Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The grand hall buzzed with the soft murmur of well-dressed guests, the clinking of glasses, and bursts of laughter that floated over the polished marble floors. Horikita Suzune moved gracefully among small clusters of people, her dress sleek and understated, yet elegant enough to turn a few heads. She smiled politely, exchanging a few words with friends of the couple she hadn’t met before, absorbing the warmth and happiness that seemed to surround Ryuen and Ibuki on their special day.

As she laughed lightly at a story one of the friends was telling, her eyes wandered across the room—and froze. Near the far side of the reception hall, effortlessly composed despite the crowd, was Ayanokoji Kiyotaka. He stood with Kei Karuizawa at his side, casually sipping a drink, his presence quietly drawing attention without seeking it.

A subtle tightness coiled in her chest. Months had passed since their breakup, yet seeing him here, alive and present in the same space, stirred a complicated mix of nostalgia, regret, and the undeniable pull of lingering affection. Horikita’s hands flexed slightly, the polite smile she wore faltering for just a heartbeat as her mind replayed fragments of their time together.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, seemingly focused on a conversation with Kei, who was animatedly recounting something from their recent work. That ease between them—the way Ayanokoji listened, the slight tilt of his head, the faint curve of a smile—sent an unexpected pang through her. She reminded herself to remain composed, to maintain the polite distance of a former classmate attending a joyous event.

Taking a steadying breath, Horikita adjusted her posture, letting the corners of her lips lift into a more practiced, neutral smile. She continued her conversation with the new acquaintances, though a part of her mind kept drifting back to him. She couldn’t deny that the years apart and the months of separation had done little to diminish the weight of their shared history—or the subtle ache of what had been left unresolved between them.

Her eyes flicked toward him again. He hadn’t looked her way yet, but she knew he would eventually notice her presence. The thought sent a quiet ripple of anticipation through her, a mixture of hope, anxiety, and that unspoken question that lingered for both of them: Could they bridge the gap time had carved between them, or would the shadows of past mistakes keep them at arm’s length tonight?

For now, she smiled at her new companions, nodding and responding politely, yet every subtle movement and glance betrayed the storm of emotions quietly brewing behind her calm exterior.

Horikita’s gaze lingered a moment longer than she intended, her eyes following Ayanokoji and Karuizawa as they moved through the crowd. Kei clung to him lightly, a laugh escaping her lips as she whispered something that made him tilt his head in response. The ease between them—the quiet comfort, the unspoken closeness—sent a subtle sting through Horikita.

She felt her chest tighten, the old, familiar tug of jealousy and regret twisting in her stomach. Her hands flexed against the fabric of her dress, and she forced herself to look away, focusing instead on the sparkling centerpiece before her and the polite chatter around her.

“I… need to use the bathroom,” she muttered quickly, barely audible, her voice clipped and restrained. She pressed her lips together, biting back the words she wanted to say, the questions she wanted to ask. It was easier to escape for a moment than to confront the flood of emotions rising in her chest.

Without waiting for a response, she excused herself, weaving through the clusters of laughing guests with measured, graceful steps. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, but inside, her mind raced. Seeing Ayanokoji with Kei like that, so natural and familiar, had stirred more than just curiosity—it had dredged up the weight of their past, the things left unsaid, and the feelings that neither of them had fully resolved.

Horikita’s heart pounded in her chest as she reached the hallway, the distant sounds of laughter and conversation filtering through the doors. She leaned briefly against the wall, taking a slow breath, forcing herself to steady the storm of thoughts swirling inside her. The sight of him holding Kei so casually—it wasn’t fair, she reminded herself. And yet, she couldn’t deny the subtle pull toward him, the old habit of watching, of longing, that refused to vanish even after months apart.

Her fingers twitched slightly, brushing against the edge of her clutch, and she straightened, muttering to herself in quiet frustration. Focus. This is a wedding. Not… not him. And yet, she knew she’d have to face him eventually, whether she wanted to or not. The night wasn’t over, and the space between them—filled with unspoken words, lingering emotions, and a fragile tension—was closing with every step she took back into the reception hall.

Horikita pressed her back against the cool wall of the hallway, letting herself slide slowly down until she was sitting on the floor. Her knees were drawn up instinctively, arms wrapped around them as though the position could shield her from the memories assaulting her from every direction.

She could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around her, the warmth that had once seemed so permanent. Ayanokoji’s presence was a tether, and she had clung to it with every ounce of herself. But now, seeing him with Kei Karuizawa at the reception, she felt that tether snap painfully in her chest.

Tears fell unbidden, leaving wet streaks along her cheeks. She hastily wiped at them with the back of her hand, but it only seemed to make them come faster, a relentless cascade she could not stop. The sound of laughter and conversation from the reception hall was muffled, like it belonged to a world she could no longer inhabit.

Memories hit her in waves. The small gestures, the subtle touches, the moments when he had looked at her with that quiet intensity that spoke of a love she had thought unbreakable. He used to hold her, truly hold her, as if she were the only person that existed.

Now, that space—the intimate, irreplaceable space—was occupied by someone else. Kei Karuizawa clung to him with a familiarity Horikita had once thought belonged only to her. She should have been the one there. She should have been the one in his arms, the one he kissed, the one he whispered to at night.

The weight of regret pressed down on her chest. She had ruined it all, throwing away happiness for fleeting, misguided choices. Nagumo. The name itself felt like a dagger in her mind, a reminder of the mistakes she could never take back. The brief, hollow moments she had spent with him paled against the enduring love she had forsaken.

Her mind spiraled, replaying the reunion months ago when Karuizawa’s words had cut sharper than any blade. She had tried to brush them off, to pretend they didn’t matter, but they had planted seeds of doubt that grew into a forest of mistakes. She had believed her own insecurity, and it had cost her everything.

Horikita’s fists clenched, nails digging into her palms as she rocked slightly, unable to stop the torrent of emotion. That night, those nights with Nagumo, seemed like a betrayal not only of him but of herself, of the part of her that had truly loved.

She remembered the warmth of Ayanokoji’s hand once slipping into hers, the quiet moments of shared laughter, the unspoken understanding between them that had never required words. She had taken that for granted, thinking she could have both excitement and stability. She had been wrong.

The tears continued to fall, each one a testament to the love she had lost and the choices that had led her here. Her heart ached with every imagined touch, every smile shared with Kei that she should have been the one giving.

Horikita hugged her knees tighter, pressing her forehead against them as though she could physically restrain her thoughts from escaping. But they came anyway, unrelenting. She was haunted by the memory of his quiet reassurances, the rare, soft moments where he let his guard down for her.

Her stomach churned with guilt and shame. She had been reckless, letting pride and fleeting curiosity drive her into a series of choices that felt monumental at the time but now seemed absurd in their cruelty to herself. She had destroyed something beautiful.

The hallway was empty, yet she felt suffocated, as though the very walls bore down on her, reflecting back her failures. Each step she had taken toward Nagumo had been a betrayal, each smile a lie, each fleeting moment a fracture in the foundation of what she and Ayanokoji had built.

“I ruined it all,” she whispered, voice cracking, as if admitting it out loud could make the pain less, could somehow release it. But it didn’t. The guilt lingered, curling around her like smoke, suffocating and persistent.

Images of Ayanokoji’s quiet patience flashed in her mind. He had never demanded her attention, never forced her to choose, yet she had chosen to break what was unbreakable. She had taken for granted the gravity of his feelings, the depth of his love.

She could still hear the echo of his voice in the small, tender moments that had seemed insignificant at the time. Every word she had let slip, every careless action, now pressed on her conscience like a weight she could never lift.

Horikita’s breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts. She felt anger rise, directed inward, sharp and cutting. How could she have been so foolish? So blind? The answer eluded her, leaving only the sting of regret and the ache of longing.

She thought of the life they might have had, the quiet evenings, the shared meals, the ordinary routines that had once seemed mundane but now appeared precious in hindsight. She had discarded that for moments of hollow thrill, and the emptiness remained.

Her eyes burned, cheeks wet and streaked with tears as the memory of him with Kei replayed over and over. That easy closeness, the natural comfort, the small touches that she remembered so vividly from her own time with him—it all seemed like a cruel mirror, reflecting what could have been.

The light in the hallway felt harsh, unforgiving, as if it too were judging her. She pressed her face into her arms, wishing she could vanish, wishing she could rewrite the past. The tears were relentless, carrying with them the full weight of self-loathing and longing.

A deep, bitter knot formed in her stomach, the knowledge that she might never reclaim what she had lost gnawing at her with every heartbeat. She had been the one who threw it all away. She had been the one to ruin the most precious thing in her life.

Yet amidst the flood of despair, a quiet, stubborn ember of hope lingered. Somewhere deep inside, she knew that the love between them had not completely vanished, that perhaps there was a chance to atone, to reconcile—even if it seemed impossible now.

Horikita lifted her head slightly, fingers trembling as she wiped at her wet cheeks. The reflection in the polished wall showed her red eyes and pale face, a mirror of the storm within. She drew a shaky breath, steadying herself, knowing she could not stay hidden forever.

For now, all she could do was gather the fragments of herself, push through the suffocating weight of guilt, and face the reality of seeing him again. Every step would be painful, every glance a test of will, but the memory of what she had lost—and what she still longed for—would guide her back, whether she was ready or not.

She stood slowly, hands pressed to her dress to smooth out the trembling, and took a tentative step toward the reception hall, the sounds of laughter and music both torturing and beckoning her. Horikita knew the night ahead would be a test of courage, of heart, and perhaps the first step toward facing the one person she could not stop loving.

Each step toward him felt like crossing a chasm, every breath a battle against the tide of emotion threatening to sweep her under. And yet, despite the fear and the heartbreak, she moved forward, because in her heart, she knew that the past, no matter how heavy, could not erase the truth of what they had shared.

The hallway faded behind her as she re-entered the hall, the polished floors gleaming under the chandeliers, and there he was—Ayanokoji, standing with Kei, still effortlessly composed, still everything she had loved and lost. Horikita’s pulse quickened.

Her hands curled slightly at her sides, gripping the fabric of her dress for strength. Every instinct told her to run, to hide, to turn away—but she couldn’t. She had to see him, had to confront the emotions that had been buried for months, had to decide whether to let the past destroy her or face it, raw and aching, in the hope that some small fragment of what they had could be reclaimed.

And so, with a deep, steadying breath, Horikita Suzune stepped fully back into the reception hall, ready—or at least willing—to confront the man she still loved, the mistakes she could never undo, and the fragile possibility of what might come next.

Ayanokoji stood there with a glass in his hand, his posture relaxed enough to fool anyone who happened to glance their way. Kei’s laughter rang out beside him, her voice pitched brightly as she leaned closer, her arm curled around his like a lifeline. From the outside, they must have looked like a couple perfectly at ease with each other, the picture of young love in the afterglow of a wedding.

But inside, everything was hollow.

Her touch against his sleeve felt wrong, a dull irritation that burned against his skin like acid. He didn’t recoil, didn’t shift away—he never did. Instead, he let her cling to him as she spoke animatedly to one of the other guests, nodding at the appropriate moments, letting her laughter wash over him without ever truly hearing it.

The words didn’t matter. They never did. To him, her voice was nothing more than static, a high-pitched scraping like nails against a chalkboard. The carefully chosen phrases, the sugary compliments, the playful glances—none of it penetrated the thick numbness that clung to him like fog.

He stared at the surface of his drink, the amber liquid catching the light, reflecting tiny shards of color that flickered and died in an instant. It was easier to focus on that than on the girl pressed against him, easier to pretend he cared than to face the gnawing ache just beneath the surface of his calm.

His chest tightened with a familiar weight, heavy and unrelenting. His heart ached in a way he couldn’t explain, a sharpness that came not from Kei’s presence but from the absence of someone else. Someone who should have been here, beside him, in the place Kei now occupied.

The quiet buzzing behind his eyes had been there for months now, ever since the day things ended. It reminded him of the sterile hum of hospital machines, a sound that filled every corner of silence, a reminder that he was alive but not truly living. He carried it everywhere—at work, at home, at nights when sleep refused to come.

He let out a small, inaudible sigh, the kind no one would ever notice. His expression didn’t change, his mask perfectly intact, but inside, he was unraveling. Kei’s warmth, her touch, her words—they slid right past him, meaningless, leaving no mark, no comfort.

The more she clung, the emptier he felt.

His gaze shifted briefly across the room, unfocused, searching for an anchor. He hadn’t even realized who he was looking for until his eyes brushed over her form, elegant and distant, standing among a small group of guests. Horikita. Suzune.

A flicker of something stirred in him, faint but undeniable. A reminder of a past that refused to let go, a bond that still ached even after it had shattered. For a moment, the numbness cracked, replaced by a low, aching pulse that made his chest feel unbearably tight.

Kei’s laughter jolted him back. He blinked, adjusting his gaze as though nothing had happened, raising his drink to his lips in a fluid motion. The bitterness of the liquid grounded him, but it did nothing to soften the heaviness in his heart.

He couldn’t feel anything for the girl beside him, no matter how tightly she clung or how brightly she smiled. All he could feel was the dull throb of longing for what he had lost, the knowledge that he had traded genuine connection for an empty performance.

