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.

Chapter Text

Ayanokouji sat in his office, the skyline stretching endlessly before him. The glass walls reflected a version of himself he no longer recognized: suit perfectly pressed, hair neatly styled, eyes deadened. The city was alive beyond the pane, but it all looked like a film playing in the background, blurred and distant, as though he weren’t really part of it. His desk, sleek black wood polished to perfection, should have been grounding. Instead, its surface looked gray to him, stripped of texture and warmth. Even the faint hum of electronics that once reminded him of productivity now grated against his ears, buzzing too loud yet too soft all at once.

His computer screen glared in front of him, filled with documents waiting for approval, emails blinking with insistence. He stared at the words but they dissolved into meaningless shapes, fragments of language without weight. The pixels of the monitor felt painfully sharp, as if each light was cutting into his eyes. The office around him moved in muffled rhythms—colleagues talking, keyboards tapping, phones ringing—but all of it faded into a haze. It was like being underwater, hearing the world in muffled fragments that never quite reached him.

Months had passed since the wedding, but the weight of it hadn’t left him. The image of Horikita’s face, pale and unreadable, haunted him like a ghost. He remembered the way her eyes had lingered on him across the reception hall, the way her hand had brushed his, the way she had turned her gaze away so quickly. Those moments burned themselves into his memory, cruel reminders of what he had lost—or worse, what he had destroyed. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her in flashes: sitting beside him at this very desk, quietly watching the skyline; sitting across from him at dinner, giving small critiques about his cooking; asleep against his shoulder on nights when the world outside seemed too heavy.

Now, the chair beside his desk was empty. It had been for so long it should have felt normal by now. But it didn’t. The emptiness of that space was louder than any noise in the building. He would sometimes find himself glancing at it unconsciously, expecting her presence like a phantom limb, a habit he couldn’t unlearn. His hand would twitch toward the edge of the desk, almost wanting to reach across it and touch hers, only to find nothing there.

He thought back to Karuizawa. He thought of her laughter, her soft voice, the way she clung to him. But even those memories felt hollow. He could still feel the chaste kiss he had given her that night, cold and foreign, like pressing his lips to ice. He had told himself it was what he was supposed to do, that moving on was the logical path. And yet the taste of it lingered with bitterness, a reminder of betrayal—not to Horikita, but to himself.

Every attempt to move forward had only dragged him further into a spiral. His routines, once precise and calculated, had lost their structure. He skipped meals, his sleep was fragmented, his focus splintered. Meetings blurred into each other, and he found himself repeating the same empty phrases just to get through them. He was efficient still—he always had been—but efficiency meant nothing without purpose. He felt like a machine operating on reflex, not a man living a life.

Sometimes, in the stillness of late nights when the office emptied out, he would rest his forehead against the glass and stare down at the glowing city. He would wonder if Horikita was out there, somewhere among the countless lights. Was she looking up at the same skyline, thinking of him? Or had she found comfort elsewhere, someone to fill the silence he had left behind? The thought tightened in his chest until he could hardly breathe.

He replayed every choice he had made since the end. The way he had let her walk away, the way he hadn’t stopped her, the way he had told himself it was for the best. He had thought distance would free her, give her the life she deserved. But all it had done was hollow him out. It felt like returning to the White Room—cold, sterile, colorless. Everything muted. Everything gray. The one spark that had made him feel alive was gone, and without it, the world had returned to its original state of nothingness.

There were moments when his façade cracked, moments no one else saw. At night, alone in his apartment, he sometimes found himself sitting in the dark for hours, staring at the doorway as though expecting her to walk through it. He would imagine the sound of her keys against the lock, her soft sigh as she kicked off her shoes, the way her voice would carry through the quiet. But no one ever came.

When exhaustion overtook him, his dreams betrayed him further. He dreamed of her—sometimes of the warmth of her hand in his, sometimes of the way her voice had softened when she said his name. But just as often, he dreamed of her walking away, her figure vanishing into the crowd, her back turned to him forever. He woke from those dreams with his chest aching and his throat raw, though he never remembered making a sound.

He tried distractions—books, strategy games, endless reports—but nothing worked. The emptiness seeped into everything, a poison that dulled his senses. Food tasted like ash, music like static, sunlight like glare. The few times he forced himself into social gatherings, he found the noise unbearable, the laughter grating. He envied the ease with which others seemed to live, to smile, to connect.

And always, at the center of it, was her. Horikita, the one constant in his thoughts, the wound that refused to close. He wondered if she hated him now, if she thought he had discarded her so easily. He wondered if she had found comfort in another’s arms. The thought twisted like a knife, but he couldn’t stop himself from imagining it. And perhaps, in a way, he felt he deserved it.

The office clock ticked on, but time no longer felt real. Hours bled into each other, days vanished without meaning. His colleagues praised his composure, his steady leadership, but it was all a mask. Inside, he was unraveling. He couldn’t be normal anymore. Not without her. Not when the very act of living felt like dragging himself through the remnants of a life that had slipped from his grasp.

For the first time in years, Ayanokouji found himself questioning the point of it all. He had survived the White Room, he had conquered every challenge placed before him, he had built a life in the outside world. But without her, what was the purpose of it? What good was freedom if it only felt like another cage, colder than the one he had escaped?

He leaned back in his chair, the city still glowing beyond the glass, the silence pressing in around him. His hands trembled faintly, though he kept them folded neatly in his lap. The mask would hold for another day, another week, another month. But beneath it, the spiral deepened. And as much as he told himself he could endure it, he knew the truth: he wasn’t the same. He would never be the same again.

He stood up suddenly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor, a sound sharp enough to cut through the suffocating silence of the office. The city sprawled beneath him, an endless stretch of light and motion, yet to him it all felt still, meaningless, empty. He walked slowly toward the window, each step heavier than the last, until he was standing right against the glass. The cool surface met his palm as he pressed his hand flat against it, grounding himself in the sensation. He leaned forward slightly, his reflection merging with the glittering skyline, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined her standing beside him.

In his mind, her figure appeared so clearly it hurt. He could see her reflection shimmering faintly in the glass next to his, her dark hair brushing her shoulders, her eyes narrowed with that usual mix of determination and restraint. He could almost hear the faint sound of her voice, low and careful, asking him about his day in that way she always did—like she didn’t want to pry, but wanted to know everything at the same time. His throat constricted, and he nearly turned, nearly whispered her name aloud, but the reality was unforgiving. There was no one there. Just him. Always just him.

The silence closed in around him as a memory broke through unbidden, vivid enough to leave his breath uneven. He remembered the night she had visited him here, back when the office wasn’t just a place for work, but a place they had stolen moments for themselves. The memory came in fragments first—the rustle of fabric, the faint fog of their breaths against the glass—but then sharpened into clarity.

He saw her pressed against the window, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly, her warmth grounding him as much as the glass had contained her. He had kissed her with a mix of gentleness and urgency, every touch speaking words he never dared to say aloud. The city had stretched below them just as it did now, an indifferent audience to their closeness, the flickering lights illuminating her flushed skin as if the world itself had turned to spotlight them.

He remembered the sound of her voice breaking through his kisses, half a complaint and half a laugh, muttering about how reckless he was, about the absurdity of being so close to the edge of the glass. She had clung to him tightly, nails digging faint crescents into his suit jacket, her words catching between breaths. “What if it breaks?” she had asked, her tone wavering between scolding and teasing. He remembered the taste of her skin beneath his lips, the little sounds that she made when he nipped her skin, the way she scolded him in that soft, clipped voice, half-serious and half-flustered, worrying about the window giving way beneath them.

He had murmured into the curve of her neck, his lips brushing her skin as he whispered promises he never made to anyone else. Promises that nothing would happen to her, that he would never let the glass, the city, or the world itself harm her. His voice had been steady, calm, the way it always was, but with her, the words carried weight. And in her quiet acceptance—the way she sighed and leaned into him—he had felt something close to peace.

Now, standing alone, that peace was gone. All that remained was the echo of her voice, the phantom of her warmth, and the cruel irony of an unbroken window reflecting only his own solitary figure. The memory clung to him, wrapping around his chest like a vice, and for a moment he thought he could still feel her arms around his shoulders, grounding him against the world. But when he blinked, the illusion shattered.

The skyline blurred before his eyes, and he realized his breath had quickened without him noticing. He pressed his forehead against the glass, closing his eyes tightly as if shutting them could bring her back, as if the darkness behind his eyelids would be kinder than the hollow reflection staring back at him. His hand flattened more firmly against the window, a desperate attempt to hold onto something real, something solid, while the memory of her slipped further away.

He remembered her scent, faint and familiar, how it had lingered on his suits for days afterward. He remembered the way her voice had softened when she finally gave up on arguing about the glass, when she let herself relax in his arms. He remembered the way her pulse had fluttered beneath his lips as he whispered those quiet reassurances that only she was meant to hear. These fragments came together in a rush so sharp it left his chest aching.

And then the silence returned, heavy and merciless. The office behind him was still alive with distant sounds—keyboards, footsteps, muffled voices—but none of it touched him. The memory had left him raw, exposed, and unbearably aware of how far he had fallen since those days. He wasn’t the same man anymore. Without her, he was only a shadow moving through routines, going through motions that meant nothing.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the city once more. The lights flickered faintly, cars moving like streams of red and white far below. Somewhere out there, she existed. Somewhere, she was breathing, walking, living. But she was no longer here, no longer beside him, no longer pressed close to him as the world spun on without their shared presence.

The glass was cool against his skin, but his chest burned as if something inside him was caving in. He wanted to speak her name, just once, to hear the sound of it in the air again. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The silence between them had become a barrier he no longer knew how to break. And so he stood there, hand against the glass, haunted by the memory of her warmth and the reality of her absence.

He stayed that way for a long time, long enough for the city lights to blur together into a meaningless haze. The reflection in the window never changed. It was always just him. Always.

The knock at the door barely registered at first, just a hollow sound echoing through the cavernous silence of his office. Ayanokouji didn’t turn right away, his forehead still pressed against the cool glass, his hand lingering there as though letting go would mean surrendering the ghost of the memory he’d been clutching.

The door creaked open, tentative, and his assistant’s voice slipped into the room. “Mr. Ayanokouji,” she said softly, her tone cautious, as if she were stepping into a space she wasn’t sure she belonged. Her voice was light, almost fragile, carrying the weight of someone who respected boundaries but was also quietly concerned.

“Should I call for the valet, sir?” she asked after a moment, her words carefully chosen, as though she had debated speaking at all. Her gaze flicked unconsciously toward the clock on the wall. The hands pointed to just past ten. It was late—too late for him to still be here, trapped in silence and shadows.

The sound of her question pulled him back into the present, though only slightly. His eyes lifted toward the clock as hers had, following the sweep of the second hand. Just past ten. He hadn’t noticed the hours slipping away, hadn’t realized how long he had been standing there with the city below him, his body still, his mind lost in memories.

His assistant lingered in the doorway, shifting her weight nervously, but she didn’t step further in. She’d seen him like this before—aloof, detached, lost in thought—but tonight something about him seemed heavier, more distant. She clasped her hands together in front of her, waiting for an answer.

Ayanokouji finally shifted, pulling his hand away from the glass. The faint print of his palm lingered against the window for a moment before fading into nothing, much like the memory that had consumed him. He turned halfway, his eyes glancing toward her but not really meeting hers. His expression was unreadable, his voice calm and quiet as ever, but there was an edge of exhaustion buried beneath.

“It’s late,” he murmured, almost more to himself than to her.

The assistant hesitated. She knew better than to press him, but the sight of her employer—standing there in the half-light of the office, suit rumpled, tie loosened, his posture weighed down—made her chest tighten with unspoken worry. She offered a polite nod, her voice careful.

“Yes, sir. The valet can have your car ready in a few minutes. Or…” She paused, gathering her courage. “If you’d prefer, I can call a driver instead. It’s been a long day.”

He blinked at her, the suggestion hanging in the air. For a heartbeat, he thought of all the drives he used to take late at night, when she was still with him. He thought of the passenger seat, the way her perfume filled the air, the way her laughter broke through the silence of the city streets. The memory was sharp, sudden, and it almost made him flinch.

The assistant shifted again, misinterpreting his silence as indecision. “It’s no trouble, sir,” she added quickly. “Whatever you need.”

Ayanokouji finally gave a faint nod, pulling himself away from the window fully. “The valet,” he said simply, his voice clipped but steady.

Relief flickered across her features. She bowed slightly, turning to leave. “Of course. I’ll make the call.”

The door clicked softly behind her, leaving him alone once more. The silence returned immediately, wrapping around him like a second skin. He glanced at the clock again—ten minutes past ten now—and the weight of the night pressed down heavier than before.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the image of her reflection in the glass linger one last time. Then, with deliberate slowness, he forced himself to step away from the window and back into the hollow rhythm of the present, though each movement felt like dragging chains behind him.

Ayanokouji’s movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as he reached for his coat draped neatly over the back of his chair. The fabric felt heavier than usual when he pulled it around his shoulders, like it carried the weight of years he couldn’t shed. His phone slipped easily into his hand, the screen dark and lifeless, a tool without purpose in that moment.

Before leaving, his gaze drifted once more to the vast window, to the reflection of a man standing utterly alone against the backdrop of a city that seemed so alive without him. And then, as if summoned by the dim light and the stillness of the hour, the memory came rushing in—warm, vivid, and cruel in its clarity.

He saw Horikita sitting across from him in this very office, the messy cartons of takeout spread between them on his desk. Her hair was slightly mussed, her shoes discarded without care under the table. She had always made herself at home wherever she was with him, never needing permission. She would tilt her head, watching him with that piercing gaze that softened only when it was directed his way.

 

“You work too much,” she had teased him, her voice low, but playful. She would nudge one of the containers closer to him, chopsticks in hand as she stole a bite from his plate without hesitation.

When he hadn’t responded right away, too absorbed in the numbers flickering across his screen, she had leaned closer, holding out a piece of food toward his mouth. “Come on, at least taste it. You’ll like it.”

He remembered the way she smiled when he gave in, the subtle satisfaction in her expression as if feeding him had been a small victory. And when he tried to reclaim his portion, she had laughed, retreating quickly with the prize, only to return a second later with another bite meant for him.

Her laughter echoed in his mind now, ringing in his ears as if it belonged to this room, to this night. He had loved that sound more than he’d ever admitted.

One time, a noodle had slipped from his chopsticks and landed directly in her hair. She had gasped dramatically before bursting into laughter, brushing it away with no real concern. “You’re terrible,” she had accused through her giggles, the words softened by the affection behind them.

He had reached out then, brushing the strand away, his fingers lingering in her hair. She had leaned into his touch, eyes bright, her smile still dancing on her lips.

After that, she had climbed easily into his lap, ignoring his token protest that he couldn’t work like this. She nestled herself comfortably against him, her back pressed into his chest, her hands resting gently over his on her stomach. He remembered the warmth of her body, the subtle rhythm of her breathing, the way she had fit so naturally against him.

Her lips had ghosted over his jawline, pressing soft, lingering kisses there as though she couldn’t help herself. “You’ll never finish your work like this,” she had teased between kisses, her tone equal parts playful and tender.

He had only murmured something against her skin, half a promise, half an excuse, but he hadn’t cared about the unfinished reports or the glowing screen anymore. With her there, everything else had felt trivial.

He remembered the faint scent of Thai food clinging to the air, the sharpness of spice mingling with her perfume. He remembered the way she had leaned back to look at him, her expression relaxed, content, and utterly at ease. That look alone had been enough to unravel the walls he’d built around himself.

They had drunk a little too, nothing extravagant—just enough to warm their cheeks, to make her laughter a little freer and his smiles a little easier to see. It had been one of those rare nights where the world outside didn’t exist, where only the two of them did.

When the memory finally released him, Ayanokouji exhaled slowly, his breath fogging faintly against the cold glass as if to mark the place she once sat in his world. He turned away at last, forcing his feet toward the door. The office felt emptier than ever, a hollow shell that no longer belonged to him but to the ghosts of moments he could never reclaim.

The city waited outside, vibrant and alive, but it felt no closer to him now than it had in the sterile white walls of his past. And as he stepped into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him, the echo of her laughter lingered—mocking and comforting all at once, a reminder that some memories never really let go.

The drive stretched on like an endless tunnel, one long strip of silence wrapped around him. Ayanokouji sat behind the wheel, posture calm and composed as ever, but inside, the weight of stillness pressed against his chest. The road stretched ahead, dark and winding, its streetlights flickering against the glass of his windshield. Normally, he might have allowed the radio to fill the space, or some low hum of music to occupy the edges of his thoughts, but tonight, like so many nights before, there was nothing. Only the faint, sterile whir of his electric car carrying him forward.

The hum was constant, unchanging. It should have been soothing, but to him, it sounded like the dull mechanical hum of the White Room—the place where his life had started, and where, in many ways, it felt as though it had never really left. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, as if the pressure might ground him, keep him tethered to the world outside those memories.

The city moved around him. Cars sped past, their tires whispering against the asphalt, headlights streaking like blurred lines of light across his vision. But to him, they were silent. The noise of traffic, the occasional honk, the murmur of distant life—all of it felt muted, as though the world itself had been muffled just for him. He saw the motions, but he didn’t feel them. He didn’t hear them. It was like watching a movie with the sound turned off.

Once, long ago, the same drive would have been filled with quiet conversation. Horikita sitting in the passenger seat, her arms folded, her head tilted slightly as she teased him about his habit of working too late or driving too fast. Sometimes she would lean her head against the window, staring out into the night with that serene, thoughtful expression that made her look untouchable. And sometimes—more rarely—she would reach out and rest her hand on his, forcing him to ease his grip on the wheel, forcing him to remember that there was something more than efficiency, more than control.

Now that seat was empty. Even when Karuizawa occupied it, it felt empty. He couldn’t bring himself to rest a hand on her thigh at a stoplight, couldn’t lean over and brush his lips against her neck, couldn’t offer her the quiet affection he once gave so freely. With Horikita, it had been instinct. With Karuizawa, it was poison.

He wondered if the world had always been this gray, this drained of color, or if it only turned hollow after she left. After he lost her. The White Room was silence, isolation, the stripping of everything human until nothing remained but the shell of obedience and control. And lately, his life felt no different. The people around him spoke, laughed, cried, but it all felt so far away, just faint movements in the periphery of his vision.

Was it better then, he wondered? Better to go back to that place where he never had the illusion of happiness in the first place? Where there was no Horikita, no warmth, no laughter to lose? In the White Room, there was nothing. No pain, no love, no loss. Just blank survival.

His eyes flicked to the passenger seat again, and for the briefest second, he thought he saw her there—arms folded, hair framing her face, that faint perfume lingering in the air. But when he blinked, it was gone. Just the leather seat, untouched, sterile.

The car kept moving, the lights kept flickering, but to him, everything was muted. Everything was hollow. And somewhere deep inside, the question echoed louder than the hum of the car itself—had it been better to never leave the White Room, rather than to know what it was like to lose the only thing that had ever pulled him out of it?

The road stretched out endlessly before him, a black ribbon illuminated only by the soft glow of streetlamps. Ayanokouji sat rigid in his seat, hands resting at ten and two, but his grip was too tight—unyielding, as though letting go might cause the entire car to spin out of control.

The hum of the electric engine filled the cabin, steady and low, like a pulse without life. He’d chosen an electric car for efficiency, practicality, silence. Tonight, that silence felt suffocating.

His eyes shifted toward the passenger seat. Empty. He tried not to notice how empty. He tried not to remember that once, she’d filled that space with quiet words, with the sharp wit of her observations, with the warmth of her presence that he never realized he craved until it was gone.

But memory betrayed him. He saw her sitting there—dark hair falling across her face, arms folded as she argued with him about something trivial. Whether they should order Thai or Chinese takeout, whether his work schedule was sustainable, whether he ever allowed himself to live outside the endless calculation of his mind.

“Do you ever stop?” she’d asked once, half annoyed, half concerned. “Even machines shut down eventually.”

He remembered the small smirk tugging at his lips when she said that. He remembered how she leaned over, stealing food from his plate later that night, nudging him with her elbow until he gave in and laughed—a sound he rarely made.

The image was so vivid that he blinked, half expecting to see her reflected in the glass. But when he looked, there was nothing. Just the sheen of the leather seat, untouched.

The silence pressed harder against him. Traffic streamed around, headlights painting streaks of white and red through his windshield. Yet to his ears, the world was muffled, as though he was sealed inside a glass chamber, watching life unfold on the other side.

This was how the White Room had always felt. Not soundless exactly, but stripped of humanity. Footsteps echoing in sterile halls, the harsh bark of commands, the occasional cry quickly silenced. The kind of quiet that devoured you whole.

He wondered if maybe he had never left it. Maybe all of this—the car, the city, the life he’d built—was just another chamber. Just another controlled environment, training him to endure isolation.

His knuckles tightened on the wheel. He thought about how different it had felt when she was near. The silence didn’t matter then, because her voice filled it. Her laugh cracked through the monotony like sunlight cutting through clouds. Her touch had anchored him in ways he never admitted aloud.

Now the silence was unbearable.

He forced his eyes forward, but the edges of his vision betrayed him. For a moment, he swore he saw her hand resting gently on the console, her nails painted that soft shade she always favored. His heart lurched before logic caught up. He blinked, and the illusion dissolved.

The worst part wasn’t the hallucination itself. It was how desperately he wanted it to be real.

Wouldn’t it be easier to go back? he wondered. Back to where there were no hallucinations, no memories, no illusions of something better. The White Room had never lied to him. It had never promised warmth it couldn’t deliver. It had never made him believe in something as fragile as love.

He thought of her lips against his jaw, her weight settling into his lap as she teased him for working too late. He thought of the noodle that slipped from her chopsticks, landing in her hair, and how she laughed—not an elegant laugh, but loud, unguarded, so utterly human.
He bit the inside of his cheek, grounding himself in the faint pain. The memory was a knife, cutting deep, reopening wounds he couldn’t stitch shut.

The car slowed at a red light. He stared at the empty crosswalk ahead, the glow of the signal painting the asphalt in crimson hues. It reminded him of training rooms lit by harsh red alarms, signaling failure, punishment.

His reflection in the glass stared back at him. Cold, composed, unreadable. The same face he’d worn in the White Room. The same face he wore now, years later, even after tasting something different.

Perhaps he’d been foolish to think he could change. To think he could have her, hold onto her, and not ruin it. Perhaps the system had been right all along—he was nothing more than a tool designed to survive, incapable of building something as delicate as a life with another person.

The light turned green. He pressed his foot to the pedal, and the car moved forward, but it felt like drifting. Not progress. Just motion.

He imagined her voice again, softly saying his name, cutting through the fog that pressed against his skull. For a second, he almost spoke aloud, answering a ghost. But he stopped himself. He didn’t want to hear how hollow his voice sounded when there was no one to respond.

His thoughts circled back to the White Room, to that sterile cocoon where loss didn’t exist because there was nothing to lose. Wouldn’t it be easier to return? To give up pretending he belonged to this world of color, laughter, and connection?

But then another memory struck him—her hand slipping into his, fingers lacing together with quiet certainty. That simple gesture had destroyed the White Room’s claim on him. That gesture had told him he could be more.

And now, stripped of it, he felt more broken than before.

The hum of the car deepened as he accelerated. His pulse quickened with it, but there was no adrenaline rush, no thrill. Just the sense that he was driving into emptiness, into silence so vast it threatened to consume him whole.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It sounded too loud in the car, almost startling. The sound of being alive, though he didn’t quite feel it.

The city lights blurred into streaks as he drove, but no matter how far he went, he couldn’t escape the truth pressing in on all sides.

He had left the White Room, but he carried it with him. And without her, he was starting to wonder if he’d ever truly escaped at all.

His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, tendons straining beneath the pale skin of his hands. The thoughts refused to slow, each one crashing against him harder than the last. He could almost hear her voice in the chaos of his mind, cutting through the noise, firm and sharp the way it always had been. Yet even in his memories, her tone softened when she spoke to him alone. That gentleness gutted him more than any sharp word ever could.

He could still see her in vivid detail—the curve of her smile, restrained and rare, but devastating when it appeared. The fire in her eyes when she argued with him, not because she wanted to win but because she wanted to be heard, to be recognized as his equal. The way her hand fit into his as though it had always belonged there. Beautiful. The word felt too small to contain her. She wasn’t just beautiful in appearance; she was beautiful in the way she fought, in the way she persevered, in the way she had unknowingly dismantled the walls he thought were unbreakable.

And now, she was gone. Not just out of reach, but truly gone from his life, slipping into a place where his hand could never touch hers again. The realization seared through him like acid.

Anger flared in him suddenly, sharp and blinding. Anger at himself for letting her slip away. Anger at her for leaving. Anger at the world for giving him something so precious only to tear it away. But beneath that anger was sadness—an endless, suffocating sadness that left his chest heavy, his throat tight, his eyes burning though no tears fell.

It all tangled together inside him: love, longing, regret, rage. An infestation, a swarm he couldn’t fight off. Each emotion fed into the next, a vicious cycle he couldn’t escape. One moment he wanted to scream her name into the dark, the next he wanted to curl in on himself and let the silence take him.

Was this love? Was this what it meant to truly love someone—to be consumed so completely that their absence hollowed you out, left you raw and unrecognizable? He hated it. He hated that she had this power over him. He hated that despite the anger, the despair, the jealousy, every piece of him still wanted her.

His chest ached as if a vice had clamped around it. His breathing quickened. The steering wheel blurred for a second before his vision sharpened again. He couldn’t stop thinking of her—her laughter, her voice, her warmth pressed against him late at night, her scent lingering on his clothes, her stubbornness, her quiet moments of vulnerability when she let her guard down only for him.

All of it was carved into him, etched into his bones, a part of his very being. And the thought of her sharing those moments with someone else—the thought of her whispering to another man in the dark, of her giving away the parts of herself she had once entrusted to him—twisted his insides until he thought he might tear apart from within.

But it wasn’t jealousy. Jealousy implied wanting to take her back, to fight for her possession. This was different. This was despair, the absolute certainty that she was gone and that no matter what he did, nothing could change that. It was like drowning, knowing the surface was right there above him but too far to reach.

The emotions clung to him, burrowed into him, spreading like a sickness. He tried to shake his head, to force them away, but they only pressed in harder, louder, hungrier. He couldn’t untangle where the anger ended and the love began. He couldn’t separate the warmth of his memories from the cold ache of her absence. She had infested him, utterly and irrevocably, and he could no longer tell where he ended and she began.

The car moved forward steadily, a machine oblivious to the chaos unraveling inside its driver. And still he clung to the wheel, as if holding tighter might tether him to something real, something solid, before the infestation of grief and love consumed him completely.

Ayanokouji’s grip faltered for just a second, the wheel trembling under his hands as his vision swam. His chest tightened, lungs constricting like something was pressing down hard against them. The thought of her—Horikita in another man’s arms, her body curled against someone else in the quiet hours of the night, whispering words of comfort, of love, of surrender—shattered him from the inside.

Maybe it was jealousy. He wanted her back. God, he wanted her back more than he had ever wanted anything. The rational part of him knew it, admitted it, and it cut like a blade. He didn’t just want the memory of her, he wanted her. Her presence, her warmth, her voice murmuring his name in the dark. He wanted all of it again, selfishly, desperately.

But maybe that part of his life was over. Maybe she had already found someone new. The thought lodged itself in his mind like a splinter, poisoning everything else. Another man’s arms around her. Another man’s lips pressed against hers. Another man coaxing that rare laugh out of her. Another man pulling her close while she melted against him the way she used to melt against Ayanokouji.

The bile rose in his throat. His stomach churned, and his vision blurred again. He blinked hard, but the images wouldn’t leave. They weren’t just thoughts anymore—they felt real, like memories he hadn’t lived but could see playing in front of his eyes. Her slipping into someone else’s bed. Her tangled sheets that didn’t smell like him anymore. Her soft sighs, the sound of his name on her lips replaced by another’s.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the words breaking out sharper than he intended. His voice cracked against the silence of the car, the raw edge of it startling even himself.

He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. He wanted to believe she hadn’t replaced him, that no one could. But the longer he sat with the thought, the more it grew, the more it festered. The infestation in his chest spread deeper, gnawing at him.

Wasn’t that the truth? He’d left her behind. He’d let her slip away. He’d allowed distance to bloom between them until it was irreversible. Of course she’d find someone else. Of course she’d stop waiting for him. Why would someone like her, someone who deserved the world, remain shackled to a man who couldn’t even tell her what she meant to him until it was too late?

The light ahead turned red, and he stopped the car too abruptly, his chest heaving. He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, eyes squeezed shut, breaths shallow. He could almost smell her perfume, the faint sweetness of it clinging to his clothes. He could almost hear her voice scolding him for driving recklessly.

But when he opened his eyes again, there was no one. Just the empty car, the lonely hum of the engine, the dark city stretching out before him.

His hands trembled against the leather of the wheel. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself together.

Ayanokouji pulled into the parking garage, the tires screeching faintly against the concrete as the echo of the sound bounced off the walls. He parked in his usual spot, the one Horikita used to call “their spot” because it was closest to the elevator, the one she’d always insist they deserved because of how much he worked. He sat there, unmoving, gripping the steering wheel as though it could anchor him. His chest rose and fell unevenly, breath sharp, too fast, then too shallow. He forced himself to inhale deeply, to exhale slower, trying to stop the trembling that had overtaken his body.

In that fragile silence, his thoughts turned frantic. They raced through his head faster than he could process. There had to be a way to fix this. A way to salvage what they had. Counseling, maybe—if they sat down with someone and worked through their issues, maybe she’d see that he still loved her. Money wasn’t an obstacle; he’d take her anywhere, give her anything, book the most lavish vacations, the most extravagant holidays. Paris again, or Rome, or anywhere she wanted. Maybe if he made time for her, real time, uninterrupted by work, she’d see he could change.

He pictured her again in his arms, the way she used to fit perfectly against him. The way her head tucked under his chin, the way her hair tickled his jaw, the warmth of her body pressed to his. He’d do anything to feel that again. He’d pay any price. He’d sacrifice everything. The thought clawed at him until his heart hurt.

As he sat there, he realized she had never really left the apartment. Not completely. When she’d moved out, she had taken only what was necessary—her clothes, her jewelry, her everyday essentials. But so much remained. Little pieces of her scattered like ghosts. Her special shampoo sat in the shower, untouched but still holding the faintest trace of her scent. A few bottles of skincare lined the bathroom counter, though the labels had started to gather dust.

Her coat still hung by the door. He hadn’t moved it, hadn’t been able to. Every time he passed it, it felt like she might come back, slip it over her shoulders, and walk beside him again. He couldn’t bring himself to put it away.

In one of his desk drawers, shoved away in a moment of frustrated grief, lay a framed picture of her and her brother. He remembered how carefully she had carried it into their apartment, how she had placed it in the living room like it belonged there, like she belonged there. He hadn’t been able to throw it away, though he had tried. His hand had hovered over the trash bin, but his chest had tightened, and he’d shoved it into the drawer instead.

Even the kitchen held her fingerprints. A mug she always favored sat at the back of the cupboard, chipped slightly at the rim but still intact. She’d scolded him more than once for trying to replace it. “It has character,” she had said. Now it just had memories.

He thought about the blanket she used to curl up under on the couch, the one still folded in the living room. Sometimes, when the nights were unbearable, he pulled it around himself and pretended she was there, though the illusion never lasted long.

The apartment wasn’t his. It never had been. It was theirs. And even now, in her absence, it still felt that way. He could walk through each room and feel her there, like a ghost lingering in every corner.

His heart pounded as he imagined confronting her, asking her to come back. Maybe he could tell her the truth—how empty everything was without her, how every breath felt shallow, how nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. Maybe if he told her, maybe if he begged, she’d see. Maybe she’d give him one more chance.

But then another thought slashed through the fantasy. What if she didn’t? What if she told him she had moved on? What if she looked him in the eyes and said she loved someone else? The vision of her saying those words made him flinch as if he’d been struck.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, trembling. His mind refused to stop. He kept circling back, clawing through possibilities. Flowers, maybe. A gift. Something meaningful. He could cook for her, the way she always teased him for being terrible at it. He could learn. He could change everything if it meant winning her back.

The more he thought, the more frantic he became. His chest tightened, his breaths shallow again. He imagined her standing in their kitchen, laughing at his attempt to flip pancakes, or teasing him when he burned rice. He imagined her settling onto the couch, watching him with that quiet gaze that had always made him feel like she saw through everything. He imagined her lips curving into the small, rare smile she reserved only for him.

He leaned back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling of the car. His throat burned, his eyes hot, though he refused to let himself cry. He hadn’t cried in years, not even when she left, but now the pressure felt unbearable.

His body felt restless, vibrating with the need to act. To do something. To claw back what had slipped through his fingers. He wasn’t sure if he could live like this anymore, surrounded by her absence, haunted by what used to be.

He thought of the nights she used to fall asleep in his arms, her hair spread across the pillow, her breaths soft and steady. He thought of how, even in her sleep, she would cling to him, as if afraid he’d slip away. And now it was him clinging to her memory, desperate not to let go.

Every thought spiraled into another, every image of her turned into another sharp ache. He pictured her coat by the door, her mug in the cupboard, her shampoo in the shower. Each item was a reminder, each one proof that she had been his once. Proof that maybe, just maybe, she could be again.

He rubbed at his face, exhausted but unable to stop the flood of thoughts. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, parked in the cold garage, surrounded by concrete and silence. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. Time didn’t feel real anymore.

Finally, with trembling fingers, he reached for his phone. He stared at the screen, her contact still there, untouched. He hadn’t been able to delete it. His thumb hovered over it, the urge to call her overwhelming. Just to hear her voice, even if only for a second.

But he couldn’t press it. His chest felt like it might cave in, torn between the desperate need to hear her and the crippling fear of what she might say.

So he sat there, phone in hand, the silence pressing down on him, the shadows of her belongings waiting for him upstairs, and the unshakable truth that he was still hopelessly hers.

Even if she was no longer his.

Ayanokouji rubbed at his temples as if the motion could soothe the ache in his chest. The thought wouldn’t leave him—move out, erase the memories, erase her. He imagined boxing up everything, hiring movers, watching them strip the apartment bare until it became nothing but white walls and hollow rooms. New furniture, new decor, something modern and sterile. No trace of her shampoo in the bathroom, no coat hanging by the door, no mug with a chipped rim in the cupboard. Maybe then he wouldn’t see her everywhere he looked. Maybe then the silence wouldn’t feel like her absence.

But even as he thought it, he knew the truth. No amount of new furniture or freshly painted walls could strip her from his mind. The memories weren’t in the apartment—they were carved into him, etched into his skin like scars he couldn’t remove. He could move across the world and still taste her laughter in the back of his throat.

He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as if the answer might materialize in the shadows above. His jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides. He hated this weakness. He hated how much control she still had over him, even in her silence, even in her absence.

Across the city, Horikita sat at her own desk, the glow of her laptop screen burning into her tired eyes. Emails piled up, notifications pinged one after another, but the words blurred into meaningless blocks of text. She tried to blink them clear, but every time her eyes closed, her mind betrayed her.

She saw Karuizawa draped over him at the wedding, fingers brushing his arm like she belonged there. She saw Ayanokouji holding the car door open, the simple, old-fashioned gesture he had always reserved for her. She saw them leaving together, his quiet figure beside Karuizawa’s radiant smile, like they were a couple untouched by the wreckage of the past.

Horikita pressed her hand against her mouth, her breath shaky. The hurt was sharp, raw, as though someone had carved into her chest. He had moved on. So easily. As though she had never mattered. As though their years together had been a dream she’d made up in her head.

Her eyes burned. She forced herself back to her screen, scrolled through the endless list of messages, but none of it landed. Words blurred together, unreadable. What did it matter if she replied to these people? What did it matter if she pushed through? She had already lost the only person she had ever let close enough to see her weakness.

Ayanokouji stood suddenly, restless. He walked to the window, hands shoved in his pockets, the city stretching out before him in a wash of gold and silver lights. Somewhere out there, she was living her life. Maybe laughing, maybe working, maybe even smiling at someone else. He couldn’t stand the thought.

Horikita shut her laptop with more force than she intended, the sound cracking through her apartment like thunder. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, pressing her palms against her eyes. She hated herself for thinking about him. She hated herself for caring. But no matter how much she told herself to let go, her chest still clenched every time his face appeared in her mind.

Both of them sat in their separate spaces, surrounded by silence. Both of them told themselves the same lie—that maybe time would heal it, that maybe distance would dull it. But deep down, they both knew the truth.

The wounds hadn’t faded. The feelings hadn’t died. They were both still standing in the ruins of what they once had, trying and failing to convince themselves that they weren’t still bleeding.

Horikita pressed her palms to her temples, trying to steady her breathing. It didn’t help. Her heart pounded too loudly, as if mocking her. Every thought circled back to him—Ayanokouji. His name was branded into her mind like a curse she couldn’t scrub away. She loathed herself for it, loathed how powerless she felt, loathed the way she could still feel the warmth of his hand on hers even though months had passed.

She replayed the mistakes again and again. The harsh words. The cold silences. The walls she’d built so high he’d eventually stopped trying to climb them. And when he finally walked away, she realized too late that those walls had been her own undoing.

The image of Karuizawa at his side gnawed at her like poison. Horikita had always thought of her as a shadow in their story, someone inconsequential compared to the bond she and Ayanokouji once shared. But at the wedding, seeing Karuizawa lean into him with ease, with comfort—it shattered something inside her. He had looked so calm, so composed, opening the car door for Karuizawa as though it was second nature. Like he had already slipped seamlessly into a new life.

Her chest tightened, bile rising in her throat. Was she truly that easy to forget? Did he really erase her with such precision, the way he had once erased emotions in the White Room?

She pushed the thought away, but it came back sharper. Maybe she had never meant as much to him as he had meant to her. Maybe she had been a distraction, an experiment, just another test in his endless calculation of human bonds. The possibility burned her alive.

She gripped the edge of her desk until her knuckles whitened. “Stupid,” she muttered under her breath. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Her eyes stung, tears threatening to blur her vision again. She wasn’t supposed to cry. She wasn’t supposed to feel this much. Yet she did. She felt everything with the force of a thousand storms, and it left her trembling.

The bitterness curdled into self-hatred. How many chances had she wasted? How many times had she let pride stop her from reaching out when he was right there? She had thought strength was silence, that control was distance. But all it had done was carve a canyon between them, one so wide she could never cross it now.

She slammed her laptop shut, the sharp sound echoing in her empty apartment. The silence afterward was unbearable. It pressed in on her from every side, reminding her of all the nights she’d once fallen asleep against his chest, her hand tangled with his, safe in the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat.

Her body shook. She hated herself for still craving that safety. She hated herself for still loving him.

But no matter how hard she tried to bury it, the truth remained: he was the only person she had ever truly let in. And now he was gone.

Horikita leaned back in her chair, dragging in a breath that rattled in her lungs. Maybe this was her punishment. To sit here, drowning in regret, while he walked free.

Her fingers brushed over the phone on her desk. She wanted to call him. Just once. Just to hear his voice. To pretend, even for a moment, that things could go back.

But she knew she wouldn’t. She had forfeited that right.

So she sat there in the silence, hating herself, hating the ache in her chest, hating the way the world still spun without him.

And in that hate, she whispered the only truth she couldn’t swallow down—

“I still love you.”

Horikita’s chest sank as soon as she saw the name. Nagumo. Her thumb hovered over the screen, frozen. For the briefest second, she’d let herself hope it was him. That somehow Ayanokouji had reached out, that maybe he was hurting just as much as she was, that maybe… just maybe… he wanted her back.

But no. It was Nagumo. Always Nagumo. Persistent, smug, and too aware of her vulnerabilities.

Her lips pressed into a tight line as she read the two words again. Come over? So casual. So empty. He didn’t mean comfort. He didn’t mean connection. He just meant distraction.

Horikita tossed the phone onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. What was wrong with her? Why did she even hesitate? Why did a part of her whisper that maybe she should go—just to numb the pain, just to forget, if only for a few hours?

But she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t.

Because it would never be him.

Nagumo’s hands wouldn’t feel like Ayanokouji’s. His voice wouldn’t ground her the way Ayanokouji’s once had. His presence wouldn’t anchor her—it would only remind her of everything she had lost.

Her phone buzzed again. Another message.

‘Don’t leave me hanging. I know you’re awake.’

Horikita let out a shaky breath. Her nails dug into her palms until it hurt. Maybe that was what she deserved—pain. To punish herself for every mistake that had driven Ayanokouji away.

Still, her gaze flickered toward the phone again. The temptation gnawed at her. To accept Nagumo’s invitation. To give in. To prove to herself that she could move on.

But the thought alone made her stomach twist violently.

She didn’t want Nagumo. She didn’t want anyone. She wanted the man she couldn’t have. The one who haunted every corner of her heart.

And that truth, more than anything, left her broken.

Her trembling hand reached for the phone again, not to reply, but to open her photo gallery. Her thumb scrolled until she found them—pictures of her and Ayanokouji. Not many, he’d never liked photos. But the few they had together were enough to tear her apart.

One of them on the balcony of their old apartment, the city lights spilling behind them, her leaning against him while he looked somewhere past the camera. Another of him asleep on the couch, her blanket draped over him, his expression so serene it had made her heart swell.

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

Nagumo’s texts lit up her phone again. She ignored them.

Instead, she whispered to herself, voice breaking as the tears finally fell, “I’ll never love anyone the way I love you.”

And she knew it was the truth.

Horikita’s chest sank as soon as she saw the name. Nagumo. Her thumb hovered over the screen, frozen. For the briefest second, she’d let herself hope it was him. That somehow Ayanokouji had reached out, that maybe he was hurting just as much as she was, that maybe… just maybe… he wanted her back.

But no. It was Nagumo. Always Nagumo. Persistent, smug, and too aware of her vulnerabilities.

Her lips pressed into a tight line as she read the two words again. Come over? So casual. So empty. He didn’t mean comfort. He didn’t mean connection. He just meant distraction.

Horikita tossed the phone onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. What was wrong with her? Why did she even hesitate? Why did a part of her whisper that maybe she should go—just to numb the pain, just to forget, if only for a few hours?

But she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t.

Because it would never be him.

Nagumo’s hands wouldn’t feel like Ayanokouji’s. His voice wouldn’t ground her the way Ayanokouji’s once had. His presence wouldn’t anchor her—it would only remind her of everything she had lost.

Her phone buzzed again. Another message.

‘Don’t leave me hanging. I know you’re awake.’

Horikita let out a shaky breath. Her nails dug into her palms until it hurt. Maybe that was what she deserved—pain. To punish herself for every mistake that had driven Ayanokouji away.

Still, her gaze flickered toward the phone again. The temptation gnawed at her. To accept Nagumo’s invitation. To give in. To prove to herself that she could move on.

But the thought alone made her stomach twist violently.

She didn’t want Nagumo. She didn’t want anyone. She wanted the man she couldn’t have. The one who haunted every corner of her heart.

And that truth, more than anything, left her broken.

Her trembling hand reached for the phone again, not to reply, but to open her photo gallery. Her thumb scrolled until she found them—pictures of her and Ayanokouji. Not many, he’d never liked photos. But the few they had together were enough to tear her apart.

One of them on the balcony of their old apartment, the city lights spilling behind them, her leaning against him while he looked somewhere past the camera. Another of him asleep on the couch, her blanket draped over him, his expression so serene it had made her heart swell.

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

Nagumo’s texts lit up her phone again. She ignored them.

Instead, she whispered to herself, voice breaking as the tears finally fell, “I’ll never love anyone the way I love you.”

And she knew it was the truth.

Horikita choked on a sob as her thumb scrolled, eyes darting over the screen with a kind of desperation she couldn’t contain. Her gallery was nothing but memories—ghosts trapped in pixels. She lingered on one blurry photo of him, the kind where he had scowled at her for even daring to snap it, his hand half-covering his face. She’d always thought he looked good anyway. Then came the graduation photos, his suit neat and pressed, his expression as unreadable as ever, but she remembered the warmth in his gaze when no one else had been looking.

Her chest rose and fell with quick, uneven breaths. Her thumb trembled as she scrolled further, unearthing pictures from high school—the store, their classmates, times when everything was simpler, when the distance between them wasn’t so crushing. And then… she hit the goldmine.

Paris.

Her heart clenched violently. The folder was full—shots she’d taken, shots a kind stranger had captured when they asked, candid images of him where he hadn’t even realized she was looking. On the plane, his head tilted toward the window, lashes brushing his cheeks in sleep. In the hotel, her reflection in the mirror behind him as he adjusted his shirt collar. At the restaurant, his figure blurred in the background while she had focused her camera on food.

Every image was a dagger.

Her vision blurred as fresh tears welled up, sliding hot and fast down her cheeks. Her throat constricted so tightly it felt like she couldn’t breathe, like she was drowning in the weight of it all. The phone slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering against the floor with a sound that echoed in the silence of her apartment.

She collapsed with it.

Horikita slid from her chair to the ground, her knees hitting the cold wood, her body curling in on itself. She pressed her hands against her mouth to stifle the sobs, but they tore through her anyway—ugly, raw, and unstoppable.

The photos played behind her eyes even though the screen had gone dark. His profile lit by the Eiffel Tower. The way he’d held her hand casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way his lips had curved faintly, barely perceptible, but enough that she had treasured it like the rarest jewel.

She could still hear his voice in that hotel room, low and teasing when she’d scolded him for overworking even while abroad. She remembered how he had kissed her temple then, murmuring that she worried too much. And she remembered the warmth of his body beside hers in that foreign bed, steady, grounding, everything she’d ever wanted.

Her nails dug into her skin, leaving crescents of pain in her arms as if to keep herself present, as if to remind herself this wasn’t just some nightmare. This was her reality. He was gone.

Her phone buzzed weakly on the floor. She flinched, her tear-streaked face turning toward it. Another message from Nagumo.

‘Still waiting.’

Her stomach turned. The audacity of it, the emptiness of it—it only deepened the hollow ache in her chest. She wanted to scream, to throw the phone, to erase him from her life entirely. But she couldn’t even muster the strength.

Instead, she lay there on the floor, curled around her grief, whispering his name like a prayer. “Kiyotaka…”

The apartment was too quiet, the walls too close. She couldn’t stay here, but she couldn’t move either. She was trapped between her memories and her pain, the weight of her love pressing down until it felt unbearable.

Her fingers crawled across the floor until they reached the phone again. She didn’t open Nagumo’s texts. She opened Paris. She forced her eyes open, even as they burned, and let the images consume her again.

Every smile, every fleeting glance, every accidental brush of his hand against hers—it was all she had left. And yet, it was enough to destroy her.

Her sobs grew softer but deeper, sinking into her bones. The night stretched endlessly around her, but she didn’t move.

Because for Horikita, time had stopped the moment she lost him.

 

Horikita’s breath hitched as she tried to steady herself, but the words came spilling out anyway, jagged and venomous. “Stupid… stupid…” Her voice cracked, the syllables raw and trembling. Each time she said it, it was sharper, harsher, as though the sound alone might punish her for everything she had done wrong.

