering. Then, as if your answer satisfied some unspoken test, he nodded once. There was no fear or disgust—just curiosity, and now understanding.

He turned as if to leave, but you called again. “Wait, kid…”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“How long has it been?”

His eyes narrowed. “Since what?”

“Since I’ve been here. How long have I been in this bed?”

Mikasa answered before he could. “It’s been five days.”

Your heart thudded. “What?”

You shifted on the mattress, ribs flaring with an ache. “I slept for five days straight?”

Mikasa shook her head. “You woke up a few times. To eat and use the restroom, but then you’d fall asleep again.”

You touched your temple. Your skin was warm, faintly damp under the towel. “I… don’t remember that.”

Had you spoken? 

Had you opened your eyes?

Had Tinsley been there?

Had you talked to anyone?

Before you could ask more, Carla’s voice came again, a little sharper this time. “Hey!”

The mother figure appeared in the doorway, hand on her hip, though not unkind. “Leave her be. She’s not a regular guest—she’s here to get well.”

The two kids left without another word.

You raised your hand slightly, palm facing out. “It’s okay. They weren’t bothering me.”

Carla’s expression softened. “Dinner will be done soon. I’ll bring it to you as soon as it’s ready.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

She disappeared again, the door clicking shut behind her with gentle finality. The room was quiet once more.

You turned your head back toward the window, your body sinking deeper into the blankets, every breath shallow, but steady.

Five days already?

Somehow you’d missed it. According to Mikasa, you hadn’t really slept through all of it—but it felt like you had. Like you’d slipped into something hazy and forgotten how to come back.

You wondered if this part would be lost too. Would you remember the conversations? The meals you supposedly ate?

Where was Dr. Yeager? Where was Tinsley?

Your fingers gripped the sheet beside you. Nine days left. Nine more days until you could leave this bed… but from here—nine days felt like a whole new lifetime.

The stillness of the room pressed down on you, heavy and dull. Your body lay buried beneath layers of sleep, but your mind—it spun.

This fucking sucked.

You stared up at the wooden ceiling—at the faint trail of a cobweb dancing near the corner where the wall met the beam. Five days, and you hadn’t so much as stepped off the mattress so far as you remember. 

Not a breath of Shiganshina’s air, not a glimpse of the market streets or the smell of baked bread in the morning. You’d come here to heal, yes—but also to live. Not forever, but for just a moment in time. You had imagined exploring, walking streets untouched by royal decree, and hearing laughter that wasn’t drenched in elitism.

Instead, you were trapped in another version of a cage. Different bars, same isolation.

You exhaled slowly, dragging your gaze toward the window, catching a glimpse of the orange-tinged sky. Dusk again, or maybe dawn. Time didn’t mean much in this bed..

The front door opened and with it came the murmur of voices, the soft thud of boots and shoes, a clatter of something being set down. Dr. Yeager’s voice reached your ears first, calm and clear, speaking to Carla and the kids.

Then Tinsley’s voice followed—bright, relaxed. The tone she used was foreign to you now. It was laughter you hadn’t heard in years.

From the way Carla welcomed her, to the way the children chimed in, it was clear she’d grown comfortable here during your slumber. There was warmth in the greetings. Familiarity. They’d been living while you drifted.

Grisha’s footsteps grew closer, heavier as he approached the room. The door creaked open. You didn’t turn your head. You didn’t need to.

“I see you’re awake.” He spoke, stepping in with his leather bag at his side. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” you answered, voice quiet, eyes still fixed on the world beyond the window.

“That’s to be expected.”

You lifted your arm toward him before he even asked, already anticipating the routine. He moved closer as if he knew the deal as well. The doctor set his bag on the chair and unrolled his tools. Everything was quiet.

You blinked slowly. “Dr. Yeager… how many times have I done this?”

He paused as he reached for a syringe. “About twice a day.”

You let the words settle in your mind. “Have I been this aware each time? Have we had this conversation before?”

He nodded once. “Yes.”

You inhaled, long and soft, the pain in your ribs barely noticeable anymore. “This medication… it won’t affect me long term, will it?”

“It shouldn’t.”

His voice was calm… but that word, shouldn’t, echoed like a warning in the quiet room. You didn’t ask him what he meant. You didn’t need to.

What if you forgot? What if you forgot to go home? What if you forgot who you were? That you were the last child of the Sunrise. That your name, your truth, had been buried under layers of lies.

What if you forgot that Levi was still underground? That Furlan and Isabel were still waiting? That your people had been erased?

Grisha pressed the needle gently to your skin, the metal cold on your arm.

You reached out and caught his wrist, weak fingers barely circling. “Wait…”

His eyes met yours, but he didn’t pull away. “This is the best way for you to heal. Unless you want to stay completely still in this bed while you’re conscious. This medication will ensure you sleep, and sleeping will help your body recover. Your tissues need rest. Not tension.”

You stared a second longer, heart pounding. Something in you hated this. The stillness. The obedience. Something about this didn’t feel right. It felt like you were caught up in the one timeline that caused you to be bedridden. It felt wrong… 

However, the thought of staying awake through every hour of immobility—of waiting for your body to comply and heal—that was somehow worse.

You let go of his hand. He nodded, gently, and inserted the needle. You barely felt the pinch. A small square of gauze followed, then tape. Efficient. Precise… Familiar. Way too clinical. Right after he was done, Grisha packed up and headed out again. Like he knew that words couldn’t ease this moment.

Your gaze drifted again to the window. The sky was deepening, purple bleeding into blue. Somewhere below that horizon, the town lived. People bustled. Plates clinked. Laughter rose from porches. Children screamed in play… and you were here, again, behind a wall.

What you wouldn’t give to be a part of it. Behind was more footsteps. Carla’s voice soft and easy. “Hey there. Stew’s ready.”

She entered with a tray balanced in her hands. A deep bowl of stew, steam curling upward like incense. She nudged the door closed with her foot, and glanced down at the floor between the beds.

It was cramped now—your mattress, the spare rolled out for Tinsley, the desk with its cluttered top. But there was still the chair.

She pulled it beside you and sat, sighing as she rested the tray on her knees. “You’ve cooled down a bit.” She brushed your cheek with the back of her hand. “That’s good. I have stew here for you.”

She stirred the bowl and lifted a spoonful of broth, potato, and a few soft vegetables. She brought it to your lips and you opened. The spoon touched your tongue.

It was… not good. Another reminder that salt was a luxury of the capital. No spice. No richness. Just boiled things made soft—but it had something else. Something the food in Mitras never had. It was made with care. With intention.

With love.

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. The first one slipped down your cheek, and you didn’t even blink.

Carla chuckled, surprised. “If you keep crying over my food you’re going to have me thinking I’m a good cook around here.”

You laughed softly through your nose. Another tear followed. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of being fed. Maybe it was the fact that someone, even just one person, had made something for you without fear or expectation.

You swallowed, slow and warm. “It’s amazing, Mrs. Yeager.” You whispered.

The warmth of the stew seeped into your bones. Carla spooned it patiently, one bite at a time, blowing gently on each before bringing it to your lips. You opened without thinking now, the rhythm of it comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.

Sleep crept in like fog, pooling behind your eyes, softening the corners of the room. You blinked slowly, your vision slipping between the pale shape of Carla and the blur of the window. The voices in the house had faded into soft noise—clinks and murmurs.

You turned your head slightly toward her, lids heavy but still open. “When I get well, will you teach me how to make this? Please?”

There was something earnest in your tone, despite the irony. You knew full well your stew tasted better. You were taught by chefs who curated menus for aristocrats. Chef’s who measured flavor in layers and texture and presentation. Your food had technique… but Carla's food had soul.

That was the thing you hadn’t been taught.

She looked at you, surprised, and then smiled. “I can teach you,” she nodded warmly, bringing another spoonful to your lips. “If you help me refurbish my old wedding dress.”

You smiled around the spoon as you chewed. “I’d love that.”

She chuckled softly, reaching for a cloth to wipe the edge of your mouth. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she added gently, “but while I was putting your clothes away, I saw all of the lovely dresses you made. They’re gorgeous.”

You blinked slowly, the compliment sitting heavy in your chest like something sacred. You swallowed the bite, then nodded. “Thank you… so much.”

Another spoonful. Another swallow.

“I could make you one,” you whispered, slower this time. “When I get out of this bed.”

Carla smiled, shaking her head a little. “Don’t trouble yourself over it. I’m not the gaudy type. Though…” She raised an eyebrow playfully. “I wouldn’t be mad if you added some ruffles to a few of my shirts. Or some fringe.”

Your smile lingered—but your eyes were already closing. “You got it…” Your words trailed off now.

Your chest rose and fell in rhythm with the quiet of the room. The warmth of the stew, the softness of Carla’s voice, the fading weight of the evening all faded into each other as you faded out. 

Before you could say anything else, before you could promise her ruffles or thank her again, sleep took you gentle and whole.

Yeager Residence : ??? : Shiganshina

You woke up choking… again?

Your throat seized as water flooded it, hacking coughs bursting from your lungs like they were trying to claw the liquid back up. Your hand shot out, blind and trembling, and you gripped a handful of cloth before instinctively yanking it toward you.

Eren yelped.

“Why do you keep trying to waterboard me, little boy?!” You rasped, voice raw and cracked like brittle wood.

Eren squirmed in your grip—little hands batting at yours. “Let me go!”

You released him with a tired groan, head thumping back against the pillow. 

He staggered backward and crossed his arms, his face flushed with indignation. “Drink your water! Dad said you had to!”

You blinked and looked at the cup before your eyes returned to him. “Get out of my face with this water. There’s debris in it!”

“It’s clean! You’re ungrateful!”

The whole thing hit you sideways—this kid, all sass, standing over you like a self-righteous nurse. You burst out laughing, breathless and wheezy. Surprisingly—it didn’t hurt to laugh. Not physically or emotionally.

Footsteps shuffled quickly down the hallway.

“Surpriseeeee!”

Tinsley’s voice rang out like bells as she walked in, holding a cake—pink frosting with delicate white piping. It was crooked and imperfect, but cheerful in a way. The colors were there, but they were dull. Like you could tell this was a Yeager house special.

You frowned. “What?”

Mikasa followed close behind, expression unreadable, carrying plates and forks.

“Surprise what?” You asked, confused. “What happened?”

Tinsley bounced in place, nearly spilling the cake onto the mattress. “Today’s your last day in the bed!”

“No fucking way.” You glanced at Eren, who was still glaring at you from the chair. “Sorry—I mean, no way.”

Tinsley laughed, bright and breathy. “Heh~ let’s get some cake!”

Your frown lingered. Something about this felt… off. Too sudden. Like skipping pages in a story.

You turned your head slightly. “Where’s Dr. Yeager? Can I actually sit up?”

Tinsley waved her hand, beaming. “Yeah, yeah. Sit up. Let’s eat!”

She lowered the cake onto the desk while Mikasa moved in, precise and silent. She cut a generous slice and placed it neatly on a plate. Then she stuck a fork into the sponge and handed it to you.

“Thank you.” You smiled.

You took the plate and immediately felt how weak your hands still were. The porcelain felt like iron. You had to brace your elbows against your thighs to keep from dropping it.

You took a bite.

It was… decent. Not extraordinary, not terrible. Sweet in a way that stayed on your tongue. The texture was slightly dry, the piping a little heavy-handed—but it had something else. That intangible warmth. That thing. That soul.

You looked toward the doorway. “You made this, Mrs. Yeager?”

Carla appeared there, her hand resting against the frame. She smiled gently. “I did. You like it?”

You nodded slowly. “I love it.”

She smiled again and gestured out the door. “Come on. Eren, Mikasa. If you want cake too, you need to eat it at the table.”

Eren huffed, setting the cup of water dramatically on the chair by your bed. He stuck out his tongue at you before sprinting down the hallway.

“Little punk.” You muttered, rolling your eyes.

Tinsley giggled, scooping up the rest of the cake and plates and vanishing down the hall. Carla lingered.

She watched you for a moment, eyes warm but knowing like only a mother could. “You alright?”

You gave a small nod. “I’m good.”

She saw through it, but she didn’t press.

“My husband’ll be back soon,” she smiled softly. “He’s up in Trost on business, but he’ll be back. He gave your sister very detailed instructions. She knows how to care for you, okay?”

You nodded again. “Okay.”

Just like that, the rain began. It was soft. No immediate downpour, yet somehow it felt heavy. Like you could feel the weight in each and every droplet.

The clouds were packed full. Not in darkness—just dim. The kind of gray sky that rolled low and heavy.

Carla stepped away just as Tinsley returned. Your sister closed the door behind her with a quiet click. She had a plate in one hand, the fork already sunk into the frosting. She sat on the edge of the mattress near your feet.

Your eyes never left the window.  The rain picked up and despite your expression remaining the same, your demeanor was vastly different.

Tinsley tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”

You sighed, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the cake plate in your lap. “…How long have I been in this bed?”

Tinsley hesitated, and then reached out to place her hand gently on your knee. “Sister…”

Your eyes burned. You already knew the answer. The tears slipped free without fanfare, warm against your cheeks.

“I’m so sorry…” Tinsley whispered. “I won’t lie to you… it’s been about a month.”

You closed your eyes, the weight of the truth washing over you...

She tried to comfort you, her voice soft and fast. “It’s okay! Dr. Yeager said that because you got so much rest, your rehabilitation won’t take very long! Maybe even just a few days! He was so hopeful—”

You shook your head, eyes still closed. “You don’t want that, Tinsley.”

She didn’t speak. Her hand stayed on your leg, but her voice was gone.

You stared out the window again. The rain had deepened, sheets of it streaking across the pavement like melting wax. It was loud now. The kind of storm that soaks the earth instantly. The kind that drowns sound.

“Don’t you feel it?” You whispered.

Tinsley shook her head. “No… what am I supposed to feel?”

“I can feel it.” You swallowed hard, throat aching. “Father is gone… I can feel it.” You repeated, quieter this time. “It’s so ugly outside…” You looked down at the plate of half-eaten cake in your lap. “…I hate myself for mourning him.”

Tinsley’s eyes shimmered with tears of her own. “Don’t be mad at yourself for mourning father… He loved you.”

“He’s a terrible person, Tinsley.” You cut her off, “And someday…” Your voice cracked. “…someday you’ll understand.”

The silence was ghastly. All you could hear was the thud of the rain and gust of the wind. It picked up. Sideways sheets slammed into the home like bricks. It was as if the rain knew something beyond tension was building. 

It felt like you could hear your own heartbeat… no. You could hear your twin’s. Tinsley’s. She was keeping something close to the vest. You could tell by the way her body was coiled. Every muscle pulled tight as if exhaling would tear her apart.

Something she’d been dying to tell you since the start of this journey. No. Longer.

Tinsley’s voice broke through the hush like a thread pulled too tight. “...I know what you mean.”

You shook your head slowly, tears slipping down your face. “No. You don’t.”

“Yes.” She spoke again, her voice firmer now, trembling but unwavering. “I do.”

She set her plate down on the desk beside your bed, the slice of pink cake untouched now—frosting sliding slowly under the dim room light. Her appetite was gone, and in its place—sat something heavier.

She began quietly, diverting her eyes from you. “I found something a while ago… about a decade ago, actually. A little black book in Father’s nightstand. I don’t even remember what I was looking for. Maybe jewelry, or letters. I used to steal things from him. Just little things—you remember that.”

Her fingers twisted together, nervously working at her nails. “But this book—” She shook her head, her voice lowering— “it opened to this page. Not the front. Not the back. Just this page, like… it had been opened there too many times to count. Like it couldn’t close anymore.”

You stared at her. Breathing shallow. Chest rising and falling. She couldn’t mean…

“The handwriting was his, and what I read—God, I didn’t know what it meant until I’d already seen it. Until I couldn’t unsee it.” She paused, swallowed hard. “Father… hated Cassius, but it wasn’t because of anything Cassius did. It was because Cassius wasn’t his. He was the result of Mother’s affair. Her first child. Their first child, and Father had to save face, so he claimed him.”

You blinked slowly, as if each word were pulling at something deep inside your ribs.

“Mother… cheated,” Tinsley whispered. “But only because Father had been cheating on her first. All the time. For a long time. She knew about the other woman. She knew he was going underground to pay for her services and…”

Her voice cracked.

“He wrote about her. That woman. Said he’d never seen anyone more beautiful. That he couldn’t stop thinking about her. That she was everything Mitras lacked. Exotic. Immaculate. But…” Tinsley squeezed her eyes shut. “She hated him. She was scared of him. She wanted to get away from him so desperately. And he just… he just kept…”

The words twisted in her throat. She shook her head violently. “She too became pregnant, and as history repeats, the baby wasn’t his either. She had a husband. A sick husband. And…” She looked at you, eyes pleading. “...Please don’t make me say it.”

You opened your eyes, and the tears didn’t stop. They poured freely now, soaking your cheeks, your pillow. Your throat was raw, scraped open by emotion you hadn’t let rise in years.

“You’ve known?” You choked out. “You’ve known for a decade that I was a Kuremi? That Cassius wasn’t Father’s?” Your voice was hoarse, but jagged with betrayal. “Tinsley… why?” Your voice cracked. “Why would you keep quiet?”

Tinsley’s lips trembled. She looked so much smaller now. The same girl who used to braid flowers into your hair and sneak out to the garden with you. That same girl was hollowed out by a truth too big for a child to carry.

“Because Father caught me… He caught me reading the book, and he beat me within an inch of my life. Until I couldn’t walk. It was the day he told you I was going to Stohess for fencing. That was untrue. It was to heal. He said if I ever spoke of it, he’d create a device so cruel… so painful, I’d beg for death. He said… he said it wasn’t about me. He wanted to protect you.”

Tinsley’s eyes brimmed with tears now. She reached for your hand, and you let her hold it.

“That’s why I felt so ugly when I laughed with the elites. So small when I stayed quiet while they insulted you. Because I knew. I knew the truth, and I was too scared to say anything. Even now I cower. Only brave enough to tell you these things because we’re so unimaginably far from home… and he’s most likely passed.”

You looked at her, chest full of pain, of confusion.

“It’s twisted, and wrong, and cruel… but Father really loved you,” she continued. “In the only way he knew how. He kept you locked away because the royal government wanted that. They’re hiding something.” She looked down, fingers curling tight around yours. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why.. but your existence threatens something.”

The room was quiet except for the rain hammering the window.

Tinsley’s voice softened. “Let’s start over. Let’s stay here in Shiganshina. You can be free here. As long as you don’t go back to Mitras, you can be free. Sister. You can be free.”

You wiped your face with trembling fingers, but the tears kept coming. You shook your head. “I can’t… Tins, I don’t think you understand.”

She looked at you, heart already breaking.

“I’m in love… I didn’t want to be, and I never set out to be, but I am. The proof of residence.  I need them.”

Her head lowered. “Then give me three months.”

You looked over at her, startled. “What?”

“Three months,” she spoke again, firmer now. “Give me three months with my sister. I don’t care about blood. Or who our parents were. Or what day we were born.” She leaned in closer, her voice trembling. “You are my sister. My twin… Please. Let’s stay in Shiganshina together. Just for a little while longer. If you love him, and he loves you, then he’ll wait. He will. But once you go back to Mitras… there’s no guarantee you’ll ever come back out again. Not as yourself. Not at all.”

She took a breath, the weight of her words heavy in the room.

“Let’s live our dreams,” she whispered. “For the two little girls who used to dream in the garden. Who wanted to explore the districts, who wanted to eat street food and dance at festivals.”

It sounded so beautiful in your mind. So small and delicate. So real.

You thought of Levi. The way he looked at you like you were something he never thought he'd deserve. You didn’t want him to wait. You didn’t want to wait. You wanted to see him again. Clear the air. Tell him you love him this time. Properly.

But… In the grand scheme of things… Three months of freedom. Healed freedom. Time with your sister. Real air. Real life. It wasn’t so much. Then you’d have the rest of your days with Levi and Furlan and Isabel.

Even if it meant returning to a cage, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Rain continued to slide down the window in thick, slow trails. Each drop dragging its reflection across the glass. The sky had dimmed to a near-blue gray as the storm clouds outside blanketed the world. 

Your eyes stayed fixed on the movement, distant but tethered. The silence between you and Tinsley felt fragile—like anything more than a whisper might shatter it.

“That sounds beautiful,” you murmured, your voice soft and low. “But…”

Tinsley cut in, voice sharp and emotional. “You said that man broke your heart! Why are you hanging your whole life up over him?”

You flinched at the suddenness, not from anger but the emotion behind it. Her words cracked with something more than frustration—fear. Desperation. 

You two had been talking quietly this whole time as to not alert anyone. You hoped her sudden outburst wouldn’t make them catch on… if they already hadn’t, that is.

You turned to her, shaking your head slowly. “It’s not just him.”

Her expression softened slightly.

“It’s my other two friends… my family. They found me when I was nothing. When I felt the most rejected. The most confused. The most diseased. I can’t leave them.”

Tinsley placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “Then be with them after this. You know where they are. You know they’re not going anywhere.” Her voice trembled. “All of them… If they love you as much as you love them, they’d want this for you.”

You looked at her, your throat tightening again. You would tell that despite her having something to gain from this, she wasn’t trying to manipulate you.

“You will have the rest of your life, but just give me three months. No—give yourself three months.” She leaned forward, her eyes fierce with conviction. “We saw it, remember? When we left Mitras. Everyone we passed, every man, every woman—they basically told you not to come back. They know it’s your cage. They know you’re locked in there by chains no one deserves. Unlawfully so. They know! I won’t force you, and I won’t beg you to do something you don’t want. But please… Please consider it.”

Your hand drifted to your chest—right over your heart. It felt uneven. Hollow. “It feels like a piece of me is missing.”

Tinsley didn’t respond, just kept her eyes on you.

You turned to her. “But I’ll be honest… there’s something I need to find here. I don’t know what it is yet, but I won’t feel complete until I do.”

Tinsley nodded.

“We can’t burden the Yeagers like this forever,” you added. “After I’m better… we’ll need to find another place.”

The door creaked open. Both of you looked up.

Carla stood in the doorway, arms folded, a little smirk tugging at her lips. “So, you planning on leaving? You won’t help me refurbish my wedding dress after all?”

Your eyes widened. 

“Just going to cut and run, huh?” She raised a playful brow.  Her tone was light, teasing, but the warmth behind it was real. “Tinsley started yelling so I figured I should check on you two. Now I hear my wedding dress will never be restored and I’m kind of disappointed.”

“Mrs. Yeager, I—” you started, guilt creeping into your voice, “we couldn’t burden you.”

Carla waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. We don’t use this room anyway.”

From the dining room, Eren’s voice rang out. “We used to!”

Carla rolled her eyes and turned her head. “Eren!” She faced you again with a sigh and a shrug. “I don’t know what you have going on… but it’s been nice having Tinsley help around the house. And it’s been nice having someone compliment my cooking for once.”

Your lips twitched into a weak smile.

“Don’t feel like a burden,” Carla added, more serious now. “You’re not. You aren’t.”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Thank you.”

She rolled up her sleeves. “Just let us know. The offer’s open.”

With that, she turned and disappeared into the hallway.

Tinsley watched you a moment longer, then stood. “I’m going to help clean,” she said softly, brushing the crumbs from her lap. “But please… think about it, okay?”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

The rain continued to fall. You listened to it. Let it wrap around the silence.

Floorboards creaked softly beneath moving feet—Carla in the kitchen, Tinsley sweeping. A chair scraped the floor, probably Eren’s. The sound of domestic life, quiet and constant, hummed beneath the gentle percussion of rain tapping against the windows. It was soothing, like a song you didn’t know you missed.

You sat still on the bed, the half-eaten plate of cake resting lightly on your lap. You took another small bite. The sponge was drier now, the frosting beginning to harden under the cold of the room, but it still held that same quiet comfort. Sweet and simple. Something to hold onto.

You chewed slowly, the taste fading into thought. You had to get back to Levi. At all costs.

However….

The man with the scar—his warning still echoed in your memory like a bell you couldn’t unring. That thing he mentioned… it was here. Somewhere. There was something left unfinished. Something important, and for that, you couldn’t leave yet.

The door opened, and Carla stepped into the room holding a piece of parchment between her fingers. She smiled gently, eyes curious but restrained. “You have a letter.”

You blinked. “Me?”

She nodded and walked it over to you. “Yes, you,” she teased, placing it delicately on your lap beside the plate.

Her eyes glinted. “Nice parchment, too. A love letter, maybe?”

You gave her a look and she laughed, holding her hands up. “Totally not prying. Just thought a Survey Corps insignia was quite interesting for this house.”

With that, she turned and disappeared back into the hallway, her presence leaving behind the faint smell of flour and soap.

You stared at the letter. The seal was familiar as always—stamped in wax, edges crisp. The handwriting on the outside was unmistakable. You didn’t even need to open it to know.

Erwin. It was always Erwin.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you cracked the seal and unfolded the parchment. The paper was fresh. The ink still dark and precise. It hadn’t traveled far—maybe from a nearby town. Something closer than Trost maybe?

You exhaled as your eyes scanned the first line. You never knew why his letters made you nervous. Maybe it was the restraint. The care he hid between formalities. The way he wrote like a man who couldn’t afford to say how deeply he felt—but still did, in every line.

Hello from Karanes,

I hope this letter finds you with strength returning to your body, and peace. I was relieved to hear of your safe arrival in Shiganshina. You have endured more than most, and I think often of your resilience.

I write to assure you that I have not forgotten what I promised you. I have continued seeking though beyond any mission, I simply want you to be well. To be safe.

It troubles me deeply, knowing the pain you have suffered. The idea that someone hurt you, physically or otherwise, unsettles me in a way I cannot name. Perhaps it is inappropriate to say this, but it is the truth nonetheless.

I will be in Shiganshina soon.

Whether you are still there when I arrive, I cannot know, but I hope you are. I hope to see you again.

There are things I have left unsaid that I’d like to get a chance to express. As a member of the survey corps it’s best not to leave stones unturned.

Should you decide to return to Mitras, I… hope you will wait for me. At least long enough for us to speak again.

With enduring respect,

—E. S.

The letter fell into your lap, crinkling softly against the plate.

Erwin. Always so composed. So dignified, and yet every word felt soaked in feeling. He didn’t say it outright, but he didn’t have to.

He wanted you to stay out of the capital. He wanted to see you. He cared for you. As a survey corps member, and especially as a Captain, there were multiple eyes reading his letter before you did. Both of you knew that, which is why his words were so restrained. Yet, the message still came across. It was still received.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, blinking hard. The room was still. Outside, the rain grew heavier, blurring the windowpane into a wash of movement and light.

The Scouts were coming to Shiganshina.

You sat back slowly against the pillow, breathing in deep.

Okay. 

Maybe you’d stay here a little longer. Just a little. Tie up the loose ends. Ask the questions. See the town. Tell Erwin all the things that remained unsaid between letters. Things you needed to tell him too. 

You’d explore like you always dreamed. Walk unfamiliar streets. Look into eyes that didn’t flinch at your skin.. and when the time came—when everything was answered, when you were whole again—

You’d go back. To Levi. To Furlan. To Isabel. You’d return. You’d choose the cage.

But this time, you’d go knowing who you were, and you’d wrap this life in Shiganshina up with a pretty little bow.

…

No Regrets.

[softcursechoso]

The Oracle: Ch. 4

JJK x Reader Toji x Reader Shiu x Reader

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Words: 13.6k+

Ch. 4 Warnings: Nothing crazy yet :)

FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD

"Today's the day we'll touch our first hundred million, boys. Trust me... I've already seen it."

Hōraiken no Tenjin : 7:25pm : Fukuoka

It’d been two days since you spoke with Yamada. You wanted to give it enough time. Enough distance that if one were to look back at any CCTV footage, your meeting would seem totally coincidental. Today was the day. You would either sink or swim.

A black sedan glides to a stop in front of a restaurant like a silent bullet. The engine hums low, and the sound is almost obscene against the hush of wealth that hangs in the air here. The name glows in pale gold above the doors: Hōraiken no Tenjin. The characters are carved into a black-lacquered signboard, flanked by two enormous jade lions at the entrance—each one the size of a man and worth more than a house, surely. 

The driver opens the rear door first. Toji unfolds from the car in his unmistakably expensive tuxedo. His blue jacket catching the light with every movement. He looks like he’s done this a hundred times—though you know that this suit was rented, as was everything else.

He turns, extends a hand to you with that lazy half-smile. “C’mon, sweetheart.” He drawls just loud enough for any onlookers.

You take his arm—because that’s what the hot, brainless girlfriend would do—and your fingers slip over the smooth velvet of his sleeve. You keep your gaze wide, glittering, feigned awe painted across your face.

Both you and Toji match in your blue velvet. Like a darling couple made for one another. Definitely a new money type of choice. 

“Oh my God, baby!” You gasp.“This place is gorgeous! I want a jade lion like that! Are those, like, real?”

Toji chuckles under his breath. “Guess we’ll find out if they let me buy one.”

He says it for show, but there’s heat in his tone, a low fire only you catch. You bat your lashes and press closer, letting the act fill your body. You’ve practiced it—the laugh, the weight of your hand on his arm, the subtle lean that makes you look like you can’t walk in heels without him.

Behind you, Shiu rounds the car with an easy grace that doesn’t belong to anyone born poor. His tux fits perfectly, a black suit and crisp, hair combed back to reveal that expression of perpetual calm. You don’t have to look to know his eyes are sweeping the building, counting exits, faces, angles. He falls into step beside Toji, creating that perfect visual illusion—Toji at the center, flanked by power and beauty.

You, Toji, Shiu.

The fortune teller.

The muscle.

The brains.

Inside, Hōraiken no Tenjin is every rumor made flesh. Paper lanterns hang from dark cedar beams, their glow a deep, honeyed gold. Lacquered partitions divide the space in elegant geometry. The scent is intoxicating—grilled wagyu fat, cedar smoke, jasmine, and the faint metallic tinge of money.

Conversations hush as you enter. It isn’t your beauty that makes them look; it’s your audacity. There are plenty of rich people dining here this evening, but you three just look… different.

A hostess appears, her smile trained but slightly strained—like she knows when something expensive doesn’t belong. She bows low. “Welcome to Hōraiken no Tenjin. Do you have a reservation with us this evening?”

“I’m afraid we don’t.” Shiu speaks up. “But I was hoping to speak with the owner.”

The hostess straightens, that polite doubt flickering in her eyes. “I’m very sorry, sir. The owner isn’t in tonight.”

Shiu’s sigh is soft, almost regretful. “Ah, that’s disappointing. We were invited for the private tasting of the 1924 Merlot.”

The air shifts—imperceptibly, but you feel it. The hostess remains calm, “The 1924—?”

He inclines his head, giving her just enough pause to wonder if she’s made a mistake. “Merlot.”

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t realize you were with the tasting group. Please, this way.”

Yamada had the exact script written down on the card he stuffed inside the dufflebag. It almost felt like cheating. It was cheating. 

Your pulse hammers so hard you’re sure Toji can feel it through your arm. You keep smiling though, dumb and glittering, playing your part.

As you’re led through the restaurant, whispers follow. The kind of whispers that trail power—or the illusion of it. Your gown swishes against the floor, a cascade of dark blue velvet that mirrors Toji’s jacket. The corset’s laces bite into your ribs, pushing your breasts high, your waist narrow enough to look carved. Every inch of you says money. Fake money, sure, but no one here will ever know.

The hostess slides open a shoji door and gestures you inside. The room beyond is intimate, candlelit. A low table gleams under the light, set for four. The walls are paneled in black lacquer with gold inlay—cranes in flight, rivers winding through clouds. You catch your reflection in the sheen—a stranger who looks exactly like someone who belongs here.

“Please make yourselves comfortable.” The hostess bows, “The owner will be right with you.”

You nod with a sugar-sweet smile. “Thank you so much!”

She exits, the door sliding shut with a whisper. Silence settles—thick, heavy. You all stay quiet. You don’t want to say anything that will give away your position. There’s no telling what kind of bugs or cameras may be in this room. 

You rest your chin on your hand like you are bored. Somewhere behind the walls, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of the wealthy. You can feel the pulse of your technique under your skin. You could peel this place open like an orange and see which way the juice would spill.

You giggle, light and useless, your voice bouncing off the walls. You keep your fingers curled around Toji’s wrist, your lips slightly parted in awe as if the whole world had been built just for your pleasure.

Toji leans back like a man with time and money to kill, letting you fawn over him, eyes heavy-lidded, smirking. You touch the edge of his watch, rented and gleaming under the lights, and whisper something about how it matches his jacket so perfectly. He plays along.

Standing behind Toji is Shiu. He hasn’t said a word since the hostess left, hasn’t touched the table, hasn’t broken that unreadable mask he wears. He doesn’t need to speak. His silence is its own language.

When the room falls completely silent, that’s when the door slides open. The man who steps in doesn’t walk. He enters. There’s a difference.

He’s tall—clean-cut in a three-piece charcoal suit tailored to slice. His hair is slicked back, his skin pale and smooth, his expression carefully hollow. Behind him, two men follow—guards, clearly, with the frame and eyes for it. They wear tailored suits too, but theirs bulge slightly at the underarms. You know what that means. Everyone in this room does.

You release Toji’s arm with just enough dramatic flair to show respect, not fear. He watches the man approach with flat eyes, like someone looking at a vending machine. 

The man speaks, “Good evening. I was told you wanted to speak with the owner.”

“Good evening.” Shiu gives a precise bow—low enough to be respectful, not so low it reads subservient. “This here is Zen’in-sama,” Shiu gestures toward Toji. “Beside him, his lovely woman.”

You bat your lashes, let out a soft giggle. “Hello~”

Shiu doesn't miss a beat. “And you may call me Kong.”

The man says nothing for a second, then gives a polite nod. One of the guards pulls out a chair. The other steps beside him, produces a gold-plated lighter as the man retrieves a thick cigar from his breast pocket. He clips it with a click, lights it with an indulgent inhale. Smoke curls upward like a dragon uncurling in the candlelight.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” His voice is smooth and unhurried, like someone accustomed to speaking last. “You can call me Terada.”

He rests one hand on the table, the other holding the cigar. “You came for the 1924 Chardonnay, was it?”

Shiu doesn’t blink. “Merlot.”

A pause. Small, intentional.

“Right. Merlot.” Terada exhales, the smoke drifting toward the ceiling. “Here at Hōraiken no Tenjin, we pride ourselves on our selection—wine, champagne, mixed drinks, rare imports. From what I’m told, you didn’t ask to see the menu.”

His gaze drags slowly across the table.

“Didn’t mince words. No questions. No curiosity. So tell me—how can you be certain it’s not on the menu if you never looked for it?”

Shiu smiles faintly, just a lift of the lips. “Zen’in-sama is a man of refined taste. His beautiful girlfriend—” he glances toward you, “—even more so. He wants to show her a good time. From the hand-carved jade lions out front, I already know what kind of place this is. Not the kind to put the top shelf on the main menu.”

You beam and lean toward Toji, stroking his arm. “You always know where the good stuff is, baby~”

Terada chuckles. “You do all the talking for him, Kong?”

Shiu doesn’t waver. “Zen’in-sama puts his money where his mouth is. Long as that money is in my pocket, he doesn’t have to say a word unless he wants to.”

Terada’s eyes narrow slightly. “I see.” He inhales again, cigar glowing. “So how did you hear about this exclusive tasting? Flyers? Forums? The internet’s quite the thing these days. Word gets around.”

Shiu adjusts a nonexistent wrinkle in his cuff. “Nothing like that. Zen’in-sama just flew in from Tokyo on the recommendation of a few sommeliers. He wanted to see if this place was the real deal.”

Terada raises a brow. “I used to live in Tokyo for about a decade. Maybe I know them.”

Shiu’s smile turns just a shade colder. “You expect me to drop my contact... when you’re not even the owner?”

You almost smirk—but you remember your role. You gasp instead, lips parted in wide-eyed shock. “Wait—you’re not the owner?”

Toji’s brow furrows. He sits up straighter. The air changes. “Don’t play with my money, Terada,” He growls, voice low and sharp.

Then he moves. Quick, no hesitation. He reaches into his jacket and slaps a stack of yen on the table—1,000,000. Fresh. Wrapped. Heavy with intent.

“If you waste my time.” His voice cold as steel, “...you waste my money. I was told by a reliable connection that the 1924 Merlot was available. Now you show us the way—or we walk.”

Silence.

Terada’s lips curl into a smile. Not warm. Not friendly. A test passed, maybe. Or one still ongoing.

He looks between the three of you like someone choosing which horse to bet on. Then he nods.

“Alright.”

He lifts a hand and snaps his fingers. One of the guards moves immediately.

“Show them the way.” Terada continues. His voice is softer now. “If you’re real, we’ll see it soon enough. If you’re fake... we’ll wring you out dry. If you’re a fed...” He smiles around his cigar. “We’ll kill you.”

“Welcome to the Tenjin Vault.”

The guard opens a door carved from polished black wood, revealing a narrow hallway that descends. You step through first, still latched onto Toji’s arm, smiling like you don’t understand half of what was just said.

Toji walks steady, straight-backed, carrying the energy of a man used to this. Beside him, you’re all hips and velvet and awe-struck commentary.

Behind you, Shiu follows, hands in his pockets, every inch of him still and smooth. Terada and the remaining guard bring up the rear.

They didn’t know it—but that one million yen Toji slammed on the table? That was your last stack.

Three million yen gone in rented clothes, jewelry, watches. You looked like money because you had to. Because in this game, the part you play is everything.

The Vault would bleed you dry if you didn’t win tonight, but you weren’t here to win. You were here to manipulate the future itself… and the weight of it all was on your shoulders now.

The guard walks ahead without a word, his pace brisk but unhurried. You trail behind him, still hanging off Toji’s arm—delicate, frivolous, but somehow clinging with purpose. The corridor narrows, and the plush of luxury starts to fade, replaced with colder edges. Stone walls. A damp chill in the air.

He reaches a black steel door, heavy with weight and secrecy, and swings it open. A set of narrow stone stairs descends into the dim beyond, lit only by soft golden sconces shaped like dragon’s claws cradling light.

You glance at the darkness ahead and pout with theatrical concern, clutching Toji’s arm tighter.

“Ugh, it’s so dark in here, baby.” You whimper, lower lip jutting just enough to sell the innocence. “Kinda scary…”

Toji adjusts his grip and wraps an arm around your waist. “You’re good. I got you,” He murmurs, his voice like gravel yet smooth.

His hand rests just above the curve of your hip now, steady and warm through the velvet of your dress. You lean into him, letting the touch ground you. It's not just for show anymore—you can feel the tension in your stomach. Something about this place vibrates at a different frequency.

You descend slowly, each step echoing off the stone. Sound dies quickly down here. You realize it’s intentional—the walls absorb noise. A design meant to keep secrets in and ears out.

At the bottom, another door. This one glossy black lacquer, carved with phoenixes rising in flames. The guard opens it with two sharp knocks.

What lies beyond is… incredible.

Sound hits you first. Music—low, heavy, intoxicating. The bass thuds. Laughter, yelling, machines chirping in triumph and agony. Then the light.

The Tenjin Vault opens before you like a technicolor hallucination.

The ceiling arches high, painted with cherry blossoms in gold leaf. Chandeliers shimmer down from above like ice crystals suspended in motion. Red silk banners hang in soft waves between columns of obsidian. A massive fountain glitters at the entrance—gold koi cast in motion, their mouths spouting arcs of champagne-colored water into a koi pond filled with real currency: bills soaked and glistening like confetti.

To your left, slot machines ring, lights blinking in rhythm to every win and loss. To your right, long rows of tables: blackjack, poker, baccarat, mahjong. Each manned by perfectly dressed dealers in custom-tailored uniforms.

In the far corners, shogi and go tables sit beneath hanging scrolls. Dice games, roulette, a Japanese version of craps—all lit in pools of moody red and deep blue.

Dancing above all of it—women. Beautiful, barely dressed women twirl around polished gold poles. Feathers. Latex. Skin and diamonds. Their movements are slow, sensual, practiced. Some men watch. Others ignore them completely. A choice, made visible.

Your eyes go wide and you gasp audibly. “Woooow!” You bounce slightly, still clinging to Toji’s arm. “Baby, it’s huge in here! Look at that fountain! Oh my God, they got money in there?”

Toji chuckles, the sound low and pleased. He’s grinning now, wide and wolfish. He smells blood—money. He’s got 500,000 yen in his pocket and Lady Luck on his arm.

Terada steps forward, flanked by his guards, smiling around his cigar. “Welcome to the Tenjin Vault.”

He gestures broadly, like a proud father introducing his sinful child. “You’re standing in one of the most exclusive private gambling establishments in all of Kyushu. Open by invitation only, and even that invitation doesn’t guarantee your money stays in your pocket.”

He starts walking, expecting you to follow. You do, your heels clicking sharply against the marble floors.

Terada points toward the central gambling floor. “Here’s where most of the real action happens. Minimum bets start at one hundred thousand yen. The dealers are trained to spot counters, scammers, and weaklings. Payouts are clean—if you earn it, you take it.”

He motions to a roped-off section to the right. “Over there are the mid-range tables. Two to five million minimum. You’ll find real sharks at those tables. Small-timers don’t last long. You lose fast or you win fast—either way, the vault always collects.”

Farther still, beyond a velvet-curtained archway, sits another room. You can’t see inside. The guards at that entrance wear earpieces and steel eyes. “And that is the VIP Room. Super-high rollers only. Twenty million minimum. That’s where real decisions get made.”

His eyes flick toward you with thinly veiled disdain. “Though I imagine you might prefer the slots or the lower tables. More... approachable. Easier minimums. Might even get your lady a free drink if you’re lucky.”

You gasp and give a breathy laugh, swatting Toji’s chest lightly. “Oh wow Terada-han~ Maybe you’re right. I do love flashing lights and pretty drinks.”

Toji doesn’t react to the insult—he just stares at Terada, silent, calm. Smiling like a man with an ace up his sleeve.

Shiu keeps close behind, a polite observer to the exchange, hands still in his pockets.

Terada continues, unbothered. “Speaking of—you’ll find a lot of... colorful characters here tonight. Yakuza, politicians, entertainment execs, a few international players. Some come to win. Most come to lose. A few come just to watch others bleed.”

He stops walking and turns to face Toji directly. “You wanted the 1924 Merlot?” He takes a long puff from his cigar. “Well... let’s see if you’re worth uncorking it.”

He extends a hand to Toji, formal now. “Enjoy yourselves. But remember—if you’re the real deal, we’ll know. If you’re not...” He scowls. “The Vault has no mercy.”

Toji shakes his hand, firm and confident. “Just watch me.”

Terada nods once, then steps back, motioning to his guards. “Let them play.”

With that, the leash is off, and you were alone in the jungle now.

You, Toji, Shiu. Three sharks pretending to be sheep. They had no idea what they just unleashed.

Terada turned his back like a man who'd already decided the outcome. His cigar trailed smoke behind him, the scent clinging in the air like arrogance. The guards peeled away to shadow him, his presence vanishing into the opulence of the casino like a bad taste under perfume.

Toji watched him go, he was furious, but he kept a smile on his face. Quiet fury. Like, done using words fury.

A hand landed on his shoulder, cool and composed. “Don’t.” Shiu spoke simply.

Toji didn’t answer, but the muscle in his cheek twitched. You pressed against his side, still smiling like the idiot girlfriend who didn’t understand tension if it stomped on her foot.

“Baby~ I like the low level bets. The cheaper areas are more colorful.” You chimed in, voice saccharine, eyes wide. “It’ll make the winnings look prettier~”

He looked down at you. Your head tilted, lashes fluttering, lips parted just enough to catch the light off your gloss. The perfect picture of blissful ignorance… but when his eyes met yours—he saw past the eye shadow and lipstick. There was nothing stupid in your gaze. Just fire. It was controlled. It was contained… but it was burning.

You hated it too. The insult. The assumption. The fucking underestimation. You didn’t say it. You didn’t have to. He saw it all there.

Toji’s lips curled, slow and deliberate, a grin full of teeth. “Well, sweetheart.” He murmured, still holding your gaze, “Where should I go first?”

You cocked your head, and reached up to touch his face. Faking like you were caressing his cheek, but you both knew the truth.

A sudden flicker. A wheel spinning, the ball clattering, the number 24. The black square shining under the casino lights like an omen. A pile of chips like a mountain. .

You snapped out of it with a little gasp and a smile. “How ‘bout that spinny ball thing, huh? Your luck with numbers’s somethin’ else, baby~!”

Toji let out a low laugh. “My lady says roulette, so roulette it is.”

The three of you began walking, and the crowd paid you no real mind. There were a few glances—some amused, some judgmental—but none that lingered. You looked too new, too clean, too eager. Expensive, but not seasoned. New money.

As you strolled toward the roulette table, you kept tight by Toji and looked up at him like he had personally crafted the stars and flung them into the sky just to impress you… maybe he would.

“Be straight with me, baby.” You purred, lashes fluttering. “After this win, think you can really get me that dress I had my eyes on, yeah?”

He arched a brow. “How much?”

You gave him those big, stupid eyes. “Just under two point five million~”

He laughed, rich and deep. “Oh baby, that’s nothing.”

You smiled wide. The real message—Black. Twenty-four.—hidden beneath the fluff. The code was clean, simple. Not suspicious. Just sweet.

You approached the table. The dealer didn’t look up. His face was a bored, professional mask, flicking chips across felt like he’d been born to do it. The wheel was polished wood and metal, red and black numbers gleaming under the soft spotlights. The table buzzed faintly with tension—other players murmuring, one or two laying down casual chips with expressions of disinterest. The usual hum of a game in motion.

The dealer looked at Toji with all the enthusiasm of someone watching paint dry. “What’ll it be?”

Toji didn’t look at him. He looked at you. “You think I can do it, sweetheart?”

You leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck to tug him closer “I trust you, baby.” Then—barely audible with lips against his ear you whispered, “Bet it all. It’s gonna be okay.”

You left a smear of red lipstick on his cheek as you pulled away, giggling. Just a dumb girl giving her big strong man a good-luck kiss.

He turned back to the dealer, casual. “Let’s do 500,000. 24 black.”

The dealer froze for half a second. Then raised an eyebrow. “You feelin’ lucky today?”

Toji grinned, full of arrogance and heat. “I’m lucky every day. Now spin that shit.”

The dealer gave a soft exhale, then shrugged. “Your funeral.”

The ball was set. The wheel spun… and so did your fucking heart.

Back at your casino roulette was always dark purple on bets like this.  Always chaos wrapped in glitter and math. One in thirty-seven odds. You knew better than to ever rely on it. These were the bets no one made.

But you’d seen it. You almost felt like you willed it in your dreams.

You stood beside Toji, eyes wide, hands clasped, pretending to watch the colors while secretly tracking the glances starting to flick your way. One man across the room had turned. Another paused a sip of his drink. Betting a 500,000 yen on a 35-to-1 straight up? On your first goddamn spin?

Insanity, but the kind of insanity that makes people take notice.

The wheel blurred. The ball clinked and clattered. Your stomach twisted in a knot so tight it felt like your ribs might crack.

You smiled. You kept smiling, because if you let the fear show, if you broke character now, it would all unravel.

You could feel Shiu behind you, just to your left. Calm. Still. Watchful. His silence was more grounding than Toji’s.

The sound. 

That final clack. 

The ball stopped.

24—Black.

It didn’t feel real at first. There was a moment of stillness—like the universe was stunned by its own precision.

Then, chaos. Gasps. Voices rising. A woman a few tables over gawking, “No fucking way.”

Your breath caught in your throat, lips parted in stunned silence. You had seen it, yes, but this was living it. The money was real. The moment hung in the air thick with disbelief and adrenaline.

You turned to look at Toji, heart thundering beneath your corset, and found him already watching you.

With no warning and no pretence, he leaned into you. Face closing the distance and nose brushing past yours.

He grabbed you by the waist, pulled you up like you weighed nothing, and caught the back of your neck with one strong hand, pressing your lips to his.

Is this a part of the act? No…

This was heat, this was hunger, this was everything that had been boiling beneath the surface. It was the taste of dirty money that wouldn’t dissolve after one drunken night. 

The kiss wasn’t sweet. It was rough and breathless, a crash of teeth and lust and a shared victory so sharp it could cut glass.

You leaned into it—because appearances, sure—but also, maybe you wanted to. In that pulse-racing second, you activated your technique.

The future flashed behind your eyes like headlights down a midnight road: tables flipping, chips flying, a scream—no, a cheer. The Vault would bleed tonight if you let it.

Toji set you down, and pulled back with a grin.

The dealer blinked and cleared his throat before sliding over the winnings. You expected a mountain of chips—but it wasn’t that. Just a few.

Each one was thick, black with a gold inlay, numbers etched like scripture. Ten million. Five. One. One. One.

Eighteen million in less than a minute. You could barely process it.

The dealer swallowed. “Would you like to... play again, sir?”

Toji dusted lipstick off his cheek with the back of his hand. “Nah.”

Shiu swept up the chips, each movement confident but calm, like he was used to seeing money like this. 

Toji laced his fingers through yours and turned away from the table without a word.

You walked beside him in silence, trying to keep the giddy panic from overtaking you. You’d never touched that much money before—hell, none of you had. Not Toji, not Shiu, not even combined. Yet it still wasn’t enough. Not for tonight.

What you won was a lot, but it wasn’t enough to pay Yamada, and certainly not enough to break away with a three fold profit like Shiu and Toji wanted. You would though. 

You’d seen it, a hundred million. It would happen here. Tonight.

You giggled and pointed ahead, voice light again.“Ooh! That’s the one where I blow on the dice for ya, right?” You tugged his arm playfully, your act sliding back into place.

Toji arched an eyebrow, amused. “Craps?”

You shrugged. “That sounds silly. But yeah! I like that one. I like blowin’ on the dice for ya~”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright.”

You didn't notice right away, but the shift had started. People were beginning to trail behind. Not guards, but players. Curious, skeptical, sniffing for a hustle. You’d just flipped a one-in-thirty-seven with the elegance of a magician, and gamblers—the real ones, noticed.

As you approached the craps table, your voice slipped soft and close against Toji’s shoulder. Speaking so only he’d hear. “Don’t pass the line. Bigger bets—consistent. Let a crowd form. We need eyes. Witnesses. We can’t lose. I saw it.”

Toji gave no response. He just nodded to the dealer as he sauntered up.

“Let’s start light. Put me on Don’t Pass for a million.” He spoke coolly.

Shiu handed him the million yen chip, and Toji placed the chip down with controlled ease.

That caught attention. The table wasn’t empty—but it wasn’t hot either. Suddenly, it was.

The dealer raised an eyebrow but nodded. “One million. Betting against the shooter.”

The stickman pushed the dice your way.

Toji picked them up, turned to you. Still that fire in his eyes. Still that quiet storm building between you.

He leaned in again, catching your lips in another kiss—not as sudden this time, but deeper, lingering. You closed your eyes, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, and you looked.

A flash—like lightning behind your eyes.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven.

Seven consecutive throws, and then stop—move on. Seven seven’s. Was this some kind of joke?

You grabbed the back of his neck, nuzzled against his jaw. Whispered soft as silk.

“Seven consecutive. Then stop.”

Each word laced with a kiss on the cheek, a giggle. The perfect cover. To anyone watching, you were just another girl too wrapped around her man to care about the game.

He leaned back, held up the dice to you. “Your favorite part, right? Let’s get you some shoes too.”

You blew on them with a smile so bright it could blind. Then—he tossed them onto the felt.

The dice danced across, and new eyes were starting to appear around the table.

Seven. 

Another payout. Another gasp from the crowd.

It was slow at first. A murmur. A tilt of the head. A side glance from one table, then another. But like static building in the air, the energy grew—pulling in bodies, voices, eyes. The Tenjin Vault noticed.

Each throw pulled more people in. Each win tugged at the curiosity of the floor like gravity. The dealer’s professional indifference began to fray, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The stickman looked tense, like he didn’t want to believe what he was watching but couldn’t stop seeing it.