The numbness crept back in, swallowing everything else, leaving him once again in that sterile, buzzing haze. He let it consume him, because it was easier that way. Easier than admitting that every word, every touch, every moment with Kei only reminded him of the one person he couldn’t forget.

The one person who still mattered.

And so, Ayanokoji remained motionless, letting the charade continue, while inside his heart whispered a single truth he refused to say out loud: he felt nothing for the girl at his side, and everything for the one he could no longer hold.

Ayanokoji’s glass was nearly empty by the time Ryuen approached. Kei had finally been drawn into a conversation with one of her friends from another table, leaving him with just enough space to breathe when Ryuen’s shadow fell across him.

It took Ayanokoji only a glance to notice the difference. Gone was the shaggy hair and almost feral grin that had once defined Ryuen Shoei back in their school days. His hair was cropped short now, his jawline sharper, posture more deliberate. His suit was well-tailored, though he tugged at the cuffs as if they didn’t quite sit right. His whole presence screamed discipline and maturity, but it was undercut by the way his eyes flicked across the room every few seconds.

“Yo,” Ryuen greeted, his voice lower, steadier than it used to be, though Ayanokoji caught the faint edge of strain beneath it.

Ayanokoji inclined his head slightly. “Congratulations.”

Ryuen let out a short laugh, but it wasn’t the usual confident bark of amusement Ayanokoji remembered. It was clipped, forced. He rubbed his palms together once, as if trying to rub out the sweat. “Thanks. Not that it feels real yet.”

“You seem nervous,” Ayanokoji said flatly, sipping the last of his drink.

Ryuen’s mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Nervous? Nah. Just making sure everything’s going the way it should.” But even as he said it, his gaze darted again toward the doors leading to the back of the hall, his foot shifting faintly on the carpet.

“You haven’t seen her today?” Ayanokoji asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Not since yesterday,” Ryuen admitted, lowering his voice. “Tradition and all that crap. Mio said she wanted it that way.” He paused, then exhaled sharply, a faint chuckle escaping him. “Can you believe that? Me, Ryuen Kakeru, getting worked up over this kind of thing.”

Ayanokoji studied him, his expression unreadable. “You care. That’s why.”

The words made Ryuen pause. For a moment, the mask of bravado slipped completely. His hands flexed at his sides before he folded his arms, shoulders tensing as though to shield himself from the admission. “Yeah,” he muttered finally. “Guess I do.”

It was then that Ayanokoji’s gaze drifted again, almost unconsciously. He scanned the room, not for decorations or other guests, but for her. Horikita.

The crowd shifted, laughter rising and falling, making it difficult to catch sight of her. At times, he spotted her speaking to a small group, her posture calm, her voice reserved but engaging. Other times, she vanished into the mass of people, and he couldn’t distinguish her at all. But most of the time, he found her—found her in that dress, simple yet striking, drawing his attention like nothing else in the room could.

Ryuen kept talking, his voice a steady drone of half-jokes and masked worry. Ayanokoji listened just enough to follow along, but his focus was elsewhere. His heart gave a muted ache each time his gaze landed on Suzune, every glance confirming what he already knew—she was everything.

At one point, Ryuen rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting again toward the doors. “Damn… what if she doesn’t show up?” he muttered, half to himself.

“She will,” Ayanokoji replied without hesitation. His tone was calm, certain.

Ryuen blinked at him, studying him for a moment. Then he gave a sharp laugh, though the nerves were still there in his eyes. “Hah. You sound more sure than me.”

Ayanokoji set his empty glass down on a nearby table. “If she agreed to this, she won’t run.”

Ryuen exhaled slowly, nodding as if trying to draw strength from the certainty in Ayanokoji’s voice. His fingers still fidgeted, but a trace of a smile returned to his lips. “Guess you’d know better than anyone about reading people.”

Ayanokoji didn’t respond to that, only shifted his gaze once more toward the crowd until he found her again. Horikita stood near the far wall now, speaking softly to an older guest he didn’t recognize, her profile catching the light in a way that seemed almost deliberate.

The rest of Ryuen’s words blurred into background noise. For Ayanokoji, there was only her—always her.

The room felt like it had shifted into another world entirely. The rows of guests, the whisper of fabric as people shifted in their seats, even the occasional cough or creak of a chair—all of it fell away the moment Ibuki appeared at the end of the aisle. The music swelled softly, but even it seemed muted in comparison to the sight before them.

Ibuki walked slowly, almost cautiously, but every step carried an unshakable weight. She wasn’t just walking toward Ryuen; she was walking toward a future that had been years in the making, through battles fought and scars earned. The jewels in her hair caught the sunlight filtering through the high windows, each glimmer like a star descending with her.

Ryuen, for all his nerves, for all his restless shifting before, became utterly still. His jaw slackened, his hands froze mid-wring, and for once the mask of bravado he had worn since high school was stripped away. In its place, there was something raw, something vulnerable—he was a man completely undone by the woman walking toward him.

Horikita, sitting stiffly in her seat, felt her chest tighten at the sight. She had expected to analyze, to quietly judge, to pick apart details with that sharp mind of hers, but none of that happened. Her throat constricted, and before she knew it, the corners of her lips curved up slightly, almost against her will. It was impossible not to soften at the image of two people who, against all odds, had found their way here.

Ayanokouji, meanwhile, let himself stare. For once, he didn’t care about maintaining his facade of indifference. Karuizawa’s grip on his arm was a faint, distant thing. All his senses tunneled into Ibuki’s figure, radiant and poised, and Ryuen’s expression as though he had just seen salvation. It wasn’t love he was watching—it was something more primal, more consuming. And for a fleeting instant, Ayanokouji’s heart twisted painfully in his chest.

The guests shifted forward in their seats unconsciously, drawn in as if by a magnetic pull. No one whispered, no one fidgeted. It was as though Ibuki’s presence commanded silence. Even children in the audience, who might normally squirm and whine, were quiet, captivated by the sight of her gown flowing like water across the floor.

As she neared the altar, Ryuen’s breath visibly hitched. The cocky, sharp-eyed delinquent who had once ruled with his fists was gone. Standing in his place was a man stripped bare of all defenses, his heart laid open before everyone. He smiled—an unpracticed, unguarded smile that stunned those who had known him in his youth.

Horikita’s gaze lingered on that smile longer than she intended. It struck her deeply—how people could change, how they could grow. Ryuen had once been an obstacle, a thorn in her side during school. Now, he was a man in love, humbled by it. She wondered faintly, for just a second, if she would ever find someone who looked at her that way.

Ayanokouji didn’t need to wonder. He knew exactly who his eyes searched for when moments like this arose. And when, across the aisle, he caught Horikita’s profile—her lips parted slightly, her eyes softened—he felt that same ache claw deeper into him. He tore his gaze away before she could notice, fixing it back on Ibuki and Ryuen.

The officiant cleared his throat softly as Ibuki reached the altar. The guests seemed to exhale together, as though they had all been holding their breath. Ryuen stepped forward, his hand trembling faintly as he extended it toward her. She took it, and their eyes locked, a silent exchange that said far more than words ever could.

For that single instant, every guest in the room was united. No rivalries, no heartbreaks, no half-truths or hidden desires mattered. There was only the bride, the groom, and the beginning of something new.

Even Karuizawa, whose chatter and clinging had grated on Ayanokouji moments before, was quiet. She leaned forward slightly, captivated like everyone else. Perhaps she even envied Ibuki, though she would never admit it aloud.

And as Horikita sat there, her fingers curling faintly against her lap, she realized she hadn’t thought about the sting of her own failures for several minutes. In its place, there was a warmth she couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t hers, not yet, but seeing Ryuen and Ibuki standing there—it gave her hope.

The ceremony had only just begun, yet already it had silenced the storm within so many hearts. For once, the pain didn’t matter. The worries could wait. The future could come later. All that mattered now was the moment—the way Ibuki glowed, the way Ryuen smiled, and the way, just for now, everyone forgot themselves in the light of it.

Ryuen’s lips parted, but the sound that left him was barely more than a whisper. “You look…” His voice faltered, and for a man who had always found words—be they threats, taunts, or sharp-witted comebacks—this silence was staggering. He had been ready, had rehearsed lines in his head, maybe even half a dozen different ways to make her smirk or roll her eyes at the altar. But now? Now he was stripped bare by nothing more than the sight of her.

Ibuki tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and for the briefest moment her usual sharpness softened. She didn’t need him to finish the sentence. She already knew. Still, the way his eyes lingered on her, as though he was seeing her for the first time, stole something from her too. She wasn’t the kind of woman who thrived on compliments, but this one, unsaid as it was, wrapped around her heart.

The officiant cleared his throat again, quietly, respectfully. But Ryuen hardly noticed. His gaze was locked, his chest rising and falling with an uneven rhythm. For all his life, he had prided himself on control, on dominance. Yet here, before her, he was undone.

The guests, watching, felt that ripple pass through them. Whispers might have stirred, but none dared break the spell. Some smiled knowingly, some blinked back unexpected emotion. A few even exchanged glances, as if to confirm that yes, even Ryuen, the man who once commanded fear with a single glare, could be brought to his knees by love.

Horikita sat still, her fingers curling faintly against the fabric of her dress. Something in her chest tightened—not jealousy, not bitterness, but something else she couldn’t quite name. To see someone so hardened look at Ibuki with that kind of reverence stirred questions she didn’t have answers for.

Beside her, Ayanokouji’s eyes lingered not just on the couple but on Horikita herself. The way her posture shifted ever so slightly, how her expression softened—it didn’t escape him. He told himself to look away, to fix his gaze back on the altar, yet he found his focus drifting back to her again and again, as if drawn by instinct.

Ryuen finally exhaled a laugh under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “You look… perfect,” he finished, voice rough with sincerity. The words weren’t poetic, weren’t carefully chosen—but they were real.

Ibuki’s smirk widened into something gentler, almost shy, and she reached out, her hand steady as it found his. “About time you noticed,” she teased softly, though her eyes betrayed the warmth she felt.

The officiant smiled, glancing between them as though he too was caught in their gravity. He raised his hands slightly, drawing the moment forward. “Shall we begin?”

But even as the ceremony resumed, the echo of Ryuen’s faltering words lingered. They had been stripped of all the sharp edges of the past, leaving only two people who had fought, bled, and grown into this—into something unshakable.

And for those watching—Horikita, Ayanokouji, even Karuizawa—it was a moment that settled deep into their bones, a reminder that even the unlikeliest of people could find someone who left them speechless.

Ryuen couldn’t tear his eyes away from the woman standing before him. The moment the officiant nodded for him to begin his vows, his mouth opened, then closed again. His throat felt tight, his heart hammering against his chest in a way that made him curse inwardly at himself. For once in his life, he couldn’t find the words. His grip on Ibuki’s hands tightened just slightly, and she, noticing, gave him the smallest squeeze in return.

That simple touch undid the knot inside him. His chest rose with a shaky inhale, and then the words came, almost tumbling out as though they had been dammed up for years. “Ibuki…” His voice caught again, but he pressed on, eyes locked on hers. “You’ve been by my side through things no one else would’ve put up with. You’ve fought me, fought with me, and somehow… somehow, you stayed.”

A faint ripple of laughter ran through the audience, soft and affectionate, but Ryuen didn’t even notice. He was lost in her, in the memories that came flooding back—schoolyard fights, long nights of strategy, countless moments when she challenged him in ways no one else could.

“I’m not a man who ever thought I deserved this,” he continued, his voice rougher now, the words scratching out like they were being torn from his chest. “But you… you make me want to be more than I am. For you, I’d fight the whole world if I had to. I’d give everything I’ve got just to see you smile.”

Ibuki’s lips quivered, her eyes shining under the glow of the lights. She tried to blink the tears back, but they spilled anyway, slipping down her cheeks in quiet streams.

The audience leaned forward, utterly spellbound. Even those who had known Ryuen for years, who had seen his cruel smirk and his fists clench in the heat of battle, were stunned. To see him laid bare like this was something none of them could have predicted.

He laughed suddenly, shaking his head at himself. “Damn it, look at me. Rambling like an idiot.” He raised a hand, brushing away the tears streaming down Ibuki’s face. His touch was gentler than anyone could’ve imagined. “Shhh, don’t cry, love. Don’t cry. You know I hate seeing you cry.”

The words, soft and almost cooing, melted into her heart. And then he turned it, seamlessly, into another promise. “I’ll make sure you never cry like this again. Not out of sadness. If you cry, it’ll be because I’ve made you laugh too hard, or because you’re too damn happy to hold it in.”

Ibuki let out a half-sob, half-laugh at that, her shoulders shaking. The audience chuckled softly with her, their own tears glistening under the light.

Ryuen’s vows didn’t stop there. He carried on, telling stories of the past in fragmented pieces, weaving them into promises for the future. He reminded her of the first time she’d ever patched him up after a fight, of how she had rolled her eyes but stayed by his side anyway. He told her how he had noticed the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, how those looks had made him believe that maybe, just maybe, he was worth something.

Every word dripped with sincerity, unpolished and raw. He wasn’t a poet, wasn’t a man who could lace together delicate strings of words the way others might. But what he had was real, and every single person in that room felt it.

Ayanokouji sat back, eyes steady on the couple. For the first time that evening, something cracked through the numb haze that had been clinging to him. He felt… stirred. The words, the sheer unguarded devotion Ryuen showed, reached something deep inside. It was unfamiliar and unsettling, but undeniable.

