True Fool Love

by thereal_Quinn

Summary:

The school offers a summer program extending the practical into the summer for students who aren't going home for the summer. Jirou still doesn't know Akari stopped chasing Minami, and he's very confused about his feelings. Shiori isn't giving up on Jirou. This camp is a chance to fix all the mistakes she made at the live-in job, and she'll be damned if she lets Akari get to Jirou first. Akari keeps falling and she doesnt know how to stop, on one hand she wants to keep chasing Jirou to have him actualy love her or hold her without practically imploding and shoving her away, and on the other she knows he loves Shiori and she's not sure if he would ever think of her that way, but she wont give up and if Shiori could go low she'd go lower.

or

Summer camp brings many surprises for everyone. And Jirou feels like a tug-a-war rope.

Chapter 1: Welcome to Seaside Simulation

The sun filtered through the wide bus windows as the long white school shuttle snaked along the coastal highway, sea glinting to the right and forested hills rolling on the left. The hum of conversation filled the bus — a chaotic mix of laughter, last-minute gossip, and subtle glances between partners.

Near the back, Akari had her legs curled up on the seat, sandals dangling from her toes. She was sandwiched between two of her girlfriends, animatedly recounting a story that involved a water gun, a skirt, and an accidental trip down a dormitory staircase. Her bright laughter rang out above the noise.

“And then he tried to catch me, but tripped over the laundry basket, and boom! Face-first into my underwear pile!”

The girls screamed with laughter, and Akari dramatically fanned her flushed cheeks.

“He still won’t make eye contact in the halls.”

Meanwhile, Jirou, seated three rows up and across the aisle, was only half-listening to his best friend Kamo, who was deep into a monologue about his newest gacha game obsession.

“No seriously, they dropped a limited swimsuit version of Princess Kallista and the banner’s only up for seven days. If I don’t pull her now, she’s gone until next year! You think if I tell the school it’s for ‘relationship growth’ they’ll let me use the practical bonus allowance to buy gems?”

Jirou gave a half-hearted shrug, eyes flicking back toward the rear of the bus where Akari laughed again — her head thrown back, eyes closed, vibrant. The sight made his stomach tighten for reasons he didn’t want to analyze.

Two rows ahead, Minami was leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees, looking for all the world like someone going on a relaxing vacation. There was a rare, easy smile on his face, and even he cracked a chuckle when Sadaharu tripped while trying to get a better look at the ocean view.

And near the front — by the wide side window — Shiori and Mei sat together in the quieter section of the bus. Shiori was pressed gently against the glass, hands folded on her lap. Her voice was soft, but full of a hopeful nervousness.

“I hope I can spend some time with Jirou this summer,” she said, her eyes on the glittering coastline. “It’s a couple program, right? That means… there should be time. Maybe even something important will change.”

Mei smirked and leaned over to nudge her.

“Apparently this whole thing is supposed to be ‘couple oriented,’ whatever the hell that means. But don’t worry — I got your back.”

She paused, then added with a mischievous glint in her eye

“Maybe you can get some smoochy time with your—”

“Mei!” Shiori yelped, burying her face in her hands. Her ears turned a deep red. “Don’t say things like that on a bus full of people!”

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t tell me you don’t want it. A little seaside stargazing? A firework kiss? Ooooh— what if he finally sees you in a swimsuit and has a nosebleed?”

Shiori groaned and practically melted into her seat, muttering something about how Mei was a menace. But she couldn’t stop the small, secret smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

The bus finally rumbled to a stop at the seaside facility, kicking up light sand as the wheels ground to a halt. The doors hissed open and the students spilled out, stretching limbs, shielding their eyes from the bright sun, and hauling duffle bags onto the path lined with flowers and palm trees.

Akari jumped off the steps, tossing her beach bag over one shoulder and sighing deeply.

“Smells like freedom and sunburn.”

Jirou followed more slowly, glancing at the pastel-colored cottages.

“Smells like trouble.”

A small staff team waved clipboards and called names. Students gathered in loose groups, scanning the cottage list posted on a board under the “Welcome” banner.
Akari squinted.

“Jirou, we got number seven! Ooh, cute — it’s the mint-colored one near the beach stairs.”

“Wait. It’s right next to…” he looked down the list. “Minami and Shiori.”

They both paused.

Akari’s expression faltered for half a second, but then she smiled brightly — too brightly.

“Great. Nothing like emotional warfare as your neighbor.”

Behind them, Shiori stepped off the bus carefully, clutching her shoulder bag, while Mei strutted beside her with a wide grin.

“Let’s see who’s where… ooooh, look at that. You’re two doors down from Loverboy and his sunshine bomb.”

Shiori looked toward Cottage #7 just as Jirou and Akari stepped onto the porch, their hands brushing accidentally as they adjusted the key in the lock.

Her fingers tightened on her bag strap.

“I just want to be honest this time,” she whispered.

The camera pans over the cottages as the sun reaches its peak, seagulls flying overhead. Luggage is being unpacked, doors creak open, the sound of laughter carries across the sea breeze.

But underneath it all — just like the soft waves gathering out at sea — tension is building.

Some couples will grow closer.
Some will fall apart.
Some hearts will break.
And others… might just surprise themselves.

The breeze caught her words, lifting them just enough for Mei to hear. Mei’s smile softened. For once, she didn’t tease.

“Then go be honest,” she said simply, giving Shiori’s shoulder a supportive nudge. “Summer’s long. You’ve got time — don’t waste it.”

As students trickled toward their assigned cottages, the mood buzzed with anticipation. Some pairs were bickering over who’d carry the heavier bag, others were already snapping photos and planning beach outings. The row of colorful houses stood like a lineup of future memories waiting to be written — some romantic, some ridiculous, and a few bound to be emotionally messy.

Cottage #7 smelled faintly of fresh linen and sea salt when Akari shoved the door open with her hip. Her beach bag tumbled in after her.

“Oh wow,” she said, stepping inside and turning slowly. “Okay, this is way cuter than our dorm.”

Wooden floors, soft lighting, and pale blue curtains fluttered in the open windows. A small kitchenette lined the back wall, and two futons were pushed together under a mosquito net, like someone was trying really, really hard to set the mood.

Jirou followed, awkwardly kicking off his shoes. He eyed the futons.

“…They didn’t even pretend to give us separate beds this time.”

Akari shrugged, tossing her hat onto a hook. “Guess they figure we’ve already crossed the ‘sleeping in the same room’ threshold.”

He looked at her. “That’s not the same as sharing a bed.”

Her eyes flicked to the futons, then back to him with a too-innocent expression. “Oh? Nervous, Jirou?”

He turned away, ears tinged pink. “No. I’m just not in the mood for weird school mind games.”

Akari grinned and walked to the counter, where a large envelope had been left on top of a wicker basket filled with pantry basics — rice, eggs, a few vegetables, and seasoning packets. She opened it.

“Ah-ha! Challenge time.”

She read aloud:

Optional Couple Challenge #1: “The First Dinner”
Cook a homemade meal together using only the ingredients provided. Work together, share duties, and set the table like it’s a real date. Bonus points awarded for collaboration, ambiance, and teamwork. Photos encouraged.

She turned to Jirou slowly, holding the paper up like it was a decree of doom. “So. Shall we attempt domesticity, or starve?”

He sighed. “We’d probably burn the rice, argue over who washes dishes, and trip over each other trying to set the table.”

Akari gave him a lopsided grin. “Sounds romantic.”

Still, she moved toward the tiny kitchen. “You start the rice. I’ll see if there’s enough in here to fake a decent stir-fry. Oh, and you’re setting the table with the fancy chopsticks.”

“There are fancy chopsticks?” he asked, digging through a drawer.

“Well, they’re purple,” she said, holding them up with a flourish. “But it’s the thought that counts.”

Across the path, Cottage #6 was quieter.

Minami was unpacking calmly, arranging things neatly on the dresser. Shiori stood near the window, eyes drifting toward #7 every few seconds.

“You okay?” Minami asked, not looking up.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, then paused. “Just… nervous.”

He nodded. “You’re not the only one.”

Shiori turned to him, surprised. Minami rarely admitted nerves.

“I mean,” he continued, “this place… it makes things feel different. Like it’s not just pretend anymore.”

She swallowed. “What if it isn’t?”

He finally looked at her. “Then maybe that’s a good thing.”

Shiori nodded faintly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hope so.”

Evening came faster than expected, with the sun casting golden light across the ocean horizon. Cottages glowed from the inside with warm lamplight and laughter — or in some cases, quiet silence.

Back in #7, Jirou and Akari stood shoulder to shoulder in the tiny kitchen. Somehow, the rice wasn’t burnt, the vegetables had been sautéed without injury, and a soft playlist buzzed from Akari’s phone in the background. The table was set (with purple chopsticks), and a candle — very much stolen from her dorm stash — flickered between them.

Akari set down the final plate and grinned. “Look at us. Practically married.”

Jirou rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Don’t let the school hear that. They’ll upgrade us to joint bank accounts and tax forms.”

They sat.

They ate.

And for a moment — just a moment — it felt almost real.

“How are things going with you and Jirou?” Minami asked.

Shiori nearly dropped the folded bath towel in her hands. Her whole body tensed as her face flared a deep, unmistakable red.

“H-huh?!” she squeaked, clutching the towel like it was a shield. “I uh— it’s— it’s okay— I mean— we’re okay, I—”

Minami chuckled, the sound low and light as he reached into the small closet to hang up his hoodie. “Breathe, Shiori. Mei told me you like him.”

She went stiff. The towel hit the floor.

Shiori scrambled to pick it up, pressing it tightly to her chest. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible over the distant crash of waves outside the cottage window.

“Mei what?”

Minami turned, leaning casually against the edge of the closet door with his hands in his pockets. His expression wasn’t teasing or smug — just calm. Gentle. Honest.

“She told me a while ago,” he said. “Back during the spring evaluations. Said you’d probably never say anything unless someone helped push you.”

Shiori opened her mouth, then shut it again. Her heart pounded in her ears like it wanted to climb out of her chest and confess all on its own.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Minami added after a pause. “I just figured… if you’re here, sharing a space with me, while the guy you like is living right across from us — maybe you needed someone to talk to.”

Shiori’s grip on the towel loosened. Her voice cracked slightly when she spoke.

“It’s not easy, you know? I keep thinking if I say something, it’ll ruin everything. But if I don’t say anything, then it just… hurts anyway.”

Minami nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes.

“You know,” he said, stepping toward the open window, “I think that’s why the school set this program up. To put us in situations where pretending isn’t so easy anymore. It kind of forces the truth out of you. Whether you’re ready or not.”

He looked over his shoulder at her.

“You’ve got a lot of heart, Shiori. And yeah, Jirou’s dense. But he’s not cruel. You should let him see how much you care.”

She bit her lip, uncertain.

“But what if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Minami smiled softly. “Then at least you won’t spend your whole summer wondering.”

Shiori stared at him for a long moment — then walked quietly to the window beside him, staring out at Cottage #7.

Akari and Jirou were sitting out on their porch now, lit softly by the fading pinks of twilight and the flickering candlelight from inside. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. But Akari’s laugh — bright and genuine — drifted across the warm air like a summer wind. Jirou was watching her with that faint, unreadable expression he always wore when he wasn’t sure what to say but didn’t want to walk away either.

Shiori’s fingers curled slightly against the windowsill.

“I don’t want to be a coward,” she whispered.

Minami’s voice was quiet beside her.

“Then don’t be.”

“How about I cook today, and you can relax?” Minami offered, his voice casual — too casual, even to his own ears.

But the moment the words left his mouth, his heart gave a painful, almost traitorous stutter. Because when Shiori looked up, startled by the gesture, her expression wasn’t the shy, blushing girl mooning over someone else.

No — it was sadder than that.

A small, tired smile touched her lips, one that said thank you for noticing I needed that, even if I didn’t say it.

“Are you sure?” she asked gently. “I don’t mind cooking—really, I don’t.”

Minami shook his head, trying to ignore the way his chest ached at the way she smiled now — brighter, clearer, like her thoughts had drifted completely away from the boy in the cottage across the path.

“No, really,” he said with a half-smirk. “I’ll make something good. I’ve got this one dish I’ve been saving for when I needed to impress someone.”

“Should I be flattered?” she teased softly, and for once there was lightness in her tone that wasn’t weighed down by longing.

Minami turned toward the tiny kitchenette, already pulling out ingredients from the basket the school had left behind. “Obviously. I only break out the good soy sauce for special occasions.”

He heard her laugh, and something inside him twisted — warm and dangerous.

‘Damn it, Minami,’ he thought, slicing the scallions with practiced care. ‘Don’t do this again. Don’t fall in love with someone who already has someone.’

But the laugh she gave him echoed again, soft and sincere — and he hated how much he wanted to hear it every night of this ridiculous summer.

Behind him, Shiori sat at the low table, watching him move around the kitchenette with an ease that surprised her. He wasn’t loud, or showy, or overly flirty — but there was something about the way he offered help without demanding attention, the way he noticed things even when she didn’t speak them aloud.

She watched the steam begin to rise from the small pot and let her gaze linger on the gentle slope of his shoulders, the quiet focus in his expression. And just for a moment — a small moment — she stopped thinking about Jirou.

Outside, the sky was turning navy, the stars beginning to pierce through the haze of sunset. In Cottage #7, laughter rang out again as Akari tried to convince Jirou to play a card game with silly couple forfeits.

Back in #6, Minami slid a steaming bowl of rice and simmered vegetables in front of Shiori, setting down a pair of chopsticks with a quiet flourish.

“Dinner is served.”

She looked at the dish, then up at him.

“Minami… this looks amazing. Thank you.”

He gave her a short shrug, trying not to grin like an idiot. “Told you I was good.”

As she took her first bite, her face lit up with surprise and delight, and Minami — watching her from across the table — allowed himself exactly one second of fantasy.

One second where this summer wasn’t fake, where she was smiling at him because she chose to.

Then he looked away, forcing the thought back where it belonged — buried deep behind his practised calm.

“I’m gonna go for a walk real quickly,” Minami said as he rose from the floor, brushing crumbs off his jeans and trying not to look at her too long. Her smile still lingered in his mind, warm and easy after dinner — the kind of smile he wanted to lock away for himself.

Shiori looked up from where she was gently wiping down the low table, her eyes still soft with the comfort of a good meal and gentle company.

“Be careful,” she said, her voice simple, sincere — but something in it twisted around his ribs.

Minami hesitated for a beat. That small, worried kindness in her tone — the way she said his name with that gentle sort of fondness she didn’t even seem to realize — it undid him more than any confession ever could.

His chest tightened, and he felt the quiet ache bloom again, slow and unwelcome. He turned toward the door before she could see the shift in his expression.

“Don’t worry,” he said over his shoulder, reaching for the light jacket hanging on the wall hook. “I won’t fall in love on the way.”

Shiori tilted her head, puzzled. “Huh?”

Minami forced a crooked grin. “Nothing. Just being dramatic.”

He stepped out into the cooling evening, the cottage door clicking softly shut behind him.

In Cottage 6, Shiori sat near the window, gently toweling off the ends of her damp hair. The cottage was quiet now — peaceful, with the hum of cicadas and the distant hush of waves. Mei had stepped out to grab snacks from the main lodge, and the soft lull of evening wrapped the small space like a blanket.

She hadn’t meant to look.

She was just gazing absently across the path, thinking about dinner, about Minami’s cooking, about the way he’d said he was going for a walk and hadn’t come back yet. She wasn’t sure if she was worried about him, or just… missing his presence.

But her eyes landed on the porch of Cottage 7.

And what she saw froze her hand mid-motion.

There, bathed in the glow of the porch light, sat Akari — perched sideways across Jirou’s lap, arms wrapped snugly around his shoulders, her face buried in his neck. Her head shifted slightly, and Shiori’s heart slammed into her chest.

Was she… giving him a hickey?

Her eyes widened, breath catching painfully in her throat.

Jirou didn’t move. His hands were resting on Akari’s waist, holding her loosely, and his head was tilted down — not looking at her, not kissing back, just… staring at the ground like he’d lost something important down there.

But he wasn’t stopping it either.

And that fact hurt more than Shiori wanted to admit.

She blinked once, twice, willing her eyes to lie to her. That maybe it was a trick of the light. That maybe it was a comforting hug, a drunken stumble, something else.

But Akari shifted again — hair brushing Jirou’s cheek — and the illusion shattered.

Shiori stepped back from the window like she’d touched something hot. Her towel fell to the floor with a soft thud, and her hands trembled as she reached to pick it up.

Her chest ached — not in a loud, shattering way, but in the soft, suffocating kind of way that doesn’t let you breathe fully. The kind of pain that curled inward. Silent. Careful. The kind of ache she’d lived with all year, but had foolishly thought this summer might finally change.

“I just want to be honest this time.”

But now — what was left to be honest about?

She sat on the edge of her bed, towel clenched tightly in her lap, eyes downturned.

Across the cottage, the soft breeze shifted the curtains.

And for the first time all summer, Shiori didn’t feel hopeful.

She felt hollow.

“Akari,” Jirou muttered, trying to angle his head away from the ticklish brush of her hair against his neck, “the spider’s gone now. You can get off me.”

Akari didn’t budge.

Her arms remained locked tightly around his neck, her legs still drawn up on the railing beside him, and her entire body trembling just slightly.

“I saw it fall between the slats, Jirou. I’m not taking any chances,” she whispered fiercely, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “It was huge. Like, cartoonishly huge. You’re lucky I didn’t scream and leap off the porch into the ocean.”

Jirou sighed, slumping back into the chair. “You did scream. And then you tackled me like we were back in dodgeball practice.”

“I saved you,” she said with mock pride, though her voice was still tight with residual adrenaline.

He glanced down at her, only now registering that her fingers had dug into his shirt, her whole body coiled with tension. Her breath was warm against his neck, and it sent a jolt down his spine — not entirely unpleasant, but also very, very inconvenient.

Especially considering Shiori was right across the path.

He didn’t want to think about what that would look like.

He cleared his throat, trying not to shift and dislodge her in a way that would send them both crashing to the deck. “You’re basically straddling me, you know.”

Akari gave a squeak and immediately scrambled backward, nearly toppling off the chair. Jirou reached out instinctively, grabbing her waist to steady her, and somehow made everything worse.

“Don’t grab me!” she hissed, cheeks burning. “That’s how rumours start!”

“You’re the one who jumped me because of a spider!”

“You let it happen!”

“I thought you were having a heart attack!”

They stared at each other, both of them breathless, flushed, and tangled in a moment far too close for comfort.

Akari looked away first. “Ugh. You’re the worst.”

“You’re a walking panic attack in flip-flops.”

She stood, brushing herself off, then huffed toward the door. But before she went inside, she paused, glancing back at him.

“Thanks though,” she said more softly, eyes lingering on his for just a second. “For not making me feel stupid.”

Jirou blinked. “...You still looked stupid.”

She threw a sandal at him.

He caught it with one hand.

As she disappeared inside, the porch fell quiet again. Jirou leaned back in his seat, staring at the stars now blinking into view.

And somewhere across the path, a curtain swayed closed.

He didn’t know she’d seen.

Not yet.

The door creaked open slightly behind him, the porch light casting a long shadow across the wooden slats.

Jirou turned his head, expecting a sheepish apology or maybe a snide remark about how lucky he was to be graced by Akari’s presence.

Instead, all he saw was the second sandal flying straight at his face.

Whap!

It hit him square on the forehead and bounced off onto the railing.

“Ow—what the hell?!” Jirou yelped, rubbing his head.

Akari’s face appeared in the doorway, narrowed eyes gleaming with defiance and a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s for calling me stupid.”

“I didn’t call you stupid,” he grumbled. “I said you looked stupid.”

“That’s worse!” she shot back, arms folded across her chest. “It’s like you’ve never heard of tact.”

“Tact doesn’t apply to people who weaponize sandals!”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t the spider.”

Jirou sighed dramatically, tossing both sandals back at the door. “Next time I’m letting it bite you.”

Akari ducked, caught one, and smirked as she retreated. “Next time I’m screaming louder. Maybe Shiori will come rescue me instead.”

Jirou froze at that name.

It slipped out so casually, but the effect was immediate — his spine straightened, his fingers clenched against the armrest of the chair.

Akari had already vanished back inside, leaving him alone with the echo of her words and the uncomfortable pressure building behind his eyes.

He glanced across the path toward Cottage 6.

The window was dark now. Curtains drawn.

And though he couldn’t be sure… he had the sinking feeling he was being watched earlier. That somehow, someone had seen that ridiculous spider fiasco and — worse — misunderstood it entirely.

“Great,” he muttered, standing slowly. “This just keeps getting better.”

He stepped inside after her, the porch door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

Unbeknownst to either of them, Cottage 6’s window had been closed for minutes now. But the silence inside was thick with quiet heartbreak.

And across the property, Minami was still nowhere in sight.

The next morning dawned soft and golden, with the sound of seagulls and the rustle of palm leaves dancing on the ocean breeze. A light mist still clung to the distant waterline as the students from each cottage gathered in the central courtyard, some yawning, some grumbling, others looking far too chipper for a mandatory 8 a.m. assembly.

The teacher in charge — a wiry man with a clipboard, sunglasses, and a whistle he clearly took too seriously — stood in front of a whiteboard that had been dragged out onto the sand. The words Daily Challenge Scoring and Romantic Initiative Framework were scrawled across it in dry-erase marker.

Jirou stood in the back row with Kamo, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Akari was a few steps away, arms folded, sunglasses on, and lips pursed — not saying much. She hadn’t spoken to him since the sandal incident.

Shiori lingered beside Mei on the other side of the group, her expression unreadable. She avoided looking at either Cottage #7 occupant. Minami was beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the group with quiet alertness.

“All right, lovebirds,” the teacher said, clapping his hands once. “Here’s how this special summer term is going to work.”

He motioned to the whiteboard like he was announcing a military operation.

“Each morning, you’ll receive a set of optional couple challenges delivered directly to your mailbox. You may complete none, one, or all of them. Each challenge is worth a certain number of points — the harder, more emotionally focused ones offer more rewards.”

He flipped a laminated card dramatically.

“You’ll have until midnight each day to complete them. Submit proof via the app — photos, videos, or reflection logs, depending on the task. Each submission gets reviewed and added to your cumulative Relationship Practical Score that we’ll be taking back to school at the end of summer.”

A wave of groans rippled through the group.

“Challenges may include: household cooperation, emotional vulnerability exercises, collaborative tasks, problem-solving scenarios, and—” the teacher adjusted his sunglasses, grinning “—romantic communication development.”

“I hate this school,” someone muttered under their breath.

The teacher ignored it.

“First set of challenges will arrive in your cottage mailbox after lunch. So settle in, eat up, and start acting like people in committed relationships — fake or not. This summer is for learning. Don’t waste it.”

He blew his whistle once — unnecessarily — and waved them off.

As the group dispersed, Jirou found himself trailing slowly behind the others, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket. He could feel Shiori’s presence across the courtyard like a weight on his back, but every time he worked up the courage to look at her, she turned away.

Akari bumped his shoulder on her way past.

“You better not sleep through our first challenge,” she said, her voice neutral, unreadable.

He glanced at her. “I didn’t realise sandal-related trauma counted as a couple activity.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m over it. Mostly.”

And then, quieter, without looking at him: “You might want to talk to Shiori, though. She looked like she didn’t sleep at all.”

Jirou stilled, watching her walk away.

Across the courtyard, Shiori stood frozen for a moment as Minami said something low beside her. She gave him a tired smile — soft, not quite reaching her eyes — and nodded.

She didn’t glance at Jirou once.

Late morning sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled light across the main path that wound through the cottages. A few students had already scattered off toward the beach, towels over shoulders and sunscreen in hand, ready to take advantage of a free morning before the daily challenges arrived.

Natsume and Sachi walked ahead, arms linked, both animatedly discussing flavors of ice cream like it was a life-or-death decision.

“I need to try that coconut mango swirl,” Natsume said with conviction, swinging her bag from her shoulder.

“They have that lemon poppyseed one too,” Sachi added, already pulling her hair back into a high ponytail as if prepping for battle. “We’re getting both.”

“Obviously,” Natsume grinned. “And if I see anyone try to order vanilla—”

“Boring!” they both shouted in unison.

Behind them, Mei nudged Shiori gently in the ribs, smirking.

“Hey, come on,” she teased. “You’ve got beach hair already and a tragic love triangle to mope about — you’re practically the main character of a summer drama. Let’s get you a cone and a plot twist.”

Shiori blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t moping.”

“You weren’t not moping.”

“I just didn’t sleep well.”

Mei’s smirk softened. “Then a beach trip’s perfect. Sun, sea, distraction — maybe even a moment alone with your emotionally constipated soulmate.”

Shiori sighed but didn’t argue. Not because she believed it — but because the alternative was sulking in the cottage while everyone else moved on.

Closer to Cottage 7, Akari was casually applying sunscreen to her shoulders as Jirou stepped out, looking vaguely like he hadn’t fully accepted that today was real.

“We’re going to the beach,” she announced, without turning to look at him.

He blinked. “We?”

“You, me, and whoever else follows us. Bring a towel and don’t wear that hoodie or I will set it on fire.”

He stared at her. “You’re not even asking.”

“Nope,” she said, popping the cap back on her sunscreen and tossing it into her tote. “I’m telling.”

“Right,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Guess that’s on brand.”

Akari gave him a sideways glance. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want to go. It’s better than hiding in the cottage overthinking your entire life.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond. She just started walking.

Near the trailhead to the beach, Sachi suddenly spotted a familiar face.

“Minami!” she called out, practically skipping up to him. “You and Sakurazaka should come with us to the beach!”

Minami, who had just finished sipping from a bottle of water, looked up as Sachi grabbed his arm.

Natsume popped up behind her. “And we can grab ice cream! Didn’t they open that new place just down the hill?”

“They did!” Sachi confirmed, pulling her hair into a high knot and already looking like a page from a seaside magazine. “We’re gonna melt if we stay here anyway.”

Minami glanced over his shoulder at Shiori, who stood a little off to the side, her arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable.

He smiled, quietly, like he was giving her an out.

“I’m in if she’s in.”

Shiori blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“I mean… sure,” she said, trying not to sound too surprised. “That could be nice.”

Akari, having just caught up, rolled her eyes. “Shouldn’t you two be spending time with your husbands?”

Sachi tossed her a look over her shoulder. “They can wait.”

Natsume laughed. “Yeah, they’re off sulking or tanning or something.”

Jirou muttered to himself, “I don’t even tan, I just burn…”

Shiori tried not to look at him as they all began walking down the path together — a strange, tangled little caravan of relationships, half-defined and half-denied, stepping into the sunlight like nothing was wrong.

And for a moment, despite the awkward glances and half-healed wounds, the ocean breeze and promise of melting ice cream felt just enough like escape.

“Come on, Jirou,” Shiori said suddenly, her fingers curling lightly around his forearm as the group began to descend the sandy hill path toward the beach. Her grip was gentle, but insistent — like she didn’t want to lose him in the crowd. “You’ll get left behind.”

Jirou blinked.

The contact surprised him — not because it was overly forward, but because it had been days since she touched him like that. Since she even looked him in the eye without that distant softness. The touch was tentative, almost hesitant, but it was her.

And it made his heart stutter.

For a second, he just looked at her. Her expression was calm, unreadable — but there was a flash of something deeper in her eyes. Something unsure. Maybe even a little bit wounded.

He followed her gaze forward to where the others were already halfway down the path: Sachi and Natsume chatting about sunscreen brands, Mei complaining about how sand got into everything, Akari adjusting her bikini straps without a hint of modesty, and Minami walking with hands in pockets, looking every bit the effortless summer guy — but always within earshot of Shiori.

Shiori loosened her grip slightly as if she realized she was being too forward. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s okay,” Jirou said quickly. Then, quieter: “Thanks.”

They walked side by side for a few moments, the scent of salt and sunscreen growing stronger, the sound of gulls overhead filling the spaces between them.

Jirou tried to glance at her, tried to form words — some small bridge to reach across what felt like a growing distance — but the memory of last night still lingered in his mind. Akari on his lap. Her arms around him. Her head in his neck. From the outside, he knew how it looked.

He just didn’t know if Shiori saw.

And she didn’t bring it up.

Instead, she walked a little ahead, sandals in one hand, her hair catching the wind, her profile glowing faintly in the morning sun.

Jirou felt the guilt settle in like wet sand between his ribs.

He didn’t know what she was thinking. But the quiet way she touched his arm — like she was trying to hold on, just a little longer — made him wish he could turn back the clock.

Say something when it mattered.

Do something that meant more.

Be someone worth holding onto.

On the beach, the others were already laying down towels and throwing frisbees, laughing and settling into the day. Akari glanced over once, sunglasses hiding her eyes, but her head tilted slightly at the sight of Shiori and Jirou walking together.

She didn’t say anything.

Minami, who had just finished helping Sachi pitch a beach umbrella, noticed too. His gaze lingered a beat longer than it should have before he turned away, jaw tightening.

The midday sun shimmered overhead as waves crashed gently against the shore. The group had gradually abandoned their towels and umbrellas for the cool embrace of the sea, laughter echoing across the beach as they splashed and teased each other like they had no responsibilities waiting at the cottages.

Even Jirou — usually more comfortable on the sidelines — found himself waist-deep in water, dodging a frisbee and Kamo’s cannonball splash attack.

Eventually, they drifted back to shore, soaked and breathless, dropping into the warm sand like a pile of laundry.

“Okay, okay,” Mei gasped, wringing water from her hair, “let’s build something amazing before we all melt.”

“A sandcastle,” Shiori said softly, already scooping up handfuls of wet sand. “With towers, and a moat, and a bridge…”

“We should make a tunnel,” she added suddenly, glancing toward the others with a hopeful gleam in her eyes. “Like we used to when we were kids — where everyone builds from their side and we meet in the middle and hold hands through the middle when it connects?”

Her cheeks turned pink, embarrassed at how nostalgic it sounded now, years later, with everyone older and everything more complicated.

But no one teased her.

Akari was already digging with purpose, barking orders about structural integrity. Mei and Natsume were arguing about whose side had more shell decorations. Sachi and Minami were shaping towers with stunning architectural commitment.

Jirou sat down beside Shiori and helped silently, pressing the sand with his palms to form a sloping arch.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first.

But when Shiori giggled — a light, breathy sound as her fingers brushed against his through the forming tunnel — he felt his chest twist, just a little.

It felt like old times. When things were easier. When he didn’t feel like he was being pulled in two.

And then—

“Jirou!” Sachi called out brightly.

He jumped so hard he almost crushed their tunnel-in-progress.

“W-What?!”

Sachi stood triumphantly over them with her hands on her hips, grinning like the cat who’d just rigged the lottery.

“We drew lots earlier and you and Akari have to go get the sweets from the shop up the road. It’s your turn.”

“We what?” he blinked, looking around.

Natsume gave a thumbs-up.

Even Mei gave a wink.

Akari, lounging with her arms behind her head, sighed in dramatic resignation. “Ugh. Fine. But only if I get to pick the flavor.”

“Wait,” Jirou frowned, glancing at the others. “When did we draw lots?”

“You were swimming,” Sachi said breezily. “It was very official. Names in a bucket and everything. Totally fair.”

He squinted at her. “There’s no bucket here.”

“Go get the snacks, Jirou,” she said, linking arms with Shiori as if sealing the deal.

Akari was already brushing sand from her legs. “Come on, slowpoke.”

Jirou stood reluctantly, still suspicious, but ultimately too resigned to argue.

As he walked away with Akari up the sloped path toward the boardwalk shops, he glanced back once — toward the sandcastle, the half-built tunnel, and Shiori sitting quietly beside it, brushing grains from her fingers.

She didn’t look back.

Akari glanced over her shoulder one last time as they reached the boardwalk stairs, catching Sachi and Natsume watching from a distance with smug little smiles. She shot them a wink before turning back toward Jirou, grabbing his arm suddenly.

“Jirou!” she said, clinging tightly and spinning to face him. “Do you like my swimsuit?”

He nearly choked.

He didn’t even have to look to feel his ears turning fire-red. “I-it’s different from the one you showed me back at the house…”
Akari’s grin widened like a cat catching a canary.

“You remembered,” she said, leaning in, her voice laced with playful sweetness. “That’s kind of cute.”

Jirou stared straight ahead, as if pretending the sky had never looked more fascinating. “You made such a big deal about it, how could I forget…”

“Exactly!” she said, looping her arm through his as they crossed onto the bustling boardwalk. “That’s branding, baby.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but didn’t pull away.

A few steps later, Akari suddenly stopped, pointing to a flyer fluttering on a nearby post. “Oh look! Sale for couples! That’s why it’s so busy. Ice cream, grilled skewers, shaved ice — if you buy as a ‘pair,’ everything’s half off.”

Jirou barely glanced at it. “Uh huh.”

Akari rolled her eyes, stepping in front of him to block his path, her hands on her hips. “You know, if you were really smart,” she said, eyes glinting mischievously, “you’d take advantage of it.”

“We’re not a couple,” Jirou deadpanned.

“They don’t have to know that,” Akari replied, stepping closer again — much closer — and peering up at him with exaggerated innocence. “Pleeeease?”

Her lips curved into a dramatic pout, and her eyes went wide with fake desperation, sparkling in the sunlight. “Come on, Jirou. I’m starving. Just this once, pretend to be in love with me.”

“Gah!” Jirou blurted, stumbling backward and nearly knocking into a windchime display. He waved his arms like he was trying to swat away the heat in his face. “You can’t just say stuff like that!”

Akari laughed — full and bright, grabbing his wrist before he could bolt.

“You’re so easy to fluster. It’s like a magic trick.”

“I’m not flustered,” he grumbled.

“You’re the colour of a cooked lobster.”

“It’s sunburn.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, smirking. “Totally.”

As they stepped into line at one of the food stalls, Akari still chuckling under her breath, Jirou couldn’t help but glance sideways at her.

Yes, she was annoying.

Yes, she teased too much.

Yes, she absolutely enjoyed messing with his head.

But… she remembered things too. The way he liked his skewers without sauce. That he hated coconut. That he still double-checked everything twice, even when he pretended not to care.

He tried not to wonder why she remembered.

Because the answer — like everything between them — was probably more complicated than either of them was willing to say out loud.

“Oh, and the chicken skewers for me!” Akari added quickly, already leaning over the counter. “With those spiced fries — and something sweet. Surprise me.”

She turned toward Jirou with a grin, hands clasped behind her back, and asked in a slow, sugary voice, “What do you want, Jirou~?”

He frowned slightly, already expecting some kind of verbal trap, but answered anyway. “Taiyaki. With the matcha filling.”

The vendor, a man in his mid-thirties with a sun visor and a wide grin, rang them up with a laugh. “You two are so cute. Young love, huh? You're one lucky man.”

Jirou gave a very Jirou answer.

“Uh huh.”

Which earned him a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Ow—”

Akari beamed at the vendor, then looked back at Jirou with a shake of her head. “What was that?! You were supposed to say, ‘Yeah, I sure am lucky, mister!’ Not just stand there like a mannequin!”

She mimicked his bored expression, stiffening her shoulders, letting her mouth hang open in dull agreement. “‘Uh huh,’” she said flatly, then burst into laughter again.

He tried not to smile. He really did.

After they paid and stepped away, number in hand, Akari looped her arm casually through his as they wandered the boardwalk stalls, waiting for their order to be called. She tugged him along with gentle insistence, stopping at a stall selling seashell trinkets and another offering handmade bracelets.

Despite the teasing, she looked happy — warm sun in her hair, the corner of her mouth tilted up just slightly, like she was forgetting how to pretend she didn’t enjoy this.’

“Don’t forget our number,” she said offhandedly, already eyeing a cart that advertised chilled melon soda. “You were terrible at the last one.”

“You’re the one who lost it last time,” he grumbled.

She ignored him and veered toward the next booth.

Jirou turned to the food stand when their number was called, waved once, and moved forward to pick up the bags — skewers, fries, taiyaki, and a strawberry mochi daifuku he was pretty sure he didn’t order.

When he turned around—

She was gone.

He blinked once. Twice. The sun was bright, the boardwalk was thick with people — kids running past with cotton candy, couples weaving through the crowd, parents herding toddlers toward shaved ice stands.

But no flash of pink bikini strap, no laughing voice, no sarcastic quip floated back to him.

His heart kicked once in his chest.

Okay. She just wandered. No big deal. She's probably at the soda cart. Or the bracelet booth. Or—

He started walking — first quickly, then a little faster — weaving through the crowd with the food tray balanced in one hand, calling her name once, under his breath, like he didn’t want to admit he was actually worried.

But with every turn of his head and every step that didn’t find her, a strange, unfamiliar tightness built in his throat.

It wasn’t just that he’d lost her in a crowd.

It was that it felt a little too much like what he’d been doing all year.

Losing her. A little at a time.

Jirou finally spotted her near the edge of the plaza where the boardwalk curved back toward the beach. She was surrounded — half-circled by a group of older boys, maybe from another school, their voices loud and slurred with overconfidence.

Akari was standing stiffly in the center of them, her arms at her sides, shoulders tight. One of the guys had his hand slung over her shoulder, another was tugging gently at her wrist, trying to coax a response from her. She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t saying anything. Her body looked like it was trying not to flinch — like she didn’t know which way to pull without making it worse.

She just stood there.

Until her eyes found his.

“Jirou!” she called out, her voice sharp, cracking like a spark. For a moment, her entire expression lit up — not with amusement, but with relief, like a drowning person spotting a lifeboat. But her eyes — her eyes — were glazed with something else: fear, fragile and breaking through her usual mask.

One of the guys turned at the sound of her voice.

A broad-shouldered, cocky-looking guy with sunglasses tucked into his hair and an energy that reeked of smugness.

“Oh?” he said, eyeing Jirou as he approached. “You know this chick?”

Akari tried to pull her arm free. “Let go of me—”

“She hasn’t said much,” the guy continued, ignoring her. “Looks like she forgot her name or something. Mind telling us, bro?”

Another one chimed in from the side, his voice loud and mocking. “Yo, what if she’s his girl?”

Someone snorted. “Yeah, right.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the group, mean and casual.

“Come on, man,” the first one said, stepping closer to Jirou, eyeing him up with a sneer. “What’s her name? Spit it out.”

Jirou’s grip on the bag nearly slipped. His blood was boiling — but cold, too, like it had dropped straight through his feet into the sand.

They didn’t know her. Not really.

But he did.

And what made it worse — what made it unbearable — was that she’d looked at him to save her.

Not Minami. Not a teacher. Not even Shiori.

Him.

Jirou stepped forward, eyes sharp now, jaw tight. The tray dropped with a dull thud onto a nearby bench.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t curse.

He just spoke, voice steady and louder than he thought it could be.

“Her name,” he said, “is Watanabe Akari.”

That made a few of them pause.

He walked straight past the guy who had spoken, straight toward her.

“And yeah,” he added, locking eyes with the one who still had his arm around her, “she’s my girl.”

That was enough.

Something in his voice — the conviction, the certainty, the unmistakable challenge in it — made the air around them tense. The boy’s grip slackened. Akari pulled her arm free like it was nothing, stepping quickly to Jirou’s side without hesitation.

None of the boys said anything this time.

They didn’t need to.

They’d already lost.

Jirou didn’t wait for an apology. He didn’t want one. He turned with Akari still close to his side and started walking.

She stayed beside him, her fingers ghosting against his sleeve, like she didn’t want to grab him but didn’t want to lose contact either.

When they were finally out of earshot, her voice came quiet — shaky, not like her at all.

“You didn’t have to do that…”

He glanced at her, heart still racing.

“I did.”

Akari looked down at the boardwalk, then back at him — her expression unreadable.

But her voice, when she spoke again, was almost a whisper.

“…Thanks.”

“You weren’t supposed to tell them my name, idiot!”

Akari smacked him hard on the back of the head, more bark than bite, though the sting lingered.

Jirou flinched, rubbing the spot. “Ow! What the hell, Akari?! I just saved your ass!”

“What if they find me again?” she snapped, cheeks red — whether from embarrassment, leftover adrenaline, or heatstroke, even she wasn’t sure. “Ugh! You’re so dumb!”

Jirou turned to stare at her, incredulous. “I’m dumb?! You were just standing there like some prize on a rigged claw machine!”

“I wasn’t—” she groaned, tugging at her hair. “Whatever! Just— hurry up! The food’s getting cold, genius.”

“Geez…” Jirou grumbled under his breath, turning back down the boardwalk. “I’m never helping you again.”

“Oh please,” Akari said, already marching behind him. “You’ll come crawling back the next time I wink at you.”

He snorted. “I don’t crawl.”

“You definitely crawl.”

And with that, she shoved him forward — hard enough to make him stumble slightly, nearly upsetting the tray he’d just picked back up.

“Walk faster!”

“You’re insane!” he yelled over his shoulder.

“Thank you!” she said, hands on hips. “It’s part of my charm.”

They made their way back toward the beach, where the rest of the group was lounging near the sandcastle ruins, half-asleep in the sun.

To anyone watching from a distance, it probably looked like a typical lovers’ spat.

Only they knew how close it had come to being something else.

Only they knew how close they were standing now — not physically, but emotionally — to a line they weren’t ready to name yet.

“Idiot,” Akari muttered under her breath as she dropped onto the beach blanket beside Minami, arms crossed and legs kicked out in front of her.

Minami raised an eyebrow, glancing over at her with quiet amusement. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she huffed. “Jirou’s just an idiot.”

Across the beach, Jirou had just caught up with the group, still holding the tray with their now slightly soggy fries and half-melted taiyaki. His hair was a little out of place, his shirt sticking to his back, and the glare he shot toward Akari could’ve melted ice.

“You were standing there like an ornament!” he yelled, ignoring how most of the group turned to look.

Akari sat up straighter, scandalized. “Shut up!” she snapped — and without missing a beat, she grabbed the nearby beach ball and hurled it at his head.

It hit him dead on.

A perfect, satisfying thump.

The tray wobbled dangerously in his hands as he stumbled, barely managing to keep it upright.

The others were already laughing — Sachi actually collapsed into Natsume’s lap howling, while Mei muttered, “Ten outta ten aim.”

Minami chuckled under his breath but leaned slightly toward Akari.

“You okay?”

Akari rolled her eyes again, blowing her damp bangs off her forehead. “Fine. He’s just so—ugh—dense.”

Minami didn’t press her. But he noticed the way she hadn’t looked away from Jirou once since they sat down. Not really.

Jirou, meanwhile, dropped the tray near the beach towels and dramatically flopped into the sand next to Mei, burying his face in his arm.

“You’d think I kicked a puppy,” he muttered.

“She just doesn’t want to admit she’s scared,” Mei said softly, watching Akari from over the rim of her sunglasses.

“Huh?” Jirou peeked up.

“Nothing,” Mei said. “Eat your soggy taiyaki and try not to die.”

Akari crossed her arms again and turned her face toward the ocean, but not before sneaking one more glance toward Jirou — just a flick of her eyes, quick as a breath.

Minami saw it. So did Mei.

No one said anything.

But the air between them was different now.

And even if no one could name what was changing…

Everyone felt it.

By the time the sun began dipping low against the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor hues of orange and lavender, the group was trudging back up the beach path toward the resort — sunburned, salty, and half-asleep on their feet.

Sand clung to ankles and clothes no matter how many times they tried to shake it off. Everyone’s limbs moved slower, laughter more muted, lulled by the weight of the day.

Shiori was especially quiet.

Her skin was glowing pink from too much sun, and her eyes were heavy with exhaustion. She walked beside Mei, eyes cast downward, still thinking about that moment — Jirou and Akari walking away from the food stands together, Akari laughing too loudly, Jirou not saying much at all.

Mei leaned in close and murmured something only she could hear.

Whatever it was, Shiori nodded — slowly — and took a small breath.

Then, without saying a word, she reached out and gently wrapped her hand around Jirou’s arm.

He glanced at her, a little surprised, but didn’t pull away. She leaned her head lightly against his shoulder as they walked, their pace falling into quiet sync. It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t loud. It was soft, tentative — but unmistakably there.

Behind them, Akari was walking with Natsume and Sachi, still brushing sand off her knees and grumbling about how her shoulders were going to peel tomorrow.

Then she looked up — and froze.

Shiori’s hand. On Jirou’s arm.

Her leaning in.

Jirou not moving.

Their silhouettes against the sunset looked too peaceful, too natural.

Akari’s eye twitched.

“That little…” she muttered.

Natsume and Sachi both looked up at the same time. Sachi’s eyes lit with mischief.

“Oh damn,” she whispered. “She’s good.”

“Real good,” Natsume added, glancing sideways at Akari’s face. “You okay?”

Akari just scoffed and shook her head, though her jaw clenched slightly. “I’m fine. I’m just saying… girl’s got more nerve than she looks.”

“You’ll get him,” Sachi said lightly, nudging Akari’s shoulder playfully. “Besides, you’re the fireworks girl. Shiori’s got that soft poetry energy, but you? You’re the bomb drop. You just gotta time it right.”

Akari didn’t respond immediately. She just watched the two walking ahead — Shiori’s head still resting gently on Jirou’s shoulder — and felt something coil a little tighter in her chest.

Not jealousy exactly.

Not yet.

But something close.

“Hey, after you guys eat, come hang out at my place,” Shachi said, tossing her damp ponytail over her shoulder as they neared the row of cottages. “My stupid partner is planning to go play games with his dumb friends, and I’m not sitting in there alone like a background character.”

“Oooh,” Natsume smirked, her voice sing-song. “You gonna tell us about your mystery man?”

Shachi immediately turned bright red. “No!”

She smacked Natsume’s arm lightly, though it was more flustered than angry.

Akari, walking barefoot with her sandals dangling from two fingers, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, wait. You finally dumped that guy?”

Shachi didn’t answer fast enough.

“Oh my god, you did!” Akari grinned, suddenly energized. “And now there’s a new guy? Nice. Spill. Who is it?”

“Shut up!” Shachi groaned, burying her face in her towel. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, so it’s exactly what I think,” Akari teased, practically skipping beside her now. “Tall? Quiet? Brooding? Bet he wears glasses.”

Natsume gasped. “It’s not Minami, is it?!”

Shachi’s blush went from pink to nuclear red. “NO!! Why would you even say that?! He’s like— a wall. A polite, annoyingly hot wall.”

Akari burst out laughing. “So you have thought about it.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m just saying,” Natsume said, linking arms with her, “if you do have a secret boyfriend, we better be the first to know.”

“Ugh, fine,” Shachi grumbled. “You can come over tonight and I’ll maybe tell you stuff if you bring snacks and don’t talk about Minami.”

Akari tapped her chin thoughtfully. “But what if we bring snacks and talk about Minami?”

Shachi groaned again, louder this time.

“I'm changing cottages.”

As they reached the steps of their resort cottages, the sky now painted dusky gold and purple, the girls were still laughing, teasing, and elbowing one another like they were in middle school again.

For just a little while, things felt light. Even Akari forgot, for a moment, the image of Shiori on Jirou’s arm.

But as she turned toward her own cottage door, barefoot and sunburned, she caught sight of him again — just a glimpse through the glass as he pulled something from his suitcase. Calm. Casual. The same quiet face that had stood in front of her earlier when she’d needed someone to see her.

Her fingers curled around the doorframe.

Yeah.

She’d go to Shachi’s tonight.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, she might just start playing a little dirtier.

When Akari finally stepped into Cottage #7, the sky outside had fully darkened into a velvety blue, the moon just starting to rise behind the palms. The scent that hit her first wasn’t the salty sea breeze she'd grown used to — it was something far smokier.

“Is that…” she paused in the doorway, nose wrinkling. “Burning?”

“Crap!”

Jirou was crouched in front of the tiny oven, yanking it open with a potholder and waving smoke out of his face. Inside, a frozen pizza was curled at the edges, bubbling aggressively, half of it blackened like a failed science experiment. The fire alarm hadn’t gone off — yet — but it was definitely flirting with the idea.

Akari stepped inside slowly, slipping her sandals off at the door and fanning the air dramatically.

“Oh my god, what did you do?” she said between coughs. “Are you trying to kill us before we even get evaluated?”

Jirou grimaced, lifting the tray and squinting at the carnage. “I followed the instructions…”

“What instructions? ‘Set oven to cremation’?!”

He placed the smoking mess on the counter and turned back toward her, defensively crossing his arms. “It said twenty minutes at 220!”

“In Celsius, not Fahrenheit, dumbass!” She opened the window beside the kitchenette and stuck her head out. “Ugh! My hair’s gonna smell like pepperoni charcoal all night!”

“I didn’t see a unit,” Jirou muttered, clearly trying not to meet her eyes.

“Because it’s Japan, Jirou!” she snapped, but her voice cracked halfway through with laughter. “What were you even doing? Trying to impress me with your skills as a pizza chef-slash-arsonist?”

He groaned and slumped into one of the dining stools. “You said you’d be back late. I thought I’d make dinner.”

Akari blinked, still holding the curtain out the window to let the air in.

“You… made dinner?”

He looked away. “I tried to.”

Her teasing faltered. Just a little. Just enough for a smile to creep across her face — not the bright, cocky one she used in crowds, but the small, private kind that rarely made it past her defenses.

“Well…” she said, closing the window again and brushing hair off her shoulder, “congrats. You’ve just earned the lowest possible score on our first practical dinner.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “As long as it comes with extra points for effort.”

Akari walked over, picked up the poor, disfigured pizza slice with two fingers, and raised an eyebrow. “This effort died for our sins.”

He snorted.

Then she tossed the slice back down, opened the fridge, and grabbed two bottles of soda from the top shelf. She handed one to him and plopped onto the floor next to the tiny coffee table.

“Come on, disaster chef. We’re having chips and soda instead. And I’m picking the movie.”

Jirou raised the bottle in a silent toast. “As long as it’s not a romcom.”

“It’s definitely a romcom.”

“…I hate this marriage practical.”

Akari smirked. “No you don’t.”

And in the faint glow of the kitchen light, with smoke still faintly curling in the air and soda fizzing between them, neither of them quite said what they were thinking.

But they didn’t need to.

For tonight, the burnt pizza was enough.

The movie played on the small living room TV — something light and vaguely romantic, the kind of flick Akari insisted she “wasn’t watching for the plot” while still quoting half the lines. The soft glow from the screen painted the room in hues of blue and gold, flickering gently over the two of them sprawled out across the floor cushions.

Akari had one hand wrapped around her soda bottle, the other idly holding a half-charred slice of pizza she stubbornly insisted on finishing.

“You’re actually eating that?” Jirou asked, eyeing the blackened crust with a grimace.

She took another bite, chewed slowly, then shot him a look. “I’m not wasteful. Unlike some people who burn dinner and don’t even try to fix it.”

“You told me to throw it away!”

“And yet I’m doing the hard work. Again.” She tossed her head dramatically, like a tragic heroine enduring suffering.

Jirou rolled his eyes, but his gaze softened when she stretched out more fully, carelessly draping her legs across his lap. She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. It was the kind of gesture that came naturally now, like breathing.

Her bare calves were warm against him, sun-kissed and slightly sand-speckled. He shifted a little, not to move her, but just to adjust.

Akari didn’t seem to notice — or maybe she did, and just didn’t care. Her focus was on the screen, but her fingers were doing something else entirely.

They reached up, slow and thoughtful, and began playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

It wasn’t teasing.

It wasn’t loud.

Just the quiet curling of her fingers, gentle as a breeze, twisting strands like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Jirou didn’t breathe for a second.

His whole body froze — not out of discomfort, but out of… confusion. The kind that wrapped around your ribs and made your pulse skip in strange, uneven ways.

“You okay?” she asked suddenly, not looking at him, her voice soft, lazy.

He blinked. “Huh? Yeah. Why?”

“You got all stiff.” She shifted, adjusting the pillow behind her. “If you’re gonna whine about my legs being heavy, say it now. Or forever suffer in silence.”

“They’re not heavy,” he said quickly. “I’m just…”

Her fingers paused for a second. Then resumed their soft rhythm in his hair.

“Just what?” she asked, eyes still on the screen, voice casual.

He swallowed.

“Just... surprised, I guess.”

Akari smiled — that quiet, secret smile again — and didn’t say anything else.

The movie played on, forgotten. The burnt pizza cooled on the table.

And for once, neither of them felt the need to break the silence.

The movie had long since ended.

The screen faded to a quiet black, its glow disappearing from the room entirely, leaving only the moonlight drifting through the open window and the soft whir of the overhead fan.

Jirou sat exactly where he’d been, his back against the side of the couch, half-sunken into the floor cushion. His soda had gone flat hours ago. The burnt pizza had long been abandoned. But Akari — Akari hadn’t moved.

She’d shifted at some point during the movie, curling in closer, her legs still slung over his lap, her cheek resting against his shoulder. Her fingers had stopped playing with his hair somewhere around the third act. Now they rested lightly against the fabric of his shirt, as if she was afraid letting go would make her sink.

And slowly, sometime between the movie’s climax and the credits she insisted weren’t worth watching, she’d dozed off.

Jirou tilted his head to glance down at her.

Her expression was peaceful in a way he didn’t get to see often. No cocky smirk. No teasing glint in her eye. Just soft, even breathing, long lashes fluttering slightly with each exhale.

She looked… young, almost. Lighter.

As if, just for this moment, she wasn’t carrying anything on her shoulders.

She had one arm looped around his waist now — loose but firm — like she’d decided, even in sleep, she wasn’t letting him go.

And he hadn’t moved.

Not once.

Not when his leg started going numb. Not when his neck stiffened. Not even when he thought about how awkward this would be if anyone walked in.

Because she was warm.

Because she’d chosen to fall asleep like this — next to him.

Because, as much as he told himself he didn’t know what he wanted…

Moments like this made it hard to lie.

The moonlight shifted, casting silver over her hair, her arm, the faintest curve of her smile.

He leaned his head back against the couch and let his eyes drift shut, still feeling her tucked into his side.

And somewhere, as sleep started to pull at the edges of his thoughts, he whispered it — not loud, not even sure she could hear:

“…Goodnight, Akari.”

In Cottage #6, the lights were dim. The room was quiet save for the soft rustle of bedsheets and the distant crash of waves. Mei had already fallen asleep, sprawled sideways across her futon with one leg dangling off the edge, muttering something unintelligible every now and then in her dreams.

Shiori couldn’t sleep.

She sat on the edge of her bed, still dressed in her loose cotton pajamas, the light shawl wrapped around her shoulders doing little to ease the quiet thrum of tension under her skin. Her legs swung idly above the floor, not touching down — like she was still half-stuck in a memory she couldn’t shake loose.

Today had been… confusing.

Hopeful. Painful. Familiar.

That moment on the beach, her arm wrapped around Jirou’s. His warmth. His silence. The way he hadn’t moved away. She’d let herself believe, just for a second, that things were shifting. That maybe he was starting to see her.

She didn’t know what she was expecting tonight. She just knew she couldn’t sleep without knowing something.

So she stood, padding barefoot across the wooden floor, and gently pulled the curtain aside at the window. The salt-heavy breeze rolled through, cool and soothing, and the moonlight spilled in gently like a secret.

Her eyes naturally fell on the neighbouring cottage.

Cottage #7.

The lights inside were still on, casting soft amber through the open blinds.

And that’s when she saw them.

Jirou and Akari.

Snuggled together on the couch.

Akari’s head resting against his shoulder. Her legs tangled in his lap. One arm tucked around him like she belonged there.

And Jirou — still, unmoving, quiet. Letting it happen.

Not just letting it.

Holding her there.

The breath caught in Shiori’s throat.

She didn’t blink. Couldn’t.

It wasn’t jealousy that hit her first. It wasn’t anger.

It was a sinking kind of quiet. Like watching a balloon float too far into the sky, realizing you’d never get it back.

She let the curtain fall slowly back into place, sealing the image behind soft linen.

For a moment, she just stood there, fingers still curled into the fabric.

“…I was too late, wasn’t I?” she whispered, to no one.

Then she turned, climbed silently back into bed, and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

This time, when her heart ached, she didn’t try to stop it.

Chapter 2: Bonfires, Bathhouses, and Smores

The bathhouse echoed with the sound of laughter, running water, and the occasional splash as the girls filed in, wrapped in towels and riding high on post-breakfast energy. Morning sunlight filtered through the frosted windows, catching the steam in soft golden rays.

Akari stretched her arms above her head, letting out a long, satisfied sigh as she slipped her feet into the warm water. “Finally. My shoulders are dying from carrying this team’s emotional tension.”

“Oh my god,” Natsume groaned, flicking water at her. “It’s way too early for your nonsense.”

“Speak for yourself,” Akari replied, smirking. “Some of us had a restful night’s sleep.”

Across the bath, Shiori quietly stepped into the water beside Mei, her expression neutral. Not quiet in a contented way — quiet in that fragile, keep-yourself-together way.

Akari didn’t notice.

Yet.

Instead, her attention snapped to Shachi, who had been trailing a few steps behind the others, now seated at the edge of the bath with her phone clutched a little too tightly. Her cheeks were pink — and not from the steam.

“Ooooooh!” Akari leaned over, barely keeping her towel on. “Is that the mystery guy?!”

“Leave me alone,” Shachi huffed, rolling her eyes and quickly powering off her screen. “You're nosy.”

“That’s not a denial,” Natsume sing-songed, sinking deeper into the bath until only her eyes and smile peeked above the surface. “So that’s why you ditched us last night. Secret meeting with your secret lover.”

“I did not ditch you,” Shachi muttered, trying and failing to look unbothered. “I said I was tired.”

“Tired from what?” Akari teased. “Late night confessions? Or maybe some steamy texts?”

“I will drown you,” Shachi said flatly, standing up and towering over her like an angry goddess of vengeance, water dripping dramatically from her hair.

“Oh, please.” Akari waved a hand. “You’re all blushy. It’s adorable.”

Mei snorted. “If she tells us who it is, we’ll definitely scare him off.”

“Exactly,” Shachi grumbled, easing back into the water. “Now shut up.”

Akari laughed and let it go, reclining with her arms spread on the smooth stones behind her, content to bask in the heat and teasing.

But as her eyes swept lazily across the bath, she caught something that made her sit up straighter — just for a moment.

Shiori.

The girl hadn’t said a word since they walked in. She sat still, shoulders tense, barely reacting to the conversation. Her gaze was low. She looked… not angry.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

Akari tilted her head slightly.

Something had changed.

She glanced at Mei, who looked like she knew exactly what was going on — but wasn’t saying anything yet.

Akari opened her mouth to ask, but just then, Natsume dunked her fully under the water without warning, and chaos resumed.

Shiori, for her part, said nothing.

But under the surface, the silence was louder than anything.

“What’s up with you, Sakurazaka?” Natsume asked suddenly, her voice soft as she rested her head on Mei’s shoulder. The steam curled lazily around them, making the moment feel almost dreamlike.

Shiori blinked, caught off-guard. “Huh? Oh… it’s nothing. Just tired.”

Natsume gave her a soft smile. “I get that.”

Mei tightened her arm around Natsume’s shoulder and glanced over at Shiori, her expression unreadable but calm. “Told you to go to bed earlier.”

Shiori gave her a faint, grateful look — a silent thank you for not prying.

Natsume, of course, didn’t notice and immediately ruined the moment.

“Well I couldn’t sleep either,” she sighed dramatically, “because I was too busy investigating Shachi’s secret boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a secret boyfriend!!” Shachi yelped, nearly slipping as she spun around in the bath. Her face turned an impressively deep red. “We’re just… talking. That’s all!”

“So there is someone,” Akari sat up straight, eyes gleaming like a cat spotting a laser pointer.

Shachi’s eyes widened with horror. “I didn’t say that!”

“But you didn’t not say it,” Natsume pointed out, grinning as she poked Shachi with one wet finger. “You’re totally into him. Look at you. You’re practically glowing.”

“I am not glowing,” Shachi grumbled, covering her face. “It’s the bathhouse lighting.”

“Sure,” Mei said, not even trying to sound convincing.

Akari leaned forward, resting her chin on her knees, her damp hair falling around her face in soft waves. “So? Who is he? Come on, give us a hint. Is he from our year?”

Shachi scowled. “No hints. You vultures will figure it out in five minutes and then scare him off.”

“Okay, now I’m interested,” Akari said, eyes narrowing.

But before she could press further, her gaze flicked to Shiori — who hadn’t joined in the teasing, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t even looked up.

She just sat in the water, fingers trailing along the surface, eyes distant.

“…Tired, huh?” Akari said quietly.

Shiori looked over, startled, as if just remembering Akari was there.

For a heartbeat, something passed between them — a pause too long to be nothing.

And then Shiori nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. That’s all.”

Akari didn’t believe it for a second.

But she didn’t push either.

Instead, she leaned back with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll let you off the hook this time. But if you ever want to swap secrets… I’m an excellent listener.”

“Since when?” Shachi muttered.

“Since always. You people just don’t pay attention.”

Mei let out a low laugh, resting her chin on top of Natsume’s head. “Alright, enough flirting, secret-keeping, and emotional repression. Let’s just soak before we have to go back to pretending we’re happy couples for points.”

They all laughed at that — even Shiori, faintly.

But as the steam rose higher and the conversation drifted into safer, sillier places, both she and Akari found themselves glancing — not at each other — but toward the windows.

Toward Cottage #7.

The place where something unspoken had already happened.

Something they were both pretending they hadn’t seen.

“Next time,” Mei said dryly, pressing a light kiss to Natsume’s cheek as she leaned in with a smirk, “don’t stay up late FBI-stalking Shachi’s secret boyfriend.”

Natsume burst into laughter, splashing water everywhere as she slid down deeper into the bath. “Isn’t the FBI, like, an American thing?”

“You’re missing the point,” Mei muttered, rolling her eyes affectionately. “It’s the vibe that counts.”

“I was being thorough,” Natsume said, completely unrepentant. “I was like ten minutes away from printing a corkboard and connecting the dots with red string.”

“Okay, now I’m scared,” Shachi groaned, covering her face again. “Do not investigate. I’m begging you.”

“Too late,” Akari added, flicking a splash of water her way. “You gave us enough material for a full conspiracy documentary. I’m thinking something like ‘The Boyfriend Code: Secrets of the Bathhouse.’”

Shiori gave a soft laugh at that — small, but real — and Natsume beamed at her like she’d just won something.

“You see?” Natsume said proudly. “Even Shiori cracked a smile. I am healing.”

“You’re exhausting,” Mei corrected, leaning back and closing her eyes again. “But in a tolerable way.”

The bathhouse hummed with warmth and voices, steam curling around them like a blanket. It was one of those rare moments where time felt slower, safer. Like nothing outside the room could get to them — not the rankings, not the challenges, not the boys, or the shifting feelings everyone pretended they didn’t have.

Just a group of girls, teasing and tangled up in secrets and bath steam, pretending everything was fine.

And for a little while… it almost was.

“Awww, I love you too, Mei-Mei,” Natsume giggled, leaning over to kiss Mei’s cheek with exaggerated affection.

Mei blinked, then gave a dramatic groan. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“You say that,” Natsume grinned, eyes sparkling, “but you always smile when I say it.”

“I’m grimacing,” Mei said flatly, but didn’t push her away — in fact, she shifted just slightly, letting her shoulder brush more closely against Natsume’s.

Shiori, quiet up until now, glanced between them. Her brows furrowed just a little.

“…I thought you hated that name,” she said softly, more to herself than anything. Her voice barely carried over the sound of rippling water and distant laughter.

Natsume looked over, surprised, but not offended. “She does,” she said cheerfully. “Except when I says it.”

Mei let out a sigh but her expression softened, and she reached up, fingers gently brushing Natsume’s damp bangs from her forehead. “It’s about context. Tone. Timing. You wouldn’t get it.”

Shiori watched the small exchange — the closeness, the easiness, the wordless understanding that settled into the space between them like something that had been there for a long, long time.

She realized then, with a slow kind of dawning, that this wasn’t teasing. Not really.

This was real.

Not some joke or accidental intimacy born of a school assignment.

It was something they chose. Quietly. Constantly.

“…You’re together,” Shiori said, blinking.

Natsume tilted her head. “We didn’t really announce it. But yeah.” She nudged Mei with her knee. “I think we have been for a while. Right, babe?”

Mei didn’t answer with words — just the faintest smirk, the kind that said of course.

Akari, floating nearby, raised her brows in mild surprise. “Huh. Well, that explains the cuddling. I thought you two were just really affectionate besties.”

“Please,” Natsume snorted. “We’re not that Gen Z.”

Shiori stared at them for a moment longer, not jealous — but moved. Not just because they were happy, but because it looked simple. Easy. Honest.

Something in her chest tightened.

She smiled, gently. “I’m happy for you.”

Natsume beamed. “Thanks. And don’t worry — your time will come, too.”

Shiori looked down, swirling the water with her fingers.

“I hope so.”

Mei said nothing — but she watched Shiori for a long time, quietly reading her as only she could.

Then she reached across the water, hooked a finger around Shiori’s pinky, and gave it a light tug.

“Just don’t lose yourself trying to become someone else’s ‘perfect match,’” she said simply.

Shiori’s heart twisted.

And she nodded.

Shachi’s phone suddenly pinged, breaking the gentle murmur of conversation and splashing. Her eyes snapped to the screen as if it were a lifeline. Without hesitation, she practically dove to snatch it up before Akari or Natsume could swoop in and grab it for themselves.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she unlocked the screen. But the excitement drained from her face almost instantly.

It was just an old reminder—one she’d set weeks ago and completely forgotten about.

“Ugh,” she muttered under her breath, lips tightening. The glow from the phone highlighted the flicker of disappointment in her eyes, quickly masked by a casual, “Nothing. Just some dumb old reminder.”

Akari arched an eyebrow, exchanging a quick glance with Natsume, who just shrugged with a knowing smile.

“Well, if that’s the big secret, you’re doing a terrible job at keeping us guessing,” Akari teased, nudging Shachi’s shoulder.

Shachi rolled her eyes but couldn’t hold back a small, reluctant smile. “Maybe that’s the point.”

The reminder vanished from the screen, but the weight of what it meant lingered in the air between them—unspoken, heavy, and just out of reach.

Just as the laughter started to die down, ping — Shachi’s phone lit up again, vibrating softly against the stone edge of the bath.

She glanced over, already assuming it was nothing… but froze mid-sigh when she saw the sender.

In an instant, her whole demeanor shifted.

Her eyes brightened. Her fingers flew across the screen, tapping out a reply faster than any of them had ever seen her type. And then — giggle.

A real one.

Soft. Unrestrained. Totally unguarded.’

Her cheeks flushed pink — not from the heat of the water this time — but from whatever was now playing across her screen.

Natsume noticed first. “Oh my god.”

Akari whipped around so fast her towel almost slipped. “She’s blushing. I repeat: Shachi is blushing.”

Mei narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t just a guy she’s talking to casually. This is a crush-crush.”

Shiori, still quiet but watching now with interest, smiled faintly. “You look happy.”

Shachi, caught red-handed, hugged her phone to her chest and turned away dramatically. “I am not discussing this!”

Akari scooted closer like a shark sensing blood. “Tell us everything. Who is he? Is he cute? Is he from our class? Is it Minami?—wait no, Kamo?!”

“I will throw this phone in the bath if you keep guessing,” Shachi warned, holding it up like a hostage.

“But you’re smiling,” Natsume cooed. “You never smile like that.”

“It’s a nice message, okay?” she muttered, clearly flustered. “He’s… just sweet. That’s all.”

Mei raised a brow. “Define sweet. Like, ‘walks you home’ sweet? Or ‘accidentally calls you pretty in the middle of a sentence and pretends he didn’t’ sweet?”

Shachi’s ears turned red. “Drop it. All of you.”

Akari grinned wickedly. “I give it three days before she’s sneaking off to meet him at night.”

Shiori laughed softly. “Maybe even less.”

As the teasing continued, Shachi tucked her phone into her towel pocket, but the smile remained — dreamy and soft, like something she didn’t get often. And though she tried to hide it, the way her fingers kept twitching toward her phone told them all one thing,

Whoever he was… he made her feel something real.

The cottage that day seemed quieter, even though the air buzzed with a strange mix of restlessness and subdued joy.

Akari had taken over the kitchen again, humming softly as she worked—barefoot and comfortable in one of Jirou’s shirts that hung too big on her shoulders. She looked completely at ease, flipping pancakes and occasionally poking her head out to check on the others. Jirou, as always, stuck close by, pretending not to watch her but leaping into action every time she needed help. When she nearly dropped the syrup bottle, he caught it without a second thought, earning a delighted laugh from her. Later, she clung to his arm and dramatically begged him to feed her a piece of his pancake. Shiori, walking by the window, caught the tail end of that moment. Her chest tightened in that familiar way again, something between confusion, discomfort, and longing she didn’t want to examine too closely.

She tried to shake it off, but things didn’t improve when she returned to the living room and saw Minami on his phone again. He had that look—eyes lighting up, fingers typing rapidly, a smile pulling at his lips. When she asked who he was talking to, he just said, “A friend,” but the way he said it, soft and almost bashful, told a different story. She didn’t push—she couldn’t. Instead, she sat beside him, pretending not to notice the moment his screen lit up again with a message that made his face fall. The silence that followed was heavier than any words.

In Shachi's room, the air felt stagnant. She had curled up with a book at first, but it sat forgotten beside her. Her husband had knocked once, asked gently if she wanted to do one of the team tasks, but she had barely lifted her eyes when she shook her head. He didn’t press, retreating quietly. Her phone had pinged twice that day—once with an old reminder, which made her visibly wilt. The second time, though, she’d lit up, quickly typing a message back, cheeks flushed, lips curling into a rare smile. Whoever she was texting had her undivided attention.

And on the beach, Mei and Natsume were wrapped up in their own world. They walked with sandy toes and half-melted ice cream cones, hands brushing often. Natsume leaned into Mei’s shoulder as she laughed too hard at something dumb, and Mei looked at her like she was the only person on the planet who mattered. There was something reassuring in their rhythm, like two puzzle pieces that had long since stopped struggling to fit.

Back at the cottages, the late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over everything. Everyone was moving, orbiting one another, but somehow still missing—their own thoughts, their own secrets. Shiori sat on the porch steps, hugging her knees and staring into the distance. She wasn’t sure if the ache in her chest was because of Jirou… or because she didn’t know what she wanted anymore.

"You were right about the cheesecake flavour", Natsumi sai,d looking up at Mei as they walked hand in hand

"I knew you'd like it" Mei smiled at her, then kissed her

Natsume kissed back, almost dropping her ice cream when she did.

Mei laughed into the kiss, gently steadying Natsume’s wrist with her free hand so she wouldn’t lose her ice cream entirely.

"Careful," she murmured with a smile, "that’s the last thing I’d want you to drop."

Natsume blinked up at her, cheeks a little flushed from the mix of sunlight and affection. "You’re evil," she grinned, licking her ice cream quickly before it could melt too much. "You time those kisses just to mess with me."

"Maybe," Mei admitted coyly, leaning in again, her voice soft and teasing. "But it works, doesn’t it?"

Mei grinned, effortlessly stealing a quick lick of Natsume’s ice cream before she could protest. “You’re welcome,” she teased.

Natsume narrowed her eyes, playfully indignant. “You thief.”

“Your fault for getting distracted mid-kiss,” Mei shot back, brushing her thumb over Natsume’s cheek.

They continued walking down the shoreline, the breeze tousling their hair and the sun beginning to dip low behind them. For a moment, the world felt like it had slowed down. Just the sound of the waves, the distant caws of gulls, and the faint echo of the others back at the cottages.

Natsume leaned her head against Mei’s shoulder, squeezing her hand tighter. “We should do this more,” she whispered.

Mei glanced down, her smile softening. “We will. Promise.”

Behind them, the footprints in the sand trailed off, two sets moving forward as one.

Akari and Jirou stood side by side at the small local produce stall just down the path from the cottages, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. The vendor, an older woman with a sunhat far too big for her head, smiled quietly as she watched them bicker—clearly amused by the domestic energy radiating off the pair.

“Don’t even think about grabbing those apples,” Akari said sharply without looking up, her eyes still scanning the line of peaches like a general surveying a battlefield. “They’re bruised. You always pick bruised fruit.”

Jirou sighed dramatically, hand hovering over the apples in question. “You act like I’m trying to poison us.”

“I know you’re not trying. That’s the problem,” Akari muttered, finally selecting a perfectly ripe peach and placing it gently in their basket.

They moved on to the vegetables next, Akari inspecting each with the scrutiny of someone who had once watched an entire YouTube series on how to properly choose produce. Jirou, on the other hand, poked a tomato absently and nearly dropped a head of lettuce when she turned a sudden glare on him.

“You have one job,” she hissed. “Hold the basket. Do not contaminate the selection process.”

“I’m just saying,” Jirou drawled, reluctantly adjusting the weight of the basket in his arms, “this feels a lot like when my mom used to drag my dad to the market, and she’d scold him for looking at mangoes.”

Akari smirked. “That’s because she knew he had bad taste.”

“Like you with your taste in husbands?”

Akari’s eyes flicked up, sharp and amused. “Careful, or you’ll be sleeping outside with the mangoes tonight.”

The two fell into quiet laughter, the kind that bubbled up effortlessly between people who were used to each other’s rhythms, even if they never quite admitted it aloud. People passed by, offering the occasional glance or smile, but neither Akari nor Jirou seemed to notice. For a brief moment, they looked like a couple who had been together for years—perfectly synchronized in their imperfect banter.

And maybe, just maybe, neither of them realized how much that image suited them.

Akari’s hand slipped into the crook of Jirou’s arm as they continued down the narrow path between the stalls, her fingers wrapping around him with casual familiarity. She wasn’t even thinking about it—didn’t need to. It felt natural, like something she’d done a hundred times before, even if this was one of the rare occasions she let herself show that kind of open affection.

Jirou glanced down at her with a smirk, ready to tease her for getting all soft on him in public—but the words caught in his throat.

She looked... peaceful.

Her usually sharp eyes were relaxed, lips curled in a soft smile as she pointed at a vendor selling skewers of grilled fish and corn. The late afternoon light painted her face in soft amber tones, catching on her lashes, and for a moment, she looked like she belonged to another world—one far from chaos and conflict, one filled only with quiet markets and seaside towns and sunset walks.

“You’re really into this whole domestic fantasy, huh?” Jirou said, attempting nonchalance, though his voice came out a little too gentle.

Akari gave him a sideways glance. “Maybe I am. So what?”

He laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that didn’t need an audience. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

Akari didn’t answer at first. Instead, she leaned her head ever so slightly against his arm as they walked, eyes scanning the stalls but no longer really paying attention. The sounds of the market buzzed around them—voices haggling, wind chimes clinking, waves in the distance—but all of it faded into a soft hum beneath their shared silence.

“It’s nice,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What is?”

“This.” She looked up at him. “Us. Doing something stupid and normal and... nice.”

Jirou didn’t respond right away. He only nodded, letting her grip on his arm tighten just a little as they passed another stall selling little hand-woven bracelets. For all her pride, for all her bark and bite, Akari was holding on like she didn’t want the moment to end.

And if Jirou was honest with himself, neither did he.

Akari had stopped so abruptly that Jirou nearly kept walking without her. He turned back, brows furrowed, only to find her standing still in the middle of the path, eyes fixed on his face. Her hand was still curled around his arm, but there was a strange tightness in her grip now—like she was trying to hold onto the moment before it slipped away.

"Hey, Jirou…" she began, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it. She looked up at him with a vulnerability she rarely let show. “I think I—”

But the words were swallowed by chaos.

A blur of motion raced between them and a nearby stall. A child, no older than six, came darting through the crowd, weaving between people with reckless energy. In the span of a second, the kid clipped the edge of a vegetable display, sending carrots, tomatoes, and a precariously stacked basket of apples crashing to the ground. Vendors gasped, a woman shouted for someone to catch the kid, and startled market-goers jumped out of the way.

Akari barely had time to step aside, grabbing Jirou’s sleeve and pulling him instinctively back as a wobbling crate nearly hit her foot.

“Hey—!” Jirou reached out, steadying her, but the kid was already gone—off like a gust of wind, the mayhem left in their wake.

Akari blinked, still gripping Jirou’s jacket like her life depended on it. “What the hell—” she muttered, then let out a breathy laugh of disbelief.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I just... wasn’t expecting that.”

Jirou chuckled, though his eyes lingered on hers a beat longer. “Yeah? What were you expecting?”

Akari looked down, suddenly self-conscious. She let go of his jacket and shoved her hands into her pockets. “Doesn’t matter now,” she muttered.

Jirou tilted his head. “You sure? Sounded like you were gonna say something important.”

She shrugged, a little too casually. “I was just gonna say I think I might’ve found my favorite food stall. That grilled fish one back there.”

"Okay", Jirou just nodded, letting her drag him away without even questioning

As they walked away, Jirou didn’t press her—not really. He glanced over at her once or twice, like he was turning something over in his head, but he didn’t bring it up again. Instead, he let her tug him through the crowd, past the toppled apples and startled vendors, like the interruption hadn’t cracked open something raw and unfinished between them.

But Akari was quiet now. Not in the usual way, where she simply didn’t have anything to say, but in the way someone carries words they didn’t get to finish. She laughed a little louder than necessary when she pointed out a weirdly shaped cucumber, and she teased him about his taste in snacks like she always did, but something about her smile felt just a touch too tight.

Jirou noticed—of course he did. He wasn’t the most observant guy, but when it came to her, he noticed things. Like the way her eyes kept flicking back toward where they’d been standing. Or the way her fingers twitched slightly, like they remembered how tightly they’d held onto him just moments ago.

Later, as they sat on a bench near the edge of the market, sharing a paper tray of grilled fish and pickled vegetables, Jirou glanced at her again. She was chewing absentmindedly, watching the sun start to dip behind the buildings.

“You really liked this stall, huh?” he said, nudging her with his elbow.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. It’s simple. Feels... safe.”

Jirou nodded slowly, then turned his attention back to the food.

And Akari, staring down at her chopsticks, thought to herself, I was going to say I think I love you. But now the words felt too fragile, too big to say aloud—at least for today.

So instead, she bumped her shoulder into his and said, “Next time, I’m picking dessert too. No complaints.”

Jirou grinned. “I’ll allow it. But only if it’s not that weird tofu ice cream again.”

Akari rolled her eyes, and for now, they let the moment pass—unsaid, but not forgotten.

That night, the camp came alive under a star-strewn sky, the soft crackle of the bonfire at its heart setting the tone for what would become one of those rare, golden evenings that lived on long after the embers died out. The flames flickered tall and wild, casting dancing shadows across everyone’s faces, making even the most familiar friends look a little more mysterious, a little more magical. Laughter spilled easily, chaotic and unfiltered, as students took turns trying—and miserably failing—to tell ghost stories without bursting into giggles halfway through. It was less spooky and more like a comedy show, especially when one of the boys tried to use a flashlight under his chin, only for it to die mid-sentence.

Mei and Natsume sat toward the edge of the circle, just far enough from the others to feel like they had some privacy, but close enough that they couldn’t actually touch. Every few moments, Mei would glance toward Natsume, her eyes softening with a silent longing she couldn’t voice—not here, not with teachers just a few steps away. Natsume, in turn, kept pretending to adjust her hoodie, tucking her hair behind her ear, anything to avoid locking eyes for too long. But it didn’t stop her from sneaking looks whenever Mei wasn’t watching. Their smiles were quiet, subtle things, like secrets passed between glances.

On the opposite side of the fire, Akari and Shiori had somehow ended up seated on either side of Jirou, an arrangement that could only be described as a silent showdown. Akari, effortlessly confident, would lean in just slightly when she spoke, asking Jirou’s opinion on the food or casually handing him a perfectly roasted marshmallow. Shiori, quieter but no less determined, countered by chiming in with her own stories from earlier in the day—funny, smart, and just interesting enough to hold Jirou’s attention. He, meanwhile, looked like a man stuck between two very different storm systems, trying not to show any favoritism even though his eyes lingered a little longer on Akari whenever she laughed.

Sachi was tucked into a log further back from the fire, her phone glowing in the shadows as her thumbs moved quickly. She smiled at the screen, biting her lip to hide it. Every once in a while, she’d glance up at the others and giggle softly to herself, clearly not focused on the chaos around her. Across the circle, Minami mirrored her almost exactly—back against a tree, face lit by the pale blue light of her phone, expression unreadable. If anyone noticed the symmetry between the two, they didn’t say a word, but it was hard to miss how in sync their smiles were, how their notifications seemed to ping almost in tandem.

In the middle of the circle, someone screamed in alarm, followed by uncontrollable laughter—one of the boys had attempted to roast a marshmallow and, instead, flung it straight into the flames. It burst into a fireball with a puff of sugary smoke. A chorus of "Oh my god!" and "You're gonna burn down the forest!" followed. A teacher, somewhere in the background, sighed loudly but didn’t intervene. The marshmallow-thrower raised his hands in surrender while another kid dramatically tried to “exorcise” the fire pit with a stick.

Everyone was flushed with the heat of the fire and the freedom of being young and outside under the open sky. Above them, the stars blinked on, one by one, a silent audience to the evening's chaos. It was one of those rare nights where everything felt suspended—no homework, no tests, no expectations. Just heat, light, laughter... and unspoken things lingering just beneath the surface.

Jirou didn’t even get the chance to answer Shiori’s quiet observation about the stars before Akari’s voice sliced in like a knife through paper—loud, cheerful, and unmistakably directed at him.

“Jirou!” she called, grabbing onto his arm with the familiarity of someone who did it often and without hesitation. She beamed up at him, her boldness practically radiating like the heat from the bonfire behind them. “Can you make me a marshmallow?”

Jirou blinked, pulled from Shiori’s side of the conversation with disorienting speed. “Huh? Do it yourself.”

Shiori, ever graceful, didn’t visibly react—just looked down and adjusted her sweater sleeve, hands neatly folded in her lap. But her silence was loud in its own way, a quiet withdrawal that didn’t go unnoticed by Akari.

Akari pouted exaggeratedly, her bottom lip jutting out in a way that was probably more calculated than it seemed. “Please, Jirou,” she added, her voice dipping just slightly, enough to sound like she was teasing but not enough to sound completely unserious. “You always burn yours, and mine are way better when you make them.”

“You mean when I don’t accidentally set them on fire,” he muttered, trying not to look too flustered as she clung to his arm. But he was already reaching for a stick and one of the few remaining marshmallows, his body moving before his brain had even caught up.

Akari smirked, victorious, and gave a satisfied hum as she let go of his arm—though she didn’t move far. Shiori watched him quietly from the other side, her eyes flickering between the stick in his hand and the soft smile tugging at Akari’s lips.

The fire crackled. Someone in the background dared to try another ghost story, only to dissolve into laughter halfway through. Natsume and Mei had gotten closer in the shadows near the back, their hushed conversation mostly drowned out by the chaos around them. Sachi and Minami, both still on their phones, occasionally glanced up to watch the group, though their expressions were unreadable.

The marshmallow slowly turned golden over the flame, and Akari leaned forward just a little, her shoulder brushing against Jirou’s. “I like it crispy on the outside—” she began, voice soft, almost dreamy as her eyes tracked the turning marshmallow.

“—and gooey on the inside,” Jirou finished automatically before he could even think about it. “I know.”

The moment hung in the air between them, quiet despite the chaotic noise of the bonfire behind them. His words hadn’t been teasing or sarcastic—they’d just... come out. Natural. Familiar. Like he’d been doing this long enough to know how she liked things without even trying.

Akari blinked, clearly surprised by how easily he’d said it—but then her expression melted into something warmer, almost glowing. “You remembered,” she said softly, just loud enough for him to hear. It wasn’t a question. More like a little observation she was allowing herself, and maybe a subtle declaration of how pleased it made her feel.

Jirou cleared his throat and looked away, focusing on the marshmallow with unnecessary intensity as it began to bubble just slightly. “It’s not like it’s hard to remember,” he muttered, but his voice lacked any real edge. “You always make a big deal about it.”

Akari didn’t deny it. She simply smiled, her eyes shining with a hint of something fond, something quiet and teasing but deeper too. She didn’t touch his arm again, but she didn’t need to—not when the space between them was already charged with something unspoken.

Across from them, Shiori glanced up from where she’d been carefully watching the flames. Her fingers twitched around her untouched marshmallow stick, but she said nothing. There was a flicker in her eyes—something complicated, something unreadable—but she quickly looked away.

Behind them, the chaos continued. Another marshmallow flew into the fire with a hiss and an eruption of laughter. Someone tripped over a log and almost fell into Natsume, prompting Mei to scold them half-heartedly before ducking her head and laughing along. Sachi and Minami exchanged a glance—Minami briefly smirked at her screen, then glanced toward the fire with an expression that could have meant anything.

But for Akari and Jirou, the noise faded into a kind of soft static. The marshmallow was almost ready. He turned the stick once more, eyes narrowing in focus.

“There,” he said, offering it to her carefully, like he always did—crisped golden-brown, slightly drooping, perfect.

Akari didn’t take it immediately. She just looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his face a second too long before finally plucking the marshmallow from the stick.

Akari paused for a second, her gaze drifting from the marshmallow to Jirou’s face and then back again, something calculating flashing in her eyes. The firelight flickered across her features, softening the curve of her cheek as she tilted her head slightly. A teasing smile tugged at the corner of her lips—one Jirou didn’t quite trust.

She didn’t speak. Instead, she simply leaned in, her expression shifting just enough to become unmistakably deliberate, and opened her mouth—expectant, patient, playful. It was clear what she wanted, even without words: she was waiting for him to feed her.

Jirou blinked, caught completely off guard, his grip tightening slightly on the now-stickless marshmallow skewer. “...You serious?” he asked, trying to inject some exasperation into his tone, but it came out more surprised than annoyed.

Akari didn’t answer—at least not with words. She just kept looking up at him, lips parted, eyes glinting with challenge and amusement. Her shoulders were relaxed, her stance casual, but there was something electric in her stillness, like she was daring him to say no.

Jirou opened his mouth, probably to protest again, but nothing came out. It wasn’t like she was flirting—well, maybe she was, a little—but it wasn’t the kind he was used to. This was the kind that sneaked up on you, the kind that left no room to backpedal without looking like a coward. And the worst part? It was working.

He sighed under his breath, glancing briefly around them. No one was paying attention. Shiori was still turned toward the fire, too still for it to be casual, and Mei was off trying to convince Natsume to eat one of her burnt marshmallows. Sachi and Minami were on their phones again, trading snarky glances.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice just above a whisper.

And before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned forward and offered the marshmallow to her lips.

Akari smiled wider, triumphant but still coy, and took the marshmallow gently from his fingers, her lips brushing the tips ever so slightly as she pulled away. “Mmm…” she hummed, closing her eyes briefly as she chewed. “Perfect.”

Jirou stared at her for a beat too long before turning quickly away, ears tinged pink, muttering something incomprehensible as he poked another marshmallow onto the stick.

Akari just kept smiling, pleased with herself but not smug. It was a quiet kind of victory, and she let it sit between them like the warmth of the fire—unspoken, undeniable, and only just beginning to smolder.

 

Jirou had just managed to recover from Akari’s marshmallow stunt—well, mostly. His heartbeat was still slightly erratic, and he was absolutely determined not to look flustered, even though he was very much flustered. He kept his eyes on the flames, using the motion of toasting another marshmallow to busy his hands and settle his nerves. Akari had gone quiet beside him, though her smug little smile hadn’t vanished.

But then he heard it—soft, hesitant.

“Jirou…”

His eyes flicked sideways before turning his head, and there was Shiori, sitting just slightly apart from the others, her arms folded in front of her chest and her expression a blend of vulnerability and patience. She looked up at him with wide eyes, barely illuminated by the glow of the fire, her tone almost unsure as she continued, “I’m cold.”

She hadn’t said it loudly. In fact, her voice was quiet enough that it felt meant just for him—private, like a secret or a small wish.

His hand paused mid-turn with the marshmallow. For a moment, everything felt suspended: the wind through the trees, the crackle of the fire, Akari’s presence at his side. Shiori wasn’t someone who asked for much. She wasn’t bold like Akari, and she wasn’t pushy. She gave space. She gave choice. But she also—when it mattered—reached out.

And this was one of those moments.

Jirou’s expression softened, his brow furrowing just slightly. “Oh. Uh… yeah, hold on.”

He stood up slowly, brushing his hands against his pants. The girls around the fire barely glanced his way—Minami was now arguing about firewood, and Mei had roped Sachi into taste-testing her cooking experiment. Akari said nothing, but he could feel her gaze trailing after him.

Jirou walked to his bag sitting just off to the side, pulled out his jacket, and brought it back to Shiori. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood in front of her for a second, then crouched a little so they were eye-level.

“Here,” he said quietly, his voice low, genuine. “It’s warmer than it looks. Sorry I didn’t notice sooner.”

He didn’t throw it over her shoulders dramatically or anything cheesy like that. Instead, he gently handed it to her, letting her take it herself. The choice was still hers, just like always.

Shiori smiled softly, a bit shyly, and slipped the jacket on. It was oversized on her, naturally, the sleeves a little too long, the collar high enough to brush her cheek. Her smile grew just a little as she tucked her hands into the sleeves.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Jirou gave her a nod, trying not to let his eyes linger too long, but something about the way she looked in his jacket made it harder than he expected. He turned back to the fire, quickly, trying not to look awkward—and also trying not to notice how quiet Akari had gone behind him.

Akari narrowed her eyes just slightly, the motion almost imperceptible behind the soft gleam of the campfire. Shiori’s little moment with Jirou hadn’t gone unnoticed. Far from it. It was subtle, sure—too subtle for most of the others to register—but Akari saw it clear as day. The voice, the timing, the look. And then Jirou’s reaction? The way he’d moved so quickly, so naturally, as if it were instinct?

It stirred something uncomfortable beneath her ribs. Not jealousy exactly—Akari wasn’t quite ready to admit to something that personal—but irritation? Certainly. A keen sense of competition? Without a doubt.

She leaned back slowly, arms folded, her marshmallow forgotten. The coolness of the night air brushed her cheeks, but her focus was sharp. She didn’t speak. Not yet. Instead, she watched.

Shiori looked peaceful now, wrapped in Jirou’s jacket like it was her natural state, as though she hadn’t just played a quiet hand in pulling him away. Akari's gaze flicked away, needing a break from that image—and it landed on Natsumi.

That, too, was curious.

Natsumi sat a little removed from Mei, her posture casual, but her arms crossed in that telltale way of someone holding something in. A far cry from the playful intimacy they’d had earlier at the bathhouse—where every glance and brush of hands had brimmed with unspoken tension. Now? There was space. Deliberate space.

Akari’s eyes narrowed further, not out of malice this time, but calculation. Something had shifted between the two—maybe something they didn’t even realize. Or maybe they did realize it and were just refusing to address it. Either way, it was information. And information was useful.

She tucked that observation away, like a note scrawled on the corner of a test page, and turned her thoughts back to Shiori.

If Shiori wanted to play it soft—quiet eyes, borrowed jackets, a whispered name—Akari wouldn’t interrupt. No, that would be obvious, and Akari didn’t do obvious. She played long games. Carefully. With precision.

Still silent, she reached over and plucked another marshmallow from the bag, sliding it onto her stick with the slow deliberation of someone waiting for just the right moment to strike.