The crowd grew, warm and buzzing. Men leaned in. Women in sequins and satin offered drinks unprompted. 

One slipped something golden and bubbling into Toji’s hand with a wink. “Luck like that needs to be celebrated, baby.”

Toji would then turn to you and hand it over, "Hold onto this for me will you?”

You giggled and sipped it, keeping your posture light and loose, your smile wide and stupid. It was all theater.. but it felt real.

You were dripping in velvet and heat and adrenaline. When you leaned toward Toji, he kissed you like you were his own personal deity. He kissed you because you were his luck, and right now. Luck and money were two things that Toji Zen’in never had.

He pulled back and then turned to take the dice again.

Fourth throw. Seven.

This time the crowd roared. Chips hit tables. A man two steps away from the rail cheered and slapped his palm against the felt. A woman in a beaded gown threw her arms in the air, hollering with a laugh like it was her own money.

You watched it all unfold, mascara lashes blinking slowly, lips wrapped around the edge of your drink.

A fluffy red boa, absurd, was draped around your shoulders by a stranger. You wrapped it up around your neck, fingers trailing through the feathers like you’d been born for this. You turned your head slightly, holding the boa just under your chin, lips smirking around the stem of your glass.

Your eyes found Shiu. He hadn’t moved. Not one inch. Still standing at Toji’s flank, calm and unreadable, but his gaze—only for a moment, slid to yours.

That’s when you knew… his pulse was hammering. He wasn’t smiling, but inside he was screaming.

You had told him, promised him, you’d buy him out. You hadn’t said it would happen in a matter of days.

He looked away. Straightened his sleeves as Toji took the dice again.

Fifth throw. Seven.

The dealer exhaled a laugh he didn’t mean to let out. The stickman’s hands trembled when he passed the dice. 

Someone in the crowd yelled, “Is this guy for real?!”

Someone else yelled, “Get this man to the VIP!”

The owner still hadn’t come out to play. You were trying to draw him out, but still, there was no interference. It was probably because you weren’t cheating. You were winning, and he needed to fully see that before approaching.

Sixth throw. Seven.

You leaned in. “You’re amazing, baby~”

He smirked. “You already knew that.”

You sipped again, feathers brushing your cheek. The light above the table reflected in your necklace like it belonged in a museum. A reminder that your wealth walking in was borrowed, but this wealth was totally real. 

Seventh and final  throw. Seven.

The table exploded in applause. Cheers rolled across the crowd like thunder across the ocean. The whole damn room was focused on you three now.

Toji raised his arms like a god surveying his congregation. You jumped up and down in your heels, clapping and squealing, laughing so hard your stomach ached.

“Baby! That was so incredible! You’re so amazing!”

Toji turned toward you, the boa around your neck, the drink in your hand, the fire in your eyes. He kissed you again, slow this time. Intentional. Long enough to steal your breath. He was giving you time to glance.

One more win. A machine. Big, stupid, glittering. Another outrageous gamble. 

Slots..

Toji pulled back, eyes narrowed slightly in amusement.

“Where should I go next, sweetheart?” He asked, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Any game in the house. I’ll play it—just for you.”

You bit your bottom lip, tilted your head, eyes dancing over the Vault’s decadence. You pointed toward a row of massive machines.

“Ummmm… what about that? With the lever and the lights and the spinning thingy?”

Toji blinked. “Slots?”

You gasped like it had just clicked. “Yeah! Slots, baby! Do the slot! The big one!”

“My woman has spoken,” Toji spoke loud and cocky.

Shiu didn’t miss a beat as he made sure to collect all the chips won. Fourteen million to be exact.

32 million yen is what he carried now. That’s more than 20x what you started with. The three of you were feeling on top of the world.

As the crowd parted for Toji, people shouting praise, women brushing past to hand him another drink, men slapping his shoulder like he was a God—he walked straight toward the machines with you on his arm and Shiu at his back.

The Vault never saw it coming, and damn it felt sweet. 

People trailed behind you like a parade, the glittering mob of rich drunks and curiosity-drunk gamblers drawn by the heat Toji were kicking off like sparks from a live wire. The man of the hour, the walking myth, the gambler who kissed Lady Luck right on the mouth and found her blessings—Zen’in-sama.

“Baby, baby, you have to let me touch the dice next time~” A woman in a champagne-colored mini dress purred as she wrapped herself a little too close to Toji’s side. Her hand skimmed his chest with the sly greed of a pickpocket. “Or maybe I blow on something else for you, hm?”

Toji grinned. “That depends, sweetheart. You lucky?”

Her laugh was high, practiced. “I’m a Leo baby. I’m very lucky.”

Another woman pressed a martini glass into his free hand and pouted her lips. “You look like the type that needs a cool down after a run like that.”

“Damn, big shot.” Someone else moaned, leaning in so close her cleavage pressed against his arm. “You ever need another cheerleader, you let me know.”

He was entertaining it a little too much. You squeezed his hand. Hard.

He blinked down at you and grinned wider. Then leaned in and kissed you again as if you even wanted that. You just wanted to remind him that you were deep undercover and he couldn’t be flirting right now.

Finally you made it to the slot machine—and what a beast it was.

Obnoxious in every sense. Chrome framing, flashing lights, a huge glowing neon dragon wrapping around the side. Digital fireworks popped across the screen as it cycled through teaser animations of fake jackpots and sparkling wins. It was gaudy. It was perfect.

Toji stopped in front of it and started patting his suit down like he was missing his wallet. “Shiu.”

Shiu was already reaching into his jacket, pulling out a one million yen chip, smooth and black and heavy. Wordless, mechanical. A rhythm they'd done a hundred times before… except this was only the first time in reality.

Before he could make a move, two guards with hard eyes and sharp suits approached.

“Zen’in-sama. The boss would like a word.”

Shiu stopped mid-step. The chip vanished back into his pocket.

The tension changed. Not broken—just tightened. This was what you wanted. You didn’t flinch. You’d seen this. You wanted this.

Toji raised an eyebrow, still relaxed, showman to the end. “Only a word? I can do that.”

People murmured behind you. A few whined in disappointment. 

“C’mon, don’t leave now!” “

Just one spin!” 

“Come back soon~!”

Toji turned toward them and threw a grin over his shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back with more chips.”

He slipped his arm around your waist as the guards gestured you forward. You felt it in the way his fingers splayed slightly, anchoring you to him.

You walked together, flanked by stone-faced security, into the deeper parts of the Vault.

The hallway was long, sleek, silent. Black marble floors, soft recessed lighting, walls dressed in minimalist art and gunmetal gray. It wasn’t scary—but it was secluded. Private. Intentional.

Footsteps echoed ahead—and then, faintly, behind. You didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. The tempo had changed. You were being shadowed now. Surrounded. No exit.

Toji’s fingers tapped against your waist twice. Just once would’ve meant brace. Twice meant stay calm.

The double doors at the end opened without a word, and the guards stepped aside to let you in.

The room wasn’t massive, but it felt expensive—like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. A deep red rug covered the center of the floor. There was a black lacquer desk flanked by elegant leather chairs. A couch sat against the wall beneath a massive koi painting. A fountain murmured softly in the corner. The air smelled like incense and cedar.

Behind the desk, with his hands clasped like he was presiding over a goddamn funeral, was Terada.

Still clean-cut. Still composed. But the patience? Gone.

The door shut behind you with a soft, final click. The air was a knot. Thick. Pressurized. Electric. The kind of tension that made even the fountain in the corner seem too loud.

Terada watched you from behind the desk, his eyes like two black cuts of obsidian. He didn’t blink. “Sit.” He demanded.

Shiu didn’t move. “We’re fine standing.”

Toji’s voice came in low and sharp, like a blade sliding from its sheath. “We’re not your fucking dogs. Don’t tell us to sit.”

Terada’s jaw flexed once. The warning of a man who was used to being obeyed. He leaned back, the leather chair groaning faintly. His fingers drummed once against the polished desk, then stopped.

“What kind of device are you using?” He asked. It wasn’t a question though. It was a demand.

Shiu frowned. “Device?”

Terada’s stare shifted between you three. “Don’t play stupid. Nothing gets past the Vault. Not cameras, not scanners, not frequencies. So what are you using?”

You glanced between the men, pulse spiking.

Shiu’s tone turned cool, measured. “You think we cheated?”

Toji’s laugh was short and humorless. He took a step forward, the sound of his shoe against the carpet loud in the silence.

“If you think we cheated—” His voice began rising. “Then say it to my fucking face!”

Terada didn’t even flinch. “I told you. If you were feds, you’d pay for it in blood.”

Your breath hitched.

Shiu lifted a calming hand, his voice cutting through the air. “If there’s been a misunderstanding, we’re more than happy to clear it.”

Terada’s lips curved slightly—cold, humorless. “Misunderstanding? I made a call to some friends up in Tokyo.”

You felt Toji’s body shift next to you—still, waiting.

Terada continued, “They don’t know you.”

Shiu tilted his head, tone sharpening. “Are you really presuming to tell me you know every single underground player in Tokyo?”

“I have a lot of connections, and not one of them’s heard your names. If you really were heavy hitters from Tokyo, there’d be whispers. Rumors. Something.”

He pulled open a drawer. The sound of it sliding open was like the ripping of paper. When the gun came out—black steel, heavy—you forgot how to breathe.

Your heartbeat spiked so hard it hurt. You hadn’t seen this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The vision hadn’t shown this room, this weapon, this moment.

Your throat went dry.

Toji’s expression didn’t change. Not once. His eyes stayed fixed on Terada, every muscle in his body calm and coiled.

Shiu stepped forward again, “Terada, wait. It doesn’t have to come to this.”

Toji slammed his hand down on the desk so hard the fountain’s surface rippled. “You think that scares me?!”

Immediately, metal clicked—the unmistakable sound of safeties snapping off. Around the room, guards raised their weapons. Cold steel gleamed under soft light.

You froze. The world narrowed. Every breath in your lungs turned to ice. There were too many of them. Too many guns.

You were going to die here.

Toji reached for you—not gently, but fast, urgent—and dragged you closer to Shiu. He didn’t look at you, eyes still locked on Terada. 

His voice dropped, flat and cold. “Get her outta here.”

Shiu’s arm came around you instantly, solid and protective. You could feel something under his jacket—something hard, metal, waiting. He didn’t plan on walking out without taking at least one man with him.

Your knees wanted to buckle.

Terada gave a short, empty laugh. “You don’t have to act like a tough guy in front of your woman. A corpse can’t be impressed.”

Something inside Toji shifted—like glass fracturing under pressure. His hand went for the gun. Faster than you’d ever seen him move. Right before chaos could swallow the room whole—

“Gentlemen, please…” 

A voice slid through the air silky smooth. Controlled. The sound of someone who never had to shout to be obeyed.

“There’s no need for violence.”

Every gun lowered as a man stepped into the room with a walk so calm it felt choreographed.

He was tall, sleek, maybe mid-fifties. His ash-gray Armani suit was razor sharp, tailored so close it moved like skin. Beneath it, a simple black turtleneck, and around his neck—just visible above the collar—a thin diamond necklace, delicate and unapologetic, easily worth three million yen. His hair was neat, combed with precision to the side. His shoes were polished, so clean they could blind. Even his socks were crisp, like he never lived a messy moment in his life.

This was him. This was Yamada’s brother. There was no mistaking it.

Where Yamada looked like he’d fight the sea with his fists, Ryohei looked like he’d drain it with charm and a smile. He was power dressed in poise.

He lifted his hand—small, effortless, but full of command.

Terada stood up instantly, moving out from behind the desk like a child caught red-handed. The guards holstered their weapons and swept out of the room without a word. No hesitation. No questions. Just gone.

It was clear: This man made that gesture a million times, and everyone here had been trained to obey it.

Terada bowed deep, shame coloring his features as he pulled the chair back for his boss.

The true boss sat slowly, crossing one leg over the other. “Forgive my staff.” He spoke in a voice that was rich, velvety, and layered with the kind of warmth that still warned of something sharp underneath. “They tend to forget their manners when money moves too fast.”

He looked at you all with a calm smile. “Please. Call me Yamada Ryohei.”

Your heart was still pounding, adrenaline thick in your blood. 

Shiu hadn’t let go of you still. Even now, even with the danger diffused, his body stayed coiled.

Ryohei snapped his fingers once.

Terada moved quickly to a shelf you hadn’t even noticed—a sleek wooden panel that slid open to reveal an ice chest and a built-in fridge. He retrieved a cut-glass decanter, gently dropped a large circular ice sphere into a pristine tumbler, and poured a stream of dark amber whiskey over it with practiced care.

He placed the glass in front of Ryohei with a bow. “Sir.”

Ryohei stared at it. “Terada, how many people do you see in front of you right now?”

Terada straightened. “Three, sir.”

Ryohei blinked, as if the answer insulted him. “Then why do I only see one drink?”

Terada bowed again. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry.” Ryohei’s tone didn’t rise, didn’t strain—it just got quieter, and somehow that made it worse. “I asked why there’s only one drink in a room with three guests.”

“I wasn’t thinking, boss. I apologize.”

“You weren’t thinking. That’s the answer.” He shook his head like a teacher disappointed in a favorite student. “Go on. Fix it.”

Terada grabbed another two glasses and began repeating the ritual, but when he set one down in front of you, Ryohei gave a small sigh and looked your way.

“You like whiskey?”

You didn’t return to the airheaded voice—but you didn’t show your hand either. You kept your expression mild but pleasant.

“I like the pretty drinks.”

Ryohei smiled. “Of course you do.” He turned to Terada again. “Did you not hear the lady just tell you what she likes to drink?”

“I did hear. I just thought—”

“You thought you’d waste top-shelf whiskey on someone who didn’t ask for it?” Ryohei smiled, but there was no humor. “Go get her what she asked for. Now, Terada.”

Terada bowed once more, face tight, and left the room quickly.

There was a beat of silence. No one moved. The air hadn’t relaxed—it had been replaced. The danger hadn’t gone. It just changed flavors.

Ryohei rolled his eyes and let out a long breath. “Ugh. So hard to find good work around here.”

He looked back at you all. “Please. Have a seat if you so wish. Though I suppose I wouldn’t be offended if you prefer to stand after the shit my staff just pulled.”

None of you moved immediately.

Ryohei’s gaze settled on Toji. “Zen’in-kun. What’s your favorite color?”

You frowned slightly. What the hell kind of question was that?

Toji answered without hesitation. “Black.”

Ryohei nodded like he’d expected that. “Of course. Well, allow me to extend my sincerest apologies in the color black.” He leaned back, swirling his drink once. “What hotel are you staying at?”

Shiu stepped in, voice firm. “You assume we’re staying in a hotel?”

“I don’t assume,” Ryohei shook his head. “I know. No one enters Fukuoka without me knowing it. Everyone’s staying somewhere.”

Shiu didn’t flinch. “Akaishi Garden Hotel.”

Ryohei lifted his glass slightly in approval. “Gorgeous hotel. I’ll have something sent over as an extension of my apology. If you haven’t tried the spa there—you should. Tell them Ryohei sent you. They’ll get you straight.”

The moment shifted again. Something uncoiled in the air.

Toji moved first. He exhaled, reached for your hand, and pulled you gently toward him. Sat down with you beside him, your legs crossed, boa still clinging to your shoulder. So ridiculous for such a situation. 

Shiu stayed standing. Ryohei didn’t press. His eyes scanned each of your faces slowly—like he already knew what came next.

Toji didn’t lean back in his chair, didn’t soften, didn’t play coy. His body was still slightly angled forward—just enough to show he was listening, not enough to show he’d let his guard down.

He tilted his head slightly, voice level. “I thought the boss wasn’t in town.”

“I’m always in and out of town. Saying I’m gone helps weed out the loyal from the traitors.” Ryohei took a long sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking once. 

The gesture was relaxed—but deliberate. He was showing his hand. The drink wasn’t poisoned. No trick. No test. It was goodwill, as pure as it got in a room like this.

“That’s some fine whisky.” He glanced at the drink in his hand. “Aged. Imported straight from Scotland. Highland stuff. Smoky, clean, rare.”

He let the pause stretch before speaking again—and when he did, it rolled out smooth, like his words came out fully formed. The kind of voice that didn’t think before speaking because it didn’t have to.

“I watched the footage, you know. Of you.” His eyes flicked to Toji. “From the moment you walked in. I keep my eye on every new player, but you were different…” He lifted the whiskey again and gestured. “Dressed pretty well. Rented, but well. You move like new money. You act like new money. But what really stood out… was the game.”

He gestured toward the desk, as if the entire vault floor sat behind it. “The dice belong to the house. The roulette wheel belongs to the house. The staff—loyal. Very loyal. And still… you won.” He leaned in, smiling slightly. “You won in a way I’ve never seen.”

He let the silence rest a beat too long. “There’s no device that could turn odds like that. No wireless signal. No hidden piece in your hair, your watch, your dress.” He looked at you briefly, then back to Toji. “Which means you’re either the luckiest bastard I’ve ever seen in my life… or there’s something else.”

You felt Shiu shift just slightly beside you. Preparing to speak, but Ryohei continued before he could. “I can see why Kong-kun would invest in someone like you. Why he’d travel with you. Why he’d protect you. You’re lucky, and your strong. A deadly combination for this business.”

The knock at the door interrupted him. He didn’t flinch. “Enter.”

Terada returned with a silver tray. Centered on it, a tall drink glowed like a tropical mirage—blue at the bottom, then a layer of pink, then orange, then yellow at the top. A tiny parasol leaned into the rim. Like a beach on fire.

He set it gently in front of you. “Miss,” Terada gave a very polite bow. “This drink is called the Shinkai Sunset. Overproof white rum, Blue Curaçao, and coconut cream. Please enjoy.”

You smiled, playing into your easy charm but holding your core steady.

“Aw thanks, Terada-han.”

He bowed again and exited, quick as ever. The door clicked shut behind him.

Ryohei raised an eyebrow. “Han?” He let out a chuckle. “I thought I caught your Kansai-ben earlier. You from Osaka?”

You nodded, keeping the drink in hand. “Yeah. Everyone says the Kansai dialect isn’t attractive, but heck, I can’t tell the difference.”

He laughed—genuinely. “Not attractive? I find the accent very beautiful. Though I’m in the minority.” He looked to Toji and Shiu. “But obviously these gentlemen agree with me. They were willing to risk their lives for you.”

You giggled, playing it right. “My Toji would, yes. But Kong-han is my darling’s shield.”

Ryohei’s grin widened. He lifted his glass toward Shiu. “Quite the loyal companion, aren’t you?”

His voice dropped just a note as he looked back at Toji. “Watch this one around your woman.”

You didn’t respond—but inside your head you were wondering how he even saw that. There was no way he could know about your interest in Shiu. You and Shiu had barely exchanged two real words since you got here.

No eye contact. No hints. Yet—he saw it. Felt it. Ryohei wasn’t smug. He didn’t leer. He simply sipped again and leaned back. “Perhaps I’m projecting. Forgive me for doing so.”

He set the glass down with a quiet clink. “I come from very humble beginnings, you understand? Sometimes I still think I’m that boy from the sticks living in my parents’ shed.”

You blinked. The turn in tone caught you off guard.

“Even among the poor families, mine was the poorest. Very small home. My brother and sister worked the field for food. I worked odd jobs. My parents drove into town every weekend with our welfare money, and my personal earnings. Drank. Partied. Spent everything.”

He looked down into his glass, swirling the amber slowly. “But I knew the simple life wasn’t for me. I never believed that’s all we got. Then one day… some men from Osaka came through our town. Visiting family. Gangsters, maybe. Casino owners. Flashy suits. I didn’t ask them for money. I didn’t ask them for work. I just asked… what they did for a living. That question changed my whole life.”

He leaned forward now, voice low but full of quiet thunder.

“I hatched an idea. I wanted to own a casino. Didn’t have the means, but a woman from Osaka—beautiful, clever—talked me into betting on myself. Told my parents I wanted back everything they owed me. By then, they feared me. I made a name for myself in Akita, so they paid, and I built the Vault with nothing but a promise and a dream.”

He smiled. “Now why am I telling you all this? Because I know you’re fresh. I know you’re new. Not professionals, but you’re hungry. Hunger’s dangerous, because it makes you brave.”

Toji swirled his drink once. Took a sip. “Then what are you saying?”

Ryohei clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’m saying I like you, and we should put all of our shit on the table now… so we don’t start off on the wrong foot. I’ll only ask this once… Who was your reference?”

Shiu spoke without missing a beat. “The reference that sent Zen’in-sama wasn’t just one person. It was a group. People we used to run with in Tokyo.” He kept his posture perfect, unshaken.

Ryohei nodded slowly, swirling the ice in his glass with a quiet clink. “You ran with some heavy hitters up in Tokyo… and they referred you here?” He took another sip. The silence after was long enough to make your grip tighten on your drink. “I won’t fault you for lying. Hell, I even respect you. But Kong-kun…That’s where you’re still a little green in this game.”

Your gut twisted. Shiu didn’t react, not even a blink.

“You’ve got to watch your back at all times,” Ryohei nodded. “You walk into someone’s house? Know whose house it is. Know where the exits are. Know what brand of cigarettes they smoke before you speak.” His smile returned, slow and deadly. “I told you nothing happens in this city without my knowledge. Someday, you’ll understand exactly what that means.”

He raised his glass once more in a quiet salute. “But I do respect you for protecting your real connection. That tells me you’re loyal to the core… And without money? That’s all we really have. Loyalty.”

Toji lifted his whiskey and sipped slow. “You’re gonna ask for something.”

Ryohei leaned back in his chair, graceful and silent. Then lifted his drink to his lips and took a long pull. When he set it down, the warmth in his eyes was gone.

You copied the motion, raising your drink and sipping for something to do. The taste exploded across your tongue—coconut and citrus and a heavy burn beneath it—but you barely tasted a thing. The air in the room had changed.

It wasn’t fear. It was something bigger. Like standing at the edge of a drop, knowing you’ll never hit the bottom.

Ryohei exhaled. “Anyone coming from Tokyo, would never recommend the Tenjin Vault. Not because I’m in bad standing. I’m just not the biggest fish in the pond.”

Toji sat up slightly, eyes sharpening.

“For decades,” Ryohei continued, “there’s been a power struggle between this house—the Vault—and a place called House Arata, down in Kagoshima. The owner’s a relic. Old money. Old ideas. Very sharp, and a thorn in my side.”

Shiu’s brow creased. “So what do you want us to do?”

The shift in Ryohei was instant. Gone was the warmth. Gone was the smooth charm. What stared back now was death in a custom suit. “I want you to put a bullet in him.”

You blinked.

Toji didn’t flinch.

Ryohei leaned forward. “I want Zen’in-kun to bleed the place dry. With the luck I saw in here? You could’ve buried me if you wanted. I watched it happen. That wasn’t luck. That was destruction, and I want it redirected.”

You felt yourself sink back into the velvet seat.

“Drain his vault. Win until the lights flicker. Get him out of his money. Make him lose his ass.”

He tapped the table once. “Then… when the house is on its knees—I need Kong-kun to kill him. No restoration. No comeback.”

Toji crossed his arms slowly. “And what do we get? A reference? Hell no. Shit doesn’t work like that.”

You could barely hear your own breath. You were jumping from lion den to lion den. 

Ryohei didn’t pause. “Eight hundred million yen—cash.”

The number hit the room like a bomb.

Toji’s eyes lit up. “You’re lying.”

Ryohei shook his head. “Easy investment. With that bastard gone, I’ll make it back tenfold. And maybe—” He tilted his glass. “—maybe we keep in touch. Businessmen need partners. Not friends.”

You took another slow sip of your drink. The room felt small now. Thick. The air too heavy to swallow.

Toji looked down into his glass. Then back at Ryohei. “Half now. Half later?”

Ryohei smiled thinly. “All of it when the job’s done.”

Shiu shook his head slowly, his arms still folded but his voice calm. “Then no. We’re not walking into someone else’s snake pit for free.” He didn’t flinch under Ryohei’s gaze. “I understand the payment shouldn’t be given in full upfront, but we don’t move without money.”

Ryohei leaned back into the leather of his chair. He looked… amused. “Alright, tell you what. Let’s do a quarter now, and depending on how fast you get it done… I’ll throw in a ¥100,000,000 bonus for the wait.”

That landed hard. Especially for Toji. He nodded slowly, the ghost of a grin teasing the edge of his mouth. “That sounds like a deal.”

Then he looked to you. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

The moment hung, your drink cool in your hand, condensation against your palm. Toji’s eyes locked on yours, piercing and steady—and as he leaned in, you met him halfway.

A kiss, quick and simple, but long enough for you to see. Your fingers grazed against the back of his neck, and just like that—It hit you.

Your ability flared, and your mind cracked open. No green. No purple. No light. No dark. Just paths. You saw two, sprawling like twin rivers—each leading to different gilded nightmares of power and pleasure. Both draped in wealth. Both dangerous. Neither a failure. One side Tenjin Vault. One side House Arata.

You blinked and it was gone. “I like Yamada-han!” You spoke cheerfully, tipping your glass. “I think it’s a good idea, baby.”

Ryohei raised an eyebrow, and something wry curled at his mouth. “You know…I’m surprised you speak so openly about these things in front of your woman.”

Toji’s hand slid lower on your waist, pulling you close again. “She’s the queen. If you can’t trust your woman, who can you trust?”

Ryohei’s gaze held Toji’s a beat longer, then slowly, deliberately—he reached across the desk.

Toji took his hand.

A single, solid handshake. A contract sealed with silence and blood promised to be spilled.

Ryohei turned to Shiu next and shook his hand with the same quiet weight. Then, finally, he looked to you.

He took your hand, pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “Lovely. Truly lovely.”

Then he exhaled, the businessman slipping back into charm.

“All this talk of assassination and strategy—it’s exhausting.” He stood, brushing imaginary lint from his immaculate jacket. “Allow me to show you a good time in the VIP section.”

He gestured toward the door with a casual flick.

“Bottle service is on me. Drink as much as you like. Eat whatever you want. My chefs can cook anything under the sun. Gamble, dance, enjoy yourselves. There’s more than enough to keep you entertained.”

Shiu didn’t move. “Thank you, but we’ll pass. We should get back to the hotel.”

That was your signal. Everyone was on the same page.

Shiu continued. “If you send me a text message about House Arata, we’ll be able to make preparations immediately.”

Ryohei gave a pleased nod. “I like that response. Let’s swap numbers.”

Phones came out. Contacts exchanged. Quiet efficiency. You said nothing. You didn’t have to. You could feel it humming in the air between all three of you.

It was time to get out of that rat infested motel and swap if for an upgrade. Time to shed the skin of broke scammers and walk like people on the cusp of something big.

Toji grabbed your hand, and without a word, led you toward the door. Shiu followed behind, composed and ready.

As you reached the threshold, Ryohei’s voice called one last time:

“It’s been a long time since I’ve said this…”

You turned to look back.

“…but I look forward to doing business with you.”

He nodded toward the exit.

“Please don’t forget to stop by the cashier cage. You won ¥53,000,000 in my casino. I will also give them a call to send you off with the ¥200,000,000 down payment. You deserve your earnings.”

The three of you had walked in here like peasants, and you were walking out second only to the king. Hard to believe this all started a week ago.

Paradise 21 Motel: 12:01am : Fukuoka

The motel room still smelled like stale sweat and cigarettes. Still filthy. Still disgusting… but none of it mattered now—not the paper-thin walls, the cigarette burns on the curtains, or the cockroach you watched scurry under the minifridge yesterday. Why? Because you were leaving.

The three of you looked way too rich to be here, and now, you were too rich to be here. Still in their tuxedos, and you still in your gown.

Toji zipped up the duffel with a grin that could split a man in two. He tossed a pair of your heels into a plastic bag like they were treasure.

“Still can’t believe this shit.” He spoke, eyes still wide, “¥253,000,000.”

He held up the briefcase, snapped it open. Stacks on stacks. Smelled like the first stair to heaven. You could’ve kissed it.

You leaned over the open case and pecked a few notes dramatically, grinning at Toji as he laughed low in his throat. No sound escaped either of you—Shiu was on the phone—but your joy had no leash. It sparkled off your skin, poured from your fingertips.

You'd walked in dressed like new money and now, standing here on this shitty carpet, you were new money.

Shiu ended the call with the elegance of a man signing a contract instead of just making a reservation. He slipped the phone into his coat, always calm, always calculating.

“Executive suite’s booked. Car’ll be here in five.”

Toji threw his fist into the air in a silent victory cheer. “Fuck yeah! We got this shit. That ten billion’s gonna come faster than I thought.”

You took a long, theatrical inhale and blew out your cheeks, still holding a fat wad of cash in both hands.

“I’ve never even seen this much money before.” You whispered.

With a wicked grin, you strutted across the room to where Shiu was sitting on the arm of the couch. He raised an eyebrow at you. His usual quiet cool, except now there was the faintest twitch of a smile behind it.

You fanned the bills at him like a royal decree. “Is this enough to buy you out, Shiu Kong?”

He didn’t even blink. “Going for the full government official now, huh?” His smirk sharpened, but his voice stayed even. “Yeah. You bought me out—for now.”

You made a face, playful and feigning offense. “Only for now? What’s a girl gotta do to keep your attention?” You teased.

Shiu shifted just slightly—just enough for you to notice. His eyes flicked down, then back up again. He wasn’t the type to get flustered, but he was the type to calculate risk, and right now, he was staring at you like you were a gamble worth taking.

“Putting designer clothes on your body is a nice start.”

You opened your mouth to volley something back—but then you felt it. Toji’s hand snatching the fan of cash right out of yours.

“Alright.” He spoke, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice, “Cut it out. We gotta get to the hotel. The car’s probably outside already.”

You rolled your eyes but grinned. “Fine.” You scooped the last few stacks from the table and dropped them into the case, snapping it shut with finality.

The three of you stood for a moment, staring at the room. Peeling wallpaper. Droopy bed. That awful smell of something long dead beneath the floorboards.

None of you said it out loud, but you all knew you’d never come back here. Not just to this room. To this version of yourselves. Broke. Desperate. Lying through your teeth just to survive. From here on out, everything was tailored suits and black cars. Executive suites and cash couriers.

You didn’t need to see the future to know that. You could feel it. This was the last time you’d ever welcome poverty into your home.

When the three of you left, the rain hadn’t let up. It came down hard. Kind of symbolic, really. Like it was washing the old you away.

You pulled the motel door shut behind you—no keys, no goodbyes, no looking back. Just soaked pavement ahead and a future none of you deserved but were taking anyway.

The van’s engine purred quietly as it idled in the lot outside the motel.

As soon as Shiu saw the rain hit your bare arms, he didn’t hesitate—he slipped his coat from his shoulders and draped it over yours.

You blinked at him. “Thanks…”

He didn’t reply. Just gave the faintest shrug, then opened the door and helped you up into the van with the care of a chauffeur.

The driver glanced back. “Akaishi Garden Hotel, right?”

“That’s right,” Shiu nodded, settling into the front seat with authority.

Toji leaned back beside you, drumming his fingers along the handle of the briefcase in his lap. He cocked his head your way. “You can’t make up your damn mind.”

You turned your head toward him. “About what?”

He smirked, a little mean. “You know what. The way you were kissing me earlier. I don’t know why you’re playing this game.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You kissed me! I don’t know why you just decided to rewrite history in real time! 

“I get it—you wanna deny it cause Shiu’s here—”

You scoff, “Toji, are you fucking for real? I was playing off of YOU!”

“That’s rich coming from the woman who was doing all that extra shit back at the table—”

“Did you want me to say no?! In front of everyone?!”

Even with life changing money at your fingertips, the two of you decided to bicker and be stupid. Only good thing was that it made the drive go by pretty fast.

The driver cleared his throat, very awkwardly as the van pulled up to the curb of the hotel.

As soon as you saw it, both your mouths snapped shut. You were looking at it… The Akaishi Garden Hotel. It was grand. No—grand didn’t even begin to cover it.

Glass and light. A modernist Japanese palace. The entire facade shimmered in the rain, with perfectly trimmed sakura trees in polished stone planters and a koi fountain out front that looked like it cost more than your entire apartment complex.

You let out a gasp you couldn’t stop. “...oh my God.”

Toji nodded. “Damn.”

The driver opened the door on Toji’s side, and he stepped out like it wasn’t a big deal. Then Shiu turned, extended his hand to you as he opened your door. You took it without thinking, grateful for the coat over your shoulders, grateful for how steady his hand felt.

You were hyper aware of where you stood, however so in an instant you pulled back from Shiu. You couldn’t stumble. Not here. You slipped your arm into Toji’s without prompting, and he grinned down at you. Back in character as you all entered.

The lobby was insane. Vaulted ceilings. A full koi pond inside. Bonsai trees arranged like art installations. A wall of softly lit glass shelving holding hundreds of sake bottles behind the reception desk.

It didn’t smell like a hotel. It smelled like money. Like quiet power. The kind of place people with real money go when they want to relax.

Shiu strolled to the counter with all the confidence of a man with seven-figures in play.

“I have a reservation under Kong.”

The receptionist’s face lit up. “We’ve been waiting for you, Kong-sama.”

She typed a few things, then looked back up brightly. “Yamada-sama left a gift for you out front. Were you able to see it?”

You and Toji looked at each other. What?

She smiled. “He said it was for Zen’in-sama. An apology for the mix-up earlier.”

Toji raised a brow. “...the hell did he leave?”

She turned to her coworker. “Can you show them please?”

The young man nodded. “Right this way.”

You and Toji followed him out through the golden lit lobby and back out into the rain. He held a small umbrella above your head like you were someone important.

“Toji-sama.” The employee gestured, “A gift from Yamada-sama.”

You looked. Blinked. “…where is it?”

Toji stepped forward, “Inside the BMW?”

The receptionist chuckled softly. “No, sir. That is the gift.”

Your heart was racing! You just stood there for a second, staring at the midnight-black BMW E63—sleek, luxurious, fresh off a detail. Like your mind couldn’t even register having a car like this.

This was it. This was the moment it all became real. You had money in the briefcase, but you hadn’t bought anything with it yet. It’d only been in your possession for a couple hours. This car—this BMW, was an asset.

Toji nodded like he wasn’t reeling. “Nice. I’ll have to thank him later.”

He then turned to the valet, “Park her for me, will you?”

“Of course, Zen’in-sama.”

You didn’t want to stare at it in awe for too long. You needed to act like you were used to gestures like this even though this was totally uncharted territory for both of you. 

The two of you didn’t waste time, and you’d head back inside. Toji’s hand still in yours. By the way his hand squeezed yours, even just slightly, you knew he was beyond pleased.

Shiu was waiting at the elevators holding the room keys when you two returned.

Shiu didn’t even blink. “Executive suite. Penthouse. Just like I said.”

The elevator dinged. He swiped the black-and-gold card through the sensor, and hit the very top button. The ride was smooth, fast, and silent.

Your reflection in the gold walls looked different. You felt like a somebody. The two men beside you, they felt like somebody.

When the elevator opened, it was just one long hallway with double doors at the end. No other rooms. No signs. Just opulence.

No more roaches. No more creaking motel beds. This was it, and none of you had to say a word. You simply walked, down the hall and swiped the key card.

The door clicked, and the moment it swung open, it wasn’t just a hotel suite. It was a statement.

A soft golden light bathed the marble floors in a glow that seemed designed to make you feel worthy just for standing in it. A step inside and it unfolded like something out of a dream. No, better. Dreams lacked this kind of detail.

The first thing that hit you was the amount of space. The ceilings were high and sculpted with recessed lighting that glimmered like stars. Two floors connected with a smooth spiral staircase made of glass and steel, wide enough for three people to walk side by side. The living room stretched out like a modern temple—plush, low velvet seating in a deep obsidian hue, circling around a coffee table carved from a single slab of smoky black marble.

To the right was a dining room crowned by a crystalline chandelier that dripped light like raindrops. Behind that, a fully stocked kitchen gleamed under ambient under-cabinet lighting, complete with a chef’s knife rack, a brushed-gold faucet, and a sleek double-door fridge.

A wine cellar sat behind glass to the left, temperature-controlled and lit from below, every label turned to face forward in perfect alignment. A full meeting room was tucked discreetly beyond that—oval table, high-backed chairs. In the corner of the suite was an actual office. Desk. Bookshelves. Even a globe bar. There was a massage room, a fully enclosed space with soft music playing through a speaker you couldn’t see, and white linen folded like it had never known wrinkles.

Then there were the bedrooms. Four of them. Each with its own bathroom. The lights were dimmed in a way that felt automatic, like the room was adjusting to your presence. King-size beds with high thread count sheets, accent walls in moody navy and deep gray, floor-to-ceiling curtains that moved softly even when there was no wind.

All of the windows wrapped around everything, and the view was the best part.

You stepped toward the largest window in the main room and the city opened up below like a painting. The skyline glittered like jewelry, Fukuoka Tower a glowing monument on the left, and the sea was straight ahead. Dark as ink with the last traces of moonlight bouncing over the waves. To the right, the city breathed—streets, headlights, lives. A moving mosaic of dreams and secrets.

It stole your breath.

Toji had already vanished upstairs, his heavy footsteps thudding across the floors above. You heard him flop onto a mattress, then another, testing them like he was buying a damn trampoline. 

You smiled, but you didn’t follow. Something pulled you in the opposite direction. Something quieter. Subtler.

You turned and found Shiu, half-obscured by a tall potted plant, standing on the balcony with the glass door pulled open behind him. The breeze made the curtains billow like slow motion waves. He was leaning against the railing, still in his dress shirt, the coat he’d given you earlier still around your shoulders. He hadn’t said a word since you got in.

You walked toward him, quiet steps on the tile. The scent of rain clung to the wind. The air was cooler now. You slipped out into it, drawing his jacket tighter around you.

Your hand found his back, a soft press between his shoulder blades. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m just taking it all in.” He spoke like he’d known you were coming.

You leaned sideways against the railing to face him, arm grazing his lightly. “You’re not, though. You didn’t even look upstairs.”

He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled into the night sky. “Didn’t expect it to happen this fast.” He murmured. “Less than a week ago Zen’in was going to kill you for chump change. Now we’re here.” His voice sounded flat with disbelief. “Executive suite. Top floor. Millions in hand. I couldn’t have imagined this in my wildest dreams.”

You nodded slowly, eyes half on him, half on the sea. “I know. Makes me wonder how far we’ll go. Ten billion was the deal… but what if it’s not the ceiling?”

He looked over at you then, and it wasn’t like before. Not guarded. Not professional. Something cracked open in his expression, and you saw a glimpse of the man who dreamed bigger than he dared speak aloud. Something in your words must have reached him, stirred something he hadn’t planned to feel.

“I don’t want to stay in hotels.” He shook his head. “This is beautiful, but imagine owning a place like this. No check-ins. No borrowed luxury. I want my name on a deed.”

You looked at him, really looked—his sharp jaw, the way his hair moved in the breeze, the glow of the city lighting half his face. “I can do that for you, Shiu.”

His lips curved. Not smug. Not cocky. Soft. Like the idea hit him where it hurt most: somewhere between desire and disbelief.

He turned back to the city and took another drag. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

You laughed, breath fogging the air just a bit. “Well, it’s not called trying if it’s working.”

He exhaled through his nose, amused but silent. The moment hung between you, heavy and fragile. The kind of moment you don’t touch too roughly, or it might disappear.

Rain began to trickle down again. Just mist, barely there—but enough to glisten on the glass. You felt it on your cheeks, cool and cleansing. The breeze picked up, tugging at your hair.

“I’m gonna go fight Toji over a bed.” You stepped back slowly with your hand lingering on his arm. “Come in soon. Don’t want you to get a cold.”

You left him there on the balcony with the city stretching endlessly before him. He didn’t turn as you walked away, but as you crossed the threshold and slid the glass door closed behind you, you didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you.

The soft hush of your footsteps on the marble stairs was almost inaudible against the gentle drum of rain coming down. You traced your hand along the glass and steel railing as you ascended the curve of the staircase.

Luxury looked different from up here—more private, more intoxicating. You padded across the upper floor barefoot, soaking in every open door, every glimpse of silk sheets and tasteful decor. The whole place looked like it was meant for Gods, but the room you were searching for wasn’t facing the sea.

You found him in the last one at the end of the hall—Toji. The door was cracked open just enough to let the city lights spill in, and when you peeked inside, there he was.

Not sprawled out across the bed like a king in a drunken mood. Not testing springs with playful irreverence like he had downstairs. No. He was seated at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows at the distant glow of Fukuoka Tower. The neon shimmer cast faint reflections across his face.

The light caught something else too—quiet in his eyes. The storm inside him was brewing.

“Hey, boyfriend.” You spoke in a flat, teasing tone.

He didn’t turn. “You good?”

No answer at first. Not really silence either. Just... waiting. You walked fully into the room and climbed onto the bed, draping yourself over his back like a warm, familiar weight. He didn’t flinch. You wrapped your arms under his, over his chest, cheek against the curve of his shoulder blade. A human sweater. A living tether.

“Whatcha thinkin about?”

“I know you activated when we were in there.” Toji continued. “What did you see?”

One arm kept tight around his chest, the other moved up to touch his cheek. From this angle however, you were only able to connect your fingertips with his jaw. It was enough though, and the moment your skin touched his, you felt it flood back in—but clearer this time.

Paths. So many of them. Branching, looping, coiling like veins of possibility through time itself. Each one anchored by a single point, an iron root sunk deep into soil that reeked of blood, tradition, and power.

Your breath hitched. “House Arata’s going to be an anchor point.”

Toji exhaled through his nose and tilted his head slightly, leaning into your touch. His muscles, usually coiled, melted beneath you.

“What does that mean?” He asked.

You kept your touch light, focused. Your fingers grazed  along his jaw, down his neck, grounding yourself in him.

“It means there are multiple ways this can go. Multiple... futures—and they all hinge on what we do there. It’s not just a job.”

He turned his head a bit, not enough to see you, but to get the spirit of it. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “The boss of House Arata... he’s not just some pit boss or thug in a suit. He’s part of a major yakuza family. Big enough to stir water all across all of Kyushu. And if we kill him? The ripples won’t stop at the house.”

Toji’s voice dropped a notch. “So what—you’re saying it’s gonna come back on us?”

You let your hands slip from his neck, but you didn’t move away. Instead, you moved up to rest your chin on his shoulder, still draped over him like a cloak.

“I’m saying it won’t be as clean as we thought. We’ll need to stay in Kagoshima longer than we were here. Build something. Pull threads. Gain the boss’s trust if we want to make it out alive with what we came for. Ryohei gave us a gold mine in the middle of a war zone.”

“I’m not sitting in any more offices having a conversation about favors. We did it with Yamada, we did it with Ryohei. The chain of favors stops at two.” You shake your head, “You won’t have to. From what I see in House Arata it’s not all about gambling this time.”

Toji smirked, and you felt the edge of it against your cheek. “Interesting.”

He didn’t sound afraid. Not even close. He sounded like he was ready.

You leaned your forehead against the side of his neck, breathing him in. The scent of him.

“We’ll make it. I saw the riches. I saw the options. Just have to make the right moves.”

Toji’s voice was almost a whisper. “Then I’ll follow your lead.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The lights of Fukuoka Tower blinked silently in the distance like a lighthouse keeping watch. The storm outside thickened just slightly—distant thunder rolling low across the sea.

A storm was coming, but in that bed, in that quiet moment, with your body wrapped around his, it felt like the calm before it… and you knew that this was only the beginning.

[softcursechoso]

Somewhere, We Do: Ch. 12

JJK x Reader Nanami x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI! // 18+ // NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS!

Ch. 12 Warnings: None! Just more angst with a little happy!

Words: 12.8k+

TIME APART

Office : 1:25pm : Shinjuku

The cursor on your screen blinks at you like it knows. Like it knows you’ve read the same email draft seventeen times without absorbing a single word. The HR floor has its usual weekday static—phones ringing, keyboards clattering, muffled laughter from the payroll team—but it all feels distant and muffled, like you’re underwater. The fluorescent lights above you buzz faintly, drilling into your skull. Your eyes burn. You tell yourself it’s the overhead glare, not the tears welling at the corners.

Two days. It’s only been two days since Kanzaki’s lips touched Nanami’s and everything you thought was steady, safe, and unshakable had cracked like cheap porcelain. You keep repeating the facts like a mantra—he didn’t want it, he pushed her away, he reported her. 

None of that mattered, not really. What mattered is everything that led up. The way she sat on his desk with her perfect hair and smug smile, the way he let the teasing and the coffee runs and the pet names slide until suddenly she thought she had permission. What mattered is that you asked him to draw the line and he didn’t—not until it was too late.

Your hand tightens on the mouse. You tell yourself you’ll make it through the day, that you’ll drown yourself in HR reports and performance reviews until the ache numbs.. but the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen. It only grows tighter.

“Babe,” Kaya’s voice is softer than usual, stripped of her usual razored humor. She’s leaning against the edge of your desk, arms crossed, her golden curls catching the stale light, eyes narrowed at you in a way that sees too much. “You need to take a break.”

You don’t even look up from the empty spreadsheet. “I’m fine.”

Her laugh is humorless. “You’re two blinks away from crying all over your keyboard. That’s not fine.”

Before you can roll your eyes, the door to HR creaks open. The sound slices through the room, as you weren’t expecting anyone to come in unannounced. 

Your body betrays you instantly as you look up. Breath ceased, muscles rigid, skin prickling like the room just dropped ten degrees. The very last person you ever wanted in this room… Reika Kanzaki.

She doesn’t look like the bombshell who’s been haunting you for months. Today she’s stripped down—no designer heels, no blinding lipstick, just a plain blouse, soft makeup, hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck. Respectfully downplayed. The kind of look people wear when they want to be taken seriously.

“Sorry for the intrusion.” She bows her head, hands clasped in front of her. Even her voice is muted, not the sweet chirp you’ve heard floating from Nanami’s office when she tells one of her stupid inside jokes.

You freeze in your chair, throat dry. Kaya shifts closer to you, silent backup.

Reika steps forward, sets a phone on your desk. A sticky note is attached. “I’m here to relinquish my phone for the investigation. You have full permission to go through my emails, my texts, everything. My password’s there on the back.” Her eyes look down, then up again. For once, there’s no smugness. “I’m really sorry it had to come to this.”

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You stand, legs unsteady, fingers already extending toward the phone. 

“Thank you, Ms. Kanzaki.” You nod, voice stiff and formal. You don’t trust yourself to let any emotion bleed through. “We’ll take this into full consideration for the investigation.”

She nods once, solemn, then turns and slips out the door, closing it gently behind her.

The silence that follows crushes you. The click of the latch echoes, too loud, too final. The phone in your hand burns. You can barely breathe.

You break. A silent sob tears through you before you can stop it. Your knees buckle back into the chair, tears spilling down your face, hot and unrelenting.

“Dammit!” The word rips from your throat. You slam the phone down on the desk and clutch your hair, shoulders shaking. “I can’t—I can’t do this. If she’s giving up her phone willingly, that means there’s something in there she wants me to see. I’ve tolerated so much these past few months, but this—” Your voice cracks. “I’m not strong enough for this.”

Kaya doesn’t flinch. She scoots closer and rubs a firm, steady circle against your back. No jokes. No smart remarks. Just warmth. Just her.

 “Listen to me.” Her strong voice is anchoring you against the storm. “You need to go on break, and I don’t mean ten minutes to cry in the bathroom. I mean a few weeks. Stress leave. I’ll take over the investigation. I’ll file all the paperwork for your leave. You don’t have to lift a finger.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “I can’t just—”

“You can.” Kaya cuts in, sharper now, firm enough to make you look at her through blurry eyes. Her blonde curls frame her fierce expression, her gaze blazing with the kind of loyalty that has carried you through everything. “You can, and you will, because I’m not about to watch you kill yourself trying to keep it together in this hellhole. You’re hurting, and I don’t wanna see you like this anymore.”

Her hand presses more firmly against your back, steadying you like she’s pinning you all of your pain down. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you. Let me handle this.”

Your chest heaves, broken sobs escaping as you nod. The fight drains out of you, leaving only exhaustion. “Okay.” You whisper hoarsely. “Thank you.”

You pack your bag with trembling hands, each motion stiff: phone, wallet, badge, pen. Kaya watches you the whole time. You force a steady inhale, wipe the last of your tears with your sleeve, and stand.

“Thank you,” you murmur, voice raw. She doesn’t answer with words, just nods, eyes fierce, unwavering.

You steel your face into a mask—stone-cold, unreadable—and walk toward the elevators. Each step feels like pushing through molasses, the weight of Kanzaki’s phone still burning as if it’s in your hand. 

You press the button for the ground floor. The silver doors glide shut, and you lean against the wall, closing your eyes. 

Just get through the lobby. Just get to the street.

The elevator dings. The doors open… and of course as luck would have it—there he is.

Your Nanami. His tall frame in a black coat, tie loosened just slightly at the throat. His hair neat as always, though a touch out of place like he’d run a hand through it on the way over. 

In one hand he carried a white paper bag spotted with grease marks, steam still faintly curling from the top. His eyes light up when they land on you—warm and achingly familiar.

“My love.” He breathes, stepping forward, the bag lifting slightly as if it were an offering. “I just bought you—”

“No.” The words escape harshly. You raise your hand sharply, stopping him mid-step. “I can’t, Kento.”

The look on his face—confusion, pain—twists your gut, but you hold your ground.

“Wait.” He speaks quickly, almost desperately, setting the bag on the small lobby table behind him like it no longer matters. His voice is steady but edged with something that unnerves you, something pleading. “Please. Just lend me ten minutes of your time. That’s all I ask. Please. Give me a chance.”

Every cell in your body screams no. To walk past him. To leave the building and not look back. To scream until your throat shreds—but your hand slips into your coat pocket instead. You pull out your phone, thumb tapping the screen until the countdown glows back at you: 10:00.

The alarm is set. “You have exactly ten minutes. So make it count.”

Relief softens his shoulders, though the tension in his jaw remains. “I understand. Thank you.”

He gestures toward the glass doors just off the lobby. “Can we talk in the atrium?”

You glance over. The enclosed space sits like an artificial oasis carved into the heart of the building. Large glass panes wrap around it, etched with faint frosting so light floods through as though from some false sky above. Inside, leafy plants in tall pots stand like silent witnesses. Benches of polished wood curve around square patches of stone and soil where ferns droop gently. A manufactured serenity.

You shrug, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “I don’t care.”

He nods once, grim, and opens the door for you. The scent of damp earth and synthetic pine cleaner greets you as you step inside. The hush is immediate, the chaos is muffled into silence by the sealed glass walls. The air is warm, humid almost, the false light above giving everything a soft golden tint that doesn’t quite touch the cold place in your chest.

Nanami follows you in, his shoes soundless on the tiled floor. He stops a few feet away, hands curling at his sides, his gaze locked on you as though searching for a version of you he can still reach.

You keep your arms crossed, your back straight, the countdown ticking in your pocket. Your pulse is loud in your ears, your throat tight. You don’t want to hear whatever he has to say, but you’re here, trapped in the manufactured sunlight of this glass cage, bracing yourself against the man you still love—the man who hurt you without meaning to.

You take the bench closest to the door, sitting stiffly. The mask of composure on your face feels brittle. You’re but a single word away from cracking. You never thought it would be like this with Nanami—sitting apart from him, armored and cold, counting down the minutes until you can escape.

Nanami sits beside you, careful to leave a polite gap of space. He unscrews the cap of a water bottle, the plastic crinkling under his fingers. 

“Are you thirsty?” He asks quietly. His voice is soft, almost tentative. “Or hungry? I have tea, too. I bought—”

“Stop.” You cut him off sharply, not even looking at him. “You haven’t been buying lunch for me for the past few weeks, so I don’t want it now.” You turn your head and meet his eyes. “What do you want to say to me, Kento?”

He swallows, screws the cap back on the bottle. “I wanted to say… that I’m sorry.”

Your laugh is a dry, bitter sound. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”

“I—”

“No,” you snap, cutting him off again. “Don’t give me a blanket apology. Kento, you acted exactly how you wanted to in this situation. How can you apologize when you had so many other options and you still chose the one that led to this? I don’t accept your apology unless you say what it’s really for. Go on.”