Horikita, a few rows over, pressed her lips together. The ache in her chest grew heavier, though not from jealousy. No—this was something else entirely. Seeing Ryuen so transformed by Ibuki’s presence made her think of what she had lost, yes, but also of what love was truly capable of when nurtured instead of destroyed.

Guests dabbed at their eyes with tissues or sleeves, not even bothering to hide it. Even Karuizawa, still holding lightly onto Ayanokouji’s arm, found herself blinking quickly, moved despite herself.

Finally, Ryuen exhaled, as though he had just laid down the heaviest burden of his life. His chest rose and fell, his gaze never leaving Ibuki’s. “You’re it for me,” he said simply at last, voice quiet now, stripped of everything but truth. “You always were.”

The silence that followed was thick with emotion. No one dared to break it, not even the officiant, not right away.

Ibuki, cheeks streaked with tears, let out a trembling laugh. “Damn it, Ryuen,” she said softly, voice breaking. “You’re supposed to make this hard to follow, aren’t you?”

The crowd chuckled warmly, but no one missed the tenderness in her words, the way she looked at him like he was her whole world.

She squeezed his hands back, grounding herself, steadying the swell of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Her vows were yet to come, and she knew she’d have to meet the raw honesty he had just poured out. But for the moment, she let herself breathe him in—the love in his eyes, the warmth of his touch, the quiet promise that he was hers, entirely and forever.

Ryuen lifted his thumb, brushing it once more against her cheek, and the officiant finally stepped in, gently prompting her to begin her part. But the lingering echo of his vows still hung in the air, like the remnants of a storm—powerful, unshakable, unforgettable.

And though no one spoke of it aloud, every single person in that room knew they had just witnessed something extraordinary.

Ibuki took in a shaky breath, her hands still clasped in Ryuen’s. Her fingers curled tightly around his as though they were her anchor, steadying her against the weight of the moment. The officiant’s words barely registered in her ears. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat and the echo of Ryuen’s vows still hanging thick in the air.

She gave him a long look, her lips trembling as she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. For someone who had always prided herself on her strength, on her refusal to let anyone see her cry, she was unraveling before everyone. Yet the tears felt different this time—softer, warmer, almost welcome.

“I…” Her voice cracked, and she broke into a nervous laugh, dabbing quickly at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “Damn it, you weren’t supposed to make me cry this much before I even started.”

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, sympathetic and fond. Ibuki let the sound carry her, giving her just enough courage to continue. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and looked directly into Ryuen’s eyes.

“When we first met, I didn’t think this would ever happen,” she admitted honestly. “You were infuriating. Arrogant. Rough around the edges. I used to wonder why I even bothered sticking around you.” She smirked faintly through her tears. “And maybe I told myself a hundred times that I’d walk away. But every time I tried, I couldn’t.”

Ryuen’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, small but genuine. Ibuki’s chest squeezed at the sight of it, her words flowing easier now.

“Somewhere along the way, I realized it wasn’t just loyalty or stubbornness keeping me by your side. It was you. The way you fought for people, even when you pretended you didn’t care. The way you carried weight on your shoulders and never asked for help, even though you should have. The way you’d always push forward, no matter how many times life tried to knock you down.”

She paused, her gaze softening as her tears welled again. “I realized that you weren’t just someone I wanted to follow into a fight. You were someone I wanted to follow through life. Someone I wanted to stand beside.”

The audience shifted quietly, every eye fixed on her. Even those who had once known Ibuki as brash, sharp-tongued, or impatient could see the raw truth now—how deeply she loved him.

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” she continued, her voice firming with resolve. “You’ve seen me angry, reckless, stubborn. And you never turned your back on me. Even when we fought, even when I gave you every reason to push me away—you didn’t. You chose me. Again and again.”

Her fingers tightened around his, and she laughed softly, shakily. “And I promise you this: I’ll keep choosing you. Every day, every fight, every moment. Even when you drive me insane, even when you won’t stop talking about strategy or when you’re too damn proud to ask for help, I’ll still be here.”

Ryuen’s eyes glistened faintly at her words, though his expression remained steady. His thumb stroked along the back of her hand, silently encouraging her to go on.

“You say you don’t deserve this,” she whispered, her voice dropping lower. “But you do. You deserve to be loved, Ryuen. You deserve to be happy. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”

A small sob broke free of her chest, and she laughed through it, shaking her head. “Look at me, crying like an idiot in front of everyone. But I don’t even care. Because you… you’re worth it. Every single tear.”

The audience was utterly still, some guests already clutching tissues or covering their mouths.

“I promise I’ll fight for us, the same way you’ve fought for me,” Ibuki said, her tone growing stronger now. “I promise I’ll stand with you, even when things get hard. Especially when they get hard. I’ll be there to remind you that you’re not alone. Not ever again.”

Her lips curved into a trembling smile. “I promise to laugh with you, to yell at you when you’re being stupid, to argue with you when I think you’re wrong—and to love you through all of it. Because that’s what we are. That’s what we’ve always been. Two people who push each other, challenge each other, and somehow… complete each other.”

Ryuen’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on her like she was the only person in the room. Which, to him, she was.

“And finally,” she whispered, her tears spilling freely now, “I promise you this: You’ll never have to wonder if I love you. You’ll never have to question it. Because I’ll show you, every day, for the rest of my life.”

The silence afterward was deafening, broken only by the faint sound of sniffles scattered throughout the crowd.

Ibuki let out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders dropping as though a great weight had lifted. For once, she didn’t care how vulnerable she looked, didn’t care if her makeup was smudged or if people saw her trembling. All that mattered was the man in front of her, and the vows she had laid at his feet.

Ryuen’s hands tightened around hers, steady and grounding. He didn’t speak—not yet—but the look in his eyes said everything. Pride. Love. Devotion.

The officiant, visibly moved himself, took a deep breath before stepping forward again. “Thank you, Ibuki. Those were beautiful.”

But the words barely registered to either of them. For Ryuen and Ibuki, in that moment, the world had narrowed down to just the two of them—two souls who had fought, bled, and grown together, now bound by something unshakable.

The audience erupted into quiet, heartfelt applause, a sound that felt like a blessing rather than a performance. Even Ayanokouji, usually untouched by sentiment, felt his chest tighten faintly at the sight of such raw, unfiltered love.

And Horikita, sitting among the guests, pressed a hand against her heart, her tears threatening to rise again. She thought of what she’d lost, yes, but more than that, she thought of what love could be, what it was meant to be.

Ibuki leaned closer, unable to stop herself, whispering softly to Ryuen as the officiant prepared to move forward. “See? I can talk too.”

Ryuen let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Not as much as me.”

Their shared laughter rippled through the tension, grounding them both in joy. And for everyone watching, the moment felt like a glimpse of something timeless—love that had been tested, scarred, and yet emerged unbreakable.

The officiant cleared his throat, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Well,” he said warmly, “it seems you two have managed to bring us all to tears. Shall we proceed?”

Ryuen and Ibuki didn’t once break eye contact. Their heads nodded together, a quiet unison, as the ceremony pressed onward, but the echoes of their vows—raw, imperfect, overflowing with love—lingered in the air, a promise that seemed to stretch far beyond the altar.

“Kakeru Ryuen, do you take this woman to be your wife?” the officiant asked, his voice steady.

Ryuen brought his lips to Ibuki’s fingers, pressing a gentle kiss without ever letting his gaze drift. “I do,” he said simply, the weight of his words carrying everything he felt.

“And do you, Mio Ibuki, take this man to be your husband?” the officiant continued, his tone soft, reverent.

Ibuki’s lips trembled, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. She choked on the words, barely managing to get them out, but every ounce of her heart poured into them. “I… I do,” she whispered, her voice fragile yet unwavering, filled with love and certainty.

The officiant’s voice carried softly across the room, warm and steady, though even he seemed moved by the emotion swirling through the hall. He gestured for the rings to be brought forward, and the small boy with hair neatly combed and shoes just slightly too big shuffled up the aisle. The box in his hands gleamed under the light, and he held it out with a nervous kind of pride.

The guests collectively softened at the sight. Whoever the boy was, it didn’t matter; his role had become part of something unforgettable. Ryuen bent slightly, taking the box with a nod of thanks that was uncharacteristically gentle, then straightened again, never letting his gaze drift from Ibuki for long.

The officiant opened the box and revealed the rings inside. The first, Ryuen’s, was a band of gold, simple in design but etched with intricate lines that spiraled and overlapped like the twists and turns of a shared path. It caught the light with quiet elegance, understated yet impossibly meaningful.

The second, Ibuki’s, was a masterpiece. Gold framed by diamond accents, the stones arranged in delicate patterns that made the ring shimmer with every angle. It was extravagant, radiant—fitting for the woman who had always managed to shine even in her sharpest, roughest moments.

“These rings,” the officiant began, his tone reverent, “are circles without end, symbolizing eternity. They are crafted with care to reflect the bond you share—unbreakable, enduring, and precious.” He let the words settle before continuing. “As you place these rings upon each other’s hands, remember the promises you’ve made today. May these rings remind you, always, of the love that binds you.”

Ryuen reached for Ibuki’s hand, his larger, roughened fingers trembling slightly as he slid the golden band into place on her finger. His voice was low but carried through the silence. “With this ring, I give you everything I am. My strength, my stubbornness, my loyalty. All of it’s yours.”

Ibuki’s breath shuddered out of her. She stared down at the ring for a moment, overwhelmed by the weight of it, then lifted her gaze back to him. Her hand shook faintly as she took the glittering ring meant for him, and when she spoke, her words were ragged but steady. “With this ring… I give you everything too. My fire, my flaws, my love. All of me belongs with you.”

She slid the band onto his finger, her hand lingering, as though afraid to let go. Ryuen’s thumb brushed over her knuckles again, a small reassurance, a promise silently spoken between them.

“If anyone here sees a reason why these two should not be married, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

The room grew hushed as the officiant’s words hung in the air. Every pair of eyes seemed to flicker toward the doors, anticipating some interruption that, in truth, wasn’t coming. Ibuki’s grip on Ryuen’s hand tightened, her knuckles turning white. Her breath caught slightly, and a tremor ran through her fingers, but she held firm, letting the tension anchor her to him.

Ryuen’s jaw clenched as he scanned the doorway, his usual sharpness sharpened by the anxiety that had crept into him in this fleeting moment. His mind ticked through every possible scenario—someone objecting, a forgotten obligation, a sudden disaster—but nothing moved. The hall remained silent, the guests frozen in polite stillness, holding their collective breath as though they too were bracing for some unforeseen interruption.

His other hand, the one not holding Ibuki’s, fidgeted with the edge of his cuff, but he resisted the urge to let go. Every instinct he had, honed over years of discipline and confrontation, told him to protect this moment, to fight if necessary, but all there was to fight now was a phantom fear, an echo of past battles and long-buried insecurities.

Ibuki leaned slightly closer, her forehead brushing against his shoulder. Her eyes were wide, glimmering with tears she refused to let fall, and she whispered softly, “It’s just us. No one’s going to stop this. Not now.”

Ryuen exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders, though the faint quiver in his hands remained. He glanced down at her, taking a moment to memorize the way her eyes shone in the light, how her expression was a mixture of fear, anticipation, and unwavering love. For once, there was no strategy, no calculation—just pure presence.

A quiet shuffling came from the audience as the guests shifted in their seats, sensing the pair’s anxiety. A few older relatives nodded reassuringly at the couple, small smiles playing at their lips, while others exchanged knowing glances, silently communicating that everything was as it should be.

The officiant cleared his throat, his voice carrying through the silent hall. “Then, by the power vested in me by the country of Japan, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Ryuen’s hands moved instinctively to Ibuki’s waist, steady and firm, as he leaned in and dipped her slightly. Their lips met in a kiss that was more than a ceremony—it was a testament. Every struggle they had endured, every triumph they had celebrated, every laugh and every tear flowed through that moment. It was a promise, raw and unspoken, of the life they would face together from that day forward.

The guests around them erupted in cheers and applause, but for Ryuen and Ibuki, the world had narrowed to just the two of them, their hearts beating in sync, the warmth of their connection radiating far beyond the altar.

Ryuen pulled back slowly, just enough to catch his breath, his hands still cradling Ibuki’s waist with careful precision. The room around them seemed to dissolve into a blur of lights and faces, leaving only the two of them in sharp focus. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest, could sense the heat radiating from her as if it had pooled between them, and in that instant, time itself seemed to pause.

Before he could react, Ibuki’s lips collided with his again, urgent, fervent. Her hands found their way to his face, cupping him with a strength that was gentle but unyielding, as though she could anchor herself to him with nothing but touch. Each movement of their lips pressed into the other was an attempt to speak words that had no name, to convey feelings that had no form.

The kiss was a storm and a calm, a paradox of passion tempered with tenderness. It was a map of everything they had endured—every fight, every argument, every quiet night spent together planning, waiting, surviving. And yet, it was also a promise, unspoken but understood, of everything yet to come.

The warmth of Ibuki’s hands pressed against his skin, her fingers tracing the planes of his face as though committing each detail to memory, sent a shiver through Ryuen. It was electric, intoxicating, and grounding all at once. He responded instinctively, his own hands lifting to cradle her back, anchoring her to him as though he could prevent the world from intruding on this singular moment.