Let Shiori have her cold night and her borrowed warmth.

Akari could turn the heat up in other ways.

Natsumi looked over at Mei, hesitating to speak "I..." Mei met her eyes. The distance felt like an ocean Mei spoke first "you're so far away..."

"one of the teachers might see " Natsumi said softly "I dont wanna get you in trouble..."

"I know", Mei breathed

The space between them—barely a meter on the worn log they shared—suddenly felt infinite.

Natsumi’s fingers curled over her knees, clutching the fabric of her sweatpants as if bracing herself against the pull of that distance. Mei’s voice had landed softly, almost like a sigh, but it struck Natsumi like a wave. You’re so far away.

She hadn't meant to pull away. Not really. She was only trying to be careful, to keep Mei safe from rumors, from disapproving looks, from whispers in teacher lounges. This camp was supposed to be easy, carefree—fun. And yet…

"I…" Natsumi started again, her voice quieter this time. She looked at Mei, her eyes searching hers with an openness that rarely made it past her usual armor. "I just didn’t want to mess anything up. I know what people are like. If they saw you with me like that, laughing in the bathhouse or… sitting close now, they’d think things. And they’d make it your problem."

Mei’s lips parted slightly, her gaze unwavering, clear even in the dancing firelight. "It’s already my problem," she said, her tone low but not accusing—just real. Honest. “Because I miss you. Right here.”

She tapped the space between them with two fingers.

Natsumi’s chest tightened. She glanced around the fire. Akari was focused elsewhere, her gaze cool and distant. Jirou and Shiori were in their own world. No one was looking their way. And even if someone did… for once, maybe that could be okay.

A long breath left her. She reached out, slowly, uncertainly, brushing her fingers against Mei’s pinky on the log.

A small contact. Barely anything. But Mei responded instantly, her hand shifting to lace their fingers together.

Warmth bloomed between their palms, quiet and unspoken.

"I'm still here," Natsumi said, her voice more certain now. "Even if I’m a little far sometimes… I don’t want to be."

Mei smiled. It was small but full of something deeper—relief, affection, understanding.

“Then don’t be.”

"I love you", Mei whispered, squeezing her hand

Natsumi’s breath caught in her throat—not because she hadn’t thought it, not because she hadn’t felt it a thousand times over, but because hearing it out loud like that, so soft and sincere, made it real in a way nothing else had. It wasn’t a joke, or something buried between glances and laughter. It was Mei’s heart, offered plainly and without armor.

And Natsumi took it without hesitation.

“I love you more,” she said again, voice stronger this time, smiling through the fluttering in her chest.

Mei squeezed her hand tighter. “Liar,” she whispered, but her eyes shimmered with that same smile—bright, warm, disbelieving, and full of hope. “But fine. We’ll argue about it later.”

“I’m not scared anymore,” Natsumi said, turning slightly toward her. “If they see, they see.”

Mei’s gaze didn’t waver. “Let them.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that the fire was crackling behind them, or that there were other campers all around, or even that just a few hours ago, they’d been laughing under steam and tiled ceilings, stealing glances instead of touches. Now, there were no excuses. No hiding.

Only this small world between them—their joined hands, their breath in the night air, and the quiet rhythm of I love you. I love you more. Liar. A rhythm they’d both remember long after the camp ended.

Natsumi leaned in slightly, their foreheads brushing. “You’re everything to me.”

Mei closed her eyes for a second and rested against her. “And you’re mine.”

Jirou stiffened for a split second—not out of discomfort, but because Akari always had a way of catching him off guard. One second she was teasing, challenging, and bold with her words, and the next she was quietly leaning into him like she belonged there. And maybe, in moments like this, she kind of did.

She tucked her face into his upper arm, her breath warm through the fabric of his shirt. “You’re warm,” she mumbled, voice muffled but clearly intentional.

Jirou glanced down at her, blinking like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with this sudden, cozy version of her. “You could’ve just asked for my hoodie,” he muttered, not pulling away but not leaning in either. He tried to keep his voice steady, even playful, but his ears were betraying him—flushed red at the tips.

“I don’t want your hoodie,” Akari said softly, a smile in her voice. “I want you.”

That made him freeze again, and she didn’t miss it. Her smile grew slightly, satisfied, as she tightened her grip around his arm and nestled closer like she hadn’t just made his brain short-circuit.

Shiori, who had gone quiet on the other side, looked away slowly, gaze distant as the fire crackled in front of them. Her fingers curled slightly in her lap, but she said nothing.

Jirou noticed. Of course he did. But when he looked down at Akari again—bright, glowing Akari, whose affection was as loud as her laugh—he sighed softly and let his body relax just enough for her to notice.

Akari grinned like she’d won.

“You’re gonna make it hard to cook,” he grumbled, voice low.

“Then don’t cook,” she said without lifting her head. “Just stay like this for a while.”

And for once, he didn’t argue.

Jirou shifted, wrapping her arm around her and pulling her closer. Akari smiled, resting her head on her shoulder. he didn't say anything "I'm gonna get some more marshmallows" she said, suddenly standing "We can make some smores or whatever, Minami showed me how"

"You and Minami are getting real close these days" Jirou said "For someone who claims she's not into- never mind" he shut up quickly when she glared at him

Akari’s eyes narrowed as she turned to face him fully, one brow raised in a warning he knew all too well. Her glare wasn’t sharp enough to be truly angry, but it carried weight—it always did when she felt misread or when someone toe’d the line too carelessly.

“Finish that sentence, Jirou,” she said slowly, voice quiet but firm. “Go on.”

Jirou sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Forget it. It was stupid,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the fire. The crackling logs filled the silence that stretched between them like an invisible line neither wanted to cross, but both kept inching toward.

Akari stared at him for a beat longer, trying to read between the lines. “You think I’m into Minami?” she asked, her voice almost amused now—if not slightly exasperated.

“I didn’t say that,” Jirou replied, gaze steady but not defensive. “I said you claim you're not into him. Big difference.”

Akari scoffed and rolled her eyes, grabbing the bag of marshmallows and shaking it for dramatic effect. “You’re such an idiot,” she said as she turned away, but there was a smile tugging at her lips now. “Minami’s just... cool, okay? We talk. Hhe gets it.”

Jirou watched her as she walked off toward the food table, arms swinging slightly. “Right,” he said under his breath. “He gets it.”

Shiori watched the exchange quietly, her eyes lingering on Akari for a moment too long before shifting to Jirou. “You jealous?” she asked, too softly for it to sound like a jab.

Jirou leaned forward, grabbing a stick for roasting marshmallows. “Not of Minami,” he replied.

Shiori’s gaze flicked to the flames. “Mm.”

Meanwhile, Akari at the edge of the clearing jabbed a marshmallow onto a stick with unnecessary force, lips pursed. She didn’t have feelings for Minami. Not like that. But she liked the way Minami talked to her. The way she listened without judgment. It was comforting.

Still... she glanced over her shoulder and saw Jirou hunched by the fire, arms draped over his knees, Shiori just a little too close again.

And for a moment, Akari didn’t feel warm at all.

She marched back with a new handful of marshmallows and a fire in her chest that had very little to do with the actual flames.

“Move,” she said, plopping down next to Jirou and practically elbowing Shiori out of the way. “Let’s make those damn s’mores.”

Jirou blinked at her sudden return, then glanced at Shiori, who’d already begun to inch away with an expression caught between annoyance and resignation.

Akari didn’t care.

She was claiming her space—and maybe her person too, whether she was ready to admit that out loud or not.

After what Jirou could only describe as the smoothest s’more-making he’d ever seen, Akari stood up with an effortless confidence, leaning forward just slightly as she reached for something behind him. The firelight caught the angle of her face, casting warm shadows along her cheekbones and neck, and for one unbearably long second, Jirou’s brain completely short-circuited.

He looked away fast—head snapping so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash—his face already flushing hot as the creeping blush raced up his neck and settled across his ears.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to be far more interested in the marshmallow goo stuck to his thumb.

Akari didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she did. She always had a way of pretending not to. She took a bite of the s’more she’d made and sat back down beside him like it was nothing, like she hadn’t just stirred something in his chest he couldn’t name without sounding ridiculous.

“Too much chocolate?” she asked casually, nudging his arm with her shoulder.

He didn’t look at her. “You can’t have too much chocolate.”

She hummed, licking melted chocolate from her finger, and Jirou nearly dropped his stick into the fire.

Akari’s boldness caught Jirou completely off guard. Before he could even react, she moved with a sudden, confident grace—sliding onto his lap, settling down without hesitation. Her arms wrapped firmly around his neck, pulling him closer like she was staking her claim.

“Try it,” she whispered, pressing the warm, gooey s’more gently against his lips.

Jirou froze, his mind scrambling to find footing as a flurry of thoughts collided with the heat rushing to his cheeks. His breath hitched; his pulse thundered in his ears. He struggled to regain composure, to act like this was just another casual moment—but it wasn’t. Not at all.

Instinct took over before reason did, and one arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer without question. The world narrowed to the feel of her warmth against him, the sweetness on his lips, and the steady beat of her heart pressed right there beneath his hand.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, trying to steady the chaos inside.

When he opened them again, Akari was watching him with that mischievous, triumphant smile — the one that said she knew exactly what she was doing and was loving every second of it.

Jirou couldn’t help but smile back, a little breathless, a little dazed — and entirely caught.

Chapter 3: Beaches, Shrimp, and Kisses

The next few days passed in a strange rhythm—a kind of delicate chaos where everything felt almost normal on the surface, yet tension hummed beneath every interaction. They completed their assigned tasks, shared meals, and laughed in groups, but between those ordinary moments, something deeper and more confusing was quietly unfolding.

Both Akari and Shiori had become more forward, each in their own distinct way. Akari’s affection came in bursts—quick kisses that left his mind blank and his heart pounding, playful teasing that made it impossible to breathe normally around her. Shiori, on the other hand, was softer. Her words were gentle, yet somehow they stuck with him longer, echoing in his head long after she’d walked away.

Jirou didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to hurt either of them, but he also couldn’t pretend that his heart wasn’t being pulled in two directions. Every time Akari smiled at him, his chest felt like it might burst. Every time Shiori looked at him with those quiet, thoughtful eyes, guilt twisted in his stomach.

He was deep in thought—so deep, in fact, that he didn’t even notice Akari approaching until she was right in front of him.

“Jirou!”

He jumped slightly, blinking out of his daze. Akari was standing there with a beach bag slung over her shoulder, her hair loosely tied up, the late morning sunlight catching on her skin. She had that impatient glint in her eye—the one that always meant trouble.

“Hurry up,” she said, tugging on his arm. “We’re going to the beach!”’

Right. The beach.

Crap.

His heart started hammering before they’d even left the cottage. The beach meant swimsuits. And swimsuits meant… Akari in that bikini. The same one that had nearly given him heart failure last time. Just remembering it made him feel dizzy.

He quickly turned away, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, okay—uh, just let me grab the towels.”

He reached for them, but before he could escape, Akari’s voice cut through again—playful but firm.

“Wait.”

He froze. “…What?”

“You need sunscreen first.”

Jirou turned back, confused. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” She put her hands on her hips. “Last time you looked like a peeling tomato for two days. You’re not doing that again.”

Jirou froze halfway to the closet, towel in hand, staring at her as if she’d just declared war on his sanity. Akari stood there in her usual confident stance, one hand on her hip, the other already holding a bottle of sunscreen she’d clearly come armed with. The look in her eyes wasn’t teasing or flirty—at least, not entirely—but rather the kind of determined focus that meant he wasn’t escaping this.

“I can do it myself,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding her gaze.

“Yeah, sure you can.” Akari crossed her arms, raising a brow. “That’s what you said last time. And you still ended up looking like a half-cooked shrimp.”

Jirou’s ears went pink. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was bad,” she countered, already walking over and tossing the bottle at him. He caught it clumsily. “Now take off your shirt.”

“Excuse me?”

Akari rolled her eyes. “You heard me. Unless you plan on putting sunscreen over your clothes like a genius.”

Jirou opened his mouth to protest, but the look she gave him—half challenge, half smug satisfaction—made his throat go dry. He sighed in defeat, tugging his shirt over his head and turning his back to her, muttering something about how this was probably a health violation.

Akari squeezed a generous amount of lotion into her hands, the sound of it breaking the silence. Then her fingers were on his shoulders—warm, firm, steady.

It was torture.

Every time her palms glided over his skin, spreading the lotion across his back, his muscles tensed involuntarily. She wasn’t helping either; she leaned closer, her breath brushing against his ear as she spoke. “You really need to relax. You’re so stiff.”

“I’m fine,” he managed, voice strained.

“Sure you are,” she teased, pressing her thumbs into his shoulders a little harder, like she was testing how long it’d take before he combusted. “You always get like this when someone touches you.”

“That’s—” He cut himself off when she laughed quietly behind him.

Akari was enjoying every second of it, and he knew it. When she finished, she tapped his shoulder lightly. “All done. Now turn around, I’ll get your face and neck too.”

“Akari—”

“Come on,” she interrupted, smiling in that way that always disarmed him. “You don’t want to look like a boiled lobster again, do you?”

He sighed but did as she asked, turning to face her. She was closer now, close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of sunlight caught in her hair, the faint curve of her smirk softening just slightly as she focused. Her fingers brushed along his jaw, gentle but deliberate, tracing his skin as she rubbed the sunscreen in.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The world outside seemed to fade—the sound of the ocean waves faint in the distance, the gulls, the others laughing somewhere nearby.

Akari broke the silence first, her tone lower now. “You really need to stop overthinking everything, Jirou.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re always in your head,” she said, her hand pausing against his cheek. “Sometimes, it’s okay to just… feel.”

And then she smiled faintly, stepping back like nothing had happened. “Alright, let’s go before everyone else gets the good spot.”

She turned and started toward the door, leaving him standing there—shirt in hand, heart hammering like he’d just run a marathon, and the faint scent of coconut sunscreen still clinging to his skin.

“Right,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face. “Just… feel. Yeah. That’s easy.”

And with that, he followed her out into the sunlight, silently praying he survived whatever emotional battlefield awaited him on that beach.

She grabbed his arm as they walked, and for a moment, Jirou completely short-circuited. Words stumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. “W-what the hell are you doing!?” he practically jumped back, eyes darting around. “What if someone sees us?”

Akari froze, her hand still holding his for a heartbeat, before crossing her arms and pouting slightly, the hurt flickering across her features. “Fine,” she said, voice tight with mock indignation. “Then I won’t touch you!”

“Wait, Akari, I didn’t—” Jirou began, but his words faltered as she gave him one last look, turned on her heel, and walked ahead, leaving him standing there stunned, heart thudding painfully in his chest, utterly speechless.

Jirou’s words hung in the air long after Akari had stormed ahead, swallowed by the sound of crashing waves and distant chatter. He stood there frozen, every neuron in his brain firing uselessly like sparks in a broken circuit. The warm ocean breeze brushed past him, but his chest felt tight—heavy, like something important had just slipped through his fingers.

He hadn’t meant to sound like that. He hadn’t meant to make her look at him that way either—that flicker of hurt in her eyes, there for just a split second before she’d masked it with defiance. That look hit harder than he wanted to admit.

"Nice one, idiot," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

Akari was already a few paces ahead, her pace brisk, shoulders tense. The playful bounce she usually had was gone. She was pretending to be fine—he knew that act well. She’d laugh or tease or roll her eyes, but underneath, he’d see it. The disappointment. The sting of rejection.

And the worst part? He wasn’t even mad at her. He was mad at himself.

What if someone sees us? What a stupid thing to say. What was he so afraid of, exactly? It wasn’t like anyone would care if she held his arm. Hell, people already assumed they were a couple half the time. But his instinct—the same damn instinct that always made him overthink, overanalyze, pull back—kicked in before he could stop it. And now she was walking ahead, pretending not to care while he stood there like a fool.

He jogged forward, trying to catch up. “Akari, wait.”

She didn’t slow down. Didn’t even look over her shoulder.

“Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Her voice came out flat. “Didn’t mean what? That I’m embarrassing? Or that you don’t want to be seen with me?”

Jirou winced. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you implied,” she shot back, finally turning to face him. Her tone wasn’t sharp—worse, it was quiet. Calm. “You act like holding my arm is some kind of scandal.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. The truth was, he didn’t even have a good excuse. Not one that didn’t make him sound like an emotional coward.

Akari sighed, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of her face. “You know what? Forget it. You don’t have to explain.”

He hated how easily she said it. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

“Akari,” he said again, more quietly this time.

She hesitated for a second—just long enough for him to see that flicker of emotion again—before she turned and started walking toward the beach. “Hurry up, or all the good spots’ll be gone.”

And that was that.

He followed behind her, each step heavier than the last. Around them, the others laughed and called out, the smell of salt and grilled food drifting through the air, but it all felt distant.

When they reached the sand, Akari dropped her bag and immediately joined the others, laughing at something Natsume said. She looked like her usual self—bright, loud, alive—but Jirou noticed the way she avoided looking in his direction, even when someone mentioned his name.

He sat a little ways off, watching the waves roll in and crash against the shore. His hands itched to reach out, to take hers again, to tell her he hadn’t meant it that way—that it scared him because of how much she mattered.

But he didn’t.

Because every time he got close to saying something real, his stupid brain found a reason not to.

And as the sun rose higher, painting the horizon yellow and gold, Jirou realized that no one else had to see them for him to feel exposed—because, standing there, he’d never felt more transparent in his life.

Jirou’s fingers traced idle patterns in the sand, each movement small and nervous, betraying the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. He stared ahead at the waves, the gentle lapping of water against the shore a background to the chaos inside him. Akari’s laughter carried from a few feet away, bright and infectious, but it only made him more aware of the distance he’d put between them earlier. The guilt gnawed at his stomach.

“Yakuin’s an idiot,” Akari muttered again, rolling her eyes at something Sachi had said. She was leaning back on her hands, sun catching the tips of her hair and turning it almost gold. There was a playful tilt to her voice, but Jirou couldn’t hear the teasing—he was too busy beating himself up over his own clumsiness.

“He always is, don’t worry about him,” Natsumi said lightly, nudging Akari with her shoulder. The three of them laughed, their easy camaraderie pulling them into a bubble that didn’t include him. And, strangely, that made Jirou’s chest tighten even more.

Shiori was sitting quietly next to Mei, close enough that he could hear their soft conversation if he strained. Her voice was gentle, soothing, teasing in a way that was almost invisible to the others. She leaned slightly toward him, as if to make sure he could hear her—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. His eyes were glued to the sand, fingering tiny grains, trying to keep his mind from wandering to Akari and the way she’d grabbed his arm earlier.

Mei noticed his distance and gave Shiori a subtle nudge, tilting her head with an almost imperceptible question. Shiori just gave a soft sigh and looked down, carefully threading her fingers together in her lap. There was a quiet tension in the air that seemed to settle around Jirou like a physical weight—he could feel it pressing against his chest with every glance at Akari, every muffled laugh she let slip, every time her hand brushed against Sachi’s as they shifted on the mat.

Jirou swallowed hard. He wanted to look up, to step closer to her, but something held him back—an invisible cord of uncertainty that kept him frozen in place. The chaos of his heart, the tug-of-war between Akari’s boldness and Shiori’s subtlety, left him stranded.

The waves continued their rhythmic crash against the sand, a gentle reminder that time moved on, indifferent to his indecision. And yet, every laugh from Akari, every soft word from Shiori, felt like a tide pulling him in two directions at once.

He sighed quietly, biting his lip. Why does this have to be so complicated?

Around him, the summer sun shone bright, the heat pressing down, but all he could feel was the tension coiling in his chest. He knew one misstep—one word, one gesture—could tip everything, and for once, he had no idea which way to move.

Jirou shifted uncomfortably on the soft sand, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the waves. Minami had plopped down beside him with an easy smile, the kind that made it impossible to ignore. “You okay, man?” he asked, voice calm but probing.

Jirou blinked, caught off guard. He forced a nod, trying to seem casual. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Minami didn’t buy it. His brow furrowed slightly, the smile softening into something more concerned. “Really?”

Jirou let out a slow sigh, tilting his head back to study the sky for some kind of escape. The clouds drifted lazily, but even their slow movement couldn’t distract him from the swirl of thoughts pressing at his chest. “…It’s nothing, really,” he muttered, though his tone betrayed the lie.

Minami just nodded, leaning back on his hands. He said nothing more, but the quiet presence beside him was somehow grounding. Jirou appreciated it, even if he didn’t know how to explain why.

The group around them was slowly starting to stir. Natsumi stood up, brushing sand off her shorts, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Hey, Akari, you wanna swim?” she called, her tone playful but insistent.

Akari’s face lit up, and she laughed, bouncing to her feet. “Yeah, sure!” She brushed past Sachi, who helped steady her for a moment before letting her go. The motion was fluid, familiar, and for just a heartbeat, Minami’s eyes flicked toward her—just long enough to notice the bright energy in her movements, the way her hair caught the sun, the little tilt of her head when she laughed.

Meanwhile, Mei pulled Natsumi gently down again before she could wander too far, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “Wait, babe,” she murmured, the warmth of her tone matched by the tender way she held Natsumi’s shoulders. “Don’t go out too far, okay?”

Natsumi laughed quietly, tying her hair back into a neat ponytail. Her fingers lingered briefly in the strands before she looked down at Mei with that familiar half-smile, half-shy expression that always seemed to melt Mei’s heart. “I won’t,” she said softly, voice carrying that tender intimacy reserved only for Mei. Leaning in, she kissed her again, slower this time, letting the moment stretch. When they pulled back, their eyes met, and both smiled—a quiet affirmation of the closeness they shared, a secret world only they inhabited.

“Ugh, you two are disgusting,” Kamo called from a few feet away, waving his arms dramatically.

“Shut up, virgin,” Natsumi shot back with a laugh, rolling her eyes at him, though she still held onto Mei’s hand briefly before letting go.

Jirou watched the scene, the mix of levity and intimacy around him making his chest tighten. He wanted to laugh, to shake off the tension he felt from earlier, but he couldn’t help the way his thoughts kept returning to Akari, to Shiori, to the tangled mess of feelings that seemed impossible to sort through. Minami’s steady presence beside him was a small anchor, but it didn’t erase the flutter in his chest when Akari waved to Natsumi, or the quiet pang when Shiori leaned against Mei’s shoulder and spoke in whispers meant only for her.

The sun climbed higher, painting everything in a brilliant gold, and the sound of the waves mixed with laughter, distant shouts, and the occasional splash of water. Jirou inhaled, the salty air sharp in his lungs, and realized that despite the chaos of emotions swirling around him, there was something grounding about this moment—the sun, the sand, the people he cared about scattered in little islands of laughter and attention.

Still, the tightness in his chest didn’t ease. He glanced at Minami again, catching the way his friend’s eyes lingered just enough on him to offer unspoken support. And then, Akari’s bright voice rang out, calling for the others, dragging them toward the waves, and Jirou felt that familiar mix of anticipation and dread. The beach, he realized, wasn’t just a place of fun—it was a battlefield for hearts, subtle advances, and quiet vulnerabilities, all under the summer sun.

“Hey, Yakuin?” Minami spoke again, his tone calm but probing, cutting through the lazy hum of the waves and distant chatter from the rest of the group.

“Yeah?” Jirou looked up from where he was absentmindedly drawing patterns in the sand with a stick, his voice coming out more tired than he intended.

“Can you look at Shiori real quick?” Minami asked, tilting his head toward the water.

“Huh?” Jirou blinked, confused, but followed Minami’s gaze. Out by the waterline, Shiori stood knee-deep in the surf beside Natsumi, her hair damp and glinting under the afternoon sun. She was laughing — bright, soft laughter that carried faintly across the wind. For a second, Jirou found himself watching the way she smiled, graceful and kind, but his expression didn’t change much. His lips lifted slightly, but his eyes stayed neutral, calm — the same faint fondness one might have for an old friend.

“Okay,” Minami said quietly, his tone unreadable. “Now… look at Akari.”

Jirou frowned faintly. “Why?”

“Just humor me,” Minami replied with a faint shrug.

With a sigh, Jirou turned his head. Akari was standing a bit farther down the beach, her hair tossed by the wind as she adjusted her swimsuit straps and laughed at something Sachi said. The sunlight danced off her skin, warm and golden, and her laughter — that unrestrained, full-hearted sound — hit him harder than he expected.

Something softened in Jirou’s face almost instantly. His eyes warmed, the corners of his lips turning upward as if he couldn’t stop the small smile that slipped out. His entire posture changed — relaxed, open, like he was drawn toward her without even realizing it. There was no mistaking it. The emotion in his gaze wasn’t the fleeting warmth of friendship or shallow attraction. It was deep, full, and instinctive — the kind of love that made his pulse quicken and his thoughts blur for just a moment.

Minami’s eyes flicked from Akari back to Jirou, observing the shift with quiet understanding.

“Now, look at Shiori again,” he said.

Jirou hesitated, confused by the request, but turned his gaze once more toward the brunette in the waves. Shiori was still laughing, splashing Natsumi playfully as the water sparkled around her. She looked beautiful — there was no denying that — but as Jirou watched, that raw affection faded. His expression grew more reserved, more polite, like he was admiring something nice but distant. There was a fondness, sure, maybe even a small spark of admiration, but it didn’t hold that magnetic pull.

Minami nodded slightly to himself. “And now… one more time. Look at Akari.”

Jirou’s eyes flicked back almost automatically, as if his mind had been waiting for the excuse. Akari had turned toward the ocean, the hem of her swimsuit fluttering around her legs. She was shielding her eyes with one hand, laughing at something Natsumi shouted from the waves. Her smile was radiant — real and unguarded — and when Jirou’s gaze met her, his heart gave that familiar, inconvenient flutter. His expression softened again, his eyes filled with warmth, and his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

Minami leaned back on his hands, the corners of his mouth curving into a faint smirk that Jirou didn’t catch. He didn’t need to say anything — the truth had already written itself plainly in Jirou’s eyes.

“What was that about?” Jirou finally asked, brow furrowing as he looked over at Minami, who was staring off toward the horizon like he hadn’t just uncovered something massive.

“Nothing,” Minami said simply, shaking his head with a small chuckle. He glanced briefly across the beach — toward Sachi, who was watching the water with an unreadable expression — before shifting his gaze back to Jirou. “Just confirming something.”

Jirou frowned but didn’t push further. The noise of the beach filled the silence again — the rush of the waves, the chatter of their friends, the distant cry of gulls overhead.

“Hey! Can one of you get some food?” Natsumi called from the water, waving toward the group on the sand. Her voice carried easily, loud and teasing.

Minami stood, brushing the sand off his shorts, shooting Jirou a knowing look. “Come on, lover boy,” he said, his tone light but his smirk telling. “Let’s get something before they decide to eat the seaweed.”

Jirou groaned, glaring at him, but the faint color in his cheeks gave him away. As they walked toward the cooler, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back one more time — just for a moment — at Akari.

And sure enough, even from a distance, she caught him looking. Her eyes met his, her lips curving into a soft, teasing smile that made his stomach twist in the best possible way, but she quickly remembered she was mad at him and turned away.

“How’s it been going with Akari?” Minami asked after a stretch of silence, his tone calm but curious, the kind that made Jirou feel like he was being subtly studied. The two boys trudged along the beachside path, their sandals kicking up faint clouds of sand. The air was still warm from the day, but the sky had already begun to shift into the colors of evening — deep oranges and pinks melting together into a hazy purple horizon. The waves rolled in softly behind them, the faint shouts and laughter of their friends growing distant.

Jirou glanced over, slightly startled by the sudden question. “Huh? Oh, it’s… fine. Why do you ask?” His voice cracked just a little at the start, and he tried to cover it by running a hand through his hair and focusing on the sound of the sea. But Minami had known him long enough to recognize that tell — that awkward, nervous little pause whenever Akari came up
.
“You two seemed kind of off earlier,” Minami said, adjusting the strap of the cooler bag he had slung over his shoulder. “She looked upset about something, and you were acting like your brain had completely shut down.”

Jirou sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s nothing. I just said something stupid, I think. Honestly, I can’t even remember what it was.” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “She probably just got annoyed and decided to ignore me for a bit.”

They walked in silence for a few steps, the sand crunching faintly underfoot. Jirou’s gaze drifted toward the water again — where he could still make out Akari, splashing through the waves with Natsumi and Shiori. Her laughter carried faintly over the wind, and even from this distance, it was like a magnetic pull. The light caught in her hair, making it shimmer gold, and for a moment his heart twisted at the memory of her earlier expression — that flash of hurt in her eyes when he’d pulled away.

“She’ll probably forget it by tomorrow,” he added half-heartedly, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

Minami cast him a side glance. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me,” he said lightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Jirou scoffed, muttering, “Maybe I am.”

To ease the tension, he tried steering the conversation away from himself. “How’s Shiori doing?”

Minami chuckled softly, as though amused by the attempt. “She’s good. Still complaining about the sand though — I swear no matter how much cleaning I do, it keeps showing up. Yesterday she found some in her shampoo bottle and gave me a ten-minute lecture about keeping the place tidy.”

That made Jirou laugh, his mood easing. “Akari’s the same way. She’s convinced sand attracts spiders.”

Minami raised a brow, intrigued. “Spiders?”

“Yeah,” Jirou said, shaking his head fondly at the memory. “Last month, she saw one in the bathroom and almost tripped running out. She made me get rid of it, but the worst part was — there wasn’t even one under the cup she handed me. She just assumed it was there and told me to ‘deal with it.’”

Minami laughed under his breath. “Sounds like her.” He grinned. “You two really do balance each other out, you know. She’s all energy and impulse, and you—”

“—am a boring old man?” Jirou finished with a smirk.

“Exactly,” Minami said with a laugh. “The calm to her chaos.”

Jirou rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered. Still, the words sat with him. Calm to her chaos. Maybe that was true — Akari had a way of bringing noise into every quiet corner of his life, but he didn’t hate it. If anything, he found himself craving it when she wasn’t around.

The store came into view soon after — a small convenience shop tucked behind a dune, its flickering sign barely visible under the dim orange glow of a single streetlamp. As they stepped inside, the change in temperature hit immediately. The air was cool, almost shockingly so, and smelled faintly of sea salt and cleaning spray.

The faint hum of the refrigerators filled the silence, blending with the quiet buzz of an old ceiling fan overhead. There were only a few aisles — shelves lined with snacks, instant noodles, and bottled drinks. Near the counter sat a small display of steaming hotboxes filled with buns, skewers, and dumplings.

Jirou grabbed a basket and started walking toward the refrigerated section. “So what do we need?”

“We’ll just grab something for everyone,” Minami said, scanning the shelves. He picked up a tray of sushi rolls and studied the packaging. “Shiori said it’s too hot for heavy food. This’ll do.”

They wandered the aisles, picking items as they went. Minami was surprisingly methodical — choosing skewers for Mei and Natsumi “Chicken and beef skewers for Mei and Natsumi,” he muttered, grabbing both and placing them carefully into the basket. “They’ll probably share anyway.” He scanned the shelves before reaching for a box of dumplings — then paused, flipped it over, and frowned. “Mushrooms,” he muttered, putting it back and grabbing another flavour. “Sachi hates mushrooms.”

Jirou blinked, mildly impressed. “You remember everyone’s favourites?”

Minami shrugged. “You pick up things if you pay attention.” There was a flicker of something behind his eyes as he glanced briefly at Jirou, but it disappeared just as fast.

Jirou didn’t notice. He was too busy trying not to think about Akari — and failing miserably.

“Akari might like these,” Minami said suddenly, holding up a pack of shrimp onigiri.

Jirou reacted immediately — maybe too immediately. “She’s allergic to shrimp,” he blurted, a little too fast, a little too panicked. His voice softened when he realised how sharp it sounded. “She likes these better,” he muttered, grabbing a few steamed buns instead and tossing them into the basket.

“Grab something for yourself,” he added as they passed the bento boxes.

Jirou nodded, picking up a karaage pack and some onigiri after a brief pause. “We should get some drinks too,” he said, trying to move on. “Akari said she wanted one earlier.”

“Yeah?” Minami leaned down to look through the fridge. “Cola, lemonade, juice?”

“She likes strawberry milk,” Jirou murmured, scanning the shelves, but frowned. “Might spoil in the heat though…” He remembered how once, when he was a kid, he’d bought one on a hot day and it had spoiled before he got home. The smell still haunted him. He could already hear Akari’s disappointed voice if that happened to her. His gaze caught on a bottle of strawberry lemonade — pink, bubbly, and bright. It reminded him of her in a way that made his chest ache just a little. He mumbled, “This’ll do.” He added water for Kamo and lemonade for himself, too.

Minami was selecting a passionfruit soda for Natsumi and an energy drink for Mei, then a cola for himself. “Does Shiori like iced tea?” Minami asked as he scanned another shelf.

Jirou blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “Uh… yeah. The peach one.”

Minami nodded, grabbed it and added it to the growing pile. “Good memory,” he said quietly.

As they reached the counter, Jirou glanced at the freezer — the colorful popsicles lined neatly behind the glass — and made a mental note to grab one for Akari on the way back. She always liked things like that, little surprises that made her eyes light up.

“I’ll pay,” Jirou said quickly, fishing out his phone.

Minami shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. I got it.”

“But—”

“Seriously,” Minami interrupted, handing over his card before Jirou could argue. “Just make sure Akari doesn’t stay mad at you. That’s payment enough.”

Jirou exhaled through his nose, half-smiling, half-flustered. “Easier said than done,” he muttered.

As they stepped back out into the fading light, the sound of the waves met them again — steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Jirou glanced toward the water, where he could already make out Akari’s silhouette among the others. Even from a distance, she stood out — vibrant, alive, like the sun refusing to set.

And as much as he tried to play it cool, he couldn’t stop his lips from curving into the faintest, most helpless smile.

When they made it back to the group, the beach had mellowed into a lazy afternoon glow — the kind where the air felt heavy with sunlight and the hum of cicadas blended with the rush of the tide. The umbrella cast a wide shadow over the mat, its edges fluttering slightly in the salty breeze. Mei sat tucked neatly beneath it, her knees drawn up to her chest and her chin resting on them, the soft white of her sundress glowing faintly against the bright blue and gold backdrop.

Her eyes were half-squinted, not just from the glare of the sun but from the way it bounced off the waves, making everything look almost too bright to focus on. Natsumi was waist-deep in the surf with Akari, Shiori, and Sachi, splashing water like she was trying to start a war. Every so often, a wave would crash, and her laughter would ring out across the shore, loud and carefree. Mei’s lips twitched up for a moment, but her expression quickly softened again into something quieter, more pensive.

Her gaze lingered on Natsumi for a long time, a subtle crease forming between her brows. It wasn’t jealousy — it was that familiar, protective kind of worry she could never quite shake. The way Natsumi flung herself headfirst into everything — into life, into the ocean — made Mei’s heart both swell and twist. Natsumi wasn’t afraid of anything, not really. And Mei loved that about her. But it also terrified her, because one day that fearlessness might go too far.

“Don’t worry,” Minami said, his tone light as he sat down beside her, the sand shifting slightly under his weight. He stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands as he followed her line of sight toward the ocean. “She’s not gonna disappear.”

Mei’s head turned slowly, her eyes flicking to him. The faintest trace of defensiveness crossed her face before she forced a tiny, tight-lipped smile. “I’m not worried,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “She’s fine.”

“Mm.” Minami didn’t call her out, but his knowing tone said enough. He reached into the small bag at his side and pulled out the can of energy drink he’d picked up earlier, holding it out to her. “Here,” he said. “She’ll come back soon anyway. Might as well hydrate while you wait.”

Mei hesitated for a second before taking it, her fingers brushing his briefly. “Thanks.” The tab hissed faintly as she opened it, and she took a small sip, wincing a little at the sharp, sweet taste. “This is the one Jirou always drinks, right?” she murmured, half to herself.

“Yeah,” Minami said with a small chuckle. “Figured someone here should appreciate it. I think he’s already had two today.”

Mei gave a soft hum of acknowledgment, her eyes still on the waves. “Figures. He never knows when to stop.”

There was a lull in the conversation — comfortable, almost meditative. The rhythmic crash of waves filled the silence, mingling with the shrieks of laughter echoing from where Akari and Sachi were now attempting to dunk each other into the surf. Shiori was trying to calm them down but only ended up getting splashed herself, and even from the distance, Mei could hear her exasperated laughter.

Natsumi, of course, was in the thick of it — loud, wild, beautiful in a way that made Mei’s chest ache. Every time the water hit her, she’d throw her head back, hair slicked against her neck, droplets scattering like sparks. Mei’s thumb traced the rim of her can absently, her thoughts drifting between fondness and worry.

“She looks happy,” Minami said after a while, breaking the quiet again.

Mei’s lips softened into a smile she didn’t try to hide this time. “She always looks happy,” she said quietly. “That’s what scares me sometimes.”

Minami tilted his head, curious. “Scares you?”

Mei nodded slowly. “When she’s happy, she forgets to be careful. She’ll dive into anything — the ocean, a fight, a plan that’s way too risky. I love that about her, I really do… but it feels like she burns so bright she might just disappear one day.” Her eyes dropped to the sand. “And I don’t know what I’d do if she did.”

For a long moment, Minami didn’t say anything. The weight of her words hung in the air between them — honest, fragile. Finally, he said, “I don’t think she’s the kind of person who disappears. She’s the kind who leaves her mark on everyone she meets.”

Mei’s gaze lifted slightly, her eyes soft but still clouded with thought. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he replied with quiet certainty.

Mei exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing. She took another sip of the drink, watching as Natsumi finally broke away from the group, jogging up the beach and waving with both hands. The wind tossed her hair wildly around her face, and when she spotted Mei under the umbrella, her grin widened instantly — that same radiant, unstoppable smile.

“There she is,” Minami said, chuckling.

Mei’s heart fluttered with something warm and steady. She raised her hand to wave back, her earlier worries easing just a little. “Yeah,” she murmured, her smile small but real. “There she is.”

As Natsumi came closer, dripping seawater and sand with every step, Mei set the drink aside and leaned forward slightly, the sun framing her in a soft halo. The air between them shifted — calm, golden, and filled with that unspoken gravity that always seemed to pull them back together.

Minami glanced between them, quietly amused, and leaned back under the umbrella again. He didn’t need to say a word. Some things didn’t need narration — they were clear enough in a look, in the way Mei’s expression softened, in the way Natsumi’s laughter seemed to fill every quiet corner around her.

Mei’s smile softened the moment Natsumi settled beside her, draping the damp towel around her shoulders like a protective cocoon. The warmth of the sun mixed with the faint salt scent clinging to Natsumi’s hair, and Mei could feel the small, steady rhythm of her heartbeat through the shared space. She shifted slightly, making room, and instinctively wrapped an arm around her girlfriend, the motion gentle but grounding.

Natsumi leaned her head against Mei’s shoulder, letting out a small, contented sigh. Mei’s fingers absently brushed through the damp strands at the nape of her neck, feeling the tiny beads of seawater glisten in the sunlight. It was a quiet moment amid the chaotic energy of the beach — the splashes, laughter, and distant shouts fading into a soft background hum. Mei could feel the subtle weight of Natsumi relaxing against her, the tension of constant movement and games slowly slipping away.

“You’re soaking wet,” Mei said softly, her voice warm but teasing, as she pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Natsumi’s head.

“Yeah,” Natsumi mumbled, her voice muffled against Mei’s shoulder. “But it’s worth it. I had fun.” Her fingers twined lightly with Mei’s, small sparks of warmth traveling through the simple touch.

Mei chuckled quietly, a soft sound that blended with the rhythm of the waves. “I’m glad. You looked like you were having the time of your life out there.” She tilted her head, letting Natsumi lean a little more heavily into her. “You always do, though. You light everything up.”

Natsumi’s lips curved into a tired but happy smile. “Maybe… but I think I light up more when I’m with you,” she murmured, the words quiet but sincere, carried on the warm breeze between them. Mei’s heart gave a little leap at the confession, the closeness of their bodies amplifying every emotion in a way that felt intimate and unshakable.

For a few minutes, they sat there in comfortable silence, letting the world go by around them. The warmth of the towel, the sun, and each other’s presence created a small sanctuary amidst the laughter and chaos of the beach. Mei’s fingers continued to idly trace patterns along Natsumi’s arm, while Natsumi rested her head fully against her shoulder, the faintest of sighs escaping her lips — a mixture of contentment, exhaustion, and trust.

“You know,” Mei whispered after a moment, “I don’t think I ever want to leave this spot right now.”

“Neither do I,” Natsumi replied softly, lifting her face just enough to press a quick, tender kiss to Mei’s cheek before letting her head fall back against her shoulder.

And there, under the fading afternoon sun, wrapped in the warmth of a towel and the quiet intimacy of shared space, Mei and Natsumi sat together, letting the chaotic world around them fade to a gentle, comforting hum.

“You got the food?” Natsumi’s eyes lit up the moment Minami appeared, arms full of bento boxes and drinks. She scrambled to her feet, waving eagerly at the others with a grin that practically glowed. “Food’s here!” she called, her voice carrying across the beach.

Akari, Sachi, and Shiori all turned at once, each equally soaked and streaked with grains of sand clinging to their legs and hair. The laughter that had been echoing from the water only moments ago followed them as they trotted back, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. The sun caught on the droplets clinging to their skin, turning them into glimmers of light as they reached the shade of the umbrella again.

Minami dropped down onto the mat with a groan of relief, setting the food down in neat stacks. “You guys play around like you’re five,” he teased, pushing a can of iced tea toward Natsumi.

“Five-year-olds don’t have this much fun,” Natsumi shot back, already digging into the food.

Shiori quietly sat beside Jirou, brushing some sand from her knees. Her smile was small but soft when she thanked him for carrying some of the bags earlier. “You really didn’t have to, you know,” she said gently, her voice barely rising above the waves.

“It’s fine,” Jirou murmured, feeling his pulse skip for reasons he didn’t want to dwell on. Shiori always had that calm, delicate way of speaking that caught him off guard.

But then Minami handed Akari her food — a small paper box of steamed buns — and said casually, “They don’t have any shrimp. Jirou made sure of that.”

“Wha— dude!” Jirou spluttered, his face flushing instantly. The others burst into laughter, the sound rolling over the group like another wave. Even Kamo couldn’t resist smirking.

“Oh? So you’re keeping track of Akari’s favorite foods now?” Natsumi teased, mouth full of rice.

“Or her allergies,” Sachi chimed in, nudging Akari with her elbow. “That’s pretty sweet.”

Jirou ducked his head, muttering something unintelligible as he focused on unwrapping his own food. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, but when he risked a glance up, Akari wasn’t teasing him — she was smiling, that same warm, open smile that always seemed to soften something in his chest.

“Thanks,” she said simply, her tone genuine. “That’s… really nice of you.”

Jirou froze for half a heartbeat before managing a small nod, pretending to be entirely focused on the rice ball in his hands. The group around them continued their easy banter — Mei and Natsumi sharing quiet jokes, Kamo still ribbing Jirou every few minutes, Sachi laughing at nearly everything — and the air felt light, easy, and full of sun-warmed happiness.’

He forced himself to focus on Shiori, who was talking about a funny moment that had happened at her part-time job last week. He smiled at the right times, nodded when she looked at him, and even managed a laugh when she teased him about something harmless. It was simple, it was comfortable — and for once, it worked.

For the first time in a while, Jirou wasn’t overthinking. The ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and food, the sound of laughter filled the space, and the heat of the sun began to fade into a warm glow. He didn’t let his gaze wander back to Akari — not yet. Not when everything felt this calm.

He just breathed in the moment, listening to the chatter and the crashing waves, letting himself enjoy being here — with all of them — without thinking too hard about what any of it meant.

The sun was still high when the group finished eating, the air warm and sweet with the sound of the waves rolling in and out. Their mat lay abandoned now, half-buried in sand, as laughter rippled across the shore. It was Akari who started it, of course — springing up suddenly with that unmistakable spark in her eyes.

“Come on!” she said, pointing toward the water. “We didn’t come all the way out here just to sit around eating!”

Before anyone could respond, she grabbed Jirou’s wrist, tugging him toward the ocean. He nearly tripped over his own feet, still wiping his hands on a napkin, sputtering a half-hearted protest.

“Wait, Akari—!” But she didn’t. She never did.

Minami rolled his eyes but got up too, stretching his arms above his head before running toward the shallows with a grin. “Fine, but you’re not leaving us out this time!”

Sachi followed next, dragging Kamo by the sleeve even as he complained about the cold. “Don’t be such a baby,” she said with a smirk. “You’ll warm up once you start swimming!”

Even Mei, who had looked perfectly content sunbathing beside Natsumi, eventually let herself be coaxed in by her girlfriend’s playful splashes. Soon, the beach that had been quiet only moments ago erupted into chaos — shouting, laughter, and splashes flying in every direction.

Jirou let Akari pull him farther into the waves, the cool water wrapping around them as she turned back and grinned at him. Her hair clung to her shoulders, beads of seawater catching the sunlight. She looked radiant, carefree, like the whole world was hers.

He didn’t notice the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, didn’t see how her fingers lingered on his wrist before she finally let go. To him, it was just Akari being Akari — playful, wild, impossible not to follow.

Then he felt a gentle tug on his other arm. Shiori. She was laughing as Natsumi tried to splash her from behind, her smile wide and bright. “You look like you’re about to drown,” she teased.

Jirou blinked at her, his mouth opening and closing before he managed to say, “I’m fine! I just—”

Before he could finish, she flicked water at him. “You’re too slow!”

He spluttered, swiping water from his eyes. “Oh, it’s like that?”

“Exactly like that,” she said with a grin that didn’t falter even as he retaliated, sending a wave of saltwater her way.

The laughter came easy after that — theirs blending with the rest of the group’s in a messy, sunlit chorus. Natsumi and Mei were chasing each other through the shallows, Minami had somehow convinced Sachi to let him toss her into the water, and Akari was somewhere behind them, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

Everywhere Jirou looked, there was movement, light, and sound — everything that made summer feel alive. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like he was stuck between choices. He was just here.

But then Shiori stepped closer, brushing her wet hair behind her ear. The droplets on her skin caught the sunlight, and for a heartbeat, everything around them seemed to slow.

“You’ve got something—” she said softly, reaching up to brush a bit of seaweed from his shoulder. Her hand lingered just a second too long.

Jirou’s breath caught.

He tried to laugh it off, tried to look anywhere else, but she was right there — close enough for him to see the faint color in her cheeks. “Thanks,” he said, his voice softer than he meant it to be.

“It’s nothing,” Shiori replied, and for a moment, her tone matched his — quiet, tender, uncertain.

Somewhere behind them, Akari’s laughter broke the silence. She was watching from a short distance away, her smile faltering just slightly before she turned back toward Sachi and Natsumi, forcing a laugh as the waves crashed against her.

Jirou didn’t notice. He was too focused on the way the light hit Shiori’s eyes, too caught in the warmth of the moment to think beyond it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of golden light and salt. They played games, buried Kamo in the sand, built a lopsided sandcastle that collapsed when Minami tried to “fix” it. The air smelled like sunscreen and seaweed, and their laughter carried all the way down the beach.

By late afternoon, the sun had dipped lower, painting everything in a soft orange hue. The water shimmered like glass, the air cooling as the tide began to creep higher.

Jirou sat on the shore, water lapping at his feet. He watched Akari helping Mei and Natsumi with something in the sand, her hair sticking up in wild strands. She was beautiful, and it made something twist in his chest — something confusing, warm, and heavy.

Shiori sat beside him again, her towel draped over her shoulders. “You look like you’re thinking too much again,” she said lightly.

He smiled faintly. “Probably.”

“Don’t,” she said, her tone soft but insistent. “Just enjoy it.”

He nodded, but his eyes still drifted toward Akari — laughing, carefree, her eyes bright even from a distance. He didn’t realize Shiori noticed.

The wind picked up, carrying her laughter across the shore, and for some reason, it made him smile too.

He turned back to Shiori, the warmth of the moment wrapping around him again, and before he could think about what he was doing — before he could talk himself out of it — Jirou leaned closer.

It wasn’t much. Just a small, uncertain movement. A moment that hung between them like a breath held too long.

Shiori froze, her eyes widening just slightly as she realized what he was about to do. The sounds of the ocean faded, the laughter of their friends blurred, and for that fragile second, there was only the two of them — close enough to feel the other’s heartbeat.

The day had been long, full of light and noise and laughter. But this — this was quiet. Tender. Dangerous in the way that only new, uncertain feelings could be.

And as the last of the sunlight slipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft gold and rose, Jirou leaned just a little closer toward Shiori — his heart pounding, the world narrowing to the space between them.

The sun was still high when the group finished eating, the air warm and sweet with the sound of the waves rolling in and out. Their mat lay abandoned now, half-buried in sand, as laughter rippled across the shore. It was Akari who started it, of course — springing up suddenly with that unmistakable spark in her eyes.

“Come on!” she said, pointing toward the water. “We didn’t come all the way out here just to sit around eating!”

Before anyone could respond, she grabbed Jirou’s wrist, tugging him toward the ocean. He nearly tripped over his own feet, still wiping his hands on a napkin, sputtering a half-hearted protest.

“Wait, Akari—!” But she didn’t. She never did.

Minami rolled his eyes but got up too, stretching his arms above his head before running toward the shallows with a grin. “Fine, but you’re not leaving us out this time!”

Sachi followed next, dragging Kamo by the sleeve even as he complained about the cold. “Don’t be such a baby,” she said with a smirk. “You’ll warm up once you start swimming!”

Even Mei, who had looked perfectly content sunbathing beside Natsumi, eventually let herself be coaxed in by her girlfriend’s playful splashes. Soon, the beach that had been quiet only moments ago erupted into chaos — shouting, laughter, and splashes flying in every direction.

Jirou let Akari pull him farther into the waves, the cool water wrapping around them as she turned back and grinned at him. Her hair clung to her shoulders, beads of seawater catching the sunlight. She looked radiant, carefree, like the whole world was hers.

He didn’t notice the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, didn’t see how her fingers lingered on his wrist before she finally let go. To him, it was just Akari being Akari — playful, wild, impossible not to follow.

Then he felt a gentle tug on his other arm. Shiori. She was laughing as Natsumi tried to splash her from behind, her smile wide and bright. “You look like you’re about to drown,” she teased.

Jirou blinked at her, his mouth opening and closing before he managed to say, “I’m fine! I just—”

Before he could finish, she flicked water at him. “You’re too slow!”

He spluttered, swiping water from his eyes. “Oh, it’s like that?”

“Exactly like that,” she said with a grin that didn’t falter even as he retaliated, sending a wave of saltwater her way.

The laughter came easy after that — theirs blending with the rest of the group’s in a messy, sunlit chorus. Natsumi and Mei were chasing each other through the shallows, Minami had somehow convinced Sachi to let him toss her into the water, and Akari was somewhere behind them, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

Everywhere Jirou looked, there was movement, light, and sound — everything that made summer feel alive. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like he was stuck between choices. He was just here.

But then Shiori stepped closer, brushing her wet hair behind her ear. The droplets on her skin caught the sunlight, and for a heartbeat, everything around them seemed to slow.

“You’ve got something—” she said softly, reaching up to brush a bit of seaweed from his shoulder. Her hand lingered just a second too long.

Jirou’s breath caught.

He tried to laugh it off, tried to look anywhere else, but she was right there — close enough for him to see the faint color in her cheeks. “Thanks,” he said, his voice softer than he meant it to be.

“It’s nothing,” Shiori replied, and for a moment, her tone matched his — quiet, tender, uncertain.

Somewhere behind them, Akari’s laughter broke the silence. She was watching from a short distance away, her smile faltering just slightly before she turned back toward Sachi and Natsumi, forcing a laugh as the waves crashed against her.

Jirou didn’t notice. He was too focused on the way the light hit Shiori’s eyes, too caught in the warmth of the moment to think beyond it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of golden light and salt. They played games, buried Kamo in the sand, built a lopsided sandcastle that collapsed when Minami tried to “fix” it. The air smelled like sunscreen and seaweed, and their laughter carried all the way down the beach.

By late afternoon, the sun had dipped lower, painting everything in a soft orange hue. The water shimmered like glass, the air cooling as the tide began to creep higher.

Jirou sat on the shore, water lapping at his feet. He watched Akari helping Mei and Natsumi with something in the sand, her hair sticking up in wild strands. She was beautiful, and it made something twist in his chest — something confusing, warm, and heavy.

Shiori sat beside him again, her towel draped over her shoulders. “You look like you’re thinking too much again,” she said lightly.

He smiled faintly. “Probably.”

“Don’t,” she said, her tone soft but insistent. “Just enjoy it.”

He nodded, but his eyes still drifted toward Akari — laughing, carefree, her eyes bright even from a distance. He didn’t realize Shiori noticed.

The wind picked up, carrying her laughter across the shore, and for some reason, it made him smile too.

He turned back to Shiori, the warmth of the moment wrapping around him again, and before he could think about what he was doing — before he could talk himself out of it — Jirou leaned closer.

It wasn’t much. Just a small, uncertain movement. A moment that hung between them like a breath held too long.

Shiori froze, her eyes widening just slightly as she realized what he was about to do. The sounds of the ocean faded, the laughter of their friends blurred, and for that fragile second, there was only the two of them — close enough to feel the other’s heartbeat.

The day had been long, full of light and noise and laughter. But this — this was quiet. Tender. Dangerous in the way that only new, uncertain feelings could be.

And as the last of the sunlight slipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft gold and rose, Jirou leaned just a little closer toward Shiori — his heart pounding, the world narrowing to the space between them.

As the last traces of sunlight began to fade and the faint chirping of cicadas filled the cooling air, the group reluctantly started to pack up. The sky had turned a soft lavender, streaked with hints of orange that lingered just above the horizon. The beach, once lively with laughter and splashing, now felt quieter — calmer, as if the day itself was finally exhaling after hours of noise and movement.

Empty bottles, scattered towels, and half-eaten snacks were gathered into bags, their laughter now low and tired but still warm. The air smelled faintly of sunscreen and saltwater, mingling with the distant scent of grilled food from a nearby stall. The soft crunch of sand beneath their feet was rhythmic, almost soothing, as they moved in a loose cluster toward the road that led back to the training facility.

Jirou walked near the front of the group beside Shiori. Her laughter floated through the twilight, light and easy, as she teased him about something he’d said — a joke, probably, one that didn’t even land that well but somehow made her laugh anyway. She held his hand, their fingers brushing, tentative but steady. Jirou’s thumb moved slightly, uncertain if he should hold tighter or let go, but she didn’t pull away. The contact made his chest tighten in a strange, fluttering way, a quiet sense of contentment tinged with something more complicated.

A few paces behind, Akari was walking with Sachi. The brunette had been glued to her phone since they’d started heading back, her thumbs moving quickly as she typed out a long message. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, completely unaware of the world around her.

“What are you even writing?” Akari asked, tilting her head, her tone half teasing, half genuinely curious.

Sachi hummed without looking up. “Just replying to someone. It’s nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ looks like an essay,” Akari muttered, though her voice softened as she spoke.

Sachi finally looked up, flashing a grin. “You’re nosy.”

Akari rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile on her lips. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

She kicked at the sand as they walked, her towel draped around her neck, salt still in her hair. She didn’t know why, but she kept glancing toward the front of the group — toward Jirou and Shiori. The sight made her stomach tighten in a strange, unfamiliar way. She didn’t know what to call it — irritation? sadness? — and she didn’t want to.

Up ahead, Natsumi had finally convinced Mei to carry her, whining dramatically about how “the sand is murdering my feet.” Mei didn’t even hesitate — she crouched down with a sigh, and Natsumi climbed onto her back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re ridiculous,” Mei muttered, but the affection in her voice was unmistakable.

Natsumi leaned her chin on Mei’s shoulder, smiling. “And you love me for it.”

“Unfortunately,” Mei said, though the way her arms adjusted to hold Natsumi more comfortably betrayed her words.

Minami caught sight of them and couldn’t help but laugh under his breath. “They’re going to make everyone else look bad,” he murmured to himself, still keeping a half-watchful eye on the others.

Akari, meanwhile, had somehow ended up walking beside Kamo. It wasn’t on purpose — he had just fallen into step beside her when the group’s pace shifted. At first, she didn’t say anything. The silence was awkward, filled only by the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps and the hum of cicadas in the distance.

“Didn’t think you’d survive the water,” Kamo said after a while, glancing at her sideways.

Akari shot him a look. “You thought I’d drown?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Would’ve been entertaining.”

She snorted, kicking some sand toward his feet. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said easily, “but at least I’m funny.”

To her own surprise, Akari laughed — a short, bright sound that made Kamo grin wider. He wasn’t as annoying as she thought he’d be. Crude sometimes, sure, but there was something genuine about the way he talked. No pretense, no trying to impress anyone. Just… honest.

Their conversation meandered between teasing and casual chatter — about how bad the bugs were, about the weird smell coming from Kamo’s towel, about how Minami seemed like a dad trying to keep everyone in line. Akari found herself relaxing, her earlier tension from the beach fading away.

Ahead of them, Jirou and Shiori had slowed down, still talking quietly. She was telling him a story about something that had happened back home — a stray cat that had wandered into her classroom one day and refused to leave. Jirou listened intently, smiling faintly at her animated hand gestures. Every now and then, he’d add a small comment, just enough to make her laugh again.

Minami noticed it, of course. He always noticed things. The way Jirou’s shoulders relaxed when he was around her, the faint nervousness in his movements when Shiori brushed against his arm. It wasn’t love — not yet, maybe not even close — but it was something new. Something forming.

He looked away, eyes flicking toward Akari again. She was still laughing at something Kamo said, her face lit by the faint glow of her phone flashlight as Sachi used it to navigate the uneven sand. For just a second, Minami thought he saw something in her eyes — that same spark she used to have when she looked at Jirou — but it was gone as quickly as it came.

By the time they reached the path leading back to the facility, the night had fully settled. The air was cool, filled with the soft sounds of the waves and the distant hum of the city lights beyond the hill. Fireflies blinked lazily in the grass, their glow fleeting and delicate.

The group fell into a quiet rhythm again. Mei and Natsumi whispered softly to each other, Sachi was finally off her phone, and Akari was talking about how sore her legs were from swimming. Jirou and Shiori walked close together, their shoulders brushing every few steps.

A few meters back, Mei was struggling to carry Natsumi on her back. “You’re heavy,” she groaned, stumbling slightly.

“I’m not heavy, you’re just weak,” Natsumi teased, tightening her arms around Mei’s neck. Her laughter bubbled out, full of affection, and even as Mei grumbled, there was no mistaking the fond smile tugging at her lips.

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” Mei muttered.

“Because you love me,” Natsumi replied immediately, resting her chin on Mei’s shoulder.

Mei’s smile widened. “Yeah… probably.”

The two of them trailed behind the rest of the group, their laughter soft but constant. It wasn’t loud like Natsumi’s usual energy; it was smaller, quieter — the kind of laughter that came from comfort, from the ease of being known completely.

By now, the group had reached the narrow path leading off the beach. The wooden planks beneath their feet creaked as they climbed, the sound of the ocean fading behind them. The salty breeze was slowly replaced by the scent of pine from the nearby forested area, the temperature dropping a few degrees as dusk deepened.

The sky was breathtaking — streaks of pink fading into purple, the last light glinting off the ocean far behind them. Akari paused for a moment at the top of the hill, looking back. Her heart felt full and heavy all at once.

“Hey, you coming?” Sachi called, already a few steps ahead.

“Yeah,” Akari said softly, tearing her gaze away from the horizon.

When she turned back, she caught sight of Jirou again — his hand still clasped around Shiori’s, his head tilted toward her as she said something that made him laugh. It wasn’t a big laugh, not loud or forced, just a quiet, content sound that Akari hadn’t heard from him in a while.

Minami saw it too. He said nothing, but his hand tightened subtly around the strap of the cooler.

As they reached the parking lot, the group began to scatter — some heading to the showers, others to the van. The air buzzed with tired satisfaction. They’d spent the whole day under the sun, laughing, swimming, playing — and now, exhaustion had finally caught up with them.

Mei was still carrying Natsumi, who had started to doze off on her shoulder, muttering incoherently about “ice cream” and “no more seaweed.”

Sachi was still on her phone, though now she was smiling at the replies she got, her face lit by the faint glow of the screen.

Kamo offered to help Minami carry the cooler, and after a brief argument about who was stronger, Minami gave in.

Jirou and Shiori lingered by the path, talking softly. She was still holding his hand. He didn’t seem to mind.

Akari walked a few steps behind them, her gaze fixed on the sand sticking to her ankles. She wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… distant. Confused.

The sound of their laughter carried through the fading light — soft, intimate, and warm — and though she tried to ignore it, it stayed with her the whole walk back.

The night air was heavy with salt and the faint buzz of cicadas as the group finally reached the long stretch of cottages that lined the boardwalk. Warm light spilled from the windows of some, laughter and faint music from others, but for the most part, the area had grown quiet. The day’s energy had dulled into a comfortable exhaustion.

They reached the small crossroads where the paths split off, leading to each cluster of cottages. The sand beneath their feet turned into weathered wood, creaking under the weight of so many tired steps.

Mei adjusted Natsumi on her back, the redhead now completely asleep, her cheek squished against Mei’s shoulder. “You really are hopeless,” Mei murmured fondly, brushing a strand of hair from Natsumi’s face before turning toward the far end of the row. “I’ll take her home. Night, everyone.”

“Night,” Akari said, forcing a smile as she watched them go, Mei’s small frame balancing Natsumi effortlessly as they disappeared around the corner, the faint glow of a porch light following them.

Kamo yawned loudly, dragging his feet. “If I step inside and my wife starts nagging about the sand again, I’m divorcing her,” he muttered.

“You’re not married,” Jirou pointed out with a small chuckle.

Kamo gave him a deadpan look. “You think that’ll stop her?” he grumbled before trudging off toward his own apartment, still muttering under his breath.

Minami was the next to go, catching Sachi’s arm as she was about to wander off toward her own place. “You’re not walking alone,” he said simply.

Sachi blinked, then smiled, a bit of color touching her cheeks. “Thanks, Minami.”

Together they disappeared down the boardwalk, talking quietly, their voices fading into the distance until only three figures remained — Jirou, Akari, and Shiori.

The silence that fell between them was thick, heavy in the humid air. The sound of the ocean was still faintly audible, waves rolling in somewhere beyond the dunes. Akari stood a few steps ahead, her expression unreadable, though her posture was rigid — shoulders squared, head down, hands clutching her sandals loosely at her sides.

“Well,” Jirou started, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, “guess that’s everyone…”

Shiori smiled up at him, soft and gentle as always. “It was a nice day, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had gone still — just the sound of the wind through the palms and the faint creak of the boardwalk beneath them.

Akari turned slightly, pretending to adjust her towel, but her chest tightened when she caught sight of them. She didn’t need to hear the words. She already knew where this was going.

Akari walked ahead of them, her towel slung over one shoulder, hair still damp and curling at the ends. Her steps were brisk, deliberate — a silent attempt to outpace the strange heaviness building in her chest. She didn’t look back once.

Behind her, Jirou walked beside Shiori, their pace slower, uncertain. He glanced down at her every few steps, catching the way her eyes sparkled faintly under the dim boardwalk lights. They didn’t talk much — just exchanged small smiles and awkward glances — but every moment between them seemed to stretch just a little too long.

When they reached the line of cottages, Shiori stopped in front of hers. Cottage five. Right across from Jirou and Akari’s. The air smelled faintly of salt and the floral detergent used on the beach towels that hung from nearby balconies.

“Well…” Jirou started, scratching the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure what to say. Everything that came to mind sounded either too casual or too nervous.

Shiori giggled softly, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to look so nervous,” she teased lightly, and that easy warmth in her tone made his stomach flip.

“I’m not nervous,” he lied instantly.

“Uh-huh.” Her eyes glinted with amusement.

There was a pause — the kind that seemed to hold something unspoken, a quiet pull neither of them could quite identify. Then, before Jirou could figure out what to do, Shiori leaned in, rising slightly on her toes.

“Good night, Jirou,” she whispered.

He barely had time to breathe before her lips pressed softly against his. It wasn’t long — just a quick, shy brush of warmth — but it sent a jolt of electricity through him all the same. When she pulled back, her face was pink, her smile soft but sure.

“G-Good night, Shiori,” Jirou stammered, his face completely red.

She gave a small wave before disappearing inside her cottage, the sound of the door clicking shut leaving him standing there in stunned silence.

Unbeknownst to him, Akari had seen everything.

She’d turned just as Shiori leaned in — just as their lips met. The world seemed to blur around her for a second. Her fingers went numb, her chest tight. She didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound. She just stood there, hidden partially by the shadow of their cottage, watching in silence as the scene unfolded.

Jirou stood there for a few moments, scratching his head, a faint, dazed smile still lingering on his lips. He didn’t notice Akari’s still form just a few steps ahead. Didn’t see the way her shoulders trembled slightly, how she blinked rapidly, trying to hide the sting in her eyes.

When Jirou finally turned to head back across the path, she was already gone.

He walked slowly, still processing what had happened, a dazed smile tugging at his lips. His hand brushed his mouth once, almost absentmindedly, before he shook his head as if to clear it. Maybe he shouldn’t have let that happen — or maybe it was okay. He didn’t know. Everything about Shiori was simple, easy, but it all felt too fast.

 

When he reached cottage seven, he kicked off his sandals carefully by the door. “Hey, Akari?” he called softly as he stepped inside. The warm glow of the single lamp filled the living room, the faint sound of the ocean still audible through the half-open window.

She was standing by the table, towel in hand, hair dripping small dark spots on the wooden floor. Her back was to him. “Hey,” he tried again, his voice uncertain, “is it alright if I take the first shower?”

Akari didn’t turn around. “Sure,” she said quietly. Her tone was steady, but her shoulders were stiff, her voice flat — nothing like the bright, teasing tone he was used to.

“Thanks,” Jirou said, half-smiling, still too distracted to notice the difference. He headed toward the bathroom, humming softly under his breath.

Akari stood there for a moment longer, the sound of the running water filling the air once he closed the door. She exhaled shakily, her throat tight.

Her reflection caught her eye in the window — faint, ghostly, eyes glistening under the yellow light. She pressed her lips together, holding back the emotion bubbling up in her chest.

Then, quietly, she walked to their room, setting her towel down with more force than necessary. “Sure,” she murmured again to herself, almost bitterly this time, before closing the door behind her.

Jirou blinked when he came out of the shower a few minutes later, towel slung around his shoulders, hair dripping into his eyes. The cottage felt strangely quiet, heavy.

He frowned, looking around. “Akari?”

No answer.

He hesitated for a moment before knocking gently on the bedroom door. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” came the reply, muffled through the wood. “Just tired.”

“Oh… okay.”

He stood there for a moment longer, uncertain. Then he sighed and went to sit on the couch, the faint sound of waves filling the silence between them.

Akari sat on the futon, hugging her knees to her chest, staring out the small window. Her hair was still damp, her heart aching in a way she didn’t understand — or maybe she did but didn’t want to admit.

Outside, the night carried on quietly, as if nothing had changed. But for her, something had.

When Jirou came out a few minutes later, hair damp, wearing a loose T-shirt and shorts, he peeked into the room to ask if she wanted to shower next — but she was already lying down, her back to him, lights off.

He hesitated in the doorway, scratching his head again. “Guess you’re asleep,” he murmured softly.

Then he turned off the last light and climbed into the futon next to her. The sound of waves filled the silence between them, steady and soft.

Neither of them said a word.

That night, the quiet hum of the cicadas was louder than ever, buzzing through the humid sea breeze that slipped in through the half-open window. Jirou lay on his side, his head propped up by one arm as he watched the shadows of the curtains sway. Akari had turned away from him the moment he entered the room. Her shoulders were tense, her breathing shallow—too even, too forced, like she was trying to pretend she was asleep. He didn’t question it. He didn’t want to. He told himself she was just tired from swimming, that the day had worn her out, that the silence between them wasn’t heavy for any reason other than exhaustion.

He glanced toward her once more before sighing softly and pulling his futon across the room, careful not to make much noise. The tatami creaked beneath his feet as he dragged the thin mattress to the far side near the wall. He found an old blanket in the cupboard, unfolded it, and lay down, feeling the residual warmth of the room stick to his skin. The scent of saltwater and sunscreen still lingered faintly in the air—a reminder of their long, perfect, chaotic day at the beach.

Jirou’s mind wandered, inevitably, to the kiss. It had been soft and shy—like all their kisses were—but this one felt a little more real. Shiori had looked up at him, the corners of her eyes glowing from the soft yellow light of the porch lamps. She’d smiled, brushed a bit of sand off his cheek, and said “Goodnight” before leaning up and pressing her lips against his. His chest had tightened, his heart skipping in a way that was almost dizzying. Even now, hours later, the feeling hadn’t quite faded.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “That was… our third kiss,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smile creeping onto his lips. Then he frowned, counting again. “No… second, really. The first one barely counted.” He chuckled to himself softly, remembering that awkward moment weeks ago in the nurses office.

But tonight was different. It hadn’t been an accident. Shiori had wanted to kiss him—and he had wanted to kiss her back. That simple thought warmed his chest again, even as the night air cooled around him.

Across the room, Akari shifted beneath the thin sheets. The sound was soft but distinct—the quiet rustle of fabric and the faint catch of her breath. Jirou glanced over automatically, catching the faint outline of her back in the dim light. He thought about asking if she was okay, but something about the atmosphere stopped him. There was a weight to her silence, an invisible wall he couldn’t see but could definitely feel.

So, instead, he stayed quiet.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else—anything else—but his mind kept circling back to Shiori. To her laugh, the way her hair had clung to her skin after swimming, the way she’d looked genuinely happy when they’d played in the water. It was strange how easy it was to be with her now, how comfortable it felt, how natural.

And yet, despite that contentment, something in his chest twisted slightly. He told himself it was just nerves, just the leftover adrenaline from the day. But it didn’t fade. It pulsed there quietly, a dull ache that made him turn over again.

Akari was still awake. He could tell now. Her shoulders trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough for him to notice. She had her face buried in the pillow, and even though he couldn’t see her expression, he somehow knew—knew she wasn’t asleep, knew she wasn’t fine.

He wanted to say something. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. What would he even say? Hey, are you okay? sounded hollow. Did something happen? would only make things worse. And deep down, he was afraid of the answer.

So, instead, he stayed where he was, silently watching her until his eyes grew heavy.

Akari, for her part, didn’t move until long after he fell asleep. She lay there, eyes open, staring at the faint outline of the window frame. The moonlight slipped through the curtain edges, painting thin silver lines across the floor. Her throat ached, but no sound came out.

She thought about the look in Jirou’s eyes earlier, how gentle it had been when he looked at Shiori. That kind of look didn’t just appear overnight—it was something that grew, something deep and quiet that couldn’t be faked. It had burned itself into her mind, that expression of unspoken affection.

Her chest tightened painfully. She wanted to hate Shiori. Wanted to tell herself it didn’t matter, that Jirou was just being polite, that he didn’t really mean it—but the truth was right there in front of her, undeniable and raw. He loved Shiori.

And worse—he didn’t even realize how much it showed.

She turned her face into the pillow, biting her lip until the sting distracted her from the tears threatening to form. She’d known Jirou for years. She’d been there when no one else had. She’d laughed with him, fought with him, teased him endlessly—and somewhere along the way, she’d fallen for him. She hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t wanted to. But now, seeing him smile for someone else felt like being hollowed out from the inside.

The memory of that kiss—their kiss—played in her head over and over again, each time sharper than before. She’d seen them, heard him whisper goodnight, seen how softly he’d looked at Shiori afterward. That wasn’t something you could mistake. It wasn’t a passing crush. It was love.

She turned over onto her back, staring up at the same ceiling he had been. It felt impossibly far away.

“Idiot,” she whispered softly, not sure whether she meant him or herself.

Her hands clenched in the sheets. She’d been so stupid—thinking maybe, just maybe, the looks he gave her sometimes meant something. That the moments they shared—the ones that made her heart race—were more than just friendship. But to him, she realized now, that was all they’d ever been.

Outside, the ocean waves murmured against the shore, steady and indifferent. Somewhere in the next cottage, someone laughed faintly, the sound of people still awake, still alive, still happy. It felt distant to her.

She rolled over again, away from Jirou, curling up tightly beneath the blanket. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs, and her throat burned as she swallowed back tears she refused to let fall.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she’d be fine. She’d smile, tease him, pretend nothing happened. That was what she was good at, after all—pretending.

But tonight, in the quiet glow of the moonlight, she let herself ache.

And across the room, Jirou dreamed of the girl who’d kissed him goodnight—completely unaware of the one only a few feet away whose heart had just quietly broken.

But while Jirou drifted into peaceful sleep, Akari lay awake — her chest tight, her mind echoing with the image she couldn’t shake: the kiss, small and fleeting, but enough to burn itself into her memory.

And for the first time that trip, she didn’t look forward to the morning.

Chapter 4: Ice Cream

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, warm and golden, cutting through the stale air of the cottage. The sound of seagulls outside mingled with the distant laughter of other vacationers already awake and bustling. Jirou stirred beneath his blanket, blinking groggily as he sat up. For a moment, he didn’t quite remember where he was—the unfamiliar room, the faint scent of salt and detergent, the quiet rustle of movement from the kitchen. Then it came back to him: the beach trip, the long day, the kiss.

He smiled faintly at the memory before pushing himself up and stretching. His muscles ached pleasantly from the previous day’s swimming and running, and he rubbed the back of his neck before glancing toward Akari. She was already up. The faint sound of a spatula scraping against a pan drifted over from the kitchenette.

“Morning,” he said lightly, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he shuffled toward her.

“Morning, Yakuin,” she replied flatly, not turning to look at him.

He paused mid-step. Yakuin. She hadn’t called him that in… what, months? Maybe a year? It was always “Jirou,” sometimes even “Jirou-kun” when she was being playful or teasing. But her tone was so distant this time, clipped, almost sharp. He frowned slightly, unsure if he’d imagined the shift or if it was actually as cold as it sounded.

“You’re up early,” he said after a beat, forcing a chuckle to ease the tension. “Didn’t think you’d beat me to breakfast.”

She shrugged, still not facing him. “Someone had to make sure we didn’t starve.”

Jirou blinked. The words weren’t harsh, not exactly, but the delivery stung in a way he couldn’t quite describe. He smiled weakly and sat down at the low table, pretending to busy himself by checking his phone. No new messages. No notifications. The silence stretched on for a moment too long, broken only by the faint hiss of the pan and the rhythmic clatter of utensils.

When Akari finally turned, she set two plates down on the table—toast, eggs, and what was probably meant to be sausages. He looked at it and then at her, offering a small smile. “Smells good.”

She said nothing, just sat down across from him, her gaze fixed on her own food.

Jirou picked up his fork and took a bite of the toast. He winced almost immediately. Burnt. Not completely inedible, but just enough to leave a bitter taste lingering in his mouth. The eggs were overcooked, too, and the sausages had an oddly uneven texture.

He looked up, watching her carefully. Akari was eating slowly, almost deliberately, her face unreadable. She wasn’t smiling—she always smiled when they ate together, even if it was just out of habit. Today, she just looked tired.

He wanted to ask if something was wrong, but the memory of last night flickered through his mind. Her silence. Her refusal to meet his eyes. The way she’d gone straight to bed after muttering “sure” when he’d asked about the shower. It didn’t take a genius to realize something had shifted.

Still, he tried to act normal. “You sleep okay?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Fine,” she said without looking up.

“Good,” he replied, though his voice came out weaker than he intended. He tried again after another bite—regretting it immediately when the bitterness hit again. “Hey, uh, the food’s… it’s a little burnt, isn’t it?” He smiled nervously, trying to make it sound like a lighthearted joke.

Her fork paused for just a fraction of a second before she said, “Maybe you should make it next time, Yakuin.”

That stung more than he wanted to admit. He blinked at her, taken aback by how formal and distant she sounded. “Right… yeah, sure. My bad.”

Silence again.

He looked down at his plate, forcing himself to eat anyway, because saying anything else might make it worse. Every now and then he glanced up at her, hoping for even a flicker of the usual warmth—the way she’d grin when she caught him staring, or roll her eyes when he teased her—but nothing came. She was quiet, focused, detached.

The more he watched her, the more he realized how off everything felt. It wasn’t just the tone of her voice or the burnt breakfast. It was the way she avoided his eyes entirely, the way her movements were stiff, the faint tightness in her jaw when he spoke.

Did I do something wrong? he wondered. Is she mad about something?

He thought back over the last twenty-four hours. They’d all had fun, hadn’t they? They’d gone swimming, laughed, played in the water. Sure, she’d seemed a little quiet toward the end, but he assumed she was just tired. Had something happened when he wasn’t paying attention?

He took another bite of toast, more out of habit than hunger. The bitter edge caught his tongue again. This time, he set it down quietly, pushing the plate away.

Across from him, Akari finally looked up. Her eyes met his for half a second before she turned away, reaching for her drink. That single glance told him everything—there was something broken there, something fragile she was trying hard to hide behind that calm expression.

He wanted to ask. Desperately. But the words stuck in his throat. She clearly didn’t want to talk to him, and pushing it would only make it worse.

So he did what he always did—pretended everything was fine.

He stood, stretching lightly and giving a small, practiced grin. “I’m gonna go shower before the others come by. You want me to heat more water?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I’ll handle it later.”

He hesitated, watching her for a moment longer before nodding and stepping toward the bathroom. He stopped briefly at the doorway, glancing back one last time. She was sitting there, hands folded on her lap now, staring blankly at the plate in front of her.

Something inside him twisted uncomfortably.

When he turned on the shower, the sound of running water filled the silence of the small cottage, drowning out the distant sounds of waves and laughter. He leaned against the cool tile, closing his eyes. He told himself she was just tired, that maybe she needed space. But somewhere deep down, beneath all the excuses, a small part of him already knew.

Something had changed between them.

And though he didn’t understand why, he could feel the distance growing—slowly, quietly, and inevitably—like the tide pulling him further and further from shore.

Jirou groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face as he slumped back against the edge of the bed. His hair was still damp from the shower, and the cool air from the small fan in the corner brushed against his skin. He’d hoped the water would clear his head, but it hadn’t. If anything, the silence of the room only made his thoughts louder.

He didn’t understand. Not even a little. Akari had been cold to him all morning — distant, quiet, almost like she didn’t even want to look at him. And no matter how hard he tried to replay yesterday in his mind, to find the moment he might’ve said or done something wrong, nothing made sense. Every time he tried to make sense of it, his chest just tightened more, the dull ache spreading until it felt like it was lodged behind his ribs.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and stared at the floor. “What did I do…?” he muttered under his breath. His tone wasn’t angry — it was confused, almost pleading. He wasn’t used to this from her. Akari could be dramatic, sure, but she wasn’t cold. Not like this. She laughed easily, smiled often, and even when she was annoyed, she’d say what was on her mind. This quiet version of her felt wrong. It wasn’t just silence; it was distance.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if that would help him think more clearly. “Okay,” he muttered to himself, trying to reason it out. “She’s been upset since yesterday… maybe I said something dumb?” That wasn’t exactly new for him. He tended to freeze up when emotions got too close to the surface, especially around her.

His mind drifted back to that moment — the way she’d reached out for his hand, how he’d tensed up and laughed it off, pulling away before he could stop himself. He’d just been… flustered. Embarrassed. Not because he didn’t like her touch, but because he liked it too much. And he didn’t know what to do with that.

But maybe, to her, it had looked like rejection.

He groaned again, pressing both hands over his face. “I’m such an idiot…”

The words were muffled against his palms, but the truth of them stung all the same. The more he thought about it, the clearer it became — how her eyes had flickered, how she’d gone quiet right after, how she’d smiled less for the rest of the day. He’d assumed it was just the exhaustion catching up to her after swimming, but now… now he wasn’t so sure.

And then there was last night. The way she’d walked ahead of him and Shiori, how she hadn’t said a word when he wished her goodnight. The sound of her door closing, sharp and final.

His chest ached again, and he rubbed at it absentmindedly, like the pressure might ease if he just pressed hard enough. He hated seeing her upset — hated it more than he wanted to admit. It twisted something inside him, something he didn’t have the words for yet.

He thought about what he could do to fix it. Maybe apologize? But apologize for what? For being awkward? For not holding her hand when she wanted him to? For not realizing she was upset sooner? Everything he thought of felt small, meaningless — like trying to patch a hole in a boat with tape.

He could make her breakfast? No, she’d already done that — and probably didn’t want to eat anything he made right now. He could buy her something? But what? Flowers? That would feel weird, too formal. Candy? Too casual. A drink? Maybe, but would that even make a difference?

He sighed and let himself fall backward onto the futon, staring up at the ceiling. The faint hum of the fan filled the silence, but it did nothing to quiet the noise in his mind.

What if she didn’t just need space? What if she was really upset with him? The kind of upset that didn’t go away with a simple “sorry.” He thought of her eyes this morning, how dull they’d looked when she spoke to him — like all the light had gone out of them.

The thought made something sharp and heavy settle in his stomach.

He turned his head toward the wall that separated their rooms. From the faint sound of movement, he could tell she was still awake, maybe cleaning up the kitchen or pretending to be busy. He thought about going in there, about knocking on the door and just asking what was wrong, but his feet wouldn’t move. He didn’t want to make things worse by saying the wrong thing again.

He exhaled, long and slow. “You’re overthinking it,” he whispered to himself. “She just needs time. She’ll come around.”

But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it.

The moment stretched, the silence thickening around him. Then, suddenly, his phone buzzed from where it sat on the bedside table. The vibration startled him enough that he sat up quickly, blinking in confusion before reaching for it.

The screen lit up with a name that made his heart skip.

Shiori.

For a second, he just stared at the notification, his thumb hovering over the screen. A dozen emotions tangled together — surprise, guilt, curiosity, a strange flicker of relief. It felt like whiplash after the heaviness that had been pressing on him all morning.

He hesitated before opening it, though. A part of him felt uneasy. Akari’s face flashed through his mind again — the quiet, distant look in her eyes when she’d handed him breakfast. He wasn’t sure why, but reading a message from another girl right now, especially her, felt wrong.

Still, his curiosity won out.

He unlocked the phone and opened the message.

Shiori: “Good morning ☀️! Did you sleep well? Yesterday was really fun. I hope I didn’t keep you up too late haha.”

A small smile tugged at his lips despite himself. She always texted like that — warm, friendly, with just enough care to make you feel noticed. It wasn’t flirtatious, not really. It was just… kind.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He could already imagine what Akari would say if she saw him smiling at his phone like this. Probably tease him, call him lovesick, or roll her eyes. The thought should’ve made him laugh, but instead, it just made that ache in his chest return, heavier this time.

He typed a quick reply anyway.

Jirou: “Yeah, I slept fine. Yesterday was great. Everyone had a good time.”

He stared at the message for a moment before sending it. It felt safe, neutral — the kind of thing anyone could send. Still, as the little “delivered” checkmark appeared, he couldn’t help but feel like he was walking a thin line he didn’t fully understand yet.

When another message from Shiori popped up a few seconds later, his heart jumped again.

Shiori: “That’s good! We should all hang out again today. Maybe just relax on the boardwalk or get some ice cream later?”

He hesitated, glancing toward the wall again. The faint creak of footsteps told him Akari was still awake. The idea of spending the day with everyone again — especially after how cold she’d been — felt complicated. But maybe it would help ease the tension. Maybe a normal day would fix whatever had broken.

He started typing again, slower this time.

Jirou: “Yeah, that sounds nice. I’ll ask Akari what she thinks.”

He stared at the screen a moment longer, his reflection faint in the glass. The ache in his chest didn’t fade. If anything, it grew — a confusing mix of guilt, longing, and the uneasy realization that maybe he didn’t fully understand what his heart was doing anymore.

When the sound of Akari’s door opening reached him, he quickly locked his phone and set it aside, forcing a neutral expression onto his face.

Whatever came next, he knew one thing for sure — pretending nothing was wrong wasn’t going to be enough anymore.

 

Jirou froze the second her sharp tone cut through the air. “Kari?” he repeated softly under his breath, though he instantly regretted it. The nickname had slipped out before he could stop himself—it wasn’t something he’d ever called her before, and the moment the word left his mouth, he wished he could take it back.

“Don’t call me that!” Akari snapped, her voice cracking like a whip from behind the bathroom door.

“R-right, sorry,” Jirou stammered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He winced, the sound of his own voice making him feel like a kid getting scolded. There was no way he could win this morning—it was too early, and she was too upset.

He listened as she shuffled around inside the bathroom. The faint hum of her hairdryer buzzed through the walls, followed by the rhythmic clinking of her brush and makeup bottles hitting the sink counter. He could picture her there, brow furrowed, carefully applying her eyeliner, trying not to smudge it even though her frustration was written all over her face.

“Do… do you wanna go out with everyone?” Jirou asked hesitantly. His voice wavered, uncertain. He didn’t want to push, but he also couldn’t stand the silence anymore—it felt heavy, pressing against him like the weight of an argument they hadn’t had.

There was a pause, long enough that he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then, finally, came her curt reply: “Fine. Let me get dressed.”

Jirou exhaled, relief mixing with confusion. He turned his gaze toward the window, where sunlight spilled across the wooden floorboards of the cottage. Across the narrow boardwalk, he could see Shiori’s cottage. Minami was standing on the porch railing, leaning lazily against the post, his phone in hand. The sight of that cottage made Jirou’s chest twist with conflicting thoughts. Shiori… the kiss they’d shared last night—he hadn’t meant for it to happen, but it had. It replayed in his mind like a movie he couldn’t stop watching, the way her hand had brushed against his, how her lips had lingered just long enough for him to forget how to breathe.

The bathroom door clicked open. Jirou turned—and froze.

Akari stepped out, and for a moment, he couldn’t recognize her. Gone was her usual gyaru flair—the short skirts, layered accessories, and bold colors. Instead, she wore a soft pink sundress patterned with tiny strawberries and roses. The dress cinched delicately at her waist and laced up the back, the ribbons waiting to be tightened. Her hair was styled neatly, and her makeup was toned down to something softer, more understated. It wasn’t flashy—it was elegant.

“Help me with this,” she said simply, turning her back toward him and holding the laces out.

Jirou blinked, his hands hesitating before reaching for the fabric. “You look diff—”

“Make it tighter,” Akari cut in, her tone clipped.

“Uh… yeah,” Jirou murmured, pulling at the strings gently.

“Tighter,” she said again, sharper this time.

He frowned slightly. “Can you even breathe?”

“I said make it tighter.” Her head turned just enough for him to catch her glare.

“Okay, okay, I’m doing it,” Jirou said quickly, adjusting the tension until he heard her wince softly. That made him pause again, guilt prickling his stomach. “Are you sure it’s not too tight?”

“It’s fine. Tie it up.”

He did as she said, knotting the laces carefully before stepping back to look at her. She was… beautiful. Different. The pink dress fell just above her knees, the soft fabric swaying slightly as she shifted her weight. A pair of delicate rose-colored pearl earrings caught the light, and her necklace matched perfectly. Even her purse—a pale pink shoulder bag—seemed to complete the look. Her lips glistened faintly with red-tinted gloss, the only bold thing about her outfit. But it wasn’t her style—it was Shiori’s.

Jirou didn’t have time to say anything. Before he could open his mouth, Akari brushed past him, muttering something about forgetting her phone.

“I’ll be outside,” Jirou called after her. He got nothing but a faint hum in response.

Stepping out onto the porch, Jirou squinted in the sunlight. Shiori was already waiting by the railing, a bright smile lighting up her face when she saw him.

“Good morning, Jirou!” she said cheerfully, waving.

“Morning, Shiori,” he replied, walking over. Her perfume hit him first—something floral, light but distinct. She greeted him with a brief hug, her arm looping through his naturally. He didn’t pull away. “Akari’s coming,” he added quietly. “She just forgot something inside.”

Shiori nodded, her expression easy and warm. “Mei said she’s taking Natsumi out today, so it’s just us and the others.”

Jirou nodded absently, though his eyes drifted again to the path that led between the cottages. Minami stepped out just then, stretching as he pocketed his phone.

“Hey,” Minami grinned, waving. “Is Akari coming?”

Jirou was about to answer when the cottage door opened. Akari stepped out, her expression perfectly composed, a soft smile on her lips as she greeted Shiori and Minami—though she didn’t so much as glance at Jirou.

“Sachi’s waiting down the boardwalk,” she said lightly, her voice full of cheer that felt a little too practiced.

Jirou exhaled quietly, falling in step behind the group as they began walking. It wasn’t until they reached the boardwalk that he saw Sachi waving at them from ahead, laughing at something Minami had said. Shiori fell easily into conversation beside him, and soon they were talking about random things—plans, music, the usual small talk that made it easy to ignore the tension that hovered somewhere behind them.

Akari, meanwhile, drifted toward Kamo, her laughter bright and effortless as she chatted with him. It should have made Jirou relax—after all, she seemed fine now—but instead, it made him feel oddly hollow.

When they finally reached the small ice cream shop by the beach, Jirou’s gaze lingered on the display of fruit popsicles by the counter. He remembered, suddenly, how he’d planned to get Akari one yesterday. She’d mentioned wanting to try the strawberry one, and he’d made a mental note to grab it for her later that evening… but he’d completely forgotten once Shiori had taken his hand and started talking about the stars.

Maybe that was why she was upset. Or maybe it was because he’d pulled away when she tried to touch him last night. Or maybe it was something else entirely—something he’d missed. He sighed, rubbing his neck again, his thoughts circling endlessly.

He’d fix it later. He had to. For now, though, he focused on the girl beside him, on the laughter around him, on the way the sunlight hit the water just right. For now, that was enough.

“Sachi!” Akari called suddenly, running ahead. “Are you done with your secret boyfriend now?”

“Shut up,” Sachi groaned, rolling her eyes. “I don’t have a secret boyfriend.”

“Yeah, sure,” Akari teased, flashing a grin.

“Don’t you have something else to focus on?” Sachi laughed, nudging her playfully.

But even as the group laughed and moved on, Jirou’s gaze lingered on Akari. There was something different in her smile—it didn’t quite reach her eyes. And though she looked beautiful, radiant even, he couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere underneath all that pink and polish… she was hurting.

The sunlight caught the edge of their table, making the whole spot glow faintly as the group gathered outside. A salty breeze rolled in from the nearby ocean, carrying the faint hum of chatter from other tourists and the sound of waves crashing beyond the boardwalk. They had managed to find a table large enough to fit them all, one of those wooden outdoor setups with a wide umbrella shading half of it. Through some bizarre twist of fate—or maybe just cruel coincidence—Jirou found himself sitting directly between Shiori and Akari.

Minami and Kamo were sitting across from them, already laughing about something, probably some stupid story from the night before. Sachi was next to Akari, her chin resting on her hand as she listened, occasionally tossing in a comment that made Akari giggle softly. Jirou tried to relax, tried to focus on anything but the tension pressing against his side, where Shiori sat with her usual gentle smile and Akari stared out at the street, expression unreadable.