He exhales, slow, shoulders rising and falling as if the weight of your words sits there. “I’m so sorry for ever putting you in this position. For betraying your trust.”

You shake your head, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “No, you’re not. You aren’t sorry for that or you wouldn’t have done it. Again, you acted how you wanted. You’re sorry because of what now? Because things didn’t pan out the way you wanted? Is that why you’re sorry? Because you got caught up in something totally avoidable? Or is it because you feel like you have to apologize to smooth things over?” Your voice cracks. “What are you really sorry for? Because it’s clearly not your actions that led you here.”

He pauses, the silence stretching between you like a rope about to snap. “I am sorry for my actions. For my blindness. For my dedication to this job over us. I didn’t see how it was affecting you, and I should have. I should have listened.”

Your jaw clenches. “You know Kanzaki relinquished her phone today?”

His brows knit. “No. I didn’t know that.”

You nod, biting down on the tremor in your voice. “Yup. Just a few minutes ago. Kento, if there’s anything that you think I should know about you and Kanzaki, you should tell me now. Because if I find out the hard way, this will be the end of us.” The tears are there now, slipping free even as you try to hold them back.

He’s unnaturally quiet. His gaze drops to the floor, jaw working. The silence is a blade.

“What the fuck?” You whisper. “You’re quiet like there’s something you wanted to hide.”

He looks up at you finally, eyes wide, almost pleading. “There’s nothing that I’d be afraid to show you. You can go through my phone right now.”

“I’m not going through your phone!” You snap, voice breaking. “I’m not that kind of woman and I never have been. I want you to tell me. Look me in the eyes and tell me.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Nothing happened between Kanzaki and I. Though… in the investigation there may be some things that get a bit convoluted.”

Your stomach drops. “Convoluted like what?”

He exhales, shoulders slumping. “I’ve requested her help on certain accounts after hours. We’ve gone to dinner with clients on a few occasions—but nothing that crosses any boundaries.”

You stand up, fists trembling. “Your boundaries, Kento. Nothing that crosses your boundaries. That’s the problem. That’s the whole fucking problem!” Your voice ricochets off the glass walls. “You feel like my boundaries aren’t real. They aren’t to be taken seriously, so you crossed them! You let this bitch tangle herself in our lives and now I have to deal with it professionally!”

He stands too, hands half-raised as if to reach for you but not daring. “I didn’t mean for any of this—”

“I am humiliated by all of this!” You cry, tears streaming freely now. “My entire fucking team knows about this! They know you’re my boyfriend! They know who Kanzaki is—or rather, who she was back in Osaka! I begged you not to do this! I told you how this would go, but you didn’t give a shit about how I feel!”

“I did—”

“No!” You shout, voice cracking, raw. “I’d love to say you didn’t listen, but you heard me loud and clear, Kento. You just didn’t care! You didn’t CARE! I don’t want to be in a relationship like this. I don’t, Kento. I don’t. I will never play second fiddle to anyone or anything. Not a job! Not a woman! Not a motive. NEVER!”

The fake sunlight overhead casts soft gold across the zen garden, making the sand glow as if it were actually warm. A tiny breeze from the hidden fans stirs the leaves of the bonsai trees; even they seem perfectly arranged, incapable of chaos. You feel like you’re going to crack in half under the weight of this perfect, artificial peace.

Your voice breaks into a whisper. “Maybe it’s me.” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “Maybe I’m the issue. Maybe I am the fucking problem.” The words scrape raw out of your throat. “There has to be a reason for all of this. A reason that every man in my life turns on me. Why my last boyfriend cheated on me, or the one before him just wanted to use me. Why every time I think I’ve found something solid, it crumbles.”

You turn your back to him, wrapping your arms around yourself as if you’re trying to hold your ribs in place. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“My love—” Nanami’s voice is low, breaking, as he steps toward you. “Please. I never meant to jeopardize us. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything, and I need you to know that I am so sorry for all of this. It’s not you. It never was.”

You step back, palms out. “I really can’t do this, Kento. I can’t get hurt anymore.” Your voice rises, trembling with a note of hysteria you can’t quite swallow. “Am I that hard to respect? Am I that hard to love? I just want peace.” Tears streak your cheeks, hot and relentless. “I thought leaving Jujutsu behind would bring that to me, but it didn’t. I’m more miserable than I’ve ever been.”

Your knees give out and you sink to the floor, palms pressed to the cold tile, head bowed. For a second it feels like Kyoto again—blood in your mouth, heartbreak so heavy it feels like a curse of its own. Memories you never speak aloud—hands that once steadied you, a voice that promised change and instead dragged you to the edge—slide at the corners of your mind. You don’t name him. You don’t even let yourself see his face. But the echo is there: you trusted, and you were used. Again and again.

Nanami kneels down in front of you, his tall frame folding until his knees touch the tile. He hesitates only a heartbeat before his arms come around you, gathering you in gently. “None of that is true. You deserve love. You deserve respect. This is all my fault. I should never have let it get this far.” His fingers brush your hair back from your wet cheeks, careful. “It will haunt me every day that I ever brought you to this point.”

You shake your head weakly. “Kento…”

“Kanzaki Reika means nothing.” He speaks firmer now, eyes locked to yours. “She never has. I spent late nights at the office, and I was dishonest by omission. I was working hard so we could build something together. So I could give you a future worth your sacrifices. You were always on my mind in that office.” His voice cracks. “But what does all of that mean if the thing I was building toward isn’t there? The person. The woman I love so much.”

His words cut deep, splitting you open in ways you didn’t expect. You know he’s a good man. A great man. Nearly perfect, steady where you are chaos, kindness where the world has been cruel. But the ache in your chest doesn’t ease.

“It all sounds great,” you whisper. You push gently against his chest until there’s space between you, until his hands fall back to his thighs. You wipe at your eyes with trembling fingers. “It really does. It sounds like a dream I’m being sold. But you’ve lost so much trust with me, Kento. What happens when the next person who can make you a lot of money shows up? Do you abandon me? Do you stay late and make excuses that you’re doing it for us? How can I know you won’t?”

Nanami’s eyes glisten. “Because I love you. Because I won’t survive losing you—so I have to change.”

You shake your head, voice breaking. “I can’t keep betting on love and coming up short, Kento. I can’t. It hurts.” Tears slip down your jaw, drop onto your knuckles. “You hurt me with this, and I don’t know how to move on. I don’t…” Your chest heaves. “I don’t trust you.”

The words hang there. The bonsai trees don’t move. The sand in the zen garden stays perfectly untouched while you unravel on the floor.

Nanami closes his eyes. His lips move, but no sound comes out at first—only a shuddered exhale. “I don’t want to be the man who broke you. Not when it was my job to protect you.”

“Kento, you are a good person. I know that. Everyone knows that.” Your hands twist together in your lap. “But maybe you’re not ready for a meaningful relationship. Maybe you’re not ready to balance work and love. You bit off more than you can chew, and when push came to shove, you chose work.” You swallow. “So I’m gonna let you sit with that. Not to punish you, but to heal myself.”

He looks like you’ve slapped him. His lips part, but no words come out right away. His fingers twitch against his thighs like he doesn’t know where to put his hands.

“You unearthed some old wounds with this behavior,” you continue, your voice shaking but steady enough to keep going. “You didn’t tell me when Kanzaki started. You didn’t tell me about the late nights and secret dinners. You didn’t tell me about the shared accounts. You made me feel like my boundaries were optional.” A tear slips down your cheek; you don’t wipe it. “And you made her feel like she was much more important than you claim.”

Nanami’s jaw trembles. “That’s not what I—”

“I love you,” you cut in, eyes locking onto his, “more than I can even express—and that’s why it hurts so badly. You prioritized me when I was still a prize to win. Before the relationship was fully secure. But after that…” You draw a shaky breath. “After that, it felt like you remembered your real priority was money.”

Nanami’s head drops forward like he’s been hit. “My love—”

“I don’t want to be in the way of your goals. I don’t want to be the thing that holds you back, because then you’ll resent me, and I don’t want that. You have the power to do anything, Kento, and I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines…” You bite your lip until it hurts. “…but not as runner up.”

His eyes lift to yours and you see fear there. Actual fear. “Please, my love.” He reaches for your hands but stops himself short. “Don’t do this. I don’t want this to be what ends us. I never thought—” He swallows hard. “I never thought this would even be an option. Not with you.”

You smile, watery and broken. Tears are streaming freely now but your voice stays soft. “I just want the best for you. I want to see you go far, and maybe it was selfish of me to ever try to place myself on par with your goals to begin with.”

“Selfish?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You are the goal.”

You close your eyes, the tears burning. “It’s best we take a step back. Take some time apart.”

His hands twitch again, fists curling and uncurling. “No. Please. Don’t say that. I don’t want us to end.”

You open your eyes and force yourself to look at him. “I say this without a shred of irony or sarcasm,” you murmur. “Do as you please, Kento. Stay late. Let Kanzaki touch you. Have dinner with her and all the clients you want. Whatever it is that makes you the happiest, please do it. I won’t be a barrier in your way anymore.”

Something inside him breaks. He lunges forward, hands gripping your waist, fingers trembling. “Wait, don’t go.” He pleads, voice ragged. “Not like this. Please. I’ll fix it, I’ll do whatever it takes—just please don’t walk away. I don’t want to live without you.”

Your heart twists so violently you think you might actually vomit. You lay your hands gently over his and, with aching slowness, pry them free. “Please let go of me, Kento.”

He looks up at you, eyes glassy, mouth opening as if to argue, but no words come.

You stand, tears still streaming down your face, and smooth your skirt with trembling fingers. “I don’t want to break up with you. I love you so much my heart feels like it’s going to explode.” You take a shuddering breath. “But you need to know what life feels like without me in it. If money really is your number one, then you need to choose it with your whole chest. Be sure. I’m eliminating myself from the equation so you don’t have any doubts about what it really means to you.”

You turn and walk toward the door. The sound of your heels on the tile echo in the false twilight of the atrium. You don’t look back. You can’t.

Behind you, Nanami stands alone in the golden light, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, as if the entire world he built just collapsed around him.

Damn, why did it have to end like this?

Home : 3:13pm : Otsuka

The sun had cast a warm hue across the walls of your apartment, the kind of softness that made you feel at ease… somewhat. Your living room was small but cozy. Atop your coffee table is where two mugs of half-finished chamomile tea rested beside a half-devoured tube of raw cookie dough.

It’d been nearly three weeks since your conversation with Nanami, and unfortunately, that was the last time you’d spoken with him. It wasn’t the last time he attempted to speak with you though. He’d sent you multiple texts. Tried to call a few times… you hadn’t replied to any of it.

The thick, off white crocheted blanket wrapped around you was soft and heavy. It was the same one you'd spent entire nights buried beneath, crying until you couldn’t breathe. But today it was a different kind of warmth. Comfort instead of sorrow.

You sat tucked into the corner of your couch, silk pajama set slightly wrinkled, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, legs pulled beneath you. A low, easy giggle slipped past your lips, and for once it wasn’t cracked or bitter—it felt real.

Across from you, Kaya was in full springtime goddess mode. Her sundress hugged her frame in all the right places—something yellow and flouncy with little white florals. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, toes wiggling in the fuzzy white guest slippers you kept near the door. Her curly bun was perched high on her head, flawless as always, though a few curls had started to slip free from how animated she’d been today.

Currently she was waving the tube of cookie dough around like a prop as she caught you up on some work gossip.

“So we had this office barbecue, and I shit you not, they had a whole-ass barbecue pit inside the building. Inside bitch! Like meat sizzling and everything!”

You gasped, laugh already forming. “Wait—inside? Like in the actual building? Not the roof or something?”

“IN-SIDE!” She cackled, taking a bite straight from the tube before pointing it at you like a conductor’s baton. “Apparently it’s some new apartment-sized indoor barbecue grill. I didn’t even know they made that shit. Everyone lining up for brisket, and I’m over here breathing in mesquite fumes thinking I’m about to die at work.”

You snorted, eyes crinkling. “You can literally die from that kind of smoke exposure!”

“That’s what I said!” Kaya’s voice pitched high in mock horror. “Like did y’all know smoke inhalation is a real-ass cause of death?! But shit, they said it was safe so I grabbed a plate.” She shrugged.

You burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that made your stomach ache and your face hurt.

Kaya smirked at you over her cookie dough sleeve. “There it is. I was starting to wonder if you’d ever laugh without looking like your soul left your body halfway through.”

You smirked, pulling the blanket higher under your chin. “Yeah, yeah… I guess I’m getting there.”

She leaned back, adjusting her dress and sighing dramatically. “I mean, it’s been what? Three weeks since the big Kento break-up bomb?”

“Nineteen days…” You frown at your own words, “Wow. Okay. I need help.”

Kaya gave you a knowing look and took another bite of dough. “No, you need therapy. But until then, you got me.”

You snorted again, shaking your head. “God, you’re a menace.”

“But I’m your menace…” She leaned in a bit, “Now spill—are we still ignoring his texts?”

You hesitated, staring at your tea like it might have answers. “Yeah… I just—I needed to make space. To see if he even wanted to fill it. I told him I didn’t want to be in the way of his goals, and I meant that. I still mean it.”

Kaya nodded, more solemn now, her voice softer. “I get that. You didn’t walk away to be petty. You walked away because you had to.”

You rubbed your fingers together beneath the blanket, thinking. “He was working so hard. Always chasing something. But it was like… the second he felt safe with me, I stopped being a priority. That’s what hurt the most. Not the dinners. Not even Reika, really. Just… how optional I started to feel.”

“That man fumbled hard,” Kaya muttered, shaking her head. “You gave him every chance.”

“I loved him so much,” you whispered. “Still do. But I can’t sit there and play second to spreadsheets and KPIs. I can’t beg someone to see me when I’m already standing in front of them.”

Kaya looked at you with that rare, serious softness. “You know what I love about you? You walked away from something you wanted so badly, just to protect your peace. That shit’s powerful. You didn’t go full crazy. You didn’t set his car on fire. You just… stepped back.”

You chuckled. “I still wanna set his car on fire. He had that bitch in my seat!”

“Mhm, but look at you—curled up in silk PJs, letting me bring scandalous office gossip into your sacred heartbreak cave.”

You leaned your head back against the couch, watching the ceiling. “I’m trying to be okay.”

“You are okay. You’re healing. That’s what this looks like.”

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Eventually, Kaya nudged your foot with hers. “So… reunion’s next weekend. You thinking seal on or seal off?”

You let out a breath. “God, I don’t even know.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I’ll be right there with you—snatched, unhinged, and ready to watch a certain stockbroker’s soul leave his body when he sees you walk in.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again. It was smaller this time, but real.

She smirked, then tilted her head, eyes softening. “I wasn’t gonna bring it up but… since we’re on the topic—Nanami stopped by the HR office a few days ago.”

Your heart stalled. It was small—just a muscle twitch, but it was there. You lowered the blanket slightly. “Looking for me?”

“Yeah.” Kaya’s voice lost its dramatic lilt, grounding itself. “He didn’t make a big scene. Just asked if you’d been around. I wanted to tear into this man so BAD, girl. I was loaded. Ready to roast him into another tax bracket.”

You sighed, staring down at the knit pattern in your lap. “That’s not what I would want. He’s not a bad person, Kaya.”

“I know, but that’s not even what stopped me.” She shook her head. “I don’t give a shit if he was a three-time Nobel Peace Prize winner. Fuck that. If you mess with my best friend, you mess with me. Period.”

“…But?”

Kaya’s face changed. The shift was subtle but unmistakable—her usual fire dimming, something quiet creeping into her tone. “…But, he looked like a dead man walking.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it. Dark circles under his eyes. His suit was still crisp as hell—Nanami’s never gonna look dishevled—but he looked heavy in it, you know? Like the suit was wearing him. Just a shell of a man searching for his soul. That shit was eerie.” She looked down at the cookie dough in her lap, quieter now. “I’ve never felt bad for any of my friends’ exes. Never. But Nanami? I felt bad for him.”

Your heart twisted. It didn’t snap, didn’t shatter—just twisted, slowly, like someone wringing out a towel soaked with old grief.

“It hurts to know he’s hurting, but that’s also the path he chose. He wanted money to pick up his dry cleaning. He wanted money to lie beside him at night. To say it loved him. To make him dinner. To spoon with him. I just didn’t want to get in the way of that.”

Kaya sighed. “Girl, you’re too good for this world.”

You gave a small laugh, trying to shake off the ache in your ribs.

Then she perked up suddenly, that mischievous glint returning. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—Kusakabe texted me, like, two days after the festival.”

You froze. “Wait… what?”

“You know how all the reunion people are in a giant sorcerer group chat? This slick fuck used that thread to reach out to me directly so he could ask about you.”

“Oh my God.” You buried your face into the blanket immediately.

“Don’t you dare hide!” Kaya lunged over the couch like a lioness and ripped the blanket off you. “No, bitch, I need to see you! We’re talking!”

You squealed, laughing as you tried to fend her off. “You’re unhinged!”

“And you’re blushing!” She countered, wagging the cookie dough at you like an accusation. “When you said you and Kusakabe had chemistry, I didn’t think you meant fucking covalent bonds, bitch! That shit was hard to watch!”

“Oh my God, Kaya!” You howled, face burning. “It’s so not like that! He’s cool, but it’s not—stop…” You paused, hesitant. “But what did he say?”

She smirked like she’d been waiting for that. “He just asked if you were okay. Wanted to know if you needed anything. If he could help.” She bit into the cookie dough dramatically. “I was like, ‘sir, you can help by never texting me again.’”

You gasped. “You did not.”

“No,” she laughed. “I didn’t. I told him you were strong. Just going through a rough patch. But that I’d take care of you.”

You swallowed hard. “That was sweet of you.”

“He asked if it was okay to send me some flowers to send to you.” She’d shake her head, “I said no. I should’ve said yes, just to see his flower taste, but I didn’t want to put you in that position. That’s so awkward.”

Your smile turned soft. “He’s a good guy.”

Kaya grinned. “So go on a date with him! Fuck, it’s been three weeks! I know you love Nanami or whatever, but you need to love your peace.”

You shook your head, voice low. “That’s just too close to home. I can’t think of dating—not even one more Jujutsu sorcerer.”

Kaya narrowed her eyes, a grin creeping in. “Damn. Geto really did a number on you.”

You choked. “You’re not supposed to use his name, Kaya!”

She snorted, mouth full. “What?! He might pop up?”

“Yes!” You hissed. “He might still show up.”

“Oh please,” she laughed. “Let him find out Nanami disappointed you. You’d be back on the cult invite list so fast.”

You buried your face again. “Let’s not. I’ve successfully avoided him for years.”

“I know! That’s why I’m looking at that seal on your leg… You ready to admit you have that thing on so he can’t find you?”

You shook your head. “He doesn’t have that power over me anymore.”

“Mmhmm,” she murmured. “I’m not here to press. I know how muddy it got.”

You sighed, retreating into the blanket again. “Every failed relationship I have doesn’t have to lead back to GuRu-SaMa.”

Kaya slapped the couch so hard she nearly choked. “AHHHHHH!! You said the nickname! You are healed!”

You groaned, dragging the blanket over your head. “I hate myself.”

She wheezed. “Don’t! That was hilarious. I feel like we just unlocked an achievement.”

You peeked out from the edge of the blanket. “The achievement is called: Trauma.”

“Oh stop it. You’re strong.”

Just like that, the heartbreak didn’t feel so heavy. Not tonight. Not with Kaya beside you, talking shit, reminding you who you are.

Kaya’s foot nudged your thigh beneath the blanket. “So… is it finally cool to talk about him, or not?”

You didn’t even look at her. “NOT.”

She threw her head back, groaning. “Oh my God, dramatic ass.”

You cracked a smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You adjusted the blanket again and buried your feet deeper into the cushion.

Kaya shifted, curling closer to you. “Okay, okay, serious question then—what are you gonna do about work?”

You blinked, staring at the cookie dough like it had answers. “What do you mean?”

She gave you a look. “Are you coming back? Or are you gonna find something new? Listen, I know you’re, like, indefinitely retired from curse nonsense and corporate fuckery, but even you said it yourself. Going to that reunion? That’s stepping back into the ring.”

You inhaled, deep and slow. “I just… I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Kaya. I can’t go back to that building. Not to the tenth floor. Not to the elevators. Not to that damn smell in the break room.” You shook your head, voice softer. “And jujutsu? I don’t know if I have it in me anymore. I thought sealing it away meant I was done. That I could be normal.”

Kaya’s face changed, lips pressing together. “Well… I guess I should tell you now.”

You blinked. “Tell me what?”

“I’m going back to jujutsu.”

The blanket fell from your shoulders. “What?”

She raised a brow like it was no big deal. “Oh, I didn’t tell you? I quit work yesterday.”

You launched upright, throwing your arms in the air. “Kaya, what?!”

“I mean, I didn’t quit on the spot or anything.” She laughed at your dramatic gasp. “I put in my two weeks, but yeah—I’m packing up.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, wait, hold up. You’re telling me I’ve been sobbing into my cereal and crying into throw pillows for weeks, and now you’re leaving me in that hellhole ALONE?!”

“You weren’t even in the building, ma’am.” 

“Exactly!” You flopped back into the couch. “Now I definitely can’t go back without you. Are you insane? What happened?”

Kaya exhaled, slower this time. Her smile faded. “They finished the investigation.”

Your stomach dropped. The blood drained from your face.

“Yeah, turns out, they decided a slap on the wrist was fair for Kanzaki.”

You stared at her. “…That’s it?”

She nodded, bitter. “They said both parties were complicit. That it was… mutual.”

You blinked, trying to understand the word. “Mutual?”

“Text messages, emails—both sides. Nothing was doctored. She flirted. He didn’t reciprocate, but he didn’t tell her to stop. This was corroborated by the other employees on that floor. He asked for her help after hours. She provided a number of dinner receipts. Pictures of herself in his car. Extra evidence that Nanami probably didn’t even know she had.”

Your body was going cold.

“I watched the security footage from that night. I saw her sit on his desk. He didn’t tell her to get up. I saw her put her hands on him. Then he moved them. She kissed him. Then he pushed her back and took a step back himself.” She shook her head. “There were so many things he let slide. And you know what? I get it now. I get why. That office up there is beautiful, but the workplace is toxic. He was so focused on the money and the clients. He didn’t want to mess that up, so he chose not to rock the boat.”

You stared at your lap.

“He chose wrong. He let her behavior slide way too often. But what I didn’t think was that the department would let it slide too. They didn’t even put them on different schedules. No transfers. No reassignments.”

“…HR protects the company. We know that.”

Kaya nodded grimly. “Exactly. So I said fuck it. I’m out. Nanami may have been complicit for the majority of it, but on that night he was touched non consensually by a coworker, and they can’t even put them on different schedules? I can’t work for a company like that.”

You pressed your hands over your eyes. And then the tears came. Hot. Sharp. Quiet.

“Kento’s so fucking stupid!” You sobbed, voice muffled against your palms. “Why would he do this? Why would he put money over us?! Why would he choose this stupid ass job?!”

Kaya was still. She let you cry.

“I could see myself marrying him,” you whispered, voice breaking. “And now I haven’t even spoken to him in weeks. And it’s like he just let it all fall apart. Like I wasn’t worth fighting for. Like—like I didn’t matter enough to shut it all down the moment she touched his desk.”

“I know,” Kaya spoke softly.

You curled in on yourself, breath ragged. “I hate this. I hate this. I want to hate him, but I can’t. And that’s what makes it worse.”

Kaya reached for you, pulling you into her side. You collapsed into her, hands gripping the fabric of her dress.

She rubbed your back slowly, her voice steady. “You didn’t deserve any of this.”

“I know.” You nod. “I know.”

Kaya wrapped her arms around you tightly, the soft cotton of her sundress bunching under your cheek as she pulled you closer into the cocoon of her warmth. Her hand rubbed slow circles across your back.

“It’s okay to hurt,” she murmured. “It’s okay to be mad. It’s okay to be confused as fuck. It’s okay to want him back—shit, even after everything. You loved him. You still love him. You don’t have to apologize for that. No matter what avenue you choose, I just hope you know… I have your back.”

Your breath caught again, but this time the tears didn’t come sharp. They came softer, easier. You nodded into her shoulder. “I know you do.”

She squeezed you even tighter.

“Kaya,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re getting cookie dough in my hair.”

“Let me eat it!” She replied instantly, already craning her neck.

“Ew, no!” You sniffled through your laugh.

She stuck out her tongue dramatically. “Come here. Lemme get that chocolate chip, girl!”

You leaned away from her, laughing harder, your sobs dissolving into cackles. “No! You are so fucking nasty!”

She flopped onto her back with a dramatic sigh, then rolled into your lap, cookie dough still in hand. Her head landed squarely on your thighs, and she looked up at you with devilish glee. “Okay, hear me out. I say you start hooking up with Gojo.”

You blinked. “What?!”

“Think about it. Tall, hot, filthy rich. Would probably break your back and give you a custom Chanel bag after.”

“I don’t want Gojo!” You protested, tugging your blanket higher.

Kaya gasped. “Said no one, ever!”

You tried to push her off your lap. She clung like a koala. 

“Even if I never met Kento.” You spoke through your laughter, “Gojo is so exhausting. I can’t! It’s like talking to a golden retriever on seventeen cups of coffee.”

“An adorable golden retriever who could take you to brunch in Barcelona.” She shot back. “Also, remind me—he’s still paying your gym membership, right?”

You blinked. “He never was! What even—”

She waved you off. “Ughhh, fineee. No Gojo. No Nanami. No Geto.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t even say it.”

She grinned, sharp and triumphant. “You know Kusakabe is a good choice.”

“Oh my God, Kaya.”

“Bitch, y’all had me blushing! No wonder you two have such a high sugar tolerance. That shit was so sweet.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was so corny. Stop.”

She pressed the cookie dough tube to your lips and you’d take a tiny nibble.

“I’m gonna tell Kusakabe to send the flowers.” She announced casually.

“No!” 

She sat up, already pulling her phone out from the crevice of the couch cushions. “I just wanna see what kind he’d send. Maybe he’s got taste.”

“Kaya I swear to—don’t bitch!”

She was already typing. “What if I casually mention that you like jade vine?”

“Don’t ever say jade vine to me!” You shrieked, lunging toward her.

She squealed and ducked, phone in hand, cackling. “Oop! Still touchy on the jade vine. Noted”

“Give me your phone!” You were trying to grab it from her as she rolled onto the floor like a gremlin, dodging your attacks.

“Too late! I’m texting him! No hints. I’m just gonna tell him to go nuts.’”

“KAYA!”

She stuck her tongue out and clicked her screen off, smug. “Sent.”

You dropped back onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow. “I hate you so much.”

“You love me soooo much.” She corrected, grinning as she climbed back onto the couch beside you. “Also, you’re welcome. That man’s about to send you a floral arrangement.”

You groaned into the pillow. “He’s gonna think I’m actually interested…”

“Well, are you?” She asked, cocking a brow.

You peeked out from the pillow. “I don’t know… I mean I could be but, not right now? Maybe?”

Kaya smirked. “Good. That means you’re alive, and if you wanna flirt, flirt. If you wanna heal, heal. If you wanna cry, bitch, cry. But do it without regrets or wondering what if.”

You reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight. “I love you.”

She squeezed back, eyes soft. “I know.” She grinned as she pulled away. “Anyway, he’s really sweet. You should at least grab coffee with the guy. I’m just saying—he wants to. Bad. I can tell.”

You exhaled through your nose, considering. “…Fine. I’ll grab coffee with him.”

Her eyes lit up like Christmas. “Oooooh! That’s so romantic! I’ll tell him!”

“No! If it happens, it happens. Don’t force it. My heart’s still…” You trailed off, looking down. “It’s still hurting.”

Kaya softened, setting the phone aside. “Okay. I won’t push. I just like seeing you light up again. Even if it’s just a little.”

You smiled faintly, curling back into the blanket—and just when you felt settled, the front door slammed open so hard it shook the frame.

“Who the fuck?!” You yelped, clutching the blanket to your chest like it could protect you from a home invasion.

In strutted Gojo Satoru, tall, smug, and glowing. He wore a fitted black compression shirt that clung to his every stupid muscle, and gray joggers that were probably designer. His hair was down in that artfully disheveled way he insisted was effortless. His sunglasses sat perfectly on his face as per usual.

“Gojo!” You snapped. “You nearly broke my door off the goddamn hinges! And don’t you knock?!”

He began unlacing his shoes casually. “I didn’t knock because I think we’re past that at this point. Best friends don’t knock.” He pointed at Kaya’s cookie dough. “Are you gonna finish that?”

Kaya blinked. “I was, but you can have it?”

Gojo plopped down beside you on the couch and immediately took a bite. You rubbed your face in disbelief.

“Gojo, what are you doing here? And why are you BREAKING AND ENTERING?”

“You’re upset.” He looked at you with sympathetic eyes. “Last night I texted you and asked if you wanted to get that strawberry Nutella crepe with the crème brûlée filling we’d been talking about. You said no.”

You gave him a blank look. “There’s no way you gathered distress from that.”

“You always end it with an emoji.” His head shook slowly. “Always. So then I texted Nanami. Asked if I offended you. ‘Does she hate me? Is she mad I accidentally changed her Netflix password?’ And he said, it wasn’t any of that.”

You let out a groan and pulled the blanket over your head. “Awww, I don’t wanna redo this whole conversation again. Gojo, you left the door open. Flies are gonna get in!”

He leaned back, unfazed. “I know what happened, and I won’t let you sulk.”

You peeked out from under the blanket. “Shouldn’t you be cheering Kento up?”

Gojo shrugged. “I know him. If I push further than I already have, he’ll get defensive… Plus I already sent him, like, half a dozen giant motivational plushies..”

You blinked. “What kind of motivational plushies?”

“One was an orca that says ‘everything whale be okay’ when you hug it.”

Kaya coughed into her tea. “Please tell me it’s named Whale Wishes’”

Gojo grinned. “Whale Smith.”

You rubbed your eyes. “I can’t with you two.”

“Which is why you need to get dressed!” Gojo stretched his arms overhead. “We’re doing puppy yoga in Shibuya. You, me, and now Kaya too.”

Kaya shrugged immediately. “Sure. I’m in.”

You pointed at her, betrayed. “You don’t even have yoga clothes.”

She waved a hand. “If Satoru Gojo invites you to do puppy yoga, you do the damn yoga.”

“I don’t know, guys…” You sighed. “My hair’s a mess. My face—my vibe—it’s all wrong. I just don’t… I can’t.”

Gojo’s smile faded. He knelt down in front of you, all the usual bravado stripped away. When he looked at you now, it wasn’t with mockery or mischief—it was genuine. Warm. Steady.

“You’re hurting, and I know that being inside feels like the safe choice. Trust me, I know. But it’s not. You say your hair, your face, your whatever… You look amazing in anything. But not in depression. So on your feet.”

You looked at him, and the sincerity in his expression made your chest ache. He really wanted you to be happy, didn’t he?

“…Okay.” You nodded, “Puppy yoga it is.”

He gave you a small nod, then stood and pointed toward the bathroom. “You’ve got fifteen minutes missy!”

You rolled your eyes and walked toward your room for a shower. As soon as the door clicked shut, Gojo flopped back on the couch and looked at Kaya sideways.

“Nanami fucked up?” He whispered.

Kaya snorted. “Oh my God. Big time. Let me fill you in…”

Downward Doggies : 5:45pm : Shibuya

The yoga studio looked like it had been plucked from an influencer’s Instagram feed and plopped into real life—only better. It was nestled on the fifth floor of a sleek, modern building in Shibuya, with giant floor-to-ceiling windows that let in waves of golden sunlight. 

The space felt open and clean. Pale wooden floors gleamed under your sneakers, and the white walls were dotted with leafy plants and pastel murals of lotus flowers and tiny paw prints.

You and Kaya were twinning with a pink two piece yoga set. You two stopped at a place on the way over. The outfits were courtesy of Gojo, of course. It was a cropped tank with a built-in sports bra and high-waisted leggings that hugged in all the right places. Your hair was up in a bun and your skin was warm from the shower, but despite your earlier hesitation, you felt... cute. 

The three of you signed your waivers and followed the floral-scented corridor to the main studio space, which was already filling up with women laying out pastel yoga mats.

“Ugh.” You sighed. “Let’s just stay in the back.”

“Nope.” Gojo grinned, already sauntering forward. “We’re front row kind of people.”

You barely had time to protest before he grabbed your wrist and gently tugged you along.

“Gojo!” You hissed.

It was too late. He was already in motion—six-foot-plus, compression-shirt-wearing disaster—and the second he crossed into the room’s center, every woman turned to look.

It was like the air shifted. A breeze of collective interest.

There weren’t any other men in this class. And this one? He looked like he walked straight off a runway at Milan Fashion Week.

He rolled out his mat with the grace of someone who had never once worried about spatial awareness in his life. You rolled yours out beside him. Kaya smirked and took the other side.

Gojo turned around and flashed a disarming smile to the woman directly behind you.

“I’m not in your way, am I?”

She blinked rapidly. “Oh no! Not at all!”

Another chimed in. “You stay right there.”

From across the room, a third called, “There’s more room over here!”

Another, just behind you, added quickly, “No, there’s plenty of space for him here!”

Gojo held up his hands like he was moderating a presidential debate. “Ladies, ladies, please. I’m just here for the puppies.”

You squinted at him, mouth half-open in disbelief. “Is he for real?”

Kaya leaned over, whispering, “I’m not gonna lie… I almost asked to switch places with you.”

You swatted at her leg with a rolled-up towel. “Ughhhh.”

Just when you thought Gojo’s ego couldn’t inflate any further, the instructor walked over—tall, toned, with short black hair and leggings that probably cost more than your furniture. She introduced herself personally to him, holding his hand for way too long.

“Haven’t seen you in my class before. I’m Saito Reina.” She purred. “And you are...?”

He smiled, all innocent charm. “Gojo.”

She smiled wider. “Well, Gojo, if you have any questions, or need help with your form, please don’t hesitate.”

“I’ll be sure to reach out.” He grinned those devilish pearly whites.

You turned to Kaya. “We’re witnessing a crime.”

She nodded in agreement.

Eventually, the pre-class chaos settled, and Reina clapped her hands once. “Okay everyone! Our assistants are bringing in the stars of the show—please stay seated and let the puppies come to you!”

Your heart gave a weak thump. You weren’t sure what to expect. Maybe one or two overly hyped toy breeds— but then they came. A wave of pure, unfiltered joy.

Twelve, maybe fifteen, puppies came bounding through the double doors in a whirlwind of paws and ears and pink tongues. They were all under ten pounds and chaotic. There was a wrinkly Shar Pei with chubby legs, a long-legged greyhound pup that looked confused by its own limbs, a jet-black French bulldog with a tongue that hung permanently sideways, two golden retriever fluffballs tumbling over each other, and even a round little corgi waddling toward you like it had somewhere to be.

“Oh my goodness!” You gasped, putting your hands over your face. “I’m gonna cry.”

“I am crying,” Kaya laughed, already covered in terrier kisses.

A tiny Shiba Inu planted its paws directly on Gojo’s stomach and started licking his chin. He laughed, falling back dramatically onto his mat like he’d been defeated.

You giggled and reached down just in time for a brown spaniel pup to launch itself into your lap. It was so soft, so warm, and it made a weird little cooing noise that went straight to your soul.

“I don’t want to do yoga.” You mumbled, voice shaky. “I just want to live here.”

Even if it was temporary. Even if the ache would come back, you were going to appreciate being in the moment.

As you all settled, the yoga class began, and already it was a symphony of giggles, puppy squeals, and the light thud of clumsy paws on yoga mats. You were three poses in, and still trying your best not to let go of this little brown cutie.

You tried to hold a downward dog with one hand, but the moment you attempted to focus, two puppies—an Australian shepherd mix and a golden retriever pup ran onto your back like you were a human jungle gym.

"I’m dying happily." You sniffled dramatically.

"Tell me about it." Kaya huffed beside you, clearly enjoying the class herself.

You tried your best to refocus on the instructor, who was now demonstrating a Warrior III variation. It was an elegant, balanced pose—and Gojo copied it flawlessly. Of course he did. 

He bent forward, extended one leg behind him, and outstretched his arms—his body cutting a clean line in midair. A white Pomeranian clung to his shin like a fluff magnet.

The instructor smiled at him "Wow. You have excellent flexibility."

Gojo turned his head and grinned, not breaking the pose. "Thanks. I stretch a lot."

"Would you mind if I helped you deepen the stretch?"

You made a face like you just swallowed something sour. Gojo winked at you and whispered out the side of his mouth, "She means well."

"You're disgusting.” You laughed.

Meanwhile, the instructor adjusted Gojo’s arms despite him clearly not needing any help. You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help yourself from laughing.

"Damn, Gojo. We see you yoga king." Kaya snorted.

You nodded.  "I hate how good he is at this."

Kaya shifted her weight and to your utter shock, eased into the pose like it was nothing. One leg raised, arms out, back flat. A literal picture of core strength.

"Excuse me?!" You gawked. "Who are you?!"

She grinned without faltering. "I played that big ass harp for ten years. You should already know I don’t play about core strength."

"You win. I give up."

You flopped gently to the mat, wiping sweat from your brow, and were immediately bombarded with puppy affection. The little brown spaniel you’d been carrying crawled onto your chest, curled up like a loaf of bread. He let out a yawn so cute it should be illegal.

You picked up the spaniel, cradling it like a baby. Its little eyes blinked up at you, its tail wagging just slightly in its sleepiness.

"Oh my God. You're the love of my life."

"I thought that was Nanami." Kaya teased from her perfect pose.

You gave her a look. "Shut up. It’s too soon."

You giggled and leaned back into your mat, puppy in arms, surrounded by sunlight and warm laughter and the chaotic blessing of too many soft, happy pups.

The class rolled on, but you? You had abandoned all hope of pretending to care about actual yoga. You were lying flat on your mat, cradling the soft, velvety body of the little brown spaniel like he was your long-lost son. His floppy ears draped down your arms as you bounced his paws gently up and down, dancing with him in time to the lo-fi music playing softly through the overhead speakers.

“You are so cute.” You kissed the top of his fuzzy head. He blinked up at you with innocent, watery eyes before trying to chew on your shirt strap. “No, baby.” You cooed, guiding his mouth away.

Beside you, Kaya was in a perfect low lunge with a corgi on her foot like it was a balancing weight.

“Sheesh, get a room already. You’re about two seconds from naming that dog your emergency contact.” Kaya winked at you.

“I would. Look at these ears.” You lifted the spaniel’s ears and flopped them dramatically. “I love him.”

Kaya chuckled and shook her head. “You’re gone. It’s over. Love has found you again.”

“I am so gone.” You agreed, kissing his little round head like it was a holy relic.

Meanwhile, at the front of the class, Gojo had somehow usurped the instructor’s role. One minute she was demonstrating a pigeon pose, the next he was up there, spinning slowly through a flawless series of transitions. The class was eating it up!

“Don’t worry if you can’t go into the full peacock pose.” Gojo spoke, balancing perfectly on his hands. “You can focus on your breathing. It’s very important to stay centered.”

The women around you were breathless for a reason that had nothing to do with core engagement.

One woman, not even pretending to hide it, whispered to her friend, “I wonder if he does private lessons.”

Another one chimed in, “Does he actually work here?”

Even the instructor—who had been visibly flustered the entire class—was now trailing behind Gojo like a dazzled intern. She giggled at everything he said, and nodded enthusiastically at every word.

Kaya tilted her head. “Is it just me, or does he have too much power for one man?”

You snickered. “The strongest.”

You settled back onto your mat, the spaniel curled up on your chest like he’d claimed it, one paw tucked under his chin, the other resting near your collarbone.

You smiled, “I know it’s wrong, but I will kidnap you. You’ll never see your littermates again.”

The pup gave a sleepy whine and nestled closer.

“You're an emotional terrorist.” You murmured, brushing his fur away from his eyes.

Kaya laid down beside you, her own puppy—a fuzzy terrier mix—half-asleep on her stomach. “This might be the most joy I’ve seen on your face in a minute.”

You turned your head to her. “I think this is the first time in weeks my chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing in on itself.”

She reached out and squeezed your hand gently, fingers warm. “Then I’d say this was a good call.”

Front and center, Gojo let out a theatrical namaste and bowed deeply as the class ended—prompting a round of applause. One woman slid him a paper with her number. Another said she’d be back next week to request him.

Kaya grinned. “Let’s get smoothies after this.”

“Only if I can sneak him in my gym bag.” You poked your lip out, “I named him Cinnamon Stick.”

Kaya laughed, “Girl you cannot be stealing puppies.”

The class was over, but your heart? Completely unprepared. As soon as the last puppy was ushered gently toward the exit by one of the assistants, you wrapped your arms tighter around the squirming, sleepy little spaniel in your lap.

“I’ll come back for you.” You whispered into his floppy ear, your voice already tight with the loss. “Wait for me. Don’t let anyone adopt you. I’m coming back Cinnamon Stick.”

Kaya crouched beside you, soft but stern, reaching for him. “You gotta let him go, baby.”

You kissed the top of his soft little head like he was about to ship off to war. “Be brave, Cinnamon. Be strong for us.”

Kaya snorted gently, prying the pup from your grasp with the care of someone pulling a plush toy from the arms of a spoiled child. “Alright, alright, relax. I’ll take a hostage photo for you next time.”

You sniffed dramatically and stood up, rolling your mat like it had personally betrayed you. “I didn’t even get to teach him how to sit…”

“Come on.” Kaya slung her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s get some smoothies. You need to recover from this heartbreak now.”

You nodded, defeated. “Okay.”

As you turned to grab Gojo, ready to invite him along—there he was. Not even ten feet away, drowning in a sea of well-manicured hands and glinting phone screens. Half the class had migrated toward him like moths to a flame. The instructor herself was leaning against the wall like a teenager, twirling her hair around her finger.

“I’m telling you, if you ever want to do private yoga sessions, I’m open.” She purred.

“You’re so in tune with your breath, I could feel your energy,” another chimed in.

You didn’t even have to say anything—Kaya caught your glare, the quiet frown that took over your face.

“Let’s go.” You gestured, pivoting toward the elevator with your bag slung over your arm.

Kaya nodded quickly. “Yeah, let’s go before one of them proposes.”

You didn’t make it five paces before you heard him.

“BESTIE—WAIT!”

Gojo peeled away from the crowd mid-sentence, slipping between two persistent admirers. His jog toward you was annoyingly graceful, and in one quick motion he threw an arm over your shoulder, squeezing you into his side.

“You were just gonna leave me?!” He whined with mock betrayal.

You smiled, “Don’t be dramatic. I was gonna wait downstairs.”

“I almost cried.”

Kaya rolled her eyes. “We’re grabbing smoothies. You in?”

“Oooh, yes. I know a good spot.”

You glanced up at him, suspicious. “Why do you always know a spot?”

He smirked like a man with too many secrets. “I’ve been around.”

Kaya squinted. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I know a good spot.”

The three of you exited the yoga building through its wide automatic doors, the warm breeze of late spring greeting you immediately. The city was alive with color and motion. The sun was much lower, and so much more beautiful.

The walk wouldn’t be long—just five minutes, according to Gojo. You were glad for a little stroll. It felt rich with energy. Everything around you pulsed with post-workout endorphins and the kind of fresh air that makes the world feel full of possibilities.

“So—” Gojo looked down at you with a surprisingly genuine smile. “Did you have fun? You and that little retriever were spiritually bonded.”

“He was a spaniel… I miss him.” You corrected without missing a beat. “But I did have fun.”

Kaya leaned forward to look at you. “You were definitely about to cry when they took him.”

“I did cry.” You pouted. “You just didn’t see it. I was slick about it.”

Gojo grinned. “You’re gonna sneak back and adopt him, huh?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He looked at Kaya next. “You? Did you enjoy it?”

Kaya glanced at you again, smiling warmly. “If my girl is having fun, then I’m having fun. Always.”

Gojo nodded solemnly. “Our girl.”

You immediately grabbed your cheeks. “Stop it! You’re embarrassing me in public!”

Both of them laughed, their steps syncing on either side of you like a well-practiced rhythm.

PekoPeko Smoothies : 7:10pm : Shibuya

You push open the glass door and step into the smoothie café. Light wood accents, huge windows flooding streetlights, potted plants everywhere—ferns, succulents, and things that smell like green life. The counter is sleek, white marble, big menu, the baristas were super easy on the eyes.

Wow, guess he did know a place.

Gojo strides in and lifts an eyebrow at the menu board, LEDs soft against the pastel hues. He leans close, “Alright, see anything you want? I mean, besides myself. Just kidding… unless.”

Kaya glared, “She’s going through a breakup with your friend!”

You laugh, “It was kinda funny.”

You and Kaya glance at the menu together and from the looks of it they had some good stuff. Like endless combos! A girl could get paralyzed trying to decide in here. Ultimately you wanted something refreshing though. Something that would quench your thirst and feed the muscles you definitely didn’t stretch during puppy yoga.

You order first—“Can I get the Dragon Fruit Sunrise with extra banana?” 

Kaya orders next, “I’ll try the Turmeric Ginger Zinger with coconut water.”

Gojo smiles, nods, then turns back to the barista. “I’ll take—”

You cut in, right before he orders, “Gojo—can I pay for you?”

He shakes his head, amused. “I got it.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms. “I know you got it, but that’s not really the point, is it? Since I met you, you must have bought me over two million yen worth of stuff.”

Gojo’s smile softens, genuine. “Thank you.” He leans slightly toward you. “But I like doing this.”

Your eyes shine, and you nudge him. “Did I just find out your love language?”

“I will do the tropical recharge please.” He grins again, handing his card over to the barista before turning back to you. “I have multiple love languages. But yes—gift-giving is one of my default modes.”

“Well regardless, thank you.”

You head away from the counter and slide to a seat near the window facing the street—the mid evening light turning cars and pedestrians golden. 

Kaya rubs your back as you settle in. “I’m happy to see you smiling again.”

You look at her, voice soft. “Thank you… for being here. I promise the sunshine’s coming back soon.”

She gives you a small laugh. “Girl, this is nothing. You should already know I’m no fair-weather friend.” She nudges you. “You’re trying, and I see you. You’re allowed to be sad… but you deserve to be happy. Don’t forget that, okay?”

You nod, blinking away bits of emotion. “Thank you. I’ll try.”

Moments later, Gojo returns with three tall, colorful smoothies—blended, layered, garnished with exotic fruit slices. You thank him, and he gives you a sweet grin.

You lift your drink. “To us.”

He touches his cup to yours. “To us.”

You sip, and it’s so good! It’s cold and bright, sweet, like sunshine in a straw.

Just when you’re about to start to speak, Gojo’s phone buzzes. He glances down at the screen, expression changing. You never have to wonder who’s on the other end when Gojo’s on the phone.

He lifts the phone to his ear. “Nanamin! Guess who I’m with?!”

Um. What?

It was like Gojo totally forgot the reason he came over. The reason you went to puppy yoga and got smoothies. Why the fuck was his tone so upbeat?! He could be so forgetful sometimes.

You and Kaya stare at him, incredulous.

His face drops and he fumbles with his words—continuing his conversation. “No… that’s not what I was gonna say. I’m with… Kaya. Anywayyyy… what’s up?”

You can feel your heart speed up. Why is he taking this call here like it’s nothing?

He glances at you but he’s still speaking into the phone. His eyebrows knit, and his expression becomes a bit more serious. “You… you okay?”

You sip your smoothie furiously, pretending to read the menu board and totally not attempting to eavesdrop.

Gojo’s voice, now lower. “Let’s talk about that later. There are… little ears around.”

“Little ears?!” You whisper loudly. “I’m not a kid!”

He presses his lips, then continues. “Yes. I’m in Shibuya right now, but text me a spot. We can meet somewhere in the middle. See you soon.”

As he hangs up, the café seems to shift around you—the music too loud, people too close, the smoothie suddenly freezing cold in your hand.

You look at him, breath shallow. “Do I… want to know?”

Gojo shrugs—calm, collected. “I think something inside him is realizing what he lost. He never calls me under any circumstance. I should go meet him.”

You don’t argue. You nod, heart thudding. Maybe part of you did want to know. Serves him right to be upset… but at the same time—it hurt you to know he was upset. The whole thing was confusing.

You scoot out of your seat and lean forward to hug Gojo. “Thank you… so, so much. For all of this. The yoga, the smoothies, the texts, the voicemails, the everything. You’ve been a really great friend Gojo.”

His hand rests on your back. “Will you be okay?”

You pull back, trying to sound stronger than you feel. “I’ll be fine.”

Kaya reaches over, squeezing your hand. “I got her.”

Gojo gives Kaya a nod, places a hand on her shoulder, and then turns to head out.

You watch him leave. Your chest is heavy with questions. Why would Nanami call Gojo to ask to meet him? What had he planned to say? Why now? How would that even help him? Did he just need to be around a friend? Using Gojo to get through to you wasn’t really a good idea, so what was his play? Was it something else?

You sip your smoothie, the tart sweetness grounding you, while Kaya watches you with steady eyes.

The sun outside dips lower, and shadows stretch long across the café floor.

The last of your smoothie is melting into slush, the condensation beading down the sides of your cup as you and Kaya settle into the cozy lull of the moment. 

She stretches and narrows her eyes at you with a knowing grin. “So.” She twirls her straw dramatically, “The reunion’s next weekend.”

You nod, nonchalant. “I know.”

Kaya raises an eyebrow. “Sooo… Final answer—can I expect to see you there?”

You give her a slow, sly smirk. “My semi-ex-boyfriend is gonna be there. So I kinda have to go, and I kiiiiinda gotta look hot as fuck.”

Kaya squeaks and grabs you by the shoulders, giving you a dramatic shake. “Ah! Yes! That’s the attitude I love! I’m bringing the Lambda Phi approved bikinis!”

You snort, laughing, nearly spilling what’s left of your drink. “Don’t forget the high-slit dresses. He hurt me, and I want him to feel it.”

She grins wide, wicked. “Girl, I’m bringing the whole goddamn wardrobe. We’re gonna get arrested.”

You both get up, tossing your cups and stepping out into the cooler late afternoon air. The street is alive, and the last warmth of the day is clinging to the pavement. 

You call a cab. As it rolls up, 

Kaya grabs your hand. “If you need anything… middle of the night, afternoon, crack of dawn… I got you, okay?”

You squeeze her hand and pull her into a hug. “Thanks, girl. I know.”

The cab door opens. You wave to her as you step inside, and she stays on the curb, watching as you drive off. She really is your ride or die.

As you lean your head against the window, something quiet settles inside you.

Not peace exactly, but something close to it. The hurt is still there. There are questions about Gojo and Nanami. Your heart still aches if you let your mind drift too far back, but your chest doesn’t feel as tight.

Maybe things really were going to be okay after all.

Apartment : 8:26pm : Otsuka

The cab rolled to a gentle stop in front of your apartment building, the sky now dark, and the last rays of sunshine were behind the city skyline. You stepped out slowly, thanking your driver. The ghost of a smile still lingered from your afternoon with Kaya and Gojo. Your cheeks were warm from the laughter, your muscles loose from the yoga, and your soul felt light.

You headed straight to the elevators. You hit the button, watching the numbers climb down toward you, and let out a little sigh when the doors slid open without that weird shudder they used to do.

Nanami.

Even this small, everyday convenience tugged at your chest. He got the damn thing fixed in two days. All that complaining you used to do, all the times you’d grumble about having to walk up five flights, and he just… handled it. No drama. No boasting. Just quietly made your life a little easier.

The elevator ride up was slow today—torturously so. With each floor, your thoughts tangled tighter and tighter. You missed him.

Not just the sex, though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t ache for that. You missed the way he’d fold his glasses and leave them on the nightstand. The rich scent of his cologne lingering on your clothes. The way he’d pull you into him without saying a word, as if your body belonged nowhere else in the world but next to his.