Every movement, every slight shift of their bodies, spoke volumes. The dip of her head, the tilt of his, the subtle pressure of lips against lips—it was a language they had cultivated long before the vows, long before anyone in the room could have understood.

Ryuen’s mind, usually a torrent of calculation and control, went still. He felt, rather than thought. He felt the heat of her lips, the pressure of her hands, the rhythm of her breathing mingling with his own. Every heartbeat was amplified, every nerve alive with the intensity of what they shared.

Ibuki’s lips moved with intent, each press and slide a statement, a question, a reassurance, a claim. She poured everything into that kiss: the frustrations, the fears, the unspoken apologies, the unyielding affection that had threaded through the years they had spent together.

The world outside continued on, but in that space, there was no world, only them. The applause and cheers from the guests seemed distant, muffled, unimportant. Every external noise faded into insignificance beneath the gravity of their shared closeness.

Ryuen’s hands tightened slightly, holding her just a fraction closer, and Ibuki responded in kind, pressing into him as though she could merge with him, could fuse every fragment of emotion into the motion of that single kiss. It was a claim, a surrender, a mutual declaration that transcended language.

The memory of this moment—the intensity, the immediacy, the sheer unfiltered emotion—would etch itself into both of them, impossible to erase. Each brush of lips, each subtle shift, each micro-gesture carried the weight of countless memories and unspoken promises.

They pulled apart slightly, just enough to breathe, but the pause was brief. Ibuki’s lips found his again almost immediately, insistent, eager, as though a single kiss could not contain all that needed to be conveyed. It was a repetition and an escalation, layering meaning upon meaning, sentiment upon sentiment.

Ryuen’s own lips responded with equal fervor, moving against hers with deliberate tenderness, matching her intensity while grounding it with his own. It was an exchange, a dialogue conducted solely through touch, each movement perfectly attuned to the other.

The heat between them was not just physical but emotional, a radiance that seemed to illuminate the space around them. Their connection extended beyond the physical, threading into the memories of their shared past and the dreams of their intertwined future.

Each press of lips was a punctuation, each caress of fingers a sentence, every subtle movement a paragraph in the story they had been writing together long before the ceremony. There was no haste, no impatience—only the deliberate unfolding of their feelings, raw and unfiltered.

They moved as one without thought, instinct guiding them as much as desire. Ryuen felt every pull, every push, every small pressure as a declaration of love, trust, and intimacy, while Ibuki’s hands translated emotion into physicality, capturing in a kiss everything her voice could not contain.

Time became irrelevant, each heartbeat stretching into eternity, each motion a testament to years of closeness, friction, and understanding. Every sigh and subtle shift became a syllable in a language only they understood.

The intensity of the kiss brought with it an awareness of vulnerability, a mutual acknowledgment that they were exposing themselves entirely to one another. Yet in that vulnerability lay power—a shared strength that had been forged in the fires of shared struggle and mutual respect.

Their bodies swayed imperceptibly, leaning into one another as though to anchor themselves against the world, yet simultaneously opening to it, allowing the moment to expand into infinity. There was no room for distraction, no space for hesitation, only the undeniable reality of their connection.

Ryuen’s hands moved from her waist, brushing up along her sides, following the lines of her back, as if memorizing her shape through touch alone. Ibuki’s hands mirrored his actions, tracing the planes of his face, the muscles of his shoulders, the rhythm of his breath, translating devotion into motion.

Even the briefest pause in their kissing was filled with electricity. They rested foreheads together, noses brushing, breathing mingling, and eyes closing to better sense the other’s heartbeat, the subtle tremors, the pressure of their hands, the warmth of their proximity.

They moved together again, lips meeting once more, slow now, savoring the sensation, the permanence of the moment. There was no need to rush; nothing could make this more urgent or more necessary than it already was.

The kiss was both a culmination and a beginning. It was the closing of the chapter of trials and uncertainties that had led them here, and simultaneously the first paragraph of a new narrative that stretched infinitely forward.

Every particle of tension and longing they had carried melted into that motion, each press and slide an unspoken vow, a promise of companionship, of loyalty, of endless devotion.

When they finally eased apart again, the world slowly came back into focus—the cheers, the clapping, the guests’ smiles—but neither Ryuen nor Ibuki fully let go. Their hands remained entwined, their foreheads still nearly touching, a silent acknowledgment that this moment was theirs alone, forever embedded in memory.

The kiss, repeated, insistent, and unyielding, would live in their minds long after the ceremony ended. It was a monument to their love, a physical and emotional testament that words alone could never capture.

Even as they breathed together, steadying themselves, a warmth lingered in every part of them, a soft glow of completeness. They had said everything, expressed every nuance of feeling, without a single word.

And though it may not have been the first kiss they shared, and perhaps would not be the last, it was one they would remember forever, etched into the very essence of who they were and the life they would now share together.

Ayanokouji moved with measured calm, his posture impeccable, the faintest hint of detachment in his expression as he allowed Karuizawa to link her arm through his. Her excitement bubbled over, a constant stream of words and laughter as she praised every detail of the ceremony. She spoke about the elegance of Ibuki’s dress, the apparent cost of the rings, the exquisite floral arrangements, and the overall perfection of the event. Ayanokouji nodded occasionally, offering quiet, neutral responses, his attention only lightly tethered to her enthusiasm while his mind wandered elsewhere.

Horikita navigated the throng of guests with practiced composure. The soft hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the shifting of chairs acted as a buffer, allowing her to remain composed. Her chest tightened with every glimpse she stole of Ryuen and Ibuki, now stepping into the reception together, their hands still intertwined, the ease of their closeness like a cold weight pressing against her ribs.

She kept herself moving, weaving politely through groups of people, nodding and exchanging brief pleasantries with acquaintances she hadn’t seen since graduation. The crowd’s energy offered her protection; here, in the midst of laughter and clinking glasses, she could mask the ache that throbbed beneath her skin.

Every now and then, her gaze flicked toward him—Ayanokouji. He was a calm, anchored presence beside Karuizawa, moving smoothly through the room while never fully engaging with the celebration. It struck her again how little his focus was on Karuizawa, how his attention seemed to drift naturally, subtly, as though scanning the room for something—or someone—else.

Horikita’s chest tightened with the knowledge that she wasn’t the only one feeling that invisible pull. Each time Ayanokouji’s eyes lifted, she braced herself, a part of her longing to meet his gaze and another part desperate to avoid it. To meet him now would mean letting herself unravel, allowing the tide of unshed tears to sweep over her, exposing all the raw, unspoken longing that had grown in the months since their breakup.

She told herself it was better to stay with the crowd, to remain invisible in the throng, as if she were just another guest swept along in the current of celebration. The excuse was simple, and yet she knew it was hollow. She wasn’t avoiding attention in general; she was avoiding him.

Meanwhile, Ayanokouji moved beside Karuizawa with the precision of someone used to blending into any environment. He responded to her gushing with brief, polite murmurs, never missing a beat, never showing a flicker of irritation at her ceaseless chatter. His eyes, however, scanned the room constantly, a quiet, deliberate search that seemed almost unconscious.

Horikita caught glimpses of him at odd intervals—his expression steady, calm, yet betraying the tiniest flicker of recognition whenever his gaze passed near her. Each time, her stomach twisted with a mixture of longing and restraint. She wanted to approach, to speak, to erase the distance, but the weight of past mistakes, of choices made and words left unsaid, kept her rooted in place.

The dining area loomed ahead, long tables lined with sparkling crystal, silverware perfectly arranged, and centerpieces that glimmered in the soft overhead lighting. The murmuring crowd swirled around her, a moving, living tide of sound and motion, pulling her along despite the ache coiling in her chest.

She allowed herself a moment to breathe, feeling the faint tickle of anxiety that always accompanied being near him. The closer she got to him—even at a distance—the more her heart ached with the knowledge of everything they had lost and everything they still could not speak aloud.

Karuizawa laughed at a joke one of the waitstaff made, and Ayanokouji’s gaze flickered to her briefly, polite but detached, before resuming its silent search of the room. Horikita’s hand clenched lightly at her side as she followed, the movement so subtle that no one would notice, yet it spoke volumes about the tension she carried internally.

The chatter around her swelled, snippets of conversations hitting her in bursts—friends reuniting, family members complimenting the couple, whispered congratulations—and all of it felt distant, almost surreal. It was like standing on the shore of a celebration while the storm of her own emotions raged inside.

Despite the elegance and festivity surrounding her, Horikita felt painfully aware of the emptiness of her current position. She moved, smiled, nodded, and laughed politely when necessary, but every action was a carefully constructed mask. The crowd gave her cover, but it could not shield her from the pull she felt toward him.

The scent of flowers, of polished wood and soft candle wax, mingled with the faint tang of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. All of it—the warmth, the celebration, the music—was meant to signal joy, and yet it only heightened the contrast between the world around her and the chaos within her.

She watched as Ryuen and Ibuki moved among the other guests, laughing freely, sharing smiles that seemed to illuminate the space around them. Horikita’s chest tightened at the sight. She reminded herself over and over that she had no right to feel this way, yet the sight of him with her hand on Ryuen’s arm, the light in his eyes as he laughed, cut her deeper than any words could.

Ayanokouji remained beside Karuizawa, a quiet anchor in the flowing sea of guests, yet his subtle scanning of the room did not escape Horikita’s notice. There was a measured patience in the way he moved, a calm observation that made her pulse quicken in ways she refused to admit, even to herself.

Each moment of motion—the clinking of glasses, the shifting of chairs, the soft rustle of gowns—acted as both distraction and reminder. She could not cry here, not among the faces, not in the light, and yet the tears threatened to fall with every stolen glance toward him.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, a silent attempt to contain herself, to remain composed. She reminded herself that this was not the place, that her feelings, though fierce and raw, had to be managed. And yet the magnetic pull toward him, the ache in her chest, was impossible to ignore entirely.

The crowd moved forward, creating a narrow path to the dining tables. Horikita let herself be swept along, leaning slightly into the current, hoping the momentum would carry her past the worst of the emotional storm.

She felt every subtle movement of Ayanokouji beside her, the slight shifts as Karuizawa chattered and laughed. He remained outwardly polite, his posture perfect, his attention split between the girl holding his arm and the scanning of the room. Horikita could almost sense the invisible thread that tugged between him and her, taut but unseen.

The tables drew closer, set with precision, crystal glasses reflecting the warm overhead light like tiny beacons. She noted the meticulous arrangement almost absentmindedly, her attention divided between the beauty of the room and the impossibility of restraining her emotions.

Every now and then, Ayanokouji’s gaze would sweep past her, faintly scanning, as if looking for someone or something he had not yet located. Horikita felt the subtle pang each time, the tug of recognition and longing, and forced herself to focus on the crowd instead, on anything that would let her remain composed.

By the time they reached the dining area, the music had shifted to a softer, flowing melody. Horikita’s hands were pressed lightly against the folds of her dress, fingers tightening subtly with the effort of holding herself together. The room’s warmth contrasted with the storm of thoughts in her mind, each memory, each ache, each regret pressing in silently.

Even as the guests began to settle, talking in low, cheerful voices, Horikita felt the tension of her longing as sharply as if it were a physical presence. She let herself be carried forward by the current of celebration, hiding her vulnerability in the ebb and flow of movement around her.

Ayanokouji’s presence beside Karuizawa offered a mirror of composure, an almost frustrating calm that both anchored and taunted her. He was there, moving through the reception with quiet certainty, yet the way he scanned the room spoke to a connection beyond the surface, one she could not let herself act upon.

Horikita exhaled slowly, keeping her posture straight and her expression composed. The crowd, the clinking of glasses, the laughter—it all served to keep her anchored in place, a temporary barrier between her and the overwhelming desire to seek him out, to speak, to confess, to undo months of silence and regret.

Even as the reception unfolded, filled with laughter, celebration, and the hum of happy voices, Horikita remained aware of every detail—his presence, his gaze, the subtle energy between them that had never truly faded. She allowed herself to be swept along, but every step forward was heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions and lingering love.

Ayanokouji’s gaze lingered on her, taking in the subtle curves of her profile, the gentle sweep of her hair, the way the soft lighting caught her eyes and made them glimmer like glass. She looked effortless, yet precise, composed, yet relaxed—a combination he had always found impossible to resist. The faint perfume she wore—the fruity vanilla scent he had chosen so carefully for her graduation—clung softly to her, mixing with the clean aroma of her shampoo and conditioner, and it sent a rush of memories through him.

He blinked, and the world around him seemed to dissolve, replaced by the memory of a plane cabin bathed in warm, golden light. First-class seats stretched luxuriously around them, the hum of the engines distant and soothing. The subtle clinking of cutlery against fine china and the soft murmur of conversation around them faded into background noise. Beside him, Horikita sat with a relaxed elegance, the tension gone, her hand occasionally brushing his as she reached for a bite from his plate, teasing him gently.

The meal was a blur of decadent flavors, unfamiliar and exquisite, yet he barely registered the details. His attention was entirely on her—on the warmth of her shoulder near his, on the way she leaned in just enough to press a fleeting kiss to his jaw, on the mischievous sparkle in her eyes as she snatched a piece of food from his plate. Every small gesture struck him with an intensity that made his chest tighten, and he felt that familiar, maddening pull of desire and affection coiling in him.