For a few blissful minutes, they simply existed as a group—no drama, no weird looks, just soft conversation and the occasional clink of cups as they shared the drinks they'd brought along. Jirou felt his heartbeat finally slowing, his shoulders easing. But then someone—Minami, probably—suggested they go up and order ice cream before the line got long, and just like that, the calm bubble popped.

The shop itself was small but charming, a seaside place with pastel-colored walls and the faint scent of waffle cones lingering in the air. The counter was lined with rows of colorful ice cream tubs, some piled high with fresh fruit, others decorated with chocolate shavings and candy bits.

The cashier, a young guy who looked like he was around their age, greeted them with a friendly nod. “Hey there, what can I get for you all?”

“We’ll take six ice creams,” Jirou said after exchanging glances with the group.

“Sure thing,” the cashier replied, already pulling out a set of cups and cones.

“Can I get, uh, espresso?” Minami asked, leaning forward to scan the glass display as if the perfect flavor might be hiding from him.

“Will that be in a cone or a cup?” the cashier asked, tone polite but practiced.

“In a cone, please,” Minami replied, his smile wide enough to make the guy behind the counter grin back.

Shiori went next, her voice sweet as always. “Vanilla, please. In a cup.”

Kamo ordered mango, of course—Jirou had expected that, since Kamo always went for something bright or tropical. Sachi chose strawberry, predictable but classic. Then it was Jirou’s turn. He hesitated, staring at the display case for a bit too long. His thoughts were elsewhere—still caught between the two girls beside him, one who was quietly avoiding him and one whose soft laugh still lingered in his mind from last night.

“Uh, cookies and cream,” he said finally.

“Got it,” the cashier said cheerfully. “Cone or cup?”

“Cup,” Jirou murmured.

Akari was last. She leaned down slightly, her long hair falling over her shoulder as she studied the colors in the display. Her lips parted slightly before she spoke. “Dragon fruit sorbet, please.”

The cashier blinked. “Oh, good choice. Not many people go for that one.”

Akari smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, I like the color.”

Her voice was calm, casual, but Jirou couldn’t help noticing how she didn’t look at him once. He swallowed the awkwardness, shoving his hands in his pockets as the guy started ringing everything up.

“That’ll be all for you?” the cashier asked, glancing between them.

“Yeah,” Jirou nodded, stepping forward slightly. Then, at the last second, he added, “Actually—can I get one of those cookies too?” He pointed toward a jar filled with chocolate chip ones on the counter.

“Sure thing.” The cashier typed something into the register. “That’ll be 3,600 yen total. Card or cash?”

“Card,” Jirou said, pulling out his wallet and tapping his card against the reader. The machine beeped, and he slid it back into his pocket, trying not to notice the way Akari had turned away, her attention fixed on Sachi instead of him.

As they waited for their order, Jirou found himself sneaking glances at her. She looked perfect in the sunlight—her strawberry-patterned dress almost glowing, the soft pink shade reflecting in her hair, which she’d tied neatly with a ribbon that matched the subtle hue of her lipstick. But there was something distant about her expression, like she was here but not really present.

Shiori brushed her shoulder against his lightly, drawing his attention back. “Cookies and cream suits you,” she teased with a quiet laugh. “Predictable, but safe.”

He chuckled weakly. “Guess that’s me, huh? Predictable.”

When the orders were finally ready, the cashier handed them out one by one. The dragon fruit sorbet stood out immediately—vibrant purple-pink, glistening in the sunlight like something unreal. Akari took it carefully, murmuring a soft thanks before turning away again.

Jirou accepted his own cup, handing the extra cookie to Akari without thinking. “Hey, you want this?”

She hesitated for a second before taking it. “Thanks,” she said simply, her tone polite—too polite.

It stung.

They made their way back to the table, laughing half-heartedly as Minami joked about Sachi’s strawberry ice cream matching her face when she got flustered. Kamo joined in, teasing her until she threw a napkin at him. Shiori stayed close to Jirou’s side, occasionally brushing against his arm, her laugh soft and genuine.

Akari sat across from them, spooning small bites of her sorbet and pretending not to notice. Her lips pressed together every time Shiori laughed at something Jirou said, and she stared down at the melting pink of her dessert like it had personally offended her.

For everyone else, it was just another sunny morning by the beach. But for Jirou, the warmth of the sun did little to cut through the chill sitting between him and the girl who wouldn’t even look at him.

Jirou’s hand hovered over the cup for a second, unsure if he should even let Shiori take a spoonful. He hadn’t expected her to ask, but the gentle way she looked up at him, her amber eyes catching the sunlight and the faint glow of the table’s umbrella, made it impossible to say no. “Uhh… yeah, sure,” he murmured, offering her the cup carefully, his fingers brushing the side just slightly as she leaned forward.

Shiori smiled softly and scooped a modest spoonful of the cookies and cream ice cream. She brought it to her lips with the care of someone savoring the flavor, and when she tasted it, her eyes widened slightly in pleasant surprise. “Mmm… that’s really good,” she said, the faintest laugh escaping her. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had cookies and cream this creamy before.”

Jirou’s chest tightened in a strange way, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sun overhead. He chuckled, a little awkwardly, trying to mask how much her smile and that small compliment affected him. “Well… I guess I just know how to pick the good stuff,” he said, trying to sound casual, though he felt his voice falter just slightly.

Across from him, Akari shifted in her seat, the movement small but deliberate. Her fingers tightened slightly around her spoon as she tried to focus on the conversation she was having with Minami, who was telling some story about a fishing trip that had apparently gone wrong last summer. She nodded along and laughed lightly, but her eyes kept flicking toward Jirou. The way his lips moved when he talked, the subtle way his hand hovered near Shiori’s as he handed her the cup—Akari felt it like a small punch to her chest each time she caught herself staring.

She told herself not to look, not to care. “Focus on Sachi,” she whispered internally, letting the cheerful chatter of her friend pull her attention back. Sachi was laughing at something Minami said, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as she tried to stifle a snort, and for a moment, Akari tried to convince herself that it was enough, that if she concentrated on this moment, the ache in her chest would fade.
But every so often, she felt the brush of Jirou’s presence next to Shiori, the subtle lean of his shoulder toward the girl, and her stomach twisted. She couldn’t deny it: she was watching him, and he was… falling for Shiori, right in front of her. Not that he knew it, and not that Shiori fully realized it either, but the quiet energy between the two of them—soft, careful, teasing just enough to make hearts flutter—was palpable.

Jirou, on his side, was blissfully unaware of Akari’s internal struggle. He watched Shiori carefully, seeing the way her eyes lit up at the first taste of ice cream, the gentle tilt of her head as she savored it. He offered her another spoonful, leaning just slightly closer, and their shoulders brushed. The contact was accidental, almost imperceptible, but it made his heart hammer. He had to remind himself to breathe.

Shiori laughed softly when the spoon hovered too long between them. “Careful, you might steal all of it,” she teased, leaning a fraction closer, her warm breath brushing his arm. Her smile was so effortless, so genuine, that it made Jirou’s chest tighten again. He knew that a part of him was going to remember this day for a long time—every glance, every laugh, every fleeting touch.

Akari felt the tension between them like a blade. She shifted her position again, trying to scoot just slightly forward so she could take another bite of her dragon fruit sorbet, hoping it would distract her. The cold sweetness of the sorbet hit her tongue, the tangy flavor a brief reprieve from the pangs of jealousy that shot through her every time Jirou laughed with Shiori.

Minami, sitting next to her, noticed her slight frown and raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Akari replied quickly, forcing a smile. She picked at her sorbet, pretending to be engrossed in the tiny flecks of fruit, but she couldn’t help sneaking glances toward Jirou again. He was handing Shiori another spoonful, and the way he watched her, so attentive and gentle, made her stomach twist.

Sachi, blissfully unaware of the tension, leaned over to Akari. “Hey, your ice cream looks amazing,” she said cheerfully, nudging her with her elbow. “Dragon fruit was a great choice!”

Akari nodded, forcing a laugh. “Thanks… it’s… good,” she mumbled, trying not to sound tense. She took a deliberate bite, hoping to ground herself in something tangible rather than the swirl of emotions threatening to drown her.

Jirou finally realized he was staring a bit too long at Shiori’s expression and quickly looked down at his cup, giving her a small, apologetic smile. “Uh… you want some more?” he asked, gesturing with the spoon.

Shiori shook her head softly, still smiling. “No, that’s enough for now. But thank you for sharing.”

Akari’s chest tightened at the words, the soft gratitude making her feel invisible in the moment. She wanted to speak, to remind him that she existed too, that she had feelings, but the words lodged in her throat. Instead, she pretended to study the intricate pattern on her sundress, tracing the pink and red flowers with her finger absentmindedly.

Jirou, finally realizing the tension in the air, tried to offer a reassuring smile to Akari, but the attempt fell flat. She was focused elsewhere, and he knew that no matter how much he tried, the moment with Shiori was already etched into his memory—and Akari’s presence wasn’t enough to pull him back into the present with her.

Shiori, sensing some of the weight of the moment but not understanding its origin, leaned a little closer to Jirou, whispering, “Thanks… I really like this.” Her fingers brushed against his hand, just slightly, and the light touch sent a shiver through him.

Akari felt the brush of air from Jirou’s movement as he adjusted slightly closer to Shiori. Her stomach knotted, but she kept her voice light when she spoke to Sachi. “So, uh… how’s your day going?”

Sachi, not picking up on Akari’s distraction, giggled. “Good! Minami’s telling me about this new manga he found—oh, wait until you hear this part—” She launched into a story, waving her hands and laughing, but Akari only half-listened, her mind tethered to the scene playing out next to her.

Jirou passed Shiori the cup one more time, leaning in just slightly to ensure the last bit didn’t spill. Shiori laughed softly as she took it, looking at him with a brightness that made his chest ache with an unfamiliar mixture of warmth and longing.

Akari tried not to notice, tried to focus on the pink hue of her sorbet instead of the way Jirou’s hand lingered near Shiori’s, the easy way he laughed at her small jokes. But it was impossible. She could feel her own heart pounding, each beat a quiet reminder of her proximity and the growing distance between them emotionally.

Minami, ever observant, noticed the subtle shifts—Akari’s hands tightening around her spoon, the slight downturn of her lips, the way her eyes flickered toward Jirou just enough to betray her pretense of focus. He didn’t comment, only gave her a small, knowing smile, letting her process it in her own way.

Jirou finally sipped from his lemonade, hoping the cool sweetness would calm his racing thoughts. But even the tart notes of strawberry and citrus did little to quiet the emotions surging inside him. He glanced sideways at Akari, catching her staring down at her sorbet, pretending not to notice him, and felt an unexpected pang of guilt mixed with frustration.

Shiori, content for the moment, leaned back slightly, watching him with a soft smile. She didn’t realize the storm brewing just a few inches away, the silent tension simmering in Akari’s posture and the way she refused to meet his eyes.

Jirou took another bite, trying to anchor himself in something simple—flavor, texture, sunlight—but even as he did, the knowledge of Akari’s hurt tugged at him. He wanted to make her smile, to break through her distance, but he didn’t know how without ignoring Shiori, who was sitting so innocently close.

Akari, sensing Jirou’s occasional glance, stiffened, shifting slightly in her chair. The dragon fruit sorbet melted on her tongue, sweet and tart, but nothing compared to the bittersweet swirl of emotions she was feeling. Her hands shook slightly as she adjusted the cup, careful not to spill, careful not to give away how much she noticed him.

The group continued eating, laughing, and chatting around them, the light afternoon sun softening shadows and painting the scene in warm tones. Yet within the bubble of their small table, a quiet tension hummed—unspoken, barely perceptible, but present. Jirou’s heart thudded as he balanced the attention between Shiori and the awareness of Akari’s proximity, while Akari tried to focus on Sachi’s stories, knowing every glance between him and Shiori felt like a jab.

Finally, Shiori leaned forward again, this time brushing the back of her hand lightly against his as she scooped the last bite

of ice cream. Jirou’s stomach fluttered, and he realized he was caught in a quiet, emotional tug-of-war he hadn’t anticipated. Akari’s quiet side-glances only added to the storm in his chest, making the moment infinitely more complex than a simple sharing of desserts.

Minami, watching the small interactions with quiet amusement, didn’t intervene, letting the dynamic play out. He understood enough to know that this would simmer longer than anyone expected.

Akari finally took a deliberate, deep breath, finishing the last of her sorbet. She pushed her cup away gently, smiling faintly at Sachi, but her eyes betrayed a mixture of longing, frustration, and determination, all directed at Jirou without him fully noticing.

Jirou, caught in the subtle but undeniable pull between the two girls, finally set his cup down as well, realizing the day was far from over and that he’d need to navigate more than just ice cream flavors if he wanted to keep the peace—and perhaps the hearts—of both Akari and Shiori.

Jirou carried Akari’s empty cup alongside Minami, feeling the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his back. The breeze off the water carried a faint scent of salt and sunscreen, mixing with the sweetness of melting ice cream wafting from the nearby stands. The boardwalk creaked softly beneath their feet, a gentle rhythm that somehow contrasted with the rapid thumping of Jirou’s chest. He couldn’t stop thinking about the subtle shift in Akari’s mood earlier, the way her shoulders had stiffened when Shiori took a spoonful of his ice cream, and the way her gaze seemed to flit nervously whenever he looked in her direction.

Minami walked beside him, calm and observant, occasionally glancing at Jirou with a curious tilt of his head. “What’s up with Akari today?” he finally asked, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Jirou hesitated, running a hand down the back of his neck as he tried to find the right words. “She…” he started, then stopped, unsure how much to reveal. “She’s been upset. I thought maybe this would cheer her up.” His eyes flicked briefly to the horizon, where the sun’s reflection shimmered across the water.

Minami’s gaze sharpened. “Have you tried talking to her?”

“I will,” Jirou said quickly, almost defensively. “Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t want Minami probing too deeply—not yet.

Minami studied him silently for a moment, the subtle smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes. “You care about her, don’t you?”

Jirou blinked, caught off guard. “She’s… a friend,” he mumbled, forcing the words out before Minami could press further. “Don’t read too much into it.”

Minami just nodded, though his expression betrayed a hint of skepticism. “Yeah, well, don’t leave it too late. She might not wait around for you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jirou muttered, brushing off the comment, though a small knot of unease had formed in his chest. He hated the idea of Akari waiting for him—or worse, drifting away—without him realizing it in time.

When they returned to the table, the group was already preparing to leave, laughter spilling into the air. Akari had recovered her usual cheerfulness, her voice animated as she recounted a story to Sachi and Minami, punctuated by Kamo’s occasional input that made everyone laugh even harder.

Shiori’s hand found its way back onto Jirou’s arm as they walked side by side down the boardwalk. Her grip was light but intimate, and Jirou felt a flush creeping up his neck, a mixture of warmth and confusion. He couldn’t help but notice the way her hair caught the sunlight, the way her eyes sparkled as she laughed at something he’d said earlier. Every small detail seemed amplified, etched into his mind as though it mattered more than anything else.

Minami walked a few steps behind, observing the group with a quiet patience. He noticed Akari gesturing animatedly at Sachi, who listened intently, nodding and laughing at the right moments. There was an energy about them, a harmony that seemed almost effortless. Even Kamo, who usually kept to himself, had a grin on his face, engaged in the conversation with an ease that surprised Jirou.

Jirou felt a pang of guilt as he watched Akari, realizing how much he’d missed during their small lapse in connection earlier. The thought of Shiori, too, tugged at him, a soft tension threading through his chest as he tried to reconcile the feelings he had for both girls.

They walked past the small vendor stalls that lined the boardwalk, the smells of fried food, caramel, and roasted corn mingling in the warm air. Jirou’s stomach gave a soft growl, though he was too distracted to think about eating. Minami, ever perceptive, nudged him slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jirou replied quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… thinking.”

The boardwalk started to slope downward, leading back toward the cottages. The group slowed as they approached the wooden planks, the sounds of their laughter mingling with the distant crash of waves. Jirou’s eyes kept darting between Akari and Shiori, noting the way Akari’s hair bounced as she laughed, and the gentle, quiet confidence in Shiori’s smile as she held onto his arm.

“Watch your step,” Minami called from behind, though no one was in danger. The remark was more habit than necessity, his calm voice blending seamlessly into the background hum of activity.

Akari suddenly paused, tugging Sachi slightly by the sleeve, and the two of them bent over, peering at something on the ground. Jirou followed their gaze briefly, catching only a glimpse of a small crab scuttling across the boardwalk, before he returned his attention to Shiori’s warm hand resting on his arm. The contrast was stark—Akari’s energetic focus on the world around her, Shiori’s quiet anchoring of him in the moment.

As they continued walking, Jirou noticed the subtle ways everyone moved around each other—the unspoken rhythms, the shared jokes, the occasional teasing glances. It all created a delicate balance, one he realized was fragile yet comforting. He had to tread carefully, mindful of both the feelings around him and his own.

Minami’s voice broke his thoughts again, low and teasing. “You’ve got your hands full today, Yakuin.”

Jirou’s cheeks flushed slightly at the nickname, and he avoided eye contact. “I… just want everyone to have fun,” he muttered, focusing on the rhythmic sound of their steps over the wooden planks.

“Yeah,” Minami said softly, almost to himself. “Just… don’t let things get too complicated.”

By the time they reached the cottages, the sun had dipped further toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink, orange, and deepening blue. The soft glow reflected on the group, casting long shadows behind them. Akari’s laughter floated in the air like music, Shiori’s quiet hums of amusement intertwined with Jirou’s nervous chuckles.

Akari glanced back over her shoulder at Jirou briefly, her eyes meeting his for just a moment before darting away. That small interaction made his heart tighten unexpectedly, a mix of relief and something heavier he couldn’t quite name.

Shiori squeezed his arm gently as they approached her cottage. “Thanks for walking with me,” she said softly, her words almost drowned by the distant hum of waves.

“Of course,” Jirou replied, his voice catching slightly. He felt a rush of warmth but also a tight knot in his chest as he thought of Akari, who was just a few steps behind, laughing at something Sachi said.

Minami lingered at the back, glancing between the three of them with quiet amusement and careful observation. He could sense the tension, the subtle push and pull between the girls, and the uncertain weight of Jirou’s own heart.

Akari finally stepped back into her cottage, the door clicking softly behind her, leaving Jirou and Shiori outside for just a moment longer. Shiori turned slightly to him, her smile gentle and unassuming, and Jirou felt a warmth spread through him that made him almost forget the knot of uncertainty twisting inside.

As they walked toward their next destination, he realized the day hadn’t just been about ice cream or boardwalks—it had been about moments, fleeting and delicate, that somehow carried the weight of everything he felt.

Akari’s cheerfulness, Shiori’s quiet presence, Minami’s calm guidance, Sachi’s easy laughter, Kamo’s reluctant participation—they were all pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t fully figured out yet. And somewhere in the midst of it all, Jirou knew he had to confront not just the feelings he had for both Akari and Shiori, but also the small, quiet truths he’d been trying to ignore about himself.

The group moved on, their shadows stretching across the boardwalk, their laughter mixing with the distant call of the sea. Jirou walked slightly behind, taking in the scene, feeling the weight of responsibility, care, and emotion pressing gently against his chest. He knew this was only the beginning of something far more complicated, far more beautiful, and far more fragile than he had anticipated.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in the soft glow of evening, Jirou felt a single, undeniable truth: he couldn’t ignore the pull between them any longer. It was time to navigate the tangled currents of hearts, laughter, and lingering glances—before they carried him away entirely.

By the time they reached their cottage, the tension in the air had thickened, and Jirou could sense it immediately. Akari had grown quiet during the walk, her usual energetic chatter replaced by stiff silence, and now, as they approached the door, the storm he had been dreading finally broke.

He paused in the doorway, glancing at Shiori, who offered him a small, understanding smile. Jirou leaned down quickly, brushing a gentle kiss across her forehead—a quiet gesture of thanks for walking with him—and then turned toward the cottage he shared with Akari.

“Akari—” he began cautiously, stepping inside.

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped instantly, whipping around so fast he barely had time to react. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her eyes flashing with frustration. “Just shut up, Jirou!”

Jirou froze mid-step, the words striking him harder than he expected. The air seemed to thrum with her anger, charged and almost tangible. Her usual playful, teasing expression had vanished completely, replaced with something raw and sharp, a storm that made his heart lurch and his chest tighten painfully. He could see the hurt behind her glare, faint but unmistakable, like a crack running through the otherwise unshakable surface of her composure.

“I—I didn’t mean—” he stammered, voice faltering, trying to find the right words to diffuse the tension.

“Don’t! Just… just leave me alone!” she interrupted, her voice cutting through the room like ice. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed past him, the sound of her footsteps sharp against the wooden floor.

“Akari, wait!” Jirou called after her, stepping forward, heart pounding. But she didn’t look back; she moved with determination, leaving the room—and his words—hanging uselessly in the air.

“Akari!” he yelled again, his voice breaking slightly, but as he reached the doorway, he stopped. Outside, the dim light of the evening caught her silhouette as she walked along the path, her figure gradually shrinking into the dark until she was little more than a shadow.

Jirou exhaled sharply, placing both hands on his knees, trying to steady himself. He couldn’t understand what had triggered this, and the frustration mixed with helplessness gnawed at him. She was clearly angry—maybe even hurt—but the reason eluded him entirely.

He ran a hand through his hair, groaning in exasperation. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, letting his head fall momentarily forward. Every instinct in him wanted to chase after her, to apologize, to fix whatever he had done, but he didn’t even know where to start.

The silence of the cottage felt heavy, almost suffocating, as he stood alone. The faint creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the distant sounds of the other cottages settling into evening only emphasized how utterly isolated he felt in this moment.

He thought back to every interaction they’d had since breakfast, trying to pinpoint the moment he might have upset her. Was it something he said at the ice cream stand? Or maybe earlier when he had been distracted by Shiori? His mind replayed every small detail, every glance and word, turning them over as if sifting for clues.

Jirou’s chest tightened again, a mix of guilt and worry knotting in his stomach. He had never liked seeing Akari upset like this—her anger wasn’t just anger; it was layered with pain, with unspoken feelings, and the fact that he couldn’t decipher it made the ache worse.

He moved toward the window, peering out at the dark path where she had disappeared, the faint light of the boardwalk glinting off the wet wooden planks. The wind rustled the leaves in the nearby trees, carrying a soft whisper that seemed almost like a taunt, a reminder of his helplessness.

Every instinct in him screamed to follow, to run after her and force some explanation, but a part of him froze, afraid that chasing her without understanding might only make things worse.

He sank onto the edge of the futon, resting his elbows on his knees, the weight of indecision pressing down hard. “Why… why does she have to be like this?” he muttered to himself, the frustration and confusion bleeding into every syllable.

The room felt smaller suddenly, tighter around him, as though the walls themselves were closing in to reflect his inner turmoil. He could almost hear Akari’s laughter from earlier, bright and light, clashing painfully with the stormy figure that had stormed away.

Jirou buried his face in his hands for a moment, trying to clear the jumble of thoughts. Every possible scenario played through his mind: she might be mad at him for something trivial, or maybe there was something deeper he had overlooked entirely.

The idea that she could be hurt by something he had done, something he had barely even noticed, twisted the knife further. He felt the dull ache in his chest deepen, a gnawing sense of responsibility mixed with helplessness.

He exhaled slowly, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. “I just… I just want to make her happy again,” he whispered, almost as if speaking the words aloud could manifest a solution.

The room remained quiet, but the heaviness lingered, and the evening shadows lengthened as the sun continued to set outside. Jirou stood, pacing slowly across the small room, thinking, planning, wondering what to do next.

Every time he paused, his mind returned to Akari’s glare, the sharpness of her words, and the fragile hurt behind her storm. He could picture it vividly, every detail etched into his memory, and it made him wince.

He wanted to call her, to apologize, to explain, but what could he say that would reach her in this state? He felt caught in a web of uncertainty, each path forward fraught with potential missteps.

His hands fidgeted, twisting the edge of his shirt, the small movement grounding him slightly in the moment. He needed a plan, some way to bridge the sudden, tense chasm between them.

Finally, he exhaled, resolute despite the lingering ache. He would wait for the right moment, observe, and then approach her carefully—no half-hearted words, no awkward gestures. She deserved more than that.

Yet, even with the decision made, the uncertainty gnawed at him. Would she even be willing to talk? Would she trust him again so quickly after this outburst?

The wind shifted outside, carrying the faint scent of salt and evening air, and Jirou felt a small, stubborn spark of hope. Maybe this could be fixed. Maybe she would let him back in.

He ran a hand through his hair again, shaking his head. “I just… I can’t mess this up,” he murmured, almost to himself, almost a promise.

Jirou sat back on the futon, leaning against the wall, staring at the floor, waiting, thinking, planning, hoping, as the quiet of the evening stretched around him.

Outside, Akari’s figure disappeared into the darkness, and he couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t read her thoughts—but he could feel the weight of her anger and hurt pressing against him, tangible and demanding.

And so, he waited, caught in the storm of his own making, trying to find the first step toward mending the fragile bond that had, in mere moments, become so delicately strained.

The evening deepened, and Jirou stayed there, heart pounding, mind racing, determined to figure it out before it was too late.

Jirou groaned quietly as the door clicked shut behind him, the soft thud of wood against frame echoing louder than it should have in the small cottage. He pressed his back against it, staring blankly at the floor for a moment, the exhaustion in his chest sinking deeper. How the hell was he supposed to fix something when he didn’t even know what it was? The question gnawed at him, looping endlessly in his head. He hated this—hated feeling useless, hated seeing her upset, hated that everything he said seemed to make it worse.

He ran both hands down his face, his fingers dragging through his hair in frustration. The silence in the room was thick, heavier than before. Akari’s anger still lingered in the air, like static after lightning, and he could almost feel the echo of her voice reverberating through him.

He pushed himself off the door, pacing the small space with uneven steps. His heart still felt like it was caught somewhere between guilt and confusion, a knot twisting in his stomach every time he thought about the look on her face—the way her eyes had burned with something that wasn’t just anger, but hurt too.

“She’s mad, fine, I get that,” he muttered to himself, voice low. “But why? What did I do?” He stopped pacing for a second, brow furrowing. “Is it because of Shiori? No… no, she wouldn’t…” His words trailed off. But the more he thought about it, the less certain he became.

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, sinking onto the couch. His mind replayed the past two days like a reel of film: the beach, the laughter, Akari teasing him as usual, her smile when she tried to get him to join in the water. Everything had felt normal—good, even—until suddenly, it wasn’t.

Then came last night. The quiet tension, the silence on the walk home, the way she wouldn’t even look at him. And then that outburst.

“Damn it…” he whispered, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “She’s not even talking to me anymore. What am I supposed to do?”

He hated seeing her upset. It made something in his chest ache, something heavy and unfamiliar. He’d never been good at dealing with emotional things, but with Akari, it was different. She was loud and blunt and honest—always the one dragging him into chaos—but she was also one of the few people who really saw him. When she was angry, the light in the room seemed to dim a little.

He leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “I should’ve just talked to her. I should’ve asked.” But even as he said it, he knew that wasn’t enough. Talking to Akari when she was mad wasn’t simple—she didn’t just say what was wrong. She’d laugh it off, hide behind teasing, and pretend she didn’t care until she exploded like this.

He thought back to the way she’d looked before storming out—the tight set of her jaw, the glimmer in her eyes she tried to blink away. That wasn’t anger alone. That was pain.

“Did I… hurt her?” he said softly, the realization dawning slowly, painfully. The thought made his throat tighten. “But how?”

He dragged a hand down his face again, groaning louder this time. “She’s gonna kill me,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the empty air.

He stood up abruptly, restless energy pushing him to move. He walked to the window and looked out into the dark, hoping somehow he’d see her coming back. The boardwalk lights cast a soft orange glow, flickering slightly with the wind. But she wasn’t there.

The cottage felt too big without her in it. Too quiet.

Jirou sighed and rested his forehead against the windowpane. The glass was cool against his skin, grounding him just enough to think. “She’ll come back,” he told himself, though he didn’t sound convinced. “She’ll come back, and then… I’ll fix it. I have to fix it.”

 

He thought about earlier at the ice cream shop—how she’d smiled when Sachi teased her, how her laughter had briefly returned, bright and genuine. That was the Akari he wanted back. The one who made everything feel a little lighter just by being around.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “I can’t just sit here.” But then what? Chase after her? She’d only yell again. Give her space? That felt like giving up. Every option felt wrong.

He paced again, his thoughts spiraling between frustration and guilt. “She’s my friend,” he whispered, his voice softer now. “I can’t just let her hate me.” The word friend echoed strangely, leaving a faint sting behind it.

He dropped back onto the couch, hands in his hair. He wished he understood her better. Wished she’d just say what she was feeling instead of pushing him away. Wished he wasn’t so damn clueless all the time.

A memory flickered through his head—her laugh on the beach, the way she’d looked over her shoulder at him when the sun hit her hair. His chest ached all over again.

“Why does it have to hurt like this?” he muttered. He didn’t know if he meant her anger or the strange, heavy feeling that sat in his ribs when she was upset.

Minutes passed, maybe hours—he didn’t know. The clock ticked softly in the background, the sound of the waves outside rolling steadily like time itself refusing to stop.

Eventually, he stood again and grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door. He didn’t know if she’d want to see him, but he couldn’t stay inside doing nothing.

As he stepped outside, the cool night air hit him instantly, carrying the scent of salt and sea. The path was dimly lit, quiet except for the occasional creak of the docks.

“Akari,” he called softly, but no answer came. He rubbed at the back of his neck, uncertain.

He took a step forward, the sound of the waves in the distance guiding him as he searched the dark path ahead. “Just… please come back,” he whispered under his breath. “I don’t care what I did—just come back so I can fix it.”

But the only response was the soft crash of the tide and the flicker of distant lights, leaving him standing alone under the quiet night sky, unsure of how to mend something he couldn’t even understand—but knowing, without a doubt, that he had to try.

The evening deepened into a heavy, suffocating darkness. The once faint orange glow of sunset had long faded, replaced by the cool, indifferent shimmer of the moon. Jirou stood on the porch, arms crossed tightly as if that could hold together the unease gnawing at him. The quiet hum of crickets filled the air, broken only by the sound of his pacing footsteps against the wooden boards.

He kept glancing down the path, hoping—no, expecting—to see her silhouette appear any second. But the trail remained empty, shadows stretching long and motionless.

“Where the hell did you go…” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His chest felt tight, that same dull ache from earlier refusing to fade. Every few steps he’d stop, lean on the railing, and stare out into the dark forest as though he could will her to come back.

The porch light flickered once, casting a ghostly glow over the empty chairs and Akari’s forgotten sandals by the door. The sight made his stomach twist. He hated this—being left in the dark both literally and figuratively.

He replayed everything in his mind—every word, every look, every moment since the morning. Nothing made sense. She’d laughed with everyone earlier, even teased him like she always did. And then… something had changed.

“Damn it,” he muttered again, voice low and rough. “What did I do this time?”

The night felt colder as he waited, his worry growing heavier with every passing minute.

Chapter 5: Ocean days

Summary:

Had to edit this because I made a mistake copying this from google docs

Jirou moved quietly through the cottage, careful not to disturb the tense silence that had settled like a weight over the room. The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. Akari sat at the small kitchen table, her back slightly hunched as she scrolled through her phone, completely absorbed and giving him nothing more than a passing glance.

He let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t try to speak; she clearly wasn’t ready for conversation yet. Instead, he focused on the task he’d decided could help—cooking breakfast. Cooking had never been his strong suit, but today, he would make an effort. For her.

He opened the cupboards, rifling through the neatly stacked ingredients, muttering under his breath as he tried to remember what could actually go together. Eggs, flour, milk… maybe some bread. He grabbed a small notebook from the shelf where he’d scribbled a few basic recipes a while back and scanned it quickly, trying to find something simple but satisfying. Pancakes? Omelets? Maybe both if he could manage it.

The quiet clatter of utensils echoed in the empty kitchen as he got to work. He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them carefully, then moved on to mixing flour and milk, trying to remember proportions from memory. He adjusted the stove heat, cautious not to burn anything, while keeping an occasional eye on Akari, who was still engrossed in her phone.

Jirou worked methodically, measuring, mixing, and flipping, each motion deliberate. Cooking had a way of focusing his mind, giving him something tangible to do while he waited for her mood to shift, even slightly. He imagined her smile as he plated the breakfast: fluffy pancakes stacked with a small dollop of butter, a few slices of fruit arranged neatly on the side, and a perfectly cooked omelet just for her.

“Maybe…” he muttered to himself quietly, adjusting the plating, “this will make her feel better.”

He carried the tray to the table and set it down gently in front of her. Akari didn’t look up immediately, fingers still scrolling, but Jirou held his breath, hoping for even a flicker of acknowledgment.

She finally glanced at the tray, eyes narrowing slightly before softening, though her lips remained pressed in a thin line. Jirou felt a small surge of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He stood beside her quietly, waiting for her to speak, willing himself to stay patient, to let her open up when she was ready.

The kitchen smelled warm and inviting, a small bubble of normalcy in an otherwise tense morning. Jirou tried not to overthink it, focusing on the little victory that she hadn’t pushed the breakfast away. It was a start, he thought, and sometimes starts were all one could hope for.

He carefully poured her a glass of juice and set it down beside the tray, stepping back to give her space. Even if she didn’t say anything yet, he resolved silently that he would keep trying. Whatever it took, he would make her smile again.

Akari finally set her phone down, glancing at the food again, her expression softening just slightly more. Jirou felt a cautious relief and tried to hide the way his chest eased at the smallest sign of her mood shifting.

He moved to sit opposite her, keeping his tone light, “I didn’t know exactly what you’d want, so I just… made a few things.”

She didn’t answer immediately, but the faint twitch of her lips suggested that she had noticed the effort. Jirou felt encouraged and reminded himself that patience would be key. She was upset for reasons he still didn’t understand, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do something to bridge the gap.

The quiet ticking of the clock filled the room, a reminder that time was moving forward even when emotions felt stuck. Jirou continued to watch her, ready to respond to any sign that she wanted to talk, but he didn’t push. He had learned from yesterday that some things required space.

Akari picked up a fork finally, cutting into the pancakes with careful deliberation, as though testing the result of his efforts. Jirou held his breath, wishing silently that each bite could melt away the tension that had built between them.

She chewed slowly, still looking at the table instead of him, and he tried to interpret the subtle signals in her posture. Her shoulders weren’t as tense as before; her grip on the fork was steadier. That was… something.

“I hope it’s okay,” Jirou said softly, finally daring to meet her gaze, “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Akari glanced at him, eyes meeting his for a brief moment before returning to the food. There was no smile yet, but the softness in her expression was enough to tell him that he was on the right track.

He continued to sit quietly, sipping his own juice, giving her space while he mentally cataloged what had gone wrong yesterday. Maybe it wasn’t the fruit popsicles or the touch that had upset her—it could have been a misunderstanding, a fleeting frustration, or just the culmination of small things. He didn’t need to know yet. He just needed to show he cared.

As she ate, Jirou occasionally glanced at her from the corner of his eye, noticing small changes in her mood—slightly relaxed shoulders, a softer grip on the fork, a faint hum as she chewed. Each little sign felt like a victory.

He realized that breakfast, simple as it was, could be more than food. It was a bridge, a gesture, a way to say he was present, that he wanted to make things right, even if words couldn’t yet capture it.

The smell of pancakes mixed with the faint scent of her strawberry-scented perfume that lingered from earlier, grounding him in the moment. He tried to stay in the present, not to worry about what came next, just appreciating that they were sharing space without tension erupting into conflict.

Akari finally took a sip of the juice, her lips pursed around the glass, and Jirou’s heart gave a small, cautious lift. Maybe the day could get better. Maybe, just maybe, they could start again without the heaviness from yesterday.

He reminded himself not to overthink, not to rush. Patience was key, and he was willing to wait, willing to try.

Even as she remained mostly silent, the simple act of eating together felt like a breakthrough. Jirou silently promised himself he wouldn’t let another misunderstanding fester this long again.

“Thanks,” she murmured finally, voice soft but audible. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make him straighten slightly in relief.

“Anytime,” he said, offering a small smile, careful not to push.

Akari took another bite, slower this time, and Jirou continued to sit quietly, silently guiding himself through the small victories of morning gestures and shared space.

The light grew stronger as the sun rose, illuminating the kitchen in warm shades, and for the first time since yesterday, Jirou felt a flicker of hope that things could return to normal between them.

Even if she didn’t speak much, even if her mood was fragile, he knew that today they could start rebuilding the connection that had been strained.

Jirou watched her with quiet determination, ready to respond with patience, care, and small gestures, understanding that sometimes, the smallest efforts carried the biggest weight.

And as Akari continued to eat, slowly and deliberately, he felt a subtle shift—a tentative step toward the light after a long night of shadows.

He silently resolved that no matter what, he would keep showing her he cared, one small action at a time, letting breakfast be the first of many steps to repairing the unspoken rift between them.

Even in the silence, in the fragile calm, there was progress. Jirou recognized it and let himself feel a quiet, guarded relief, knowing that he was doing something, anything, to help her heal.

By the time the plates were cleared and the crumbs brushed away, a tiny thread of hope had woven itself into the morning, fragile yet undeniable. Jirou simply watched her, ready to respond whenever she was ready to speak.

For the first time since yesterday, the weight in his chest lightened slightly, replaced by the resolve to keep trying, to keep caring, and to keep bridging the gap, no matter how long it took.

Jirou’s voice softened as he called after her, “Akari… are you okay?”

She didn’t meet his eyes, muttering under her breath as she rose from the chair. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it… I’m going to visit Natsumi,” she said, her tone clipped, as if trying to brush off the concern in his voice.

“Akari…” Jirou started, his words faltering as he watched her step toward the door, the familiar sinking feeling in his chest tightening with every step she took. “Akari, wait—”

She paused briefly, her head tilting just enough for him to see the soft crease of frustration in her brow. “It’s fine,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture both casual and deliberate. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Akari, the—” Jirou tried again, his hands instinctively reaching out, but she didn’t give him a chance to finish.

“I’ll be back before we leave today. Just… get the towels and stuff ready.” Her tone left no room for argument, and before he could respond, she was already heading down the boardwalk, her footsteps light but determined.

Jirou stood frozen for a moment, the warmth of her words contrasting sharply with the distance she was creating, and swallowed hard. He felt the familiar knot of worry tighten in his stomach, but there was nothing he could do until she returned.

Turning back inside, he immediately started pulling out a bag, methodically packing each item as though the act could somehow contain the swirling thoughts in his head. Towels, neatly folded; a picnic blanket, rolled tight; sunscreen, the gel for sunburn; extra hair ties. He included everything he could think of, trying to anticipate what she might need.

He paused as he added a small bottle of water, imagining her complaints if he forgot it, and shivered slightly at the memory of her eyes from the day before—the way they had flashed with frustration, hurt, and something unreadable that had made his chest ache.

Each item he packed seemed to carry a silent apology, a small attempt at redemption. Jirou let out a soft sigh, trying to steady himself against the swirl of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t want her to be upset, not again, not after yesterday.

His fingers lingered on the straps of the bag for a moment before he slung it over his shoulder, moving toward the door. Even though she was already out of sight, his mind was replaying every small detail—how she had spoken, the sharp edge in her tone, the fleeting vulnerability in her eyes.

He muttered under his breath, “Just… make it a good day. For her,” as if saying it out loud could somehow manifest a solution.

The sunlight spilling into the room did little to lighten the heaviness he felt. He grabbed the sunscreen and hair ties again, double-checking each item with the meticulousness of someone afraid of forgetting the most important detail.

Jirou tried to imagine the group waiting for them at the beach, laughter, splashing water, and a carefree energy he wished she could feel despite everything. He pictured her smile, hoping that the effort he was putting in now could coax even a hint of it back.

The bag was packed, but his hands lingered over the zippers as if he could seal in all the apologies and care he had yet to say. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm the nervous tension in his shoulders.

He glanced toward the boardwalk, imagining her figure walking gracefully down to meet the others, and felt a twinge of guilt for not having done more to prevent the lingering upset from yesterday.

Jirou’s chest tightened again, a mixture of worry and determination fueling his next actions. “I’ll fix it… I’ll make sure today is different,” he whispered to himself, a quiet promise he intended to keep.

He adjusted the strap of the bag and took a deep breath, letting the weight of responsibility settle firmly on his shoulders.

Even if she didn’t say anything, even if her mood remained fragile, he would be ready. Towels, sunscreen, blanket—everything was prepared. He could at least control that.

Jirou leaned against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes, and pictured her walking along the beach, her hair catching the sunlight, her laughter mingling with the waves.

The image brought a small, reluctant smile to his lips, though the worry hadn’t left. He couldn’t shake the memory of yesterday’s sharp words, the way she had snapped, the look of frustration and hurt in her eyes.

He shook his head slightly, pushing it aside, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was the little things now—small gestures, careful planning, and patience.

Jirou imagined helping her with her towel, offering sunscreen on her shoulders, and making sure she had everything she could possibly need to feel comfortable and safe.

He could almost hear her voice teasing him about the heat or the sand, her usual playful tone that seemed just out of reach this morning.

The thought made his chest ache with both anticipation and guilt. He wanted to make it right. He had to.

Jirou pulled the bag tighter against his side and gave a small, determined nod to himself.

He thought about the beach, the group waiting, laughter, sunlight, and the chance to bring back even a sliver of her usual happiness.

Each item he packed became a symbol of that intention—small but meaningful, a way to show he cared without needing to find the perfect words.

He tried to steady his breathing, knowing the morning was fragile. One wrong move, one word, and it could all slip away.

Still, he was ready. Every towel, every hair tie, every small bottle of sunscreen was packed with care and focus.

He reminded himself that patience was as important as action. He could only do so much; she had to take the first step too.

Yet even as he prepared, his thoughts kept drifting to her—the curve of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the fleeting glimmer of vulnerability beneath her composure.

He shook his head, trying to clear the spiraling worry and focus on what he could control.

Finally, he stepped toward the door, bag over his shoulder, each movement measured and careful.

Even though she had already left, he felt ready. Prepared, if not for the conversation, then for the small, silent ways he could show her he cared.

He took a deep breath and whispered, almost to himself, “I’ll make it better… I’ll make today better.”

The boardwalk, the sand, the sun—it all awaited them. And Jirou was ready to do whatever it took to bring even a fraction of her usual brightness back.

He opened the door, letting the morning light spill across the floor, and stepped out, resolved to follow her and be there for her, however she needed him.

Even if it meant keeping silent, letting her lead, and waiting for the moment she was ready, he would be there.

Packing the bag wasn’t just preparation—it was a promise. One that he intended to keep, step by careful step, alongside her.

Jirou took one last glance inside the cottage, heart tightening, then squared his shoulders and began walking toward the boardwalk, ready to meet the day and Akari wherever she was waiting.

Minami stepped out of his cottage first, the sound of the door clicking behind him blending with the distant chatter of gulls. He squinted slightly against the brightness, a warm grin spreading across his face when he spotted Jirou approaching down the boardwalk. In one hand, Minami carried a large beach umbrella slung over his shoulder, and in the other, a canvas bag filled with snacks and sunscreen that clinked softly with every step.

Right behind him came Shiori, her light sundress fluttering in the ocean breeze, her hair tied loosely with a ribbon that shimmered faintly under the morning sun. She was balancing a woven beach tote against her hip, her sandals tapping rhythmically against the wooden planks.

When she saw Jirou, her face brightened instantly. “Jirou!” Shiori called, lifting a hand in greeting as she quickened her pace to walk beside Minami. There was a warmth in her voice that carried easily through the seaside air, a familiar brightness that made the tension of the last day feel momentarily lighter.

Minami noticed it too and chuckled softly under his breath. “Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he teased as Jirou came closer, the grin on his face widening. “You ready for the beach, or did Akari rope you into carrying half her stuff again?”

Jirou rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile, shifting the bag on his shoulder. “Something like that,” he admitted, glancing toward the path that led from his and Akari’s cottage as if expecting her to appear any second.

Shiori tilted her head slightly, studying him for a moment. “You packed early,” she said softly, noting the extra towels and sunscreen sticking out of his bag. Her smile warmed even more. “That’s very like you, Jirou.”

He shrugged lightly, trying to keep his tone casual even as his mind lingered on Akari’s cold mood that morning. “Just thought I’d be prepared.”

Minami laughed, hoisting the umbrella higher on his shoulder. “Prepared? You sound like a dad already,” he joked, glancing at Shiori with a teasing look that made her laugh.

The three of them began walking toward the beach together, the morning sun glinting off the waves in the distance. The boardwalk creaked beneath their feet, the air smelling faintly of salt and sunscreen.

Shiori matched her steps with Jirou’s, occasionally brushing her shoulder against his as they talked. Her laughter came easily, light and melodic, and though Jirou smiled along, there was a quiet distraction behind his eyes every time his gaze drifted toward the cottages behind them.

Minami caught the look but didn’t say anything, only adjusting his pace to stay a little ahead, giving the two some space. “Let’s grab a good spot before it gets too crowded,” he called back, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the waves.

Shiori nodded, her hand brushing against Jirou’s briefly as she steadied her tote. “It’s such a perfect day for this,” she said brightly. “I’m glad everyone’s coming along.”

“Yeah,” Jirou replied softly, his eyes flicking once more toward the cottage he’d left behind. “Me too.”

As they reached the edge of the sand, Minami drove the umbrella into the ground with practiced ease, the fabric snapping open in the wind. Shiori spread out the beach blanket beside him, her movements graceful and sure, while Jirou began unpacking the bag he’d brought, lining up the sunscreen, water bottles, and towels neatly in the shade.

From a distance, they looked like any group of friends setting up for a carefree day at the beach. But beneath the easy chatter and laughter, Jirou’s thoughts lingered elsewhere—on the girl who hadn’t joined them yet, on the words left unsaid, and on the uneasy silence that still clung between them like the lingering chill of dawn.

Still, when Shiori turned to him and smiled, the sunlight catching in her hair, he managed to smile back, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yakuin!” Akari’s voice rang out above the crash of the waves, bright and cheerful in a way Jirou hadn’t heard in days. When he turned toward the sound, he spotted her jogging down the boardwalk, her sandals slapping lightly against the wood as Mei, Natsumi, and Sachi followed behind her.

For a moment, the sunlight hit her just right — her hair catching the light breeze, the hem of her strawberry-patterned sundress fluttering as she ran. Her smile was radiant, wide and carefree, and it stopped him in his tracks. She hadn’t looked that happy since before… well, before everything got strange between them.

Jirou’s heart gave a sharp, involuntary stutter. His hand froze halfway through unpacking the towels, and for one disorienting moment, he forgot about everything else — about Shiori laughing softly beside him, about the tension that had filled the cottage that morning, about the way Akari’s voice had cracked when she told him to shut up.

She looked happy. Really happy.

And it did something to him.

“Finally!” Natsumi called, plopping down beside Mei, who immediately started laying out her towel. “We thought we’d have to start without you guys!”

Akari laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she walked closer, her heels sinking slightly into the sand. “You wouldn’t dare,” she teased, flashing a grin toward Natsumi before her eyes flicked briefly to Jirou.

For the briefest second, their gazes met.

It wasn’t much — just a glance, really — but there was something soft there, hidden beneath the surface. The same quiet warmth that used to exist between them before the awkward silences and sharp words took its place.

Jirou felt his throat go dry. “Hey, Akari,” he managed, his voice a little rougher than usual.

“Morning,” she said lightly, her tone friendly but distant as she adjusted the strap of her beach bag. Even though she was smiling, there was still a faint edge to her words — a reminder that she hadn’t quite forgiven him yet.

But even then, he’d take this version of her over the one from this morning — quiet, cold, avoiding him entirely. She was talking to him now. Smiling, even. That had to count for something.

“Good to see you guys again,” Minami said, waving at the girls as they joined the circle. He shot Jirou a quick look, one that said *see? she came back* before turning his attention to Mei and Natsumi.

“Same group, same beach,” Sachi sighed dramatically as she spread her towel beside Akari’s. “It’s starting to feel like we live here.”

“Well, no one’s complaining,” Mei replied, sitting down and pulling Natsumi gently onto her lap. “It’s relaxing.”

Shiori smiled at that, glancing at Jirou from where she stood with her toes in the sand. “Looks like everyone made it,” she said softly. “We should set up before the sun gets too high.”

“Yeah,” Jirou said absently, his attention still flicking back toward Akari as she bent to smooth out her towel.

She laughed at something Sachi whispered, her shoulders shaking with amusement. The sound carried across the sand, light and effortless, and Jirou found himself smiling before he even realized it.

He quickly looked away, pretending to adjust the umbrella. His pulse was still a little uneven, and he hated that something so small — her voice, her laugh — could throw him off balance that easily.

Shiori stepped closer beside him, brushing sand from her hands. “You okay?” she asked gently.

“Yeah,” Jirou lied, clearing his throat. “Just… glad she’s not mad anymore.”

Shiori followed his gaze for a second, her smile dimming ever so slightly. “She seems better,” she said, voice quiet but kind.

Jirou nodded, tightening his grip on the umbrella pole as he pushed it deeper into the sand. “Yeah. She does.”

The breeze shifted then, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen, and for a while, they all just moved together — setting up towels, unpacking snacks, arranging things like nothing had happened. From the outside, it looked perfect: a group of friends enjoying another day at the beach.

But as Jirou sat down, catching another glimpse of Akari laughing under the sunlight, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still something fragile between them — something that might break again if he wasn’t careful.

And yet, even knowing that, he couldn’t look away.

The group’s laughter carried across the shoreline, mixing with the crash of waves and distant calls of gulls. The afternoon sun shimmered on the surface of the water, warm and dazzling, and no one seemed to notice the time slipping by. Kamo had been showing off his “perfect dive” when a flock of seagulls swooped in, trying to snatch the chips he’d been holding. His panicked yelps sent everyone into fits of laughter as he sprinted down the beach, arms flailing, only to dive straight into the sea to escape them.

“Serves you right for feeding them earlier!” Natsumi called out between laughter, wiping a tear from her eye as Kamo’s head popped out of the water, glaring playfully. Mei had to sit down in the sand because she couldn’t stop laughing, and even Shiori covered her mouth to hide her giggles.

Jirou smiled faintly, shaking his head as he handed Akari a fruit popsicle from a nearby vendor who’d been passing by. “Here,” he said simply, trying to sound casual. “You like these, right?”

Akari blinked before grinning, her expression soft and bright in the sunlight. “Yeah, thank you.” She tore the wrapper open and took a small bite, the cold treat glistening as the juice began to drip down the stick.

Jirou tried to look away but found himself glancing back when she ran her tongue over the melting edge, a little drop of syrup catching on her lip. His face went red instantly, the heat on his cheeks feeling hotter than the sun above. He turned abruptly toward the sea, pretending to check on Kamo.

“Oi, Yakuin!” Kamo shouted, still floating in the shallow waves. “You good, man? You’re lookin’ like a tomato!”

That only made Natsumi snort with laughter. “Oh my god, he’s totally sunburned already! You forgot sunscreen again, didn’t you?”

“R-right,” Jirou mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “That must be it…”

Akari tilted her head curiously, watching him for a moment before smiling again and taking another bite of the popsicle. The sound of her laugh mixed with the sea breeze, and something about it made his chest feel lighter, even if his heart still beat a little too fast.

For the first time in a while, the tension between them seemed to fade—just a group of friends at the beach, laughter echoing under the fading blue sky. But for Jirou, every glance toward Akari only reminded him that something inside him was quietly changing, even if he didn’t yet have the courage to name it.

“Jirou! Come swim with us!” Minami called out from the water, his voice carrying over the sound of waves crashing softly against the shore. He was waist-deep in the surf, trying to keep his balance while Sachi sat on his shoulders, her laughter ringing bright and clear as she wobbled, flailing her arms to steady herself.

“Come on, Jirou, don’t just stand there!” Sachi shouted, grinning as she leaned forward, nearly toppling them both over.

“Yeah, Yakuin!” Natsumi added from a few meters away, perched on Mei’s shoulders with a mischievous grin. “You’re missing the fun!”

Jirou hesitated on the sand, the sun glinting off the water and reflecting in his eyes. Akari was sitting nearby, towel draped over her shoulders, the faintest smile playing on her lips as she watched the chaos unfold. The group’s energy was infectious—the kind of carefree, golden moment that didn’t come around often.

“You’re gonna lose, Minami!” Mei called out, adjusting her stance and charging forward through the shallow water. Sachi shrieked and clung to Minami’s head for dear life as Natsumi swung her hands, sending a spray of saltwater toward them.

“Not a chance!” Minami laughed, stumbling back as a wave hit his knees, his grin wide as he tried to dodge.

Jirou couldn’t help but laugh softly at the sight before finally setting his things down and jogging toward the water. “Fine, fine, I’m coming—just don’t drown each other before I get there!”

“About time!” Sachi beamed, pointing dramatically at him. “You’re on Natsumi’s team now—go sink them!”

“Wait, what?!” Jirou protested, barely getting his footing before Mei and Natsumi started charging at him.

Cold water splashed up his chest as he dove into the waves, laughter erupting from all sides. The air was filled with shouts, laughter, and the rhythmic crash of the tide. Akari watched from her spot on the beach, her knees drawn to her chest, smiling faintly as Jirou got pulled into the chaos—his usual calm washed away by the sheer joy of the moment.

For the first time in days, everyone looked happy again. Even Jirou, red-faced and soaked to the bone, couldn’t stop smiling.

“Wait! Wait! Don’t drop me!” Sachi shrieked as Minami wobbled, her small hands gripping his shoulders tightly. The water around them splashed with every attempt to keep balance, droplets flying across the air and sparkling in the sunlight.

 

Minami’s hands shot out, gripping her thighs just in time to steady her, his face twisting in concentration. Sachi squealed again, her laughter cutting through the ocean breeze, and Minami let out a relieved sigh as they both steadied themselves.

Jirou, not far off, stumbled under the weight of Kamo who had decided to climb onto his shoulders in what could only be described as a disastrous idea. The two of them flailed, arms swinging wildly, water lapping at their knees as they attempted to stay upright, drawing laughter from everyone watching.

Akari watched from a distance, arms folded, smiling faintly at the chaos. Even though she didn’t join in, the happiness radiating from the group seemed to tug at the corners of her lips.

Mei held Natsumi up with ease, balancing her on her shoulders like it was second nature. Natsumi leaned forward, giggling uncontrollably as she pressed a kiss to Mei’s lips, her voice shouting a soft “I love you” into the wind.

Jirou, distracted by Kamo’s weight and their impending fall, crashed into Mei and Natsumi, sending them both tumbling backward into the shallow waves. Water splashed around them in a chaotic spray, droplets hitting everyone nearby.

Sachi’s shriek of laughter cut through the noise as she clung to Minami, who grinned triumphantly. Somehow, despite all the chaos, they managed to stay upright while everyone else collapsed into the waves.

Minami helped Sachi regain her footing, his hands steadying her shoulders as they laughed together. Their coordination was uncanny, a stark contrast to Jirou and Kamo’s complete lack of balance.

Jirou gritted his teeth, struggling to stay upright. Kamo’s arms were flailing, trying to help but only adding to the instability. The water lapped at their knees, and the sun glinted off the waves, making the scene almost surreal.

Mei and Natsumi were already laughing as they scrambled to get back up, brushing sand from their arms and hair. Mei’s hair was plastered to her forehead from the water, and Natsumi’s cheeks were flushed pink from the excitement.

“Alright, this means war!” Mei shouted, pointing at Jirou and Kamo. Natsumi nodded enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on Mei’s shoulders before they charged forward again.

Jirou groaned, his muscles straining as he tried to dodge their approach while still supporting Kamo’s weight. The waves were cold against his legs, but he hardly noticed as he focused on maintaining balance.

Kamo, oblivious to the chaos, yelled something nonsensical, flailing his arms in excitement. Jirou just muttered under his breath, hoping this madness would end soon.

Sachi squealed again, clinging to Minami as he laughed, spinning slightly to throw a gentle splash of water at the incoming opponents. Minami’s grin was wide, full of the same mischievous energy that fueled the entire group’s antics.

Minami and Sachi had now formed a strategy of their own, dodging and weaving through the shallow waves with almost military precision, targeting each collapsing pair with precision splashes.

Jirou and Kamo, determined not to be outdone, regrouped quickly, strategizing silently before charging at Mei and Natsumi from a different angle. The waves crashed around them as they lunged forward, the water spraying up like a curtain.

Mei laughed, gripping Natsumi tightly, trying to maintain balance as they toppled backward again, this time into a deeper splash. Natsumi shrieked in delight, her laughter mixing with the crashing of the waves.

Sachi’s laughter was practically contagious, echoing across the beach as she and Minami executed another coordinated attack, targeting Jirou and Kamo who were already struggling to stay upright.

Jirou’s face was red, partly from exertion, partly from the cold water hitting him in waves. He cursed softly under his breath as he tried to right Kamo, who seemed to have forgotten about balance entirely.

Minami, spotting a brief opportunity, splashed water toward Jirou and Kamo, causing both to stumble and crash again. Sachi squealed with joy, clinging tightly to him as they celebrated their tiny victory.

Mei and Natsumi regrouped, shaking the water from their hair, determination sparkling in their eyes. “You think you can beat us?” Mei called, smirking.

Jirou, still struggling, muttered, “We’ll see about that,” before lunging forward, Kamo still wobbling on his shoulders. The water swirled around them as they moved, making each step precarious.

The group now resembled a chaotic dance of balance, splashes, and laughter, each pair struggling against the others while waves crashed around them.

Sachi let out another loud laugh as she and Minami executed a perfect dodge, avoiding Jirou and Kamo’s next charge with fluid precision.

Mei and Natsumi made another charge, this time coordinating perfectly, and finally managed to topple Jirou and Kamo completely, sending them both into the shallow water with a dramatic splash.

Jirou groaned, emerging from the waves, dripping and laughing despite himself, water running down his hair and back. Kamo sputtered, looking equally soaked and embarrassed.

Sachi clung to Minami, her laughter echoing across the beach as Minami helped her regain balance, shaking his head with a grin.

The battle continued in waves, with each pair taking turns toppling one another, water splashing, laughter ringing, and the sun slowly starting its descent toward the horizon.

Jirou, finally catching his breath, glanced at Akari, who now had a small, genuine smile on her face, her earlier upset momentarily forgotten as she watched the group’s chaotic fun.

The water reflected the sun in glimmering streaks, and for a few perfect moments, everyone simply existed in the joy of the day, laughter blending with the sound of the waves and the cries of seagulls above.

Even with all the chaos, Jirou couldn’t help but feel a small sense of peace, seeing everyone happy, wet, and laughing. Akari’s smile, subtle but genuine, lingered in his mind, pushing aside his worries, if only for a moment.

Minami and Sachi, triumphant once more, helped each other up, their own laughter mixing with the sound of water, while Mei and Natsumi collapsed together in a heap, still giggling.

Jirou wiped water from his eyes, helping Kamo up, and for a brief moment, the two of them stood silently in the waves, breathing hard but smiling.

The golden sunlight sparkled across the water, highlighting droplets in midair as the group continued to splash and laugh, everyone caught up in the simplicity and joy of a single summer day by the sea.

The waves crashed and shimmered, carrying the sounds of laughter and splashing across the shore, a perfect backdrop for a day filled with friendship, mischief, and fleeting moments of happiness.

Jirou, soaked and smiling despite himself, finally allowed himself to relax, feeling the warmth of companionship and the simple thrill of chaos around him.

By the time the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long, golden shadows over the beach, everyone was breathless, dripping, and completely content, the memory of their playful battle etched firmly in each of their minds.

Akari leaned back against the umbrella pole, the warmth of the sun mixing with the gentle ocean breeze, letting the faint taste of the fruit popsicle linger on her tongue. She watched the waves ripple gently toward the shore, the soft spray of water carrying a faint salty scent that made her feel oddly calm. For a moment, she let herself sink into the quiet, listening to the distant laughter of the others as they splashed and played in the water.

Shiori, sitting cross-legged beside her, unwrapped the snack Minami had thoughtfully packed, the small movements deliberate and calm. She nibbled quietly, occasionally glancing at Jirou as he joined the group in the water, watching his interactions with a subtle warmth in her expression. The two girls sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the rhythm of the beach and the chatter of friends around them filling the gaps.

Finally, Shiori broke the quiet with a gentle sigh. "It’s nice being here with everyone," she said softly, her eyes flicking toward Jirou for just a moment before returning to the snack in her hands.

Akari tilted her head, her popsicle paused mid-bite. “Hmm?” she murmured, her voice soft.

Shiori smiled faintly, setting the snack down. “Yeah, it is,” she said, her gaze lingering on the way Jirou laughed with Kamo and Mei across the water. “Do you think… Jirou knows how much everyone likes having him around?”

Akari blinked, looking from Shiori to Jirou and back again. “I… I don’t think so,” she said quietly, a faint edge of thoughtfulness in her voice. “He’s always been like that… giving, but he doesn’t really see it in himself.”

Shiori hummed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “He was really sweet when we were in elementary school,” she said gently. “And he’s still just as sweet now.”

“I guess he is…” Akari murmured, hugging her knees closer to her chest as the cold of the popsicle tingled against her fingers. She let her gaze fall to the sand, feeling a faint pang in her chest. There was nothing wrong with Shiori. In fact, she seemed perfect—kind, gentle, and steady. Yet there was this small, stubborn ache in Akari’s heart, a desire she didn’t quite know how to reconcile.

The two sat in a gentle silence, the sounds of the beach curling around them. Jirou’s laughter echoed faintly from the water, mingling with the calls of Minami and the others, and for a moment, Akari let herself simply exist in that space, quiet and observant.

“You don’t sound upset,” Shiori said softly after a moment, her voice like a quiet thread pulling Akari’s attention back to the present.

“I’m not,” Akari replied quickly, though her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sundress. “I mean… it’s fine. Really. It’s just… strange, that’s all.”

Shiori nodded slowly, her eyes thoughtful. “It’s strange, yeah,” she agreed, her tone gentle. She reached out, nudging Akari lightly with her shoulder, a small, comforting gesture.

Akari looked over, meeting Shiori’s gaze. There was no malice there, no competition—just quiet understanding. And somehow, that made Akari’s chest tighten with a mix of relief and lingering melancholy.

“I don’t think Jirou notices these things,” Shiori said, almost to herself. “How much people care about him, I mean. He’s always so caught up in… in other people, in helping, in doing the right thing…”

Akari nodded, chewing thoughtfully on the popsicle. “Yeah… he’s always been like that. I can see why everyone likes him,” she murmured. The words weren’t entirely directed at Shiori—they were for herself, a quiet acknowledgment of Jirou’s steady, quiet influence.

Shiori’s lips curved in a faint, affectionate smile. “And he’s the same now. Always trying, even if he doesn’t realise it.”

Akari’s fingers tightened slightly around the stick of her popsicle. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t even see me,” she admitted softly, almost to herself. “Even when I’m right in front of him.”

Shiori reached out again, lightly brushing a hand over Akari’s. “He does notice,” she said gently. “He just… doesn’t always understand what he’s feeling or how to show it.”

 

The sun continued to drift lazily across the sky, casting golden highlights on the water, the beach, and the two girls sitting quietly under the umbrella. The air was filled with the faint scent of salt and sunscreen, the laughter of friends, and the soft swish of the waves.

For a few peaceful moments, Akari let herself forget the earlier tension, focusing instead on the simple, fleeting joy of the day, the company of friends, and the gentle presence of Shiori beside her.

Shiori’s voice broke her reverie. “Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes bright with concern. “You seemed upset yesterday.”

Akari shook her head quickly, brushing her hair from her face. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, her tone a little sharper than she intended. “The guy I like… he’s just an idiot sometimes.”

Shiori tilted her head, curiosity softening her expression. “What happened?”

Akari exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of the waves fill the space between her words. “It’s nothing I can fix,” she admitted, leaning back to stare at the umbrella above them. “He… he doesn’t like me. Actually… he likes you.”

Shiori’s eyes widened slightly, the snack halfway to her mouth. She looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the wrapper. “The guy you like… likes me?” she repeated softly, almost as if testing the words in her own mind. “The guy I like, likes you”

Akari managed a faint, wry smile. “Huh… funny how that worked out,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the waves again, the bright colors of the popsicle reflecting faintly in her eyes.

Shiori swallowed, looking back up at her with a small, uncertain smile. “Yeah…” she murmured, almost in disbelief, the words soft but carrying a warmth that Akari couldn’t ignore.

Akari sighed, letting the popsicle dangle from her lips as she stared up at the sky, the sunlight filtering through the umbrella’s fabric and painting the sand in soft patterns. The gentle hum of waves rolling in and out added a rhythmic calm to the moment, contrasting with the swirl of thoughts in her head.

Shiori, picking at a piece of the snack Minami had packed, watched Akari with a quiet curiosity. She sensed the conflict flickering in her friend’s expression—the push and pull between desire and conscience, the kind of tension that comes from complicated feelings.

“I guess… it’s just strange, you know?” Akari murmured, shifting slightly so her back rested against the cooler side of the umbrella. “Being around him, seeing him laugh, and just… existing with everyone. It feels nice, but it also makes everything else sting a bit.”

Shiori nodded slowly, understanding more than Akari realized. “I know what you mean,” she said softly. “It’s like you want to be happy for him, for all of you, but at the same time… there’s this little ache inside. That’s normal, Akari.”

Akari bit her lip, letting a small laugh escape despite herself. “I don’t know why I care so much. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even notice half the time, and here I am, overthinking every little thing he does.” She frowned, staring at the popsicle as if it held the answers.

“I know what you mean,” Shiori said softly, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “And there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?”

“No, not really,” Akari replied, her voice quiet, almost contemplative. She offered a faint smile, letting her gaze drift toward the glinting water. “But… such is life, I guess.”

Shiori returned the smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. The silence stretched comfortably between them, the occasional sound of splashing and laughter from the others in the water punctuating the quiet. After a few moments, Shiori tilted her head, curiosity brightening her expression. “Wait… who likes me?”

Akari hesitated, her popsicle dangling idly from her lips. She met Shiori’s gaze, then shrugged lightly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “He’d get mad at me if I told you,” she said, trying to keep her tone casual, though the flush creeping across her cheeks betrayed her amusement.

Shiori laughed, a soft, genuine sound, shaking her head. “Watanabe, you’re a good friend, you know that?”

Akari smiled faintly, warmth spreading through her chest despite the lingering ache of unspoken feelings. “Thanks, Sakurazaka. You’re a good friend too,” she replied, her voice carrying a sincerity that made Shiori’s smile widen.

They leaned back against the cool sand and the shade of the umbrella, watching as the chaos of the day unfolded before them. The group in the water shouted and splashed, full of energy. Jirou and Kamo staggered across the shallow waves, Kamo precariously perched on Jirou’s shoulders, wobbling dangerously as they tried to stay upright.

Natsumi, still dripping wet from an earlier tumble, clung to Mei’s shoulders as Mei held her steady. Even in the chaos, the two girls were laughing uncontrollably, their joy infectious. Natsumi gasped, half from laughter and half from the unexpected dip in deeper water, while Mei’s own laughter rang across the beach, mixing with the rhythmic crash of waves.

Sachi was having a harder time keeping her footing, her small frame tossed by incoming waves, stumbling over the sand, squealing as little fish darted past her toes. Minami, ever the observant one, tried to stabilize her with a few gentle handholds, though he couldn’t stop grinning at her comical misadventures.

Akari let out a soft chuckle, the sound blending into the atmosphere of playful chaos. For a moment, she forgot the tension of earlier moments, the pang of jealousy and uncertainty pushed aside by the sheer delight of watching everyone revel in the water.

Shiori, holding a small snack from Minami’s carefully packed supplies, glanced at Akari. “They really know how to make the most of a day, don’t they?” she remarked, her tone warm but tinged with admiration.

Akari nodded, licking the popsicle slowly. “Yeah… they do. Even when it’s total chaos, it’s kind of… perfect.” She tilted her head back against the umbrella, letting the soft breeze tickle her face.

Shiori’s gaze flicked toward Jirou for a moment, noting the careful way he tried to maintain balance for Kamo. “He really tries,” Shiori said softly. “Even when things are falling apart around him, he… tries.”

Akari followed her eyes, watching Jirou wobble and steady himself, face flushed from exertion or embarrassment—maybe both. She felt that familiar tightening in her chest, a mixture of affection, frustration, and something she didn’t quite want to name.

Shiori, sensing the look on Akari’s face, added gently, “He cares, you know. About all of you.”

Akari nodded, absently swaying her foot in the sand. “Yeah… I know. It’s just… sometimes I wish he would notice me like I notice him,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Shiori reached out and nudged her shoulder lightly. “Hey… don’t beat yourself up about it. Everyone notices the little things he does. You’re important too, Akari. You just have to give it time… and maybe a little patience.”

Akari let out a small sigh, pressing her lips to the popsicle as if to hide the blush that crept over her face. “Patience, huh?” she murmured, almost to herself, the words tasting bittersweet.

Shiori smiled faintly, leaning back onto the umbrella for support. “Exactly. And in the meantime… enjoy the view.” Her eyes swept across the group, all of them laughing and splashing, carefree in the late afternoon sun.

The waves lapped gently against the shore, carrying with them the sound of shouting, laughter, and splashes. Kamo finally toppled off Jirou’s shoulders with a dramatic splash, sending Jirou stumbling backward, while Natsumi clutched Mei with exaggerated horror, pretending to sink.

Minami helped Sachi regain her footing yet again, both of them laughing so hard they nearly toppled themselves. Even from under the umbrella, Akari felt the warmth of the day—the camaraderie, the joy, the pure simplicity of it all.

Shiori nibbled at her snack thoughtfully. “You know… it’s nice to have moments like this. Just being together, no drama, no worries… just us,” she said softly, her gaze meeting Akari’s.

Akari nodded, feeling a small weight lift off her shoulders. “Yeah… just like this. I… I like seeing everyone happy.” She paused, then added with a faint smile, “Even if it makes my chest ache a little sometimes.”

Shiori’s lips twitched into a sympathetic smile. “I get it. But that ache… maybe it’s not all bad. It just means you care.”

Akari hummed thoughtfully, her popsicle slowly melting between her fingers. “Maybe,” she murmured. “It just… hurts a bit more than I expected.”

The wind rustled the fabric of the umbrella above them, casting shifting shadows across the sand. The sun glinted off droplets from the splashing waves, painting their faces in sparkling patterns.

Jirou, still balancing Kamo in the shallow surf, finally managed to steady himself, wiping water from his face and laughing despite the chaotic tumble. Akari watched him, the familiar flutter in her chest mixing with a pang of frustration and affection.

Natsumi squealed again, splashing water toward Mei, who retaliated with a quick flick, sending her laughing even harder. The echoes of their laughter were carried across the beach, filling the space with energy and warmth.

For a few minutes, they simply sat, under the shade of the umbrella, watching the chaos of the ocean unfold, each of them lost in their own thoughts yet sharing a silent understanding.

And somewhere in the background, the waves rolled in with perfect rhythm, carrying their laughter, their small aches, and their fleeting joys across the sunlit beach, leaving traces of warmth and happiness in their hearts.

Kamo flailed his arms wildly, his exaggerated wave drawing laughter from the others. “Come swim with us!” he shouted, his voice carried by the wind across the sand and surf. His enthusiasm was infectious, and for a moment, it looked like even the most hesitant among them might dash into the waves.

Jirou, spotting the perfect opening, lunged at Kamo with a mischievous grin. Within seconds, Kamo shrieked as he was toppled, disappearing into the ocean with a splash that sent droplets glittering in the sunlight. The chaos that followed was immediate—waves splashed over both of them, soaking everyone around, while laughter and shouted protests mingled with the sound of the surf.

For a few heartbeats, the world seemed to tilt under the rhythm of the waves, Kamo thrashing beneath the surface, arms flailing as he attempted to regain balance. Jirou surfaced first, water dripping from his hair and glasses, wiping his face with the back of his hand and letting out a breathless laugh.

Kamo finally emerged, sputtering and gasping, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide and expression a perfect mixture of indignation and defeat. “I—I was just testing the currents!” he wheezed, though even he couldn’t keep the laughter from escaping.

Sachi shrieked with delight, clapping her hands as she waded closer, careful to avoid the deeper waves. “You guys are ridiculous!” she yelled, though her laughter betrayed her enjoyment of the spectacle.

Natsumi, still clinging to Mei, giggled uncontrollably, pointing at Kamo as if to mark the moment for posterity. Mei’s arms wrapped around her daughter tightly, both trying to maintain balance while laughing, their joy amplifying the chaotic scene.

Akari, watching from a safer distance, sucked thoughtfully on her fruit popsicle, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She shook her head, her hair plastered slightly to her face from the ocean breeze. “They really have no concept of balance,” she muttered under her breath, though she couldn’t hide the warmth in her tone.

Shiori, perched under the umbrella for a brief respite, leaned forward, observing Jirou’s triumphant smirk and Kamo’s soggy defeat. “You’d think someone would learn after the last time,” she said softly, though a small laugh escaped her lips, betraying her amusement.

Minami, standing at the water’s edge, chuckled, adjusting his sunglasses as he watched the unfolding chaos. “At this rate, the ocean might claim half of you by the time lunch comes,” he remarked, voice dry yet laced with affection.

Jirou, shaking water from his shoulders, waded back toward the group, hair plastered to his forehead and grin plastered to his face. “Next time, Kamo, you’re going down faster,” he called, though the playful tone in his voice contradicted any real threat.

Kamo, sputtering water and glaring mockingly, attempted to retaliate, only to trip again over a wave and fall backward into the shallow surf. His limbs flailed, sending splashes onto Sachi and Natsumi, who shrieked and laughed in equal measure.

Sachi, momentarily distracted from her own misadventures in the water, reached out and tried to grab Kamo, but he slipped past her, sending her toppling into the next wave. She came up laughing, water dripping down her hair, eyes sparkling with exhilaration.

Natsumi, delighted at the sight, squealed in encouragement, tugging Mei toward the edge of the water to join the chaos. Mei laughed, trying to keep her balance as her daughter pulled her forward, both ending up soaked but smiling.

Akari finally set her popsicle aside and kicked off her sandals, wading carefully toward the water. Despite her earlier reluctance, the infectious laughter and splashes drew her in, and soon her feet were wet as she joined the playful chaos at the edge.

Shiori followed more slowly, making sure to keep her balance, her gaze flicking between Akari and Jirou, both now fully engaged in the water games. She couldn’t help but smile as she observed the interactions, feeling a comforting warmth in the chaos.

Jirou scooped up Kamo again, water streaming from his clothes, and spun him around lightly before setting him down in the shallows. “Alright, that’s payback enough for now,” he said breathlessly, trying not to laugh at Kamo’s disheveled, drenched state.

Kamo glared but couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at the corners of his lips. “You’re lucky the ocean took me down first!” he retorted, shaking water from his hair and glaring dramatically.

Sachi, having regained her footing, ran over to join Jirou and Kamo, grabbing at their legs and sending both wobbling precariously in the surf. Waves splashed up around them, and the rhythmic sound of crashing water mixed with laughter and playful shouts.

Natsumi, exhilarated, let go of Mei briefly and attempted a daring little jump into a wave, only to be scooped up immediately by Mei, her squeals of delight ringing out over the beach.

Akari, splashing water gently at Jirou, allowed herself to finally laugh, a light, melodic sound that mingled with the general chaos. The earlier tension in her chest seemed to loosen slightly, replaced by the simple joy of being in the water with friends.

Shiori, watching the scene, felt her chest warm at the sight of everyone so carefree. The sun glinted off the droplets of water in the air, creating tiny rainbows in the spray as laughter echoed across the shore.

Jirou, noticing Akari laughing, felt a small thrill, though it was tempered by his awareness of Shiori nearby. He focused on the moment nonetheless, throwing his energy into balancing Kamo and dodging Sachi’s playful attacks.

Minami, ever the observer, stood back for a moment, taking in the entire scene. The chaos, the laughter, the smiles—it was a moment of pure camaraderie, unfiltered and bright, and he couldn’t help but grin.

Akari, feeling the cool water wash over her feet, finally allowed herself to relax, letting the tension of the morning fade with every splash. Her eyes flicked to Jirou, then to Shiori, and she realized that, for now, she could just enjoy the day.

Jirou, still soaked, tossed Kamo lightly, catching him with a grin as both tried to maintain their balance. “You’re going to owe me for this later,” he teased, water dripping from his hair and glasses.

Kamo laughed, wiping water from his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, just wait till I get my revenge!”

Sachi squealed again, dodging a small splash from Jirou, while Natsumi clung to Mei, her giggles blending with the crashing waves.

Shiori finally stepped in closer to Akari, letting herself feel the cool water lap at her toes, her gaze sweeping over the lively group. “It’s days like this,” she murmured, “that make everything else fade away.”

Akari nodded, smiling faintly, her eyes reflecting the sunlight off the water. “Yeah… just like this. Everything else doesn’t matter right now.”

Jirou, noticing both of them watching, gave a small wave and a teasing grin, making Akari laugh again despite herself. The playful rivalry and camaraderie of the group carried on, every wave and splash a reminder of the joy in simply being together.

For a long moment, time felt suspended in laughter, sunlight, and splashing water, each of them caught in the warmth of friendship, chaos, and the fleeting perfection of a summer day at the beach.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the sparkling waves as the group continued their playful chaos. Laughter carried across the beach, mixing with the rhythmic crash of surf against sand. Jirou, holding Akari securely in his arms, waded cautiously through the shallow water, his steps careful but exaggerated for effect. Akari’s laughter bubbled out uncontrollably, her arms flailing just enough to make the moment feel like a dramatic escape from some imagined sea monster.

“Quick! Natsumi’s coming for us!” Jirou shouted, his voice playful, glancing toward Mei and Natsumi, who seemed to bounce along atop Mei’s shoulders like a mischievous sprite. Natsumi shrieked gleefully, tiny hands flailing as she attempted to reach him, but Mei’s firm grip kept her safe. The combination of motherly vigilance and childlike energy made the scene chaotic, yet utterly joyful.

Jirou twirled slightly to dodge the “attacks” coming from Natsumi, imagining invisible arrows flying past him. He ducked dramatically, his soaked hair clinging to his forehead, and Akari leaned against his chest for support, her laughter mingling with the cries of triumph from Natsumi. For a fleeting moment, Jirou’s focus wavered from Akari to Shiori, who was splashing nearby, her grin wide and unrestrained, eyes sparkling like sunlight on the water.

Akari caught his gaze and gave a small, teasing smile, almost like a silent acknowledgment that she wasn’t bothered by his distraction. That gesture, subtle but full of meaning, made Jirou’s chest tighten with warmth and a flicker of guilt. He refocused on her, ensuring that she didn’t stumble again as the waves licked around their ankles.

Mei, still holding Natsumi, laughed at their antics. “You two are ridiculous!” she called, shaking her head, though her laughter betrayed her delight. Natsumi squealed, letting out tiny bursts of triumphant giggles as she “attacked” Jirou with imaginary sea arrows, her energy boundless despite the weight of the day.

Kamo, drenched from an earlier tumble, clumsily tried to keep pace with Jirou and Akari, arms flailing to avoid being splashed but inevitably sending water cascading toward Sachi, who shrieked and leapt backward in mock horror. The water splashed around them, glittering in the sunlight, and each drop seemed to carry its own piece of laughter.

Jirou carefully set Akari down when she tripped over a sudden wave, bending slightly to ensure she regained her balance. Her hands brushed against his, and for a heartbeat, the playful chaos around them seemed to fade. Akari steadied herself, a small grin tugging at her lips, and he offered a subtle nod before stepping back into the fray.

Shiori, meanwhile, was fully engaged with Minami, dodging his playful splashes as she giggled, her hair wet and clinging to her cheeks. Her eyes occasionally flicked toward Jirou, who caught a few glances, each one making him feel a subtle warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.

Akari, noticing Jirou’s attention divided, gave him a small nudge, laughter spilling out. “Hey, focus on me, Yakuin,” she teased lightly, the nickname still sharp but playful, her tone tinged with affection. Jirou laughed, scratching the back of his neck, and dipped slightly to splash her gently, earning another bright laugh.

Natsumi, not to be left out, shrieked and leaped toward Jirou, causing him to stumble slightly. Akari grabbed his arm to steady him, and in that split second, the chaos of the waves, laughter, and shouts seemed to fuse into a single, vivid moment of joy.

Sachi, after recovering from Kamo’s splashes, lunged toward Minami, who dodged nimbly but not without spilling a small wave onto Shiori’s feet. Shiori yelped, laughing, and retaliated with a splash of her own, drenching Minami’s legs. The sight of everyone soaked and laughing made even Jirou forget the earlier tension of the morning.

Mei, finally letting Natsumi rest on the sand, shook her hair free of the spray, smiling as she watched the group’s antics. Natsumi rolled onto her stomach, trying to climb toward Jirou and Akari again, her tiny hands leaving little wet handprints on the redhead’s back as she crawled.

Jirou bent down to scoop Natsumi up, careful not to slip, and held her high above the water, prompting a squeal of delight from the little girl. Akari laughed beside him, brushing wet hair from her face and stealing a glance at Shiori, who had joined in the splashing again, her laughter ringing clear across the water.

Kamo, still dripping and a little disheveled, attempted to ambush Jirou by sneaking up from behind, only to be met with a swift, playful push that sent both stumbling into a shallow wave. Both emerged laughing, their competitive energy mixing seamlessly with the carefree chaos of the group.

Shiori, catching her breath for a moment, leaned toward Akari. “It’s nice,” she said softly, her gaze fixed on Jirou carrying Natsumi. “Seeing everyone so happy… it’s… comforting.”

Akari nodded, her mouth curving into a genuine smile. “Yeah,” she agreed, letting her eyes follow Jirou and Natsumi as they splashed around. “Even if it’s chaotic, it feels… right.”

Jirou, catching Akari’s glance, felt a pang of warmth. Her approval, subtle and quiet, grounded him amidst the chaotic laughter of the group. He smiled back briefly before resuming his playful vigilance, keeping an eye on the little monsters of the sea—Natsumi and Kamo included.

The group’s laughter continued to roll across the beach, each member taking turns being chased, splashed, or tipped over by the waves. The water glistened around them, catching sunlight, while the sounds of joy blended with the sea breeze.

Minami called out occasionally, offering commentary on the chaos, but mostly he simply observed, smiling quietly at the energy surrounding him. Sachi, after finally mastering her footing, ran circles around Kamo, her laughter echoing.

Jirou, momentarily distracted, found himself laughing harder than he had in days. The splashing, chasing, and playful shoving dissolved any lingering tension from earlier in the week. Akari clung lightly to his arm when he passed by, a silent acknowledgment that she was enjoying herself too.

Mei’s calm laughter mingled with Natsumi’s high-pitched squeals, and together they created a rhythmic backdrop to the group’s antics, a contrast to the boisterous energy of Jirou, Kamo, and Sachi.

Shiori, wet and radiant from splashing in the water, glanced toward Jirou carrying Natsumi and saw the sparkle in Akari’s eyes as she laughed freely. She allowed herself a small, contented smile, appreciating the simple happiness surrounding them.

Jirou carefully let Natsumi down, her tiny feet kicking in the water, and held out a hand to Akari, who took it with a laugh. Together, they navigated the waves, dodging playful attacks from Kamo and Sachi, fully immersed in the joy of the moment.

Kamo, spotting an opportunity, attempted a sneak attack on Jirou from the side, but misjudged the wave and ended up sprawling into the shallow surf with a squeak. The sight made everyone burst into fresh laughter, including the soaked Kamo himself.

Sachi seized the moment, splashing both Kamo and Minami, who retaliated by flicking water back at her, igniting a chain reaction of splashes that had everyone laughing and drenched in saltwater.

Akari, finally letting go of Jirou’s hand, spun around in the shallow waves, letting the water splash around her as her laughter rang pure and free. Jirou watched, heart swelling slightly, content to see her enjoying the moment despite the morning’s tension.

Shiori moved closer to Jirou, smiling as he helped Akari regain her footing after a particularly tricky step in the waves. “He really does care about everyone, doesn’t he?” she whispered softly.

Jirou glanced at her, giving a small nod before turning back to Akari, who was now engaging in a playful splash war with Sachi and Natsumi. The sun beat down warmly on the group, their laughter echoing across the sand and surf.

For a long moment, the beach became a world unto itself—waves, sunlight, laughter, and friendship intertwining in a perfect, chaotic harmony. And for all the teasing, chasing, and splashing, each of them felt a little lighter, the joy of the day washing away the weight of yesterday’s troubles.

Jirou, Akari, Shiori, Minami, Kamo, Sachi, Mei, and Natsumi—soaked, laughing, and carefree—moved together like a tide, ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of the ocean, their hearts lighter, even if just for a little while.

The wind carried a faint chill as the group stepped off the boardwalk, the remnants of the day’s sun and salt clinging to their damp skin. Shivers rippled across Shiori’s shoulders, and Jirou, noticing, quickly wrapped a towel around her. His hands hesitated for a moment before brushing wet strands of hair from her face, careful not to pull but wanting to comfort her silently.

Shiori gave him a soft, grateful smile, and for a brief moment, everything else—the chaos of the day, the teasing, the laughter—faded into the background. Jirou felt the familiar warmth in his chest, the kind that came when he was close to someone he cared about.

As they started walking back toward the cottages, the group’s laughter bounced between them, light and airy despite the cool evening air. Minami fell into step with Sachi, making sure she was safe all the way to her cottage. He had done this countless times, always concerned for her safety, even if it meant returning alone along the quiet paths.

Meanwhile, Mei and Natsumi walked ahead, Mei supporting the smaller girl as they discussed what snack or movie they might enjoy once they got home. Their soft laughter drifted back to the others, adding a calm rhythm to the otherwise energetic group.

Jirou walked with Shiori and Akari, the sand crunching softly beneath their feet. The three of them joked about the day’s events—the playful tumbles, the splashing contests—but even as he laughed, Jirou couldn’t ignore the pull of his attention toward Shiori. Her smile seemed brighter in the late sunlight, and her eyes sparkled with the remnants of their shared joy.

As they reached the crosswalk separating cottages six and seven, Jirou’s pace slowed. He waved to Shiori, waiting until she stepped inside before turning his gaze to cottage seven. Akari had already slipped through the doorway, her posture stiff, shoulders tense.

“Hey, Akari…” he called softly, his voice tinged with concern. He paused, watching her movement carefully. “Akari…”

“What?” Her voice cracked slightly, almost wet, and Jirou froze mid-step. The raw vulnerability in her tone cut through him more sharply than he expected.

He reached out tentatively, brushing his hand against her shoulder. “Akari…”

“Don’t look at me,” she said hoarsely, turning her back to him. Her voice was quiet but carried a weight that made his chest ache.

“What’s wrong?” Jirou asked, stepping closer. Her back was to him, but the tremor in her words hit him physically, leaving him momentarily speechless.

“Nothing,” she whispered, but the hesitation in her tone betrayed her.

Jirou frowned, closing the distance. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“I’m fine, Jirou, don’t worry about—” she tried to step forward, beginning to leave, but Jirou’s hand shot out, grasping her shoulder gently yet firmly.

“No, Akari. Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

“I told you I’m fine,” she said, her voice shaking.

“You’re not fine,” Jirou said quickly, his urgency breaking through the calm of the evening. “Just tell me. I won’t make fun of you if that’s what you think. I can fix it. I promise. Just tell me, Akari.”

She choked on a sob, shaking her head. “It’s not that simple, Jirou. You can’t just make it go away—”

Without hesitation, Jirou stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, holding her tight, closing his eyes as if grounding himself through the act.

Akari froze at first, her body stiffening against his embrace. Slowly, her hands moved to rest over his on her stomach. She drew in a shaky breath, forcing out words that trembled through the tightness in her throat. “J-Jirou… what are you doing…”

He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he held her closer, letting the silence speak. His grip was firm but gentle, the warmth of his body a protective barrier against the lingering tension in her chest.

Her shoulders sagged slightly as she choked back a sob, and finally, tears broke free, trailing down her cheeks. Jirou held her tighter, feeling the small tremors in her body, the rhythm of her breaths hitching against his chest.

“Shh… no, no, don’t cry,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Don’t cry, please.” Each word vibrated against her skin, as if he hoped they could carry some of her pain away.

She leaned into him, letting herself be held for the first time in what felt like years, the tension in her back slowly uncoiling against his embrace.

Jirou adjusted his hold, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and whispered, “I won’t let anything hurt you, not while I’m here. I promise.”

Her hands still rested over his, clutching lightly as if afraid he might vanish if she loosened her grip. “J-Jirou…” she whispered again, voice trembling but softer now.

He exhaled slowly, just holding her there, letting her tears fall freely. Each sob she tried to stifle only brought him closer, his body instinctively protective.

The quiet of the evening surrounded them, the sounds of the distant ocean a soothing backdrop to their shared stillness. Even the wind seemed to pause, brushing lightly over them without a chill.

When the tears finally subsided, neither of them moved. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of the wind brushing against the walls of the cottage. Jirou stayed buried in the crook of Akari’s neck, his forehead pressed against her damp skin as though he could will away whatever pain lingered there.

Her shoulders rose and fell unevenly, the last remnants of her sobs shuddering through her frame. Akari tilted her head to the side without thinking, unknowingly giving him more access — a quiet, wordless signal of trust she hadn’t intended to show. His breath ghosted against her skin, warm and trembling, and she could feel his arms tighten slightly around her waist.

They fit together perfectly, as though the space between them had always been meant to close. Neither of them wanted to be the first to let go.

The storm that had passed between them left behind a fragile silence — not empty, but filled with everything unspoken. Jirou’s hands loosened, sliding slightly until they rested more gently over her stomach. Akari’s fingers, still resting atop his, twitched once as if to hold him there.

For a few seconds, neither dared to breathe too loudly. The air felt heavy, charged, but not uncomfortable. Just... uncertain.

Slowly, Jirou lifted his head. His eyes traced the curve of her neck, the faint shimmer of tears still clinging to her skin, before finally meeting her gaze. Her eyes were red, but soft — wide and searching.

They stared at each other as if the right words might appear in the air between them. None did.

Jirou’s heartbeat was still hammering against his ribs, louder than anything else in the room. He didn’t know what compelled him — the softness in her eyes, the way her breath hitched, or just the fact that he couldn’t stand the thought of her crying anymore — but his eyes flicked down to her lips.

It was instinctive, that fleeting glance. He caught himself, swallowed, and licked his own lips unconsciously.

Akari noticed.

Her breath caught for a different reason this time. The air between them thinned; it was electric. She didn’t dare move. Every part of her screamed to step away — but her heart refused to listen.

They were so close they could feel each other’s breath, uneven and shallow.

Jirou leaned in first, slow and hesitant, giving her a moment — an escape if she wanted one. His eyes fluttered shut, his pulse racing loud enough that he swore she could hear it.

Akari leaned in too. Her eyes closed, lips parting just enough that she could almost taste the salt from the ocean still on his skin.

They were a whisper apart — a breath from closing the distance —

— when his phone pinged.

The sound cut through the tension like lightning.

They froze.

Jirou’s arms dropped slightly, the moment splintering before it could become something more. He blinked, stunned, before stepping back half a pace, breath caught somewhere between apology and disbelief.