You missed the soft rasp of his voice reading directions for a recipe. The almost-smile he’d give you when he was trying not to laugh. The long silences that were never awkward—just comfortable.

You missed the time before things got messy. Before Reika. Before the distance. When it felt like he was yours and you were his, and everything was so easy.

You still didn’t know if this was a pause or the end of the line, but whatever it was, he needed it—and if you were being honest with yourself, so did you.

Still… you wanted to text him. Just something. Anything. Even a hey, but you didn’t. Not yet.

The elevator dinged and you stepped off, heading to your unit at the end. Everything was still and quiet.

But then you saw them—flowers.

No—not just flowers, an art piece. A breathtaking arrangement of red orchids, elegant and striking, propped carefully outside of your door.

Your breath caught in your throat. They were gorgeous.

The deep crimson of the petals glowed under the hall light—bold, lush, and perfect. Long-stemmed. Exotic. You’d never seen an arrangement like it outside of a high-end gallery opening.

There was a card tucked neatly in the center. Not hidden. Not overly sentimental. Just there.

You knelt down, fingers trembling just a little, and slipped the card free.

It read:

Red orchids are the symbol of respect, admiration, and passion.

May you never again question how much of each you deserve.

No name. No signature. Just the words. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

Kusakabe?

You immediately narrowed your eyes. Did Kaya give him your address?! That woman was always three steps ahead when it came to matchmaking, and you wouldn’t put it past her. Still, you bit your lip, turning the card over, searching for something, anything, that might give the sender away.

There was nothing, and maybe that was the point. Even the card wasn’t hand written. Still, the comment seemed like one Nanami would make. Now you were just confused.

You stood there for a long second, flowers in your arms, your front door barely an arm’s length away. 

It felt like something was shifting. Like maybe life was starting to lean in your direction again.

You opened the door, carried the arrangement inside before sitting them on your table. You stood there, staring at them, trying to sort out how your heart could hurt and flutter all at once.

The reunion was close. Very close. This was a time for you to get closure, or maybe even start a new chapter. This was your chance to walk in like a woman who knows her worth—not one waiting for someone else to remind her.

You didn’t know who sent the flowers. Not for sure, but whoever it was? You knew they’d be there, and you’d gladly thank them on behalf of yours truly. The legend.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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[softcursechoso]

Memoirs from a Gilded Cage: CH. 15

Attack on Titan x Reader

Black!Reader Levi x Reader Erwin x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI 18+ ONLY //NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS

CH. 15 Warnings: None!

Words: 12k+

BLOSSOMING RESOLVE

Mardisfeld : 8:38am : Wall Rose

You wake to the scent of cedarwood, smoke, and old cotton. The world feels muted, like someone laid a heavy quilt over all your senses. It takes you a moment to remember how to breathe through the throbbing in your side. 

The pain is sharp and low like a blade drawn but not yet pressed. Your fingers twitch first, then your eyes peel open. Dim light filters through a thin curtain, casting warm lines across the walls of a small cabin.

The bed beneath you is firm but forgiving—softer than the ragged mats of the underground, but harder than your feather-padded one in Mitras. You shift slightly, wincing. Your body protests the movement with a pulling heat at your ribs.

"Don’t move." The deep, low voice of Miche speaks. No urgency. No panic.

You turn your head slowly.

He’s seated beside the bed, one arm draped over a chair’s back, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Tall frame folded comfortably into the space like he’s been there for hours. Eyes sharp under thick lashes, golden-brown hair falling over his temple. You know that face.

"It’s you.” You speak, voice hoarse. “From last night.”

He nods once, not slow or theatrical—just efficient. “Miche Zacharias. Nice to meet you properly, Ms. Greville.”

The use of your surname is formal, but there’s no edge to it. Still, hearing it in his voice makes you feel like he knows too much. Or could.

"Where’s Dr. Yeager? My sister Tinsley, where is she?"

Miche doesn’t answer immediately. He leans forward, unscrews the cap of a canteen, and pours steaming water into a glass cup. You notice herbs swirling lazily at the bottom, small green curls and brown stalks bobbing gently in the heat.

“Outside.” He offers you the cup. “Packing for the journey. You almost died last night. Dr. Yeager had to work fast. You’re lucky.”

You take the glass from him carefully. It’s warm in your hands, comforting. The herbs are unfamiliar but soothing.

You glance at him over the rim. “Why did you stay?”

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes never leaving yours. “Wouldn’t be able to face my captain if I left without confirming your status.”

You blink. “Erwin’s here? In Mardisfeld?”

Miche shakes his head. “No. Captain Smith is a few days behind the rest of us. He had things to finish up back in Trost. We’ll meet him again in the capital.”

As you process that, your stomach twists. “You’re going to Mitras?”

His silence is confirmation enough.

“Why?”

Another pause. This one heavier.

“That’s all I can say.”

You nod slowly. He watches you sip the tea. The bitter taste hits first, followed by something sweet, like honey. You don’t realize how thirsty you are until the cup’s already half gone.

You exhale, holding the cup in your lap. “How did you find us last night?” You ask. “The Wall Rose Steppe is huge. You could’ve missed us entirely.”

Miche leans back slightly and folds his arms, “The scouts were resting nearby for the night. A few of us were tending to the horses by the river. The wind shifted, and I smelled tulips.”

You blink. “Tulips?”

He nods. “Yeah, tulips masking something else.” His gaze sharpens, locking with yours. “Underground rot. It’s faint on you. Almost gone, but it’s there.”

You freeze.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The air in the room thickens. “Why were you down there?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Words scatter like butterflies. You don’t even know where to start. What part do you tell? What part can you?

“I don’t—” your throat tightens. “You don’t know that for certain.”

“I never forget a smell.”

His voice is soft, but unrelenting. You look into his eyes—deep, but not cruel. You feel like you’re under a microscope. Seen. Uncomfortably so.

“Mr. Zacharias, I—”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

It cuts clean. No anger behind it, but no room for lies either. He’s not accusing you. He’s daring you to trust him. Or daring you to lie better.

You swallow. Your side flares with heat again. The cup in your hands feels too light now, like you might drop it.

There’s no point denying it. Not to him. He’s not like the others. He doesn’t gossip. He doesn’t need proof. He just knows.

You look down at the tea, then back up. Just as your lips part, the door to the cabin bursts open.

“She’s awake!” Tinsley’s voice cracks like thunder in the quiet. She rushes in, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Dr. Yeager! She’s up!”

Grisha’s voice calls from somewhere outside, quick footsteps following.

Tinsley’s already at your bedside, dropping to her knees. Her hands flutter uselessly around you, afraid to touch. “I thought—I thought—” she stammers.

You’re relieved, but only partially. The moment with Miche is broken—and you’re kind of grateful. Because you have no idea what you were about to say.

Grisha’s voice cuts through the cabin with that soft cadence. “It’s time to go.”

His coat is already buttoned, satchel strapped across his chest, boots dusted with the dry earth outside. Tinsley stands from you bedside and heads for the door.

Grisha continues, “Everything’s packed. We lost a couple hours of sunlight, but nothing we can’t make up.”

Before you can respond, three scouts enter—familiar faces, blurred by the haze of last night’s chaos, but instantly recognizable. Hange, Moblit, and Tev… though you hadn’t caught their names quite yet.

Miche speaks first. “Hange, Tev, and Moblit have volunteered to escort you three all the way through to Shiganshina.” His voice is firm and clear. Commanding without barking. “This has been approved by Section Commander Flagon.”

He steps further into the room, boots thudding softly against the wood. His presence is a weight. A quiet shield.

“There’s been a surge in bandit activity across the Steppe, and grassland of Wall Maria’s no safer—frankly, it’s worse.”

You sit up slightly, careful not to tug too hard on the fresh stitches. He notices, of course.

“They’ll make sure the doctor gets home,” he continues. “And that you get the care you need.”

He takes a slow breath as he walks to your bedside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. When he stops beside you, it’s like standing in the shadow of a stone tower. His height, his build, the quiet confidence he carries—it all makes the room feel smaller. Or maybe you’re just tired. Maybe you’ve always felt small in presence, and now you're too sore to pretend otherwise.

He looks down at you, and his gaze hasn’t softened. “I know you think you can do everything on your own. You can’t.”

There’s no condescension. Just gravity. Like he’s setting a boulder down in front of you, and it’s your job to walk around it or carry it.

“You’re being sent off with three of our best,” he continues. “Don’t insult them by trying to pick up arms. Don’t insult the doctor by not listening to him. And don’t insult yourself by refusing help. You hear me?”

You should argue. Tell him you’re not helpless. That you’ve survived worse… but the way he says it—so final, so matter-of-fact—makes it pointless. It’s not a dismissal. It’s protection. It’s understanding, wrapped in the sharpness of command.

You nod. “Okay.”

Only then does some of the tension leave his shoulders. He bends to lift you. The way his arms slide under you is careful, almost gentle. Not like you're fragile—but like he respects what you’ve already survived.

“Ready?” He asks.

You nod again. Your arm instinctively finds his shoulder, your fingers pressing lightly into the thick of his coat. You rest your head just shy of his collarbone, too proud to lean completely, too tired to resist.

Grisha and Tinsley step outside ahead of you. From here, you can see the light spilling through the cabin door—warm, golden, flickering slightly as the wind stirs the trees.

The village beyond it is beautiful. Narrow stone paths lined with old timber homes. Ivy creeping up walls. Smoke trailing from chimneys. A breeze carrying the smell of something baking—yeast and firewood and sugar. Children laugh in the distance.

Still, none of it feels real. All you can focus on are the arms carrying you.

Outside, Hange offers a hand to Tinsley, helping her into the carriage. Tev is already perched on his horse, reins in hand. Moblit walks a slow perimeter check around the carriage one last time.

Behind them, Miche carries you to the carriage. He steps up and lowers you gently onto the seat. You wince as your side indirectly touches the cushion, but he’s careful not to jostle you more than necessary.

He lingers there, crouched slightly, hands still braced on either side of you like he’s not quite ready to let go. “Safe travels, Ms. Greville.”

You meet his gaze again. There’s something different this time. Not softness—but something quieter than command. Something bordering on fondness. Familiarity earned too fast.

“I’m certain we’ll cross paths again sometime soon,” he adds. “Perhaps we’ll have more time to chat then.”

Your lips curl faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Zacharias.”

It’s the way you say his name—soft, deliberate, almost playful—that makes him pause. Barely a breath, but you catch it. The blink. The hesitation. The shift in the way his eyes hold yours.

Just as quickly, it’s gone. He straightens, then places a broad hand on Hange’s shoulder. Their eyes meet. No words, just an exchange of understanding. He’s entrusting you to these three scouts.

With that, he turns and steps back from the carriage. His silhouette against the morning sun is like something carved from stern oak. 

As the horses begin to pull, and the wheels creak into motion, you lean your head back and close your eyes.

You feel the ache in your ribs, the pulse of healing under your skin, the weight of unsaid things behind you. But more than anything, you feel Miche Zacharias’s voice in your chest…

Don’t insult yourself by refusing help.

You wonder if that’s exactly what you’ve been doing all along.

The wheels begin to turn beneath you, shuddering against the gravel road. You feel every bump like a knock at your ribs. The carriage creaks as it pulls away from the cabin, the reins snapping taut and the horses steadying into a trot. You brace yourself against the seat, jaw clenched.

Through the open window, even from your reclined position, you catch it—one last glance.

Miche stands by the gate, tall and still. Just before the carriage rounds the bend and the trees start to blur together, his eyes flick toward you. A fraction of a second. Just enough for you to see it—that look.

There was something quiet and protective. Not just physically, but he was now the keeper of a deep secret. A conversation you’d circle back to in due time.

He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t speak. Just watches—and somehow, that says more than anything else.

You blink and he’s gone. The road eats him up, and you’re left with the echo of his stare pressed firmly into your memory.

Beside you, Tinsley unscrews the small glass jar the doctor gave her. She pinches the flimsy herb between two careful fingers and passes it to you.

"Chew this." She speaks gently. 

You take it, and press it to your tongue. You bite down slowly and let the bitterness coat your teeth.

Outside, you hear Hange speaking to Grisha.

“If we ride through the night, we can make up for the time we lost. Minimal stops—just for the horses and the necessary breaks.”

Moblit, ever the quiet second, agrees. “We’d not only recover the delay—we’d be ahead of schedule.”

You sigh. Two straight days. No rest. No real chance to shift or settle. You already know how this is going to go.

Grisha leans toward the small sliding window that separates the driver’s seat from the cabin. His voice is kind, but stern—his way of wrapping care in caution.

“I know this won’t be easy, but try to stay on your back as much as you can. Twisting, even a little, could irritate the stitches—and if the tissue tears again…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to.

You nod faintly. “Yes, Doctor.”

He lingers for a second, then closes the window.

Tinsley turns toward you again. She tucks the jar away, then reaches into her satchel and pulls out another small bundle of cloth—wrapped bread. You shake your head softly.

“I’ll eat later.” You deny to offering.

She folds the cloth back up. Her eyes drift toward the ceiling of the carriage, her mouth parting like she wants to say something but isn’t sure how to start.

It’s you who speaks first. “I’m so tired of crying.” The words come out like sandpaper. Dry and raw.

Tinsley blinks. “Are you in pain?”

You exhale, slow and deliberate. “Just my heart, Tins.”

She doesn’t ask what you mean. Not immediately. Maybe she already knows. Maybe she’s been waiting for you to say it out loud. Either way she can’t hold it.

“You’re thinking about that man?”

You nod. “I’m always thinking about him.”

There’s no drama in your voice. No romantic flourish. Just confession. Plain and heavy.

Tinsley frowns. Her fingers fiddle with a loose thread on her skirt. “What are you going to do when you get the proof of residence for him?”

You stare at the ceiling. The boards blur. The sunlight peeking through the curtain feels too warm for how cold you feel inside.

“I don’t know.” You shrug slightly.

It’s not a deflection. It’s not avoidance. It’s the truth. A truth that sits awkward and swollen in the center of your chest.

Tinsley looks at you, confused. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Isn’t that the plan? To bring him up to the surface? To get him out?”

You nod once. Then again, but slower. “Yes. I mean… I want that.”

She tilts her head. “So what’s the problem?”

You glance over at her, then out the window. “The problem is, I don’t have a plan. I’ve never had one. I just…” You sniffle. “I just want him.”

Tinsley doesn’t respond right away. Her face is soft with sympathy, but lined with hesitation—like she wants to offer you comfort, but doesn’t know if she has the right shape for it.

“You’re giving up everything…” She responds finally. “The estate. Father’s legacy. All of it. For him.”

“I don’t care.” Your voice is stronger than you expect. It startles even you. “Cassius can have it. The land, the money, the Greville name… Let him bury himself in it. Let him die with it.”

You look down at your hands. One of them still trembles faintly, as if the trauma hasn’t fully worked its way out.

“I just want him.” You repeat. “Even if I have nothing else.”

The carriage jostles over a dip in the road. Your body jolts, and a sharp sting shoots through your ribs. You wince, gasping.

Tinsley is instantly at your side adjusting your posture. “Lie still. I’ll hold your hand.”

She holds your hand the way she used to when you were little and afraid of the thunder—tight, steady, like the sky couldn’t touch you if she stayed close enough.

You close your eyes. Outside, the trees blur past. The day stretches thin, yet the journey ahead is still quite long. 

The trail through the Wall Rose Steppe was sun-bleached and endless, the grass brittle underfoot and golden like old wheat. The carriage rattled over uneven dirt, jostling with every root, every pothole, every whisper of wind strong enough to shake the wheels.

You were never fully asleep. The ache in your ribs made sure of that. But you drifted—between memory and real life. Between pain and presence—held up by cushions, medicine, and the soft, stubborn hands of your sister.

Grisha checked on you at intervals, his voice gentle, his touch exact. Moblit handled the route, calculating how far you’d traveled by starlight. 

Hange kept the energy high, peppering the nights with strange observations and endless questions—most of them directed at you.

The first night you camped under a broken tree with twisted roots, Moblit built the fire, and Hange asked what kind of dreams you had. Not just last night—always. Like it was a dissection of the soul.

The second night, the ground was rockier, harder to rest on. You barely slept. Tev, stoic and practical, offered you a flask of something bitter and burning to dull the edge of your pain. You took it, coughing on the first sip, but thanked him. He just nodded and went back to feeding the fire.

Moblit told you about his sketching. About how he used to sit by the gates of Shiganshina when he was a child, trying to draw the curve of the walls perfectly, like it was a puzzle only he could solve. You didn’t have the strength to answer properly, but you smiled, and he seemed to understand that was enough.

Tinsley helped with your bandages. Every time you winced, she winced harder. Sometimes you saw her crying when she didn’t think you were looking.

Then there was Hange—always full of noise, movement, questions—grew oddly still when it was just the two of you. One night, while Tinsley slept and the fire died low, you sat in the back of the carriage with a blanket around your shoulders, shivering despite the heat.

“You don’t talk like most nobles.” Hange declared.

You glanced over. “I’m not like most nobles.”

“Why?”

You looked up at the stars from the carriage window. You could’ve said a hundred things. About your skin, your hair, your bloodline, your shame. But you said none of that… 

“Because I’ve seen too much that can’t be unseen.”

That quieted the air. For once, Hange didn’t ask another question. Just stared at you, wide-eyed, something flickering behind the lenses of those odd glasses. Then Hange passed you a half-eaten dried fig with a smirk, “That’s a better answer than I expected. I’ve gotta pick that brain of yours some time.”

Wall Rose Steppe : 5:34pm : Wall Rose

The days bled together after that. The sweat never dried. The water always tasted faintly metallic. Your stitches continued to throb. You kept going anyway.

And then came a knock on the carriage door.

You stirred, muscles tight and sticky with heat, your limbs stiff from days of barely moving. The creak of wood, the sound of reins being pulled taut. Hange’s voice, clear and almost giddy, called down through the window.

“Wall Rose! Trost is about an hour away!”

You blinked. Your heart lifted before your body could follow. Slowly, you shifted upright, every muscle and joint resisting, your side hot and tight under the layers of gauze. You ignored it, pulling yourself toward the partition window and leaning forward.

Through the narrow opening, you saw it.

Wall Rose stole your breath right from your lungs.

It towered in the distance, less polished than Wall Sina, its surface scarred by time and weather. There were patches of discoloration along the stone, faint cracks like the smile lines of something ancient. It lacked the sterile sheen of Mitras—but what it had instead was character..

It looked worn. It looked real.

You gasped. The way the sun struck it at an angle, casting deep shadows across the wall. The way the birds flew in tight spirals along the wall’s edge. The way the city bloomed just outside the gate, visible in the distance—slanted rooftops, crowded streets… it was beautiful.

You hadn’t realized you were smiling until Tinsley placed a hand on your knee. “You deserve this.”

You nodded, swallowing hard against the knot in your throat. You were really here, you thought. You didn’t say it aloud. You couldn’t, but you were.

Not in Mitras. Not underground. Not trapped in your shop or under the scrutiny of the elite. You were on your way to Trost. To whatever came next.

The carriage trotted through the small town that settled right outside the gate. You couldn’t stop your eyes from looking at it all. The humble townsfolk. The slanted roofing. The smoking chimneys. The people here looked so real. So human.

Unlike the towering scrutiny of Wall Sina’s iron jaw, this entrance was casual, even apathetic. A few Garrison guards loitered at the post, half in formation, half distracted as you all road up. 

One yawned. Another leaned against a pike. You watched them glance lazily at your carriage, eyes dragging across the Scout insignias, and then looking away. No questions. No inspections.

Maybe it was the uniform. Maybe it was the fatigue in your eyes. Maybe Trost simply didn’t have time for theater. The gate lifted, and the tunnel opened. You road inside. It was short lived, but so overwhelming.

Trost : 6:45 : Wall Rose

Then, on the other side—Trost bloomed like a rough-cut gemstone. It was raw, vivid, and full of fractured beauty. Nothing here was manicured. The roads weren’t paved; they were pounded down by thousands of feet, hooves, and wheels, edged by narrow stone gutters and crooked walkways. The air was warmer, thicker, filled with steam and smoke and food.

Everything here felt alive.

Children darted between carts. Vendors shouted about bread and wild plums and fresh jams. Someone strummed a stringed instrument near a shop. 

A girl with patched skirts laughed with her whole chest, loud and unbothered. A mother chased her adorably chubby little son, yelling Jean-boy it’s time for dinner.

The buildings leaned together like gossiping neighbors with no privacy, and the sky above them stretched huge and open. Trost wasn’t wealthy. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect, but you’d be damned to say it wasn’t real.

You took a slow, shaky breath and felt something strange stir inside your chest—something you hadn’t felt in Mitras, or the Underground. Hope.

Grisha leaned back from his seat. “There’s an inn on the southeast side. We’ll stay the night. Rest the horses, rest ourselves, get what we need and continue in the morning.”

You nodded faintly, eyes still wide. “Okay.”

The word you used didn’t cover what you were feeling. Goddamn, you thought. This place is amazing.

You caught your reflection in the shop windows. You were a ghost of yourself, sweat-damp curls sticking to your skin, face flushed—and yet… you looked more alive.

Tinsley adjusted her gown. She peered out the window with a little smile. “Is that… Captain Smith?”

Your heart seized, and the world narrowed. You followed her gaze—and time stopped.

Tall. Broad. Blonde. That unmistakable posture. The Scout uniform hugging his frame like it had been tailored for him alone… which, it had been. His back was turned, but this was one person you could recognize even in a dream. He turned slightly, just enough for the light to catch on the plane of his cheekbone and that impossibly strong profile. Those piercing blue eyes. Those full eyebrows. That beautiful Romanesque nose.

Your breath hitched.

Erwin.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up. The carriage door burst open. You didn’t wait for help. Your bare feet hit the ground hard and uneven—this road wasn’t cobbled like Mitras. You nearly stumbled.

“ERWIN!” The name tore from your throat.

Heads turned, but you didn’t care. The crowd blurred around you, and your nightgown fluttered wildly in the wind—cream silk, barely held together, one strap slipping down your shoulder. You probably looked insane. You probably were insane.

“ERWIN!”

He turned, and the look on his face—shock, disbelief, longing—struck you like lightning.

You ran with no plan on stopping, yet he didn’t move. Not until you were already throwing yourself into his arms, your limbs curling around him like vines. Your arms looped around his neck, your legs around his waist. Your hand tangled in the back of his hair. His hands caught you instantly, strong and sure, as if he’d never forgotten how to hold you.

You buried your face into his shoulder and sobbed. Everything cracked. The months of restraint. The days of pain. The uncertainty of not knowing what it meant to want something so much. You shook against him, clinging like you might fall apart otherwise.

You thought nothing of how this may look to the townsfolk. Maybe that was selfish of you. Maybe you should have put his personal reputation before your feelings, but you couldn’t help it. He was an anchor, and his presence made you feel inexplicable dopamine. 

Erwin—stoic, composed, always put together Erwin—held you like someone who couldn’t believe this wasn’t a hallucination.

His eyebrows knit, like he was trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and if it was even real. “You’re here? How did you—” He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.

You could feel people staring. You could hear the whispers. It was just like Mitras… except, it wasn’t like that at all, actually. These whispers were much different.

Is that the captain’s woman?

I’ve never seen her before.

Look at her gown… 

She’s beautiful.

You felt safe now. You felt so fucking safe. Not from the scrutiny of the crowd, but from everything. Erwin was your protector. You felt that.

Eventually, you slid down from him, your feet hitting the ground again, your knees weak but holding. You looked up at him, face streaked with tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to make a scene…”

Erwin just stared at you before his thumb lifted to your face. He’d wipe away your tears, almost like he too had forgotten for a moment what a public spectacle this was.

His voice was hushed, almost reverent. “How are you here?”

You let out a breath that shook with emotion. “It’s… a long story.”

From behind, Hange waved. “Hey there, Captain! Fancy seeing you out and about.”

Tev gave a sharp nod. Moblit followed suit.

Erwin’s gaze flicked to them, then back to you. “You came with them?”

“I did. We’re going to an inn on the southeast side. Just for the night. Come with us.” You bit your lip. “Please. I want to tell you everything.”

His brows knit once more, but his eyes never left yours. “Okay.” He nodded “I have a bit of time to spare. Lead the way.”

You did just that as you walked back to the carriage. Erwin helped you inside with the care of someone who wasn’t used to being gentle, but wanted to. His hand found yours after you were settled, resting over your knuckles. His thumb traced a slow, grounding circle against your skin, just once, and it made the world feel quieter. You didn’t realize you’d been shaking until you stopped.

Then, as simply as he’d come, he let go. He’d close the carriage door behind him and mount his horse with ease. From where you sat, tucked back in the carriage’s interior, you watched him through the open window as he took position beside the vehicle—like nothing in the world could move him unless he let it.

Dr. Yeager’s voice pulled your attention inward. “You jumped out of a moving carriage.” He spoke, not angry, just… tired. The kind of tired that came from days on the road and a years in service to people who never listened.

“I’m sorry!” You placed your hands over your mouth. “I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t thinking—”

“Are your stitches holding?”

You nodded. “They are.”

He hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. He knew a stubborn patient when he saw one.

The rest of the ride was short. A few more uneven turns down Trost’s winding streets and you reached it—the inn. Tucked into a crooked alley where two rows of mismatched buildings leaned inward. The structure barely looked stable from the outside. Ivy clung to the stone exterior. One of the wooden window shutters hung half-broken, clattering gently in the breeze.

A painted sign above the door read: The Copper Hearth.

It looked old but somehow… comforting.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and the scouts dismounted in practiced silence. Hange was the first to the door. As always. The hinges groaned open, and sunlight spilled in.

“Need a hand?” Hange asked, already extending one.

You took it. The descent from the carriage was slow, but careful. Hange kept a firm, steady grip on your arm as you stepped down, murmuring, “Easy, easy… there we go.” 

Once your feet touched ground, Hange turned immediately to help Tinsley, whose attention had already shifted. “Captain Smith…” she whispered.

You followed her gaze.

Erwin stood just beyond the horses, watching the process like he was still in the field, evaluating the situation, mentally categorizing each person’s position and purpose. It wasn’t aloofness—it was precision. Even relaxed, he looked prepared to fight off a threat from five directions at once.

When his eyes met Tinsley’s, he gave a slight nod. “Ms. Greville.”

Tinsley offered a practiced smile. “Captain Smith. The pleasure is all mine.”

His gaze flicked back to you almost immediately. You were slow on your feet, favoring your left side. You tried not to grimace as the ache pulsed up your ribs, but the moment you stumbled slightly, Erwin took a step closer.

“Are you okay?”

You paused. Looked up. Your eyes were glassy. You could feel it—like every emotion in you was standing just behind your pupils, waiting to spill. You wanted to smile. To cry. To tell him everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m so sick of crying.” You whispered. “But I’ll tell you everything inside.”

The door to the Copper Hearth creaked open. Grisha had gone ahead, and now motioned you all in. You stepped over the threshold into a room full of smells—old wood, hot iron, spiced stew hanging faint in the air.

It was dim. Not dark—just shadowed. Lived in. A small hearth flickered in the corner, its copper hood dented and well-used. The floorboards creaked like they remembered every guest who’d ever passed through. The air was warm. Not temperature—atmosphere. As if the place wrapped around you.

There were no velvet curtains. No chandeliers. No silver trays. Just one woman behind the counter and a short exchange between her and Grisha before the doctor returned, holding a key.

“One room. Two beds. You and Tinsley on one. I’ll take the other.”

You nodded, still a little dazed.

Tev stayed behind at the front desk, checking in a second room for himself, Hange, and Moblit. You turned toward the narrow staircase that led to the upper floor, already dreading the climb. The hallway was cramped, the wood worn thin by years of visitors.

You made it two steps, then stopped. Your fingers curled around your side, the pain finally punching through the numbness like a hot needle. You swayed slightly.

Erwin was beside you before you could speak. “You’re in pain.” He spoke low and certain.

You opened your mouth. “I’m—”

Before you let yourself finish, you thought of Miche.

Don’t insult yourself by refusing help.

You nodded. “Yes. I am.”

Erwin’s eyes flicked down to your side, then back up to your face. He didn’t ask. He just bent, wrapped his arms around you, and lifted you in one seamless motion—bridal style.

You weren’t used to being carried by anyone but Levi, and still that felt a bit weird—but Erwin made it feel… normal. Like you weren’t burdening him. Like you had every right to be protected.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His voice was soft. “Of course.”

The climb up the stairs was short, but in his arms, you noticed everything. The sound of his boots against the floor. The faint creak of his uniform. The smell of parchment and soap. He was warm.

Grisha opened the door to your room. The space was plain—bare wooden floors, two beds with iron frames and thin mattresses. A tiny closet sat crookedly against the far wall. One chipped desk. One window, shuttered. The air was stale, but it was clean.

Erwin stepped inside and carried you to the bed on the left by the window.

He knelt before you as he sat you down. When he looked up, he stayed there—like something sacred was unraveling between your breaths.

The doctor’s voice was low and clipped as he adjusted his satchel. “I’ll head to the market. Pick up the last of what we need for the road—medical supplies, dried foods, fresh wraps for your side.”

You nodded faintly, still seated at the edge of the bed, feet barely grazing the wooden floorboards. “Be safe,” you murmured, and he offered a tip of the hat before slipping out the door.

Moments later, it opened again.

Hange entered first, Moblit followed, ever silent and composed, his eyes flicking briefly over you as he took up a place against the far wall. Tev stepped in last and leaned against the doorframe with arms folded, eyes scanning the room with a casual tension, always alert.

The bed across from you creaked gently as Hange flopped back against it.

Tinsley took her place beside you again.

Erwin couldn’t wait a second longer. He needed to ask. “How did you get here?”

You reached for his face and he didn’t flinch. He let you hold him. Let your fingers trace his jaw like you needed to remind yourself he was real.

You looked into those eyes and saw everything. All the letters. All the distance. All the longing.

“I’m on my way to Shiganshina.” You whispered, “Dr. Yeager is going to help save my life.”

Erwin’s voice was hushed. “Then I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

He was studying you. Not the way others did—like an anomaly, a curiosity, a scandal waiting to unfold. No. Erwin studied you like a question he wanted to understand

“What happened?”

You reached for his face again, brushing your thumb over the faint stubble along his cheek. “I was stabbed.” 

The words hadn’t even finished leaving your mouth before the storm gathered in his eyes.

“Who?” His voice dropped low, but sharp. “Who did it? What did he look like? Has he been taken into custody? Where were you?”

You recoiled a little—not from him, never from him—but from the questions. From the pressure of memory. From the pain trying to crawl its way back out of you.

You shook your head and lunged forward, throwing your arms around his shoulders.

“Don’t—please don’t make me answer that.” Your voice broke. “It was just… a misunderstanding.”

You knew the words were weak. You knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all you could offer.

Erwin held you tightly. His arms locked around you, cradling your spine as if he could physically shield you from the things you couldn’t speak of. The room had grown still. Hange, Moblit, Tev—even Tinsley—they watched with silent astonishment.

They’d never seen Captain Smith like this. Never seen him bow his head, close his eyes, rest his cheek against someone’s hair and just hold.

When you finally eased back, your voice was steadier. “The doctor’s taking me to Shiganshina. We’ll be there for a few weeks.”

Erwin searched your face for something—answers, truth, assurance. Then his gaze swept the room, and he seemed to remember you weren’t alone.

He looked to Hange. “How did you all run into one another?”

Hange sat up, kicking one booted foot over the other. “Miche.”

Erwin’s expression softened knowingly. “Ah. Yes. That makes sense.”

You frowned. “Does it though?”

Erwin’s eyes cut back to you, and for the first time since you’d reunited, something flickered there—humor, just for a moment.

“Miche’s very fond of your scent.” He spoke evenly. “Says it’s indistinguishable. He could smell you in a thunderstorm.”

You blinked. Your cheeks grew warm. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

What does that even mean…?

Hange picked up the thread. “Section Commander Flagon went on ahead to Mitras. By his order, we were to escort the Greville sisters and Dr. Yeager to Shiganshina safely.”

Erwin nodded slowly. “That sounds about right.”

He looked to the three of them. “I agree with that order. Since you won’t make it to Mitras in time, I expect to see you back here in Trost when we regroup.”

The scouts nodded. One by one.

Then Erwin turned back to you—and something shifted. His features softened again, the edges of his mouth almost curving. “If things go according to plan… I may be able to catch you before the next expedition. I’ll check on you.”

Your heart did something strange. It leapt. Then dropped… He was leaving.

Erwin rose to his full height and turned toward the others. “Take care of them,  and take care of yourselves.”

He started for the door, but you caught his hand. “Wait!”

He stopped, and the room went quiet again. Everyone watching.

You stood slowly, legs weak but grounded in determination. “Erwin… Must you leave so soon?”

He turned toward you, the sorrow already in his eyes. “I must leave before nightfall. If I don’t—”

“I know.” You whisper, biting your bottom lip. “I know it’s selfish. I know you’re busy. I just…” You hesitated. Then stepped forward. “…before you leave… will you show me where you got the necklace?”

His eyes held yours. The weight of them. He couldn’t say yes, but he certainly couldn’t say no. 

“Come.” He tugged your hand, and you followed.

He led you just outside the room, the wooden hallway dim and narrow. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the low voices inside. For a moment, it was just the two of you, the golden torchlight licking at the stone walls, the wind faint against the glass panes at the end of the corridor.

He turned to face you. “I’m on a time crunch. I have to be in Mitras very soon.”

You nodded. “I know.” Your voice was quiet. “It was selfish of me to ask.”

He lifted your chin gently. “It’s not something I’m unwilling to give. Just not now.”

He leaned closer, breath fanning against your cheek. His eyes never wavered from yours.

“I’ll come back for you.” His voice remained stern, and so sure.

You leaned into him, your hands finding the edge of his coat, gripping it as if to anchor yourself.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his shoulder.

He wrapped his arms around you again, this time slower, more deliberately. He held you as if memorizing your shape.

He leaned close to your ear. “The shop’s on the west side of Trost. Down Hawley Lane, near the old baker’s row. You’ll see a black-painted storefront with glass doors. It doesn’t look like much, but that’s where I got it.”

You closed your eyes. Your chest ached in ways that had nothing to do with the stab wound.

“I will come back for you.” He repeated. “I promise.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, and when you turned to face him, you were so close.

His lips hovered near yours. His breath was slow, and steady, but he didn’t lean in. Neither did you. Something invisible pulled you both back—something stronger than desire. It wasn’t the moment, but that didn’t make your pulse any slower.

As the moment had reached his climax…

“Sister, I—” The door creaked open, and Tinsley’s voice spilled into the hall. She paused. 

You and Erwin pulled apart, not quickly, not guiltily—just enough. Tinsley looked between you. Her lips pressed into a line, slightly uncomfortable.

Erwin turned, his hand brushing your arm. “I’ll visit you soon.”

As soon as he came, he was gone. When he left, the hallway felt colder.

The hall was silent now, except for the faint creak of boots fading down the stairs. You felt them—each step like a thread being tugged from the fabric of your heart. Unraveling. Unspooling. Leaving you a little more exposed, a little more undone.

You walked slowly toward the window, your limbs leaden, your breath shallow. The air inside the inn was warm and stale, but your skin broke out in goosebumps. It felt too still. Too quiet.

You pressed your fingertips to the pane of glass and watched.

Below, Erwin mounted his horse with ease, his coat catching in the breeze. The sun caught the gold in his hair, and lit the edges of his uniform. He gave a short command to someone, you couldn’t hear it, and then he disappeared into the bustle of Trost, swallowed by carts and locals.

Just like that, he was gone again. You stared at the busy street long after he vanished, like you could summon him back just by watching. You couldn’t, of course.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You hadn’t seen him in so long. You imagined how he might smile when he saw you again, how his hands might hold your face, how he’d say your name like it meant something... But everything was so rushed. So frantic. Now you were left with a ghost of a goodbye, a kiss on the cheek, and a promise to return.

Your chest felt like a locked box with something violent trying to claw its way out. You’d cried so much lately that your body felt emptied. Hollowed. Like there were no more tears left to give, but the grief still hadn’t gotten the message.

You didn’t want to cry anymore. You just wanted to breathe without hurting.

Erwin was much more than a friend, but just short of a lover. Something suspended between, but not for lack of possibility. You saw it—the potential. The softness behind his eyes. The steadiness in his voice. The safety of him. You could love a man like that.

Hell, maybe you did love a man like that. Maybe your love for Erwin and Levi were two sides of the same coin.

A hand touched your shoulder.

Tinsley’s voice was soft. “Dr. Yeager said you should rest. The more you heal now, the easier the journey to Shiganshina will be.”

You nodded, still facing the window.

She gave your arm a gentle squeeze and helped you back inside—not letting go until you were seated on the bed. 

Moblit looked to Hange and Tev, “I’m heading to the market for last-minute supplies. Anyone need anything?”

Tev already began making his way out, “I’ll go with you. More hands.”

Tinsley looked at you and then piped up, almost too cheerfully, “I’ll go too! There’s so much I need to get!”

Hange looked over at you, seated depressed by the bed’s headboard. “I’ll stay with Ms. Greville.”

In no time at all, you were alone again. Well—almost.

The room felt larger with fewer bodies. Quieter. The inn’s wood creaked as if trying to fill the silence with its own voice.

You settled onto your side, facing the window that displayed the street outside. The light catching the glass and painting stripes of gold across your skin.

Leaving Mitras wasn’t what you thought it would be.

You’d dreamed of it since childhood—freedom, color, laughter. A world beyond the palace halls and pitying stares… but it wasn’t the place that had disappointed you. It was the circumstances.

You weren’t exploring. You weren’t living. You were recovering. Had you not been healing, you’d be doing cartwheels in the muddy streets… but had you not been healing, you would never even be here in the first place.

Near the footboard, Hange leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on you but not intrusively. You felt the gaze, but not the weight of it.

It wasn’t awkward. Just present. You were used to it. You were grateful for it.

The silence stretched until the brunette finally broke it.

“So…” The voice cut through casual but curious, “How did you do it?”

You didn’t turn your head. Just shifted your eyes. “Do what?”

A laugh—light, unexpected, genuine. “Get Captain Smith to fall in love with you.”

You blinked. A breath caught in your throat. You turned slowly, just enough to see Hange standing there with a crooked smile and eyes full of something half-amused, half-sincere.

“It’s not—” You started, voice mumbly. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure, and I’m a titan in disguise.”

You gave a breathy laugh despite yourself, then pressed your face into the pillow to hide it.

Hange took a seat on the edge of the bed, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough to feel. The mattress creaked under the weight.

“Never saw him like that.” Hange continued, amused. “No one gets him like that.”

Your lips parted. “Gets him like how?”

“Like he’s human. Not just a captain. When most people look at him, they are looking at his rank. Of course, I don’t have the luxury to do anything but. However you—you’re looking at him.”

You swallowed. “I don’t know how to explain it. He’s just… steady. And kind. And sharp. But when I’m near him, everything feels less… scary.”

Hange nodded. “That’s what love does… I think… I don’t know.”

You sat in silence for a while after that. The words were humorous, sure, but the message was far too real.

You exhaled into the pillow, letting the tension in your jaw finally slacken. The quiet between you and Hange wasn’t thick—it had settled into something companionable, like two people standing under the same rain, waiting it out together.

But the words Hange had just said still sat heavy in your chest.

Love?

“I’m not in love with him you know?” You spoke muffled from beneath the pillow.

Hange didn’t respond right away. You peeked out.

“I don’t know about that. Not my business anyway. Just… interesting. Seeing my captain get all—” Hange made a vague hand gesture that somehow managed to mean tender, intimate, and completely emotionally unhinged.

You frowned. “Soft?”

“Like warmed butter. Like steamed bread. Like a goddamn lilac petal on a spring morning.”

You barked a laugh. “He’s not that soft.”

“No?” Hange raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t make time like that for anyone. Doesn’t talk like that. Definitely doesn’t act like that, and he sure as hell doesn’t wipe people’s tears.”

Your cheeks went warm. “You’re making it sound ridiculous.”

“I’m making it sound accurate.”

You groaned and turned away from the window, face buried again.

“Alright.” Hange sprang up from the bed to stand directly beside you. “Let’s test your emotional durability.” A dramatic finger pointed out the window, “Look—look at that couple at the food stall.”

You sat up slowly. Outside, in the pink and orange hue of the fading sun, a young woman stood at a wooden fruit cart, offering something to a tall man in a travel-worn cloak. They were close. Not touching, but something about their postures felt… private.

Hange nudged your shoulder. “It’s you and Erwin.”

You snorted. “What? No. She’s selling fruit.”

“No no no.” Hange crouched beside the bed, voice taking on a mock-serious tone. “She’s selling him fruit, but her eyes are asking for more.”

You raised an eyebrow.

Hange’s throat cleared and launched into a dramatic monologue. “Here’s your apple, traveler… but the real fruit… is me.”

You choked on your laugh.

The brunette didn’t stop. “This peach? It’s just a metaphor. Take it. Bite into it. Taste the forbidden love between vendor and vagabond!”

You buried your face in your hands.

“You don’t have to pay with coin… we can find another way.”

You were laughing so hard your side hurt. “Please stop!”

Hange looked absolutely delighted. “Scouts have more downtime than you think. Everyone learns to read lips by year two of the cadet corps.”

“That’s totally not what they were saying!” You wiped your eyes, trying to catch your breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

You sat up slightly, your ribs protesting, and winced. As you shifted, your gaze caught something—just a little tear in the seam of Hange’s shirt, near the shoulder. Small, but jagged. Threads frayed like it was fresh.

“Your shirt’s torn.” You speak, reaching toward it.

Hange glanced down. “Oh. That’s alright. Just some loose stitches. I can be a little reckless sometimes.”

You frowned. “No. If it tore just from that, it doesn’t fit you correctly. You should be able to move however you please—especially out in the field.”

“Oh?”

“I can fix it.” 

“It’s really not—”

“Let me fix it. I can sew it up for you. I can make it better.”

There was a pause.

Then Hange laughed again—soft this time, almost shy. “I can see why the captain makes time for you. Alright. You’ve convinced me.”

Quick hands unbuttoned the shirt, and it came off with a shrug. Underneath was a fitted tank. Hange tossed the shirt onto the bed.

You nodded toward the door. “When Tinsley gets back, I’ll ask her to grab my sewing kit.”

“Damn. This is the most luxurious pit stop I’ve ever had. Emotional conversations and tailor service.”

You smiled, stretching your back slowly. “Just don’t rip it again, or I’ll have to make you a new one from scratch. It won’t be fun either. You’ll get an earful.”

“Ooh! Tempting. I might start showing up every time I get a scratch just to hear you scold me.”

You chuckled and turned back to the window.

Outside, a group of kids was gathered around what looked like a man playing a broken violin. Another woman tossed something into a pot over an open flame, steam billowing upward like a signal. 

You pointed toward the group. “What do you think they’re saying?”

“Oh, them? Easy.”

Violinist:

“I shall now play an air so refined, it once brought the king to tears.”

Child #1:

“Did he cry because it ended, or because it didn’t?”

Child #2:

“Play the one that summons rain!”

Cook:

“Never mind rain— play something that tenderizes meat. I’ve a joint that refuses to soften.”

Violinist:

“Madam, I am no meatmonger!”

Child #3:

“Then why are your notes so… butchered?”

You fell back on the pillow, wheezing. “Please. I can’t laugh anymore. It hurts.” You wiped your eyes again, breath shaky, but full.

“Well, you wanted to know what they were saying.”

“Thanks…” You spoke softly.

Hange shrugged. “You’re stuck inside. Someone’s gotta make sure your’re entertained.”

You let the quiet settle again, but now it felt warmer. Lighter.

You didn’t remember the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt—but Hange had you clutching your side like a gut wound, eyes wet with tears and gasping for breath between the jokes.

The conversation moved on from there, and it became easier to talk… about anything, everything. Hopes, dreams, even the future.

"So I was thinking, right?" Hange paced across the floor with arms flailing like a dramatist on the verge of madness, "What if we could capture a live titan and haul it back to base? We roll it in, and I can pick it apart. Think of all the things we could learn!”

You stared. “What… are you even saying right now?”

Hange grinned manically, ignoring your growing horror. “I could see it now. I pull out my scalpel and start taking notes. How flexible are the toes? Can it taste? Do they have a digestive system? All the big questions!”

You threw your head back. “You’re insane.”

“You’re welcome!”

“I don’t even know how that would work! What would you—where would you—huh?!”

“Details! Details!” Hange spun dramatically in a half-circle. “Science waits for no one!”

You doubled over on the bed, wheezing. “You’re actually going to die one day by poking the wrong titan.”

“Oh, I’d love to die like that!”

The two of you were still giggling when the door suddenly slammed open.

Tinsley tripped through the threshold, arms overloaded with an assortment of small, clinking, clattering items. Several objects flew from her arms—buttons, fabric swatches, a string of beads—and hit the floor in a chaotic clatter that made you jump.

“Oh shit—!” She scrambled immediately to gather everything.

She began scooping up loose bits and pieces. A spool of thread rolled all the way under your bed and vanished beneath it.

“Graceful.” You rose an eyebrow.

“I’m doing my best!” She huffed, cheeks pink. “But I got excited!”

She dumped the goods onto the tiny desk near the window. A few items slid off the edge again with comedic timing.

Hange, hands on hips, gave a slow whistle. “Smells like trouble.”

Tinsley looked up, hair falling in her face. “Hange! Help me with a few things?”

The brunette looked at you. You nodded, lips twitching.

Hange pointed out the window dramatically. “Keep your eyes on that couple with the matching shirts. They’re about to fight to the death.”

You gave a half-laugh, half-sigh and turned toward the window, watching the pair Hange had indicated. A woman in a sunhat appeared to be scolding a man over something he had clearly forgotten—probably fruit.

Hange slipped out behind Tinsley, the door closing behind the two of them.

Then suddenly, the room was silent again. You leaned against the pillow, and without any voices to fill the space, the air felt heavier. You looked at the spot where Erwin had stood. The imprint of his presence still hung in the atmosphere like the scent of something expensive and unforgettable. Your fingers itched to open the window. To see if maybe, just maybe, he was still nearby.

You knew he was long gone… The silence stretched, and your thoughts crowded back in. Before your brain could betray you, there was a large thud coming back upstairs.

Hange and Tinsley burst back in, arms full of even more mysterious junk. They dropped it all—bracelets, bread, soup in a lidded container, something that might have been a scarf or a table runner—onto the desk. Some items tumbled to the floor again, and Hange tried to catch them with one foot.

“What is all this?” You asked, stunned.

Tinsley’s voice trailed off as she spun back toward the door. “You’ll see in a minute!”

She vanished again.

You blinked. “…okay?”

The door slammed again. You stared at the growing mound of chaos by the desk.

Moments later, they returned—again—but this time with even more purpose. Tinsley kicked the door closed with her heel, hair now twisted up into a fast, lopsided bun.

You stared at her. “Tinsley. What are you doing?”

“HOLD—” She started moving things around. “ON.”

She and Hange began rearranging the room like possessed decorators with no budget and too much heart. The desk was shifted to face you. The wooden chair was dragged into place behind it. Candles were lit—where did they even get those? Either way, they were arranged in a triangle like this was a séance.

“Hello?” You threw your hands up, watching a roll of fabric lean against the dresser like it had plans for later. “Is anyone gonna tell me what’s happening?!”

Tinsley grinned as she adjusted a jar of dried berries. “Well… the doctor did say… you have to stay inside…”

She whipped around, holding a pie like it was sacred.

“So I’m bringing the outside—to you!”

You blinked… Then blinked again. Your mouth opened like you wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

She placed the pie on the windowsill like it was a window display.

Hange, now standing behind the desk, picked up a tiny bell and rang it with flair.

“Bread, soup, and bracelets!” Hange called in a merchant’s voice. “Anyone want bread, soup, and bracelets?!”

Tinsley spun dramatically toward you, lifting her skirt with a flourish. “Fruit pie! Fruit pie here! Best in the entire inn!”

You covered your mouth.

“How about you, young lady?” Hange pointed directly at you, leaning forward with a grin. “Would you like some fresh bread? Hot soup? Perhaps a beautiful bracelet for a beautiful woman?”

You burst out laughing. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Ma’am, that’s a yes or no question,” Hange continued mimicking a sales pitch. “You’re loitering in front of my stall.”

You lifted yourself carefully off the bed, sitting upright with effort. “Wow. Um—can I get some soup? And maybe a bracelet?”

Hange clicked the bell again. “EXCELLENT CHOICE!”

Tinsley mimed clapping. “Excellent! Excellent!”

“Your sister already foot the bill,” Hange added, reaching down and selecting a bracelet with delicate blue beads and small silver charms. “This one—it looks like you.”

You held out your wrist, and it fastened with surprising gentleness. 

“There. Stunning.”

You turned it slowly. It really was stunning.

“Coming up next—one hot soup!” Hange declared.

Tinsley danced across the room and retrieved a bowl. “Soup for the lady!”

“And a slice of pie!” Hange added.

“I didn’t order—”

“You’re getting the pie.”

You laughed until your sides hurt again, and even then, it didn’t stop.

Something about the absurdity—the way your sister was selling you goods like you were strangers, the way Hange took it all so seriously—it did something medicine hadn’t.

It lightened the heaviness. If only for a moment.

You looked at the flickering candles, the jumbled bracelets, the soup with actual steam rising from it. The laughter in the air. This was one of those moments you knew would stay with you forever. Not because it was grand, but because it was unimaginably kind.

The room buzzed with laughter and warmth late into the night. The soup was very thin, barely more than flavored water, but you drank every drop. Salt, it turned out, was a rarity outside the inner walls—a luxury reserved for the noble and the wealthy. You had never even considered that before. 

The bread was dense and hard, the kind that could break a tooth if you weren't careful. The pie, made with wild fruit, was bitter and tart. The fabric Hange had brought over was rough and unevenly dyed—but you didn't complain. Not once. Because none of it mattered.

It was kindness. It was effort. It was people who didn't have to care—choosing to do so anyway, and for that, your heart felt full.

Hange had eventually retired to the other room with Moblit and Tev, but not before making a dramatic exit involving an invisible horse and a bow to the most honorable customer. 

You and Tinsley had laughed until your stomachs ached. When Grisha returned, arms full of tinctures and folded herbs, he smiled at the cleared-up space and the pie crumbs.

Later, the lights dimmed, and the world outside quieted. You lay in the bed, your body heavy but your heart light. The bed was firmer than you liked, and the pillow was flat, but you were warm. You were safe.

Beside you, Tinsley stared up at the ceiling. There was a silence to her breathing that you didn’t notice. The kind of silence that comes with a secret.

She turned slightly to face you, her lips parting. "Sister.” She whispered. Her voice trembled, almost inaudible over the distant chirp of night insects.

"I need to tell you something. Maybe it’s the right time. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just a coward, and I only feel safe telling you this because we’re further than we’ve ever been from home—I don’t know. But I can’t keep this to myself. It’s been eating me alive for so long. You should know that—"

You snored, and Tinsley froze.

You stirred in your sleep and rolled over dramatically, one arm flinging across the bed and nearly smacking her in the face. A soft grunt escaped your lips as you mumbled incoherently and settled again.

Tinsley laughed softly under her breath. "Now is not the time then…" She whispered to herself.

Her eyes lingered on your sleeping face. Her heart ached… Just a little longer.

Trost : 4:59am : Wall Rose

You woke up early. Earlier than you expected. The room was still dark, but already there was movement. Boots on wood. Murmured voices. The low snort of a horse.

You stretched carefully. Still sore, still stitched. But strangely... refreshed.

There wasn’t a trace of the old, gnawing dread that had chased you since you left Mitras. In its place was something unfamiliar. Light. Steady. Excitement?

You got dressed with Tinsley's help, and within the hour, the carriage was loaded and your group was ready to depart. Hange gave a theatrical bow as the opened the door for you as Moblit helped Grisha secure the last of the supplies. Tinsley, radiant in the early morning light, beamed as she sat cross from you in the carriage.