Then, suddenly, his lips were on hers. The kiss was electric, sudden, and overwhelming, carrying all the unspoken words and emotions that had built between them. They toppled gently onto the seat, laughter spilling from her lips, bright and unrestrained. She called his name—“Kiyo!”—and it reverberated through him, a sound so intimate and personal that it made his heart swell. That name, reserved for no one else, was a key to a private world only they shared.

He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, planting small, teasing kisses along her skin, each one evoking soft giggles that only made him crave more. Her laughter was a melody, a sound that he had missed in ways he hadn’t realized, and it flooded him with warmth and longing all at once. Her playful protests—“Kiyo! Not here!”—mixed with her laughter, sending a thrill through him that made him grin against her neck.

Horikita’s hands threaded into his hair, tugging gently, guiding him back up to meet her gaze. Her flushed face, sparkling eyes, and soft smile made him fall for her all over again, each glance reinforcing a truth he had carried silently for months: she was his, and he was hers, in ways that went beyond words or titles.

The memory of that moment—the feel of her body against his, the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her hand in his, the taste of her lips—made the current moment at the wedding reception almost unbearable. Ayanokouji shifted slightly, inhaling the familiar fragrance clinging to her, the same scent that had once accompanied him through that luxurious Paris flight.

Horikita sat beside him now, her hands folded neatly in her lap, composure returned like a polished shield, yet her presence triggered the echo of that memory so vividly it made him ache. He could feel her proximity, the slight brush of her shoulder against his, the faint scent still clinging to her, and it ignited the same warmth and desire he had experienced on that plane.

The juxtaposition was sharp. The Paris memory was intimate, private, a perfect world where only the two of them existed. Here, at a wedding reception, the luxury and laughter of others surrounded them, yet it couldn’t erase the pull he felt toward her, the aching reminder of what had been stolen by time, circumstance, and the choices of others.

Karuizawa’s voice, soft but continuous, drifted into his awareness, asking questions, laughing about the ceremony, commenting on the food, but it was distant, almost muted. His mind could only parse fragments; the rest was occupied entirely by Horikita, by the memory, by the magnetism of her presence beside him.

Horikita’s eyes, though focused on her menu, occasionally flicked toward him. Even in the careful composure of her posture, he detected it—the subtle pull of her attention, the unspoken acknowledgement of the space they once occupied together. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but for him, it was a beacon, a reminder of the intimacy and trust they had shared.

The memory on the plane pressed closer, merging with the present. He imagined her laughter echoing here, in this crowded room, the brush of her lips on his jaw, the tug of her fingers in his hair. He felt it all as vividly as if it were happening in real-time, and the ache of distance tightened around his chest.

Horikita’s pulse was faintly audible to him, a gentle rhythm beneath the surface that seemed to sync with the memory. He had always been aware of the small details—the cadence of her breath, the way she adjusted her posture unconsciously, the subtle expressions that flitted across her face. Even now, across the span of months and a wedding reception, nothing about her presence failed to pierce through the veil of his composure.

He allowed himself a subtle shift, just enough to turn slightly toward her, careful not to draw Karuizawa’s attention. The memory of Paris was vivid enough that it almost seemed tangible: the feel of her lips, the warmth of her skin, the sound of her voice, all interwoven with the gentle sway of the plane around them.

The taste of her laughter, the way she had called his name, the feel of her hands moving over his body, lingered in his mind, mixing painfully with the polite, muted tones of the current moment. He blinked once, twice, grounding himself yet unable to completely expel the vivid memory from the forefront of his thoughts.

Horikita, for her part, kept her composure, yet the heat of memory burned in her chest as well. That night in Paris had been theirs, a bubble of intimacy and closeness that neither could replicate here, yet the memory reminded her of the connection that still existed, unbroken and unspoken.

Ayanokouji noticed the faint flush across her cheeks, the subtle tension in her hands, the way her eyes occasionally met his before quickly retreating. It was all small, imperceptible to anyone else, but to him, it was everything—a silent acknowledgment of the bond they still shared.

Even with Karuizawa resting against him, whispering, laughing, he could feel the pull of Horikita, a quiet gravitational force that no distraction could break. He didn’t resist it; instead, he allowed it to ground him, to remind him of what had mattered most for so long, what still mattered, and what could not be erased.

He thought of Paris again, of the private world they had created together. Of kisses that made him fall in love a little more each time. Of laughter that reverberated through him. Of the way her fingers had tangled in his hair, guiding him, teasing him, claiming him as hers.

Horikita kept her hands folded, the menu clutched lightly as if it were a shield. Yet she could not escape the awareness of him, the subtle tension in the space between them, the quiet, electric pull of shared history and unspoken emotion.

The memory of that plane trip pressed closer, mingling with the reality of the wedding reception, creating a sharp, poignant contrast that made the evening feel heavier, more charged. It reminded them both of what they had, what they had lost, and what, even now, lingered beneath the surface, unspoken but undeniable.

Ayanokouji shifted slightly, a fraction of a tilt, just enough to brush against her subtly, testing the space between them without acknowledging it. Horikita felt it, every small movement, and it sent a shiver down her spine, a silent confirmation that despite distance, despite choices, they were still bound in ways neither could deny.

Even as Karuizawa’s voice filled his ear, as the sound of silverware and soft conversation swirled around them, Ayanokouji’s attention remained partially anchored to Horikita. She was beautiful, poised, and entirely hers to admire, even if circumstance demanded restraint.

The memory of Paris lingered like a faint, electric current, making the present feel simultaneously unreal and painfully real. Every subtle glance, every small touch of proximity, every sigh and breath in the crowded room resonated with that moment, bridging the gap between memory and reality.

Horikita’s eyes flicked up again, briefly, toward him, and this time, she held the glance a fraction longer, enough for Ayanokouji to notice the subtle flicker of recognition and longing. Their shared history, their unspoken connection, shimmered between them, quiet but undeniably alive, even amid the chaos and celebration of the reception.

The first course was presented with elegance, the plates placed delicately in front of each guest. Duck À L'orange Bon Bons, accompanied by a glossy citrus dipping sauce, gleamed under the soft reception lights. Horikita’s eyes landed on the dish, and her breath caught in her throat. For a brief moment, the chatter of the wedding guests faded, the clinking of glasses and silverware dulled, and even the weight of Ayanokouji’s presence beside her slipped into the background.

She wasn’t sitting at a long table filled with their former classmates and distant relatives of the bride and groom. No, she was somewhere else entirely. Paris. A restaurant so decadent it almost felt unreal. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers, tables dressed in ivory cloth, the faint hum of French conversations blending with the soft notes of piano music in the background. Across from her sat Ayanokouji, his expression calm as always, yet his presence so grounding it felt as though she had been tethered to him alone in that vast city.

That night, they had ordered Duck À L'orange Bon Bons—delicate, golden bites paired with a citrus sauce so fragrant it lingered in the air before even touching her tongue. She remembered the warmth of the plate between them, how Ayanokouji had, without hesitation, picked up one of the toothpicks, dipped the morsel gently into the sauce, and offered it to her.

She hadn’t been one to let others feed her—it felt childish, unnecessary—but with him, she hadn’t hesitated. Her lips had parted in a small, almost timid smile, and she leaned forward to accept the bite. The sweetness of the orange and the savory richness of the duck had melted together across her tongue, but the taste wasn’t what left her breathless. It was his gaze, steady and unshaken, focused entirely on her as though the bustling world around them had disappeared.

When she finished chewing, she noticed the faintest trace of sauce at the corner of her mouth. She’d reached for her napkin, but he had stopped her, his hand gentle as he leaned forward, his thumb brushing delicately across her lips. The contact had been fleeting, almost cautious, but the tenderness in the action had made her heart stutter.

Then, without a word, he leaned just a little further across the table, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and achingly sweet. He savored it—not just the taste of the sauce on her lips, but the closeness, the intimacy of the moment, the permission she gave him to close the space between them. It wasn’t rushed or impulsive, but slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize the taste of her lips, as if he wanted to stretch each passing second into eternity. She had leaned into it, her fingers curling slightly against the table, savoring the quiet intimacy of it.

When he had pulled back it had been slow, reluctant, as though parting from her caused him actual pain, like separating from something he couldn’t bear to leave behind. He had returned to his seat with that subtle expression she had once teased him about—the faint curl at the corners of his lips, so small it could go unnoticed by anyone else. She had teased him once, calling them “Kiyopon smiles.” He hadn’t argued. He never did when it came to her.

The memory shifted, another scene flashing into place. They weren’t in the restaurant anymore—they were back in his office, the desk cluttered with papers and books, her body perched atop it while his lips traced along the curve of her neck. His hands had held her firmly, grounding her while his mouth peppered soft, unhurried kisses across her skin, trailing lower, then back up again. She had laughed, exasperated but delighted, her fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed her again and again, greedy for every reaction he could draw from her.

He kissed her again and again, each time with more urgency, his hands firm at her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. Her breath caught as she tilted her head back, surrendering to the flood of affection and need that poured from him in waves, raw and unspoken.

It hadn’t been the first time that week, nor the second, nor the third. They had been insatiable, the honeymoon phase stretched into something that felt endless, it’d ever really ended in a sense, not till the relationship crashed and burned. His kisses had been relentless, her laughter constant, and the world outside had seemed so far away, irrelevant compared to the heat of those stolen moments.

She had sighed into his hair, the scent of him wrapping around her like a blanket, the weight of his presence something she hadn’t wanted to live without. For the millionth time that week, she had realized how deeply she had fallen, how much of her heart she had willingly handed over to him.

And then, the memory circled back to the restaurant, to the moment that had seared itself into her mind. His lips had brushed close to her ear after the kiss, his voice low and steady, carrying no more weight than a whisper but enough to make her shiver.

“You taste like the bon bons,” he had murmured.

She had tilted her head, resting her chin in her hands as she smiled at him knowingly. “I wonder why,” she had quipped softly, teasing him with a warmth in her eyes that was reserved for him alone.

He had given her another of those rare, almost imperceptible smiles. The kind she had named, claimed, and treasured. And in that moment, she had known that happiness was real, that she had found it with him.

Now, back at the wedding, Horikita stared down at the identical dish laid out before her. The orange sauce gleamed in the same way, its citrus scent so familiar it felt like a ghost from the past had drifted across the table. Her fingers tightened slightly around the napkin on her lap, and she forced herself to steady her breathing, to compose the face she showed to the world.

But inside, she was reeling. The weight of the memory pressed against her chest, threatening to spill into the present. She couldn’t taste the dish without remembering the way he’d fed her, couldn’t see the sauce without recalling the brush of his thumb, couldn’t breathe in the scent without feeling the heat of his lips lingering on hers.

Every detail of that night—the restaurant, the meal, the kiss, the hotel room, the warmth of his body and the sound of his voice—came rushing back with painful clarity. It was a memory so sweet it twisted into agony now, reminding her of what she had thrown away, what she could never reclaim, no matter how deeply she wanted to.

And yet, even as she sat there, surrounded by laughter and clinking glasses, she clung to it. Because as painful as it was, it was also proof of the love they had shared. Proof that, at least for a while, it had been real. Proof that once, she had been his, and he had been hers.

Her fingers tightened around her napkin again, white-knuckled now. The Duck À L’orange Bon Bons might as well have been poison, served to remind her of everything she had destroyed.

Horikita blinked rapidly, her chest tight as she stared down at the duck before her. The scent, the sight, the very taste of memory threatened to undo her. Her fingers tightened slightly on her lap, but she forced herself to lift her fork, even as her heart trembled at the reminder of everything she had lost.

Horikita forced herself to chew, the tang of citrus and the richness of the duck clawing at her tongue like barbed wire. Her throat ached with every swallow, the taste of memory sharper than any spice. She set her fork down a little too carefully, fingers trembling as she pressed them flat against the linen napkin in her lap. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let them water—not here, not in front of them.

Across from her, Ayanokouji sat like a statue. He ate slowly, mechanically, the food vanishing from his plate though none of it touched him. Each bite was ash, weightless, flavorless, as though his senses had hollowed out. The bon bons reminded him of Paris, of her lips, of the way her laughter had filled his apartment when it used to matter. But now it was all gone, and the world blurred to grayscale. The faint clatter of utensils, the hum of conversation, even Karuizawa’s voice—all of it melted into background static, indistinct, meaningless.

Karuizawa leaned against him again, her perfume brushing against his shoulder as she smiled. “It’s amazing, right?” she said, holding her fork with practiced daintiness. “The flavor’s so rich. I didn’t expect it to be this good.”

Ayanokouji didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, the weight of the fork in his hand feeling like a chain. “...Yeah,” he answered, a clipped murmur that carried no warmth, no interest. He nodded once, the bare minimum of acknowledgment, before bringing another empty bite to his lips.

Horikita’s hand tightened around her napkin, the cloth twisting silently under the strain. She didn’t lift her head, not even when her vision blurred. The air in her chest felt heavy, each inhale shallow, careful, as if one wrong move would let everything inside her spill out for the world to see.

She wanted to stand. To walk away. To tell him to stop looking so hollow, to stop pretending she didn’t still exist beside him. But she stayed rooted in her chair, her pride an iron weight that refused to let her falter.