Akari didn’t say anything. Her face turned away quickly, the faintest tremor in her hands. She slipped out of his grasp completely, moving toward the bathroom without meeting his eyes.

He wanted to call out — to say something, anything — but the words refused to come.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her.

Jirou stood there, dazed, staring at the empty space she’d just occupied. His pulse still thudded unevenly in his chest, his skin tingling where her warmth had been.

The phone pinged again.

Almost numbly, he reached for it, the brightness of the screen making him squint. Some group message from Kamo — a photo of them all laughing at the beach earlier that day, captioned with some dumb joke.

He stared at it for a long time. The image of everyone grinning under the sun felt like it belonged to another lifetime.

With a slow exhale, Jirou sank onto the couch. The phone rested loosely in his hand, the laughter from the message thread still open, but unread.

His heart was still pounding, loud enough that he could hear it echo in his ears.

He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning softly into his palms.

Everything had happened so fast.

And yet, somehow, it felt inevitable.

In the quiet that followed, the only sounds were the faint hiss of the shower turning on and the distant crash of waves outside.

Jirou leaned back into the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. His chest still ached — not from panic, not from regret, but from the weight of something he didn’t quite have a name for.

When the bathroom door finally opened, he didn’t turn immediately.

But his heart started racing again all the same.

Chapter 6: Dumb Dramas

The morning light filtered gently through the small windows of cottage 6, casting soft golden patterns across the wooden floor. Minami sat cross-legged on the rug, a small plate of toast and fruit in front of him, but his attention was divided between the food and the screen of his phone. His fingers moved quickly over the keys, tapping out messages with practiced ease, the glow of the screen reflecting faintly in his eyes.

Across from him, Shiori had her own plate, though she barely touched it. Her gaze kept drifting toward the window, the light catching the strands of her hair just so. She had a quiet, contemplative expression, lips slightly parted, and every so often she would absently push a lock of hair behind her ear. Thoughts of Jirou flitted through her mind, unbidden and persistent. She could still remember the way he had held Akari the day before, the subtle tension between closeness and restraint, and it made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite name.

Minami glanced up from his phone briefly, catching Shiori staring out into the distance. He raised an eyebrow, half-smiling, but didn’t say anything. It was clear she was lost in thought, her mind far away even though her body was right there.

Shiori shifted slightly, her plate sliding a little on the rug as she pushed herself to sit more upright. She picked at a piece of toast but it tasted like nothing. Every time she tried to focus on the breakfast, her mind wandered back to Jirou — his expressions, the way he moved, how he seemed to have this way of being both gentle and completely unaware of the impact he had on people around him.

Minami returned to his messages, his thumbs flying across the screen. Occasionally, he would chuckle quietly to himself, muttering a comment under his breath, which Shiori noticed but didn’t comment on. They were both caught in their own small worlds, an unspoken understanding hanging in the air between them.

Shiori finally sighed softly, setting her fork down. She tilted her head and glanced at Minami, who was still immersed in his phone. She wondered what he was so absorbed in; his focus was so intense it was almost like he was in a bubble separate from the room.

For a moment, the only sound was the quiet clink of cutlery and the soft rustling of the morning breeze through the window. Shiori’s thoughts meandered back to Jirou again, to the way he had tried to comfort Akari, how carefully he had navigated the line between closeness and caution. There was a tenderness in him that was hard to ignore, and it stirred a strange mixture of longing and melancholy in her chest.

Minami noticed her distant expression and finally lowered his phone, observing her quietly. He didn’t push or probe; he simply offered a small smile and returned to his toast, the comfort of shared silence settling over them.

Shiori’s fingers tapped lightly against her plate, almost unconsciously, as she thought about how complicated feelings could be. She wanted to talk about Jirou, about the events of the previous day, but something held her back — a hesitation born of uncertainty, respect, and perhaps a fear of disrupting the calm they currently had.

Minami’s attention flickered briefly to her, and he tilted his head. “You’re quiet today,” he said softly, not as a question but as an observation.

Shiori blinked and gave a faint smile, almost shy. “I’m… just thinking,” she murmured, returning her gaze to the window.

The light shifted slightly, casting new patterns across the room, and the mundane intimacy of sitting together, sharing breakfast, became something comforting despite the unspoken thoughts between them.

Shiori pushed a small piece of fruit around her plate, finally picking it up and eating it, though her mind remained elsewhere. She found herself imagining Jirou’s face when he realized how Akari had been feeling, and a pang of both sympathy and wistfulness washed over her.

Minami’s fingers paused on his phone again, and he let out a quiet breath, realizing that Shiori wasn’t going to talk just yet. He returned his attention to her presence, content to let the silence continue, knowing it was sometimes more meaningful than words.

Shiori tilted her head slightly, listening to the faint sound of the sea in the distance, letting it ground her as her mind wandered in circles around Jirou. Each thought felt like a tether, pulling her gently toward an answer she wasn’t sure she wanted yet.

Minami’s expression softened as he watched her, noting the subtle tension in her shoulders, the gentle tightening of her hands as she pushed down on the plate. He didn’t intrude, didn’t offer commentary — he understood the quiet weight of thought, the way it could occupy someone completely.

Shiori’s gaze shifted back to him briefly, and she gave a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks for letting me think,” she whispered, almost to herself, before turning back to the window.

Minami nodded slightly, returning to his messages but with a more relaxed posture. There was a warmth in the air, a sense of shared companionship that didn’t need words.

The aroma of toast and fresh fruit lingered in the room, mingling with the faint salty tang from the ocean breeze drifting through the window. It was ordinary and comforting, grounding them amidst their swirling thoughts.

Shiori picked up her fork again, lightly cutting into a piece of toast, letting her mind drift as she chewed. The quietness was soothing, and she found herself unwinding a little, the tension from yesterday slowly easing.

Minami finally set his phone down entirely, leaning back and stretching his shoulders. He glanced at Shiori with a small, knowing smile, sensing that she was still lost in thought but no longer distressed.

Shiori let out a small, contented sigh, realizing that even if Jirou and Akari’s situation complicated things, this quiet moment with Minami was a reprieve, a space to breathe and gather herself.

The sun climbed higher, spilling more light into the room, highlighting the simple comfort of their breakfast together — no rush, no demands, just the shared presence of two people quietly occupying the same space.

Shiori finally laughed softly at something Minami muttered under his breath, and the sound was light and warm. The tension that had weighed on her chest a moment ago lifted slightly, replaced by a subtle, growing calm.

 

Minami returned the laugh with a small shake of his head, and for the first time in the morning, they were both fully present, even if still preoccupied with their own thoughts.

Shiori’s smile lingered, soft and wistful, as she looked down at her plate, the morning sun glinting off her hair.

Minami’s gaze drifted back to his phone briefly, then he set it aside, giving his full attention to the quiet rhythm of the breakfast and the presence of Shiori beside him.

Time seemed to slow in that moment, stretching out the morning into something gentle and unhurried, a rare reprieve from the chaotic energy of the previous days.

Shiori’s thoughts still lingered on Jirou, but now they were tempered with gratitude for Minami’s quiet companionship. She realized that even if things were complicated, there were still moments like this, grounding her in the present.

The faint clinking of utensils, the occasional shuffle of the rug, and the distant call of seagulls outside became the soundtrack of their morning — ordinary sounds that carried extraordinary comfort.

Shiori’s eyes softened as she glanced at Minami, offering a small nod of thanks without words. He returned it with a quiet smile, understanding completely.

For now, the world could wait outside the cottage. Here, in the warmth of morning light and shared silence, Shiori and Minami simply existed together, each lost in thought yet connected by the calm intimacy of the space.

The two of them lingered at the table, content in the quiet and comfort, knowing that the chaos and laughter of the day would come again — but for now, there was only this morning, only this peace.

Shiori let her fork rest finally, closing her eyes for a brief moment, allowing herself to savor the simplicity of the present. Minami exhaled, relaxed and aware that some moments didn’t need words, only presence.

And in that small cottage, with breakfast plates between them and the sun spilling in, they shared a quiet understanding that sometimes, being together in silence was enough.

“Are you okay?” Minami asked gently, his voice soft enough not to startle her.

Shiori blinked, as though pulled from a dream, her gaze still lingering on the sunlight spilling across the floorboards. For a moment, she didn’t answer. The question hung in the air between them, fragile and patient. Minami’s tone hadn’t been invasive or demanding — just calm, full of quiet concern that came from knowing her well enough to recognize when something wasn’t right.

She forced a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah… I’m fine,” she murmured, stirring her spoon in the half-finished bowl of fruit. The rhythmic motion gave her something to focus on, something to do with her hands. “Just thinking, I guess.”

Minami tilted his head slightly, setting his phone aside and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “About Jirou?” he asked softly. There wasn’t any judgment in his voice, only understanding — the kind that comes from someone who’s been watching quietly from the sidelines for a while.

Shiori hesitated, her lips parting as if to deflect, but she realized there was no point pretending. With a small sigh, she looked down at her plate, her fingers absently tracing the rim. “Maybe,” she admitted after a pause. “It’s not like I can stop thinking about him. Yesterday just… it felt different, somehow. Watching him with Akari…”

Her voice trailed off, and Minami nodded slowly. He didn’t interrupt or fill the silence, instead allowing her space to put her thoughts into words. The quiet between them was soft, not heavy — the kind of silence that invited honesty.

Shiori glanced toward the window again, watching the ocean glinting in the distance. The sound of seagulls carried faintly through the open window, and for a brief moment, she was back at the beach, the laughter of their group echoing in her ears. “He was so gentle with her,” she said finally, her tone laced with something bittersweet. “I don’t know why, but seeing that made me… sad. Not jealous exactly, just… sad.”

Minami watched her carefully, his expression thoughtful. “You care about him a lot,” he said quietly. “That’s not something to be ashamed of.”

Shiori shook her head faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I know. It’s just— he’s always been like that, you know? Always kind, always patient, like he doesn’t even realize the effect he has on people. You try to tell yourself not to fall for that kind of person, but…” She gave a small, helpless laugh. “It’s impossible not to.”

Minami smiled faintly at that, leaning back against the wall. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Some people just draw you in without even trying. It’s not about what they do — it’s who they are.”

His words hung between them for a moment, warm and steady. Shiori met his eyes briefly, seeing in them a quiet understanding that surprised her. There was something grounding about Minami — his calm, the way he never rushed her or tried to fix things that couldn’t be fixed. He simply listened.

“I think what hurts,” Shiori said after a long pause, “is that he doesn’t even realize it. The way he looks at people, the way he cares. I don’t think he’s ever thought about how much that means to someone else.” She smiled faintly, almost ruefully. “He’s just… Jirou.”

Minami chuckled softly. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

She smiled a little wider at that, and for the first time that morning, some of the heaviness in her chest eased. The sunlight hit her face just right, softening her expression. “Maybe I’m being silly,” she said quietly. “It’s not like there’s anything to do about it.”

“Doesn’t make it silly,” Minami replied. “You’re allowed to feel things, Shiori. Even if you can’t act on them.”

She looked up at him, genuinely meeting his gaze now. There was something steady in his eyes — something that made her feel safe. She nodded slowly, taking in a deep breath, letting it out through her nose. “Thanks,” she whispered. “For listening.”

Minami smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. “Always,” he said simply, before picking up his cup of tea and taking a slow sip.

Shiori returned her gaze to the window, the ocean glittering like glass under the late-morning sun. The ache in her chest was still there, but now it was quieter, more manageable. Talking about it — saying it out loud — had taken some of the weight off.

Minami set his cup down and leaned back again, looking out the window with her. “You know,” he said after a moment, “whatever happens, it’s not the end of the world. You’ve still got everyone here. And Jirou… well, he’s lucky to have you around, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.”

That earned him a small laugh from Shiori, one that sounded real this time. “You make it sound like I’m waiting for him or something,” she said teasingly, though her eyes softened.

“Maybe you’re just waiting for things to make sense,” Minami replied. “That’s different.”

Shiori shook her head, amused and a little touched. “You really are good at this, you know that?”

“Good at what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Being there,” she said simply. “Even when I don’t ask you to be.”

Minami’s expression softened. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

She smiled faintly and nodded, her gaze drifting back to the sunlight spilling over the ocean outside. The sound of waves mingled with the soft clatter of dishes as she finally started eating again, more at ease now.

Minami picked up his phone but didn’t type anything this time. Instead, he set it aside again, content to sit with her in the quiet, the air between them peaceful and warm.

Shiori’s thoughts still brushed against Jirou now and then, but they no longer stung. They were softer, tinted with fondness instead of ache. Maybe that was enough for now — to care without needing anything back.

As the morning stretched on, the two of them sat together in companionable silence, the world outside bright and vast. It was a new day, and though her heart still wavered, Shiori felt, for the first time in a while, that maybe she would be okay.

"I'm gonna go for a walk," Minami said suddenly, pushing his chair back and stretching his arms. The morning sun caught the edge of his hair, giving it a faint amber hue as he straightened. He slipped his phone into his pocket, glancing toward the open window where the breeze carried the faint scent of salt and the distant sound of gulls. “Try not to think too hard while I’m gone,” he added with a small, teasing smile.

Shiori looked up from her plate, blinking before a soft laugh escaped her. “You make it sound like I do that on purpose,” she said, shaking her head.

Minami chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair as he made his way to the door. “You kind of do,” he said easily. “But that’s okay. Someone’s gotta overthink things for the rest of us.”

She rolled her eyes lightly but the smile stayed on her face, warm and genuine now. “I’ll try to give my brain a break, just for you,” she replied, leaning back in her chair as he pulled open the door.

“Good,” he said, turning halfway toward her with his hand on the doorframe. “And maybe… take a walk yourself later. Fresh air helps.”

Shiori lifted a hand in mock salute. “Yes, doctor,” she said playfully, her tone softer than before.

Minami’s grin widened just a bit at that, and he nodded before stepping out into the sunlight. The sound of the door closing behind him left the cottage quiet, filled only with the gentle hum of the morning.

For a moment, Shiori sat there, staring at the spot where he’d been. The stillness felt oddly comforting. She let out a slow breath and glanced back out the window again, watching Minami walk down the narrow path that led toward the beach, his figure growing smaller as he blended with the shimmer of the ocean ahead.

She smiled faintly, resting her chin on her hand. “Try not to think too hard,” she repeated under her breath, amused at how he’d said it so casually — as if he didn’t know how much that small piece of advice might actually help.

Leaning back, Shiori let herself breathe for a moment, listening to the rustle of the wind through the curtains. For the first time that morning, her mind didn’t immediately drift to Jirou. Instead, she thought of the group — the laughter, the splashing, the way the sunlight had hit the water. It had been a good day, even with everything unsaid.

Her smile lingered as she picked up her tea again, sipping it slowly while watching the waves roll in from a distance. It felt like the start of something new — quiet, uncertain, but peaceful in its own way.

Jirou’s apartment was anything but serene. The faint sound of running water filled the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional clink of dishes as he scrubbed at a plate with more force than necessary. Steam curled upward, fogging the edge of the window above the sink. He sighed, glancing toward the bathroom door that Akari had slammed shut not ten minutes ago.

She’d been furious — not because of something big or earth-shattering, but because of a spider. A spider, of all things. She’d called him from the shower, panic lacing her voice, and he’d brushed it off with a lazy, “Just squish it with a towel or something.” Apparently, that had been the wrong answer.

Now, he stood there, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, scrubbing away as if the sink could somehow wash away the tension between them. He could still hear her faintly through the wall — the sound of drawers opening, the muffled thud of her closing the bathroom cabinet with a bit more force than necessary.

“Unbelievable…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “It’s just a spider.” He rinsed off the plate, placing it onto the drying rack. “It’s not like it’s plotting world domination.”

The bathroom door creaked open then, and Akari emerged wrapped in a towel, her wet hair dripping over her shoulders, expression tight and unimpressed. “You think this is funny?” she asked flatly, crossing her arms.

Jirou froze mid-motion, holding a fork in one hand and a sponge in the other. “Uh—well, maybe a little?” he admitted cautiously, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Her glare deepened. “It was huge,” she said seriously, emphasizing each word like she was describing a life-threatening encounter. “Like, eight legs of evil.”

Jirou raised an eyebrow, unable to help himself. “That’s kind of how spiders work, Akari.”

She let out an exasperated noise, grabbing her hairbrush off the counter and walking past him toward the couch. “You’re impossible,” she muttered under her breath, sitting down and towel-drying her hair aggressively.

Jirou turned off the tap, drying his hands on the towel before leaning against the counter. “Hey, come on,” he said after a moment, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t taking you seriously.”

“You weren’t,” she said, not looking up. “You laughed.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah, I laughed. But it’s just—” He stopped when she glanced up, her eyes sharp enough to make him bite his tongue. “Okay,” he corrected himself quickly, “I’ll do better next time. Promise.”

She studied him for a long moment, clearly debating whether or not to forgive him. The tension between them hung thick in the air until finally, she sighed, muttering, “You better.”

Jirou smiled faintly, relief washing over him. “Deal.”

Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t as heavy. Akari leaned back on the couch, the smallest hint of amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’re still washing the dishes, though,” she said without looking at him.

He chuckled, pushing off the counter. “Yeah, yeah, I figured as much,” he said, turning back to the sink.

The sound of running water filled the room again, but now there was a warmth to it — the kind that came from quiet understanding, from two people who could fight about spiders one minute and still share the same space the next.

Akari’s cheeks were still faintly pink, though she quickly convinced herself it was from the hot shower and not from the way Jirou’s voice had softened earlier. She tucked her legs up under the blanket, pretending to be entirely focused on her damp hair as she towel-dried it. Jirou, oblivious, finished up at the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel before glancing over at her. For a second, he just stood there, taking in the quiet scene — the sound of the TV humming faintly in the background, the faint citrus scent of her shampoo lingering in the air. It felt oddly… peaceful.

He walked over and sat down beside her on the couch, the cushions dipping slightly under his weight. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but they were close enough that he could feel the faint warmth radiating off her.

“Hey,” Akari said, her tone casual now, as if the argument from earlier had never happened. “Pass me the remote, Jirou.”

The sound of his name rolling off her tongue like that made something stir in his chest — simple, but strangely comforting. It wasn’t the first time she’d said his name, of course, but after her silence earlier, it felt like a small sign of peace. He reached over, handing her the remote with a small smile before leaning back into the couch beside her.

“Don’t tell me you’re watching that dumb drama again,” he said, already noticing the familiar logo flashing across the TV screen.

Akari frowned at him, scrolling through the streaming menu. “It’s not dumb,” she said, defending it immediately.

“Akari,” he groaned, tilting his head toward her. “It’s been, what, three hundred episodes? And they still haven’t kissed. That’s not romance — that’s torture.”

She turned to glare at him, her lips curving upward in mock offense. “It’s called tension. It’s romantic,” she said, drawing out the word like it was sacred.

“It’s bad writing,” Jirou countered flatly, resting his arm across the back of the couch.

She gave a sharp laugh and shot back, “You talk a lot for someone who was pretty invested in this last week. Don’t think I didn’t see you tearing up when they almost kissed.”

He froze, eyes narrowing. “That was allergies,” he muttered defensively.

“Sure it was.” Akari grinned, finally landing on the episode she wanted. “Face it — you’re hooked, too.”

Jirou let out a quiet snort and slumped further into the couch. “Shut up,” he said finally, though his tone was more resigned than annoyed.

Akari laughed then — a genuine, light laugh that filled the quiet space between them. It was enough to make Jirou glance over at her, watching the way her shoulders shook, how her damp hair framed her face, and how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. He didn’t say anything, just let the sound of her laughter settle somewhere deep in his chest.

As the opening credits of the drama started to play, Akari shifted slightly, pulling the blanket over her legs and unintentionally brushing her knee against his. Jirou went still for a moment but didn’t move away. Instead, he let out a small breath and relaxed, his arm still draped casually along the back of the couch, his eyes on the screen but his attention half on her.

Minutes passed. The characters on the show argued, made up, and argued again, just like always. But for once, neither of them said a word. The earlier irritation had melted into something comfortable — quiet, familiar, and faintly warm.

By the time the episode reached its halfway point, Akari’s head had tilted slightly against the couch cushion. She wasn’t asleep, but she was close, her posture soft and at ease. Jirou glanced at her one more time, then turned back to the screen, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Three hundred episodes,” he murmured under his breath. “Guess I can survive one more.”

Akari’s laughter filled the small apartment, light and genuine, and Jirou couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips as he leaned back on the couch. The sound was comforting — familiar, even after their awkward morning. She tucked her legs under herself, pulling the blanket around her shoulders as the show’s overly dramatic theme song started playing.

Jirou watched her from the corner of his eye, amused at how quickly her irritation about the spider had faded into focus on the screen. Her hair was still damp from the shower, strands sticking to her neck, and she absently brushed them aside as she leaned forward. The scent of her shampoo — something floral — hung faintly in the air, mixing with the leftover smell of dish soap and breakfast.

On the TV, the main characters were arguing in the rain again, and Akari’s expression grew serious, completely absorbed. “See, this part is important,” she said, her tone firm, as if defending a thesis. “He’s pretending not to care, but you can tell he’s hurting inside.”

Jirou snorted. “Or maybe he’s just cold. It’s raining.”

Akari grabbed a pillow and threw it at him without looking away from the screen. “You don’t understand the nuance of it!”

“Oh yeah, the nuance of standing dramatically in bad weather.”

“Exactly!” she said, mock-serious, turning to him with a grin. “It’s emotional commitment.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he caught the pillow and kept it in his lap. “You’re ridiculous.”

Akari laughed, the sound bubbling out of her before she could stop it, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. She shifted slightly, moving closer until the space between them was gone. Her head came to rest gently on Jirou’s shoulder, the warmth of her touch quiet but unmistakable. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the low hum of the TV and the rhythmic patter of rain from the scene playing out on screen.

Jirou froze at first, not expecting the contact, but he didn’t pull away. Her hair brushed lightly against his neck, still carrying that soft floral scent that had been driving him to distraction all evening. He felt the tension drain out of him little by little as she relaxed against him, her breathing slow and steady, syncing with his own.

“You’re comfy,” she murmured absently, her voice half-lidded with amusement and half with drowsiness.

“Yeah?” Jirou replied, trying to sound casual, though his heartbeat betrayed him, thudding hard in his chest. “You just using me as a pillow again?”

“Mhm.” She smiled against his shoulder, not even pretending to deny it. “You’re good at it.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Glad I’m good for something.”

Akari chuckled, but didn’t lift her head. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the blanket, twisting it idly as her eyes flickered between the screen and the rise and fall of his chest beside her. It was domestic in a way that made her chest ache — quiet, safe, warm. The kind of moment that crept up on you and lingered.

On-screen, the drama’s characters were finally reconciling, a sweeping orchestral score swelling as they ran into each other’s arms. Akari sighed contentedly. “See? That’s love,” she whispered softly.

Jirou tilted his head slightly, glancing down at her. “That’s scripted,” he said, voice lower now, though there was no teasing in it this time.

She didn’t move. “Maybe. But it still feels real.”

Her words lingered in the air between them, softer than the dialogue on the TV, and Jirou didn’t know how to respond. Instead, he just let himself sink a little deeper into the couch, his shoulder pressing a little more firmly against her. The glow of the television painted them both in soft light — two figures surrounded by warmth and quiet, pretending to care about a silly drama when what really mattered was how right this felt.

Eventually, Akari’s breathing evened out, her head heavy against him, her body fully relaxed. Jirou risked a glance down at her, watching the faintest smile play across her lips. He smiled too, a quiet, unguarded one. Then, careful not to wake her, he shifted just enough to pull the blanket a little higher over her shoulders.

The show continued to play, forgotten now, as he leaned back and let his eyes drift to the ceiling. Whatever had happened earlier — the spider, the argument, the teasing — didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that remained was the steady rhythm of her breathing and the quiet hum of something unspoken settling comfortably between them.

“Jirou—Jirou, they’re gonna kiss!” Akari hissed, her fingers clutching at his arm with surprising strength. Her eyes were wide, glued to the television like it was a matter of life and death.

Jirou blinked at her, amused, glancing at the screen. “Yeah, I can see that,” he started, but she shushed him immediately, tightening her grip as if the noise might break the spell.

The room was dim except for the flickering light from the TV, colors flashing across their faces as the couple on screen leaned closer, rain falling dramatically around them. Akari was holding her breath, completely still, her hand half buried in the blanket, knuckles white with anticipation.

And then, just as their lips were about to meet—someone burst through the scene on-screen, shouting the main character’s name. The spell shattered instantly.

“What!?” Akari sat upright, throwing her hands into the air in pure betrayal. “Are you kidding me? Again!?”

Jirou couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from him, a low, uncontrollable chuckle that shook his shoulders. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said between laughs. “They still didn’t kiss? That’s—what, the sixth time they’ve done this?”

“Seventh,” she corrected, glaring at the screen like it had personally offended her. “Stupid Lee! He ruins everything! Why does he always have to interrupt right when it’s getting good?”

“You mean right when it’s getting ridiculous,” Jirou teased, settling back against the couch as he watched her rant. “You know they’re never gonna let them kiss until the last episode, right? That’s how they keep you watching.”

Akari turned to him, her expression a mixture of disbelief and mock despair. “Don’t say that! You’ll jinx it!”

He laughed again, softer this time, the sound warm. “I’m not jinxing anything. I’m just being realistic.”

“Realistic?” she scoffed, throwing a small pillow at him again. “You’re such a cynic.”

He caught it easily, smirking. “And you’re too emotionally invested in a show where the same three people keep arguing about fate and umbrellas.”

She gasped dramatically. “How dare you! This show has depth!”

“Depth?” he echoed, arching an eyebrow. “The only deep thing in this show is the puddle they’ve been standing in for five episodes.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible!” Akari exclaimed, crossing her arms but unable to hide her grin. She turned back toward the TV, mumbling, “You’ll see. When they finally kiss, you’ll eat your words.”

Jirou leaned closer, his voice low and teasing near her ear. “If they ever do kiss, maybe I’ll celebrate with you.”

She froze for a second, his tone catching her off guard. Then she rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were warm. “Oh please, you’d probably just make fun of it.”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging with a faint smile. “But I’d still celebrate.”

Akari gave him a sidelong glance, her expression softening. The teasing faded into a comfortable quiet as the next scene began, the show’s familiar music filling the air again. She sighed, sinking back against him, her earlier frustration melting into laughter.

“Stupid Lee,” she muttered again under her breath, half-smiling.

Jirou chuckled, resting an arm over the back of the couch behind her. “Poor guy’s just doing his job.”

“His job is ruining lives,” she said dramatically, eyes still on the screen. “Mine included.”

“Guess that means I should be worried,” he said with a smirk. “You might start yelling my name next time something goes wrong.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she replied, nudging him with her shoulder. “You’re halfway there already.”

He laughed softly, and the sound drew another small smile from her. The drama played on, the tension on-screen nothing compared to the quiet, comfortable warmth that had settled between them. The earlier awkwardness from the morning had long since faded, replaced by something gentler — a rhythm that felt easy, unforced.

And though the characters on TV never quite managed their long-awaited kiss, Jirou found himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, some moments were better when they didn’t need an ending right away.

After they’d watched a few more episodes, the sunlight had climbed higher, spilling into the room and casting warm patterns across the floor. Akari shifted closer to Jirou on the couch, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. She didn’t say a word, but the subtle tension in her posture spoke volumes—she was hungry, and clearly frustrated enough to cling to him in a mix of impatience and playful insistence.

Jirou froze, startled by the sudden weight, and flinched. “Wha—get off me!” he scrambled backward, tumbling off the couch with a soft thump. His cheeks flared bright red, heat creeping up his neck.

Akari burst into laughter, the sound ringing through the small apartment like bells. “Oh my god, Jirou! You should see your face! You look like a tomato!”

“Akari!” he stammered, hands pressed to his face as if he could hide the burning color. “Don’t do things like that!”

She continued to laugh, unable to stop, the sparkle in her eyes making it nearly impossible for him to stay annoyed. “But seriously, I’m hungry, Jirou. Can we get something to eat?” she said, finally pressing her point between giggles, tilting her head back to grin at him.

Jirou huffed, still flustered but rising to his feet. “Yeah, fine, whatever,” he muttered, brushing himself off as he tried to regain some composure. His heart was still racing, though the warmth of her laughter lingered like a soft flame.

Akari hopped up beside him, playfully nudging his shoulder. “Let’s go back to that place where you got those steamed buns last time—they were really good!” she said, eyes shining with excitement.

Jirou rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “Sure,” he said, though the edge of amusement in his tone betrayed how much he enjoyed her enthusiasm.

They moved toward the door, Akari walking slightly ahead but glancing back at him, still grinning. Jirou followed, adjusting his shirt and shaking his head. Even the simplest outings with her felt layered with awkward, sweet tension that made ordinary moments feel heavier and warmer at the same time.

Akari’s hand brushed against his briefly as she reached for the doorknob, and Jirou felt his pulse quicken again. He reminded himself to breathe and not overthink it, though he knew it was impossible when she was around.

The walk to the steamed bun shop was lighthearted. Akari hummed a little tune under her breath, bouncing slightly on her toes, and Jirou found himself matching his pace to hers, a protective instinct kicking in despite his own embarrassment.

When they arrived, the familiar smell of fresh buns and steamed dough filled the air, making Akari’s nose twitch slightly as she breathed in. “Mmm, smells amazing,” she murmured, eyes scanning the counter eagerly.

Jirou watched her, feeling a strange mix of pride and nervousness. He stepped up to the counter, glancing down at her with a half-smile. “What do you want this time?”

Akari tilted her head thoughtfully, lips pursed. “Hmm… maybe the pork buns? And one with the sweet red bean paste, too!”

He nodded, placing the order with a polite “thank you” to the cashier, glancing back at her as she bounced slightly in anticipation.

“See, Jirou? This is why I like coming with you. You always know where to find the good stuff,” she said, her grin infectious, and he couldn’t help but feel a warm tug in his chest.

He rolled his eyes, pretending to be unimpressed. “It’s not like I have a special knack or anything,” he muttered, though his smile betrayed him.

Akari leaned closer slightly as they waited for the buns to steam, her elbow brushing his side lightly. Jirou flinched just a little, realizing how sensitive he had become to even the smallest touches.

“You’re so easy to tease, you know that?” she said softly, still laughing under her breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, shaking his head, but he secretly liked that she could get to him so easily.

When the buns were ready, they carefully carried them back outside to a small bench in the sun. Akari eagerly tore into one, steam curling up around her face as she inhaled the scent and took a careful bite.

Jirou watched her quietly, feeling a swell of satisfaction. Seeing her happy like this—light, carefree, and smiling—was worth all the earlier embarrassment.

“Here, try a bite,” she said suddenly, holding the sweet bun toward him.

He leaned in, accepting it, and the warmth of her hand brushing against his as she offered it sent another heat up his spine. He took a bite, nodding appreciatively. “Yeah, that’s good. Really good.”

Akari’s grin widened, pride and joy shining through. “Told you! I know my food.”

“Clearly,” he said, a little amused, shaking his head at her self-confidence.

They continued eating in companionable silence, only broken by soft laughter when Akari exaggerated the steam curling up from her bun, pretending it was a dragon threatening to breathe fire.

Jirou chuckled at her antics, the day feeling unusually light and easy despite the tension from earlier. He found himself leaning closer to her instinctively, enjoying the proximity and the simple, quiet companionship.

Even as they finished the buns, Akari’s eyes sparkled with the remnants of amusement, and he realized how much he enjoyed being caught up in her energy. It wasn’t just the food or the outing—it was being with her, experiencing these small moments.

Finally, she leaned back, wiping her hands on a napkin, eyes meeting his with a playful smirk. “Thanks for coming with me,” she said softly.

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s nothing… but yeah, I’m glad I did.”

Her cheeks warmed slightly at his words, and for a moment, the sunlight seemed to shine a little brighter over the two of them on that simple park bench, steam buns and laughter lingering in the air.

They stayed there a little longer, savoring the moment, both aware of the unspoken tension that lingered beneath the surface but letting it rest, choosing instead to enjoy the uncomplicated joy of just being together.

Akari sighed contentedly, resting her head slightly against his shoulder again. Jirou tensed for a heartbeat, then relaxed as he let himself enjoy the quiet comfort, the small shared warmth that felt more profound than any words could capture.

The day had started awkwardly, and yet here, in the glow of the late morning sun, with a warm bun in her hand and laughter lingering on her lips, everything felt… right.

Jirou thought maybe this was how it should be—small moments, shared silently, laughter between bites of food, the world reduced to just them and the gentle hum of the day.

And as Akari nibbled another bun, her eyes meeting his with a soft smile, Jirou felt his heart settle into a rhythm he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for.

Jirou cleared his throat, the weight of the conversation lingering between them like a fog over the beach. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, the sunlight reflecting off the water and casting little glints across his tense expression. “You’ve been getting pretty close with Kamo,” he said, his voice more measured than he’d intended, but the underlying tension didn’t escape him.

Akari tilted her head, one brow raised, her lips twitching with amusement. “Who?” she asked, feigning innocence, though the spark in her eyes betrayed the grin she was barely holding back. “The green-haired virgin?”

Jirou groaned, running a hand over his face. “We have names, you know,” he muttered, half exasperated, half amused. The way her laughter broke through his tension was almost cruel in its simplicity.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” she replied, shaking her head. Her laughter rang clear and bright, and for a moment, it felt like the sun had risen a little higher just to spotlight her joy.

Jirou took a slow breath, steadying himself. The question had been on the tip of his tongue all week, and now the moment had arrived. “Do you… like him?” His voice softened despite himself, almost hesitant, carrying a seriousness that contrasted sharply with the lighthearted banter they had been sharing just moments ago.

Akari blinked, caught off guard. A nervous chuckle escaped her lips, almost as if she were trying to fill the sudden silence that pressed down on them. “Wait… seriously?” she said, leaning back slightly. “No, I don’t like him. He’s just funny.”

Jirou studied her, searching for any hint of deceit in her expression. But all he saw was honesty, perhaps bolstered by the ease she always carried when around him. He felt relief, yes, but it mingled with something heavier—a small, gnawing pang of jealousy he wasn’t ready to admit to himself.

“So… just funny?” he asked, his tone softening a fraction, though the subtle edge of concern remained.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. Her smile softened as she leaned back on her hands, letting her gaze drift to the horizon for a moment. Then she turned back to him. “He makes me laugh, okay? That’s it.”

Jirou exhaled, letting the tension drain slightly from his shoulders. The sunlight glinted off the water, catching in his eyes as he tried to shake off the stirrings of jealousy. He shifted again, casting a sidelong glance at Akari, taking in the easy curve of her smile, the way her hair fell across her shoulders.

“Wait… are you jealous?” she asked suddenly, tilting her head in that teasing way he hated and loved all at once.

“What?! No! I’m not jealous!” he replied quickly, his face heating.

Akari’s laugh burst forth, bright and teasing. “You totally are!”

“He’s my friend! Why would I be jealous?!” Jirou protested, his hands gesturing helplessly as if the movement alone could convince her.

Akari leaned back, laughter still bubbling, and waved a hand dismissively. “I’m just kidding, stupid virgin. I know you’ve got Sakurazaka, so why would I be jealous?”

Jirou groaned, dropping back onto the bench with exaggerated defeat. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He felt the heat in his cheeks linger, not entirely from the sun.

Akari smirked, watching him with amusement. “And yet, you can’t help but react,” she said softly, leaning forward just enough to tease him further. “I like it.”

Jirou blinked at her, caught between exasperation and a strange warmth that settled over him, the kind that made his chest feel just a little lighter despite the residual sting of jealousy he refused to admit aloud.

He glanced back toward the waves, the sparkling water reflecting the sunlight and the chaos of the group in the distance. Kamo and the others were still splashing and shouting, the energy of the beach day wrapping around them like a living presence, but Jirou found his attention increasingly drawn back to Akari.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “How are you always so… untouchable? Calm, funny, teasing… and somehow, still completely out of my reach?”

Akari tilted her head, studying him with an unreadable expression, her smile softening. “Maybe you’re just overthinking it again,” she said lightly, reaching out to poke him gently in the arm. “You worry too much, Jirou.”

He shook his head, smiling faintly despite himself. “Maybe. But someone has to, right?”

Akari laughed softly, leaning back on her hands again. “I think you worry enough for both of us,” she teased, letting the words hang between them in a way that was playful, but not without depth.

Jirou’s gaze softened, and he leaned back beside her, watching her laughter ripple across the air like sunlight dancing on the waves. “You make it impossible not to care,” he admitted quietly, the confession slipping out with more ease than he expected.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes catching the sun as she looked at him. “And you make it impossible not to notice,” she replied, her voice low, carrying that familiar teasing warmth.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Great, so now I’m both noticed and exasperated.”

Akari grinned, leaning slightly closer, the proximity enough to make his heart skip without either of them touching. “Exactly. That’s the effect I aim for,” she said playfully.

Jirou’s cheeks heated again, though he masked it with a small, sheepish smile. “Well, congratulations… you’ve succeeded,” he admitted, leaning back and letting his gaze drift toward the horizon, feeling the weight of his words and the strange mix of relief and lingering worry settle over him.

She followed his gaze for a moment, quieting her laughter into a soft hum. “Don’t worry too much, Jirou,” she said, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “It’s fine. Just… relax a little.”

He exhaled slowly, taking in the warmth of her presence beside him. “I’ll try,” he murmured, though the tension in his chest loosened ever so slightly.

Akari laughed again, light and airy, the sound intertwining with the distant calls and splashes of their friends. She leaned back, letting the sun warm her shoulders, the day’s energy reflecting off her smile.

Jirou studied her for a moment longer, taking in the easy grace of her movements, the way her eyes caught the light, and the subtle teasing that always lingered beneath her calm exterior.

“You really are impossible,” he said softly, though there was a note of admiration in his voice.

“I know,” she replied with a mock sigh, leaning forward slightly and resting her chin on her hands. “And yet, here we are.”

He chuckled quietly, letting the moment settle between them, the quiet ease of being near her wrapping around him like a blanket, comforting and grounding.

“Here we are,” he echoed, smiling faintly, feeling a small spark of contentment amidst the lingering tension and the faint twinge of jealousy he still wouldn’t admit.

Akari’s gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer before turning back toward the horizon. “Just enjoy the day, Jirou,” she said softly, her voice carrying that effortless warmth that always made him feel at home.

“I’ll try,” he replied again, the simplicity of the words feeling heavier than they should.

They sat together on the bench, letting the waves crash and the laughter of their friends fill the space around them, each small interaction and teasing remark threading into a quiet rhythm that was both familiar and comforting.

Jirou realized, with a mix of amusement and relief, that this—this teasing, laughing, worrying, caring, and simply being near Akari—was more than enough for him, at least for now.

And though he wouldn’t say it out loud, he knew that the undercurrent of tension, jealousy, and affection between them was the beginning of something more—something he was only just starting to understand.

Chapter 7: Never Have I Ever Kissed My Wife To Taste Her Lip Gloss

Steam curled lazily through the bathhouse, fogging the mirrors and clinging to every surface. The sound of chatter and running water filled the air as Jirou scrubbed shampoo into his hair, wincing as a bit of it slipped into his eyes. He hunched over slightly, muttering under his breath as he tried to rinse it out, the tiled floor slick beneath his feet. Around him, a few of his classmates were scattered—some lounging in the baths, others finishing up and toweling off.

Kamo, already half-dazed from the heat, glanced sideways at Jirou while lazily scrubbing his own head. “Where’d you even get that from, anyway?” he asked, nodding toward the sleek bottle perched beside Jirou’s soap.

Jirou sighed, his voice echoing faintly against the tile. “Akari got it for me,” he muttered, working the last of the shampoo through his hair. “Said something about ‘three-in-one being a war crime.’”

Kamo snorted, squinting down at his own bottle of cheap three-in-one shampoo resting on the floor next to him. “It’s convenient,” he mumbled defensively, yawning as the steam made his face flush pink.

“That’s what I said,” Jirou replied, finally leaning under the spray of hot water to rinse the suds from his hair. The heat loosened his shoulders, and he exhaled sharply, recalling the look Akari had given him when she saw his old shampoo bottle sitting on the counter. “She said if I kept using it, my hair was gonna ‘mutiny’ or something.”

He raised his hands, making exaggerated air quotes and lowering his voice in an over-the-top impression of her tone. “‘You’re not a twelve-year-old boy anymore, Jirou,’” he recited, putting extra emphasis on her mock-disappointed sigh.

Kamo snickered, scrubbing at his hair. “She really said that?”

“Word for word,” Jirou muttered, grabbing the bottle to examine it as though still trying to figure out what made it so special. It smelled faintly floral—subtle, but nicer than his old stuff, and even he had to admit it made his hair softer. He wouldn’t say that out loud, though.

Kamo leaned against the wall, still grinning. “Man, she sounds like my mom. She probably gave you a whole lecture about it too, huh?”

Jirou sighed, tilting his head back under the water. “You have no idea.” He ran a hand through his hair, rinsing out the last of the suds. “She practically cornered me in the store, started reading the back of the bottles out loud like it was a public service announcement. ‘This one has argan oil, this one actually hydrates instead of stripping your scalp bare—’ like I cared.”

Kamo laughed outright at that, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. “Man, you’re whipped.”

Jirou’s head snapped toward him, water dripping down his face. “Whipped?!”

Kamo laughed, shaking his head. “She’s got you trained, man. Next thing you know, she’s gonna start picking out your clothes.”

“Shut up,” Jirou said flatly, flicking a bit of water in his direction.

Steam drifted lazily above the warm, mineral-scented water, curling in the air like soft ribbons. The women’s bathhouse had a calm serenity to it—a stark contrast to the noisy chaos of the men’s side. The faint scent of floral soap and citrus oil filled the space, blending pleasantly with the heat. Conversations were quieter here, more relaxed, with the occasional sound of laughter echoing softly off the tiled walls.

Mei sat near the middle of the bath, as Natsumi leaned comfortably against her shoulder. The redhead looked half-asleep, her eyes drooping as the warmth of the water lulled her into a daze. Mei smiled faintly, occasionally splashing her lightly to keep her from dozing off completely.

At the edge of the pool, Sachi sat with her feet dipped in, her phone held precariously above the steam. The soft glow from the screen lit up her face as she scrolled absently, occasionally typing a quick reply before setting it back on her towel. “You’re gonna drop that thing one of these days,” Mei warned lazily.

“I won’t,” Sachi said without looking up, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “I’ve survived every bath trip so far.”

“Barely,” Natsumi muttered sleepily, earning a soft laugh from Akari, who was sitting beside Shiori near the shallow side of the pool.

The sound of water shifting filled the brief silence before Natsumi spoke again. “So what are we even gonna do tonight?” she asked through a yawn, stretching her arms above her head and sinking deeper into the water.

“I think we’re having another bonfire since it’s our last night,” Akari said, her tone casual but with a small hint of excitement. Her hair was damp and sticking to her neck, and she tucked it behind her ear as she looked at the others.

Shiori nodded in agreement, her expression soft and thoughtful. “The teachers told us the other day, remember? They said they’ll set it up on the beach again after dinner.”

“Right, right,” Natsumi said, suddenly perking up as if the heat had revived her. “Then we can make s’mores and tell scary stories!” Her voice echoed slightly in the humid air, full of enthusiasm now.

Sachi looked up from her phone, raising a brow. “You always say that, and then you chicken out when someone actually tells a scary story.”

“I do not!” Natsumi protested, sitting up straighter, her cheeks puffing slightly in mock offense.

“Uh-huh,” Mei said with a grin, poking her in the side. “You literally screamed last time when a crab crawled by the fire pit.”

“That was different!” Natsumi argued. “It touched my foot!”

Akari laughed, the sound clear and light, rippling through the steam. “It was a baby crab, Natsumi.”

Shiori smiled at the banter, her eyes half-lidded as she leaned back against the rocks. “Still, it’ll be nice. One last night together before we go back to class. I think it’s kind of perfect.”

“Yeah,” Akari agreed softly, her voice gentler now. “It’s weird to think it’s almost over.”

The girls fell quiet for a moment, the realization sinking in as the only sounds were the soft trickle of water and the occasional splash. The week had gone by quickly—too quickly—and though none of them said it out loud, the idea of leaving the beach behind felt oddly bittersweet.

Natsumi broke the silence again with a grin. “Well, if it’s our last night, I’m winning the s’mores competition this time.”

“There isn’t a competition,” Sachi said dryly, scrolling again.

“There is now,” Natsumi replied proudly, pointing a finger at her. “You’ll all see. My marshmallow-to-chocolate ratio is unbeatable.”

Mei laughed, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “You said that last time and set your marshmallow on fire.”

“That was strategy!”

“Sure it was,” Akari said, smirking. “Strategy to burn your dessert to ashes.”

Shiori chuckled quietly, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll bring extra chocolate just in case.”

The group burst into laughter, the easy sound mingling with the gentle echo of water. It was peaceful, familiar—the kind of calm that made them forget, just for a moment, that tomorrow everything would go back to normal.

And as the steam rose higher, curling through the air, Akari leaned her head back against the edge of the pool, closing her eyes with a small smile. She could already picture it—the bonfire, the laughter, the glow of firelight against everyone’s faces. One more night. One more memory.

“We should go to the beach again,” Akari said, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she bounced slightly on the balls of her feet.

Sachi smirked, leaning back casually. “You just want to show off that new swimsuit again, don’t you?”

Akari crossed her arms, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the grin tugging at her lips. “So what if I do?”

Shiori spoke up softly, her voice warm and approving. “It is a really cute swimsuit, though. You picked well.”

Natsumi’s face lit up as she added, “And we could go to that fish and chips place this time. I heard they have these huge portions, way better than last time.”

Akari’s grin widened. “See? I’m not the only one excited about the beach.”

Sachi laughed, shaking her head. “Fine, fine. I guess I can tolerate another day of sunburns and sand in awkward places.”

Shiori chuckled softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’ll be fun, though. I like spending time together like this.”

Natsumi bounced in place, practically buzzing with energy. “We can bring a frisbee too! And maybe play some beach volleyball!”

Akari clapped her hands together, her eyes gleaming. “Yes! That sounds perfect. I’m actually looking forward to it more than just showing off my swimsuit.”

Sachi rolled her eyes again, but her grin betrayed her amusement. “You say that now, but I bet we’ll end up teasing each other more than actually playing volleyball.”

Shiori laughed quietly, leaning back against the chair. “That’s half the fun, isn’t it?”

Natsumi nodded eagerly, already imagining the waves crashing and everyone running along the shore. “And we can try that ice cream stand again! The one with all the crazy flavors.”

Akari’s eyes lit up at the mention of ice cream. “Ooh, yes! Last time was amazing. I still remember that dragon fruit sorbet I had.”

Sachi rolled her shoulders, stretching lazily. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst idea. Just promise me I won’t have to carry anyone this time.”

Shiori smirked. “No guarantees. You know how Kamo gets when we start playing around.”

Natsumi giggled. “Yeah, he’ll probably end up on someone’s shoulders again, and we’ll all be laughing until we collapse.”

Akari nudged Sachi playfully. “See? You’re gonna have fun whether you like it or not.”

Sachi groaned, shaking her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. “Fine, fine. But only because I don’t want to miss out on the ice cream.”

Shiori leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe we can even stay until sunset. The view from the pier is supposed to be beautiful this time of year.”

Natsumi clapped her hands again, practically bouncing. “Yes! I want to see the sunset! And then we can take a bunch of pictures!”

Akari nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely! We can make it a whole day event—beach, food, games, and sunset.”

Sachi sighed dramatically, but there was no mistaking the smile tugging at her lips. “Alright, alright, I’m in. But I’m not helping anyone with carrying Kamo if he insists on being ridiculous.”

Shiori laughed softly. “Deal. But I think he secretly enjoys it.”

Natsumi grinned, spinning in a circle. “This is going to be the best day ever! I can feel it!”

Akari’s eyes sparkled, filled with anticipation. “I can’t wait! We’ll have so much fun, I just know it.”

Sachi shook her head, chuckling. “You all are impossible… but I suppose it’s worth it.”

Shiori smiled, her tone gentle. “It’s nice to have a day where we can just relax and enjoy ourselves together.”

Natsumi bounced slightly on her heels. “And eat way too much food!”

Akari laughed, nodding in agreement. “Exactly! We’ll make it a perfect beach day. Just the five of us.”

Sachi smirked. “Just make sure your swimsuit doesn’t cause a distraction, Akari.”

Akari stuck her tongue out playfully. “No promises!”

Shiori laughed softly, shaking her head. “I think it’ll be fine. Let’s just enjoy the day together.”

Natsumi clapped her hands one last time, already practically bursting with energy. “Okay, it’s settled! Beach day, round two!”

Akari grinned, looking around at all of them. “I’m so ready for this.”

Sachi rolled her eyes, but the faint smile on her face betrayed her excitement. “Alright, let’s just hope the sun behaves this time.”

Shiori leaned back, content, as she glanced at her friends. “No matter what happens, it’s going to be fun.”

Natsumi bounced one final time, full of energy. “Beach day, here we come!”

Akari laughed, her excitement bubbling over. “Yes! Let’s make it a day to remember!”

By the time the afternoon sun had climbed high, the group was ready to leave their cottages and head toward the beach. Akari had taken it upon herself to apply sunscreen to Jirou’s neck and back, carefully smoothing the lotion over his shoulders. Jirou had blushed, trying to focus on applying sunscreen to her in return, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to get the task over with as quickly as possible. Even the simple, mundane act of helping each other protect their skin seemed loaded with an unspoken tension, though neither of them acknowledged it.

Once they reached the beach, the scent of salt and the sound of crashing waves immediately filled their senses. Jirou, Minami, and Mei stayed behind for a moment to set up the umbrella, wrestling briefly with the sand and the stiff fabric as the others bolted straight into the water. Akari, her hair catching the sunlight as it dried from a previous swim, ran a hand through it before joining Shiori, Sachi, and Natsumi, ready to splash and chase in the shallow waves.

The day unfolded with a chaotic energy that only a group of close friends could manage. Jirou found himself tugged in two directions—toward Shiori, who laughed freely every time he caught her in the shallow surf, and toward Akari, whose teasing and playful splashes seemed to draw him in just as fiercely. His chest tightened with the contradiction of his emotions, a quiet longing he refused to admit even to himself. He told himself Akari was just like that, her laughter and her playful energy just the way she was with everyone, that he was imagining more than there really was.

Meanwhile, Natsumi had latched onto Mei with a teasing grin, peppering her with kisses whenever she could manage. Mei laughed, trying to run away dramatically through the water, but a sudden misstep sent her stumbling into the waves. The water splashed around her, and her laughter turned into a squeal as she floundered, prompting Natsumi to dive after her with playful urgency.

Sachi and Kamo were another spectacle entirely. The two had teamed up to splash Akari mercilessly, laughing as the water sprayed across her back and shoulders. Kamo’s green hair clung wetly to his forehead when he tripped over an unseen rock in the shallow water, tumbling into the waves with a dramatic gasp for air. Minami didn’t hesitate, wading in to help him upright, his calm expression contrasting Kamo’s exaggerated flailing. Everyone around them erupted into laughter at the sight, and Sachi, ever attentive, checked on Kamo before returning to the playful chaos with Akari.

The group spent the next hour indulging in a series of dumb but entertaining games—chicken fights, races along the shore, and impromptu challenges to see who could stay afloat the longest against waves. Jirou carried Akari in a brief, playful tug-of-war only to find her twisting and laughing against him, water dripping from her hair and cheeks flushed with excitement. Shiori, on the other hand, seemed to gravitate toward him in quieter moments, her hand brushing his as she caught her footing after a small stumble, a soft smile playing on her lips.

At one point, Minami held Sachi when she nearly fell during a chicken fight, his lips curving into a faint smile as he steadied her. Her laughter rang out bright and carefree, carrying over the waves, and for a brief second, the chaos of the beach—the splashing, the running, the shouts and playful insults—melted into something warm and easy.

Jirou moved between the two, unable to focus fully on either without guilt tugging at him. Akari’s bright teasing, her competitive streak in the water, pulled him toward her instinctively, but Shiori’s quiet amusement, her subtle ways of leaning into him or brushing past him, held an equally strong draw. He tried to lose himself in the moment, telling himself to just enjoy the laughter, the saltwater, and the warmth of the sun on his back, but his heart betrayed him with every glance, every accidental touch.

Natsumi and Mei had finally settled into the shallows, water lapping at their knees as they caught their breath, giggling at their own antics. The splashes and squeals of the others continued around them, a cacophony of youthful energy that made the entire scene feel vibrant, almost surreal in its joy.

Sachi, still soaked, had joined Akari for a playful duel of splashing waves at each other. Their competitive streaks matched perfectly, and the two seemed determined to soak everyone around them in the process. Kamo, still recovering from his earlier tumble, was cautiously navigating around, but inevitably got caught in a wave or two, prompting more laughter from everyone.

Jirou, careful not to get pulled too far, helped Akari when she slipped slightly on a slick patch of sand, steadying her hand. Her eyes sparkled with gratitude, though she didn’t say anything, letting the connection linger for just a moment before the next wave distracted them.

Shiori splashed water toward him playfully, ducking behind a small wave and laughing as Jirou feigned dramatic defeat, hands thrown in the air. He grinned, feeling the lightness of the day and the ease of being with both Akari and Shiori in this chaotic, sunlit environment.

Minami and Sachi had wandered toward the shallower side, inventing a mock race to see who could hop from wave to wave without getting wet. Their shouts carried, punctuated by laughter and feigned complaints when someone inevitably fell in.

Jirou tried to focus on Shiori for a few minutes, holding her hand to help her stay balanced as the water tugged at her feet. Her smile was bright, unguarded, and for a moment, he almost forgot Akari was only a few steps away, teasing him from the water with a mischievous grin.

Akari, noticing his attention drift, made sure to splash him lightly, drawing a laugh from Jirou and a playful glare. “Don’t ignore me!” she shouted, spinning in a circle to make sure some water hit him.

He wiped the spray from his face, shaking his head, caught in the middle of the tug-of-war between the two. Shiori’s quiet charm and laughter pulled him in one direction, Akari’s teasing energy and warmth pulled him in another. Both were impossible to resist.

The waves crashed around them, relentless and energetic, mirroring the tangled emotions inside Jirou. He found himself alternating between the two, helping each when they stumbled, sharing small jokes and laughs, all while feeling his chest tighten in ways he refused to acknowledge.

Even as the group played dumb games—chicken fights, races, mock battles in the shallow surf—Jirou’s heart seemed to stretch between two points, never fully settled, a quiet tension beneath the carefree laughter.

At one point, Minami had to steady Sachi once more, her laughter infectious as she leaned into him, and Jirou found himself smiling at the simple happiness of his friends. The air was filled with salt, laughter, and the faint scent of sunscreen, a cocktail of summer that made every splash and shout seem vivid and alive.

Kamo, now more careful, tried to join a game of tag but was immediately outmaneuvered by Akari, who darted around him with surprising speed for someone still dripping with seawater.

Jirou followed, helping her dodge and dive under splashes from others, laughing despite himself. The energy was intoxicating, the moment suspended in the heat of the sun and the cool touch of the waves.

Shiori eventually waded closer to him, brushing past his arm accidentally—or maybe not—and catching his eye with a faint, teasing smile. His chest clenched at the subtle gesture, a reminder of the pull he felt toward her.

Akari, sensing the same attention, made sure to nudge him playfully with her shoulder, her voice calling out, “Careful! You’re supposed to be helping me, not staring off!”

Jirou shook his head, laughing, caught in the middle of their playful rivalry. He felt torn, exhilarated, and strangely anxious all at once, unable to admit to himself that his heart wanted both—wanted Shiori’s gentle, teasing touch and Akari’s bold, teasing energy.

The afternoon stretched on in this chaotic harmony. Laughter, splashes, and teasing filled the air, each moment layered with unspoken emotions and quiet, fleeting connections that made Jirou’s chest feel impossibly tight and light at the same time.

By the time the sun began to lean toward the horizon, the group had collapsed onto the sand, exhausted and sticky with saltwater. Jirou sat between Akari and Shiori, each of them leaning against him at different points, the warmth of their bodies a constant, gentle pressure that made his heart race.

He let out a long sigh, brushing sand from his legs, and realized that no matter how much he tried to focus on just one, the pull toward both of them was undeniable. He would never admit it, not even to himself, but the truth was clear: his heart belonged, in some way, to both Akari and Shiori.

And yet, as he leaned back against the umbrella pole, watching the last few waves lap against the shore, he told himself one more time that Akari was just like that. She was his friend. That was all.

By the time the afternoon sun had climbed high, the group was ready to leave their cottages and head toward the beach. Akari had taken it upon herself to apply sunscreen to Jirou’s neck and back, carefully smoothing the lotion over his shoulders. Jirou had blushed, trying to focus on applying sunscreen to her in return, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to get the task over with as quickly as possible. Even the simple, mundane act of helping each other protect their skin seemed loaded with an unspoken tension, though neither of them acknowledged it.

Once they reached the beach, the scent of salt and the sound of crashing waves immediately filled their senses. Jirou, Minami, and Mei stayed behind for a moment to set up the umbrella, wrestling briefly with the sand and the stiff fabric as the others bolted straight into the water. Akari, her hair catching the sunlight as it dried from a previous swim, ran a hand through it before joining Shiori, Sachi, and Natsumi, ready to splash and chase in the shallow waves.

The day unfolded with a chaotic energy that only a group of close friends could manage. Jirou found himself tugged in two directions—toward Shiori, who laughed freely every time he caught her in the shallow surf, and toward Akari, whose teasing and playful splashes seemed to draw him in just as fiercely. His chest tightened with the contradiction of his emotions, a quiet longing he refused to admit even to himself. He told himself Akari was just like that, her laughter and her playful energy just the way she was with everyone, that he was imagining more than there really was.

Meanwhile, Natsumi had latched onto Mei with a teasing grin, peppering her with kisses whenever she could manage. Mei laughed, trying to run away dramatically through the water, but a sudden misstep sent her stumbling into the waves. The water splashed around her, and her laughter turned into a squeal as she floundered, prompting Natsumi to dive after her with playful urgency.

Sachi and Kamo were another spectacle entirely. The two had teamed up to splash Akari mercilessly, laughing as the water sprayed across her back and shoulders. Kamo’s green hair clung wetly to his forehead when he tripped over an unseen rock in the shallow water, tumbling into the waves with a dramatic gasp for air. Minami didn’t hesitate, wading in to help him upright, his calm expression contrasting Kamo’s exaggerated flailing. Everyone around them erupted into laughter at the sight, and Sachi, ever attentive, checked on Kamo before returning to the playful chaos with Akari.

The group spent the next hour indulging in a series of dumb but entertaining games—chicken fights, races along the shore, and impromptu challenges to see who could stay afloat the longest against waves. Jirou carried Akari in a brief, playful tug-of-war only to find her twisting and laughing against him, water dripping from her hair and cheeks flushed with excitement. Shiori, on the other hand, seemed to gravitate toward him in quieter moments, her hand brushing his as she caught her footing after a small stumble, a soft smile playing on her lips.

At one point, Minami held Sachi when she nearly fell during a chicken fight, his lips curving into a faint smile as he steadied her. Her laughter rang out bright and carefree, carrying over the waves, and for a brief second, the chaos of the beach—the splashing, the running, the shouts and playful insults—melted into something warm and easy.

Jirou moved between the two, unable to focus fully on either without guilt tugging at him. Akari’s bright teasing, her competitive streak in the water, pulled him toward her instinctively, but Shiori’s quiet amusement, her subtle ways of leaning into him or brushing past him, held an equally strong draw. He tried to lose himself in the moment, telling himself to just enjoy the laughter, the saltwater, and the warmth of the sun on his back, but his heart betrayed him with every glance, every accidental touch.

Natsumi and Mei had finally settled into the shallows, water lapping at their knees as they caught their breath, giggling at their own antics. The splashes and squeals of the others continued around them, a cacophony of youthful energy that made the entire scene feel vibrant, almost surreal in its joy.

Sachi, still soaked, had joined Akari for a playful duel of splashing waves at each other. Their competitive streaks matched perfectly, and the two seemed determined to soak everyone around them in the process. Kamo, still recovering from his earlier tumble, was cautiously navigating around, but inevitably got caught in a wave or two, prompting more laughter from everyone.

Jirou, careful not to get pulled too far, helped Akari when she slipped slightly on a slick patch of sand, steadying her hand. Her eyes sparkled with gratitude, though she didn’t say anything, letting the connection linger for just a moment before the next wave distracted them.

Shiori splashed water toward him playfully, ducking behind a small wave and laughing as Jirou feigned dramatic defeat, hands thrown in the air. He grinned, feeling the lightness of the day and the ease of being with both Akari and Shiori in this chaotic, sunlit environment.

Minami and Sachi had wandered toward the shallower side, inventing a mock race to see who could hop from wave to wave without getting wet. Their shouts carried, punctuated by laughter and feigned complaints when someone inevitably fell in.

Jirou tried to focus on Shiori for a few minutes, holding her hand to help her stay balanced as the water tugged at her feet. Her smile was bright, unguarded, and for a moment, he almost forgot Akari was only a few steps away, teasing him from the water with a mischievous grin.

Akari, noticing his attention drift, made sure to splash him lightly, drawing a laugh from Jirou and a playful glare. “Don’t ignore me!” she shouted, spinning in a circle to make sure some water hit him.

He wiped the spray from his face, shaking his head, caught in the middle of the tug-of-war between the two. Shiori’s quiet charm and laughter pulled him in one direction, Akari’s teasing energy and warmth pulled him in another. Both were impossible to resist.

The waves crashed around them, relentless and energetic, mirroring the tangled emotions inside Jirou. He found himself alternating between the two, helping each when they stumbled, sharing small jokes and laughs, all while feeling his chest tighten in ways he refused to acknowledge.

Even as the group played dumb games—chicken fights, races, mock battles in the shallow surf—Jirou’s heart seemed to stretch between two points, never fully settled, a quiet tension beneath the carefree laughter.

At one point, Minami had to steady Sachi once more, her laughter infectious as she leaned into him, and Jirou found himself smiling at the simple happiness of his friends. The air was filled with salt, laughter, and the faint scent of sunscreen, a cocktail of summer that made every splash and shout seem vivid and alive.

Kamo, now more careful, tried to join a game of tag but was immediately outmaneuvered by Akari, who darted around him with surprising speed for someone still dripping with seawater.

Jirou followed, helping her dodge and dive under splashes from others, laughing despite himself. The energy was intoxicating, the moment suspended in the heat of the sun and the cool touch of the waves.

Shiori eventually waded closer to him, brushing past his arm accidentally—or maybe not—and catching his eye with a faint, teasing smile. His chest clenched at the subtle gesture, a reminder of the pull he felt toward her.

Akari, sensing the same attention, made sure to nudge him playfully with her shoulder, her voice calling out, “Careful! You’re supposed to be helping me, not staring off!”

Jirou shook his head, laughing, caught in the middle of their playful rivalry. He felt torn, exhilarated, and strangely anxious all at once, unable to admit to himself that his heart wanted both—wanted Shiori’s gentle, teasing touch and Akari’s bold, teasing energy.

The afternoon stretched on in this chaotic harmony. Laughter, splashes, and teasing filled the air, each moment layered with unspoken emotions and quiet, fleeting connections that made Jirou’s chest feel impossibly tight and light at the same time.

By the time the sun began to lean toward the horizon, the group had collapsed onto the sand, exhausted and sticky with saltwater. Jirou sat between Akari and Shiori, each of them leaning against him at different points, the warmth of their bodies a constant, gentle pressure that made his heart race.

He let out a long sigh, brushing sand from his legs, and realized that no matter how much he tried to focus on just one, the pull toward both of them was undeniable. He would never admit it, not even to himself, but the truth was clear: his heart belonged, in some way, to both Akari and Shiori.

And yet, as he leaned back against the umbrella pole, watching the last few waves lap against the shore, he told himself one more time that Akari was just like that. She was his friend. That was all.

Natsumi leaned up again, pressing a quick, playful kiss to Mei’s lips. Mei laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Your mouth is red now,” she teased, her voice light.

“Shut up!” Natsumi giggled, swatting at her friend’s arm.

Mei grinned, leaning in to peck her again. “Love you too. Red mouth and all.”

Natsumi playfully shoved her away, laughing, and Mei fell back slightly, still smiling. Around them, the sun reflected off the waves, throwing specks of light across the sand and making the whole scene feel warm and lazy.

A few feet away, Minami crouched beside Sachi, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Did you put on your sunscreen?” he asked, his tone calm but careful, like he was checking on something important.

Sachi rolled her eyes dramatically. “Yes, Dad, I remembered sunscreen,” she said with mock indignation.

Minami smiled quietly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the sunlight.

Sachi’s gaze met his for a moment, sharp but affectionate. “Don’t look at me like that, idiot,” she said, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Just making sure you’re not turning into Roast Sachi,” Minami said, shrugging casually while his eyes flicked to the horizon, where the waves rolled in lazily.

Sachi shook her head but didn’t pull away. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her tone was softer now. She shifted on her towel, propping herself up on her elbows to watch Natsumi and Mei nearby. The two were still laughing and teasing each other, and Sachi found herself smiling despite herself.

Minami stood slowly, stretching his arms above his head, and glanced back at her. “We should probably grab another round of drinks soon,” he suggested. “It’s getting hotter out here.”

Sachi huffed, sitting back with a small grin. “Fine, but you’re carrying mine too,” she teased.

Minami chuckled and held out his hand to help her up. She took it, standing beside him, brushing sand off her legs. They started walking toward the cooler, and the soft crunch of sand under their feet blended with the distant shouts and laughter from the others still in the water.

Meanwhile, Jirou adjusted the umbrella beside Akari, keeping an eye on her as she lounged with her lemonade. She was fanning herself lazily now, clearly comfortable, but her gaze kept flicking toward Shiori, who was sitting a few feet away, sipping iced tea and smiling faintly to herself.

Jirou felt a tug in his chest, the familiar pull of divided attention. Akari leaned back, stretching her arms behind her head, and gave him a small, playful nudge. “Hey, grab me another sip, will you?” she asked, voice casual but warm.

He handed her the drink, their fingers brushing briefly, and felt a small spark of tension along his arm. “Here,” he said quietly, trying not to let his attention wander toward Shiori.

Akari took the cup with a soft smile. “Thanks,” she murmured, and for a moment, Jirou caught himself just staring.

Nearby, Minami and Sachi had returned with the drinks. Minami handed Sachi her cherry soda while Mei distributed Natsumi’s slushie and her own energy drink. The rhythm of friends taking care of each other, even in little ways like this, felt grounding.

Natsumi leaned against Mei again, her slushie in hand, teasing her as she took a sip. “See, you’re red again,” she said, gesturing toward Mei’s lips with a laugh.

Mei rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible,” she said softly, pecking Natsumi lightly on the cheek as a counter-tease.

Sachi perched beside Minami on the towel, taking tiny sips of her soda while glancing at the others. “You all are ridiculous,” she said, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards.

Jirou sighed quietly, watching the waves glint in the afternoon sun. He felt Akari stretch out beside him, the warmth from her proximity lingering on his arm. Shiori’s calm gaze from her spot nearby drew his eyes as well, and he realized he couldn’t look away without noticing the contrast—the quiet serenity of Shiori and the playful energy of Akari.

Akari nudged him again. “Hey, pay attention,” she said, playful but soft, bringing him back to the present.

He blinked and nodded, taking a small sip from his iced tea, focusing on the warmth of the sun, the laughter around them, and the subtle closeness he shared with both girls. It was a complicated tug-of-war, but for now, the sounds of summer, friendship, and playful affection filled the space, holding him in the moment.

Minami leaned back on his hands, scanning the water. “Think they’ll get tired of playing soon?” he asked Sachi.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ll be at it until sunset, at least.”

Jirou tilted his head toward the water, spotting Kamo splashing wildly and Natsumi shrieking as she dodged a particularly large wave. He smiled faintly, seeing the group in their natural chaos, laughter spilling freely in all directions.

Akari leaned into him, sipping her lemonade slowly. “I like this,” she murmured, voice soft. “Being here… like this.”

Jirou nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face without thinking. “Yeah,” he agreed, letting himself relax into the moment, even as his thoughts still flickered briefly to Shiori.

Mei laughed quietly at something Natsumi said, and the sound made Jirou’s gaze flick toward her again. The warmth in his chest grew confusing, tugging him in multiple directions at once.

Sachi shook her head, smiling at Minami. “You’re way too calm for this chaos,” she teased.

Minami chuckled softly, not looking away from the horizon. “Someone has to keep an eye on the tide,” he said with a shrug, though there was warmth in his tone.

Akari rested her head lightly against Jirou’s shoulder, making him tense just a little, though he forced himself to stay composed. “Don’t move,” she murmured.

He didn’t, letting her rest there for a while, the small weight of her presence grounding him as the waves lapped against the shore in a steady rhythm.

From the water, laughter and shouts continued, a symphony of playful chaos, while on the sand, the quieter conversations and shared smiles wove a different kind of warmth.

Jirou exhaled slowly, taking it all in: the sun on his back, the scent of salt and sunscreen, the playful shouts, the gentle teasing, the quiet moments of closeness. It was overwhelming in the best possible way.

Akari tilted her head, meeting his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the world shrank to just the two of them. Then, as if remembering the chaos around them, she laughed softly and leaned back again, her hand brushing against his.

He let it linger, unwilling to pull away, even as his eyes flickered toward Shiori once more. Both were here, both needed his attention, and both made him feel like he was exactly where he belonged.

The sun continued its climb, the day stretching long and warm, and the group, in all its disarray and harmony, carried on with laughter, shared drinks, playful nudges, and the quiet intimacy that only close friends—or something closer—could have.

For Jirou, the afternoon was a blur of movement, warmth, laughter, and subtle longing, but also a rare moment of stillness, a chance to simply be with the people he cared about most.

The group’s last swim of the afternoon quickly turned into a chaotic symphony of splashes, laughter, and playful shoves. Jirou and Kamo were at it immediately, trying to balance each other on floating boards, only to tumble into the water with a spectacular crash, sending waves and salty spray flying in every direction.

Akari and Sachi teamed up, ganging up on Natsumi with a coordinated splash attack that sent the redhead shrieking and spluttering, her laughter echoing over the gentle roar of the sea. Mei and Shiori weren’t far behind, teasing each other and nudging one another with small, playful pushes, their shrieks of surprise blending with the overall din.

Jirou found himself caught between keeping balance, dodging incoming splashes, and sneaking glances at Akari whenever she wasn’t looking. She laughed loudly, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks, droplets glinting in the sunlight like tiny jewels. His heart thudded with every laugh she let out, and yet he also couldn’t ignore Shiori’s warm smile as she ducked under a wave, teasingly flicking water at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Minami, ever the steady one, kept a protective eye on Sachi, laughing quietly as she stumbled and squealed at his careful lifts to keep her from toppling over. “Careful there,” he said, grinning, “wouldn’t want you turning into Roast Sachi again.”

Sachi rolled her eyes, but her laughter was bright, unrestrained. “Shut up, idiot,” she shouted, pretending to push him away, though she leaned against him again almost immediately.

Natsumi was gasping for air, her laughter breaking into wheezing hiccups as she tried to dodge Akari and Sachi’s relentless splashing. Mei, trying to protect her from being completely soaked, ended up being dragged into the chaos herself, shrieking and laughing as she fell into the water with Natsumi on her back.

The sounds of their antics—the crashes, the laughter, the occasional gasp of someone thrown off balance—blended into a joyful cacophony, punctuated by the rhythmic lap of waves against the shore. Even Jirou couldn’t stop grinning, his laughter catching in his throat as he helped Akari regain her footing after a particularly bold tumble.

At one point, all four—Jirou, Kamo, Akari, and Shiori—ended up in a tangled heap in the shallows, wriggling and splashing, each trying to claim playful dominance over the others. The struggle was lighthearted, messy, and exhausting, with water spraying in every direction.

Akari’s laugh rang above the others, bright and contagious, as she wriggled free for a moment only to be pulled back into the fray by Shiori. Jirou groaned, laughing as he tried to keep his balance while still holding onto both of them, the chaos almost too much to navigate.

Even Minami and Sachi, who had been comparatively calm, got caught up in the energy, Sachi squealing as Minami lifted her slightly too high in a playful toss, careful enough not to drop her but still eliciting a delighted shriek.

Natsumi finally collapsed into the shallow water, her shoulders shaking with laughter, gasping between wheezes. “Okay! Okay! You guys win!” she managed to say, though she immediately got up to join the next round anyway.

The waves reflected the afternoon sunlight, sparkling like shattered glass, and each splash sent droplets flying onto everyone nearby, glinting in the light. Their hair clung in damp strands to their faces, the salty water making noses wrinkle, and clothes and swimsuits were soaked through, yet no one seemed to care.

Shiori sneaked a playful splash at Jirou, catching him off guard and earning a mock glare from him that made Akari laugh even harder. Jirou’s blush spread across his cheeks as he retaliated with a small splash back, careful not to hit Shiori too hard.

Akari, noticing his hesitation, leaned closer and whispered something teasingly under her breath, making him stumble and laugh, which sent a wave of water slapping against their feet.

Kamo, still trying to balance himself after earlier tumbles, yelled dramatically as he was pulled off his feet by Minami’s careful grip, flailing wildly before landing in the shallow surf with a splash.

Mei and Natsumi had joined forces for a brief “tandem attack” on the boys, and their combined splashes had Jirou, Kamo, and Minami sputtering and laughing, dodging where they could, though it was largely futile.

The chaos continued, with everyone periodically toppling over, splashing, and shrieking in delight. Even the seagulls hovering above seemed momentarily startled by the noise and flurry of movement.

Finally, Akari leaned against Jirou’s shoulder, breathless from laughter, her hair plastered to her cheeks and neck, water dripping from the tips. He wrapped an arm loosely around her to steady her, grinning down at her flushed face.

Shiori, nearby, wiped water from her eyes and laughed, the sound blending with Akari’s as she glanced at Jirou and gave him a teasing little nudge. He felt himself caught in the center of both of them, heart racing, laughter still catching in his throat.

Sachi finally slumped against Minami, cheeks pink and hair damp, her soda long forgotten at her side. “Okay,” she said, laughing softly, “I give up. That was… exhausting.”

Minami smiled down at her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “See? Told you I was keeping an eye on you.”

Natsumi, still giggling, shook water out of her hair, then turned to Mei. “Next time, I’m definitely winning the water fight.”

Mei grinned. “We’ll see about that,” she said, still catching her breath.

Jirou took a step back, allowing the others some space, and exhaled, watching the group in their wet, sun-soaked chaos. Even though he felt pulled in different directions, torn between the playful energy of Akari and the serene warmth of Shiori, he couldn’t deny that the moment itself—the laughter, the splashes, the camaraderie—was perfect.

The sun dipped slightly lower in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the water as the group slowly made their way back to the shore, towels in hand, hair plastered and swimsuits sticking uncomfortably but with no one seeming to care.

Akari grinned at him, brushing wet hair from her face. “That was fun,” she said, eyes sparkling.

Jirou nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he said softly, his gaze flicking toward Shiori briefly before returning to Akari.

Shiori waved at him, a small smile on her face, and he felt a pull in his chest—simultaneously light and heavy, the complexity of feelings pressing against the easy joy of the day.

The group gathered their things, laughing at minor stumbles and playful nudges as they headed back toward their cottages, the sound of their voices mingling with the gentle crash of waves, carrying the memories of a day spent entirely in laughter, friendship, and the messy, beautiful chaos of youth.

By the time they reached the boardwalk, everyone was dripping wet but smiling, exhausted from laughter and playful competition, ready to wind down and share stories of the day that would surely be retold with exaggeration and laughter for many nights to come.

Even Jirou, who had spent the day tugged between Akari and Shiori, felt a sense of warmth and contentment settle in his chest, knowing that, despite the chaos, they had all shared a perfect afternoon together.

The sun hung low, promising a cooler evening, but none of them seemed to notice yet—they were still caught in the afterglow of laughter, splashes, and the salty, sun-warmed magic of a perfect day at the beach.

When Akari finally stepped out of the bathroom, steam followed her into the room, curling lazily through the air. She was barefoot, her skin still glistening slightly from the shower, and her damp hair was wrapped up in a towel in that intricate way Jirou could never quite figure out. What caught him off guard, though, wasn’t the towel—it was the fact that she was wearing his shirt.

It was one of his older ones, soft and oversized, the fabric hanging loosely off her frame. On her, it looked more like a dress, brushing against her thighs as she moved across the room to grab her phone. The sight made Jirou’s brain short-circuit for a moment, heat creeping up his neck.

“Where’d you even get my shirt from?” he managed to stammer, voice cracking slightly as she turned to face him.

Akari paused, looked down at herself, then smirked. “This?” she asked innocently, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “It was just hanging in your closet. You weren’t using it.”

“That’s—” Jirou started, his face reddening by the second. “That’s not the point!”

Akari’s grin widened as she took a few slow, teasing steps toward him. “Oh my god,” she said, her voice laced with laughter. “You totally went tomato mode again!”

“Shut up!” Jirou blurted, his hands flying to cover his burning face, which only made her laugh harder.

“Aw, don’t be shy,” Akari cooed, her tone dripping with amusement. She wrapped her arms around his neck before he could back away, pressing herself close enough that he froze completely. Her voice dropped to a playful whisper, warm and taunting against his ear. “Do you like it when I wear your clothes, Mr. Jirou?”

Jirou’s mind went blank. His entire body tensed, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. “Wha— I— What are you—”

Akari’s grin grew sly. “Should I call you Mr. Jirou? Or…” she leaned in closer, her breath tickling the side of his neck, “…do you prefer daddy?”

If his brain had been functioning before, it definitely wasn’t now. His internal monologue screamed at him to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled sound halfway between a word and a gasp. His face was practically glowing red.

“Or maybe…” Akari continued, her tone lilting with mock innocence, “Master Jirou?” She giggled softly, her lips dangerously close to his skin. “Does that one sound better?”

“Akari—” Jirou finally managed to choke out, though it came out more like a plea than a protest.

“Yeah?” she whispered, pulling back just enough for her nose to brush his, their faces barely inches apart. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she murmured, “You’re blushing, baby.”

The word baby nearly made him combust on the spot.

Jirou stumbled back so fast he nearly tripped over the coffee table. “D-don’t— don’t call me that!” he stammered, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Or any of those! Just— stop doing that!”

Akari doubled over laughing, clutching her stomach as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god, Jirou, you should see your face right now! You look hilarious!”

“It’s not funny!” he snapped, his voice high and panicked as he tried to compose himself, though the deep blush wasn’t helping his case.

“It totally is,” she managed between bursts of laughter, sinking onto the couch with a grin so wide it nearly split her face. “You’re so easy to mess with, it’s honestly unfair.”

Jirou groaned loudly, dragging his hands down his face as if to physically wipe the embarrassment away. “I swear, one day you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Akari only smirked, propping her chin in her hand as she looked him up and down. “Aw, you’ll survive, Mr. Jirou,” she said teasingly. “Besides… it’s kinda cute when you blush like that.”

He froze again, and she laughed even harder.

Akari disappeared into their room with the same energy she always carried after teasing him — triumphant, humming to herself like she’d just won some kind of invisible battle. Jirou watched her go, still half in shock and half in denial about how close she’d just been to him. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his heartbeat before muttering under his breath.

From inside the room, he could already hear the faint sounds of bottles clinking, drawers opening, and Akari mumbling to herself about moisturizers and serums. He could picture it perfectly — the chaos of her routine laid out across the dresser like some kind of ritual. Every product had its own purpose: one for hydrating, one for brightening, one for “barrier repair” (whatever that meant). He had once made the mistake of asking if they all did the same thing, and she hadn’t spoken to him for two hours.

Meanwhile, Jirou stood in the kitchen gripping the edge of the counter like it had personally wronged him. His reflection in the microwave door looked as flustered as he felt. He could still feel her warmth lingering against his skin, her breath ghosting over his ear, the way her voice had dropped when she said those words.

“Why is she like this?” he muttered, scrubbing at the countertop with unnecessary aggression. The sponge squeaked against the surface as if mocking him. “She does this on purpose. Has to. No normal person just— just says stuff like that.”

From down the hall came a muffled hum — Akari singing along to some pop song, probably halfway through her nightly skincare ritual. He could practically hear her voice rise and fall as she brushed her hair or applied one of those weird clay masks that made her look like a ghost. The last time she’d worn one, he’d accidentally walked in, screamed, and nearly dropped his phone. She’d laughed about it for days.

Jirou sighed, abandoning the sponge and bracing his hands on the counter. He tried to focus on something — anything — else, but his brain refused to cooperate. No matter how hard he scrubbed or how much he tried to distract himself with mindless chores, the memory of her leaning close kept replaying in vivid detail.

Her voice. Her scent. Her laughter. The way she’d looked at him like she knew exactly how flustered he was and enjoyed every second of it.

He exhaled sharply and grabbed a dish towel just to give his hands something to do. “Get a grip,” he muttered. “It’s just Akari. She’s always been like that.”

But the words didn’t convince him. They felt hollow.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and he glanced up. Akari stepped out with her hair still slightly damp and tied into a loose braid, her skin glowing from whatever mysterious skincare potion she’d just used. There was a faint pink tint on her cheeks and a satisfied smile on her lips.

“Much better,” she said, stretching her arms above her head. “See? Self-care makes everything better.”

Jirou froze mid-wipe, the towel hanging limply in his hand.

She smirked when she saw his expression. “Still cleaning? What, trying to scrub away your embarrassment?”

He turned bright red all over again. “Shut up!” he snapped, tossing the towel onto the counter and avoiding her gaze.

Akari laughed, light and effortless, brushing past him to grab a drink from the fridge. The scent of her conditioner lingered in the air as she moved.

“Relax, Mr. Jirou,” she teased softly, her voice dipping just enough to make his pulse skip again. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the counter if you keep cleaning it like that.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the floor, “it’s better than losing my mind because someone doesn’t know what personal space is.”

Akari only grinned, taking a sip from her glass before heading back toward their room. “You love it,” she said over her shoulder.

Jirou groaned, burying his face in his hands as her laughter echoed down the hall. “No, I don’t,” he mumbled. But the small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth told a very different story.

Akari disappeared into their room with the same energy she always carried after teasing him — triumphant, humming to herself like she’d just won some kind of invisible battle. Jirou watched her go, still half in shock and half in denial about how close she’d just been to him. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his heartbeat before muttering under his breath.

From inside the room, he could already hear the faint sounds of bottles clinking, drawers opening, and Akari mumbling to herself about moisturizers and serums. He could picture it perfectly — the chaos of her routine laid out across the dresser like some kind of ritual. Every product had its own purpose: one for hydrating, one for brightening, one for “barrier repair” (whatever that meant). He had once made the mistake of asking if they all did the same thing, and she hadn’t spoken to him for two hours.

Meanwhile, Jirou stood in the kitchen gripping the edge of the counter like it had personally wronged him. His reflection in the microwave door looked as flustered as he felt. He could still feel her warmth lingering against his skin, her breath ghosting over his ear, the way her voice had dropped when she said those words.

“Why is she like this?” he muttered, scrubbing at the countertop with unnecessary aggression. The sponge squeaked against the surface as if mocking him. “She does this on purpose. Has to. No normal person just— just says stuff like that.”

From down the hall came a muffled hum — Akari singing along to some pop song, probably halfway through her nightly skincare ritual. He could practically hear her voice rise and fall as she brushed her hair or applied one of those weird clay masks that made her look like a ghost. The last time she’d worn one, he’d accidentally walked in, screamed, and nearly dropped his phone. She’d laughed about it for days.

Jirou sighed, abandoning the sponge and bracing his hands on the counter. He tried to focus on something — anything — else, but his brain refused to cooperate. No matter how hard he scrubbed or how much he tried to distract himself with mindless chores, the memory of her leaning close kept replaying in vivid detail.

Her voice. Her scent. Her laughter. The way she’d looked at him like she knew exactly how flustered he was and enjoyed every second of it.

He exhaled sharply and grabbed a dish towel just to give his hands something to do. “Get a grip,” he muttered. “It’s just Akari. She’s always been like that.”

But the words didn’t convince him. They felt hollow.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and he glanced up. Akari stepped out with her hair still slightly damp and tied into a loose braid, her skin glowing from whatever mysterious skincare potion she’d just used. There was a faint pink tint on her cheeks and a satisfied smile on her lips.

“Much better,” she said, stretching her arms above her head. “See? Self-care makes everything better.”

Jirou froze mid-wipe, the towel hanging limply in his hand.

She smirked when she saw his expression. “Still cleaning? What, trying to scrub away your embarrassment?”

He turned bright red all over again. “Shut up!” he snapped, tossing the towel onto the counter and avoiding her gaze.

Akari laughed, light and effortless, brushing past him to grab a drink from the fridge. The scent of her conditioner lingered in the air as she moved.

“Relax, Mr. Jirou,” she teased softly, her voice dipping just enough to make his pulse skip again. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the counter if you keep cleaning it like that.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the floor, “it’s better than losing my mind because someone doesn’t know what personal space is.”

Akari only grinned, taking a sip from her glass before heading back toward their room. “You love it,” she said over her shoulder.

Jirou groaned, burying his face in his hands as her laughter echoed down the hall. “No, I don’t,” he mumbled. But the small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth told a very different story.

 

The group erupted into laughter as the suggestion to play a game was made, the energy around the bonfire immediately shifting from casual chatter to playful excitement. “We should play a game!” someone shouted, and the cheers that followed were almost deafening against the sound of the waves. After a brief, good-natured argument over what to play, they settled on “Never Have I Ever,” the rules quickly expanding as they decided to add a twist: anyone who drank had to tell the story behind their confession. The teachers had wandered off to their cabins or wherever teachers went when the students weren’t around, leaving the group free to indulge in the mischief of the night.

A few of them eyed the drinks nervously—Jirou included—but Akari, sitting close enough for him to feel the warmth of her arm brushing against his, couldn’t resist teasing him. “Oh come on, don’t be boring,” she murmured with a grin that made him flush. He rolled his eyes and reluctantly opened a can, only to find that the drinks were non-alcoholic. Part of him was relieved; part of him was secretly annoyed that she had gotten under his skin enough to make him play along.

As the game progressed, the atmosphere shifted subtly but unmistakably. Those who had taken more than a few sips began to sway slightly, their words slurring into giggles and exaggerated gestures. The energy was infectious; even those who had abstained from the stronger drinks seemed to move a little quicker, laugh a little louder, and tease a little more boldly—whether it was the caffeine, the sugar, or simply the excitement of the night, it didn’t matter.

Akari leaned into him, her cheeks flushed a deep pink, eyes sparkling from both the heat of the fire and the alcohol she had consumed. She clung lightly to his arm when the wind picked up, swaying slightly as she laughed at something Kamo had said. Jirou wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her, though inwardly he felt a mixture of irritation and fondness at how carefree she was, so different from her usually precise and composed demeanor.

When it was his turn, the prompt came: “Never have I ever snuck out after midnight.” Jirou hesitated just a moment before taking a sip, and Akari’s reaction was instantaneous. She leaned toward him, eyes wide, her voice trembling with playful incredulity. “Wait, seriously?! What were you even doing?”

“That’s not important,” Jirou said, his face tinged with a light blush, the warmth from the fire mixing with his embarrassment.

The group groaned dramatically, voices overlapping as they pressed for details. “What do you mean it’s not important?!” “Come on, man!” “We need the full story!”

Jirou rolled his eyes, taking another sip to buy himself a moment. “Fine, alright. I snuck out one time to go to Tokyo while my mom was on a business trip. I thought I’d be in so much trouble if I got caught. The train got delayed on the way back, and I nearly didn’t make it home in time.”

“Wait, what?” Natsumi asked, giggling through her disbelief. “You couldn’t just eat at home?”

“Tell the whole story, man,” Minami encouraged, nudging him with an elbow and laughing.

Jirou exhaled and began recounting, his voice steady despite the blush creeping up his neck. “I wanted to go to Tokyo, but my mom said no, so I started planning for the next time she went on a trip. I collected all the money I could—mowed lawns, did small chores—and eventually bought a train ticket. The trip didn’t happen immediately, of course, because she didn’t leave for a while, so I waited.” He paused, taking a careful sip of his drink as the group leaned in, their faces a mix of amusement and incredulity.

“Where was your dad in all this?” Kamo asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

“He was working the night shift—you were with me, actually,” Jirou replied, pointing to Kamo, who immediately burst into laughter at the memory. “We stayed in a capsule hotel for a few days because it was the only place that didn’t ask a million questions, and I wasn’t about to sleep in a love hotel with him. I told my parents I was staying over at your place, Kamo, and when we came back the train got delayed. I almost didn’t make it home in time.”

The group erupted into more laughter, disbelief echoing around the fire. Natsumi wiped tears from her eyes, still giggling. “Why didn’t you just sneak out to a normal party or something like a normal person?”

Jirou groaned, leaning back against the sand with a tired smile. “Because, apparently, I don’t do anything the easy way,” he muttered, taking another long sip of his drink.

The group erupted into laughter, some covering their mouths with their hands while others shook their heads in disbelief. Akari leaned closer to Jirou, still clinging to his arm, her flushed cheeks pressed slightly against his shoulder as she giggled. “Wait, seriously? You went all the way to Tokyo… and didn’t tell anyone?” she asked, her voice half teasing, half incredulous.

Jirou groaned, burying his face in his hand for a moment. “Yes! I wasn’t about to tell anyone, okay? It was… complicated,” he muttered, though there was a faint smirk on his lips.

“Complicated? That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen!” Shiori said softly, though her tone carried amusement rather than scolding. She leaned a little closer to him, her eyes bright in the firelight.

Jirou glanced at Shiori, her gentle curiosity making his cheeks warm slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to decide how much to admit. “It kind of… was,” he said finally, taking another careful sip of his drink. “The train was late, the hotel was cramped, and I had no idea if I’d get caught when I got home.I was terrified! Every person I passed could’ve been my mom’s friend or some inspector or—” he groaned, taking another sip to mask his embarrassment.

“Sounds like something out of a movie!” Natsumi exclaimed, clapping her hands together. She leaned toward Mei, who was grinning, her own drink in hand. “You’re ridiculous, Jirou! And honestly, kinda brave.”

“Brave? Maybe stupid,” Jirou muttered, rolling his eyes but unable to hide a small grin. Akari, still clutching his arm, laughed softly against his shoulder, the sound making him look down at her. Her flushed cheeks from the alcohol made her seem younger somehow, more mischievous, and he had to resist the urge to pinch them playfully.

Minami snorted beside Sachi, who was shaking her head and giggling quietly. “You seriously thought everyone you saw was your mom’s friend?” Minami asked, mock disbelief dripping from his voice. “Dude, that’s paranoid level expert.”

“I didn’t want to risk it!” Jirou said defensively, holding his hands up. “I didn’t know anyone would be there to warn me. And yes, every single person looked suspicious in my eyes!” He gave a dramatic shrug, earning laughter from half the circle.

Natsumi giggled, leaning on Mei’s shoulder. “I mean, you literally went rogue, though. That’s impressive in its own chaotic way.” She grinned mischievously. “I would’ve been too scared to even leave town.”