Tears streamed down her face in relentless waves. They blurred her vision until she could barely see the floor she had collapsed onto, until her phone was nothing but a dim rectangle of light in her peripheral vision. She clawed at the wood beneath her, nails scraping against it as if she could anchor herself to something real, but all she felt was the overwhelming tide of self-hatred crashing over her.

Her chest tightened with every breath, the sobs rattling her entire frame. She curled in on herself, knees to her chest, forehead pressed down against her arms. She wanted the world to close in around her, to press her into the ground so she wouldn’t have to keep carrying the weight of memory.

“Stupid…Stupid slut”

His face wouldn’t leave her mind. That quiet smile, the one so rare she used to treasure every flicker of it. His voice, steady and calm, soft in ways he’d never let others hear. His hands—gentle when they held her, firm when they steadied her, warm in a way she never thought she deserved.

 

And then the cruelest thought: that all of that belonged to someone else now. That the tenderness she once held onto so tightly had been passed on as if she had never been there at all. That what they had shared, what she had thrown away in her fear, was gone and could never come back.

The images spun faster and faster. Him with Karuizawa at the wedding, her smile pressed too close against his shoulder, his hand at her back. Him opening the car door for her as though it was second nature, as though he had done it a thousand times before. Him driving her home, his seat next to him filled again—but not by her.

Her sobs broke into sharp hiccups, each one tearing at her throat until she could hardly breathe. The sound filled the room, echoing in the empty space until it felt like the walls themselves were accusing her. She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block it out, but the noise was inside her head, clawing and unrelenting.

“Stupid,” she whispered again, weaker this time. The word dissolved into another sob, her lips trembling as she buried her face against her knees. She repeated it like a mantra, as though the repetition could erase the ache, but all it did was deepen it.

Time blurred. Minutes stretched like hours, hours collapsed into seconds. She had no way of knowing how long she stayed like that, crumpled on the floor with tears soaking into her sleeves. Her body shook, small tremors that left her muscles aching and her throat raw, but she couldn’t stop.

Her phone dimmed on the floor beside her, the photos of Paris fading into black. The memory of that trip clawed at her chest—his smile in the restaurant, his quiet murmur when he wiped the sauce from her lips, the way he’d leaned over to kiss her as if nothing else in the world mattered. She could still hear his voice in her mind, soft and steady, promising her she was safe, she was wanted, she was his.

She pressed her fist against her chest, as though she could force the ache to stop, but the pain only grew sharper. Her body ached from the position she was curled into, the cold seeping through her thin clothes, but none of it compared to the storm inside her.

Eventually, exhaustion began to take hold. Her sobs slowed, not from relief, but from the way her body had nothing left to give. Her breathing grew shallow, uneven, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a release she barely noticed.

Her lashes stuck together with tears as her eyes fluttered shut. The darkness came not because she wanted it, but because her body demanded it, dragging her under before she could fight back.

Her phone slipped fully into darkness now, screen blank and silent. The room was quiet at last, her own cries silenced by unconsciousness.

She remained there on the wooden floor, still curled into herself, her fingers clutching the fabric of her clothes as though even in sleep she needed to hold onto something. The tears dried on her skin, leaving faint salt lines across her cheeks.

For the first time in hours, her mind was quiet. Not healed, not soothed—just empty. And in that emptiness, she drifted further away, as if it was easier to surrender to nothingness than to wake and face the weight of everything she had lost.

Horikita lay there in the silence, fragile and small against the vast emptiness of the room. And though she did not know it, the night stretched long around her, carrying her deeper into the kind of sleep that wasn’t rest but escape.

Chapter Text

The cold clung to her skin as Horikita forced herself upright, her joints stiff from having spent the night curled on the wooden floor. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, a dull ache that radiated from her temples to the back of her skull. Her throat felt raw, the aftertaste of salt heavy on her tongue. Her eyes, swollen and red, struggled to adjust to the faint light seeping through the curtains.

The silence of her apartment pressed in, heavy and suffocating. She rubbed at her arms, as though she could warm herself, but her fingers felt as cold as the floor beneath her. She blinked slowly, disoriented, trying to piece together where she was and why she was there.

“Kiyo…” The name slipped out before she could stop it, a whisper more instinct than thought. It cut through the stillness, fragile and broken, like a ghost of something she could never have again. The sound startled her, and her hand flew to her lips, but it was too late—she had heard it. She had said his name like he still belonged to her, like he might come walking out of the bedroom, groggy and annoyed at being woken so early.

Her chest tightened with the ache of it. She wanted to crawl back into their bed—the bed that wasn’t theirs anymore—and bury herself in the warmth of his arms. She wanted his steady heartbeat under her ear, his hand resting over hers as though he was anchoring her to the world. She wanted to feel that quiet safety, the one she had taken for granted until it was gone.

Instead, she was met with nothing but shadows and silence. The walls felt empty, stripped bare, as if they too knew he would never return. She bit her tongue hard enough to sting, a desperate attempt to stop the tears that threatened to return. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, grounding her in the moment.

Her gaze drifted toward the clock on the wall. The hands ticked steadily, indifferent to her pain. Her eyes widened as the time registered. “Crap,” she muttered, her voice hoarse and uneven. She stumbled to her feet, legs unsteady after hours of being curled in one position.

Her job, her responsibilities—they didn’t wait for heartbreak. She dragged her hand down her face, smearing the remnants of dried tears, and forced herself to move toward the bathroom. The mirror caught her before she could look away. The reflection staring back was a stranger: puffy eyes rimmed in red, skin pale and blotchy, lips trembling with every uneven breath.

For a moment, she almost reached for her phone, almost typed his name into the screen just to see it appear. Just to feel like he was still there, even if he never answered. But she stopped herself. The weight of reality pressed down again, reminding her that he wasn’t hers anymore, that she had no right to him now.

She gripped the counter until her knuckles turned white, her pulse pounding in her ears. She wanted to scream, to tear the mirror off the wall, to destroy every reminder that she was still here without him. But all she could manage was another quiet whisper of his name, softer this time, almost a prayer.

“Kiyo…”

Her knees trembled under her, but she forced herself to straighten. She couldn’t stay broken, not where anyone could see. She couldn’t let the world know how much she had shattered.

With a sharp breath, she turned away from the mirror, away from the ghost of him that lingered in every corner of her home. Her body moved on autopilot, dragging her through the motions of the morning, but her mind was still stuck in the past, trapped in a bed that no longer belonged to her, beside a man who no longer reached for her.

And no matter how much she tried to bury it, she knew the truth—she still wanted him, desperately, painfully, with every broken piece of her heart.

Horikita’s fingers lingered on the cool metal of the keys, her body tense as though every movement took a monumental effort. She stared at the door, at the lifeless knob that separated her from the world outside, and her chest tightened with dread. The idea of walking out, of pretending to be fine in front of her coworkers, of standing under the sun as though she wasn’t crumbling inside—it was unbearable.

Her hand shook as she let the keys slip back into her purse. The sound of them clattering against the leather echoed in the silent apartment, far too loud, like the punctuation of a failure she couldn’t hide. She didn’t want the sun. She didn’t want the day. She didn’t want to face anyone who might see the cracks running through her and know just how weak she had become.

Her eyes locked on the door as if it mocked her. That door used to open to him. If she’d still been living in Ayanokouji’s apartment, mornings had been different. He would lean against the frame with that unreadable look, arms folded, before walking her to the elevator. Sometimes, when she reached for her shoes, he would stop her, tilt her chin up, and press his lips to hers.

Other mornings, he’d pick her up with little warning, spinning her once in the narrow entryway until she complained, half laughing, half annoyed, only for him to silence her with another kiss. He’d whisper how he wished they could just stay home, away from everyone else, wrapped up in each other until time stopped. And then, inevitably, he would kiss her again before taking her downstairs to the parking garage, his hand warm against hers as he led her into the car.

That memory burned. It hollowed her out, left her with an ache so deep she thought she might fold in half from the weight of it. Because now, there was none of that. Now, there were only alarms that woke her too early, rushed mornings where she barely had the strength to drag herself out of bed, and endless train rides filled with strangers. The city felt like it swallowed her whole, spitting her out exhausted after a dozen transfers and long walks that used to end with him waiting at the door.

She clenched her fists, the tears already stinging her eyes before they could fall. The thought of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers on a crowded train, of forcing herself to function at work while the hollow space in her chest consumed her—it was too much. The world had gone on without him. She hadn’t.

With a sharp breath, she turned away from the door. Her body moved stiffly, dragging her back through the hallway toward the room she had abandoned earlier. The bed loomed before her, unmade and cold, but it was the only place she could go.

She collapsed onto it without grace, her face burying into the sheets as the tears spilled freely this time. They came hot and fast, soaking into the pillow, wracking her shoulders until she could barely breathe. Every sob clawed its way out of her chest like a confession she had no one to give.

The emptiness around her screamed louder than her cries. She curled in on herself, clutching at the fabric of her blanket as though it could fill the void, as though it could anchor her the way his arms once did. But nothing came close. The apartment felt too large, too silent, too indifferent to her pain.

Her body shook until exhaustion began to seep back in, her tears smearing into the pillowcase, her breaths uneven. She hated this weakness, hated that she was still mourning what she had thrown away, hated that every thought of him tore her apart even further.

And yet, even as her mind screamed at her to move on, to stand up, to face the day, her heart betrayed her. Because the only thing she wanted—the only thing she would ever want—was him. And he wasn’t here.

So she lay there, broken and small in the center of her bed, tears still falling. The day could pass without her. The world could move on. She couldn’t.

Ayanokouji sat in the silence of his home office, the only sound the faint hum of the computer’s fan. The glow of the monitor reflected faintly against his expressionless face, though his eyes lingered on the words filling the screen. Search results: couples therapy, relationship counseling, marriage specialists, conflict mediation. He scrolled slowly, his fingers steady on the mouse, yet every movement carried a weight that he couldn’t shake.

Beside him, a porcelain mug rested near the corner of the desk, steam long since faded. The coffee inside had gone cold, untouched since he’d poured it that morning. He barely noticed it anymore, though the bitter scent clung to the air.

He read through the descriptions of therapists’ websites without absorbing much. Phrases like rebuilding communication, trust restoration, overcoming emotional distance caught his eye, but they blurred together as he stared at them. Each line felt like an accusation rather than an offering of help, reminders of everything he had failed to maintain.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers pausing on the scroll wheel. His gaze drifted across the screen, unfocused now, as though he were looking through the words rather than at them. He thought of her—the way she used to watch him from across the table when she believed he wasn’t paying attention, the way her voice softened ever so slightly when she spoke to him alone, the quiet strength she carried that had once drawn him in like nothing else ever had.

And yet, here he was. Alone in a room that felt sterile no matter how he arranged it, staring at a screen that promised solutions but none of them certain. He wondered, for the first time in a long while, if he was too late.

His hand tightened around the mouse, though he didn’t scroll again. He felt the weight of the coffee mug in the corner of his vision, a faint reminder of how easily things were left to sit and rot, forgotten in the haze of endless days. Was that what he had done to them—to her?

A sigh escaped him, quiet but heavy. He leaned forward, clicking open one of the links, scanning through credentials and testimonials with the same precision he applied to every problem he encountered. But this wasn’t a problem to outthink or manipulate into submission. It wasn’t an opponent in a game of strategy. This was her. This was him. This was what they had shared—and lost.

The cold coffee sat untouched, a silent witness to his indecision.

He sighed, the sound barely audible in the stillness of the room. His hand lingered near the keyboard, but he didn’t move, didn’t type, didn’t click. The thought pressed into his mind like a knife: what if she’d already moved on?

The image struck him with startling clarity—her walking down the street beside someone else, her laughter soft, her hand brushing against theirs the way it used to brush against his. He imagined her sitting across from another man at dinner, eyes glimmering in the candlelight, leaning in just the slightest bit closer. He imagined her curling into someone else’s arms at night, finding warmth, finding comfort.

His stomach twisted. It was almost unbearable to think that he might be nothing more than a chapter she’d closed, words she had no interest in rereading.

What if she didn’t want anything to do with him anymore? The possibility loomed larger than he expected. He knew her—knew how stubborn she could be, how sharp her pride was, how she could build walls out of nothing but silence and hold them up indefinitely. If she had decided he no longer had a place in her life, could he even hope to break through?

He rubbed at his temple, eyes narrowing against the dull ache forming there. All the logic in the world couldn’t solve this. He could plot a thousand strategies, map out ten thousand contingencies, but none of them mattered if her answer was final.

What if it was too late? The thought lingered, heavy and unrelenting. Too late to fix, too late to repair, too late to hold her again. He’d never feared time before—never feared the passing of days or the way people changed—but now, every second felt like another grain of sand slipping through his hands, pulling her further away.

His chest rose and fell with a measured breath, but it didn’t calm him. He looked back at the search results, the glowing text on the screen that suddenly felt meaningless. His cursor hovered over the “Contact” button of one of the therapy offices, but he didn’t press it.

Instead, his eyes shifted to the empty chair across from his desk. He could almost see her there, legs crossed, arms folded, pretending to be irritated as she secretly listened to him with more care than anyone else ever had. The ghost of her presence filled the room, so vivid it ached.

And yet the chair was empty, the coffee cold, the silence suffocating.

He pressed his palms together and lowered his head, the weight of uncertainty dragging him down.

Ayanokouji felt the hot sting of a tear as it slid down his cheek. For a moment, he thought it was a trick of the light, some irritation from staring at his computer screen too long. But when he blinked, more followed. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hand and touched the dampness on his skin. His breath caught in his throat. It was real.

He stared down at his fingers, trembling faintly as if they belonged to someone else. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, if ever. He thought back through the years—the White Room, the endless training, the careful mask he had worn since childhood—and realized that tears had never been allowed. Not once. Pain had been something to endure. Emotions had been something to bury. Yet now, sitting in the quiet of his own office, they came unbidden, breaking through all the walls he had spent his life constructing.

He’d lost her. The thought repeated itself, like an echo in his chest, each time sharper than the last. He’d lost her not because of distance, not because of time, but because of himself. Because he hadn’t been enough.

His jaw tightened as guilt consumed him. Why hadn’t he been good enough for her? Why had he let her walk away without stopping her, without saying what really mattered? He could imagine her face in that moment—composed, distant, eyes holding more sorrow than anger. She hadn’t begged him to change. She hadn’t demanded he fight for her. She had simply left, and he had let her.

How could he let that happen? How could he let her go?

The questions swirled violently inside him, clawing at the calm he always maintained. For the first time, the mask cracked. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the tears as they trailed down his cheeks, silent and relentless.

He thought of her laughter, the way she used to tease him for overworking, the warmth of her leaning into him on nights when exhaustion weighed them both down. He thought of her resting her head against his shoulder, murmuring something small and unimportant, and how even those little moments had been enough to anchor him.

And now she was gone.

He whispered into the empty room, voice breaking, “Why wasn’t I enough?”

No one answered. Only the hollow silence pressed back against him, cold and merciless.

His chest constricted, the despair swallowing him whole, because deep down he already knew: it wasn’t that he hadn’t been enough for her. It was that he hadn’t known how to give himself fully. He hadn’t known how to love without reservation, how to hold on without fear.

And because of that, he had lost the one person who had ever truly mattered.

The store lights had been bright, almost too bright, reflecting off the polished floors and glass displays. Horikita had wandered through racks of clothes, pulling out dresses and skirts, spinning once or twice in front of him with a rare smile that softened her normally sharp features. She wanted his opinion, but Ayanokouji, as always, only tilted his head slightly and murmured something calm and measured. He never said more than was necessary, but for her, that had been enough.

Or at least, she told herself it was.

Because while she stood there, basking in the small warmth of being with him, she had noticed the others. Girls lingering at the entrance, giggling into their hands as they glanced his way. Their eyes weren’t on her—they never were. They were on him. Whispering, pointing subtly, their laughter bubbling in ways she couldn’t ignore. Ayanokouji didn’t react, didn’t even glance at them. His attention remained on her, unbothered. But Horikita felt it. She felt their stares like knives sliding between her ribs.

Her grip on his arm tightened. She leaned closer, as if to remind everyone he was hers. Still, the whispers lingered in her ears even after they left.

It didn’t stop there. At other stores, she overheard clerks chatting in low voices when they thought she couldn’t hear. “She’s plain.” “He could do better.” “What does he even see in her?” Some of it was jealousy, she knew. Some of it was idle gossip, the kind of thing women said without thinking. But once spoken, the words stuck.

She carried them with her like weights.

At first, she tried to ignore them. She told herself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care what strangers thought. But when she caught herself comparing her reflection in store mirrors to the girls who whispered, she felt the pit in her stomach deepen. She tried to wear nicer clothes, tried different hairstyles, bought little things that she thought might make her more appealing. She tried to be better.

But no matter how much effort she put in, it never felt like enough.

The aunties in her neighborhood whispered too, though more politely. “She’s lucky,” they’d say, smiles hiding sharper truths. “He’s too handsome for her.” She could feel the judgment under their voices, hear the cruel thoughts even if they weren’t spoken aloud. Each comment dug deeper, layering insecurity on top of insecurity.

Every time she went out with him, her heart was split between happiness and dread. Happiness, because she loved being with him. Dread, because she feared the stares, the whispers, the endless comparisons.

And when he asked if she was okay—because he noticed, of course he did—she always forced a smile. On good days, the smile looked almost convincing. On bad days, when the weight was too much, she snapped at him instead. Short, sharp words she regretted the moment they left her lips. He never raised his voice in return. He only studied her quietly, then stepped back, giving her space she hadn’t asked for but perhaps needed.

Later, he’d appear with something in his hands. Flowers, simple but thoughtful. Her favorite pastries from the bakery near their apartment. A takeout bag from the noodle shop she loved most. Small offerings, as though trying to soothe something he couldn’t quite name.

And she wanted to be soothed. She wanted to melt into his arms, tell him everything, let him strip away the insecurities that haunted her. But the words never came. She was too proud, too afraid he might confirm her worst fear—that he did deserve someone better.

So she stayed silent.

The silence stretched into days, weeks, months. Each time she snapped, each time she pulled away, the gulf between them widened. And yet, he still tried. He still reached for her with quiet gestures, with patience she didn’t deserve.

But the more he gave, the more she hated herself.

Because she couldn’t stop hearing the voices. Couldn’t stop believing the whispers. Couldn’t stop thinking that no matter how hard she tried, she would never be enough for him.

And in the end, that belief poisoned everything.

She told herself she was protecting him, that maybe letting go was what he deserved. That maybe she wasn’t meant to be the one at his side, no matter how much she loved him.

But deep down, she knew the truth. She hadn’t lost him to circumstance, or to fate, or even to another woman.

She had lost him to the war inside her own mind.

And the cruelest part was that he had never asked her to be anything more than herself.

Yet still, in her heart, she believed that “herself” would never be enough.

And so, little by little, she let the voices win.

She let them tell her she wasn’t worthy.

She let them convince her to push him away.

She let them destroy what they had.

And all the while, Ayanokouji kept trying—flowers, food, quiet words, patience without end.

But even patience has limits, and love cannot survive when one heart refuses to believe it deserves to be loved.

That was the truth Horikita never spoke.

The truth she carried like a wound, hidden beneath all her pride.

The truth that, in the end, broke them apart.

Because she had been fighting the wrong battle all along—not against the world’s opinions, but against herself.

Ayanokouji had always believed he was good at reading people, that he could dissect their intentions, their words, their lies, and find the truth buried beneath. With Horikita, though, it was different. He could see the change in her, but he couldn’t always understand it. And that terrified him in a way nothing else ever had.

At first, he thought it was something small—work stress, exhaustion, or maybe just a bad mood. But the longer it went on, the clearer it became that this was something deeper, heavier. Her touches still lingered, but her eyes carried shadows. Her arms wrapped tightly around him at night, but sometimes her body felt rigid, like she was bracing herself for something. Her smiles never quite reached her eyes.

He told himself it wasn’t him. He told himself she would tell him if something was wrong. But then the whispers started.

At bars, at restaurants, at stores where they lingered too long, he began to hear them. The compliments always came first—“She’s beautiful,” “You’re a lucky man,” “She’s really something special.” But beneath those words, in the quieter moments when voices dropped and laughter turned cruel, he heard the rest. “She could do better.” “He doesn’t deserve her.” “A guy like that doesn’t know how to love a girl like her.”

The first time he heard it, he dismissed it. People always talked. The second time, he forced himself to ignore it, even as his jaw tightened. The third, the fourth, the fifth—they began to sink in, like poison bleeding into his bloodstream.

It wasn’t just strangers either. He caught it in the voices of people he knew—coworkers, acquaintances, the people who served them at places he frequented. The message never changed, only the words. He wasn’t enough. He couldn’t love her the way she deserved. He was failing her.

That was the thought that lodged itself in his chest like a knife.

So he tried harder.

Every week, he planned dates, even when work left him exhausted. He made sure their outings were special, places with views she liked, food she enjoyed. He took her shopping, let her drag him through stores and tried to smile when she spun in new outfits. When flowers wilted, he replaced them immediately, never letting a vase sit empty. If she skipped meals, he had food sent to her office. If she sighed too heavily, he bought her gifts, little things he thought she might like—books, jewelry, the pen she once mentioned liking when she saw it in passing.

He watched other couples, trying to copy what worked for them. He skimmed books, movies, TV shows, anything that gave him a picture of what “love” was supposed to look like. He gave compliments, kissed her often, whispered things he wasn’t sure he believed but knew she wanted to hear.

But still, it wasn’t enough.

Because her eyes told him the truth. She wasn’t happy.

She held him, yes—sometimes with a desperation that made his chest ache—but her smile always seemed just a little off, her laughter a touch too hollow. Some days, she would snap at him for the smallest things. On others, she gave him that practiced, empty smile that hurt more than any sharp word could.

And every time, he thought it was his fault.

He wondered if he was suffocating her. If his attempts at love—so awkward, so rehearsed—were only driving her further away. Maybe she didn’t want flowers or gifts or endless affection. Maybe she wanted something else, something he didn’t know how to give.

The thought haunted him. He’d never had to love someone before. He had no guidebook, no real examples to follow. The world he came from hadn’t allowed for it. All he could do was mimic what he’d seen, try his best, hope that it was enough.

But when he looked at her, saw the way her eyes dimmed even as she clung to him, he realized it wasn’t.

Still, he refused to stop. He refused to let go. He tugged her closer in public, a subtle declaration to anyone who dared look her way. He kissed her hand in quiet moments, pressed flowers into her arms even when she scolded him for wasting money. He wrapped her up in every piece of affection he could muster, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she would see that he was trying.

That he did love her.

Even if he didn’t always know how.

But the more he tried, the more the whispers returned to him, the more they carved away at his certainty.

What if they were right?

What if she deserved someone better? Someone who didn’t have to force himself to learn affection from books and movies, someone who loved naturally instead of treating it like a calculation?

What if, no matter how hard he tried, he was always going to fall short?

The questions lingered in his mind long after the gifts were given, long after the kisses ended. He could give her the world, but if he wasn’t enough for her, none of it mattered.

And so he lived every day torn between desperation and doubt. Desperation to hold onto her, to make her see his love. Doubt that he ever could.

Because if she ever left him, if she ever decided he wasn’t enough—

He wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

Ayanokouji remembered that night vividly, the way it had felt like a small, fragile reprieve from the world that constantly tried to pull them apart. The apartment smelled faintly of the dinner they’d shared—a mix of garlic, olive oil, and something sweet from the dessert Horikita had insisted on finishing herself. The movie played on the television, its sound barely audible over their quiet laughter and the occasional teasing remark, but neither of them cared.

Horikita had curled up against him on the couch, her head resting against his shoulder, her hands tucked into the warmth of his sweater. She looked relaxed, almost weightless, and Ayanokouji couldn’t stop himself from staring, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the slight sparkle in her eyes, the soft smile she gave him when she laughed at some minor line in the movie.

He could feel the tension of weeks—months—dissolving between them. Every frustrated, aching day they had spent apart seemed to pour out of him as he held her. Her hand slid into his, and their fingers intertwined naturally, as if no time had ever passed. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, then another at the curve of her temple, and she murmured something that made him smile even more.

When she turned to face him, she did so with a sincerity that caught him off guard. The kind of look that he had missed in countless moments before—genuine warmth, a trust and openness he had always longed for. And when her lips found his, it wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t polite. It was fierce and hungry, pent-up months of longing spilling into a single connection that left them both breathless.

Something switched in them both then. A release of all the frustration from being so close yet separated so often. A reminder that no matter how complicated life could be, this—their closeness, their affection—was still real. He held her tighter, carrying her almost effortlessly to the bedroom, feeling her laugh against him, a sound so pure and light that it made him dizzy with relief and happiness.

When he finally laid her onto the bed, she laughed again, the kind of laughter that made his chest ache in the best way. She wasn’t exhausted, annoyed, or distracted like she often pretended to be when life weighed her down. She was present, entirely present with him, and he responded in kind, letting his lips travel along her jaw, the back of her neck, and every spot that made her giggle uncontrollably.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her body pressing against his as if to anchor him, and for a moment, he believed that this could last forever. That somehow, despite everything—the misunderstandings, the external pressures, the whispers of doubt—they had carved out a little space just for themselves, a world in which only the two of them existed.

They talked in whispers between kisses, sharing thoughts and little confessions they had kept hidden. Horikita admitted, almost shyly, that she had missed him more than she realized, that she had thought she might be stronger on her own but had been lying to herself. Ayanokouji, in return, murmured that he had always feared he wasn’t enough for her, that every little doubt and every hurtful whisper he had overheard had shaken him more than he could say.

Yet there, in the soft lamplight of their bedroom, it didn’t matter. Words were secondary to the closeness, to the way their bodies fit together, to the rhythm of their breathing syncing naturally. For the first time in months, they could simply exist without overthinking, without second-guessing.

Hours passed unnoticed as they lay together, sharing warmth, soft touches, and quiet laughter. They traced imaginary patterns on each other’s skin, whispered dreams they both knew might never come true, and yet felt infinitely possible in that moment.

Ayanokouji pressed a lingering kiss to Horikita’s forehead, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his chest. He tucked her closer, arms around her like a shield, as she snuggled into him, fingers brushing along his jaw and across his collarbone. The world outside, with its demands and chaos, felt impossibly far away.

For Horikita, too, the night was a relief—a moment of clarity, of being reminded that even in the midst of fear, doubt, and heartbreak, there were spaces where she belonged. Where she was cherished and adored for exactly who she was. She let herself melt into him, into the quiet safety of his arms, and she realized how deeply she had missed this—their rhythm, their connection, the way he seemed to know her without words.

They laughed quietly again as he peppered tiny kisses along her shoulders and neck, careful but persistent, and she responded in kind, teasing him with soft nudges, hands brushing his hair and tracing patterns on his back. Each movement, each touch, seemed to undo the tension of months, replacing it with warmth, trust, and the reassurance that their bond hadn’t been broken.

Ayanokouji held her close, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against his, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, they could navigate the messiness of the world together. That even with everything pulling at them, they could still find moments like this—small, infinite, and completely theirs.

As the night stretched on, the movie long forgotten, they whispered half-finished sentences, confessions, and laughter. Each kiss and touch was both a release and a promise, a statement that no matter what had come before, they were still here, still tethered to one another.

Horikita smiled against his shoulder, genuine and full, and Ayanokouji allowed himself to finally exhale, a weight lifting from his chest that he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying.

For the first time in months, the world felt lighter. And for the first time in months, he believed, truly believed, that maybe they could be okay again.

The night ended with them wrapped around each other, bodies entwined, hearts syncing in quiet rhythm. No distractions, no expectations, no judgments—just the two of them, together, in a space that felt like home.

Even in the darkness of their room, with the city lights faintly glowing through the curtains, the warmth of that night lingered, imprinting itself on their memories, a reminder of what they were fighting for, and why the fight mattered.

And for that one, perfect night, the pain of the past, the doubts of the future, and the chaos of life outside ceased to exist. There was only them, their laughter, their whispered confessions, and the steady, unspoken love that had always been there, waiting for the moment they would finally allow it to breathe again.

Ayanokouji pushed away from his desk, the chair rolling back slightly as he rose to his feet. His gaze lingered on the half-finished coffee that had long since gone cold, a bitter metaphor for everything he had let slip through his hands. How had it come to this point? How had he ever managed to lose the first woman who had taught him what it meant to feel something real?

For so much of his life, emotions had been nothing more than faint ripples on an otherwise still surface. But with her, things had shifted. She had been the first to make him smile without effort, without calculation. The first whose presence didn’t feel like a burden or an obligation but like warmth seeping through cracks he hadn’t even realized existed within him. She had been the first woman who made him believe that maybe he wasn’t as empty as he had once assumed.

And yet, here he stood, staring at the shadows stretching across the floor of his home office, empty-handed and lonelier than he had ever been before her. The first woman who’d brought him genuine joy, the one he had thought—perhaps foolishly—would remain by his side no matter what, was gone.

There was no use in dwelling on the past, was there? He told himself that. Repeated it in his head like a mantra. But the words rang hollow. The past wasn’t something you could simply discard like an old coat or shut away in a locked drawer. It clung to him, wound itself into the fibers of his being, echoing in every quiet moment he tried to fill with anything else.

His chest tightened as he paced slowly, each step heavy with the memories that refused to let him move forward. He remembered her laugh—the genuine kind, not the polite or forced versions she gave others. He remembered the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, even if she didn’t realize it. He remembered nights when neither of them said much, and yet the silence was far more intimate than any words could have been.

But more than the memories, he remembered the shift—the slow erosion of something precious. The small cracks that had widened into fault lines. The moments he should have said more, done more, noticed more. He had thought that love, once found, was unshakable, that his devotion would be enough to shield them from the world. He hadn’t realized that sometimes love wasn’t about grand gestures but about listening when words faltered, about seeing what was hidden beneath the smiles.

Now, she was gone. And he couldn’t escape the gnawing thought that maybe—just maybe—she hadn’t left because she stopped loving him. Maybe she left because he hadn’t shown her enough that she was more than just the first, more than just the woman who awakened feelings in him. Maybe she had wanted to be the one he grew with, not the one he failed.

He pressed his palms against the desk, bowing his head, the weight of his thoughts pressing down harder than ever. Moving on sounded simple in theory. But how do you move on when every step forward drags the shadow of the past behind it?

The truth was cruel in its simplicity: he had loved her, and he had lost her. Whether through his failings, her doubts, or the cruel inevitability of their differences—it didn’t matter now. What mattered was that she was no longer there.

He drew a deep, shaky breath, lifting his head toward the dim light of the lamp. Maybe there was no use in dwelling on the past. But that didn’t stop him from wishing—just once more—that he could go back and hold her hand, whisper something different, change the course of the story that had already been written.

Because in the end, she hadn’t just been the first. She had been everything. And now, everything was gone.

Ayanokouji let out a slow, heavy sigh, the sound barely audible over the low hum of his computer. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he opened a new tab, the sterile brightness of the email interface almost painfully stark in the dim room. He scrolled through the messages, one after another, all routine, all impersonal—requests for meetings, newsletters, reminders of deadlines. Each ping of a new incoming message made him flinch slightly, as if the world were trying to intrude on his private storm.

Nothing among them held the weight of the memories pressing at the edges of his mind. None of these messages would make her laugh, none would allow him to steal a glance at her smiling, none would let him hear her gentle teasing or feel her fingers brushing against his in the quiet of a shared space. Each email felt hollow, a reminder of the life he was going through without her, mechanical and devoid of warmth.

He clicked through one message after another, scanning quickly, barely registering the words. They were all the same—requests for reports, questions about schedules, automated replies. His thumb brushed the trackpad almost unconsciously, scrolling faster, desperate for distraction, though the emails offered none. The glow of the screen illuminated the tension in his face, highlighting the fatigue in his eyes, the faint tremor in his hand.

Somewhere deep in his chest, a persistent ache pulsed, a reminder that no amount of work or distraction could fill the void left behind. He remembered the small things—the way she would send him a photo of some dessert she’d tried, the way she would text him with a single emoji just to make him smile. Even the mundane had held intimacy, a quiet connection that seemed impossibly distant now.

He paused on an unread email, something routine from a client he had been corresponding with for weeks. The subject line blurred as he stared, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined it was her. That familiar spark of hope flared in his chest, only to be quickly extinguished as he realized it was nothing more than a reminder of the life continuing without her.

A soft groan escaped him, barely audible, and he leaned back in his chair, letting the leather support his weight. His eyes drifted to the window, the city lights twinkling faintly in the distance, but the comfort they had once brought felt nonexistent tonight. Even the familiar skyline seemed muted, drained of color, as though reflecting the emptiness he carried inside.

He opened another email, this one from a coworker asking for input on a report, and mechanically began typing a reply. The words flowed, but they felt foreign in his mouth—empty letters, lifeless sentences. Each keystroke seemed to emphasize the absence of something more profound, something irretrievably lost.

After a few minutes, he stopped, letting his fingers hover over the keys again. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples lightly, trying to soothe the relentless pulse of memory that seemed to hammer against the inside of his skull. He remembered her laugh, her soft sighs, the brush of her hand against his as they moved through a crowded room. Memories that should have been sweet now felt like salt in an open wound.

He glanced down at the clock on his computer screen—time passing in the same monotonous way it had since she left. Minutes ticked by with mechanical indifference, and he realized he hadn’t responded to a single email with genuine attention. Everything was an automatic gesture, an empty shell of productivity to hide the hollow ache inside.

Ayanokouji’s gaze drifted to the unopened folder of personal emails he rarely touched, the ones he used to exchange jokes, small confessions, and intimate thoughts with her. The folder was innocuous to anyone else, but to him, it was a mausoleum of memories—each message a fragment of the life he once shared, now frozen in time.

He hesitated, fingers trembling slightly as he considered opening it. The thought of reading their old conversations was almost unbearable, yet irresistible. Maybe, he told himself, just to remind himself what he had lost, to confront the truth of her absence.

With a shuddering breath, he clicked on the folder. The emails loaded slowly, each subject line a pang in his chest—inside jokes, plans for weekends, small reassurances, the gentle nudges of love and care that he had once taken for granted. The names and words blurred, his eyes stinging as the weight of it all pressed down.

He scrolled through them, unable to stop himself. There was one from a Friday night, a photo she had sent of herself smiling, taken just moments after they had shared a quiet dinner together. His chest tightened as he stared, and a single tear escaped, trailing down his cheek onto the desk.

The emails were full of her voice, her presence, the echoes of the connection he had once held. But the digital facsimile offered no comfort—it only reminded him that she was gone, that the life they had built together had ended, and that he was now left to navigate an existence without her warmth, her laughter, her touch.

He leaned forward, resting his head on the desk as he allowed himself to succumb to the ache, letting the emails and memories wash over him. His computer screen reflected a weary, hollow version of himself, a man weighed down by the absence of the only person who had made the world feel full.

Hours seemed to pass as he remained there, scrolling, reading, reliving. Every click, every line of text, was a reminder that he had loved her fully, and yet somehow, it hadn’t been enough to keep her. The ache in his chest grew heavier with each passing moment, a relentless reminder that some losses were permanent, some wounds never healed.

Ayanokouji eventually lifted his head, blinking against the dim light. His vision was blurred with tears and exhaustion, yet he continued to scroll, unable to stop. Even in the silence of his office, surrounded by the trappings of a life that felt empty without her, he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t stop thinking, remembering, longing.

The emails were a bridge to a world that no longer existed—a world where her smile, her voice, her touch were still part of his life. But now, every message was a ghost, every memory a reminder of what had been lost. The ache in his chest was relentless, a constant companion to the solitude of the night.

He finally leaned back, closing his eyes and resting his hands over the keyboard. The hum of the computer was the only sound, rhythmic and unyielding, matching the pulse of his thoughts. She was gone. The world continued, indifferent to his grief. And yet, he remained there, scrolling, reading, clinging to the digital echoes of a love that refused to leave his heart.

Even as dawn approached, spilling pale light into the room, Ayanokouji didn’t move. He remained at the edge of the digital window into their past, trapped between memory and reality, unable to escape the ache, unable to find solace. Every unread email, every old message, every photo—a bittersweet testament to a love that had been his and was now just beyond reach.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, exhaling shakily, and whispered into the empty room, “How did it come to this?” No one answered. There was no one to answer. Only the glow of the screen, the hum of the computer, and the relentless ache of a heart that still belonged to someone who was gone.

Hours later, still seated before the laptop, he scrolled again, the ritual endless, a cycle of remembrance and torment. Each word, each image, each memory a sharp edge against the raw wound inside him. Even as the city outside began to stir, life continuing indifferent to his grief, he remained trapped in the digital echo of the woman he could never have back.

The hum of the laptop, the faint click of keys, the distant murmur of traffic outside—these were his only companions now. And still, he scrolled, still he read, still he remembered. The world had moved on without her, and he was left suspended in the moments that were already gone, unable to reclaim them, unable to forget.

Even as exhaustion pulled at his body, his mind refused rest. He scrolled and read, living again in moments that were already past, searching for fragments of her in a sea of digital memory, desperate for a glimpse of a love that had slipped through his fingers and left him utterly alone.

Ayanokouji leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he let out a long, low sigh. The apartment was quiet, almost oppressively so, the kind of silence that made every thought echo loudly in his head. He rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand, trying to push back the storm of thoughts about Horikita. Each memory, each flash of her laughter or the curve of her smile, seemed to dig deeper, leaving a hollow ache in his chest he couldn’t shake.

He glanced down at his phone, the screen lighting up the dim room. There were a couple of messages from Karuizawa, casual, teasing, her usual charm radiating through the tiny notifications. He didn’t reply immediately, fingers hovering over the keyboard as guilt and confusion warred within him. Every time he thought of answering, a small, sharp pang hit his chest—like a warning that whatever he said or did could never replicate what he had lost.

Maybe, he thought, he needed guidance. Talking to someone might help him untangle the mess of feelings he had trapped inside. But who? His father? No—conversations with him had always been formal, distant, and tinged with unspoken judgement. And his mother? Their relationship was polite but hollow, filled with expectation rather than warmth. Consulting them felt like a futile exercise, a mere formality that would leave him with nothing more than polite nods and empty advice.

Albert. That was a possibility. They’d exchanged a few messages here and there since graduation. He knew the man had had relationships that hadn’t lasted, but perhaps he’d offer some perspective. Aidanokouji shook his head slightly, imagining Albert’s blunt, unsentimental advice clashing with the flood of emotion he felt now. It might help, or it might make him feel even more inadequate.

Then there were his coworkers. A few were married, even happy, from what he could tell. But he didn’t know them personally. Their lives and struggles seemed distant, abstract. To ask for advice from someone who couldn’t possibly understand the depth of what he’d lost—what he had let slip away—felt pointless. Their happy marriages might as well have been fairy tales he couldn’t touch.

Hirata. That was a possibility. The man had always been friendly, warm, and welcoming, even after all these years. He might understand, at least a little, the nuances of relationships and the weight of regrets. Still, Ayanokouji hesitated. Reaching out felt like admitting weakness, an admission he wasn’t sure he was ready to make.

Or perhaps a woman’s perspective would be better, someone who could explain emotions he had never fully grasped. But who? He barely knew any women on a level deep enough to trust them with his heart—or his thoughts about Horikita. The thought of confiding in someone so foreign made him uneasy, like he was stepping onto ice that might break at any moment.

He shifted in his chair, feeling the smooth leather against his back, and stared out the window at the city below. The streetlights glimmered in the darkness, the muted hum of traffic far beneath him. Everything seemed duller than usual, the colors less vibrant, the sounds muffled. The world itself felt muted, as if it, too, mourned alongside him.

Ayanokouji picked up a notebook from his desk and flipped it open to a blank page. Perhaps writing things down would help. He began listing names, ideas, possibilities, anyone he might speak to, anyone who could offer guidance. The list remained small, incomplete, unsatisfactory. It offered no immediate solution, no relief from the gnawing ache inside him.

He paused, resting his forehead against the edge of the desk. The silence was suffocating, pressing in from all sides, leaving him feeling smaller, weaker than he liked to admit. He longed for something tangible, something real, someone who could remind him that he was not as alone as he felt. But the room remained empty, his longing unanswered.

His mind wandered back to Horikita, to the memories of their trips, their late-night conversations, the way she had always trusted him with the small vulnerabilities she rarely showed anyone else. Each memory was a blade, sharp and sweet at once, cutting him with the impossibility of having it all again.

He imagined speaking to her again, carefully, trying to make her understand the depth of his regret. But he knew—knew with a sinking certainty—that things weren’t so simple anymore. She had moved forward in her life in ways he hadn’t, and the thought that she might be happy without him twisted something vicious in his chest.

Ayanokouji set the notebook aside, running a hand through his hair. The act was mechanical, almost desperate, like trying to physically push away the thoughts that kept clawing at him. His pulse quickened, a subtle tremor of panic threading through him. He was still lost in her absence, still tethered to the memories as if they were the only anchors keeping him afloat.

He looked down at his phone again. Another message from Karuizawa. She had likely noticed his distraction and was reaching out, playful as always, but her words felt distant, unconnected. His mind immediately rejected them, unwilling to allow another person to fill the space that Horikita had left behind.

Frustration coiled in his chest, a tightness that made breathing slightly more difficult. He wanted to escape, to run anywhere, to do anything to feel control over his life again, but he remained rooted in place, staring at the cityscape beyond his window. It was a muted reflection of what life could be—bright, bustling, alive—but to him, it was a world already moved on without her.

He thought about calling someone, anyone, just to hear a voice that wasn’t part of his own internal monologue. But he hesitated. Who could really understand this void? Who could help him articulate the loss and confusion that consumed him every waking moment? The options felt infinitesimal, the solutions unattainable.

Ayanokouji turned back to his desk and idly tapped his fingers against the surface, the sound small, rhythmic, and hollow. He considered making a plan—perhaps a trip, a visit, some action to regain control. But all the plans dissolved in his mind before they could take shape, leaving only the ache and the longing.

He picked up the notebook again and scribbled a single word at the top of the page: “Horikita.” Beneath it, he drew a line, then another, trying to categorize, to rationalize, to impose order on the chaos inside him. But each word felt insufficient, each line inadequate. The act of writing was futile, almost mocking in its inability to resolve the turmoil in his heart.

The apartment seemed colder now, the shadows longer, the air heavier. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the glow of the city reflecting faintly on the walls. It was silent except for the faint hum of electronics, the distant stir of life outside his window. He felt trapped between the world he remembered and the one he inhabited now, neither of which could offer solace.

He thought about reaching out to Horikita directly, drafting messages he would never send, imagining conversations that could never occur. The possibilities twisted in his mind, each scenario more painful than the last. How could he reconcile the past with the present? How could he make her understand the depth of his feelings without pushing her further away?

His hand hovered over the keyboard, fingers trembling slightly as he imagined pressing “send,” reaching across the digital void to a world where perhaps she still cared. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The fear of rejection, of the irrevocable nature of their separation, was paralyzing.

Ayanokouji let out another sigh, leaning his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. He imagined her laughter, her soft murmurings, the touch of her hand. Each memory brought warmth, then pain, then longing. He remained suspended in that cycle, the apartment around him silent and unyielding.

He opened a new tab, searching for advice columns, forums, anything that might offer guidance. His eyes scanned articles about relationships, about regret, about lost love, but the words were hollow, generic. None spoke to the depth of what he felt, none could bridge the chasm that separated him from Horikita.

Hours seemed to stretch, the night deepening around him. Ayanokouji scrolled, typed, deleted, and stared, the cycle unbroken. Every suggestion, every idea, every thought of counsel remained abstract, powerless to ease the pain he carried.

Finally, he leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands, letting out a long, weary breath. The night continued around him, indifferent. The city hummed below, lights twinkling as if mocking his solitude. He remained seated, scrolling through lists, ideas, contacts, a man trapped in the quiet torment of longing, unsure how to move forward, unsure if he could ever reconcile with the one who had once held his heart.

Even as exhaustion tugged at him, Ayanokouji continued, searching for an answer he wasn’t sure existed. Every message, every email, every fleeting thought of counsel was a lifeline he clung to, fragile and tenuous, yet necessary. For Horikita, for himself, for the hope that maybe, someday, he could find a way back to the warmth he had lost.

Ayanokouji leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered his sister. She was infuriating at times—prickly, opinionated, relentless in her questioning—but perhaps that very bluntness could help him untangle the mess in his mind. She had a way of cutting through pretense, of seeing situations clearly even when he couldn’t. Maybe she could provide perspective, a grounding force to counter the chaos of his own spiraling thoughts. He could imagine her scolding him for overthinking, for being paralyzed by fear and indecision, for allowing himself to be haunted by the past rather than taking action in the present. That, at least, sounded like a start.

Then his thoughts shifted again, unbidden, to Ryuen and Ibuki. A casual glance at social media a few days ago had reminded him how perfectly the couple seemed to function. They had their moments of friction, of course, but they were publicly affectionate, smiling at each other during weddings, holding hands, moving in sync in ways that screamed familiarity and comfort. Ayanokouji couldn’t help but notice the contrast to his own situation, how swiftly Ryuen and Ibuki had navigated the cycles of breakup and reconciliation, eventually settling into a life together. They had managed to find their rhythm, to build something lasting, and it made his chest tighten in a strange combination of admiration and despair.

He reflected on the absurdity of comparing his situation to theirs. He knew logically that every relationship was different, that the dynamics between two people couldn’t be mapped directly onto another couple’s success. Yet the image of Ryuen and Ibuki—smiling at a wedding, clasping each other’s hands in a familiar, intimate dance—haunted him. The ease with which they seemed to move through life together made his own indecision, his own paralysis, feel like a failure rather than just circumstance.

Ayanokouji rubbed his temples and exhaled slowly, trying to steady the surge of emotion. He considered reaching out to Ryuen, perhaps for advice, or maybe just to observe firsthand how they maintained that balance. But even that idea felt fraught with danger. How could he ask someone who seemed to have it all figured out for guidance when he himself couldn’t even reconcile his own emotions? It would feel intrusive, almost desperate, and he wasn’t sure he had the courage to take that step.

His gaze drifted to the city skyline beyond his window, the lights muted beneath the darkness of night. Every building, every street, every flicker of movement seemed to mock his stillness, his inability to move forward. The contrast between Ryuen and Ibuki’s apparent ease and his own torment was painfully stark. He wondered how they had done it, what conversations had allowed them to reach understanding, what silent compromises or declarations of intent had carried them through their missteps.

He thought about the way Horikita had looked that day at the wedding, the tension in her hands, the tightness in her jaw, the way her eyes had drifted repeatedly toward him even as she tried not to. Those fleeting glimpses of longing, of confusion, had haunted him ever since, more vivid and painful than any photograph or memory. He knew she hadn’t moved on fully—not really—and that realization both thrilled and terrified him.