Just like that, the wheels turned. The Garrison at the gate barely glanced in your direction. No intense questioning. No soul-draining inspection. Just a wave. A gate. A path.

Leaving Mitras had nearly broken you, but leaving Trost? It was as easy as breathing.

The sun was very low in the sky as you made your way through the gates and into the rolling green of the Wall Maria grasslands.

Wall Maria Grasslands : 5:25am : Wall Maria

The air was cooler here, and the road quieter, but you sat taller.

Maybe it was the pie. Maybe it was the laughter. Maybe it was seeing Erwin—however briefly. Mourning him. Missing Levi. Thinking of Isabel and Furlan. Maybe it was all of it.

But something inside you had shifted. The grass seemed greener here. Or maybe... you just finally looked.

You gazed out the window and let your head rest against the edge. The world rolled by in hues of green and gold. The tall grass danced in the wind, and in the distance, wildflowers painted the hills in soft, dreamy colors.

You passed so many small towns, and rogue houses. People thriving and living off the land.

Then, in your mind’s eye, it appeared.

A farmhouse.

White. Small. Cozy. The kind of home you could build a life in.

You saw Levi fixing the fence, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up. His hair messy from the wind.

You saw Isabel running wild through the field, chasing chickens barefoot and laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.

Furlan was on a ladder, painting the side of the house with an old brush, whistling to himself while pretending to be annoyed by Isabel's chaos.

You were in the kitchen. Cooking. Watching them. Making food with ingredients you grew. And it felt... whole.

You imagined Levi’s arms around your waist later that night. His hand teasing yours beneath the table at dinner. His voice low and intimate as he whispered something just for you.

Tinsley could visit. She’d come by with gossip from the capital. Letters. Gifts. She’d sit at your table and laugh the way she did last night.

And Erwin...

You could see him on the porch, teacup in hand. Legs crossed. Eyes closed. Listening. Talking. Laughing with you. Asking questions no one else thought to ask. The way he always did.

You would all be safe. Furlan would have a real bed. Isabel too. Perhaps you and Levi... would share a bed. One where he wouldn’t sleep on the edge. Where he could feel safe to relax in your arms, and you could curl into him as much as you wanted. Maybe on some nights you’d do a little more than cuddle.

It made you smile—really smile. You clutched that dream close to your heart. You could have it. You could build it. All of it. The thought didn’t make you feel so aimless anymore. It felt like a path toward something real. Like you finally knew what you’d want to do after getting them those papers.

You would heal. You would return to Mitras, and save your family. When you did—you’d find a way back to this. You were claiming it here and now. Not just for you, but for Levi. For Furlan. For Isabel. For the future no one had ever dared promise you… but the one you promised yourself.

The sun had crept higher into the sky as time passed—warm and golden but never scorching. A breeze rolled across the grasslands like relief, stirring tall blades and rustling the low branches of trees scattered in the distance. Each day bled into the next like slow-moving watercolor.

The road still jostled. The ride still wore on your body, but with every passing hour, something inside you softened. The land was too beautiful to be bitter.

Bandits, as the Miche warned, never came. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was the scouts riding ahead and behind you. Either way, you were grateful.

Then the next day snuck up on you—no, it took you.

You hadn’t noticed the flower at first. They bled into the land gently, easing their way in. Pale at first. A whisper of pink. Then more. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. An endless field of blooms in shades of pink, yellow, orange—vivid and unashamed, stretching on forever.

Tulips.

Your heart caught in your throat.

You pressed your hands to the window like a child. Gasped like the air had been stolen from your lungs. You’d seen tulips in vases. Tulips as decoration in Mitras. But never like this. Never growing wild and shameless, reaching for the sun with all their might.

Is this where they got them?

Is this how they grew?

Your body leaned forward on instinct, aching to throw yourself into the petals—to feel them touch your skin and inhale them until they became part of your blood.

Hange rode up alongside the carriage and leaned in with a mischievous grin, peeking into the window. “Think Miche could tell you two apart?”

You laughed—light and sharp, shaking your head. “Not a chance.”

Grisha looked back over his shoulder from the front carriage seat. His eyes lingered on the tulips for a long moment. Maybe he wanted to keep moving. Maybe this was inconvenient. Or maybe, he was taking pity on you.

“Alright.” The doctor spoke up. “Fifteen minutes. Let the horses rest. Stretch your legs.”

It was a small gesture, but it meant the world.

The scouts nodded and redirected toward the riverbank. The horses slowed to a stop, and you climbed carefully out of the carriage with Grisha’s help.

The scent hit you first—sweet and earthy. A little peppery. Pure.

You didn’t have the strength to frolic. Not yet, but you didn’t need to. Just being here was enough.

Tinsley knelt beside you, fingers delicate as she picked a perfect pink tulip and slipped it behind your ear.

She smiled softly, “You look so gorgeous.”

You blinked back a rush of feeling and plucked a yellow one in return, placing it in her hair. “No—you do.”

She laughed, a sad kind of smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve always been the ugly twin.”

You turned to her fully, one hand lifting her chin. “Why would you say that?”

Her eyes shone with tears. She didn’t flinch away from them this time.

“When you stopped speaking to me.” Her voice trembled, “I was so upset. I kept thinking… it was temporary. That you’d get over it. First it was denial. Then anger. Then I tried to badger you into talking to me...”

She swallowed.

“It wasn’t until recently that I accepted it. I’ve been a real piece of shit. I valued other people’s opinions more than my sister’s wellbeing. I laughed when I should’ve defended you. I ignored things that mattered because I was scared of being hated. I was scared of being treated like you… and you’re so strong to have endured it alone for so long.”

She paused. Her hands reached out and held yours.

“I’m not glad you got stabbed. Not for a second. But I’m glad I got to go on this journey with you. To reconnect with you. To see you again. I missed you. I missed who we were, and now that I have it back, even a little… I don’t want to let go. I don’t even want to go back to Mitras. I mean—sure, I’d miss the dresses and the desserts, but… I could never trade those for your peace.”

You squeezed her hand gently. “That’s not your burden, Tins. That’s mine. When I choose to go back to Mitras, I’ll do it on my own terms. Everything it comes with—that’s mine to carry.”

She nodded, lowering her head. Tears dripped silently onto the flowers.

Then, footsteps.

“Hey,” Hange approached with a grin. “How are you two holding up?”

You gave a small smile, then reached behind your ear and plucked the tulip loose. You’d then take Tinsley’s as well. 

You handed the flowers over to Hange. “Give these to Mr. Zacharius. If his nose is really as good as he claims… ask him which one’s mine.”

Hange’s eyes lit up like a child presented with a riddle. “A perfect field test. We’ll find out if he’s full of shit.”

You all laughed. You knew he was the real deal, but… could he tell?

From the river, Moblit’s voice rang out, “We’re moving out in five! Let’s go!”

Hange helped Tinsley into the carriage first, then you.

Just before the door shut, a hand slapped the side of the carriage. “Few more hours until Wall Maria. Hang in there, ladies.”

You inhaled deeply, bracing your ribs. One last stretch. You were so close. So damn close.

The carriage rumbled back onto the road, the creak of wood and steady clop of hooves lulling you into a quiet rhythm. But you didn’t close your eyes. You didn’t even blink too long. Not when every second brought you something new to marvel at.

The landscape shifted slowly, subtly. The plains stretched wide in every direction, breathing with life. The grass swayed with grace like threads of silk. Insects hopped and hummed past the window. Wildflowers burst in sudden patches, as if painted there just for you. 

You leaned your head against the side of the window, pressing your palm to the glass like you could hold it all still. This place, this stretch of land, this moment in time… you never wanted to forget it.

The laughter from earlier still warmed your chest. Tinsley had fallen asleep, curled like a kitten across from you. Hange rode ahead, chatting with Moblit, and Tev took the rear position behind the carriage. You could hear the murmur of their voices.

Grisha kept an eye on the horses, the path, the horizon.

You exhaled slowly. You weren’t the same girl who left Mitras a week ago. Maybe you never would be again.

Something shifted. Not in the wind,and not in the road, but in the sky.

The brightness dimmed, just slightly. You squinted upward.

The clouds hadn’t moved, but something massive had. 

You sat up straighter, squinting through the window as the carriage crested a slow hill—and then you saw it.

Wall Maria.

It wasn’t just a wall. It was a monolith. An ancient stone rising out of the earth like a sleeping giant. So far away it looked like a distant mountain range—but as the carriage continued on, it grew. And grew. And grew.

You'd seen Wall Sina, and Wall Rose, but this seemed so much grander. Not in its pristine nature, but in its worn presence.

It loomed like history itself. Endless. Towering. Weatherworn and chipped in places, but no less proud. Its shadow hadn’t touched you yet, but it would soon.

“This is it.” Grisha called from the front. “We’re almost there. Shiganshina’s just on the other side.”

You leaned out the window, heart thudding—not from fear this time, but from awe. It wasn’t just the beginning of a new chapter. It felt like a whole new book.

This would be your home for the next few weeks. Maybe even longer if the treatment called for it. It was too soon to know.

Finally you felt like you weren’t dreading what came next. You were… hopeful.

There were things waiting for you on the other side of that gate. Healing. Answers. Maybe even a future you hadn’t yet dared to imagine.

You still ached. Still missed Levi. Still carried a longing for Erwin’s gaze, for Isabel’s jokes, for Furlan’s kind words… But they were in your heart now. Sewn into the seams of everything you did.

You watched Wall Maria rise closer and closer with each passing second. It didn’t scare you, no. It welcomed you, and when you returned to Mitras, it would be on your own terms—with answers in your hands and your head held higher than when you left.

You were almost there.

Just a little longer.

[softcursechoso]

The Oracle: Ch. 3

JJK x Reader Toji x Reader Shiu x Reader

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Words: 11.2k+

Ch. 3 Warnings: None. Filth, but not in the fun way lol!

TALK IS CHEAP

Flight 98 : 9:27pm : Tokyo

“Okay. Row 29. This is us.” You nod as you and Toji approach the third seat from the back.

The windows are foggy from cabin condensation, dark grey clouds, a sheen of dirty rain on the wing, and ground crew in neon vests looking just as miserable as you. 

You’re trying to romanticize it. Pretend it’s a fresh start. Pretend you aren’t about to stay in a motel with no heat and one bed… but it’s tough. 

“Alright gimmie your bag.” Toji gestures as you shimmy to your window seat. 

You hand him your small carry on filled with your shared belongings. Hard to believe everything you owned was in that dufflebag. The stuff back in your apartment was all work clothes, unpaid bills, and trash. Considering you were a week from eviction- yeah, there was nothing important left in there.

You haven’t slept. You smell like Toji’s cologne because he threw your hoodie over his shoulder during the walk inside the airport and now it smells like him and cheap booze.

You were smiling a little, looking out the window, soaking in the thrill of the chaos. Then Toji’s massive, muscle-bound ass drops into the middle seat next to you.

The seat threatened to retire audibly. He’s way too big for this seat. Like impolitely so. He’s big with rock hard muscles that aren’t even fun to be next to.

“Fuck.” Toji grunts moving around a bit, “They make these seats for children?”

You barely had time to brace before he spread his legs wide—hip bone to hip bone, like he was trying to own half your seat too. His thigh knocked against yours like it belonged there.

“What the fuck is this?!” You gesture to his legs.

“I need room.” He speaks flatly, nudging you with his elbow before claiming the shared armrest like it was a fucking free for all around here. “You’d understand if you had a dick.”

Your jaw dropped. “Your dick does not require this much space. I don’t care how big you think it is.”

He looks over with pressed lips, “Are you ready to see it yet?”

“Stop!” You push his leg with both of your hands but he had no give. “Move over before I bite the shit outta you.”

He didn’t blink. Just turned his head, those dark eyes glinting. “Oh please, good girl. Don’t threaten me with a good time unless you mean it.”

You smacked his hand off the armrest. “Shut up.”

He stretched deeper into the seat with a dramatic sigh. “Anyway, I thought your little boyfriend liked you.”

Your stomach flipped. “Who?” you snapped, too fast.

“Shiu.” Toji spoke, grinning now. “You were making googly eyes at him and shit. Thought he’d spring for business class if you bat those pretty lashes huh? But look at you—back here with the rats in coach.”

“Well first of all, he’s not my boyfriend. Second, you’re in coach too. Isn’t that your best friend?”

He shrugged. “Nah, we’re just coworkers. Guess we shoulda known.”

“Known what?”

“That he doesn't give a shit. If he really liked you, he’d have you in a better seat. He didn’t even make an effort to get on the plane after you begged.”

“Begged is a complete stretch of the imagination, and it’s not even like that!”

“Mmhmm.” Toji leaned back and closed his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. “You keep makin’ shit up.”

Before you could even respond with words or fists, a sharp voice sliced through the white noise of people boarding.

“Whoa! Excuse me, sir—”

You craned your neck over the seatback, and there he was.

Shiu Kong, in the flesh. Right at the entrance, stepping casually into the aircraft like it was his living room. Lit cigarette tucked between his lips, white button up with a black overcoat draped like a cloak. 

The flight attendant blocking his path looked about this close to a heart attack. “You can’t smoke on the plane!”

Shiu blinked at her. “Since when?”

Her eyebrows knit. “Smoking on an aircraft has not been permitted since 1999, sir.”

A second flight attendant rushed forward with a little paper cup of water for him to extinguish the cigarette.

He rolled his eyes before placing his index finger and thumb to the stick. He took one last slow drag leaning closer to the cup like it was his last cigarette in life. Shiu plucked the cigarette from his lips, and dropped it in the water without breaking eye contact.

“I miss the ‘90s.” He exhaled a thin stream of smoke through his nose

He’d then turn and walk down the aisle like that wasn’t the most absurd thing in the world!

Your whole body clenched. Eyes wide. Hands now gripping the safety manual like it was your only salvation. He looked good. Criminally so.

Zone it out. ZONE IT OUT.

Shiu reached your row, slid his briefcase into the bin above you, and took the aisle seat.

Toji rose an eyebrow. “Damn Shiu, what’s next? You gonna hijack the plane?”

Shiu’s eyes cut sharp. “I would never do that—and I definitely would never make a joke about it before the flight took off, Zen’in.”

You choked on your own spit, and Toji frowned in your direction, betrayed. 

Shiu looked past him, directly at you now. “You know it takes a lot to get me off land. I’m trusting you on this.”

“I thought you said you’d give me a call, Shiu.”

He smirks, “I can talk all day, but when it comes to love languages I’m about that action. You said you could buy my time. I wanna see you do it.”

You didn’t even know how to respond to that. It was gonna take a lot to keep up with Mr. Shiu Kong, wasn’t it?

“My word is my currency, so I can’t afford to hand out freebies.” You grinned, “Don’t worry—it’s just the preview for the main act.”

There was a beat. A thick silence.

Toji groans and throws his head back. “You two are not gonna do this the whole flight, right?”

“Do what?” You turn away instantly, bashful. 

He leans in, giving you no room to breathe. Like he’s physically daring you to deny what you just did.

Outside, the rain started falling harder. The wing wobbled as the plane taxied toward the runway. You looked out wondering what a return to Tokyo might look like. Would you have more money? How much more?

You had 4,300 yen, no clear plan, one ability, and two criminals at your side. Seemed scary, yet somehow, you’d never felt more alive.

The plane took off relatively quickly. Shiu was the last to board, and after his grand entrance you were in the sky.

No in-flight entertainment meant exactly one thing; war.

The second you were airborne, Toji was back at it—tapping your tray table, adjusting his seat every five minutes, and narrating the contents of your purse like a National Geographic special.

“Lip gloss, gum, receipts from a love hotel from two years ago—how romantic.” He muttered, digging through with two fingers like it was contaminated. “You keep a taser in here?”

You snatched it back. “No, but I’ll buy one just for you.”

He popped peanuts into his mouth with smug superiority. “You know I read somewhere women who sit in window seats are more likely to cry during flights.”

You scowled. “Probably because the guy in the middle won’t stop fucking talking.”

Even Shiu gave up trying to sleep through the noise. He cracked one eye open and sighed like he regretted every decision that led him to this seat.

Fukuoka Airport : 11:32pm : Fukuoka

The flight was mercifully short. Two hours of turbulence, petty insults, and mild sexual tension. You jolted forward as the wheels hit the tarmac. Toji and Shiu didn’t even flinch.

Fukuoka greeted you like a wet slap. Everything was so rushed. As soon as you got off the plane, Toji grabbed your shared bag, Shiu got his suitcase, and the three of you headed out. Less than ten minutes it felt like.

You stepped out of the sliding airport doors and into a wall of cold rain. The sky hung low and gray even in the night. You hadn’t even zipped your jacket. Your hair was already wet, and your socks were already ruined.

You stood at the edge of the taxi line squinting through rain-slicked lashes as Shiu lit a cigarette beneath the shelter of his hand. His lighter sputtered in the wind.

“We could take a taxi—” He spoke, voice casual, “But then we’re out of money for the necessities.”

Toji huffed a laugh. “If you’re broke just say it.”

Shiu glanced over. “I just paid for three plane tickets and a motel room for a week. Yeah, it’s a little tight right now Zen’in.”

You hugged your arms tight to your chest, shaking. Your shoes squelched on the wet sidewalk. The rain was slanting sideways now, like it was angry at you specifically.

Toji slung an arm over your shoulder, casual. “Relax. We got the infinite money cheat right here.”

You leaned into him a little, smiling deviously. “I thought we were best friends.”

Shiu exhaled smoke and looked around. “Don’t say that out loud again.”

You perked up, “The best friend thing?”

Shiu shook his head, “The other thing. That Zen’in said. You never know who’s listening.”

You stepped out of Toji’s grip, brushing a strand of wet hair behind your ear. The wind whipped it back instantly. “So what do we do?”

“Get the taxi.” Toji frowned.

Shiu raised an eyebrow. “Are you volunteering to cover it?”

Before Toji could answer, you turned to Shiu. “I know what our goal is here, but I also made a promise to buy you out, didn’t I?”

His mouth curved as he listened to you.

“I know what I saw.” You added, voice low. “We’ll be fine. Let’s get the taxi.”

Shiu paused. Looked at you—really looked at you like he was measuring your weight in gold and trying to see where your shine ended and your lies began.

He flicked the cigarette into the street. “Putting the charm on already? Guess I’m a sucker.” 

He walked over to the first taxi in the line, bent at the window, and exchanged a few words. The driver nodded and popped the trunk.

You were still standing there like your legs forgot how to move.

Toji was already in the front seat, adjusting the vents like it was his car. He put his feet up on the dash before the door even closed. Who was going to tell him to stop? He was big and scary.

Shiu opened the back door for you, then slid in beside you, calm and confident, like there wasn’t a loaded gun of a situation resting between his shoulder and yours.

The heater blasted warm air into the cab. Your shoes were squishy. Your jeans were soaked. You could smell Toji’s cologne and rain and whatever aftershave Shiu wore—it hit you all at once..

The taxi pulled into traffic. Neon signs blurred past the fogged-up windows. Pachinko parlors flashing red and gold. Umbrella-covered pedestrians running like ants. Fukuoka was alive and ugly and loud and beautiful.

Your heart was pounding. Not from the cold. Not just from the boys, but from the weight of what you had to do.

Make money. Big money… or as they say, die trying.

Paradise 21 Motel : 12:07am : Fukuoka

The taxi jerked to a stop at the end of a narrow, cracked street.

Rain slapped hard against the windows in thick, cold sheets. You leaned forward between the front seats to get a better look—and immediately wished you hadn’t.

Even through the distortion of weather and glass, the motel looked like something from a murder scene.

Small. Run-down. Sickly yellow paint peeling off the facade like an old scab. A busted neon vacancy sign buzzed overhead in a weak loop as if even the letters couldn’t be bothered to hang on. It was the kind of place where screams probably went ignored. Where the sheets definitely didn’t get changed.

You stepped out of the car into ankle-deep puddles. Freezing rain resoaked your hair instantly, dripping down your neck. Shiu retrieved his suitcase with a grim face, staring up at the building like it had personally offended him.

“…What the fuck is this?” He muttered.

You rubbed your arms and hunched your shoulders. “Please tell me this is a decoy location.”

Shiu squinted up at the barely-lit sign as he pulled his printed reservation papers out of his pocket. “No. No, this is it. This is the one I booked. Online it looked… decent.” He flipped the page to see the pictures, voice rising. “The fuck happened to the flowers in front? There were flowers.”

Toji kicked at a loose tile near the entrance. “There were lies, that’s what happened.”

“Let’s just get your money back and go somewhere else.” Your eyes darted to the flickering lobby light. “I’m not dying here. I refuse.”

Toji shrugged like it was no big deal. “Or we could just kill the receptionist, strip ‘em, and rob the place. Be in and out in less than ten.”

You whipped around. “No, and don’t say shit like that out loud, are you for real?”

Shiu pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s try the refund first before we start planning a homicide.”

The rain doubled in force, splattering like pebbles on concrete. Shiu sighed and opened the door, gesturing you through like a gentleman who was deeply regretting all his life choices.

You stepped into the lobby and immediately recoiled.

The smell hit first. A choking blend of stale smoke, mold, and something vaguely metallic. Blood? Urine? Something was wrong. The carpet was hard and blotted with stains you didn’t want to look at too closely. The front desk was chipped with a rusted bell that didn’t ding so much as clunk. 

A trash can near the vending machine was overflowing with ramen cups and beer cans. It wasn’t even separated. One of the ceiling tiles was caved in, dripping water into a cracked bucket.

In the corner sat a man in a puffer jacket, hood up, staring at the wall. He didn’t blink. You weren’t even sure he was alive.

Toji instinctively reached out and grabbed your wrist, yanking you behind him and to his left. You knew the move—keep the most vulnerable protected. His eyes scanned the room like he expected someone to pull a knife anytime now.

Shiu approached the front desk with all the moxie in the world. “Good evening.” He spoke politely.

Behind the desk was a woman in her mid-50s, gray roots showing, makeup smudged, long acrylics tapping away on a heater that wasn’t working. She looked up at him like he was the 800th problem today.

“What?”

“It seems there’s been a mix-up.” Shiu offered her a small smile. “I booked a room here, but this isn’t quite what I expected.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You want a gold toilet, too?”

“Oh no, I’m not that kinda guy. I was just hoping for a refund. I’m sorry to trouble you. I just—this isn’t going to work.”

“No refunds for same-day check-ins.”

Shiu blinked. “Right. But I’d be happy to take a credit, or—”

“Can’t do credits either.” She wasn’t even looking at him anymore. “Reservation’s already charged. If you don’t stay here, it’s cancelled and billed as a no-show.”

Shiu stayed calm. Tilted his head slightly. “I get it. Tough policy—but you seem like a woman who knows how to make things happen.”

The woman paused. Her nails stopped tapping. “Oh, do I?”

“You do.” Shiu nodded, eyes glinting. “I can tell. You’re the kind of woman who runs the show. I bet all the motels in the area are terrified of you.”

That finally got a smile. She leaned on the desk, squinting at him through mascara-smudged lashes. “You flirting with me, boy?”

“I can’t call it flirting if I’m only speaking the truth.”

Toji whispered to you, leaning down with a snicker. “You got competition.”

“Shut up.” You hissed.

The woman giggled. “I am the manager.” She straightened up. “I’ve had this place twenty years.”

“You didn’t need to tell me who the manager is. I can always spot a woman who calls the shots.” Shiu nodded like he was impressed. “That explains it. The place has… character.”

“Charm,” she corrected.

“Absolutely. I haven’t seen charm like this since a job I ran in Seoul.”

She blinked. “You been to Seoul?”

“Used to live there. You’d love it. Real big city type of vibe. No nonsense. But the women? Not half as interesting as you.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with one long-nailed hand. “Ooooh, you better stop before I believe you.”

Shiu smiled low and deadly as he leaned in just slightly. “Then I’d have to stop lying.”

You and Toji were now watching with full-body secondhand embarrassment and admiration. He did what must be done, and you knew he hated himself for it.

“Anyway,” she said, fanning herself, “I still can’t give you a refund…”

Of course not.

“…but I can upgrade you to our best room.”

Shiu clutched his chest theatrically. “Now you’re spoiling me.”

She grabbed a keycard off a hook behind her and handed it to him with a wink. “Top floor. Room 508. That one’s got real windows.”

Toji muttered, “Shit, we might be the first guests to survive the night.”

Shiu took the card delicately between two fingers, lifting it like a toast. 

“Call me sometime.” The woman purred.

He grinned. “You know my room number.”

The three of you moved hastily along to the shitty elevator. What the hell did you just witness? As you stepped on, the elevator creaked like it was deciding whether or not to fall. Fun.

You stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Toji and Shiu, watching the ancient little metal box crawl up five floors at the speed of a dying turtle. There was no music. Just the buzz of bad wiring and the occasional bump that made your heart skip. This was the kind of elevator where you held your breath and prayed.

When it finally dinged, the doors wheezed open onto a dimly lit hallway with cracked walls and carpeting that had definitely been red in the '80s. Now it was more of a dark maroon crime scene rug.

Room 508 was the corner unit. Shiu stood in front of it and you stood behind him with your arms crossed, staring at his back.

“So, you flirt like that with all the middle-aged desk clerks?” You teased.

Shiu glanced back with a smirk. “What can I say? I’m a people person.”

Toji leaned on the wall, grinning. “Nah, you’re a desperate man in a suit. Watching that was fucking hard and I’ve seen some rough shit.”

Shiu slid the keycard into the lock. The light blinked green, but the door didn’t open.

He pulled it back out, tried again. Click. Nothing.

You arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You gotta flirt with the door next?”

“She’s shy.” Shiu said calmly. “Give her a second.”

Toji scoffed. “Open the damn door before I kick it in.”

Third time’s the charm. The door opened with a heavy creak, and you were hit in the face with a wall of air so stale it felt like you’d just stepped into a forgotten time capsule.

Toji stepped in behind you, and Shiu flicked on the light switch by the door. Nothing happened. He flicked it again, and again. Finally, one naked bulb in the corner sputtered to life with a struggling buzz.

“Oh hell no.” You frowned.

The carpet was squishy in places. Not soft. Wet. Damp with something you didn’t want to think about. There was a smell—an unholy trinity of mildew, bleach, and something vaguely like… latex?

Your nose wrinkled. “This was definitely a love hotel.”

“Yeah you should know miss love hotel receipts.” Toji had already dropped his bag and was poking around like he was casing the place for murderers. 

Shiu scanned the room, trying to find something—anything—redeemable. “The curtains look clean.” He offered.

You stomped across the room, went straight to the window, and yanked them open. The night’s sky was a dark, depressing hue. The view? A half-empty parking lot and a trash-strewn alley. Two pigeons were aggressively mating on a nearby air conditioning unit.

“Romantic.” You deadpanned.

You turned back toward the bed. A single, queen-sized disaster. The mattress was slightly caved in. The comforter was threadbare and off-white. With mysterious splotches that looked like someone tried, and failed, to clean something terrible.

You hesitated. Then peeled back the blanket slowly, like a horror movie protagonist about to see a severed head.

You recoiled. “Is that cum?!”

Toji leaned in, squinting. “That’s definitely cum.”

“EW.”

You let the blanket fall and backed away like it might bite you. “Absolutely not. That’s a hate crime. Someone died here, and then someone else got horny on top of the body.”

Shiu was by the bathroom now, checking the tap. The faucet made a gurgling noise like it was vomiting, then coughed up rust-colored water for a full two seconds before going clear.

He raised his voice. “Shower works.”

“Fantastic.” You grinned sarcastically. “We can all cry in it one at a time.”

Toji kicked off his slides and dropped onto the bed with zero hesitation.

You screamed. “You’re on it?!”

He stretched out with his hands behind his head. “I don’t give a shit. I’ve slept in gutters.”

“You’re marinating in a ghost’s sex juice right now.”

He patted the mattress. “Ghosts make good pillows.”

You looked at Shiu. He was leaning against the wall, watching all this unfold with a barely hidden smirk. Nothing was funny. More like—unbelievable.

“Well?” You looked over at him. “This the luxury suite you were promised?”

He shrugged. “It’s got windows. I don’t know what else to say.”

“If this is the best room she has, then you owe that woman your life.”

Shiu crossed the room and picked up the room key from the dresser, turning it between his fingers. “She said to call her.”

Toji barked a laugh. “Better hurry, man. You let that one slip through your fingers and you’re never gonna find another woman who’ll let you stay in a biohazard zone for free.”

You flopped onto the still-upright chair by the little desk, eyeing it suspiciously for bugs or more stains.

Toji leaned over, chin in hand. “You sure you’re not jealous? That lady’s a freak. She’s gonna be calling for dick at 3am. I know people like her.”

“You’re insane.” You swatted at him with a rolled-up motel notepad.

Outside, the rain picked up again. Hard and fast. Like it wasn’t done punishing you.

Inside, the three of you sat in that dump of a room, damp and road-weary, surrounded by mystery stains and flickering lights—and somehow, the tension was thick with more than just disgust.

“Whelp, I’m gonna shower.” You declared. “Just because this room is filthy doesn’t mean I gotta be.” You stood up from the chair and marched over

The bathroom looked like a scene from a survival horror game. Mold crept in webs across the ceiling. The mirror was cracked in three places. The hot water took five full minutes of groaning, clanking, and random brown sputtering before it got hot. You scrubbed yourself like you were trying to erase the day off your skin—Fukuoka rain, airport grime, probability pressure, motel ick.

You dried off with a towel that smelled like old fabric softener, then pulled on one of Toji’s oversized t-shirts from the duffel. It was soft and stretched, the neckline loose enough to slip off your shoulder. You’d meant to grab your own pajamas—but this was easier. Warmer. You caught a faint whiff of his cologne as you slipped it over your head.

By the time you stepped out, your damp hair was twisted up in a slick bun. The room was lit only by the single lamp near the bed. Shiu had taken the lone chair, legs crossed like he was in a high-rise office. Toji was sprawled sideways on the bed watching some static-blurred news channel on mute.

You were barely two steps into the room when Toji looked over and smirked. “I can see your tits. You know that, right?”

You deadpanned, “No, you can’t.”

Toji gave you a sarcastic shrug. “Okay, then I can’t.”

You rolled your eyes and whipped your jacket off the chair. Tossed it onto the bed like a barricade and sat behind Toji, crossing your legs under you. The mattress groaned, sagging toward the middle. You stayed close to the edge.

Shiu raised an eyebrow as he glanced over you. “Comfortable?”

“Incredibly.” You offered a fake smile.

Toji pointed the remote at the TV and clicked it off. “Alright, we gonna pretend like we know each other, or are we finally gonna talk like we’re stuck in hell together?”

“It’s not hell.” You crossed your arms. “It’s… close, though.”

“Hell adjacent,” Shiu added.

There was a moment of quiet. Rain pattered on the window impatiently. The room buzzed with shitty wiring ready to fry at the drop of a hat.

Toji sat up and gave you a sideways glance. “Why are you even in Japan?”

You blinked. “That’s a weird opener.”

Shiu looked at you too now, eyes unreadable, but curious.

You leaned back against the headboard. “You want the truth or the version I give to people I’m trying to earn respect from?”

Toji grinned. “Truth. Lies are boring.”

You exhaled through your nose and stared at a crack in the ceiling.

“Met a guy on the internet. Chatroom, years ago. He was funny. Very handsome. Kinda charming. Had that dumb boy band hair, real dramatic. Talked about manga like it was scripture.”

Toji snorted. “Sounds like a loser already.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I was studying Japanese back in the States, and he wanted to learn English. We taught each other. Started emailing every single day. We fell fast, and then one day he told me to come to Osaka.”

“Osaka?” Toji frowned, “That explains your fucked up Kansai dialect.”

You rolled your eyes, “Well, I didn’t know that was a thing at the time. Anyway, he told me to come be with him. So I did. I saved up for months. Sold my car. Got on a plane with two suitcases and a heart full of dumbass hope.”

You swallowed hard as you spoke your story out loud. You were never able to do that before. This was your first retelling.

“He met me at the airport and he wasn’t the guy from the pictures. He wasn’t even attractive. He wasn’t nearly as wealthy as he said he was. He wasn’t even that funny—but I already made peace with abandoning my old life, so we went straight to his apartment, and I never left.”

Shiu leaned forward slightly.

“By the second month he cheated on me all the time. Just, rampantly. It wasn’t even subtle. He’d come home smelling like another woman and act like I was crazy.”

“Shit—” Toji muttered.

“I didn’t have any money. No family here. I was too proud to ask my friends back home for help. I stayed. I told myself I was surviving.” You laughed bitterly. “Then his other woman got pregnant and he left. Packed a bag while I was asleep. Left a note on the microwave like a coward, and vanished.”

The silence was sharp now. The kind that made your own heartbeat feel loud.

Toji stared at you for a beat. “What a little bitch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Guy sounds like a total bitch,” Toji said flatly. “Only cowards run from women like you. No spine. No balls. Probably cries during sex.”

You didn’t mean to laugh—but you did. A short, sharp burst.

Shiu shook his head. “And here I thought I was the cold one.”

Toji shrugged. “Guys like that deserve the worst outta life. I know I’m not on some moral highground, but the least he could have done was tell you to fuck off face to face. So if he left then how are you still here?”

You looked at them both. “After he left, I couldn’t pay rent. My visa was hanging by a thread. I got a job at the casino through a friend’s shady contact. Started doing side hustles. Cleaning. Translations. Whatever would buy me instant noodles and keep the lights on.”

Shiu’s voice was quieter now. “How long?”

“Three years.”

Toji let out a low whistle.

Shiu nodded. “I bet you were good at it.”

“At being broke?”

“At surviving.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“Guy ever shows his face again,” Toji spoke casually, “I’ll put a knife through him.”

You looked at him. He was staring at the ceiling like it was a to-do list.

“Thanks?” You questioned on the verge of laughter.

He smirked. “What are friends for?”

You looked over at Shiu. He was watching you quietly but softer now. Less calculating.

You met his eyes, and for the first time, the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt like something you might be able to trust.

The night air hit different after a motel shower and confessions. Still cold, still wet, but cleaner somehow. 

You shifted on the edge of the bed, pulling your knees up and wrapping your arms around them. The silence had gone soft now, almost gentle.

You began again. “In my vision… saw us dressed up. We weren’t in this motel. We looked… good. Like we belonged in a room that smelled like money. So I’ve been thinking—maybe we should practice. At a pachinko parlor. See if we can get a handle on this technique.”

Toji groaned. “I thought you said you can’t see the future. That's not how your eyes work.”

“It’s not.” You spoke, matter-of-fact. “I can’t just tell the future. Not like that, but with you it’s different. With you, I see two roads. One if we act. One if we don’t.” You leaned forward. “I may be the eyes, but you, Toji… you’re the catalyst.”

Toji squinted. “Was that a compliment?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not a compliment. It’s the truth.”

Shiu nodded. “She’s right. It’s probably best we figure this trick out. We’re not gonna get far if she can only see vague pieces of a future that hasn’t worked out yet. Let’s find a pachinko parlor. A shitty one, no cameras, easy to walk away from. If her ability works anywhere, we’ll see it there.”

You smirked, “Thank you, Shiu.”

He nodded, like it was nothing, but the look he gave you lingered.

Toji stood, cracked his neck, and slung his coat over his shoulder.

“Alright, let’s get you off the cum bed and into some cum chairs at the parlor.”

You nearly choked. “Stop saying cum!”

“Nut.”

“EW. No. Okay, say cum again.”

He grinned like a man victorious in psychological warfare. “Cum.”

You groaned and buried your face in your arms.

Shiu sighed. “We’re robbing Fukuoka blind and this is who I partnered with.”

“You knew what it was.” Toji grinned.

Shiu gave you a long-suffering look. “Remind me to renegotiate your cut.”

You laughed despite yourself. Despite everything—the mold, the hunger, the cold—you were warm now. Not because you were safe, but because the game was on its eve.

You pulled on a hoodie, slipped on a pair of sandals, and headed right back outside. 

There was no cab. No money for one either. So you walked… regretting your entire existence every time you stepped in a puddle.

“Sandals in the rain?” Toji eyed your feet with pure judgment. “You trying to get trench foot?”

“I genuinely thought the nearest parlor was less than five minutes away.”

Thankfully it wasn’t long before the parlor found you. It was tucked between a rundown karaoke bar and a boarded-up pharmacy, the Lucky Hana Pachinko Lounge glowed weakly under a flickering sign.

Inside, the place was sad. Rows of ancient pachinko machines lined the stained floor, their blinking lights dulled by decades of cigarette smoke. Old men in plastic raincoats hunched over like gargoyles, grinding metal balls into slots with robotic rhythm. It smelled like oil, rust, and straight up despair. There were no windows except at the front of the parlor.

“Cameras?” You asked under your breath.

Shiu scanned the ceiling. “None. No security desk either. Probably a tax write-off front for some half-dead yakuza guy.”

You stood just outside the doorway, peering in with visible hesitation. “I’m not walking on that floor barefoot.”

Toji, already halfway through the entrance, turned and looked back. “So don’t.”

You squinted. “I’m wearing sandals, genius.”

He blinked once. Then, without hesitation, walked back, wrapped an arm under your thighs, and lifted you off the ground like it was nothing.

“Hey—HEY! Put me down!”

“Nah.” He started carrying you like a bag of small potatoes. “I know you’ll bitch more if I put you down.”

Your eyes went wide. You glanced at Shiu for support—he was just lighting a cigarette, entirely unmoved.

“Seriously, Toji!”

“What, you scared your little boyfriend might get jealous?” Toji said, grinning. “He doesn’t give a shit.”

You pouted, glaring down at him—but you didn’t say anything else.

You could, sure. But being this close to him… warm arms, that faint scent of cologne and sweat… It didn’t feel so bad.

Toji looked up at you, eyes sharp with amusement. “Alright then, good girl. Where should we go first?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. Hold still.”

You reached out, took his face in your hands, and closed your eyes. The moment your palms touched his skin, your technique surged forward—like flipping a switch on a storm.

Just like that, you saw it. Two paths. The first was dead grey. The usual. Loss. Nothing gained. Machines humming empty. Wasted time. But the second… A short future—minutes ahead. A streak of green like fire on water. Blazing hot, narrow, and sharp. Leading to the back corner of the parlor, near a broken vending machine and a flickering overhead bulb. Sitting there, half-asleep, was an older man in a yellow coat.

“Put me down.” You squirmed.

Toji set you down gently, his eyes on you now, not laughing anymore.

You steadied yourself, let the vision go, and stepped onto the grimy carpet, sandals be damned.

Shiu took a few steps forward, glancing around. “So?”

You nodded toward the machines. “Start sitting.”

Toji made a face. “That’s it?”

“Just trust me.”

Shiu sat at a machine near the front. Instantly, your vision darkened—his outline bathed in purple. Not just bad. Bleeding bad.

“Next one,” you pointed to the machine beside it.

Shiu moved. Again—dark purple. Worse, if possible.

You hissed through your teeth. “This place is rigged. All of them. I’ve worked in a casino long enough to know. There’s always an ebb. But this? This is a graveyard.”

Toji rubbed the back of his neck. “So we leave?”

You shook your head, eyes on the corner. “No. Remember what I said. Two paths.”

Shiu says nothing—already splitting off, to look less suspicious. Doesn’t want to draw too much attention by standing at the front. He vanishes down a narrow row near the back, hands in his pockets, shoulders low. Casual, but his eyes are working, scanning. 

You don’t need to be psychic to know he’s on recon, and man, something about the way he does things without needing permission or direction makes you a little weak in the knees.

Near the vending machine, the man in the yellow coat yawned and fed another ball into the machine. He looked half-dead, like someone had just left him there after forgetting what day it was.

“We can win.” You nod. “Right next to him.”

Toji crossed his arms. “You sure? You just said all the machines are fixed.”

You smiled, slow and sure. “If we can’t beat the odds of a backend pachinko parlor held together by duck tape, then this little partnership of ours won’t last very long, will it?”

Toji cracked his knuckles, already walking toward the back. “Alright then, let’s see.”

You followed him, heart starting to race—not from nerves, but from certainty. The path was there, but it was very narrow.

Toji flops into a cracked leather stool and slaps the side of the machine like it insulted him personally. "Alright. Now what?"

"Umm... hold on." You exhale and reach forward, grabbing his face from behind. Your fingertips tickle his jaw and your thumbs under his cheekbones. You activate. 

Toji turns his head toward you. "What?”

You hesitate. "It's tricky… Um… Don't look too deep into it, okay?"

You walk around and settle into his lap—plop, ass pressed to his thighs. His body goes still for a split second, then his hands settle on your hips.

"Now you're just confusing me on purpose.” His fingers begin sliding up your bare thighs. "You want me or not, girl?"

"No! Shut up." You grab his face again, lean into his chest. Your head tilts back so you’re close to his ear. It looks sexy, but it’s not meant to be. You just need to relay information carefully under watchful eyes. You whisper, “There's a guy in the back. The one Shiu’s talking to. He’s watching. I gotta look clingy so I can touch you and read you. This only works if you don’t fuck it up.”

Toji chuckles. "I never let a woman tell me what to do… but for you? I’ll make an exception. Go ahead."

You close your eyes. Activate again. The pachinko machine in front of you is rigged. Dead-end just like the rest. Statistically impossible to win, but that’s the point.

It’s not about beating the machine. It’s about beating the timing.

“Push the knob three clicks right.” You speak softly, “Wait two seconds, then snap it back and hit it hard. Count four. Let go.”

He does it—almost lazily. The balls launch. One bounces… 

Click. Click. Click.

Lights. Bells. You win. Nothing major, just ¥2,000, but enough to raise an eyebrow. The man beside you chuckles.

“Lucky you.” He looks over.

Toji pulls you in a little more. “Very lucky me.”

You keep going. “Now six clicks, but hold for one… release, then count three. Pause. Snap it left—one big push.”

Another win. Bigger. This time the machine spits out a rain of balls, and the sound pulls every fucking head in the room.

“Again.” Toji says.

“Hush, Toji. You don’t get to talk. You just do what I say.”

He grins against your jaw. “Go, fucking brat.”

The man beside you leans closer. “Haven’t seen that machine pay out in three months.”

Another man walks over to check out the commotion. Then another. And another. It’s getting crowded near you and this wasn’t the plan. You can’t look like the brains. You have to pull something slick.

You giggle and lean back into Toji’s chest, full bimbo mode. “Babyyyyyy, you’re so good at this! You gonna buy me new shoes with your winnings?”

Toji plays along, lips grazing your jaw. “You like that?”

“Of course I do! You’re so lucky!” You throw your arms around his neck and hold him close. You whisper, "Nine clicks right. Wait. Two quick taps. Then nothing. Count to five. Then you launch."

He obeys exactly as you say. Another shower of winnings. The sound of success in this dump is foreign. All of the other players are fully surrounding you now. The air is electric.

“Wow! You’re amazing!” You twirl your hair around with your finger, keeping up the doe eyed routine. “We should keep playing til’ we’re rich! You’re so good!"

More murmurs. A crowd is forming. Older men leaning in, laughing, whispering to each other. 

You pull Toji close like you’re gonna kiss his cheek, but you press your lips to his ear. “We have to stop. Make it seem like your idea.”

He blinks. “A winning man knows when to stop baby girl. Let’s not get greedy.”

You could tell those words physically hurt Toji. He’d play until the machine fell apart if he could, but you knew better. With a crowd having formed, you were going to get caught if you didn’t stop. Thankfully all of these men were 60 and over, so they didn’t really notice your whispering in the first place.

“I haven’t seen luck like that in years, and I run this place.” An older man approaches. Looks to be in his late 50s. Short, slightly graying hair. Looks friendly, but also not to be played with.

You give a polite little laugh—sweet, dumb, forgettable. “Guess today’s our lucky day.”

He doesn’t even look at you when he smiles again. His eyes are on Toji. Then Shiu. He’s clocked the hierarchy already. He’s wise enough to know you’re not just arm candy—but smart enough to treat you like you are.

“I was speaking to your handler just now,” he continues, nodding at Shiu. “The name’s Yamada. I’m the owner’s brother. If you're looking to make some real money in this town, I might be able to help you with that.”

You slide off of Toji’s lap without a word.

Toji nods, “Yeah, I think I could go for some real money.”

Yamada leads the three of you to the back office, weaving through the machines like he’s done day in and day out. The further back you go, the louder the hum of electricity gets, the air thick with heat and metal.

He opens the back door and his office is… unimpressive.

The wallpaper is yellowed. The carpet is stained. The desk is a cheap laminate with the corners curling. But the walls are cluttered with photos—family portraits. Smiling kids. A younger version of Yamada and a man you assume is his brother. The resemblance is there, even if one has a cigar and the other has dead eyes.

You note it all. You always do.

Yamada waves at the water pitcher and plastic cups on the side table. “Water?”

You shake your head. “No thank you.”

Toji drops into one of the two worn chairs opposite the desk. Shiu steps forward, elegant and unhurried, and gestures at the other seat, offering it to you. His hand is warm when you take it.

Before you can sit, Toji hooks his arm around your waist and pulls you down into his lap.

“Sit down, Shiu.” He speaks like he’s a kind soul offering his friend a seat.

“Toji!” You hiss, wriggling in his lap, embarrassed. “What the hell?”

“Don’t get modest on me now. You were just bouncing on my dick in the lobby.”

“That is not what happened!” You snap, turning red. “You absolute neanderthal, and right in front of Yamada-han?! No tact having ass!”

He pulls you in tighter. “You better calm down, woman.”

You cross your arms and huff. Shiu just smiles faintly and takes the seat beside you, crossing one leg over the other.

Yamada chuckles. “You two remind me of my wife and me when we were younger.”

Your nose scrunches. “Me and Toji? Oh, hell no. The last thing I’d ever be is married to this man.”

“You never know which path life will lead you down.” Yamada nods kindly. “You’d be surprised.”

You mumble, “I’m not marrying Toji.”

Shiu leans forward, smooth and to the point. “So you were telling me about a place called the Tenjin Vault?”

You tilt your head, curious. “What’s the Tenjin Vault?”

Yamada leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “It’s a gambling den. High stakes. Located in Tenjin, right across from the Regent Hotel by the Naka River. You’ll find it by the jade lions outside—can’t miss them. Stands as a very nice restaurant by day.”

Toji raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“There’s more.” Yamada’s eyes gleam. “It’s the kind of place where one night can set you up for life. Or end it.”

You blink. “Forgive me for being rude, but… why tell us this?”

Toji’s already two steps ahead. “Yeah, and if it’s got such high cash flow, why are you wasting away in this dump watching the geriatrics hit the machines with their pension money?”

“Toji!” You groan, “Can you please be less insulting?”

Yamada lifts a hand, unbothered, but his smile slips just slightly. “It’s alright. I’m telling you because I’ve been managing this parlor for thirty years—and I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen a win like yours.”

Toji smirks. “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy.”

“I’m sure you are.” Yamada’s eyes gleam again. “But even good luck doesn’t beat rigged odds. My brother fixed these machines the day this place opened. No one’s supposed to win. Not like that.”

The chair beneath Toji creaked as he leaned back, arm still resting around your waist, "Okay? I’m still not buying it. You got connections to a high-stakes casino and you're babysitting broken machines in your brother’s piss-smelling pachinko parlor? There's gotta be something else."

You groaned inwardly, bringing your fingers to your temples. He wasn’t wrong, but goodness—Toji had a way with words. His instincts were dead-on. But his delivery? Catastrophic. You could practically feel the tension in the air shift.

Across the room, Shiu’s legs were still elegantly crossed. His gaze sharpens. He doesn’t interrupt—but he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t smooth it over. He doesn’t pivot. He just sits in silence and lets the question hang. You realize, that’s what makes him dangerous. He’s a listener with pressure.

“You’re a smart group.” The old man nods. 

Shiu finally speaks. “Most people don’t give vital information like that without a price tag.” His voice dropped just slightly. “And I know you didn’t do it just because you like us.”

You shot Shiu a glance. Another reminder of who you were running with. Not one, but two men born from the darker corners of the world. The way Shiu could skin the truth off a lie without ever lifting his voice made your skin prickle. You didn’t know what scared you more—how fast he saw through people, or how quickly he turned it off again.

Yamada didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the pitcher and poured himself a half-cup of water. He took a slow sip, swallowed, then leaned back in his chair.

“It’s not just because I like you, no.” He admitted, his voice quieter now. No longer that practiced, customer-service tone. This was a man unraveling something deep, and old. “It’s because I’ve spent every single day of my life regretting the biggest mistake I ever made.”

You didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shiu. Even Toji, surprisingly, said nothing.

Yamada’s gaze wandered—not to any of you, but to a photograph on the wall behind him. A young boy in a school uniform. Smiling too big. Standing beside a taller boy in a leather jacket. You’d bet anything the latter was his brother.

“My parents were from the countryside in Akita,” Yamada began. “Good people. Hard working people, but very poor. We had a house—two rooms. A garden out back we grew food in. My mother worked days at a care home. Nights at a restaurant. My father—construction, mostly. Whatever would take him.”

His voice was steady, but his hand gripped the cup a little too tight.

“We had nothing. But we had each other. My brother—he was wild. Got into fights. Dropped out of school at sixteen. One day he comes home with a plan. He’s joined up with some men. Yakuza, we figured, though no one said it out loud. He’s got a ‘business opportunity,’ he says. He asks us to bet on him. Sell everything. The family home. The heirlooms. Our father’s tools. Move into a one-bedroom flat. He tells us he’s going to make it all back and more. Says we just have to be patient. That he’s gonna put us on the map.”

You felt something cold crawl up your spine. You knew where this was going, but you didn’t know the scale. Not yet.

“We do it,” Yamada continues. “Because we’re idiots. Because we wanted to believe. Because we were so fucking tired of being poor.” He drained the rest of the water in one gulp. “My parents died still waiting. I buried my mother in a hospital gown. I pawned my father's wedding ring to pay for the cremation. My brother? He was already fat and happy by then. Running joints down here. Living in a glass condo. Throwing parties with women and gangsters. Never sent back a single yen.”

You clutched your chest, “Oh.. wow.”

Yamada’s eyes sharpened. “You wanna know why I’m letting you in on all this information?” His gaze snapped to Shiu. “Comeuppance. My brother runs the Tenjin Vault. He isn’t a regular, he’s not an investor—he owns it.”

You blinked. “Wait. Your brother owns the Vault?”

Yamada nodded once.

Toji grunted. “Then why aren’t you raking in cash too? He cut you out?”

“No,” Yamada shook his head. “He threw me crumbs. Offered me this.” He gestured to the dingy room around him. “Said it was ‘good optics’—that if I wanted to be part of his empire, I could keep the parlor running while he handled the real money.”

You looked around again. Peeling paint. Buzzing fluorescent light. Carpet that felt sticky.

Yamada’s jaw twitched. “I’ve been running this dump for thirty years. Not on salary. I get paid as an hourly manager.”

Shiu sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice calm and low. “And now you want to burn him.”

Yamada didn’t deny it. “I don’t want him dead. I just want back what he took. 25 million yen. That’s what the family put into his dream. I don’t want blood. I want repayment.”

Toji leaned forward now too, the tension returning to his shoulders. “And you think we’re the ones who’ll do that?”

“I think that you’re the first people I’ve ever seen beat rigged odds. I think whatever you have going on isn't just luck.” He makes dead eye contact with Toji, “I think if anyone’s going to drain that man’s vault, it’s you.”

You glanced at Shiu. He was already watching you. Then Toji. Then Yamada. Something unspoken passed between the three of you.

Toji let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Twenty-five million yen?” His voice was half-scoff, half-threat. “The fuck? Do we look like we have that kind of cash?”

You shifted in his lap slightly, your arms still crossed, a deep frown creasing your brow—but you didn’t speak. You were watching Shiu, who didn’t miss a beat. 

He pulled a cigarette from the inner pocket of his jacket with the same grace he used to dismantle lies. He flicked his lighter once, twice—then cupped the flame with one hand and lit the cigarette with the other. He took a slow, measured drag and exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon choosing not to burn the room down.

“Twenty-five million yen is a lot of money.” His voice was like velvet and steel wrapped in one. “And you’re telling me you want us to foot that bill out of principle?”