“You were scared!” Akari whispered, giggling into his arm. “I can see it now—little Jirou, sweating bullets on the train.” she sat up quickly adding “You were sweating bullets on a bullet train!” which only cause more drunken giggles

Jirou’s jaw tightened. “Not helpful, Akari,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. He couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at his lips.

Shiori chuckled softly, leaning closer. “It’s kind of amazing though, in a reckless, heroic way,” she said, nudging his shoulder gently. “You actually went and did it. Most people just talk themselves out of it.”

Jirou swallowed, looking down at the glow of the fire dancing across the sand. “Yeah… well, I learned my lesson,” he admitted quietly, though the smirk lingered. “Never underestimate the ability of trains to ruin your life.”

Akari giggled again, resting her head lightly against his shoulder. “So all this time you’ve been a little rogue adventurer… and I didn’t know?” she teased, her tone playful but soft.

“I—It was only once!” Jirou said quickly, waving a hand. “And it’s not like I didn’t nearly die from nerves. My heart was pounding the whole way home.” He took another sip, trying to mask the way his fingers were trembling slightly from the combination of nerves and the alcohol.

Shiori giggled softly, her tone light and amused. “You really went through all that just to sneak away… I kind of admire the dedication.” Her eyes sparkled in the firelight, and Jirou felt his stomach tighten at the attention.

“Dedication? Yeah, let’s call it that,” he muttered, trying to sound casual, though he could feel Akari’s warmth next to him and the weight of her gaze making him self-conscious.

Natsumi leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So… you were basically living this secret double life for a while? That’s kind of impressive, actually.” She grinned, nudging Mei playfully with her shoulder.

Mei laughed, shaking her head. “Only Jirou could turn a single trip to Tokyo into a full-blown saga like this.”

Jirou groaned into his hand again, feeling like he’d just confessed to the entire class. “It wasn’t that dramatic, I swear,” he muttered, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

Akari tilted her head, looking at him with a teasing glint. “Not dramatic? You went to a different city, stayed in a hotel, tricked your parents… you call that not dramatic?” She squeezed his arm gently, still flushed and giggling, and he felt his heart skip.

Shiori’s soft laugh floated beside him, her hand brushing against his lightly as she adjusted her own drink. “It’s definitely a story worth telling,” she said. Her voice was quiet but steady, making him glance at her, meeting her calm, observant eyes.

Kamo had finally caught his breath and chimed in, still grinning. “Honestly, man, you should’ve taken us with you. Could’ve been a real adventure!”

“Yeah, right,” Jirou muttered, shaking his head. “You bailed on me last minute!” The group erupted in laughter, some covering their mouths, some leaning back on their hands in the sand, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the night.

Minami chuckled, handing Sachi a marshmallow that was just on the brink of burning. “Sounds like you were basically living on the edge, Jirou. Adventure style.”

“I was terrified, not living on the edge,” Jirou said quickly, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

Akari laughed so hard she clutched his arm tighter, nearly making him stumble as he tried to steady her. “Terrified but heroic!” she said, poking him lightly in the ribs. “Exactly my type!”

Jirou groaned, muttering under his breath, but he couldn’t hide the faint smile that crept onto his face.

Shiori watched him quietly, a soft smile on her lips. “You really went through a lot to see Tokyo on your own,” she murmured, her tone gentle. “It’s kind of… admirable.”

“Admirable? Or foolish?” Jirou said with mock offense, raising his drink. “Because I definitely would not recommend this as a life choice.”

“Both,” Shiori said softly, laughing. “Definitely both.”

The group continued playing, laughter ringing through the night as marshmallows melted, drinks were sipped, and stories bounced around. Akari stayed close to Jirou, still flushed and giggling, while he wrapped a steadying arm around her shoulders. Shiori stayed just as close on the other side, and Jirou found himself caught in the quiet tension of wanting to be attentive to both of them.

The fire crackled, sending sparks up into the dark sky, and the sound of waves lapping against the shore mingled with the chatter and laughter. Each “Never Have I Ever” round brought another confession, another bout of teasing, and another round of laughter.

At one point, Akari whispered something in his ear, making him blink and shift slightly, trying to hide his reaction from the rest of the group. Shiori caught the glance, giving him a faint knowing smile that made his chest tighten.

Jirou took a deep breath, trying to focus on keeping his balance on the sand while holding Akari steady. Her warmth was almost distracting, but he didn’t pull away. He knew she was tipsy, and the firelight made her skin glow softly.

He stole a glance at Shiori again, her marshmallow now perfectly golden, her eyes reflecting the flames. She laughed quietly at someone else’s story, and he felt the familiar tug in his chest, the same pull he had felt all day at the beach.

“Okay, next round,” Minami called, holding up his drink. “And remember, the rule: if you drink, tell the story!”

Jirou sighed, raising his can reluctantly, though a tiny smile played on his lips. He was embarrassed, flushed, and a little tipsy himself, but he couldn’t help feeling content. The night was warm, chaotic, and full of the kind of laughter and closeness that made him feel… almost at home.

Akari leaned against him again, murmuring something about her own little adventure from earlier, and Jirou found himself chuckling despite himself. Shiori nudged him lightly, asking him to tell another story, and he realized, quietly, that he wouldn’t mind spending every night like this—sandy, salty, laughing, and caught between the two girls who made his heart race.

And for once, he let himself just be there, letting the firelight, laughter, and gentle pull of the ocean breeze carry him through the night.

"Okay, okay, never have I ever…” Sachi paused, her lips curling into a mischievous grin as everyone leaned in expectantly. The firelight flickered across her face, casting long shadows on the sand. “Eaten a tube of lip gloss and gone to the hospital thinking I was gonna die.”

The group immediately erupted into laughter. Akari’s eyes widened in horror, her jaw dropping before she groaned dramatically, covering her face with both hands. “Oh my god, you won’t stop bringing that up, Sachi!”

“What?” Sachi said, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her drink. “It’s iconic! We were all there for the meltdown!”

“I was twelve!” Akari cried, peeking through her fingers with a glare that only made the group laugh harder.

Jirou, mid-sip, snorted into his drink, nearly choking. “You—wait—you ate a tube of lip gloss?” he said between coughs, trying not to spill his can. His eyes were wide with disbelief, and his laughter came out in a stuttering mess.

Akari’s face went redder than the roses on her dress. “It wasn’t on purpose!” she shot back, jabbing a finger in Sachi’s direction. “It smelled like strawberries, okay? I didn’t know it was gonna taste like chemicals and regret!”

The entire circle was in hysterics now, some of them falling backward onto the sand, clutching their stomachs. Minami wheezed out a laugh and wiped his eyes. “You actually went to the hospital?”

“I thought I was dying!” Akari said defensively, crossing her arms. “My stomach hurt, and I panicked!”

“Oh my god,” Natsumi wheezed, tears streaming down her face. “What did you even tell the doctors?”

Akari slumped her shoulders in pure mortification. “That I thought I accidentally poisoned myself,” she muttered, her voice small.

Mei gasped for air between fits of laughter. “And what did they say?”

“They told me—” Akari exhaled heavily, “that lip gloss is non-toxic and that I should probably stop eating things that aren’t food!”

That did it. The group completely lost it again, the sound of their laughter echoing into the night. Even Jirou, trying his best to look composed, was clutching his side and doubled over.

“You seriously ate lip gloss and thought you were gonna die,” he managed to say through laughter, shaking his head. “That’s incredible.”

Akari puffed out her cheeks and glared at him, though her lips twitched like she wanted to laugh too. “Don’t you dare start,” she warned.

“Too late,” Jirou said, still grinning. “I can’t—oh my god, Akari, that’s so—”

She reached over and smacked his arm lightly, though there was no real force behind it. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side!” he said quickly, though his shoulders still shook with laughter. “I just—can’t believe that’s a real story.”

“Shut up!” she said, laughing now too despite herself. Her cheeks were still pink, and she tried to hide her smile behind her drink.

Kamo groaned, trying to catch his breath. “This is the best thing I’ve heard all night. Please tell me someone took a picture.”

“I wish we had!” Sachi said, cackling. “She was sitting there in the ER, pale as a ghost, telling the nurse, ‘I think I ate poison!’”

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” Akari said, lunging across the circle to try and cover Sachi’s mouth, but she was laughing too hard to really reach her.

The whole group dissolved again, and even Shiori—who usually laughed quietly—was doubled over, hiding her face behind her marshmallow stick. “Akari, that’s adorable,” she managed between giggles.

“Adorable?” Jirou echoed teasingly, giving Akari a side glance. “Yeah, adorable in a ‘needs supervision’ kind of way.”

“Don’t make me throw you into the ocean,” Akari said, narrowing her eyes.

“I’d like to see you try,” Jirou said, grinning.

“Challenge accepted,” she shot back instantly, her grin matching his.

The tension between them made the others laugh even harder, and Minami raised his can with a smirk. “Alright, note to self,” he said. “Never leave Akari unattended in a cosmetics store.”

“That’s it,” Akari said, standing up slightly and pretending to glare at him. “Next time, I’m doing your makeup with lip gloss and glitter.”

“You’d probably feed it to him, too!” Kamo shouted, earning another round of laughter.

Akari threw her hands up. “You’re all terrible!”

“And we love you for it!” Natsumi said, throwing an arm around her and pulling her back down to sit beside Jirou.

Akari sighed dramatically but couldn’t help smiling, her laughter bubbling up again as she leaned into Jirou’s shoulder. The firelight flickered across her face, her expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and amusement.

Jirou looked down at her, still grinning softly, his chest warming despite himself. “You really are something else,” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear.

Akari peeked up at him, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Yeah? And you still like me anyway,” she teased, bumping her shoulder against his.

Jirou looked away, his ears turning pink as he tried to hide his smile. The laughter of their classmates filled the night, the ocean waves lapping softly nearby. The teasing continued, stories flowed, and the fire burned bright — but Jirou couldn’t help thinking that, somehow, Akari’s ridiculous lip gloss story made the night feel a little more perfect.

"Okay, okay, I’m being serious now," Natsumi said, raising her hands with mock solemnity before flashing a mischievous grin. “Never have I ever gotten a detention because I told my teacher my dog ate my homework—even though I went to a boarding school that didn’t allow pets.”

There was a brief silence before a few people snorted with laughter.

Sachi groaned, already reaching for her bottle. “Are you serious?” she muttered, taking a long swig before setting it down with a thud. “Fine, fine, I’ll drink.”

Kamo leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Wait—hold on—you went to a boarding school?”

“Yeah,” Sachi replied, brushing her hair out of her face as she sat cross-legged. “It sucked. We had uniforms, curfews, inspections. The food was terrible. You couldn’t even sneak snacks without someone tattling.”

Mei tilted her head curiously. “But back up—your dog ate your homework? You said that confidently?”

“Confidence,” Sachi said, straight-faced, “is nine parts of the statement.”

That earned a few laughs from around the circle, though Akari was quick to jump in, smirking. “And the other part is not telling the teacher you live in a dorm with thirty other girls and there’s no possible way you even own a dog.”

Sachi turned bright red and buried her face in her hands as the group burst out laughing. “It was one time! I panicked, okay? I didn’t think she’d actually check!”

“She checked, didn’t she?” Natsumi said between laughs, leaning back on her hands.

“She did!” Sachi exclaimed, laughing now too. “She actually went to the dorm supervisor to ‘check on the wellbeing of my pet.’ I had to make up a story about how it ran away last week.”

“Did she buy it?” Mei asked, eyes wide with delight.

“Not even remotely,” Sachi said, her voice breaking from laughter. “I got detention and had to scrub the dining hall floors for two days.”

“Legendary,” Kamo said with a grin, raising his bottle toward her in mock salute. “To Sachi and her imaginary dog.”

Sachi groaned but clinked her bottle with his anyway, smiling. “May he rest in peace, wherever he’s imaginarily buried.”

The circle dissolved into another round of laughter, the room warm with shared amusement and the soft hum of background music as the game went on.

“Mind you,” Jirou continued through her laughter, her voice rising gleefully over the group’s chaos, “he was still a virgin when this went down! And—get this—he took another test the first time he hooked up with a girl!”

For half a second, there was silence. Then Natsumi completely lost it.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach as hysterical laughter burst out of her, tears already streaming down her cheeks. “You didn’t!” she howled, kicking her feet into the sand, her laughter echoing across the beach. “Kamo—oh my god—you did it again?!”

Kamo looked utterly mortified. His face was as red as the flickering bonfire, and he buried it in his hands, groaning loudly. “Jirou, why do you hate me?!” he groaned, muffled through his palms. “That was private!”

“That was too good not to share,” Jirou said between bursts of laughter, her eyes watering as she leaned against Shiori for balance. “You walked into my room holding that box like it was radioactive!”

Sachi had collapsed backward into the sand at this point, wheezing uncontrollably. “You mean to tell me—” she tried, gasping for air “—you actually thought you could get yourself pregnant twice?!”

“I didn’t think I could!” Kamo snapped back, flustered and laughing despite himself. “It’s called being cautious!”

Natsumi tried to calm down but failed miserably, clutching Mei’s arm again for support. “Cautious?!” she squeaked between giggles. “You’re like—like a walking cautionary tale!”

Even Mei, usually the composed one, was trembling with suppressed laughter, her cheeks flushed pink. “Kamo, that’s not caution,” she said, wiping her eyes, “that’s pure, weaponized anxiety.”

Across the fire, Shiori was trying—really trying—to hide her giggles behind her hands, her shoulders shaking. “Come on, guys,” she said softly, her voice muffled by her fingers. “Don’t make him feel too bad…” But it was already far too late—Kamo was slumped over in mock defeat, muttering something about “never trusting Jirou again.”

“You made me go to tokyo all by myself!” Jirou argued

“I was worried about getting caught!” Kamo snapped

“Don’t worry, Kamo,” Minami said, chuckling quietly as he stoked the fire with a stick. “At least we know you take safety seriously. And protection”

That somehow made it worse.

The entire group erupted once more, laughter spilling into the night air. Akari was laughing so hard she had to hold onto Jirou’s shoulder to steady herself, and even Kamo cracked a reluctant grin beneath the embarrassment. The bonfire crackled warmly beside them, the flames throwing flickers of orange light over their faces as their laughter carried down the beach—loud, carefree, and full of the kind of joy that could only come from friends teasing each other without malice.

The laughter around the fire had softened into a more easy, warm rhythm—one of those stretches of the night where everyone was relaxed enough to share anything, no matter how dumb or embarrassing.

Minami had just finished recounting a story that left the whole circle wheezing: the time he almost got hit by a car because he’d chased a piece of rubbish down a windy street like it was some kind of prized possession. “It was important trash!” he defended, holding up his hands as the group howled. “I’d written my name on it for a science project!”

Akari was doubled over laughing, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You chased it into traffic?! You could’ve died over garbage!”

“Not garbage, data,” Minami corrected with mock seriousness, which only made it worse.

From there, the confessions spiraled even further into ridiculousness. Jirou admitted to forging his mom’s signature once—“only once, and it was for a field trip, not anything bad!”— Kamo was gasping for air
Natsumi’s turn came, her cheeks pink from both laughter and the drink. “Never have I ever… gotten caught sneaking out because my heel broke.” She tapped the side of her foot with a smirk while Akari shared her own tale of failure, groaning into her hands as she remembered.

“I was trying to sneak out, right?” she said dramatically, “but my heel broke on the stupid garden path and I faceplanted right in front of the door. My mom opened it before I could even move.”

“That’s why you never wear stilettos when sneaking out!” Sachi laughed, throwing her hands up.

Akari nodded solemnly. “Lesson learned. Chunky heels forever.”

Then Akari took her turn, pausing dramatically before confessing, “Never have I ever… thought I could get pregnant with Mei’s baby.”

The entire group lost it. Mei immediately threw her head back laughing, her usually calm composure gone entirely. “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone that!”

“You seriously believed that?!” Kamo was gasping for air again

“I didn’t know how it worked!” Natsumi squealed, covering her face, laughing so hard she nearly fell into Mei’s lap. “We were like twelve!”

“And you believed her?” Sachi wheezed at Mei.

“I was twelve too!” Mei protested, laughter shaking her shoulders. “She said she was feeling weird, what was I supposed to think?! We held hands that one time on th field trip!”

“Yeah cause the teacher made you” Shiori added laughing

 

Shiori, gentle and calm as ever, smiled softly and said, “Never have I ever… skipped a class.” She sipped lightly, the action almost ceremonious in contrast to the chaos around her. The others teased her softly, calling it “criminal behavior,” though everyone knew she had only done it once, making it far more dramatic than it really was.

Eventually, when Minami told another one of his injury stories—a tale about how he once sprained his wrist trying to climb a fence to rescue a cat that wasn’t even stuck—Sachi leaned forward and squinted at him. “So that’s where you got that scar from?” she asked, pointing toward the faint mark just behind his ear.

Minami sighed and tilted his head slightly, brushing his hair aside to show it more clearly. The scar caught the firelight faintly, just a thin white line curving near his hairline. “Yeah. Clipped the metal edge when I slipped,” he said casually. “It’s not as dramatic as it looks.”

Shiori blinked, a little sheepish. “I always wondered about that,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to ask though—I thought it might be… insensitive.”

Minami gave a small smile, the kind that said he appreciated the thought. “Nah,” he said simply. “It’s kind of a dumb story anyway. Pretty on brand for me.”

Akari nudged him with a grin. “A dumb story, sure, but at least it’s a cool scar. Makes you look mysterious.”

“Yeah,” Jirou added, smirking. “Like a tragic backstory protagonist or something.”

Minami rolled his eyes, chuckling. “If by tragic you mean getting concussed chasing a cat, then sure.”

The group’s laughter rose again, echoing through the night. Between the firelight, the stars, and the easy closeness of shared secrets and teasing, it felt like one of those moments that would stick with all of them—ridiculous, heartfelt, and a little bit perfect.

By the time they were heading back to their cottages, the night had grown quiet, and the moonlight cast a soft glow over the sand and the scattered paths. The group was, to put it lightly, a bit too inebriated to be navigating anything as simple as a straight line. A few were barely able to take a step without swaying violently or almost face-planting into the sand, while others carried a more controlled but still unsteady tipsey sway.

Minami, steady despite his own slight tipsiness, gently supported Sachi as they walked. His hands rested on her waist, guiding her carefully along the winding path back to their cottage. Even with his guidance, they moved in a slightly crooked line, each step careful but clumsy, laughter spilling from both of them as they navigated the uneven terrain. Sachi occasionally leaned into him, giggling when he muttered something about her trying to trip him, though she could barely keep her balance herself.

Mei had attempted to carry Natsumi at one point, thinking it would be faster, but their plan failed spectacularly when Mei ran into a handrail and almost toppled over. Both ended up laughing hysterically, steadying themselves and deciding it was better to stumble their way back on foot than risk any more collisions.

Shu, in his own state of tipsy confusion, was convinced the trees were multiplying along the path, and Kamo had to hold onto him to keep him from wandering into one. Shu clutched Kamo tightly, narrating the “growing forest” with alarming seriousness, while Kamo groaned and tried to guide him forward, half-laughing and half-exasperated.

Shiori had taken Jirou’s arm, steadying him as he stumbled more times than either of them could count. He muttered apologies under his breath with each wobble, but Shiori just laughed softly, keeping him upright and teasing him lightly when he nearly tripped over the same patch of sand twice.

Akari, for her part, insisted she didn’t need help, clutching a handrail tightly as she made her own slightly staggered progress. “I’ve got this,” she declared with determination, swaying slightly as the wind tugged at her sun dress. She paused only occasionally to laugh at the rest of the group or call out playful warnings when someone veered too close to the edge of the path.

Despite the chaos, there was a rhythm to their staggered procession, a sort of drunken harmony that carried them all back to their cottages. Every stumble, every laugh, every hand held was a testament to the night’s shared mischief, leaving the air filled with warmth, moonlight, and the lingering echo of laughter long after the bonfire had died down.

When they finally stumbled into their shared cottage, Jirou and Akari were their own special brand of chaos. The air still carried the faint smell of the sea and smoke from the bonfire, and the dim light from outside filtered through the curtains, giving the room a hazy, golden glow. Jirou was halfway through trying to change out of his sand-filled clothes, muttering under his breath as he tripped over himself. Every time he thought he’d finally gotten the last grain of sand out of his shorts, more seemed to appear. His coordination wasn’t doing him any favors either—he kept bumping into furniture, swearing softly each time his shin hit something unseen in the dark.

Akari, on the other hand, wasn’t doing much better. She had one heel still strapped around her ankle and was limping across the floor, mumbling something about the light switch. When she finally found it, she flicked it on—only to wince dramatically at the brightness and shut it off two seconds later. “Ugh, my head,” she groaned, dragging her hand down her face.

Jirou snorted quietly. “Told you to slow down on the drinks,” he muttered, tugging on a loose pair of shorts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Akari waved him off, already losing interest in the conversation. She flung her dress somewhere toward the corner of the room, followed closely by her bra, before reaching for the nearest piece of fabric she could find—which happened to be the shirt she’d borrowed from Jirou earlier. She didn’t even think twice about it as she pulled it on, the hem brushing against her thighs, the familiar scent of his laundry soap and something warmer clinging to the fabric.

She took one unsteady step toward the futon before her foot caught on something—a sandal, maybe, or her own heel—and she stumbled forward, landing in a heap right on top of Jirou.

“Ugh—Akari!” he grunted, blinking in surprise as her weight hit his chest. “Can’t you—watch where—?”

“Shut up,” she mumbled, glaring at him in the dark even though he could barely see her face. Her cheek was pressed against his bare chest, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “It’s cold.”

He sighed softly, his voice muffled. “You’re the one who threw your dress halfway across the room.”

“Yeah, but your shirt’s too thin,” she complained, curling slightly closer, her voice barely above a murmur.

For a moment, there was silence between them—just the sound of their breathing, soft and slow. Then Jirou’s voice broke through the quiet, low and teasing. “Did your lip gloss taste good?”

Akari huffed against his chest. “Shut up.”

“I mean, seriously—”

“It tastes sweet,” she interrupted, “but not if you eat it.”

He yawned, his voice rough with exhaustion. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She tilted her head slightly to look up at him, her hair falling against his collarbone. Her eyes glimmered faintly in the dim light. He was really close now—close enough that she could feel his breath against her lips, soft and slow. “You wanna try it?” she asked, voice quiet, almost playful.

He blinked, half dazed. “How?”

Her lips curved into a small smirk. “Use your brain, virgin.”

It took him a second, but when it clicked, he swallowed hard and muttered, “Oh. Right.”

Then, almost hesitantly, he leaned forward. His hand slid instinctively around her waist, pulling her closer as their lips met. The kiss started soft, almost clumsy at first, but lingered—warmer, slower—as if neither of them wanted to be the first to pull away. Her fingers curled against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her palm, and his hand tightened at her waist, grounding her against him.

When they finally broke apart, the air between them was still thick with warmth. Akari’s breath brushed his skin as she mumbled something unintelligible, already half-asleep.

Jirou blinked dazedly, his lips still tingling. “It does taste sweet,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

She made a soft sound that might’ve been a laugh or just a sleepy hum, her head settling against him once more. Within moments, her breathing evened out, and Jirou felt his own eyes grow heavy. The night faded into quiet, the only sound the soft rhythm of the waves outside and the steady beat of two hearts slowing in sync as sleep pulled them under.

Chapter 8: A Rank

The next morning, Jirou stirred first. His head throbbed faintly — the dull, fuzzy ache that came after too little sleep and too much chaos. For a few seconds, he didn’t open his eyes. The sunlight streaming through the thin curtains was already too bright, burning behind his eyelids. He groaned softly and rolled his head to the side, half-expecting to feel the empty futon or maybe the edge of his pillow. Instead, there was weight. Warm, soft, unfamiliar weight pressed against his chest.

His brow furrowed.

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open. The room came into hazy focus — sunlight spilling in golden streaks across the floor, the faint sound of waves crashing somewhere in the distance, and then… pink.

Pink hair.

Not brown. Not dark. Not the color of the person he had expected to see if his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him. His breath caught. Akari’s head rested on his chest, her cheek nuzzled against his bare skin, her hair spread like a pastel halo across his torso. One of her hands was tucked near his shoulder, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of the futon, and her other arm was draped lazily across his stomach. Even more concerning, one of her legs had somehow found its way over his — tangled together under the thin blanket that had slipped halfway to the floor.

For a heartbeat, he stared blankly, his mind struggling to catch up. This… this has to be a dream. Right?

He blinked again. Nope. The dull throb in his temples was far too real for this to be a dream. The warmth against his chest, the weight of her arm — all of it hit him at once, and suddenly his entire brain went into full panic mode.

“Akari!” he blurted, sitting up so fast that she was nearly launched off him.

Akari groaned in protest, her brow furrowing. “What— I don’t— shut up for a second,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. She rolled over onto her back, squinting against the sunlight that poured directly across her face. “What’s wrong with you?”

Jirou was standing now, hair an absolute mess, his shirt from last night nowhere in sight, and his face several shades of red deeper than it had any right to be. “What’s wrong with me?! Everything’s wrong with me! What are you— why are you— how are you—”

“Calm down, virg,” Akari said with a yawn, stretching her arms above her head. The movement made the hem of his shirt — still on her from the night before — slide slightly higher on her thigh, which did not help Jirou’s current state of internal crisis.

He stammered, pointing a shaky finger in her direction. “You— you’re wearing— my— we were—”

Akari blinked, finally sitting up properly. Her hair was a wild mess, and her mascara had smudged slightly under her eyes, but she still somehow looked unfairly good for someone who had passed out half-drunk. She brushed her hair back lazily and rolled her eyes. “Relax,” she said flatly. “We were just sleeping. You didn’t lose your precious V-card.”

Jirou froze mid-rant, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “…That’s not the point!” he finally shouted, though his face only turned redder.

Akari gave him a sly grin, tilting her head. “Then what is the point? You were comfortable, I was cold, the futon was soft — everything worked out perfectly.”

“That’s— that’s not perfectly—!” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, trying to process everything that had happened. The faint memory of her teasing voice from last night, the warmth of her against him, that stupid kiss— all of it flashed through his mind, making his heart lurch painfully. “I— we— nothing happened, right?”

Akari smirked as she grabbed a hair tie from the floor, looping it around her wrist. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased, though there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes that said she was only half-serious.

“Akari!” he snapped, exasperated.

She laughed softly, standing up and brushing out the wrinkles in his shirt. “Relax, Jirou. I’m kidding. You didn’t even move the entire night. Honestly, it’s a miracle you didn’t suffocate from how tense you probably were.”

He groaned again, rubbing his temples. “This is a nightmare.”

“Nightmare?” she echoed, pretending to look offended. “I’d say it was a dream come true for you.”

He glared at her, but the corner of her mouth curved upward in a knowing smirk. The teasing glint in her eyes made his stomach twist — that same dangerous mix of irritation and something else he didn’t dare name.

As she turned toward the bathroom, she added over her shoulder, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?” he called out helplessly.

“For not drooling on you,” she said with a small laugh, shutting the door behind her.

Jirou slumped onto the edge of the futon, running a hand through his messy hair and exhaling shakily. The sound of running water filled the air as Akari started the shower, her humming faintly audible over the waves outside.

He stared at the ceiling, heart still pounding.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “Definitely not a dream.”

Jirou groaned, dragging his feet across the cold floor as he stumbled into the small kitchen, his head pounding from the night before. The sunlight pouring in through the blinds felt almost personal in its cruelty, making him wince as he squinted toward the counter. Behind him, Akari’s voice floated faintly from the bathroom, humming some pop song as she started her shower—what would inevitably be her ten-thousand-hour morning ritual. The sound of water rushing through the pipes filled the small cottage, mingling with the low hum of the toaster oven as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

He rubbed at his eyes before grabbing the box of frozen waffles from the freezer, the plastic crinkling under his hands. “Two waffles, toaster oven, medium setting,” he muttered, recalling Akari’s bossy instructions from earlier in the week. He shoved them in and turned the dial before moving on to the bacon—something he was at least moderately confident about. The strips sizzled as soon as they hit the hot tray, the smell slowly filling the air and giving him a bit of comfort through his hangover haze. He could already imagine Akari nagging him if he burned them, so he watched the oven like it might explode.

Once that was handled, he cracked a few eggs into a bowl, wincing at the sound. “Eggs cook fast, or they get cold fast—what was it?” he muttered, trying to remember the exact phrasing of her mini-lecture from two days ago. “Whatever. Fast either way.” He whisked the eggs, the fork clinking against the bowl as the yellow mixture frothed.

By the time the bacon was done and draining on a paper towel, he was moving slower, feeling a little more human. The waffles popped up perfectly golden, so he stacked them neatly on a plate and started on the eggs, heating a pan and pouring them in. The sizzle echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen.

A few minutes later, the smell of breakfast was everywhere. He took a deep breath—proud, maybe a little surprised that he hadn’t set off the smoke detector—and decided to go the extra mile. His eyes fell on the coffee machine in the corner. Akari hadn’t asked him to make coffee, but he’d watched her enough mornings to remember her routine: two scoops of grounds, just under the “strong” setting, and a splash of vanilla syrup at the end. Easy, right?

He followed each step as best he could, humming softly while the machine gurgled to life. The aroma of brewing coffee filled the air, blending with the warm scent of bacon and waffles. When he poured the finished cup, he frowned—it didn’t smell quite right. Too bitter maybe, or too strong. Still, he shrugged. She’d either drink it or make fun of him for trying. Either way, that was just… normal.

Setting the plates and the steaming mug on the small wooden table, Jirou looked over the setup. Waffles stacked neatly, bacon crisped perfectly, eggs sunny and intact. Not bad for someone whose head still felt like it had been hit by a truck. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he glanced toward the bathroom door, where the sound of the shower still ran.

“Bet she takes another fifteen minutes,” he muttered to himself, smirking faintly. “If this gets cold, I’m not remaking it.”

But he knew he probably would.

Akari let the warm water cascade down her back, steam curling around her like a soft blanket as she closed her eyes and tilted her head under the spray. The steady hum of the shower drowned out everything else — the hangover headache, the faint sounds of Jirou fumbling around in the kitchen, and even the leftover noise from last night’s laughter that still rang faintly in her ears. She squeezed a handful of shampoo into her palm and began working it into her hair, her fingers moving mechanically as her mind drifted to him.

Jirou.

She could still see the faint smirk tugging at his lips when he’d tried — and failed — to open a beer can without spilling it, the way he’d laughed when Mei tried to carry Natsumi and ended up face-first in the sand, the way his eyes softened just a little when he caught her teasing him. He’d been loose, relaxed, more open than usual. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t stop thinking about it — because for once, the walls he usually hid behind had slipped.

But what lingered most wasn’t the jokes or the stupid banter. It was that moment — the one she couldn’t unsee no matter how hard she tried — when he’d looked at Shiori. That small, fleeting glance that said more than words ever could. She remembered the exact second it happened: she’d been holding his arm, laughing about something, her cheek brushing his shoulder when his gaze had suddenly shifted — drawn, effortlessly, toward Shiori. Akari had followed his line of sight and felt something twist deep inside her chest.

He’d looked at Shiori like she was the only person in the room.

Even now, standing under the water, Akari could see that quiet smile — that almost shy, unguarded look he rarely gave anyone. She’d told herself it didn’t mean anything. She told herself she didn’t care. That it was none of her business who he looked at, who he smiled for, who made him forget everyone else existed for a second. But no matter how many times she said it, her chest still ached with that familiar sting.

She scrubbed at her scalp a little harder, as if she could wash the thought out of her head. “He’s in love with her,” she murmured under her breath, voice barely audible over the rush of water. Saying it out loud didn’t make it hurt less — if anything, it made it real. Jirou was in love with Shiori. And however she felt about him… it didn’t matter. It wasn’t supposed to.

Not when Shiori clearly liked him too. Not when they had that quiet, awkward chemistry that everyone could see — even if neither of them said a thing. They were the kind of people who fit together easily, who made sense in a way that she and Jirou never really could. Shiori was kind, gentle, soft-spoken — everything Akari wasn’t.

“Meant for each other,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against the tiled wall.

She stayed like that for a long moment, letting the water run through her hair and down her back, the heat blurring her thoughts. Eventually, she straightened up, rinsing the shampoo from her hair with a deep breath. She plastered on a smile — one she’d perfected long before she’d ever met him — and told herself to move on.

By the time she turned off the shower and reached for her towel, her expression was calm again, practiced and composed. She wasn’t going to let herself fall for someone who’d already given his heart away. Not when she knew she’d only end up being the one left standing in the background, pretending she didn’t care.

Akari stood in front of the fogged mirror for a moment after stepping out of the shower, steam curling around her ankles as she reached for the towel hanging by the sink. The warmth clung to her skin as she carefully dried her hair, the soft towel brushing through pink strands that still smelled faintly of her shampoo. Normally, she would hum while doing this — one of the pop songs she’d overplayed to death or something catchy she’d picked up from Mei — but this morning, the silence pressed heavily around her.

She moved quietly, her mind somewhere else entirely. The brush glided through her damp hair as her reflection took shape in the mirror. The girl staring back at her looked like her, but somehow not — the faint puffiness under her eyes, the lack of spark that was usually there, the slight downturn of her lips that she tried to correct with a practiced smile but couldn’t quite maintain.

She tugged on a soft pink cropped shirt, the one she’d bought a week ago because it was cute and sweet and very much the kind of thing Shiori would wear — modest yet effortless. Then came the short black skirt, simple but flattering, the kind that drew attention just enough to make her feel confident. She adjusted it in the mirror, brushing her hair over one shoulder and watching how it fell, how she looked as she turned slightly to the side.

She didn’t look bad. She never did — she knew that. But still, she stared at her reflection for a long time, her eyes tracing the outline of her figure, the soft pink against her skin, the faint gloss still on her lips from last night. Something inside her twisted again, an ache she couldn’t quite name.

Her gaze drifted to her own eyes, searching for something — an answer maybe. What did Shiori have that she didn’t? Was it the way she spoke, so softly and carefully, as if she weighed every word before she let it out? The way she carried herself, gentle and thoughtful, while Akari always moved too fast, spoke too loud, laughed too much?

Akari sighed and dropped the brush onto the counter, leaning closer to the mirror. “What’s wrong with me?” she muttered under her breath. She had tried. God, she had tried. The cute, soft look — pastel colors, gentle curls in her hair, perfume that smelled like flowers instead of fruit — all of it an imitation of Shiori’s calm sweetness. It had worked for a while, at least enough to get Jirou to notice her in passing. But his eyes never lingered the way they did when Shiori walked into a room.

He’d smile at Akari when she teased him, sure, maybe even blush if she got too close, but when Shiori spoke — even about something mundane — he listened differently. With that quiet focus, that small, sincere smile that reached his eyes.

Akari pressed her lips together, swallowing the bitter feeling that rose in her throat. You can’t compete with that, she told herself. You shouldn’t even want to. But wanting and not wanting were two entirely different things, and her heart refused to listen to logic.

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stand up straighter. “Get it together,” she whispered, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. She slipped her necklace back on, a small charm that rested just below her collarbone — a reminder of who she was before she’d started changing herself for someone who probably didn’t even realize it.

With one last glance at the mirror, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned toward the door. The faint smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen — Jirou’s doing, no doubt. For a brief second, she let herself imagine walking out there and finding him smiling at her the way he smiled at Shiori. The thought made her chest tighten, so she pushed it away before it could hurt more than it already did.

She straightened her shoulders, forcing a small smirk onto her lips — her usual defense. Then, with her head held high and her heart still quietly aching, she walked out toward the dining area, the sound of her bare feet soft against the wooden floor.

Jirou sat hunched at the small dining table, scrolling absently through his phone while the smell of coffee and toasted waffles lingered in the air. The light filtering through the curtains caught dust motes floating lazily, casting a soft glow across the plates he’d set earlier. He’d done his best — waffles slightly crisp but not burnt, eggs still warm, bacon smelling the way Akari liked. For a guy who’d once managed to set instant ramen on fire, this was a personal triumph.

He barely looked up when he heard the sound of her footsteps padding across the floor. “I made breakfast,” he said flatly, still staring at his screen, trying not to overthink how she might react.

Akari slid into the chair across from him, her skirt swishing slightly as she sat. “And you didn’t burn it for once,” she said with a teasing smirk, crossing her legs and resting her chin on her hand.

“Shut up,” Jirou muttered, rolling his eyes and putting his phone down. “That was one time.” He poked at his eggs with the fork, pretending to look busy.

Akari smiled faintly, clearly amused by his defensiveness — until she noticed his gaze flick up briefly and then linger. “What?” she asked, arching a brow.

Jirou hesitated, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You’re… gonna wear that?”

Akari blinked, sitting up straighter. “What’s wrong with it?” she demanded, her voice sharp with immediate irritation.

“Nothing!” Jirou said quickly, eyes darting to his plate like the eggs were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Akari leaned forward, her tone demanding. “Speak up, idiot!”

He froze for a second, his mind scrambling for words that wouldn’t make her more upset. Finally, he muttered, “It’s just… the um… the color doesn’t flatter your eyes.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Akari’s frown deepened, and she tilted her head, clearly insulted. “Then what color would you have me wear?” she shot back, arms crossing defensively.

Jirou’s heart skipped. He knew whatever he said next would determine whether she sulked or screamed. “Uh—blue!” he blurted, too quickly, almost wincing at himself.

Her expression shifted — calm, too calm. “Fine then,” she said icily, standing up so suddenly her chair scraped the floor. “I’ll go change.”

“Wait, I didn’t mean—” Jirou started, standing halfway, but before he could take a step, the bedroom door slammed shut with a sharp thud.

He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do, then sank back down to the floor in front of the closed door. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Nice one, genius,” he groaned. He could hear faint movement from the other side — drawers opening, hangers clattering, the sound of fabric rustling. Every few seconds, there’d be a frustrated huff that made his stomach twist with guilt.

He sat there in silence, staring blankly at the wood grain of the door, feeling like a kicked puppy. He wanted to apologize, to explain that he hadn’t meant it as an insult, that he just thought blue looked nice on her — but even that sounded stupid in his head.

When the door finally creaked open, Akari stepped out, and Jirou’s breath hitched without warning.

She’d changed into a blue halter dress — a deep, rich shade that hugged her figure perfectly and left just enough skin bare to make his thoughts scatter. It was shorter than the skirt she’d been wearing earlier, the hem swaying teasingly around her thighs. Her hair, no longer tied up, framed her face in soft waves that caught the light every time she moved. Even her heels were blue, matching perfectly, the click of them on the floor making his pulse skip.

She’d done it out of spite — he could tell from the glare in her eyes — but it didn’t matter. She looked stunning.

Jirou sat frozen on the floor, eyes widening slightly as he took her in. His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“What?” Akari demanded sharply, one hand resting on her hip. “Is something else wrong with my outfit?”

“N-no,” Jirou stammered, scrambling to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. “You—uh—you look good.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he mentally cursed himself.

Akari raised a brow, tilting her head slightly. “You sound like you’re being forced to say that.”

“I’m not!” he said too fast, his cheeks already burning. “It’s just—you look really good. Like, really good.”

The sincerity in his tone caught her off guard for a brief moment, but she quickly masked it with a scoff, pretending not to care. “Good,” she muttered, brushing past him toward the table. “I’d hate to disappoint your sense of color coordination.”

Jirou stood there, watching her sit down and take a sip of the coffee he’d made, his heart still hammering like he’d just run a marathon.

He sat back down a moment later, trying to play it cool, but he couldn’t stop glancing at her from the corner of his eye. The sunlight hit her hair just right, glinting faintly off the strands, and for once, she wasn’t saying anything — just quietly eating breakfast, pretending not to notice the mess of nerves sitting across from her.

And for all his confusion, Jirou couldn’t help but think she’d never looked more beautiful.

Jirou sat hunched at the small dining table, scrolling absently through his phone while the smell of coffee and toasted waffles lingered in the air. The light filtering through the curtains caught dust motes floating lazily, casting a soft glow across the plates he’d set earlier. He’d done his best — waffles slightly crisp but not burnt, eggs still warm, bacon smelling the way Akari liked. For a guy who’d once managed to set instant ramen on fire, this was a personal triumph.

He barely looked up when he heard the sound of her footsteps padding across the floor. “I made breakfast,” he said flatly, still staring at his screen, trying not to overthink how she might react.

Akari slid into the chair across from him, her skirt swishing slightly as she sat. “And you didn’t burn it for once,” she said with a teasing smirk, crossing her legs and resting her chin on her hand.

“Shut up,” Jirou muttered, rolling his eyes and putting his phone down. “That was one time.” He poked at his eggs with the fork, pretending to look busy.

Akari smiled faintly, clearly amused by his defensiveness — until she noticed his gaze flick up briefly and then linger. “What?” she asked, arching a brow.

Jirou hesitated, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You’re… gonna wear that?”

Akari blinked, sitting up straighter. “What’s wrong with it?” she demanded, her voice sharp with immediate irritation.

“Nothing!” Jirou said quickly, eyes darting to his plate like the eggs were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Akari leaned forward, her tone demanding. “Speak up, idiot!”

He froze for a second, his mind scrambling for words that wouldn’t make her more upset. Finally, he muttered, “It’s just… the um… the color doesn’t flatter your eyes.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Akari’s frown deepened, and she tilted her head, clearly insulted. “Then what color would you have me wear?” she shot back, arms crossing defensively.

Jirou’s heart skipped. He knew whatever he said next would determine whether she sulked or screamed. “Uh—blue!” he blurted, too quickly, almost wincing at himself.

Her expression shifted — calm, too calm. “Fine then,” she said icily, standing up so suddenly her chair scraped the floor. “I’ll go change.”

“Wait, I didn’t mean—” Jirou started, standing halfway, but before he could take a step, the bedroom door slammed shut with a sharp thud.

He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do, then sank back down to the floor in front of the closed door. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Nice one, genius,” he groaned. He could hear faint movement from the other side — drawers opening, hangers clattering, the sound of fabric rustling. Every few seconds, there’d be a frustrated huff that made his stomach twist with guilt.

He sat there in silence, staring blankly at the wood grain of the door, feeling like a kicked puppy. He wanted to apologize, to explain that he hadn’t meant it as an insult, that he just thought blue looked nice on her — but even that sounded stupid in his head.

When the door finally creaked open, Akari stepped out, and Jirou’s breath hitched without warning.

She’d changed into a blue halter dress — a deep, rich shade that hugged her figure perfectly and left just enough skin bare to make his thoughts scatter. It was shorter than the skirt she’d been wearing earlier, the hem swaying teasingly around her thighs. Her hair, no longer tied up, framed her face in soft waves that caught the light every time she moved. Even her heels were blue, matching perfectly, the click of them on the floor making his pulse skip.

She’d done it out of spite — he could tell from the glare in her eyes — but it didn’t matter. She looked stunning.

Jirou sat frozen on the floor, eyes widening slightly as he took her in. His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“What?” Akari demanded sharply, one hand resting on her hip. “Is something else wrong with my outfit?”

“N-no,” Jirou stammered, scrambling to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. “You—uh—you look good.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he mentally cursed himself.

Akari raised a brow, tilting her head slightly. “You sound like you’re being forced to say that.”

“I’m not!” he said too fast, his cheeks already burning. “It’s just—you look really good. Like, really good.”

The sincerity in his tone caught her off guard for a brief moment, but she quickly masked it with a scoff, pretending not to care. “Good,” she muttered, brushing past him toward the table. “I’d hate to disappoint your sense of color coordination.”

Jirou stood there, watching her sit down and take a sip of the coffee he’d made, his heart still hammering like he’d just run a marathon.

He sat back down a moment later, trying to play it cool, but he couldn’t stop glancing at her from the corner of his eye. The sunlight hit her hair just right, glinting faintly off the strands, and for once, she wasn’t saying anything — just quietly eating breakfast, pretending not to notice the mess of nerves sitting across from her.

And for all his confusion, Jirou couldn’t help but think she’d never looked more beautiful.

Jirou tried to keep his breathing steady, though it was easier said than done. The sun was out in full force, glaring down at the rows of students gathered in front of the large makeshift podium where the teachers stood. The whole camp had built up to this moment—the reveal of their couple rankings, the point tallies, the “official” evaluation of their compatibility. He should’ve been used to this by now, the tension that came with standing beside Akari in a crowd like this, the mix of nervousness and warmth that always clung to him. Yet, somehow, the feeling had only gotten stronger since that morning.

He glanced down briefly at her hand on his arm. Her grip was tight—not the kind of grip someone used for balance or support, but the kind that came from excitement barely contained. She looked radiant even under the heat, cheeks slightly flushed, hair tied up high, a few rebellious strands brushing against her face in the breeze. She was practically glowing, her eyes fixed on the teachers ahead as if she could will the results to come faster. It was almost enough to make him forget the awkward tension they’d shared earlier that morning. Almost.

He still remembered her tone when she’d spoken to him before breakfast, the coldness in her voice. She’d been upset, though she hadn’t said it outright. She never did. It had been about something small, maybe something he’d said the night before, or maybe it was that he’d forgotten to pack something—he wasn’t sure. But the hurt in her expression when she’d brushed him off had stuck with him longer than he’d like to admit. Now, though, she seemed to have buried it under her excitement.

The teachers began calling out names in alphabetical order. Jirou and Akari’s pair would come later, somewhere in the middle. He could feel his pulse picking up with every announcement, with every cheer or groan from the other couples as they received their envelopes. Some students opened theirs immediately, others tucked them away to look later in private. Akari wasn’t going to wait—that much he was certain of.

When the first batch of names was done, the crowd shifted slightly, the line inching forward. Akari gave a little hop on her toes, glancing toward the front. “It’s almost our turn,” she whispered, the excitement in her voice cracking through the air like electricity.

“Yeah,” he murmured, forcing a small smile. “Guess we’ll see if all that cooking and cleaning paid off.”

She shot him a look—half playful, half determined. “It better have. We worked our butts off this week, and you even helped with the setting up the tents at the beach, remember? That’s gotta count for something.”

He chuckled quietly. “I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

Akari huffed, though it wasn’t really in annoyance. “You’re always so modest about everything. Seriously, Jirou, you should take more credit sometimes.”

He wanted to say something back to that, something lighthearted to keep the moment from turning serious, but the words stuck in his throat. Because part of him didn’t feel like he deserved much credit. She’d been the one leading their team most of the time, keeping spirits up, making sure they didn’t fall behind on tasks. She’d been the spark—he’d just followed along, quietly supporting from the background.

As the line shortened, the group behind them started talking about how they thought the points would be distributed. Someone mentioned that the top three couples would be displayed on the announcement board later in the evening. The thought made Jirou’s stomach twist. It wasn’t like he wanted to be at the top—it just felt like more attention than he could handle. But he also didn’t want Akari to be disappointed.

He shifted slightly, trying to adjust his backpack strap, and Akari leaned a little closer to him, her shoulder brushing against his. “You okay?” she asked, noticing his movement.

“Yeah, just… nervous, I guess.”

She smiled at that—an almost teasing smile. “Nervous? What, you think we did bad or something?”

He shrugged. “Not bad, just… not sure.”

Her grip on his arm tightened again. “We’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

The line moved again, and now they were only a few pairs away from the front. Jirou could see the teacher handing out envelopes, his face unreadable as he sorted through the pile. Each envelope looked identical, labeled only by couple number and class. Akari craned her neck to try to spot theirs.

“Come on, come on…” she muttered under her breath, bouncing slightly.

Her excitement was contagious, in a way. Jirou couldn’t help but feel a little anticipation stirring in his chest too. Maybe it would feel nice to see their effort recognized. Maybe all those moments of working together—cooking meals, setting up tents, laughing late into the night while pretending not to—had built up to something worth being proud of.

When their names were finally called—“Watanabe Akari and Yakuin Jirou”—the sound made his heart stutter. Akari practically dragged him forward, her energy bubbling over. She reached out with both hands to accept the envelope, bowing slightly out of habit before taking it.

“Thank you!” she said, her voice bright and sincere.

Jirou followed quietly behind her, nodding once in acknowledgment before they stepped out of the way of the next pair. Akari immediately tore the envelope open, not even waiting until they’d moved out of the crowd. The thin paper ripped audibly, and she unfolded the summary sheet with trembling fingers.

“Okay, okay…” she muttered, scanning the page. Her eyes darted back and forth, lips moving silently as she read.

“Well?” Jirou asked after a moment, watching her expression change—from anticipation, to shock, and then something like joy.

Her eyes widened, and she looked up at him, smiling so brightly that it was almost blinding. “We ranked third!” she exclaimed, holding up the paper like a trophy.

“Third?” Jirou blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah! Third overall! Look—our points were high in teamwork, communication, and task completion! We even got a compliment from the teachers for our cooking setup!”

He leaned closer to read, scanning the text for himself. It was all there, clear as day. Their names, their score, the teacher’s notes praising their consistent collaboration. He couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, part disbelief, part pride.

“That’s… pretty amazing,” he admitted.

Akari beamed, gripping the paper tightly. “See? I told you we’d do great!”

He nodded, watching her spin slightly in place with joy. Her earlier anger felt like a distant memory now. The way her eyes sparkled, the way she laughed—it was impossible not to get caught up in it.

Then she turned back to him, her smile softening just a little. “Hey,” she said, voice quieter now, “thanks for sticking with me this whole week. I know I can be kind of… a lot sometimes.”

He shook his head immediately. “You weren’t. You were… you kept us going.”

For a moment, their eyes met, and the noise of the crowd seemed to fade into the background. The paper in her hands rustled softly as the wind passed between them.

Akari broke the silence first, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “Come on, let’s go show Shiori and the others. They’re gonna freak out.”

He chuckled, letting her tug him along again through the crowd. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

But as they walked, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling in his chest—something warm, proud, and confusing all at once. Maybe it was just the relief of knowing they’d done well. Or maybe it was something else, something that had been quietly building all week without him realizing.

And as Akari laughed beside him, holding their results like the most precious thing in the world, Jirou wondered—maybe this whole “married couple” practical was starting to mean more than just points and rankings after all.

By the time the bus started rolling out of the campgrounds, the interior was alive with that specific kind of post-trip energy—restless, drowsy, and chaotic all at once. Students were half-asleep in their seats or cracking jokes across the aisle, still buzzing from the thrill of finding out their rankings earlier that afternoon. Jirou sat by the window as usual, his head resting lightly against the glass, watching the blur of trees and sky shift with every turn of the road.

Akari was next to him, earbuds in but not really listening to anything, her head tilted toward the aisle as she chatted animatedly with a friend a few rows ahead. Every few minutes, she’d turn to him to make a comment about something funny someone said, or show him a picture on her phone from camp. She looked so at ease now, her earlier excitement mellowed into a soft, satisfied glow.

The rhythmic rumble of the bus made him sleepy, but his mind refused to quiet. He kept thinking about everything that had happened over the past week—the endless tasks, the little arguments, the moments of laughter that snuck up on them when they least expected. Third place. It still didn’t quite feel real. For someone like him, being noticed or praised wasn’t a regular occurrence, and yet Akari had dragged him into that spotlight with her sheer determination.

When he’d placed the dinner order through his phone, he hadn’t even thought much of it—it was just a small thing, a way to make things easier when they got back. Akari burned through energy like wildfire; he knew she’d be starving the second they stepped off the bus. So he picked something simple—her favorite kind of ramen and a side of karaage. She’d light up when she saw it, he was sure of it.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time they pulled into the school parking lot. The moment the doors opened, a tired groan rippled through the students as they stood, stretching their arms and cracking stiff joints. Akari stood too, yawning dramatically before turning to him with a grin. “Home sweet home, huh?”

“Something like that,” he murmured, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

It took a while for everyone to unload their luggage from under the bus. Akari had, of course, brought more than anyone else. Jirou just stared at the pile of her suitcases with an incredulous expression. “You… actually brought all of this for a week?”

She laughed sheepishly. “I like having options!”

He sighed but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Options, sure. This looks like your entire closet, Akari.”

“It’s not that much,” she said defensively, though her voice betrayed the amusement underneath.

Jirou didn’t argue. He just bent down and started picking up the heaviest bag first. “I’ll take these up to the room. You get the lighter ones.”

Her expression softened for a moment. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “But I want to.”

There was something about the way he said it that made her pause before nodding, the faintest blush touching her cheeks. “Alright, but don’t throw out your back or anything.”

It ended up taking him three full trips up the dorm stairs. By the second trip, his arms were burning, and by the third, he could swear her suitcase weighed as much as a small car. When he finally dropped the last one beside her bed, he flopped backward onto his own, staring up at the ceiling like a man who had just survived a war.

Akari stood at the door, hands on her hips, watching him with an amused smile. “You know, you didn’t have to carry all of them. I was kidding when I said you should.”

He tilted his head toward her, still lying flat. “Yeah, but if I didn’t, you’d still be on the first flight of stairs trying to drag that pink one.”

She laughed, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “Fair point.”

A few minutes later, the knock on the door came—dinner had arrived. Akari was halfway through changing into her pajamas when Jirou went to grab the food. He set the bag on the table, the smell of ramen instantly filling the small dorm space.

Her eyes widened when she turned and saw it. “Wait—you ordered already?”

He nodded, trying to play it off casually. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

“Hungry? I’m starving!” she exclaimed, practically diving for the takeout bag. She pulled out the containers with visible delight, muttering something about how amazing it smelled before handing him his portion.

As they sat on the floor eating, the exhaustion of the day slowly began to fade. The dorm was quiet aside from the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the soft slurping of noodles. Akari, true to form, was chatting between bites, recounting every silly or embarrassing thing that had happened on the bus.

“And then—oh my god—Shiori tried to get everyone to sing that camp song again, and no one remembered the words, so it just turned into a disaster.”

Jirou smiled around his chopsticks. “Sounds about right.”

“You should’ve joined in,” she teased. “You’re good at remembering lyrics.”

“I was asleep.”

“Excuses.”

He chuckled, setting his bowl down for a moment. “You really don’t get tired, do you?”

“Of course I do! But it’s more fun to stay awake and talk to you,” she said with a grin, and though it was teasing, the sincerity behind it caught him off guard.

He blinked, unsure how to respond, and she quickly looked away, suddenly interested in her noodles again. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was soft, familiar, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

When they finished, Akari leaned back with a satisfied sigh, hands over her stomach. “That was so good. You really do know me too well sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” he echoed.

She smirked. “Don’t get cocky.”

Jirou rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. The warmth in the room felt different now—less like the remnants of shared exhaustion and more like something that belonged just to them.

As she started cleaning up, he leaned against the side of his bed, eyes drifting toward the calendar pinned to the wall. The end of the month was circled in red marker—a reminder of the upcoming evaluation day, when the ranks would be announced again.

A-rank. The highest status for couples in their program. It was supposed to be the ultimate goal, the mark of perfect compatibility. For Akari, it meant recognition, validation. For him… he wasn’t sure what it meant.

He wanted her to be happy, of course. That much was certain. But somewhere deep down, a quiet unease stirred. If they made it to A-rank—if they became that convincing as a couple—what did that mean for them after all this was over? Would it make things easier, or would it blur the line even further between what was real and what wasn’t?

He didn’t have an answer yet.

Akari finished tidying up and turned back to him, noticing the faraway look in his eyes. “Hey,” she said softly, tilting her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied quickly, straightening up. “Just thinking.”

“About the ranking?”

He hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Don’t overthink it too much, Jirou. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together, okay?”

Her words settled something in him, though not entirely. He nodded anyway. “Yeah… together.”

As she moved to her desk to grab her phone, he looked at her one more time—at the way she hummed softly under her breath, completely at ease.

He didn’t know what the next evaluation would bring, but one thing was certain: no matter what rank they got, Akari had already become something far more important to him than a partner for points. And that thought alone was both comforting and terrifying all at once.

When they stepped into the classroom the next morning, there was already a loud hum of excitement rippling through the hallway. Students were crowding around the digital noticeboard near the front, voices overlapping as they pointed and whispered and gasped. It didn’t take long for Akari to tug on Jirou’s sleeve and pull him toward the commotion, her eyes sparkling with that same blend of curiosity and nervous energy that always showed up before announcements like these.

He followed, the weight of his bag heavy on his shoulder, his stomach twisting despite himself. He already knew what they were looking for—the rankings. The final couple standings for the semester, updated after the camp results had been tallied. He’d told himself a hundred times not to care too much, that whatever rank they got didn’t define him, didn’t define them. But when he saw Akari practically glowing with anticipation beside him, he realized he couldn’t pretend not to care. Not when it meant so much to her.

The crowd shifted, and someone exclaimed, “No way—look, A-rank! We’ve got new pairs in A-rank!”

That was all it took. Akari squeezed through the mass of students with surprising ease, dragging Jirou along until they were close enough to see the screen. The top of the board glowed faintly, bold golden letters marking the A-rank couples. There were only a few names listed there—three pairs total, each one highlighted with a different shade to indicate their score tier.

And there, in clear, unmistakable text:

Watanabe Akari & Yakuin Jirou — A Rank.

Akari gasped audibly, her hands flying up to her mouth. “No way. No way!” she cried, turning to him with an expression of absolute delight. Her whole face seemed to light up as she laughed, the sound breaking through the noise around them.

Jirou just stared at the screen for a moment, stunned. They’d done it. They’d actually done it. After all the effort, the awkward dinners, the shared projects, the cooking disasters, the long nights at camp, the small moments where they’d found themselves growing closer without meaning to—this was the result.

“Jirou!” Akari grabbed his arm, practically bouncing in place. “We made it! We’re A-rank! We actually did it!”

He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips, soft and genuine. “Yeah,” he said quietly, still trying to process it. “We did.”

For a few seconds, it was just the two of them standing there, surrounded by chaos but somehow in their own bubble. He could see the pride in her eyes, the disbelief, the joy. It was contagious, and even though a quiet ache had started to form somewhere deep in his chest, he didn’t want to ruin this moment for her.

Because he knew what came next.

Everyone in the room knew what A-rank meant. It wasn’t just a title—it was a privilege, a transition point. A-rank couples were given the option to rotate partners, to “further their development” by being paired with someone else of matching compatibility. It was meant to test their growth, to see if they could maintain their emotional maturity and adaptability. For Akari and Jirou, that meant going back to the plan they’d made months ago, before things had started to shift between them.

Akari would be paired with Minami, her crush—the boy she’d wanted to be with from the very start. And Jirou… he’d be partnered with Shiori, the girl he’d been in love with for so longi.

Just like they planned.

Akari finally stopped jumping long enough to exhale, her smile softening into something almost dreamy. “Can you believe this? We actually did it, Jirou. After everything. We’re finally A-rank.”

“Yeah,” he said again, his voice steady but quieter now. “We really are.”

She looked up at the board again, as if memorizing it, before letting out a long breath. “It’s kind of surreal, huh?”

He nodded. “A little.”

“I mean, all those nights studying, all the practice sessions, all the arguments we managed to get through—it all paid off.”

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t just the hard work that made it happen. It was them. The way they fit together in the quiet spaces, how they always seemed to balance each other out even when they didn’t mean to. But the words caught in his throat. It wasn’t his place to say that now. Not when the next step was supposed to separate them.

Akari turned to him, her expression soft but thoughtful. “You know what this means, right?” she said after a moment, as if reading his thoughts.

He forced a small nod. “Yeah. Partner switch.”

Her smile faltered just slightly, enough that he noticed. “Right. Partner switch.”

They both fell silent, watching as the other students buzzed around them, comparing rankings and speculating about who would be matched with whom. For everyone else, this was a moment of excitement—a sign of progress, a new chapter. For Jirou, though, it felt strangely heavy, like something good was slipping quietly out of reach.

Akari was still smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. “It’s what we wanted, remember?” she said, trying to sound lighthearted. “You’ll get to be with Shiori, and I’ll get to be with Minami. It’ll be… fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the board. “That was the plan.”

She turned back toward him, studying his face for a moment longer than usual. “You don’t sound very excited.”

“I’m just… tired, I guess.”

Her expression softened again, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Me too.”

They stood there a while longer, watching as the crowd began to thin. The reality of the situation was setting in now, bit by bit. This was what they’d worked for—every step, every task, every point had brought them here. And now that they’d reached it, neither of them seemed to know how to feel.

When they finally turned to head back toward their seats, Akari fell into step beside him. The noise of the hallway felt muffled somehow, as if the world around them had slowed down. She bumped his shoulder lightly, forcing a smile. “Hey. No matter what, we still did amazing, right?”

He nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. “Yeah. We did.”

“And… even if we get new partners, we’ll still hang out. It’s not like we’re gonna stop being friends or anything.”

That word—friends—landed heavier than it should have. He didn’t say anything, just gave her a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She seemed to sense it but didn’t press further. “Okay then,” she said quietly. “Let’s go grab some drinks from the vending machine before class starts. I think we deserve it.”

He followed her again, just like always. But as they walked, the thought echoed in his mind—this was supposed to be what they wanted. So why did it feel like the end of something instead of the beginning?

As Akari chatted beside him, full of nervous excitement about the switch, Jirou couldn’t help but glance back at the board one last time. Their names still glowed there in gold—proof of everything they’d achieved together.

But for the first time, that victory didn’t feel as sweet as it should have.

That night, even the air between them felt heavy. The kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful—it was full of everything unsaid, of glances that lingered too long and words that caught in their throats before they could escape. The excitement from earlier in the day had dissolved completely by the time they got back to the dorm. What should’ve been a celebration—A-rank, the goal they’d spent months working toward—had become something else entirely.

Akari stood in the kitchen, her back to Jirou, hands moving automatically as she chopped vegetables. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the silence, punctuating the low hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of the TV Jirou had turned on more for noise than anything else. She’d told herself to be happy, to focus on what they’d accomplished, but her chest felt tight, almost hollow. Every time she let herself think too long, her thoughts circled back to the same painful truth—they were going to be apart.

It wasn’t like before, when they’d started this program and everything was awkward and new. Back then, she could’ve told herself that switching partners was the natural progression of things, that being paired with Minami—the boy she’d liked—was what she’d always wanted. But now? The idea made her stomach twist. She hadn’t felt anything romantic for Minami in weeks. Maybe longer. She’d been trying not to notice, trying not to think about what that meant. But the answer had been creeping up on her ever since camp.

She didn’t like Minami anymore. She liked Jirou.

It was that simple, that complicated, that unfair.

And soon, she was going to have to stand by and watch him live with someone else. Someone who had always seemed more right for him. Shiori—quiet, kind, smart, dependable. Everything that Akari wasn’t. She’d have to watch from the sidelines as Jirou came home to another girl, ate her cooking, probably stayed up late talking with her the way he used to with Akari. She imagined them sitting together in the same space she used to share with him, maybe laughing at some joke, maybe leaning a little too close.

The thought made her throat ache.

She blinked hard, realizing she’d been staring down at the cutting board without moving. The knife was trembling slightly in her hand. She set it down, taking a deep breath. “Get it together,” she whispered to herself.

Across the room, Jirou sat slouched on the couch, controller in hand, the glow of the TV flickering against his face. He wasn’t really playing, not in the way he normally did when he was focused—his movements were slow, absent, almost mechanical. The game on screen was one of those dating sims he’d picked up ages ago because it was cheap and mindless. His character was nearing the end of the story, the point where he’d have to make a choice between two heroines. One had pink hair, bright and energetic; the other had brown hair and a gentle smile. The decision didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things—it was just a game—but he stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering over the button.

He hated what it reminded him of.

He wasn’t sure when everything had started to change. Maybe during camp, maybe even earlier. He used to think of Akari as loud, dramatic, impossible to read. But lately, she’d become someone else—someone he found himself wanting to be around even when she wasn’t talking, someone who made him feel lighter without trying. He didn’t even realize when his life had started to orbit around her.

And now, just when he’d started to make sense of it all, it was time to let go.

A-rank. The dream she’d wanted from the beginning. The goal they’d built together. And ironically, reaching it meant they were supposed to separate. He’d be paired with Shiori, the girl everyone thought he was compatible with from the start. She was calm and intelligent and kind—the type of person who’d never confuse him or make him doubt himself. He’d probably grow used to her presence, start sharing small domestic things like meals, study sessions, casual conversation. Eventually, he’d drift away from Akari, just like everyone expected.

That thought didn’t feel right. It made something in his chest twist, something unspoken and painful.

He glanced toward the kitchen. Akari was standing over the stove now, humming softly as she stirred something in a pot. She was wearing one of his old hoodies—the one she always stole on laundry days because it was comfortable. It was way too big on her, sleeves swallowing her hands, and she had her hair tied up messily, a few strands falling loose against her cheek. She didn’t look like the loud, confident girl everyone saw at school. She looked… human. Familiar. His.

He looked away quickly, forcing his eyes back to the screen.

The little digital girl with pink hair smiled brightly, her dialogue box flashing: “It’s okay, as long as we’re together.”

Jirou exhaled slowly through his nose. He knew what the game wanted him to do. The pink-haired girl was the “main route.” The obvious choice. But when he moved the cursor toward her name, his thumb froze. The brown-haired girl’s sprite looked back at him quietly from the corner of the screen.

He sighed and set the controller down. “Stupid game,” he muttered.

Akari glanced over her shoulder. “You say something?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Just talking to myself.”

She frowned slightly but didn’t press. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said after a moment. “You can set the table if you want.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, dragging himself up.

He grabbed the plates and chopsticks mechanically, setting them down in silence while she finished cooking. The smell of miso and soy sauce filled the room, homey and warm, and yet the atmosphere felt colder than ever. Every now and then, their eyes would meet for half a second—just long enough for one of them to look away again.

When she finally brought the food over, they sat across from each other, the clinking of chopsticks against bowls filling the quiet. It wasn’t like their usual dinners, where Akari would chatter about her day and Jirou would grumble half-hearted replies. This was quieter, more careful. Every word they didn’t say hung between them like fog.

“Looks good,” Jirou finally said.

“Thanks,” she replied softly.

He ate slowly, more out of politeness than hunger. The food tasted fine—better than fine, really—but he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it. Every bite just reminded him how many times they’d done this together, how soon it would end.

Akari pushed her food around her bowl with her chopsticks, lost in thought. Every now and then, she’d glance up at him, wanting to say something but stopping herself. There was too much to say, and none of it would make things easier.

When they finished, she stood up first, gathering the dishes. “I’ll wash up,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “I’ll… dry.”

They worked side by side without speaking. The sound of running water was the only thing that filled the air between them. He could feel her shoulder brushing against his every now and then as they moved around the small kitchen space. It was such a small thing, but it made his chest ache.

When they were done, she turned off the light and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The room was dim now, lit only by the glow from the living area. She looked at him for a long moment before saying, almost in a whisper, “It’s gonna be weird, huh? Not living together.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It will.”

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess that’s how it’s supposed to go, though. We worked hard. We earned it.”

“Yeah,” he said again, though his voice came out hollow. “We did.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, fragile and uncertain. Then Akari pushed away from the counter, forcing a smile. “Goodnight, Jirou.”

“Night,” he murmured.

When she disappeared into her room, the apartment felt impossibly empty. Jirou sat down again on the couch, the controller still on the coffee table, the game paused at that same choice. Two girls. Two paths.

He stared at the screen for a long time, then shut the console off.

No matter what choice he made in the game, he already knew he couldn’t escape the one waiting for him in real life. And somehow, he already knew he wouldn’t like the ending.

Chapter 9: I'm happy for you

Jirou walked home in the crisp morning air, the weight of the envelope in his bag feeling heavier than it actually was. Every step he took seemed to echo in his mind, a quiet rhythm that reminded him of the choice he was about to make, the action he had to finalize. The office had been bustling with students picking up similar forms, a wave of excitement and nervous energy bouncing off the walls, but he’d barely registered it. His attention was entirely inward, focused on the simple sheet of paper in his hands—the paper that would officially end the current chapter of their partnership.

He had anticipated this moment countless times over the past few weeks, had tried to prepare himself for it, and yet now, holding the form, the world seemed to blur slightly around him. The envelope crackled softly in his fingers as he pulled the form out, the white paper stark against the pale wood of the kitchen table. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and sat down carefully, placing the pen beside the paper like it was a weapon.

Calmly, he began filling in the fields—his name printed neatly in the top box, the new partner’s name written in careful, precise letters below. He kept his hand steady, willing it to remain composed, but inside, his chest felt tight, like the walls of his ribcage were slowly squeezing. It doesn’t matter what I want, he told himself, staring at the printed letters as if repeating them enough times could make them true. Shiori is the one I’m in love with. Akari is in love with Minami. We’ve earned this.

But the words in his head didn’t match the ache he felt in his stomach. He glanced at the space for Akari’s signature. Empty. Blank. Waiting. That little empty box carried more weight than the entire form. She wasn’t home yet—she’d gone out with her friends earlier in the morning, probably laughing and talking, blissfully unaware of the storm building quietly in the kitchen.
Jirou set the pen down again, staring at the paper. He thought about the weeks leading up to this point, the times they’d stayed up late studying together, the dinners they’d shared, the camp, the moments of quiet connection he hadn’t noticed until now. He thought about how Akari had held his arm as they walked through the corridors, how her eyes sparkled when they’d earned points, how she had thrown herself into every task with determination and joy. She’s… happy when she’s around me. That thought stung more than he wanted to admit.

He shook his head slightly, forcing himself to focus. This wasn’t about emotion. It was about duty, about finishing what they’d started, about following through on their plan to switch partners now that they’d reached A-rank. He tried to steady his breathing, to slow the pulse racing through his veins. He pictured Shiori in his mind—smiling gently, kind, someone he could love and be with without complication. That image should have brought him reassurance, but instead, it made the emptiness in the kitchen feel sharper.

The silence in the room was thick, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock above the sink and the faint hum of the refrigerator. He picked up the pen again, hovering over the signature box, fingers brushing the paper. He imagined Akari walking in at that exact moment, scanning the kitchen, noticing the form. She would look at him, and he would see it in her eyes—the mixture of curiosity, hesitation, and something heavier. Maybe surprise, maybe sadness, maybe understanding.

He set the pen down once more. No. She wasn’t here yet. He couldn’t force her into this moment, couldn’t dictate her feelings or her response. He would leave the form on the counter for her, exactly as it was, waiting. Waiting for her to return, to see it, to sign it—or not. Waiting for reality to meet the careful rules and plans they had laid out.

He exhaled slowly, straightening in his chair. The act itself was simple, almost administrative. But the weight of its consequences settled around him like a storm cloud. He tried to tell himself again that it didn’t matter what he wanted, that it was all part of the plan, part of the process. But as he gazed at the empty signature box, he felt an unfamiliar hesitancy creep in.

Would she be okay with it? Could she be okay with it? And what about him? Would he be okay with it?

He stood and moved toward the counter, carefully placing the form on the flat surface, folding the envelope neatly over it. The pen was left beside it, angled just so. It looked almost innocuous, like any other piece of paper someone might leave behind. But Jirou knew better. It was a threshold, a decision suspended in time, a quiet fracture between the life they’d shared and the one they were about to step into separately.

He ran a hand over his hair, tugging slightly, trying to shake off the weight of it. He glanced toward the living room where the sunlight pooled through the window, spilling warmth across the floor. The brightness was almost painful, a stark contrast to the heaviness that filled him.

He told himself once more that it was fine, that it was right, that it was what they’d wanted. Shiori, Minami, the partner switch—it was logical, necessary. Nothing more.

And yet, even as he tried to believe that, he couldn’t stop thinking about Akari’s laugh, the way her shoulder brushed against his when they walked, the small, constant ways she had become part of his life.

He closed his eyes, letting out a long, quiet breath. The form waited for her signature. And he waited, too. Waiting for the moment that would come and inevitably change everything.

The afternoon stretched slowly around him. He moved through the motions of his day—tidying a little, preparing for dinner, making sure the space felt normal—but every glance at the envelope on the counter reminded him of the quiet inevitability it represented.

And when the door finally clicked open, signaling her return, Jirou felt the tension coil in his stomach tighter than ever. He didn’t move immediately, didn’t speak. He only watched as Akari stepped inside, dropping her bag by the door, brushing her hair from her face.

Her eyes fell on the counter, and then on the paper. She froze for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch the flicker of something behind her gaze. Curiosity. Hesitation. Understanding.

“Jirou…” she said softly, voice low, uncertain.

He nodded slightly, eyes steady, waiting. “It’s on the counter,” he said simply. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She stepped closer, her fingers hovering over the form. The pen rested beside it, untouched, inviting. The silence between them stretched taut, filled with unspoken questions, unvoiced fears, and a quiet, aching truth.

And in that suspended moment, nothing else mattered but the weight of the decision before them.

Jirou’s voice was low, almost swallowed by the quiet of the apartment, yet it carried that strange weight that made Akari pause mid-motion, pen hovering above the form. “I’m gonna go out,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on her hands as they shook slightly over the paper. He tried to keep his own composure, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. It had been building all day, every small step toward the inevitable adding layers of weight he wasn’t sure he could bear.

Akari looked up at him immediately, startled by the quiet finality in his tone. “Wait, Jirou—” she called, her voice trembling, soft but desperate, as if trying to catch him before he left, to anchor him in that fleeting moment. She stepped closer, moving slowly at first, then with a sort of hesitant determination. Each step was careful, like she was navigating an invisible line between her fear and her courage.

Jirou’s gaze dropped to meet hers. The sight of her eyes, glistening with the beginnings of tears, made his stomach twist painfully. They were small, glimmering, unshed, and yet more piercing than a hundred loud cries. He swallowed hard, feeling the lump in his throat tighten. “I’m just gonna get something to eat with Kamo. Don’t wait up,” he said finally, trying to keep his voice casual, but failing to mask the undertone of urgency and something deeper—something he didn’t want her to see fully.

For a heartbeat, they simply stood there, frozen, the room shrinking around them until it was just the two of them, suspended in the quiet tension of the evening. Akari’s eyes searched his, perhaps for reassurance, perhaps for some hidden signal that he might change his mind. Jirou’s chest ached at the way she looked at him, like she was afraid to let him go, like she already knew this night would mark a turning point they couldn’t step back from.

Then, without thinking, he leaned forward. The motion was almost instinctual, as if his body remembered something his mind hadn’t fully processed. He brushed his lips against hers—soft, fleeting, yet insistent. The kiss mirrored their first one almost perfectly. The way he had stepped forward, careful yet deliberate, the way he had tilted her chin gently, guiding her face to meet his, the way she had remained frozen, hands stiff at her sides, caught between surprise and something unspoken.

Her breath hitched softly against his, a barely audible sound that sliced through the quiet around them. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact—the warmth of their lips, the faint scent of her shampoo, the quiet trembling of her body pressed ever so slightly against his.

He didn’t linger. Not because he wanted to pull away, but because the emotions coursing through him were too raw, too dangerous to let stretch further. He could feel the edges of something breaking inside himself—the restraint he had tried to maintain, the careful logic he’d built around the partner switch, the facade of composure. It all threatened to spill over if he let the moment last too long.

And so, almost desperately, he pulled back, leaving her there, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, staring at the space he had just occupied. The distance between them felt immense immediately, the air heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears. His own chest ached, a tight, suffocating pressure that made each breath feel deliberate and sharp.

Akari’s hands twitched, almost reaching for him, almost pulling him back, but she froze instead, caught between wanting to protest and knowing it was futile. Her gaze followed him as he moved toward the door, every step measured, almost reluctant.

He paused briefly, hand on the doorknob, giving her one last look. There was a mix of apology and determination in his eyes, a silent plea for understanding, a wordless explanation that he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—say aloud. Then he opened the door, the quiet click of the latch echoing in the room, and slipped out before she could respond.

Akari remained where she was, frozen in place, staring at the now-empty doorway. Her hands fell to her sides, trembling slightly, and she pressed them against the edge of the counter for support, trying to steady herself. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it even from the hallway. She traced the air where his body had been, as if she could somehow hold onto the fleeting warmth, the memory of that instant contact.

Her eyes fell to the form on the counter. The pen still lay beside it, untouched, the signature she had just scrawled on the line feeling heavier somehow than it had a moment ago. Every stroke of ink now seemed like a permanent marker on their shared history, a silent confirmation that things were about to change irreversibly.

She sank onto the stool by the counter, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to quell the ache spreading through her chest. The sound of the apartment, normally comforting, felt too loud—the refrigerator humming, the distant city noises outside, even the faint echo of her own breath. Everything was amplified, and yet it all felt painfully hollow without him there.

Jirou’s departure left a void that the room itself seemed to acknowledge, the absence of his presence heavy on the skin, in the air, in her chest. She felt unmoored, as if the small orbit of their lives, which had always revolved around one another in subtle, unacknowledged ways, had shifted suddenly and violently.

Her mind raced, going through every moment they had shared recently: the quiet dinners, the laughter after exhausting tasks, the late-night talks that had stretched far into the small hours, the long walks in silence where nothing needed to be said. Every memory now carried a bittersweet edge, as if they had been warnings she hadn’t recognized at the time.

The kitchen light cast a warm glow across the counter, illuminating the envelope and the form, the inked signatures stark against the paper. It seemed to beckon to her, a tangible representation of the inevitability she had been trying to deny. She wanted to pick it up, to hold it, maybe even tear it into pieces—but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

The silence stretched, oppressive, until she finally buried her face in her hands, taking shallow, uneven breaths. Her mind echoed with the memory of his lips on hers, the fleeting warmth, the softness, the impossibility of holding onto it. Every instinct screamed that things were changing, that this night marked the end of something delicate and irreplaceable.

Outside, the faint sounds of the city continued, oblivious to the small, intense dramas unfolding in the apartment. Akari remained on the stool, frozen in her own thoughts, the pen beside the form a silent witness to everything they had almost—but not quite—shared.

And somewhere, just beyond the door, Jirou walked the corridor, each step pulling him further from her, each echo a reminder that the line they had drawn for themselves—between duty, logic, and emotion—was now both clearer and more painful than ever.

For both of them, the night stretched long and heavy, filled with the unspoken weight of longing, loss, and the uncharted space between what had been and what was about to begin.

Kamo stirred his ramen bowl idly, the steam curling around his face as he blew at it, half-listening to the faint hum of chatter around them. The small ramen shop was nearly full, filled with groups of students decompressing after the long day, but at their little corner table it felt strangely quiet. Jirou sat across from him, shoulders hunched, gaze distant. He’d barely touched his food, the bowl still practically untouched despite the rich aroma of broth and noodles wafting up between them.

“So, uh…” Kamo began, awkwardly twirling his chopsticks as he tried to cut through the silence, “did you hear what happened during cleanup this morning? That idiot from Class D accidentally set one of the fryers on fire. Burned half his sleeve off—well, not really burned, but close enough. Everyone was freaking out.”

He gave a short laugh, the kind that was meant to draw a reaction, to get something—anything—out of Jirou. But Jirou only nodded faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that could’ve been a smile but fell short of reaching his eyes. He muttered something that sounded like “Yeah,” though it was barely audible over the clatter of dishes and the shopkeeper calling out new orders.

Kamo sighed quietly, setting his chopsticks down with a soft clink. “Man, you’re seriously out of it today. What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting weird since we got back.” He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, watching his friend carefully.

Jirou blinked slowly, as if the words took a few extra seconds to register. He gave another nod, mechanical, before murmuring, “Just tired, I guess. The whole camp thing… it’s been a lot.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. The exhaustion he felt wasn’t physical. It was heavy in a different way, sitting somewhere deep behind his chest where it couldn’t be seen but pressed down on him all the same. His mind was still stuck back in the apartment, looping over that one moment—the look on Akari’s face, the way her voice trembled when she said his name, the way her hand had hesitated over the form before signing it, and the soft, dangerous way her lips had felt against his.

He’d left before she could say anything, before he could even process what he’d done. Now, sitting here, staring down into the murky reflection in his ramen broth, the scene replayed in his head over and over.

Kamo tilted his head, raising a brow. “You sure that’s all it is? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something. You didn’t fight with Watanabe again, did you?”

Jirou’s eyes flickered up for a second before he dropped them again. “No,” he said quickly—too quickly. “It’s not that.”

Kamo leaned forward slightly, curious. “Then what? You’ve been weird around her since before the rankings were posted. I mean, aren’t you two supposed to be celebrating or something? A-rank’s a big deal, man. You worked your asses off for that.”

Jirou’s throat felt dry. He wanted to say something casual, something that would dismiss it—some easy lie that would make Kamo stop looking at him like that—but the words wouldn’t form. He gave a small shrug instead, stabbing lightly at his noodles with his chopsticks. “Yeah. Guess it just doesn’t feel the way I thought it would.”

Kamo frowned, confused. “Doesn’t feel the way you thought—? Dude, what are you talking about? You’ve been wanting this all year. You and Akari both. Now you’re finally there. You can switch partners, start fresh with Shiori, right?” He paused, smirking slightly. “You know, the girl you actually wanted.”

The words hit Jirou harder than they should have. He didn’t even know why. Maybe because they sounded so simple coming from someone else, so clean and logical—when to him, it felt anything but. He gave a hollow laugh, the kind that barely sounded real. “Yeah. That’s the plan.”

Kamo slurped some noodles, still watching him closely. “So what’s the problem, then? You nervous? Don’t tell me you’re backing out now.”

Jirou set his chopsticks down and leaned back in his seat, exhaling through his nose. “It’s not that,” he muttered. He looked away, eyes drifting toward the window where the night lights of the city glowed faintly through the glass. “It’s just… complicated.”

Kamo blinked. “Complicated? How?”

Jirou didn’t answer immediately. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words that didn’t sound like a confession. The silence stretched, the sounds of other diners filling the space between them.

“I’m just nervous,” Jirou finally said, his voice low enough that it almost got lost beneath the chatter of the ramen shop. He stirred his soup absently, watching the ripples form and disappear in the oily broth. His hand was trembling faintly, though he kept trying to hide it under the table.

Kamo rolled his eyes, slouching back in his seat. “You’re being so dramatic about being nervous. Some of us have actual problems, you know.”

Jirou gave him a weak smile. “Yeah, like what? Which shampoo you should use?”

Kamo gasped in mock offense, straightening up. “Hey, I’ll have you know my locs don’t get this luscious on their own! You think this kind of shine just happens? Nah, man. That’s hours of care and attention.”

That actually got a small laugh out of Jirou, though it faded quickly. He pushed his bowl aside, appetite gone. “You’re impossible. And you still use three in one”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kamo said, waving a hand dismissively before leaning in again. “But seriously. What’s with you? You’ve been off all day. You look like someone ran over your dog.”

Jirou hesitated, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was past nine. Akari would probably be home by now. Maybe she’d already put the form away. Maybe she hadn’t even looked at it. The thought made his stomach twist.

He took a deep breath and said quietly, “I just… had to fill out that partner change form today.”

Kamo blinked. “Oh. So that’s what this is about.” He gave a short laugh. “Man, you’re acting like you just signed your life away or something. It’s just a form.”

Jirou didn’t respond, just looked down at his hands. The silence stretched, and Kamo frowned, his tone softening. “Wait—don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet? You’ve been talking about pairing with Shiori for months. You two would make a killer team.”

“Yeah,” Jirou said after a pause. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

Kamo studied him for a moment, the teasing expression fading. “You and Akari were… what, just a temporary thing? You worked well together, sure, but that’s it, right? Nothing personal?”

Jirou gave a slow nod, though his chest tightened at the words. “Right. Nothing personal.”

Kamo shrugged. “Then what’s the big deal? You did what you had to do. You’re moving up, man. A-Rank. You’ve earned it.”

Jirou’s lips parted as if to say something, but he couldn’t find the words. His mind replayed that brief moment at the apartment—the look in Akari’s eyes, the way her fingers had trembled holding the pen, the soft brush of her lips against his just before he fled. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He hadn’t even thought. It was instinct, impulse, something raw that rose up and took control before logic could step in.

He forced out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. I earned it.”

Kamo frowned, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push further. He went back to his ramen, slurping noisily. “Well, whatever it is, man, just don’t overthink it. You always get like this before big stuff. Go out with Shiori, kill it in your next exam, and relax for once. You’re gonna burn yourself out if you keep carrying all this.”

Jirou hummed in response, eyes drifting to the window again. Outside, neon lights reflected off the wet pavement, casting shifting colors across the glass. The sound of laughter and clinking dishes filled the shop, but it all felt far away—like he was sitting in the middle of someone else’s life.

Kamo finished his bowl with a satisfied sigh. “Anyway, you’re paying, right?”

That earned him another faint smile from Jirou, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, sure,” he murmured.

As they left the shop, Kamo continued talking, his voice bright and casual, but Jirou barely heard him. His thoughts were already miles away—back in that quiet apartment, where a form with two names sat waiting on the counter, and one kiss had made everything too complicated to take back.

Akari stood in the kitchen, the sound of the ticking clock echoing faintly in the stillness of the apartment. Her eyes lingered on the form that Jirou had left on the counter, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked it up. The paper was already creased from where he’d folded it earlier, his handwriting neat and careful—too careful, like he’d spent longer than he should have making sure it looked perfect.

Her gaze drifted to the bottom, where their names sat side by side. Her signature beside his. It should have felt natural, like it always did when they signed things together—reports, assessments, whatever their partnership demanded. But this time, beneath their names, was another: Minami. Written in clean, bold letters under the section titled Future Partner.

Her vision blurred for a second, and she blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway, dotting the paper with small, uneven stains. She clutched the edge of the counter to steady herself, her throat tightening painfully as she tried to breathe through the ache building in her chest.

She hated this. She hated everything about this moment—the emptiness in the apartment, the silence that followed his hurried goodbye, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the air. She hated that she’d told herself over and over that this was for the best, that she wanted what was right for him.

But more than anything, she hated how selfish she wanted to be right now.

She wanted to tear the form apart, to crumple it into nothing and pretend it never existed. She wanted to chase after him, to tell him to forget all of it, that she didn’t care about rankings or exams or what anyone else thought—that she just wanted him. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Because she knew how hard he’d worked for this, how much he’d sacrificed to reach this point. She’d seen it in every late night he spent studying, in every exhausted smile when he reassured her they’d make it to A-Rank. This was his dream, and she wouldn’t be the one to ruin it—not because of her own weakness, not because she couldn’t handle watching him walk away.

Her fingers traced over his name again, the ink slightly smudged now from her tears. “You idiot,” she whispered under her breath, voice trembling. “You could’ve just told me…”

She let out a shaky laugh, half-broken, half-bitter. “You didn’t have to kiss me like that.”

The words came out softer than she expected, fading into the quiet of the apartment.

After a long moment, she folded the paper neatly and set it back down on the counter. Her hand hovered above it, just for a second, before she forced herself to step away. She walked toward the couch, sitting down slowly, the exhaustion hitting her all at once. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t wipe the tears away this time.

It wasn’t fair—none of it was—but this was what they’d chosen. What he had chosen.

And she’d sign it again if she had to. Even if it broke her.

Shiori hummed softly to herself as she swept, the soft bristles of the broom gliding across the polished wooden floor. The faint scent of something savory drifted from the kitchen — soy sauce, garlic, and sesame oil — the familiar smell of Minami’s cooking filling the air. It was comforting, like the kind of quiet domestic peace she always imagined she’d have when things finally started falling into place.

She glanced toward the kitchen doorway where Minami stood, his sleeves rolled up, focused on chopping vegetables with precise, practiced motions. Every so often, he’d pause, reach for his phone on the counter, and type something before setting it back down again. The sound of each soft tap against the screen made Shiori smile faintly.

He’d always been like that — calm, composed, always multitasking, always keeping himself busy. He had this steady energy that made people naturally feel at ease around him. She envied that a little.

Still, today felt different. The day had gone beautifully — their names had appeared among the newly promoted A-Rank pairs. Their hard work, their coordination, and the natural rhythm they had as a pair had finally paid off. Minami and Shiori. A-Rank. It felt good to say it in her head.

Her broom slowed as she thought about what that meant. The ranking board might have been just a formality, but everyone knew what it symbolized — the chance to switch partners. A fresh start. The moment everyone had been working toward since the very beginning.

And now, for her… that meant Jirou.

She exhaled softly, her smile widening unconsciously. Jirou Yakuin. The boy who’d been with Akari all this time, the one who somehow managed to balance being grounded and caring at once, even if he didn’t always realize it. She’d admired him for a while — not in a flashy, romantic way, but in that slow, comfortable way where you notice small things. The way he listened. The way he stayed calm even when Akari was a whirlwind of energy beside him. The way he smiled, just barely, when he thought no one was watching.

Her heart fluttered a little just thinking about it.

She leaned the broom against the wall and stretched, her shoulders relaxing as she looked over at Minami again. “It smells really good,” she said warmly.

Minami turned slightly, flashing her a grin over his shoulder. “I figured we should celebrate, you know? A-Rank’s not something you hit every day.”

“True,” Shiori replied, walking toward the counter. “We should be proud. We worked hard for this.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah, we did. I’m glad we made it together.”

For a second, she felt a pang of guilt — a strange, quiet one she couldn’t quite explain. She was happy they’d reached this point. But at the same time, she knew what came next. They’d switch partners soon. Minami would be with Akari, and she’d be with Jirou.

It was what they’d all planned from the start. The logical, mutually beneficial arrangement.

And yet…

Her gaze dropped to the floor for a moment. She tried not to overthink it. Minami would be fine. He got along with everyone, and Akari was bright, energetic, and hardworking. They’d make a great pair. Maybe even a top-ranking one.

Still, the thought of change left a strange weight in her chest — not sadness, exactly, but that feeling you get when something familiar is about to disappear.

“You okay?” Minami asked suddenly, noticing her distracted expression.

Shiori blinked, then smiled quickly. “Yeah! Just… thinking about how different everything’s going to be soon.”

He chuckled lightly, stirring the contents of the pan. “Different’s not always bad. You and Jirou’ll be fine. You’ll make a great team.”

Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she glanced down at her hands. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said confidently, setting down the spatula and taking a sip of water. “You’ve always been good at balancing people out. And he’s… well, he’s steady. You’ll match well.”

Shiori felt a little spark of excitement at his words. It wasn’t just about Jirou — it was about the idea of something new, something she’d earned. She could finally explore what she’d been curious about all this time.

As Minami turned back to the stove, she found herself watching him for a few seconds longer. The way he moved, how casually he carried himself — the kind of ease she sometimes wished she had. It struck her then that this might be one of the last times they’d be together like this, in this quiet, shared space that had somehow grown comfortable.

She wanted to say something sentimental, something like thank you for everything or I’ll miss this, but the words caught in her throat. So instead, she picked up the plates from the shelf and set the table, smiling softly to herself.

Her mind was already wandering ahead — imagining the new apartment, the new schedule, the new dynamic. She wondered what Jirou’s cooking was like, whether he was tidy or messy, whether he’d still be shy around her at first.

Her heart felt light. Hopeful.

By the time Minami called her to eat, she’d convinced herself it would all be fine. Everything was finally falling into place. They’d done everything right — followed every rule, every step, every expectation.

And for the first time in a long while, Shiori felt like she could finally move forward — like everything she’d been waiting for was just about to begin.

Tuesday afternoons usually felt endless for Akari, but that day felt even heavier, like the world itself was holding its breath around her. The apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed down on her shoulders and made it hard to move. She’d been sitting on the edge of the couch for nearly half an hour, staring at the manila envelope on the coffee table. Inside it was the partner switch form — just a few sheets of paper that held the power to completely rewrite everything that she and Jirou had built together over the past months.