Perhaps he could use that, he thought. Not as leverage, not as a weapon, but as a reminder that she still cared in some small, ineffable way. The challenge was determining the line between hope and obsession, between taking action and simply suffocating under his own emotions. He could feel the edges of his rationality fraying as he weighed possibilities, imagined conversations, rehearsed apologies and declarations of love that might never find their way to her ears.

He thought about his sister again, about her bluntness, her insight, the sharpness that often left him reeling but also illuminated paths he hadn’t considered. Perhaps she could help him parse his own behavior, his failures, his moments of weakness, and turn them into something actionable. She might remind him that time was finite, that the longer he waited, the further the gap would grow between him and Horikita.

Ryuen and Ibuki, again, crept into his mind. The fact that they had stumbled, had broken up and found their way back, served as a quiet beacon. It was proof, however small, that love—real, enduring love—could survive trials, could be reclaimed even after missteps. That thought, when combined with the raw ache of longing, made him realize just how unwilling he was to surrender, to accept the idea that Horikita might drift completely out of reach.

He allowed himself a long, shuddering breath and leaned back, eyes closing briefly. Each inhale carried the faint hope that perhaps, with guidance, with courage, with timing, he could find a way to bridge the distance that had grown between them. Perhaps he could learn from others’ successes—the reconciliations, the honest conversations, the willingness to remain vulnerable despite the risk of heartbreak.

Ayanokouji opened his eyes, gaze falling on the notebook at his desk. He began scribbling names again, possibilities, strategies for understanding and approaching the problem of Horikita. Each name carried its own weight, its own risk, its own potential to offer clarity. He wrote in careful, measured strokes, though the urgency thrummed through him like a hidden drumbeat.

The thought of calling his sister became more concrete, more urgent. She could provide perspective, but also accountability. She might ask questions he didn’t want to answer, but that was exactly what he needed. The idea of her bluntness cutting through his self-deception made him feel a flicker of hope—something tangible, actionable, a path forward that didn’t rely solely on imagined scenarios or obsessive reflection.

And yet, the thought of Ryuen and Ibuki lingered still, a contrast and a guidepost both. He could analyze their relationship, try to understand what they had done differently, and perhaps adapt it to his own circumstances. The idea of learning from their reconciliation, rather than envying their happiness, gave him a fragile sense of direction, a potential framework upon which to rebuild his own connection with Horikita.

He leaned forward, tapping the notebook gently, organizing his thoughts into categories: family, friends, professional mentors, and peers with stable relationships. Each category held possibilities, each option weighed against its potential benefits and pitfalls. The task felt daunting, but necessary. Action, he realized, was preferable to stagnation.

Ayanokouji’s mind wandered briefly to Karuizawa, the occasional messages, the subtle allure she presented. He noted the contrast sharply, a reminder that not all connections were meaningful or restorative. Horikita was the axis of his current turmoil, the source of both anguish and motivation. Every consideration, every strategy, every reflection pointed back to her.

Hours passed in a quiet rhythm, punctuated by the hum of his computer, the faint clicks of the clock, the distant murmur of the city. Each passing moment carried with it the dual weight of urgency and indecision, the knowledge that time was moving forward even as he remained partially paralyzed.

He made a tentative list of potential approaches: a direct conversation, mediated discussion, seeking counsel, introspection. Each bore risks, but each was a step toward clarity. He recognized, even in the haze of exhaustion, that remaining passive was no longer an option.

Ayanokouji leaned back, exhaling sharply, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease fractionally. The night was far from over, the journey toward understanding and reconciliation just beginning. But for the first time in weeks, a spark of agency flickered within him—a reminder that even in the shadow of loss, the possibility of action and repair remained.

He glanced once more at the skyline, the distant lights undimmed, indifferent, yet somehow affirming that the world would continue. It was a small comfort, a reminder that time and space existed beyond his confinement of worry. If he moved carefully, thoughtfully, perhaps he could reclaim some measure of what had been lost.

The notebook lay open, the names and possibilities filling the pages like small stepping stones. Ayanokouji understood that clarity would not come instantly, that progress would be gradual, measured in small, deliberate choices rather than sudden revelations.

And yet, amidst the weight of regret and longing, he allowed himself to consider one possibility above all others: that with patience, courage, and guidance, Horikita could still be within reach. That the story they had started, though interrupted, need not end here.

He picked up his phone, hesitated, then set it down. This time, he wasn’t looking to Karuizawa, nor at Ryuen and Ibuki’s curated happiness. He was preparing, organizing, planning—a path forward he hoped Horikita would walk alongside him when he was ready.

The night stretched on, quiet but charged with intent. Ayanokouji remained at his desk, scribbling, thinking, reflecting, but now with purpose—not as a man lost, but as a man beginning to navigate the labyrinth of his own heart.

It would not be easy. The path would be fraught with obstacles, doubts, and missteps. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt a glimmer of direction, a tentative sense of possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, he could find his way back to Horikita.

Ayanokouji’s hand moved almost on instinct, his fingers curling around the phone before his thoughts could catch up. The screen glowed faintly in the dim room, his own reflection staring back at him with a mix of exhaustion and hesitation. For a brief moment, he considered putting it down again—burying himself back in lists and scribbled strategies—but something inside him resisted.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he scrolled through his contacts until Ryuen’s name appeared. His thumb hovered, a flicker of doubt rising in his chest. Ryuen wasn’t exactly the kind of person he typically leaned on, nor someone he’d ever expected to call in the middle of a restless night. And yet, the thought of Ryuen and Ibuki—how many times they’d fallen apart only to come back stronger—pushed him forward.

With one sharp inhale, he pressed the call button.

The dial tone rang once. Twice. Ayanokouji’s chest tightened, his mind already racing with possibilities of how this could go wrong. He almost hit “end call,” but his grip refused to loosen. By the third ring, he could hear shuffling on the other end, followed by Ryuen’s familiar, rough voice.

“…You serious, man? It’s late.” His tone carried the usual edge, but there was also the unmistakable undercurrent of curiosity.

Ayanokouji swallowed, searching for the right words. “I know. But… I need to ask you something.”

There was a pause, then a low chuckle that sounded more amused than irritated. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day you’d be calling me for advice. This must be good.”

Ayanokouji leaned forward at his desk, his other hand tapping restlessly against the notebook. “It’s about relationships. About… how you and Ibuki made it work, even after breaking up.”

The silence on the line stretched, filled only by Ryuen’s faint exhale. Then, his voice came through, lower and steadier. “Huh. So it is about her, isn’t it?”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer immediately, but he didn’t need to. The silence was enough.

Ryuen chuckled again, though this time it held less amusement and more understanding. “Alright. If you’re serious, I’ll tell you what I can. But you’d better be ready to hear things you don’t want to.”

Ayanokouji nodded to himself, even though Ryuen couldn’t see it. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he was moving forward—even if it was only the first step.

“Ryuen!” Ibuki’s voice carried clearly through the speaker, the familiar sharpness softened by something warmer. “Who are you talking to?”

Ayanokouji froze in his chair, listening carefully, almost feeling like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” Ryuen answered, his tone noticeably different than the usual gruff edge he showed to everyone else. There was gentleness there, a quiet reassurance that seemed out of character for the man he used to know. Ayanokouji blinked at the shift—it was the kind of voice he had never once heard from Ryuen during their school years.

There was rustling on the other end, then Ibuki’s voice came again, drawn out with a mix of complaint and affection. “Ryuennn! You promised we’d spend tonight together!”

Ayanokouji could almost picture the scene: Ibuki leaning against him with that impatient huff of hers, crossing her arms, pretending to be upset when in reality she just wanted his attention.

“I know, I know.” Ryuen’s reply came smoother this time, patient in a way that suggested he’d had this conversation before. “I’ll be back before you know it.” His voice dipped, and for a moment, the phone picked up the faint sound of a kiss—soft, quick, intimate. Then, the sound of footsteps retreating.

By the time Ryuen returned his focus to the call, his voice had settled back into its usual rough steadiness, though there was still a trace of that softness lingering. “Meet me at the convenience store near the station at six. Don’t be late.”

Ayanokouji let the words sink in, a mix of hesitation and curiosity knotting in his chest. Ryuen’s tone was commanding, but not unkind—it carried the same certainty that had once made him a leader back in school. It was oddly grounding, a reminder that Ryuen had managed to hold onto something real, something strong, despite all the chaos of the past.

“Alright,” Ayanokouji said quietly, more to himself than to Ryuen, though he knew the other man would hear. His reflection in the dark laptop screen looked worn, uncertain, but there was a flicker of resolve in his eyes. If there was anyone who could tell him what it meant to fight for someone—even after breaking apart—it was Ryuen.

The call ended shortly after, leaving the apartment eerily silent once more. But this time, the silence didn’t feel quite as suffocating. For the first time in weeks, Ayanokouji had something to move toward.

“Mio!” Ryuen’s voice echoed down the hallway, rough but threaded with warmth. Ibuki turned sharply, arms crossed tight over her chest, her lips pursed like she was ready to argue.

“What—” she began, but her expression softened the second he stepped closer. His hand found her waist with ease, tugging her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her pout dissolved into a reluctant smile, the kind she only ever showed him.

“Don’t be upset, baby,” he murmured, low against her ear. His voice rumbled in his chest, carrying that rare tenderness he reserved only for her. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, lingering just long enough for her to feel it. His thumb rubbed slow circles at her hip, anchoring her in his hold.

Ibuki’s arms dropped from their defensive fold, slipping around him instead. “Tch… I’m not upset,” she muttered, though her voice betrayed her, tilting softer, fond.

“Mm,” Ryuen hummed, clearly unconvinced, his lips brushing the crown of her head. “I’ll bring you back something nice, okay?”

Her smile widened, against her will, and she buried her face briefly against his chest, breathing him in before shoving lightly at him. “You better. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

“I won’t.” His hand lingered at the small of her back before he finally pulled away, glancing toward the door where his jacket and keys waited.

“I love you,” Ryuen said, the words rough around the edges but heavy with sincerity. He dipped his head, catching Ibuki’s lips in one last kiss—slow, lingering, as if he hated the idea of pulling away from her warmth. His hand cradled the back of her neck, thumb brushing her jaw gently before he finally let her go.

Ibuki’s eyes softened, the fire in them dimming into something more vulnerable. “Yeah, I know,” she whispered back, almost shy despite the years they’d spent together. She clung to his shirt for a second longer, reluctant to release him, then gave him a playful shove. “Don’t make me say it again, idiot. Just… come back fast.”

Ryuen smirked, a rare softness breaking through his usual sharp expression. He tugged on his jacket, scooped his keys from the counter, and cast her one last glance before heading toward the door. “I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me.”

“Liar,” Ibuki shot back with a small grin, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, watching him leave.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the apartment grew quiet. Ryuen tucked his hands into his pockets as he stepped into the cool evening air, his mind shifting from the warmth of home to the conversation waiting for him. Ayanokouji wouldn’t have called without reason.

When Ryuen finally arrived, Ayanokouji was already there, standing in the shadows just outside the glow of the convenience store sign. He looked almost out of place, posture straight, hands tucked in his coat pockets, gaze fixed on the pavement as though the lines in the concrete might hold an answer he couldn’t find elsewhere.

“You’re on time,” Ryuen muttered, striding up with that casual swagger of his. He barely spared Ayanokouji a glance, eyes sweeping the storefront instead. Then, with a sharp look, he added, “Don’t just stand there like a pervert.” His tone was dismissive, but not cruel. It was Ryuen’s way of saying quit looking so pathetic.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He pushed open the glass door with his shoulder, the familiar chime echoing in the quiet street. Ayanokouji hesitated for the briefest second before following, his movements more reserved, almost childlike in their precision. He trailed after Ryuen like a younger brother trying to keep up, his presence subdued against Ryuen’s unshakable confidence.

Inside, the store smelled faintly of fried food and instant noodles, shelves stacked high with the usual assortment of snacks and ready-made meals. Ryuen walked the aisles like he owned the place, shoulders loose, head tilted slightly as if nothing here could surprise him. His hand trailed over packages of chips, occasionally plucking one up, weighing it in his palm, and tossing it back with little interest.

“You always this stiff?” Ryuen asked suddenly, not looking back. He grabbed a bottle of soda, twisted it halfway in his hand as though considering it, then set it back down with a shrug.

Ayanokouji didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted from shelf to shelf, but he wasn’t really seeing the snacks or drinks. He was somewhere else entirely, lost in his head.

Ryuen glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. “What, cat got your tongue? You drag me out here, and now you’re just gonna sulk in the corner like some creep?” His voice was sharp, but there was an undercurrent of something else—concern hidden beneath the bravado.

Ayanokouji finally spoke, his voice low and even. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

That made Ryuen pause. He stopped in front of the magazine rack, hands in his pockets now, and studied Ayanokouji carefully. There was no mockery in his eyes this time, only curiosity. “Huh. That bad, huh?”

Ayanokouji didn’t nod, didn’t shake his head. He just stood there, caught in the hum of the fluorescent lights, his silence saying more than words could.

Ryuen clicked his tongue and turned back to the shelves, grabbing a box of pocky this time, turning it over in his hands. “Alright,” he muttered. “Talk. But don’t expect me to sugarcoat it.”

The words hung in the air between them, an unspoken invitation.

Ayanokouji’s words were quiet, deliberate. “It’s about Suzune.”

Ryuen stopped mid-step, one eyebrow quirking up as if those four words had lit a fuse somewhere in the back of his head. He tilted his chin, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. “Relationship troubles, huh?” His tone wasn’t mocking, not this time—it was edged with something closer to interest, like he had just been handed a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“You could say that,” Ayanokouji replied, voice flat but heavy. His gaze dropped to the polished floor, as though even the dull reflection staring back at him was too much to meet.

Ryuen turned his back to him, moving toward the snack shelves again with an air of nonchalance, though Ayanokouji knew better. He was listening—more carefully than he wanted to let on. Ryuen plucked another box of pocky from the display, shaking it idly before tossing it into the small basket he’d grabbed. His voice carried casually through the aisle. “Was wondering why you brought Kei to the wedding.”

The words landed with a sharp thud in Ayanokouji’s chest. He didn’t flinch, but inside he felt the echo of them, reverberating against thoughts he’d been trying to bury for weeks. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything,” he said after a pause, though even to his own ears, it sounded hollow.

Ryuen glanced back at him, eyes narrowing in that way that cut right through pretense. “Didn’t look that way. Girl was glued to you like wallpaper. Made Suzune look like she was about to break something.”

The memory was vivid, uncomfortably so. Karuizawa laughing, leaning into him. Horikita’s eyes—sharp, wounded, impossible to forget—catching his from across the room before turning away. His grip on the edge of the nearest shelf tightened, fingers pressing into the metal until it bit against his skin.

“You noticed?” Ayanokouji asked, more to keep Ryuen talking than because he needed the answer.

Ryuen gave a short laugh, bitter and low. “Everyone noticed. Don’t flatter yourself thinking you’re subtle.” He shifted to the instant noodles section, scanning through the rows like he was selecting a weapon instead of a meal. He reached out, tapped one cup with his finger, and muttered, “You fucked up.”

The words were blunt, delivered without ceremony, but they carried a strange weight of familiarity. Ryuen wasn’t speaking as someone passing judgment. He was speaking as someone who knew what it was to break something precious and to scramble afterward, trying to piece it back together with hands that weren’t steady enough.

Ayanokouji followed him silently, his steps echoing faintly in the near-empty store. His mind was too loud, replaying every second of the wedding, every flicker of Horikita’s expression, every moment of silence that had followed in the days since.

Ryuen finally dropped a cup of noodles into his basket and turned fully toward him. “So. You want me to say what? That she’ll get over it? That she’ll come crawling back?” His voice lowered, tone sharp. “You and I both know she won’t.”

The fluorescent lights above hummed, the only sound filling the gap between them as Ayanokouji stood there, absorbing the words. He didn’t argue. He didn’t deny.

Ryuen smirked faintly, though his eyes betrayed no real amusement. “Guess the question is—what the hell are you gonna do about it? Get somethin to eat" Ryuen added "you look like a damn chicken bone"

Ayanokouji didnt respond to the comment instead picked up a pack of instant ramen

Ryuen snorted when he saw the pack in Ayanokouji’s hand, shaking his head with a grin that was more disbelief than amusement. “Ramen, huh? Figures. You’re probably the only guy I know who could live like a corpse and not even notice. At least grab some meat or something with actual weight to it.” He plucked a bag of beef jerky off the rack, tossed it into Ayanokouji’s basket without asking, and moved on down the aisle.

Ayanokouji stared at the jerky for a moment, not reaching to take it out. His grip on the ramen tightened instead. It was easier to let Ryuen lead—he always had that kind of presence, one that made it simpler to follow than to fight.

“Man, you really are a mess,” Ryuen muttered, stopping at the cooler and yanking out two canned coffees. He tossed one to Ayanokouji, who caught it without effort. “You used to walk around like nothing touched you, like the world couldn’t leave a scratch. Now look at you. Starvin’ yourself half to death over a woman.”

Ayanokouji cracked the can open quietly. “She wasn’t just a woman.”

That earned him a long look. Ryuen didn’t smirk this time, didn’t laugh. He just studied him, like he was trying to decide whether to push or to let it sit. In the end, he leaned back against the cooler, arms folded across his chest. “So talk. What’s really eatin’ you?”

Silence stretched out between them. Ayanokouji lowered his eyes to the floor, the faint reflection of the harsh lights staring back. “I don’t know how to get her back. Or if I even can.”

Ryuen exhaled through his nose, almost a scoff but not quite. “You can’t think like that. Either you fight for it, or you let it rot. No in-between. Trust me—I’ve let it rot before. Didn’t work out too well.” His gaze softened just slightly, something unspoken flickering there. “But I fought, too. Look where I am now.”

The image of Ibuki’s smile, the way she’d called after Ryuen before he left, slipped unbidden into Ayanokouji’s mind. He thought of how natural it had looked—messy, real, alive.

“Horikita’s not Ibuki,” Ayanokouji murmured.

“No shit,” Ryuen shot back, pushing off the cooler. “But the principle’s the same. You think Ibuki didn’t slam the door in my face more times than I can count? You think we didn’t scream ourselves hoarse half the nights we were together? Hell, she still snaps at me, but I learned when to shut up and when to push back. And I didn’t quit. That’s the difference.”

Ayanokouji’s hand tightened around the can of coffee, the metal cold against his skin. The thought of fighting—of trying, really trying—felt foreign. He had never fought for anything, not truly. He had only endured, manipulated, survived.

Ryuen noticed the silence, the hesitation, and he jabbed a finger against Ayanokouji’s chest. “That’s your problem. You think love’s supposed to be perfect. It’s not. It’s ugly. It’s brutal. It hurts like hell, but it’s the only thing worth bleeding for.”

The words struck harder than Ayanokouji wanted to admit. His chest felt tight, his throat dry. He wanted to argue, to dismiss it as bravado, but he couldn’t. Not when Ryuen stood there, a living example of what it meant to keep clawing forward no matter how many times you were thrown back.

Finally, Ryuen turned away, heading toward the register with his basket slung carelessly in one hand. “C’mon, pay up. Then you’re gonna eat something real before you pass out on me.”

Ayanokouji followed, ramen and jerky still in hand, the weight of Ryuen’s words pressing down heavier than anything else he carried.

The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above them, casting their pale glow over the convenience store’s tiny counter space. Ryuen leaned back on the stool, ramen cup steaming between his hands, chopsticks swirling lazily through the broth. He hadn’t taken a bite yet, though; his sharp eyes were locked on Ayanokouji, who sat stiff beside him with his own untouched cup.

“So,” Ryuen said casually, though his tone carried weight, “what’s the problem?”

Ayanokouji stared down at the swirl of noodles in front of him, the steam fogging his vision just enough to blur the world. He almost wanted to lose himself in it, let the question hang unanswered. But Ryuen wasn’t the type to let silence go unchallenged.

“You already know,” Ayanokouji muttered finally.

Ryuen smirked around a bite of noodles, chewing slowly before answering. “Nah. I know there’s trouble. That’s obvious. But I don’t know what kind. Did you choke on your feelings and scare her off? Did you cheat? Did she? Gimme somethin’ real, man.”

The bluntness landed like a punch, but that was Ryuen’s way—he didn’t pull words back, didn’t sugarcoat.

“...She did,” Ayanokouji admitted finally, the words coming out heavier than he intended. His voice lacked its usual calm detachment; instead, it carried a quiet weight, as if he had been holding them inside far too long. He leaned back against the stool, posture carefully measured, like he was trying not to let the confession rattle him more than it already had.

“But it’s not that simple,” he added, eyes drifting down to the untouched ramen cup in front of him. The rising steam blurred his vision, and for a second he almost welcomed it—anything to avoid looking directly at Ryuen’s piercing gaze.

Ryuen stopped mid-slurp, lowering his chopsticks slowly. The sudden seriousness in Ayanokouji’s tone was rare, and it made him pay closer attention. “Not that simple, huh? Sounds like you’re talkin’ around the real story.” He set the cup down with a soft thud, folding his arms across his chest. “Spit it out.”

Ayanokouji’s jaw tightened. “We broke up six months ago.”

There it was—blunt, undeniable, a truth that hung in the air between them like a heavy weight. For a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder than anything else.

Ryuen raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. “Six months? And you’re still moping around like it happened yesterday?” His tone was sharp, but not mocking—more like he was trying to pry the situation open, to force Ayanokouji to keep going.

“It doesn’t feel like six months,” Ayanokouji admitted, voice steady but low. He turned the ramen cup absently in his hands, as though the motion could distract him from the ache behind his words. “Every day, I think about what I should’ve said. What I should’ve done differently. And every time, it’s like I’ve already lost before I even get the chance to try again.”

Ryuen leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “So you screwed up, and now you’re stuck replaying the greatest hits in your head on repeat. Classic.” He shook his head, though there was no cruelty in his tone—just a bluntness meant to cut through the fog.

Ayanokouji’s gaze flicked toward him, steady and almost defiant despite his words. “It’s not just screwing up. I underestimated what she needed. I kept thinking if I just… stood beside her, it would be enough. But she wanted more—more than silence, more than someone who only reacts when pushed.” He paused, his fingers tightening around the cup. “And I didn’t know how to give her that.”

Ryuen studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the counter. “So she wanted more than a statue. Big surprise. Suzune was never the type to settle for half-assed. You know that better than anyone.”

Ayanokouji’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes.”

The weight of the admission sat between them, unspoken yet undeniable.

Ryuen slurped another mouthful of noodles, chewing thoughtfully before setting his cup aside. “Six months, huh? That’s a long time to stew over one mistake. Either you get off your ass and do something about it, or you let it rot you from the inside. But don’t sit here actin’ like you’re helpless. You’re not.”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer right away, but his silence wasn’t resistance—it was consideration, the kind that meant Ryuen’s words were landing deeper than he wanted to admit.

“So then, tell me more,” Ryuen said, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease, arms crossing over his chest as though he had all the time in the world. His sharp eyes never left Ayanokouji’s face, waiting, watching, daring him to crack open whatever walls he had built around himself.

Ayanokouji hesitated, the silence stretching too long for someone who usually had the perfect words ready at a moment’s notice. His gaze flickered toward the steam curling up from his ramen, watching it dissipate into nothing, and for a second he almost wished his thoughts could do the same. Finally, his lips parted, the words catching in his throat before tumbling out.

“I…” His voice was quiet, unsteady in a way Ryuen had never heard before. “I wasn’t enough for her.” He paused, swallowing hard as though admitting it left a bitter taste behind. “I didn’t… I didn’t love her the way she deserved.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy, raw. His eyes drifted away, not to Ryuen, not to the store, but somewhere distant—somewhere where memories of Suzune lingered. The brightness she had once sparked in him was gone now, extinguished, leaving behind only the hollow ache of what had been.

Ryuen didn’t rush to fill the silence. He leaned further back in his seat, studying the man across from him with a mixture of scrutiny and curiosity. Finally, he smirked, but it wasn’t cruel—it was knowing. “That so? Sounds like an excuse.”

Ayanokouji’s head tilted slightly, though his expression barely shifted. “It’s the truth.”

Ryuen tapped a finger idly against the counter, his gaze narrowing. “Nah. Truth is, you didn’t figure out how to give her what she needed. That’s not the same as not bein’ enough. You think Ibuki stuck around ‘cause I was some perfect prince? Hell no. I screwed up plenty. She stayed ‘cause I learned what to do about it. That’s the difference.”

Ayanokouji’s jaw tensed. “You make it sound simple.”

Ryuen shrugged, a wolfish grin tugging at his mouth. “’Cause it is. You either show up or you don’t. Suzune ain’t the type to sit around waitin’ forever. You think she walked ‘cause you weren’t enough? Or because you didn’t fight for her when it counted?”

The words cut deeper than Ayanokouji expected. He turned his gaze away, but Ryuen’s voice followed him, low and firm.

“You talk about not lovin’ her the way she deserved. What the hell does that even mean? You bought her flowers? Took her shopping? Played the role you thought you were supposed to play? That ain’t love, man. That’s acting.”

Ayanokouji flinched, though barely—it was a small shift, but enough for Ryuen to notice.

“You loved her your way,” Ryuen went on, softer now but no less direct. “But maybe you never figured out her way. And that’s where you lost her.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Ayanokouji’s hand tightened around the warm paper cup in front of him, knuckles paling as he thought about nights filled with forced smiles, with flowers that wilted too quickly, with kisses that tasted of desperation instead of comfort. He thought about the way Suzune’s hand had lingered in his, clinging as if she was searching for something he couldn’t name, something he hadn’t known how to give.

His throat tightened, but he forced the words out. “She wanted more than I knew how to give. And every time I tried, it wasn’t right. I saw it in her eyes. She looked at me like… like I was slipping through her fingers, even when I was right beside her.”

Ryuen’s grin faded. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort. He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the counter, his expression serious now. “So what’re you gonna do about it? Sit here wastin’ away, or figure out how to be the man she was reachin’ for?”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer. He stared down at the ramen in front of him, untouched and growing cold, the steam gone.

“How did you do it?” Ayanokouji asked quietly, the hesitation in his voice almost uncharacteristic of him. His eyes flicked to Ryuen, then down to the counter, as though ashamed of the words he was about to speak. “…With Ibuki?”

Ryuen leaned back in his chair, one brow arching. A sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Do what exactly?” he drawled, though the amusement in his tone betrayed that he already knew where this was going.

“Keep her,” Ayanokouji admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Even after all the fights, all the problems. How did you make her stay?”

For a moment, Ryuen didn’t answer. He glanced down at the soup cup between them, idly stirring it as though considering the weight of the question. When he finally looked back up, his eyes were softer than usual, though his presence remained steady.

“I didn’t pull off some miracle,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t a trick. Wasn’t flowers or a damn vacation that fixed everything. You wanna know what it really was?”

Ayanokouji gave the smallest nod, leaning forward ever so slightly, like proximity alone might reveal the truth he couldn’t grasp.

Ryuen tapped a knuckle against the counter. “I showed up. That’s it. Even when she was pissed at me. Even when I messed up bad. Even when I didn’t have a damn clue what to do… I was there. I didn’t run, didn’t shut her out, didn’t hide. I made sure she knew—no matter how ugly it got—that I wanted her in my life.”

The words hit harder than Ayanokouji expected. His chest tightened, and he thought back to the nights Suzune had clung to him, eyes clouded with something he never understood. He’d always retreated into calculation, into finding the “right” response, the “right” gift, as if love could be solved like an equation.

Ryuen went on, his tone firm now. “You think love’s about bein’ perfect? About finding the right words or picking the right date spot? It ain’t. It’s about being there when it counts. About being the person who doesn’t walk away when it’s hard.”

Ayanokouji’s fingers tightened around the cold cup in front of him. Images flashed through his mind—Suzune’s tired smiles, the forced laughter, the way she sometimes held him a little too tightly, as if afraid he might vanish. He swallowed hard.

“I thought I was,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I thought everything I did was enough.”

Ryuen gave him a long look before scoffing lightly. “Yeah? And did it feel like enough to her? Or did it feel like you were just checking boxes while she was wonderin’ if you even saw her?”

The words stung. Ayanokouji’s throat closed as he remembered the silences between them, the little comments she had made that he’d brushed off, convinced he understood her better than she knew herself. He hadn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it now,” he admitted finally, voice low and raw. “She’s gone. Maybe she’s already moved on. Maybe it’s too late.”

Ryuen leaned closer across the counter, his gaze steady and sharp. “Too late’s only true if you roll over and give up. If you stop tryin’, sure. But if you fight for her—really fight for her, not with gifts and fake smiles, but by showin’ her you’re there—then maybe you’ve got a shot. Not overnight. Not easy. But a shot.”

Ayanokouji looked down, silent. The idea of reaching out to her again terrified him more than anything he had ever faced. Yet Ryuen’s words pressed into him, relentless.

“…And you think she’d even listen?” he asked finally, lifting his eyes back to Ryuen.

“If you do it right? Yeah.” Ryuen’s smirk returned, sharp but reassuring. “She’s the kind of woman who sees when someone actually cares. Don’t underestimate that.”

Hope—small, fragile, but present—crept into Ayanokouji’s chest for the first time in months.

Ryuen leaned back, twisting the silver ring on his finger absentmindedly. “It’s not about some grand gesture. It’s about love. Sounds corny, yeah, but it’s the truth. If you love her, and if it’s meant to be, you’ll find your way back. But you gotta show her you love her, not just assume she knows.”

“What if… she doesn’t love me anymore?” Ayanokouji asked, his voice cracking despite himself.

Ryuen chuckled, shaking his head. “We all saw you two at the wedding. Trust me—she loves you. Problem is, she probably doesn’t believe you love her the way she needs you to. That’s the part you gotta fix.”

He paused, then added, quieter this time. “Me and Ibuki? We broke up a year ago. Thought it was over. Thought I’d blown it for good.”

Ayanokouji blinked, surprised. “Why are you telling me this?”

Ryuen twisted the ring again, eyes distant. “Because I get it. I thought I lost her. We had a stupid fight, and I let pride drag it out. But I couldn’t let her go. I remembered the things she said, the little details she thought I never heard. And when I finally went back, I didn’t just say sorry—I showed her. I bought a ring, got down on one knee, and asked her to marry me. Not ‘cause I thought it would fix everything instantly, but because I wanted her to know I was done running. That I’d fight for her, no matter what.”

He leaned forward again, voice steady, resolute. “I’m not saying you should go propose tomorrow. What I’m sayin’ is—you don’t just get her back by waiting. You have to earn it. You have to show her you care. That you remember. That you love her. Otherwise? You’ll lose her for good.”

Ayanokouji sat frozen, Ryuen’s words cutting through every wall he had built. For the first time, he realized—it wasn’t about being enough. It was about showing her that he wanted to be enough, every single day.

Ayanokouji sat there in silence, Ryuen’s words weighed heavier than any lecture, any lesson, any test he had ever endured in his life. The way Ryuen spoke about Ibuki—it wasn’t polished, it wasn’t poetic, but it was real. It was raw, and it was something Ayanokouji realized he had never fully allowed himself to be.

He thought back to every moment with Suzune. The way she’d curl her fingers just slightly when she wanted him to hold her hand tighter. The way she’d tilt her head to the side when she was bothered by something but didn’t want to admit it. The times she would cling a little longer than usual when they walked through crowded streets, like she was grounding herself through him. He remembered all of it, but had he acted on any of it? Or had he cataloged those signs like data, filing them away, instead of responding like the partner she had needed?

“I thought remembering was enough,” Ayanokouji admitted quietly, his tone flat but his eyes betraying the storm inside. “I thought if I noticed those things, if I kept them in mind, that would prove I cared. But I never acted. I never… showed her I understood.”

Ryuen gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “That’s your problem. You think too damn much. You remember, you calculate, you plan—but you don’t live it. With Ibuki, I don’t just remember what she says. I show her I’m listening. She tells me she’s cold? I get her a blanket. She says she hates how I leave dishes in the sink? I make sure the damn sink is empty before she gets home. She tells me she’s scared I’ll walk away again? I hold her until she believes me when I say I won’t. That’s what earns her trust. That’s what makes her stay.”

The words sank deep. For someone who prided himself on control, on observation, on calculation, Ayanokouji was beginning to realize how hollow those tools were in the face of something as chaotic and raw as love.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. The hum of the convenience store around them—the distant sound of the fridge humming, the faint rustle of a clerk restocking shelves, Ryuen’s spoon clinking against the ramen cup—felt almost surreal compared to the weight of the conversation.

“So,” Ryuen said, breaking the silence after a moment, “are you gonna keep sitting around convincing yourself she’s gone, or are you gonna stand up and do something about it?”

Ayanokouji opened his eyes slowly, looking down at his untouched ramen. His chest ached at the thought of facing Suzune again, of seeing disappointment in her eyes one more time. But underneath the fear, there was something else—something small but undeniable.

Hope.

“What if I fail again?” Ayanokouji asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Ryuen snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Then you fail. You pick yourself up and try again. That’s what love is. Not running from failure, but showing her you’ll keep fighting no matter how many times you fall flat.” He smirked faintly. “She’s not waiting for a perfect man, Ayanokouji. She’s waiting for you to stop running from the messy parts and start showing up for her.”

Ayanokouji stared at him, the words echoing louder than anything else in the store. He wasn’t sure if he could do it—wasn’t sure if he knew how to—but Ryuen was right about one thing: if he didn’t try, then he had already lost.

Ryuen tapped his ring against the counter again, absently twisting it on his finger. “You’ve got two options, man. You can either sit here and keep drowning in what-ifs… or you can get off your ass, go find Suzune, and start proving you’re worth her time. And trust me—she’s worth every damn second of it.”

For the first time in months, Ayanokouji felt the faint stirrings of resolve. It wasn’t certainty, and it wasn’t confidence. But it was something.

He glanced up at Ryuen, voice steady though soft. “And if she doesn’t take me back?”

Ryuen leaned forward, his gaze sharp but strangely encouraging. “Then at least she’ll know you loved her enough to try. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to start over.”

Ayanokouji nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. For the first time since the breakup, he felt a flicker of direction—a fragile, uncertain path forward.

Chapter Text

The house looked as if a storm had ripped through it and refused to leave. Curtains hung unevenly, one rod bent where her elbow had knocked it free; a lamp lay on its side, its shade crumpled like paper. The coffee table—once neat with his books stacked at one corner—was a chaos of overturned mugs and a scattering of photographs face-down on the floor. Glass glittered everywhere: a dozen tiny, cruel stars catching the low light and throwing it back like accusation.

Horikita moved through the wreck like someone navigating a battlefield. Each step was careful and not at all—she limped around the danger, then deliberately kicked a frame off the shelf so it shattered into a new constellation at her feet. The sound was immediate and animal, a sharp punctuation that made something in her chest unclench for a second before tightening again.

She pressed both hands to her face until her fingertips hurt, trying to rub away the hot shame, but it was only pushed deeper. Her palms left streaks of wet on her cheeks; she could taste salt and something metallic on her lips. She opened her mouth to scream and nothing polite like a word came—only a ragged sound that pulled something raw from the back of her throat.

The shouting started as a scattershot of words—“Stupid—stupid—why—” like pebbles hurled against a locked door. It grew, filled with names and what-ifs and the bitter calculus of regret. She screamed at empty cups, at a sweater he’d left draped over a chair, at a photo of them from a better summer. The sound swallowed the room and then echoed back at her, stranger and meaner than any voice she knew.

Between each sob, short gasps tore through her. She bit at the back of her hand until the taste of iron steadied her enough to speak in fragments. “I ruined it. I ruined everything. You were everything. Why did I push you?” The questions were rhetorical, and she didn’t expect an answer. She only wanted the air to be as loud as her protest seemed to demand.

Her knees found the floor without ceremony. She wasn’t aware of the wood against her skin, just the fall, the sudden smallness of the world when you crouch down and try to hold your entire life inside your palms. She cradled her face in her hands, fingers tangled in hair that had gone flat and sticky with sweat. Her shoulders shook until the motion spread through her limbs and she could no longer tell which part of her hurt more: memory or muscle.

Images raced through her head in jagged flashes—him laughing at some joke she hadn’t even heard, him looking at a menu and offering her the last bite, the way he’d tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in the doorway of their apartment. Those tender, private moments were absurdly bright against the wreckage, like an old film strip played in the wrong room. Each one landed like a stone.

She cried out and flung a cushion across the room. It hit the bookshelf with a slap and tumbled down, sending a soft avalanche of paperbacks and notes. They scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. For a second she watched them, breath heaving, and felt a small, ridiculous impulse to gather them up and put them back the way they’d been—as if order could be unshaken by fury if she just rearranged the pieces.

That impulse lasted the length of a human heart beating hard. Then she pushed herself up and began to move through the apartment again in a different rhythm—less smashing now, more frantic picking at things. She grabbed the shampoo bottle from the shower, the small blue one he’d once joked smelled like summer in a jar. She held it to her nose until the scent ribboned through the tears, and a sob broke out that was half longing, half the sound of something breaking further.

Her phone buzzed on the table—Nagumo’s name flashing, then another message with something light and presumptuous. She let it buzz into silence, the vibration jarring against the wood like someone knocking on a door she had no interest in opening. How many times had she used him as a blanket, as distraction? The thought made bile rise in her throat. She didn’t want comfort that felt like avoidance. She wanted the one person who had actually taught her how to stand a little straighter.

The room smelled of smoke from a candle she’d lit earlier in a weak attempt at calm. The scent had been meant to soothe; it now mingled with the sharper, cleaner smell of broken glass and cold coffee. She pressed her forehead to the living room window and looked out at the indifferent city lights, each one a mirror that refused to reflect her cause. The skyline went on; people walked past, umbrellas opening, life abiding. It felt obscene.

Memory, again—this time the quiet of a night when they had fallen asleep on the couch after too much wine and bad movies. His arms had been around her, soft and sure. She could feel the phantom of him—warm, slow, the steady rise and fall she had once used as a metronome to pace her own breath. The knowledge that those nights were finished made her hands clench until her nails hurt. She whispered his name and it sounded far away, inadequate to summon him back.

She tried to clean, at first—half-hearted raking of glass into a dustpan, stacking plates with trembling hands. But each movement was mechanical, mindless; the more she gathered, the more memories tumbled out with the broken shards. A receipt he’d kept from a restaurant they’d loved, a folded napkin with a lipstick stain she didn’t remember, a ticket stub from a concert she’d thought she’d never miss. Each item rewired her back to him and then jabbed the wound.

Anger flared anew—not aimed at him now but at herself. “Why didn’t you say something?” she screamed into the empty corridor, words slamming into the plaster, splintering into shame. “Why did you let him leave? You idiot.” The voice that answered was small, hoarse, the voice of someone who had been talking to herself in increasingly cruel ways for months.

She found herself in the bedroom, the air cooler there. The bed was unmade, a physical map of absence—sheets rumpled where two bodies had once made room. She crawled beneath them like a child seeking shelter, fingers digging into the cotton, but even the fabric seemed to reject her. The mattress held one imprint where another had been, an evidence that hurt more than the empty space ever could.

Minutes or hours later—time blurred—she rolled to the side and stared at the ceiling. Tears had dried on her face, leaving tracks that felt like small, shiny scars. Exhaustion dragged at her limbs; the kind that rules out action and leaves only raw sensation. Her sobs slowed, then hiccuped, then softened into the wet silence of someone who had burned through all the noise she could make.

She thought of the wedding again—of him with Karuizawa, the image that had set everything alight. The memory burned not because of the kiss or the closeness but because of what it proved: she had been replaceable in a way she could not reconcile with the intensity of her own feelings. The idea lodged like a splinter in her ribs.

Horikita curled into herself on the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest the way one holds onto a secret. She whispered apologies to nobody—phrases that had no addressee but sounded necessary to say. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder. I’m sorry I let it fall apart.” The apologies slid off the walls and pooled in the empty corners, ineffective and endless.

Eventually the trembling that had governed her muscles eased into a dull ache. The apartment around her was a mess, yes, but more devastating was the landscape inside her head—every road mapped to him, every turn a place where she’d failed to be what he needed. The shattered glass glinted in the next room, indifferent to her remorse.

When sleep finally pulled at her, it was shallow and uneasy. She lay there, still fully clothed, as if ending the day would be too much to ask. The last thought that passed through the fog before sleep took her was not coherent counsel or plan, but the simple, savage ache of wanting what she couldn’t have and hating herself for the ways she had let it go.

In the dim hours, the city kept its slow, steady breath, and Horikita slipped under into a fitful sleep that was not rest but a temporary surrender. The apartment hummed on around her—broken things, evidence of a night she would later deem both terrible and necessary. Outside, a couple laughed as they passed under a streetlight, and the sound threaded through the window like a question she couldn’t answer.

The phone rattled violently against the nightstand, buzzing again and again until the vibration nearly pushed it off the edge. The sound cut through the silence of the wrecked apartment like a relentless drill, dragging Horikita back from the shallow, uneasy sleep she had fallen into. She groaned, face still buried in the pillow, eyes swollen and raw. Whoever it was clearly wasn’t going to stop.

She reached out with trembling fingers, fumbling the device into her hand. The caller ID flashed bright across the cracked screen: Nagumo. Of course. Who else would insist on inserting himself into the parts of her life that were none of his business?

Her thumb hovered for a second, caught between throwing the phone across the room and answering just to shut him up. The buzzing continued, insistent, filling her skull until she finally hit accept and pressed the phone to her ear.

Her voice came out low and broken, every syllable scraped raw. “What.”

There was silence on the other end for a beat, then his voice, smooth and irritatingly calm, cut in. “That’s a nice way to greet me. Did I wake you up, Suzune?”

She let out a bitter laugh, though it cracked halfway through. “You don’t care if you did. What do you want, Nagumo?”

“You sound terrible,” he said, tone pitched somewhere between teasing and prying. “Rough night?”

Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding. She didn’t have the patience for his games, not when her entire house was a graveyard of shattered glass and broken memories. “Spit it out.”

He hummed, as if savoring her irritation. “I was just thinking about you. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Thought maybe you needed… company.”

 

Nagumo’s voice was a soft rope thrown into the maelstrom, and for a long moment Horikita simply clung to it. The words—“Don’t cry baby, it’s okay”—wrapped around her like a promise, a counterfeit warmth that smelled faintly of cologne and bad intentions but felt unbearably comforting in the dark. She sank deeper into the pillow, lips trembling, as if the sound alone could stitch her back together.

Images of Ayanokouji surfaced like ghosts: the way he had tucked her hair behind her ear, the quiet hum of his voice when he’d calmed her after some minor panic, the steadiness of his hand on the small of her back in the elevator. Those memories were precise and tender and impossible to manufacture, and they stabbed her now with the knowledge that they were gone. Nagumo’s offer glittered with immediacy—someone to hold her, to smooth the rough edges of the night away.

Her rational brain argued; it listed every reason to hang up, every warning she’d told herself for months. He wasn’t him. He never would be. Nagumo’s “comfort” had always been performative, a practiced empathy that smelled faintly of calculation. But the sobs made the rational retreat. The chestache was too loud, the room too full of broken things and empty promises, and suddenly the idea of being held—even by a false hand—was more tempting than the risk.

She clutched the phone like a lifeline, thumb hovering over the screen as if she could decide fate with the slightest movement. He asked again, quieter now, coaxing: Come over. Let me help. The simplicity of the suggestion felt like a shortcut through the pain. Close your eyes, he seemed to say without saying it, and wake up soothed.

Memories blurred into a single ache: the softness of his arms when Ayanokouji had wrapped them around her after a nightmare, the way he had smoothed her hair with clumsy tenderness on nights she couldn’t sleep. Nagumo’s words were a collage of what she yearned for, but every time she imagined him replacing those moments her stomach turned. There was a hollowness at the center of his consolation that she could sense even through the fog of tears.

Yet the loneliness was an animal with a mouth. It licked at her resolve until she doubted the strength of any boundary. She pictured herself at Nagumo’s door—warmth, a couch, maybe tea, the dull press of someone else’s presence that softened the edges of the apartment’s wreckage. She imagined the relief the moment might bring: a quiet that meant forgetting for hours, forgetting until the sun rose and the world looked tolerable again.

Her hands shook. She told herself she would not be stupid, that she would not barter away her dignity for a night’s quiet. But the thought of dragging herself through another morning full of trains and people and polite smiles was a weight she could not lift right now. Keeping distance felt noble on paper; in the raw dark it felt like punishment without purpose.

A new, cruel thought arrived: what if she could take just one night, then return to her life like a soldier on leave? What if one embrace could reset the clock, make the ache abate long enough to breathe? It was a bargaining with pain—always the first, always the most dangerous. She knew she had promised herself she wouldn’t be passive, that she would not let someone use her hurt to wrap themselves around her again. But promises are brittle when a heart is splintering.

She thought of Ayanokouji again—his quiet steadiness—and the memory was both anchor and razor. He had been the kind of comfort that taught her how to be brave, how to stay. Nagumo’s comfort would teach her nothing but dependence. The distinction was crystalline now, even through the blur of tears: one held because he wanted her to heal, the other because it felt convenient.

A fresh wave of sobs convulsed her and she bit back a plea. She hated the idea of being small enough to beg for comfort at someone else’s mercy. She hated Nagumo’s face in her head, rehearsing reassurances like lines from a script. Yet she also hated the idea of spending the night alone in a place that kept shouting memories at her from every corner. The night, in its long motion, felt like a punishment she could not endure twice.

 

“Please,” Nagumo murmured, as if reading those flickers of resistance. “You don’t have to go through this alone. Let me help. Come over. Let me take care of you.” His tone promised safety. It promised company. It promised forgetting.

Horikita’s hands curled into the blanket beneath her, nails digging into fabric until the pain grounded her enough to think. The couch had once been a place where two people fell asleep mid-movie; now it held only the echo of warmth and a ringing silence. She thought of Ayanokouji—how his presence had been quiet, how he had shown love in ways that required no performance. The memory of him steadied her like a fixed point in stormy seas.

Horikita’s voice cracked as the words left her lips, hoarse from hours of sobbing, more like a surrender than a decision. “I’ll come over,” she whispered, and the silence that followed seemed to swallow the room whole.

On the other end of the line, Nagumo’s voice warmed immediately, soft and coaxing like silk. “Good girl. That’s it. You don’t have to suffer alone tonight. I’ll take care of you.” The ease with which he shifted from suggestion to certainty made her chest tighten, but she didn’t have the strength to argue.

Her apartment felt like a battlefield she had already lost—glass shards glinting across the floor like accusations, furniture overturned, the echo of her screams still hanging heavy in the air. She couldn’t stay here another minute. Each second spent within these walls pressed her down, suffocating her with the reminder of what she had broken, what she had lost.

She pushed herself upright, her legs trembling beneath her weight as if her body itself rebelled against the decision. Her reflection caught in the cracked glass of a picture frame—eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with tears, hair tangled from pulling at it. She looked like someone unrecognizable, someone who might do anything just to stop feeling like this.

Nagumo’s words hummed in her mind, offering not love but numbness. It was enough. For now, numbness was better than being alone. Better than drowning in silence and memory. She grabbed her coat from the floor, brushing off the shards that clung to it, and forced her arms through the sleeves.