Yamada started to answer, but Shiu kept talking.

“Let me clarify— You want three strangers to walk into your brother’s den of snakes, play with his money, possibly paint targets on our backs—and at the end of it, we hand over the cut you think your family deserves. Out of loyalty.”

The room was still.

Shiu took another drag of his cigarette. “You think access to a casino is worth 25 million? You’re going to have to offer us more than a seat at the table, Yamada. Because we didn’t come to Fukuoka to get caught in the middle of a family squabble.”

You were quiet, studying the older man. Shiu’s words hung in the air, heavy.

Yamada—he didn’t shrink. He nodded. Not slowly, not bitterly. With conviction. Like a man who’d been waiting to hear those words for years. “I understand. I completely understand. Which is why I’m not just offering you access.”

He leaned forward now, resting both hands on the desk.

“I’m offering you your buy-in. One million yen minimum. Covered. I’m offering you funds to clean yourselves up—because you’ll need it if you want to get past the door without a gun to your back. I’m offering you enough to make an entrance and enough to stay in the game.”

Toji’s arms tightened slightly around your waist. His gaze flicked to Shiu. Calculating.

Yamada kept going. “My brother ruined our family. Not just financially—morally. He stood by while our mother begged for help. He let our father die under a construction site. After working my ass off I was finally able to afford a trip to Kyushu, and he gave me this.” He gestured around the cracked walls and flickering light like he was presenting a prison cell. “Not out of kindness. Out of fear. I know this place better than anyone. I know how much money this parlor launders for the Vault, and I know he thinks I’m too scared to ever do anything about it.”

He leaned in further, his voice lower now. “I’ve been scraping money off the top for years. Not a lot. Just enough. Until I had the nerve to do something with it.”

He pulled a black duffel bag from under his feet and placed it on the desk. He’d unzip it and show you what lay inside. Stacks of bills. Crisp, clean, tightly packed.

“I have five million yen in physical cash, right here. That’s your seed money. Your suits. Your entrance fee—and enough left over to play the part.” He zipped the bag halfway closed. “So no, I’m not just offering access. I’m giving you a launchpad. A foundation. A map. Trust me when I say what I’m asking for is a drop in the bucket compared to what you will win. All I want is the piece my family is owed. And if you’re half as good as I think you are—then it won’t even feel like a loss.”

Silence fell. These were some interesting circumstances now.

Toji tilted his head toward the bag. “Alright, I’ll take that deal. Worst case? We get new clothes and free money.”

You sighed. “Best case, we take his brother for everything he’s worth.”

Yamada tucked a slim, matte black card between the stacks of bills in the duffel bag. The gold foil lettering caught the dim light. “Instructions. How to find the Vault. What to wear. What not to say. Names you don’t use, and the key phrase to use at the restaurant.”

His fingers lingered just a second longer on the zipper before he closed the bag with a soft zip. “We don’t exchange numbers. No contact after this. I’m here every night. When you win you can mail it to me discreetly. My brother can never know about this. Clear?”

Shiu nodded once, professional and clean. “Crystal.”

Yamada exhaled through his nose, then smiled. “If this works, you’ll be funding my retirement. I’m taking the first ferry to Okinawa. I’ll open a juice stand. Fall asleep to the ocean every night.”

You smiled at that, and for a second, the warmth in your chest felt alien. “That sounds nice.”

He extended his hand. “We have a deal, right?”

Shiu’s hand met his in a firm, deliberate shake. Toji followed, a curt nod and a solid grip.

You reached out with both of your hands, wrapping his hand in yours. “We’ll get that money, Yamada-han. You can start picking out sunscreen brands now. We got it from here.”

As you all stood, something shifted in the air. The weight of the conversation lifted, replaced with something more volatile—possibility.

Toji let you go, and you made an exaggerated noise of protest, rubbing your side.

“I definitely have a bruise.” You whined.

He slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. “Stop whining. It wasn’t even that tight.”

Shiu adjusted his collar, that cool stoicism still painted over his expression, but he gave Yamada one final nod. “We’ll be in touch… indirectly of course.”

Yamada nodded back, quiet and solemn now. “Good luck.”

The three of you walked out, past the rattling machines and stale air, through the glowing flicker of rigged lights and the faint smell of rusted metal. You stepped outside into the night and the air hit you cold and sharp, like the first inhale after being underwater too long.

Toji adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “So… Takeout?”

You turned to him, almost offended. “Toji! That’s not what that’s for!”

He blinked. “Food isn’t what it’s for?”

Shiu gave him a sharp look. “Don’t open the bag out here. Let’s get back to the motel. We’ll order in.”

You deflated slightly. “Okay… that’s a good idea.”

Toji rolled his eyes. “Thought it wasn’t for food.”

You shot him a little side-smile, teasing. “Not for you, it isn’t.”

Paradise 21 Motel : 2:48am : Fukuoka

The motel room looked worse upon return if that was at all possible. The smell was not better.

The duffel bag of money was tucked just behind the couch, hidden in plain sight like some sacred artifact. You sat cross-legged on the bed, balancing a flimsy white styrofoam tray of beef curry and rice in your lap, your bare legs sticking slightly to the blanket even though you’d taken great pains to avoid touching anything. The big t-shirt you wore hung loose and wrinkled over your frame.

Toji was on the couch, shirtless now, his soaked tee abandoned somewhere near the door. His skin still held a faint sheen of rain, and his muscles flexed unconsciously as he shoveled food into his mouth. Beef skewers, rice, and a mess of pickled vegetables. Half the skewer was hanging from his lips as he talked, chewing mid-sentence with no shame.

“I don’t get it.” He frowns. “Why wouldn’t we just take the money and bounce? Yamada stole this shit from his brother. It’s already dirty. What’s he gonna do—go cry to the cops?”

You shot him a look over your curry. “Toji, we gave him our word.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well, words don’t feed anyone.”

Shiu sat in the only chair the motel had to offer, his long legs crossed, sleeves rolled up, jacket slung behind the chair. His shirt was unbuttoned enough to show his collarbones and a sliver of his chest. There was a carton of noodles in one hand, chopsticks twirling absentmindedly as he leaned back.

“That is not a good idea, Zen’in. We need to see what the Vault’s about before we go pulling knives. Let’s think about the long game.”

You perked up, swallowing another bite. “Exactly. Don’t forget probability brought us here. I saw it. We win big, and I don’t doubt it’s at the Tenjin Vault.”

Toji shrugged, reaching for another skewer. “I’m just running through options.”

“You’re not wrong for that,” Shiu gave him a quiet nod. “We need to keep our options open. Let’s be clear about something though—helping Yamada is fine so long as we gain. But nothing, and I mean nothing, is more important than the core three in this room.”

You looked up from your tray. Shiu’s eyes found yours, calm and dark and full of a quiet calculation that made your breath catch a little.

He continued, “That money? Twenty-five million? If we don’t earn like we think—then it stays with us. I’m not donating it to a man we’ve known less than two hours just because he told us a sob story about his family. We leave that vault with double the investment minimum.”

Toji jerked his chin. “Triple even. I say we don’t drop that bag unless we’re rolling out with seventy-five mil.”

The room went quiet for a beat. Just the soft clatter of chopsticks.

You took another bite, your gaze flicking between the two men. They were dead serious. Your heart thudded, not in fear—but in realization. This was what a crew looked like. Cold logic. Ruthless strategy. No sentimentality unless it served the mission. You were seeing it now, clear as anything.

This was not the mindset that made you friends. It was the one that made you rich—and you were in it. Right here in this shitty motel room with rain-soaked clothes, styrofoam takeout, and a duffel full of laundered money.

Shiu leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled and cigarette dangling from his fingers like an accessory. “Yamada said it briefly, but he was right—we need a facelift. First thing tomorrow, we go shopping. Zen’in and I will rent tuxes. You…” His eyes dragged across you, half-lidded and amused. “You’ll rent a dress. If we want to be taken seriously, we need to look like the kind of people who don’t ask for respect. We expect it.”

You nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

Toji stretched out on the couch, his biceps flexing as he laced his hands behind his head. “I don’t think they’ll have a suit that fits me.”

You rolled your eyes. “They’re called tailors, you caveman.”

He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Shiu ignored the back-and-forth. “I told Yamada I was your handler, Zen’in. The idea works, but we need to tighten our stories—ones that won’t connect back to us personally if things go sideways.”

He tapped ash into the plastic motel cup on the nightstand. “I think it’s fitting that I’m Zen’in’s manager. The front. The logistics guy. I set you up. I keep you winning.”

He gestured toward Toji. “You are the man with the magic touch. All luck, all charm. He’s the one playing. He’s the one being watched. He’s the one everyone wants to beat.”

Toji smirked. “Mmph. I like where this is going.”

Shiu didn’t let him bask. “Which means, if someone wants to shoot their shot—violently or otherwise—they’ll aim at you.”

Toji’s smirk dimmed just enough. “Right. That’s what we wanted from the start.”

Shiu turned his attention back to you, his tone more cautious now. “We can’t let anyone know who the talent really is. We talked about this—your bounty’s going to rise the more money we pull. The more mysterious you stay, the longer we can delay that. Maybe even redirect it. We’ll cast shadows until we’re ghosts.”

You were quiet, absorbing the strategy. Then, after a moment, you asked the obvious. “Where does that leave me?”

Shiu shifted. “You… are the beautiful girlfriend of Toji Zen’in.”

Your face twisted. “Wait, what?”

He remained calm, as always. “At the parlor, you had to stay in constant contact. It worked. We don’t know what the Vault will demand, but if we need that edge again, you’ll need to be close to him. Close enough to touch. To guide. The easiest way to justify that is to play the part. The dumb, clingy, money-hungry girlfriend.”

You blinked at him. “So you think I’m dumb?”

“I think you’re brilliant,” Shiu replied without missing a beat. “Which is exactly why it’ll work. You’re intelligent enough to weaponize incompetence. People ignore the pretty girlfriend who clings to her man and coos in his ear. They dismiss her. They underestimate her. They don’t watch her.”

You flopped back onto the bed like gravity had betrayed you. “Ugh. This is going to be exhausting.”

Toji patted his lap with a smug grin. “Come on, girl. We should practice. You need to look like you’re in love.”

You flipped him off. “Absolutely not.”

“I’ll start slow,” he teased.

“I will fight you.”

Shiu exhaled another stream of smoke, smirking behind it. “Don’t forget why you’re doing this. You’re buying me out, aren’t you?”

His voice was smooth, low, and so dangerously confident that it slithered past your guard.

You looked away quickly, heat crawling up your throat. Toji noticed, of course. The bastard always did. “Well, well. That’s the first time You’ve shut up all night.”

You groaned, “Ughhh, this is gonna be a long year.” You lifted halfway, propping yourself on your elbows with a theatrical sigh. “Okay, serious question—what are we doing about sleeping arrangements? Because I think I should get the bed.”

Toji didn’t even look up from his food. “You didn’t pay for this place.”

You gasped. “Excuse me?!”

He shrugged, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “Facts are facts.”

“Fine.” You turned to Shiu. “Me and Shiu will have the bed.”

“What?” Toji stood up hastily. “I know what you’re doing.”

You blinked at him, innocent as a viper. “What am I doing?”

“You’re just trying to get close to Shiu.”

“That’s not even it! Also, why is this even in question? It would just be so inhumane to make a poor, helpless lady like myself sleep on the couch. Or worse—on the floor. Have you seen that carpet?”

Shiu, still seated like the composed devil he was, looked between you and Toji. “That’s fine. She can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Toji scowled. “I’m sleeping in the bed too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Don’t act like we haven’t been sleeping in the same bed the past few nights.”

“Yeah, but it was different then.”

Toji tilted his head. “Now you suddenly need to spoon Shiu to survive?”

“I’d rather have Shiu next to me than you.”

“You’re always trying to fuck Shiu.”

“Stop!” You pointed again, this time with both hands. “He’s right there!”

Toji rolled his eyes. “He knows.”

“I’m being attacked!”

“Stop being dramatic.”

“Stop being jealous!”

“Say that again and I’ll throw you out the window.”

You huffed, flopping dramatically onto your back and flinging a pillow at him with the aim of a wet noodle. “Fine. Sleep in the fucking bed with me—I don’t care.”

Toji narrowed his eyes. “Scoot your ass over.”

You scooted, but you made sure to pout the entire time, “Goodnight, Shiu.”

Toji’s head snapped toward you. “Shiu? You better say goodnight to me too.”

You blinked. “Didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Toji reached down, and grabbed your ankle. He yanked, dragging you across the cheap floral-print comforter until you were at the edge of the mattress, nose-level with his smirk.

You tried not to laugh. Failed. Smirked. “You’re so crazy.”

You looked past him to Shiu, who had unbuttoned his shirt enough to show a little more of that chiseled body. “Goodnight, Shiu. Sleep well. You deserve it.”

“Sweet dreams.” Shiu met your eyes with that barely-there smile. “If you have any nightmares, you know where to find me.”

Your thighs pressed together automatically. Fuck!

Toij snorted. “Stop being a brat.”

You sighed through your nose, long and theatrical. “Goodnight, Shiu.” Then, without looking at Toji— “And goodnight Toji, I guess.”

He grinned like the devil himself. “Goodnight, good girl.”

There was really a year of this shit ahead of you? 

God help you all.

[softcursechoso]

Somewhere, We Do: Ch. 11

JJK x Reader Nanami x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI! // 18+ // NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS!

Ch. 11 Warnings: Brief nudity. Angst!!! You know how you be having fun and then a bad thing happens and can only focus on the bad thing? That's this chapter.

Words: 12.4k+

THIS SPACE BETWEEN US

Aurora Tower Ueno : 5:10pm : Taito City

Tonight, you stood at the very top of Tokyo Luxe Insider’s coveted “Five to Die For” hotels. You were higher than the noise and higher than the weight you usually carried. No deadlines. No late-night messages waiting to twist your stomach. No half-finished arguments. None of it mattered here.

The Royal Suite breathed excess. Tequila spilled sweet and sharp into the air, tangled with perfume and the promise of bad decisions. Beyond the half-open balcony door, Tokyo glowed in the warm dusk. The city offered its heat, but the real fire was here inside these walls—courtesy of you and your girls.

In the bathroom, the mirror threw your reflection back at you in full. A sexy orange dress clung to you like it had been painted on. Strapless, daring, and cut short enough to leave little to the imagination. The hem flirted high on your thighs as you shifted, barefoot on cool marble, skin gleaming under the soft light—legs slick with body oil, hair falling perfectly like you hardly tried, but lord knows you did. You looked like trouble, and tonight, trouble never looked sexier.

What was the point of all this chaos if you weren’t feeding it? The bass of Jaz’s speaker throbbed through the suite, tequila burned hot in your veins, and influenced your nasty decisions.

A smirk curved your mouth as you bit down on your lip, phone angled just right. The shutter clicked, catching you with your tits pressed tight, dress tugged low, a single nipple teasing free. It was exactly the kind of fire your man craved—this was his favorite kind of chaos, and you were feeling generous tonight.

The picture was sent without a drop of hesitation. From the other room your girls hype you the fuck up.

“I know you’re sending nasty shit and I’m so proud of you!” Kaya shouted loud and gleeful.

“You little slut! I taught you right!” Jaz added, a half-empty bottle of Casamigos in hand.

“Full nudes, coward!” Di screamed, already tipsy.

Your phone buzzed with a new message. You opened it and immediately cackled.

[Nanami] 🍯📈: You’re going to kill me. I’ll have to punish you properly for this and you know that.

You’d snap another pic—both tits out, tongue teasing your lip, eyes glazed with mischief. Sent again without a drop of shame.

[Nanami] 🍯📈: You’re so sexy my love. You’re making it hard for me to focus.

It was hard for him to focus he says? Well shit- if it was hard to focus then it wouldn’t be a big deal if you just… pressed FaceTime?

You hit the button giggling as the screen rang. It picked up. Nanami’s face appeared, stern but handsome as ever, tie straight, sleeves down and crisp. He looked so stressed and hot. 

You didn’t even say hi—you just held the phone out in front of you like you weren’t totally topless.

“Hi, honeybee!” You sang out, drunk and delighted, squeezing your tits together like a gift.

He immediately slammed the phone face down on the desk. You heard papers shuffle. 

“You know I’m at the office.” He hissed, voice low and exasperated. “And I’m not on break.”

You giggled again, pulling your top back up lazily. “Oops. I’m covered now.”

He sighed and pulled the phone back up, “I want you to have fun tonight.”

You grinned. “I don’t want you to have fun at all, Na Na Na. No fun in the office!”

“Did she just call him Nanana?!” Jaz hollered.

“She’s so precious when she’s drunk.” Di cooed from the bedroom.

You were still smiling, still blowing kisses to the camera, when movement in the background caught your eye. A blur of brunette and sexy figure.

Reika.

She walked behind Nanami like she belonged there, paused, leaned over his shoulder—one hand gripping it way too casual. Way too intimate. Her cleavage hanging out like a threat over your relationship.

“Hey, there!” She chirped with that annoying sweet voice—eyes locking right onto the screen.

Nanami tensed. “Kanzaki, please, not right now. I’m on FaceTime with my girlfriend.”

She pouted, backing off. “Oh, sorry!” 

Something didn’t sit right with you. He told her to back off, sure, but it was the way he said it. It didn’t really have any bite, and what did he mean not right now? 

Not: Don’t touch me. 

Not: This is inappropriate.

Just: I’m on FaceTime with my girlfriend.

Like if you weren’t watching, it wouldn’t have been a problem at all. Maybe you were at the height of your insecurity. Maybe you were over thinking it, but after the unfinished conversation you had just a few days prior—it didn’t sit right. Not one bit.

From the bedroom, Di shouted, “Is that the side bitch?!”

You could hear Jaz raising up from the bed, “Oh hell no!”

You forced a laugh, a fake little hum. “I should go—we’re heading out now.”

“Wait—” Nanami started, but you ended the call before your girls could jump through the phone and choke both of them out.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. Still hot. Still radiant—but now with a flicker of rage under your glow. This was supposed to be your night.

“Call him back!” Di yelled. “I just wanna say something real quick!”

“No! Fuck it all!” You shook your head, pushing your phone into your purse. “We’re gonna have a good ass night! It’s not about Kento. It’s not about his coworkers. It’s about us!”

“Damn right!” Kaya burst into the bathroom and slapped your ass hard. “You look like an international incident.”

“Ohhh, we’re about to ruin lives tonight.” Jaz grinned, spinning in her gold heels. “Look at you—like an orange creamsicle."

Di raised her glass. “Let’s do it for our hopeless romantic queen. She deserves the world.”

You rolled your eyes but you were laughing now. “Let’s do one more shot before we leave!”

Jaz was already pouring. “To us, bitches!”

You all screamed and threw them back. The buzz was back. The glow was back. The chaos was activated.

The night hadn’t even started yet—and Tokyo had no idea what the fuck was coming.

Hanaharu Festival : 5:48pm : Ueno Park

Ueno Park was alive, glowing in soft spring colors. Lanterns strung above like a net of tiny moons, vendors kindly helping people at their booths. This festival was a bit uncommon for spring. It was much more reminiscent of a summer festival, but with spring flair.

The air is thick with sugar and grilled meat. The Hanaharu Festival had a turnout of so many people. Made sense as the location was prime for all sorts of activities. So many people looked happy and in love.

Then there was you. You were drunk, hot, and ready for fun.

Kaya was the first one to stat, “Let’s get more drinks! Come on! The night is young!”

Di, clutching her purse like it was her baby, pointed to the lake in the distance. “No! Come on! Let’s ride the pedal boats before we’re too drunk to ride anymore.”

Jaz smirked at the men openly staring at her and purred, “I say we play games tonight. At the booths or with men—I don’t give a shit.” She winked at a random guy carrying a bag of goodies. He turned so red he nearly dropped his cotton candy.

That’s not what you wanted to do. You didn’t give a single fuck about flirting or pedal boats or drinking more. You wanted one thing.

“I! Want! Taiyaki!” You frowned.

Maybe it was on your mind, or maybe the stall just happened to be in your line of sight. Either way, you wanted it, and you were going to get it!

The stall glowed like a goddamn lighthouse. You stumbled up and ordered two without hesitation—one bean paste, one custard. The vendor handed them over like he knew he just delivered salvation.

One hand gripped the bean paste, the other clutched custard. You took a bite, crumbs falling down your chest, custard smearing your lip. Pure, messy bliss. Jaz nearly cried laughing at the sight of you.

“Why do you always eat like a happy rat? Open your eyes!” She screeched, snapping pictures. “You ordered that shit at record speed.”

“Mmmf.” You mumbled, cheeks stuffed, "Shut up. This’—this is my happy place.”

Kaya clapped her hands together. “Okay baby hold those fishes and squeeze into the damn picture! I wanna get a good one in before you get crumbs all over yourself.”

She ushered you, Di, and Jaz over. She positioned you all so that the cute glowing lights are in the background. You and the girls squished in, sticky taiyaki in hand, faces glowing with alcohol, hair perfect. Kaya’s phone clicked. 

You all leaned in to look—and there it was. A fifth face?

Towering behind you, grinning like the world’s most dangerous photobomber, sunglasses perched on his nose, peace sign raised over your head.

Your jaw dropped, taiyaki halfway to your mouth. “GOJO?!” You muffled through bean paste.

You spun around, crumbs flying, and there he was. All six foot three inches of pure menace wrapped in some designer jacket over black turtleneck—like he’d just rolled out of a fashion shoot. He had two bags of festival snacks in his hand.

“Hi, bestie!” He beamed, booping your nose. “Wow, look at you—looking like a cute little traffic cone.”

Kaya leaned over, wheezing. “He did not just say traffic cone!”

Di covered her mouth like she’d witnessed a crime. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Who is this man that I should definitely get introduced to right now?!”

Jaz’s eyes lit up, “Mhmm. Like right now too!”

Gojo leaned down, eye level with your very sticky, very flustered self. “Are you ignoring me, or are you just too in love with your taiyaki to say hi properly?”

“No! I said hi in my heart, but my mouth was full.” You muttered before taking another bite.

He clutched his chest, “I heard it.”

You frowned a little bit, “Gojo why are you even here?”

He tilted his head, smirk sharp. “Why would I be anywhere else when you’re here?”

Kaya hollered like she was at a comedy show. “She needs Utahime’s protection, now!”

Jaz fanned herself. “Damn he’s smooth with it.”

Di shoved you playfully. “Who is this?”

You groaned, taiyaki halfway gone. “Right, let me introduce you.” You pointed the taiyaki at Gojo, “Ladies this is Gojo. Gojo this is Di, and this is Jaz.”

“It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Any friend of my bestie is a friend to me.” 

Lord, with him grinning like that, you knew this night was about to be so much more than taiyaki and selfies. Tokyo didn’t stand a chance.

You take another bite of your snack, “You came to this festival alone? Not that you don’t seem like a totally independent man, but—you just don’t seem like you’d come to this alone.”

“Oh right!” Gojo clapped his hands, “I didn’t come alone. Actually, there he is—”

His words faded out right as you saw him. It was like the universe was pointing and laughing at you. Why the fuck did it happen like this?

The moment your eyes landed on that brunette man, it was like the crowd noise dulled for just a second. Tall, solid, black trench coat over a white button down. Tailored slacks. It was the kind of presence that makes you want to stand up straighter—except, of course, you were tipsy and holding taiyaki like a toddler.

Gojo, blissfully oblivious to the subtle spike in your heartbeat, gestured between you two like a game show host. “This is my best friend in the entire world!” He motioned to you like a magician unveiling a trick. “And this is Kusakabe.”

Kusakabe raised an eyebrow, slow smile forming. “Wow. That’s funny. Here I thought I was the best friend.”

You choked on custard filling. Kaya pounded your back with zero sympathy. Jaz wheezed.

Gojo blinked between the two of you. “...Wait. You know each other?”

You swallowed hard, wiping custard from your lip. “Yeah. Met him the other day at the arcade. Thought that was the last I’d ever see of him after that loss.”

Kusakabe tilted his head, smooth as hell. “You know I let you win, right?”

You pointed your custard taiyaki at him accusingly, voice rising. “You’re stalking me for a rematch, Kusakabe-kun?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice low and infuriatingly suave. “Don’t look so surprised. Some things are worth showing up for more than once.”

Your knees almost buckled. Jaz clutched her chest. Kaya screamed “OOOOHHHHHHH!” like a wrestling announcer. Di fanned herself hard! You had interesting friends now didn’t you?

You, drunk as hell and dangerously flustered, redirected fast. “ANYWAY. What are you guys doing here? Don’t you both have… like… taxes to do or something?”

Gojo threw his arm around Kusakabe’s shoulders, grinning. “We came to this festival because have sweet teeth.”

Kusakabe corrected him, calm as ever. “A sweet tooth.”

“Sweet tooths.” Gojo repeated, doubling down like an idiot. “This festival has desserts you can only get once a year. We can’t miss it.”

You gasped dramatically, taiyaki crumbs flying. You marched up to Gojo, pressing both of your taiyaki fists against his chest like you were about to knight him. “Holy shit! Please! Let’s eat everything! I’m so hungry!”

Jaz bent over laughing. “You’re literally holding food in both hands!”

“This isn’t real!” You shouted, crumbs stuck to your lip. “I need entrée food.”

Kusakabe’s eyes softened, and his voice slid under your skin like silk. “Nothing wrong with a woman who has an appetite.”

The girls lost their goddamn minds. Di clutched Kaya’s arm like she’d been shot. Jaz paused frozen in time.

You froze mid-step, then immediately pointed your bean paste taiyaki at him like it was a weapon. “Stop that Kusakabe-kun! I will read into it! I will misinterpret your intentions! Don’t you dare—” You took a massive bite, cheeks puffing out. “No!”

Kusakabe just grinned, hands in his pockets,”My apologies.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, blissfully oblivious. “Perfect. Group outing. Festival squad activated. Let’s roll!”

“Festival squad?” Kaya repeated. “This is gonna be so fun.”

“The sexy guys are coming with us?” Jaz grinned, “Hell yeah!”

You groaned but fell into step with the group, wobbling a little in your heels, taiyaki still in both fists. As the lantern lights swayed overhead and the smell of fresh yakitori filled the air, you realized this night had taken a sharp left into some dangerous waters.

Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders, steering the group toward the row of food stalls. “Alright, raccoon princess, let’s get you some more snacks before you start gnawing on my arm.”

“I would.” You look up at him nodding, “You look tender.”

“Come on.” Gojo walked faster with you.

The food stalls were lit up like they’d been plucked straight out of a painting—paper lanterns swaying in the cool spring breeze, the air thick with smells of sizzling yakitori, steaming dumplings, and sweet red bean paste. The chatter of festival-goers layered over the occasional burst of laughter, and every now and then the sound coming from sparse game booths carried across the street.

You were practically skipping from stall to stall while your friends trailed behind—half babysitting you, half enjoying the chaos. Honestly you were just trying to avoid the handsome brunette threat to your relationship.

It wasn’t that you ever felt like you would betray Nanami. Your man was far too perfect, and if life would prove to be fair, you’d end up marrying him some day. You more so didn’t want to put yourself in a position for that spark between you and Kusakabe to ignite. 

Kaya, of course, was leaning in close to Di, her voice low but full of amusement. “She’s trying so hard not to look at him. It’s like watching a cat pretend it doesn’t want to pounce. You know how she and Nanami are kinda on the rocks right now? Yeah, she’s fighting for her life to stay loyal.”

Di gave a slow, knowing nod, eyes flicking toward Kusakabe—hands in his pockets, walking just a little closer to you now. “And that’s the guy?”

“That’s the guy.” Kaya chuckled.

Meanwhile, Jaz had locked onto her own target: Gojo. She was batting her lashes, tossing her hair, hitting him with the most textbook flirty body language you’d ever seen… and he was completely ignoring it. The man had his entire focus locked on the pastel-pink treats in the distance.

“Bestie, look!” Gojo’s voice cut through the crowd noise like an excited child. He grabbed your wrist pointing toward a stall piled high with Sakura mochi. “That’s the one!”

Before you could even react, he was already buying up enough to feed your entire friend group and a small army. He shoved one into your mouth. It happened so fast!

“Oh my God!” You groaned around your mouthful, already chewing while still holding your two taiyaki. “It’s so good. I’m disgusting. I’m so… gluttonous.”

Kusakabe, straight-faced, held out his hand. “Here, I’ll help you.”

Before you could process, he plucked the bean paste taiyaki from your left hand and finished it in two bites.

“Hey!” You gasped, pointing at him with a killer pout on your face.

Then Gojo swooped in and took the vanilla one right out of your other hand, chomping down like it was his birthright.

“Nooooo!” You cried, drawing out the word like a tragic movie heroine. “I wasn’t done!” Your lip jutted out in the most dramatic pout imaginable. “I am upset.”

Kusakabe, clearly entertained, leaned down slightly. “Tell you what. If you can beat me in ring toss, I’ll buy you all the taiyaki you can eat.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Oooh, Kusakabe-kun you don’t wanna do that.”

“Oh I’m gonna do that.” He said without hesitation.

“No.” You shook your head with mock seriousness. “You can’t. You really wanna lose in front of Kaya? She will never let it go.”

Kaya, leaning into the drama like it was a sport, crossed her arms. “I will never let it go.”

Di and Jaz stepped closer, like they were about to watch a championship match.

“I gotta side with my girl,” Di smirked. “I think she’s gonna smoke you.”

Jaz nodded emphatically. “She’s scary good at games.”

Gojo massaged your shoulders like a sports coach hyping his MVP. “My bestie is gonna win no question.”

Kusakabe looked around at the lack of support like it was a personal insult. “No one thinks I can do it? Not even one of you?”

Silence.

You gave him your most innocent, drunken smile, swaying slightly where you stood. “Well… let’s see, Kusakabe-kun.”

The ring toss booth was a short walk away thankfully. Just a few stalls down. It lit up in soft gold light, the prizes hanging from the rafters like trophies—stuffed pandas, plush koi fish, and a frankly ridiculous six-foot-tall alpaca plushie staring down at the crowd like it owned the place. 

The booth attendant looked up when you slammed a crumpled ¥1,000 note on the counter.

“We wanna play.” You grinned deviously.

Before you could even straighten your posture, Kusakabe was there, smooth as ever, plucking the bill off the wood like it was lint. Without a word, he slid it right back into your purse.

You blinked at him. “Uh. Excuse me, sir. What the fuck was that?”

“Didn’t want you to waste your money losing.” He spoke as he looked into his wallet, dropping three more crisp bills for the attendant.

“Oh-ho-ho.” You leaned in close, eyes narrowed in mock outrage. “Kusakabe-kun… you think I’m scared? You think I’m gonna lose?”

He smirked. “No. I know you’re gonna lose.”

Kaya cackled. “This is hard to watch but I refuse to look away.”

You turned back to him, grabbing the rings. “Alright. Watch and learn.”

You began… and you were terrible. Like, truly awful. First throw? The ring ricocheted off a pole and almost nailed Gojo in the face.

“Bestie?” He pouted, offended.

Second throw? Landed cleanly… in the next booth over. Throw after throw, you weren’t even close. How were you this bad? Just use less force! A baby could do it!

Kusakabe was up now and unfortunately for you, his aim was incredible. Every toss glided through the air like it had a GPS lock, hitting its target with surgical precision. By the fourth ring, you were heckling him mercilessly. It was your only option.

“Oh yeah, wow, so impressive, hitting stationary objects from three feet away. You’re basically a ninja.” You began sarcastically slow clapping.

The fifth throw, you went all in—channeling your entire drunken willpower into your swing. You threw so hard your platform heel caught on the edge of the booth mat, sending you stumbling backward—right into Kusakabe’s chest.

He caught you easily, one arm firm around your waist.

You twisted in his grip and recovered right away. Nope! Nope! Nope! That’s far too dangerous of a position. 

You slurred your words, “Don’t touch me! My boyfriend knows jujitsu!”

Kaya doubled over laughing. “Jujitsu?! Girl, what?”

Gojo rose a suspicious eyebrow. “That’s… not what he knows.”

Still chuckling, Kusakabe handed you another ring. “Alright, one more. Make it count.”

This one actually landed. Well—sort of. It grazed the bottle neck and rolled off, but the attendant clearly didn’t care anymore.

“Close enough.” Kusakabe shrugged. “Go get your desserts. I’m your wallet tonight.”

“Stop!” You yelled, half laughing, half scandalized. “I’m in a relation—NO! You let me win! Fuck that! I know what you are!”

He tilted his head. “What am I?”

“You—” You jabbed your finger in his chest, “—are a really rude gentleman.”

Di leaned toward Kaya. “Uh… go off, queen?”

Kaya nodded. “I feel like that made sense to me.”

Jaz just stared. “…No. It didn’t.”

You ignored all of them, turning around and pointing at another booth with wild determination. “Come on, Kusakabe-kun. You win, and beer’s on me. All on me. All over me. Mariana Trench! Drowning!”

Jaz shakes her head. “She needed to stop two analogies ago.”

“Watch me now.” You begin striding over to the next game booth. “Kitty gloves are off. Murder mittens are ON.”

Kusakabe’s smirk deepened, eyes glinting in the warm festival light. 

“Shateki.” You pointed, “Right there.”

The legendary Japanese rifle game. Small wooden rifles. Tiny cork bullets. A wall of prizes lined up like a shrine. Oh, you were ready… sort of.

You sauntered up to the stall like a problem, dress hiked scandalously high from your dramatic ring toss failure, hair tousled from wind and pride. 

You slapped the counter dramatically. “I’m ready to make a grown man cry.”

“That Lambda Phi is jumping out of her again..” Jaz muttered. “I love her.”

Gojo, already halfway down the path, waved a hand in the air. “I’m gonna go buy you victory snacks, bestie! Keep it up! I believe in you!”

“Thanks Gojo! Don’t worry I’ll take good care of your friend here.” You did a dramatic twirl, nearly tipping over. “He’s not ready.”

Kusakabe coughed into his hand, face calm, eyes tracking you like you were an actual fire hazard. Which… was fair.

He stood next to you at the booth, casually folding his arms as you took the tiny toy gun. You leaned over, hips cocked, eyes narrowed.

“It’s over for you Kusakabe-kun.”

You pulled the trigger and it didn’t hit… Not even close.

“Are you even aiming at the targets?” Di asked, stunned.

Kaya whispered, “I think she just shot at a cloud.”

Kusakabe glanced at your form. “You know your stance is a little off—”

“I’m doing fine!” You snapped, spinning dramatically to point the little wooden gun at him.

He didn’t flinch. Just raised one hand and gently rested it on the barrel. “Careful.”

You paused. That hand on the gun. That look in his eyes. Your breathing hitched as your gaze met his. This wasn’t safe.

You pulled back quickly, laughing a little too loudly. “I got this.”

He tilted his head slightly, voice dropping just a touch. “I never said you didn’t. I’d never question a woman like you.”

You blinked. Did it get hotter? Did your thighs just sweat or was that the mochi carbs working overtime?

You tried again. Pulled the trigger. Miss.

“The fuck—how is this possible?!” You hissed. “I’m not even that drunk!”

Kusakabe smiled faintly, not looking at you directly. “Your aim is good. I know it is.” His voice was quiet, and rich. “You’re just… slightly impaired right now.”

You stared like he was a ticking time bomb ready to explode.

“But—” he added, “if you want my suggestion… Don’t lock your elbow. Tuck it. Angle your shoulders. You’re trying to aim with only your eyes when you should be feeling with your hands.”

Behind you, your girls were whispering at maximum chaos volume.

“Oh my GOD,” Kaya hissed. “He said ‘feeling with your hands.’”

Di nearly fell over. “Why is that the hottest instruction I’ve ever heard?”

Jaz bit her knuckle. “Nanami better get his shit together.”

You bit your lip, heart pounding, trying not to let your hands shake as you reset your aim—elbows tucked, shoulders angled, back arched like a lethal vixen.

But then—he touched your hand just briefly to adjust the grip. It wasn’t sleazy. It wasn’t disrespectful, but it was enough to give you pause.

Your breath hitched. “...Oh shit.”

You lowered the toy gun suddenly, stepping back. “I—I have to pee!” You blurted. 

Kusakabe looked confused, but nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

He remained respectful and calm even as you spiraled.

You bolted away from the stall, face flushed, heels wobbling as you booked it toward any place that wasn’t there! Because when he touched your hand, you didn’t hate it. In fact, you kind of liked it, and that made you feel guilty as hell.

The festival was still roaring around you. Laughter, lights, music—it all felt like it was happening underwater now. The warmth of your friends, the sugary chaos of the food, the flirty haze with Kusakabe… all of it faded as the guilt hit your chest like a bag of bricks.

You ducked behind a yakitori stall, just far enough from the crowd that you could be alone without being totally lost. The smell of grilled meat clung to the air, and the stone beneath your heels was still warm from the day's sun. You leaned against a wooden beam, breath shallow, the lanterns above casting you in a soft, flickering pink light.

You stared at your phone. The screen blurred from the alcohol and the guilt, your thumb hovering over Nanami’s name for what felt like forever. Your stomach twisted.

You hit call. It rang twice before he picked up.

“Hello, my love.” His voice was calm, low, steady. The same voice that used to soothe you on bad days, but tonight, it didn’t land the same.

“Hi, honeybee…” Your voice came in light and fragile.

He didn’t say anything for a second. You heard typing and various office sounds.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah…” You lied, already choking on your throat. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

More silence. A paper shuffled.

“Kento?” Your voice cracked just a little.

“I’m still at work.” He spoke gently. “Is everything alright? Are you okay?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I just… I’m feeling weird tonight. I drank too much. I miss you. I shouldn’t have called, but I—”

As you spoke you heard her in the background, Reika. Playful, flirty, and way too comfortable.

“Kentochi, if I finish this spreadsheet, you owe me dinner again, okay? Somewhere expensive this time.”

You froze. She was still there. It was long past business hours, and she was still there.

You clenched your phone. “Kento—” Your voice trembled, “Say something.”

“What?”

You pulled the phone back slightly, like you couldn’t believe this. “Did you not hear her?”

“I wasn’t listening. I tuned her out. I’m sorry, my love.”

“She just said if she finishes the spreadsheet you owe her dinner, and she called you that dumbass nickname again.” You laughed, bitter and heartbroken. “So now that I told you what she said—correct her.”

He sighed. “Why are you so upset?”

“Why aren’t you correcting her?!”

He paused. “I’m going to call you back when you get a chance to calm down.”

“No!” You panicked, the fear rushing out of your mouth. “No, please, Kento… I’m sorry.”

Soon came the tears. You didn’t even feel them coming. They just happened.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be like this. I love you so much, Kento. I’m trying so hard to trust, and I do, I swear to God I do, but if this wedge keeps growing, something else might grow in its place and I don’t want that.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“What does that mean?”

You sniffled. “I don’t know. I don’t know. It doesn’t mean anything except… I just don’t want this space between us. I want to feel safe again.”

Another pause—he wasn’t typing anymore.

“Kento.” You wiped your tear stained eyes. “Can you please come to the festival? Just for a bit. I don’t want you working late with her.”

“I—”

“Please.” You closed your eyes, heart hammering. “I’m not trying to control you. I don’t want to be that girl. I’m not trying to make you choose. I just… I’m uncomfortable with her still being there when she was supposed to be gone hours ago. I don’t want you working late with her Kento. I know people like her. I’ve seen people like her, and I trust you with all my heart but I don’t trust her.”

There was a long pause as he took in the words.

You sniffled again. “Just… come for an hour. Even thirty minutes. I just want to see you.”

There was silence again. It hung in the air far too long. Uncomfortably long. Like he knew his answer before he gave it.

“I can’t get out of this. I have a pile of work on my desk, love.” His voice came in quietly. Not unkind. Not cruel. Just… final.

The warmth in your chest cracked. The ache turned cold. There was a long ghastly silence before you mustered the strength to reply.

“Okay.” You ended the call before he could say anything else.

Just like that, the lights around you felt too bright, the smells too thick, the world too loud.

You slipped your phone into your purse, exhaled a slow, shaky breath. It wasn’t that he was choosing Reika over you. He was choosing work over you. No matter how you sliced it, it still hurt. 

You stayed behind that food stall a while longer. Long enough that the heat from the lanterns had cooled, and the shadows of the festival began to stretch long and lonely across the cobbled street. Long enough that your tears had dried halfway, then started up again, just out of pure emotional exhaustion.

You didn't even hear footsteps approaching until it was too late. You turned your face quickly, wiping at your cheeks with your bare hands, praying it wasn’t one of the girls, or worse—Gojo with a little snack and no idea how to make this situation better for you.

But it wasn’t Gojo. It wasn’t Kaya. It wasn’t Di, or Jaz. It was Kusakabe.

He stopped when he saw your face. Not in shock, not in awkwardness—but in that still, careful way men move when they don’t want to startle a wild animal. His expression softened immediately.

“Hey.” His voice was low and unassuming. “Sorry. Didn't mean to intrude. Just noticed you hadn’t come back. Figured I’d look for you.”

You kept your face angled away, laughing bitterly through your tears. “Guess I’m not as stealthy as I thought.”

He stepped a little closer, not too close. “You okay?”

Stupid question. He knew you weren’t okay. Anyone with eyes could see it. It was just one of those questions you ask out of politeness.

You sniffled. “I didn’t expect to be crying so much tonight. You know? I thought tonight was gonna be fun. I dressed up. I got drunk. I was surrounded by my best friends and fucking taiyaki—and now I’m… this.”

He let out a low breath, not pitying—just present. “You want me to disappear? I can disappear. I’m basically a ninja, remember? No trace.”

You laughed, weakly. “Why are you nice to me?”

He shrugged, leaning one shoulder against the wooden post beside you. “Because you deserve it.”

You stayed quiet, staring at your shoes and the cracks between the stones.

“I don’t know what happened—” He continued gently, “and you don’t have to tell me. But… for what it’s worth? You looked like you were glowing earlier. Like you owned this whole street, and now…” He tilted his head, “Now you look like someone stomped on your spark.”

You sniffled again. “I’m just… trying really hard to feel like I’m enough.”

He was silent.

“I mean, I know I’m not perfect,” you continued, voice cracking. “But I’m funny. I’m smart. I’m… I try so hard to be the kind of woman someone could be proud of. The kind of woman you race home to. The kind of woman who doesn’t have to fight for every inch of boundaries I set. I thought I had that. I really thought I had that.”

You shook your head, lip trembling. “But there’s this woman at his job—my boyfriend’s job, I mean. She’s gorgeous. She’s charming. She's around, and it feels like no matter what I do, I’m losing to her just by default because she’s there and I’m not.”

Kusakabe’s voice was quieter this time. “So you think because he’s near someone else, that must mean she’s worth more of his time?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. I think work comes first, and everything else is secondary. She’s closer to his work, so she’s closer to number one.”

He exhaled through his nose and paused briefly, “I don’t know the details. I don’t need to, but what I do know is… a woman like you? Comes once in a lifetime—if you’re lucky. Maybe it’s the fan in me talking, but getting to know you and finding out you are so much more than the rumors has been pretty incredible.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, like the words physically stunned you.

He went on, voice steady. “Whoever has you twisted up like this—crying behind a booth, doubting yourself, pulling yourself apart just to understand his actions—clearly can’t see what he stands to lose.”

You just blinked, lips parted, throat tight.

“I’m only gonna say this once, because if I linger it’ll escalate into something else.” He looked directly at you now—eyes dragging slowly over you, reverent, admiring, but not out of disrespect, “With all due respect… if you saw yourself through my eyes, you’d know you’re the sexiest woman alive. Not just physically, but mentally—and you are impossible not to want.”

The air went still. The sounds of the festival seemed to hush for a second, like even the universe knew not to interrupt that moment.

You stared at him, heart thundering in your chest. “Kusakabe…”

He raised his hands slightly. “I apologize if that oversteps anything, but I mean it. You should know the truth. You’re an incredible woman, and seeing you hurt like this?” He shook his head. “I can’t stand it.”

Your eyes stung again, but this time from emotion—not guilt. Not pain. Something else. A strange kind of gratitude mixed with longing you weren’t ready to admit.

“…I—I don’t think I can talk to you about my relationship. Not without crossing a line I can’t come back from.” You shake your head as if you were saying that to both yourself and Kusakabe.

He nodded. “I completely understand. Do you want me to leave?”

You hesitated. “No,” you whispered. “But… out of respect for my partner, I think it’s best we don’t talk about it anymore. We keep it platonic.”

Kusakabe nodded again, calm. “That’s what it’s always been, hasn’t it?” He gave a slight smirk. “Unless you have something to share?”

You let out a snort, sniffling again. “Oh please, Kusakabe-kun. Don’t you try to turn this on me.”

He chuckled softly, then looked at you, all serious again. “I got your back. However you need it. Platonic, quiet, funny, distracted—whatever you need tonight, I’m here.”

Goddamn this man. He was good, and it wasn’t because he was being sneaky, but because he was being completely honest.

You took a minute to let the ache in your heart settle. To pull the raw edges of your emotions back under the surface and stitch them shut with quiet resolve.

You weren’t okay, but you could use some fun again. Kusakabe didn’t rush you. He just stood nearby, one hand tucked in his pocket, giving you space but making sure you had someone to lean on if your heart hurt again.

Eventually, you wiped the last of the tears from beneath your eyes and spoke, “Okay. Let’s go back.”

He nodded and gave you the gentlest gesture to come on, and together, you walked the short distance back toward the lantern-lit chaos of your friends.

The moment you came into view, you heard squealing.

Gojo was standing dead center in the pathway, struggling to juggle three small plushies and failing miserably. One fell, bounced off his head, and landed in Kaya’s drink.

“Really Gojo?!” She screamed, catching the floating plush with her fingers. “You said you were good at this!”

Gojo turned and saw you, and instantly pouted like he’d been betrayed. “Where did you goooo?!” he whined. “I won this for you!”

He stomped over and handed you a tiny orange plushie wearing a miniature T-shirt that read: Orange you glad I’m so cute?

Your heart squeezed, and you smiled softly. “Thanks, Gojo.”

He immediately melted. “Okay, nevermind. I could never be upset with you.”

Kaya snorted. “You folded under no pressure.”

“None.” Jaz added. 

“I am so forgiving.” Gojo declared.

Di looked back toward you again, skeptical. “Wait, so where did you really go? You were gone for like 30 minutes.”

Before anyone could push further, Kusakabe, smooth and casual as ever, chimed in, “I found her on the way to the bathroom. She got a little turned around.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, grateful.

Kaya squinted. “How are you confused or lost? The bathroom is, like, the most accessible part of this festival.”

Jaz pointed behind her. “I’m literally looking at one right now.”

“I didn’t see that one.” You jutted your lip out, giving your best princess pout. “And I had a lot to drink…”

Di rolled her eyes. “Cutie pie.”

Gojo grinned and crouched down just enough to talk to you like a dad bribing a child. “So how serious are you about these sweets, huh? Because you haven’t had much.”

You straightened dramatically. “I want to be within an inch of my life due to sugar intake and blood pressure.”

Kaya burst out laughing.

“I’m so ready to sweets!” You cried. “I wanna sweets with you, Gojo!”

Without hesitation, he scooped you up like a bride on her wedding night and spun you in a circle.

“LET’S SWEETS!” He cheered.

You screamed. Di screamed. Kaya screamed. Jaz filmed.

Kusakabe just shook his head. “Y’know, she wasn’t all that serious about sweets earlier. I offered unlimited taiyaki.” He spoke,  feigning disappointment. “She turned me down. That’s not real sweet-tooth behavior.”

“I just…” You frowned deeply. “You cannot out-sweets me.”

“I can out-sweets you.” He nodded softly.

“I will pass out mid-sugar rush and then DIE! That’s how serious I am.” You hopped out of Gojo’s arms.

Kusakabe shrugged, “I eat candy every day.” He spoke smug as hell. “I’m built for this.”

You pointed a finger at him, shaking. “You always gotta competition me, Kusakabe-kun!”

Jaz narrowed her eyes. “Why is she using words wrong all of a sudden?”

Kaya shrugged. “It’s a part of her charm.”

You jabbed your finger at Kusakabe again. “Fine! Sweets duel. Right now. Whoever taps out first owes the other… I don’t know, something!”

Di sipped her soda. “We’re being vague now, huh?”

“I like the mystery,” Kusakabe chuckled. “Let’s do it. Winner gets a favor. Could be anything.”

“You’ll regret this!” you shouted, shaking your tiny plushie like it was a war flag.

Gojo leaned over to Kaya and whispered, “If she dies Nanami will kill us all. Can she handle herself?”

“Absolutely,” Kaya said. “But she’ll be sick no doubt..”

Di shook her head, “She won’t get sick. Remember the time she ate that entire cheese wheel in like four months by herself?”

Jaz laughs, “Oh man! That’s so true! She did do that! She was fucking that cheese wheel up! She has an iron stomach!”

Di squealed, “Remember when she was down to the last nub? That bitch started crying!”

You look over, mock-offended, “Stop talking about my greatest hits in front of Gojo and Kusakabe-kun! I’m begging!”

Kusakabe looks over, impressed. “An entire cheese wheel?”

You whine, “I was stressed and in college and it was a gift from another sorority.”

“Sorority?”

You throw your hands in the air like you are totally done with this. “We can talk about my crazy sorority days or we can eat sweets like we planned—I vote sweets! Come on!” You grabbed Kusakabe’s wrist and took off.

“Let’s GOOOO!” Kaya cheered, following behind you.

Oh yo were wo ready. No stretching.  No warm up! Just sweets!

🍡 FIRST BOOTH: Daifuku Delight

Pillowy mochi balls stuffed with red bean paste and strawberry, chilled to perfection and dusted with sugar.

You pointed. “These are so soft and yummy.”

Gojo popped up behind the group with his wallet already out. “Don’t worry, bestie. I’m funding this sugar war.”

“You are a gift from heaven.” Di smiled, taking one with both hands. “Are you single or…?”

Kaya grinned, “Gojo’s love language is financial recklessness and we love that about him.”

“It’s true!” Gojo nodded. “Also, these have a stupid shelf life. We have to eat them fast or they’ll go bad.”

You all dug in.

Di took one bite and groaned. “Oh, no. My body wasn’t ready.”

“You out?” Kaya’s eyebrows shot up.

“I invested too much into my health to backtrack now.” Di sat down on a nearby bench. “Tell my story.”

🍡 SECOND BOOTH: Yatsuhashi Carnival Cart

Cinnamon and vanilla rolled mochi with custard center, drizzled in caramel.

You were bouncing with excitement. “This is the devil’s dessert. It’s trying to seduce me.”

Kusakabe, chewed slowly as he looked at you, “You’re talking like that thing isn’t in your mouth right now.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of, Kusakabe-kun.” You chewed faster.

Kaya took one bite and folded. “Okay, that’s it. I saw God and then saw my limit. I’m done.”

“Two down!” Gojo cheered. “Who’s next?!”

🍡 THIRD BOOTH: Candied Fruit

Rows of candied fruit glistening like glass. You held up your fifth skewer, grinning smugly. “That’s five. Admit it, Kusakabe-kun, you’re outmatched.”

He took his time with a candied orange, eyes on you more than the treat. “Outmatched? This is a marathon, not a sprint. Your eyes are a little glassy. You still good?”

You laughed. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle it. You’re the one who should be nervous.”

“Mm.” His smile curved slow and gentle. “Don’t push yourself to win. Just because I know CPR doesn’t mean I wanna use it.”

You lifted your chin, feigning bravado to cover the butterflies stirring in your stomach. “Careful, Kusakabe-kun. If you keep talking to me like that you’ll lose before the fruit runs out.”

🍡 FOURTH BOOTH: Sakura Candy Blossoms

Hard cherry blossom candy shaped like flowers, crackling like pop rocks.

Gojo bought everyone a bag with his giant smile, “They taste like spring!”

You nodded, chewing with a smile. “My tongue is flowering.”

Jaz grimaced, “That’s not a normal sentence.”

Kusakabe shrugged, “Let her flower.”