She’d told him she was going to take it in, to hand it over herself, and he hadn’t argued. That was the part that stung most. He’d just nodded quietly, eyes unreadable, as if this was all inevitable. Maybe it was.

Still, every step she took to prepare felt heavier than it should have. She slipped on her shoes slowly, methodically, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she picked up her school bag. The envelope was inside, resting on top of her notebooks, the corner peeking out like a cruel reminder. Her hands trembled slightly as she zipped the bag up.

She told herself she was fine. That this was what they’d both worked for. That switching partners was proof that they’d succeeded — that their teamwork, their coordination, had made them good enough to stand on their own. But no matter how much she repeated it in her head, her chest still ached.

When she finally stood, Jirou looked up from the couch. He’d been pretending to play his game again, but his avatar hadn’t moved in minutes. The faint hum of the console was the only sound between them.

“I’m gonna go,” Akari said softly, her voice catching halfway through the sentence. She didn’t mean it to sound so small.

Jirou stood up almost immediately, brushing his hands against his jeans as if grounding himself. “Wait!” he said suddenly, his tone sharper than he intended. Akari froze mid-step and turned slightly, watching him as he crossed the room toward her.

“It’s a bit cold out there,” he said, his tone softening. He reached for the nearest jacket — one of his, a black one with slightly frayed cuffs from overuse — and gently draped it over her shoulders.

Akari blinked, caught off guard. The warmth of the fabric, the faint smell of his detergent, and the familiarity of it all made something twist deep inside her chest. Instinctively, she slid her arms into the sleeves, her hands getting lost in the too-long fabric.

“Thanks, Yakuin,” she murmured, the name feeling distant on her tongue, formal in a way that made her throat burn.

Jirou looked down at her, and for the first time, really looked. Her eyes — usually bright, confident, full of spark — looked dim now, glassy with unspoken emotion. Her hands were trembling slightly, though she was trying hard to hide it. For a fleeting second, he wanted to say it — to tell her that they didn’t have to do this. That they could stay partners, stay them, whatever that meant. But the words caught in his throat.

He reminded himself that this was what she wanted. That she was in love with Minami. That he had Shiori waiting for him. That this was supposed to be a good thing.

He swallowed hard. “…No problem,” he managed, voice barely above a whisper.

Akari gave him a small, strained smile, nodding as she adjusted the strap of her bag. She turned toward the door, trying to steady her breathing, trying not to cry before she even made it down the stairs. But before she could take another step, Jirou’s voice came again — softer, almost pleading.

“Watanabe.”

The name froze her mid-step. She turned around slowly, her hair falling into her face as she met his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “Don’t start calling me that now that we aren’t… husband and wife.”

The silence between them grew heavy again, thick with all the words neither of them could say.

“Right,” Jirou muttered after a long pause, shaking his head as if trying to reset himself. Then, quieter, almost reverent, “Thank you, Akari.”

He moved before he even thought about it — stepping forward, reaching out. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was desperation, but in the next heartbeat, their lips met.

It wasn’t a rushed kiss, or a confused one. It was long, slow, and unbearably tender — the kind that carried months of pent-up emotions neither of them had dared to voice. His hand found her waist, his other sliding up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at her nape. Akari’s hands pressed against his chest, trembling at first, before she leaned in fully, letting herself melt into him.

Every second stretched, suspended in that quiet apartment. The world outside seemed to disappear — no rankings, no forms, no future partners, no expectations. Just them. The same warmth that had carried them through the months together, now distilled into one fleeting, heartbreaking moment.

When they finally parted, they were both breathing unevenly. Jirou’s eyes searched hers, trying to find something — maybe a reason not to let go. But before he could speak, Akari smiled softly, tears clinging to her lashes.

“Thank you, Jirou,” she whispered.

His hands fell limply to his sides as she stepped back. He wanted to ask for what, but his throat refused to work. So he just stood there, silent, as she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

He thought she was thanking him for helping her get closer to Minami. She thought he was thanking him for helping him get closer to Shiori. Neither of them realized that what they were really thanking each other for was the time they’d shared — the strange, imperfect, beautiful thing that had somehow become the center of their world.

Akari’s footsteps echoed faintly as she made her way down the stairs. Each one felt heavier than the last, but she forced herself to keep moving. She had to.

By the time she reached the main office, her chest felt hollow. The scent of polished floors and printer ink filled the air, and she caught sight of someone familiar just ahead of her — Shiori, neatly dressed as always, standing at the counter.

Shiori turned, noticing her, her smile as warm as ever. “Watanabe! How are you?” she greeted brightly.

Akari straightened slightly, forcing a polite smile back. “I’m good. Are you turning in the forms as well?”

Shiori nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah. I almost forgot, but Minami reminded me this morning.”

Akari laughed softly, though it came out brittle. “Yeah, Jirou did the same. Probably the one thing he’s remembered to do in a while.”

They both smiled, but for Akari, it didn’t reach her eyes. She handed over the envelope, her fingers lingering on it for a second before she let it go. Watching the office clerk take it, stamp it, and slide it into the stack of completed forms felt surreal — like she’d just sealed away a part of her life.

As she turned to leave, she glanced one last time at Shiori. The other girl looked so happy, so excited about what came next. Akari wondered if Jirou would look that happy too when they switched.

She doubted it. But maybe that was just what she wanted to believe.

Clutching Jirou’s jacket tighter around her, she stepped out into the chilly afternoon air. It smelled like rain — heavy and cold — and for a long moment, she just stood there, breathing it in, trying not to let herself break before she got home.

Jirou stood in the middle of his room, the soft creak of the floorboards echoing under his feet as he glanced around. The walls that once felt alive — plastered with posters, cluttered shelves, books half-stacked, a stray sweater or two tossed on his chair — were now bare. The emptiness didn’t suit the space; it looked wrong, too sterile, too quiet. The air felt different too — thinner somehow, like the room itself already knew he was leaving.

He let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. A few boxes sat neatly by the door, each one labeled in his small, careful handwriting. Clothes, books, electronics. He’d tried to stay organized, to make it all feel practical and simple. But no amount of neatness could disguise how final it felt.

Tomorrow he’d be gone. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t wake up to the sound of Akari’s humming in the kitchen, or her voice calling out to him from the living room, complaining about something trivial just to fill the silence. He wouldn’t have to remind her to turn off the lights before bed, or argue with her about whose turn it was to clean the bathroom, or have her lean over the couch, grinning as she demanded to know what game he was playing.

He sat on the edge of his bed — the last piece of furniture still in place — and stared at the floor. The emptiness of the room made it hard to think. Or maybe it made it too easy to think. He wasn’t sure anymore.

When they’d started this arrangement, he’d told himself it was temporary. That it was all for the sake of the program, for the points, for their rank. That once they reached A-rank, everything would go back to how it was supposed to be. He’d reunite with Shiori. Akari would go to Minami. The order of things would be restored.

But now, sitting there, surrounded by boxes and silence, it didn’t feel like restoration. It felt like loss.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and pressed his palms together, staring at the floorboards. It was strange how much a space could hold memories — laughter, arguments, those little, mundane moments that built up into something real before he’d even noticed it happening.

He could still see her everywhere. The corner where she used to throw her school bag after class, the little dent on the couch where she always sat, the faint stain on the rug from that one time she’d tried to make coffee and spilled it everywhere. He’d teased her about it for weeks, and she’d retaliated by hiding his controllers every time he annoyed her.

He smiled faintly at the memory, but it faded quickly, replaced by a dull ache in his chest.

He wondered if she was feeling the same way. If she was sitting in her own room right now, staring at the form she’d handed in, trying to convince herself that this was what she wanted. He wanted to believe she was happy — that she was excited to be with Minami. That this was the right thing for her.

But when he remembered the way her voice had sounded earlier that day — soft, trembling, when she told him not to call her “Watanabe” — something in him broke a little.

He rubbed the back of his neck, standing up to stretch, and crossed the room to the window. The city lights flickered below, muted through the glass. It was late, but the world outside was still alive — people laughing, talking, living. He felt separate from it, like he was watching something through a screen.

His eyes drifted to the desk. The only thing left on it was a small photo — one they’d taken months ago during one of their practice assignments. Akari had insisted on it, saying they needed “evidence of their perfect teamwork.” She’d been grinning wide in the picture, her head tilted toward him. He’d been awkwardly half-smiling, caught off guard when she’d leaned close at the last second.

He picked it up slowly, brushing his thumb over the edge. It was ridiculous, really — he didn’t even remember when she’d printed it out. But now, holding it, the memory felt vivid. Her laughter, her perfume, the warmth of her shoulder brushing his.

He exhaled shakily. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath — though he wasn’t sure if he was talking about her or himself. Maybe both.

He set the photo down gently and walked over to the closet, checking again to make sure nothing was left behind. There wasn’t. Just the faint smell of detergent and the soft echo of absence.

He crouched by one of the boxes and opened it again, even though he knew it was already packed. Inside were a few old game cases, some cables, a hoodie — one of his that Akari had worn around the apartment sometimes. She’d said it was comfy, that it “smelled like him,” which had embarrassed him more than he wanted to admit. He stared at it now, folded neatly at the top of the box. For a moment, he thought about pulling it out, just to hold it. To remember. But he didn’t.

Instead, he closed the box again, pressing down the flaps until they clicked.

He sat back, staring at the four cardboard boxes that represented months of his life with her. It didn’t look like much. It didn’t feel like enough.

He thought about tomorrow — about moving into the new apartment with Shiori. She’d probably already set up her things, knowing her. She was neat, organized, responsible. He should be happy about that. Shiori had always been the kind of person who brought stability into his life.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Akari didn’t bring stability — she brought chaos. Warm, frustrating, beautiful chaos that somehow made him feel more alive than anything else ever had.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Get it together,” he muttered. “It’s just a move.”

But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. Because deep down, he knew this wasn’t just a move. It was an ending.

He stood once more, crossing the small room one last time. He flicked off the light, letting the faint glow from the street spill through the blinds. The shadows fell across the boxes, the empty bed, the walls that no longer held a trace of him.

He lingered in the doorway for a long moment, looking back.

Tomorrow, this wouldn’t be his room anymore. Tomorrow, this chapter — the one filled with Akari’s laughter, her teasing, her warmth — would be over.

And as he stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him, Jirou felt something in his chest twist painfully — the quiet, undeniable ache of realizing that somewhere along the line, he’d fallen for the girl he was supposed to let go of.

The apartment was eerily quiet, only the soft sizzling of pork belly in the pan breaking through the heavy silence. The familiar scent of soy, garlic, and oil filled the space — comforting, nostalgic, almost cruel. Akari stood at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, stirring absentmindedly, her eyes unfocused. The steam fogged her vision, or maybe that was just the tears she was holding back. She could hear the faint sound of fabric rustling behind her — Jirou folding laundry, the repetitive motion steady, almost mechanical. Every now and then, he’d pause, holding one of her shirts for a second too long before neatly folding it and setting it aside.

Akari was still wearing his jacket, even though the heater hummed softly in the background. It hung loosely off her shoulders, the sleeves too long, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to it. She could’ve taken it off at any time, but she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t want to. Maybe it was the last piece of him she could still keep close without crossing a line she knew she shouldn’t.

Jirou glanced up briefly, watching her from the couch. She looked smaller somehow, her usual brightness dimmed. He wanted to say something — anything — to cut through the suffocating quiet, but his throat felt tight. He’d already said too much earlier that day, and not nearly enough. He looked down again, refolding the same towel twice.

When Akari turned off the stove, the sudden silence was deafening. She moved carefully, almost like she was afraid the smallest sound might shatter the fragile calm between them. Setting two bowls on the table, she finally spoke, her voice soft and hoarse. “It’s done.”

Jirou stood, stretching slightly before walking over. The smell hit him stronger up close, and the sight of the bowl — the same kind of ramen she’d made him after their first argument — made his chest ache. “You didn’t have to,” he said quietly, sitting down anyway.

“I know,” she murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I just… wanted to.”

They ate in silence, their chopsticks clinking softly against the ceramic bowls. Jirou kept his eyes on his food, but he could feel her gaze flicker toward him occasionally, lingering for a moment before she’d look away again. Every movement between them was careful, restrained — as if one wrong word could unravel everything they’d built, or at least everything they’d pretended not to feel.

When she finished eating, Akari set her chopsticks down gently, tracing the edge of her bowl with her fingertip. “You’ll be leaving early tomorrow, right?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Jirou replied after a pause. “I want to get it done before classes start.”

She nodded. The sound of rain started faintly tapping against the window, and Jirou found himself staring at her reflection in the glass — soft, distant, lost in thought.

“You should keep the jacket,” he said suddenly. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Akari blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “The jacket. It… suits you better.” He tried to sound casual, but his voice cracked just slightly at the end.

Akari’s lips parted, but she didn’t answer. She just looked at him for a long, quiet moment — the kind of look that said everything words couldn’t. Then, with a small, trembling nod, she turned back to her bowl.

Neither of them spoke after that. The rain grew louder, the room grew dimmer, and by the time Jirou gathered the dishes, the silence between them had solidified into something almost tangible.

It wasn’t anger, or even sadness — it was something deeper. A shared understanding that this was the last quiet dinner they’d ever have together like this.
"Do you wanna watch a movie?" Jirou asked, "We can finish that stupid horror movie we were watching when the power went out"

"It wasn't stupid, the storyline was compelling", Akari argued

Jirou rolled his eyes "Steve was an idiot, and his girlfriend was somehow an even bigger idiot; they have the survival instincts of a feather"

"Leave Bridgette alone", Akari said 'her boyfriend got turned into a zombie!"

Jirou put his hands up in mock surrender "Okay, okay, touchy topic, we can watch something else"

"Fine", Akari huffed, sitting down again

Jirou smirked faintly as he moved toward the TV, scrolling through the familiar list of movies they’d half-watched, abandoned, or rewatched to death. The living room felt strangely hollow now, boxes stacked in the corners, half their shared trinkets already gone. Yet for this brief moment, it felt normal again — like the tension of the day had faded into something gentler, quieter.

Akari sat cross-legged on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. She still had his jacket draped around her shoulders, and the oversized sleeves made her look like she was hiding inside it. The glow of the television washed across her face, softening the tired lines around her eyes.

“What about this?” Jirou asked, pausing on a rom-com they’d made fun of before.

Akari squinted. “We already watched that one. You fell asleep halfway through.”

“Because it was boring,” he countered. “They met, they argued, they kissed in the rain, boom — happy ending. You could see it coming from orbit.”

“Maybe that’s why people like it,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the TV. “Because sometimes it’s nice to know things work out in the end.”

Jirou turned toward her at that, the easy smile on his lips faltering. The weight of her words hung between them. For a long moment, neither spoke.

He cleared his throat and scrolled again. “Alright, what about that animated one you picked last time? With the talking dog that wanted to be a detective?”

Akari’s lips curved upward just slightly. “You hated that one.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Jirou said defensively, sitting down beside her with the remote still in hand. “I just think the dog could’ve solved the case faster if he didn’t sing every five minutes.”

She laughed quietly — the sound soft but genuine. It warmed the air between them more than the heater ever could.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s watch it.”

He hit play, and the familiar intro music filled the room. They sat there, shoulders just barely touching, watching as the silly animated characters danced across the screen. Akari’s hand rested lightly on the pillow between them, her fingers brushing the fabric every so often in small, anxious movements.

Halfway through the movie, she leaned slightly closer, her head resting against his shoulder. Jirou froze for a second before exhaling, relaxing into the contact. It felt right — too right — and he tried not to think about how, tomorrow, this simple closeness would be gone.

“You were right,” Jirou murmured after a while. “It’s actually kinda good.”

Akari smiled faintly, not moving her head. “Told you.”

The movie played on, the light flickering across their faces. Jirou wanted to say something — anything — about how he’d miss this, how he’d miss her. But instead, he stayed quiet, afraid that if he spoke, the fragile peace between them would shatter.

The soft hum of the television filled the room, the dialogue from the next movie blending into a quiet, soothing murmur that neither of them was really listening to anymore. The lights were dim, and the air was warm — the kind of still warmth that made eyelids heavy and thoughts slow. Akari had shifted somewhere between one scene and the next, her head tucked neatly under Jirou’s chin, her breath brushing against his collarbone in slow, steady rhythms.

Jirou hadn’t meant for it to happen. One moment, they were sitting side by side, and the next, Akari had leaned closer, pressing herself into his chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His arm had moved on instinct, sliding around her shoulders, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the sleeve of his own jacket that she was still wearing. The smell of her shampoo — something floral, light — mixed faintly with the scent of the detergent they used for the couch cushions.

He glanced down at her, his chest tightening slightly at how peaceful she looked. Her eyelashes fluttered with each slow blink, her cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel her heartbeat through where her hand rested on his chest, faint but steady, perfectly synchronized with his own.

It shouldn’t have felt like this. It shouldn’t have been this easy, this comfortable. They weren’t supposed to be here, like this — not after signing those papers, not after everything that had been decided. And yet, every fiber of his being screamed that this was where she was supposed to be. That maybe, even if the world told them otherwise, they’d gotten something right just by ending up in this quiet, fragile moment together.

Akari stirred slightly, mumbling something soft, half asleep. Her fingers curled into his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.

Jirou froze, his pulse quickening, but he didn’t move. He let her stay, his arm tightening just slightly around her waist. The rise and fall of her breathing against him soothed something deep in his chest, something he hadn’t realized had been aching since the moment they’d made that decision to separate.

He closed his eyes, pretending for a while that it wasn’t their last night together like this. Pretending that when he woke up tomorrow, nothing would have changed — that she’d still be there beside him, tangled up in the blankets, smiling the way she used to when mornings still felt simple.

The movie’s credits rolled again, soft music playing over the end screen. Neither of them moved to turn it off. Jirou’s thumb brushed gently against Akari’s arm, tracing small, absent circles. The motion felt intimate, grounding — like if he just kept doing it, time might slow down long enough for them to stay here.

Akari shifted again, her head pressing closer to his chest. “...You’re warm,” she murmured sleepily, her voice muffled by fabric.

Jirou’s lips twitched in a small, sad smile. “You’re cold,” he whispered back, his voice low enough that he wasn’t even sure if she heard it.

She didn’t reply. Her breathing evened out again, steady and calm. He glanced down, and her hand had relaxed against him, her features soft and unguarded.

He’d never seen her like this before — not the loud, teasing, bright version of Akari that everyone knew, but the quiet one. The one who let herself just be when the world stopped watching.

Jirou brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face, his fingers hesitating just above her cheek. His throat tightened as he realized how desperately he wanted to memorize everything about this moment — the way her hair fell across her shoulder, the warmth of her body against his, the sound of her breath syncing with his heartbeat.

Tomorrow, this would all change. Tomorrow, she’d move her things out of the apartment, Minami would move in, and he’d start living with Shiori. They’d both start pretending again. Pretending that this hadn’t meant something. Pretending that this wasn’t everything.

But tonight, as Akari nestled deeper into his chest and his arm held her close, Jirou allowed himself one small act of selfishness — he pressed his lips softly against the top of her head.

She didn’t stir, but he thought he heard the faintest sigh, the kind that sounded like comfort.

And for that brief, fleeting moment, the world outside didn’t matter. The forms didn’t matter. Tomorrow didn’t matter. There was only her — warm, breathing, right there in his arms — and the aching, undeniable truth that he’d already fallen too far to turn back.

The morning light bled slowly through the thin curtains, a pale amber glow cutting through the quiet stillness of the apartment. Jirou blinked groggily as his eyes adjusted, the blurry outline of the room coming into focus. For a moment, his brain refused to process the warmth against his chest — the weight, the steady rhythm of soft breaths rising and falling. Then, as he shifted slightly, a strand of Akari’s hair brushed across his chin, and his heart lurched.

She was curled against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, her arm draped lazily across his stomach. Her hair, still carrying that faint strawberry scent from her shampoo, tickled his neck each time she moved. Her expression was peaceful, lips parted slightly, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across her features.

For a long while, Jirou just lay there. The realization that this was their last morning together — their last — settled like a stone in his chest. He wanted to stay, to memorize every detail of her face, the way her eyelashes fluttered in her sleep, the little frown that came and went with her dreams. But the clock on the wall told him that time was still moving, even when he didn’t want it to.

It was 7:00 a.m. School started in an hour and a half. Reality was catching up.

He exhaled quietly, hesitating before moving. The slightest shift made her murmur something unintelligible, nuzzling deeper into him. His heart clenched painfully at the sound — soft, trusting, unbearably intimate. For a second, he considered just… staying there. Forgetting the world outside the apartment, forgetting Shiori, Minami, rankings, everything. But he couldn’t. They both knew what was waiting for them once the day began.

So, carefully, he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She stirred again but didn’t wake, her body instinctively curling into him as he lifted her. She was light — lighter than he remembered — and her warmth lingered against his chest as he carried her down the short hallway toward her room.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open. He’d been in her room a hundred times before, but now it felt different. There was a quiet finality to it — her pink curtains, the stack of magazines beside the desk, the faint perfume that always clung to the air. Everything screamed her, and the thought of not seeing her here every day twisted his stomach.

He lowered her onto the bed, her head sinking into the pillow. She murmured again, turning slightly, her fingers brushing his wrist before falling limp. The sound — that tiny, barely conscious groan — hit him harder than he expected. It was tender, vulnerable, so distinctly Akari.

He lingered beside the bed, staring at her. The blanket was half-slipped off her shoulder, so he gently pulled it up, tucking it under her chin. She looked small like this — fragile in a way that Akari rarely ever was when awake. The usual fire in her eyes was gone, replaced by something soft and human and completely unguarded.

Jirou’s hand hovered near her face for a long second before he finally brushed a few strands of hair away from her cheek. His fingers grazed her skin — just barely — but it was enough to make his chest ache. He didn’t know when he’d get to see her like this again. He didn’t know if he ever would.

He whispered, almost to himself, “Sleep well, Akari.”

Then, with a quiet sigh, he stepped back, forcing himself to leave the room before the temptation to stay won out.

The apartment felt emptier as he walked into the kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound for a while until he flicked on the stove. He needed something to do — something to fill the silence, to keep from thinking too much.

He reached for the small packet of pastries Akari liked — the ones she always bought “for both of them” but inevitably ended up eating most of. Sliding them into the oven, he adjusted the temperature with practiced ease. The familiar motion of it grounded him, even if only for a moment.

Next, he set a pot of water to boil and reached for the coffee tin. The smell of roasted beans hit the air as soon as he opened it, rich and warm, cutting through the morning chill. He poured some into the small metal filter and let it sit over the pot, waiting for the slow drip to begin.

Steam started to rise, curling into the soft sunlight that filtered through the kitchen window. It illuminated the space like a memory — the same way it did on lazy weekends when Akari would hum to herself while frying eggs or complain about how slow the toaster was. He could almost hear her laughter now, faint and ghostlike in his head.

Jirou leaned against the counter, his hands wrapped around his mug as he stared blankly at the bubbling pot. He missed her — missed her so much that it hurt to even admit it to himself.

And yet, she was still here. Just down the hallway. Sleeping soundly, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his jacket. It should’ve been comforting, but it wasn’t. It only reminded him of what he was about to lose.

The oven dinged softly, pulling him back to the present. He turned off the stove and took out the pastries, the buttery scent filling the kitchen. For a moment, he smiled — a small, tired curve of his lips. She’d love waking up to the smell.

He set her plate on the counter, next to her favorite mug — the pink one with the tiny chip near the handle. The little domesticity of it all almost made him laugh. How many mornings had been like this? How many small moments had they taken for granted?

He poured the coffee, took one sip, and exhaled slowly. The quiet stretched on, heavy and gentle all at once. He wanted to wake her, to share breakfast like always, to pretend they still had time. But instead, he let her rest.

She deserved that much — one last peaceful morning before everything changed.

“Jirou…” Akari’s voice was small, almost fragile, barely louder than a whisper as it floated through the quiet apartment.

Jirou froze mid-step, his mug halfway to his lips. He turned toward the hallway, and there she was — standing just beyond the doorway, framed by the soft morning light. Her hair was messy, strands sticking out in every direction, and the oversized jacket he’d given her the night before hung loosely off one shoulder. She looked tired, paler than usual, her eyes heavy and unfocused.

“I don’t feel good,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly.

Jirou set the mug down instantly and crossed the small distance between them, concern tightening his chest. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone gentle but edged with panic. “Do you have a fever or something?”

He reached out without thinking, pressing his hand to her forehead. Her skin was cool beneath his palm, and the contact made her blink up at him, startled.

“You don’t feel warm,” he said softly, frowning as he searched her face for answers that wouldn’t come.

Akari’s lips pressed together, and she reached up, batting his hand away — not roughly, but enough to make him pause. “Don’t do that,” she whispered, her voice quieter now, almost breaking. “I just… don’t feel good. I’m gonna stay home today.”

Something about the way she said it — the tremor in her words, the way her shoulders hunched like she was trying to hold herself together — made Jirou’s heart twist. It wasn’t the tone of someone with a cold or a fever. It was the kind of tired that came from something deeper, heavier.

He exhaled slowly, trying to mask his worry. “Okay,” he said after a moment, keeping his voice steady. “Go lay down, alright?”

She hesitated for a second, as if unsure whether to move, then nodded faintly. Jirou stepped closer, his hands coming up to rest gently on her shoulders. Her skin felt cool through the fabric of his jacket, and he could feel the faint tremble in her frame.

“Are you cold?” he asked quietly. “Do you need another blanket?”

“No,” she murmured, her gaze flickering to the side. “It’s okay.”

She wasn’t meeting his eyes, and that more than anything told him that something was wrong — really wrong. The Akari he knew would always meet him head-on, always speak her mind, even when it hurt. But now, she just looked… distant. Like she was standing in the same room, but her heart was somewhere else entirely.

He guided her gently back toward her room, his steps slow and careful, afraid she might stumble. She didn’t resist — she just followed, her body moving on autopilot as he led her to the bed.

When they reached it, she sat down on the edge, her fingers twisting in the hem of the blanket. Jirou crouched beside her, the floor cool beneath his knees, and looked up at her face. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and it hit him all over again that she wasn’t just tired — she was hurting.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” he said quietly, forcing his voice to stay calm. “You should have something in your stomach, even if it’s small.”

Akari didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers still tugging absently at the edge of the blanket. “You don’t have to,” she said finally, her tone barely above a whisper.

“I know I don’t,” Jirou replied gently. “But I want to.”

That made her finally look up at him. Her eyes shimmered faintly, like she was trying not to cry. He held her gaze, searching it for some kind of clue, some way to understand what she wasn’t saying. But all he found there was exhaustion and the faint, painful flicker of something that felt too much like goodbye.

She blinked and turned away, lying back slowly, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “You’re too nice sometimes, Jirou,” she muttered, her voice muffled against the pillow.

He gave a soft laugh — more of an exhale, really. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta take care of you when you forget to take care of yourself.”

She didn’t respond, and after a moment, he realized her breathing had evened out slightly, though her eyes were still open, staring blankly at the far wall.

Jirou stood up, running a hand through his hair before quietly leaving her room. As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, the silence felt heavier again. The smell of the coffee he’d made earlier still lingered, and the pastries sat cooling on the counter — untouched.

He sighed and busied himself with something to do. He poured another cup of coffee, checked the pastries, then started frying a small egg, telling himself she’d probably want something light when she woke up again.

But the motions were mechanical, a distraction from the ache that had settled deep in his chest.

He didn’t know what to do — didn’t know how to help her when the problem wasn’t something he could fix with medicine or food or words. Whatever it was that was hurting her, it wasn’t physical. He knew that much.

When the coffee was ready, he poured her a cup — mostly milk, the way she liked it — and set it carefully on a tray beside a plate with a pastry and the fried egg. He hesitated, glancing down the hallway toward her closed door.

She’d said she wanted to stay home. She needed rest. But something told him she didn’t really want to be alone, either.

So he carried the tray to her room quietly, knocking softly before pushing the door open. She was still lying there, her back to him, the blanket pulled high over her shoulders.

“Akari,” he said softly, setting the tray down on her desk. “I made you something. You don’t have to eat right now, but it’s here if you get hungry.”

She didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Only the slow rise and fall of her breathing told him she was awake.

Jirou lingered a moment longer, his gaze softening. He wanted to say something — anything. Something that would make her smile, something that would make this heavy feeling go away. But no words came.

So instead, he whispered, almost too quietly for her to hear, “Rest well, okay? I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Then he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

And for the rest of the morning, he sat on the couch — the same couch where they’d fallen asleep together just hours before — staring blankly at the flickering TV screen, listening for any sound from her room. But all he heard was silence.

And that silence was somehow louder than anything else.

Akari curled into herself, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as if it could shield her from the ache building in her chest. The soft morning light filtering through the curtains did little to warm her; it only made the room feel emptier. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face, small sobs escaping before she could stop them. The tears came quietly at first, slow trails down her cheeks, but the more she tried to suppress them, the heavier her chest felt—until it was too much.

She buried her face into her pillow, muffling the sound, her breath hitching. The smell of Jirou’s cologne lingered faintly on the fabric—he must’ve rested here last night—and that only made it worse. It reminded her of the way he carried her to bed, the gentle brush of his fingers against her hair, the softness in his voice when he told her to rest. She wanted to be angry, wanted to tell herself it was better this way, but her heart refused to listen.

Every memory from the past few months seemed to flood in at once—the late-night ramen runs, the long study sessions, the small, stupid arguments that always ended in laughter. It all felt like it was slipping away now, out of reach, as if the life they’d built together was dissolving right before her eyes.

She squeezed the blanket tighter and let the tears fall freely, her voice breaking in a quiet whisper.

“Please don’t go yet…”

But there was no one there to hear her. Only the faint sound of the oven timer from the kitchen, the smell of coffee drifting through the air, and the echo of a goodbye that hadn’t even been said yet.

Shiori adjusted one of the heavier boxes in her arms, ignoring Jirou’s quiet protests as they made their way down the dorm hallway. “You don’t have to help, Shiori, I’ve got it,” he said for the third time, but his tone lacked conviction. His voice was tired, a little strained, like he was trying to keep his emotions buried under routine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shiori replied lightly, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just focus on not tripping over your own feet.” She set the box down beside the others near the door of his new room, glancing around the small, bare space. “You really don’t have much stuff, huh?”

Jirou gave a faint laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I travel light.” But his eyes lingered on one of the boxes—Akari’s handwriting scrawled across the top from when she’d labeled it for him months ago. He quickly turned away. “Anyway, thanks for helping. You should head to class before you’re late.”

Shiori nodded, hesitating for a moment as if she wanted to say something else, but instead just gave him a short nod before walking out. When the door closed, the silence hit Jirou hard.

Meanwhile, back in the dorm, Akari hadn’t moved much. The curtains were still drawn, the faint afternoon light slipping through in slanted streaks that illuminated the untouched meal Huriy had left her earlier. She’d tried to eat—really tried—but the food just sat in her throat like a stone. Every bite felt like an effort, her stomach twisting with nausea and sadness all at once.

She heard the front door open a few hours later, the familiar sound of Minami’s voice drifting through the quiet space as he chatted with a couple of classmates who’d stopped by. Their laughter sounded far away, muffled through the closed door, but every sound made her feel more like a ghost in her own home.

When the noise died down and the others left, there was a soft knock at her door. Minami’s voice came through, calm and careful. “Hey, Watanabe… are you okay?”

Akari hesitated, staring at the half-finished cup of tea on her desk. Her throat felt dry, her voice almost catching when she answered. “I’m fine,” she managed finally. “I’m just… tired.”

There was a pause on the other side of the door, the kind that lingered a little too long to be casual. Then Minami’s quiet reply came, softer this time, “Okay. I’ll leave you to rest then. But… don’t skip dinner, alright?”

She didn’t answer. The sound of his footsteps retreating made her chest ache even more. Slowly, she curled back up under the covers, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her mind kept replaying Jirou’s voice, his laugh, the way he used to say her name when she’d fall asleep on the couch.

Now, it was just silence—and the lingering warmth of a life she didn’t know how to let go of.

The faint sound of sizzling oil and the soft clatter of utensils filled the small dorm apartment, carrying with it the scent of soy sauce and garlic. Shiori hummed lightly under her breath as she cooked, her voice barely audible over the simmering pot. She was still getting used to this rhythm—coming home after classes, sharing a space with someone. With Jirou.

They’d fallen into a strange kind of peace together. It wasn’t perfect—there was a lingering awkwardness, the kind that came from two people who were still learning how to fit into each other’s daily lives—but it was quiet, calm, and kind. Jirou would do the laundry or handle the trash without needing to be asked, and Shiori would cook and tidy up his clutter. It wasn’t love yet, not really, but it was comfortable.

In the bedroom, Jirou knelt by the last of his unpacked boxes, exhaling softly as he placed the final few items around the room. Books on the shelf. A small plant by the window. His phone charger by the desk. And finally, the photo frame.

He set it down carefully on his bedside table, his hand lingering on the edge of the frame as if afraid it might slip away.

The picture was one of those chaotic, imperfect shots that somehow captured everything. Everyone was smiling. Kamo mid-laugh, his mouth open as if shouting some ridiculous comment. Minami holding up the phone with one hand, barely managing to keep it steady. Shiori—right beside Jirou—was holding onto his arm, smiling at the camera. Natsumi sat piggyback on Mei, both of them laughing so hard they were out of focus.

And there, in the corner of the photo, was Akari.

She wore that light blue swimsuit, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her smile wasn’t posed—it was real, radiant, the kind that drew the eye even if she wasn’t in the center of the shot. Jirou’s gaze lingered there for a long time.

He remembered that moment so vividly it almost hurt. Kamo had told some idiotic joke about being “the group’s lifeguard” despite nearly drowning earlier, and Akari had laughed so hard she’d nearly fallen over. Minami had dropped the phone three times before managing to capture that final photo. Then there was Natsumi’s failed attempt to kiss Mei’s cheek, resulting in half the group bursting out laughing again.

It had been one of those rare days where everything felt easy—warm sand under their feet, waves crashing in the background, the kind of carefree joy that felt infinite when you were living in it.

Jirou found himself smiling faintly, his thumb brushing over the glass. “That was a good day,” he murmured under his breath. But as the words left his mouth, that faint ache returned, deep in his chest.

He didn’t know why he still kept the photo out. Maybe it was nostalgia, or maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was just that he wasn’t ready to let go of what that day meant—of who Akari had been to him then.

“Jirou, dinner’s ready!” Shiori called from the kitchen, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Coming,” he called back, his voice steadying as he took one last look at the photo.

He turned it slightly, angling the frame so that Shiori’s reflection in the glass was clearer than Akari’s face, before standing up and heading toward the dining table.

The scent of food greeted him, warm and familiar. Shiori looked up and smiled, a soft pink tint on her cheeks. “I tried a new recipe. Tell me if it’s too salty.”

Jirou smiled back, sitting across from her. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

As they began to eat, Shiori chatted about class, about Minami and Kamo arguing during practice again, about the group’s plans for the weekend. Jirou listened, nodding and laughing in all the right places. From the outside, it looked perfect—normal.

But every now and then, when Shiori’s voice trailed off and the quiet settled in again, his thoughts drifted back to the sound of Akari’s laughter on that beach, echoing faintly in the back of his mind.

The sound of running water filled the small apartment, a steady rhythm that seemed to drown out Jirou’s thoughts as he scrubbed at a stubborn stain on one of the bowls. The scent of the soap mixed faintly with the remnants of dinner — soy and garlic, the warmth of cooked rice still lingering in the air. It was domestic, peaceful, the kind of atmosphere that should have made him feel content. But his mind was miles away.

He could almost hear her voice again — Akari’s voice — soft but sharp, cutting through his concentration in that familiar way. “You’re not scrubbing it properly, Yakuin.” She’d always say it half-teasing, half-serious, the way she did when she was pretending not to care but clearly did. He could picture her standing beside him, hands on her hips, leaning in to take the sponge from him with that little huff of annoyance she always gave. He’d tease her, tell her she was bossy. She’d roll her eyes and say someone had to do things right.

Jirou’s chest tightened. He blinked, the memory fading as the water splashed against his fingers, the warmth grounding him back in the present. He stared down at the soapy sink for a long moment before realizing he’d been scrubbing the same plate for almost two minutes.

“Hey, Jirou?”

Shiori’s voice broke through the silence. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch her reflection in the small kitchen window. Her hair was damp from the shower, loose and soft around her shoulders, and she was wearing one of his hoodies — it hung oversized on her frame, the sleeves covering half her hands. She looked… comfortable here. Like she belonged.

“Yeah?” he asked, his tone calm, steady — too steady.

“I was thinking…” she began, her voice a little hesitant. She fiddled with the towel in her hands, drying the ends of her hair. “Since we’ve been living together for a while and we’ve been…” She hesitated, her words faltering as color crept up her cheeks. “I was wondering if maybe…”

Jirou didn’t look up. He rinsed off the plate, stacking it carefully on the drying rack. The question lingered unspoken for a moment, hanging heavy between them.

Shiori took a breath, bracing herself. “Could we try dating for real?” she blurted finally, her voice cracking slightly with nerves.

The sound of running water suddenly seemed too loud.

Jirou froze, his hand still submerged in the sink, soap bubbles clinging to his knuckles. The world around him went quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the dripping faucet.

His heart stuttered.

He’d known, of course. Somewhere deep down, he’d known this moment would come. Shiori was kind, patient, gentle in ways he couldn’t always match. She’d been there when he was struggling to figure out what came next, when he told himself he needed to move forward, to stop thinking about the past. She was safe. The right choice.

And yet, in that still moment, when the words “dating for real” echoed in his mind, all he could see was Akari’s face — the way she’d looked up at him that last morning, his jacket wrapped tight around her shoulders. Her soft “thank you, Jirou.” The way her lips had trembled like she was about to say something else but couldn’t.

He felt his chest constrict, his grip on the sponge tightening until it squeaked against the porcelain.

He didn’t turn around right away. “Shiori…” he said softly, his voice lower than usual.

Her heart skipped, the way he said her name almost gentle — uncertain. “Yeah?” she asked, trying to sound casual, though her fingers fidgeted with the hem of the towel.

He drew in a slow breath, searching for words that wouldn’t come. The seconds dragged. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing against him, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly suffocating.

Finally, he turned, meeting her eyes. She was smiling — tentative, hopeful, unaware of the storm behind his calm expression.

Jirou managed a small smile of his own, faint and polite, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s… talk about it,” he said quietly.

Shiori’s eyes lit up just a little. “Okay,” she said, nodding quickly, relief flickering across her face.

As she stepped closer, the faint scent of her shampoo drifted through the air — clean, floral, unfamiliar.

Jirou turned back to the sink before she could see the flicker of hesitation in his face. He shut off the tap, his reflection in the dark window staring back at him — tired, conflicted, and carrying a quiet ache he couldn’t quite name.

He wanted to move forward. He should move forward.

But as he stood there, hands dripping with soapy water, he couldn’t help but think that no matter how hard he tried…

he was still scrubbing at something that would never really come clean.

"Jirou..." Shiori hesitantly reached for him, her voice soft but trembling slightly at the edges. "It’s okay if you don’t want to."

Her words hung in the air, delicate and uncertain, like the last note of a fading song. The kitchen light flickered faintly above them, casting a warm, uneven glow across the small space. The smell of dinner still lingered — miso and ginger, faintly sweet — but it was being swallowed slowly by the heavier scent of silence that had settled between them.

Jirou’s shoulders stiffened. He turned the towel in his hands over and over, as though it would somehow give him an answer. “No, that’s… that’s not it,” he said quickly, the words coming out rushed and uneven. “I just…” His jaw tightened slightly as he stared down at the dish towel, the patterns on it suddenly too interesting, too safe to look away from. “I just want to make sure you’re really sure about this before we make any big decisions.”

Shiori froze where she stood, her hand still hovering halfway toward him. The distance between them wasn’t much — barely a few feet — but it felt enormous, as if every unsaid thought stretched it wider. Her fingers curled slightly, her nails digging gently into her palm, like she was afraid that if she reached any further, something fragile might break.

The hum of the refrigerator seemed almost deafening. She stared at his back, at the tense way his shoulders rose and fell, at the faint tilt of his head that told her he was lost somewhere deep in thought.

“Jirou…” she murmured again, a hint of ache in her voice. “I am sure.”

Her voice was soft, but there was conviction beneath the tremble. “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it before,” she continued. “I just thought… maybe you hadn’t.”

Jirou finally turned, his hands dropping to his sides. The towel hung loosely from his fingers, damp and forgotten. His eyes met hers, and Shiori almost wished they hadn’t. There was something there — something she couldn’t quite name. Not detachment, but heaviness. Guilt. Maybe confusion. Maybe regret.

“It’s not that I haven’t,” he said quietly. The words were calm, but his voice carried a faint roughness, like it had scraped against something sharp on the way out. “I just don’t want to rush something important. You deserve… to be really sure about what you want.”

Shiori’s lips parted slightly before she exhaled. Her shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, her eyes searching his face for something — anything — that would tell her this wasn’t what it looked like. “You always do that,” she said finally, her tone half-defeated, half-fond.

Jirou blinked. “Do what?”

“Put things on other people.” Her gaze softened, but her words carried weight. “You keep saying I should be sure. That I should think about it. But what about you, Jirou? Are you sure?”

The question hit him harder than it should have.

He stared at her, mouth slightly open, but no words came out. The towel slipped from his fingers, landing soundlessly on the counter. For a long moment, he just stood there, the question echoing in his head like a bell he couldn’t silence.

Was he sure?

He’d spent years thinking about this — about her. About the kind of relationship he wanted, the kind of girl he’d thought would make sense for him. Someone calm, kind, steady — someone like Shiori. Someone who didn’t turn his world upside down or make him second-guess himself.

But lately, all he could think about was how quiet this peace felt. Too quiet. Too still. Like something was missing from the middle of it.

“I—” he started, then stopped. His throat felt dry. He turned back to the dishes, as if finishing them would give him time to think. “I just don’t want to mess it up,” he finally said. The words came out small, almost defeated.

Shiori stepped forward, her voice gentler now. “You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her — her bright eyes, her worried smile, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. This was supposed to be perfect. This was supposed to be what he wanted.

And yet…

“Jirou,” she whispered again, stepping closer, “are you sure?”

He hesitated. His heart beat unevenly in his chest, thoughts running wild. Say yes, a voice in his head told him — his own voice, or maybe someone else’s. Maybe Akari’s. He could almost hear her tone, that half-annoyed, half-playful lilt telling him not to overthink it. Just say yes, Yakuin.

“Of course I am,” Jirou blurted before he could stop himself.

The words came out too quickly, too forced. He almost flinched at how false they sounded to his own ears.

Shiori smiled in relief, her expression softening as she closed the distance between them. “Okay,” she whispered, reaching for his hands.

Jirou set the towel aside and dried his palms against his pants before letting her hold them. Her hands were warm, delicate — so different from Akari’s, whose grip had always been strong and impulsive, who would yank him by the wrist instead of gently taking his hand.

He forced a smile, trying to match hers, trying to ignore the faint ache forming in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Let’s… give it a try.”

Shiori’s face brightened, her eyes softening with affection as she leaned in slightly, squeezing his hands. “I’m glad,” she said quietly, almost shyly.

Jirou nodded, the faintest smile still on his lips. He tried to hold onto that warmth, tried to convince himself that this was right. That this was what he’d wanted all along.

But as Shiori turned away, humming softly to herself as she went to put away the dishes, Jirou’s gaze drifted to the window. The reflection staring back at him didn’t look like someone who had just gotten what he wanted. It looked like someone realizing too late that what he wanted and what he needed might not be the same thing at all.

And as he turned off the kitchen light, the silence that followed felt heavier than ever.

The group took the news harder than Jirou had expected. What was supposed to be a casual hangout quickly turned into a mix of chaos and curiosity. They’d gathered in their usual spot — The café Minami worked at in the city, the place that had been “theirs”, though mainly because they got a discount. The smell of coffee and the sound of mismatched laughter filled the small space as the teasing began almost immediately.

“So it’s true?” Akari gasped dramatically, leaning across the table. “You two? Actually together? I thought you were gonna die single, Jirou!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jirou muttered dryly, though he couldn’t hide the faint pink rising to his cheeks.

Shiori, sitting beside him, just smiled softly and leaned against his shoulder — a small, quiet gesture that somehow silenced the rest of the table for a brief moment. It was rare to see her look so at ease.

“Unbelievable,” Akari teased again, still grinning. “Guess miracles do happen.”

Minami laughed, shaking her head. “I think it’s cute. Took you both long enough.”

Sachi raised her drink with a smile. “To Jirou and Shiori — may you survive Akari’s teasing.”

That earned a round of laughter, and even Jirou couldn’t help but chuckle. The tension that had built up around the confession, the uncertainty and fear, felt like it was finally melting away.

Natsumi, who had been quietly sipping her coffee, gave them both a small nod. “About time we had another couple in the group,” she said with a faint smirk.

Jirou met Shiori’s eyes briefly, and in that small look, there was something grounding — a warmth that spread through his chest. For the first time in a long while, he felt… settled. The noise around them blurred into something comfortable, familiar.

Akari reached over to nudge him again. “Don’t mess it up, lover boy.”

Jirou rolled his eyes, but his smile stayed. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll try my best.”

Shiori laughed quietly beside him, the sound soft but full of genuine happiness — and for once, Jirou didn’t mind being the center of attention.

Minami walked beside Akari on the way back to their apartment, the late evening air cool against their skin. Normally, Akari filled the walk with chatter — random observations, jokes, or small complaints about work — but tonight, she was silent. Her steps were slow, her gaze fixed on the pavement, and even when Minami tried to start a conversation, she only nodded or hummed softly in response.

When they reached their building, she murmured a faint “thanks” and went straight to her room, closing the door behind her.

Inside, the quiet felt heavy. Akari leaned against the door for a moment, then slid down until she was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. The faint hum of traffic outside did nothing to drown out the ache in her chest. She buried her face against her arms, muffling the quiet sobs that escaped her.

She wanted to be happy for him — she really did. Jirou deserved to be happy, and Shiori was sweet and kind, everything Akari knew he needed. But no matter how much she told herself that, the tears wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t anger or jealousy — just that aching, hollow kind of sadness that came from wanting something you never really had a right to want in the first place.

Minami stood outside her door for a while, listening to the silence. He could sense it — that weight she carried, that sadness she wouldn’t admit. He considered knocking, maybe saying something comforting, but he knew Akari. She’d only brush it off, force a smile, and pretend she was fine.

So instead, he knocked softly, voice gentle. “I’m heading out for a bit, okay? I’ll bring back dinner.”

There was no answer. Just the faint sound of movement, maybe her shifting against the door.

“Don’t lock yourself up too long,” he added quietly before walking away.

Inside, Akari didn’t move. She just stayed there, curled up on the floor, whispering to herself between breaths, “I’m happy for you, Jirou… I really am.” But her chest still hurt, and no amount of telling herself otherwise could make it stop.

Chapter 10: Jirou

“Jirou!” There was a gentle knock on his door.

Jirou scratched the back of his head, the movement half nervous, half habitual, as he opened the door to see Shiori standing there. Sunlight spilled in from the hallway window, catching the faint strands of her hair that had escaped from her loose bun, and he blinked, momentarily distracted.

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but there was a faint rasp in his voice from just waking up.

Shiori adjusted the strap of her purse, shifting her weight slightly. “I’m gonna do some shopping. Do you want anything?” Her tone was light, almost playful, but there was a softness in her eyes as she looked at him.

Jirou yawned, stretching one arm lazily before responding. “Uh… can you get seaweed sheets? And vanilla ice cream,” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Shiori tilted her head, a small frown knitting her brow. “I thought you liked chocolate?”

“Huh?” Jirou blinked, tilting his head in confusion. “I like vanilla now,” he said after a pause, shrugging. He wasn’t sure why the words felt slightly awkward, but it wasn’t important — not really.

Shiori’s frown softened into a smile. “Okay, I’ll be back around eleven,” she said, adjusting her bag again and stepping slightly closer.

“Yep,” Jirou nodded, leaning against the doorframe. His gaze flicked to her lips as she leaned in, a soft kiss brushing across his. His instinct to move away kicked in immediately, and he shook his head. “Mm-mm, I’ve got morning breath,” he muttered, a faint blush rising to his cheeks.

Shiori smiled, her fingers curling into the hem of his shirt, tugging him slightly closer despite his protest. “Doesn’t matter,” she murmured, her voice soft but insistent, and the warmth of her body pressed against his chest made his heart skip a beat.

He let out a small laugh, giving in to the familiar comfort of her closeness. His hands instinctively found her waist, holding her gently but firmly as he leaned in for a longer kiss. The world outside their small apartment seemed to fade, the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of cars on the street becoming meaningless.

“I love you,” Shiori whispered into the kiss, her voice soft, almost vulnerable in the quiet morning light.

Jirou hesitated for a moment, the words lodged in his throat as he looked down at her. He searched her face, memorizing the curve of her smile, the brightness in her eyes, the gentle way she had leaned into him. And then, finally, he let the words escape. “I love you too,” he murmured, the confession low but steady, carrying more weight than he realized.

Shiori giggled softly, a sound that warmed his chest, and pulled back just enough to peck his lips once more. She straightened, slinging her purse over her shoulder, and waved. “Bye, Jirou,” she said cheerfully, the light in her eyes sparkling as she headed for the door.

“Bye, Shiori,” Jirou said, smiling as he watched her walk down the hallway. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, hand resting lightly on the frame, letting the quiet sink in. The apartment felt different now — warmer somehow, filled with the small echoes of her presence.

He closed the door slowly, leaning against it for a moment before moving to the kitchen. The mundane tasks of the morning — making coffee, checking the fridge, planning breakfast — seemed lighter somehow, infused with a quiet happiness he hadn’t felt in a long time. He could still feel the warmth of her hands on his shirt, the softness of her voice lingering in his mind, and he found himself smiling, a slow, contented smile that wouldn’t fade.

As he poured the coffee and set it on the counter, he thought about the day ahead. There were errands to run, dishes to wash, perhaps a trip to the convenience store for snacks. But for the first time in weeks, Jirou felt like he could handle it all — because Shiori was part of it now, part of his morning, part of his life.

He took a deep breath, the aroma of the coffee mixing with the faint scent of the sunlight streaming in, and for a brief, perfect moment, everything felt… right.

Jirou took another slow sip of his coffee, letting the warmth slide down his throat as his eyes drifted over the apartment. It was nice — objectively nice. Clean, tidy, and organized in the way Shiori liked it, with little touches of warmth scattered here and there. A vase of white daisies sat in the center of the dining table, still fresh from the market trip she’d taken a few days ago. A couple of framed photos decorated the wall — one of the group at the summer festival, another of him and Shiori on the boardwalk, smiling awkwardly as the wind caught her hair.

It was the kind of space anyone would describe as cozy. But somehow, to him, it didn’t feel like home.

He turned the mug slowly in his hands, the faint clink of ceramic against the counter echoing in the quiet morning light. The apartment was spotless, almost too spotless — like it was meant to be lived in, but hadn’t been, not really. His eyes wandered to the couch, where Shiori had draped a soft blanket over the armrest. There were a few magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table, a candle that smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, and a small decorative bowl for keys by the door. All thoughtful, intentional choices.

Yet none of it felt familiar. None of it carried the quiet mess that made a place truly alive.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Akari’s apartment. It wasn’t as decorated — far from it. The walls were mostly bare, save for a few sticky notes and an old calendar she always forgot to change. Her couch had a faint coffee stain from a morning he’d made her laugh too hard while she was drinking. The kitchen was smaller, but somehow, it always felt fuller. He could close his eyes and still map it out perfectly — the mug shelf above the sink, the drawer that always jammed halfway when you tried to open it too fast, the small chipped plate she refused to throw away because “it still works fine.”

Even the things that annoyed him about that place — the way her frying pan always wobbled on the burner, the creak in her hallway floorboard, the faint hum of the AC unit — all of it felt like her. Like home.

His gaze lingered on the wall across from him, where one of Shiori’s framed art prints hung neatly — minimalist, symmetrical, deliberate. Akari’s place had been the opposite. The shelves were half books, half random things she’d forgotten to put away — a few sketches, her hair ties, maybe a souvenir from one of their trips. Her sandal by the door — he could still picture it perfectly — the same one she’d used that night to make him “defend” her from a spider. He could still hear her voice, half panicked, half laughing, shouting, “Don’t let it get away, Jirou!”

He smiled faintly at the memory, though it faded just as quickly. On the kitchen counter, she always kept a box of chocolates that Natsumi had bought her, insisting it would help her through stressful weeks. And on the coffee table — the candles. She’d light them when she stayed up late, their gentle glow mixing with the low hum of the city through the window. It had always smelled faintly of citrus and sandalwood.

This place — Shiori’s apartment — smelled of detergent and coffee. Clean, composed, comfortable. But it lacked that invisible thing Akari’s had always carried — warmth. The kind of warmth that didn’t come from decor or design, but from living. From shared jokes, late-night arguments, moments that stuck to the walls like fingerprints.

He set his mug down quietly, staring at the faint ring it left behind on the counter. His reflection looked back at him from the glossy surface — tired, maybe a little lost.

He told himself it was normal, that it always took time to adjust. People didn’t just move in together and instantly make a home. But a part of him — the small, buried part he kept pushing away — couldn’t help but feel that he’d left something behind.

Something that couldn’t be replaced by flowers or framed smiles.

He sighed softly, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand. “You’re just overthinking,” he muttered under his breath, though his chest tightened with every word.

He glanced back to the apartment, imagining Akaris candles glowing, next to the half-empty mug she’d always forget to finish. Every inch of that small apartment carried a trace of her — her scent, her laughter, the quiet hum of her presence that seemed to fill the space even when she wasn’t speaking. It wasn’t fancy, not like Shiori’s, but it had warmth — the kind of warmth that crept into your chest and made you forget the rest of the world for a little while.

Jirou leaned against the counter, the mug warming his palms as he took another slow sip. The taste of the coffee was good — rich, perfectly brewed, maybe even better than he used to make at Akari’s — but it didn’t feel the same. Back then, mornings were loud in small ways. Akari grumbling from the couch because he’d forgotten to make breakfast for himself. The sound of the kettle whistling while she complained about him leaving his books scattered across the table. The faint music playing from her phone while she half-danced in her pajamas, hair a mess but eyes bright. He’d told her a hundred times she looked ridiculous, but secretly, he’d never minded it.

Now, there was just silence. The hum of the refrigerator. The ticking of the clock. The distant sound of traffic from outside.

His gaze swept over the small details of Shiori’s apartment — the coordinated curtains, the neatly arranged bookshelf, the scented diffuser that made everything smell like vanilla and lavender. It was beautiful, put together, like something out of a lifestyle magazine. It should have made him feel comfortable. Settled. Maybe even lucky. But instead, there was a faint, unshakable sense of distance — like he was living inside someone else’s life.

He turned the mug in his hands absentmindedly, eyes lingering on the faint swirl of steam curling upward. This is fine, he told himself quietly. It’s good. It’s supposed to be good. Shiori loved him, and he loved her — or at least, he wanted to. She made him laugh, cared for him, gave him the stability he used to think he needed. Yet, somewhere in the quiet space between heartbeats, something in him ached.

He exhaled slowly, setting the mug down on the counter with a dull clink. His eyes flickered toward the empty side of the kitchen where Shiori’s grocery bags usually went. He’d probably cook dinner tonight, maybe something simple. Shiori liked when he cooked. She said it made the place feel “cozy.”

But even as he thought about dinner, his mind drifted back to Akari’s kitchen — the one where nothing matched, where she’d keep losing her spatula and end up flipping eggs with chopsticks, where he’d scold her for sitting on the counter while eating toast and she’d laugh, telling him he was acting like an old man.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to push the memory away, but it clung stubbornly. His chest felt tight — not painful, exactly, just heavy, like the air wasn’t moving right.

He wandered toward the window, pulling the curtain aside just slightly. The city outside was still waking up, the streets humming with early commuters. A couple passed by below, hands clasped tightly, laughing at something small and stupid. Jirou watched them for a long moment before looking down at his own reflection in the glass — tired eyes, hair a little too messy, a half-smile that didn’t quite reach.

He swallowed, took another sip of his coffee, and whispered to no one in particular, “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

But the words tasted bitter — like coffee that had gone cold too quickly.

Jirou groaned softly as he dragged himself toward the shower, phone buzzing in his hand before he even turned on the water. He blinked down at the screen, half-expecting some reminder or message from Shiori, but instead saw the name that made his breath hitch for a second.

Akari: Morning loser.

He couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at his lips as he thumbed out a reply.

Jirou: Morning idiot, what’s up?

 

Her response came through almost instantly, so fast that he could practically imagine her rolling her eyes while typing.

Akari: Minami’s singing in the shower like he’s auditioning for something.

Jirou snorted under his breath, leaning against the bathroom doorway as he typed back.

Jirou: You should join him. Do a duet.

He waited, phone still in hand, and within seconds, her message appeared again.

Akari: Yeah right, I’d rather die.

He chuckled softly, his thumb hesitating over the keyboard before typing again.

Jirou: Everything okay?

This time, the response didn’t come immediately. The three little dots blinked in and out of existence over and over, long enough to make his chest feel weirdly tight. He told himself not to overthink it — that it was just a normal pause — but when her message finally came through, his shoulders relaxed in spite of himself.

Akari: You were supposed to teach me how to play your stupid game.

He blinked, rereading it once, then again. She still remembered that? He’d said it offhandedly one night when she’d been pestering him with questions about his console — her sitting cross-legged on the floor, arms crossed, accusing him of gatekeeping because he wouldn’t tell her what all the buttons did. He hadn’t expected she’d bring it up again.

He typed back before he could think twice.

Jirou: You wanna come over or something?

A few seconds passed before her reply buzzed through.

Akari: Is Shiori okay with that?

Jirou’s eyes lingered on the message, his thumb hovering. He could picture her expression — that careful, hesitant look she got when she didn’t want to sound like she cared too much. He exhaled through his nose and typed back.

Jirou: She went shopping.

He barely had time to set the phone down before it buzzed again.

Akari: ?????

He smirked, rubbing the back of his neck before replying.

Jirou: I’ll ask her.

The typing bubbles flickered again for a moment, but no new message came through. The quiet stretched as Jirou stood there, staring at his phone. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked tired — hair still messy, expression caught somewhere between a smile and something heavier.

It was stupid, he told himself. They were just friends. They’d always been that way — teasing, sniping, picking at each other for fun. But somehow, even the smallest message from her had a way of making his chest feel unsteady.

He sighed, setting the phone on the counter before turning on the shower. The sound of rushing water filled the silence, but his thoughts still lingered on the last message — the way she’d hesitated before asking, “Is Shiori okay with that?”

He didn’t know why that stuck with him, but it did.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the screen, thumb hovering over the message. The steam from the shower was already starting to fog up the mirror, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. The last message from Akari blinked up at him, the tiny gray bubbles of her text fading as if she’d been about to say something else — something she thought better of.

He exhaled and set his phone down on the counter, running a hand through his hair. It was weird — this mix of comfort and unease every time they texted now. There was nothing wrong with it. They’d been friends for years. It was normal to talk, right? It wasn’t like they were sneaking around or anything. But every time her name popped up on his screen, it sent a jolt through him — sharp, familiar, impossible to ignore.

The shower water was running, but he barely noticed the sound as he picked up his phone again. He typed a message to Shiori, hesitated, deleted it, then retyped it again.

Jirou: Hey, Akari asked if she could come over for a bit. Are you cool with that?

He stared at it for a second before hitting send, then dropped the phone onto the counter and stepped into the shower. The water hit his skin, hot enough to sting, but it didn’t wash away the strange tension crawling under it.

He stood there too long, replaying memories he shouldn’t — Akari sitting cross-legged on the couch, controller in hand, pouting because she couldn’t figure out which buttons did what. Her laughter when she finally managed to beat him once, purely by luck. The way she’d lean over his shoulder, hair brushing against his cheek as she asked, “Wait, wait, what does that one do?” while pointing at the screen. He told himself it was normal to miss those things — that it wasn’t about her. It was about the simplicity of it, about missing then.

When he finally stepped out, his phone buzzed. He reached for the towel with one hand, grabbing the phone with the other.

Shiori: yeah that’s fine!

He smiled faintly at the message, typing back a quick response.

Jirou: Got it, thanks.

He tossed the towel around his shoulders, brushing his hair back, but the smile didn’t linger long. He stared at the screen again, then at the chat still open with Akari. Her last message — is shiori okay with that? — was still sitting there, waiting.

He started typing.

Jirou: Yeah, she’s fine with it. come over whenever.

He hovered over the send button for a moment, debating. He could say he was busy. He could say maybe another time. But the idea of saying no felt heavier than it should have.

He hit send.

A few seconds later, her reply came.

Akari: okay. i’ll be over soon

Jirou opened the cupboard door and stared at the nearly empty shelves, one hand braced against the frame while the other rubbed the back of his neck. There wasn’t much in there — a box of half-eaten cereal, two cups of instant noodles, a jar of peanut butter that had seen better days, and one lonely open bag of sour gummies sitting near the back. He sighed, shutting his eyes briefly. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

He reached for the bag anyway, shaking it a little to see how many were left. A few stray candies rattled around at the bottom. He frowned at it, wondering if it was even worth putting out, before tossing it onto the counter with a quiet huff. Shiori had gone shopping for a reason, and now he was paying for how bare the place was when she wasn’t around.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the sound of his own footsteps. The light filtering in through the curtains was soft and pale, washing the walls in a gentle gold that reminded him uncomfortably of Akari’s old apartment — the way sunlight used to hit the kitchen just right in the morning, making even the most ordinary things look warmer.

He caught himself staring toward the window a moment too long and shook his head quickly, opening another cabinet as if it might magically produce something edible. “Come on, there’s gotta be something…” he muttered under his breath. He pushed aside a stack of instant coffee packets, some empty Tupperware, a can of corn, and a box of expired crackers. Nothing.

He leaned back against the counter, exhaling through his nose. The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been. His thoughts wandered again — to what Akari might say if she walked in right now. She’d probably tease him, something like ‘Wow, domestic god, you really know how to treat your guests,’ or ‘You’d starve without me.’ He could practically hear the smirk in her voice, could almost picture her standing there in one of her oversized hoodies, shaking her head and pretending to be annoyed while secretly enjoying the banter.

He didn’t realize he was smiling faintly until his phone buzzed on the counter beside him. Akari.

Akari: leaving now. i hope you actually have food this time.

Jirou chuckled softly, thumb tapping a reply.

Jirou: define “food.”

A few seconds later her response popped up.

Akari: 😐 Jirou…

Akari: I swear if it’s just ramen again—

He quickly sent back, Jirou: hey, ramen’s a classic. don’t disrespect tradition.

She sent a gif of someone facepalming, and he couldn’t help but laugh. The simple exchange settled something in him, grounding the unease that had been sitting in his chest all morning.

Still, as he looked around the apartment — at the bare counters, the empty shelves, the quiet stillness — he couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how many things filled this place, it still wouldn’t feel as full as home did before.

He sighed and pushed off the counter, deciding he could at least try to make something out of what he had. He boiled some water for tea, put the few remaining gummies into a small bowl, and started arranging them next to the cups as if that somehow made things look less pathetic. He glanced at the door just as the kettle began to whistle.

“Guess we’ll see how she roasts me for this one,” he muttered, a half-smile tugging at his lips, even though his chest felt strangely tight.

Jirou picked up his phone, the screen lighting up in the dim morning glow. The tracking app icon sat tucked between his messages and music — the same one Akari had insisted he download months ago during their school trip. “Just in case,” she’d said back then, flashing that stubborn smile that meant he had no room to argue. He’d rolled his eyes at the time, told her she was being paranoid, but downloaded it anyway.

Now, he opened it almost on reflex, thumb swiping down until the familiar map popped up. A tiny pink icon — Akari’s — blinked steadily, inching its way across the streets toward his apartment complex. She must’ve just left. The little blue dot representing him sat perfectly still in comparison.

He watched her icon move for longer than he should’ve, the distance shrinking block by block. His chest felt tight — not in a painful way, just in that restless, uneasy way that came when his brain refused to slow down. Every few seconds he refreshed the page even though the app updated automatically. He told himself it wasn’t weird. It was just curiosity. Just checking in. Just—

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “God, I’m ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, locking the screen and tossing the phone onto the couch beside him. It landed with a dull thud, face-down.

The silence in the apartment stretched again, the kind that felt louder the longer it lasted. He rubbed the back of his neck, pacing once before deciding he needed to do something — anything to stop thinking about that blinking pink dot. He turned toward the TV, flipping through the console’s startup menu until the familiar low hum of the loading screen filled the space.

The controller felt almost too natural in his hands — familiar weight, smooth buttons, that faint hum of power beneath his fingertips. He scrolled through the games aimlessly at first, stopping on one of the co-op titles he tried to play with Akari. They’d spent hours arguing about tactics and laughing when one of them accidentally sabotaged the other. He hovered over the title for a long moment before scrolling past it. Not that one. Not today.

Instead, he selected something mindless — a racing game — and sank into the couch. The opening theme filled the air, bright and mechanical. He told himself it was fine, that he wasn’t waiting for the sound of footsteps outside his door or for the soft knock that would announce her arrival.

But as the screen loaded and the race countdown began, he found himself glancing toward his phone again. It was still sitting there where he’d thrown it, the edge of the case just visible between the couch cushions. He could almost hear her voice teasing him: “You’re hopeless, Yakuin.”

He smirked despite himself, one hand gripping the controller tighter as the game started. “Yeah,” he muttered quietly, more to the empty room than anything else, “maybe I am.”

The tires screeched on-screen, the car darting down the digital highway, and for a few fleeting moments, the noise drowned out the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind. Still, somewhere underneath the distraction, a small part of him counted the minutes — waiting for the knock he already knew was coming.

Jirou blinked at her sudden entrance, still half-slouched on the couch with a controller in his hands. “Uh… thanks?” he said, staring down at the plastic bag like it was some rare treasure. The bag was cold and slightly damp from the condensation, the smell of fresh air clinging to Akari’s coat. She looked like she’d jogged the last few meters to his place — cheeks pink, hair a little wind-tossed, eyes darting everywhere but at him.

“Don’t just stand there,” she muttered, pushing past him to kick off her shoes. “Put them in the freezer before they melt. You’ve got, like, zero food in this place.”

“I was gonna order something,” he said, still not moving, one brow raised. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” she cut in quickly, dropping her bag near the door. “You eat garbage. And I like dumplings.”

He finally set the controller down, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “So they’re really for you.”

“Obviously.” Her voice was sharp, but there was a faint waver to it — the kind of defensiveness that came with exhaustion. She walked past him to the counter, glancing at the almost-empty cupboards and the sad bag of sour gummies sitting open. “Oh my god,” she said flatly, “you weren’t kidding. There’s nothing here.”

Jirou scratched the back of his neck, trying not to look embarrassed. “Shiori going shopping today,” he said.

Akari didn’t answer right away. Instead, she busied herself putting the dumplings into the freezer, then leaned against the counter with her arms crossed. The air between them went still — not uncomfortable exactly, but fragile. He watched her for a moment, noticing how quiet she’d become again, how her usual energy felt muted.

“You okay?” he asked carefully, stepping closer.

Akari gave a half-shrug, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Tired enough to bring me groceries?”

“I needed a walk,” she muttered, pulling a face. “And you needed food. Two birds, one bag of dumplings.”

He snorted softly, leaning back against the couch. “You’re weird.”

She finally met his eyes then — just for a second — and the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a little. “Yeah, well. You like weird people,” she said, voice quieter now.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he motioned toward the console. “You still wanna learn how to play?”

Her expression shifted; she almost smiled, and that alone made something in his chest unclench. “Only if I get the good controller,” she said.

“You can try,” he replied with a faint grin.

And just like that, the silence gave way to something easier — the soft hum of the TV, the clack of buttons, and the sound of Akari’s laugh finally slipping through again, small but real.

Jirou handed her the controller again, leaning back slightly on the couch. “Okay, here’s the basics: X shoots, Y hides. Got it?”

Akari nodded slowly, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the buttons. “Uh… yeah. But… what’s L3?”

He leaned forward, gesturing at the left joystick. “That’s the stick on the left. Push it down like a button. No, no, not yet — first switch to the shotgun. No, the long one, not the tiny pistol.”

Akari’s brows furrowed in confusion as she tried to follow along. “Long one… that one?” She pointed at the shotgun icon on the screen.

“Yes! Exactly that one!” Jirou’s voice came out sharper than he intended, and he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to calm himself. “Okay, now hold the controller like this, thumb here, fingers here…” He guided her hand gently. “Now press X to shoot — go!”

Akari’s character lurched forward, firing wildly in all directions. She yelped, flinching as bullets missed their targets. “I’m trying!”

Jirou chuckled, shaking his head. “I know! Just… aim with the right stick first. Don’t mash the buttons. And watch your ammo.” He leaned closer again, instinctively brushing his hand against hers as he adjusted her grip.

Her character ran out of bullets mid-fight, and she panicked. “Reload?”

“R1!” Jirou pointed emphatically at the shoulder button. “Always check before you rush in — basic rule!”

She hit the button, and the ammo refilled. Her character crouched behind cover, fired, and this time two enemies fell. Akari let out a triumphant little laugh, her fingers relaxing.

Jirou grinned, leaning back. “See? You’re getting it. A few more rounds like that and you’ll be decent.”

Akari looked up, a small, determined smile forming. “Do you really think I could get good at this?”

“Definitely,” Jirou said. “You’ve got the instincts. Now it’s all about timing and practice.”

Her character automatically switched back to the shotgun, crouched, and fired perfectly at a new wave of enemies. Jirou’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Wow… okay. That’s actually impressive,” he admitted quietly. “Told you you could do it.”

Akari laughed softly, leaning back slightly. “Guess I’m a natural then.”

Jirou’s grin widened. “Okay, now for the next part. You have to choose a horse.”

“Wait… bad and good horses?” Akari asked, confused.

“Yep,” he explained, pointing to the screen. “That brown one’s terrible — slow and breaks its leg in chapter three. The white one’s good with heat but eats a lot. The black one? Best stamina. Go for him.”

Akari moved her character toward the black-and-white horse. “What do I do now?”

“Grab an apple to feed him,” Jirou instructed. “You have to manage his needs, otherwise he won’t cooperate. Check the stats on the top right: blue is water, yellow is hunger, green is health, red is relationship.”

“Our relationship has a health bar?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Yeah,” Jirou laughed. “Keep it good, and he unlocks skills. Too many apples? He gets sick. Like giving candy to a kid — weird, I know.”

Akari frowned, feeding the horse the right amount of apples. “Okay… now what?”

“Talk to the guy with the arrow above his head to buy the horse. Don’t get the blanket yet — you’ll get it later,” Jirou said, smiling as he watched her concentrate, the intensity in her eyes making him feel both proud and strangely calm.

Akari stared at the screen for a moment, her eyes wide as she watched her character mount the black-and-white horse. The tiny animations of the reins and the subtle sway of the horse’s body made her giggle softly. “We look so cute together!” she exclaimed, her enthusiasm spilling over as she nudged the joystick experimentally.

Jirou chuckled from behind the couch, leaning slightly forward to watch her more closely. “Yeah, we do,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching up. “Okay, now press the right toggle to get on properly and make sure your posture is correct — it affects how fast your horse moves and how well it handles turns.”

Akari’s fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the controls, pressing the toggle just enough to make the horse stand still before it began to trot. She glanced at the map on the corner of the screen, squinting at the small icons that marked her quest. “So I just… follow this?” she asked, pointing to the highlighted path.

“Exactly,” Jirou replied, his tone calm but encouraging. “The yellow line shows where you need to go. Keep an eye out for obstacles, though. If you hit too many, the horse gets upset and might bolt. You don’t want that, trust me.” He leaned back slightly, watching her eyes light up as she guided the horse down the trail.

Akari maneuvered carefully at first, her character’s hooves clopping softly on the digital ground. Every time she made a turn or adjusted the reins correctly, she let out a small, satisfied laugh. “Oh, look! We’re turning perfectly! Did you see that?”

“I saw it,” Jirou said, laughing a little himself. “That’s exactly how you do it. You’re getting the hang of it fast.” He gestured at the screen as a small log blocked their path in-game. “Okay, slow down here — tap X gently to jump over obstacles. Not too hard, or you’ll spook the horse.”

Akari nodded intently, pressing X just right, and her horse cleared the log smoothly. Her eyes sparkled with triumph. “I did it! We didn’t crash!”

Jirou’s grin widened. “See? That’s teamwork. You and your horse. Well… mostly you, but he’s cooperating because you’re good to him.” He leaned forward, pointing out a set of barrels on the path. “Now, we need to weave through those without touching them. Use the right stick carefully and don’t rush it.”

Akari’s hands gripped the controller tightly as she guided the horse between the barrels, her tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. “This is kind of like… one of those carnival horse games, isn’t it?” she murmured.

“Exactly!” Jirou said, nodding enthusiastically. “Except this one doesn’t end after three barrels. You have to keep your horse happy, fed, and healthy. Watch the stats at the top right.” He tapped the screen, pointing at the tiny bars. “Blue is water, yellow is hunger, green is health, and red is relationship. You want all of them as full as possible.”

Akari tilted her head at the stats, a small frown forming. “So I can’t just rush through? I have to take care of him?”

Jirou laughed, shaking his head. “Yep. Horses aren’t just transportation here. If your relationship drops too low, he won’t listen. You’ll get stuck, and it’s harder to finish quests.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and then a small smile appeared. “Okay… I can do that. I like him already.” She nudged the horse gently in-game, and it responded with a happy whinny.

“See? He likes you too,” Jirou said, leaning back. “Now, keep following the map. There’s a little quest marker ahead — go talk to the NPC once you get there. Don’t worry about messing up. It’s all part of learning.”

Akari took a deep breath, relaxing her shoulders, and guided the horse down the trail. “This is… actually fun,” she admitted softly. “Thanks for teaching me.”

Jirou smiled warmly at her, his eyes following the screen. “Anytime. You’re a quick learner, Akari. Just… remember, it’s not about being perfect. It’s about enjoying it — and taking care of your horse along the way.”

She nodded, her face lighting up with determination, as she expertly guided the horse toward the quest marker. Every small success — clearing obstacles, feeding the horse just enough, even managing the reins properly — made her more confident, and Jirou couldn’t help but feel a quiet pride watching her. This simple game, her laughter, and the focus in her eyes reminded him of something he hadn’t felt in a long time — ease, comfort, and the small joys of being with her, even just like this.

He watched her for a long moment, realizing that teaching her was as much about spending time together as it was about the game itself, and he allowed himself a small smile as the horse carried them forward on the winding digital trail.

Akari furrowed her brows, watching the cutscene fade out and the game interface appear again. Her character was mounted on the horse, the digital reins clutched awkwardly in her hands. “Wait… so I’m actually going to go rob a train tomorrow?” she asked again, her voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. Her eyes flitted toward Jirou, seeking confirmation. “Why would I do that? Isn’t that… bad?”

Jirou leaned back in the chair, hands folded loosely over his stomach as he watched her fumble with the controls. “It’s just part of the storyline,” he explained patiently. “You’re playing the main character — the game gives you these missions. It’s like… it’s not real, Akari. You’re just following the plot, so don’t overthink it. And, trust me, you’ll get paid in-game for completing it. That’s the whole point of this mission.”

Akari nodded slowly, though her frown didn’t completely fade. “Okay… I guess. Should I feed the horse before I go to sleep? He’s… thirsty, right?” She glanced down at the stats in the corner of the screen — the blue bar for water had dipped slightly, yellow for hunger hovering in the mid-range.

“Yeah,” Jirou said, pointing toward the feed and water icons on the screen. “Over there, you can click to refill his water and give him some feed. He’s fine with just a little, don’t overdo it. Remember, too much feed makes him sick, and we don’t want that. Take care of him, and he’ll be loyal during the train mission.”

“Uh-huh,” Akari murmured, guiding her character toward the trough and selecting the feed first. She sprinkled the digital hay into the bucket, watching the horse bend its head gracefully to eat. The soft clopping of the hooves and the little animations of the horse chewing made her smile faintly. She clicked on the water icon next, her fingers hovering nervously as she poured it into the trough, watching the horse drink eagerly.

“See?” Jirou said with a soft laugh. “He’s happy now. You’ve got to build a good relationship with him, otherwise he won’t cooperate when you need him to do something tricky, like… say, running alongside a moving train or carrying extra loot.”

Akari blinked at him, a small laugh escaping. “Wait, relationship? He’s a horse! How do I even… talk to him?”

Jirou leaned over slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear unconsciously. “It’s not real talking. It’s actions — how you take care of him, whether you feed him properly, water him, let him rest. The better your relationship, the more skills he unlocks, and he listens better during missions. Trust me, you’ll see during the train job. You’ll need him to be fully cooperative.”

“Okay,” she said, her tone determined, though her fingers still hovered hesitantly over the controller. She led the horse back toward the stable, tapping carefully on the buttons to make it enter the pen correctly. “I think… I’m getting the hang of this,” she added, glancing at Jirou for validation.

“Yeah, you are,” he said warmly. “You’re learning fast. Just remember, it’s not a race. The horse comes first, always. Feed him, water him, check his stats, and make sure he’s happy before you attempt any big missions. That’s the secret to surviving this game.”

Akari’s eyes flicked to the mini-map, then back at the stats. She gently tapped the joystick to rotate the horse, making it step toward the stable door. “Got it. Feed first, water, make sure he’s happy… and then we can go rob a train,” she muttered, more to herself than to Jirou.

Jirou nodded, suppressing a smile at her seriousness. “Exactly. Oh, and one more thing,” he added, leaning back and gesturing toward the on-screen tavern icon. “When you go inside the tavern, be nice to the bartender. Don’t just walk in and demand stuff — talk to him, buy supplies, and maybe he’ll give you useful hints or side quests.”

Akari raised an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look. “Talk to a horse, take care of him, then talk to a bartender… this game is weird,” she said, but a small grin tugged at her lips. She guided her character toward the tavern, her concentration absolute. Every movement of the horse, every button press, every small interaction with the digital world was deliberate and cautious, her mind fully immersed in learning.

Jirou leaned closer again, pointing at the mini-map. “And pay attention to the quest markers — those arrows. They show you where to go next. If you wander off, the horse might get tired, and you’ll have to feed him again. Keep him happy, keep the mission on track, and you’ll do fine.”

Akari nodded, her focus sharpening. She could feel the tension of the train mission looming in the back of her mind, but the horse gave her confidence, each careful tap on the buttons reinforcing her connection to the game world. She smiled faintly at Jirou, who was quietly observing her. “Okay,” she said softly, “I think I’m ready for this train thing tomorrow.”

Jirou’s eyes softened as he watched her. “You are,” he said gently. “And hey, if anything goes wrong, we can always reset. It’s a game, after all. No pressure.”

Akari laughed lightly, the tension in her shoulders easing as she guided the horse back to its pen, fed and watered, ready for the next day’s mission. The small bond she had built with the horse — and with Jirou’s patient guidance — gave her a strange sense of satisfaction, a warmth that lingered even as the in-game night began to fall.

Akari stared at the screen, brows furrowed in disbelief as her character galloped beside the moving train. “I can rob a train,” she repeated, dragging out each word like she was trying to convince herself. The rhythmic sound of hooves and the metallic grind of wheels echoed through the TV speakers as she leaned against the back of the chair, eyes narrowing. “Wait—so I’m supposed to jump off the horse and onto the train? And just… hope my horse will still be there when I’m done?”

“Yep,” Jirou said simply, taking a sip of his drink as if that was the most normal plan in the world.

Akari turned to give him a long, unimpressed look. The kind that said you’ve got to be kidding me. Jirou, sensing the stare, glanced back at her, then raised his hands in mock defense, grinning. “Hey, don’t question me. That’s just how the mission works. You’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” she repeated skeptically, gripping the controller a little tighter. “You do realize I just spent two hours catching that horse, right? He’s like my emotional support animal now.”

Jirou laughed, leaning back on the couch. “Then you better make sure he doesn’t get shot.”

“Wow, comforting.” Akari rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. She shifted in her seat, her focus back on the screen as her character lined up alongside the train. “Okay, okay, so what—press jump here?”

“Yeah, but time it right,” Jirou said. “If you miss, you’re gonna eat metal.”

“Eat metal—what does that even—” She didn’t finish. Her character leapt from the horse, barely grabbing the side of the train before clambering up. Akari let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Oh my god. I actually made it.”

Jirou smirked. “Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, guiding her character along the top of the train. “If my horse isn’t there when I’m done, you’re buying me a new one.”

He laughed again. “Deal. But trust me, he’ll be right where you left him.”

“Uh-huh,” Akari said doubtfully as her character began to creep toward the first guard. “If not, I’m sending you after him.”

“Fair trade,” Jirou replied. “Just don’t get yourself thrown off first.”

Akari shot him a playful glare before focusing again, her fingers flying over the buttons as gunfire erupted. “This game is ridiculous,” she muttered through a grin.

“And yet,” Jirou teased, “you’re still playing.”

“Only because you make it sound so easy,” she shot back, ducking virtual bullets. “Next time, you’re the one robbing a train.”

“I already did this mission,” Jirou said casually, lounging back like a man who’d conquered the Wild West twice over.

“Shut up,” Akari muttered, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the faint smirk tugging at her lips.

The night stretched on in a blur of flickering light from the TV and the soft hum of the console. Jirou sat beside her, alternating between coaching her through combat and stifling laughter every time she did something unexpected. Akari, for her part, was determined — brows furrowed, tongue caught between her teeth as she tried to remember which button was dodge and which was reload.

“Okay, okay, you’re doing good,” Jirou encouraged as she aimed her rifle toward a bandit.

“I know,” Akari said, firing — only for her character to immediately reload instead of shooting. “...Okay, maybe I don’t know.”

Jirou snorted. “Wrong button again?”

“Maybe,” she said, glaring at the controller like it had betrayed her.

Still, she was learning fast. Within an hour she was galloping, shooting, looting, and even managing not to accidentally punch random civilians. Jirou found himself watching her reactions more than the game — the way she’d lean forward during tense moments or mutter encouragement to her horse under her breath.

It was almost peaceful until the fight started. A dozen enemies swarmed her in the middle of a dusty canyon. Jirou leaned forward, ready to give advice, when Akari suddenly panicked and pushed her character right into melee range.

“NO, NO, BACK UP—” Jirou practically jumped off the couch, clutching the controller in invisible terror as her character took a hit. “WHY WOULD YOU STAND THERE?!”

“I panicked!” Akari shouted back, laughing so hard she nearly missed another attack.

“Do you want to die?”

“Maybe!” she said between giggles, frantically button-mashing to stay alive.

Jirou groaned, running a hand down his face. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

But even as he said it, he couldn’t stop grinning. Akari’s laughter filled the small room, light and bright and completely infectious. The chaos, the shouting, the near-death moments — it all melted into something easy and warm.

When the dust finally settled and her character somehow survived, Akari let out a victorious cheer, slumping back in her seat. “See? Told you I could handle it.”

Jirou exhaled dramatically. “Barely. My blood pressure’s never recovering from that.”

She shot him a smug look. “You worry too much.”

“And you,” he said, shaking his head with a small laugh, “are dangerous with a controller.”

Akari only grinned wider, already scrolling through the next mission. “Good. That means I’m getting better.”

Jirou looked down at Akari, the faint glow of the TV painting her face in soft, shifting colors. A smile tugged at his lips almost immediately, the kind of smile that came without thought — quiet, tender, and entirely involuntary. His eyes softened, filled with that unmistakable warmth reserved only for her. He couldn’t help but notice the way she sat forward, completely absorbed, every ounce of her attention fixed on the game as if it were life or death. Her brows furrowed when she concentrated, lips pursed slightly, fingers hovering over the controller in that endearing mix of determination and hesitation.

He’d seen her like this before — focused, driven — but somehow it always felt new. Every reaction of hers had a kind of light to it that drew him in. The way her expression would shift from frustration to pure delight when she won a fight or figured something out made his chest ache in the gentlest way. She’d pump her fist, grin from ear to ear, and sometimes even laugh to herself, the sound so unguarded that it filled the room with warmth.

And every time she turned her head toward him, eyes seeking his approval before making a choice — whether to buy a new weapon or ride to the next quest — something in him melted. She didn’t even need to ask out loud; that tiny flicker of uncertainty in her gaze was enough. He’d give a small nod, or murmur, “Yeah, go for it,” and she’d beam as though his word alone carried the weight of the world.

Watching her like that, Jirou realized how natural it had become — her presence beside him, the easy rhythm they’d fallen into. The world outside their small bubble faded away; there was only the sound of her laughter, the clicking of buttons, the occasional frustrated groan when things didn’t go her way. He could have watched her like this forever — the way she leaned into the light of the screen, the way her hair fell into her eyes and she brushed it away without breaking focus, the way she bit her lip when she was nervous before a boss fight.

Every small thing she did felt burned into his memory. She didn’t even know how easily she captivated him — how effortlessly she’d filled the quiet spaces in his life with something alive, something good.

He found himself thinking that he didn’t really care about the game anymore. Not compared to this — to her, sitting so close he could hear her steady breathing, see the light flicker in her eyes every time she turned toward him.

When she finally looked up again, cheeks flushed with excitement from her latest victory, and said, “Did you see that?” with that proud, expectant look, Jirou couldn’t even form words for a moment.

He just smiled — that deep, quiet kind of smile that said everything he didn’t know how to put into words — and nodded, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name.

The quiet hum of the room broke sharply with the sound of keys jingling outside. Akari froze mid-laugh, her controller still in her hands, as Jirou’s head turned toward the door. The metallic clatter was followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock turning, and a moment later, the door swung open to reveal Shiori, stepping inside with a cheerful sigh and a handful of shopping bags.

“Hey,” Jirou greeted quickly, his voice softening as a familiar smile pulled at his lips. He moved instinctively, standing up to meet her halfway. Akari followed his lead, setting the controller aside and brushing her hair from her face, trying to look casual even as her pulse picked up.

“Hey, Jirou,” Shiori said brightly, her face lighting up at the sight of him. She leaned in to hug him, the gesture natural and practiced, pressing a light kiss to his lips before pulling back. Jirou smiled faintly, steadying her with one hand as he reached for the bags in the other. “You didn’t have to bring all this by yourself,” he murmured, taking the weight from her arms before she even had the chance to protest.

“It’s fine,” Shiori replied with a small laugh, toeing off her shoes as she stepped further inside. Her gaze drifted to Akari, the edges of her smile softening. “Hey, Watanabe. How are you?”

Akari straightened a little, forcing her shoulders to relax as she smiled back. “I’m good, thank you. How about you?” she asked politely, her voice even, calm — though the warmth of the room suddenly felt different now, the easy comfort from earlier replaced by something heavier, more uncertain.

“I’m good too,” Shiori answered, moving into the apartment with practiced familiarity. She set her purse down on the counter and began unpacking one of the bags, chatting as she did so. “The store was packed today. You’d think everyone decided to shop at the same time.”

Jirou let out a soft laugh, watching her with an ease that made Akari’s stomach twist just a little. He set the rest of the bags on the table and leaned against the counter, the domestic rhythm between them clear in every small motion — the way he opened the fridge automatically for her, the way she handed him items without looking.

Akari stood a few steps back, her hands clasped together, trying not to stare too long. She knew Shiori wasn’t unkind — in fact, she’d always been friendly in a gentle, effortless way — but the contrast between the quiet warmth Akari and Jirou had shared moments earlier and the scene now unfolding before her was sharp. The room that had felt like theirs for a fleeting moment now clearly belonged to someone else.

Shiori turned back to her with another smile, gesturing to the couch. “Were you two playing something?”

“Yeah,” Akari said quickly, her voice a little too soft. “Jirou was teaching me his game. I’m still kinda bad at it, though.”

Shiori laughed lightly, a sound that filled the room. “I can imagine. He’s pretty patient, though, right?” she teased, glancing toward Jirou.

“Sometimes,” Akari replied, managing a small grin.

Jirou rolled his eyes with a quiet chuckle, looking between them. “Hey, I’m a great teacher. She’s the reckless one.”

Shiori smiled at that, and for a moment, the tension thinned — just enough for Akari to breathe again. But beneath the surface, she felt the lingering sting of realization, the faint ache that came from knowing she was stepping back into a space that wasn’t hers to fill.

She looked toward Jirou again, watching as he handed Shiori a box from one of the bags, their fingers brushing briefly. The sight made her heart tighten — quietly, invisibly — and she told herself it was fine. This was normal. She was just visiting, nothing more.

“Do you want something to drink?” Shiori asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had started to stretch too long.

Akari blinked and smiled again, her voice light even as her chest felt heavy. “Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

As Shiori moved into the kitchen, Jirou glanced toward Akari for a brief second — long enough for her to see something in his eyes, an almost apologetic softness that only deepened the ache she was trying not to feel.

The conversation drifted naturally — or rather, aimlessly — the kind of casual small talk that filled silence without ever really meaning anything. Shiori asked about work, about classes, about the weather turning colder lately; Akari answered politely, smiling where it felt appropriate, nodding when she wasn’t sure what else to say. The words floated between them like background noise to the quiet hum of the refrigerator, to the faint static of the paused game screen still glowing on the television.

Jirou stood beside Shiori now, leaning casually against the counter. She had gravitated toward him without hesitation, her shoulder resting against his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world — which, of course, it was. His hand settled lightly around her waist, as she laughed at something Akari said about her latest project.

Akari lifted her glass of water, using the motion to steady herself more than to drink. The condensation had left faint rings on the table, little reminders of how long she’d been sitting there, pretending her chest didn’t feel tight every time Shiori turned toward Jirou with that easy affection that came only from comfort built over years.

It wasn’t jealousy — at least, that’s what Akari told herself. It was just… awareness. The way their bodies fit together so effortlessly, how Jirou’s tone softened when he spoke to her, how his eyes warmed in a way that was different from the quiet glances he gave Akari. There was something whole about them, something finished, and Akari could only ever feel like the piece that didn’t quite belong.

The conversation carried on, the rhythm of Shiori’s voice gentle and pleasant, but Akari’s focus had long since drifted. She found herself glancing toward the clock above the doorway — its ticking suddenly too loud, the minutes stretching far longer than they should have. The late afternoon light slanted across the room, catching on the edges of the furniture and making everything feel a little too bright.

“Oh,” she said after a moment, forcing her tone to sound light, casual. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I should probably head home.”

Shiori turned toward her with a small smile. “Already? You sure you don’t want to stay for lunch? I bought way too much food, as usual.”

Akari hesitated, her hand tightening slightly around the glass before setting it down. “Thanks, but I promised I’d help Minami with something tonight. She’ll kill me if I forget again,” she said with a faint laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Jirou looked at her then, really looked, his expression flickering just for a second — something like disappointment or concern — but he didn’t say anything. He only nodded slowly. “You want me to walk you out?”

She shook her head quickly, smiling again. “No, no, it’s fine. I know the way.”