Every step to the door felt heavier than the last. Her thoughts tugged in two directions: Ayanokouji’s quiet steadiness on one side, the memory of safety without strings; Nagumo’s practiced empathy on the other, the immediate promise of a body to hold onto when her own couldn’t stop shaking. She knew which one she wanted. She also knew which one she could actually reach tonight.

Her fingers fumbled with the lock, knuckles white as she twisted the handle. The hallway outside was dark, quiet except for the hum of the building’s old lights. It smelled faintly of dust and disinfectant, and for a moment she froze, the weight of her choice slamming into her. She could still turn back, still crawl into bed and weather the storm alone. But the thought of doing so felt unbearable.

She stepped out, shutting the door behind her with a finality that rang louder than the click of the latch. Her phone buzzed again—Nagumo, already checking in, already pulling her closer. She clutched it in her palm like an anchor and started walking, each footstep an echo of surrender.

She told herself it was only for tonight. Just one night to forget, to let someone else carry the burden of her brokenness. Tomorrow she would deal with the regret. Tomorrow she would remind herself why this wasn’t what she needed. But tonight, she just wanted to breathe without choking.

And so, with trembling hands and an aching chest, Horikita made her way through the quiet streets toward Nagumo, convincing herself that in the absence of the comfort she truly longed for, this counterfeit warmth would be enough to keep her from breaking apart completely.

The moment her knuckles touched the door, it swung open as if Nagumo had been standing there waiting. His hand shot out, steady and insistent, pulling her inside before she could second-guess herself. The air of his apartment was warmer than the night outside, carrying a faint scent of cologne and something clean, like freshly washed fabric. It felt safer than the cold emptiness she had just left behind, and that alone was enough to make her chest crack open again.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Nagumo wasted no time drawing her against him. His chest was solid, his arms firm, and the sudden contact tore through her fragile composure. Horikita collapsed into him, sobs spilling out in uneven bursts as if the effort of holding them back had been waiting for this very moment.

Nagumo tilted his head down, his lips brushing the crown of her hair as he cradled her close. One hand slid up to cup the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her tangled strands, while the other rubbed soothing circles over her shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. Don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice low and steady, every word carefully measured to soothe. “I’m here now. You don’t have to hold it in anymore. Just let it out.”

Her fists balled weakly into his shirt, dampening the fabric as tears poured freely. He didn’t flinch, didn’t let go, only shifted slightly so he could guide her deeper into his hold. His palm pressed against her back, coaxing her forward as if to say closer, closer still.

When her knees threatened to give way, Nagumo moved seamlessly, steering her toward the couch with a kind of practiced ease. He sat first, tugging her gently down beside him until she was folded against his side, her head tucked beneath his chin. His arm wrapped around her, strong but not suffocating, as though he had done this before—held someone who was breaking and promised to be the shelter.

Horikita pressed her face against the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm grounding her even as her sobs shook her body. Nagumo’s thumb brushed across her arm in slow, patient strokes. “That’s it,” he murmured, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Let it all out. I’ve got you. You don’t have to think about anything else right now. Just me, right here.”

The storm inside her didn’t quiet instantly, but in his arms, the edges of her despair dulled. His warmth seeped into her, cushioning the jagged places that had torn her apart. For the first time that night, she didn’t feel like she was unraveling alone.

And as she clung to him, shuddering breaths breaking through the sobs, Nagumo simply held her tighter, his presence filling the silence she had once thought unbearable.

“Suzune.” Nagumo’s voice was low and velvety, carrying that mixture of warmth and subtle command that always seemed to coil around Horikita before she even realized it. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp, and the air between them felt heavy yet deceptively safe. He pulled her closer into his arms, letting his hand rest at the small of her back, fingers tracing idle patterns against the fabric of her shirt as though grounding her.

“Suzune,” he murmured again, her name a whisper that sent a tremor through her chest. He leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple in a gesture that was both affectionate and quietly possessive. “I need you to accompany me to a company event this weekend.”

The words slipped into her ears like silk, easy and unassuming, yet carrying that underlying expectation she was becoming so used to. He tilted her face up with two fingers beneath her chin, pressing a lingering kiss against her forehead. The gesture made her close her eyes, almost instinctively leaning into the warmth of his touch.

She wanted to say something—wanted to ask if this was necessary, if he really needed her there—but the hesitation caught in her throat. Nagumo’s hand slid to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing gently along her skin, coaxing her silence into compliance.

“It’s nothing overwhelming,” he continued softly, his voice full of reassurance. “Just a formal gathering. A few executives, some partners, and people who matter to my future. Having you by my side will make everything smoother. You don’t need to do anything but stay close to me.”

The way he said it left little room for refusal. His tone was kind, soothing, but the undertone reminded her of how easily he wrapped her into his world—how quickly he made her believe that being there was natural, expected, even necessary.

Horikita swallowed hard, nodding faintly against his chest. “If… if that’s what you want.”

Nagumo’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. He stroked her hair, lowering his chin to rest against the top of her head. “That’s all I ever want, Suzune. For you to be with me.”

The words, so simple and tender, filled the quiet like a balm. To anyone else, it might have been obvious—how deliberately he was binding her closer, how his comfort came paired with expectation—but to Horikita in this fragile state, it felt like devotion. It felt like safety.

He tilted her face up once more, kissing her softly, lingering just long enough to make her forget the knot of unease in her stomach. “You’ll look stunning,” he whispered. “I’ll have something picked out for you. I want the world to see the woman I love beside me.”

Horikita felt her chest tighten at those words. Love. He said it so easily, like it was something permanent, undeniable. It wasn’t the kind of careful, quiet support she had once felt elsewhere—it was louder, overwhelming, pressing against her every wall until they began to crumble. And in that moment, she let herself believe it, because it was easier than fighting.

She pressed closer to him, her hands resting against his shirt as though clinging to the steadiness he offered. Nagumo only smiled, stroking her back and pressing another kiss to her hairline, satisfied with how seamlessly she fell into the role he laid out for her.

The event wasn’t just an invitation—it was another tether, another way to tie her more deeply into his life. And though she couldn’t see it clearly through the haze of comfort and need, Nagumo could. He saw every step, every decision, every surrender, and guided her along with the gentlest of touches and the sweetest of words.

Horikita’s hand lingered on the edge of the door as she stepped inside her apartment, the familiar quiet pressing against her like a weight she wasn’t quite ready to carry. Her thoughts still hummed with Nagumo’s words, the gentle pressure of his hands, the soft warmth of his lips against hers. He had said “love” as though it were the simplest truth in the world, a word she’d never quite heard Ayanokouji utter in that way. Her lips curled into the faintest smile as she recalled the feeling, and she had leaned up, giving Nagumo a soft, hesitant kiss in return.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice almost lost in the space between them. It felt strange, to give thanks for something so simple yet monumental—his care, his comfort, his presence.

“I’m gonna go back home,” she added after a pause, straightening just enough to make her way toward the door. “I have to get some things for work tomorrow.”

Nagumo’s hand shot out, capturing her wrist gently, pulling her back just enough to press another slow kiss to her lips. The movement was deliberate, weighted with longing, but also with restraint—as if letting go pained him more than words could convey.

“…Okay, baby,” he murmured softly, his forehead resting against hers for a brief second. “I’ll miss you.”

Horikita nodded, breathing in the familiar scent of him one last time before stepping out into the cool evening. The city lights seemed muted against the thoughts spiraling in her mind, but she followed the familiar path home. The air was quiet, the streets empty enough that she could hear the soft click of her heels against the pavement, her own heart echoing in tandem.

When she reached her mailbox, a faint sense of curiosity tugged at her. She opened it, expecting the usual—a few bills, a magazine, perhaps a small package. But her eyes widened slightly as she noticed a bouquet carefully placed beside her doorstep.

The flowers were sunflowers, tall and bright, their petals perfectly fanned, mixed with smaller blooms that complemented the golden glow. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion—sunflowers? She liked roses. She had always liked roses. Yet something in the arrangement seemed… deliberate, intimate, familiar.

A letter rested atop the bouquet, folded with precision. The letter rested atop the bouquet, its envelope thick and slightly textured. She traced the familiar handwriting with a trembling finger: For My Stubborn Princess. The words pulled at something deep in her chest. The sight triggered a memory, warm and sudden, cutting through the fog of her thoughts.

It was a spring afternoon years ago, the cherry blossoms spilling petals down onto the courtyard. Horikita had been sitting cross-legged on a bench, frowning at a book, when Ayanokouji had appeared with a small bouquet wrapped in plain brown paper. She’d frowned at the roses he handed her. “Roses?” she’d asked, skeptical. “How… predictable.”

He had smiled, faintly. “They’re not supposed to be surprising. They’re supposed to be for you.”

She had rolled her eyes, pretending not to be affected, but the corners of her mouth had betrayed her. She remembered the way his eyes had crinkled in the corner, the subtle warmth in his gaze, and how he had leaned just enough for her to feel the faintest brush of his shoulder against hers.

“You don’t like them?” he asked, voice soft.

“I’ve never been one for roses,” she admitted reluctantly, her gaze dropping to the petals. “I like… sunflowers more. They’re… cheerful. They feel real. Roses are impersonal, everyone gets roses, their the equivanlant to throwing some money in a card instead of buying a gift for someone.” she paused thinking about her words wondering if she was being rude before adding “I appreciate the thought though…they’re pretty”

He had nodded thoughtfully, as if committing it to memory, and from that day forward, she remembered, he had given her sunflowers whenever he could—not grand arrangements, not expensive—but simple, thoughtful bouquets, always with a note that made her blush or laugh.

Back in the present, Horikita couldn’t help but smile at the sunflowers now resting at her feet. They weren’t roses, but they carried the same essence—the thought, the care, the intimate understanding that had always made her heart tighten. She picked up the letter carefully, running her fingers over the handwriting. Familiar. Precise. Unmistakably his.

The envelope read, “For My Stubborn Princess.” The words made her throat constrict with emotion, tears pricking her eyes despite her attempts to remain composed. She blinked rapidly, pressing her palm to her mouth to stifle a sob, allowing herself just a moment to feel the wave of nostalgia and affection that poured from the simple phrase.

She set the envelope aside for a brief moment, staring at the flowers, then carefully made her way inside. She placed them gently on the coffee table, ignoring the lack of a vase—the arrangement seemed complete on its own, as though it had been designed to feel personal, unpretentious, just for her.

Settling on her bed, she finally picked up the letter. The paper was heavy, smooth, the ink perfectly applied in his unmistakable handwriting.

The words spilled over her in a cascade, each sentence deliberate,

My Stubborn Princess,

I hope this finds you in a moment of quiet. I am not here to ask for your forgiveness, nor to demand that you return to me. I know better than to ask for what is not freely given. But I cannot remain silent about what I feel, nor can I continue to pretend that your absence does not consume a part of me.

These months have been long. I have counted each day, each hour, each fleeting moment we shared in memory. I have remembered your laughter, the way you tilt your head when you’re thinking, the small movements you make that I have loved without knowing the depth of that love at the time.

You have always been enough, Suzune. More than enough. I know now that I failed to show you, to live fully in the moments I had with you. I failed when I thought silence and distance could express my care. I see that now.

Her chest tightened, her fingers clutching the paper as the tears she had tried to hold back began to fall. Each word was a small hammer striking the walls she had built around her heart. She read on.

I am not asking you to come back to me immediately, nor to forgive me. I am asking for time. Time to show you, to prove without expectation, without pretense, that I am yours in every way that matters. Time to show you that you were, are, and always will be the one I love more than I can fully express.

I loved you then, Suzune. I love you now. I will love you always. And if you will allow me, I will continue to prove it for the rest of my days.

Always yours, in thought and heart,
Mr. Joker

 

Horikita sat with the letter clutched against her chest, her breathing uneven, the traces of tears still damp on her cheeks. The room was silent but for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, and that silence seemed to magnify the words she’d just read, echoing them through her mind again and again. Ayanokouji’s voice, calm and unwavering, seemed to linger in every sentence, in every curve of his handwriting. For a few minutes, she let herself imagine what it would have been like if she had never let him slip away. If she had chosen differently. If she hadn’t…

The sharp buzz of her phone shattered the fragile quiet. Her heart leapt as she grabbed it quickly, almost desperately, a part of her still half-hoping it might be him. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she unlocked it, but the name at the top brought her back to reality.

Nagumo.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she scrolled through the message thread. Dozens of unread texts glared back at her—some playful, some controlling, most marked by the subtle undertone of impatience she had grown used to. He didn’t like when she delayed her responses. He noticed. He always noticed.

The newest message was brief, almost innocent. What color dress would you prefer for this weekend?

Such a simple question. Harmless. Ordinary. But it pulled her back like a tether, yanking her out of the fragile cocoon she’d built around herself while reading Ayanokouji’s letter.

Her hand trembled as she set the paper aside, her gaze flickering between the bouquet of sunflowers and the glowing screen. Two worlds, colliding. Two truths, each demanding her loyalty in different ways.

Nagumo’s words promised stability, a kind of love that was insistent, consuming, ever-present. He gave her what she thought she needed in her darkest moments—comfort, attention, someone to fill the silence when her own thoughts became unbearable. His “love” wrapped around her like a chain disguised as a blanket, tight and suffocating, but warm enough to make her hesitate before pulling away.

Ayanokouji’s words, by contrast, didn’t ask for her to belong to him. They didn’t bind, didn’t demand, didn’t press. They simply existed, like the quiet truth he had always embodied—steady, patient, unwilling to fade even when distance and silence stretched between them. He gave her space but somehow still made her feel seen, even now, even when he wasn’t here.

Horikita typed a reply slowly, her fingers heavy against the keys. Blue. Simple. She hesitated before sending it, her gaze lingering on the flowers one last time before she hit “send.”

Within moments, her phone buzzed again. Nagumo. Perfect. I’ll have something sent over. Make sure you’re free by six.

She sighed, pressing the phone against her forehead. It was easier this way, wasn’t it? Easier to let herself fall into the structure Nagumo created, easier to allow herself to be directed, easier to silence the ache Ayanokouji’s words had reopened.

And yet, as she reached for the letter again, her hand brushed against the corner of the page, and her throat tightened. The ink smudged slightly where her tears had fallen, the loops of his handwriting blurred but still legible. She read the closing lines once more, tracing the words with her fingertip as though memorizing them might give her strength.

I loved you then, Suzune. I love you now. I will love you always. Mr. Joker

Her phone buzzed again on the bed beside her. Another message. Nagumo. Always Nagumo. She picked it up mechanically, but her eyes never left the letter. Even as she typed her reply, her heart clung to the sunflowers and the man who had once known her better than anyone else.

For the first time, Horikita wondered if the love she thought she needed from Nagumo was really love at all—or just noise meant to drown out the quiet truth that still waited for her, patient and unyielding, in the form of a letter signed “Mr. Joker.”

Ayanokouji sat slouched in his chair, elbows resting on the cold wooden desk, his fingers tangled in his own hair as his mind raced faster than he could control. The silence of his apartment pressed in from every side—so loud it was deafening, so heavy it made his chest ache. The only sound was the faint hum of the laptop in front of him, its screen still open to the last draft of the letter he had rewritten a dozen times before finally sending it.

His heart hadn’t slowed since he left the flowers at her doorstep. Instead, it had only grown heavier, beating against his ribs like it wanted to escape. Questions gnawed at him, relentless, vicious. Had he overstepped? Had he pushed too far?

Maybe she didn’t want to hear from him. Maybe the silence between them had been her way of telling him to let go, to finally disappear from her life. What if she had already moved on—found someone else to fill the void he had left? The thought burned his chest like fire. His jaw clenched, and he forced himself to steady his breathing, but it was no use. The scenarios kept spiraling, each one worse than the last.

What if she hates me?

That thought lodged itself like a thorn in his mind. Horikita Suzune—the one person who had seen him, truly seen him, beyond the walls he built and the façade he wore. The one person who had challenged him to grow, who had demanded his honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. If she hated him now, if all he had left her with was bitterness and regret…

He shut his eyes tightly, dragging a hand over his face. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. He had always prided himself on control, on calculation, on keeping his emotions locked where they couldn’t cloud his judgment. But with her, all of that crumbled. Logic couldn’t shield him from this. Strategy couldn’t protect him from the sting of her absence.

He thought back to the day he’d written the letter, to how long he had stared at the blank page, trying to find the words that could bridge the distance between them. He hadn’t asked her to come back. He hadn’t demanded forgiveness. He’d only asked for time, for the chance to prove she had always been enough for him. That was the truth. That was all he had left to offer.

But now, in the suffocating quiet of his apartment, doubt twisted that truth into something fragile, breakable. What if she never even read it? What if she tossed the letter into the trash, unread, her heart already too far gone? What if she thought the flowers were a cruel joke?

His hands curled into fists against his thighs, knuckles white. The version of himself he had been in the White Room—the boy stripped of love, stripped of humanity—screamed at him to stop this. To cut his losses. To bury the weakness that love had carved into him. But the man he had become, the one who had laughed with Suzune, who had felt his chest tighten every time she smiled, refused to let go.

What if I made a mistake? he thought again, the question circling like a vulture over his mind.

And for the first time in a long time, Ayanokouji realized that the uncertainty terrified him. Not because he feared losing control, but because losing her had already shown him what that emptiness felt like. And if his letter had only pushed her further away, if it had only deepened the divide, then he wasn’t sure how much more of that emptiness he could bear.

He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head toward the ceiling as if the blank white expanse could offer answers. But the silence pressed in again, merciless and unyielding, and all he could do was sit there—haunted by the fear that his words, the most honest he had ever written, might have come too late.

The weekend arrived like a storm cloud, heavy and unrelenting. Horikita stood before the mirror in her apartment, the dress draped across her figure like a second skin. It shimmered faintly under the light, elegant, expensive, the kind of thing anyone would have called beautiful. Anyone but her. It wasn’t her color, not her cut, not the sort of thing she would have chosen for herself. But Nagumo had told her it suited her, and she had nodded, letting his words replace her own thoughts.

By the time she arrived at the venue, she was already weary. Nagumo’s hand rested firmly against the small of her back as he guided her inside, his smile polished and confident, his every step exuding ownership—not just of the room, but of her. She stayed close, keeping her head lowered slightly, speaking only when prompted, exactly as he had taught her.

The event was lavish. Glittering chandeliers cast a golden glow across the room, the clinking of glasses and polite laughter weaving together in a hum of wealth and power. Men in tailored suits and women in designer gowns moved gracefully, mingling with practiced charm. Horikita felt out of place, though she knew she didn’t look it. On Nagumo’s arm, she blended seamlessly, the perfect accessory to his ambition.

Still, there was a hollowness in her chest. Each compliment about her appearance felt like it belonged to someone else, as though she were wearing another woman’s skin. Each time Nagumo leaned down to murmur a suggestion—smile here, laugh softly now, say this when asked—she obeyed automatically, her own instincts buried under his.

The dress clung to her body in all the ways that drew attention, and she hated the way the fabric constricted her. It was stunning, yes, but it wasn’t hers. She remembered standing in the shop when Nagumo had presented it to her, his words smooth and decisive: “You’ll love this one. It’s perfect for you.” She had hesitated then, but he had taken her silence as agreement. And so she had worn it.

When people approached, she let Nagumo do the talking. His charm carried them through conversations with executives, clients, and partners. He laughed at the right moments, complimented strategically, and radiated confidence. Horikita simply nodded when introduced, offering brief polite words when necessary, never more.

Once, during a pause in conversation, her gaze flickered across the ballroom and landed on another woman—someone laughing freely with her friends, her dress simple but radiant because it fit her, because it belonged to her. The sight twisted something deep inside Horikita. For a fleeting moment, she remembered what it felt like to wear something she had chosen herself, to laugh because she wanted to, not because someone guided her into it.

Nagumo leaned closer then, his voice brushing against her ear. “Perfect,” he whispered, as if she were a performance he had orchestrated flawlessly. She forced a smile, one that felt brittle, and let him guide her to the next group waiting to meet him.

The night blurred together—flutes of champagne she barely touched, compliments she didn’t feel worthy of, polite laughter that grated at her throat. By the end, her cheeks ached from smiling on command. When they finally stepped outside into the cool night air, Nagumo draped his jacket over her shoulders, pulling her close as if she were precious.

“You were amazing tonight,” he told her, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Exactly what I needed.”

She nodded, murmuring a soft “thank you,” though the words tasted foreign on her tongue. Inside, something ached. She had given everything he asked, but it didn’t feel like herself. It felt like the hollow shell of a girl playing a role.

And as they walked to the car, his hand tight around hers, she couldn’t stop the sudden image that flashed in her mind: a bouquet of sunflowers on her doorstep, a letter written in a hand that had once teased her, steadied her, loved her.

When Nagumo took her home, his hand resting lightly but possessively against the small of her back, the evening already felt heavier than the glittering event they had just left. The apartment lights flickered on, casting warm shadows across the living room. Suzune stepped out of her shoes and moved toward the mirror, fingers carefully removing the ornate hairpins that had been pressed into place for hours.

Nagumo paused mid-step. His gaze sharpened on the coffee table. He bent down, fingertips brushing the bright yellow petals as if he were touching something alien in her space. His brows pulled together. “Where did those come from?” His voice carried curiosity, but beneath it lingered an edge, a quiet demand.

Suzune froze in front of the mirror, one pin halfway out of her hair. “…What?” she asked, her voice tight, her reflection betraying the faint panic flashing in her eyes.

“These.” Nagumo lifted the bouquet of sunflowers and wild blossoms, the paper crinkling loudly in the silence of the apartment. He held them up as if they were evidence, something that shouldn’t exist under his watch.

When Suzune turned, her breath caught. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. She hadn’t thought he’d notice. She hadn’t even meant to leave them out—yet there they were, exposed in the center of her home, impossible to ignore. The sight of him holding those flowers—Ayanokouji’s flowers—felt like a fuse had been lit somewhere deep inside her chest.

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her hand trembled as she set the last pin onto the vanity. “Probably just a neighbor leaving something… you know how people can be.”

Nagumo tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “A neighbor? These don’t look like something you grab on impulse from a corner shop.” He examined the arrangement with unsettling precision. “They look… personal.”

She swallowed, heat rising in her chest. Her eyes darted to the floor. “Maybe someone in the building left them by mistake. I didn’t think too much about it.”

Nagumo walked closer, the flowers still in his hand, the weight of his presence pressing against her carefully maintained calm. “You didn’t think about it?” he repeated, voice softer now, almost dangerous in its calmness. “Flowers like these, sitting here, in your home. You didn’t even wonder?”

“I was tired,” Suzune said, her voice brittle, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I just left them there.”

He studied her in silence, the bouquet hanging between them. Then, finally, he set them back on the table with a deliberate care, as though marking his territory over something that didn’t belong. “Hm. I don’t like it.”

Her chest tightened, but she forced herself to nod. “I’ll throw them out if it bothers you.”

Nagumo’s expression softened, though the suspicion in his eyes lingered. He stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “No… leave them. Just remember, Suzune, I know what suits you. Roses, not sunflowers.” His hand trailed down her cheek, lingering there. “Don’t let anyone make you forget that.”

Her throat tightened at his words. The echo of another voice, years ago, telling her that roses were cliché and that sunflowers held more life, more thought, pressed into her mind. She blinked hard, pushing it away.

“Of course,” she said softly, almost mechanically.

Nagumo kissed her forehead, lingering just long enough to seal the moment. “Good girl,” he murmured, before straightening and walking toward the kitchen as if the matter were settled.

Suzune remained frozen in place, her reflection still caught in the mirror. The flowers sat quietly on the coffee table, bright and defiant, their petals untouched by the shadows of Nagumo’s presence.

When she finally moved, she picked up her hairpins and placed them carefully in their box, her hands trembling just slightly. She wanted to tell herself that the bouquet didn’t matter, that the letter tucked into the folds of its paper didn’t sit heavy in her drawer, waiting to be reread when the nights grew too quiet.

Nagumo returned with a glass of water, handing it to her with a smile that looked rehearsed but practiced enough to appear warm. “You did well tonight,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

She accepted the glass, her lips curving faintly upward. “Thank you.”

They sat together for a while, his presence looming, filling every corner of the room. Yet her eyes kept drifting toward the coffee table, toward the stubborn yellow blooms that refused to be erased.

Later, when he finally left, when the door clicked shut and silence settled back into the apartment, Suzune sat alone in the living room. She stared at the bouquet, her fingers tightening around the untouched glass of water.

Slowly, she rose, walked to the table, and touched one of the petals. The softness of it made her chest ache. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, the world fell away—back to that day in her second year when Ayanokouji had left a single flower on her desk with no note, no explanation. Just quiet defiance against the roses everyone else bought.

Her eyes stung, and she pulled her hand back quickly. She couldn’t afford to think like that anymore.

Still, the flowers remained.

The next morning, she placed them in a vase.

Ayanokouji lay sprawled on his couch, staring up at the ceiling as if the paint would peel away and reveal some hidden truth. His mind hadn’t stopped racing in days, and now, in the oppressive stillness of the night, it roared louder than ever. Every thought was her. Every breath felt like a mistake.

He felt like an idiot—more than an idiot, a coward—every time he let his thoughts circle back to Horikita. He had been given countless chances to say the words that had burned silently in his chest, and he never did. He told himself that his actions were enough, that she would notice the subtle ways he lingered near her, how he made space for her, how he supported her when no one else could. He thought she would just know. But words had weight, and he had never given them to her.

“Why didn’t I say it?” he muttered into the empty room, his voice dry. His hand dragged over his face. He had never told her he loved her—not once. Not in all those long nights they’d shared, not in the fleeting moments where the silence between them had almost begged for it.

Now she was gone. With someone else. With Nagumo.

The name itself made his stomach turn. It sparked thoughts he despised, thoughts he didn’t want but couldn’t silence. Was that the man she’d chosen over him back then? Was that why she slipped away? Had Nagumo treated her better, made her laugh in ways he never could, said all the words he had been too cautious—too cold—to say? Did she love him more?

Ayanokouji turned onto his side, glaring at the wall as if it were taunting him with answers he didn’t want. He hated how easily his mind played images: Nagumo holding her at night, whispering reassurances into her hair. Nagumo pressing kisses against her forehead. Nagumo being the one to see her smile first thing in the morning.

Every memory of his time with her came back sharp, unforgiving. Nights where he’d held her close, not because she needed comfort, but because he wanted her there. He remembered her warmth against him, how her breathing would steady as if she’d finally allowed herself to trust him. He remembered mornings where he’d stood in her kitchen, making something simple just to watch her roll her eyes at his clumsy attempts. He remembered how, in quiet moments, he let himself imagine coming home to her every evening, a steady rhythm of life where she was always there.

There had even been nights where his mind had wandered further. A future that seemed impossible, but one he couldn’t help but paint in soft strokes. Horikita standing in that same apartment, but not alone—two small children with her eyes and his quiet presence running through the rooms. Laughter filling the spaces where silence used to dominate. Her smile directed at him, full, unguarded.

She had been it. Always. From the very beginning.

The first person to break through his indifference. The first to frustrate him, to challenge him, to make him care about something beyond himself. The first presence he enjoyed without ulterior motives. The first person he wanted to protect, not because she was a tool, but because she was her.

She had been his first annoyance, his first partner, his first friend, his first love.

And now, his first loss.

Ayanokouji closed his eyes, a heaviness pressing against his chest. He didn’t know if he could live with the knowledge that someone else was holding her, whispering to her, building the life he had quietly dreamed of but never voiced.

But what he hated most was knowing that it was his fault. That silence had cost him the only thing he had ever wanted.

Ayanokouji let his mind drift, though he knew it was dangerous. He had never been one to indulge in fantasies, yet here he was, lying in the dark and allowing himself to imagine a life he had never been brave enough to reach for.

What if he had told her? What if, in one of those fragile, fleeting moments where her guard was down and his own walls had cracked, he had spoken the truth instead of swallowing it? If he had simply said, I love you, would she be lying beside him right now? Would the space beside him on the couch, on the bed, in his life, not feel so unbearably empty?

He imagined her there, curled into him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her hair falling over his chest, her breath warming his skin. He could almost feel her hand clutching at his shirt, the way she always did when she didn’t want to admit she needed comfort. He pictured himself murmuring her name into the silence, not as a comrade or partner, but as someone who had finally claimed her openly.

Would that dream of twins have come true, years down the line? Two children with her sharp gaze and his quiet nature, filling their home with life he never thought he wanted but couldn’t picture living without now. He could see her chasing them through the halls, hear the sound of small feet pounding against the floor, hear laughter—her laughter—ringing in a way it never had during those hard, lonely school years.

Would she have remained loyal to him? He thought she would have. Horikita was stubborn, unyielding, but her loyalty was one of her strongest traits. If she had chosen him, truly chosen him, she would have stayed. Through hardships, through doubt, through everything, she would have been there. And he would have given her the same.

But would others have believed it? Could anyone really look at him—Kiyotaka Ayanokouji, the boy shaped into a weapon, the man who rarely showed emotion—and think he was capable of love? Would they have doubted her for being with him, whispered behind her back that she deserved someone warmer, someone more open? That she deserved better?

And yet, despite all that, he still let his mind push further. He imagined them years down the road, standing side by side at an altar. The world hushed around them, eyes watching, but none of it mattered. He could see her in white, her eyes steady on his, her lips finally curving in the kind of smile she had always denied herself. He imagined the words—I do—leaving her lips, quiet but unshakable.

Wishful thinking. That’s all it was. And Ayanokouji knew better than to indulge in wishes. But still, lying there in the silence, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what could have been if only he had been braver. If only he had given her the words she had deserved. If only he hadn’t let her slip away.

He wasn’t sure when he’d even arrived at the bar or when the bar blurred into one long smear of faces and light. One minute he’d been ordering another drink with automatic precision, another minute the glass had felt heavier and his thoughts louder. His tolerance let him pretend the world wasn’t tilting, but the fog behind his eyes betrayed him—spinning, slower reflexes, that peculiar looseness in his limbs that meant he’d crossed some invisible line.

When he stumbled out into the night, the air hit him like a wet cloth—sharp, cold, sobering and not. Rain began almost immediately, small hard beads at first and then a sudden hard pour that soaked through his coat and made the city smell greener, cleaner, somehow crueler. He let it wash over him and welcomed the sting. The world narrowing to the rhythm of his feet on the pavement felt almost merciful.

There was a hesitation at his car door. Habit should have won: he would never risk driving drunk, not ever. Horikita would have killed him. He imagined her voice—sharp, incredulous—scolding him until he put the keys down and sat with the shame of it instead. So he didn’t get in. He locked the car with fumbling fingers and walked, the sound of his shoes smacking the wet pavement a metronome for the chaos inside him.

He walked without thinking where his feet took him, but his destination was never in doubt. It was as if the rain itself carried him forward. Each step echoed a memory: her laugh over something small, the way she’d punched his shoulder in mock irritation, the moment she’d leaned against him on a cold morning and closed her eyes like she belonged there. Those tiny, private proofs of love had become his entire argument for returning.

People brushed past him in umbrellas and hooded jackets, strangers offering sympathetic glances or muttered questions if they noticed how unsteady he was. He ignored them all. “You okay?” someone asked once, and Ayanokouji muttered something noncommittal and kept moving, the syllables swallowed by the rain. He didn’t need a passerby’s concern. He needed her.

There was an absurd clarity under the intoxication—a razor focus on the single truth that had been fracturing him: he loved her, he always had, and he had to tell her. Saying the words in private, scribbling them in a letter, leaving flowers—each attempt had been cautious, shaped by restraint. Now the restraint felt like cowardice. He wanted to be loud. He wanted to be raw. He wanted to break the silence with a confession that would not be measured or parsed.

His vision blurred and he wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then realized the smear on his hand was a mixture of rain and tears. Mortifying, even to himself. He kept walking. Memory after memory crashed against him, not gentle recollections but the full force of everything he’d never said. How could he have been so certain that she would just… understand? How could that have been enough?

He reached the building and the lobby was warm and quiet, the fluorescent lights making a small island of comfort in the downpour. The security camera’s red eye blinked, indifferent, as he pushed the elevator button and felt the metallic hum pull him upward. He pressed his palm to the stainless steel wall and closed his eyes. For a breath he allowed himself to imagine her standing at the door, surprised, softening, perhaps angry—anything but the brittle indifference that had haunted him these months.

The elevator ride stretched, an eternity of wet breaths and the faint smell of cigarettes on his coat. He practiced the words in his head over and over, slurred rehearsals of the syllables he’d never mustered sober. Suzune. I love you. The sound of them felt foreign in his mouth, and yet something in his chest warmed at their shape. They were simple. They were terrifying.

At the top of the stairs the hall smelled faintly of old perfume and cleaning solution. He’d once loved this route, navigating it with her like a small, known ritual. Now the corridor felt alien, the wallpaper more textured than memory should allow. He paused outside her door and ran a hand over his face until his fingers ached, then knocked, the sound louder than he expected, a percussion that thrummed in his ears.

When he heard movement inside, panic laced with hope squeezed his throat until he could barely breathe. The door cracked open and the silhouette of a figure filled the gap. For a second his mind stalled—was it her? Had he arrived at the wrong apartment in his muddled walk? Then the door opened wider and there she was, hair a little mussed, eyes red-rimmed and wide with surprise. The rain made her skin glow. God, she looked like a ruined thing he wanted to make whole.

He swore soundlessly. His footing felt sudden and childlike as he stumbled over the threshold, cross the threshold he had built between them unwisely on too many occasions. He had no plan at that point, only the raw need to make a sound, to break the quiet that had separated them. His words fell out before he’d properly formed them: “I—” then nothing. The rain in his hair clung to his lashes, and he blinked, teeth chattering more from adrenaline than cold.

Horikita said nothing at first. She simply stared, hands pressed to her robe as if it might shield her from whatever he’d brought with him. The bouquet and letter on her coffee table were visible in the lamp light, yellow petals like a sun trapped indoors. Her face flicked to them and then back to him, expression unreadable and raw. He could see every little betrayal in the set of her jaw.

Horikita’s frown sharpened into a scowl, then dissolved into alarm the instant his knees gave out. For a second the world narrowed to the two of them — his weight, the coarse damp of his coat against her robe, the metallic tang of rain and alcohol on his breath. She reached instinctively, fingers clamping around his elbow to steady him, and the motion pitched them both forward; they collapsed in a heap on the floor with a breath-racking thud.

“You’re drunk,” she snapped, though it came out frayed and small, half-command and half-worry. Her palms burned where they pushed into his shoulders; his jacket was wet and cold under her hands. He smelled of rain and some bitter liquor she didn’t want to name, and for an instant the absurdity of him — stumbling into her life like a confession made physical — hit her harder than the indignity.

“No I’m not,” he mumbled against the side of her neck, words slurring into the soft cloth of her robe. His arms tightened, almost painfully, around her as if the act of holding could keep whatever inside him from spilling over. “I hate you so much, Suzune. You hurt me — but I love you so much more. I love you-” The repetition was a chant, an edge worn blunt with pain.

“You don’t get to be both the wound and the cure,” she snapped through a broken exhale. Her voice was thinner than she wanted it to be; the anger was a mask she wore because the tears felt too soft, too truthful. “You left. For months you left me. How can you—how can you say that now?”

“Suzune…I love you…”

She felt her heart twist at the admission, equal parts furious and raw. The ache she’d been carrying all night flared and subsided on the same inhale. He was unsteady; his confession was messy and late and wholly human. She pried one of his wet hands free and pushed at his chest, trying to create distance, to make sense of the torrent. “Stand up,” she ordered, voice low, practical. “You can’t stay here like this. You shouldn’t—” Her words faltered, because telling him to go felt like closing a door on something neither of them knew how to rebuild.

He blinked up at her, lashes clinging with moisture, and for a wild second she saw a boy there, not the composed, calculating man he kept in public. Vulnerability knocked as loud as his drunken confession. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, proof that the shame beneath the show had been there all along. “I’m sorry I waited. I thought—” He swallowed, breath hitching. “I thought you’d know.”

“You thought silence was love?” she asked, incredulity sharp. The question wasn’t theatrical; it was bewildered. She had believed he understood her in ways few people ever had. To learn that his quiet had been a strategy and not a bearing of the soul cut like cold glass. “Kiyotaka, words matter. You can’t expect someone to read a silence they don’t know how to translate.”

He let out a humorless sound that might have been a laugh. “I know that now.” His fingers dug into the carpet as if the fibres could anchor him to a better version of himself. The rain that plastered his hair to his forehead made the whole scene feel like a bad memory already being born. “I left the flowers,” he added, suddenly practical in his confessions. “The letter— I wrote it. I left it because I couldn’t keep pretending.”

Horikita’s breath stuttered. The bouquet on her coffee table caught the lamp light and threw back small suns. The letter’s flap peeking from beneath the tissue paper felt like a hinge between two rooms she wasn’t sure she wanted to open. “You came here drunk and you expect me to—” She cut herself off, unsure whether she was angry at the timing, the theatrics, or the kernel of truth inside his words.

A flash of memory spilled out of him, unbidden and urgent. “Do you remember that stupid restraunt in Paris? The duck bon bons? You said I tasted like them once.” He reached for her face, cupping her cheek with a hand that trembled only slightly. The gesture was clumsy but earnest. “You called me Kiyo and laughed until you cried. I kept that laugh like a map.” His voice broke on the next line. “I should’ve told you then. I should have said it in a way you couldn’t ignore.”

She flinched at the mention of that trip, the way a private wound echoes when named. Her breath caught—an involuntary admission that those nights, the small absurd joys, had meant everything to her too. The memory softened her anger for a fragment of a moment, but not enough to let her forget the months of absence.

“Kiyo,” she said softer, because when anger ebbed it left only the raw human thing beneath. “If you love me, say it sober. Tell me when you’re awake and clear. Don’t make this into a spectacle.” That last word felt meaner than she intended; it was a warning that his outburst, however genuine, could not be the foundation she needed.

He closed his eyes as if the rebuke hurt, but the next breath was steady. “I’ll say it sober,” he promised. “I’ll say it a thousand times, in a thousand ways. I’ll prove it. I just—” His words broke off. For a moment there was nothing left but the sound of rain, the city breathing beyond her windows.

She could have ordered him out. She could have shut the door and slid the bolt and pretended his presence had never happened. Instead Horikita found herself reaching for the scrap of paper he’d slipped into her hand earlier — the small damp fold he’d carried like an offering — and smoothing it with careful fingers. The gesture was absurdly intimate: two people sharing the smallest, most accidental contact. Her palm brushed his, and it sent that old, complicated current through her body.

“You’re reckless,” she said finally, and it was both accusation and plea. “You could get hurt. You could hurt someone else. You’re not allowed to do this—” She stopped, because the truth was uglier: he’d been reckless before, in silent ways that had lost them months. “Go home. Sleep it off. Don’t make promises you can’t keep because you’re drunk.”

He looked up at her, incredulous for a second, as though the idea of walking away from this fight — from this confession — was impossible. Then, slowly, the muscles in his jaw set. “If you tell me to go, I’ll go,” he said. “But know this: I’ll be there. Not tonight perhaps. Not in the way you want. But I won’t vanish again.” There was a steadiness beneath the haze, an oath made without theatrical flourish.

Horikita studied his face, cataloguing the sober and the intoxicated halves. She wanted to believe him because everything about his presence recalled the patient, careful man who had once loved her the quiet way people breathe. But she also had Nagumo’s warmth, his constant care, and the terrifying knowledge that she’d let herself be soothed into complacency. She had to decide — not in the flush of rain and adrenaline, but with some measure of clarity.

“Just come inside before you hurt yourself,” Horikita sighed, the sound more weary than commanding. She stepped forward and opened the door wider, letting the damp chill and the rain-slicked shape of him spill into the warm light of her apartment.

Ayanokouji stumbled across the threshold like a ship finally finding a harbor. He didn’t protest when she guided him toward the couch; his fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, the wet coat leaving a dark crescent on the carpet. For a long, awkward second neither of them spoke. The apartment smelled faintly of the candle she’d been burning earlier, of old coffee, of the faint, domestic scents that had once felt like part of a shared language between them.

“You’ll catch cold,” she said, taking off his soaked coat for him with brisk, efficient movements that disguised the tremor in her hands. She folded the coat over a chair to dry and moved with the same practical economy she used at work—there was comfort to be found in tasks with a definable end.

He let her do it, the flustered gratitude on his face slipping into something quieter as the adrenaline bled away. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I—I shouldn’t have—” He shook his head, the sentence breaking on the obviousness of it.

Horikita fetched a towel and pressed it into his hands. “Sit. Warm up,” she ordered, but the tone had lost its earlier sharpness. She set a mug on the coffee table and, after a moment’s hesitation, filled it with hot tea. The steam rose between them, a small private cloud that made the room feel less like a courtroom and more like a shelter.

He cradled the mug as if it might tether him to sobriety. For a while, they simply listened to the rain: the steady percussion against the windows, the distant sound of tires on wet pavement, a life that refused to pause for the drama on her living-room floor. Ayanokouji’s breathing slowed. He watched the rim of the cup with a concentration that made the moment feel almost sacred.

“You should call Hirata,” Horikita said finally, practical again. It was less an order and more a lifeline. “Or a cab service. You can’t stay here and fall asleep like this.”

He nodded, thumb tracing circles on the mug’s handle. “I will,” he said. “I’ll call him. I won’t… cause a scene.” His eyes met hers then—clearer somehow, not glazed—and there was a rawness there that made her chest ache. “I’m sorry for being reckless, Suzune.”

The apology had no flourish; it landed in the middle of the room like a small, necessary stone. She folded her hands in her lap. “You could have been hurt,” she said. “You could have hurt someone else.” The words were a reminder of boundaries and the real consequences of this moment.

“I know,” he whispered. His gaze slid away as if he couldn’t bear the full honesty of that sentence. Then, quieter, “I know I was reckless. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. I’ll call Hirata. I mean it.”

She watched him reach into his pocket and fumble for his phone. The light from the screen washed across his face; the numbers and names he tapped into were small, ordinary gestures that made his presence less like an intrusion and more like the beginning of something it would take courage to decide upon. He scrolled, paused, and then, with a breath, called.

While he spoke quietly into the phone—Hirata’s tone clipped and then immediately warm—Horikita moved through the apartment like someone performing a ritual she half-remembered. She folded a throw over the back of the couch. She tidied the coffee table, smoothing the tablecloth around the bouquet as if to protect it from irreverence. Her hands brushed the paper of his letter once, briefly, then retreated.

Ayanokouji’s voice was low and earnest on speaker; he made arrangements, assured, promised. Hirata’s response—the offer to come by, the practical check-ins—sounded like a lifeline. When the call ended, Ayanokouji exhaled as if a weight had been nudged. “He’s coming,” he said. “He’ll make sure I get home. I told him not to make a fuss.”

Horikita nodded, partly in relief and partly because she appreciated the order of it. “Good,” she replied. “And Kiyotaka…” She hesitated, wanting to frame what she needed in words that could stick to the person in front of her without dissolving under pressure. “Say it sober. Not like this."

He met her gaze, and something fissured open—regret, resolve, maybe both. “I will,” he promised, the firmness of it like a small anchor. “I’ll say it sober. I’ll say it without theatrics. I’ll mean it every time.”

She let the promise sit there, not as an immediate absolution but as something that could, with time and evidence, become the foundation of something steadier. She pulled a blanket around his shoulders, partly practical and partly symbolic, the gesture a measured kindness rather than an acceptance.

They talked, halting and honest, about small things first—the weather, the curse of the city drainage, the trivialities that acted as shallow, safe places to meet. Each exchange was a test, both of equilibrium and of the possibility that two people who had been close once could find the path back to a steady conversation without flinching at every edge.

At one point he laughed—a short, bitter sound that was mostly surprise at his own clumsiness—and she couldn’t help the small, involuntary smile that slipped free. Humor, even in fractured pieces, made both of them breathe a little easier. The rhythm of human interaction felt like a small island of normal in a tide of recent chaos.

When Hirata arrived he took one look at Ayanokouji, assessed him with the sort of genuine care Horikita knew well, and helped Ayanokouji up gently, steadying him, then insisted on taking him home to avoid any chance of more trouble. Ayanokouji accepted quietly, the arrangements precise and dependable.

Before he left, Ayanokouji turned back to Horikita. The rain had stopped; a sheen covered the windowpane like a film of things washed and left to dry. “I’ll contact you tomorrow,” he said. “Sober. I’ll ask you—properly—if you’ll meet me. If you give me a chance, I’ll show you I can be the person I should have been.”

Horikita folded her arms around herself, sheltering the balance between compassion and self-protection. “We’ll see,” she said, not closing the door on words but reserving the right to judge him by what followed, not what was said in a moment of fractured courage.

He nodded, the motion small but sincere. Hirata was already halfway down the hallway, helping him with a jacket, muttering under his breath about ridiculous friends. The door closed softly behind them, and then the apartment felt like a room after the storm—still humid, littered, its furniture slightly rearranged by the force of what had happened.

Horikita sat down at the edge of the couch and finally allowed herself to read the letter again. This time, without rain to blur the margins, the handwriting felt more deliberate, a careful map of a man who had given too much to fear. Each sentence steadied and unsettled her in equal measure: the confession, the regret, the patient plea for time. It was both balm and accusation.

She thought of Nagumo—of his hands and his warmth, of the way he’d smoothed things for her and the easy command he exercised over her days. The comparison rose unbidden, and with it the guilt: had she traded courage for comfort? The question landed heavier than she expected. Her mind flickered through the last weeks: the soft dinners, the quiet invitations, the protective words that had sometimes felt like ownership.

But then her eyes moved back to the scrap of paper Ayanokouji had left in her palm—the damp corner, the crease where his thumb had pressed. She remembered the steadiness in his promise, the way his voice had, in that messy moment, cut straight through artifice. The rawness of it lingered.

Horikita smoothed the letter with careful fingers and tucked it back into the drawer, not to hide it but to give it a place. She turned the bouquet slowly in her hands again. Sunflowers were loud and stubborn, like the feeling that had always sat in his chest—something bright, something that refused to bow away.

Night stretched thin and then folded; she moved through ritual—shower, tea, bed—each task measured, decisive. She slept fitfully, the letter at her bedside like a small, breathing proof that the world was more complicated than either accusation or absolution.

In the hours before dawn, she found herself sitting up, the room gray and tender. She traced the first words of the letter with a fingertip until the lines blurred into memory. The city outside breathed, the world indifferent and vast. She whispered to the dark, not a prayer exactly but a cautious address: “We’ll see.”

She wasn’t ready to reach for Nagumo’s phone to cancel the plans, nor to pick up her own and answer any of Ayanokouji’s future calls. She would wait. She would think. She would demand more than words, and she would not let the warmth of someone else substitute for the hard work of knowing her own heart.