The silence between them screamed louder than the chatter of the wedding hall.

The second course slid onto the table, steam curling from delicate porcelain bowls of handmade pasta dressed lightly in herbs and olive oil. Horikita stared down at hers, the scent unfamiliar, the sight mercifully free of the ghosts that clung to her first bite of duck. She remembered Ibuki mentioning she favored this dish, that it was simple, clean, filling without being too heavy. Horikita twirled her fork slowly, forcing herself to chew, each bite an act of endurance rather than indulgence. This one didn’t cut as deep. It was neutral, almost forgettable, and for that she was grateful.

Ayanokouji lifted his fork as well, lips parting just enough to let the strands of pasta slip past. The flavor hit him and disappeared instantly, dissolving into the same void as everything else he’d eaten in recent years. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t anything either. A blur of taste, a hollow echo of a meal. He wondered briefly if Ryuen had chosen it for Ibuki, if he’d known exactly what would please her. That thought drifted out of his mind just as quickly, leaving only the monotony of chewing, swallowing, existing.

Their hands rested so close—his near the rim of his plate, hers curled around her fork—yet neither shifted an inch toward the other. Neither dared.

When the third course arrived, the tension deepened. A dessert—something rich and familiar, layered with cream and chocolate, topped with a flourish that was more art than food. Ayanokouji’s eyes lingered on it for a fraction too long. He had seen Ryuen and Ibuki share this countless times back in high school, Ibuki laughing as Ryuen teased her for getting cream on her cheek, Ryuen smirking as though every bite was a performance. The memory was vivid, sharp, and it stabbed deeper than he expected.

Horikita blinked at the dessert as if it might morph into something else if she stared hard enough. She cut a piece, brought it to her lips, and tasted only the weight of the past pressing down on her chest. The sweetness barely registered. She could see Ryuen and Ibuki, even here, even now, sitting so openly in their happiness while she sat stiff and silent beside the man who had once been her everything.

Through it all, the two of them—Ayanokouji and Horikita—remained still. They didn’t speak, not to each other, not about the food, not about anything. Their eyes never met, their gazes locked firmly on plates, forks, the safe spaces between. It was as if silence were the only language they could share anymore.

And yet beneath that silence was a current neither could name aloud. A current of memory, of unspoken ache, of everything that once bound them together and everything they’d forced themselves to sever.

The pasta course sat heavy between them, though it wasn’t the weight of the food that made it difficult to bear—it was the quiet. Horikita let her fork slip between the noodles with practiced precision, twisting, lifting, eating, all without thought. She didn’t bother tasting. Her mind told her this dish didn’t carry the same knife’s edge as the first, no memory attached, no scar reopened. Yet her throat still tightened, as if her body knew better than to trust her own attempts at calm.

Beside her, Ayanokouji mirrored the same mechanical motions. Fork, bite, swallow. He hardly registered the texture. It was all bland, all gray, all hollow. Karuizawa leaned into him, murmuring praise about how delicate the pasta was, how light. He nodded once, expression unchanging, as though responding by instinct alone. His mind wasn’t here with her, nor with the food. It drifted elsewhere, always elsewhere.

Horikita’s eyes lowered to her plate, lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. She tried to remind herself that she was at a wedding, that she should focus on the couple, on Ibuki’s uncharacteristic tears or Ryuen’s strangely steady smile. But her gaze threatened to shift left, to him, always to him. She tightened her grip around her fork, knuckles paling, and forced herself to stay still.

The chatter around the table was lively, voices spilling over one another in a chorus of celebration. Yet the two of them created a bubble of silence, a hollow pocket untouched by laughter or joy. They sat like statues, masks plastered firmly in place, while their hearts battered quietly beneath the surface.

When the plates of pasta were cleared, the momentary reprieve vanished. The servers brought forth the third course, desserts arranged with precision, cream shining under the soft glow of chandeliers. Chocolate layered in delicate sheets, touched with flecks of gold leaf, a spectacle of indulgence.

Ayanokouji’s gaze lingered longer than it should have. He recognized it instantly—not for its artistry, not for its taste, but for the memory it carried. He could see Ryuen and Ibuki years ago, the girl laughing, the boy teasing, their bond visible even then. He remembered watching from the sidelines, detached, uncaring, or at least pretending to be. Now, that memory pressed down on him with a weight he hadn’t expected.

Horikita shifted in her seat, shoulders stiff as she picked up her fork. She cut the dessert delicately, the motion graceful even in her tension. The sweetness touched her tongue, but it might as well have been ash. All she could think of was how laughter carried so easily from Ryuen and Ibuki’s table, how love poured from them with no hesitation, no restraint. It made her chest ache in ways she’d sworn to bury.

The fork slipped from her fingers for a second, nearly clattering against the porcelain. She caught it just in time, heat rising to her cheeks not from embarrassment but from frustration at herself. Her composure felt thinner than glass.

Ayanokouji, too, cut into his portion with methodical precision. He didn’t taste it; he couldn’t. His tongue registered sugar, cream, texture, but none of it mattered. All food was the same to him now. Gray. Lifeless. It had been that way since the spark was gone, since the woman sitting beside him had become nothing more than a memory he couldn’t erase.

The silence between them thickened. It pressed down like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. They could hear the laughter around them, feel the joy filling the air, yet they remained on an island of restraint, locked away from everything but their own unspoken thoughts.

Horikita reached for her water, fingers brushing against the stem of the glass. At the same moment, Ayanokouji shifted, his hand moving toward his own. For a heartbeat, their hands brushed—just a graze, skin to skin.

The contact was fleeting, accidental in every possible sense. Yet it struck them both like lightning.

Horikita’s breath caught, shoulders tightening as though she’d been struck. Her fingers curled quickly around her glass, grip too firm, as if clinging to it might steady the shaking she felt inside. She didn’t dare look at him. She couldn’t.

Ayanokouji’s reaction was invisible to anyone else, but inside, something shifted. The muted static of his mind cracked, a sharp echo ringing in the hollow he carried. His hand retreated swiftly, too swiftly, folding back against his lap as though he’d touched fire.

Neither spoke of it. Neither acknowledged it. But the air between them buzzed louder, heavier, impossible to ignore.

Horikita took a sip of water, forcing her lips to the rim of the glass as if it could hide the tremble that wanted to surface. The cool liquid did nothing to ease the heat crawling up her neck. She set it down carefully, her hand refusing to betray her again.

Ayanokouji’s gaze flicked to her, just for a second. She was angled slightly away from him, shoulders taut, jaw set. The same perfume lingered in the air, the scent that was hers, the one he could never untangle from memory. It curled around him, suffocating and familiar, and he hated how much he wanted to breathe it in deeper.

He turned back to his plate, forcing another bite of dessert past his lips. It was sweet, but still, it tasted like nothing.

Horikita mirrored him, fork lifting, mouth chewing, body playing the part of a guest simply enjoying the evening. Yet her mind spun with the brush of his hand, the way it had jolted her, the way it had reminded her of all the nights they’d once sat closer than this, hands intertwined not by accident but by choice.

Around them, conversation swirled. Toasts rose, laughter echoed, and plates clinked with silverware. Yet the two of them remained locked in their silence, carrying memories far heavier than the food before them.

Each bite became another act of endurance, another reminder of everything they’d lost.

And still, neither dared to meet the other’s eyes.

Ryuen and Ibuki looked every bit the picture of joy at the head table. Their smiles didn’t falter, their hands never strayed from one another’s, and even as guests lined up to congratulate them, they seemed wrapped in their own world. The cake was cut, laughter erupted at the mess Ibuki made smudging frosting on Ryuen’s face, and heartfelt speeches filled the air with warmth. It was the kind of happiness that seemed to radiate outward, settling into every corner of the room.

When the first slow song began, the atmosphere softened. Couples began to drift toward the dance floor, some hesitant, others eager. Karuizawa didn’t hesitate. She pulled at Ayanokouji’s sleeve, a bright smile on her face as she coaxed him up. He rose without protest, though his expression remained unreadable, his eyes half-lidded, his posture too careful.

On the dance floor, he placed his hands on her waist, the contact light, tentative, as if she were fragile—or as if she were venom. She pressed closer anyway, her cheek brushing against his shoulder, her body melting into the crook of his neck as they swayed. Her perfume was strong, cloying, filling his nose, but it failed to mask the emptiness that gnawed at him from the inside.

Ayanokouji moved with her to the rhythm, mechanical, detached, but enough to pass as a man enjoying a dance with his partner. To anyone watching, they could almost look convincing. Almost. His eyes remained distant, drifting past her shoulder, scanning the crowd without intent.

Horikita, seated at the edge of the table, forced herself into conversation with a guest beside her. She nodded when appropriate, made small comments where she could, though her voice felt foreign in her throat. Her wine glass sat untouched before her, condensation sliding down its stem, and she kept her eyes low, fixed on the tablecloth or the shifting lights above.

But inevitably, her gaze betrayed her. Again and again, it drifted toward the dance floor, toward him. She told herself she was simply watching the crowd, the swirling dresses, the couples caught in their own little moments. Yet her eyes always found him, standing stiff, Karuizawa curled against him like ivy clinging to a tree.

Her chest tightened each time, the sight cutting sharper than she’d expected. She tried to turn back to the guest beside her, tried to listen to the jokes and stories being shared. But the words blurred, voices muffled. Her attention fractured, pulled always to the man she once knew better than anyone.

Ayanokouji’s gaze swept the room once more, and for the briefest second, it landed on her. Horikita froze, caught in the act of watching, but he didn’t react. His expression didn’t shift, his eyes didn’t widen. He simply looked at her, unreadable as always, before lowering his gaze back to Karuizawa nestled against him.

The music swelled, filling the room with warmth and longing, but to Horikita, it sounded muted, distant. Her nails dug lightly into her palm beneath the table, the only outlet for the storm roiling inside her.

Around her, the celebration carried on effortlessly. Laughter rang, glasses clinked, Ibuki laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink, and Ryuen kissed her temple without hesitation. Joy surrounded them, unrestrained and honest, yet Horikita felt like an intruder, a spectator to a happiness that slipped through her fingers long ago.

And still, no matter how hard she tried to look away, her eyes kept drifting back to him. Always to him.

The reception had dwindled into something quieter as the night wore on. The music softened, laughter dimmed, and guests began drifting toward the doors in pairs and small groups. Some carried gifts and flowers, others held hands or leaned on each other for support after too many glasses of champagne. The newlyweds were still surrounded, their glow unshaken, but the energy of the celebration was shifting toward its natural end.

Karuizawa leaned upward then, rising on her toes, her lips brushing so close to Ayanokouji’s ear that Horikita almost swore she could feel the whisper herself. Her smile was radiant, practiced, and familiar. Horikita had seen that exact expression countless times before—back when Karuizawa used to wear it as armor in high school, back when it was sharpened like a weapon. But now, years later, it carried something else entirely. Intimacy. Possession. Confidence.

Ayanokouji only nodded. That was all. No words, no smile, not even a flicker of warmth. Just a nod. Yet the nod was enough to answer whatever question had been asked, enough to seal the agreement, enough to push Horikita’s stomach into knots she couldn’t unravel.

When Karuizawa slipped her hand into his and began guiding him toward the exit, Horikita’s chest tightened painfully. She watched them weave through the thinning crowd, his tall frame steady, her bright hair catching the low light. It was such a simple image—two people leaving a wedding together—but to Horikita it was unbearable.

Her mind betrayed her instantly. Images began to bloom behind her eyes faster than she could shut them out. She saw him walking with Karuizawa down a quiet street, his jacket draped over her shoulders the way he once draped it over Horikita’s. She saw his lips against Karuizawa’s, soft and deliberate, the way they had once moved against her own in the privacy of dorm rooms and hotel balconies. She saw his arms lifting Karuizawa as though she weighed nothing, carrying her into a space that should have belonged only to Horikita, the gentleness in every step once hers alone.

The more she tried to force the images away, the clearer they became. They sharpened into unbearable detail. Karuizawa’s laughter spilling out in the dark. His hand brushing against her cheek in that same absentminded tenderness he once gave Horikita without hesitation. His gaze—unreadable to everyone else but not to her—focused on another woman, on someone who wasn’t her.

Horikita’s throat constricted. She pressed her lips together, but it did nothing to stop the trembling breath that escaped. Around her, the remnants of celebration carried on: glasses clinking faintly, chairs being moved, footsteps on polished floors. But she couldn’t hear them properly. The world around her dimmed, reduced to background noise against the storm of thoughts clawing their way through her mind.

She imagined Karuizawa in his bed, the sheets Horikita once knew now tangled around a body that wasn’t hers. She pictured the way his hands would trace someone else’s skin, the way his voice—low, unguarded—might whisper things he once whispered to her. The jealousy twisted violently, feeding on itself, tangled up with the guilt that never left her since the night she ruined everything.

She dug her nails into her palm under the table, willing the images to vanish, punishing herself for conjuring them in the first place. But nothing worked. It was as though every ounce of pain she’d tried to bury resurfaced in that one moment, dragging her down like an anchor tied to her chest.

He was supposed to be hers. That thought burned in her mind with ruthless persistence. It echoed over and over, clashing against the reality that he wasn’t anymore, that she had thrown away every piece of him the moment she betrayed what they had. She remembered every quiet morning, every private joke, every rare smile he’d given her—and then remembered how quickly she’d destroyed it, how she’d replaced it with nothing but ash.