Shiori reached over to squeeze her hand lightly. “It was nice seeing you again, Watanabe. We should hang out more often.”

“Yeah,” Akari said softly, though she knew it was one of those things people said more out of politeness than intent. “Definitely.”

She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and moved toward the door. The air felt different as she stepped into her shoes — cooler, heavier somehow. She gave one last smile, one last polite wave, and slipped outside, the click of the door behind her sounding final in a way that made her chest ache.

Inside, laughter rose faintly again — Shiori’s voice, Jirou’s low reply — and Akari let the sound fade behind her as she started down the hallway, her thoughts blurring into quiet static.

"Are you okay?" Jirou asked packing away some of the groceries with shiori "You hungry?"

Shiori nodded "Yeah a little,"

Jirou nodded "Do you want me to make lunch?"

Shiori paused, halfway through unpacking a bundle of green onions from the grocery bag, and glanced up at him with a small, amused smile. “You? Make lunch?” she teased, an eyebrow arched.

Jirou gave her a look that was equal parts mock offense and quiet confidence. “I’m capable, you know. I’ve learned a thing or two since you last saw me burn rice.”

“That was only two weeks ago,” Shiori laughed softly, setting the vegetables on the counter. “But sure, go ahead, surprise me.”

He rolled his eyes, pulling the next few items out of the bag — noodles, a carton of eggs, a few cans of soup stock. “You act like I’m hopeless,” he said, setting everything in a neat row, “but I make a decent stir-fry. Don’t underestimate me.”

Shiori leaned against the counter, watching him with her chin propped in her hand. “I’m not underestimating you. I’m just… worried about the kitchen.”

“Wow, the faith you have in me is truly inspiring,” Jirou muttered with a grin, pulling a pan from the rack and setting it on the stove. The familiar sound of the burner clicking filled the kitchen before the blue flame flickered to life.

Shiori smirked, stepping closer. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help,” she said lightly, brushing a stray hair behind her ear as she reached for the cutting board. “What are we making?”

“Something simple,” Jirou replied, rinsing the vegetables under the tap. “I was thinking egg noodles with vegetables, maybe toss in some chicken. You can cut while I handle the stove.”

“Mm,” she hummed in approval, taking the knife and starting to slice the onions with steady precision. The rhythm of chopping mixed with the soft hiss of oil heating in the pan, the two sounds blending into a quiet domestic harmony that made the apartment feel a little more alive than before.

For a while, neither spoke — just the subtle movements of cooking filling the air. The smell of sizzling garlic began to spread, warm and familiar. Shiori glanced up at Jirou once, catching the way he was stirring with surprising focus, and a small, fond smile tugged at her lips.

“You’re getting better at this,” she admitted after a moment. “Maybe I should let you cook more often.”

Jirou chuckled, not looking away from the pan. “See? I told you. I can be responsible sometimes.”

Shiori tilted her head. “I never said you weren’t. You just… don’t show it very often.”

He laughed softly at that, a quiet, genuine sound that filled the space between them. “Fair enough,” he said, reaching for the sauce bottle. “But I’m trying.”

“I know.” Her voice was soft now, quieter, almost lost beneath the sound of the pan sizzling. She handed him the chopped onions, brushing his hand briefly in the process. The touch lingered for a second longer than either of them intended — a small spark in the mundane.

Jirou cleared his throat, tossing the onions into the pan. “You want to set the table?” he asked, his tone casual again.

“Sure.” Shiori moved to the small dining table, pulling out plates and glasses. “You know,” she said over her shoulder, “Akari’s getting really good at that game of yours.”

Jirou hesitated just slightly, his spoon pausing mid-stir before he caught himself. “Yeah,” he said finally, tone even, “she’s been practicing.”

“She seemed happy,” Shiori continued, her voice thoughtful. “It’s nice that you two still hang out.”

“Yeah,” he said again, forcing a small smile. “It’s… nice.”

Shiori turned then, her eyes soft as she looked at him. “I like that you still care about your friends, Jirou. It’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you.”

He met her gaze for a brief moment, then looked back at the pan, watching the steam rise. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I just… want everyone to be okay, you know?”

Shiori smiled faintly, stepping over to lean against his shoulder. “You always say that,” she whispered, and for a moment, everything felt peaceful — the scent of lunch cooking, the warmth of her beside him, and the quiet hum of life continuing in the background.

Chapter 11: Loser Night

A few weeks slipped by in a comfortable blur, and the small habits everyone fell into began to feel almost routine. Akari improved at a startling pace — so much so that Jirou started joking that she was secretly grinding practice missions behind his back. She denied it every time, of course, claiming she was simply “naturally gifted,” but he knew better.

What mattered was that she was having fun with it. And so was he.

Every weekend without fail, Akari messaged him around the same time: “Loser night, yes?” She had called it that because, as she put it, “I lose every time, might as well brand it.”

He countered that she barely lost anymore, sometimes even beating him outright, but she insisted the name stay. It became a ritual — she’d show up with a bag of snacks, sometimes store-bought, sometimes things she tried to make herself, and he’d already have the console turned on waiting for her.

Those nights were loud and warm. Her laughter filled the room whenever she messed up spectacularly, or when she pulled off something unexpectedly impressive. Jirou found himself looking forward to it more than he was willing to admit, counting down the days until the next “Loser night” the moment one ended.

In between those weekends, life with Shiori settled into something steady and bright. They went out a few times — cozy cafés, a movie, a walk through the shopping district when the weather was nice. They fit together easily, naturally. She’d slip her hand into his and talk about her week or a new recipe she wanted to try, and he’d listen with genuine affection softening his voice.

They were a happy couple — the kind people looked at and thought, They make sense.

Shiori often leaned into his shoulder when they rode the train together, her fingers idly twisting the fabric of his sleeve. She liked to tease him about his “terrible gamer posture,” and he’d tease her right back about her inability to stay awake during any movie longer than an hour and a half.

Things felt stable with her — reassuring in a way that grounded him.

And yet, every time Saturday rolled around, a different warmth sparked in him. Not romantic, not complicated — just something that lingered, a comfort found in familiarity. Akari would burst through the door with a grin, shouting something like, “I brought chips and no self-control!” and the apartment instantly felt more alive.

Jirou balanced it well, somehow. Quiet weekdays with Shiori. Chaotic weekends with Akari.

If anyone asked, he’d say he was lucky.

Because he was — his girlfriend made him smile without effort, and his best friend filled his weekends with laughter and stupid inside jokes they built up over time.

It was a calm stretch of life, the kind that slips by almost unnoticed, carrying with it a sense of ease that made him hope it would last just a little bit longer.

Akari’s presence never really faded from the small corners of his life, no matter how much time passed or how steady his routine with Shiori became. It wasn’t intentional — just… ingrained. Something that had woven itself into him back when the two of them were stuck together as “practical partners,” back when she used to complain endlessly about his habits and force him to fix them.

He realized it in little moments.
The kind you barely notice until they’re impossible to ignore.

Like the fabric softener he grabbed at the supermarket without thinking — the same brand she once shoved into his cart because “your clothes smell like a sad bachelor, Jirou, please, I’m begging you.” He hadn’t meant to keep using it… it just felt weird not to.

Or the way he cleaned now. He used to half-heartedly swipe at dust whenever Shiori hinted that the place needed tidying. But now, he found himself making neat piles, wiping surfaces properly, rearranging things the exact way Akari used to insist made more sense.
“If you put the controllers in the drawer, you’ll forget they exist,” she’d argued once as she reorganized his living room without permission.
Apparently her system had stuck.

Even getting ready for bed had changed. He brushed his teeth on a timer because Akari once lectured him about “barely brushing for thirty seconds like a feral child.” He tied his hair back before washing his face because she’d mocked him for letting it flop everywhere. And somewhere in his bathroom cabinet sat the almost-empty bottle of shampoo she’d forced him to try — the one she claimed “didn’t smell like despair.” He bought it again out of habit, even though Shiori thought it was too strong.

All these tiny traces of her, scattered through his routines. None of them dramatic. None of them intentional. Just… pieces of her that had clung to him after months of proximity.

At first, he brushed it off as familiarity. Muscle memory. The kind of habits anyone picks up after living in someone’s orbit for too long.

But every now and then — in the quiet moments, when the apartment was dim and still — he caught himself missing her in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Not in a romantic way. Not in a regretting-choices way.

Just… missing her.

Missing the loud commentary she had on literally everything.
Missing the way she stomped around his kitchen like she owned the place.
Missing her sarcasm, her chaos, her stupid laugh.
Missing how she filled silence without suffocating it.

He didn’t say anything to anyone.

He didn’t even admit it to himself out loud.

But in some offhand, inconvenient corner of his heart, he felt the absence she left whenever she wasn’t around — as if her energy had carved out a space inside him that routine couldn’t quite fill.

One weekend, just a few days before their usual “loser night,” Jirou’s phone buzzed. Akari’s name lit up the screen with a short message:

“I gotta cancel.”

He frowned, immediately picking up his phone and typing back fast:

“Why? Is something wrong?”

The typing bubbles appeared… disappeared… came back again. Then finally:

“I’m hanging out with someone.”

Jirou blinked at the screen, annoyance flickering through him.

“Seriously?” he wrote.

Her reply came quickly, as if she’d been expecting that reaction:

“This guy from that fancy boarding school. You get it.”

He stared at the message. His fingers moved before he could stop himself.

“I’m a guy too.”

Akari sent nothing but a rolling-eyes emoji.

Then another message:

“How about tomorrow after lunch?”

Jirou let out a long, frustrated sigh and dropped his phone onto the couch. He slumped back, dragging a hand down his face. The room felt too quiet without her chatter, without her presence he’d grown used to.

She was hanging out with some guy.
Some stranger.
Someone who wasn’t him.

And he hated how much that bothered him.

Jirou slumped deeper into the couch cushions, the soft thud of his phone landing beside him echoing louder in his head than it had any right to. His hand dragged down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes until colors sparked behind his eyelids.

He wasn’t angry. Not exactly.

Just… thrown off. Disappointed in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Loser Night had become the one guaranteed constant in his week — a tradition he pretended to be indifferent about but secretly counted down to. The room always felt warmer when she was there, louder but also lighter, like she pulled the tension out of the air simply by existing in it.

And now she was ditching him for—
A guy.
From some fancy boarding school.
Who she seemed weirdly excited about.

He exhaled hard through his nose, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Seriously…?” he muttered into the quiet apartment, voice flat with disbelief.

He picked up the phone again despite himself, rereading her texts like maybe they’d change if he stared long enough.

I'm hanging out with someone.
This guy from that fancy boarding school, you get it.

He didn’t get it.
He didn’t get it at all.
And he didn’t like how that bothered him.

Her rolling-eyes emoji made something tighten in his chest — irritated affection, hurt pride, maybe both. Then her follow-up message flashed in his mind:

how about tomorrow after lunch?

So casual. So oblivious.
Like she didn’t notice his mood shift at all.

Jirou tipped his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling as if it could offer answers. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, though the irritation in his voice didn’t quite mask how deflated he felt.

He finally let his hand fall from his face, staring at the dim TV screen that still reflected the paused game menu. Akari’s horse — their horse — stood patiently in the background, waiting. Everything suddenly felt a little too still.

He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further, jaw tight in a way he pretended not to notice.

“Sure,” he muttered to the empty room, voice barely above a sigh. “Just cancel on me. For some guy.”

He kicked lightly at the coffee table, not enough to move it, just enough to release the smallest bit of tension. It didn’t help.

The apartment, without her noise and energy, felt unusually quiet — and for the first time, Jirou wasn’t sure he liked the silence.

Shiori stepped out of the bedroom, adjusting the strap of her bag as she checked her phone. She’d been getting ready to see a movie with Mei and Natsumi — Sachi had bowed out with a fever, and Minami had volunteered to run food and medicine over, so he was skipping the outing too.

“Hey, Jirou,” she called, coming around the corner with a soft smile. “You’ll be okay while I’m out?”

Jirou lifted his head from the couch, trying to smooth out any lingering tension in his expression. “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he said, voice even.

Shiori slid her phone into her pocket as she stepped toward the door. “Tell Akari I said hi.”

“She has plans,” he muttered, barely loud enough for her to catch.

Shiori paused, brows lifting gently as she looked back. “Really? Do you need me to stay in? It’s not a big deal if you want company.”

“No, I’m fine. Really.” Jirou pushed himself up, brushing his palms against his pants as he approached her. “I can survive on my own for a few hours, you know.”

Shiori laughed quietly under her breath, shaking her head as she bent to put on her shoes. “Alright, tough guy.”

Jirou watched her for a moment, some unnamed heaviness still clinging to his chest. When she stood, he stepped closer, hands settling lightly at her waist as he leaned down to kiss her. What was meant to be a quick goodbye lingered — slow, warm, maybe a little too deliberate. Shiori’s hand rested against his chest, fingers curling as she melted into the kiss without hesitation.

When they finally pulled apart, Jirou rested his forehead lightly against hers. “Don’t walk home alone, okay? It’s dangerous this late.”

“I know,” Shiori whispered, smiling up at him. “I’ll text you when the movie’s over.”

When the door clicked shut behind Shiori, the apartment felt unusually quiet, almost too empty. Jirou sank onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair and pressing his face into his palms. The hum of the refrigerator and the distant city noise outside didn’t help; everything felt louder, sharper.

He didn’t understand why Akari canceling their “Loser Night” hit him so hard. It was just a game night, wasn’t it? And yet, the thought of her laughing with someone else, even if it was just a casual friend from school, twisted something tight and unfamiliar in his chest. He felt a strange ache, one that wasn’t about jealousy in the petty sense, but more like the remnants of something he hadn’t fully acknowledged.

His thoughts drifted unbidden to her smile, the way she got so focused when learning something new, the way she celebrated even the smallest victories. The idea of someone else sharing those moments, someone else noticing those tiny things, made his stomach clench. He had told himself he had Shiori now, that he should be happy, and yet… he couldn’t shake the sharp sting of missing Akari, of longing for her in ways he hadn’t admitted to himself.

Jirou leaned back, letting out a slow, shaky breath. His fingers unconsciously curled around the edge of the blanket. He didn’t know what to do with the mix of guilt, longing, and confusion swirling inside him. He just knew one thing: the emptiness Akari’s absence left was heavier than he expected, and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, it lingered stubbornly, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t lift.

Sachi’s apartment door swung open, and there stood Minami, hands casually tucked into his pockets, but his eyes were locked on her with that soft, warm intensity that always made her heart skip. Sachi’s own eyes lit up instantly, and without thinking, she cupped his face, leaning up to press her lips to his. The kiss was quick at first, hesitant almost, but the tension of anticipation melted as soon as Minami responded, sliding his hands around her waist and pulling her gently inside.

“Careful,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers as he finally closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the hallway.

“I’m so careful,” Sachi retorted with a teasing lilt, tilting her head to smile up at him, though the faint flush on her cheeks betrayed her racing heart.

Minami laughed softly, the sound deep and full of warmth, and shook his head slightly. “You’re not careful at all,” he said, his voice low, almost a rumble, “but I love you anyway.” He bent down, capturing her lips again in a slow, lingering kiss, his hands firm on her waist, holding her close as if afraid to let go.

Sachi’s fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him a fraction closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart against hers. Their laughter mingled with quiet sighs, the room around them fading as if the world existed only for the two of them in that moment. Minami’s thumb traced little circles on her back as he whispered against her lips, “I’ve missed you.”

Sachi smiled against him, a soft laugh slipping through, “I’ve missed you too,” she murmured, and for a long moment, they simply held each other, letting the warmth of their closeness and the comfort of familiarity fill the space around them. The outside world could wait; right now, this was their time, and neither wanted to let it go.

Minami’s hands threaded through Sachi’s hair, his fingers tangling gently as he pulled her closer. His lips found hers again, soft but insistent, and he whispered against her mouth, voice low and breathless,

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

Sachi’s hands gripped the back of his shirt, leaning into him, feeling the heat of his touch and the steady pulse of his heartbeat. His words lingered between them, filling the room with a quiet intensity, and she couldn’t help but smile against him, heart racing at the sheer sincerity and warmth in his eyes.

Sachi shivered slightly at his words, her cheeks warming as she tilted her head up, meeting his gaze through her lashes. “Stop saying things like that,” she whispered, though her voice was soft, almost breathless, betraying how much it affected her.

Minami chuckled lowly, a sound that vibrated in her chest, before leaning down to capture her lips once more, slower this time, savoring the taste and the closeness. His hands moved gently from her hair to the small of her back, drawing her even closer, grounding them in the warmth of the room.

Sachi wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under her palm. “You’re… going to make me melt,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, but Minami only smiled against her lips, tightening his hold just slightly, as if to assure her he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, his thumbs brushing along her cheeks. “I like it when you melt for me.” His gaze was soft, but there was an intensity there that made her chest flutter uncontrollably.

Sachi laughed lightly, breathless, her forehead resting against his. “You’re ridiculous,” she teased, though she pressed her lips to his again, giving into the warmth and the pull between them, letting the quiet intimacy of the moment stretch on endlessly.

Sachi rested her head against Minami’s chest, a small frown creasing her brow. “Aren’t we ever going to stop sneaking around like this?” she asked softly, her fingers absently tracing patterns along his shirt.

Minami let out a long sigh, his hand threading through her hair as he held her closer. “Stop overthinking it,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, vibrating against her ear.

Sachi lifted her head to look at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Minami!” she chided, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“I just want you all to myself,” he admitted, leaning down to press his lips to hers again, his fingers tangling gently in her hair. The kiss was slow, lingering, full of quiet possessiveness and a tenderness that made Sachi’s heart beat faster. She melted into him, feeling the security and intensity of the moment, the world outside their little bubble fading away entirely.

Sachi’s eyes widened slightly at his words, her breath catching as she traced her fingers lightly along his chest. “All to yourself?” she asked softly, a mixture of teasing and longing in her voice, though her heart raced with the weight behind his confession.

Minami leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her forehead before brushing his lips against hers again, lingering just long enough to make her knees weak. “Yes,” he murmured against her mouth, his hands sliding from her hair to cradle her face, thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “I don’t want to share you with anyone, not even for a second.”

Sachi felt a shiver run down her spine at his intensity, her own hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt as she pressed herself closer. “You know… that’s terrifying,” she admitted breathlessly, her lips brushing against his collarbone as she tried to mask the shiver of desire and nervous excitement.

Minami chuckled softly, low and teasing, but his eyes held a deep warmth that made her melt. “Terrifying?” he echoed, nuzzling her neck. “I think it’s perfect. You and me, right here, right now. Just us.”

She tilted her head up, their gazes locking, her pulse hammering in her ears. “Just us…” she repeated, almost a whisper, but there was a fierce determination in her tone, a willingness to give in completely.

Minami smiled, pressing his forehead to hers. “Exactly. No hiding, no holding back. Just… everything.” His hands slid around her waist, pulling her impossibly close, and Sachi leaned into him, letting herself be swallowed by the warmth and the intoxicating closeness of him. The world outside ceased to exist; it was just them, the quiet hum of the apartment surrounding them, hearts racing in unison as desire and affection mingled in the heavy, lingering air between them.

She let out a small, breathless laugh, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I think I could get used to this,” she whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

Minami grinned, capturing her lips again, slower this time, savoring every second. “Good,” he murmured against her mouth, “because I don’t plan on letting go.”

“Hey, how’s Akari doing?” Sachi asked, tracing idle circles on Minami’s chest. “You know… ever since Jirou and Shiori started dating.”

“She’s better,” Minami murmured. His hand slid slowly up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. “She’s been talking to someone, though. She didn’t tell me who.”

“Oh, right—” Sachi’s eyes lit up. “That guy from that really fancy school.”

Minami nodded, his expression thoughtful.

“You know I was totally rooting for Akari,” Sachi said, letting out a soft sigh.

Minami shrugged slightly. “Shiori was trying her hardest.”

Sachi nodded in agreement, but her brows pinched. “I just didn’t think Jirou would end up with her.”

“To be honest,” Minami said, fingers drifting along the curve of her waist, “I don’t think they’ll last long.”
Sachi shifted, her lips brushing the edge of his jaw as she tilted her head. “Hmm? Why not?”

“He doesn’t look at her differently,” Minami said simply.

Sachi blinked, leaning back enough to meet his eyes. “Huh? What’s that even mean?”

“When he looks at Shiori, he doesn’t have that look.” He shrugged again, though there was a quiet certainty in his voice.

Sachi laughed softly. “What look? The one you give me?” Her teasing smile softened as her fingers curled into his shirt.

“Yeah,” Minami whispered, brushing a brief kiss to her lips. “Exactly that.”

She melted into the kiss, but he pulled back just enough to finish his thought.

“You know who he does look at differently?” Minami added, lowering his voice like a secret. “Akari.”

Sachi blinked at him, her smile fading into something softer, more curious. She shifted slightly so she could see his face fully, her fingers brushing along the side of his neck. “You really think so?” she murmured, almost breathless with how confidently he’d said it.

Minami hummed, resting his hand on her waist as though it belonged there. “I’ve known Jirou for years. He doesn’t give that kind of stare to just anyone.” His thumb traced the dip of her back absentmindedly. “With Shiori, he’s… comfortable. It’s easy for him. But with Akari? He pays attention in this really specific way. Like he’s trying not to.”

Sachi’s brows drew together. “Trying not to look at her?”

“Yeah.” Minami tilted his head, eyes drifting as he recalled it. “He’ll check where she is without meaning to. He listens differently when she talks. And when she laughs…” He exhaled a soft chuckle. “He looks like he’s hearing something he’s not supposed to enjoy.”

Sachi stared at him in surprise. “You really noticed all that?”

“I’m observant,” Minami said simply, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Especially when it comes to love. It’s obvious when someone’s heart is pulled somewhere, even if they’re pretending it’s not.”

Sachi rested her forehead against his chin, thinking it over. “But Akari’s talking to that guy now. The one from the fancy school.”

“I know.” His voice lowered, brushing against her skin. “And she seems calmer. Happier, even. Makes me wonder if it’s serious.”

“You think Jirou’s jealous?” Sachi asked, her fingers sliding into the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, definitely.” Minami laughed softly. “He hides it well, but I’ve caught him looking… bothered. He gets tense when her name comes up. Like he’s trying to convince himself he’s fine.”

Sachi sighed dramatically. “So messy.”

“People usually are,” Minami murmured, tugging her a little closer as though he couldn’t stand any distance. “But it’s their problem to sort out.”

Sachi smiled against his jaw again. “Still… I wonder what happens next.”

Minami lifted her chin with two fingers, his gaze warm and far more certain than anything he’d said about Jirou and Akari. “Whatever it is, it won’t change anything here,” he whispered before kissing her fully—slow, deliberate, and possessive in a way that made his earlier words echo between them.

On Sunday, Akari canceled on Jirou again, claiming she was sick. Concerned, he asked if she needed anything, but she insisted she was fine. Still uneasy, he decided to go over and check on her. When he arrived, her usual spark seemed absent, and though he attributed it to her being unwell, something in her demeanor made him pause. He brought her a glass of water, helped her settle onto the bed, and gently brushed the hair away from her face, lingering a moment to make sure she was comfortable.

Jirou stayed a little longer than he’d planned, sitting on the edge of her bed as he watched her settle under the blankets. Her cheeks were paler than usual, her lips a little dry, and even her eyes, normally bright and sharp, seemed dulled with fatigue. He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering for a moment, almost afraid to break the quiet stillness of the room.

“Try to rest, okay?” he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. She nodded faintly, eyes half-lidded as she tried to smile. Jirou caught her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it fall back to her side.

He pulled the blanket a little higher over her shoulders, then reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, handing it to her. “Here… sip slowly,” he said. She obeyed quietly, the small action making his chest tighten with a strange ache he couldn’t quite name.

After a few minutes of silence, Jirou found himself watching her breathing, steady but shallow, the rise and fall of her chest under the blankets almost hypnotic. He wanted to say something—anything—to lift the weight he could feel pressing down on her, but no words felt right. Instead, he simply stayed, brushing her hair away again, tucking loose strands behind her ear, and letting her rest, unwilling to leave her side until he felt sure she was even a little more comfortable.

Even sitting there, his mind couldn’t stop racing. Something in her demeanour today gnawed at him. It wasn’t just sickness—there was a quiet melancholy, a subtle hesitation in the way she moved and spoke. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to shake off the thought. Maybe it was just the flu, he told himself. But still, he stayed, letting the quiet intimacy of the moment settle over them, hoping it might give her a little comfort.

"Hey, Akari", Jirou said hesitantly and reaching for her hand, slowly Akari held it weakly, not even looking at him. He swallowed "How-how are you doing?"

"She didn't answer, just turned to face him and offered a weak smile before "I...I think I'm gonna have a nap"

Jirou nodded slowly, trying to keep his voice calm despite the tightness in his chest. “Okay… I’ll let you rest,” he said softly. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, lingering for just a moment longer, as if trying to pass some of his own steadiness to her. Akari’s fingers barely wrapped around his, but it was enough to make his chest ache.

“Do you… want me to stay here while you sleep?” he asked, his tone careful, almost hesitant, as if asking might be too much. She hesitated for a moment, then gave a faint nod, the smallest gesture of trust he’d gotten all day.

Jirou shifted to sit in the chair beside her bed, keeping his hand resting lightly near hers, not moving unless she reached out again. The quiet in the room was heavy, punctuated only by the soft hum of the heater and her shallow breathing as she closed her eyes. He wanted to say something comforting, but the words refused to come, so he simply stayed, letting the silence carry what he couldn’t put into speech.

Every so often, he would glance at her, noting the slight rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the way her lips parted slightly as she drifted toward sleep. It was both beautiful and heartbreaking, and Jirou swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay composed, knowing that all he could do right now was be here—for her, quietly, without forcing anything, just present.

After a few long moments, he finally leaned back slightly in his chair, letting out a soft sigh, brushing his fingers along the edge of the bed without disturbing her. “Rest well, Akari,” he whispered, almost to himself, the words carrying a weight of hope and worry all at once.

Jirou couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Monday came and went, and Akari went through the motions—smiling, talking, laughing—but it wasn’t the same. The light that usually danced in her eyes, the way her whole presence seemed to lift the room, was gone. She moved a little slower, laughed a little quieter, and even when she smiled at him, it didn’t reach her eyes.

At first, Jirou kept telling himself it was just a lingering illness, that maybe she wasn’t fully recovered yet. But as the days passed, that excuse grew thinner. He watched her from a careful distance during class, at lunch, even when she walked to the library, and every small habit he had come to know—the way she twirled her hair when she was nervous, the way she cradled her water bottle when she was tired—felt slightly off, like echoes of herself rather than the real thing.

He tried to ask her casually, hoping she’d confide in him, but each time, she dodged. A shrug here, a vague “I’m fine” there. She smiled, but the warmth was missing. The thing that hurt the most was the unspoken distance growing between them; she was there, but not really there.

Jirou’s mind raced constantly with questions he couldn’t voice. Was she hiding something painful? Was it about him, about Shiori, or something entirely different? Every time he wanted to press further, he hesitated, afraid that pushing too hard would make her shut down completely.

So he watched. Quietly, from the sidelines, hoping for the spark to return, holding onto the hope that she would trust him enough to tell him whatever was weighing on her. But with every passing day, the light in her eyes remained dim, and the worry in his chest grew heavier.

Jirou sank back onto the couch, the weight of the week pressing down on him. Saturday night was supposed to be their usual “loser night,” a time when he could relax and just laugh with Akari, teaching her games and watching her get excited over small victories. Instead, her text blinked on his phone: “I have plans with a guy.” That was it. No explanation, no invitation to reschedule—just a casual dismissal that left him staring at the screen, trying to make sense of it.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly in frustration. It wasn’t just the cancellation itself; it was the pattern, the way she’d slowly pulled away over the past weeks, always with some excuse or evasive answer. A dull ache pressed at his chest, a mix of worry and something sharper, a jealousy he hadn’t expected to feel.

He scrolled back through their texts, rereading her messages as if he could decode some hidden meaning, some reassurance that everything was fine. But each read made the emptiness gnaw at him more. His thumb hovered over the screen, tempted to reply, to ask questions he didn’t want to hear the answers to, before he finally tossed the phone onto the couch with a sigh.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands, trying to sort through the tangle of feelings—concern, longing, frustration, and that quiet, stubborn hope that she’d tell him the truth someday. He had no idea what she was thinking, no idea what her plans with this other guy meant, and that uncertainty twisted in his gut like a knot he couldn’t untangle.

He closed his eyes, trying to push it down, to focus on something else, anything else, but her absence lingered in the apartment like a shadow, and the memory of her smile, her laughter, the way she’d looked up at him while gaming, haunted him more with every passing moment.

By the second week, it was becoming impossible to ignore. Akari’s usual spark—the quick smile, the teasing quips, the way her eyes would light up when she got something right in a game—was gone. She moved through her days quieter, slower, more withdrawn, as if she were deliberately keeping herself at the edges of everything around her.

Everyone noticed. At school, Minami would glance at her across the classroom, a flicker of worry in his eyes before she looked away. Jirou, despite keeping himself busy with Shiori, found his thoughts drifting to her constantly, wondering if she was really “fine” as she insisted. Even their friends in the group, who normally didn’t pry too deeply, had begun exchanging worried glances. Sachi tried to joke with her, hoping to coax a laugh, but Akari’s smiles were faint and short-lived. Natsumi made a point of asking her if she wanted to hang out, and even Minami offered to help with errands or bring over something to cheer her up, but every attempt was met with the same calm, practiced brush-off.

“I’m fine,” Akari would say, voice soft, almost too quiet to catch, and then she’d redirect the conversation or slip away before anyone could press further. It was frustrating and heartbreaking for those who cared about her, but most of all for Jirou. Watching her retreat further into herself, unable—or unwilling—to share what was really going on, left him restless and tense.

At night, he found himself replaying memories of their earlier “loser nights,” of the small moments that had once made him laugh and made her shine. Now, those memories were bittersweet, reminding him of a version of Akari that seemed to be slipping farther away with each passing day. He didn’t know what had caused this change, or if he could do anything to bring her back to the vibrant, laughing girl he knew so well. All he could do was wait, and hope, and watch, powerless but unwilling to let her drift completely out of reach.

Jirou stood awkwardly in the doorway, the weight of the tension pressing down on him. The familiar sights of Akari’s apartment—the neatly arranged books on the shelves, the faint scent of her shampoo, the little trinkets she had collected over time—did nothing to ease the tight knot in his chest. He watched her as she worked on her hair, fingers deftly twisting and pinning, but her movements lacked the usual energy, the liveliness he was used to seeing.

“What do you want, loser?” Akari asked, barely glancing at him, her tone sharp but not unkind.

Jirou swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “Are you… going somewhere?” he asked, trying to hide the worry that laced his words.

“No,” she replied, turning slightly to give him a small, almost rehearsed smile. “That guy from the boarding school is coming over.”

Jirou’s eyebrows shot up. “Again?” Her nod was brief but clear. He could feel a pang of unease, one that wasn’t exactly jealousy, but something close enough to make his chest tighten. “Are you two… like a thing?”

“No,” Akari said quickly, brushing it off as if the question were ridiculous. Then, with a teasing tilt of her head, she added, “Why, are you jealous?”

Jirou froze for a moment, then blurted out before he could think: “No! I just… I wanted to check on you.” The words sounded clumsy even to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to retract them.

“Well, I’m going,” Akari said, calmly returning to her mirror, the smooth detachment in her voice cutting through the air like a knife. She didn’t look angry—just distant, almost fragile in a way that made Jirou’s chest tighten further.

He hesitated, unsure whether to push further or retreat. Part of him wanted to demand she stay, to insist she let him be there for her, but the other part knew that any display of force would only push her further away. He took a slow step forward, lowering his voice. “Akari… you don’t have to do this alone, you know. Even if you think you’re fine, I—”

She turned fully then, eyes meeting his for just a fraction of a second before flicking back to the mirror. “I said I’m fine,” she murmured softly, her voice just above a whisper. It wasn’t the teasing, energetic Akari he remembered—it was quiet, measured, almost brittle.

Jirou exhaled slowly, forcing himself to nod. “Alright,” he said, though his heart thudded painfully in his chest. “Just… be careful, okay? And if you need anything… anything at all, call me.”

Akari gave him a faint nod, her smile polite but distant, before grabbing her coat and heading for the door. Jirou watched her go, the small click of the lock sounding impossibly loud in the apartment. He ran a hand through his hair, a mix of frustration, worry, and longing gnawing at him. She was out there, with someone else, and though she said she was fine, Jirou couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong—and that she was slowly drifting farther away from him.

The moment the knock sounded on the door, Akari’s posture changed so sharply it made Jirou blink. One second she’d been relaxed in front of the mirror, shoulders loose, expression neutral. The next, she straightened as if pulled upright by invisible strings, her hands falling to her sides, her face smoothing into something bright and practiced.

She didn’t even look at Jirou when she moved past him—just drifted away, almost instinctively putting a full step of distance between them. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was so automatic, so unconscious, that it made the hair on the back of Jirou’s neck stand up.

When she opened the door, the guy from the boarding school stood there—tall, too polished, his uniform neat in a way that felt calculated rather than natural. His smile was soft and charming, but it didn’t touch his eyes. Akari, who had been dull and dim all week, suddenly latched onto his arm with a forced, airy giggle that didn’t sound like her at all.

“Hey!” the guy greeted smoothly, offering Jirou a hand with confidence that bordered on cocky. “I’m Riku. Akari told me a bit about you.”

Jirou shook his hand, feeling the subtle pressure increase—not enough to be rude, but enough to make a point. When the handshake broke, he glanced down at Akari. She wasn’t smiling. Not really. Her lips were curved, but her eyes were hollow, her posture tight. She didn’t look at Jirou. She didn’t look at Riku either. She stared somewhere in the middle, as though performing a role rather than living in the moment.

And the contrast between her and Riku… it was jarring. She looked small next to him, withdrawn, like she was trying to mold herself into whatever shape he expected. Riku, meanwhile, looked at her like she was something he owned—comfortable, confident, sure she would follow along with anything he suggested.

A cold, uneasy feeling crawled down Jirou’s spine. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put words to it, but something inside him twisted painfully. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong—very wrong—and Akari was pretending it wasn’t.

But she had pulled away from him the second Riku entered. She had chosen the distance. And he knew pushing would only make her shut down more.

So he swallowed his worry, his frustration, his instinct to drag her outside and demand the truth. Instead, he cleared his throat and managed a steady voice.

“Alright. Just… call me if you need anything. Seriously.”

Akari nodded, still holding onto Riku’s arm like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “Yeah. Sure. See you, loser.”

The nickname was hollow—no warmth, no sharp playfulness, just a ghost of her usual personality.

Jirou hesitated one more second, searching her face for any sign she wanted him to stay, any flicker of the girl he knew. But she didn’t look at him. Not once.

So he stepped out into the hallway.
Closed the door behind him.
And the quiet click felt like a punch to the chest.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the wood grain of the door, the echo of her empty smile burned into his mind. He didn’t know what she was hiding or why she was shutting him out…

…but he knew with absolute certainty—

Akari wasn’t fine.
And whatever was happening behind that door was slowly killing the spark he loved so much.

Jirou dragged his feet the whole way home, each step feeling heavier than the last. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, head down, muttering under his breath in a way he rarely ever did. The streetlights cast long shadows over the pavement, stretching out in front of him like the night itself was trying to swallow him whole.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand himself.

Why did it bother him this much?
Why did seeing her hold onto that guy’s arm feel like someone had shoved a fist straight into his chest?

He’d told himself all week that she was just busy. That she was allowed to have her own life. That it wasn’t a big deal if she hung out with someone else.

But the second he saw her with Riku—saw the way she shrank beside him, smiled without meaning it, looked like she was folding herself into whatever he wanted—something ugly and suffocating twisted around his ribs.

He didn’t even like Riku. He didn’t know the guy, but he didn’t need to. Something about him set off every instinct Jirou had. The way he held himself, the way he touched Akari’s arm like it was normal, the way Akari stepped away from Jirou like she had to.

And that smile.
That perfect, polished smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Jirou let out a frustrated groan, raking both hands through his hair as he reached his apartment building.

Why did it feel like this?

Akari was his friend—his partner.
Sure, they spent every weekend together. Sure, she’d basically built a small room in his head without trying. Sure, he thought about her more than was probably normal.

But that had always been fine. It had always made sense.

It didn’t make sense now.

Because now, the thought of her laughing with Riku made his stomach flip.
The thought of her sitting close to him made him grit his teeth.
And the thought of her actually liking that guy—

Jirou stopped walking, pressing the heel of his hand against his sternum like he could force the ache to stop.

It didn’t.

It only got tighter.

“Why the hell does it feel like this…?” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible in the empty hallway.

His voice came out raw, strained in a way he couldn’t hide even from himself.

He didn’t have the answer.

But he knew one thing with absolute clarity:

He couldn’t stand the idea of Akari choosing someone else—especially someone like Riku.

Shiori slipped her phone into her bag and walked toward him, her expression open and warm, unaware of the storm churning behind his eyes. She stopped in front of him, tilting her head slightly the way she always did when she was trying to read his mood.

“Plans again?” she echoed, almost lightly, but there was a tiny crease between her brows. “She’s really been busy lately.”

“Yeah,” Jirou muttered, kicking off his shoes and forcing his tone into something neutral. “Guess she’s… seeing this guy a lot.”

Shiori watched him a moment longer before smiling again, softer this time. She walked up and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her cheek briefly against his chest as though offering comfort without even realizing he needed it.

“Well,” she said as she pulled back, brushing her fingers gently over his forearm, “if she’s busy, then I’ve got you all to myself tonight.”

Jirou tried to smile back—he really did. He even leaned down and kissed her temple, the way he always did, the way he’d trained himself to.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Just us.”

Shiori nodded, oblivious to the heaviness he couldn’t shake, and turned toward the door to grab her jacket.

“So,” she asked cheerfully, “what are you in the mood for? Ramen? Curry? That little place Minami took us last week?”

Jirou opened his mouth to answer, but his thoughts drifted without his permission—back to Akari’s apartment, back to the dullness in her eyes, back to Riku’s hand on her arm.

His chest tightened.

He swallowed, forcing his voice steady. “Uh… ramen’s fine.”

“Perfect,” Shiori smiled, slipping on her shoes. “Let’s go before it gets too crowded.”

Jirou followed her out, locking the door behind them. He slid his keys into his pocket, glanced at the phone he couldn’t stop checking, and tried to push down the uneasy knot twisting deeper inside him.

Dinner with his girlfriend should’ve been enough to clear his mind.

But even as Shiori laced her fingers through his on the way down the stairs, all he could think about… was someone else.

The weeks blurred together in a quiet, suffocating way Jirou didn’t know how to explain. Each time his phone lit up, he hoped it would be her—some dumb meme, some complaint about Minami, some half-typed “loser night?” to pretend she wasn’t the one who’d skipped the last five in a row.

But it was never her.

The cancellations came shorter and sharper, like she was trying to cut ties with as little conversation as possible.

‘Can’t tonight.’
‘Busy.’
‘Plans.’
Left on read.
Left on read again.

And every time, he felt something inside him pull a little tighter.

Her apartment used to feel like sunlight—something warm he could step into without thinking. Now, when he stopped by, the air felt stale. Akari moved differently, like she was conserving energy she no longer had. She didn’t bump into him playfully anymore. She didn’t tug his sleeve to show him something stupid on her phone. She didn’t hit his shoulder lightly when he teased her.

She didn’t touch him at all.
Sometimes she even subtly leaned back, like her body remembered some reason to stay away that her mouth refused to say.

And every time she flinched—quietly, almost apologetically—Jirou felt something twist in his gut that he couldn’t name.

Shiori noticed, even if she didn’t fully understand. She started hugging him more often—longer, tighter, her hands smoothing along his back like she was trying to loosen knots she couldn’t see. Sometimes he hugged her back with a desperation that surprised them both.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. He did. Or at least he thought he did.

But more and more, when he held Shiori, he wasn’t thinking about her at all.

He was thinking about Akari—how tired she looked, how quiet she’d become, how the spark in her eyes had dimmed into something dull and distant.

He worried about her constantly.
More than was reasonable.
More than he should.
More than he ever worried about the girl he was actually dating.

At night, lying beside Shiori while she slept peacefully against his shoulder, he’d stare at the ceiling and replay every odd moment with Akari—every missed glance, every clipped message, every strained smile.

The questions gnawed at him:

Why is she pulling away?
Why won’t she tell me anything?
Why does she look so… wrong?
Why does it hurt so much to watch?
And why does the thought of her with Riku make his chest ache like he’s the one being cheated on?

Shiori shifted in her sleep, curling unconsciously into him. He tightened his arm around her, grounding himself the only way he knew how.

Even if the comfort felt hollow compared to the ache settling somewhere deep and stubborn inside him—an ache shaped like someone who kept slipping further away.

Someone he didn’t want to lose.

Sachi and Natsumi practically burst into Jirou’s apartment that morning, not even waiting for him to finish rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey, virgin—what’s going on with Akari?” Sachi demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp with irritation that was really just worry.

Caught off guard, Jirou stumbled back a step. “I—I don’t know.”

Natsumi stepped in closer. “What do you mean you don’t know? Have you talked to her? Did she say something? What’s happening with her?” Her voice wasn’t angry, just tight with concern as she searched his face for answers he didn’t have.

Jirou blinked at them, still half-asleep, still in the hoodie he’d thrown on when they started banging on the door.

“S–She won’t… she won’t really talk to me,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. “Every time I try she just says she’s busy. And she always has plans with that guy now. Riku.”

Sachi exchanged a quick, sharp look with Natsumi.
“Yeah, we’ve noticed,” she muttered. “She barely shows up to group stuff anymore. And when she does? She looks like she hasn’t slept.”

Natsumi stepped forward, voice dropping.
“She flinched yesterday when I tried to high-five her. Akari. Flinched. Akari never flinches.”

Jirou’s chest tightened painfully at that. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly.
“I don’t know what’s going on. She used to come here every day. She used to… I don’t know. Smile.” His voice cracked a little, barely noticeable unless someone listened closely. “Now she won’t even look at me.”

Sachi’s eyes narrowed.
“So talk to her.”

“I tried!” Jirou snapped, frustration and guilt bleeding together. “She just says she’s fine. She lies. And then she disappears with him and—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Natsumi stepped closer, her tone softer now.
“Jirou… are you sure you’re not just scared to find out what’s actually happening?”

He froze.

Because yeah.
He was.
Terrified.

Sachi sighed heavily.
“Look, virgin, something’s wrong. Like… actually wrong. And she clearly isn’t telling us. So either you man up and talk to her—really talk to her—or we drag her here ourselves.”

Jirou swallowed hard, heartbeat thudding dully against his ribs.
“…I’ll go see her,” he murmured. “Today. I’ll find her.”

Sachi pointed at him like she was assigning homework.
“You better.”

But Natsumi watched him with quiet worry, and her voice mirrored it.
“Jirou… be gentle. She’s scared of something. You can see that, right?”

Jirou nodded, already grabbing his coat.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

Jirou knocked on Akari's door. She opened after some time. Minami waved to Jirou from the kitchen, and Akari offered Jirou a smile that didn't reach her eyes

"Akari..."

Akari’s fingers were still curled around the door, knuckles a little too white. Her hair was tied back messily, not in her usual cute half-up style—just thrown together like she hadn’t cared. Minami’s cheerful humming drifted from the kitchen, completely oblivious.

Jirou took in every detail in one breath.
How her shoulders were tense.
How her eyes didn’t track him, didn’t brighten, didn’t move the way they always had.
How she kept one arm tucked close to her chest, as if afraid someone might touch her.

“Hey,” she said gently, voice soft in that way people used when trying not to break. “What’s up?”

It wasn’t her voice.
It was the version of her that apologized for everything.

Jirou stepped inside, closing the door behind him slowly.
“Can we talk? Like—really talk?”

Her smile flickered, just for a moment. Then she looked away, nodding a little too quickly.

“Sure. Yeah. Of course. What’s up?”

He hated how she said it.
As if he was inconveniencing her.
As if she expected to be yelled at.

Jirou moved closer, lowering his voice.
“Akari… you haven’t been yourself for weeks.”

She stiffened.

“I’m just busy,” she said automatically.

“I don’t believe that.”

Her breath hitched—so tiny a sound that anyone else would’ve missed it, but Jirou didn’t. He saw the way her hands trembled. The way her lower lip pressed between her teeth.

He softened, reaching out but stopping just short of touching her.

“Akari… you don’t text back anymore. You cancel on our nights. You won’t even look at me.”

She turned her face away sharply, too sharply.

“I said I’m fine.”

Jirou’s chest ached at how fragile she sounded.
He didn’t push. Not yet. He simply stepped closer, lowering himself a little so he could try to meet her gaze.

“Then look at me and say it.”

Her breath stuttered again.
Her eyes stayed glued to the floor.

“Akari…” he whispered. “What’s going on? You can tell me. You always could.”

For the first time, she faltered.

A tiny crack in her façade.
And her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Jirou… please. Don’t ask me that.”

"It's okay", Jirou said again "I just want to help" he reached for her shoulder, but she stepped back.

Akari’s retreat was small, almost imperceptible, but to Jirou it felt like she’d yanked herself miles away. Her back brushed the edge of the wall, her breath catching as if she’d been cornered without realizing it.

He froze mid-reach, hand suspended in the air before slowly lowering it.

“…Akari?” he said quietly.

She shook her head, eyes still fixed anywhere but him. “Please don’t touch me right now.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t annoyed.
They were… scared.
Soft and trembling at the edges, as if even saying them cost her something.

Jirou swallowed hard, stepping back to give her space.
“Okay. No touching. I get it.”

She relaxed only by a fraction—barely enough to notice unless, like him, you’d memorized every version of her.

“I’m not angry,” he added softly. “I’m not here to fight. I’m just… worried. You’re not acting like you. This isn’t you.”

Akari’s fingers curled around her opposite arm, holding it like she needed to keep herself from unraveling. Her gaze darted once toward the kitchen where Minami’s voice floated lightly, then quickly away, as if even glancing that way had burned her.

“I told you,” she murmured, “I’m just—busy. Tired. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Akari,” he said again, gentler this time, “you’re shaking.”

Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip. She exhaled sharply through her nose and forced a smile—one that cracked almost immediately.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, voice barely holding steady. “Really. This is just how things are now. I’m… I’m okay.”

But she wasn’t okay.

Her eyes were dull and distant.

Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

And the way she stood—too stiff, too careful—told him she was terrified he’d do the wrong thing and shatter her.

Jirou dipped his head a little, trying to catch her line of sight without stepping closer.

“You’re my friend,” he said quietly. “I care about you more than you think. If something’s hurting you… I want to be here. Even if all you need is someone to listen.”

For the briefest moment, her lips parted as though she might finally let something slip.

Then she shut her eyes, shoulders tensing like she was bracing for impact.

“Jirou…” she whispered, voice breaking on his name. “Please. Don’t make me talk about it.”

"Someone's hurting you?" Jirou asked softly

Akari hesitated for a momment, she started to nod before she changed her mind and shook her head

"Is it Riku?" Jirou asked gently

Akari’s breath hitched the second he said the name.

It was tiny—barely more than a tremor in her throat—but Jirou caught it instantly. Her fingers tightened around her sleeve, knuckles paling as she forced her face into a neutral mask that didn’t fit her at all.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

“…Akari.” Jirou’s voice dropped, soft but steady, like he was afraid to push her too hard yet terrified to let it go. “Look at me.”

She didn’t. Her eyes stayed glued to the floor, lashes trembling.

“Akari,” he tried again, gentler. “Is it Riku?”

Silence stretched between them—longer, heavier, suffocating.

Her chest rose shakily. Her lips parted. For a heartbeat, she almost nodded, the movement starting instinctively before she seemed to realize it. She startled, shoulders tightening as she jerked her head into a small, quick shake instead.

“No,” she whispered.

Too fast.

Too thin.

Too rehearsed.

Jirou stepped back to show he wasn’t cornering her, but his voice softened even more.

“You don’t have to lie,” he murmured. “Not to me.”

Akari swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet hallway. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked rapidly as if refusing to let anything fall. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing a tiny smile that wobbled at the edges.

“It’s not him,” she insisted faintly. “He’s just… busy. He’s nice to me.”

Jirou’s stomach twisted.

 

Nice.

She said it like she was reading from a script she’d been given. Like she was repeating something someone else had made her memorize.

“You don’t look happy with him,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t look like you.”

Akari flinched—so lightly he doubted she meant to—but it was enough. Enough to tell him he’d hit something raw.

Her fingers went to her hair, smoothing it behind her ear with a forced steadiness that betrayed the tremor underneath. She kept her gaze stubbornly downward, as if meeting his eyes might make whatever she was hiding spill out.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she whispered. “Please don’t ask me about him.”

Jirou’s heart thudded painfully.
He didn’t press.
He couldn’t—not when she looked like a single push would break her.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I won’t ask.”

But his next words came out before he could stop them—quiet, protective, and trembling at the edges.

“…Akari, did he do something to you?”

Akari’s nod was so small it could’ve been missed by anyone else—but to Jirou, it felt like the floor dropped out from under him.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

His jaw clenched, not in anger at her but in a desperate attempt to hold himself together. Every instinct in him surged at once—protect, grab her, get her out, fight someone, call someone—yet all of it tangled in his throat until he could barely speak.

“It’s okay…” he tried, but the words came out rough, cracking at the edges. “It’s—”

He stopped, swallowing hard. His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know where to put them, like he wanted to reach for her but was terrified of hurting her more.

“Should I—” he started, then broke off, breath shaking. “Do you want me to—”

Call someone?

Kick Riku’s door down?

Stay?

Take her with him?

He didn’t even know which option terrified him more.

He finally exhaled a trembling breath and stepped closer—not touching her, just close enough that she could reach for him if she wanted.

“Akari…” he breathed, her name breaking apart in the middle. It was the only thing he could force out, the only thing that didn’t feel like it might shatter her if he said it wrong.

She stood there, small and exhausted, her eyes shimmering but stubbornly refusing to fall. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt as though grounding herself.

“I don’t know what to do unless you tell me,” Jirou whispered, voice barely holding. “Just… tell me what you need. Anything. I’ll do it.”

Her voice was barely a breath, thin and trembling, and the way she said nothing made Jirou’s stomach twist. She wasn’t okay—anyone could see that—but she was fighting to convince herself as much as him.

“Akari…” he tried again, softer this time.

But she shook her head quickly, almost frantically, backing up a half‑step like she was afraid her resolve would break if he came any closer.

“I can—I’m okay,” she whispered, eyes darting toward the hallway as if she expected footsteps any second. “You… you should go. He—he wouldn’t be okay with you being here.”

The way she said it—small, apologetic, scared—made a cold, ugly chill crawl down Jirou’s spine.

“He’s coming soon,” she added, voice cracking on the last word. “You should go.”

Jirou’s breath caught. He didn’t move at first, frozen in the doorway as he looked at her—at the way she held her own arms, like she was bracing for something; at the way her spark was gone; at the way her shoulders shrank under the weight of someone else’s control.

Everything in him screamed don’t leave her.
Everything in him screamed she’s afraid.

But she was asking him—begging him—to go.

His hands curled by his sides, nails digging into his palms. He took a slow step back, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Akari…” he murmured, voice breaking.

Jirou’s voice came out low, rough, and steadier than he felt inside.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, the words almost vibrating out of him. “I swear I’m not leaving you with him.”

He stepped forward without thinking, reaching out gently—just wanting to touch her arm, to anchor her, to let her know he meant every word. But the instant his hand lifted, Akari flinched back, not harshly, but like someone who’d learned to expect the worst from a raised hand.

Jirou froze.

Her retreat was small, barely a shuffle of her feet, but it hit him harder than a punch. She wasn’t being dramatic; she wasn’t being shy. She was scared. Of the situation. Of the guy. Maybe even of how much trouble she’d be in if Jirou stayed.

Her eyes flickered up to his for one heartbeat—wide, apologetic, pleading—and then dropped again.

“Jirou,” she whispered, shaking her head, “you can’t… you really can’t…”

He swallowed hard, chest tightening.

“I’m not leaving you,” he repeated, quieter now but even more certain. “Not when you look like this. Not when you’re scared.”

“I’m not—” she tried to say, but the word died. Her throat bobbed, breath trembling. “You don’t understand… If he shows up and sees you here—”

“I don’t care,” Jirou snapped—but not at her. At the idea of someone making her talk like this. At the idea of someone making her shrink like this.

Akari winced anyway.

He softened immediately. “Akari… I’m not mad at you.”

Her hands twisted in the hem of her sleeve, white-knuckled.

“You don’t get it,” she whispered. “He’ll be angry. He’ll be so angry.”

Jirou’s heart almost stopped.

“Is he hurting you?” he asked again, barely audible.

She squeezed her eyes shut—just for a second. Just long enough to say everything she was too scared to voice.

When she opened them again, her lips trembled.

“Please,” she whispered, “just go. If he sees you… I don’t want you to get hurt too.”

Too.

The word hit Jirou like a blow.

He took a breath that shook all the way down to his ribs.

“I’m not leaving you with him,” he said again, slower this time, sinking into the words like a promise he’d carve into stone if he had to. “I’ll stand right here all night if that’s what it takes. I don’t care what he thinks.”

Akari’s eyes glistened, a fragile, terrified shine.

She wasn’t pushing him away because she didn’t want him.
She was pushing him away because she thought she was protecting him.

And Jirou felt his resolve harden into something unmovable.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “Not as long as I’m here.”

Jirou froze for a fraction of a second, his hand stilling over the teapot. The knock was firm but measured, deliberate, and it sent a pulse of tension through the room. Akari flinched slightly, curling further into the edge of the couch, her fingers clutching at the cushion.

“It’s okay,” Jirou murmured, his voice low but steady as he crouched slightly in front of her, trying to give her a sense of protection. “I’ve got this.”

He moved slowly toward the door, keeping his movements calm and unhurried, his other hand brushing past the tea on the counter. Each step was careful, measured, as if the floor itself might betray him and make a sound that would tip Akari off to panic.

Jirou froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over the kettle. The knock was deliberate, slow, almost deliberate in its rhythm, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He glanced at Akari, who had sunk slightly into the chair, hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes wide and uncertain. The faint candlelight caught the tremor in her fingers, the subtle tension in her shoulders.

He moved toward the door carefully, trying not to make any sudden noise that might escalate the tension. Through the peephole, he saw the familiar shape of Riku, and his jaw tightened. The man’s presence had always carried a weight, a quiet menace that Akari had never been able to shake off.

Jirou turned back to Akari for a brief second, meeting her eyes. She didn’t look at him directly, staring instead at the floor, as if she could disappear into it. He gave her a small, reassuring nod, the kind that said I’ve got this.

“Stay here,” he murmured, his voice low but firm.

He opened the door just a crack, enough to let his eyes meet Riku’s. The tension between them was palpable, a static charge in the air that made his chest tighten.

“Can I help you?” Jirou asked, keeping his tone calm but steady, every muscle in his body primed for anything.

Riku’s eyes flicked past him for a moment, catching the glow of the candle inside and Akari’s small, fragile figure in the chair. There was a pause—long, tense, filled with unspoken words.

“Move.”

Riku didn’t just push past Jirou—he shouldered him aside, a hard, dismissive shove that knocked Jirou a half-step back. The force of it made Jirou’s breath catch, but Riku barely looked at him as he stormed deeper into the apartment.

Akari recoiled the second he reached her, but she didn’t move fast enough.

“Get up,” Riku snapped, his hand clamping around her upper arm. His grip was harsh, his fingers digging into her skin as he yanked her upright so quickly she lost her balance and stumbled toward him.

“Stop—stop it! I said I’m getting up!” Akari protested, pulling her arm back with a shaky burst of strength. She stood on her own now, straightening, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her fear.

“Come on.” Riku seized her wrist next, tugging hard enough to make her flinch again. “We’re leaving.” His eyes flicked toward Jirou with something halfway between contempt and warning, as if Jirou were an obstacle he could crush without effort.

Akari didn’t trip this time. She just let herself be dragged, her expression hollow, as if she were slipping back into a script she’d been forced to memorize.

Jirou’s heart hammered, each beat landing like a punch in his chest. He felt something rising—fear, anger, desperation—so strong it nearly choked him. He didn’t have a plan. He just knew he couldn’t let her walk out that door with him. Not again.

He reached for her free hand—hesitantly at first, then firmly.

Akari stopped instantly. The tension in her arm jerked Riku backward a step. Her fingers tightened around Jirou’s without thinking, her breath catching as though the sudden anchor startled her.

Riku turned slowly, annoyance sharpening into something colder.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

Jirou swallowed. His throat felt dry. “You… you can’t take her.”

Riku blinked once, then scoffed, as if he couldn’t believe the nerve. “You can’t let me? And what exactly are you gonna do about it?” He stepped closer, chin tilted up, daring him.

Jirou opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Words jammed in his throat. His chest felt tight. Everything he wanted to say—I’m not letting you hurt her. She deserves better. She doesn’t owe you anything—came out as silence.

Riku smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

But Jirou didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged Akari toward him, pulling her fully out of Riku’s reach. She stumbled, colliding with his chest. Her fingers clutched at his shirt instinctively, gripping it like it was the only solid thing left in the room. Jirou wrapped one arm around her protectively, holding her close, even as his whole body trembled with adrenaline.

“L-leave her alone,” he managed, voice unsteady but unwavering. There was no heat, no threat—but there was something else. Something real.

Akari breathed in sharply, her forehead brushing his chest, her body pressed against him as though she didn’t dare let go.

Riku stared at them, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Fine,” he muttered, dismissive but irritated. He looked at Akari one more time, and something ugly flashed in his eyes—resentment, disappointment, maybe recognition that he no longer had the grip on her he thought he did. “Guess they were right about you.”

He didn’t explain. He didn’t give her a chance to ask what he meant. He simply turned and walked out, the slam of the door echoing off the walls.

Silence followed—thick, trembling, heavy.

Akari didn’t move. Her hands stayed curled in Jirou’s shirt, her face buried against him, like she was afraid that if she looked up, reality might snap back and swallow her whole.

Jirou held her tighter, one hand gently pressing between her shoulder blades.

“Akari,” he whispered, voice soft, shaken, “you’re safe. He’s gone.”

For the first time in a long time, her body relaxed—just a little—against him. And she stayed like that, trembling but finally held, as the world outside her apartment door slipped quiet.

Akari’s voice was so small it barely reached him.

“Jirou…”

She lifted her head just enough for him to see her eyes—shiny, swollen, and full of something so heavy it made his breath hitch. The moment she realized he was looking at her, she flinched and pressed her face hard into his chest, fingers fisting tightly into the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t—don’t look at me,” she whispered, voice cracking on the last word.

Jirou’s arms moved on instinct, closing around her with a fierce, protective hold. Not crushing, not overwhelming—just steady, warm, and unshakably there. He pulled her in until she was tucked beneath his chin, her forehead resting against the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

He felt her trembling—small, uneven shivers that ran through her whole body even though she wasn’t crying. It was like she didn’t know how anymore, like everything inside her had been pulled too tight to break.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his hand sliding up her back, fingers threading gently into her hair. “I’m right here.”

Akari clung to him harder, almost desperately. Her arms wrapped around him with an intensity that surprised him—like she was terrified he’d disappear the second she loosened her grip. Her breath was warm against his chest, short and shaky, and he could feel the silent strain in every part of her.

She shook, not from cold but from everything she’d been swallowing down for weeks.

Jirou held her like he was trying to shield her from the entire world, his thumb brushing soothing circles against the back of her shoulder. He didn’t rush her, didn’t push her to talk, didn’t ask her to lift her head. He just stayed.

“It’s okay not to be okay,” he whispered into her hair, voice almost trembling itself. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Akari didn’t answer with words. Instead, she tightened her grip again, pressing herself closer to him, her breaths uneven and ragged—not crying, just breaking quietly against him.

And Jirou wrapped his arms around her even tighter, holding her like he would never let her fall again.

Chapter 12: Green Tea and Fantasy's

Akari’s shift didn’t happen all at once. It crept in slowly, the way bruises go from purple to yellow—still tender even when they look healed.

At first, she was quiet. Detached. She kept her head down in class, didn’t linger in the hallways, didn’t respond when Jirou hovered a little too long near her desk just to make sure she was really okay. She didn’t lash out at him immediately—she was too raw, too shaken—but once the numbness wore off and she could breathe without trembling, something colder moved in to fill the space.

Anger.
Hurt.
Shame so sharp it burned behind her ribs.

It started with small things. She stopped meeting Jirou’s eyes. She answered him with short, clipped replies. But the day she realized Riku had blocked her everywhere—every platform, every number, every place she could’ve reached him—something broke with an audible snap.

She stared at the blank screen of her phone for nearly an hour before the fury finally boiled over.

“Jirou ruined it.”
“Riku actually liked me.”
“I didn’t even get to explain.”
“He didn’t give me a chance because you interfered.”

The words were venomous, but they were born from hurt, not hate—Jirou knew that. Still, they carved deep, and he felt every one of them.

After that, she just… shut down.

She didn’t yell anymore. Didn’t confront him. She simply withdrew.

She arrived to school early enough to avoid running into him, left fast enough that he couldn’t catch up. If she saw him coming down a hallway, she suddenly remembered something in the opposite direction and vanished. During group activities, she found ways to sit beside literally anyone else. Her entire posture around him changed—stiff shoulders, chin lowered, expression closed off like a locked room.

Not hateful.
Just distant.
Cold in that “I can’t deal with you because dealing with you means dealing with myself” sort of way.

She wasn’t angry at his kindness—she was angry that she had needed it. Angry that she hadn’t been able to save herself. Angry that someone else had to see her broken.

And most of all… she was angry that it hurt so much.

She told herself she was “over it,” that avoiding him was just easier, cleaner, safer. But every time Jirou’s footsteps slowed near her desk, every time she caught him glancing her way with that quiet, worried look, something in her chest twisted so tightly it made it hard to breathe.

She wasn’t fine.
She wasn’t okay.
She was just pretending—because pretending meant she didn’t have to feel anything too real.

But Jirou, patient and stubborn as ever, wasn’t going to let her disappear so easily.

Jirou hadn’t expected the morning to go like this. He’d rehearsed a dozen different openings in his head—some gentle, some clumsy, all of them hopeful that maybe Akari would at least look at him without that shuttered, unreachable expression. But the second he placed the strawberry milk on her desk and she looked up at him with those tired, guarded eyes, every practiced word evaporated.

“Here.” His voice had come out softer than he meant. Offering something familiar. Something she used to like.

Akari blinked at the carton, then at him, and for a heartbeat she didn’t look angry—just worn down. She mumbled a barely audible “thanks,” like the word scraped its way out of her throat.

That tiny crack was all the encouragement he needed.

“Akari… are you okay?” he asked, shifting his weight awkwardly, trying not to sound as concerned as he felt.

“I’m fine,” she said sharply, and then, with a sudden snap, “Now get lost.”

Her glare shot up like a wall between them.

“Akari, I just wa—”

“I said get lost.” She pushed up from her chair so fast it scraped against the floor, the sound slicing through the classroom.

Jirou flinched—not at her volume, but at the look on her face. She wasn’t just angry. She was hurting so deeply she couldn’t even hold it in properly.

“Why are you even upset?” he asked, voice quieter, almost pleading.

Akari’s jaw clenched. Her eyes flashed with that same wounded fury she’d been drowning in ever since everything with Riku had imploded.

“You didn’t need to help me,” she snapped, every word tight and trembling. “Riku actually liked me.”

The accusation hit him like a punch to the chest.

“Akari, you— you can’t be serious right now.” He stared at her, trying to wrap his head around it. “How is it my fault your boyfriend was an asshole?”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend!” she fired back instantly, voice cracking at the edges.

She wasn’t yelling because she wanted to fight. She was yelling because the truth underneath hurt too much.

Her hands balled into fists at her sides, her shoulders tense, as if she were trying to hold herself together through sheer force. Her breathing was uneven—shallow, strained—as though the air itself was too heavy to take in.

Jirou opened his mouth—slowly, carefully—but Akari looked away before he could speak, blinking too fast, refusing to let anything spill out. It was the look of someone who was furious at the world, at herself, at the pain she still carried… and at him for being the one who saw it.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” she repeated, quieter this time, eyes fixed on the floor. “He just… liked me. And you ruined it.”

He stepped closer before he could stop himself.

“Akari,” he said, voice thick with frustrated sympathy, “I…”

She bit the inside of her cheek, anger flickering like a dying flame. She didn’t want comfort. Didn’t want logic. She wanted someone to blame that wasn’t herself, someone safe enough to throw her hurt at without fear of being abandoned again.

And unfortunately for both of them… that someone was Jirou.

She lifted her chin, eyes glassy with a storm she refused to let fall.

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved,” she whispered, voice trembling like a frayed thread. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to,” he replied quietly. “I wasn’t going to let you go through that alone.”

Her breath hitched.
Her expression wavered.
And for a moment, she looked like she might break all over again.

But instead, she stepped back—just far enough to create a distance that hurt more than anything she’d said.

“I didn’t need saving,” she whispered, even though every part of her betrayed the opposite.

And Jirou, helplessly watching her walls go back up brick by brick, could do nothing but stand there—close enough to hear the pain in her voice, yet farther from her than he’d ever felt.

Jirou slumped deeper into his chair, elbows on the desk, fingers dragging down his face in pure frustration. The classroom buzzed around him with the usual chatter, chairs scraping, people laughing about weekend plans—but all of it felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater. His eyes stayed fixed on Akari across the room. She was pretending to read, but he could tell from the stiffness in her shoulders and the way she kept flipping the same page that she wasn’t absorbing a single word.

He’d tried. He’d tried so hard that it almost hurt, reaching out to her in every way he knew how—little gestures, awkward questions, giving her space when she wanted it, showing up when she didn’t ask. And every time, she shot him down with that cold tone, that sharp glare, that exhaustion he could practically feel radiating off her. It wasn’t just that she was upset; it was that she was upset with him. And he had no idea how to fix that.

He leaned back in his chair slowly, staring up at the ceiling like it might magically give him answers. His chest felt tight—he hated seeing her like this, hated knowing she was hurting, and hated even more that somehow she’d convinced herself he was the one who caused it. He wanted to storm over there and shake the truth into her, tell her that Riku didn’t “actually” like her, that she didn’t deserve to be treated like that in the first place, that she didn’t need to be strong on her own all the time. But he couldn’t. She wouldn’t hear it. And he was terrified that pushing even a little harder would just shove her farther away.

A grim thought crept up on him, settling uncomfortably in the back of his mind:

Were they even still friends?

He swallowed hard at that. They used to be close—at least he thought they were. They joked, they studied together, they walked home sometimes, she’d sit next to him during lunch. But ever since they switched partners, things had shifted in ways he didn’t really understand. They still hung out in the same group, still talked, still existed in the same orbit…but was that just habit? Or was he the only one who actually thought the bond between them meant something?

He lowered his gaze back to her. She hadn’t looked at him once—not since snapping at him earlier. Her jaw was tight, her foot tapping restlessly beneath her desk. She looked overwhelmed, frustrated, embarrassed, hurt, and stubborn all at once. Jirou rubbed the back of his neck, his stomach twisting.

Maybe he was reading too much into it.
Or maybe he wasn’t reading enough.

Maybe she really didn’t want him interfering. Maybe she really believed he’d “ruined” something for her. Maybe she didn’t trust him the way he trusted her.

The thought hit harder than he expected.

Maybe I should just leave her alone.

The idea made something in his chest sink—heavy, dense, cold. It wasn’t what he wanted, not at all. But if his presence was making things worse…if she genuinely didn’t want him around…then maybe stepping back was the only thing left he could do for her. Even if it tore him up to think about it.

He let out a long, exhausted exhale, slumping forward until his forehead nearly touched the desk.

He didn’t want to walk away.
But he didn’t want to keep hurting her either.

And for the first time, he honestly didn’t know which choice would break him more.

Kamo immediately picked up on the way Jirou’s attention drifted, the way his answer came too fast, too smooth, like he’d practiced saying “good” in the mirror just so no one would ask more questions.

“Uh-huh,” Kamo drawled, propping his chin on his hand. “You didn’t even blink when you said that. That’s usually the first sign something’s off.”

Jirou forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just tired, man. Training, classes… Shiori’s great. It’s fine.”

But his gaze slid right back to Akari—quickly, like he didn’t want Kamo to catch it, but not quick enough.

She was hunched over her notebook, earbuds in, pretending she couldn’t feel anyone looking her way. Even from where they were sitting, Jirou could see the stiff set of her shoulders, the way she kept clicking her pen like she was trying to stab a hole through the page.

Kamo followed his line of sight, eyebrows lifting. “You two still… weird?”

Jirou hesitated. Something in his chest tightened—guilt, maybe, or worry, or that helpless frustration that had been eating at him since the blow-up. “Yeah. She’s still mad.”

“You surprised?” Kamo shrugged lightly. “Akari’s stubborn. You know that.”

“It’s not that,” Jirou murmured, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I just… I didn’t think she’d stay mad this long. I thought…”

He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

Kamo nudged him. “Thought she’d get over it?”

“No,” Jirou said quickly. “I thought we were closer than this.”

The words dropped heavier than he intended. He stared down at his hands, the realization tasting bitter. For weeks he’d been trying to figure out how to fix things—buying her milk, trying to talk, giving her space, repeating the cycle—but it was like every attempt only made her retreat more.

Kamo studied him for a moment before sighing and leaning back in his chair. “Look… friendships change, yeah. But you’re not imagining it. You two were close. Everyone could see that. You guys just… drifted after the partner swap.”

Jirou swallowed. He knew that. He’d been pretending he didn’t.

“And Akari’s pride?” Kamo continued. “It’s like steel beams wrapped in barbed wire. She got hurt, and instead of admitting it, she’s building a wall and daring you to climb it.”

Jirou let out a long breath, shoulders deflating. “So what am I supposed to do? Keep trying? Back off? I don’t want to annoy her.”

Kamo smirked, nudging him again. “You’re already annoying. But it’s kind of your charm.”

“Kamo, I’m serious.”

“I know.” His expression softened. “Look, man… just don’t disappear on her. If she really didn’t care, she wouldn’t be reacting this hard. She’s mad because she felt something.”

Jirou’s eyes flicked to Akari again—her scowl, her tension, the quiet ache beneath it.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe.”

But a part of him whispered that maybe he was the only one still trying. That maybe he cared more than she ever did.

And that thought lingered with him longer than he liked.

Shiori’s fingers brushed against his before she laced their hands together, her shoulder pressing gently into his arm as they walked. The late afternoon sun stretched their shadows long across the pavement, and for a moment it almost felt peaceful—ordinary. The kind of scene most people their age would be thrilled to have.

But Jirou’s steps were slow, uneven. His mind was somewhere else entirely, and Shiori could feel it in the way his hand stayed limp in hers.

She glanced up at him, her brows knitting together. “You’ve been quiet all day,” she said softly. “And not your usual quiet. It’s like… you’re looking at something that isn’t there.”

Jirou forced a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

Shiori squeezed his hand, trying to catch his gaze. “You always say that when you don’t want to talk.”

He hesitated—only for a second—but she noticed. She always noticed.

They turned a corner, passing the convenience store where he’d bought Akari that strawberry milk earlier. Shiori saw the way his eyes flickered toward it, barely a second, barely anything at all… yet enough to make her chest tighten.

“Jirou,” she said more firmly this time, tugging his arm so he had no choice but to slow down. “Please talk to me.”

He looked ahead instead of at her, watching a pair of middle schoolers laughing as they biked past. Everything felt so distant. Like her voice was coming through water.

“It’s nothing serious,” he finally murmured. “Just school stuff.”

Shiori stepped in front of him, blocking his path, her expression gentle but searching. “Does this have something to do with Akari?”

Jirou froze.

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t jealous. It was just… honest. Quiet. A little pained.

He swallowed hard, realizing he couldn’t even form a lie quickly enough.

“I just…” He dug his hands into his pockets once she let go of them. “I hate that things are weird. I hate that she’s upset. And I hate feeling like I... messed things up.”

Shiori’s face softened, though something in her eyes flickered—worry, maybe. Or insecurity she was trying hard not to show.

“You care about her a lot,” she said quietly.

“She’s my friend,” Jirou answered immediately—too fast, too defensive. “Or… she used to be. I don’t know anymore.”

Shiori looked down at the pavement, her thumb brushing the hem of her sleeve. “I get it. I don’t mind that you worry about her. I just… wish you’d let me in instead of shutting me out.”

That hit him harder than he expected.

“I’m sorry,” Jirou said, voice low. “Really. I just don’t want to make things more complicated.”

Shiori stepped closer again, looping her arm into his this time rather than taking his hand—like she was grounding him instead of reaching for something fragile.

“You won’t,” she whispered. “Just don’t drift away. Not from me.”

Jirou let out a slow breath, nodding even though his thoughts were still tangled.

For the rest of the walk, she stayed right beside him.

And even though he held her hand when she offered it again… part of him kept glancing back—inward, toward the one place he still couldn’t seem to let go of.

Shiori unlocked the apartment door with a soft click, stepping inside ahead of him before turning back with a warm smile.

“Are you hungry?”

Jirou shook his head lightly. “No, I’m good.”

They moved to the couch together, settling in side by side. Shiori shifted closer almost immediately, leaning against him with a small, contented sigh. Her fingers curled gently against his arm, her head resting just below his shoulder. It was the kind of closeness she always offered him—soft, affectionate, warm.

But Jirou’s body didn’t quite respond the way it should have.

The longer she leaned into him, the heavier the air felt. A thick heat crawled under his skin, not pleasant, not comforting—more like a slow, tightening discomfort he didn’t know how to name. His palms went clammy, the back of his neck prickling. It wasn’t that Shiori was doing anything wrong. She wasn’t. She was just being herself, being his girlfriend.

It simply… didn’t settle right inside him.

He didn’t push her away. He didn’t even flinch. The thought of saying something—of questioning it—barely crossed his mind. Why would it? This was normal. This was what dating looked like. This was what he’d chosen.

So he stayed still, letting her cling to him, forcing himself to relax even though his chest felt tight. He told himself it was fine. He told himself there was no reason for it to feel strange.

Because she was his girlfriend.

And the idea that something about that didn’t fit never even occurred to him.

Shiori shifted again, nestling even closer against him. The gentle kiss she placed on his cheek was feather-light, affectionate in that easy, familiar way she’d always had. It should’ve made him smile. It used to—without effort, without thought.

This time, the smile he managed was thin and tired, barely a curve at the corner of his mouth. He hoped she didn’t notice. He hoped it passed as normal.

He wrapped an arm around her, the movement automatic, rehearsed from months of being together. His hand rested against her far shoulder, his palm warm over the fabric of her sweater. Shiori let out a soft, content little breath and relaxed into him completely, as if his half-hearted embrace was all she needed.

Jirou lowered his head until it rested against hers. From the outside, it looked perfect—domestic, sweet, like any comfortable couple curled up on a quiet afternoon. Her hair tickled gently at his jaw, her body fitting neatly against his like puzzle pieces that had once clicked into place without question.

But inside him, something still sat crooked.

As he held her, he became acutely aware of how forced the position felt—not because she was doing anything wrong, but because his body wasn’t responding the way it used to. His muscles didn’t melt at her touch. His chest didn’t loosen. There was no familiar rush of affection warming him from the inside out.

Just that same heavy tightness. That quiet sense of wrongness he kept telling himself was temporary.

He tightened his hold anyway, trying to make the gesture feel real. Trying to convince himself he was present, that he was here with Shiori and not floating somewhere else entirely.

Her cheek brushed against his collarbone.
His heart didn’t jump—it barely moved.

He glanced down at her, watching her fingers absentmindedly draw little patterns against his shirt. She was trying. Trying to comfort him, trying to close whatever distance she sensed between them. And he wanted to meet her halfway. He wanted to be that boyfriend she deserved, the one who smiled easily and loved openly.

But he could feel the drift inside him, subtle but undeniable.

And his mind—traitorous, stubborn—kept circling back to Akari. To the way her voice cracked when she asked him not to look at her. To the way she’d held onto him like she was drowning. To the hollow look in her eyes every time she said she was “fine.”

A quiet exhale slipped out of him. Not loud enough for Shiori to hear, but heavy enough that he felt it echo in his chest.

Shiori shifted again, looping her arms more securely around him, as if to anchor him in place.

And Jirou held her tighter, resting his chin gently atop her head.

Trying—desperately—to be in the moment with her.

Even as half of him was somewhere else entirely.

The café was loud in that comfortable, lived-in way—full of clinking cups, laughter from the neighboring table, and the occasional shout of someone calling out an order. The familiar smell of roasted beans drifted through the air, mixing with the sweet scent of pastries. Jirou sat wedged between Kamo and Mei, his hands wrapped around a warm cup he hadn’t actually taken a sip from in a while.

They were only here because Minami worked the afternoon shift and could slip them a discount. It was a running joke in the group: supporting their friend by shamelessly mooching off him. Usually, it amused Jirou. Today, it barely registered.

What did register was Akari.

She sat across the table with Sachi, laughing at something Sachi said—head thrown back just slightly, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks. She looked lighter, almost like a version of herself he hadn’t seen in months. And she didn’t stiffen when he glanced her way. Didn’t go quiet. Didn’t glare or snap or pretend he wasn’t there. If anything, she’d been… tolerating him. Maybe even offering the tiniest scraps of normal conversation earlier.

It should’ve made him relieved.
It did. Partly.

But it also twisted something deep in his chest.

Mei and Shiori were beside him, chattering excitedly about the anniversary—Mei and Natsumi were apparently planning something “small but meaningful,” which in Mei’s language meant over-the-top and dramatic. Shiori was bouncing off her excitement, suggesting decorations and music and outfits. Their hands waved animatedly; they kept leaning into each other, talking over one another with bright enthusiasm.

Jirou nodded occasionally, inserted a soft “yeah?” when he remembered to, but his ears weren’t really processing the words. He just watched the scene with muted detachment, like he was behind glass.

Across the table, Minami leaned one elbow on the counter window separating the employee side from the seating area, chatting loudly with Kamo about sports festival predictions. Kamo was arguing passionately about some rivalry in the relay event, and Minami was teasing him mercilessly, insisting he’d lose.

Jirou caught bits of it, but he didn’t try to keep up.

His gaze drifted back to Akari—again, without meaning to.

She looked better. Happier. She was smiling, genuinely, when Sachi poked her cheek. Her hair was pulled back loosely, her uniform a little messy like she’d rushed out of the house that morning, but she looked like herself.

Like the Akari he knew before everything fell apart.

And seeing that should’ve relaxed him. Should’ve let him breathe easier.

Instead, he felt something tight and complicated twisting in his stomach—something between relief and longing and frustration and guilt.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t want to understand it.

So he stared at his cup instead, dragging in a breath as Mei nudged him.

“Jirou? You listening?” she teased.

“Mm—yeah, sorry. Zoned out,” he mumbled, forcing a small smile.

Shiori leaned her shoulder into his gently. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” she said softly, clearly trying to make it sound playful instead of concerned.

“Just tired,” he lied, eyes dropping again.

But even then—even in the middle of his friends’ laughter and Minami’s teasing and Shiori’s soft warmth against him—his gaze slid back to Akari.

And this time, when she glanced up mid-conversation and accidentally met his eyes, she didn’t look away.

She just blinked once, expression neutral, before Sachi said something else and pulled her attention back.

It shouldn’t have hit him so hard.

But it did.

Mei scooted closer to Shiori, practically shoving her phone into her hands with the enthusiasm of someone unveiling a masterpiece.

“So I know she likes really big, showy stuff,” Mei said, eyes sparkling, “and I was thinking of surprising her with something. Oh—oh! And I actually found this necklace that I know she’ll love.” She tapped her screen a few times and angled it so Shiori could see.

Shiori leaned in, her shoulder brushing Jirou’s, her smile soft and bright. “Oh, it’s pretty,” she murmured, tracing the picture with her fingertip like she could already imagine it around Natsumi’s neck.

Mei let out a tiny, excited squeak. “Right?! And look—it comes in a matching pair—bracelet and earrings. She could wear the whole set for the festival!”

Jirou glanced at the screen for half a second. Silver. Heart-shaped. Glittery. Cute. Exactly the kind of thing Natsumi would squeal over.

He looked back at his drink, swirling the straw without taking a sip.

The group around him buzzed with warm energy—Mei hyped up, Shiori giggling, Minami laughing from behind the counter as Kamo loudly insisted he could outrun half their class. The café was filled with it; a bright, easy atmosphere.

But Jirou felt like he was sitting a step behind it all.

He heard someone laugh—light, airy, warm. Akari.

She sat a little down the table, half a croissant still in her hand, powdered sugar on her fingertips. Shiori—who’d moved closer to hear Mei properly—must’ve said something before she left the seat, because Akari was giggling at whatever lingering part of the conversation remained.

She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking a little as she tried to muffle the sound. For a moment, the laughter softened her whole face—made her look genuinely relaxed. Like nothing heavy was weighing on her. Like nothing had ever been wrong.

That sound—so normal, so Akari—hit Jirou harder than he expected.

He looked away quickly, staring down at the ice melting in his glass.

“Jirou?” Shiori nudged his arm lightly, her voice gentle but curious. “You okay?”

He nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Mei didn’t notice—thankfully—already scrolling through more jewelry options, waving her phone animatedly as she pointed out different ideas to Shiori.

Across the table, Akari was still smiling. Powdered sugar dusted the corner of her lip, and Sachi teased her for it, making her laugh again.

She didn’t look tense. She didn’t look guarded. She didn’t look like she wanted to be anywhere other than right here.

And Jirou couldn’t stop noticing that.

Couldn’t stop noticing that she looked happy… without him.

“Hey, Yakuin, what’s the name of that blonde girl from the game you like?” Akari asked suddenly, turning her gaze toward him.

“Huh?” Jirou blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Oh… um, Mrs. Cambletown,” he replied, voice slightly hesitant.

Akari gave him a small smile before turning back to Sachi, who was in the middle of explaining something. Jirou’s mind lingered on her glance for a moment—there was something in it, a lightness he couldn’t quite place. He decided it must be important to whatever conversation they were having, though he didn’t bother asking. Instead, he settled back into his seat, watching her quietly, noting the way her expression had shifted ever so slightly.

Jirou let his thoughts drift, the hum of the café fading into the background.

He imagined himself perched atop a speeding train, the wind whipping past him, the rails clattering beneath.

In this ridiculous fantasy, he wasn’t just any passenger—he was the daring train robber, a hero to some, a menace to others.

Akari was there, laughing as she balanced on the roof beside him, the thrill of danger lighting her eyes.

She held his arm tightly, leaning into him for balance, and he felt a warmth he couldn’t place, even though it was just in his head.

They jumped between carriages, dodging imaginary guards, the world a blur of motion and possibility.

She kissed him there, right there on the roof, just as the train rounded a sharp bend, and Jirou’s heart stuttered.

He imagined friends joining them, shouting over the wind, some cheering, some teasing, all of them part of this absurd adventure.

His mind shifted again, and suddenly they were floating in space.

The Earth hung far below, a swirl of blue and green, and he felt weightless, free.

Akari laughed at his clumsy attempts to maneuver with zero gravity, and he floated toward her, fumbling with the restraints of an imagined spacesuit.

Her hand found his, and he held it, amazed at how natural it felt even in the impossibility of the void.

The stars seemed brighter with her there, as if she drew light toward herself, illuminating everything around them.

He imagined they were explorers, discovering new planets and galaxies, charting the unknown.

He imagined telling her jokes about alien politics, and she laughed, that same sparkling sound that always made him turn slightly inward.

He imagined a planet where everything was edible, and they feasted together on fruit that shimmered in impossible colors.

The fantasy shifted again, and now he was a prince, dressed in a fine coat, boots polished to perfection.

Akari was at a ball, spinning toward him in a flowing gown that caught the candlelight in every imaginable way.

He imagined lifting her in a dance, dipping her low as she laughed, spinning in a world full of glitter and music.

He imagined the castle’s halls echoing with laughter, servants and nobles alike oblivious to the private bubble he and Akari inhabited.

In this fantasy, he had a crown and a title, but the weight on his shoulders felt light compared to the gravity of reality.

She kissed him in a quiet hallway between dances, a fleeting, perfect moment that he could feel even through the walls of his imagination.

The scene dissolved, replaced by a version of school he had never known, where he was popular, everyone knew his name.

He imagined standing with Akari at his side, friends surrounding them, laughter and teasing and easy camaraderie filling the hallways.

He imagined feeling seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long while, not lonely, not ignored, not overlooked.

In this world, she held his arm, leaned against him casually, a private joke between them making them both grin.

He imagined them walking through crowds of classmates, hand in hand, no awkward pauses, no misunderstandings, just the simplicity of being together.

He imagined her leaning in to whisper something silly, and he laughed, and she laughed back, and the universe felt whole.

He imagined weekends spent like this, no cancelled plans, no unread messages, no dull glances or forced politeness.

He imagined every little victory and every silly argument resolving with laughter, not tension, not distance.

He imagined a world where he could be honest about what he felt, and she could be honest in return, and nothing would fracture that moment.

The fantasies swirled in his mind, ridiculous and impossible, yet comforting, each one a tiny spark of warmth in a reality that felt heavier by comparison.

Even in his imagination, Akari’s presence anchored him, and he realized he missed her more than he wanted to admit.

He imagined what it would be like if he could step into one of these worlds, if just for a moment, to escape the dull ache that lingered whenever he thought of her with someone else.

And though each fantasy ended as he blinked and returned to the café, to the clatter of cups and chatter of friends, the image of her hand in his lingered, impossible and permanent.

He sipped his drink slowly, letting the warmth spread through his chest, letting himself imagine, letting himself feel that strange, unspoken pull that had never truly left him.

He blinked, forcing himself back to the café, but the edges of the fantasies clung like shadows.

He could still feel the phantom weight of Akari leaning into him, her laughter echoing in a place only he could hear.

Shiori reached for his hand again, gently curling her fingers around his, and he flinched internally, though he didn’t pull away.

The warmth pressed against him, familiar and soft, and yet it didn’t settle the way it should.

He tried to focus on her voice, the gentle teasing she offered, but his mind drifted back to Akari’s spark, the way it once lit up the air around her.

He imagined Akari in a sunlit courtyard, laughing at a joke he hadn’t made, the light catching in her hair, her eyes bright with life.

He pictured himself there, catching her gaze, feeling that same tight pull in his chest that he’d felt weeks ago, and it hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Shiori smiled at him again, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and he nodded absently, forcing himself to reply.

“Yes, that’s funny,” he murmured, though he hadn’t heard the joke, hadn’t even registered the words.

He imagined Akari leaning on his shoulder, her head tilting slightly as she whispered something teasing, something only he could understand.

He imagined holding her hand, feeling the warmth of her palm against his, the same warmth he could no longer properly feel from Shiori.

He imagined telling her things he couldn’t say out loud, secrets, fears, confessions, all of it spilling out like a flood.

He imagined her laughing, brushing off his worries with a flick of her hair, a tilt of her head, making him feel simultaneously safe and exposed.

Shiori nudged him lightly with her shoulder, a small laugh escaping her lips, and he startled slightly, realizing how far his mind had wandered.

He forced himself to smile, turning to her fully, and for a moment the warmth of her closeness almost felt real, almost enough.

But then he imagined Akari again, the way she used to push herself into his space without hesitation, how her spark drew people in but had always drawn him closest.

He pictured her in the library, bending over a book, hair falling into her eyes, and the way she had once looked at him, seeking approval, trust, connection.

He realized how much he missed that, and the guilt bloomed immediately, heavy in his chest.

Shiori’s hand pressed a little more firmly against his, and he wanted to tell her to stop, to tell her he wasn’t here, that his mind was elsewhere.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He imagined Akari’s laugh, light and teasing, echoing in the air, and he imagined catching it on a breeze, following it until it wrapped around him, tangible and impossible.

He imagined walking through crowded streets with her, hands brushing accidentally, smiles exchanged, friends surrounding them, and feeling like he was part of a world he’d been missing.

He imagined weekends of games, of tea, of shared silences that didn’t feel awkward, that didn’t make him flinch at every touch.

He imagined Akari leaning against him in a quiet room, her trust so complete it made his chest ache, and he imagined himself returning that trust without question.

Shiori laughed softly again, talking about some trivial thing, and he smiled, but it was hollow.

He imagined Akari playfully scolding him, ruffling his hair, teasing him about something he’d forgotten, and it made him feel… alive.

He imagined holding her close in a park as the sun set, the warmth of her body seeping into his, the weight of the world slipping away.

He imagined friends cheering them on, not knowing what he felt, but somehow it didn’t matter, because he had her, because he was part of her world.

He imagined a small room, cluttered with papers, video games stacked haphazardly, and Akari laughing at his ridiculous explanations for things she already knew.

He imagined her leaning on him after a long day, tired but content, and he felt a pang of longing so sharp he almost gasped.

He imagined a rainy afternoon where they were trapped in a tiny café, sharing pastries and secrets, the rain tapping at the windows like a heartbeat.

He imagined telling her he loved her, and for the first time, truly meaning it, without fear, without hesitation, without the weight of Shiori’s warmth pressing in beside him.

He imagined Akari looking at him, eyes wide and shining, and the world felt small, perfect, complete.

Shiori’s touch reminded him she was here, real, warm, and loved, and the guilt settled over him like a storm cloud, heavy and unavoidable.

He imagined letting go of her hand and running straight into Akari’s arms, but he didn’t, and the fantasy flickered and died.

He imagined a thousand small worlds where Akari’s spark was bright, endless, and entirely his, and he realized that no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He imagined himself laughing with her again, holding her hand in crowded rooms, and the ache in his chest deepened with the impossibility of it.

He imagined Shiori noticing the distance in him, her warmth pressing in, and felt a sharp pang of guilt, wishing he could reconcile what he felt with what he should feel.

He imagined Akari smiling at him, brushing hair behind her ear, and somehow it was enough to make him shiver in the middle of a crowded café.

And for the first time that week, Jirou realized he wasn’t just imagining for fun—he was imagining what he wanted.

He was imagining a world where he didn’t have to feel guilty, where Akari’s spark returned and he could be there for it without apology.

And even though he forced a smile at Shiori and sipped his drink, that world felt closer in his head than the one he actually sat in.

Jirou’s chest tightened at the sudden image that flashed unbidden in his mind: him and Akari under a massive snow-covered tree, bundled up against the cold. Her cheeks were dusted pink, nose tinged red, and she was smiling at him in that effortless, luminous way he couldn’t forget. Her arms were looped around his neck, and his hands rested on her waist, steadying her as she leaned up to kiss him. The moment felt impossibly serene, almost cinematic, and for an instant, Jirou felt completely at home, like there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be.

Shiori’s soft voice pulled him out of the reverie. “Jirou?”

He blinked and looked down at her, the warmth of reality pressing in. “Yeah?” he replied, his voice quiet.

“Can you get me some more tea?” she asked, the gentleness in her tone grounding him further.