When finally she stood and moved to the window, the first thin light of morning had found the glass. The bouquet on the table caught it for a moment, petals glowing like small promises. Horikita pressed her palm to the pane and let herself feel the chill and the warmth at once. Outside, the city wheeled onward. Inside, between the letter folded in a drawer and the damp print of a coat she’d helped dry, she felt the complicated geometry of two people trying to find the right angle to bring them back together—or to let one of them learn how to stand without the other.

She sat down again, breath steadying, and placed a single sunflower in a small narrow vase she kept on the kitchen shelf. The gesture was small and precise: a compromise between the memory of what had been and the uncertainty of what might be. The room smelled faintly of citrus from her earlier tea and something cleaner, like resolve.

If he called tomorrow, she would answer. Not to promise, not to deny, but to begin the work of choosing with eyes open. For now, she let the quiet do what it could: settle their reckless night into something that might, over time, be measured and true.

Horikita sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers knotted together so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator, yet her mind wouldn’t still. She thought of Nagumo—how quickly his smile could shift, how soft his voice could turn when he was coaxing her close, and how easily that same softness could harden into something sharper when things didn’t go his way. The thought of him finding out Ayanokouji had come here, drenched and broken, made her stomach twist. He would be upset. More than upset. His anger scared her more than it should have, and admitting that to herself only made her chest ache deeper.

She buried her face in her hands, muttering through the spaces between her fingers, “What are you thinking, Suzune? Nagumo already loves you. Don’t ruin it. Just… don’t.” The words felt like an incantation, something she needed to repeat to hold herself steady, but they rang hollow the moment she said them.

Her breath hitched as her mind dragged her back to the memory of Ayanokouji on her doorstep. The rain had plastered his hair to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his frame as if the storm itself had tried to consume him. But it hadn’t been the water or his drunken stumble that unsettled her most—it had been his eyes. That desperate, pleading look. The way his voice had cracked, raw and vulnerable, when he whispered that he hated her for hurting him but loved her all the same.

She sighed heavily, pressing her palms against her thighs as if grounding herself in the sensation. “Why did you have to look at me like that…?” she whispered to no one. She wasn’t supposed to feel this torn. She had chosen Nagumo. She had convinced herself that his kind of love was enough, that his care—however overwhelming or consuming—was exactly what she needed to mend the cracks inside her. And yet, one look from Ayanokouji had unraveled all of it.

The memory of his arms tightening around her despite the rain, his voice breaking with truths he’d never said sober, sat heavy in her chest. He hadn’t asked her to take him back. He hadn’t demanded anything. All he’d given her was honesty—the one thing she had never been sure she’d get from him when they were together. That was what shook her the most.

She leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. Her thoughts spiraled, pulling her between the two men. Nagumo’s certainty, his unwavering claim over her, the safety of being told exactly what she was and what she should feel. And then Ayanokouji’s uncertainty—messy, unrefined, but real. The way he’d looked at her as if she was still worth fighting for, even after everything.

Her chest tightened, tears stinging her eyes again. “Nagumo already loves you,” she repeated weakly, but even as she said it, her mind conjured Ayanokouji’s face. That desperate look. That voice cracking under the weight of emotions he’d hidden for too long.

It terrified her how much power both of them held over her heart in such different ways. And it terrified her even more that, despite everything, she wasn’t sure whose love she truly wanted anymore.

The days blurred together into something numb, something heavy, and Suzune Horikita told herself that was just how it was supposed to be. A week passed maybe more since Ayanokouji had appeared at her doorstep, soaked and broken, spilling words she had longed to hear back when it mattered. But there had been no follow-up. No second letter. No visit. No call. Not even a glance her way when she thought she might run into him. It was as if he had vanished back into the shadows of her life, and maybe that was where he belonged.

At first, she had checked her phone every few hours, expecting something—anything. Her hands would tremble when it buzzed, only for the pit in her stomach to deepen when it was just Nagumo again. Always Nagumo. He grew more insistent by the day, demanding that she share her location at all times, that she answer him within minutes or risk his sharp words. At first, she told herself it was care, a sign of how much he wanted her close. When she slipped up, when she forgot to reply, when she stayed out a little too long, his voice would rise.

The first time he screamed at her, she froze. It wasn’t just irritation—it was rage, searing and raw, a side of him that made her chest tighten in fear. But then, an hour later, he was back at her side with flowers, with apologies spilling from his lips, with kisses against her forehead. “I only get this way because I love you too much,” he said, and she tried—God, she tried—to believe him.

Then came the shove, quick and sharp when she spoke out of turn. Then the strike across her cheek when she told him she didn’t like the dress he picked. And every time, her heart screamed this isn’t right. But his arms came after, pulling her close, his lips murmuring apologies, gifts pressed into her hands like bandages over wounds he had created himself. And every time, she whispered that it was fine. That this was love. That this was the only kind of love someone like her deserved.

She told herself over and over again that Ayanokouji didn’t want her. That he never truly had. The flowers, the letter, the drunken confession—they must have been a moment of weakness, or worse, a game. A cruel trick to remind her of what she had lost and how far she had fallen. She had cheated on him once, hadn’t she? She had broken what they had. Maybe this was his way of getting even, of twisting the knife by dangling hope in front of her before snatching it away again.

Lying awake at night beside Nagumo, listening to him breathe while bruises blossomed on her skin beneath the covers, she repeated it to herself like a mantra: He didn’t mean it. He doesn’t love you. He was just toying with you.

And yet, every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ayanokouji’s face in the rain. That desperate, broken look. The way his voice trembled when he told her he hated her for hurting him, but loved her anyway. It haunted her, and it hurt, because a part of her—the part she tried hardest to silence—still wanted to believe it was real.

But Nagumo’s grip was constant. His presence swallowed every corner of her life. He reminded her, with every question, every demand, every punishment and every gift, that he was there and Ayanokouji wasn’t. And in her weakest moments, she clung to that certainty, even if it left her bleeding inside.

Because if Ayanokouji had truly loved her, wouldn’t he have come back by now?

Nagumo’s anger was like a storm, sudden and unyielding. He screamed at her for not answering fast enough, for not remembering some detail he thought she should know. She tried to explain, but her words only seemed to fuel the fire. When his hand came down—not too hard, but enough to leave her stunned—she told herself it was an accident. He hadn’t meant it. She must have pushed him too far.

But the cycle repeated. Anger, then apologies. Rage, then gifts. Screaming, then affection so sweet it almost made her forget the sting. He’d hold her close afterward, whispering promises into her ear: “I love you. You’re mine. I’ll take care of you. Don’t ever doubt that.” He’d show up with flowers, with jewelry, with expensive clothes, forcing them into her hands until she smiled. And when she didn’t smile, when she seemed hesitant, he’d press harder—because to him, love was something that demanded proof.

Horikita forced herself to justify it all. Every bruise, every tear swallowed in silence, every moment she felt herself slipping further away from who she used to be. She reminded herself that Ayanokouji didn’t want her. If he had, he would have come back by now. He wouldn’t have let her fall into Nagumo’s arms. That drunken confession, that letter—it must have been a game, a way to get back at her for betraying him.

She told herself she deserved Nagumo’s version of love. The kind that bound her tightly, that punished her for slipping away, that rewarded her when she played the role he demanded. She repeated it until the words dulled her heart, until the fire inside her went quiet.

Horikita stared at her reflection until the glass blurred into a smudge of exhaustion and bruises. The steam from the sink fogged the mirror and made the apartment feel unreal, like a stage set where every prop was already broken. She watched the smear of blood on her palm darken as it dried, and for a long moment she couldn’t tell whether the sight calmed her or frightened her more.

Her hands trembled as she rinsed them under the faucet, watching the red swirl away into the dark water. It felt mechanical—wash, rinse, repeat—because movement kept her from thinking too long about why she’d chosen the blade, why she’d let glass turn fingers into a place for punishment. The cold water stung, and that small burn anchored her in the present, which was at once terrible and merciful.

When she finally looked up, the face in the mirror was a map of nights she no longer wanted to endure. The yellow half-moons beneath her eyes had deepened; her skin had the pallor of someone living on borrowed minutes. The old nick on her lip still tingled when she pressed her tongue against it; the bruise at her temple throbbed faintly. She had catalogued every one of those marks in her head a thousand times—an inventory of reasons to stay and an equal list of reasons to run.

Her chest tightened at the thought of Nagumo’s hands, the tightness that came with his anger and the warm hands that followed in apology. She had told herself the cycle was love; she had whispered that lie until it felt almost true. But the blood at her fingers was an accusation that could not be soothed by roses and whispered promises. It was a proof of what she had let happen and of how small she’d made herself to keep from breaking something far more fragile: the semblance of a life she thought she deserved.

She wrapped a clean towel around her palm and sank onto the closed toilet lid, the porcelain cold beneath her. Her breath came shallow and quick; the room felt too small for the noise in her head. She thought of the letter tucked into the drawer—the one with Ayanokouji’s careful handwriting, the one that smelled faintly of ink and rain. She thought of the way his words had landed in her like a quietly thrown lifeline, and of the look on his face in the doorway: exhausted, blunt, true.

What would she be if she stayed? someone who accepted the bruises as the price of warmth. What would she be if she left? something frightened and raw, yes, but not complicit. The thought lodged there, jagged and unavoidable. She had been telling herself she deserved the pain for so long that the idea of refusing it felt almost indecent, as if she were betraying some penance. But the towel was damp and heavy in her hand, and the sting of the water reminded her that pain was not penance; it was harm.

She set the towel down with more force than necessary and climbed to her feet. Her movements were slow but deliberate—she rinsed the cuts, dabbed them with antiseptic, and pressed little bandages into place. Each tiny task was a covenant with herself: small, practical, unforgiving. If she was going to break the cycle, she needed to do it one careful step at a time. Bandage, breathe, move. Bandage, breathe, move.

The apartment felt suddenly louder, as if every clock tick and the hum of the refrigerator were conspiring to wake her from a stupor. She glanced at the bouquet on the coffee table, the sunflowers a stubborn bright in the pall of the room. For the first time in days she noticed how deliberate they looked there, like a signal left for her to read. She picked up a single stem and ran her thumb over the petal, feeling an odd mix of comfort and shame. They were proof that someone had looked at her and chosen to brighten her doorway—not because she was worthy of punishment, but simply because she had been seen.

Her phone buzzed on the vanity; Nagumo’s name lit the screen. She did not answer. The thumb hovered, then shook, and she silenced the device. The buzzing continued—insistent messages, short, clipped orders that began soft and then coiled into possessiveness. She felt the old reflex to reply quickly, to soothe him before his patience curdled into anger. The reflex felt like a shackle. She set the phone facedown and wrapped both bandaged hands around the mug she’d poured earlier, letting the heat sear through something cold and stubborn inside her.

She opened the drawer where she’d stowed Ayanokouji’s letter. The paper was folded, the edges softened by the night it had spent in the rain and by the weight of her hours of clutching it. She smoothed it out on her palm and read the lines again—slowly this time—letting the sentences land. He had not demanded. He had asked for time. He had told her she was enough. The words did not erase what had happened, but they reframed it: not as punishment to be borne, but as a truth that might be reclaimed.

The thought of calling someone—Nariko, maybe, or Ibuki—surfaced and she almost dismissed it. What would she say? I’m leaving him felt too big and too immediate. I’m scared sounded like admission of failure. But she realized that asking for help wasn’t a confession of weakness; it could be a map. Maps were always messy at first, but they showed routes out. She wiped her cheeks, steeling herself with the small ritual of steady breaths. Enough uncertainty—now choices.

Horikita’s hands stung as she scrubbed at the sink, the water running pink then red before spiraling down the drain. She bit her lip hard to stop the trembling, only realizing too late that it was already split and bleeding. A hiss of pain escaped, muffled as she leaned closer to the mirror. The reflection staring back was a stranger. Hollowed eyes, their brightness long gone, bruises that never seemed to fade no matter how much concealer she layered on before work. She looked tired—more than tired. She looked broken.

She forced her gaze to drop, unwilling to linger on the evidence too long. Her fingers curled into her palm, reopening cuts from the shards she had picked up minutes earlier. The sting was grounding, a small punishment she felt she deserved. After all, this was her choice. She had stayed. She had accepted Nagumo’s love, his anger, his apologies. And wasn’t this all her fault? If she hadn’t betrayed Ayanokouji, if she hadn’t been weak, if she hadn’t let her selfishness lead her astray—none of this would have happened.

The thought of Ayanokouji made her stomach twist painfully. Almost a year since the breakup. Almost a year since that night he had shown up drenched and broken, whispering words of love and hate in the same breath. She remembered the desperation in his eyes, how his arms had clung to her as though she was the only thing keeping him alive. And she had pushed him away. She had told herself it was for the best. That he was better without her. That Nagumo’s love, flawed and cruel as it was, was the only love she deserved.

She blinked hard, pushing back tears, and focused again on scrubbing her hands. Her breathing hitched when the knock came at the door. For a split second, her chest tightened with a strange, foolish hope—that maybe it was him. Maybe it was Ayanokouji, come back, sober and steady, to pull her out of this life. But the second she opened the door, the fantasy shattered.

Nagumo stood there, immaculate as always, his smile polished to perfection. In one hand he carried roses, their red petals almost mocking in their beauty. In the other, a sleek shopping bag. He didn’t wait for permission, stepping inside and sweeping her into his arms. His lips brushed against hers, featherlight, as though he hadn’t been the one who smashed the glass hours earlier.

“Forgive me,” he murmured into her mouth, the words tender, practiced. “I lost myself. I was weak. But I love you, Suzune. You’re everything to me.”

Her body stiffened in his embrace, then slowly loosened as his familiar warmth enveloped her. She hated how easily it happened—how her defenses crumbled under the soft tone of his voice. He always knew how to thread apologies with promises, how to bury the bruises under gifts and affection until she almost convinced herself it had never happened.

He drew back, pressing the roses into her hands. “These are for you. Only the best, like you deserve.” His eyes flickered briefly to her split lip, his jaw tightening. “Does it hurt? I’ll make it right. I’ll take care of you.”

Horikita lowered her gaze, unable to answer. Her fingers tightened around the stems until the thorns bit into her palm, but she didn’t let go. The pain felt… appropriate.

Nagumo tilted her chin up with practiced gentleness. “Suzune,” he whispered, “don’t look so sad. You know I can’t stand it when you doubt me.”

Her lips trembled. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to bury the truth under his words and pretend this was love. Maybe this was love—at least, the only kind meant for her.

“...I know,” she finally said, voice barely audible.

His smile returned, satisfied. He pressed the shopping bag into her arms. “Try these on later. I saw them and thought of you. You’ll look beautiful, as always.”

The gesture should have warmed her, but instead it hollowed her further. Gifts and roses couldn’t erase the bruises. They couldn’t erase the fear that curled in her gut when his voice rose, or the way her heart pounded whenever she misstepped.

She forced a small smile anyway, the same way she always did. “Thank you.”

Nagumo kissed her forehead, lingering as though sealing the moment. “That’s my girl. I don’t deserve you.”

Her stomach turned at the irony. She almost laughed. But instead, she nodded and leaned against him, because it was easier than fighting.

Later, as she set the roses in a vase beside the wilting bouquet Ayanokouji had once left her, her hand trembled. The contrast was too sharp—Nagumo’s roses pristine, deliberate, perfect. Ayanokouji’s flowers had been messy, rushed, as if he’d grabbed them in desperation. She remembered the way he had thrust them into her hands, his eyes wild, his voice cracking with words he shouldn’t have said.

Her throat tightened. She had convinced herself he hadn’t meant them—that he had only been drunk, lost, lashing out. But sometimes, late at night, she wondered.

She brushed her fingers over the petals, blinking away tears. Nagumo’s voice called from the other room, asking her to hurry, and she turned away.

Because in the end, it didn’t matter what might have been. This was her reality now. And she told herself again and again, until the words dulled into a prayer she didn’t believe: This is the only love I deserve.

But the cracks were there. Each apology, each bruise, each rose laid on the table only deepened them. And somewhere inside, a voice she had buried long ago whispered—soft, insistent—that one day, she might break free.

Ayanokouji hadn’t considered calling Horikita. Well—he had, countless times. His thumb would hover over her contact, his eyes locked on the name glowing on his phone screen in the dead of night. But he never pressed it. Not once. He was too embarrassed, too bound by the pride and cold logic he’d built his entire life around. He wasn’t supposed to want her back, not after everything. Not after she cheated.

And yet he couldn’t stop cataloguing it. That night, the betrayal, the slow unraveling of something he thought was unshakable. He traced it back further, all the way to high school. Every step, every relationship before her, every attempt to simulate affection, to test and measure what love could be. He had been building a system since those years, a methodical framework to decode what everyone else seemed to grasp instinctively.

He remembered, with clinical precision, the choices he had made. In his first year he asked Kei out—not because he loved her, not even because he liked her much, but because she seemed pliable enough, willing enough. It was an experiment, a chance to observe the shape of affection when one partner bent to the other. They had ended when he decided the data was sufficient.

By his second year, That time, he had already slept with her before asking her out. He’d wanted to see if intimacy first changed the trajectory of attachment. It hadn’t. She was kind, overly trusting, and he had catalogued that as a liability. She had smiled through everything, had tried to care, but he only studied her reactions like they were part of an equation. When it failed, he simply logged the result and moved forward.

Third year was Sakura. She was timid, fragile, and he thought perhaps tenderness would emerge naturally if he had to protect someone like her. For a few months he played the part of a boyfriend until her nerves overwhelmed her and she broke it off. He hadn’t fought for her. He hadn’t cared enough to.

There had been Kushida, too, though she never gave him the chance. He had asked her out, almost idly, curious to see what a relationship with someone so outwardly perfect would look like. She rejected him flat, her attention captured by another boy. He’d noted it down and moved on, the experiment cut short before it began.

And then Sato, near the end of their third year. That one had been easy, breezy. Light conversations, casual intimacy, but nothing lasting. She left for university and he didn’t chase her. Just another closed chapter, another data point filed away.

After high school, his methods had only grown sharper. He read every romance book he could get his hands on, watched countless films, even foreign dramas. He mapped the tropes, the archetypes, the common arcs. He began to test them deliberately. The childhood friend scenario. The opposites attract. The rebound. Each played out like an assignment, something to try and discard when it proved hollow.

Then came Horikita. Not a test he expected. Three years had passed with almost no contact, their lives drifting on separate currents. When he saw her again, he thought of it as another experiment—the long-lost classmates trope. He wanted to see if nostalgia and familiarity could foster connection. But something had gone wrong. The data stopped being clean.

It was slow, incremental, almost invisible at first. Her presence lingered with him even when she wasn’t there. Her sharp words, her rare smiles, the moments when she softened only for him. He hadn’t planned on falling. He hadn’t even realized that was what was happening until she told him one night, with quiet honesty, “I love you.” He had been stunned. He hadn’t known how to answer. She’d told him it was okay, that he didn’t have to say it back. And in that strange, fragile space, they’d been happy. Genuinely happy.

At first, he had slipped—slept with other women in the early days before things were official, trying to tell himself he was just finishing the experiment. Then, years into their relationship, he’d started seeing someone else for practical reasons. Not out of love, not even desire—just an advantage at work, a transaction disguised as intimacy. It hadn’t meant anything. Not to him. He hadn’t even considered it cheating. Still, he hid it from her, tucked it away like one more secret.

When Horikita began to grow distant, he had worried. For the first time in his life, worry wasn’t just an abstraction—it gnawed at him, restless and sharp. And when he found out she had cheated, his world collapsed. He hadn’t wanted to know who, hadn’t asked for the details. The word alone had been enough to shatter him. He hated her in that moment—hated her betrayal, hated how weak it made him feel, hated the undeniable fact that it hurt because he truly loved her.

And now? Now he was devastated. He told himself he shouldn’t be. He told himself she had broken something that couldn’t be repaired. He told himself his father would despise him if he knew Ayanokouji Kiyotaka—son of that man, raised in cold logic and control—had once stumbled drunk into the rain, pounding on a woman’s door for love.

But the truth remained: he had. He had gone to her, drunk and desperate. He had told her things he had never meant to say. And she had turned him away.

Every day since, he stared at her contact, his finger hovering, his mind running in loops. His coworkers noticed the change. They saw the way his gaze drifted off in meetings, the way his answers came a second too late. They knew something was wrong, but they didn’t ask. They didn’t dare.

And so he carried it alone—the memories, the humiliation, the longing. He wasn’t supposed to want her back. But he did. More than anything, more than he could admit even to himself.

Ayanokouji sat in the dark of his apartment, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound that dared to break the silence. His phone glowed against his palm, her contact staring back at him like it always did. He’d traced that name a thousand times with his eyes, memorized every letter as if it held the key to breathing again.

For weeks, maybe months, he’d resisted. He had always prided himself on restraint, on control, on never allowing emotion to dictate his choices. And yet here he was, caught in the web of something he couldn’t outthink or outmaneuver.

With a single, deliberate movement, he pressed call.

The dial tone droned in his ear. Once. Twice. Three times. Each ring tightened his chest further, like a hand was squeezing the air from his lungs. He stared at the ceiling, his throat dry, his lips parted but useless. What would he even say if she answered?

Four rings. Five.

By the sixth, he knew she wasn’t going to pick up. His stomach sank even as his heart clung to the faintest shred of hope. Then, without warning, the ringing cut. The silence that followed was deafening.

He let out a long, ragged sigh and pressed the phone against his forehead, eyes closing. God, he was desperate.

More desperate than he ever thought possible. The boy who once dissected love like an experiment, who treated affection as something to test, chart, and discard, was now a man undone by it. No strategy, no calculated move could give him what he wanted—her voice, her presence, her forgiveness.

He sat like that for a long while, motionless, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves. His hand trembled slightly around the phone, a weakness he would never show to anyone else. The mask he wore every day—the calm, untouchable facade—was nowhere to be found here. Here he was just a man staring into the abyss of his own choices.

Finally, he set the phone down on the table, the faint click against the wood sounding final, damning. He rubbed his hands over his face, dragging them down until they fell limply to his lap.

What was he even doing? Was this love, or was it something darker, something more selfish? Was he reaching for her because he couldn’t stand to lose, or because he truly couldn’t imagine a life without her?

He didn’t know anymore.

All he knew was that the silence on the other end of that call was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life.

Ayanokouji’s phone buzzed against the table, pulling him from the spiral of his own thoughts. He glanced at the screen, half-expecting it to be work or a meaningless notification, but the name flashing there made his brows knit together. Ryuen.

With a muted sigh, he swiped to answer and lifted the phone to his ear.
“…What?”

Ryuen’s voice came sharp and unhesitating. “Ibuki asked me to call.”

That was enough to catch Ayanokouji’s attention, though he didn’t reply right away. Ryuen didn’t give him the chance.

“It’s about Suzune,” he continued, his tone edged with a seriousness that wasn’t often there. “Ibuki says her new boyfriend’s off somehow. She doesn’t like it. What the hell happened to you showing her you cared?”

Ayanokouji leaned back into his couch, pressing his fingertips to his temple. “She’s dating Nagumo,” he muttered flatly. “New boyfriend, like you said.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Ryuen shot back. “And you’re not gonna do anything about it?”

“What do you expect me to do?” Ayanokouji asked, his voice calm but carrying a tired edge. “That was her choice.”

On the other end, Ryuen let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Choice, huh? She doesn’t look like she’s okay with him. You don’t need to be a genius to see that.”

“Look,” Ryuen continued, his tone softer but no less firm. “You can sit there drowning in your regrets, thinking about what could’ve been, or you can actually get off your ass and do something. You promised to protect her. I don’t give a damn if you two are broken up. You don’t get to walk away from that.”

Ayanokouji let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter. “You sound like you care more than I do.”

Ryuen didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t twist this. I care about my wife. Ibuki doesn’t sleep right when she’s worried, and she’s worried about Suzune. That makes it my problem. But you? You’re supposed to be the one who gives a damn. So why am I the one calling you?”

Ayanokouji’s jaw tightened. The question cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He closed his eyes and pictured Suzune’s face—the way her eyes used to light up when she was confident, the way she’d scowl when she caught him teasing her, the way she looked that last night he saw her, rain-soaked and tired, and yet still the only person who made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t define.

“You really think I should interfere?” he asked quietly, almost testing Ryuen’s resolve.

“I don’t think,” Ryuen growled. “I know. Either you step in, or I will. And trust me, if it’s me, I’m not going to be gentle about it.”

For the first time in weeks, Ayanokouji sat up fully, elbows on his knees, phone pressed tight to his ear. He could hear the seriousness in Ryuen’s voice—this wasn’t some idle challenge, this wasn’t posturing. Ryuen meant it.

Ayanokouji pinched the bridge of his nose, phone pressed between shoulder and ear as he leaned forward on the couch. His head was pounding—whether from lack of sleep, too much thinking, or the memory of that drunken night at Suzune’s doorstep, he didn’t know. Ryuen’s voice was sharp and cutting through the haze, and the mention of Suzune’s name left him on edge in a way he couldn’t mask.

“You think I don’t know she’s not okay?” Ayanokouji muttered lowly, his voice carrying a weariness that bordered on defeat. “I can see it from a mile away. But what do you expect me to do, Ryuen? Walk up and drag her away from him? She chose him. She doesn’t want me.”

“Bullshit,” Ryuen shot back instantly, his tone fierce. “That girl doesn’t know what she wants right now, and if you actually gave a damn, you’d stop making excuses and start fighting for her. You keep saying she doesn’t want you, but maybe she just needs you to prove you do want her.”

Ayanokouji let the words hang. His jaw clenched. He hated that Ryuen, of all people, was the one forcing him to face the truth he’d been avoiding.

“Ryuen—”

“No. Shut up and listen,” Ryuen cut him off, voice lowering but not losing its edge. “Ibuki sees it clear as day. Suzune’s falling apart. That prick Nagumo’s got her on a leash, and she’s barely holding herself together. If you’re too much of a coward to step in, then fine—I’ll do it. But don’t come crying when she breaks completely and it’s too late.”

Ayanokouji swallowed hard, his knuckles white around the phone. He wanted to argue, to push back, but the silence stretching between them said more than any rebuttal could. Ryuen was right. And he hated him for it.

“Why do you care so much?” Ayanokouji asked finally, his voice quieter, almost a whisper. “You could ignore this, let me deal with my own mistakes.”

“I told you,” Ryuen said firmly. “Because Ibuki cares. She’s been restless about Suzune for weeks. And when my wife’s upset, I fix it. That’s what it means to actually care about someone, Ayanokouji. You should try it sometime.”

The words stung more than they should have, but they stuck deep. Ryuen wasn’t mocking him. He was forcing him to confront the truth he’d been running from.

Ayanokouji leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just let the weight of it all press against his chest. Finally, he let out a breath that sounded almost like defeat.

“I can’t do it myself,” Ayanokouji said finally, his voice flat but brittle around the edges. “It’s not my place.”

Ryuen pulled the phone back for a moment, as if to rein in his own frustration, before speaking again, sharp and cutting. “Bullshit. You made a promise.”

“She should’ve thought about that before she cheated,” Ayanokouji muttered, forcing the words out with an indifferent shrug. But his tone wasn’t steady—it quivered with something darker. Fear. Regret. His chest felt tight. “Maybe she should’ve gone to the man she cheated with.”

“Why the hell do you think she’s with him?!” Ryuen snapped.

The words hit like a blade to the ribs. Ayanokouji froze, his mind racing in silence. He sat up so quickly his vision blurred, heart hammering against his throat. Connect the dots. Nagumo. The timing. The distance Suzune had started putting between them. The way she’d stopped meeting his eyes.

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t just a choice.

Nagumo had been the one.

The one who slid into her life at just the right moment.
The one who poisoned what they had.
The one who stole her from him.

His hands trembled around the phone, though his voice came out like ice. “...Nagumo was the one?”

On the other end, Ryuen didn’t answer immediately. His silence was confirmation enough.

Ayanokouji’s nails dug into his palm, his composure fracturing beneath the weight of it. All this time he’d thought Suzune had betrayed him. That she’d thrown him away. But no—Nagumo had orchestrated it, pulling her strings, cornering her until she had no choice.

And he had let it happen.

For the first time in years, something raw and dangerous lit in Ayanokōji’s chest—a spark of rage he couldn’t control.

“Then this is on me,” he whispered, more to himself than to Ryuen. “I should’ve seen it.”

Ryuen’s voice came back, low and steady, like he knew exactly what switch he’d just flipped. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Ayanokouji stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a sharp sound that echoed in the empty apartment. His eyes were dark, almost black with a controlled storm of emotion. “I’ll ruin him,” he said, voice low and steady, yet carrying a weight that made Ryuen sit up a little straighter.

Ryuen raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Whoa. That’s… intense. You really mean it, don’t you?”

Ayanokouji didn’t answer immediately. His mind was already spinning with plans, strategies, contingencies. Nagumo thought he could keep Suzune in line with fear, with control, with all his manipulations—but he had underestimated Ayanokouji. He always did. And Suzune deserved better. She had always deserved better.

Ryuen leaned forward, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Go on. How do you plan on doing it?”

Ayanokouji’s jaw tightened. “I’ll make him regret every moment he spent thinking he could control her, thinking she could ever belong to him. I’ll expose him, break his image, make it impossible for him to touch her happiness without consequences. And when he finally realizes he’s lost her… that’s when I’ll step in.”

Ryuen chuckled, shaking his head. “You sound like a proper mastermind, Kiyotaka. Just… careful. Don’t let your anger cloud the plan. Precision, not chaos, or it all falls apart.”

Ayanokouji ran a hand through his hair, mind racing. Every conversation he’d overheard, every small slip, every tiny hint of Nagumo’s arrogance—he’d catalogued it all. Now, it was time to exploit it. Time to turn Nagumo’s confidence into his weakness.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Ayanokouji said coldly. “I’ll make him see that he never should have touched her life, never should have thought he could take her from me. And I’ll make sure Suzune knows… I never stopped caring. I never stopped loving her.”

Ryuen leaned back, letting Ayanokouji’s words settle. “Good. You’ve got the fire. Just remember: the goal isn’t to destroy him entirely, not yet. It’s to get her back safely, to show her the truth. The rest will follow.”

Ayanokouji nodded, his mind already moving a thousand miles an hour. “Then I’ll begin. Tonight. I’ll find a way to reach her. And when I do… Nagumo will regret ever thinking he could replace me.”

A tense silence filled the room as Ryuen regarded him. “I like this version of you. Calculated, dangerous, relentless. Just don’t lose yourself in the process. Suzune’s the prize, not revenge.”

Ayanokouji’s expression didn’t waver. “I know. Revenge is secondary. My priority… is her. Always her.”

He straightened fully, chest rising with controlled determination. The plan was forming in his mind, a web of precision and subtlety. Every step would be calculated, every move designed to expose Nagumo’s manipulations and reaffirm his place in Suzune’s life.

“Then it’s settled,” Ryuen said, a faint grin on his face. “You’re about to make things very… interesting. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go for her.”

Ayanokouji’s lips curved slightly, not with joy, but with resolve. “Far enough that he won’t recover. Far enough that she’ll remember me. Far enough that he’ll never touch her again.”

Ryuen nodded, letting Ayanokouji’s intensity sink in. “Alright then. This is going to be a long game, Kiyotaka. But if anyone can play it perfectly… it’s you.”

Ayanokouji turned toward the door, a shadow of calm over the storm of his thoughts. “I’ll start tonight. I won’t stop until it’s over… until she’s safe, and he’s nothing more than a memory she won’t ever regret leaving behind.”

And with that, he stepped out, mind sharp, heart steady, ready to reclaim what was always hers—and finally confront the man who thought he could take her away.

Ayanokouji sank into his apartment chair, laptop open, fingers poised over the keyboard as if the act itself would summon the information he sought. His eyes were sharp, unblinking, scanning multiple tabs at once: social media profiles, corporate filings, public records, even obscure message boards and archived news articles. Every piece of data was catalogued, analyzed, and cross-referenced in his mind like a living spreadsheet.

He started with Nagumo’s career. His current company, its board members, internal memos he could access online, industry reports mentioning him. He made mental notes of his routines, the kind of events he attended, the people he surrounded himself with professionally. Everything mattered—every connection, every appearance, every favor or alliance.

Next, he dove into Nagumo’s personal life. Friends, family, school history, extracurricular activities, even anecdotes that appeared in interviews or social posts. He traced the patterns in Nagumo’s social circle, noting who had influence over him and who might act as leverage. Every small detail—likes, shares, comments, photos—was scrutinized for behavioral tendencies, for weak points.

Ayanokouji’s research didn’t stop there. He searched Nagumo’s past relationships, the women he had dated, how long it lasted, why it ended. He read through public statements, old posts, interviews, even subtle mentions on forums, trying to discern patterns—what he valued in women, what he didn’t, what triggered jealousy, pride, or insecurity. Each observation was catalogued, the pieces slowly forming a psychological map of the man who had taken Suzune from him.

Then he moved to family history: parents, siblings, extended family, even the socioeconomic conditions of his upbringing. He noted values, attitudes, and possible psychological scars that could be exploited, not maliciously, but strategically. He catalogued milestones, achievements, embarrassments, and failures alike. If he could understand Nagumo fully, he could anticipate his reactions, predict his moves, and manipulate outcomes in Suzune’s favor.

Every night blurred into the next. Ayanokouji created spreadsheets, timelines, personality charts. He mapped Nagumo’s probable daily routines, favorite restaurants, events, and even the likely times he called or texted Suzune. He dug into her interactions with him too, trying to find subtle signs that Suzune might still hesitate, feel pressured, or be manipulated into silence.

Ayanokouji didn’t allow emotion to cloud his analysis. He catalogued his own feelings too—the surge of anger, the sharp pang of jealousy, the ache of longing. Each was dissected and filed as data: motivation, urgency, risk assessment. Even the guilt he carried for her past betrayal became a tool, forcing him to maintain precision, to channel the raw emotion into calculated action rather than rash decision-making.

He created multiple scenarios: direct confrontation, subtle exposure, psychological pressure, isolation of Nagumo from allies, even staged “coincidences” that might force Nagumo into revealing his manipulative behavior. Each possibility was measured against likely consequences for Suzune, ensuring her safety remained paramount.

Weeks passed, each one consumed by data collection and strategy refinement. Ayanokouji began noticing patterns in Nagumo’s behavior. The way he handled stress, how he reacted when Suzune disagreed, even the slight smirk he wore when he thought he had control. Every nuance, every tick, became a potential tool or warning.

He revisited memories of Suzune, reconstructing their past moments, their laughter, her gentle scolds, the little ways she expressed affection. These memories became a map of what he truly needed to protect and reclaim—the essence of her, not just her presence. Every action against Nagumo would be measured against what preserved her happiness, dignity, and autonomy.

Ayanokouji also started rehearsing interactions in his mind: the words he would use, the tone, the pacing. He created mental scripts for multiple contingencies: if Nagumo tried to gaslight Suzune, if he threatened her, if he refused to release control, if Suzune herself hesitated. Each scenario had a corresponding response, a set of precise actions designed to minimize risk and maximize her agency.

His apartment became a war room of quiet intensity. Notes littered the floor, sticky notes covered the walls, each color-coded: blue for career, red for personal, yellow for psychological traits, green for direct interventions. Ayanokouji’s presence in the apartment became ghostlike, a shadow moving from laptop to whiteboard to shelves where he kept collected documents, newspapers, and reference material.

Even sleep became segmented. He allowed himself brief rests, during which his subconscious would continue analyzing—patterns, probabilities, potential mistakes, and opportunities he might have missed. The plan wasn’t just about speed; it was about perfection. Anything less risked Suzune’s safety and the very chance of reclaiming her trust.

He cross-referenced public appearances of Nagumo with likely unseen habits—restaurants he frequented, gyms, errands, even probable social gatherings. Using probability theory and social engineering, he began sketching the ideal moments to intervene, to gently expose the cracks in Nagumo’s carefully constructed façade without placing Suzune in danger.

Ayanokouji’s obsession with detail extended to emotional triggers. He reviewed past exchanges between Suzune and Nagumo, paying attention to shifts in tone, microexpressions, changes in body language. Each clue helped him determine how Nagumo reacted under pressure, what actions he took when challenged, and the best way to introduce doubt without confrontation.

He catalogued potential allies—mutual friends, coworkers, even peripheral acquaintances—assessing loyalty, influence, and reliability. Any of these could be used to reinforce Suzune’s sense of support, giving her subtle reassurance that she wasn’t alone, that she had options beyond Nagumo’s control.

Every step in his research was meticulous. Nothing was left to chance. Every probability was calculated, every action weighed. Even the placement of a single word or gesture could be critical, and Ayanokouji accounted for countless variables, adjusting continuously as new data emerged.

By the end of the first week, he had a detailed dossier: Nagumo’s routines, personality profile, social network, past relationships, strengths, vulnerabilities, and predicted reactions under various scenarios. It was a blueprint, precise and comprehensive, designed to ensure Suzune’s safety while dismantling Nagumo’s control.

He also drafted subtle communications—messages, letters, even emails—that could gently probe Nagumo’s behavior without tipping him off. Each word was chosen to elicit reactions, to test the strength of Nagumo’s control, and to uncover hidden weaknesses.

Ayanokouji revisited Suzune’s personal preferences, hobbies, and subtle cues from their past. Little details—a particular flower, a phrase she liked, a habit she had—became tactical points. They were reminders of who she truly was and how he could remind her of the care and love she had always deserved.

Every night, he ran simulations in his mind. If Nagumo reacted aggressively, what would he do? If Suzune hesitated, how could he reassure her? If third parties interfered, how could he redirect the flow without exposure? Each contingency was mapped, re-evaluated, and rehearsed.

He also revisited the emotional timeline of their relationship. The small moments of affection, shared laughter, her quiet smiles—these weren’t just memories; they were data points, indicators of what made Suzune truly happy. Any plan had to restore that sense of genuine care and affection, not just remove Nagumo.

By the second week, his strategy had evolved from pure data collection to tactical execution planning. He identified key points where he could intervene subtly, gently nudging circumstances in Suzune’s favor, always prioritizing her agency and comfort.

He even started predicting potential countermeasures Nagumo might take, noting behavioral patterns, likely defensive mechanisms, and emotional responses. Every possible reaction was catalogued, analyzed, and addressed in advance.

Ayanokouji’s obsession with detail became all-consuming. Meals were quick and methodical, sleep was segmented and brief, and conversations with anyone outside his research scope were minimized. Every ounce of energy went into one singular purpose: protecting Suzune, reclaiming her trust, and dismantling Nagumo’s influence safely.

By the end of the third week, he had prepared a complete operational framework: a timeline of interventions, communication strategies, psychological profiling, and contingency plans. It was not just a plan to confront Nagumo—it was a plan to restore Suzune’s sense of security, to remind her of the love he had always held for her, and to give her a choice free from manipulation.

Ayanokouji leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the dossier for the hundredth time. He wasn’t rushing. Every calculation, every scenario, every contingency had to be perfect. He understood the stakes: Suzune’s well-being, her trust, and the delicate balance between intervention and intrusion.

And as he stared at the array of information, the maps, the notes, and the profiles, a singular thought solidified in his mind: this wasn’t about revenge. It was about love. Real, precise, unwavering love. And he would do whatever it took—methodically, intelligently, flawlessly—to ensure she knew it.

Ayanokouji’s first step was meticulous—he knew he couldn’t just act recklessly without leaving a trail or giving Nagumo a chance to manipulate Suzune further. He began by reaching out to Nagumo’s exes. Each message, each phone call, was crafted carefully, polite on the surface but strategic in purpose, designed to coax them into sharing their experiences without alarming Nagumo. He listened patiently, recording every word, every detail of abuse, manipulation, and control.

The stories were worse than he had anticipated. Each woman painted a picture of Nagumo as controlling, obsessive, and abusive, even when disguised as “love” or “care.” Ayanokouji felt a surge of anger—not just at Nagumo, but at the system that had allowed him to continue unchecked. He catalogued each anecdote, each detail, noting dates, locations, emotional manipulation, and psychological tactics. This was data, but it was also ammunition.

Next, he started digging for evidence. Emails, text messages, digital footprints—anything that could corroborate the testimonies of Nagumo’s exes. Some were public, some hidden, some archived on forums or lost servers. Ayanokouji had the patience to dig through them all, cross-referencing with the timelines he already had. Every damning message was saved, every incident logged, every pattern highlighted.

He even went further, attempting to obtain security footage from locations Nagumo frequented: the office, social events, gyms, and restaurants. This required careful maneuvering—he used his analytical skills to figure out which establishments had cameras, who managed them, and how he might access footage discreetly. Each lead was followed, every dead-end logged, and new avenues opened immediately.

As the evidence piled up, Ayanokouji’s plan became clearer. First, he would start at Nagumo’s professional life. Emails and documented behavior would be compiled into a dossier, highlighting his abusive tendencies and manipulative practices. Ayanokouji intended to deliver it directly to Nagumo’s superiors in a way that made it impossible for them to ignore. This would make Nagumo anxious, cautious, even paranoid, unsure of who knew the truth.

Next, he would target Nagumo’s social circle. Friends, colleagues, distant acquaintances, even family members—Ayanokouji had already mapped out relationships and influence networks. He planned to subtly expose the evidence, letting Nagumo’s reputation erode gradually, making him question every trust he had ever placed in anyone. People would begin to notice the patterns themselves, amplifying the isolation.

Every move was calculated to avoid harming Suzune. She would remain uninvolved, shielded from the fallout. The exposure would not be for vengeance; it would be for awareness, for her safety, and for dismantling the facade that Nagumo had constructed.

Ayanokouji even considered psychological tactics. He planned to leak just enough evidence at strategic intervals to make Nagumo overthink, to make him paranoid, to destabilize his confidence. Each revelation would be carefully timed, each piece of evidence corroborated, to create pressure without leaving any loopholes.

He had thought through the potential backlash. Nagumo might retaliate publicly, privately, or even attempt to frame Suzune in some way. Ayanokouji had contingencies: backup copies of evidence, anonymous submissions, and a network of reliable witnesses. Every “what if” had been addressed, leaving nothing to chance.

Even the emotional impact on Nagumo had been considered. Ayanokouji wanted him to feel the isolation he had inflicted on others, the fear, the uncertainty, and the growing realization that his manipulations were failing. By the time any social or familial blowback occurred, Nagumo would already be under immense pressure, questioning everything he thought was secure.

The process of hunting, collecting, and verifying each piece of information became almost obsessive. Nights blurred into mornings, and Ayanokouji rarely left his apartment. His focus was singular: ensure that Suzune could be free from the man controlling her life without ever feeling endangered.

He created a timeline of interventions. Step one: acquire exes’ testimonies. Step two: gather digital and physical evidence. Step three: compile a professional dossier targeting Nagumo’s career. Step four: subtly leak information to social and familial connections. Step five: monitor Nagumo’s reactions, adjusting the plan accordingly. Step six: provide Suzune with an opportunity to reclaim her autonomy safely.

Ayanokouji’s attention to detail was exhausting even to him, but he knew the stakes. The alternative—doing nothing—was unacceptable. He cataloged each action, predicting potential outcomes, ensuring nothing could go wrong or catch him off guard.

By the end of the first month, Ayanokouji had a massive collection of information. Nagumo’s abusive behavior, patterns of manipulation, incriminating communications, even financial transactions that hinted at control—all documented, cross-referenced, and ready for deployment.

The next phase involved strategic exposure. Ayanokouji had already planned the method: deliver the professional dossier to Nagumo’s company anonymously but with undeniable proof, letting HR, legal, and management departments investigate. He would follow with subtle social exposure, letting personal contacts see the documented patterns of abuse.

Ayanokouji also prepared contingency measures. If Nagumo attempted to discredit him, there were verified witnesses and copies of all evidence. If he tried to manipulate Suzune further, Ayanokouji had secure communication lines with her trusted friends and family to ensure her safety.

Even his mental preparation was thorough. He had rehearsed every conversation, every interaction, every possible outcome. He understood the emotional toll on himself, but the purpose justified the obsession: protecting Suzune, and exposing Nagumo’s true nature to prevent further harm.

Days bled into nights as Ayanokouji refined his strategy, identifying the most effective ways to break Nagumo’s manipulative control while keeping Suzune insulated from the chaos. Each piece of evidence was weighed, every potential leak anticipated, every exposure calculated.

He began reaching out to tech experts discreetly, ensuring that any digital trace he needed could be retrieved without alerting Nagumo. He mapped out backup strategies in case of surveillance or countermeasures. His foresight extended to every possible variable.

Ayanokouji also studied human psychology in parallel—Nagumo’s likely responses to stress, manipulation, social isolation, and professional pressure. Every detail would be used strategically, ensuring that exposure wasn’t just informative but also impactful.

When interacting with Nagumo’s exes, Ayanokouji was patient, empathetic, and attentive, drawing out details gently and validating their experiences. He carefully recorded every nuance, every emotion, understanding that these personal narratives were critical to constructing a compelling, undeniable case.

He cross-referenced their accounts with digital evidence, matching timelines, messages, and behavior patterns. The corroboration strengthened the dossier, ensuring that any claim could withstand scrutiny and that Nagumo’s façade would begin to crack under undeniable pressure.

Ayanokouji’s meticulous work extended to Suzune’s routines, habits, and comfort zones. He considered how to gently guide her through the eventual revelation of Nagumo’s abuse, ensuring she felt empowered and safe every step of the way.

By the second month, he had constructed a multi-tiered operational plan: professional exposure, social exposure, strategic timing, emotional safety nets for Suzune, and full contingency measures. Every action, every possible counteraction, had been anticipated and addressed.

He even planned symbolic reminders—small gestures that would reinforce to Suzune that he was present, attentive, and deeply invested in her well-being, even as the plan against Nagumo unfolded.

Ayanokouji’s focus was relentless. Sleep, meals, and social interaction were secondary. His mind was consumed by strategy, evidence collection, and tactical planning. There was no room for error; Suzune’s safety and agency depended on his precision.

He prepared multiple channels for delivering the compiled information: anonymous emails, secure physical delivery, and digital media that could be easily verified. Each method was considered for maximum impact with minimal risk to Suzune.

Ayanokouji also simulated Nagumo’s likely reactions, running through scenarios of denial, aggression, deflection, and manipulation. Each simulation informed adjustments to the plan, ensuring that even unexpected responses could be countered without jeopardizing Suzune’s safety.

He reviewed the psychological impact on Suzune repeatedly. He wanted her to feel liberated and empowered, not merely relieved or manipulated. Every move was designed to restore her autonomy and sense of self.

Finally, he began the phased execution. Initial contacts with exes confirmed and clarified past abuse. The dossier was finalized with all corroborating evidence. Plans for exposure to Nagumo’s professional and social circles were ready. Contingencies were in place for every possible reaction.

Ayanokouji sat back, eyes scanning the completed files and charts. His hands were steady, his mind sharp. The groundwork was done. The plan was flawless in conception, meticulous in detail, and relentless in purpose.

He took a deep breath, thinking of Suzune. All the anger, the frustration, the pain, and the longing funneled into one goal: removing the man who had hurt her and protecting the woman he loved. Every calculated step would ensure she could finally be free, not just from Nagumo, but from the manipulation and control that had poisoned her life.