The chair beneath her suddenly felt unsteady. She shifted, adjusting her posture, trying to ground herself, but the air was suffocating. The room that had been filled with warmth and joy now pressed down on her like a weight she couldn’t shake off.

Her eyes lingered on the door where they had disappeared. For a second, she thought about standing up, about following, about forcing herself into the space they now shared. The thought horrified her, but it also tempted her. The idea of interrupting, of breaking the illusion, of somehow clawing back what she’d lost—it surged in her veins like a fever.

But she couldn’t move. She stayed frozen in her chair, her body unwilling to betray the carefully built composure that cracked only in the privacy of her own thoughts. To anyone else, she was simply another guest finishing her drink, another friend watching the newlyweds laugh with their circle. But inside, she was shattering.
Her gaze dropped to the untouched wine glass in front of her. She reached for it finally, fingers trembling just slightly as they wrapped around the stem. She brought it to her lips, the bitter taste spilling over her tongue, but it didn’t help. Nothing dulled the sharp edge of jealousy and regret slicing through her.

The music in the background shifted again, another slow tune filling the room. Couples who remained moved lazily onto the dance floor, swaying together in an intimacy Horikita couldn’t bear to look at. She turned her head away, staring instead at the flickering candles on the tables, at the shadows they cast that seemed to stretch like accusations.

Everywhere she looked, she saw reminders of what she’d lost. The rings on Ryuen and Ibuki’s hands, gleaming symbols of permanence. The way Ibuki leaned into him with effortless trust. The laughter they shared, unburdened by betrayal. All of it dug deeper into Horikita’s wounds.

Her fingers tightened around the glass again. She wished she could leave, but her legs refused to move. Some stubborn, masochistic part of her insisted she stay, insisted she endure the punishment of imagining him with someone else.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. She blinked, forcing back the tears burning behind her eyes, determined not to let anyone see her break. She’d broken enough. She’d given enough reason for pity, for judgment. She couldn’t allow herself to show weakness here, not now.

Still, the images wouldn’t stop. They looped endlessly in her mind, like a cruel film she was forced to watch. Him kissing Karuizawa. Him undressing her with the same patience he once had for Horikita. Him whispering against another woman’s skin, the same man who once whispered her name like a secret.

And worst of all, she imagined him happy. Not just going through the motions, not just tolerating, but happy. That thought hollowed her out more than any other, because it meant he had moved on, because it meant she was the only one still drowning in the past.

She set the glass down too harshly, the sound of it clinking against the table loud in her ears. A few heads turned briefly, but no one lingered. She forced herself to smooth her expression, to keep the mask in place.

The night carried on around her, the remnants of celebration lingering like echoes. But for Horikita, the celebration was over. All that remained was the silence in her chest and the knowledge that she had lost him forever.

And though she sat perfectly still, her mind screamed with the memory of his hands, his smile, his voice—all of which now belonged to someone else.

The city lights stretched out before them in blurs of white and gold, streaming past the windshield as Ayanokouji drove with mechanical precision. His hands gripped the wheel at the same steady angle, his gaze fixed forward, his posture as unyielding as stone. Karuizawa sat beside him in the passenger seat, her voice spilling effortlessly into the space between them. She was recounting the wedding—the flowers, the dress, the music—her tone bubbling with excitement, as though she could relive the entire event simply by telling it aloud.

He didn’t respond, not really. A nod here, a low hum there. Enough acknowledgment to keep her talking, but not enough to make it seem like he was truly listening. In truth, her words slid past him like rain on glass, forming shapes he couldn’t hold onto before they trickled away.

The car itself was newer, sleek, practical. He’d bought it months after the breakup, deliberately retiring the one he had driven back when Horikita sat beside him. That car had too many memories embedded in its fabric, too many moments clinging to the upholstery. He couldn’t bear the thought of another woman occupying the space that used to belong to her. Every time he imagined it, it felt like a violation of something sacred, something he had already lost.

But even as he told himself that changing the car severed the tie, he knew it hadn’t. Because now, sitting in this pristine replacement, he still couldn’t stop remembering what used to be.

If it had been Horikita next to him, he wouldn’t have been driving like this—rigid, careful, detached. His right hand would have slid from the wheel to rest on her thigh, his touch casual yet intimate, a silent claim that belonged only to her. He would have pressed absentminded kisses to her hand when she laced her fingers with his, would have leaned over at red lights to nip teasingly at her ear or trail soft kisses along her neck and shoulders, drawing laughter from her lips he never heard from anyone else.

But it wasn’t Horikita.

It was Karuizawa.

And no matter how much she talked, no matter how brightly she smiled in the passing glow of streetlights, he couldn’t remember why she was here instead. Couldn’t remember how he had allowed her to take that place, to sit where Horikita once belonged. It was like walking into a room you’d always known, only to find the furniture rearranged, the light strange, the air foreign.

His chest ached in the quiet places between her words. Every laugh she gave, every gesture she made, seemed wrong—not because of what they were, but because of what they weren’t. They weren’t Horikita’s. They weren’t hers.

The red light ahead forced the car to slow. He glanced briefly at the glow washing over the dashboard, and the ghost of old habits tugged at him. His hand twitched toward her, the phantom pull of something he used to do. But he stopped himself, fingers tightening around the wheel instead.

The silence inside him grew heavier, louder, suffocating despite the sound of her voice. He drove on, the city stretching endlessly ahead, and tried not to think about how easily the world had changed without his consent.

And how nothing—no car, no passenger, no conversation—could erase the fact that it still felt like she should have been there instead.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of Karuizawa’s house, the headlights casting sharp white beams across the neat front steps. Ayanokouji shifted into park, his movements slow, deliberate, as though buying himself a few extra seconds of stillness before facing what came next. Karuizawa was still talking, her voice softening now that the night had settled. She gestured toward the house, her words light, as if hinting at something without daring to say it outright.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he watched her as she gathered her things, her smile bright despite the fatigue that had begun to tug at the edges of her expression. She opened the passenger door, the interior light spilling across her face as she turned back to him with an almost expectant glimmer in her eyes. He followed her out of the car without hesitation, though not with eagerness. His steps trailed behind hers, heavy, mechanical, as if every footfall carried the weight of someone else’s memory.

At the door, she fumbled for her keys, laughing lightly at her own clumsiness, the way she always did when nervous. He stood a step back, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on her movements, but not really seeing them. He was caught between the present and something that lingered like a shadow—Horikita’s face, Horikita’s silence, the way she used to look at him without words and still say everything.

The lock clicked open. Karuizawa turned to him then, pausing in the doorway. Her lips curved into a smaller, softer smile, her eyes lifting to meet his. There was an unspoken question there, hanging between them, a question she seemed sure of the answer to. A kiss, a hug, something to anchor the night in a sense of intimacy.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, his voice broke the silence, low and flat. “Good night.”

Karuizawa blinked, her smile faltering for just a heartbeat before she recovered. She pouted, tilting her head up at him with playful indignation. “What? No kiss?”

The words hung in the air like a trap he hadn’t seen coming. Ayanokouji froze, his body betraying him as his breath stalled. His first instinct was to step back, to shake his head, to let the moment slip away without indulging it. But hesitation gripped him, held him in place. Her expectant gaze bore into him, waiting, demanding, needing something from him.

Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned down. The movement felt foreign, rehearsed, as though his body were following a script that didn’t belong to him. His lips met hers in the lightest of touches, a small, chaste kiss, stripped of warmth, stripped of meaning.

Even then, it burned.

It felt like poison seeping into his veins, each second of contact a betrayal not to Karuizawa, but to something that no longer existed. To someone who no longer stood beside him. It was as if he had pressed his lips to the memory of Horikita and shattered it in the same breath.

Karuizawa didn’t notice. Or maybe she didn’t want to. She leaned back with a satisfied little grin, her pout replaced by triumph, as though she had claimed something important from him. “That’s better,” she said lightly, her tone dripping with sweetness.

But inside, he felt hollow.

The kiss had left no trace, no echo, no tether. It hadn’t been grounding—it had been suffocating. He could almost feel Horikita’s absence more strongly in that moment, the empty space she left behind pressing against him like a weight. It wasn’t just that Karuizawa wasn’t her—it was that by kissing her, even in so small a way, he had widened the distance between himself and the woman he couldn’t forget.

He straightened slowly, his face betraying nothing, though his chest felt as though it might crack under the pressure. Karuizawa was still smiling, still basking in what she thought was a moment of closeness. She didn’t see the tension in his shoulders, didn’t hear the silent scream in his head.

“Good night,” he repeated, his tone unchanged, almost clipped.

Karuizawa nodded, still grinning, still entirely oblivious. “Good night. Drive safe, okay?”

He gave a faint nod, one hand already moving toward the car keys in his pocket, desperate for the distraction of movement, of escape. She lingered for a moment longer, watching him as though expecting him to say something more. But when he didn’t, she stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a final, echoing click.

He stood there in the silence that followed, staring at the door long after she had disappeared inside. The weight in his chest only deepened, pressing down until breathing felt difficult. That kiss—it had been nothing, and yet it had been everything. A fracture. A reminder. A quiet betrayal of the one thing he had left that was still his: his memory of Horikita.

The car felt colder when he slipped back into it, the leather against his palms unfamiliar and harsh. He gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, his reflection in the darkened windshield hollow, almost unrecognizable.

The engine purred to life as Ayanokouji turned the key, but the sound grated on his ears. It was too loud, too sharp, dragging him out of silence when silence was all he wanted. He pulled away from Karuizawa’s house with mechanical precision, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. On the outside, he was calm—anyone passing by would see a man driving home late at night without a care in the world. But inside, it was chaos.

The kiss lingered like a toxin, its aftertaste sour on his lips. He wiped his mouth against the back of his hand as though he could erase it, but it wasn’t the kiss itself that unsettled him—it was what it represented. A choice. A surrender. A moment where he’d given into something he hadn’t wanted, betraying the ghost of the woman who still lived in every corner of his mind.

Streetlights flashed by in streaks of yellow, each one carving shadows across his face. With every mile, the ache in his chest deepened. He tried to tell himself it hadn’t mattered, that it was just a meaningless brush of lips, a performance for someone else’s satisfaction. But his mind wouldn’t let it go. He saw Horikita’s face, the way her eyes used to narrow when she teased him, the rare softness in her expression when she let her guard down. He heard her voice, quiet and firm, calling him “Kiyo” in a way no one else ever would.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. It wasn’t just memory—it was punishment. His brain replayed their Paris trip, the laughter, the stolen kisses, the way she used to steal food off his plate with a smirk. That was real. That was living. Tonight had been something else entirely. Empty.

The city blurred around him, lights and buildings reduced to smudges against the windshield. He could feel it happening again—the world flattening into monotone, his senses dulling. Food, sound, sight, all of it had already been losing its edge ever since she walked away. Tonight’s kiss felt like the final push, the seal on a coffin he’d been lowering himself into for years.

His foot pressed harder on the accelerator, the car speeding down the road, but the rush didn’t bring him relief. Instead, it only amplified the hollowness inside. It felt as though he was trying to outrun something that was already lodged in his chest, something that followed no matter how fast he drove.

He rolled down the window, letting the night air whip against his face, sharp and cold. It bit at his skin, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. He wanted to feel something—pain, anger, anything other than this crushing emptiness. But all he got was the faint echo of Horikita’s laughter in his head, fading with every mile.

At a red light, he stopped. His hand hovered over the passenger seat instinctively, as if expecting hers to be there, resting lightly on his thigh, warm and grounding. But the seat was empty, as it had been for years. He stared at it until the car behind him honked, snapping him back to the present. He pressed the gas without looking, his expression unreadable.

For the briefest moment, he considered turning back. Not to Karuizawa’s house, but to Horikita. To knock on her door, to tell her that the kiss had meant nothing, that he hadn’t forgotten, that he couldn’t forget even if he tried. But the thought dissolved almost as quickly as it surfaced. Too much time had passed. Too many bridges had burned.

Instead, he kept driving, the city thinning into quieter streets. His apartment waited at the end of this road, but he couldn’t bring himself to look forward to it. Four walls, silence, and the weight of everything he’d lost—that was all that waited for him there.

His chest tightened, and for the first time in years, he felt something close to fear. Not fear of dying, or of the White Room catching up to him, but fear of the life he was living now. A life where every day blurred into the next, where even kisses felt like poison, where Horikita’s memory was both the only thing keeping him alive and the thing that hurt the most.

He pulled over suddenly, parking the car by the side of the road. His hands dropped from the wheel, falling into his lap as he leaned back in the seat. He closed his eyes, but all he saw was her—her hand brushing his, her voice calling his name, her lips pressing against his with a warmth that made the world feel alive.

And then he saw Karuizawa’s pout, her triumphant smile after that kiss, and the contrast was unbearable. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, as though he could force the image away. It didn’t work. Nothing worked.

The silence pressed in on him, louder than any noise. He reached for his phone, hesitating for a long moment before unlocking it. Horikita’s number was still there, saved, untouched, like an artifact from a life that no longer belonged to him. His thumb hovered over the call button, his chest tightening with each passing second.

But he didn’t press it.