🍡 FIFTH BOOTH: Mini Donuts

The donuts were fried fresh, tossed in powdered sugar, and drizzled with caramel and chocolate. So good, but so rich.

Kaya placed a gentle hand on Jaz’s shoulder, “Tap out babe. It’s not worth it.”

Jaz had powered through four before gently setting her plate aside, “I need to lay in a dark room.”

Kusakabe leaned against the cart, eating another donut. “Only two left standing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You feeling tired yet?”

“Not at all.”

“You got a sugar headache?”

“Nope.”

“Stomach ache?”

“Nope. You?”

You clutched your abdomen. “No...”

🍡 SIXTH BOOTH: Choco Banana Stand

You bit into the chocolate banana and immediately yelled, “It’s a lie! This is a fruit trap!”

Kusakabe shook his head, eyes closed. “We’re past the point of taste. We’re in survival mode.”

Gojo was skipping around without an ounce of worry. He was working on his third banana.

“I’m starting to think Gojo’s not human.” You side eyed him.

🍡 SEVENTH BOOTH: Warabi Mochi Shack

The soft, jelly-like cubes dusted with kinako made you slow down. You were chewing with your eyes closed, leaning against Kusakabe like a soldier who’d been shot in the gut.

He bumped your shoulder gently. “You good?”

“I’ve never been worse—I mean… no I said it, but I’m not done!”

🍡 EIGHTH BOOTH: Dango 

You chose dango because you thought it was a light treat. YET! Here you were grasping onto the tiny bit of life you had left. This was tough. You were gonna die.

“You’re not better than me, Kusakabe-kun.” You mumbled.

He smirked, clearly hurting too. “I didn’t say I was.”

You weakly held up your skewer, one lone dango clinging to the end. You waved it around like a white flag, “This might be it for me… Fuck… yeah, this is it.”

Without hesitation, Kusakabe reached out, grabbed your wrist, and leaned in. He ate the last dango off your skewer.

You gasped, clutching your chest. “You…”

He chewed, swallowed, and sighed. “Good game.”

Then he leaned over, both hands on his knees. “Shit. That’s it for me too.”

You both stood there, doubled over, stomachs full, hearts pounding. Drenched in sugar and mutual defeat.

Then—you saw what might as well have been an alien. 

“Yes, and can I get two more boxes to go?” Gojo shouted, waving at the vendor.

You turned and saw him casually scarfing down more dango, like this was his first meal of the day and not the finale of an all-out gastrointestinal war.

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

Gojo grinned, cheeks puffed out. “It’s really good!”

Di, watching from the bench with a water bottle she hadn’t touched in 20 minutes, whispered, “That’s some freak shit.”

“They say he’s the strongest.” You muttered lowly to Kusakabe. “But they should call him… the sweetest.”

Gojo looked down at you from above his glasses. “Call me Sugar Daddy!”

“I can’t feel my spleen.” You groaned.

“Mine dissolved after the Sakura Candy.” Kusakabe winced.

You looked at each other, then burst into weak, wheezing laughter. Fuck! You guys needed to sit down, and there was a gorgeous looking bench not too far away. Just a few short steps. It looked like such a beautiful altar from this vantage point.

You, Gojo, Jaz, Kusakabe—all splayed across it like survivors of an apocalypse. Kusakabe had one leg stretched out like he’d just survived a battle. Jaz was lying flat with her head on Gojo’s thigh. Gojo was… still eating and wiping powdered sugar off his shirt like nothing had happened.

You were twisted sideways on the bench, one hand on your stomach, your head leaning dramatically against Kusakabe’s shoulder—not that he seemed to mind. He wasn’t even flinching anymore. He was one hard blink away from a coma.

Kaya and Di stood in front of you, fully upright, arms crossed, the picture of smug restraint.

“Y’all look like shit.” Kaya placed her hands on her hips. “This was such a bad idea.”

“I feel like I got hit by a truck.” Jaz groaned. 

You clutched your stomach, eyes half-lidded. “This is how piñatas must feel right before they get beat to death.”

Kusakabe actually snorted, then winced immediately. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“You did this to yourselves.” Di crossed her arms.

Gojo grinned, “I feel amazing.”

“You’re inhuman.” You muttered, peeking up at him.

He winked. “Aw stop. I’m carbon based just like the rest of you.”

Kaya clapped her hands. “Alright! Walk it off, bitches! The festival ends soon and we still haven’t done the pedal boats. Let’s go.”

You flopped further into Kusakabe’s side. “Kaya… I’m pregnant.”

She grabbed your hand. “And you’ll be a strong mother. Now come on.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me so much.” She tugged harder. “Fireworks are about to start and we need to be on that lake before the pedal boats are all gone.”

“I can’t—”

“You will.” Di was on your other side, pulling you up by your other hand.

You wobbled and groaned. “This feels like war.”

Kusakabe groaned as he stood. “That’s because it is.”

Jaz rolled her neck and stood dramatically. “If I vomit in a swan-shaped boat, just let me drift into the lake. Let the koi take me.”

Gojo stood, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Okay!”

You all stumbled down the gravel path toward the lake. The walk was so hard on you, but it was worth it. There, bobbing peacefully, was a small fleet of swan-shaped pedal boats. Too cute.

Somehow, miraculously, there were still some boats left.

Di made her choice first, dramatically leaping toward Gojo. “I’m riding with him! I called dibs!”

“I didn’t hear dibs.” Jaz muttered.

“I am literally calling it right now!” Di snapped.

Kaya glanced at you. “Sorry girl, I gotta go with Jaz.”

“WHAT?!” Your eyes widened.

Kaya raised her brows. “If I ride with you, I’ll be doing all the pedaling. You just ate a hundred pounds of condensed sugar and you haven’t moved since.”

“Then why would you drag me into this activity?!” You wailed.

“Well, because I’m selfish—with love.”

Kusakabe appeared beside you, voice low and casual. “Don’t worry. I got you.”

Just like that, you were the last two left. You rolled your eyes as you walked to the end of the little pier.

The boat rocked gently as you stepped into it, helped carefully by Kusakabe’s hand. He was strong and steady as always, never once treating you like a burden, even as your legs shook like a deer on ice.

The water was a perfect mirror, smooth and dark, the sky above was nice and clear, like it knew the fireworks were coming. The reflection of the paper lanterns rippled like gold on the lake’s surface. You sank into the plush vinyl seat of the swan boat, legs immediately crossed, arms folded in dramatic protest.

“I’m doing nothing. You know that?” You announced, as if he hadn’t already guessed.

“I do know that.” Kusakabe laughed, settling in and starting to pedal with smooth, calm movements. “I’ll carry you through, legend.”

“Oh my God don’t call me that.” You sighed, leaning back with one arm over the edge of the swan’s wing. “I’m sorry, I know I should be helping—”

“It’s fine. Honestly… this isn’t so bad.”

It really wasn’t. It was… peaceful. The laughter of your friends faded behind you as they drifted further onto the lake. Gojo easily made Di regret choosing him by pedaling faster than the swan could probably handle. Kaya and Jaz drifted off gently in the direction opposite you.

“Can you stay close to the edge?” You glanced over at him briefly. “If I gotta puke I wanna have a close escape route.”

He’d do as you asked, and in no time at all, the fireworks started.

The sky blossomed with color. White, pink, red. The lake lit up like beautiful mosaic, reflecting bursts of firelight across your faces. You both looked up instinctively, heads tilted toward the show.

Kusakabe stopped pedaling, and the boat slowly drifted.

You were so aware of how close he was. The quiet strength in his presence. The way the light made his profile glow. He wasn’t touching you. Not at all, and still—everything about this felt so intimate. Too intimate.

Your heartbeat kicked up. What are you doing? This was far too intimate of a situation.

You thought of Nanami. Of Reika. Of the conversations you’d had with him. Of the boundaries you asked him to respect—and yet here you were sitting in a close boat ride at night, alone, with someone you were so obviously attracted to.

It wasn’t right. No matter how respectful Kusakabe had been—and he had been nothing but—this still felt like a breach of something. Maybe not in action, but in emotion.

You couldn't do this anymore. You shifted slightly, trying to sit up, to put a few more inches between you. You cleared your throat, the words rising heavy in your chest.

“Kusakabe…”

His head turned toward you, a soft smile on his face lit up by pink and gold from the fireworks. “You alright?”

You opened your mouth, and just as you were getting ready to speak, your phone rang.

You blinked, startled. It was coming from your purse. You reached down slowly, heart suddenly hammering in your throat. 

It was Nanami. His name lit up your screen in a soft white glow. This was so unusual. He’d normally call you after work, but he knew what time the festival ended. Knowing him, he’d never call you while you were out. Then again your last phone call didn’t go very well. 

Still, you wondered, what could he want?

You glanced back at Kusakabe. “Sorry, I—I have to take this.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

You turned slightly away, one hand holding the phone, the other pressing to your chest, like it could somehow slow the panic pounding there.

You took a breath and answered. “…Kento?”

The firework burst overhead in a stunning arc of green and silver, echoing across the lake like a drumroll in the sky. You held the phone to your ear, already feeling the knot forming in your stomach as Nanami’s voice came through the line—steady, controlled, but off.

Your frown deepened, your body still, your voice soft and cracking. “What’s wrong, honeybee?”

You listened. The fireworks boomed again and your eyes dropped to the boat floor. “What?”

Another pause.

You blinked, swallowed. Your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay…”

The rest of what he said didn’t even register in full. Just fractured words behind the pulse in your ears. You felt so shattered. “Okay…”

You were quiet. Numb, even. Your eyes lifted toward the sky, catching the reflection of firelight in your glassy stare, and that was when the tears came.

They didn’t come like a warning. They fell instantly. Your face didn’t even move. Not your brows, not your lips, not anything. You didn’t blink. You just sat there bathed in the light of the fireworks while your tears streamed down your cheeks.

You licked your lips slowly, eyes still upward, breathing through the heartbreak. Just trying to understand it. “Alright… thanks for letting me know.”

The line ended and you lowered the phone.

Kusakabe hadn’t asked anything yet—he was just watching you carefully, respectfully, waiting for some signal that you were okay.

You didn’t give him one. You couldn’t. But the way you sat… the way the tears were streaking down your cheeks, and the small tremble in your shoulders… It was hard to watch.

He finally spoke in a soft tone. “Do you need anything?”

He just didn’t know what to say. What else could he possibly say? He had no idea what was going on.

You didn’t even try to answer in words. You just shook your head, no.

Your phone lit up again in your lap. Nanami was calling back. You stared at it, hit end, and without hesitation you shut it off completely before slipping it back into your purse.

You pulled your knees up against your chest and wrapped your arms around your legs, curling into yourself like you were trying to become smaller—trying to disappear.

“Dammit!” You sobbed into your arms. “I told him!” Your voice cracked, raw with rage and sorrow, and you couldn’t hold back anymore. “I told him... I begged him.” You hiccuped through the pain. “I knew. I knew this would happen…”

You turned to Kusakabe, eyes swollen and red, lips trembling.

“I have to go.” You spoke hoarsely. “Please. If they ask… just tell them I got sick and had to leave. I can’t stay.”

Kusakabe nodded immediately. He wasn’t gonna question you or ask you why.

“Okay.” His voice came in calm but full of concern. “I’ll get us back.”

Thankfully you two were very close to the docking point since you didn’t want to stray too far in the first place.

The fireworks still exploded above you, lighting the lake like fiery glitter, but it all felt so far away now—like a party you were no longer part of.

You sat hunched over and quiet as the boat returned. When it docked, Kusakabe climbed out first and turned back, offering you his hand.

You didn’t hesitate. You took it.

He helped you out of the boat, hands steady, guiding you with care as your feet touched solid ground again.

You wiped your eyes one last time and looked up at him, voice still hoarse. “Thank you, Kusakabe.”

He nodded, eyes serious. “You shouldn’t be alone when you’re feeling like this. I wanna know that you’ll be okay.”

“I’ll be fine, but I have to go.” You touched his arm gently, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his sleeve. 

He grabbed your hand briefly before you pulled away—the moment hanging tight. “You said whoever loses owes the other one something. I won… I want to know that you’ll be okay. That’s what I want.”

You couldn’t look at him. You knew if you did the tears would come rushing down even more. “Guess you’ll have to take my word for it—don’t worry. This doesn’t count, I still owe you one.” You released his hand. “Thank you for understanding.”

His expression didn’t change. He just gave you a small nod. “Always.”

You turned, walking away from the lake, from the laughter, from the warmth, and into the quiet Tokyo night—heart heavy, fireworks at your back, and the one person you trusted most suddenly feeling a world away.

One Hour Earlier

Office : 8:49pm : Shinjuku

The fluorescent lights of the 60th floor office buzzed low  under the silence that settled after normal working hours. The city beyond the glass walls glittered, but inside, everything felt eerily still.

Nanami sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, eyes fixed on a spreadsheet he’d already triple-checked. His brows were drawn tight with that quiet frustration only overtime could bring. He wasn’t a man that knew when to pack it in, but damn he had to get out of this.

He exhaled, pushed his chair back, and spoke aloud—half to himself, half to the one person still lingering in the room. “I’m stopping here. I’m done for tonight.”

Right beside him, Reika looked up from her own screen, legs crossed, and posture too perfect to be accidental. “You sure? You’re so close to finishing. Why not just push through?”

“I’ll finish tomorrow.” He stood up, loosening his tie just a little more. “I’m going to meet my girlfriend at the Hanaharu Festival. She asked me to come. I should’ve left over an hour ago.”

Reika smiled—soft, sweet, and calculated. She stood up too, smoothing her pencil skirt and walking closer with casual confidence. “I like your girlfriend—really, I do. She’s beautiful, fun, and dramatic, but I get the sense she doesn’t fully understand the weight you carry. You’re too disciplined for her kind of lifestyle.”

Nanami glanced up sharply. “You don’t know her to speak about her that way.”

She held up her hands, laughing softly. “Relax, I just meant some people don’t understand this kind of hustle. You need a woman who gets that. A nine to five is tough, but working late like this? Only certain people have the grit for it.”

“Kanzaki, you don’t know her.” He repeated firmly, packing up a few files. “Please don’t speak about her like you do.”

Reika moved in closer. Not enough to be obviously inappropriate—but enough to tip the scale into discomfort. She sat on the edge of his desk and tilted her head.

“The festival will be over by the time you get there.” She spoke sweetly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “You may as well stay. You already sacrificed the night. Why not finish this strong?” Her hand drifted to his arm. A light touch—barely there. “I don’t mind helping you. We’re partners.”

He tensed. “Don’t do that.”

Her hand didn’t move. In fact, it slid toward his chest, where she adjusted his loosened tie with deliberate slowness. 

Nanami gave her a firm look while moving her hands away. Nothing cruel, but definitely clear.

She smiled again, eyes soft. “I just feel like it’s unhealthy when girlfriends think they should have every piece of their boyfriend. You’ve been so overwhelmed lately. All those late-night texts about stress… If she knew how much you text me about being anxious she'd honestly thank me for taking such good care of you.”

“That’s completely inappropriate, Kanzaki,” Nanami spoke sharply, stepping back. “And one thing I’ve never been is overwhelmed by my relationship. Suggesting that she’s one of the burdens in my life is crossing the line.”

Reika interrupted, fast and apologetic. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m so sorry.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I just meant… it’s hard, right? Relationships? Sometimes it feels like your partner needs to know everything. To be everything. But you’re allowed to be a person outside of her too.”

Nanami looked away, jaw clenched tight. He thought about the words. The person he was outside of you was an overworked, job addicted office drone. You got him out more than he’d been in years. You provided him with an extraordinary slice of life, and it hadn’t even been that long.

“She doesn’t need all of you, Kento.” Reika continued, voice lowering. “You’re still you. Even outside of her. There are some things you can keep to yourself… or between two people.”

“Don’t call me Kento. Right here in this office, it’s Nanami.” He started to reach for his phone. “Make no mistake, Kanzaki, my woman is everything to me. I don’t keep secrets from her. She knows everything.”

She smiled, slow. “I don’t think she does. When I asked you how she felt about us going to dinner the other night you dodged giving me an answer, and I think it’s because you didn’t tell her.”

Before he could turn fully, her hand moved—down his chest, over his stomach, landing just at the edge of his belt.

“Kanzaki.” He’d grab her hand unyieldingly before moving it away from him. “Do not ever—”

“You don’t have to be her everything.” She murmured, cutting him off with a sly smile. “Not all the time. Sometimes you need someone… else. Not to replace her, but to satisfy the part of you she’ll never understand.” She leaned closer, her perfume wrapping around him like a trap. “Don’t act so innocent. You’ve been stringing me along for weeks, saying just enough to look loyal, but we both know better.” Her hand pressed firmly against his chest, fingers curling just enough to make him tense. “I can give you what she can’t, that is, if you let me.”

He spoke more firmly. “Get your hand off of me.”

“I know you can’t say it out loud, but actions speak louder than words Kentochi. You’re still right here. You could have backed off any time if you wanted.” She steps in closer, her body flush against his. “You can decide how much you want, and how far we go. I’ll never push—only give you what you’re already asking for. Some things can stay right here… between us. Behind these office doors. Let me be your confidant.”

He opened his mouth to respond—but she had already leaned in. It took no time for her lips to crash into his. Soft, sweet, and poisonous. Her other hand slid down quick and intentional as she grabbed him hard through his slacks.

It happened so fast, he hadn’t even drawn a breath before it was done. Her mouth, her hand, her body—all moved in merciless unison. It was a split second, if even that, and yet for Nanami, the moment stretched into cruel, unbearable slow motion. 

A thousand chances to stop it, and somehow he missed every one. There were so many ways to avoid this, and he lived in the one universe where it happened anyway. The one timeline where he didn’t heed your warning, and the weight of that truth would haunt him far longer than the kiss itself.

“Get off of me.” He hastily pulled back the instant her mouth was on his. 

“Kento, it’s okay. I kno—”

“Get out.” He barked, voice sharp.

Reika blinked, like she was waking from a dream. “What?”

“Get. Out Now.” His voice was full of sudden venom, anger finally catching up to him.

She stepped back, hands raised. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Just go!” He snapped.

She nodded quickly, turning toward the elevator. She didn’t rush, didn’t cry, didn’t yell. She simply grabbed her purse and headed to the exit.

Nanami spoke again just as the elevator doors opened. “I’ll have to report this, Kanzaki.”

Reika froze, eyes glassy like he’d just struck her. “Report… me?” Her voice trembled, breaking in all the right places. “If that’s what you want, then fine, but you know what they’ll do. They’ll dig through everything. The late nights you asked me to stay. The days off I came in because you needed me. The dinner receipts, the emails…” She shook her head slowly, as if wounded. “It might not look as innocent in their eyes.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, small and fragile. “Maybe I read too much into it. Maybe I mistook kindness for… something more. If that’s true, then I’m sorry. I should never have let myself believe it.” Her eyes lifted to his. “But you have to admit, you made it so easy to believe.”

With that, she slipped out, her apology lingering like her perfume — sweet on the surface, poisonous underneath. The silence left behind was deafening, her words already replaying in his head, twisting his choices into something darker than he ever intended.

The moment the doors slid closed behind her, Nanami stood still for a beat. He grabbed the back of his chair and then paced once around the office. He was trying to accept what just happened here. 

He should have done more. He should have stopped it sooner. Every gentlemanly bone in his body did not want to physically touch her, or push her to remove her hands from him. He didn’t want to yell at her, but maybe he should have? He was looking back in hindsight and seeing the trillions of different outcomes that did not lead to this.

“Shit.” He muttered. “Goddammit!”

He pressed his fingers into his temple. The weight of what just happened sank into his bones like lead.

He let it happen. Not the kiss. Not the touch—the situation. The proximity. The after-hours. The silence when the floor emptied. The late nights he could’ve left sooner. The conversations he could’ve shut down with finality.

You had begged him not to stay late. Told him you didn’t trust her. Told him not to be alone with her. Told him this could happen—and now it had.

He knew what he had to do. No delay. No doubt. First? HR. Immediately. This was a violation. Clear and severe. No ambiguity.

Next he’d have to call you, because even if he hadn’t wanted this, even if he hadn’t kissed her back—this was still a betrayal. Not of action, but of judgment.

He thought he could navigate these waters safely. Keep Reika at bay, and work side by side with her because she made him money. Now, that lapse in judgment might cost him the one thing in his life he couldn’t afford to lose.

Nanami stood frozen in the center of the office, the fluorescent lights making everything look clinical—too bright, too sterile for the sickness in his gut.

He could still feel the ghost of her hand and the venom of her lips. It didn’t matter that he pushed her away. What mattered was that he let it get that far.

He sat back down at his desk, hands trembling slightly as he picked up his office phone. He dialed the HR number. It wasn’t open of course as it was after hours. He’d instead leave a voicemail.

He waited for the beep and then, in a voice clipped with restraint, he spoke:

“Good evening. This is Nanami Kento Senior Broker from the Finance Department. I would like to report an incident involving a coworker that happened in the office after hours. Please call me back first thing in the morning. This needs to be documented and escalated immediately. Thank you.”

He hung up and opened his laptop now. If he couldn’t speak to someone, he’d leave no room for delay.

He’d draft up an email, and it was meticulous. Typed with the sharp rhythm of someone who’d been scorned..

Subject: Formal Complaint – Misconduct Report

Good evening,

I am writing to formally document and report a serious incident of misconduct by Kanzaki Reika, Junior Broker in the Finance Department. This is in reference to behavior I’ve noticed escalating over the past few weeks, culminating in an unacceptable and non-consensual encounter this evening at approximately 21:02 in Office 60.

I am deeply unsettled by this incident, and would like to speak about this in person or over the phone as soon as possible. 

I take full responsibility for not enforcing stricter boundaries in the weeks prior, and for remaining in a situation that I should have removed myself from sooner. I am committed to taking accountability for my personal actions.

This incident needs to be formally investigated and addressed. Please confirm receipt of this email and advise on the next steps.

Sincerely,

Nanami Kento

Senior Broker - Finance Department

He hovered over the send button, lips pressed tight, stomach rolling. He clicked it. The screen refreshed, and the message was sent.

Now came the part that made his lungs burn. He had to call you.

The only person who had seen so clearly what Reika was doing. The only person who had asked him to be careful. The one person—the greatest pleasure in his life that he couldn’t afford to lose.

Now he had to get on the phone, man up, and tell you how he betrayed the trust and safety of this relationship that you were warning him about.

His hand shook as he reached for his phone.

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched. “Shit.”

He tapped your contact, and the phone rang.

Once…

Twice…

“...Kento?” You sounded soft, and maybe a little confused, even.

He closed his eyes. “Hey… my love.” His voice came through unusually somber.

“What’s wrong, honeybee?”

He hesitated for just a breath. Then the words tumbled out.

“There’s something I need to tell you. Something… happened tonight at the office with Kanzaki.” He swallowed hard. “She crossed a line. I need you to know—it wasn’t mutual. I didn’t invite it, but I didn’t stop it soon enough either.”

“What?”

“She kissed me. She touched me. I told her to leave the moment it happened, and I filed a report with HR. I’ve sent the email. I’ve logged everything. I—”

“Okay…”

His chest ached. “I’m so sorry, my love. I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve been with you tonight when you asked. I should’ve drawn the line much more clearly. I prioritized work over us. You were right… You were right and I didn’t—”

“Okay…”

He stopped pacing, frozen in place. “My love. I want to talk to you about this in person. I need you to know that I would never risk us. I would never risk us. This was—”

“Alright… thanks for letting me know.” You cut him off with a numbed voice.

He flinched. “Wait—I’m not done. I—Please, I need you to hear me—”

The line clicked, and you were gone.

Nanami pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it like it had betrayed him. He redialed instantly. It rang once—then straight to voicemail.

He stood there for a long time, arm still halfway in the air. His chest was tight, like breathing itself took effort.

He sank into his office chair, hands covering his face, fingers dug into his temples.

He felt… small, like the fluorescent lights above were the only things left watching him.

He had tried to do everything right. He had tried to compartmentalize. Be strong. Be composed. Prioritize work. Be dependable…and in doing so, he let a door stay open long enough for something unforgivable to happen.

It was not because he invited it, and certainly not because he wanted it. It was because he didn’t stop it soon enough, and now he might lose you.

You—the only light left in a life filled with duty and detachment.

He leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the ceiling, chest heaving, eyes burning. He would give anything to rewind time. To play it differently.

The cruelest part? He didn’t even realize that the very email he sent—the one he thought would bring justice—was about to land in your department.

Human Resources. 

10th floor. 

Shinjuku Office Tower.

Where you sat. 

Where Kaya sat. 

Where this whole thing would ignite next.

The Reika problem wasn’t over. Oh no, it had only just begun.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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[softcursechoso]

Memoirs from a Gilded Cage: CH. 14

Attack on Titan x Reader

Black!Reader Levi x Reader Erwin x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI 18+ ONLY //NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS

CH. 14 Warnings: Heavy on the angst, bit of violence, and starting anew!

Words: 10.4k+

THE UNBOUND STEPPE

The Eternal Thread : 6:35am : Mitras

You didn’t even notice how long you’d been pulling, tugging, thrashing. Hours blur together. Your wrists ache, rubbed raw from the cord, and your body is trembling from exhaustion, but you don’t stop.

Tears streak down your cheeks in a steady stream, soaking the pillow beneath your head. Your sobs are hoarse, broken, every breath sharp from the ache in your ribs, but still you fight the restraints.

“Levi…” You whisper to yourself, your voice cracking. “Please… please don’t do this to me…”

The cord doesn’t budge. You keep pulling, keep twisting, until your arms finally give out, limp against the headboard. Eventually, exhaustion wins.

You cry until your body can’t take it anymore, and your sobs fade into quiet, uneven breathing.

Sleep drags you under, and for the first time in a while you have a dream. It was like a much clearer version of the premonition you had months ago. Scaling Wall Sina, and jumping over.

Perhaps it was your mind trying to tell you something. Maybe Levi was right. Maybe you should leave this old life behind… you went underground in search of your family, and instead you found one you weren’t looking for. Would it be right to leave them behind?

Your eyes crack open to faint light. The room is still, and it’s impossible to tell if the sun is rising or setting through the curtains. You hope it’s setting, but, you know better.

You glance up—your hands are free. Your wrists are stiff and sore, but you must have twisted them loose in your sleep, the cord hanging slack now.

Your ribs ache sharply as you sit up, but you ignore it, pushing yourself off the bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you stumble forward, clutching your side.

You don’t care about the pain. There’s something you must see for yourself.

You make your way out of the bedroom, each step heavy and your legs weak beneath you. The stairs feel like a mountain, and you grip the rail tight, dragging yourself down step by step, your breath uneven with every movement.

When you reach the bottom, you don’t hesitate. You head straight for the hallway, the one place you’ve always kept hidden from prying eyes.

Your fingers fumble for the shears sitting on the shelf near your workshop. You grab them, the metal cold in your trembling hands.

You drop to your knees, stabbing the sharp edge into the floorboards.Wood splinters as you pry the panels loose, revealing the tunnel entrance. Except… it’s blocked.

Fresh earth, dark and damp, sits where freedom used to be. Just like he said.

“No…” The word escapes in a broken whisper.

You know it’s a false bottom. He couldn’t have filled the entire tunnel. It’s far too deep.

You drop the shears and dig your fingers into the dirt, clawing like an animal. The soil is cold, heavy, and unyielding. You scoop frantically, breath ragged, but the pain in your ribs sharpens to the point of agony. Your body gives out and you topple into the dirt, gasping through tears.

It’s over.

Is this really it?

Your life, the Kuremi legacy, the tunnel, the sun you wanted him to have—it all feels meaningless. No family underground. No family on the surface. No one who understands.

Your thoughts drift to that dream, the premonition that once gave you hope… you, soaring over the wall in your red dress, the fabric trailing like a banner behind you.

Guess that meant nothing too. You’d give up everything if you could just—

The front door creaks open, pausing your thoughts in place.

You freeze, eyes wide, dirt clinging to your tear-streaked face. Early sunlight spills across the floor, catching on the open hole and your crumpled body.

“My lady?” Moritz’s voice trembles. “I… I heard you crying, and I—”

He stops dead. His gaze sweeps over the pried-up floorboards, the blood at your side, the dirt smeared on your skin.

“Goodness—” He gasps, stepping inside and quickly shutting the door behind him. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees. “My lady!”

You barely react as he cradles you against him. The warmth of another human being makes the sobs burst out again.

He studies your injuries— “Stay here.” He hurries upstairs. A minute later he returns with a small medical kit. He gently lifts you, pulling you away from the dirt and laying you on your side.

“You… you blocked the tunnel?” He asks quietly while assessing your ribs.

Your head jerks up, shock flashing across your face. “H-how did you know there was—?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes as he begins to clean the blood from your side. “My lady… you would disappear for hours, sometimes days. I came to check on you a few months ago, and I… I found the tunnel. I didn’t tell anyone.”

You blink at him, overwhelmed.

“I knew if I spoke, both of us would be punished. I just… I hoped you were happier down there. Whoever you met… they must be someone very special for you to risk everything like this.”

Your tears fall silently, and you whisper, “Thank you… for keeping my secret…”

He gives a small, sad smile. “When I was first ordered to watch you, it felt like a burden. Then, when you paid me for my silence, it became… just another duty. But the longer I stayed, the more I saw what this place was doing to you.” His voice tightens. “It’s cruel. You’re suffocating here. And I… I suppose I started to feel protective instead.”

You sniffle and nod.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.” He adds softly, wrapping fresh bandages around your ribs with careful hands. “But please… I’m begging you. Get the help you need. Maybe my opinion means nothing, but I don’t want to see you perish, my lady.”

His sincerity is like a knife to your heart. Maybe that premonition didn’t mean what you thought it meant. Maybe it was a metaphor for something else. You felt like you knew what needed to be done.

You nod, slowly, wiping your tears. “…Moritz… can you help me pack a bag? I need to fetch a carriage.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Yes, of course… but where to?”

You look toward the early morning street through the window, your voice soft but steady.

“Take me… to the estate.”

He nods, and the next moments happen fast.

Moritz’s cleans you up a bit more before he helps you into a green dress. The fabric clings to your trembling body, and you catch sight of yourself in the mirror—eyes bloodshot, face washed, but presentable enough to face the Greville estate without scandal. Moritz smooths the skirt and gently fixes your hair, his eyes full of quiet worry.

“You’re ready.” He smiles softly at you in the mirror.

“I’m not.” You shake your head slightly in disagreement, “But it doesn’t matter.”

The carriage ride is silent, broken only by the creak of the wheels and the faint rattle of your uneven breath. Moritz sits across from you, watching your hands knot together in your lap. 

You’re really trying to talk yourself out of what you’re getting ready to do… but unfortunately all roads lead to this for the result you need.

Greville Estate : 7:17am : Mitras

The carriage stops. Moritz climbs out first and offers you his hand. You hesitate, then take it, letting him help you down. Your ribs scream with the motion, but you swallow the pain.

“Come in with me.” Your voice is hoarse, but firm.

Inside, the familiar cold of the marble floors creeps up your legs. Chandeliers cast fractured light against the walls. The air smells polished and sterile.

You can feel him here. Not your father—he’s irrelevant now. Not the doctor—not yet. Cassius.

Your heels click softly as you follow the hallway leading you to the grand dining room. There he is, slouched in one of the high-backed chairs at the long table, staring into a half-empty glass. His face is a study in quiet torment, his posture suggesting a man carrying a weight no one can see.

“Cassius.” Your voice cuts like a knife in the silence.

He doesn’t look at you, but his eyes flicker a subtle acknowledgment.

Then—heels strike the marble. Tinsley’s. She rounds the corner, face flushed, hope and dread tangled in her expression. A large trunk being carried by two servants behind her.

“You—” She starts, breathless.

You hold up one finger. “Wait.”

She freezes, reading the warning in your eyes. 

You approach Cassius, each step deliberate, somber, your heart pounding with the gravity of the moment. He doesn’t speak, but the tension in the room sharpens.

“I hate you.” You begin quietly, your voice shaking with truth. “And I always have. You are hollow—pathetic, cruelty rotting behind a smug, empty smile. You don’t deserve joy, or love, or even peace. You don’t deserve to be remembered. In the story of my life, you’ll merely be an ugly annotation.”

Cassius tilts his head, finally letting his gaze meet yours. It’s dark, unreadable—but alert.

“That’s why I need you to understand that what I’m about to propose is not born of respect or sympathy. It’s because I am desperate, and I know you are too.”

The air feels like lead. It’s thick. Nearly impossible to breathe.

At last, he leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “…Go on.”

“When Father passes, the estate will fall to me. The Greville name will mean nothing with the property in my hands. The royal government nor the citizens of Mitras respect me or my name. I don’t hold the authority to use it the way you would. Only the first male heir—only you—could wield that power. Which is why this wouldn’t work with Tinsley.”

Your twin flinches in the doorway but stays silent.

“I will be gone…” You continue. “Long gone, and I want nothing from this place. So here is my proposition: I will sign everything over to you. Every square foot of land. Every stick of furniture. Every finished project Father ever started. I will give it all to you, Cassius—if you agree to sign the proof of residence for me when I return.”

His brows lift slightly. “…You wouldn’t.”

You nod once, a solemn vow. “I would. I will. Tinsley and Moritz will bear witness. My word is binding. The estate is yours in full if you agree to this.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes—shock, hunger, triumph. He tries to suppress it, to play stoic, but you feel his pulse quicken from across the room.

“I won’t ask why… Honestly, I don’t give a damn about your reason, but fine. You hand me the estate… and when you return, I’ll sign the papers.”

It’s like making a deal with the devil.

You extend your hand and Cassius stares at it for a long moment. Finally he clasps it in his own. His grip is cold, firm, and it seals your fate.

For Levi. For Furlan. For Isabel. You will rebuild your life from nothing, just to stand beside them in the sun.

The handshake with Cassius still clings to your skin when you turn to Tinsley. “Where’s Dr. Yeager?”

She blinks, like she didn’t expect you to speak to her at all. “He left. Ten minutes ago.”

Your stomach drops. “Left? Where?”

“To Ermich. He said he needed to be back in Shiganshina as soon as he could. He wanted to head out early..”

The blood in your veins turns electric. “Shit.”

You’re already moving—skirt gathered in your fists, ignoring the flash of pain in your ribs. Moritz is on your heels. By the time you burst out the front doors, the carriage is still waiting for you. 

“Let’s get to the border! Hurry!” You yell as you climb inside.

Moritz doesn’t even hesitate—he vaults in after you. Helping you inside and just before he slams the door—

“Wait!” Tinsley yells.

She runs, dress flying behind her as she does. She hops into the carriage as if it’s her right. You don’t stop her. You don’t even have time to. You have to leave now.

The wheels spin into motion as the horses snap into a gallop.

Early morning Mitras is a city of garbage covered in the finest gold. The streets are empty thankfully, but there is the occasional shop owner opening up early for the day. Your carriage thunders through them, wheels rattling over flawless paved stones. 

The gate to Ermich isn’t far—but right now it feels like a world away. A district attached directly to the capital, and yet you’d only ever seen glimpses of it when the gate opened. Never able to actually look and explore. 

The carriage rounds a corner hard, throwing you sideways into Tinsley. She steadies you with her hand, eyes scanning the street ahead. “There—”

You see it too. A dark carriage just ahead, moving at a steady pace toward the gate.

“Faster.” You call your escort. The horses surge, hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. The sound of the chase fills your ears—the snap of reins, the thunder of wheels, the pounding of your own heartbeat.

The sun is climbing, bathing the wall in a halo of light. The sky looks beautiful at this hour, but all you can focus on is the narrowing gap between you and Dr. Yeager’s carriage.

The gate is already open. The Garrison barely glances up as you move in. You know if he crosses into Ermich before you reach him, he’ll be gone for good, and you will die in the same town that has been wanting you dead ever since you were born.

“Stop the carriage!” You yell before it’s even fully alongside his.

You grab the handle and throw the door open as you abruptly leap down—too fast, too soon. Your feet hit the paving stones hard, pain shooting through your ribs as you stumble.

You run, the cold air cutting through your lungs, your dress tangling around your legs. The world narrows to the space between you and him, to the seconds slipping away. His carriage is passing through without you in it.

“Dr. Yeager!” Your voice cracks, loud enough to make the guards turn their heads.

You trip, catching yourself on one hand, palms stinging against the grit of the street.

Moritz and Tinsley’s gasps cut through the ghastly silence of the morning.

You push up, legs screaming, and run again. The gap is closing—but so is the chance to live. “Dr. Yeager!”

The carriage slows just barely and you catch sight of him—dark hair, the outline of spectacles, his hand lifting to shield his eyes from the morning sun.

“Please!” You shout, breathless. “I’m coming with you!”

It’s the last lunge that does it—your body all but collapses as the carriage you were chasing rolls to a full stop just a hair past the threshold. 

You’re on the cobblestones trembling, Tinsley and Moritz each hooked under an arm to keep you upright. Your ribs burn from the insanity just now, but you don’t care—your eyes are fixed on him.

The Garrison guards posted at the Ermich gate exchange uncertain glances. One of them steps forward. “You’re not permitted to leave the capital. You already know this, Ms. Greville.”

“Actually, the Royal Health Policy for Nobility and High-Value Citizens would claim otherwise.” Grisha interrupts, voice steady as he steps down from his carriage. “Ms. Greville is allowed to leave the capital for urgent medical clearance if such care is not available within Mitras.”

The guards hesitate, looking between one another. “We weren’t given notice—”

A shadow falls across the gate. “Then I suppose I’ll be the one to clear up this little stand-off.”

Commander Pixis approaches at an unhurried pace, his bald head catching the first light of sunrise. Even in the early hour, his posture is relaxed, almost languid—but his eyes are sharp.

“Dr. Yeager,” He greets, tone smooth. “Care to explain why Ms. Greville is attempting to flee past the border with you?”

Grisha reaches inside his coat and produces a folded stack of papers. “Signed by Matthias Greville himself.” He hands them over, “More importantly, co-signed by Premier Zachary. Temporary clearance to leave the capital for urgent care. Without my treatment in Shiganshina, she will die. Time is critical, Commander.”

Pixis takes his time reading. When he looks up, his gaze settles on you. There’s something in it—not pity exactly, but a faint, knowing softness.

You’ve never spoken to Pixis before, but you know he’s aware of you. From the way his jaw shifts, you can tell he knows exactly what the capital has done to keep you caged.

Without a word, Pixis rounds the carriage, opens the door himself, and offers his hand to you. “For what it’s worth—” His voice pitched low enough for you to catch the weight in it, “I hope you get the help you need, but I also hope the road you take doesn’t lead you to double back. Safe travels.”

The meaning is clear. Just like everyone else in your life, they hope you take the opportunity to just be free. Fuck the rules. Maybe it’s better to be a free fugitive than a model prisoner. It’s a lot to chew on.

You clasp his hand and climb in, settling against the velvet seat. “Thank you, Commander.” You speak quietly.

Grisha heads back to the front of the carriage and takes the reins. Time is of the essence, and you need to get a move on.

“Are you ready, Ms. Greville?” The good doctor speaks to you through the open window partition.

“Yes sir.” You nod.

Pixis is about to close the door when Tinsley’s voice cuts through. “Wait—”

You turn to see her standing at the base of the carriage, chin lifted. “I’m going with you.”

“Tinsley, no—”

“I’m going.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “It was our dream to see beyond Mitras together. That’s still my dream. Whether you care to or not, I’ll see it through. Besides…” She tilts her head toward Grisha. “Dr. Yeager’s hospitality can only stretch so far. He has a family and other patients. When he isn’t able to watch you, I will.”

She takes a step closer, her expression softening. “I’m going to Shiganshina.”

You study her for a long moment. It’s the first time in months you really look at her—not the ignorant, sheltered girl who could smile through cruelty, but your twin. The one who once believed you could conquer anything together.

Finally, you nod. “…Okay.”

For the first time in a long while, Tinsley smiles like she means it.

Pixis steps back, closing the carriage door with a final click. Grisha snaps the reins, and the wheels turn into motion, carrying you through the gate and into Ermich’s sunlit streets.

Your heart doesn’t slow as the carriage moves forward through the gate. You press your palm to the window frame, ribs flaring as you sit upright, refusing to recline, refusing to miss a single glimpse of what lies beyond.

All your life Ermich had been a rumor, a forbidden word, a sliver of light on the other side of Mitras’ immaculate walls. You’d stolen fleeting glimpses when the gates creaked open for trade caravans occasionally, but now you could see it in full—unguarded with your own two eyes.

The streets are broad, paved with similar stonework as Mitras, but lined with buildings of sharper edges and paler facades. The architecture is dignified but less ostentatious—lacking the gaudy flourishes that scream of Mitras’ wealth. Balconies with iron rails curve outward, window boxes spill with morning blossoms, and doorways stand proudly with a hint of character. 

It’s like seeing for the first time. Like breathing for the first time, and this is only the district pressed right against your backyard.

A voice pulls you from the trance.

“It will take us roughly a week to reach Shiganshina.” Grisha speaks, leaning slightly to speak through the open carriage window. His voice is clinical but not unkind. “We’ll make a few stops along the way, but no more than necessary.”

He reaches into his coat and withdraws a small jar, its glass clouded with scratches. “Ms. Greville.” He calls.

You extend a hand automatically, but he holds the jar out instead to Tinsley.

“Yes, Dr. Yeager?” She answers, straight-backed, her voice touched with nervous respect.

“Every couple of hours, give her one of these. Have her chew until it’s gone—it will ease the pain and slow down her heartrate.”

“Yes, sir.”

She unscrews the jar, a faint herbal scent drifting up. The dried leaves inside are curled, papery, pale green. She plucks one carefully between her fingers and turns to you, but your eyes aren’t on her.

Your gaze is pinned outside, at the swell of people already bustling through the Ermich streets… and there among the crowd, something catches your eye. A woman with her hair in a braid wears a deep blue dress with a bodice cut in the style you favored last season. A child trails behind in a skirt striped in muted greens and golds. Two more women pass by in gowns you know stitch for stitch, your designs carried on their backs like banners.

“I made those.” You whisper, the words trembling in your throat. “Those are… my dresses.”

Tinsley follows your line of sight. For a moment she’s silent, watching the ripple of fabric as Ermich’s citizens move about their morning. 

She places her hand gently on your knee. “Yes, they are. These are your happy customers.”

When you turn toward her, she’s smiling. Not the brittle, careful smile you’ve grown used to from her, but one of quiet pride.

The carriage rattles onward, the horses steady on the cobblestones. Ermich spreads out before you, familiar yet completely new—its streets kissed by sunrise, and its people draped in your art.

The sight blurs as tears well up in your eyes, spilling hot over your cheeks. You knew some of your clients were from outside of Mitras, but it was nice seeing them outside of your home town.

Funny—these people will never know the woman who slaved over their fabric, who burned her fingers on candle stubs late into the night. They don’t know you, but you don’t care. Notoriety was never why you made them. The pride sits warm in your chest simply knowing they’re worn—that they’re loved.

The carriage slows. Ahead looms the gate leading out of Ermich. Took no time at all to reach.

Your heart, already racing, pounds harder until you feel it in your throat. You’ve never seen this gate before, or even what’s behind it. You’ve only seen drawn sketches and maps—but what truly lay past it was only up to the imagination.

Now you are here, and it’s too much. Your chest tightens. You can’t breathe.

Three Garrison soldiers step forward as the wheels rattle to a halt. One speaks with Grisha, the other two peer inside to scan faces and cargo. One of them does a double take when his eyes land on you, and your lungs seize.

 They’ll stop me. They’ll drag me back. They’ll send me home to die in that cage.

The soldier’s eyes linger. His brows furrow, but then he straightens, clears his throat, and waves you through.

The carriage jerks into motion again. The sunlight expands now like it fills the entire world. The gate spits you out into a horizon you’ve never known.

The carriage rolls into the dim tunnel. The walls seem to swallow you whole it’s terrifying… and then—

You gasp.

There’s a small town, but just beyond it are open plains stretching out in every direction, a sea of grass rippling in the morning wind. It rolls endless and alive. Green waves bending and rising until they fade into the misty base of distant mountains. Their peaks are faint and ghostlike. The sky is a vast, unmarred blue that seems to go on forever. No walls in the way. Not even in your peripheral view.

You fumble for the door latch, shove it open, and lean into the rushing air. You grip the frame with one hand, holding yourself steady as the wind whips around you.

Grisha says nothing. He doesn’t tell you to sit back, doesn’t warn you of danger. His eyes stay forward, steady on the road ahead. Perhaps he understands.

Beside you, Tinsley laughs—a sound light and sharp, cutting through the roar of hooves. “Yeeeeeeeah!” She shouts into the open air, head thrown back, the sound echoing across the empty fields.

Her arms loop around you from behind, careful not to press your ribs. She hugs you close, her cheek against your shoulder. “We did it!”

The world outside is alive in ways Mitras could never be. Grass so tall in places it brushes the sides of the carriage. Wildflowers blooming in purple and yellow bursts across the fields. Birds fly above—their wings slicing across the morning light. 

The carriage keeps near the river, its waters glinting silver in the sun. It bends and snakes, cutting a path through the plains. Its current strong enough to tug at the cargo boats floating downstream. The sight is surreal.

You don’t realize until you taste salt at your lips that you’re crying again. Harder this time. The world is larger than you ever dared to believe. Larger than the confines of Mitras and the underground combined.

You clutch the edge of the carriage door, wind filling your chest until it aches, and for the first time since your creation it feels like you’ve actually broken free. 

This is the life you needed to give Levi at all costs. The estate meant nothing. If you could give him this- a breath of fresh open air and endless opportunity, no trade was too great.

Finally you shut the door, but only so you can rest a little. The herb you’d been chewing has you dozing off now. Perhaps that’s a good thing for long trips, but honestly you didn’t want to miss a thing. It wasn’t up to you though. The sleep catches you quickly.

Wall Rose Steppe : 6:52pm 

The sky bled into night quicker than you expected. One moment the plains shimmered with the golden light of early morning, and the next, shadows stretched long and the mountains in the far distance turned into jagged silhouettes against a bruised-purple horizon. Feels like you missed the whole day, and honestly, you did.

Grisha slowed the carriage, guiding the horses off the road and toward a copse of low trees huddled not too far from the river. The sound of the water slowly faded away as you pivoted. He stopped just far enough that you couldn’t see the water’s surface from here—close enough for safety, far enough for cover.

He climbed down first, boots crunching on the earth and grass. His hand closed around the carriage door, pulling it open as he leaned in. “We rest here.”

Your ribs ached from hours of rattling along the uneven paths. The idea of being still—of stretching out—sounded almost blissful, but Grisha’s tone left little room for comfort.

“There are bandits in this stretch.” He continued, matter-of-fact—his voice carrying low across the open night. “They target merchants and caravans mostly, but sometimes in desperation they will go for stray travlers. Keep close. Don’t wander.”

The words hung heavy as he moved to the back of the carriage, tugging out bundles of supplies. A rolled tent, canvas heavy with age. A lantern, its glass fogged.

Tinsley hopped down after him, skirt layers in her fists, eager despite the long day. She bent to gather blankets, her face alight with something between nerves and excitement.

Grisha glanced at you as he worked. “Life outside the capital is much different. The further you stray, the more the color fades. Things get gray.” He shook out the canvas with a snap. “Out here, people fight for basic resources. Food. Medicine. Shelter. You’ll find more men and women with nothing to lose than with something to protect.”

You let your gaze wander across the plains. The grass whispered in the wind, endless under the rising moon. The openness felt both liberating and dangerous. You thought of the underground—their narrow alleys, stale air, people clawing at each other for pieces of scraps. 

Your voice slipped out really speaking before thinking, “So it’s like the underground beneath Mitras?”

Grisha paused, straightening. His eyes flicked to you, thoughtful. “No. It’s not nearly that bad. Down there, people are born with less than nothing. Here… most of them once had something, and lost it. That makes them desperate in a different way.”

You sank back against the carriage frame, fingers touching the wood, eyes heavy. The ache in your side reminded you it was still there—still unhealed.

Tinsley spread blankets on the ground inside the tent, smoothing them with delicate hands more used to soft linens than dirt. Her voice broke the quiet in a question that shouldn’t have caught you off guard as much as it did.

“Where did you get that wound, anyway?”

Your stomach tightened. You hadn’t spoken of it—not to her. Not to anyone above ground. Honestly this question should have been asked hours ago, but it was so troubling that you had it in the first place, that how came secondary. 

You don’t answer right away, and the silence stretches too long.

Tinsley freezes in her work and turns, studying you with wide eyes. “What happened?”

You pressed your palm against the bandaged ribs, feeling the throb beneath. For a moment, you considered lying. Brushing it off as an accident, as clumsiness, as something that would spare her the truth, but the words caught.

Finally, your voice cracked out, small and raw. “…A man stabbed me.”

The air seemed to shift with your confession.

Tinsley’s face paled in the moonlight. Her mouth opened with no words forming. The rustle of the trees filled the space where her reply should have been.

You looked away, back toward the horizon. The grass moved in waves, endless and dark. For a heartbeat, you thought of Levi—his hand steadying you, his blade cutting down the men who had wronged you… his voice sharp as he told you never to go back.

Now here you were, in another kind of nowhere, confessing it aloud for the first time.

“A man stabbed you?!” Finally she spoke. Her face looked ghostly in the lantern light, pale and wide-eyed. “Who?! Where?! In the shop?!”

You shook your head, lips pressed tight. “No.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion twisting into fear. She edged closer, “Is that why you need the proof of residence?” Her voice lowered, though you could still hear the crack of panic beneath it. “The man who stabbed you is the man who needs the papers?! What does he need them for?!”

Again, you shook your head. The words dragged out of you, low and heavy. “The man who needs the papers… would never hurt me. Not physically.” You swallowed hard, pressing your palm against your ribs as if you could press the memory back down into the wound. “He’d break my heart, but he would never hurt me that way.”

For a moment, Tinsley just looked at you, really looked, like she was seeing you for the first time. The lantern flickered between you, throwing soft gold against her face, her eyes glistening with questions she was almost afraid to ask.

“You’re in love with this man.” Her words were not a question, but a realization.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded. “…I am. I am in love with him.” Your voice trembled. “But he told me our relationship was… convenient—not to be mistaken for anything but… So maybe he doesn’t love me as much as I do him.”

You weren’t dumb. You knew Levi was pushing you away so that you’d get the help you needed. It was just, those final words to you were a sprinkle of cruelty too far. It was enough to tie you down and tell you he was going to block the tunnel… but to delegitimize the relationship hurt. 

Tinsley’s mouth parted, and the hurt there was raw—not for herself, but for you. “And you still want to get proof of residence for him? Are you mad?!” Her voice rose, sharper than you’d heard from her in years. “Fuck that guy! What does he even need it for?!”

You dragged a sleeve over your face, wiping away the hot tear that slipped down. “I can’t talk about it right now…” Your eyes dropped, tracing the weave of the blankets beneath you. “But the man who stabbed me is dead. Take solace in knowing that.”

The way you said it—quiet, final—hung in the air.

Tinsley’s breath caught. She stared at you, and for the first time since childhood, it felt like she didn’t know you at all. Not the sister she grew up beside in Mitras, not the one she believed shared her dream of the world beyond the wall. This was someone different, shaped by shadows she’d never touched.

Before she could speak again, Grisha’s voice cut across the camp. “Come.” He called from the edge of the tent, his tone short, but not unkind. “It’s time for rest. We’ll resume at dawn.”

Relieved for the break, you pushed to your feet, though your side ached with the effort. “Yes sir.” you spoke softly.

He was there in an instant, his hand steadying your arm. His grip was firm but professional, the practiced hold of a doctor who had steadied hundreds before you. He guided you toward the small tent he’d fastened to the side of the carriage, the canvas rustling in the cool night breeze. The lantern light inside spilled warm and yellow, pooling over neatly laid blankets and the faint glimmer of his instruments.

As he lowered you carefully to the ground, you felt the question building in your chest. It was reckless—dangerous even. But it clawed at you, unrelenting, louder than the river or the crickets or the pounding of your own heart. You couldn’t stop it. You had to know.