And in that quiet apartment, surrounded by charts, evidence, and meticulous notes, Ayanokouji allowed himself one thought: he would succeed, no matter what it took, because this wasn’t just about revenge—it was about love.

Ayanokouji’s eyes lingered on the calendar longer than he expected, his usually sharp, detached mind caught in a haze he rarely allowed himself to indulge in. The neat little red circle around today’s date stared back at him, sharp and mocking. One year. A full year since everything had ended, since she had walked out of his life, leaving behind only fragments—her scent on his pillow that eventually faded, the faint warmth of her hand in his memory, the sound of her voice that he sometimes caught himself almost hearing in the silence.

It was strange to him. He had always thought he could detach from anyone, no matter how close, no matter how deeply entangled. Relationships, emotions, connections—they had been tools once, weights to be measured and used for advantage, never things to hold onto. But Horikita was different. She had managed to carve out a place in his life he hadn’t realized was there until it was gone. At night, he remembered how she would curl against him without asking, her hair tickling his chin as she drifted to sleep. He would lie awake longer, just listening to the rhythm of her breathing, her presence grounding him in a way logic never could. It had been disorienting, terrifying even, to care for someone like that.

And yet, she had left. They had broken apart under the weight of things neither of them had the strength—or perhaps the courage—to address at the time. He told himself that was fine, that he could live without her. He had lived without anyone before, after all. But the hollow space she left behind was unlike anything he’d felt before. Nights stretched longer, the silence heavier. He still found himself turning unconsciously, as though expecting her there beside him, only to be met by the cold emptiness of the sheets.

But now—now she was coming back. He wasn’t sure if it was foolish hope or an inevitability, but clarity struck him with a force he couldn’t ignore. This year had been a trial, a lesson, a torment, but it had only crystallized what he already knew: she belonged with him, and he belonged with her. He clenched his hand at his side, his jaw tightening, not out of anger but determination. When she returned, he wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers again.

For the first time in a long while, Ayanokouji allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. The year of emptiness was over. Soon, he would feel the warmth of her presence again, and this time, he would not let go.

Horikita’s posture was poised, refined in the way she always carried herself, but beneath the polished exterior her chest ached with a hollowness she couldn’t shake. The restaurant gleamed around her—marble floors reflecting golden light from chandeliers, the low murmur of laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. It was the kind of place Nagumo assumed she liked, though the assumption was more convenience than care. She had always preferred quieter spaces, simpler comforts, yet here she sat, dressed in elegance that matched the setting, her heart weighed down by memories that had nothing to do with the man across from her.
Nagumo leaned forward, a charming smile on his lips, tilting her chin so she’d meet his gaze. “Suzune, what would you like to order?” he asked, voice low and smooth, as though coaxing. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying her. “Are you upset, baby?”
Her lips curved upward in a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “I’m okay,” she replied softly, though her voice lacked conviction. Her gaze drifted down to the menu, lingering over words she wasn’t really reading. “The lobster looks good.”
“Yeah?” Nagumo smirked, catching her hand before she could lower it. He brushed a kiss across her knuckles with an air of practiced intimacy, his thumb caressing her skin as though to reassure. “I think I’ll get the steak,” he said casually, holding her hand as if it were natural. “And how about some champagne?”
Horikita gave a small nod, forcing her smile to stay in place. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

But behind her calm expression, her mind betrayed her. Every flicker of laughter around the room reminded her of the moments she used to share with Ayanokouji—the rare smirks, the quiet support, the small, grounding gestures that said more than words ever could. She remembered how he would watch her when he thought she wasn’t looking, his silence somehow louder than any declaration. Nagumo’s touch felt foreign in comparison, his kisses rehearsed rather than genuine.

She held onto the act, knowing Nagumo expected nothing less, yet deep down she was replaying a reel of memories that were far too vivid to ignore: late-night study sessions, accidental brushes of their hands, the steady comfort of leaning on him when she finally allowed herself to. The warmth she once felt in Ayanokouji’s presence left an ache that even the most exquisite dinner couldn’t numb.

Forcing her eyes to stay on Nagumo, Horikita swallowed the weight in her throat. To anyone watching, she looked like the perfect companion—poised, smiling, agreeable. But in her heart, she was a million miles away, sitting beside the boy who had taught her what it meant to be understood.

Dinner unfolded with a steady rhythm that Horikita could have predicted before she even walked through the restaurant doors. The food was plated beautifully, the atmosphere rich and refined, and Nagumo played his role with seamless ease, flashing charming smiles to the staff and ordering in a tone that suggested authority rather than politeness. Horikita, in turn, slipped into her own role. She ate when expected, allowed herself to laugh at the right moments, and mirrored back the responses that would keep everything smooth.

When he offered her bites from his plate, she leaned forward obediently, letting him feed her as though it were a sign of affection. She took sips of champagne whenever he pressed another glass into her hand, ignoring the warmth spreading through her body with each swallow. No matter how many glasses he set before her, she raised them to her lips without hesitation, even as her head grew slightly heavier.

She forced herself not to flinch when he made a crude, suggestive comment toward the waitress who delivered their food. The young woman’s polite smile didn’t falter, but Horikita noticed the stiffness in her shoulders as she turned quickly away. Horikita pretended not to hear, focusing instead on cutting her lobster into small, careful pieces. When Nagumo’s hand brushed against her thigh beneath the table, she didn’t react. She only smiled faintly, whispering that she loved him because she knew that was the expected response.

The night continued with the same exhausting performance. She spoke when he wanted her to, laughed when he looked at her with expectant eyes, and nodded along to every remark that carried a weight of ego. The champagne dulled the sharpness of her thoughts, blurring the edges of the evening until it was only a sequence of actions—eat, drink, smile, agree. She didn’t realize what she should have—that each glass he poured was deliberate, that his charm was less about her happiness and more about her compliance.

By the time they left the restaurant, her steps were less steady than she wanted them to be. Nagumo wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close as if to steady her, though the strength of his grip made it difficult to pull away. The city lights blurred in her vision, each one streaking like paint across a dark canvas. She told herself she just needed water, maybe a shower, something to clear her head before she could even think about the rest of the evening.

When they arrived at his apartment, the air inside felt thick, heavy with the scent of cologne and something darker she couldn’t quite name. She tried to ask for water, her voice quiet but firm. “Can I have a glass of water?” she asked, leaning slightly against the doorframe.

Nagumo’s answer was dismissive, a casual wave of his hand as though her request were irrelevant. “Later,” he said, his tone carrying a finality that left no room for argument. He pulled her close again, pressing a kiss to her temple as though it were affectionate. “Right now, I just want you.”

She tried again, this time asking for a shower. The words slipped out in a slurred whisper, a last attempt to reclaim some part of herself. “I just need to shower first…”

He didn’t listen. His eyes were fixed on her, sharp with intent, and his hands were already moving with a certainty that left her no space to protest. “You’re fine the way you are,” he said quickly, dismissing her words without even considering them.

Before she could steady herself, Nagumo scooped her up effortlessly, ignoring the way her body tensed in his arms. He carried her down the hall with the ease of someone who had already decided how the night would go. She pressed her hands weakly against his chest, but the strength to resist wasn’t there.

The world tilted as he reached the bedroom, and in one abrupt motion, he threw her down onto the mattress. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, leaving her staring up at the ceiling in a daze. It wasn’t careful, wasn’t tender—it was thoughtless, as if she were an object rather than a person, dropped carelessly where he wanted her.

The silk sheets felt cold against her flushed skin, the contrast sharp enough to clear her mind for a moment. She blinked up at him, her thoughts racing despite the haze. Every instinct told her to push back, to stand up, to do something—but her body betrayed her, heavy with the weight of too much champagne and too little strength.

Nagumo leaned over her, his shadow stretching across her as the faint light from the hallway spilled into the room. His smile was practiced, but there was no warmth in it now. It was the kind of smile that spoke of possession, of confidence that nothing could stop him.

Horikita turned her head away, her eyes tracing the outline of the nightstand as if focusing on something else would ground her. Her heart pounded against her ribs, loud enough that she wondered if he could hear it. She told herself to breathe, to stay calm, but the fear that crept into her chest was sharper than the alcohol could dull.

He spoke again, words that blurred together as her mind drifted. She caught fragments—phrases of reassurance that didn’t sound reassuring at all. Each one only confirmed what she already knew: her requests hadn’t mattered, her voice hadn’t mattered.

And as he loomed closer, she realized with a clarity that cut through the haze—this wasn’t about love. It never had been. It was about control. It was about him deciding, and her expected to follow.

The thought made her stomach twist, not just with dread but with something else—anger, sharp and buried deep. It flickered beneath the surface, quiet but alive, waiting for the moment when she could turn it into something more.

But for now, she stayed still, her mind caught between the fog of champagne and the storm building within her. The room felt smaller with every second, his presence filling it completely. And though her body was unsteady, her heart whispered the truth she couldn’t ignore: this wasn’t the life she wanted, and no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she couldn’t keep pretending forever.

Each moment stretched into the next, heavy and suffocating. Nagumo’s voice carried on, but Horikita no longer registered the words. Instead, she focused inward, clinging to the quiet promise she made to herself—that this wasn’t permanent, that there would come a day when she wouldn’t be here, playing this part, pretending to love a man who didn’t truly see her.

Her eyes slid closed, not in surrender but in preservation. Because even as he stood above her, dictating the night’s course, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would remember this moment, and she would never forgive it.

And somewhere deep in the silence of her thoughts, the image of Ayanokouji returned—not as a longing, but as a reminder. He had seen her differently. He had listened when no one else did. And compared to the cold grip she was trapped in now, that memory burned like a quiet flame, keeping her from being consumed completely.

It wasn’t strength yet. But it was enough to keep the anger alive. Enough to remind her that one day, she wouldn’t just endure. She would break free.

Horikita’s voice was faint, fragile, barely more than a whisper as she turned her head to the side. “Nagumo… no—” The word was quiet, soft enough that it seemed to disappear into the room’s heavy silence. Her body tensed as he pressed another line of kisses against her skin, warm and deliberate. “Not… not… no, I…” The protest unraveled on her tongue, thin threads that dissolved before they could form anything strong.

He shushed her gently, his hand brushing through her hair like it was an act of tenderness. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. You’re beautiful. I love you, it’s okay.” His words came smooth, polished from use, practiced like a script he had recited countless times. The tone was comforting, the kind someone might use with a child or a fragile thing. Yet every syllable clashed violently with the reality of the moment.

Horikita flinched at the contradiction. His lips kept moving against her, trailing over her neck and shoulder, ignoring the stiffness of her body beneath him. He didn’t pause, didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge her attempts to resist. To him, the weak tremor in her voice wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t even fear. It was nothing more than background noise.

Her eyes focused on the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the paint as though they might anchor her. She tried to gather her strength, tried to steady her breath. But her chest rose and fell too quickly, shallow breaths that scraped against her throat. She wanted to scream, to push him away, but her body felt heavy, weighed down by the wine and champagne she’d been forced to swallow all night.

Nagumo’s voice filled the air again, warm but hollow. “You’re mine, Suzune. No one else gets to have you, no one else gets to see you like this. Only me.”

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. The words struck deeper than his touch, each one binding her tighter into the web he spun. She closed her eyes, pretending for a moment that she was somewhere else, someone else. But the illusion broke each time his hand tightened against her, each time his voice cut through the haze with another declaration of love.

“Please…” she whispered, but it wasn’t a plea directed at him anymore. It was a plea to herself, a desperate wish that her strength would return, that she could stand up, that she could fight back. The word carried no weight for him. It slipped past his ears like air, irrelevant and discarded.

Nagumo shifted closer, ignoring the small way her hands pushed weakly at his shoulders. “You don’t need to be scared. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.” The words rolled off his tongue with ease, dripping with confidence.

But to Horikita, they sounded like chains. Each promise, each assurance, was another lock snapping shut around her, trapping her in the life she had convinced herself she deserved.

Her vision blurred as tears pricked her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t give him that. She wouldn’t let him see how deep he cut her. The strength wasn’t in her limbs, but it remained in her heart. It was the only resistance she had left.

She turned her head again, her cheek pressing against the pillow, her eyes fixed on the door across the room. It was closed, sealed, but it represented something beyond this night. It was the possibility of escape, of freedom, of another life waiting for her if she could just make it there.

Nagumo didn’t notice where she looked. He didn’t notice anything beyond his own desire, his own control. His world revolved around the image of her compliance, and he had no space in his mind to acknowledge her reality.

Her body trembled, not from the alcohol, not entirely from fear, but from the conflict burning inside her. She wanted to fight, yet she had taught herself to stay silent. She wanted to run, yet she had convinced herself she deserved this.

Every word he murmured became more suffocating, each “I love you” cutting sharper than the one before. To him, it was devotion. To her, it was erasure.

She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron, grounding herself with the sting. The pain reminded her that she was still here, still aware, still capable of thought even if her body didn’t cooperate.

“Don’t think about anything else,” Nagumo whispered, his hand curling around hers as if to make his affection convincing. “Just think about me. Only me.”

Her breath caught. That was what he wanted: for her world to shrink until it only contained him, until every memory, every hope, every piece of her belonged entirely to him.

But in the back of her mind, another presence lingered. Ayanokouji’s face flickered there, faint but undeniable. The memory of his steady eyes, the quiet way he listened, the rare softness he had shown her.

Compared to the suffocating control pressing down on her now, that memory felt like a lifeline. A reminder that she hadn’t always been this hollow version of herself. That she had once known what it felt like to be seen, truly seen.

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak. She held onto that memory silently, clinging to it as the storm continued above her.

Nagumo kissed her again, slower this time, as if he believed his performance of tenderness could overwrite everything else. “You don’t need anything but me. I’m all you’ll ever need.”

She wanted to scream that he was wrong. She wanted to bed that this wasn’t what she needed freedom, she needed peace, she needed herself back. But her voice wouldn’t rise. The words choked in her throat. This was her reality now

Instead, she let the fury simmer quietly inside her. It wasn’t strong enough to burst free yet, but it was there, alive and waiting.

His smile grew, smug and satisfied, as he continued whispering words that meant nothing to her.

The ceiling blurred above her as tears pooled in her eyes again, but she blinked them back. She wouldn’t let them fall. She wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of believing he had broken her.

Nagumo’s hands moved with practiced confidence, his voice still soft and coaxing. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

The words twisted like knives. Safe was the last thing she felt. Safe was the one thing he had stolen from her.

The sound of his breathing filled her ears, heavy and close. She focused instead on her own heartbeat, steady and and hard.

She remembered the calendar she had marked earlier that week. A year since the breakup. Four years since the night Ayanokouji had asked her to dinner. Two months since the night Ayanokouji had appeared at her door in the rain. That memory sharpened now, a contrast to the hollow night she was trapped in.

Nagumo shifted again, speaking her name in a low murmur, as though it were sacred. To her, it was another reminder that he only valued the sound of her voice when it served him.

And though her body lay still beneath him, her mind was already reaching for freedom.

She thought of doors. Of escape. Of air that wasn’t thick with his presence. She thought of being somewhere quiet, somewhere safe, somewhere she could remember who she was.

The more she whispered “no,” the more he seemed to soothe her with his “yes.” His murmurs wrapped around her like chains, smothering the space between them. To him, her resistance wasn’t defiance, wasn’t rejection—it was simply part of the script, a hesitation to be smoothed over with his reassurances.

Horikita turned her face toward the wall, her eyes open and unblinking, staring at nothing. The room blurred around her, colors and shadows melting together until it all felt distant, as if she were looking at it from outside her own body. She clung to the sound of her own breathing, forcing herself to count each inhale and exhale, to remind herself she was still there, even as his voice drowned her protests.

“Don’t be afraid,” Nagumo murmured again, his lips brushing against her temple like a benediction. “You’re mine, and I’ll always love you.” His words were soft, but they rang like iron in her ears—unyielding, final, leaving no space for her truth.

Her fingers curled against the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as if she could hold onto something real, something solid that wouldn’t dismiss her. In the hollow of her chest, where fear threatened to suffocate her, something else sparked to life. Not strength—at least not yet—but the beginnings of it. A quiet, simmering defiance that whispered she was more than this moment, more than his control.

She closed her eyes. Not to shut him out—because she couldn’t—but to protect the last part of herself he couldn’t touch. Inside her mind, she clung to that spark, to the thought that one day she wouldn’t be silent. One day her “no” would cut through everything, undeniable, unbreakable.

But tonight, she lay still, her protests dissolving into the practiced rhythm of his words, and the weight of his presence pressed down like a shadow she couldn’t escape.

Morning came like a curtain being pulled back too quickly — light cutting across the floor in a hard, uncompromising strip. Horikita’s lids fluttered open to a ceiling she didn’t recognize for a second; the room smelled faintly of cologne and something sweet from the nightstand candle. Her mouth tasted of metal and champagne, and for a moment her body moved before her mind caught up, as if on autopilot.

She pushed herself upright, every movement slow and deliberate. Bruises prickled under the thin skin of her arms; her lip was sore and swollen in a way the mirror would confirm. The memory of last night came in jagged pieces — the restaurant, the glasses, the way Nagumo had pressed wine to her lips until the room swam, the weight of him in the bedroom, his words like ropes. She swallowed and the sting in her mouth made her flinch.

The bedroom door was open and the apartment beyond was lit, bright with morning. Voices — a muted city hum, a distant delivery truck — felt disconnected from the small, private ache that sat lodged in her chest. She stood on unsteady legs, hair tangled, robe slipping at one shoulder, and padded toward the living room like someone walking through someone else’s life.

Nagumo was already there, sitting at the small dining table with a paper in front of him and a cup of coffee in hand. He looked up as she entered and the smile that lifted his mouth was smooth and practiced, the kind of smile that was always calibrated to appear effortless. “Morning, baby,” he said, and then kissed her cheek before she could answer. The contact was warm, familiar — and hollow in a way she couldn’t place at first.

He rose and moved to her with that same easy confidence, his hand landing at the small of her back as if to shepherd her toward the morning’s agenda. “Get ready,” he murmured, voice soft. “We’re going out for breakfast. I thought of that little bistro you like.” He seemed pleased with himself in the way of someone arranging a scene.

Horikita nodded, throat tight. Her voice came out smaller than she intended when she said, “Okay.” She forced a smile that she hoped would be quick enough to hide the tremor beneath. The word felt like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

Nagumo moved through the apartment with an ease that made everything feel staged. He picked up a blouse from a chair — soft blue, the color he knew would flatter her — and handed it to her as though the choice had been obvious. “Put this on,” he said. “It’s perfect for breakfast.” There was no invitation in his tone, only directive.

She let him choose. It was easier that way; argument required energy she didn’t have. She closed the bathroom door behind her and stared into the mirror. Up close, the bruise near her temple looked darker than she’d expected; puffed skin framed a fading purple. She pressed a fingertip against it and tasted the phantom sting of last night again.

Her hands moved mechanically — face wash, light cleanser, concealer dabbed expertly but not enough to hide everything. She smoothed foundation with hands that shook and practiced a neutral expression in the glass until she felt like an actress who’d memorized every cue. The letter from Ayanokouji slipped in and out of her thoughts like a ghost; she’d read it until the ink blurred, and for a moment that memory warmed her like a hidden ember.

When she stepped out, the blouse fit like a second skin and Nagumo’s approving glance made her stiffen. He stepped closer, preening as if checking the placement of a prop. “Perfect,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple in front of the window. “We’ll take the car.” He moved as if to settle the small details — the valet, the playlist, the route — and Horikita followed with the weight of someone who had rehearsed obedience.

Outside, the morning air hit her like a cold sheet. The city was moving as if nothing had happened: people with their umbrellas, a mother guiding a stroller, a man jogging with headphones. The contrast between the world’s ordinary flow and her inner turmoil made her feel invisible and exposed at the same time.

In the car Nagumo reached for her hand. The pressure was gentle at first, then insistently possessive. He smiled at her, eyes bright with a private satisfaction. “You looked lovely last night. The dress, the way you laughed — perfect.” He said it like a report card. Horikita could feel the words skimming her surface and doing nothing to soothe the raw inside.

At the bistro, they were led to a corner table where the sunlight pooled in a pleasant oval. Nagumo chatted with the maître d’ as if greeting an old friend; his charm was on full display for the staff, the kind of charm that made people eager to please. Horikita lowered herself into the seat and folded her hands in her lap, practicing small, agreeable noises.

He ordered for them without ceremony: pastries to start, a savory tart, double espresso for him, tea for her. Each choice was calculated to please, to craft an image of normality where none existed. The waiter looked at Nagumo with obvious respect. Horikita watched the exchange with a detachment that was both protective and shaming; she swallowed the lump in her throat and told herself to nod when asked her preference.

Throughout the meal Nagumo made light conversation, leading her through laugh lines and prompting notes like an interviewer coaching for a show. When the waitress passed by, he offered a lingering compliment and a raised eyebrow that invited participation. Horikita felt her face flush with embarrassment on behalf of that other woman, while also feeling the old, practiced invisibility: this was what it meant to obey.

He poured the champagne slowly, insisting they toast to small, invented successes. Horikita lifted her glass because she knew the ritual; it steadied him, he said, and when he looked at her with that earnestness, she felt the familiar twinge and answered “I love you” in a voice that had started to sound like the safe response. It came out soft, automatic, a phrase to fill the space.

People watched them and assumed the perfect couple: the man confident, the woman composed. The world loved them for the story they told together. Horikita hated the performance and hated how much she’d learned to perform. Each applause, each approving glance made the knot in her chest tighten.

At one point Nagumo reached across the table and brushed a fragment of pastry from her lip with a thumb, and she permitted it because the motion felt less invasive than the memory of last night. Inside, however, anger pricked like a grain of sand in a wound. The contradiction — tender gesture and quiet deceit — pushed something cold and sharp into her spine.

When the check arrived, Nagumo handled it with the same flamboyant ease. He stood, offering his arm to her, a gentlemanly figure for the cameras of strangers’ eyes. “Come on,” he said. “I thought we’d take a walk by the river after. You love the breeze in the morning.” He smiled at her like a man who owned the map of her pleasures.

Walking together, his hand at the small of her back steered her through crowds. She moved with a half-step behind him, the way someone follows a guide through unfamiliar ruins. Children played nearby; a busker tuned a guitar. The city felt live and ordinary and unbearably loud. She wanted to stop, to tell someone — anyone — that she’d been forced into the night before, that the kisses had not been kisses, that her protests had been ignored. But the words lodged like sand.

Nagumo talked about plans: menus for a dinner party, a trip next month he’d arranged, a dress he’d bought for an event. Each sentence was a stitch, knitting her tighter into the life he envisioned. Horikita felt herself slipping into the role because the seams looked comfortable from the outside. The alternative — resistance, uproar, possible danger — struck a chord of fear she didn’t want to test in public.

A notification buzzed in her bag and she fumbled it out with fingers that suddenly remembered their own strength. Her thumb hovered over the screen; the message preview read simply: Missed call: Kiyotaka A. The sight of his name was an arrow to her heart; despite everything, the memory of his voice at the doorstep had not faded. She hid the phone again beneath her scarf, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. Nagumo’s arm tightened on her waist in a way that felt like pressure and ownership.

When they returned to the car, Nagumo asked if she was tired. She lied — “A bit.” He smiled and kissed her temple, then guided her gently into the back seat as if he were protecting her from the world. “You deserve to rest,” he said. “You were so brave last night.” The paradox of bravery and harm left her breathless and small.

Home was the same loop of rehearsed kindness. He made coffee, set a playlist of songs she recognized but didn’t love, and hovered with the peculiar attentiveness of someone cataloguing a specimen he treasured for its usefulness. He watched how she moved, how she ate, how she smiled, as if measuring her for a fit he was tailoring.

That afternoon she retreated to the small sanctuary of her bedroom and found that the letter from Ayanokouji was still tucked in the drawer where she’d hidden it. Her hands shook as she pulled it out and smoothed it on her knees. The ink seemed steadier in daylight; the sentences were patient and clear and painfully kind. She read them again, memorizing the loops of his handwriting as if they were a map to a door she might one day reopen.

Ayanokouji sat at his desk, the soft glow of the lamp pooling over papers stacked with quiet precision. His phone was pressed to his ear, his voice low, steady, calculated as he discussed plans with someone on the other end. Every word was measured, each pause deliberate, but his mind wasn’t wholly in the conversation. His eyes kept drifting back to the clock mounted above the wall, the second hand sweeping forward in relentless rhythm. Each tick dragged his thoughts away from strategy and closer to her.

It had been too long already, far too long. The idea of Horikita — Horikita with him — made something shift in his chest, something uncharacteristic, almost painful in its persistence. For all the discipline he’d trained into himself, for all the detachment that had once defined him, he couldn’t ignore the pounding reminder that time was slipping, that she was still in Nagumo’s orbit. It was like watching a dangerous experiment unfold without a safety net.

“Understood,” Ayanokouji murmured to the voice on the line, his tone giving nothing away. He adjusted the papers before him, aligning corners with a precision that betrayed his tension. His mind, however, was elsewhere, running through possibilities like chess moves. How much longer could this continue? How much longer until she broke entirely under Nagumo’s weight?

The plan he was discussing mattered — of course it mattered — but only as a means to an end. Every decision was oriented around a singular point: removing her from that situation, cutting through the strings that Nagumo had tied around her. It wasn’t sentimentality, not entirely. It was logic fused with something sharper, something he rarely allowed himself to name.

His gaze slid to the edge of the desk where a sealed envelope rested. He hadn’t yet sent it, though he’d rewritten its contents more than once. The letter was short, direct, but heavy in its intent. Words didn’t come easily to him, but she had always been the exception, the one who drew out his effort where others drew only indifference. The letter was insurance — a lifeline, if nothing else.

On the phone, the voice asked for confirmation. “We’ll proceed as scheduled,” Ayanokouji replied, though the clarity in his tone came from elsewhere. He was no longer picturing the logistics of the plan. He was picturing Horikita at that dinner table, smiling in that careful, practiced way she used when she wanted to disappear behind composure. He could see her lifting a glass of champagne she didn’t want, could hear her answering Nagumo’s remarks with hollow sweetness.

He knew her well enough to understand the mask. That knowledge pressed against his ribs now, hard and unyielding.

The call ended with a click, and silence settled over the room. Ayanokouji leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose in a slow, measured release. His hands steepled beneath his chin, eyes tracing the ceiling as if it held the answers.

The truth was that he could wait — patience had always been his greatest weapon — but waiting while she was in Nagumo’s grasp felt intolerable. The man thrived on control, on pushing boundaries until the person opposite him forgot where the lines had once been. Horikita deserved better than being molded into someone’s possession, someone’s prop.

His mind shifted, recalibrating. Soon. He would make his move soon. The plan needed to align perfectly, but the moment was drawing close. He could feel it in the steady thrum of his pulse, in the way his thoughts refused to leave her.

Ayanokouji stood, stretching as if to reset the coil of tension in his body. The room around him was immaculate, but it felt hollow, meaningless without the presence he kept imagining. He pictured her voice — low, sharp, unyielding when she challenged him, softer when she didn’t realize her guard had dropped. That memory was enough to steel him.

The clock ticked on, indifferent, but he no longer counted in seconds. He counted in chances. And when the opportunity arrived, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Because Horikita wasn’t just someone he remembered. She was the one piece of this puzzle that had ever mattered enough to break his rhythm — and he wasn’t going to let Nagumo keep her any longer.

As Ayanokouji slid into the driver’s seat, the door clicking shut with a muted finality, he stared through the windshield for a moment, the faint reflection of his own face staring back at him. His hand moved with mechanical precision, fishing out his phone, dialing the number he already knew would answer with irritation.

The line clicked, and Ryuen’s voice spilled through, rough, laced with that ever-present mix of sarcasm and mockery. “You really have to stop this, man. People are gonna start to think we’re a thing.”

“I need Ibuki,” Ayanokouji said flatly, skipping past the banter, his tone clipped.

There was a pause before Ryuen snorted. “She’s taken.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” His words were calm, measured, but unyielding.

On the other end, Ryuen gave a long, drawn-out sigh, the sound of someone deliberately dragging their feet just to annoy him. “What could you possibly need my wife for?”

“You certainly enjoy calling her that,” Ayanokouji noted, eyes narrowing faintly as if he could see Ryuen’s grin through the phone.

“Get on with it, Kiyotaka.”

Ayanokouji leaned back in the driver’s seat, eyes shifting to the dark sky beyond the glass. “Suzune may not be willing to listen to me, given our history. She’s stubborn, and Nagumo’s influence has only made her harder to reach. But she seems closer to Ibuki. She may be able to help Suzune see reason.”

There was another pause, this one heavier, followed by the sound of Ryuen exhaling sharply through his teeth. “You don’t make this easy. Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

“Make it quick,” Ayanokouji pressed, his tone brooking no argument.

“Yeah, yeah. Within the hour. You owe me.” And with that, Ryuen hung up.

The line went dead, but Ayanokouji didn’t lower the phone immediately. He stared at the black screen, his reflection ghosting across it, then finally set it down on the passenger seat. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the leather.

He knew Ryuen would come through. For all his bluster and mockery, the man kept his word, especially when it came to Ibuki. But the waiting gnawed at Ayanokouji more than he wanted to admit. Every minute spent like this was another minute Horikita remained caught in Nagumo’s web.

The engine hummed to life, the vibration running through the car as he shifted into gear. The city stretched out ahead of him, lights flickering in the distance like scattered stars. He drove with precision, eyes steady, though his thoughts churned in silence.

Images of Suzune cut across his mind — the way her voice had always carried that sharp edge, the way her eyes softened only in rare, unguarded moments. He imagined her now, masking her discomfort behind brittle smiles, her words drowned out by Nagumo’s insistent charm. That thought lodged itself deep, a thorn he couldn’t ignore.

His phone buzzed against the seat, the vibration sharp in the quiet cabin. Without hesitation, he pressed the hands-free button on the dash.

“She’ll meet you,” Ryuen’s voice came through, faint background noise of Ibuki muttering something in protest. “But don’t think she’s gonna be thrilled about it. You’re not exactly her favorite person.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Ayanokouji said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “As long as she talks to Suzune.”

There was a scoff. “You know, if this blows up in your face, I’m not taking the blame.”

“You wouldn’t have agreed if you thought it would,” Ayanokouji replied evenly.

A low chuckle rumbled through the speaker. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

The call ended again, leaving only the steady sound of the engine and the city’s pulse in the distance. Ayanokouji gripped the wheel tighter, his mind already shifting to the next step.

The car sped on, headlights carving through the night, and Ayanokouji’s expression remained unreadable. Inside, though, there was no mistaking it: the countdown had begun.

Ayanokouji stepped through the door of the café, the faint chime overhead announcing his arrival. The place smelled faintly of roasted beans and sugar, the kind of cozy warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold purpose that had brought him here. His eyes scanned the room once before settling on the corner booth near the window.

Ryuen and Ibuki sat together, practically glued to each other. Ryuen leaned back lazily, fork in hand, guiding a piece of cheesecake to Ibuki’s mouth. She rolled her eyes but leaned in anyway, lips brushing the fork, and he grinned like a fool, looking entirely too satisfied with himself. Their laughter was quiet, intimate — the kind of happiness Ayanokouji rarely saw firsthand, the kind that gnawed at him with a strange mix of irritation and emptiness.

It was like walking in on a moment he had no right to. For a split second, Ayanokouji hesitated. But then they noticed him.

The warmth drained from Ibuki’s face almost instantly, replaced by the sharp, defensive scowl he remembered well. She set her fork down with a soft clink, arms crossing tightly over her chest as she turned to him like he was an intruder in her sanctuary.

“This better be good,” she snapped, eyes narrowing as though she already knew she’d regret agreeing to come.

Ryuen’s grin lingered, though it sharpened when his gaze met Ayanokouji’s. “Don’t mind her. She’s just pissed you ruined dessert.” He slid the plate of cheesecake back toward himself, taking a bite like nothing in the world could bother him.

Ayanokouji ignored him, his attention locked on Ibuki. Her hostility didn’t surprise him; it was almost comforting in its familiarity. But he didn’t flinch. He never did.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” he said evenly, sliding into the seat opposite them. His voice carried no urgency, but the steel in it was unmistakable.

Ibuki leaned forward slightly, her glare unsoftened. “Important to you, maybe. You think I want to get dragged into whatever drama you and Suzune cooked up? I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like getting fed sweets by your husband?” Ayanokouji asked without looking at Ryuen, his tone flat, pointed enough to make Ibuki flush.

Ryuen chuckled lowly, tilting his head as he rested an arm around her shoulders. “Careful, Kiyotaka. Sounds like jealousy to me.”

Ibuki huffed, swatting at Ryuen’s arm before fixing Ayanokouji with a sharper glare. “You said this was about Suzune. Talk. Now.”

Ayanokouji studied her carefully, noting the tension in her posture, the way she bristled like a cornered cat. But underneath it, he recognized something else — the faint thread of worry. Ibuki cared about Suzune, that much was clear. She wouldn’t have shown up otherwise.

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so only they could hear. “Nagumo is dangerous. You’ve seen it, or at least heard about it. Suzune won’t admit it to me, but she trusts you. If anyone can reach her, it’s you.”

Ibuki’s scowl faltered, just barely, before she masked it again. “You think she’s gonna listen to me over him? She’s stubborn, you know that.”

“That’s why I’m asking,” Ayanokouji said. His tone hadn’t shifted, but his gaze sharpened, carrying an unspoken weight. “If you don’t do it, she’ll stay where she is. And the longer she does, the worse it gets.”

For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the muted chatter of the café around them. Ryuen stabbed another piece of cheesecake, popping it into his mouth as if he were watching a play unfold.
Finally, Ibuki exhaled, her arms tightening across her chest. “I hate this,” she muttered. “But fine. I’ll try. Don’t expect miracles.”

“That’s all I need,” Ayanokouji said, his expression unreadable.

Ryuen leaned back, smirking at the tension still thick in the air. “Guess it’s decided. Now, if you’re done killing the mood, maybe I can get back to feeding my wife?”

Ibuki elbowed him hard in the ribs, muttering something under her breath, but Ayanokouji barely noticed. His mind was already elsewhere, calculating the next step.

Ryuen pushed back his chair with deliberate slowness, the scrape of the legs against the polished floor drawing a few looks from nearby tables. He didn’t care. With a grin tugging at his lips, he slid Ibuki’s chair out in a gesture that looked half chivalrous, half mocking in its exaggeration.

“Up you go,” he said, offering his hand with a playful bow of his head.

Ibuki gave him a look, somewhere between annoyed and amused, before slipping her fingers into his palm. She let him pull her up, though not without muttering, “You’re getting me another cheesecake for this. A whole one, not just a slice.”

Ryuen’s grin widened, his teeth flashing like a wolf’s. “Whatever you want, darling.” He punctuated it by leaning in to peck her lips, lingering just long enough to make a few onlookers roll their eyes. Then, as if to stake a claim, he wrapped an arm firmly around her waist, drawing her in against his side. The move was protective, possessive, and smug all at once, a silent declaration that she belonged to him.

Ibuki scoffed, though the faint flush across her cheeks betrayed her, and smacked his chest with the back of her hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Ryuen replied smoothly, steering her toward the car. He didn’t let go, not even for a second. “I’ll take you to that cake shop you like, only the best for you”

Ayanokouji watched the exchange with the same blank expression he always wore, but behind it, something twisted. He didn’t flinch outwardly, didn’t let his thoughts spill into the sharpness of his features, but the familiarity of their intimacy grated. Ryuen’s casual affection, Ibuki’s reluctant but undeniable acceptance — it was the kind of partnership that Suzune had once given him, the kind of stability he had shattered with his own carelessness.

He tore his eyes away before the thought could burrow deeper.

He rose from the table with quiet efficiency, sliding his chair back into place without the slightest scrape, and moved toward the counter. The café’s warmth and noise pressed in around him — clinking glasses, low laughter, the hiss of steaming milk. The atmosphere felt almost suffocating, a sharp contrast to the cold, methodical rhythm beating inside his head.

At the counter, he placed his order with practiced ease, his tone polite but empty of any real warmth. “One black coffee.” No cream, no sugar, no need for embellishment. Just bitter simplicity — the same way he lived.

As the barista keyed it in, he pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb brushing over the screen without unlocking it. Suzune’s contact stared back at him in silence, the last call attempt still logged in his history. His chest tightened, though his face betrayed nothing.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Here he was, waiting for a coffee in a cozy café filled with couples, listening to the background hum of other people’s easy, uncomplicated lives, while the one woman he couldn’t stop thinking about was trapped in something far darker. And the worst part? She might not even realize it — or worse, she might convince herself she deserved it.

Behind him, Ryuen’s low voice rumbled as he teased Ibuki about her order, and she shot back with sharp retorts, her laughter cutting through the café’s hum. Ayanokouji didn’t turn to look. Instead, he slipped his phone back into his pocket and clasped his hands loosely behind his back, his posture as controlled as ever.

When his coffee was handed to him, he nodded in thanks, wrapping his fingers around the cup. The warmth seeped through, grounding him for just a moment. He didn’t sip, not yet. Instead, he stepped aside to wait, eyes narrowing slightly as his mind drifted back to the conversation that had led him here.

Nagumo. Suzune. The broken promise Ryuen had thrown back in his face. The fragments of memories he couldn’t stop replaying, no matter how hard he tried.

Everything was aligning into place. And this café, with its clinking cups and fake sense of safety, was just another stepping stone toward what was coming.

Later that afternoon, Ibuki stood by the window, arms folded as she waited for Horikita to arrive. She’d been insistent — almost pushy — when Horikita tried to cancel, countering every excuse with stubborn persistence until finally, Suzune had agreed. Now, as the faint crunch of footsteps reached the door, Ibuki straightened, softening her expression in a way that felt foreign to her.

When she opened the door, she greeted Horikita with a smile that carried no sharpness, no bite. “Come in,” she said simply, stepping aside. Her tone was gentler than anyone would expect of her, and certainly gentler than Ryuen had ever heard. It was a side of Ibuki reserved only for those she worried about.

Horikita hesitated on the threshold, her shoulders drawn tight beneath the fabric of a modest, long dress that hung awkwardly on her. It looked like something borrowed from another life, another person entirely. Still, she stepped inside when prompted, her eyes darting around as though the very air made her nervous.

“I made tea,” Ibuki said, ushering her toward the couch. She set a cup down in front of Horikita before sitting across from her. “Figured you could use it.”

Horikita lifted the cup with trembling fingers. She tried to steady her hands, but the fine tremor betrayed her. “...Yeah,” she whispered, her voice frail. It didn’t sound like her voice at all — not the sharp, cutting Suzune who once held her head high no matter the company.

Ibuki studied her closely. Her pale skin contrasted with the heavy makeup she’d applied, as if she’d been covering something — or maybe hiding behind it. Her hair, longer than she ever used to wear it, framed her face in a way that made her look older, yet weaker. The change was jarring.

Breaking the silence carefully, Ibuki asked, “Suzune, is everything okay?”

The question seemed to land like a weight. Horikita looked down, her lashes lowering to hide her eyes. She gave a shallow nod that didn’t convince anyone. “I’m fine,” she murmured.

Ibuki didn’t push — not yet. Instead, she let the stillness sit between them, watching how Horikita clutched her cup as though it were the only solid thing holding her together.

After a long pause, Horikita spoke again, her words small, almost hesitant. “Is Ryuen here?” Her gaze flicked nervously toward the hallway, like she was afraid he might overhear.

“He’s making lunch,” Ibuki answered calmly. She leaned back against the couch, folding her arms but keeping her tone soft. “It’s just us right now. Don’t worry.”

Horikita nodded again, though it seemed more like an automatic response than anything else.

“Anyway,” Ibuki said, steering the conversation with practiced ease, “how’s Nagumo? I hear you’re together.” Her words were casual, but her eyes were sharp, measuring every flicker of expression that crossed Horikita’s face.

Horikita’s lips curved into something meant to resemble a smile. “It’s good,” she said softly. But her voice faltered as she blinked, as though she were trying to summon up an image of Nagumo in her mind — one that fit the words she was saying. Her breath caught, hesitation lingering in her throat.

“He’s good,” she repeated, but the words felt hollow. Then, almost in a rush, she added, “Really good—he’s the best—no, no, he’s perfect. I don’t—”

Her voice cracked, shaky breaths tumbling out in uneven waves as her eyes glossed over with unshed tears. She lowered the cup before her trembling spilled it.

Ibuki leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Suzune,” she said quietly, the sharpness gone from her tone. “You don’t have to sell me on him. I didn’t come here to judge.”

Horikita’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, blinking quickly to stop the tears from falling. For a moment, she looked so lost it hurt to watch. She opened her mouth as if to say something more, but the words caught, tangled in her throat.

Ibuki didn’t press yet, though her heart clenched at the sight. Instead, she slid the untouched teapot closer. “Drink more,” she said. “Slowly. We’ve got time.”

“He really loves me,” Horikita repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it aloud would make it real. She stared down at her hands folded tightly in her lap. “He just… he just gets upset sometimes, but he means well… really.”

Ibuki leaned forward, her brows knitting together, trying to read between the carefully measured words. “He gets upset?” she asked cautiously, choosing each word.

Horikita’s eyes flicked up, a quick, sharp movement, almost defensive. “He just wants to protect me,” she blurted out, as if the explanation alone would silence Ibuki’s concern.

“Protect you…” Ibuki echoed, her voice quieter now, careful. She hesitated, weighing her next words. “Does he… Horikita, does he ever… hit you?”

The question hung in the air like a heavy fog, and Horikita’s stomach dropped. Her lips pressed together, and she shook her head slightly, but her voice, when it came, was soft, fragile. “Sometimes…” she admitted, barely audible.

The moment passed too quickly, and then Horikita sat up abruptly, as if to justify herself. Her voice grew firmer, defensive, almost pleading. “But… but only because I deserve it! I—I make him upset sometimes, and he just… he worries a lot! But he always… he always makes it up to me! He’d never… he’d never really hurt me! I promise! He really loves me!”

Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists, holding herself together. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and the veneer of composure she’d built over months threatened to crumble. Ibuki studied her quietly, her expression a mix of concern and frustration, knowing just how much Horikita was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.

Horikita’s eyes glistened, her gaze darting around the room nervously, avoiding Ibuki’s. “I… I just… I need him,” she whispered, almost to herself, though the words carried enough weight for Ibuki to hear clearly. “He’s the only one who… who really… cares about me.”

Ibuki leaned back slightly, letting the silence settle, giving Horikita space but keeping her close enough to notice every tremble, every unspoken thought.

“You don’t have to defend him to me,” Ibuki said gently, softening her voice. “I’m not here to take him away. I just… want to know that you’re safe, Suzune.”

Horikita’s lips pressed together again, swallowing hard. She nodded once, quickly, almost too quickly, as if willing the words to be true. “I’m… I’m safe,” she murmured. “He loves me. He really does.”

Ibuki’s eyes softened, but she didn’t let her guard down. “Sometimes love… isn’t supposed to hurt,” she said carefully, choosing each word. “Even if someone cares about you, it shouldn’t make you fear them. Ever.”

Horikita’s jaw tightened. “He… he only gets upset because he cares! I… I know he loves me! He wouldn’t hurt me…” Her voice cracked, but she pushed on, desperate to convince both Ibuki and herself.

“I know you think that now,” Ibuki replied calmly, leaning forward slightly. “But sometimes the people who love us the most are also the ones we need to be the most careful around. Love isn’t supposed to leave bruises, Suzune.”

Horikita shook her head, a fragile laugh escaping her. “No, no, it’s… it’s different. He’s… he’s not like that. He… he loves me, Ibuki. I know it. He’d do anything for me. Anything…”

Ibuki’s gaze softened but didn’t waver. She reached out, just brushing a finger across Horikita’s hand. “I just… want you to remember that you deserve to be loved without fear. Even if he says he loves you, your safety… your well-being… comes first.”

Horikita blinked, swallowing hard. “I… I know, I know,” she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “I just… I can’t leave him. Not yet. Not ever, maybe…”

Ibuki’s eyes softened further, but her expression remained firm, a mixture of concern and determination. She took a deep breath and shifted closer, lowering her voice to a gentle, almost intimate tone. “Kita… listen to me. You don’t have to carry all of this alone. It’s okay to admit that you need help. You deserve care, Suzune—not fear, not pain. You deserve to be safe, always.”

Horikita’s hands trembled as she gripped her cup, her knuckles white. Tears slid down her cheeks, catching the dim light of the room. She shook her head violently, as if denying the very truth Ibuki was trying to offer. “No… no, you don’t get it!” she choked out, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “I need him… I can’t—I can’t leave. I can’t ruin it again, Ibuki! He’s the only one who loves me! The only one!” Her words tumbled out in a rush, desperate, pleading, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breaths.

Ibuki didn’t pull away. Instead, she stood and gently guided Horikita into her arms, holding her close. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she murmured softly, letting her warmth and steady presence seep into Horikita’s trembling form. “I can help you, Horikita… you don’t have to be afraid. We’ll figure this out together. I promise you, it’s going to be okay.”

Horikita buried her face into Ibuki’s shoulder, her body shaking as tears streamed freely now. “I just… I just need someone to love me,” she whispered, voice muffled and broken. “I already… I already messed up with Kiyotaka… I can’t ruin it again. I can’t…”

The room was silent for a moment, save for the sound of Horikita’s quiet, uneven sobs. Ibuki held her tighter, rocking her gently as if her embrace could shield her from the storm of her own thoughts. “Kita… I know you feel like that right now,” Ibuki said softly, “but you don’t have to prove your worth to anyone by staying in a situation that hurts you. Love shouldn’t cost you your safety, or your peace of mind. You’re worth so much more than this.”

Horikita’s hands dug into Ibuki’s sweater as she shook her head again, stubborn and fragile at the same time. “But… he loves me… he says he loves me… He… he’s the only one who really cares! I can’t… I just can’t leave him, Ibuki… I can’t…”

Ibuki tightened her arms around her. “Horikita… listen,” she said gently, tilting Horikita’s chin up so their eyes met. “Needing love is not a crime. Wanting to be cared for is not a sin. But being afraid of the person who claims to love you—that’s not love. That’s fear. And fear is not something you have to accept.”

Horikita’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t speak. She simply stared, the storm inside her silent for a brief heartbeat as Ibuki’s words sank in, mingling with her own confusion and longing.

“You don’t deserve pain,” Ibuki continued, her voice soft but insistent. “You deserve someone who lifts you up, not someone who makes you afraid. You deserve someone who cherishes you—not someone who thinks anger is love. And right now… right now, you’re letting fear take the place of love. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

Horikita’s shoulders shook violently, and she pressed herself closer to Ibuki. Her voice came out in a whisper, shaky and desperate. “I… I just… I don’t know if I can… if I can leave him… I can’t… I can’t…”

Ibuki stroked her hair gently, her thumb brushing across Horikita’s cheek to wipe away a stray tear. “You’re not leaving him tonight. You’re not doing anything rash. You’re just listening… and thinking. That’s all. We’ll take it one step at a time, Kita. One step at a time.”