He dropped the phone into the passenger seat and stared straight ahead, his eyes empty. The red light of a distant sign reflected off the windshield, staining everything in front of him with the color of warning, of danger, of blood.

The world was bland, muted, colorless. But her memory was still vivid—too vivid. And as he sat there in the dark, caught between past and present, Ayanokouji realized with a quiet, devastating certainty that he wasn’t living anymore. He was only existing, haunted by the ghost of someone he could never let go.

Horikita gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles burned, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white as she sped through the streets. Her chest felt hollow, yet unbearably heavy at the same time, as though her lungs were collapsing under the weight of her own thoughts. She replayed every detail she’d seen at the wedding—Karuizawa’s smile, the way she leaned against him, the way Ayanokouji had allowed it. Allowed her. The same boy who once whispered to her that she was the only one, that she was enough, had turned away from her so cleanly, so efficiently, as if their years together had amounted to nothing more than a discarded page in a book.

Her breath came unevenly, shallow and fast. The idea of him—of them—still twisted her insides raw. She pictured Karuizawa in his apartment right now, curled against him, his lips pressed against hers, his hands exploring the same skin he used to touch so tenderly. The same lips, the same hands, the same warmth that once belonged to Horikita alone. The thought broke something inside her, made her want to scream, made her want to tear apart every memory until nothing remained.

But she couldn’t erase them. She couldn’t erase him. No matter how much she wanted to.

Her phone was on the seat beside her, screen glowing faintly, and before she realized it, her fingers had already grabbed it. She unlocked it in a daze, the pattern of swipes engraved in muscle memory. It wasn’t Ayanokouji’s name she searched for—she knew better than to call him, to beg, to hear silence on the other end. Instead, she scrolled, scrolled until her finger froze over a name she hadn’t touched in months. Nagumo.

Her chest tightened as she tapped it. The dial tone lasted only a second before his voice slipped through, smooth and easy, as if he had been expecting her. “What’s up?”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. Her throat closed, her breath shuddered, her chest ached like she’d run miles without stopping. He sounded relaxed, maybe even smug, his voice stretching with casual amusement. She imagined him sprawled in his hot tub, a glass in hand, heat curling around him in lazy clouds. It made her feel sick and desperate all at once.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Only ragged breaths, broken and uneven. She wanted to say no, to hang up, to take the phone and throw it out the window, but the silence that followed was too heavy. Too exposing. She couldn’t carry it.

Nagumo didn’t press her. He never had to. “You comin’ over?” he asked, smooth and knowing, the kind of man who never doubted the answer.

Her grip on the phone trembled. Her eyes burned. The words lodged in her throat like thorns, choking her, but her head still bobbed in a nod he couldn’t see. She hated herself for it, hated how easy it was, hated how her body moved without her heart’s permission.

“How long?” he asked again, voice even, water shifting in the background. Maybe he was standing now, stepping out, already preparing. Already certain.

She swallowed hard, forcing sound through the tightness in her chest. “Ten—ten minutes,” she whispered, her voice trembling as though the words themselves could shatter her.

There was a pause, then the faint ripple of water, a creak of wood, maybe the rustle of a towel. She could hear it all, every detail sharpening in her ears, because it meant he was waiting. Waiting for her.

“Alright, see you then,” Nagumo said, calm, unshaken, before the line went dead.

The screen went black in her hand. She set the phone down on the passenger seat and tightened her grip on the wheel, her knuckles pale in the glow of the streetlights. The silence that filled the car was suffocating, pressing in on her until her chest ached all over again.

But she kept driving.

Even when every turn of the wheel felt like betrayal. Even when her heart screamed at her to stop. Even when her mind begged her to turn back.

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Horikita’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as she drove through the city streets, her knuckles whitening with the pressure. The words of Nagumo’s voice still lingered in her ear, casual and easy, so unlike the storm brewing inside her. The thought of Ayanokouji with Karuizawa played in her mind on a loop, an image that stabbed at her chest with every repetition. She couldn’t make it stop—couldn’t stop seeing his hands on Karuizawa’s skin, his lips pressed against hers, his quiet voice murmuring words that used to be only hers.

Every corner she turned seemed to sharpen her misery. The streetlights streaked across her windshield, flashing reminders of what she’d lost. Her breath came in shallow bursts, uneven, and though her eyes were on the road, her mind was elsewhere. She kept remembering the way he used to look at her, those rare, fleeting smiles that felt like secrets only she was ever allowed to see. She remembered the warmth of his hand brushing hers, the weight of his gaze, the way he kissed her like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

But now—now he kissed Karuizawa. Now he went home to her. The thought made Horikita’s stomach twist with something sharp, bitter, and self-destructive. She hated herself for caring this much, hated herself for wanting him when she had been the one to walk away. She told herself she deserved this pain. She told herself it was her punishment for being foolish enough to think she could keep him forever.

Her phone sat in the passenger seat, the screen dim, Nagumo’s name still at the top of her recent calls. He was waiting for her. Waiting with an ease that made everything feel too simple. Nagumo wasn’t love—he never had been—but he was there, and sometimes that was all that mattered. He could fill the silence, ease the ache, distract her from the endless cycle of thoughts clawing at her.

She turned onto a quieter street, the familiar path to Nagumo’s place pulling her forward as though she were on rails. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat echoing louder than the last, and yet she didn’t slow down. Ten minutes—she’d said ten minutes. And she was almost there.

Her mind wandered back to the wedding, to the way Ayanokouji hadn’t looked at her even once, not really. How he’d let Karuizawa cling to him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. How he hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t resisted. Had he ever loved her? Or had she simply imagined it all, built a world around small smiles and quiet words that meant nothing in the end?

She swallowed hard, fighting the sting in her throat. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to give him that power over her anymore. But the tears burned anyway, blurring the street ahead until she blinked them back with force. Her vision steadied just as she passed another intersection, her hands trembling against the wheel.

Nagumo’s voice replayed in her head, easy and steady. You comin’ over? The words were a lifeline, an escape route. He hadn’t asked why, hadn’t pressed. He didn’t care about the mess she was in, not really—but that was comforting in its own way. He wanted her there, and for now, that was enough.

She thought of what awaited her. His apartment, probably dimly lit, the warmth of the hot tub she’d heard in the background, the careless smirk he’d wear when she walked in. It wouldn’t be gentle, not like with Ayanokouji. Nagumo’s touch had always been sharper, bolder, meant to remind her that he was there, that he could give her something if she wanted it badly enough.

But it wouldn’t be love. And she knew that.

Her chest ached at the thought of letting someone else touch her, someone else kiss her, when all she wanted was for it to be Ayanokouji again. Yet wasn’t that the point? To drown out the longing, to bury the memories under something reckless, something that didn’t pretend to be more than it was.

The car turned again, her body moving out of habit more than thought. She knew the way well enough—she’d been here before. Too many times when she hadn’t wanted to think, when the silence of her own apartment had felt unbearable. And each time she told herself it didn’t mean anything. That Nagumo was just a distraction. But the distractions never worked for long.

Her phone buzzed once, a message lighting up the screen. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. Nagumo, probably telling her the door was unlocked, or to hurry up. She ignored it, her eyes locked on the road ahead.

Her heart was beating too fast now, her throat dry. She wondered what Ayanokouji was doing at that exact moment. Was he lying in bed beside Karuizawa? Was he kissing her, touching her, making her laugh the way he used to make Horikita laugh when she let her guard down? The thought tore through her like a blade.

She gritted her teeth and pushed the accelerator harder. The faster she drove, the quicker she could get there, the sooner she could stop thinking. Nagumo would make sure of that. He always did.

But even as she pulled into his street, even as her headlights illuminated the familiar building, she felt the weight in her chest grow heavier. No matter what she did, no matter how tightly she clung to someone else, she couldn’t shake him. Ayanokouji was still there, in every breath, in every heartbeat, in every tear she refused to shed.

She parked, cutting the engine, and for a long moment she just sat there, staring at the building. Her reflection in the window looked tired, hollow, broken in ways she couldn’t fix. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, breathing hard, her body trembling.

When she finally moved, it was automatic. She opened the door, stepped out, and shut it softly behind her. The night air was cool against her skin, but it didn’t calm her. Nothing could. She walked to the door with heavy steps, her phone buzzing again in her pocket.

Nagumo was waiting. And she was here.

But deep down, she knew exactly whose name her heart was still screaming.

Nagumo opened the door before Horikita could knock, the faint creak of the hinges punctuating the night. His eyes glinted with amusement, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Took you long enough,” he teased, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Horikita rolled her eyes, brushing past the words and the smirk. “Don’t act like you were waiting,” she muttered, the tension in her shoulders betraying the storm of emotions inside her.

Before she could react further, Nagumo closed the distance between them. His lips were on hers suddenly, roughly, fiercely. The kiss was sharp, demanding, and all at once overwhelming. His hands came up, cupping her face tightly as though trying to anchor her in the moment. Horikita responded immediately, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a white-knuckled intensity, her groans muffled into the kiss as the pressure of everything she had bottled up came spilling out.

There was no hesitation, no pause. Nagumo’s grip shifted, lifting her effortlessly from the ground without breaking contact, and the pair disappeared into the apartment, swallowed by shadows and the quiet hum of the night. The door clicked softly behind them, isolating them from the rest of the world.

Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Horikita’s breath came in short, uneven bursts as she pressed herself against him, feeling every inch of his strength and the tension coiled beneath it. Every touch, every press of lips against lips, stoked a fire she hadn’t realized was smoldering inside her.

Nagumo’s hands roamed with deliberate force, tracing lines over her back and shoulders, pulling her closer with a possessive insistence. She could feel the heat of him against her, the power in his grip, and despite the chaos of her emotions, there was a strange comfort in the certainty of it all. Here, no one else existed. Here, the world had shrunk to the space between their bodies.

Horikita’s thoughts spun wildly even as she lost herself in him. Ayanokouji—the ghost of him—still lingered in the back of her mind, a pang of longing that no amount of Nagumo’s rough attention could erase. And yet, for the first time since the wedding, she allowed herself to feel something that wasn’t sharp with regret or sorrow.

Every movement, every groan, every heated breath pressed into her skin was private, sacred in its secrecy. The night had no witnesses. No judgment. No one to see the fire burning behind their locked doors.

Nagumo’s lips traveled to the nape of her neck, leaving trails of heat that made her shiver and arch instinctively into him. Her hands clutched at him, digging into his back as though she could hold on tightly enough to make the world outside disappear.

Time ceased to exist in that apartment. Minutes felt like seconds, and seconds stretched like hours. Every kiss, every touch, every gasp echoed in the quiet space, blending together in a rhythm that belonged entirely to them.

Horikita’s mind tried to scatter, tried to fight, but the raw intensity of Nagumo’s passion demanded attention. There was no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. Only the friction of their bodies, the mingling of breaths, the heat of skin against skin.

She felt herself trembling, every nerve alight, as his hands explored with deliberate, commanding precision. The weight of her desires, her frustrations, and her anger found release in the press of their bodies against each other.

Nagumo’s voice was low, gravelly with need, murmuring fragments of possessive pleasure that set her skin on fire. Each word, each growl, was a reminder that they were alone, that this moment was theirs alone.

Horikita’s fingers raked through his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to erase the space between them entirely. His grip tightened on her waist, on her thighs, guiding her with a strength that left her dizzy.

The apartment walls seemed to contract around them, enclosing them in a world of heat and shadow. The outside world—the city, the wedding, Ayanokouji—didn’t exist. Only this night, this fire, this intensity, held meaning.

She felt herself arching into him, following the rhythm he set, giving herself to the moment without restraint. Every touch ignited something that had been dormant, every kiss fanned the flames of a long-suppressed need.

Nagumo shifted effortlessly, tilting her in his arms, pressing her against the couch, the table, the bed, the boundaries of the room dissolving in the wake of their fevered motions.

Her moans filled the space, muffled but insistent, harmonizing with his rough breaths and murmurs. Each sound was a pulse, a beat in the private symphony of their night.

Horikita’s head spun as every thought of the outside, every pang of guilt or longing, dissolved in the overwhelming fire consuming her body. The intensity of their passion left no room for hesitation, no space for memory, no place for doubt.

The night stretched on, a blur of heat and skin and desire, until the quiet moments began to punctuate the rhythm—breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together, chests rising and falling in sync. The fire had ebbed, but the warmth lingered, leaving a shiver of satisfaction running through her.

When they finally paused, locked in each other’s arms, the weight of secrecy wrapped around them like a cocoon. No one else would know. No one else needed to know.

Outside, the city slept, indifferent and unaware. Inside, Horikita and Nagumo existed in a bubble of stolen time, a sanctuary of fleeting passion and temporary reprieve from the world that demanded her heart elsewhere.

Her mind still flickered with the ghost of Ayanokouji, but for now, it was just a shadow, kept at bay by the heat, the closeness, and the undeniable need that pulsed between her and Nagumo.

In that small apartment, in that secret night, Horikita allowed herself to surrender to the moment, to the fire, to the rhythm of bodies and breaths intertwined. The world beyond the door did not exist, and she clung to that, letting the storm of everything else fade into a distant hum.

The night would end with them locked together, hearts pounding, bodies spent, secrets intact, and desires sated. And for that night, that one stolen sliver of time, Horikita allowed herself to exist in the present, away from memory, away from regret, away from the one she could not reach.