“Dr. Yeager…” Your voice was hoarse, your hand tightening over his bare wrist as he adjusted the blankets beneath you. “May I ask you a question?”

His eyes flicked to yours, steady, calm. “What is it?”

You didn’t know why the words leapt to your tongue now, why the thought suddenly felt unbearable to hold inside. Maybe it was the distance from Mitras. Maybe it was the first taste of freedom. Maybe it was the pain that stripped away your defenses until only truth remained.

The lantern flame shuddered in its glass as you asked, the words breaking from you raw and desperate.

“Is my skin… diseased?”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush you. You knew the answer. You saw your father’s words written in his memoirs. You were a Kuremi, a child of the sunrise, but you’d never seen anyone like you before. So the question lingered, and the truth of the matter was set in your heart… yet still, you yearned for confirmation from someone who would know best.

Behind you, Tinsley gasped—sharp, indignant, almost wounded.

You didn’t dare look at her. You kept your eyes on Grisha, on the furrow in his brow, the flicker in his expression. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not from the wound, but from the fear of what he might say.

When he spoke, his voice was steady, measured in the way only a doctor’s could be. “No. Your skin is not diseased.”

The words should have been enough—firm, clinical, a declaration of fact, but his tone carried something else beneath the certainty, something heavier. It was as though he was weighing every word before it left his mouth.

He reached for the lantern, angled it toward you. The glow spilled across your cheek, your neck, the slope of your collarbone. His eyes studied you with quiet intensity, not the way one examines a patient for illness, but the way one searches for signs of a story only half-told.

“Sometimes there are anomalies. And sometimes it is…” He paused, measuring his words once more before speaking. “…an inheritance. Dormant genes that skip entire generations. But it is not a disease.”

The words sank into you, heavier than stone, lighter than air. For a long time you believed them. Now, in this moment you’d let Grisha’s words wash away years of whispers, stares, and judgment derived from the royal government’s carefully chosen lies.

There was something in his eyes, Dr. Yeager—a flicker of recognition, a depth he quickly shuttered away. He knew more. You could feel it in the way he’d said inheritance.

You opened your mouth, the next question clawing to get out—but the sound of breath behind you caught your attention. Tinsley.

She was still, so still it almost startled you. Her hands lay folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground, her lips pressed together. The proud, bright sister who had cheered out into the plains was dead silent. In her place sat a girl gripped by something unspoken, her silence heavy.

You frowned, heart tripping in your chest. “Tinsley?”

She didn’t look up. The lantern’s glow caught the curve of her jaw, the tension there. For a heartbeat, you thought she might speak—that she might speak, but she only shook her head once, quick, almost imperceptible, and pulled the blanket tighter over her knees.

Grisha cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Rest now. Both of you. Tomorrow will be longer, and harder.”

You lay back on the blankets, the ache in your ribs pulsing in time with the pounding of your heart. His words replayed in your mind, circling, gnawing: not disease… inheritance…

Tinsley’s silence lingered longer than the doctor’s truth, louder than the river, sharper than the wind.

The night stretched on, long and restless. The grass outside hissed with the wind, insects sang in their unseen chorus, and the trees blew as if mocking you with their calm.

However… inside the tent, there was no peace.

You lay awake with Levi carved into every thought. His face, sharp and severe, scolding you in that low rasp that always cut deeper than you’d like to admit. The way his hands felt on your waist—firm and steady, grounding you in a world that had always felt like it was crumbling beneath your feet.

You thought of his lips on yours. The way he kissed like he didn’t want to want it, like restraint was a war he fought and lost with every breath you took from him.

You thought of him inside you, his weight, his heat. How he had made you feel something close to whole for the first time. You wanted him back.

Your chest ached as the thought spun out. Once this journey ended, you would have what you needed—the proof of residence for him. For Furlan. For Isabel. No estate, no inheritance, no gilded prison. Just your shop, your work, and a chance to start again. Furlan could find honest work. Levi too, if he chose. Isabel could help you at the shop. Laughing, cooking, running errands, pestering you in that charming way.

It could be enough… but then his words returned—cold, final: Don’t mistake confinement for connection.

Why had he said it? Why? He could have told you to live. He could have ordered you to go. But he hadn’t needed to cut you that deep unless… he had meant it.

Your jaw clenched, fists curling tight in the blanket. The ache in your ribs pulsed with your anger, sharp and hot, until you could barely breathe past it.

Then came warmth. A small hand slipped into yours. Tinsley.

“Sister.” She whispered, the word barely more than a breath. “I have something to t-”

Her words were cut short by a pounding in the night. Hoofbeats.

Your body froze, every muscle tight. You forced your breathing slow, ears straining. It wasn’t one horse. It was many. The rhythm of the gallop was heavy, purposeful, too fast for farmers, too late for travelers.

Grisha’s voice came low and sharp. “Keep quiet.”

Your heart thundered. You didn’t move. You didn’t dare.

The hoofbeats grew louder, closer, until the very earth seemed to tremble beneath them. Dust kicked into the air, seeping faint through the flaps of the tent. The horses slowed, hooves clattering against the hard-packed earth as they approached.

Two knocks came clean against the carriage. You could hear your own heartbeat out loud. You were the closest to the carriage, and Grisha closest to the tent exit. It made things much scarier that they chose to come from the unguarded side.

The knock was followed by a mocking voice. “Knock, knock.”

Your breath caught. Your hand tightened around Tinsley’s until your nails dug into her skin.

Already, you were plotting in your head—guessing the number of men, measuring the distance to the river, weighing how long your ribs would hold before they gave out. If this went wrong, you’d fight. You had no choice.

Grisha’s shadow loomed in the lamplight. He crouched low, his spectacles glinting as he glanced at the two of you. His voice was quiet, firm. “Not a word. Stay here. Do you understand?”

You both nodded.

He’d intentionally leave a knife behind. Not that he had any faith in either of you knowing how to use it, but if anything were to happen, you’d at least have something to protect yourselves with.

He straightened, pushing aside the tent flap. Cool night air spilled in, along with the muffled creak of saddles and the low snort of horses. 

Grisha stepped out with deliberate calm, his hands raised, palms open in a gesture of peace. You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear the steadiness in his tone, the measured cadence of a man who had practiced talking people down.

“I’m just a doctor.” He spoke evenly. “I don’t carry coins, only medical supplies.. Nothing worth your trouble.”

A harsh laugh cut through the air, sharp as a blade. “That so? Then you won’t mind if we take a look inside that carriage.”

“Of course.” Grisha replied without hesitation. “I’ll bring out every item myself if you’d like. You can search as I do.”

Another voice—rougher, lower, tinged with suspicion. “Funny thing. A man eager to let us search usually means he’s hidin’ something. Where’s the stash, doc? You got more than medicine tucked away. I can smell it. Let’s start by opening the tent.”

You could hear the men shifting positions. Their horses moving around to the side of the tent entrance.

The conversation edged higher, sharper, like the hiss of a kettle about to scream. You could feel it building, the dangerous shift in tone, the way patience cracked when greed pressed too hard.

Your pulse hammered. You leaned toward Tinsley, whispering, “Under the carriage.”

Her eyes widened. You gestured sharply, tugging on her arm. Finally, she nodded, and the two of you slipped low to the ground. The grass was cool and damp beneath your palms as you crawled out the back of the tent, the canvas brushing your hair as you ducked.

The earth was cold against your belly as you slid beneath the carriage. Dust clung to your gown, the smell of iron and old wood filling your nose. From here you could see them—the shapes of the horses’ legs, their hooves shifting against the dirt. The bandits sat mounted on the far side, their boots hanging in stirrups, spurs glinting in the torchlight. There were more than a few. Six… maybe seven.

“Give me Dr. Yeager’s blade.” You whispered. 

Tinsley’s breath shivered beside you. “Why? What are you doing?” 

You turned to her, keeping your voice a whisper, low and urgent. “We have to help Dr. Yeager. Give it to me now.”

Her head shook violently. “Are you insane?! You’re hurt. You can barely breathe without wincing. You’ll get yourself killed—”

You gritted your teeth, cutting her off. “If Dr. Yeager dies here, then we die anyway.” Your voice was steel, harsher than you meant, but true. “Now give me the goddamn knife.”

With the utmost reluctance, Tinsley reached into the tent and grabbed the knife. She clutched it as if giving this to you meant signing away your life. Thing is, she didn’t know the woman you became in the past few months. The woman that was shaped by two vastly different worlds.

You’d take the knife from her hand—not giving her any time to second guess. “Stay here, Tinsley, please. I know what I’m doing.”

Her lips trembled, her hand tightening around your sleeve like she could anchor you in place, but you shook her off, shifting your grip on the knife.

Above you, one of the horses stamped its hoof, dirt scattering. The bandits’ voices sharpened, and the demand in their tone rose.

You slid out from under the carriage, dirt clinging to your gown, knife glinting in your fist. Tinsley’s hissed protest followed you, but you ignored it.

The wood creaked faintly as you climbed, pulling yourself onto the top of the carriage to lie flat. From here you saw them clearly: seven men on horseback, circling Grisha like wolves. Their torches lit cruel faces and hungry eyes. Two had dismounted already, rough hands gripping the doctor’s coat, shoving him back against their wagon. One pressed a forearm across his chest, the other drew a knife, its blade flashing under the moonlight.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t anymore, so you moved.

You launched yourself from the carriage roof, air cutting sharp in your ears. You landed hard on a man’s shoulders, your knife plunging down into the meat of his collar. His scream tore open the night. You wrenched the blade free, blood hot across your hand, and shoved off his collapsing body.

Another came at you, and you met him with a kick to the knee, an elbow to the throat, just as Levi had drilled into you a thousand times. He gagged, stumbling back, and you didn’t wait—you slammed your boot into his ribs, heard the snap, watched him topple.

Your body remembered every harsh lesson, every bruised evening under Levi’s command. You fought dirty, fast, ruthless. Elbow to jaw. Heel to groin. Knife to thigh. You used their size against them, pushing, shoving, making them clumsy in their rage.

For a heartbeat, you almost believed you had the upper hand. Until one of them swung wild and caught you across the ribs.

The world exploded white. Your knees buckled, air ripped out of you in a ragged gasp. You staggered, pain screaming where you were weakest, where you still hadn’t healed.

The man grinned before a rock caught the side of his temple—cutting him pretty good.

“NO!” Tinsley’s voice cracked the air. She had scrambled out from under the carriage, skirt dragging, and fists gripping another rock.

One of the bandits turned toward her, a grin splitting his scarred face. “Well, well. What do we have here? Two of ‘em?” He spat on the ground, eyes glinting. “This just got interesting.”

“Don’t hurt her!” Tinsley cried, her voice breaking, hand gripping the stone, ready to throw again if she must. “Please—don’t touch her!”

You didn’t stop fighting. Couldn’t. You twisted from one man’s grip, slamming your knee up hard, then spun to slash at another… but your body was slowing, your breath ragged, your ribs a furnace of pain.

A knife flashed in the dark. One of them lunged. Time seemed to drag, the blade arcing toward you in awful slow motion. You braced, knife raised, but your body screamed it wouldn’t be fast enough. Damn, it was all playing out again. Same place. Same injury. Maybe this time it’d kill you…

You were so close to accepting fate until you found that you were lifted.  Arms snapped around you, iron-strong. One hooked around your waist, hauling you back tight against a chest as solid as the wall itself. Another curved protectively over your head, cradling, shielding. A familiar scent, but also unfamiliar.

A voice boomed, deep and commanding. “Stand down!”

The man holding the knife faltered mid-swing, eyes widening as the torchlight caught the green cloak flaring behind your rescuer.

From the darkness, more shadows emerged—mounted figures, blades drawn, the distinctive wings of freedom stitched into their cloaks. Horses thundered, surrounding the bandits in a circle.

“Shit!” One of the outlaws spat, backing his horse. “It’s the Scouts!”

The arm around your waist tightened, steadying you against his broad frame. You tilted your head just enough to glimpse him—the sharp jaw, the steely eyes, blond hair stirring in the wind. Is this who you think it is?

No, it wasn’t. It was the other tall blonde scout, but one you hadn’t met. Miche Zacharius. His presence was thunderous but calm all at once, and in his grip, you exhaled.

Just because you were safe however, didn’t mean the fight was over. 

“Bandits!” The voice of Hange Zoe cut through the night. “Perfect! I was hoping for a field test tonight.”

The outlaws tried to scatter, but they were hemmed in, blades and reins snapping to bar every escape. One swung his knife, aiming for Grisha—but another Scout disarmed him with a twist, steel clattering to the dirt. Two more tried to mount and flee, only for their horses to be cut off, reined back hard by mounted soldiers who drove them into the circle again.

“Don’t kill them!” Miche’s voice rang out, firm and commanding as he held you tight against his chest. “Subdue.”

Boots struck hard against the earth. Blades flashed—but with the flat of the steel, knocking weapons from hands. Hange ducked and darted, kicking a bandit square in the chest before sweeping his legs from beneath him. Another soldier grappled a man from his horse, binding his arms behind him.

Within minutes, the fight was decided. The bandits groaned in the dirt, torches sputtering where they’d fallen. The Scouts stood tall around them, cloaks stirring in the night breeze.

The Survey Corps were not meant to fight people. This was not their job, but it’s very clear that they are made for situations such as this. Trained in hand to hand combat, especially since the land between the walls are a bit more lawless.

You clung to Miche, your breath hitching with every throb of pain in your ribs. His voice rumbled above you, calm and grounding even as the chaos roared. 

“Hang in there, Ms. Greville,” Miche said, voice low and rough like gravel but steady as stone.

You blinked up at him, vision blurred around the edges. “You… know me?”

He didn’t even look down. His eyes were locked on the fight around you—calculating, protective. “I doubt anyone who’s ever set foot in Mitras doesn’t know who you are… and also I was there that day. During the hostage situation.”

That felt like so long ago you’d almost forgotten.

Around you, the other Scouts moved like shadows—Hange bearing a wild grin and swinging twin blades, ducking under a bandit’s untrained swing—knocking him flat with the hilt. Sairam—an average height man with short black hair—swept a bandit from his saddle with a brutal kick and pinned him to the ground with the butt of his blade.

They didn’t kill. Every motion was precise, practiced—disarm, disable, control. Within moments, the remaining bandits were groaning on the ground, bound and gasping. One tried to crawl away until Hange planted a boot between his shoulder blades and laughed, “Where’re you going, big guy? The party’s just started!”

Another Scout—tall, freckled, with auburn hair—was already at Tinsley’s side, checking her for injuries. She was shaken, pale, but unharmed. Grisha, shaken but upset, was hauled upright by another soldier.

Miche eased you against him as he pulled back slightly. His hand slid across your ribs and came back wet. “She’s bleeding.” He barked.

“I’m okay.” You spoke out, automatic, stupid.

His eyes cut to yours, sharp. “No, you’re not.”

Your knees wobbled. He didn’t let go. He knew if he did, you’d hit the dirt like a heavy stone.

Grisha’s eyes locked on the blood. “She needs to be restitched at once.”

Miche’s jaw clenched. “We need to get her to Mardisfeld. It’s the closest village with a real bed, and cover. The rest of the scouts are resting there too. That’s the safest option.”

“There isn’t time.” Grisha snapped. “That’s over an hour by carriage. With this terrain? The ruts, the risk of being stopped again? She’ll pass before we get there.”

“No—” Tinsley dropped to her knees beside you, clutching at your hand like she could physically tether you to life. “Please—please, just stitch her up! I beg of you, she’s all I have left—” Her voice cracked into sobs, panic curling around every word.

Miche’s mind was moving fast. You could feel it in his breathing, the way his body tensed beneath yours.

“Sairam. Brelka,” he snapped. “Get these bastards to the riverside holding station. Tie them to the wagons if you have to. Cargo boats’ll pick them up in the morning. The merchants’ll know what to do with them.”

Sairam grunted an acknowledgment and moved to drag the bandits to the trees. Brelka, a bulky woman with a voice like a bell, was already whistling for more rope.

Miche turned to Hange. “Let’s gather the horses. We need to ride now.”

You felt your legs give a little more. Miche grunted and steadied you—afraid to move you any further without hurting you. Your head fell against his chest.

Grisha moved beside him, peeling back the blood-soaked fabric. “She needs pressure and restitching. Her heart’s racing too fast.”

“There’s not enough light.” Miche growled. “And it’s not safe.”

“She will not survive the trip to Mardisfeld.”

Tinsley sobbed beside you, her hand on your shoulder. “Please don’t let her die. Please. I’ll give you anything, I’ll do anything—just please save her!”

The air shifted.

The fight was over, but the night felt darker now, heavier. The steppe stretched out around you in endless waves of grass, silvered in moonlight. The horizon was a smear of black, no landmarks—just the vast silence of the wilderness. The kind of place where things disappeared. Where people bled into the earth and were forgotten.

Miche shifted you in his arms with measured care, though every step he took sent a jolt of agony up your spine. Blood seeped hot through your gown, and each breath came shorter than the last. 

Grisha began unpacking supplies from a canvas satchel. “I have to do it here. I have to perform right here, right now.”

Miche’s jaw flexed. “Tell me what you need.”

Grisha didn’t even look up. “Lie a blanket on the ground. Flat, no folds. Lay her down on it gently. I need all the canteens of clean water we have. As many lanterns lit and positioned over her as possible. It’s too dark otherwise. My tools are limited, but it’s enough.”

Miche moved fast, barking orders to the remaining Scouts. “Katra, Tev—take point, spread out north and west. Don’t wait for orders. If you see anything move.”

Boots pounded away into the grass, and then the silence returned like a vacuum.

Within minutes, the blanket was laid out, and Miche eased you down onto it. You winced, breath catching as your ribs ached. Tinsley dropped to her knees beside you, clutching your hand like she could keep you tethered to the world.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” She whispered over and over, her voice cracking, tears still slipping down her cheeks. “You’re so strong. You’re gonna be fine. Just hold on. Just breathe.”

Grisha knelt beside you and pulled out his scissors. “I’m sorry. I have to cut the dress.”

You nodded once giving him permission. The fabric split as he cut it open from hip to ribs. The cold air hit your skin, and Tinsley’s breath hitched beside you.

Your side was a mess of purpling bruises and torn skin, the wound swollen and glistening with fresh blood. The old stitches were stretched to the point of snapping, some already torn, others embedded too deep. The rest of the wound was raw and wide open.

Hange hovered nearby, eyes sharp and unblinking. Grisha reached for a canteen and poured sparingly over the wound. You hissed, back arching, the cold water stinging worse than fire. Blood washed away in thin rivers. 

The doctor spoke again. “Towel.”

Hange handed it to him without question, but he didn’t wipe the wound. He held it out to you.

Your eyes flicked from the towel to his face. The look he gave you had no comfort in it. No sugarcoating. Just the honest expression of a man who’d seen too much pain to pretend otherwise.

“Put this in your mouth.” The doctor instructed.

Your breath caught. Your fingers closed around the towel slowly, already trembling. You knew. Every part of you knew what that meant.

“This is going to hurt. I’m not going to lie to you, but if I don’t do this now, you won’t live to see sunrise.”

The others had fallen completely silent. Even Hange had stopped moving, eyes fixed on your wound.

You folded the towel and clenched it between your teeth. Your jaw ached from the pressure already.

Grisha positioned his tools. “Breathe. In through your nose—and don’t move no matter what.”

Then you felt it, pain. White-hot, blinding pain. It felt like lightning exploded behind your eyes. A sound tore from your throat, muffled and raw behind the towel. You screamed against it, back arching before Miche braced your shoulders down.

Tinsley gripped your hand so tightly her knuckles turned white, whispering to you, “You’re okay, you’re okay, stay here, please stay here.”

Grisha worked fast, but the agony was slow. It felt like your body was on fire. Blood bubbled and pooled, wiped away only for the next line of stitches to be driven through.

Your eyes were wide, unseeing, tears streaming down your cheeks like rain. You couldn’t hear the night anymore. You couldn’t feel the cold. There was only pain.

You couldn’t even scream after a while. You just choked and sobbed against the towel, body convulsing, the world shrinking to flashes of movement above you, a lantern swinging in the wind, Grisha’s hands stained red.

Even the Scouts who had seen death turned away. Tev walked a few paces off into the grass. Katra tried to focus on the sound of the windy trees.

Only Hange watched—silently, intensely. Not coldly, but completely focused. Interested in the procedure.

Grisha paused. His shoulders dropped, and fingers slick with blood. “Okay.” He breathed.

You sobbed, chest heaving, every limb shaking. You could barely lift your head. 

You’d remove the towel from your mouth. “Is it… done?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He looked at you, and there was sorrow in his eyes. “No.” He shook his head. “I just removed the old stitches.”

You laughed. This wasn’t real. A sound scraped from a throat that couldn’t take any more. Of course it wasn’t done. That would be too easy.

With trembling hands, you slipped the towel between your lips again and bit down, hard. The taste of linen and old cotton filled your mouth. There was nothing else you could do but accept it.

Miche loomed above you. His silhouette was a fortress against the flickering lantern light. He didn’t speak. His hands braced on your shoulders—strong and steady… but his eyes locked onto yours like they were the only lifeline you had left.

You didn’t know this man., but you couldn’t look anywhere else.

You didn’t look at Grisha. You didn’t look at Tinsley, though her hand clutched yours tightly, and her thumb rubbed frantic circles against your skin. You didn’t even glance at the blood pooling under you, soaking into the blanket, into the dirt, into the very earth you were trying not to leave behind.

You only looked at him. Miche Zacharius. A name you still weren’t even introduced to yet. Not properly, anyway.

In that breathless, searing moment, you wondered—is this my legacy? What had you done with this life? Sewn some dresses. Bowed at galas. Danced to music that wasn't yours. You stood up to your father as he lay dying—big deal. You read a forbidden book and dared to ask who you were. You found a family you weren’t searching for. You fell in love—but then what? You ran. You bled. You escaped death a couple of times. 

You breathed out sharply through your nose, a sob trying to break free but crushed behind the towel. This couldn’t be all. This wouldn’t be all.

You swore it—right there, under a canvas of stars. You would not die as the daughter of Matthias Greville. You would not be remembered as the freak in Mitras, the shadow in silk, the girl too strange to belong.

You would become something else. You would earn your name rightfully this time.

Grisha pressed the needle into your skin, and it felt like he’d driven it into your very soul. This wasn’t the pinch you’d braced for. No, this was a detonation.

Your nerves screamed awake. Your back bowed, breath stalling in your chest. Fire seared through your muscles, hot and intense.

You screamed muffled into the towel, your cry ripped from your throat raw and guttural.

Your hand clutched tightly onto Miche’s arm, fingers curling into his jacket like you could tear it open and climb inside just to escape the pain… but he didn’t move, and he didn’t flinch. He kept your eye contact, kept your body pinned, and let you anchor yourself to him.

Tinsley was whispering something—but it was white noise, lost to the torrent tearing through your body.

Grisha didn’t pause. Each pull of the needle was agony. Each knot felt like it was being tied into your veins. Your vision blurred black at the edges, and the stars above started melting into the dark sky.

Your breath hitched. Your heart stuttered. Everything went silent. Miche’s lips moved—he was saying your name, but you couldn’t hear it.

The lanterns swam in your vision, and the last thing you saw was Grisha’s face, eyes focused, but troubled.

You swore on this night—if you were to survive—everything would be different… it had to be.

[softcursechoso]

The Oracle: Ch. 2

JJK x Reader Toji x Reader Shiu x Reader

Masterlist

18+ ONLY // MDNI // JJK SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON

Words: 6k+

Ch. 2 Warnings: Suggestive talks, brief nudity, explicit language

TIME IS MONEY

Aoi Grand : 4:03pm : Kabukicho

“Holy shit! Did I fuck you last night?!” You woke up breathless.

Currently you were in the most comfortable bed you’d ever slept in. Soft mattress, memory foam pillows, and a heated blanket beneath your thousand stitch sheets.

There was a beautiful view from where you were. Nothing but a bustling city below, though you’d not see it as the blackout curtains were pulled almost all the way shut. The room was gorgeous. Decorated in neutral tones, with a long couch placed in front of the window. 

A gorgeous room surrounded you: neutral tones, a sleek long couch facing away from the window, blackout curtains drawn just enough to leave the city lights as a faint glow. Fresh flowers on the bedside table. A chandelier overhead.

But on the floor? Empty bottles, greasy plates, and clothes strewn about. What the hell happened last night?

“Did you fuck me?” Toji scoffed from the other side of the bed, smirking. “Don’t flatter yourself. You couldn’t handle me. But, uh… to answer your messy little question—no. We didn’t fuck… I think.”

He sounded so confident until the end. What the fuck was that? He was only offended by you ever suggesting you could top him? That’s not even what you meant! Besides, you definitely could.

“Nice tits though.” He added casually.

Upon further inspection, you did find that you were topless in nothing but black panties you definitely didn’t own fifteen hours ago.

You frowned as you pulled the blanket up to your chest, “Don’t look at my body! I don’t know you! Lemme see your dick then!”

“Sure.” The man shrugged.

“No!” You shoved a pillow over the man’s face. “Stop!”

“This is getting really weird.”

You freeze as you hear a new voice.

“I can confirm that you two didn’t do anything last night.” A once quiet Shiu Kong spoke from the couch near the window. 

He was halfway seated on the top of the couch. His suit jacket slung over his shoulder and clutched by one hand. He’s watching the both of you with extreme disinterest. There is an untouched glass of whiskey on the small bar cart beside him.

Damn… why is he kinda…

“Who the fuck are you?!” You quickly gathered the blanket and covered yourself even more. 

“Shiu.” Toji groaned as he rose up in the bed. Too groggy and hungover to be confused as to why the man was here.

“Shiu?” You repeat.

“Yeah, and you are the woman Toji was supposed to kill 15 hours ago.” He smugly perked an eyebrow as he looked at you.

“She’s worth more to me alive.” Toji was quick to stand up for you- or rather, stand up for the choice he made in not sending you to your grave. "Won big last night because of her."

The brown haired man nodded, “Yes, I know. Won, as in past tense. Shame you spent all of your winnings on this luxury suite and booze.”

“We what?!” You nearly screamed, “There’s no way! We won 1,000,000 yen! How the hell could we spend all of that in one night?! I just got fired yesterday! I have bills to pay!”

Last thing you could remember was immediately going out for a drink with Toji after you two won big. Actually, you remembered having a few drinks. You guys celebrated hard. Somewhere down the line you two decided to get a hotel room- which was responsible, but how did it rack up to 1,000,000 yen? You couldn’t understand.

“You both have this suite for two nights..” Shiu began to debrief you. “Spent some money on liquor, room service, and clothes.”

“Wait, were you with us last night?” You asked.

The man shook his head, “No, this is everything you both told me.”

Both? Why? You didn’t know him. Why did you talk to him? When?!

He’d remove his jacket from his shoulder and toss it over to you, “Get dressed for lunch you two. We have some things to discuss.” He’d adjust his cuffs.

From the way he spoke you could tell that he was on your side. Seeing as Toji didn’t protest his being here, he trusted the man too. Shiu was a straightforward man, but something told you that this two man operation was about to turn into three. 

"I'll be downstairs waiting." Shiu walked toward the door and made his exit. You three had quite the chat ahead of you, clearly.

“Are we fucking idiots?” You looked over at Toji, “We spent all that money in a matter of hours?”

He nodded, “Yeah, we blew it.”

The worst part was that you couldn’t even remember the good time you had. If you were going to blow a million in a few short hours, you at least wanted a fun story out of it.

You began to put on Shiu’s jacket. It smelled nice, like cologne- but if you smelled deep enough it also smelled like cigarettes and that wasn’t so pleasant. 

“We’ll just have to use that lil foresight of yours to win it all back.” Toji spoke as he stretched his arms upwards.

“I told you my ability isn’t foresight, and also, that’s not how it works.” You closed your eyes tightly and opened them once again to read his probability, “Your aura, it’s still pitch black. I’m not too sure where you’ll have your next lucky stroke.”

“What?!” The man spoke through his teeth. “That’s not what you said last night.”

“How do you remember what I said last night?! You were piss drunk blowing all the goddamn money!” You yanked the blanket off of yourself and threw it partially over him.

“Well you better make some magic happen soon. That bounty on your head is still active and I won’t hesitate to cash in if you don’t follow through on your end.”

You shook your head as you made your way to the bathroom. So much for partners until the very end. Then again, that did make sense- the end being you no longer having use to him. Great to know that shit was still on the table.

You were too irritated to even reply to such a comment. Instead you’d shower up and get ready for your meeting with Shiu. You only hoped that the clothes you bought last night were actually nice. Hopefully your drunk self still had a sense of style.

You made quick work of the shower and wasted no time at all. Washing your hair and throwing it up in a bun. You didn’t want this Shiu guy to wait. 

His jacket was comfortable, so you decided it’d be a part of the attire you’d wear to lunch. Paired with a short black pleated skirt that barely peaked out from underneath the jacket, black stockings, and black platform heels. Simple but cute. 

“Takin’ so fucking long in here.” Toji spoke as he barged into the bathroom.

“Excuse you! I could have been naked!” You hastily turned toward the bathroom door.

“I’m not waiting one more second.” He looked at your attire, “You’re really wearing his jacket?”

“Jealous?” You smirked. 

The man rolled his eyes, “I don’t give a shit about that. Anyway, if you’re gonna keep pretending like you don’t wanna see my dick then get out. I’m about to take a shower.”

“Maybe I do wanna see it.” You crossed your arms as you were firm in your stance, only, it didn’t last very long as you noticed he really was about to undress in front of you. His hands reach for his belt, pulling it from the loop.

Toji Fushiguro- a man with no shame.

“Stop! I’m leaving!” You headed for the bathroom door once more, “I’m going downstairs to meet up with this Shiu guy. If you’re downstairs in less than ten minutes then I’ll know you’re a dirty bastard who didn’t really wash.”

“Quit acting all high and mighty. If you wanna time my showers so bad then why don’t you hop in here and make sure I’m clean?”

“Ew Toji!” You said ew, but you didn’t really mean it. “I already took my shower. You’re too late.”

The banter between you two was interesting. You knew him for less than a full day and yet you felt like this was a man you really knew. Maybe it was because of the vision you saw when you first met him. There was either something very good or very bad at the end of this rabbit hole.

You’d collect your cell phone and purse before making your way out of the hotel room. This place was truly so nice. You still had regrets about spending so much money on this hotel but in the meantime you’d enjoy it.

Shiu said to meet him for lunch downstairs, so that clearly meant the restaurant here inside the hotel, right? That would make the most sense. You went down the elevator and spruced yourself up in the mirrored wall as you did. You looked pretty, no makeup and all- though you wished to have at least put some on before Toji practically kicked you out.

The elevator doors opened and you searched for the restaurant. Luckily the signage and helpful staff made it pretty much impossible to get lost. 

The hotel’s restaurant is sleek, modern, and almost too quiet for this time of day. You scan the room, spotting Shiu easily. He’s seated on a couch near the large windows- away from other patrons. He’s got one arm draped over the backrest as he smokes a cigarette. 

His eyes briefly connected with you, and you could tell from that alone he was a man about business. Not like you couldn’t tell that before.

You took a seat on the couch with him, leaving the chair across from you for Toji. For now you'd put your feet in said chair so long as he wasn't in it. Probably inappropriate for a fancy place but oh well.

Looked like he ordered some tea ahead of time. Kind of him.

“Ginger tea?” You grabbed the teapot and began to pour yourself a cup.

“You said it helps you with hangovers.” The man spoke before taking a drag of his cigarette.

“I don’t remember saying any of that. I said that upstairs just now?” You arched an eyebrow. 

“You have loose lips when you’re drunk. Told me everything.”

“So I told you that ginger tea helps when I have a hangover and you ordered it for me? A man that listens actively and lends me his jacket. How the hell did a gentleman like you get mixed up with a thug like Toji?” You placed your lips to the teacup and took a light sip of the scorching liquid.

“Simple…” Shiu flicks ash off his cigarette and turns his head to fully look at you. “I’m not a gentleman.”

You don’t know why, but something about the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.

“As for me and Zen’in- we do business together.” He’d exhale the smoke opposite your direction.

“Zen’in? That’s not what he called himself—and what business is that?” Your eyes swept over the table before gazing into Shiu’s.

“The kind that collects for the bounty on your head.”

Your fingers tighten around the hot porcelain cup. For some stupid reason it’s not fear that spikes through you, but curiosity. Did you serendipitously get involved with two high end thugs? Well maybe one high end thug and a street rat.

“I was really supposed to die yesterday?”

The man beside you shrugs, “Nothing personal.” 

“Okay but then what?”

His lips twitch in the faintest sign of a smirk, “Then it got interesting.”

“You two are easy to impress.”

Shiu’s eyes connect with your, “Not that easy.” He exhales.

“Careful, Shiu, was it? Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He smirks, “What a problem that would be.”

You clear your throat, “Well, anyway, business must have turned personal at some point if you’re making visits to his hotel room.”

The man speaks, almost amused. “You think I’m the sentimental type?”

You attempt to hide a smile, “I don’t know you, Shiu. I can only gauge from what I learned, and you’re here aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t answer, but you can tell by his body language that he was not ready for your banter.

You hesitate for a second before finally asking, “What exactly did I tell you last night… on the phone I mean?”

“You told me about your ability. That, and a bunch of other rambling.” He shrugged.

“You’re sparing me my embarrassing details. Sweet of you.” You’d take another sip, “I said something about Toji didn’t I? About our future?” You rolled your eyes, “Don’t tell him what I said. He can’t know.”

"I didn't plan to." His eyes shifted and got quite serious as they looked into yours, “Are you sure? I mean about your position in all of this? If what you told me is correct- things will get very ugly.”

“What else am I gonna do, Shiu?” You gave a dramatic shrug, “I can’t run. Besides, from what I saw, the high’s are much better than the lows.”

“I disagree, but that optimism looks cute on you.”

You sucked your teeth, “Then what?” You grinned in a sly manner, “Wanna ditch Toji and run away together?” You were only joking of course.

Somehow you managed to get a genuine laugh out of Shiu. “Tempting. I see why Zen’in likes you.”

Your eyes widened slightly, “What?”

You would let it slide for now, but you were definitely going to run that comment back at some point.

Speak of the devil, here he was now. Black jeans, black compression shirt and his usual slides. His hair was still a little damp, like he really did take the time to wash properly. 

You knew the man was in shape, but damn you could really see his muscles bulging. Fuck! He was kinda hot. Not that you didn’t know before.

"Stop staring at me like that, woman. You look like a bitch in heat." The big man spoke as he pulled his chair opposite you.

"You first. Do you even know what color my eyes are?" You frowned as you removed your feet from the chair.

The man took a seat, but before he settled in, he'd reach under the table and grab your ankles- bringing your feet into his lap like they previously were before he got there. He already knew he'd have to hear about it later if he didn't. Dumbass man- predicting your mood correctly.

"Alright, let's be serious now." Shiu spoke- putting out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "You still have an active bounty on your head. As it stands that bounty is at an incredibly low ¥500,000, so I doubt anyone else will try to kill you right now."

"That's the number?!" You sat up straight in shock as you looked at Toji, "Are you that broke you little cheapskate ass bitch?! A paycheck is just a paycheck to you no matter how many zeros are on it, huh?"

"I didn’t kill you did I? And it's only low because they know your weak ass wouldn't be a challenge." The man leaned in just a bit, lightly squeezing your calf.

Who gave him the right to put his hands on you? You weren’t protesting though- outwardly or inwardly. Damn this man!

"Keep your voice down." Shiu hushed you. "We're in a public area still."

Yeah, you were in a public space talking about extremely sensitive information. Your best guess as to why is because it's less suspicious. Hiding in plain sight. Also- Shiu picked a table that no one was near so you could talk pretty freely.

"He is correct though." The man continued, "Your bounty is very low because you aren't technically a sorcerer. You can see curses, and you have the cursed ability of foresight, but you're a non-fighter."

You placed your teacup down and put your fingers on your temples, "Okay wait- what? First of all, it's not foresight. Second, how do you have all of this information? Third, who would want me dead so bad if I'm not a sorcerer?"

"Who it was will remain confidential." Shiu looked at you. "As for the intel, it's sloppy work not to know whose life you're ending."

"And Toji's not a sloppy man." You grinned as you mocked his words from last night. "But anyway, what does this all mean?"

“Ten billion yen.” Toji looked at you intensely, “Ten billion yen and I’ll cut you loose.”

Shiu’s eyes drift between the both of you, watching the exchange carefully.

Your eyes narrowed, “And just so we’re on the same page- we’re talking about ten billion across multiple lifetimes, or-”

“In one year.” Toji continued, “Ten billion in one year, and we’ll never have to see each other again.”

“One year?!” You whispered loudly, “I feel fucking sick. So what? We just keep hitting up casinos and hoping you win a million yen every night? Even if that did happen. Say you win that much every single night without a break- it would still take… almost thirty years to get to ten billion.”

“We can always cut our losses now. I could kill you and get that reward money.” Toji shrugged.

“That’s not fucking funny.” You flipped the man off.

Shiu exhales, “If I may? What Zen’in means is that right now you’re more useful alive than dead. You’re a risk, but you’re also an asset.” He tilts his head slightly. “An investment.”

“This is crazy.” You place your hands over your face, stressed.

“You said his luck was bad. Worst you’d ever seen, but last night when you touched him you were able to see a future that did not exist.” Shiu chimed in again. “Those were your words.”.

Your heart raced as he spoke. He just said that he wasn’t gonna tell Toji about the future you saw with him, and now here he was bringing it up. You were so tense!

“A future where he won a million yen on a random slot machine in a casino he’s never been to in the middle of Kabukicho. That was not supposed to be his future. You said so yourself last night.”

How much did you talk to Shiu last night?! Were you kicking your feet and twirling your hair while you were at it? Seemed you two became best friends on the phone somehow. Or maybe he felt it was best to hang onto every drunken word you spewed because it would come in handy later. It was probably that.

You were just grateful that he didn't bring up what you thought he would. That should remain between the two of you.

“Okay?” You rose your eyebrows. 

“Touch me..” 

“What?” Your eyes widened as you looked at Shiu- the fuck?

Shiu held his hand out. “Read my fortune.”

Fortune, he said. As if you were some kind of fortune teller. It was probability, and you weren’t going to keep correcting these dumbasses!

You removed your feet from Toji’s lap so there wouldn’t be any interference. You’d grab the hand of the man beside you and hold it in yours, turning your body toward him a bit. Your eyes closed briefly, and when you opened it again you saw a dark green aura around him. Whatever he was doing right now was very beneficial to him, but beyond that, you didn’t see anything else.

“See anything?” The man asked, holding your hand a bit tighter.

You shook your head, “Nothing.”

“Now touch Toji.”

You turned toward the man and saw his pitch black aura again. Man, that thing looked scary. You stood out of your seat to reach across the table and grab his face. He made no effort at all to scoot forward.

Your eyes shut tightly as you tried to see again. “Stop looking down my shirt, Toji.”

The man snorts, “I’ll stop when Shiu stops looking at your ass.”

Before your hands close in on Toji, you look back at Shiu.

The man doesn’t blink, nor does he offer a rebuttal to Toji’s dumbass claim. 

You turn back and your hands connect with Toji. There it is. You can see it. You. Toji. Money- big money! Gambling! Major connections! Financial freedom…

“We have to go to Kyushu!” You opened your eyes widely as you looked into Toji's. "Fukuoka. In two days… it's gonna be big."

"It's not a coincidence that the situation turned into what it has." Shiu stood up from the couch. 

You’d take a seat again, “You think this was fate?”

“I don’t believe in fate.” He begins to straighten out his shirt. “I believe in opportunity. Out of that 10 billion you will get your cut too. As a result of you winning big however, there will be more eyes on you. If people find out you’re behind this, your bounty will increase. That’s why it’ll be Zen’in’s job to act like the dumb luck is his alone—and to protect you if the situation gets sticky."

"Wait." You grabbed the man's wrist- letting go quickly after. "I know you didn't have this conversation just to be friendly. Tell me- was that some billion yen advice you gave there?"

"Four billion." He nodded, "Not just for the conversation either. To get the wolves off of your scent. I told you that your bounty will increase and I mean it. Fake identities, travel plans, there’s a lot that goes into this. I will earn my share. Don't you worry about it. I'll set up the flights and give you two a call before you head to Kyushu."

"Hold on!" You sat up a little straighter. "I think you might wanna see what's in Fukuoka too..."

The man began to light another cigarette as he turned to you, "That so?"

You nod, "It's up to you, but I'm not so sure Toji and I can pull off what I just saw as a two man..."

Shiu studied you for a moment, eyes locked on yours. "You know I still have a job to do outside of this?"

"What's your hourly? Let me buy you out." Your response came quick. Shockingly so.

A silence filled the air now. Were you being serious? As a self proclaimed broke woman, you had no business offering such a deal. Especially with money that hadn't even been earned yet.

The man smirked as he began to walk away, "I'll give you a call... Take care of her Zen'in."

Your life was never going to be the same from here on out, was it?

Toji's eyebrows knit as he looked at you, "What the fuck was that?"

"What the fuck was what?" You feigned complete ignorance.

"You really need Shiu there or you're just that horny for him?"

"I don't even know him!" You flipped him off once more, "This is about the money. I wanna get to the ten billion as fast as humanly possible so I can go back to regular life. I'm not a smooth talker, and neither are you. The probability suggests that there are certain connections that need to be made if we want big money in Kyushu. Shiu would be the guy for that."

Toji rolls his eyes, "Guess so. He talked you outta your panties in like what- 20 minutes?"

"That's literally not what happened! Look, I am willing to argue with you more, but I'm so hungry right now. Can we please get something to eat?" You frowned.

"With what money?" Toji crossed his arms.

"I refuse to believe that a hotel room costing everything we had doesn't have food included in the rate." You stood up, "So you can either sit here with this tea and subtly try to look at my ass as I walk away, or be not so subtle and come with me."

The man stood up as well, "I wasn't gonna be subtle either way.” He’d stretch his arms upwards, “Let’s just charge a bunch of shit to someone else’s room.”

You snorted trying to hold in a laugh, "I don't know why, but I'm so down for that."

“You complete me, good girl.” He spoke so sarcastically but also not really.

Aoi Grand : 8:59pm : Market

The market was busy, packed with what seemed like every single person in this damn hotel. All of them were stocking up on those late evening essentials. This shop was nice! Just like a luxury hotel market should be.

The smell of fresh produce and grilled skewers lingered in the air. You and Toji are randomly picking up whatever it is that seems good in the moment. Sour worms, chips, instant ramen, canned coffee. Just stuff. 

Toji, of course has no concept of moderation. You catch him grabbing some sandwiches and cakes from the fridge. A bottle of whiskey, some sushi, frozen burritos. Thankfully his arms are big enough to carry all of it.

“Toji, for real? You’re making it obvious.” You sigh, “Whatever-”

When you two get to the front desk, the big man sets it all down and leans against the counter- casual as ever. 

The receptionist rings up the total, and it’s quite a lot. Like a LOT a lot. More than you’d be willing to pay yourself.

“That’ll be ¥16,000.”

Toji tilts his head, “Room 1809.”

The woman doesn’t hesitate and enters the number, charges the bill and prints the receipt without question, “Have a nice day.”

“You too, sweetheart.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his comment as you collect some of the bags from the counter.

The two of you head upstairs, and you’re so excited to eat. You picked up some pretty fancy truffle chips that you couldn’t wait to dig into.

You both step off the elevator now and walk down the hall until you reach your room. It’s then that it dawns on you. 

“Toji.” You stop in front of your door as he fishes for the key. “Which room number did you give her just now?”

The man looks up as he retrieved the key. He glances at the door and blinks. “Fuck.”

“Are you dumb?! Like actually?!” You smack his arm. 

“What are they gonna charge? We don’t have shit.” He shrugs, unlocking the door and opening it.

You opened your mouth to argue, then pause, “I guess that’s a good point. Still, just unimaginable stupidity.”

“You better watch that mouth before I cash in on 500k real quick.”

You roll your eyes at the threat. You shouldn’t. He could definitely do it, but you knew he wouldn’t. 

You both step inside, setting the bags down on the table in front of the couch. You’d flop back on the bed bringing a bag of chips with you, and Toji splayed out on the couch.

With the curtains open, you were able to see the gorgeous city below, and it was quite the site. You better enjoy it now- before you go back to being broke again.

You breathe out lying on your stomach and opening the chips as you look at the man. “You know, we should probably get to know each other if we’re gonna be locked in this partnership. Let’s play 21 questions or something.” 

Toji stretches out a bit more, already chewing on a piece of a sour gummy worm, “Whatever.”

You narrow your eyes, “Glad you’re so excited.”

“What do you wanna ask me?” 

You cock your head to the side a bit, “Mmm, I’ll throw you a light one. Do you have any kids?”

He instantly stops chewing. “I’m not playing this game.”

“What?! Why?!” You prop up a bit, “Oh wow, so you’ll show me your dick but not confirm if you have kids?!”

He raises an eyebrow, tossing another gummy in his mouth. “I’m whipping my shit out if you bring up my dick one more time.”

You smirk, “Must be proud of it. Always trying to show it.”

“You must be proud of your tits.” He replies flatly.

“What?!”

“Showing off for Shiu? I saw how you were looking at him. Not even slick.”

You gasp, clutching your chest dramatically, “I didn’t even know he was there!” You grab a pillow and half hide under it. “You think he saw?”

“Hell yeah he saw.” Toji snickers, leaning back a bit more. “He tries to act normal but he’s a scumbag too. Saw your tits, your asshole-”

Your head jerks up, “My asshole Toji?! That’s fucking vulgar. At most he might have seen some ass cheeks. A little bit!”

“Bend over, I’ll tell you exactly what he saw.” He speaks far too casually for the caliber of this conversation.  

“No!” You reply swiftly… but then the thought settles.

You hop off the bed and go to the couch where Toji is. You get into the same position from earlier as you stand beside him, “I was literally like this. You can’t see anything. You’re being so dramatic.”

Toji leans back as he chews, unimpressed, “Nah, you bent more.”

You adjust just slightly, “Like this?”

“It was more than that.”

You go lower, “This?!”

The man grins, “Oh yeah. Shiu was all up in that ass.”

You straighten immediately, face feeling like it was set ablaze. “He was not looking! Was he really? You could see my ass at that angle?!”

“Why do you sound like that’s turning you on?”

“I’m not!” You hastily retreat back to the bed, grabbing your chips again and stuffing a handful into your mouth. “Alright, come on. Continue the game Mr. may or may not have kids.”

He twirls a gummy worm in his hand for a moment as he thinks. “How many guys have you fucked?”

“Are you being serious?”

“Answer the question, woman.”

You glare, “Why do you care?”

“It was your idea to play this game. Answer it or don’t I don’t give a shit.”

“How about I pass just like you did. We both get a pass. So pass! My turn. What’s your type?”

He doesn’t hesitate as he bites the head off of his next gummy worm, “Mouthy girls who think they’re better than me.”

You huff as you sit criss cross on the bed now. “Fuck off. Anyway, next question. Why did you take this job?”

“You skipped my- whatever. Because it pays well.”

You shake your head, “No, that’s not it. What is it? People don’t just start killing for a living because it pays well.”

He pauses for a moment, “I got debts.” 

“That’s fair.” You take the answer for what it is. It’s not banter for the first time. It’s real. 

You toss a chip at Toji. “Okay, give me a real question this time.”

He attempts to catch it in his mouth but misses. “I did ask a real question. Not my fault you get all flustered over body count.” 

“I wasn’t flustered.”

“Whatever, anyway. Give me your most fucked up intrusive thought.”

You blink, genuinely thinking about the ridiculous question he put forward. “I guess like- when I’m in the passenger seat sometimes I just think- what if I yanked the wheel in oncoming traffic. It’s so strange. I don’t know why. I don’t want that to happen and I would never do it, but I think about it.”

He nods simply as if he was expecting a much worse answer and you didn’t meet the expectation in his head.

“What’s your biggest fear?” You kick your feet now as if you’re a kid at a sleepover.

Toji stands up, stretching once again as he tosses the bag of gummy worms on the couch. “Going broke.”

“You mean staying broke?” You blink, “Last night you pulled out a crumpled 1000 yen note acting like that shit needs to stretch to the end of the week. What the fuck kind of answer is this?”

“What do you want me to say? Spiders? Heights?” He wanders toward the window, “Going broke is real. Rich people go broke all the time. You see what happens to them? Start jumping out of buildings and shit.”

“Oh my God! That took a horrific turn. I don’t like this conversation anymore.” You flop onto your back, “Next question please.”

“What about you? What’s your biggest fear?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “Losing control.”

“Go on.”

You shrug, “I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. I like having a say in my future.”

The man scoffs, still looking out the window. “You agreed to roll with the plan so easily for someone who likes structure.”

“Guess I did.” You don’t elaborate.

“What’s your favorite way to get fucked?” His question takes a dramatic turn.

You could feel your soul leave your body, you were sure of it. “What?”

“What?” He mocks you.

“You skipped my turn!” You frowned.

“And you skipped mine. Go ahead.”

“We went from biggest fear to this?! I’m not answering that!”

The man nods, “So, missionary. Got it.”

“That’s not it, but for argument’s sake I’ll just let you think that.” You needed to steer this conversation back in a normal direction. Hmmm… “Have you… ever been in love?”

You can see his expression shift. Like his mind glanced back to a beautiful life. It’s very brief, but you saw it.

“Nah.” His smirk returns, but much smaller.

“Never?”

He shakes his head without another word. You just watch him for a second, but decide not to push it. It may be a bridge too far. You don’t want him to shut down, but there’s something there.

“This is not the vibe. Let’s end it with something stupid.” You sprawl out on the bed.

“You ever fake an orgasm?” He turns toward you with an arched eyebrow.

“Have I-” You exhale figuring it’s best not to get offended by the question and just answer. “I have.”

“Damn, poor guy. Probably thought he killed it.” 

“Poor him?! Poor me! Don’t feel bad for him.” You grimaced at the thought, “He was so bad, I just wanted it to be over, so I had to make it look like I was spent. I really liked him before that too.”

“You gotta speak up sweetheart. If you’re not getting fucked the way you like and you let that shit slide, that’s on you.” He chuckles, “This was fun.”

You smile wide, “It’s kinda hard to believe I’ve only known you for a day.”

Toji smirks, taking a seat at the edge of the bed now, “Yeah, I have that effect on people.”

You reach out and lazily slap the back of his arm, “You’re comfortable with me too!”

“Says who?

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you usually get this chummy?”

“With people I’m supposed to kill?” He raises an eyebrow.

Your eyes couldn’t possibly roll harder, “No, bitch. In general!”

He doesn’t say anything and that tells you everything. He doesn’t even correct you for calling him a bitch. 

You sit up on your knees, bouncing slightly on the bed, “Aww! Are we besties?!”

“I should have killed you.”

“Too late bestie!” Your grin widens, but slowly your bouncing ceases. “Anyway, what do you think happened last night?”

Toji scratches his jaw, “Probably fucked. Who knows?”

“No!” You think about it. “You really think-”

“We didn’t. But if Shiu was here you were probably fucking him though.”

Your mouth drops open, “First of all, you sound jealous.”

“Second?” He spoke bluntly.

“No.”

“So you wouldn’t fuck Shiu?”

You throw your arms up, exasperated by this conversation. “I didn’t fuck him! He wasn’t even here.”

“That’s not what I asked. The question was would you?” 

You grab a pillow from behind you and smack the man with it. “We aren’t playing 21 Questions anymore! Ugh, let’s just get ready for bed. I saw some cute dresses my drunk self bought that sober me wants to wear soon.”

“Yeah, alright.” The man nodded, “Pack it in good girl. Wouldn’t want you to fluster yourself to death and lose me 10 billion.”

You sigh in relief. The future for you and Toji was already mapped out, but the finer details have yet to be seen. Made you wonder about it, and that thought alone brought a faint smile to your face.

Next stop: Kyushu.