Horikita exhaled shakily, the sobs still trembling in her chest but slowing slightly. “Ibuki… I… I just… I need someone. I need someone to love me… I… I don’t want to be alone…”

“You’re not alone,” Ibuki assured her, her voice firm yet comforting. “I’m right here. I’ll stay with you, and we’ll figure this out. No one gets to hurt you while I’m here. No one. Not him. Not anyone. You deserve safety. You deserve love. And we’re going to make sure you get both.”

Horikita let her head fall back onto Ibuki’s shoulder, taking a shaky breath, letting herself feel the warmth of someone who wasn’t trying to control her, manipulate her, or dictate her love. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to just be.

Ibuki held her gently, rocking her just a little, humming softly to fill the silence. “It’s okay to be scared,” she said. “It’s okay to cry. It doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human. And humans deserve care. Humans deserve love. And you… you’re one of them. Never forget that.”

Horikita’s tears continued to fall, but they were lighter now, as if some weight had lifted just a fraction. “I… I want to believe that,” she whispered. “I… I want to… I just don’t know how.”

“You will,” Ibuki replied, her tone gentle but unwavering. “And I’ll be here, every step of the way, until you do. You won’t have to do this alone. Not ever again, Kita.”

Horikita clung to her, her heart aching but for the first time, a sliver of hope weaving through the fear and the guilt. “Ibuki… thank you… for being here…”

“Always,” Ibuki said softly. “Always.”

The two sat in silence, the quiet of the room wrapping around them, a fragile, tentative peace settling in. Horikita allowed herself to breathe, to cry, to feel, without judgment. For the first time in months, maybe even a year, she felt that someone cared for her without conditions, without fear, without strings.

And in that small, sunlit room, with Ibuki’s steady presence grounding her, Horikita let herself imagine—just for a moment—a life where love didn’t hurt, where care wasn’t wrapped in fear, and where she could simply be loved for who she was.

Ibuki held her a little tighter, whispering softly, “We’ll figure this out. One step at a time. You’re not alone. Ever again.”

Horikita let herself believe, just a little, that maybe—just maybe—she could survive this. And maybe, someday, she could learn what it truly meant to be loved.

The moment stretched on, quiet and fragile, but in that quiet, Horikita felt the tiniest spark of something she hadn’t felt in far too long: safety. Trust. And, perhaps, hope.

When Horikita’s sobs slowed to quiet hiccups, Ibuki placed a steady hand on her shoulder, guiding her gently to her feet. Her movements were careful, deliberate, as if she could shield Horikita from the world simply by supporting her. Horikita wiped at her cheeks, smudging the remnants of tears across her pale skin, still sniffling softly, her hands trembling slightly as she held them together.

“I… I don’t know how to leave…” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, raw and unsteady. Her gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding Ibuki’s eyes as if the admission itself made her vulnerable. “I… I’m scared…” She swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat before she forced them out. “What if he… what if he hurts me?”

Ibuki’s expression softened, but there was steel in her eyes. She took Horikita’s hands gently in hers, holding them firmly so she couldn’t pull away. “Kita,” she said softly but clearly, “I know you’re scared. And that’s normal. Leaving someone who controls you, who’s hurt you… it’s terrifying. But staying isn’t safe. You deserve to live without fear every single day.”

Horikita shook her head, voice trembling. “I… I don’t know how. What if he finds out? What if he… what if he hurts me?” Her gaze dropped to the floor, and her fingers twisted nervously in Ibuki’s hands.

“That’s why you don’t do this alone,” Ibuki replied firmly, squeezing her hands. “We plan. We make it safe. We have support. You won’t be facing him by yourself, Kita. Not for a second. And no one has the right to hurt you—not him, not anyone.”

“But… I can’t just… leave,” Horikita whispered, shaking. “I… I don’t even know where I’d go. What if he comes after me? What if I fail?”

“You won’t fail,” Ibuki said gently, brushing a stray strand of hair from Horikita’s face. “We’ll make a plan. Step by step. First, you need to know you’re not alone. That’s the most important thing. And you’re not. I’ll be with you, Ryuen will be with us, and we’ll make sure that when you leave, it’s safe. You won’t be hurt.”

Horikita’s lips quivered as she whispered, “I… I’m so tired, Ibuki. I don’t want to live in fear anymore, but… I don’t know if I can be strong enough.”

“You’re stronger than you think,” Ibuki reassured her. “The fact that you’re even here, talking about it, crying about it, asking for help… that’s strength, Kita. It’s okay to be scared, but it’s not okay to stay in a place that hurts you. And you won’t have to.”

Horikita swallowed hard, trying to hold back fresh tears, and nodded shakily. “I… I want to… I want to leave. I just… I don’t know how to start.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ibuki said softly, pulling her into a reassuring hug. “We’ll start together. We’ll make a plan, and we’ll take it one step at a time. First, we make sure you’re safe. Then, we make sure he can’t control you anymore. And eventually… you’ll be free from fear, Kita. I promise you.”

Horikita’s body trembled in Ibuki’s arms, a mixture of exhaustion, relief, and fear. “I… I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she whispered.

“You’ll never have to find out,” Ibuki replied firmly, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I’ve got you, Kita. Always.”

For the first time in months, Horikita felt a tiny flicker of hope—a fragile, trembling thing—but hope nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe, she could escape this. Maybe she could survive. And maybe, just maybe, she could start to reclaim her life.

Ibuki held her tightly, whispering again, “It’s going to be okay, Kita. One step at a time. We’ll do this together. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

Horikita nodded against Ibuki’s shoulder, letting herself breathe, letting herself imagine safety, and allowing herself to hope that there could be a life where she wasn’t afraid.

The moment was quiet, still, but it was a beginning—a fragile, tentative step toward freedom.

Horikita sank into the chair, her body still tense, as she and Ibuki talked quietly over the next few hours. For the first time in months, she felt a strange sense of safety—the kind that didn’t make her flinch at every small sound, the kind that didn’t make her hold her breath in anticipation of Nagumo’s moods. Ryuen had stepped back, giving them space, and Horikita allowed herself to just breathe.

Part of her still wondered if she was overreacting, if maybe she was misreading the situation, if she was letting fear cloud her judgment. But Ibuki didn’t hesitate to shut down those thoughts. “It only took a few months for it to get this bad,” she said firmly, her voice soft but unyielding. “Imagine how much worse it would be if you stayed. You’d be trapped before you even realized it.”

Horikita nodded silently, her stomach growling softly. She realized she hadn’t eaten properly in days—she had forced herself through meals just to satisfy Nagumo’s expectations, eating tiny, expensive portions that barely filled her. Today, she ate until she was genuinely full, savoring each bite without the constant pressure to appear delicate or obedient. For once, she was feeding herself, not performing for someone else.

By the time she prepared to leave, Horikita had mapped out a tentative plan in her mind: leave Nagumo, get professional help, reach out to Ayanokouji and take things slowly, and if that connection didn’t work out, it would still be okay—she could survive without him. For the first time in months, she felt a spark of empowerment, a fragile but real sense of control over her life.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel as she drove back toward her house, the streets passing in a blur. But when she turned onto her street, her newfound courage faltered instantly. Nagumo’s car sat in her driveway, dark and imposing, like a shadow she hadn’t anticipated. Her hands shook violently, her heart slammed against her ribs, and her vision narrowed as panic began to rise.

Her breath came short and shallow, each inhale trembling with the anticipation of confrontation. Horikita felt the weight of every small fear she had pushed aside return all at once—the fear of his anger, the fear of being trapped, the fear of losing the control she had fought to regain.

Her instinct screamed at her to turn back, to run, to put as much distance as possible between herself and the house, but even as her foot moved toward the gas pedal, she froze. Her mind raced with every possible scenario: a confrontation, a shouting match, him following her, him cornering her. The fear pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to think clearly.

She pulled in a shaky breath, trying to steady her hands on the wheel, trying to remind herself of the plan she had set with Ibuki. She had support, she had options, she had allies—she didn’t have to face this alone. Yet the sight of the car made all of that feel distant, almost irrelevant.

Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she started the car. Her heart pounded violently, threatening to burst through her chest. The sound of the engine seemed deafening in the quiet street. She hesitated only a moment longer before making her decision—she couldn’t face him right now, not with the way her body was betraying her courage.

She shifted into reverse, glancing back at her driveway one last time. Her pulse raced, her vision blurred with unshed tears, but she forced herself forward, slowly pulling away from the house. The engine hummed beneath her, a reminder that movement was possible, that escape was possible, that she could still reclaim control.

The familiar streets blurred past, each passing building grounding her slightly, helping her breath even out just a fraction. The car became a shield, a temporary barrier between herself and the source of her fear. She drove without a destination at first, just needing to put distance between her and the house, between herself and him.

As the minutes passed, her panic began to ebb, replaced by a simmering mixture of anger, resolve, and determination. She could do this. She had to do this. The fear was real, but it wasn’t insurmountable. She had survived worse. She had endured months of control and manipulation, and she had emerged with her mind intact, if shaken.

Horikita’s hands unclenched slightly, and she gripped the steering wheel with a renewed purpose. She repeated to herself the plan she had crafted with Ibuki: step one, leave safely. Step two, get help. Step three, rebuild herself. Step four, reach out to Ayanokouji. It wasn’t too late. She still had options. She still had agency.

She passed familiar landmarks in her neighborhood, each one a small reminder of her independence, of the life she could still have. Her stomach knotted, but she forced herself to focus on the present—to focus on her breathing, on the act of driving, on the sensation of moving away from the danger she had endured.

Somewhere between her neighborhood and the outskirts of the city, Horikita allowed herself a small moment of clarity. She realized that running didn’t make her weak. Running made her smart. It made her capable of surviving, capable of planning, capable of taking the next steps safely.

Tears welled again, but this time they were mixed with relief and determination rather than fear and despair. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, squinting through the blur of the windshield at the road ahead. She was leaving, yes, but she was leaving with a plan, and that made all the difference.

Her mind flicked back to Ibuki’s words, the firm yet gentle insistence that she deserved help, that she didn’t have to live in fear, that she didn’t deserve this treatment. Horikita clung to that thought, letting it anchor her as the city streets stretched endlessly in front of her.

She found herself heading toward a quiet park she used to visit, a place she hadn’t been in months. She parked the car under the dim glow of a streetlight, shutting off the engine. The night was still, the air cool against her flushed skin, and for the first time that evening, Horikita felt a semblance of calm settle over her.

Sitting there, she reflected on the months she had spent under Nagumo’s control—the manipulation, the fear, the isolation—and she realized something vital: she still had the ability to make choices. She still had the power to reclaim her life. The sense of agency she had felt earlier in the day wasn’t gone; it had merely been buried beneath fear, and now it was surfacing again, fragile but insistent.

Horikita ran her fingers over the dashboard, grounding herself in the tangible, feeling the reality of her own control over the situation. She was leaving, yes, but she wasn’t running blindly. She had a plan, and she had allies. She could survive this. She could escape.

The thought of Ayanokouji surfaced in her mind, and with it, a pang of longing. She wasn’t sure if he would still be there, or if the timing would ever align for them, but for now, the priority was her own safety, her own recovery. She had to get out first, then worry about anything else.

Hours passed as she drove, the city slowly giving way to quieter streets, and with every mile, her pulse began to steady. The tension in her shoulders eased fractionally, and the tightness in her chest loosened. She realized that running wasn’t cowardice—it was a strategic step toward survival, toward freedom.

By the time she found a secluded hotel she had scouted months ago, Horikita felt a small flicker of hope. She parked and stepped out of the car, taking deep, steadying breaths, letting the cool night air wash over her. She was safe, for now. She was planning her next move.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in the small hotel room, Horikita allowed herself to finally exhale fully. Her hands still shook, and her eyes were rimmed with red, but there was a clarity she hadn’t felt in months. She had taken the first real step. She had removed herself from immediate danger.

She opened her phone and began composing a message to Ibuki, a simple one: I’m safe. I’m okay. Thank you. She hesitated, then hit send. The reply came almost instantly, filled with concern and encouragement. Horikita let herself smile faintly, letting the warmth of that connection remind her she wasn’t truly alone.

For the first time in a long while, Horikita allowed herself to consider the future—not Nagumo, not fear, not control—but her own future, one she could shape herself. And in that moment, she felt the tiniest spark of hope ignite, fragile and tentative, but real.

The night was still and quiet, and for the first time in months, Horikita could sleep without dread pressing on her chest. She could rest knowing she had begun to take back her life, and that was the first victory in a long, necessary journey toward freedom.

The next steps would be difficult—contacting Ayanokouji, getting professional help, completely severing Nagumo’s control—but for now, she allowed herself this moment of relief, of cautious empowerment. She had left the immediate danger behind, and that was everything.

Tomorrow, she would plan her next move. Tonight, she would just breathe, just rest, just exist for herself. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, Horikita felt something like control returning to her life.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and the fatigue, there was a quiet, stubborn determination: she would survive this, she would reclaim herself, and she would not let the fear of one man dictate the rest of her life.

This was only the beginning—but it was a beginning she had chosen for herself.

Chapter Text

The sharp pounding rattled the door so hard it felt like the frame itself might splinter. Horikita startled awake, her chest tightening as though someone had pressed a weight on it.

She sat up slowly, still groggy from the restless, tear-stained sleep that had claimed her. The sound continued, insistent, each thud more aggressive than the last.

Her pulse quickened. She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cold carpet as she pushed herself to stand. Every instinct screamed at her not to move closer, yet habit—years of falling in line, of obeying the voice on the other side of that door—pulled her forward.

“I’m coming… I’m coming,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

The pounding grew louder, sharper. He wasn’t just knocking anymore—he was demanding. She hesitated, her hand halfway to the doorknob, when something in her chest snapped tight.

No. Not yet.

Horikita froze, then slowly backed away. She forced her trembling hands to the curtains, peeking through the narrow slit toward the parking lot below.

And there he was.

Nagumo.

He stood just outside her hotel door, fury etched into every line of his face. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes wild and restless, scanning the hallway as though expecting someone to jump out at him. His hand twitched at his side before curling into a fist, then shooting up again to pound against the door.

The sight of him sent a jolt through her. Her heart pounded so hard it drowned out everything else. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath, but it came too fast—shallow, panicked gasps that made her head spin.

He found me.

“Suzune!” His voice cracked down the hallway like a whip, sharp and commanding. “Open the door!”

The sound of her name from his lips made her stomach churn. It wasn’t tenderness, not even impatience—it was ownership.

Her knees felt weak, and she stumbled back from the window, clutching at the curtain as though it could shield her. Thoughts spiraled: if she opened that door, he’d come in. If he came in, there’d be no stopping him. The plan she’d built so carefully with Ibuki yesterday—the fragile hope she’d dared to cling to—would shatter before it ever began.

But if she didn’t open it, what then? Would he break it down? Would he wait until she slipped? Would he hunt her down harder next time?

Her breath hitched as she pressed herself against the wall, every muscle locked tight. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she bit them back.

I can’t open it. Not this time. Not again.

She wrapped her arms around herself, sliding down until she sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, the sound of his furious knocking echoing through the room like gunfire.

“Suzune! SUZUNE, if you don’t open this door right now—” Nagumo’s voice cracked into the hallway, a raw edge of fury that made the plaster tremble. He slammed his palm against the wood so hard the entire frame shuddered. “I know you’re in there! Open this door! I swear to God, Suzune!”

Horikita’s body went rigid. The sound folded over her like a physical strike. For a breath she didn’t move at all—only listened: the pounding of her own pulse, the distant hum of traffic, the brittle echo of Nagumo’s footfalls. His next knock came like a percussionist’s final beat, harder, angrier, as if he expected the door to bow to his will.

She stepped back from the slit of curtain and let the fabric fall, as if denying him the small image would keep her safe. Her hands were slick with sweat; she pressed them flat against her thighs to stop them shaking. Panic coiled in her throat, hot and fast. Don’t open. Don’t open. Don’t. The mantra repeated, thin and desperate.

After what felt like an eternity, the pounding finally stopped. The echoes of Nagumo’s voice lingered in the silence like ghosts, but the footsteps receded, growing fainter down the hall until there was nothing but the distant hum of traffic and her own shaking breaths. Horikita stayed frozen for a moment longer, her ear pressed to the bathroom door, waiting—hoping—this wasn’t some cruel pause before the next storm. When nothing came, she exhaled shakily, each breath scraping her throat like broken glass.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the sink, gripping the porcelain until the sting in her palms grounded her. She wiped her tears roughly, almost angrily, hating how weak she felt. Grabbing her keys, she forced herself to leave before the silence tricked her into thinking it was safe. The hallway outside was empty. No Nagumo. No shadows. Just the smell of cheap hotel cleaner and carpet. She walked fast, head down, as if speed alone could hide her.

Outside, the cool air hit her lungs like a shock. She got into her car, slammed the door, and locked it twice, then three times, before starting the engine. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, the tremor spreading up her arms until her shoulders ached. She drove without thinking, headlights cutting through the night.

She tried to breathe, deep and even, the way Kiyotaka had taught her back when “stress” meant exams and rival classmates—not survival. She blinked hard, focusing on the inhale and exhale like it was a lifeline. But instead of calming her, the memory hit her like a knife. She saw Ayanokouji’s steady eyes, heard his quiet voice coaching her through each breath, felt his thumb rubbing circles against her knuckles, a small act of comfort that had meant more than she’d realized at the time. Tears welled and spilled before she could stop them. She pulled the car over slowly, her forehead pressing against the steering wheel as sobs threatened to break free.

“Get it together, Suzune,” she whispered into the dark, her voice shaking. “Get it together.”

She stayed like that for a long time, breathing shallowly, clutching the wheel as if it were an anchor. The neon glow of a gas station flickered across her dashboard. Finally, when her breathing steadied enough to feel real, she sat back up, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. The night outside looked endless. She felt small inside it—but at least she was free for now.

Weeks passed. The cycle repeated like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from. Horikita broke up with Nagumo once. Twice. Three times. Each time she tried to explain, to make him see, he brushed it off with a smooth, practiced calm—told her she was overreacting, told her she’d regret it, then disappeared for a few days only to return like nothing had happened.

The fourth time, she steeled herself. She didn’t cry. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply said it, clear and final: “It’s over.”

This time, Nagumo didn’t brush her off. He exploded.

He screamed, his voice loud enough to rattle the frames on the walls. Words poured out of him like venom—accusations, insults, twisting everything she’d ever confided into weapons. When she tried to leave the room, he blocked her path, hurling things at the wall, shoving her back until her shoulder hit the edge of the doorframe. His rage escalated until his hands struck her, a flash of pain that left her gasping. He told her she was worthless, that no one else would ever want her, that she was nothing without him.

Horikita’s world blurred. She didn’t remember the moment she ran—just the sound of her heartbeat in her ears and the sting of tears cutting down her face as she stumbled out into the street. She didn’t stop until she was blocks away, her hands clamped over her ears to block out his words, whispering to herself over and over that none of it was true. It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.

When she finally reached home, her body was moving on autopilot. She didn’t cry anymore. She didn’t even hesitate. She went straight to the bedroom and pulled out every box she could find. She began throwing his things into them first—the shirts he’d left, the cufflinks, the cologne bottle that still smelled like his hands on her skin. Then she turned to her own belongings, anything that tied her to him. She ripped pictures out of frames, dumped gifts into garbage bags, stripped the apartment like it was on fire.

Her movements were mechanical but purposeful. This wasn’t just packing. This was survival.

She kept telling herself as she filled the boxes: I’m going to get out. I’m going to get out of the house. I’m going to be somewhere he can’t find me. It was the only sentence that made her hands steady.

By the time she stopped, her living room was a landscape of taped boxes and garbage bags. She stood among them with her chest heaving, her palms pressed to her knees. For the first time in months, she felt a flicker of control—a faint, trembling spark of a future that wasn’t his.

And under that faint spark, like a shadow she couldn’t quite name, was the thought of Ayanokouji. His calm eyes. His steady hands. The memory of someone who had once believed she could be strong.

The restaurant buzzed with chatter and clinking glasses, the low hum of laughter and overlapping conversations filling the air. Ayanokouji sat at the long company table, his posture as composed as always, but his mind far from the circle of colleagues around him. Plates of carefully prepared dishes were passed down the table, glasses refilled before they could empty. His plate sat nearly full in front of him, the steam curling faintly into the air, ignored. His drink was untouched, condensation sliding down the glass and pooling onto the tablecloth.

“Can you believe what happened at the branch last week?” one coworker asked, their voice rising above the noise, laughter following from the others. Ayanokouji nodded when expected, a subtle tilt of the head that gave the illusion of attention. He had perfected the act of engagement long ago: the well-timed hum of agreement, the polite glance, the faint smile. To them, he seemed present. Inside, his thoughts spiraled elsewhere.

He thought about Horikita.

No matter how hard he tried to focus on reports, projects, deadlines, or the next quarterly review, her image threaded its way into his mind like an unshakable presence. He could still see the last time they had stood across from one another, her eyes hard and unreadable, her words sharper than the silence that followed. He had tried, once, to catalog his feelings into something clean, something measurable—like the systems and strategies he was so used to crafting. But when it came to her, nothing aligned.

The voices around him blurred into a meaningless drone. His thoughts replayed fragments of the past. Horikita in the classroom back in high school, her hair shorter, her words cutting but honest. Horikita sitting beside him during exams, her presence grounding in a way he hadn’t realized at the time. Horikita after, years later, when her walls had lowered just enough for him to see a version of her no one else had. The rare softness in her tone. The way she had once leaned against him as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

The memory twisted into the present—the knowledge of where she was now, who she was with, and how far she’d fallen from the sharp, confident girl he remembered. That truth pressed against his chest until his food tasted like ash, his drink sat abandoned, and the voices of his coworkers felt foreign.

“Not hungry tonight, Ayanokouji?” one of them asked, snapping him briefly from his thoughts. He offered a faint, practiced smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I ate earlier,” he lied smoothly, the kind of response no one would bother questioning. They nodded, already turning back to their conversation about promotions and office politics.

He sat back, fingers resting lightly on the cool glass before him but never lifting it. He couldn’t bring himself to dull his thoughts with alcohol. He needed his mind sharp, clear. If he allowed himself to sink into distraction, even for one night, he feared he might lose the fragile thread of resolve he’d been holding on to.

Because underneath all the practiced composure, the polite half-smiles, and the quiet responses, Ayanokouji was planning. Watching. Waiting.

And as his coworkers laughed, oblivious, he sat in silence with one truth repeating in his mind like a pulse: he couldn’t let Horikita stay where she was. Not with Nagumo. Not when he knew what that man was capable of.

Even if she hated him, even if she never forgave him, even if she pushed him away forever—he would not sit idly by. Not anymore.

The glass in front of him still glistened under the restaurant lights, untouched. Ayanokouji stared at it for a long while, listening to the steady hum of conversation around him. His coworkers were lively, hands gesturing as they laughed about a client who had embarrassed himself earlier in the week. The sound seemed distant to him, like waves crashing on a shore he wasn’t standing on.

Eventually, after more prodding from the men on either side of him, he relented. He lifted the glass to his lips, took a measured sip, and felt the faint burn settle in his throat. He let their encouragement roll off his shoulders, keeping his face neutral as they cheered him for finally "loosening up."

As the night wore on, the group thinned. One by one, coworkers excused themselves, citing children waiting at home, partners they didn’t want to keep waiting, or early mornings ahead. Jackets were thrown on, hands waved casually, and laughter trailed with them out the door.

Ayanokouji stayed where he was, letting their energy drain out of the room without dragging him with it.

A few of them lingered longer, unwilling to let the evening end. They suggested moving to the bar. He agreed without hesitation, not because he wanted to, but because refusing felt like more effort than going along.

The bar was dimmer, quieter, but still carried the remnants of conversation. He found himself perched on a stool, his colleagues crowding around, still trading stories, jokes, and shallow observations.

They spoke about promotions, about friends who had quit the company, about money they wasted on hobbies. The rhythm was unbroken, the flow effortless. He inserted the occasional nod, the occasional "mm," so they wouldn’t realize how silent he really was.

Then came the inevitable question. "Hey, Ayanokouji, you seeing anyone these days?"

His hand curled lightly around his glass. Without pause, without even the faintest trace of irritation in his voice, he answered, "No."

The group reacted predictably. A chorus of exaggerated groans, laughter, one man shaking his head. "No way, man. What are you waiting for?" someone joked.

Another chimed in, "You’re gonna end up a lonely old man at this rate!"

Their laughter filled the air again, and Ayanokouji forced the barest smile. He let it pass over him like every other remark, like a tide he had no reason to resist.

The conversation shifted again, almost immediately. They moved on to teasing someone else, laughing about his disastrous attempts at cooking for his girlfriend. Ayanokouji was forgotten in the span of seconds.

And yet, one voice cut through. "Whatever happened to Horikita, anyway?"

The room went still for him. His hand stilled around his glass.

Before he could even consider responding, another coworker lightly smacked the man’s arm. "Hey, don’t bring that up. Not cool."

The man laughed sheepishly, muttering something about curiosity, and the moment passed. Ayanokouji didn’t have to answer. He didn’t want to. He let the silence cover it like dust on a forgotten shelf.

A group of girls at a nearby table had been stealing glances at them all night. The alcohol had clearly gotten to them—red cheeks, sloppy laughter, words that didn’t come out cleanly. One of them finally gathered enough courage, or maybe just lost enough inhibition, to approach.

She leaned in his direction, attempting a flirtatious smile. Before she even spoke, her heel caught the edge of the floorboard. She stumbled, almost pitching forward completely.

Ayanokouji didn’t move to catch her. Someone else might have, but he remained perfectly still, watching the inevitability of her misstep.

Her friends reacted quickly, jumping from their seats with nervous laughter. They grabbed her by the arms, steadying her as they apologized in slurred words.

"Sorry! She’s had way too much," one of them giggled, bowing clumsily before tugging the girl back toward their table.

Their laughter followed them as they returned to their drinks, already making jokes about the incident as if it were nothing.

Ayanokouji turned his eyes back to his coworkers, not sparing the girl another thought. She was simply one more blur of color in a night full of noise.

The jokes resumed. Someone made a ridiculous pun, one that would normally elicit groans. Somehow, everyone laughed harder than they should have, slapping the table, wiping their eyes.

Ayanokouji didn’t even attempt to match their amusement. He tried, instead, to deliver a joke of his own—awkwardly timed, dry, more an observation than humor.

It fell flat in the air for a second, and he thought the silence might stretch. Then, one of his colleagues burst into laughter, more at his delivery than the content.

That set the others off again, laughing even harder. They teased him for being so terrible at jokes, claiming it made him funnier than if he’d actually succeeded.

He allowed himself the faintest upward curve of his lips. Not because he found it amusing, but because he recognized the efficiency: they were entertained, and that was enough.

Their laughter rang out again, weaving through the dim lights and clinking glasses. Ayanokouji sat quietly in the middle of it, untouched drink still in front of him, listening as though it all belonged to another life entirely.

"I could set you up with my daughter," one of his older coworkers teased, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a long sip. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, his posture loose and unguarded. "She’s very beautiful, you know. Someone like you could—"

"You don’t need to do that," Ayanokouji cut in, his tone even, faintly polite. He tried to curve his lips upward into a smile that might pass as joking, but it came out stilted, almost mechanical. "I’m sure she could do better."

The older man barked out a laugh, leaning closer across the table. "No, no—she’s very beautiful. Really. You’d be lucky to meet her."

"I’m sure she is," Ayanokouji said again, his voice calm, smooth as if he were repeating a memorized line. His gaze didn’t falter, but there was no spark of interest behind it. "There’s probably someone out there waiting for her already. Someone more fitting."

The man gave him a sloppy, lopsided grin, his drunken eyes narrowing as though he were trying to study him. "Aren’t you just the sweetest," he slurred. Then, without warning, he raised his hand, waving down the bartender for another round.

"I think that’s enough, dear," his wife interjected gently, her voice a soft counterpoint to his bluster. She reached out and laid her hand over his, steady and patient.

Her husband pouted with the exaggerated dramatics of a child being denied candy. "You’re no fun," he mumbled, though his hand relaxed under hers. He allowed her to pull him away from the bar, still muttering under his breath about how boring she was. His wife only laughed, shaking her head as if she’d heard the same routine countless times before.

Ayanokouji watched their retreating backs for a moment, expression unreadable. He wasn’t envious. That wasn’t the right word. But there was something about the simplicity of their interaction—a quiet familiarity, a bond woven out of years of shared moments—that stirred faint echoes inside him. He buried them quickly, lowering his eyes back to the rim of his untouched glass.

By the time he finally left the bar and returned to his apartment, it was already late enough that most of the city had fallen quiet. The streets outside his window hummed with the distant sound of a few cars, but inside, the silence was heavy.

He stripped off his suit jacket, placed it neatly over the chair in the corner, and moved automatically through the motions of preparing for bed. Each step was precise, practiced. By the time he lay down, the sheets cool against his skin, the clock on the nightstand glowed with an hour that made sleep seem almost optional.

But he didn’t sleep.

Instead, he reached for his phone, the faint light casting sharp angles across his face. His thumb scrolled through his messages with mechanical patience until one name caught his attention.

Karuizawa.

Her most recent messages blinked up at him, warm and direct in a way that felt foreign against his current solitude. She had asked to meet soon, her words tinged with that familiar insistence she carried even when phrased casually.

He lingered on the screen, eyes tracing the lines of her words again and again without typing a response. A simple "yes" would have sufficed. But for some reason, he let the silence stretch, his phone dimming in his hand before he finally set it down on the nightstand beside him.

The ceiling above offered no answers.

Sleep, when it came, would not be gentle.

Ayanokouji let the air leave his lungs in a slow, tired sigh, his thumb flicking across the screen without much focus. Notifications stacked in messy rows—some from Ichika, asking after his schedule in her clipped, almost businesslike way; others from coworkers still chuckling about something from earlier; and then, buried deeper, were the older threads.

Names he hadn’t seen in years blinked back at him. Exes. People he hadn’t spared a second thought for in what felt like lifetimes. The words in those messages were stale, fossilized relics of conversations that had once seemed urgent but were now just digital dust. Some read like unfinished scripts: "Where are you?" "We need to talk." "I can’t keep waiting." He scrolled past them all with little more than a hollow glance, yet there was one truth he couldn’t shake—Horikita had been the longest.

The realization pressed against him like a weight, as if acknowledging it made his chest constrict. Their history stretched further, ran deeper, than any fleeting romance he’d stumbled into. Even now, no matter how hard he tried, every path circled back to her.

With a low, audible groan, he dragged his hand down his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The room was still, save for the faint hum of the fridge down the hall, but in his head there was noise—unwanted thoughts clashing, replaying scenes he wished he could let go of.

His thumb hovered over Karuizawa’s contact. Her name sat there like an unopened door, a reminder of someone who had once insisted on inserting herself into his life whether he liked it or not. A strange comfort, almost. He hesitated, staring at it as if it might vanish on its own, then drew in a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Finally, with a kind of quiet resignation, he pressed the call button.

The dial tone rang out into the silence of his apartment, each note loud enough to make his heart beat faster, though his expression never changed. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t know what he was about to say.

Karuizawa’s voice came through the phone groggy and half-asleep.
“Yeah?” she mumbled, the sound of sheets shifting faintly in the background.

Ayanokouji froze. Words lined up neatly in his head, but when he tried to push them out, they turned to ash on his tongue. For a moment he thought of filling the silence with something casual, something meaningless—just wanted to see how you’ve been—but that wasn’t true. And he never lied without purpose.

“…Never mind,” he said finally, his voice clipped, quiet. “I apologize for bothering you.”

Before she could respond, before the grogginess faded from her tone, he disconnected the call.

The apartment was quiet again, the dial tone replaced by the faint hum of the fridge down the hall. Ayanokouji set the phone aside and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His chest felt heavier, as though speaking even those few words had dredged something up he wasn’t ready to face.

He stood after a moment, dragging himself toward his desk. The drawer opened with a dull scrape of wood against wood, and inside lay something he hadn’t touched in months: his yearbook from third year. He pulled it out slowly, running his hand over the cover as if it might disintegrate under his fingers.

Sitting back down, he flipped it open. Pages upon pages of familiar faces stared back at him, framed by handwritten signatures and scribbled messages. Hirata’s touch was everywhere—he’d been relentless, determined that this wasn’t going to be the generic yearbook every class received. He wanted it to mean something. And, true to his nature, he’d managed to get signatures not just from Class 1-D, but from every student, staff member, even security guards. It had taken months of chasing people down, and Hirata had done it with that same earnest smile of his.

Ayanokouji turned the pages slowly. He hadn’t been dating Horikita then—not yet. At that time, he’d been with Satou. He remembered their relationship for what it was: simple, uncomplicated, convenient. She had taught him things he hadn’t known he needed to learn. Makeup products that balanced oily skin. Skin-care routines that apparently everyone but him was aware of. He had gone along with it because she had cared, and in her way, she had been useful.

Her page came up quickly, her photo smiling back at him, bright and confident. A lipstick mark stained the corner, her signature curling across the page with a quick message: Good luck! You’ll do great. He stared at it a moment longer than he expected, remembering the warmth in her tone when she’d written it.

Then his eyes slid to the photo next to hers. Horikita.

Her gaze in the picture was serious, focused, the kind of photo that made it seem as though she had better things to do than pose for a camera. Beside it was her signature and a short message, nothing flowery, nothing exaggerated: Thank you for challenging me. The words carried weight even now.

He turned the page again, Hirata’s signature sprawling across it with a congratulatory note, full of well-wishes for the future. Others followed. Some were terse, from people who hadn’t liked him but had respected him nonetheless. Good job. Thanks for the challenge. Even Ichika’s signature was there—proof of Hirata’s persistence more than anything else.

Eventually, he flipped to the back. The blank pages there weren’t blank anymore. He had filled them himself.

Every day of high school, from the first morning to the day of graduation, he had documented in neat, precise handwriting. Most entries were simple—routine notes about classes, exams, group projects. Some days carried no weight at all, but he hadn’t skipped them. Not once.

On certain pages, photographs were clipped in place with small paper clips. He hadn’t taken many photos, but there were enough. A snapshot of Class 1-D in their first month, everyone standing awkwardly, unsure of themselves. Another from their first sports festival, sweat-stained and smiling despite exhaustion. A blurry photo of lunch in the cafeteria, someone mid-bite, someone else laughing off to the side.

As he turned the pages, a small smile tugged at his lips. It wasn’t wide, and it wasn’t lasting, but it was real. The memories came back in fragments—conversations, arguments, quiet moments. Back then, everything had felt like a challenge, a test to overcome. And yet, in hindsight, it had been simpler than everything that followed.

His fingers lingered on one particular page. A note beside a photograph of Horikita, taken without her knowing. She had been looking out the window during a break, sunlight catching the edge of her hair. He had written only two words beside it: Worth watching.

Ayanokouji closed the book softly, pressing his palm against the cover.

The silence around him deepened, the faint sounds of the city outside muffled by his walls. For the first time in weeks, he let his eyes close, letting the memories wash over him.

And in that stillness, a thought he hadn’t voiced to anyone echoed in his head:

He had been happy once.

He wasn’t sure if he ever would be again.

Ayanokouji frowned as he bent down to pick up a photo that had slipped out of the yearbook, the glossy paper half-hidden under the desk. He lifted it carefully, eyes narrowing as the image came into focus. It was from their graduation party—a candid someone else must have taken. She was perched on his back, laughing with her cap tilted crookedly to the side, while she leaned down to press her lips to his. He, in contrast, was holding her legs to keep her steady, expression unreadable as always, though there was a softness there he hadn’t realised until now. It was one of those rare moments where he hadn’t been entirely guarded.

His frown deepened slightly as he noticed something stuck to the back of the photo. A small, folded envelope had been carefully taped there, yellowed at the corners with time. On the back, written in Satou’s familiar looping handwriting, were the words: “To my Kiyo.” The nickname caught him off guard. She had only ever used it when she wanted to tease him, and even then sparingly.

She must have hidden it there long ago, sometime after he’d slipped the photo into the back of the book, but before their quiet breakup. A message she never meant for him to see until much later.

He peeled the envelope free with precise movements, careful not to tear the paper. Sliding a finger under the flap, he unfolded the note inside. The handwriting was unmistakably hers—curved, neat, with the occasional flourish of someone who had put real thought into every word. He began to read.

"Kiyotaka, you were a wonderful partner, and I’ll forever remember how happy you made me. I appreciate every night you’ve spent by my side, every kiss you’ve given me, every flower, every gift, and every minute."

His eyes moved steadily down the page, but he felt a strange tightness in his chest as the words sank in. He could almost hear her voice as he read, bright and sincere in a way only Satou could be.

"I’m not sure when you’ll read this letter, but I know you will some day. I’m writing this because I’ve realized our relationship is coming to an end. It’s not your fault—but I’m not sure how much you care anyway. It’s no one’s fault really, but I feel the need to tell you why."

He stopped for a moment, staring at the sentence. She had always been perceptive, more than he’d given her credit for. She’d sensed the cracks long before they had surfaced.

"I’ve seen the way you interact with Horikita. It’s special in a way. I can tell she’s loved you for a long time, I’m guessing. At one point it made me jealous. We weren’t even together at that point, and it makes me cringe when I think about how I felt back then. But I got over it quickly. You weren’t mine or anybody’s property then—or even now."

The words echoed through him like a soft accusation. He remembered those early days, the subtle glances Horikita had cast his way, the way she’d grown sharper and stronger every time she clashed with him. He hadn’t thought Satou had noticed, but of course she had.

"I’m heading off to attend university soon. I thought I would struggle with being long-distance and miss you too much to handle, but recently I’ve noticed you seem to return Horikita’s affections. You may not realize it now, but I can tell she’s important to you."

Ayanokouji closed his eyes briefly, holding the letter in both hands. Satou had written this at eighteen, and yet her words carried a clarity he hadn’t been able to admit to himself even then.

"I wouldn’t want to get in the way of true love. And yes, I know how childish I sound to believe in such a thing, but everybody has a true love. Just like Sakayanagi has Hashimoto, and Ryuen has Ibuki—you have Horikita. I hope it doesn’t take you too long to figure it out. Finding true love so early in life is a blessing, one that I hope you appreciate."

He pictured Satou as she had been at graduation, her smile warm despite the bittersweet edge of their parting. She had always believed in things like destiny and soulmates, things he had dismissed as fantasy. Yet here she was, years later, still guiding him with words she’d left behind.

"You’ll probably have problems. No relationship is perfect. Call me if you need help with it—I won’t judge you. (I definitely will.) But try to be the best you can be for her. Treat her the way you treated me. Maybe even better."

The little joke at the end made the corner of his mouth twitch, though the heaviness in his chest didn’t fade. He could almost hear the way she would have laughed after writing that line, self-aware and fond.

"I loved our time together, and I loved you.
Maya Satou."

The signature at the bottom was bold, confident, as if she’d wanted to make sure he understood she had meant every word.

Ayanokouji let the letter fall onto his lap, staring at it in silence. For a long time, he didn’t move. He thought of Satou’s kindness, her easy laughter, her way of finding light in places he had always considered bleak. He thought of how she had stepped into his life and asked for nothing except his presence.

And then, inevitably, his mind shifted to Horikita. The girl who had been standing beside him in ways Satou had seen before he had. The girl who had challenged him, frustrated him, grown with him, and at some point, loved him without ever saying the words outright.

His hands tightened on the letter until it crumpled slightly. Satou had called Horikita his true love. The idea both terrified and comforted him. Terrified, because it meant he had failed her once already. Comforted, because perhaps it wasn’t too late to find her again.

He folded the letter carefully, slipping it back into the envelope before tucking it into the yearbook where he’d found it. He set the book down gently on the desk, his fingers lingering on the cover.

For the first time in a long while, he felt a pull not just to remember the past, but to act in the present. Satou’s words weren’t just a farewell. They were a reminder. A push.

And Ayanokouji, sitting alone in the quiet of his apartment, realized he wasn’t content to let Horikita remain only in his memories.

Ayanokouji blinked slowly, a memory surfacing with surprising clarity. He remembered the story Ryuen had once told him—gruffly, almost embarrassed but with a kind of pride he couldn’t fully hide—about how he had proposed to Ibuki. According to Ryuen, their relationship had been on the verge of collapse, perhaps for the last time, filled with their usual heated arguments and moments of distance. And yet, instead of walking away, Ryuen had dropped to one knee and asked her to stay with him forever. The irony had stuck with Ayanokouji even then; Ryuen of all people had chosen the most traditional, vulnerable act of commitment in the middle of what should have been a breakup.

The memory nagged at him now, and for the briefest moment an idea flitted across his mind—proposing to Horikita. The thought startled him, almost jolting him out of his seat. It wasn’t like him to have impulses, let alone ones this reckless. Marriage? He almost scoffed at himself. It wasn’t realistic, not with how strained things were between them, not with how fractured the foundation of their relationship currently felt. And yet, the fact that the idea had occurred to him at all unsettled him. It meant something deeper was clawing at him, something beyond logic or calculation.

He forced himself to breathe, pushing the thought aside. He wouldn’t be doing that—not anytime soon, maybe not ever. What he could do, however, was something more practical. Something controlled. With that decision, he reached over and pulled his laptop closer, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes as he opened the browser and began searching. It didn’t take long to find listings for local relationship counselors. The thought of dragging Horikita into something like this felt like an impossible task, but he told himself he didn’t need her there right away. He could at least get his side of the story out, lay out the complexities, and hear an objective opinion about whether there was anything worth salvaging.

After scrolling through reviews and carefully comparing profiles, he settled on one. A receptionist’s voice greeted him warmly when he called. She was patient as he explained, perhaps too vaguely, that he wanted to book a consultation. Her tone was gentle, professional, but also almost encouraging as if she sensed the weight behind his hesitation. Within minutes, she’d arranged an appointment for the following week.

When the call ended, Ayanokouji sat back, staring at the screen. His fingers lingered above the keyboard, unmoving for several minutes before he finally opened a blank email draft. Writing to Horikita directly felt heavier than any consultation could. He began slowly, choosing his words with precision, as though each one carried the potential to either build a bridge or sever it entirely. He asked her—gently—to at least consider the idea of attending counseling with him. He emphasized that it wasn’t an obligation, that she didn’t have to go if she didn’t want to, but he framed it as an opportunity, a chance to repair what had begun to crumble between them.

He paused, re-reading the lines, considering deleting them altogether. His chest tightened as he added one last piece—an admission that he loved her. He hoped that, above all else, she would hear that clearly, without suspicion, without misinterpretation. He ended the email with a final plea, not forceful but earnest, asking her to think about it.

For a long while he sat there, staring at the draft. His cursor blinked like a heartbeat, steady and relentless, urging him to make a decision. At last, he drew in a breath, closed his eyes, and pressed send. The weight of the message seemed to hang in the room long after the laptop screen dimmed.

Ayanokouji stared at the screen long after the email was sent, the words he’d written replaying in his mind like an echo he couldn’t quiet. His declaration at the end—I love you—stood out to him more than anything. It was simple, but it felt heavier than any strategy, any plan, any manipulation he’d ever crafted. For once, there had been no calculation, no second layer of intent. Just truth. And that truth terrified him more than the White Room ever had.

He closed the laptop with a muted snap, leaning back in his chair. His apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside. He thought back again to Ryuen’s story—how he had reached the point of exhaustion, of near loss, before realizing he didn’t want to let go. It was strange for Ayanokouji to feel inspired by someone else’s emotional resolve, but that story lingered. Not because of the proposal itself, but because of the desperation that had driven Ryuen to act, and the strength that came from admitting he couldn’t do it alone.

Ayanokouji wasn’t about to kneel in front of Horikita with a ring, but the fact that his mind had even entertained the thought, even fleetingly, unsettled him. It meant something had shifted inside him—something he couldn’t control or rationalize. He had always considered emotions to be tools, accessories that could be mimicked when necessary but rarely needed to be indulged in. Yet here he was, staring into the abyss of uncertainty and clinging to the idea of trying.

His hand drifted to the photo of him and Satou, still on the desk from earlier. Her words in the letter played back in his memory, the sharp insight she’d left behind cutting deeper the more he thought about it. You have Horikita. Satou had seen it long before he ever did, before he ever dared to admit it to himself. Perhaps she’d been right—perhaps Horikita was the one person he couldn’t remain indifferent toward.

The thought of counseling left him conflicted. He knew Horikita wouldn’t agree easily; pride was stitched into her very being. But he hoped—selfishly—that his message might get through, that she might pause and at least consider it. The counselor wasn’t there to “fix” them—he didn’t even know if that was possible anymore—but perhaps to offer clarity, perspective, and a way forward. He wasn’t ready to give up, not yet.

He stood, pacing slowly to the window. The city lights shimmered like stars scattered across the ground, and he wondered what Horikita was doing right now. Was she angry at him? Was she reading his email and scoffing at the idea? Or maybe, just maybe, was she quietly considering it, turning it over in her mind the way he turned over every detail of his life?

Ayanokouji pressed a hand against the cool glass, his reflection staring back at him—calm, unreadable, as always. But beneath that façade, something unfamiliar stirred. Hope. It was fragile, barely there, but it existed. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure what that meant for him.

Horikita hadn’t even realized where she was going until the car rolled into the wide, lantern-lit driveway. The stone walls, the carefully maintained garden, the unmistakable silhouette of Manabus home—it was all so familiar and yet so out of place in the moment. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, trembling before she reached for her phone. It was far too late to be here, too late to knock on the door like some desperate runaway.

Still, she pressed the call button.

It rang and rang, the seconds stretching unbearably, until finally the line clicked and a groggy voice broke through, rough with sleep.

“…huh?”

Horikita swallowed, her throat tight. “M-Manabu… I… I’m at your house.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by the low scratch of him clearing his throat. “…What?”

“I—I drove here,” she admitted softly, suddenly second-guessing everything. Her voice faltered. “I just… I needed to get away and—”

“Just… shut up for a second,” he muttered, voice still gravelly but sharp enough to silence her. She heard a muffled thud, the clatter of something falling, his annoyed grumble as he fumbled around. More rustling, then the squeak of hinges as a door opened.

Through her windshield, the porch light flicked on. Moments later, Manabu appeared in the doorway, squinting against the glare of her headlights. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, his expression unreadable.

With a shaky breath, Horikita shut off the engine, plunging the driveway back into quiet darkness. She stepped out hesitantly, her legs feeling heavier than they should. Manabu rubbed at his face, slipped on his glasses, and let out a sigh that sounded more like resignation than irritation.

“…Just come in,” he said flatly, stepping aside.

She followed him into the house, the faint smell of tatami and cedar wrapping around her like a blanket. He locked the door behind her without another word, his expression still guarded, his movements efficient.

“The spare room’s down there.” He gestured lazily toward the dim hallway, his tone clipped but not unkind.

Before she could respond, he was already turning away, trudging back toward the stairs. His shoulders slouched, his steps heavy with sleep. By the time Horikita managed a soft, “Thank you,” he was halfway up the stairs, muttering something inaudible under his breath before disappearing into the darkened second floor.

She stood in the quiet of the entryway for a long moment, her pulse still racing, before slowly making her way toward the guest room.

The floorboards creaked under her steps as Horikita moved slowly down the hall, her bag slung loosely over her shoulder. She hadn’t even planned on bringing it—just happened to grab it as she left the apartment, not even thinking about where she was going. Only now, in the quiet hum of Manabu’s house, did she realize how far she had driven on nothing but instinct.

The spare room was small but immaculate, like everything else in the Horikita household. Tatami mats on the floor, a folded futon neatly stacked in the corner, and a sliding paper door that shut with the faintest whisper. She set her bag down and stood in the middle of the room for what felt like forever, hands trembling faintly as the silence pressed in on her.

When had she last felt this unsettled? Not even during the school battles, not even under Nagumo’s oppressive pressure. This was different. This was her life, her choices, and all the fragile things she couldn’t quite hold together anymore.

She sat down on the futon but didn’t lie down. Her phone lit up with the draft of Ayanokouji’s email—the one she hadn’t yet responded to. She hadn’t deleted it either. Every time her finger hovered over the screen, she froze. His words—I love you—lingered in her head like an echo, haunting and impossible to ignore. She hated how much it shook her.

Upstairs, she heard the faint sound of Manabu moving about—footsteps across his floor, a door shutting, then nothing. He hadn’t asked her why she was there, hadn’t scolded her or offered comfort, just let her in. That, in its own way, was more comforting than anything else. Manabu was many things, but dependable was always one of them.

Finally, she lay back against the futon and stared at the ceiling, her phone still glowing in her hand. She could type a reply. She could ignore it. She could drive back to her own place tomorrow and pretend this night never happened. But for the first time in a long while, Horikita Suzune wasn’t sure what she wanted.

And that uncertainty terrified her more than anything Nagumo—or even Ayanokouji—ever had.

The smell of butter and warm bread lingered in the kitchen as Manabu slid two slices of toast onto a plate. His movements were methodical, precise, the same way he approached everything in life. Tachibana hummed quietly beside him, carefully pouring steaming coffee into a pair of mugs. The morning light spilled in through the tall windows, soft and golden, catching the edge of her damp hair from her shower.

“She’s still asleep?” Tachibana asked softly, stirring cream into her cup.

“Yes,” Manabu replied, his voice even. He set the knife down, wiped the crumbs from the counter, and leaned against it with his arms crossed. “She arrived late. She looked exhausted.”

Tachibana nodded, not prying. She had learned long ago that if Manabu wanted to elaborate, he would. Instead, she slid a cup toward him, the faintest smile on her lips. “I see. Then let her sleep. She probably needs it.”

Manabu accepted the mug without comment, sipping slowly. His eyes drifted toward the hallway where the spare room was. He hadn’t asked Suzune why she came—she hadn’t explained either—but he could guess. He always could. Her pride would keep her from admitting it aloud, but he could read the tremor in her voice from last night. Something was breaking.

Tachibana’s hand brushed against his as she passed him the plate of toast. “You don’t look worried,” she teased lightly.

“I’m not,” he said simply, setting down his cup. “If she’s here, it means she trusts me enough to let her guard down. That’s enough.”

Tachibana gave him a small, thoughtful look before turning her attention back to the coffee pot. She didn’t push further. She knew better than anyone how little Manabu liked to speak about emotions in more detail than necessary.

The quiet of the morning filled the house—birds outside, the ticking of the clock, the faint clink of dishes. It was a domestic calm, almost too fragile compared to the storm Horikita had carried with her the night before.

Upstairs, the boards creaked faintly. Horikita stirred in the spare room, half-dreaming, half-realizing she wasn’t at home.

“Do you have much work today?” Manabu asked, placing the plates of toast carefully on the table. He looked across at Tachibana, a soft smile on his face. “I was thinking maybe we could get lunch together.”

“I have a meeting this morning,” Tachibana said, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. “It’ll probably run over.”

Manabu’s expression shifted slightly, a small shadow of disappointment crossing his features. “It always does,” he said quietly, his hands resting lightly on her waist.

“I know, honey,” Tachibana murmured, leaning into his touch. She wrapped her arms around his neck, letting her head tilt slightly as she pretended to pout. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Mmm,” Manabu hummed, leaning down to brush his lips against hers. “I’ll drop something off for you later.”

Tachibana smiled, looking up at him with genuine warmth. “I’m so lucky to have you,” she whispered, pressing another kiss to his lips, lingering just a moment longer.

Manabu chuckled softly, the sound low and affectionate. “I’m the lucky one, darling,” he said, leaning down to capture her lips once more before straightening, just in time to hear the sliding of the guest room door.

Horikita stepped out quietly, her hair slightly mussed, eyes blinking against the morning light that spilled through the windows. She froze for a moment, taking in the scene—Manabu and Tachibana, comfortable, affectionate, a picture of domestic warmth. Her heart thumped rapidly, a mixture of awe, unease, and longing all at once, the sight of Manabu and Tachibana together hitting her like a wave of warmth she hadn’t expected. They were framed in the soft morning light spilling across the kitchen, his hand resting easily on her waist, her arms still looped around his neck, their movements so natural, so unforced. For a moment, she felt like she was intruding on something sacred.

Tachibana was the first to notice her. She turned, her expression softening, though she didn’t move away from Manabu. Instead, she smiled gently. “Good morning, Suzune. Did you sleep well?”

Horikita pressed her lips together, realizing she hadn’t even brushed her hair. “Ah… yes. Thank you. Sorry for… arriving so late.”

Manabu didn’t release Tachibana until he reached for the toast on the table. His voice was calm, as if her presence didn’t disrupt the flow of his morning at all. “Sit down. Eat something.”

It wasn’t phrased like a suggestion, and Horikita knew better than to argue. She hesitated before sitting at the low table, folding her hands neatly in her lap. She could feel the steadiness of the household, the quiet routines that bound the two of them together. It was something she’d never had and hadn’t realized she longed for until now.

Tachibana poured her a cup of coffee, setting it down in front of her with practiced grace. “We don’t have much, but this should do.”

“Thank you,” Horikita murmured, her voice quieter than usual.

Manabu sat across from her, posture straight, gaze sharp. He didn’t ask questions—not yet. Instead, he watched her in that measured way of his, as though weighing her state without needing her words.

Tachibana glanced between them, sensing the tension. She touched Manabu’s shoulder lightly. “I’ll leave you two for a while,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “You probably have things to talk about.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, gathered her bag, and slipped out of the house with the easy grace of someone who trusted fully that she belonged.

“Love you”, Manabu called after her.

“Love you too!” Tachibana called back.

The silence stretched as the door closed. Horikita picked up the toast but only nibbled at the corner, eyes dropping to the plate.

Manabu finally spoke, voice low, almost stern but not unkind. “Why are you here, Suzune?”

Horikita’s grip on the toast tightened, her throat catching. “I… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Manabu exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before adjusting his glasses. “Suzune…” His voice was calm but carried a sharp edge, the kind that cut through any hesitation. “I told you Nagumo wasn’t good for you. Did you really think I’d be wrong?”

Horikita stared down at her toast, her fingers tracing the edges nervously. “I know…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling with the weight of unsaid thoughts.

Manabu’s eyes sharpened, and he leaned slightly forward across the table. “Then why didn’t you listen?” His words were not raised in anger, but in a way that demanded honesty, accountability, and introspection.

Horikita’s hands clenched in her lap. She wanted to answer, to explain, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. “…He…” Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know.”

“That’s pathetic,” Manabu said, his tone cold but precise, cutting through her confusion. “If you don’t know, then figure it out. Figure out how to get back to normal because right now… you’re not acting like my sister. I barely even recognize you.”

“Mana—” she started, but he held up a hand, silencing her.

“No excuses,” he said firmly, leaning back slightly. “I don’t want to hear any. Not about him, not about the situation, not about anything. Until you can start taking control and fixing yourself, I don’t want to see this version of you. You are not my sister, Suzune. Not the one I know.”

Horikita’s chest tightened, her hands trembling as she pressed the toast back onto the plate, untouched. The words cut deeper than any physical pain ever could. Manabu wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t threatening. He was making her face herself, forcing her to confront the fragile, broken version of herself she’d allowed to exist over the past months.

She blinked back tears, a heavy lump forming in her throat. “…I… I-,” she tried, voice shaking.

“Don’t give me excuses. Fix it, Suzune. Until you do… I don’t want to see you. You are not my sister right now.”

The words hit her harder than she expected, slicing through the fragile shell she had been holding up. She lowered her gaze to the toast again, pressing the edge of the plate into her palms, as if grounding herself against the storm he had just unleashed.

Manabu stood, straightening his shirt, and gave her a long, hard look. “I’m not trying to be cruel,” he said quietly, his voice steadier but still intense. “I’m trying to wake you up. You need to see what’s happening to you before it’s too late.”

Horikita swallowed hard, trying to keep her trembling under control. “I… I’ll try,” she whispered, barely audible, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in her chest.

He exhaled sharply, more to himself than to her, and adjusted his glasses again. “You’ll need more than trying, Suzune. You’ll need action. And it starts now—not tomorrow, not the next day.”

Horikita nodded slightly, unable to look at him directly. She felt the sting of his disappointment mixed with care, a combination she hadn’t realized she had missed until now.

“I’ll… I’ll figure it out,” she said, her voice firmer this time, though still edged with uncertainty.

Manabu didn’t respond immediately. He simply turned, his footsteps echoing in the kitchen as he moved toward the sink, running water over his hands. The silence that followed was heavy, but somehow grounding, a space for Horikita to breathe and begin thinking.

Minutes passed with only the sound of the water running. Finally, he spoke again, not looking at her. “I want you to remember this, Suzune. You’re stronger than you think. Don’t let anyone—especially him—break you down. You need to reclaim yourself.”

Horikita’s hands clenched into fists on her lap. She nodded, taking in his words, letting them settle. For the first time in months, she felt a flicker of resolve.

“I will,” she whispered again, this time with more conviction.

Manabu gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and returned to breakfast as if nothing had happened, leaving Horikita alone with her thoughts, but in a way that felt supportive rather than punitive.

Horikita sat up straighter in her chair, the weight of the morning’s conversation pressing her into focus. She had a long way to go, but for the first time, she felt like she could take the steps to reclaim herself.

She picked up her cup of coffee, letting the warmth seep into her hands, and thought about the next moves she needed to make. She would leave Nagumo for good. She would heal. And maybe—just maybe—she could find her way back to who she had been before.

Manabu’s words echoed in her mind, harsh but caring. “Figure it out.” That was her mission now. Not tomorrow, not later—now.

Horikita’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stood, setting her empty plate aside. She had a plan forming, and this time, she would stick to it.

The first step would be to truly leave Nagumo behind, no matter how difficult, no matter the fear that clawed at her chest. She couldn’t let him control her anymore.

The second step was her own healing. She needed to find herself again, the Horikita who had once been confident, strong, and capable.

And the third step… was something she hadn’t dared think about in months. But she felt a spark of hope, faint but undeniable, that maybe she could open herself to trust and love again, carefully, slowly.

Horikita exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that released some of the fear and tension in her body. She felt raw, vulnerable, but also determined.

She glanced out the kitchen window at the rising sun, the first rays of light spilling across the yard, and allowed herself a small, private smile. Change was coming. She had to be brave enough to face it.

Turning back toward the counter, she began tidying up quietly, preparing herself for the long day ahead. Each small motion felt deliberate, grounding her, reminding her that she was taking control.

But for the first time, she felt the tiniest thread of courage knitting itself into her chest. She could do this. She would do this.

Manabu’s words continued to echo in her mind, firm but caring, guiding her like a lighthouse in the fog. “Fix it, Suzune. Until you do, you are not my sister.”

She didn’t want to disappoint him—or herself—any longer.

With a final glance at the window, she drew a deep, steadying breath and stepped toward her car. It was time to take the first steps toward reclaiming her life, piece by piece, on her own terms.

And for the first time in months, Horikita felt a sliver of clarity amidst the chaos—she would survive this. She would heal. And someday, she would emerge stronger than before.

The road ahead was uncertain, but she no longer felt trapped. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she had a choice.

And she intended to use it.

Chapter Text

The restaurant buzzed with a soft, rhythmic energy — the low hum of conversation, the clinking of porcelain plates, and the steady rotation of sushi dishes gliding past on the conveyor belt like a parade of colors. The air smelled faintly of rice vinegar and seaweed, the kind of sharp, comforting scent that lingered on the back of the tongue.

Ayanokouji sat across from Horikita in one of the booth seats, his elbows resting neatly on the table. He wasn’t particularly fond of sushi trains — the randomness of it all, the slight chaos of people reaching across for plates, the unpredictable nature of what might come next — but Horikita had insisted they come here. And as always, when she looked at him with that quiet, almost imperceptible determination in her eyes, he didn’t argue.

Horikita was watching the plates circle with the focus of someone observing a fascinating experiment. Her eyes darted between each dish, following the line of salmon, tuna, shrimp, and eel, as if she were studying a test she was about to ace. Then, with a small, satisfied hum, she reached out and grabbed one of the plates. “This one looks good,” she said, her tone soft but decisive.

He raised an eyebrow. “You said that about the last three.”

Her chopsticks paused in midair, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Well… they all look good. It’s not my fault they make them look so appealing.”

Ayanokouji let a faint smile slip past his usual composure. “I think that’s the point. Marketing through presentation.”

“Don’t ruin it with logic,” she said sharply, though there was a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She set her plate down and gave him a small, knowing glance. “You don’t have to analyze everything you see.”

“I can’t help it,” he said, watching her take her first bite. “It’s habit.”

Horikita chewed thoughtfully, her expression softening as she swallowed. “You’re impossible.”

“Probably.”

She rolled her eyes, but the gesture lacked its usual edge. She reached for another plate — something with avocado and prawn — and slid it onto the table between them. “Try it,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she said flatly. “You’ve been sitting there watching me eat for ten minutes. That’s weird.”

He blinked once, then reached for the chopsticks. “I didn’t realize you kept track.”

“Of course I did.” She leaned back, satisfied. “Someone has to.”

There was something quietly endearing about the way she said it — as if keeping track of his habits, his reactions, even his silences was something natural for her. It wasn’t intrusive, not really; it was observant, almost caring in its precision.

He took a piece from the plate she’d offered, chewing slowly. “Not bad.”

Her eyes flicked up, curious. “Not bad? That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s sushi,” he said simply. “It’s supposed to taste like this.”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “You’re sitting in one of the most popular sushi places in the city, and all you can say is ‘it’s supposed to taste like this’?”

“I could say it’s good,” he said, meeting her eyes evenly. “But I think you already know that.”

Horikita stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “You’re infuriating.”

He shrugged lightly, his voice carrying just a hint of teasing warmth. “And yet you still invite me out.”

That caught her off guard. She looked away, suddenly busying herself with grabbing another plate. “That’s because you never say no,” she said after a pause, her tone softer now, almost embarrassed.

“I’d say that’s a good system,” he replied.

Her lips curved upward despite herself. “You just like making me do all the work.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Maybe.”

For a while, they fell into a comfortable rhythm — eating, watching the plates pass, making small comments here and there about the food or the people nearby. A child at the next table was laughing as he tried to grab a moving plate and missed; Horikita’s gaze softened at the sight. Ayanokouji noticed.

“You like seeing people happy,” he said quietly, almost as an observation rather than a question.

She blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of his tone. “I like… seeing effort,” she corrected. “Happiness is the result of it.”

He nodded, leaning back slightly. “That’s very you.”

Horikita smirked faintly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Precise. Logical. A little too self-aware.”

She gave a light scoff, though there was no bite in it. “And you’re not?”

“Maybe. But I think you’ve surpassed me.”

The conversation drifted then, light and effortless in a way that neither of them had ever really experienced with anyone else. Every exchange was like a subtle dance — her quiet stubbornness meeting his even quieter amusement, both of them understanding far more than they said.

At one point, she reached across the table and plucked a piece of tempura from his plate without asking. He gave her a look of mild surprise.

“What?” she said defensively, her cheeks coloring again. “You weren’t eating it.”

“I was,” he said.

“No, you weren’t.”

He stared at her for a second longer before letting out a low breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “You can have it.”

She smirked triumphantly. “I already did.”

By the time they finished, a small pile of empty plates sat stacked neatly to one side. Horikita looked satisfied, leaning back slightly with her arms crossed, while Ayanokouji sipped at his tea.

When she finally looked at him again, her expression softened. “Thanks for coming with me,” she said quietly.

He looked up from his cup. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

Her lips twitched upward. “You always have a choice, Ayanokouji.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at her for a long moment, taking in the faint amusement in her eyes, the small flicker of warmth that she rarely allowed anyone to see. Then he said softly, “Then I guess I chose right.”

For the first time that night, Horikita didn’t try to hide her smile. It was brief, almost fleeting — but it was real.

And in that moment, surrounded by the soft hum of conversation and the scent of freshly made sushi, Ayanokouji thought that maybe, just maybe, he understood why she liked this place after all. It wasn’t about the food. It was about the peace it brought her — the small, quiet joy of sharing a table with someone who didn’t need her to be anything but herself.

The night air was cool, touched by the faint salt of the sea that bordered the city. The sushi train behind them glowed softly through the restaurant windows, the neon sign reflecting in the puddles along the street from an earlier drizzle. Horikita’s hand was small and warm in his, her grip gentle yet confident as she tugged him along the sidewalk. Her steps were lighter than usual — almost playful — and for once, Ayanokouji didn’t try to analyze it.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of their shoes against the pavement mixing with the distant hum of traffic. Horikita glanced at him now and then, her eyes carrying that subtle warmth that rarely showed itself back in high school. She had changed — softened in small, almost imperceptible ways. It wasn’t the Horikita who buried herself in ambition or who treated emotions like distractions. This version of her laughed quietly when a cat darted across their path and paused to look at flowers blooming near a closed café.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she’d said — and she’d meant it. No destination. No purpose. Just being there, together.

Ayanokouji still didn’t know when such moments had started to mean something to him. Maybe it was the way she didn’t force words out of him. Maybe it was how she didn’t need him to be more than what he was. Her fingers laced with his, her thumb brushing the back of his hand absentmindedly, and he wondered if she knew that even small gestures like that left a mark on him.

“Yeah?” he murmured when she looked up at him, the light from a nearby lamppost catching the edges of her hair.

She smiled — that rare, unguarded smile that reached her eyes. “I love you,” she said simply, leaning up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

The world seemed to slow for just a second. Her breath was warm against his skin, the faint scent of soy sauce and green tea lingering.

Ayanokouji looked at her for a long moment, searching for words that would match what he felt. But words had always been difficult for him — slippery, unreliable. So instead, he gave her a small smile, faint but sincere, and said, “I know.”

Horikita laughed quietly, shaking her head. “You sound like you’re in a movie,” she teased, but her fingers didn’t let go.

They continued walking under the soft streetlights, past convenience stores and empty bus stops. The city around them felt suspended in time, quiet and gentle in a way it rarely was. Every few steps, her shoulder brushed his arm, her warmth steady beside him.

“Do you think we’ll ever be like this in a few years?” she asked suddenly. “Still walking around late at night, talking about nothing?”

“Maybe,” Ayanokouji replied. “If you don’t get tired of it.”

“I won’t,” she said confidently, squeezing his hand. “Not with you.”

He looked at her again — at the quiet conviction in her eyes — and felt something stir, something that wasn’t logic or calculation. Just... presence. He realized that, for all his attempts to remain detached, he had already let her in long ago.

They stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. The faint sound of the sea reached them again, a rhythmic hush like a steady heartbeat. Horikita leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair brushing his neck.

“You know,” she said softly, “you don’t have to say it back.”

He blinked, turning slightly toward her.

“You don’t have to force yourself to say what you don’t feel,” she clarified, voice gentle. “I know you care, Ayanokouji. That’s enough.”

He wanted to say something then — something that might tell her she was wrong, that he did feel something deep, something terrifying in its quiet intensity — but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he simply placed his hand over hers, grounding her hand against his arm.

The light turned green, and they crossed.

By the time they reached the park, Horikita had let go only to wander ahead a few steps, spinning slowly under the faint glow of the lamps. Her laughter echoed faintly in the stillness, and Ayanokouji found himself smiling again — a small, fleeting thing.

“Hey,” she said, turning back toward him, eyes bright. “Let’s make a promise.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A promise?”

“If we ever start drifting apart,” she said, walking back toward him, “let’s find our way back. No matter what.”

He hesitated. Promises had always seemed fragile to him — thin threads that snapped easily with time. But she looked at him with such quiet certainty that he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

“Alright,” he said finally. “A promise.”

Horikita nodded, satisfied. She reached up to fix his collar before taking his hand again. “Good. Then let’s go home.”

They walked back together, their shadows long and intertwined under the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of the ocean, and for that brief stretch of time, Ayanokouji allowed himself to think that maybe — just maybe — he understood what it meant to belong somewhere.

And as they passed the same sushi restaurant where it had all begun, Horikita glanced up at him one last time, smiling faintly. “See? The novelty never really fades.”

He didn’t respond — not with words, at least. But the way his hand tightened around hers said enough.

Horikita blinked slowly, the world coming back into focus in fragments — the ceiling fan turning lazily, the muted hum of the air conditioner, the faint glow of morning filtering through the sheer curtains. For a moment, the memory still clung to her — the sound of his voice, the brush of his hand against hers, that quiet “I know” that used to mean something. Then it was gone, slipping through her fingers like smoke.

She rolled onto her side, her hair spilling across the pillow, and let out a low groan. The sheets were cool, untouched on the other side. She hadn’t slept much — again. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind dragged her back to those little moments she couldn’t seem to escape from. Moments that meant everything once, and nothing now.

Her phone sat on the nightstand, facedown, silent. It had been silent for days. She stared at it like it might come alive if she willed it hard enough. A part of her wanted to reach for it, to see if maybe there was a message waiting — something short, impersonal, the kind of thing he used to send when he didn’t know what else to say. But she already knew there wasn’t.

Still, the thought lingered. She could call him. Just once. Just to hear his voice, to confirm he was still out there, to remind herself that she hadn’t imagined everything. Her fingers twitched toward the phone, but she stopped herself before they made contact. The idea of hearing him sound distant, detached — polite, maybe — was worse than the silence.

She sat up, the sheets falling away from her, and pressed a hand to her forehead. The hotel room was clean, sterile, almost aggressively neutral. She had chosen it that way on purpose — somewhere that didn’t feel like home, somewhere temporary. A space where she could exist without having to attach memories to it.

But even here, in this place that wasn’t theirs, he lingered. The scent of his cologne was long gone, but she could still remember it. The rhythm of his breathing beside her when he used to fall asleep before she did. The quiet murmur of his voice when she would overthink something, and he’d remind her to rest.

She hated how easily those thoughts came back.

“Get a grip,” she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand through her hair.

The silence answered her back, patient and heavy.

She considered the phone again. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt. Maybe if she called, she could finally stop wondering. Even if he didn’t answer — even if it went straight to voicemail — she’d at least know she tried.

Her hand hovered above the device now, trembling just slightly.

He’s not going to answer, she told herself. And even if he does, what are you going to say? ‘Hi, I just wanted to see if you still think about me?’

She exhaled shakily and withdrew her hand. No. It was better this way. She had to believe that. She had to let him have his silence, just as she had chosen hers.

But that didn’t stop the ache from sitting heavy in her chest.

Leaning back against the headboard, Horikita stared at the ceiling again. The light was shifting now, sunlight pooling through the curtains in slow motion. She could hear the city outside — car horns, distant chatter, the pulse of a world that had moved on without her.

She wondered if he heard it too, from wherever he was.

Maybe he was sitting in some office right now, staring at his untouched lunch, pretending he wasn’t thinking about her. Maybe he wasn’t pretending at all. Maybe he really had moved on.

The thought hurt more than she wanted to admit.

Her phone buzzed suddenly — not with a call, but with a calendar reminder. A meeting, something mundane. The kind of thing she used to tease him about forgetting. For a second, her heart leapt — foolish, instinctive — before reality caught up.

She sighed, letting her head fall back against the wall.

“Afraid,” she whispered to herself, the word almost foreign on her tongue. She had always hated that feeling, hated admitting to it. Fear was weakness, she used to tell herself. But now she wasn’t so sure.

Maybe fear was all she had left. Maybe it was the only thing keeping her from dialing that number and undoing months of distance she’d worked so hard to create.

She drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin there, staring blankly at the phone again. The urge to call still lingered, stronger now.

Being afraid got me here, she thought. Maybe it’ll get me out.

But even as she said it, she didn’t believe it. Not yet.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the phone again, slow and uncertain. She didn’t press the button. Not this time. But she didn’t push it away either.

Instead, she stayed like that — sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in sunlight and hesitation — caught somewhere between wanting to reach out and learning how to live without him.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know which one scared her more.

Horikita sat there for what felt like hours, the faint hum of the air conditioner and the ticking clock on the nightstand the only sounds that filled the sterile hotel room. The sunlight had shifted completely now, spilling in soft amber waves across the sheets, and yet she hadn’t moved. Her hands rested motionless in her lap, her phone lying face up beside her, Ayanokouji’s name staring back at her from the screen.

She could still hear Manabu’s voice in her head — sharp, disappointed, cutting through her thoughts like a blade. “Fix it, Suzune.” The words had been echoing in her mind since she’d left his house, a mantra she couldn’t escape no matter how much she tried to reason with herself. But what did “fix it” even mean anymore? Did he mean fix herself? Fix them? Fix the version of her that had once been capable of loving without fear?

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, fingers gripping her hair as she stared down at the phone again. “Fix it…” she whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible. “How?”

She thought of the last time she had seen Ayanokouji — the way he’d looked at her, not angry, not even cold, just tired. There had been a distance in his eyes that she couldn’t cross, no matter what she said. And she had said so little, hiding behind the same walls she’d built years ago, the same ones that had once protected her and now only isolated her.

Her hand hovered over the phone again. Her chest felt tight, her throat dry. The rational part of her screamed don’t do it. It told her that calling him would only make things worse, that he had probably moved on, that he didn’t want to hear her voice anymore. But the other part — the one that was still clinging to the ghost of what they’d been — refused to let her look away.

She thought of how he used to answer her calls. How his voice always came through calm, steady, unshaken no matter the situation. She remembered the subtle tone of amusement he’d get when she’d call for something trivial, like asking him to pick up dinner or complaining about a work problem. She missed that quiet sense of safety his voice carried, the assurance that no matter what happened, he would be there — even when he didn’t say it outright.

But now, there were no guarantees. No safety. Just an empty contact icon and a growing pit in her stomach.

She pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of the dial tone — one ring, then another. Her heart thudded harder with each one. She almost wanted him not to answer, just so she could tell herself it wasn’t meant to be. But when the third ring came, her breath caught.

Then the line clicked.

Her heart nearly stopped.

But there was no voice — just silence, faint static on the other end. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out.

“…Hello?”

It was him. His voice was the same — calm, even, almost detached — but there was something in it, something unreadable.

For a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe. All her carefully rehearsed words evaporated.

“Kiyotaka…” she finally managed, her voice trembling more than she wanted it to.

There was a pause. “Suzune.”

Just hearing him say her name sent a sharp pang through her chest. She closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the bed with her free hand. “I—I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“I almost didn’t,” he said simply. No anger, no warmth — just honesty.

“I…” she hesitated. “I wanted to talk. I know I don’t really have the right to ask that, but… I needed to hear your voice.”

Another pause. She could hear faint background noise on his end — maybe traffic, or the hum of a busy street. Wherever he was, it wasn’t home.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked after a moment, his voice quiet but controlled.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “Everything, maybe. Or nothing. I just— I can’t stop thinking about how things ended. About how I left.”

“You mean how you disappeared,” he said flatly.

The words hit harder than she expected. She winced, curling in slightly as if trying to protect herself. “I didn’t mean to— I just… I panicked. Everything was falling apart, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“So you ran.”

“I had to,” she said quickly, almost pleading now. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I do,” he said after a beat. “That’s the problem.”

The silence between them stretched long, heavy, suffocating.

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak again. “Manabu told me to fix it.”

A faint, incredulous sound came from him — not quite a laugh, but close. “That sounds like something he’d say.”

“I don’t even know what it means anymore,” she confessed, her voice small. “I thought it meant fixing myself, but now I think maybe it means fixing this. Fixing what I broke.”

There was a rustle on his end — maybe he was moving, maybe just adjusting his phone. “Some things don’t go back to the way they were, Suzune.”

She bit her lip hard enough to sting. “I know. But I want to try.”

“For whose sake?”

The question caught her off guard. “What?”

“For yours,” he said quietly, “or mine?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her throat tightened, and she had to look away, even though he couldn’t see her. “Both,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. “If that’s possible.”

He didn’t speak again for several seconds. Then, softly, “You’re calling because you’re scared. Not because you’re ready.”

She felt the tears coming before she could stop them. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “But I didn’t want to keep being afraid without trying.”

He let out a slow exhale on the other end. “You don’t need to be afraid, Suzune. You just need to decide what you actually want.”

“I want you,” she said before she could stop herself.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Suzune…” Ayanokouji’s voice was gentle, steady, carrying that calm composure she’d grown used to—but before he could continue, a voice echoed faintly from the background.

A woman’s voice.

“Koji, who are you talking to?”

Horikita froze. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her fingers tightened around the phone, the world narrowing to the silence that followed that question. Koji? The nickname hit her like a slap. Her mind began to race, rapid and uncontrollable. Had he moved on? Was he seeing someone? Was it serious? Was she hearing his girlfriend? Or… were they just talking? Had she lost him already, without even realizing it?

When he spoke again, the tone of his voice shifted—gone was the softness, replaced with something distant and colder. “No one,” he said quickly. “Go finish getting ready.”

The sound of a door closing somewhere in the background made Horikita’s stomach twist. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

She swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she finally spoke. “Wh—”

“It’s not serious,” Ayanokouji interrupted, cutting through her panic before it could spill out. His tone softened again, controlled and measured.

“…What?” she breathed out, barely able to form the word.

“You’re wondering who she is,” he said quietly, his intuition as sharp as ever, “and whether it’s serious or not. It’s not.”

Horikita’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. The calm certainty in his voice anchored her, but it didn’t erase the ache in her chest. “…Right,” she finally murmured, her tone subdued. Then, after a pause, softer still, she added, “Can we talk? Like… in person. Please?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then his answer came, low and steady. “Of course.”

She exhaled shakily, almost a whisper. “Thank you.”

“Goodbye,” he said gently, and then the line went dead.

Horikita lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen. The quiet of her apartment felt heavier than before. For the first time in a long while, she realised how much the distance between them hurt—and how much she wanted to close it.

Horikita’s breath hitched as she set the phone down on the table, her trembling hands rising to cover her face. The silence of the room pressed in around her like a weight, thick and suffocating. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, uneven and frantic. For the first time, the full gravity of what she’d done—of what she’d allowed to happen—crashed over her in a single, unstoppable wave.

She could lose him.

Not in the abstract sense she’d told herself before—not in that safe, distant way where she believed he’d always be there, waiting, patient, steady as ever. No, this was real now. Tangible. She could lose Ayanokouji forever.

Her mind replayed that faint voice from the call. The way it had sounded—comfortable, familiar, unguarded. A woman’s voice calling him “Koji” like she’d done it before, like it was second nature. Horikita’s stomach twisted painfully. She wasn’t just hearing a stranger; she was hearing the reality that someone else had stepped into the space she used to occupy. Someone who might’ve made him smile again. Someone who wasn’t afraid, who didn’t keep him at arm’s length the way she had.

Her hands dropped to the table with a soft thud, and she stared down at her reflection in the black screen of her phone. Her eyes were red, her hair unkempt, her expression hollow. She barely recognized herself anymore. She thought of what Manabu had said—his disappointment, his words like daggers: “You’re not acting like my sister.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe she hadn’t been acting like herself for a long time now.

Her thoughts spiraled—through the moments she’d pushed Ayanokouji away, the times she’d let fear dictate her choices, the endless nights she’d convinced herself that staying with Nagumo, or running away, or saying nothing at all was somehow safer. Every single time, she’d chosen silence over truth, pride over vulnerability. And it had cost her everything.

Her throat tightened painfully. He could move on, she thought. He might already have.

The realization felt like being plunged into freezing water. Her pulse quickened, her breathing shallow. She’d always assumed there would be time—that he’d wait for her to figure herself out, to find her words. But life didn’t wait. People didn’t wait. Not even someone like him.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her reflection. She wiped them away angrily, as though denying their existence could make everything less real. But she couldn’t hide from it anymore. The truth was brutally clear now: if she didn’t do something—now—she would lose Ayanokouji completely.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her head buried in her hands once again. The thought looped endlessly in her mind, pounding with every heartbeat. He’s slipping away.

And maybe that’s what it took—the fear of losing him—to finally make her see how much he’d mattered all along. All those moments she’d taken for granted came rushing back: the quiet mornings where he’d make her tea just the way she liked it, the way he’d hold her wrist gently when she was upset, grounding her with just a look. His rare, fleeting smiles—the kind that made her chest feel light even when everything else was heavy.

She’d been so wrapped up in her own pain, her own guilt, that she hadn’t realized how much she’d hurt him too. How much she’d made him doubt that she cared.

The tears came freely now, silent and hot against her cheeks. For once, she didn’t try to stop them.

Horikita stood abruptly, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. Her legs trembled, but she forced herself upright. The weight pressing down on her had shifted—it was still heavy, but now it had purpose. Determination burned beneath the fear.

She couldn’t sit around anymore. She couldn’t just wait for him to call, or hope that things would fix themselves. Love wasn’t passive. It wasn’t something that survived on its own.

If she wanted him back—if she truly wanted to rebuild what they’d had—she had to fight for it.

She reached for her phone again, fingers shaking but steady enough to scroll through her contacts until she found his name. The familiar letters glared up at her from the screen, each one reminding her of what she stood to lose.

Her thumb hovered over the message icon. For a long moment, she hesitated. The old part of her—the cautious, analytical side—whispered all the reasons she shouldn’t. That he’d moved on. That he deserved peace. That she didn’t deserve forgiveness.

But then she heard his voice again, faint in her memory: “Of course.”

That gentle promise when she’d asked to meet. That simple, unwavering kindness.

And she realized—he hadn’t given up on her. Not yet.

She took a deep breath, steadying her heart, and whispered to herself, “No more running.”

Her thumbs began to move, typing slowly, deliberately. A message that was small, simple—but honest. The first honest thing she’d said in a long time.

“I want to fix this. I’ll do anything. Just tell me where to start.”

When she hit send, she exhaled deeply, her body trembling. For the first time in months, maybe years, she wasn’t just surviving—she was choosing to live. Choosing to fight for something.

And even though she didn’t know if he’d respond, even though her chest still ached, there was a faint, fragile hope growing inside her.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

Ayanokouji stood by the doorway, his gaze distant as Ichinose adjusted her hair in the reflection of the hallway mirror. The faint sound of the city outside filled the silence between them — the hum of cars, the murmur of people, the faint rush of wind through narrow streets.

"Ichinose," he finally said, his tone calm but weighted with something that lingered unsaid.

"Yes?" She looked up, meeting his eyes in the reflection, her expression patient but wary.

"Do you still want to go out?"

Her hands froze mid-adjustment, the hairpin she was holding slipping slightly between her fingers. She turned around to face him fully, her lips pressing into a line. "You do this every time, Ayanokouji," she said softly, though there was no anger in her tone — just quiet disappointment. "We make plans, and right before we leave, you start questioning it."

He lowered his gaze, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat that still hung unbuttoned. "I just thought maybe—"

"Maybe what?" she interrupted gently, stepping closer. "Maybe I’d get tired of waiting for you to stop thinking about her?"

He didn’t answer, but that silence was enough. Ichinose sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear before continuing. "Let’s just go. It’ll be good for you. You’ve been so... off lately. You barely talk. You barely smile. You can’t keep living like this."

"I’m not depressed," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"You are," she countered, her voice soft but firm. "You can barely go a day without looking like the world’s pressing down on you. You think I don’t notice? You’re allowed to have feelings, Ayanokouji, but..."

She trailed off, searching his expression for something — a spark, a reaction, anything. When she didn’t find it, she exhaled slowly and stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him. Her head rested lightly against his chest.

"It’s been a year," she murmured against him, her voice almost a whisper now. "A year since you and Suzune ended things. And you’re still carrying it like it just happened yesterday."

Ayanokouji’s arms came up slowly, almost hesitantly, to return the hug. His chin brushed against the top of her head as he closed his eyes for a brief moment.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to — her, Horikita, or himself. "I’ll get my coat and we’ll go."

Ichinose pulled back with a small, bittersweet smile, nodding. As he turned to grab his coat, she watched him, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. She wanted to believe he was moving forward — that they could be something real — but deep down, she knew that somewhere in the spaces between his quiet words and long silences, a part of him still belonged to Suzune Horikita.

Ichinose watched him quietly as he turned toward the coat rack, the sound of the hanger scraping against the metal echoing faintly in the stillness of his apartment. There was a heaviness to the air — not the awkward kind, but the kind that came from too many unsaid words, from the quiet understanding that something fragile was still breaking, slowly, between them.

Ayanokouji slipped his coat on with his usual calm precision, his movements practiced and distant. “Where did you want to go?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You pick. You always do.”

He paused, considering. “The café near the station?”

Ichinose nodded. “Sure.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes were searching his face, trying to read if this time — this particular outing — would be different. If maybe, just maybe, he’d look at her the way he used to look at Horikita.

As they stepped out into the cold evening air, the wind whipped past them, carrying the faint smell of rain. Ichinose walked beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally, but far enough that it still felt like a cautious dance — a line she knew not to cross.

“You know,” she said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Suzune probably wouldn’t want you to be like this.

Ayanokouji’s gaze stayed fixed ahead, his hands buried in his coat pockets. “Maybe not.”

“Then why hold onto it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. They passed a streetlight that cast a dim glow over his face, softening the sharp lines of his expression. “Because some things,” he finally said, “don’t fade just because you want them to.”

Ichinose looked down at the pavement. “I guess that’s true.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

They reached the café a few minutes later. The warmth inside was a relief against the chill, and the faint sound of jazz music hummed in the background. They took a small table near the window. Ayanokouji ordered tea; Ichinose, a latte.

For a while, they sat in silence, the only sound between them being the soft clinking of cups. Ichinose finally broke the quiet. “Do you ever think you’ll see her again?”

He looked up, eyes unreadable. “I will. She called me.”

Ichinose froze slightly, her fingers tightening around her cup. “She… called you?”

He nodded, his tone unreadable but his expression softer than it had been in months. “Yeah. She wants to talk. In person.”

Ichinose’s heart sank just a little, though she kept her face composed. “And you said yes.”

“Of course.”

The silence that followed was heavier this time. She managed a small nod, forcing a smile that was both genuine and resigned. “Then I hope it helps you find what you’re looking for.”

Ayanokouji’s eyes flickered toward her. “You always say the right thing.”

She chuckled softly, stirring her latte. “That’s because I know I’m not the thing you’re looking for.”

Outside, the rain began to fall. Inside, neither of them moved for a long time.

“Are you… upset?” Ayanokouji asked quietly, his tone careful, measured.

Ichinose lifted her cup, letting the warm latte steam curl against her fingers before answering. “No,” she said softly, though her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. “It’s not like we’re together, right? You can talk to her, see her… do whatever you need to.”

Ayanokouji inclined his head slightly, processing her words. “Noted,” he said simply, his voice low and even, though there was a subtle weight behind it.

Ichinose set her cup down, letting her fingers trace the rim absentmindedly. “I mean… I get it. She’s important to you,” she added, almost more to herself than to him, her gaze flitting toward the window as the soft drizzle outside mirrored her mood.

He didn’t reply immediately, letting the silence stretch between them. There was an understanding there, unspoken, layered with complexities neither of them had words for.

Ichinose kept her eyes on the latte, watching the foam swirl as if it held some answer she was too afraid to voice. The words had left her mouth easily, but the truth sat heavy in her chest. It wasn’t jealousy exactly — it was more like standing in the shadow of someone else’s ghost, someone she could never quite compete with no matter how hard she tried.

Ayanokouji studied her for a moment, his expression neutral but his gaze steady. “You don’t sound fine,” he said quietly.

She let out a soft, almost tired laugh. “I’m not mad, Koji. Really. We’ve never been anything official. You don’t owe me explanations.” She paused, eyes lifting to meet his. “But… I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt sometimes.”

He shifted slightly, leaning back in his chair. The café’s soft lighting caught in his hair, giving him a faint, distant glow. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t,” Ichinose said. She placed the cup down gently, fingers lingering on the handle. “But it still happens. That’s life.”

There was a silence between them, the kind that wasn’t awkward but was heavy with everything neither of them could say. Outside, the rain streaked down the window in thin lines, blurring the city lights beyond.

“You’ve been good to me,” Ayanokouji said finally. “Patient.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s my flaw, isn’t it?”

He almost smiled at that, his lips twitching just slightly. “Maybe it’s your strength.”

Ichinose tilted her head, studying him. “Then tell me honestly… if she asks you back, you’d go, wouldn’t you?”

Ayanokouji didn’t look away. “Yes.”

It was a single word, spoken without hesitation, but the quiet weight of it pressed against both of them.

Ichinose inhaled slowly, then exhaled, steadying herself. “Then at least don’t lie to yourself about what you want. Or to her.”

He nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Noted.”

She picked up her cup again and smiled — not bitterly, but with a quiet sort of acceptance. “Good. Then finish your tea before it gets cold.”

For the first time that evening, Ayanokouji almost felt the corner of his mouth lift, just a fraction.

Ichinose tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes crinkling slightly at his comment. “You look… less mopey than usual,” she teased, sipping her latte again.

Ayanokouji allowed himself the faintest smirk. “Less mopey, not happy. There’s a difference.”

“Small difference,” she countered, leaning back in her chair. “But I’ll take it as progress.” Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, thoughtful. “It’s nice… being out like this without everything feeling so heavy.”

He nodded slowly, glancing out the window at the drizzle that traced down the glass. The soft gray light made everything feel muted, almost suspended in time. “It’s… easier, I suppose, when it’s not about her.”

Ichinose tilted her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose I’m honored to get this rare version of you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a faint trace of amusement crossing his face. “Rare enough that it won’t last long, I imagine.”

She laughed softly, the sound light and warm, and he found himself noticing the details he hadn’t before—the way her shoulders relaxed when she smiled, the subtle tilt of her head, the calm confidence that came from knowing she didn’t need to compete with anyone.

“You’ve been keeping busy, haven’t you?” she asked, swirling her latte gently. “All that work, all the late nights… Are you ever really free?”

“Free is a relative term,” he said quietly. His eyes flicked toward the city outside, then back to her. “I have moments like this. That’s enough for now.”

Ichinose reached over and lightly touched his arm. “Moments like this are important. Don’t let them slip away, Koji.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. “I’m aware.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, neither rushing to fill the space. The soft murmur of the café, the occasional clink of cutlery, the distant sound of footsteps outside—it all felt grounding.

“Do you ever… think about the past?” she asked suddenly, her voice lower, almost hesitant.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not to dwell, but to remember. To understand why things are the way they are.”

Her fingers traced the rim of her cup absentmindedly. “And… are you happy with how things are?”

He paused, letting the words settle. “Happiness is… complicated.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose it is. But moments like these… maybe they’re enough to remind you that it’s worth pursuing.”

He studied her quietly, the gentle encouragement in her eyes. “Perhaps.”

Ichinose smiled faintly, a mixture of teasing and sincerity. “You have a funny way of showing it, but I think you’re trying.”

“I try when it matters,” he said simply.

She leaned back, her expression softening. “Well, it matters to me right now.”

Ayanokouji tilted his head, considering her words. There was an ease in the conversation, a gentle rhythm he hadn’t felt in a long time. No pressure, no pretense—just this quiet connection.

“I suppose that makes two of us,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Exactly,” she replied, her tone light but certain. “Two people, just talking, just being here. Isn’t that nice?”

He allowed himself a longer look at her, noting the way her smile softened her features, the subtle spark in her eyes, the calm aura that contrasted so sharply with the tension he often carried.

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice quieter than usual. “It is nice.”

The conversation flowed naturally from there, drifting from casual observations about the café to gentle teasing about their shared past, and finally to small, personal admissions neither had offered to anyone else.

“You’re different than I remembered,” Ichinose said at one point, her eyes studying him with quiet curiosity.

“I’ve changed,” he admitted. “Circumstances tend to do that.”

She nodded, not pressing further. Instead, she reached over, lightly brushing his hand with hers. “And… I like who you are now.”

A flicker of warmth passed through him, brief but real. “I appreciate that.”

They spent the next hour in this calm, gentle rhythm—speaking softly, exchanging smiles, leaning into the comfort of shared presence without the need for anything more. It was simple, unremarkable to an outsider, but to them, it was grounding, a reminder that not all connections were fraught or complicated.

Eventually, the barista called out last orders, the café starting to quiet down. Ichinose stretched, a subtle yawn escaping her lips. “We should probably head out before they kick us out,” she said with a teasing grin.

Ayanokouji nodded, rising and slipping on his coat. “Agreed.”

Outside, the drizzle had lightened to a mist, the air cool but not uncomfortable. Ichinose fell into step beside him, hands tucked in her pockets, glancing at him from time to time.

“You know,” she said, her voice casual but carrying a hint of playfulness, “if you keep looking this gloomy, I might have to drag you out more often.”

“I don’t mind,” he said simply, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“And I don’t either,” she replied, a soft laugh following. “It’s… nice, seeing you this way. Relaxed. Calm. Almost human.”

He chuckled softly at that, allowing himself to walk a little taller, the weight on his shoulders lighter than it had been in months.

“Maybe,” Ichinose continued, glancing at him with a teasing glint, “I should start charging you for these walks. Therapy sessions included.”

“Would you take payment in silence and a smile?” he asked, keeping his tone dry but humor threading through it.

“I could do that,” she replied, smiling warmly. “But I might demand stories too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, his gaze flicking toward the city skyline ahead, the lights muted by the lingering mist.

As they walked together, side by side yet comfortably apart, the rhythm of their steps matched the quiet pulse of the city, each lost in thought but tethered by the easy connection that had grown between them.

It wasn’t love, not in the way he felt for someone else, but it was a calm, grounding presence—a subtle reminder that not every interaction needed to be dramatic or high stakes.

And for the first time in a long while, Ayanokouji allowed himself to simply be present, to let the quiet ease wash over him without judgment or expectation.

Ichinose glanced at him once more, catching the slight softening in his eyes, and smiled to herself. She didn’t need words—she knew this small moment, these few hours, were enough for now.

The city lights shimmered through the mist as they continued their walk, a gentle, unhurried journey through quiet streets, each step measured, each breath taken slowly, carrying them forward together.