He forced a small, automatic smile, leaning down to press a brief kiss to her forehead. “Sure,” he murmured, standing and sliding out of the seat. His mind, though, lingered stubbornly on that fleeting image, the warmth of Akari’s laugh and the softness of her touch mingling with the everyday comfort of Shiori’s presence. Each step toward the counter to pour tea felt both grounding and hollow, a reminder of the impossible balance he was trying—and failing—to maintain between two very different worlds.

Jirou’s gaze flicked toward Akari as he moved toward the counter. She was smiling softly, head tilted just a little, eyes squinting in that way that made her look completely at ease and happy—like nothing in the world could touch her. His chest tightened involuntarily at the sight, and he had to look away, forcing himself to focus on the menu board and the cashier in front of him.

“Uh… just a green tea, please,” he murmured quietly, keeping his voice low, careful not to let the slight tremor in it show. His hands fidgeted slightly as he fished for his wallet, and he could feel Akari’s presence lingering at the edge of his awareness even as he spoke to the person at the counter.

He stole another glance at her, trying to memorize the curve of her smile, the warmth in her expression, the way her fingers tapped lightly on the table. The ordinary act of ordering a drink felt heavy with thought, as if every movement, every glance in her direction, carried more meaning than it should. He realized, with a quiet pang, that he’d been holding himself back all day just to avoid revealing how much he cared—or maybe how much he noticed—about her, and the thought left him oddly breathless.

Finally, he turned back fully to the cashier, clearing his throat. “That’ll be all,” he said, trying to steady his voice, though his mind remained tangled in the sight of Akari laughing softly with her friends a few tables away. Each small detail—the tilt of her head, the crinkle at the corners of her eyes—etched itself into his memory, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to fade even as he carried the coffee back to Shiori.

 

Jirou accepted the cup from the barista with a quiet, “Thank you,” his hands wrapping around the warm ceramic for a moment. He turned back toward the table, balancing the drink carefully as he made his way over.

When he sat down, Shiori leaned slightly toward him, her hand brushing his arm as she murmured a soft, “Thank you.” The words were small, barely audible, and for a moment, they floated between them unnoticed. Jirou, lost in thought and the lingering images of Akari’s smile and laugh earlier, didn’t even register the gesture at first.

He set the cup down in front of him with a soft clink and ran a hand through his hair, still distracted, absently stirring the tea with a spoon. Shiori’s gaze lingered on him, the corners of her mouth turning up in a faint, patient smile. She didn’t press, didn’t make him feel guilty for his inattention; she simply let the moment stretch, quiet and gentle, while Jirou’s mind remained tangled elsewhere.

He took a sip, letting the warmth seep into his hands and chest, the tea doing little to calm the restless swirl of thoughts. His eyes flicked toward Akari again, her laughter ringing faintly in his memory, and he realized how easily he’d been carried away, missing the small, immediate kindness right in front of him.

Shiori reached out again, lightly brushing his fingers, this time catching his attention. His head snapped toward her, and he gave a small, sheepish smile, finally registering her words. “Oh… thanks,” he said quietly, and she just nodded, her own smile soft, unassuming, as if she understood completely why he’d been elsewhere in his mind.

For a few moments, they sat in quiet together, the tea between them steaming gently, and Jirou felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly—not completely, not yet—but enough that he could remember that someone else’s warmth was here, patiently waiting for him to notice.

Chapter 13: Chloris and Lancia

Jirou drifted into sleep with his mind still tangled and uneasy, kissing Shiori goodnight before slipping under the blankets. He half-expected another night of restless, shapeless dreams—but what he got instead shook him so deeply he woke up drenched in cold sweat.

In the dream, he wasn’t Jirou Yakuin anymore. He was the protagonist of his favorite game—the armor, the sword, the magic, all of it exactly the way he’d imagined it a thousand times before. Dragons roared overhead, monsters lunged from the shadows, and every battle felt real enough that he could taste adrenaline on his tongue. He survived every impossible clash, fought through every boss encounter, lived inside every cutscene like he belonged there.

Until he reached that cutscene—the one the entire narrative hinged on.

He stood in a moonlit forest clearing, the air buzzing with the urgency of the final choice. On one side of him was Chloris, the gentle brown-haired heroine. On the other was Lancia, the pink-haired mage whose loyalty was unmatched.

Chloris reached out first, her voice trembling with hope.
“Please… come with me. If we don’t stop the mage now, the kingdom will fall. I need you.”

Lancia grabbed his other arm, her eyes shining with desperation.
“No—you have to help me. The Red Dragon is coming. It’ll wipe out my people. Please, Jirou, we don’t have much time left.”

They both stared at him, pleading, terrified, waiting for him to choose.

Chloris tugged his sleeve.
“Please… don’t abandon me.”

Lancia’s voice cracked as she whispered,
“If you leave, everyone in my kingdom will die…”

Jirou’s chest tightened. He looked at them—at the fear in their eyes, at the weight of their expectations. And then he made a choice he’d always avoided in the game.

He turned to Lancia, heart aching.
“I’m sorry… I—I have to go with her. I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

Before he could say more, Chloris grabbed him, pulling him into the trees. Lancia remained frozen in place, watching him leave. Her hand lifted helplessly toward him, her face breaking as a single tear slid down her cheek.

The mission with Chloris succeeded. They saved the kingdom. Standing on the bridge, the sun glowing behind them, she kissed him—cinematic, perfect, beautiful.

But the second her lips left his, his stomach dropped.

He remembered Lancia.

He ran.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t breathe. He sprinted across plains and rivers and abandoned roads until the neighboring kingdom came into view—

—or what used to be the neighboring kingdom.

The city was gone. Completely gone. Reduced to rubble and twisted metal still glowing with lingering heat. The smell of ash clung to the air. There were no voices, no survivors, no signs of life.

“Lancia!” Jirou shouted, tearing through debris with trembling hands. “Lancia! Please!”

He flipped over bodies, chunks of stone, burned beams—his heart pounding harder with every second.

Then he saw it.

A streak of soft pink hair. A torn red dress. A small body half-buried beneath collapsed stone.

He dropped to his knees instantly.

“Lancia—Lancia, no—” he choked, pulling rubble away with frantic, shaking hands. “I’m here—I’m here now, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Her breathing was shallow, nearly gone. When he lifted her gently into his arms, the face he saw wasn’t Lancia’s anymore.

It was Akari’s.

A broken, exhausted version of her. Burned, bleeding, barely conscious. But unmistakably her.

She smiled weakly up at him, eyes dull with fading life.
“You said… you’d come back…”

“Lancia, no—No, stay awake—please, please stay awake—” Jirou begged, voice cracking as tears streaked down his face. “I didn’t mean—please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Her fingers twitched, as if trying to reach for his hand but lacking the strength.
“I guess… you really did love her that much…” she whispered.

Then her eyes slid closed.

Her body went limp.

And Jirou screamed—raw, broken, agonized—her name echoing through the ruined kingdom.

“AKARI!”

He shot upright in bed.

Gasping.

Shaking.

Sweat clinging to his skin like ice.

It took several disoriented seconds for him to realize he wasn’t in a destroyed kingdom, or holding anyone dying in his arms. He was in his room. Safe. Everything quiet. Everything okay.

Everyone alive.

But his heart refused to slow down as the last image of Akari’s fading smile burned itself into his mind.

He blinked hard, forcing the blurry edges of reality back into focus. The familiar desk. The posters on the wall. The blankets kicked halfway off the bed. The soft glow of the digital clock. All the little pieces of his actual life slowly came back into place, grounding him inch by inch.

But his heart still hammered, too fast, too loud, like it wanted to break out of his ribs.

He dragged his hands down his face, trying to erase the leftover images burned into his mind. The forest. The two heroines. The decision. The kiss. The ruin. The rubble. The moment he turned her over. The moment he realized—

He swallowed hard and pressed his palms against his eyes, the lingering panic coiling tighter in his gut. It was just a dream. Just a stupid dream shaped by stress and guilt and whatever mess had been brewing inside him for weeks.

But knowing that didn’t help. Not really.

He let out a shaky exhale and curled forward slightly, elbows on his knees, fingers gripping his hair. His lungs felt tight, like they were refusing to expand fully. Every time he blinked, flashes of it returned—her hand reaching out toward him, her voice barely a whisper, that look in her eyes. Not Lancia. Akari. His mind hadn’t even tried to hide the parallel.

He lifted his head, staring blankly at the darkness of the room.

Why had it been her? Why did his brain default to that?

He rubbed his forearms, trying to settle the chills still crawling across his skin. It didn’t help much. The cold wasn’t from the room—it was from the dream. From the feeling of helplessness, the way he’d watched her fade in his hands. Even though it hadn’t shown anything gruesome, the emotional weight of it crushed him.

He took another long breath, trying to slow his racing pulse. It didn’t entirely work.

His gaze slid toward the other side of the room, where Shiori slept in her own apartment across town. She wasn’t here. She hadn’t seen the way he jolted awake like someone had ripped something out of him. She didn’t know he’d gone to sleep with a quiet unease pressing against his ribs. She didn’t know he’d spent the last few days drifting mentally somewhere she couldn’t reach.

He lay back down, trying to convince himself the dream would fade if he closed his eyes again. But the instant he rested his head on the pillow, the scene replayed—the desperate cry, the way her hand slipped from his grip.

His body tensed all over again.

“Nope,” he whispered to himself under his breath, voice unsteady. There was no chance he could go back to sleep now. Not with that hanging over him.

He sat up again, shifting until his back hit the wall, pulling the covers over his legs even as the sweat cooled on his skin. He hugged one knee loosely to his chest and stared out the window, watching the faintest hints of early morning begin to push at the horizon.

His mind wouldn’t stop racing.

Why had he chosen in the dream the way he had?
Why had he left Lancia—Akari—behind?
Why did his chest still ache like he’d actually caused harm to someone he cared about?

He pressed a trembling hand over his sternum, trying to ease the pressure there.

He knew why.
Deep down, he knew exactly why.

Because he was scared.
Because he didn’t understand his own feelings.
Because he kept telling himself things were fine, even when they weren’t.

The dream had ripped the denial straight out of him and held it up like a mirror.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to steady his breathing.

It was only then that he realized—
He hadn’t thought about Shiori once during the dream.

Not once.

Even though she was the one he’d kissed goodnight before lying down.

His pulse spiked again at the thought.

He pressed his forehead to his knee, the weight of everything twisting inside him. The guilt. The confusion. The fear of what it all meant.

He didn’t cry. He rarely did. But his throat burned with the kind of emotion that didn’t need tears to hurt.

Minutes passed—maybe more. Time felt strange, stretched thin by the remnants of the nightmare. Eventually, he lifted his head again, staring at nothing.

He wasn’t going to sleep again tonight.

He couldn’t.

All he could do was sit there, heart still aching with the echo of that final cry—
Akari

And hope morning would come quickly enough to hide the wreckage left behind.

He hadn’t been able to fall back asleep at all after that night. Eventually, he pushed himself off the bed and stepped out onto the balcony, the cool air hitting his face as he paced back and forth. His hands ran through his hair repeatedly, as if trying to push the images from his mind. But they wouldn’t leave.

Finally, he sank onto the cold concrete floor of the balcony, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. He couldn’t escape the memory of her—the way her eyes had seemed empty, lifeless, the faint, hollow smile that had once been full of energy and joy. Every time he blinked, her face returned to him, vivid and unbearably real.

His chest tightened, his lungs struggling as the weight of it pressed down on him. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe properly, as though the memory of her, frozen in that fictional moment, was squeezing the air from his body. One tear slipped free and fell onto the concrete below, the cold, hard surface mirroring the coldness he felt inside.

Minutes—or maybe hours—passed. He stayed there, head in his hands, letting the tears flow, letting the grief and helplessness consume him. Every time he tried to tell himself he wasn’t in love, that it was just a dream, that he was being ridiculous, the tears only came faster.

He felt broken in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before, the boundaries between reality and imagination blurring, leaving him stranded with nothing but the image of her suffering. He couldn’t stop picturing her, couldn’t stop feeling the weight of her absence in that imaginary world.

His mind screamed at him to stop, but his heart refused. He couldn’t force himself to let go. He couldn’t stop loving her, even in the quiet panic of a dream that shouldn’t have meant anything.

And so he remained there, alone on the balcony, crying, trapped between the world of dreams and the world he actually lived in, the image of her haunting every heartbeat, every breath.

The soft knock on his bedroom door barely registered at first, but the faint sound of Shiori’s voice pulled Jirou out of the fog he’d been drowning in. His head snapped up, eyes still damp from the tears he hadn’t fully wiped away. The echo of her gentle voice, calling his name, was almost jarring against the chaos of his thoughts, and for a moment he froze, unsure if he could face the world outside his bedroom.

He pushed himself off the bed, movements slow and heavy, like each step carried more weight than it should. As he reached the door, his hand shook slightly, and he hastily brushed at his cheeks to erase the evidence of the tears, hoping she wouldn’t notice how raw and undone he still felt.

“Yeah… what’s… what’s up?” he managed, voice tight and hesitant, cracking ever so slightly at the edges. He forced a small, unnatural smile that didn’t reach his eyes, though he didn’t even realize it.

Shiori’s voice came again, soft and careful, as though she already sensed something was wrong. “I’m gonna make breakfast. Is… is everything okay?” There was a pause, a tiny hesitation in her words, like she was weighing whether or not to push further.

“Yeah,” Jirou replied quickly, almost too quickly, reaching for the door and pulling it open just enough to peek down at her. His gaze fell on her for a long moment, taking in her features. She leaned up slightly, brushing a soft kiss against his cheek, a tender gesture that should have been comforting. Instead, his chest tightened. The faint curve of her lips, the tilt of her head, the softness of her eyes—it all mirrored the girl from his dream, Chloris, and the reminder made his stomach churn with guilt and confusion.

He wanted to recoil, to step back, to deny the surge of feelings that the memory of the dream brought flooding back. He didn’t even want to touch her right now, didn’t want to face the warmth she offered so freely. But she moved gently past him, heading to the kitchen, humming lightly as though the air around her could dispel any heaviness.

Jirou stood frozen for a moment, just watching her, the sound of her movements in the kitchen mingling with the quiet morning light filtering through the window. He felt a pang of shame settle deep in his chest—the very thought that his mind had betrayed her in such a way, that he had compared her to someone else, even subconsciously.

He ran a hand through his hair again, sighing softly. He knew he should move, should follow her, should maybe help or at least respond with some kind of affection. But the guilt, the lingering image of Akari—or was it Chloris in his mind—kept him rooted to the spot. Every instinct screamed at him to act normally, to not let Shiori sense that something was wrong, yet every fiber of him felt tangled and conflicted.

The smell of breakfast wafted from the kitchen, warm and inviting, but it did nothing to soothe him. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his body tense, every breath measured. The simple, ordinary act of breakfast making, something that usually would have felt mundane and comforting, now carried a strange weight.

Shiori glanced back briefly, catching him in the doorway, and gave a small, knowing smile, as though she understood without words. But Jirou couldn’t meet her gaze, couldn’t return it with anything resembling normalcy. He forced a nod, a silent acknowledgment, and then let her move back into her routine.

For a while, he just stood there, listening to the clinking of utensils, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the gentle scrape of a pan against the counter. Every mundane sound seemed amplified in the quiet apartment, a contrast to the storm of his own thoughts.

Finally, he sank to the edge of the bed again, head in his hands, closing his eyes. The warmth of the morning sun touched his skin through the window, but it did little to calm the tight knot in his chest. He thought again of Akari, of the way she had seemed so alive, so untouchable in her own world, and the memory of that dream crept back into his mind, making his throat ache.

Shiori moved softly in the kitchen, unaware of the intensity of the inner turmoil she had just witnessed, and Jirou found himself torn between gratitude for her patience and guilt for feeling anything but ease. The room was filled with ordinary sounds, yet every one of them felt like a reminder of the distance between what was real and what his mind had conjured.

He exhaled slowly, trying to gather himself, willing himself to act normal, to not let the shadows of the night’s dreams haunt him through the day. And though he forced his body to stand and stretch, to shake off the remnants of tears and fear, a part of him remained suspended in that quiet tension, aware that he couldn’t just ignore the thoughts that clung so stubbornly to him.

Shiori’s presence should have anchored him, yet it felt like she was just out of reach, a reminder of what he wanted to feel but couldn’t. And for the first time that morning, Jirou realized how fragile the line was between normalcy and the storm raging inside him.

The apartment felt both comforting and confining. Every movement of Shiori, every soft sound she made, reminded him of the ordinary life he had, the life he could touch, the life that should have been enough. And yet, his mind continued to wander, tracing lines to places it shouldn’t, to a girl whose absence was felt too deeply, a memory of a dream that refused to leave him.

Minutes ticked by, the morning growing brighter outside, and Jirou remained seated, wrestling with himself. The urge to speak, to confess, to ask something—anything—was buried beneath layers of guilt, regret, and fear. The ordinary breakfast ritual continued, a backdrop to the extraordinary chaos of his emotions.

He thought about standing up, about moving toward her, about reclaiming some part of the day for himself, but the weight of his feelings anchored him in place. Every instinct to reach out, to participate, to show affection was tangled with memories he hadn’t even wanted to admit existed.

Shiori hummed again, a soft, comforting sound, and Jirou realized he was holding his breath. Slowly, he exhaled, a trembling sigh escaping him. He wanted to let go of the tension, to let himself feel calm and present, but the ghosts of his dreams lingered, keeping his heart tight and his hands trembling slightly.

Finally, he rose, a hesitant, careful motion, forcing himself to take small steps toward the kitchen. He offered a weak smile, barely meeting her eyes, and helped by setting a cup on the table. Shiori looked up, offering her own smile, gentle and patient.

No words were exchanged about what had passed in his mind. There didn’t need to be. The morning moved forward with ordinary gestures, quiet movements, and the subtle understanding that lingered between them.

Jirou kept his thoughts contained, forcing himself to focus on the sounds of breakfast, the small warmth of the tea in his hands, and the safe, grounded presence of Shiori beside him. Still, somewhere deep in his chest, the echoes of the dream and the image of Akari pulsed quietly, a reminder of the storm he couldn’t yet tame.

Shiori, patient and unaware, hummed softly, moving around the kitchen. Jirou followed, hands slightly shaking as he poured a bit more tea for her, their movements synchronized without needing words. The tension in his chest eased slightly, though not completely, and he allowed himself to take a few measured breaths.

For the first time since the night of the dream, he acknowledged quietly to himself that he could survive this morning. He could participate. He could exist in the present, even while the past and imagination lingered in his mind.

And though the memory of Akari and the dream of Chloris still whispered at the edges of his thoughts, Jirou found a fragile, tentative anchor in Shiori’s quiet presence, a lifeline in the ordinary, simple act of breakfast.

It was late Sunday morning when Jirou finally caught sight of Akari. He had been running an errand for Shiori, picking up dish soap from the convenience store she liked. He knew Akari would probably be at home doing her nails, as usual, but there she was, casually walking down one of the aisles. The moment she saw him, a smile spread across her face, bright and familiar, and Jirou’s chest tightened.

“Hey, Yakuin! I didn’t—” Her words faltered as she noticed his expression.

Before she could finish, Jirou dropped the bottle of dish soap in his hands and stepped forward, wrapping her tightly in an embrace. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, sniffling as he tried to hold back tears that threatened to spill.

“Wha—Jirou?” she asked, startled, her hands hesitating at his shoulders. The sound of her voice, calling his name like that after so long, sent a sharp pang through him. His heart felt tight, almost like it could burst.

“I… you’re alive,” he whispered, voice shaking, not able to hide the relief flooding him.

“Of course I am,” Akari said, laughing softly, though her eyes searched his face for clues. “What’s wrong with you?”

Jirou shook his head quickly, trying to regain some composure, his hands loosening slightly around her. “Nothing,” he murmured, pulling back to look at her. His gaze lingered on her face, on the way her eyes shone with warmth and curiosity. “Just… glad you’re still alive.”

“You’re being weird,” Akari said, her tone light but tinged with concern. “What are you here for?”

Jirou scratched the back of his neck, glancing down at the bottle of dish soap he had picked up. “I just… wanted to get some dish soap,” he said, voice low and slightly awkward. “I—uh, sorry about that. It’s just… been a while,” he mumbled, unsure how much to explain.

“It’s fine. You’re just weird,” Akari replied, shaking her head with a small smile. She reached over to the shelf and picked up a bottle of dish soap herself, handing it to him. “This one’s good. Just don’t forget what Shiori asked you for.”

Jirou took the bottle with trembling hands, his eyes still fixed on her. He felt a strange mixture of wonder and disbelief, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time in years. “…Yeah,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Th-thanks.”

She gave him a teasing grin, though there was an undertone of warmth that only made him grip the bottle tighter. He nodded, still staring, trying to process the flood of relief, confusion, and longing he felt. The mundane errand had suddenly become one of the most grounding, yet overwhelming, moments of his day.

Akari tilted her head slightly, studying him for a moment. “You really don’t know how to act normal, do you?” she teased, her voice gentle, trying to coax some levity into the tension.

Jirou chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I guess not,” he admitted. “I just… it’s been a long time, that’s all.”

She gave a soft laugh and shook her head, letting him catch his breath. “Well, I’m alive, as you said. You can relax now,” she said, her smile lingering, almost coaxing him into the present.

He nodded slowly, still holding the bottle, letting the warmth of the moment sink in. For the first time in weeks, he felt the weight in his chest ease slightly, the panic and dread from before dissipating as he realized she was truly there, standing in front of him, whole and smiling.

Akari glanced at the checkout line, then back at him. “You don’t have to follow me around the store, you know,” she teased lightly, though her eyes held a spark of affection that reminded him of who she was—someone bright, teasing, and real.

Jirou forced himself to smile, a genuine one this time, though it was still tinged with vulnerability. “I’m not following. I just… needed to see you,” he said quietly.

“Well, you saw me,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Mission accomplished, I guess.”

He nodded, still gripping the bottle as if it were a lifeline. “Yeah… mission accomplished,” he echoed, feeling a strange mixture of relief, gratitude, and lingering worry all at once.

For a moment, they just stood there, the noise of the convenience store fading into the background, the world around them shrinking until it was just the two of them, caught in the pause between reality and the flurry of everything that had come before.

Akari let out a soft sigh, shaking her head again. “You really need to calm down, Jirou. You’re scaring me a little,” she said, half-laughing, half-serious, but not moving away.

“I know,” he whispered, finally letting some of the tension leave his shoulders. “I… I just… it’s a lot sometimes.”

She reached up and lightly nudged his shoulder with hers. “Hey, it’s okay,” she said, her voice gentle. “You can be weird around me.”

He swallowed hard, nodding once, grateful for her presence, for her patience, for the simple fact that she was alive and standing there, smiling at him like she always used to.

“…Yeah,” he said again, voice soft, almost reverent. “Thanks, Akari.”

Her smile widened slightly, just enough to reassure him without words. “Anytime, Jirou. Anytime.”

He took a deep breath, finally allowing himself to let some of the fear and relief settle. The world didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. Not while she was here. Not while she was smiling at him.

He followed her down the aisle as she went to grab a few other items, the mundane task suddenly feeling alive with color and warmth. For the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of normalcy returning, however fragile it was.

“Just… try not to drop anything else, okay?” Akari teased, glancing over her shoulder with a grin that made his heart thump awkwardly in his chest.

“I’ll try,” Jirou said, letting a small, genuine smile slip through, holding the dish soap just a little less tightly this time.

The two of them moved through the store together, the quiet comfort of shared space, laughter, and the ease of old familiarity filling the air. It wasn’t a solution to everything, but it was enough—for now.

"Hows it going with shiori?" Akari asked

Jirou blinked "Good, I guess"

"Good?" akari looked up at him "thats...good I guess" she looked at her cart silently

Jirou hesitated, unsure how much he should say, and forced a small shrug. “Yeah… I mean, things are fine. Nothing’s… weird.”

Akari glanced up again, her eyes narrowing slightly, curious but cautious. “Nothing’s weird?” she repeated softly, almost like she was testing him.

Jirou looked down at the ground, kicking at the edge of a crack in the pavement. “No… just… normal stuff, you know,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

Akari nodded slowly, still staring at her cart. “Hm… I guess that’s good. I mean… if you’re happy,” she said, her tone quiet, almost hesitant, as if she didn’t quite know how to phrase what she was feeling.

Jirou’s chest tightened at the faint implication behind her words. He wanted to say more, to explain that “good” didn’t mean everything was perfect, but the words got caught somewhere between his mind and his throat.

“You don’t sound very convinced,” Akari added, looking up at him briefly, her expression softening.

He let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I guess… I’m just… thinking about other stuff,” he admitted, his voice low. “Stuff that doesn’t really… fit into ‘good.’”

Akari’s brows furrowed slightly, but she didn’t press him further. Instead, she gave a small sigh and turned her attention back to her cart, pushing it slowly down the aisle.

Jirou followed her silently for a few steps, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him. He wanted to ask her about her own life, about how she’d been, but every time he tried, the words dissolved before they left his lips.

“Jirou…” Akari’s voice broke the quiet, gentle and tentative. “Are you… okay?”

He glanced at her, noticing the subtle concern in her eyes, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” he said quickly, but his tone lacked conviction.

Akari tilted her head slightly, still quiet, studying him. “You don’t seem fine,” she said softly, as if speaking the truth of it aloud would help him admit it.

Jirou’s throat tightened. He wanted to tell her about the dreams, about the images that haunted him, about the panic that didn’t stop when he was with Shiori. But he couldn’t. Not here, not now. “It’s… nothing,” he said finally, almost to convince himself more than her.

Akari didn’t press him further, but the silence that followed was heavy, thoughtful. She turned the cart slowly, making her way toward the register, and Jirou followed at a distance, his mind spinning.

He watched her laugh quietly at something someone said to her in passing, and a pang of longing hit him. She looked… alive, like herself again, but there was still something just out of reach, a part of her that he couldn’t touch, that he couldn’t fix.

“Good,” Akari said again, almost to herself as she set a pack of snacks into the cart. “Everything’s… good,” she murmured, but her voice lacked the certainty it once carried.

Jirou swallowed hard, trying to focus on the moment, trying to ground himself. “Yeah… good,” he echoed quietly, though inside he knew that nothing had ever felt less certain.

As they moved through the aisles, Akari occasionally glanced at him, her expression flickering with something he couldn’t quite place—maybe curiosity, maybe concern, maybe just the echo of old friendship.

Jirou’s hands curled slightly at his sides, his knuckles brushing against the cold plastic of the cart handle as he tried to keep his composure. He wanted to reach out, to say something, anything, to bridge the gap that had formed between them over the past weeks.

But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed a step behind her, following her quietly, letting her lead, letting himself observe, letting himself feel the ache of missing what once was.

“You know,” Akari said suddenly, her voice soft but carrying a hint of playfulness, “you look… kind of distracted.”

Jirou blinked at her, caught off guard. “Huh? No… I’m fine,” he said, though the lie felt heavy on his tongue.

Akari tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in mock suspicion. “Uh-huh… sure,” she murmured, letting a faint smile tug at the corner of her lips. “You’re definitely thinking about something.”

He looked down, ashamed that she could see right through him. “It’s… nothing important,” he muttered, hoping she’d drop it.

Akari hummed thoughtfully, pushing the cart a few steps forward. “You always say that,” she said quietly, but she didn’t press further.

Jirou let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh, feeling the weight of her quiet observation. It was comforting and painful all at once—comforting because she still noticed him, painful because he couldn’t tell her the truth.

They moved toward the checkout, the routine of shopping grounding him slightly, though his thoughts kept wandering. He kept catching himself glancing at her, memorizing the way she laughed, the way her hair caught the light, the gentle curve of her smile.

When they reached the register, Akari looked back at him again. “You know,” she said softly, “it’s really nice seeing you again, even if you’re acting weird.”

Jirou’s chest tightened at the words, and he gave a small nod, forcing a weak smile. “Yeah… it’s nice,” he whispered, almost to himself.

She gave him a small, knowing smile, then turned back to pay for the items. Jirou stayed a step behind, holding the soap awkwardly in one hand, feeling like every second stretched out, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

As they left the store, Akari walking ahead with her cart, he trailed silently behind, feeling the bittersweet mix of relief, longing, and the quiet ache of unspoken feelings that refused to let him go.

Jirou realized that even simple moments like these—just walking and talking—were now layered with complexity, his mind tangled with worry, memory, and the fragile thread of hope that Akari was truly okay.

And yet, despite the weight pressing down on him, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of comfort simply being near her, the sound of her voice, the movement of her hands, the subtle expressions that still made him care too much.

He knew he shouldn’t get lost in these thoughts, but he did anyway, letting them linger quietly in the spaces between their words, in the pauses of conversation, in the silence of shared moments.

And as they stepped out into the bright sunlight, Jirou inhaled sharply, feeling the world press in around him, both heavy and alive, knowing that even this small encounter—this simple walk through the aisles—had left an imprint on him he couldn’t erase.

He glanced at her one last time, just as she looked forward again, and whispered softly, almost to himself, “I’m glad… you’re still here.”

Akari didn’t hear him, or maybe she didn’t acknowledge it, but the words hung in the air like a fragile promise, something only he could hold onto as they continued walking side by side, the ordinary world carrying on around them.

Shiori sat cross-legged on the couch, carefully stitching pieces of fabric together. When she looked up and saw Jirou entering the room, her lips curved into a gentle smile.

“Hey, Jirou,” she greeted warmly.

“Hey,” he replied, setting the bottle of dish soap down on the counter. His eyes flicked to the colorful mess spread across the couch. “What are you working on?”

“I decided to join the cheerleading squad for the sports festival,” Shiori said, motioning toward the fabric and sequins scattered around her. “We have to make our own costumes, so this is just the start.”

Jirou nodded slowly, leaning against the counter. “Oh… yeah, I forgot that was coming up.”

“Are you planning on participating in any of the events?” Shiori asked, tilting her head slightly as she continued sewing.

“Probably not,” he said with a small shrug. “Maybe I’ll just take photos or something.”

Shiori hummed in agreement and leaned into him, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. “Well, either way, we’ll have fun,” she said softly.

“Yeah…” Jirou murmured, staring down at the mess of fabrics and thread. Her closeness should have made him feel content, but instead his mind wandered, briefly and unexpectedly, to someone else.

He quickly pushed the thoughts away, shaking his head. That was ridiculous. He had worked so hard to build his life here, to be with Shiori, and he wasn’t about to let fleeting memories of the past shake that. He loved Shiori—he really did—and he was going to stay with her. He wouldn’t let doubts from dreams or memories make him question that.

He reached down, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. She looked up at him, her eyes bright with warmth and trust, and he forced a reassuring smile. “Let’s finish this together,” he said.

Shiori nodded, her excitement renewed, and the two of them began sorting the fabrics, cutting patterns, and laughing softly at small mistakes. For a moment, Jirou allowed himself to sink fully into the present, into the quiet, comforting rhythm of their shared work, pushing away the nagging ache of what-ifs and focusing on the here and now.

As the afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the colorful pieces of cloth and the faint dust in the air, Jirou felt a small, steady peace settle over him. No distractions, no lingering shadows of the past—just this moment with Shiori, sewing, talking, and existing side by side.

He glanced down at her again, and for the first time in a while, he let himself simply feel grateful. This was where he was supposed to be. This was where he belonged.

Jirou sank onto the edge of the couch next to her, careful not to disturb the neat chaos of fabric and thread scattered around her. Shiori hummed softly, a needle slipping in and out of the cloth with precise movements, and he couldn’t help but watch her for a moment, the way her brow furrowed ever so slightly when she concentrated, the soft tilt of her head that made her look entirely absorbed in her task.

“Need any help?” he asked quietly, though the thought of holding the needle or handling the fabric made him hesitate. He wasn’t much of a craft person, and the idea of messing up whatever she was making seemed unthinkable.

Shiori glanced up, her smile warm and reassuring. “You can help by handing me these threads,” she said, holding out a small pile of colored threads. Jirou nodded, taking them carefully, making sure not to tangle them, and passed them over. She took them with a soft “thanks,” and he felt the small brush of her fingers against his hand. He tensed slightly but tried to ignore the sudden flutter in his chest.

“Do you want to see how it looks so far?” she asked, holding up a partially completed piece of the costume. Jirou leaned in slightly, nodding, and saw the bright colors, the careful stitching, and the small personal touches Shiori had added. He offered her a smile. “It looks… amazing. Really.”

Shiori’s cheeks flushed faintly, and she brushed her hair behind her ear. “Thanks… I wanted it to be special for everyone. You know, make it fun.” She paused, her eyes softening as they lingered on him. “I’m glad you’re here, Jirou.”

He swallowed, nodding. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He reached out instinctively, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder, a quiet gesture of presence. She leaned a little against him, and he felt the warmth of her closeness settle over him.

For a few minutes, they were quiet, the only sounds the gentle snip of scissors and the hum of the apartment. Jirou’s mind wandered for just a moment, flashing images of Akari, the dream, the convenience store encounter, and the way her smile had made his chest tighten. He forced himself to push it aside, focusing on Shiori, on the life he had now, the path he’d chosen.

“You’re thinking about something,” Shiori said softly, not prying but noticing, as she always did.

“Just… school, sports festival stuff,” he muttered quickly, not meeting her eyes.

Shiori tilted her head, letting him off the hook, and returned to her sewing. Jirou watched her work, the quiet moments between them stretching, comforting yet strange, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them. The weight of past thoughts lingered, but he tucked it away, reminding himself that he had worked hard to be here. That he loved Shiori.

“Do you think this thread matches the others?” she asked, holding it up to the fabric.

“Yeah,” Jirou said, leaning a bit closer to get a better look. “It’s perfect.”

She smiled softly at him, eyes bright. “Thanks… you always know what to say.”

He felt a small warmth at her words, a quiet reassurance. He wrapped an arm lightly around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer, letting her rest against him. She nuzzled slightly, murmuring a soft contented sigh.

“Do you want me to help with the other parts?” he asked after a while, indicating the scattered fabrics and materials.

Shiori shook her head gently. “No, it’s okay. I like doing this part by myself, but it’s nice having you here.”

Jirou nodded, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing against his side. He reminded himself, firmly, that this was his life now, this girl here, beside him. No dreams, no fantasies, just this. He had built this, worked hard to get here, and he wasn’t about to let a fleeting thought or a dream shake that.

“Do you want me to make some tea?” he asked, knowing she hadn’t had a break in a while.

“That would be nice,” she said, her voice soft, trusting. Jirou stood, moving to the kitchen with a sense of calm, feeling a small but growing reassurance in the normalcy of the day, in the small routines, in the quiet companionship they shared.

As he poured the hot water over the tea leaves, he let his thoughts settle. He was here. He was with Shiori. And that was enough for now. The past, the dreams, the what-ifs—he would set them aside.

When he returned with the steaming cup, Shiori looked up, smiling softly. He placed it carefully beside her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Here,” he said quietly.

“Thanks,” she murmured, leaning back slightly against him as she sipped the tea. The warmth spread through her, and he felt a flicker of contentment in his chest.

He wrapped an arm lightly around her shoulders again, settling beside her as she returned to her sewing. Jirou didn’t look at the clock, didn’t check his phone. He just let the moment stretch, letting her presence ground him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Shiori hummed softly, focused on her work, and he felt the quiet contentment of the room, the slow rhythm of everyday life that made the world feel steady and safe.

For a long time, they stayed like that, Shiori working, Jirou beside her, the ordinary, mundane peace of it all forming a small, steady anchor in his chest.

Eventually, Jirou spoke, his voice low but confident. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Shiori looked up, smiling gently, and replied, “I’m glad you’re here too.”

He leaned back slightly, letting himself relax, feeling that for all the chaos, the confusion, the dreams and doubts that had plagued him, he was exactly where he needed to be. Right here, with Shiori, in the quiet warmth of a Sunday afternoon, where nothing else mattered.

And in that quiet certainty, Jirou let himself breathe, let himself stay. He would face the future, he would face the sports festival, the dramas, the small annoyances, and joys, all with her by his side.

Because no matter the ghosts of dreams or what-ifs, this—right here—was real. This was his life. This was where he belonged.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple as she concentrated, and for the first time in days, he felt a quiet peace settle over him.

And in that peace, he knew he would be able to push aside the lingering shadows, to face each new day, to stay grounded in what mattered most: her.

Even as Jirou tried to focus on Shiori, even as he wrapped himself in the comfort of her warmth and the quiet rhythm of their Sunday afternoon, Akari kept slipping into his mind. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t insistent at first—it was the quiet shadow in the corners of his thoughts, the way a melody keeps replaying in the back of your head even when you’re trying to concentrate on something else.

He found himself imagining her in the same role Shiori had taken on—the cheerleader costume, the little routine, maybe the same determination in her eyes as she stitched or practiced or laughed with her friends. He pictured her on the field, bright and lively, her laughter ringing out across the school grounds, the wind tangling strands of pink hair around her face, her smile catching the light just right. He could almost see her leaning into someone, her eyes sparkling with mischief, or with affection, or just sheer joy, and his chest tightened slightly at the thought.

Jirou wondered what it would be like to date her—not in a fleeting, passing thought like before, but really imagine it, to picture her at his side every day. Her arm brushing against his in crowded hallways, the way she would laugh at his dumb jokes, the little teasing arguments over nothing, the moments where she would glare at him in mock annoyance only to soften seconds later. He pictured quiet nights like this one, but with her: reading together in comfortable silence, sharing snacks, her hand finding his when she needed reassurance, her warmth pressed against him as she fell asleep.

He felt guilty even imagining it. Shiori was here, real, present, trusting him, and he had spent years building this life, carving this connection, and yet the pink-haired girl—Akari—kept threading herself into his mind. He tried to shove it down, to tell himself he wasn’t in love with her, to convince himself that these were just intrusive thoughts that didn’t matter. But the images came anyway, vivid, impossible to ignore.

He thought about her smile again—the way it could light up a room, the subtle quirks in her expressions, the way she had once called him by name in that small, intimate way that made his heart twist. He remembered the times she had leaned on him, laughed at his terrible jokes, argued passionately over something small yet significant. The memories made him ache in a way he couldn’t fully explain.

Jirou’s mind wandered further, imagining their first proper date, the kind of moment where she would let her guard down completely, where he could see every little corner of her personality without the hesitation, the walls. He pictured walking side by side with her, holding hands naturally, laughing at inside jokes only they understood, the kind of closeness he had longed for but had never let himself fully admit he wanted.

Even imagining something as simple as walking through the streets on a weekend, sharing snacks from a street vendor, arguing playfully over what to eat next, brought a pang of longing he couldn’t quite suppress. He wondered how it would feel to have her lean against him, the weight of her trust, the softness of her hair brushing his cheek, the easy comfort of her presence.

He caught himself thinking about small, mundane moments too—the kind of quiet, domestic routines that didn’t seem significant at first but were the kind of moments that, strung together, made a life. Akari laughing while cooking something terrible but insisting it was good, her teasing as he accidentally spilled a drink, her smile when he finally did something right. The weight of imagining it all made his chest tighten and his heart ache, but he couldn’t stop.

Jirou wondered if she would ever look at him the way he imagined in these moments—softly, honestly, with a mixture of affection and amusement, the kind of gaze that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. The thought made him restless, wishing he could rewind time or fast-forward to some day where it was just him and her, free from hesitation, fear, and the complicated web of other people around them.

He imagined her cheering on a team, or maybe performing a routine for the festival, bright and energetic, and how it would feel to be there with her, supporting her, being a part of her world instead of just standing on the sidelines. He pictured her glancing at him mid-performance, sharing a fleeting, private smile that only they understood, and it sent a strange warmth through him that made him feel both exhilarated and painfully aware of what he didn’t have.

His mind wandered even further, imagining the simplest of things: a quiet afternoon where she would curl up beside him on a couch, maybe not talking, just letting the world go by together, the kind of moment that seemed impossible but made him ache for it nonetheless. He wondered what it would feel like to brush a strand of hair from her face, to see her eyes light up in that particular way when he did something unexpectedly sweet, to hear her laugh without inhibition.

He thought of her in moments of vulnerability too, remembering how he had once seen her on her bad days, and how the sight of her needing support had awakened something fierce inside him, a desire to protect, to care, to be there no matter what. The memory made him simultaneously proud and frustrated at himself for feeling such a pull, for caring so much when he knew he couldn’t act on it.

The more he imagined, the more vivid it became: dates in small cafés, long walks under autumn leaves, sharing an umbrella in the rain, laughing as they ran to avoid puddles, her holding his hand as they navigated through the crowds. He pictured the quiet, tender moments too, when the world was still, and it was just the two of them, and every worry, every fear, every tension in his chest could be forgotten for just a little while.

He pictured her confiding in him, telling him about small worries, hopes, dreams he could help with, and how her trust in him would deepen with each shared secret. He imagined himself holding her when she cried, whispering nonsense to make her smile again, brushing the strands of hair from her face as she trembled slightly in his arms.

Jirou’s thoughts wandered to long, lazy afternoons, reading together on a sunlit balcony, sharing food, playfully arguing over trivial things, each small interaction building intimacy he could feel in the pit of his stomach. He imagined her elbowing him lightly, laughing at something he said, her hair falling over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling in a way that made his chest ache.

He imagined being there for the big moments too—the achievements, the successes, the milestones—and how it would feel to cheer for her, to see pride in her eyes when she accomplished something she had worked hard for, and to know that he had been there, quietly supporting her, always at her side.

The thought of simply sitting next to her during these moments, feeling her presence, hearing her heartbeat close to his own, imagining the way she would lean against him in comfort and trust, filled him with a longing he could barely contain.

Even imagining her teasing him, playfully challenging him, laughing at his mistakes, or celebrating small victories, made his chest tighten with a warmth he couldn’t ignore, a feeling of completeness he had longed for but couldn’t claim.

He pictured her in everyday life too: making coffee in the morning, humming softly, brushing past him with her hair brushing his arm, laughing at something trivial on TV, and the way she would look at him with quiet affection that made him feel both adored and unsettled at the same time.

The more he imagined, the more he realized how much he truly missed her presence, the spark she brought into the simplest of moments, and how he longed to have her near, not just in memory or imagination, but truly at his side.

He thought about sharing meals with her, walking together after school, arguing about silly things, or simply sitting in silence, feeling the comfort of shared space and quiet understanding, moments that seemed mundane but that he now craved with intensity.

His imagination continued to paint scenes: holding her hand as they strolled through autumn streets, watching her laugh as the wind tugged at her hair, sharing headphones to listen to music, exchanging secret smiles in crowded spaces, and being completely immersed in the world they could build together.

Even imagining small touches—the brush of a hand, a shoulder pressed against his, a warm hug after a long day—sent his heart racing and made him ache in a way that was both painful and sweet.

He wondered how it would feel to protect her, to support her dreams, to laugh with her, to comfort her, to share in her smallest joys and greatest sorrows, all while simply being present, being the person she could rely on without question.

He imagined quiet nights, reading side by side, talking in whispers, sharing secrets and plans for the future, feeling the steady warmth of her next to him and the contentment that came from knowing she trusted him completely.

The thought of holding her in the rain, letting her hair stick to her face, running with her to escape puddles, laughing together as they got soaked, made his chest tighten with a mix of longing and wistful yearning.

He pictured her face in every mundane scene, every quiet moment, every imagined adventure, and realized that even the simplest scenarios became extraordinary when she was in them.

Jirou realized he didn’t just miss her smile, or her presence, or her laugh—he missed the way she made ordinary moments feel alive, the way she had a spark that lit up everything around her, the way being at her side felt like being home.

Even as he tried to focus on the life he had now with Shiori, the images of Akari, vibrant and alive, laughing and moving through the world with him beside her, refused to leave, lingering in his thoughts like an impossible dream he couldn’t stop reaching for.

He imagined what it would be like to share victories with her, to comfort her through failures, to be the person she trusted implicitly, the one who could stand by her side through everything.

And in those moments, even though he knew it was impossible now, even though he told himself to push it away, the thought of her, the memory of her, the imagined life at her side, made his chest ache and his heart tighten in a way he couldn’t escape.

No matter how much he tried to focus on reality, Akari remained there, vibrant in his mind, holding a space he hadn’t realized was still empty, and making him wonder, over and over, what it would truly be like to have her at his side.

Chapter 14: Bunny Ears

Summary:

Jirou keeps taking Photos

Notes:

I know this chapter is a little long but there really wasn't a point at which I could've split it,

Shiori’s voice broke the quiet with a soft, earnest warmth, her eyes lifting toward him with a shy but steady kind of certainty.

“Hey, Jirou? …I love you.”

Jirou felt the air leave his lungs in a slow, uneven exhale. The words landed with a weight he hadn’t prepared for—not because they were unwanted, not because they scared him, but because they reached a part of him that was already tangled and frayed by everything he had been feeling all day.

His lips parted, instinct pushing him toward the familiar answer. The one he should give. The one he had always expected to give back without thinking.

But nothing came out.

Not even the shape of the words.

His throat felt tight, his chest constricting in that same quiet ache that had been haunting him since the morning. He wanted to speak—truly, he did—but the emotion sitting behind her confession was something he couldn’t force, not with how confused and overwhelmed he felt. Not with the ghost of another smile lingering in the back of his mind.

So instead, he reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder.

It was the kind of gesture meant to reassure, meant to show affection, meant to say something he couldn’t currently push past his lips. Shiori’s eyes softened at the touch, her expression easing just a little as if she took it for comfort, for reciprocation, for something close enough.

But Jirou felt the hollowness of it as soon as his hand settled. He wasn’t sure if she felt it too—if she sensed the hesitation, the silence hovering just behind the gesture—but she didn’t press him. She simply leaned into him, resting her head lightly against his arm, trusting his presence the way she always had.

Jirou stayed still, letting her warmth settle against him, but a quiet guilt threaded through his chest. The quiet squeeze of her shoulder was the only thing he could manage, even though he knew she deserved more than silence.

More than his uncertainty.

More than the war happening in his head.

Jirou moved through the days like he was wading through deep water—slow, heavy, everything taking twice the effort it should. The guilt clung to him constantly, a tight, dull ache that seemed to settle behind his ribs and push outward every time he thought too hard. And he did think too hard. About everything.

About Shiori’s soft smile when he came home.
About how easily she leaned into him.
About how she looked at him like the future was already decided.

About Akari.

That was the part that made him feel sickest of all. Not because he’d done anything wrong—not because anything had happened—but because the thoughts alone twisted his stomach. It felt wrong to even imagine someone else. Wrong to wonder what it would feel like to hold Akari again, wrong that her smile lingered so sharply in his mind, wrong that the dream still felt like it was clinging to him, refusing to fade.

He wasn’t doing anything. But sometimes thoughts hurt worse than actions, because he couldn’t file them under an accident or a mistake. They were just his. And that made the guilt sharper.

The sports festival crept closer, and he finally signed up for something. Photography—something safe, something simple, something that didn’t require being cheered on or partnered with anyone. When he told Akari, she tilted her head and grinned up at him with that familiar, bright expression, fingers tapping at her phone.

“Oh! Then take some photos of me,” she’d said. Light. Casual. Completely unaware of the way his stomach lurched.

He’d managed a nod, saying nothing else, swallowing hard against the sudden tightness in his chest. He wanted distance. He needed space to breathe, to untangle whatever this mess was inside him. But every time he tried to picture himself asking for that space, his mouth closed again.

How did you ask for space from someone who trusted you?
Someone who thought everything was perfect?
Someone who looked at you with so much warmth that even a tiny step back felt like it would break something fragile?

How was he supposed to say he didn’t know how he felt anymore?
How was he supposed to admit that he might need to breathe without hurting her?

He didn’t know.

So he didn’t ask.

He just kept drifting through the days, forcing smiles, nodding when she talked about the cheer routine, pretending his heart wasn’t a tangled mess. And every night, when he lay down beside her, he felt the weight settle deeper.

He needed space—but the words refused to form. And the silence only made everything feel heavier.

“Hey, Shiori”

Jirou shifted uncomfortably on the couch, the cheap game controller awkward in his hands as if it were a shield against what he really wanted to say. The pixels on the screen flickered, but he barely noticed them. His eyes kept flicking to Shiori, who stood by the mirror, adjusting the edge of her costume with meticulous care. The sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the subtle curve of her shoulders, the way her hair caught the light as she tilted her head to inspect herself. She looked so serene, so confident in the small ritual of checking her outfit, and yet Jirou’s chest tightened at the sight.

He opened his mouth again, then closed it. Nothing came out. The words he had rehearsed in his head over and over—Shiori, I need to talk—faltered, dissolving into the quiet hum of the room. His tongue felt thick, his throat tight, as if the simple act of speaking was suddenly an impossible challenge.

“Jirou?” Shiori’s voice was gentle, curious, threading through the awkward tension like a lifeline. She turned slightly, one hand still on her costume, and her expression softened when she saw the uncertainty in his eyes. “Are you okay? You’ve been… kind of quiet.”

He looked down at the controller, his knuckles white around it, trying to buy himself a moment, some space to gather courage. His thoughts were spinning faster than he could track: the dream from the other night, the guilt he’d felt over Akari, the way he’d been caught between what he should feel and what he did feel. Every second of silence was heavy with things he hadn’t said, feelings he hadn’t sorted.

“I… um…” His voice came out hoarse, brittle, barely audible. He swallowed, trying to find something—anything—that wouldn’t betray the storm inside him. “I… I wanted to… talk.”

Shiori’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t move away. She kept her hand on the fabric of her costume, tilting her head to the side in that familiar way that made him feel like he could tell her anything. “Talk about what?” she asked softly, the warmth in her voice both comforting and cruelly highlighting how unprepared he was to speak.

He opened his mouth again, then closed it, defeated. His mind raced with fragments of thoughts: the worry that Akari had haunted him more than he realized, the quiet fear that his feelings for her were bleeding into his life with Shiori, the guilt that he loved Shiori and yet couldn’t fully focus on her without being reminded of someone else. Each thought was a splinter, sharp and insistent, pushing him to confess yet paralyzing him at the same time.

Shiori’s expression softened further. She took a small step closer, letting her hand brush against the couch where he sat. “Jirou, you know you can tell me anything, right?” Her voice was steady, patient, the kind that had always made him feel like he could lean on her without fear.

He nodded faintly, the gesture meaningless compared to the storm raging inside him. Words threatened to rise, to tumble out, but they stuck halfway, caught on the edge of his tongue like jagged glass. He wanted to tell her everything, to explain how confused he was, how guilty, how torn—but the act of saying it aloud terrified him more than the thought itself.

Instead, he took a shaky breath and shifted on the couch, trying to muster a semblance of calm. “I… I just… wanted to see you,” he said finally, voice small, almost inaudible. It wasn’t much, not even close to the truth of what he felt, but it was a start—a sliver of honesty he could manage.

Shiori’s eyes softened further, a small, reassuring smile spreading across her face. She reached out, letting her hand hover just above his shoulder before settling it lightly. “I’m here,” she said, simple and grounding, a quiet promise that she wouldn’t push him, wouldn’t demand explanations he wasn’t ready to give.

Jirou exhaled, a mix of relief and frustration warring inside him. He wanted to tell her more, to unburden himself completely, but he couldn’t. Not yet. All he could do was sit there, feeling the weight of the unspoken words pressing against his chest, the warmth of her hand on his shoulder a bittersweet reminder of the life he was living even as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

The sun shifted through the window, casting long slats of light across the room, and for a moment, Jirou just let himself exist in that small space between comfort and tension, caught between the girl in front of him and the memory of another who lingered in the corners of his mind. He had no answers, no easy resolutions, only the quiet, persistent ache of uncertainty—and the soft, steady presence of Shiori reminding him that he wasn’t alone, not yet.

He closed his eyes briefly, leaning back against the couch, letting the quiet hum of the apartment fill the silence. The game controller felt heavier in his hands now, irrelevant, but grounding in its own strange way. He could feel Shiori’s gaze on him, patient and unwavering, and it made the ache in his chest both sharper and somehow easier to bear.

“I… I’m sorry,” he muttered finally, not sure if he was apologizing for the silence, for his thoughts, or for the confusion he carried inside him.

Shiori tilted her head, her smile never faltering. “You don’t have to be sorry, Jirou,” she said. “Just… take your time.”

And for the first time in hours, he let himself breathe. Small, cautious, and incomplete, but enough to remind him that even amidst the turmoil, some things—some people—could anchor him. She wasn’t Akari, and yet… in that moment, her patience and presence were a lifeline, fragile and fleeting, but a lifeline nonetheless.

He opened his eyes, still unsure, still tangled, but just a fraction calmer. “Yeah… okay,” he murmured, letting the controller rest in his lap as he watched Shiori adjust her costume again, the sunlight catching the fabric and making her look almost radiant. And for the first time that day, he let himself notice—not just Akari, not just the guilt, not just the storm—but the girl in front of him, patiently waiting, letting him find his way back, one small, unsteady step at a time.

The quiet stretched on, punctuated only by the faint hum of the game and the soft rustle of fabric. Jirou sat there, trapped between the pull of his past thoughts and the gentle insistence of the present, and realized that sometimes, the hardest truths weren’t the ones you said aloud—they were the ones you slowly learned to live with.

And in that small, quiet room, amidst the sunlight and fabric scraps, he began, ever so slightly, to find the strength to do just that.

“I think…I think we need a break”

Shiori froze where she stood, the scissors she’d been holding lightly in her hand hovering midair. Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the soft fabric of her cheerleading costume seemed to blur at the edges. “A… a break?” she whispered, her voice trembling just a fraction, though she tried to keep it steady.

Jirou ran a hand over his face, feeling the heat of his own frustration and guilt pressing into his chest. His voice shook slightly when he spoke again. “Yeah… I… I think we need some space, Shiori. I… I can’t focus, and I… I’m not fair to you right now.” He looked down at his hands, fidgeting with the edge of the couch cushion, avoiding her gaze because he didn’t want to see the hurt flicker there.

Shiori took a careful step closer, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to keep her composure. “Jirou… what do you mean by that? Space… for how long?” Her hand twitched slightly, almost as if she wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if it would be welcomed.

He shook his head, a frustrated sigh escaping him. “I don’t know how long. I just… I need to figure things out. I can’t keep pretending I’m completely okay. I… I’ve been carrying around things I don’t even fully understand myself, and… I don’t want to hurt you while I figure them out.”

Shiori’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she blinked them back stubbornly. Her voice was soft, almost broken, yet steady. “Is this… because of her?” She didn’t name Akari, but he knew instantly she was thinking of her—the pink-haired girl who haunted his thoughts even when he tried not to let her.

Jirou’s throat tightened. “Yes… I mean… I don’t know how to explain it properly. It’s… complicated.” His hands clenched into fists, resting on his knees, and he buried his face in them for a moment. “I love you, Shiori. I really do. But… my head… my heart… they’re a mess. And I can’t give you the love you deserve until I… until I sort it out.”

Shiori’s breathing hitched slightly, her lips trembling as she tried to force out a small smile. “So… you’re saying this isn’t because you don’t care about me?” Her voice wavered, carrying both hope and fear.

“No!” Jirou’s voice was firmer now, but still strained. “I care about you more than anyone. You’ve been… you’ve been amazing to me, Shiori. I… I just need to… step back before I make things worse.”

The room was silent for a moment, only the faint rustle of fabric as Shiori adjusted the costume she’d been working on. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t move closer, didn’t retreat either. She nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay… I… I understand. I don’t like it, but… I get it.”

Jirou lifted his head slowly, meeting her eyes briefly. “I… I’m really sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. You… you’ve been nothing but good to me.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the weight of his guilt and confusion.

Shiori swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. “I know… I know you didn’t. And… maybe… maybe this is what you need. But just… promise me one thing?” Her voice grew firmer, more insistent.

“Anything,” Jirou whispered, leaning forward slightly, his hands resting loosely on his knees.

“Promise me… you’ll figure it out. Don’t let this… this pause turn into something permanent without knowing what you truly want.”

Jirou nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “I promise. I… I’ll try.” His chest felt tight, the ache of leaving her in this uncertain space pressing down on him more heavily than he expected. “I don’t know when… or how… but I’ll… I’ll come back when I’m sure.”

Shiori gave a small, sad nod, the faintest quiver in her lips betraying the effort it took to hold herself together. “Okay… I’ll… wait for you. Just… take care of yourself while you do.”

Jirou felt a tear prick at the corner of his eye, and he hastily wiped it away. “I will. I… I promise.” He stood up slowly, his body feeling heavy with the weight of the decision. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t attempt to hold her, though every instinct in him screamed to. Instead, he took a deep breath, turned, and left the room, leaving Shiori standing in the soft sunlight, silent but steadfast, the unspoken ache of both of them lingering in the air.

He walked through the apartment, each step feeling heavier than the last, knowing the break was necessary but hating every second of it. He felt like he was leaving part of himself behind with her, yet he knew it was the only way he could untangle the knot of emotions that had been binding him.

Shiori stayed in the room for a long time after he left, her hand brushing over the seat where he had been sitting, the small warmth he had left behind seeming almost tangible. She tried not to cry, but her chest felt tight, and her mind wandered to the reasons Jirou had said he needed space. She knew, deep down, that he wasn’t walking away from her because he didn’t care—he was walking away because he cared too much to continue while he was so conflicted.

Meanwhile, Jirou sat alone on the balcony later, the cool wind hitting his face as he replayed the conversation in his head over and over. Every word, every glance, every pause—the weight of it pressed into him, the reality of the break setting in. He felt lost, terrified that the distance would make things worse, that he might not find the clarity he was hoping for.

And yet, beneath all the fear, there was a sliver of relief. A tiny part of him that knew this was necessary—that stepping away, even if only temporarily, was the only way to untangle the chaos in his heart, to face what he truly felt without harming the person he loved most.

He exhaled slowly, gripping the railing, the cold metal biting into his palms. He didn’t know how long the break would last, or where it would lead, but for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel the bare honesty of his emotions. Painful, messy, terrifying, but real.

And for the first time, he whispered to himself—not to Shiori, not to anyone else—but to the quiet evening air around him: “I have to figure this out… for her, and for me.”

The wind stirred, carrying with it the faint sound of the city below, and Jirou sat there for a long while, just breathing, letting the weight of the decision settle, feeling the ache of absence and the fragile hope that clarity would come with time.

Mei squirmed slightly under Natsumi’s relentless affection, letting out little squeals of laughter every time a kiss landed on her cheek or lips. “Stop, stop! You’re going to poke me with the pins!” she protested, though her eyes were twinkling and her laughter made it clear she wasn’t truly upset.

Natsumi just giggled, ignoring the warning, and pressed another gentle kiss to Mei’s lips. “You’re too cute, I can’t help it!” she said, her voice playful, full of adoration.

Sachi, standing nearby with a measuring tape in one hand and a needle in the other, shook her head with an exasperated smile. “Calm down, you two! Mei’s going to end up with a pin in her face at this rate!” she scolded, though the amusement in her tone betrayed that she wasn’t really angry.

Mei laughed again, playfully swatting at Natsumi’s hands. “I said stop, but… okay, maybe just a little more,” she admitted, still laughing and clearly enjoying the attention despite her feigned complaints.

Natsumi’s eyes sparkled as she leaned in for one more kiss, this time lightly brushing her lips against Mei’s temple. “There! That’s better, right?”

Sachi rolled her eyes dramatically, but even she couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. “You two are hopeless,” she muttered, shaking her head, though she kept adjusting the costume with careful hands to make sure Mei didn’t get hurt.

Mei caught her breath and giggled, leaning against Natsumi’s shoulder for just a second before stepping back to wriggle into the costume. “Okay, okay, now we can actually see if this fits,” she said, still giggling.

Natsumi pouted dramatically. “But it’s more fun this way!” she protested, making a playful grab for Mei again.

Sachi huffed, hands on her hips. “Fun is one thing, but we’re not supposed to be poking each other with pins. Keep it together, you lovebirds,” she said, though her tone softened as she adjusted the hem of the costume.

Mei shook her head, laughing, as she finally settled into place. “Alright, alright, truce! But just so you know, I kind of like it when you do this,” she admitted, giving Natsumi a small, teasing smile.

Natsumi grinned widely, eyes sparkling with joy. “I knew it! I knew you liked it!”

Sachi chuckled, shaking her head, her voice gentle. “Alright, enough goofing around. Let’s finish this costume before we run out of time.”

The three of them laughed together, the room filled with warmth and energy, their teasing and affection flowing naturally between them. Even with Sachi’s occasional protests, it was clear they were enjoying the moment, letting the small chaos of laughter and kisses mingle with the careful work of preparing Mei’s costume.

Mei twirled slightly to see the fit, Natsumi adjusting a ribbon here, a strap there, and Sachi making sure the pins were all secure. The playful chaos continued, the teasing and laughter blending perfectly with the focused task at hand.

“See? This is why I love us,” Natsumi said softly, pressing a quick kiss to Mei’s cheek as she leaned in to help tighten the final straps.

Mei laughed, shaking her head, the warmth of their friendship and affection making her smile from ear to ear. “I love us too,” she said, tugging Sachi into a quick group hug as well.

Sachi groaned dramatically, pretending to protest. “Fine, fine, just don’t poke me with pins either!”

The three of them continued to laugh and work together, the mix of teasing, love, and friendship creating a small bubble of joy in the midst of all the preparations for the sports festival.

Natsumi’s pout deepened as she adjusted the bow on Mei’s costume, her brows scrunched just enough to show she was half-serious, half-dramatic. “I’m just saying,” she muttered, “sports festival day is chaos. You’re doing your track event, the relay, and then cheering? That’s a lot.”

Mei lifted her arms so Sachi could pin the last seam, her expression calm. “I can handle it. Really. And you needed another person after that girl sprained her ankle, right? I’m just helping.”

Sachi, crouched at Mei’s side with a pin cushion on her wrist, snickered. “Helping… or trying to get attention from the other cheer teams? Because you know they’ll be watching.”

Mei let out a sharp exhale, part laugh, part annoyance. “I’m not trying to show off. Why would I care what the other girls think?”

Natsumi crossed her arms immediately. “Good. Because if you start getting sparkly eyes from strangers while you’re bouncing around in this cute outfit—”

“Natsumi…” Mei said with a tired sigh, though her tone was affectionate.

“—I’m just saying I’ll know.”

Mei shook her head, cheeks warming from both embarrassment and amusement. “I won’t. Nothing like that. I’m there to cheer, that’s it.”

“That’s what I thought,” Natsumi said triumphantly, her voice bubbling with that playful possessiveness she never bothered hiding.

Sachi grinned and straightened up. “I swear, you two are like a married couple sometimes.”

Natsumi ignored her entirely as Mei reached out, cupping the back of her head gently. She tugged her a little closer, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her temple.

Natsumi stilled, eyes closing for half a second as the tension in her shoulders loosened.

Mei brushed a few strands of Natsumi’s hair back into place, smoothing it down with slow, steady fingers. “I said I won’t,” she murmured, her voice low, quiet, and sincere. “I’m with you. That isn’t changing.”

Natsumi’s posture softened completely at that—still a little huffy, but undeniably melted by the reassurance.

“…Okay,” she said under her breath, leaning into the touch even as she tried to hide it.

Sachi let out a small laugh. “See? This is why we can’t get work done. Every five minutes it becomes a moment.”

Mei and Natsumi both shot her a look—one amused, one mildly offended—before immediately drifting back into each other’s gravity, their hands naturally finding one another as Sachi resumed her pinning.

Mei snorted under her breath, leaning back so Natsumi could finish pinning the last bit of fabric. “Wait—that’s the drama going on now? I swear, this school never gets a peaceful week. There’s always someone falling apart, getting together, or hiding something.” She shook her head with a half-laugh. “We should start charging admission.”

Natsumi perked up immediately, as if reminded of something. “Speaking of drama—Minami’s been weird lately too. Akari was talking about it the other day. Apparently he’s always texting someone, or sneaking off to ‘hang out with a friend.’ She thinks he’s seeing someone.”

“Honestly? Wouldn’t surprise me.” Mei adjusted the skirt of her cheer outfit and brushed a stray thread away. “But why hide it? He doesn’t seem like the type who’d be embarrassed about dating someone.”

Sachi lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “There could be a ton of reasons. Maybe they don’t want it to be public yet. Or maybe…” She twirled a pom-pom ribbon like she was winding up for a dramatic plot twist. “Maybe it’s complicated. Like someone in their friend group used to like one of them, or it would hurt someone’s feelings, or it’d start rumors.”

Natsumi nodded as if a detective theory had just snapped into place. “Yeah, that actually makes sense. Lots of people are messy about stuff like that.”

Then she turned suddenly, zeroing in on Sachi with a mischievous glint. “Speaking of relationships—you’re seeing someone, right?”

Mei’s head snapped toward Sachi in interest.

Sachi practically jolted, bending down quickly to pick up a needle she dropped. “No.” Her voice wavered just a little as her cheeks warmed. “We’re just talking. Remember?”

Natsumi made a loud, exaggerated scoff. “You’ve been ‘just talking’ for three months.”

“So?” Sachi shot back, straightening with her chin tilted defiantly despite the blush creeping up her neck. “Talking can be… long term.”

Mei laughed. “Not when you both flirt like you’re auditioning for a romance drama.”

“I do not flirt,” Sachi said, flustered now, her voice a pitch higher than usual.

Natsumi crossed her arms. “Girl, you blush when their name shows up on your phone.”

“I have sensitive skin!”

“Sachi,” Mei said gently, grinning, “your ears get red.”

Sachi covered them with her hands, mortified. “Stop looking at my ears!”

Natsumi and Mei exchanged an amused glance before bursting into quiet laughter, and though Sachi tried to glare at them, she cracked a smile too—soft, embarrassed, but genuine.

For a moment, the room felt warm again.

Even with the tension between Jirou and Shiori hanging in the background, even with the mysteries around Minami, even with the whisper of complications waiting just outside the classroom door—

Here, in this tiny bubble of teasing and stitches and half-finished costumes, things still felt simple. Safe. A little messy, but in a way that made the three of them feel closer.

Sachi’s phone buzzed on the table, the little vibration barely audible over the rustle of fabric—but she reacted like it was an alarm going off. Her hand darted out instantly, snatching the device before Mei or Natsumi could even blink.

The moment her eyes hit the screen, everything about her changed. Her posture straightened, her eyes widened just a touch, and a bright, unmistakable flush crawled up her cheeks. She tried to hide it, but the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth gave her away completely.

Natsumi leaned in with a grin that was way too eager. “Ohhhh? Is that the mystery man?”

“No!” Sachi yelped, clutching the phone against her chest like Natsumi was about to steal it.

Mei arched a brow. “You answered that too fast.”

“I answer everything fast,” Sachi insisted, voice cracking slightly. She turned away from them, pretending to be incredibly interested in a loose thread on the cheer skirt. “It’s just—someone. Not… someone.”

Natsumi stretched her neck, trying to peek. “Your face says otherwise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sachi muttered, thumbs tapping out a response she tried to keep subtle. It wasn’t subtle. Her fingers were moving way too quickly for a ‘totally normal, totally casual’ conversation.

Mei nudged Natsumi with her elbow. “Look at her ears.”

Natsumi’s grin widened. “Oh, they’re glowing. That’s not just liking someone—that’s ‘I’m getting butterflies over a text message’ level.”

Sachi buried her face in her hands for a second, groaning, the phone still held tight in one. “You two are unbearable.”

“But you’re in love,” Natsumi sing-songed.

Sachi’s head snapped up, red as a cherry. “I⁠—am⁠—NOT!”

The phone buzzed again.

Sachi froze, then peeked at the screen.

Her smile slipped back, softer this time. Warmer. She looked down at her lap like the message was something she wanted to keep just for herself.

Mei and Natsumi exchanged a look—half teasing, half touched.

Sachi didn’t say a word, but her quiet, glowing expression said everything for her.

Jirou sat hunched over the small wooden table, the warm steam from the ramen drifting up and fogging the edge of his glasses. The shop was half-empty—just a couple of university students in the back, an older man reading the paper, and the soft clatter of chopsticks from the kitchen—but the quiet only made his thoughts echo louder.

He stared at his bowl as if it were supposed to speak to him. Like maybe the broth would suddenly rearrange into a message or the noodles would line up and offer clarity. But all he saw was the same swirling confusion he’d been drowning in for days.

Why was he like this?

He’d wanted to date Shiori for so long. He’d admired her, liked her, wanted something steady and peaceful with her. When she said yes, he should’ve felt ecstatic. Whole. Relieved. Instead, the longer they were together, the more complicated everything felt. Each day felt like walking with weights on his ankles.

And then… there was Akari.

Just thinking her name made something twist uncomfortably inside him. She wasn’t supposed to be part of this. Not now, not ever. She was loud and demanding, dramatic and impossible to read most days. The kind of girl who barged into his life without permission and left chaos in her wake.

Yet somehow… he missed her.

He missed her in a way that felt wrong, like an ache behind the ribs he couldn’t push away. Her energy, her voice, her laugh—he’d pushed it all down for so long, telling himself she was just a friend, just someone he got used to being around during the whole “rental girlfriend” mess. But when she smiled at him in the convenience store, bright-eyed and surprised, something inside him had cracked wide open.

And the hug…
The way he’d clung to her without thinking.
The way she’d whispered his name—not Yakuin, but Jirou—like she was pulled back into a memory too.

Now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He poked at the noodles, but everything in him felt too heavy to eat. His chest tightened, his mind looping the same questions over and over.

Why was he hesitating with Shiori?

Why did thoughts of Akari keep slipping in like a heartbeat he couldn’t ignore?

Why did that dream shake him so badly—why did the idea of losing Akari make him feel like the ground had dropped out from under him?

He squeezed his chopsticks until his knuckles paled.

It didn’t make sense.

Shiori was everything he’d once wanted. Calm. Kind. Sweet. Safe.

Akari was everything he told himself he didn’t want. Loud. Messy. Emotional. Complicated.

And yet…

There was something about her—some warmth, some spark—that he couldn’t banish from his thoughts no matter how many times he tried. Something that made him feel alive. Something that felt like coming home in ways he didn’t know how to admit.

He bowed his head, elbows on the table, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

He felt guilty just thinking it. Like every wandering thought was some kind of betrayal.

But the truth pulsed deep inside him, uncomfortable and undeniable:

Some part of him wanted her. Wanted Akari. Wanted the connection he didn’t understand yet, one he tried to bury but couldn’t.

And that terrified him.

Because he loved Shiori.

Didn’t he?

Jirou let out a long, frustrated breath, the kind that scraped the inside of his chest on its way out. His forehead stayed pressed to the table for a moment, the wood cool against his skin, before he dragged his hands up over his face and pushed his hair back. The ramen shop was warm, loud, and familiar—clattering bowls, the hiss of broth being poured, people chatting over dinner. Normally he liked the noise. Tonight it felt like background static mocking him.

“Damn it…” he muttered again, voice muffled as he slumped forward. “This is so stupid.”

The spoon beside his bowl rattled as he nudged the table with his forehead. He stared at the steam rising from the ramen, twisting into shapes that disappeared before he could make sense of them. It felt like a metaphor for his entire situation.

He’d wanted to date Shiori for years. He’d imagined it a hundred different ways—how excited he’d be, how smooth he’d act, how everything would finally make sense once the feelings were mutual. And now? Now that it was real? He felt… stuck. Hesitating. Pulling back without meaning to.

Why?

Why now of all times?

His fingers curled into his hair as he hunched over the table again.

“Why can’t I just be normal about this…?”

Shiori was good. Kind. Steady. Pretty in a soft, comfortable way. A relationship with her should have felt like a victory. Like he finally won something he’d chased for so long. But instead there was this… weight. This weird knot in his stomach he couldn’t untangle.

And Akari—Akari, of all people—was tangled somewhere in that knot.

He didn’t understand it.

She drove him absolutely up the wall. Loud, dramatic, always bursting into every situation with twice the energy anyone asked for. She teased him, pushed his buttons, got on his nerves. They argued almost every time they talked, and she always had something to say—usually something that turned him red in the face.

She was the last person he should be thinking about.

Yet…

Yet he missed her. Missed how unpredictable she was. Missed how she could drag him into conversations he didn’t plan to have, or smile at him like she knew he was about to cave even when he swore he wouldn’t. Missed how she filled up a room without even trying, and how she never seemed afraid of anything—not even him biting her head off when she pressed too far.

He groaned into his arms.

“She’s annoying… and pushy… and—”

The sentence died in his throat.

Because he couldn’t complete it.

He couldn’t think of anything else. Nothing real. Nothing that wasn’t just him trying to convince himself he didn’t feel something he probably shouldn’t.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as the realization settled like a stone in his stomach. A big, heavy one.

“…And I’m an idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

The worst part wasn’t that he was thinking about Akari.

It was how relieved he felt when her name crossed his mind.

He leaned back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling as if the fluorescent lights had the answers he couldn’t find in his ramen bowl.

“What am I even doing…” he whispered, exhaustion tugging at every corner of his expression.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Least of all his own heart.

The morning sun spilled across the school grounds in warm, golden sheets, the kind that made the painted field lines look crisp and the dew on the grass sparkle like tiny lights. It was the kind of day that made the whole world seem full of energy, buzzing with the lively chaos that always came before the sports festival officially kicked off.

Students were everywhere—hauling equipment, sorting uniforms, jogging back and forth with clipboards, arguing over speaker volume or banner placement. Laughter, shouting, and the thud of metal stakes being hammered into the dirt blended together into one giant pre-festival hum.

Minami wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist as he helped raise another tent pole, steadying it while two first-years tightened the ropes. He’d been working nonstop since sunrise, moving crates of cones, organizing hurdles, and double-checking the relay batons. Not that he minded—keeping busy meant people didn’t bother him with too many questions, and it helped him avoid the weird tension he knew was brewing among his friends.

“Careful with that side,” he called out. “If it collapses, I’m not fixing it a third time.”

“You sound like a grumpy old man,” one of the first-years joked.

Minami just snorted. “Yeah, well, you’ll thank me when it doesn’t fall on your face.”

Across the field, Jirou stepped over a coiled extension cord and lifted the camera strap off his shoulder, adjusting it slightly before holding the lens up to his eye. He’d gotten there early—way too early—on purpose. While Shiori was still in the shower.

He didn’t want to see her before leaving.

Not when his chest twisted the moment he so much as thought about looking her in the eye. Not when guilt and confusion sat like a weight behind his ribs, heavy enough to crush breath from him.

The apartment had been quiet except for the sound of running water behind the bathroom door. He’d stood there for a second, staring at the handle, feeling something bitter and tight coil in his stomach. Then he’d turned, grabbed his bag, and left before he had to hear her voice or pretend he wasn’t falling apart inside.

Now he exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to steady the camera and his thoughts at the same time.

He aimed the lens toward the center of the field. Students were carrying hurdles across the grass, chatting as they went. He snapped a few photos—clean, simple shots of the morning prep. Even though photography wasn’t technically necessary yet, he told himself getting extra pictures early would help with the festival coverage.

Truthfully, he just needed something to do with his hands.

He captured a shot of the stretching team warming up, the sun catching on their matching headbands. Another of a group arguing about where to put the water coolers. Then a wider shot of the entire setup zone—the cluster of tents rising in messy lines, the flags fluttering lightly in the breeze.

The shutter clicked again and again, each snap a tiny, momentary distraction from the mess in his head.

He lowered the camera for a moment, letting it rest against his chest as he blew out a breath.

He shouldn’t be feeling like this. Not today. Not when everyone was excited. Not when Shiori hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the guilt crawled back up his throat anyway—hot, uncomfortable, relentless.

He didn’t want to see her.

Because seeing her made all the confusion sharper. Made him think of everything he was supposed to feel… and everything he didn’t. Made him think of Akari—loud, chaotic, impossible-to-ignore Akari—far more than he had any right to.

He shook his head hard, muttering under his breath, “Focus. Just focus on the shots.”

He lifted the camera again and forced himself to look at the world through the lens instead of inside his own head.

Anything was better than facing the truth he wasn’t ready for.

The day unfolded with the kind of restless energy only a school-wide festival could create. The sky stayed stubbornly bright, the heat rising off the track in warm waves while students darted across the grounds carrying batons, measuring tapes, clipboards, or nothing at all except raw excitement. Even with the noise, the movement, the predictable chaos, there was something undeniably comforting about it—familiar, loud, messy in the way every year tended to be.

Jirou kept close to the edges of things, camera hanging from his neck like a lifeline. Whenever someone shouted for volunteers or asked for a group photo, he pretended he didn’t hear. It wasn’t personal—he just needed the barrier, the excuse to stay behind the lens and not be part of whatever conversation might happen if someone stopped him long enough to ask, “Hey, are you good?”

He didn’t want to lie. Not today.

He snapped a photo of the sprinters stretching, catching the exact moment someone yawned and another person elbowed them for not taking it seriously. Another of the relay team practicing baton passes, their faces tense with concentration, legs pumping in perfect rhythm across the track. The shutter clicked so much it became almost hypnotic.

Nearby, the high jump mat thumped under the weight of someone landing with far more enthusiasm than accuracy. A group of classmates groaned dramatically, while one kid insisted he almost cleared the bar.

Jirou caught the moment right as the jumper rolled off the mat, hands thrown in the air in defeat. It was an easy shot—felt natural, felt like something he didn’t have to think about.

He liked not having to think.

Across the field, Akari and the cheer squad were in full festival mode. Their bright uniforms caught the sunlight in mosaic-like flashes as they practiced formations and shouted encouragement between events. Akari, of course, was loudest—calling out cheers, bouncing on her toes, never staying in one spot for more than a few seconds.

Jirou zoomed in on her without even realizing he’d done it. She was laughing at something Natsumi had said, hair tied back, ribbons moving with every sharp motion. She always had a presence—big, dramatic, impossible to ignore.

He caught the moment she threw her arms up to hype the crowd, her grin infectious even from across the field. It would be a good photo for the yearbook. That’s what he told himself. Just that.

Still, he lowered the camera a second later and exhaled slowly, willing his pulse to settle.

The long jump pits were filled with students pacing nervously, brushing sand off their legs, arguing about whether the measuring tape was accurate. The referees looked exhausted already, and it wasn’t even noon. Jirou captured the arc of someone mid-air, the sand scattering as they landed, the triumphant pose afterward when they realized they’d beaten their personal best.

Everywhere around him, people were moving—laughing, shouting, complaining about the heat, yelling for water, boasting about their scores. It felt alive. It felt bigger than him, bigger than his thoughts.

He was grateful for that.

Akari’s team burst into another cheer as one of their classmates began the 100-meter dash. The cheer squad’s voices rose over the noise, sharp and rhythmic, ribbons flying with every coordinated step. Jirou caught a few shots of the group—wide-angle first, then a few closer frames when they switched formations.

He didn’t let himself look too long at any one face.

The running events drew a bigger crowd. Students lined the edges of the track, some waving small signs or school flags, others shouting half-formed encouragements that blended into the general roar. The starting pistol cracked sharply through the air, sending the runners sprinting forward in a rush of adrenaline and determination.

Jirou shifted positions to get a better angle, stepping around a group of classmates comparing snacks they’d smuggled in. He crouched down for a ground-level shot, capturing the runners in motion as their shadows stretched across the track. It was a clean shot—he could already imagine how good it’d look.

He didn’t feel proud. But he felt something close to relief.

Anything that wasn’t confusion was welcome.

Near the tents, Minami was helping refill water coolers while pretending not to notice everyone whispering about who was winning what. He looked tired but determined, like he’d accepted that today would drain him completely and was ready for it. Jirou took a candid shot of him handing a cup to a first-year, the sun highlighting the edges of his hair.

He barely noticed when the cheer team shifted again, sprinting to a different part of the field to hype up the next event. Akari led the charge, calling out instructions, clapping her hands sharply to get everyone in sync.

She always looked like she belonged on a stage of some kind, he thought. Bright. Loud. Alive.

He immediately shoved the thought away and focused on adjusting his camera settings.

When the tug-of-war matches began, the noise doubled. Half the school gathered to watch, cheering wildly as teams dug their heels into the ground, muscles straining, faces red, determination written across every tense motion. Someone slipped in the dirt, dragging their whole team down with them, and the crowd burst into laughter.

Jirou captured the fall, the dramatic reaction, the victorious celebration from the other side. It was one of those shots that practically framed itself.

He didn’t realize how long he’d been taking photos until his back started to ache from leaning forward so much. He straightened, cracked his neck lightly, and let out a long breath.

He hadn’t thought about Shiori in almost half an hour.

That alone startled him.

He hadn’t thought about the conversation he knew they needed to have. Hadn’t thought about the guilt sitting like a stone in his chest. Hadn’t thought about Akari—well… not as much.

The distraction was working. It wasn’t fixing anything, but it was numbing everything just enough to survive the day.

In the center field, the obstacle course was being set up next. Inflated barriers squeaked as they were dragged across the grass, and students crowded around, trying to figure out which part looked most dangerous or most fun. Jirou wandered closer and caught a few test runs—someone tripping over the rope ladders, someone else nearly face-planting into the foam rollers.

He photographed it all.

A gust of wind sent a tent flap flying upward, smacking a teacher in the face. Students erupted into laughter. Jirou caught that too—the split-second moment of shock on the teacher’s face.

Akari’s voice carried across the field again, rallying her team. They moved into a synchronized routine to entertain the crowd during a brief break in events, their cheers echoing bright and clear. Jirou captured the unity, the movement, the excitement in the air.

He didn’t let himself think about how proud she’d look if she saw the photos later.

By the time the afternoon events rolled around, the sun had climbed to its hottest point. Students crowded under shade wherever they could find it, fanning themselves with notebooks or waving paper cups in the air to cool off. Jirou stayed on the move, weaving through groups with practiced ease, always finding a new angle or moment to immortalize.

He snapped a shot of a relay team passing a baton in perfect sync.

Another of a girl collapsing dramatically after running the 200 meters, teammates barking laughter as they pulled her off the track.

Another of two friends sharing a popsicle like it was a life-saving treasure.

It was the kind of day he knew he would look back on as chaotic but fun. The kind of day he always captured dozens of photos for, yet barely remembered participating in.

That was the point, he guessed.

To stay behind the lens so he didn’t have to face everything in front of it.

He found himself drifting near the cheer team again when they paused for a water break. Akari had her hands on her hips, catching her breath, cheeks flushed from exertion but eyes bright as ever. She tossed her head back, laughing at something Natsumi said, expression wide and genuine.

Jirou lifted his camera before he even thought about it.

He caught her mid-laugh.

Then froze.

Why did he do that instinctively?

He swallowed hard, lowering the camera again.

He told himself it was just a good shot.

Just for the yearbook.

Just part of the job.

But he felt the lie sitting there—obvious, heavy, impossible to swallow.

He forced himself to turn away, focusing on the scoreboard updates instead. Students crowded around it, arguing about points, insisting their class would crush the final relay.

He photographed that too.

As the late afternoon sun softened, casting longer shadows across the field, the final events began. Exhaustion mixed with excitement in the air, giving everything a jittery, anticipatory buzz. People were sweaty, tired, loud, and totally unstoppable.

Jirou kept taking photos until his camera battery warning flashed.

Only then did he realize how long the day had been.

But for once, his mind had stayed quiet.

The distraction had done its job.

He wasn’t any closer to solving his problems.

But for today—just today—he’d managed to outrun them.

Jirou stood near the edge of the field, half in the shade of the equipment tent, camera hanging loosely from his hand as the cheer squad launched into their routine between events. The crowd’s noise softened into a kind of background hum, the thud of feet on the track, the sharp clap of synchronized motions, the rhythmic chanting of the cheer team all folding into one pulse that vibrated through the festival grounds.

He didn’t mean to stare.

He really didn’t.

But his eyes drifted anyway—first to Shiori, moving in perfect sync with the cheer line. Her jumps were clean, her form tight, her hair bouncing neatly with every step. She looked focused, sharp, serious in that almost intimidating way she carried herself when she really cared about something. He admired it. He’d always admired it.

But after a few seconds, something tugged at him—something instinctive, something he kept trying to shove down—and his gaze slid sideways.

To Akari.

It always went back to Akari.

She was in the center, naturally, where her energy could anchor the rest of the routine. Her motions were big, enthusiastic, a little messy in the way only she could make look charming. Her smile never dimmed, not once, lighting up her entire face like she wasn’t performing to impress anyone—just radiating warmth because she didn’t know how to do anything else.

Jirou swallowed, shifting his weight.

He raised the camera, meaning to take a general shot of the squad—but at the last second, the viewfinder centered on Shiori.

He clicked the shutter.

Lowered it.

Lifted it again.

And this time, without even noticing, the lens settled on Akari.

She was cheering loud enough that he could hear her over the crowd, ribbons flicking through the air as she moved, eyes bright with a kind of fierce joy that made his chest tighten painfully. She was… loud. She was dramatic. She was unpredictable.

But she felt alive in a way that pulled him toward her like gravity.

He lowered the camera again, hands tightening around the grip.

“What am I even doing…” he muttered under his breath, frustrated at himself, frustrated at how little control he seemed to have over the direction of his own thoughts.

He looked back at Shiori.

Her smile was small, reserved—pretty in a quiet way, the way he used to love most.

Then his gaze shifted back to Akari.

Her smile was wide, unabashed, bright enough to reach him even from across the field.

Jirou exhaled sharply.

He didn’t want to compare them.

He didn’t want to think about why his heartbeat picked up whenever Akari shouted something too enthusiastically, or why he caught himself trying to predict her movements, or why he could always pick out her voice in a crowd.

He didn’t want to admit that maybe—just maybe—his hesitation wasn’t confusion.

Maybe it was clarity he didn’t want to accept.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to ground himself, trying to look anywhere else—but his eyes drifted again. Back to her. Every few seconds, like a reflex he didn’t approve of but couldn’t turn off.

Shiori.
Akari.
Shiori.
Akari.

He hated that pattern. Hated the tightness in his chest. Hated how wrong it felt to be thinking this way when Shiori looked so genuinely happy out there.

But he also hated how impossible it was to look away from Akari for very long.

She finished a particularly difficult sequence, pivoted sharply into a pose, and laughed when Natsumi almost tripped beside her. Jirou felt something warm spike up his spine—something he didn’t want to name.

He lifted the camera again.

And without hesitation, without thought, without even a struggle this time—

He took another picture of her.

“Jirou!”

Akari jogged the last few steps toward him, a little breathless from cheering, ribbons bouncing against her wrists. The sun caught the pink in her hair so brightly it almost looked like it was glowing. Jirou felt something hitch in his chest before he forced himself to refocus, gripping the camera a little tighter as if that could steady him.

“What’s up?” he asked, raising his brows in that half-tired, half-curious way he always did around her.

“Can you take some photos of me?” Akari beamed, hands clasped behind her back, rocking forward on her toes with an enthusiasm so genuine it softened everything around her.

“Yeah, sure.” He lifted the camera a little to show he meant it. “Just—uh—stand over there. The lighting’s better.”

Akari giggled like he’d just said something dramatic. “Wow, okay, director,” she teased, dramatically flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. “Boss me around, why don’t you?”

Jirou rolled his eyes, but it came with the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth. “You’re one to talk. You act like being loud is part of the job description.”

“It is!” she declared proudly, hands on her hips. “Cheerleaders are supposed to be loud. We bring spirit!”

“You bring something,” he muttered, though without any real bite. She only laughed harder.

Akari shifted into a pose—nothing fancy, just her natural confidence softening her shoulders and tightening her smile. Jirou adjusted the angle, stepping to the side, then back again, lifting her chin lightly with one finger so the light hit just right. His touch was brief—barely there—but it sent a quick, uncomfortable flutter through his stomach.

He stepped back immediately, hoping she didn’t notice.

“Okay—hold that,” he said, raising the camera.

She flashed a grin so bright it seemed unfair.

Click

Another pose—hands clasped, one knee bent, leaning forward slightly as if she were mid-cheer.

Click

Then she made a goofy face just to throw him off.

Jirou lowered the camera for a second, giving her a look. “Seriously?”

“What?” Akari giggled, putting her hands to her cheeks. “Gotta give you variety.”

He should’ve been annoyed.

He wasn’t.

Not even a little.

He lifted the camera again, and she turned her face just enough that the sun hit her eyes, making them shimmer with flecks he’d never noticed before. Her hair shifted in the breeze—soft, bright, alive. Every time she moved, she looked like she carried some kind of spark with her, something he couldn’t capture no matter how good the shot was.

He tried anyway.

Click

Click

Click

Akari spun once, ribbons trailing behind her, laughter bubbling out of her so effortlessly it squeezed around his ribcage.

“You look…” he started quietly, then stopped. The words were too big, too heavy, too dangerous.

Akari paused mid-pose. “Hmm? I look what?”

Jirou shook his head quickly, pretending he was adjusting the camera settings. “You look fine. Normal. Just keep posing.”

Akari narrowed her eyes playfully. “Liar,” she said, sing-song. “Whatever. Just take the pictures.”

She smiled again—bigger this time, the kind of smile that felt like it pulled the air from his lungs.

He snapped one more photo.

Then another.

Then another, because he couldn’t help it.

Because sometimes the camera clicked before he even had time to think.

And because he didn’t know how long he had left to look at her like this without it meaning something he wasn’t supposed to feel.

“Akari!” a voice called from somewhere across the field—one of the other cheerleaders, maybe Natsumi or Sachi. Jirou couldn’t tell. The crowd noise, the whistle blows, the thud of feet on track—all of it blurred together so completely that whatever came after her name was lost to the wind.

Akari turned toward the sound, ribbons fluttering, then looked back at him with that same bright smile she always seemed to carry so effortlessly.

“Thanks, Virg!” she chirped, the nickname hitting him in that familiar, embarrassing way it always did—half teasing, half affectionate, like she didn’t even realize how much power she had when she said things with that tone.

He swallowed. Hard.

“Yeah—sure,” he managed, voice softer than he intended.

She didn’t seem to notice. She was already jogging backward a few steps, waving with one hand while the other gathered her hair as she turned to run. “I’ll see you later!”

“Y-yeah…” Jirou echoed, barely more than a murmur.

He stood completely still as she sprinted off, her pink hair bouncing with every step, her laugh carrying faintly across the field as she rejoined her friends. The sun caught her again—bright, warm, unfairly radiant—and for a few seconds he forgot how to breathe.

His camera hung limp against his chest, forgotten.

He didn’t even try to look away.

He watched until she disappeared into the crowd of cheerleaders, swallowed up by ribbons, sunlight, and noise. But even after she was gone, his eyes stayed fixed on the spot where she’d stood, like he was waiting for something in him to settle.

It didn’t.

Instead, there was that same strange, guilty tightening in his chest—the one he kept trying to ignore, the one that only seemed to grow every time she smiled at him.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to force his attention back to the camera, back to the festival, back to anything that wasn’t her.

But no matter how hard he tried, her laughter still lingered like an echo he couldn’t shake.

Jirou swallowed again, throat tight for reasons he didn’t want to examine. His fingers fidgeted against the camera body, the familiar weight grounding him just enough to breathe. He didn’t know what was happening to him—not exactly—but he did know one thing with startling clarity:

He wanted to keep taking photos of Akari.

Just her.

Just that smile.

He didn’t have time to think about what that meant.

“HEY YAKUIN!”

His head snapped up at the sound of Natsumi’s voice cutting through the noise like a siren. She was waving both arms wildly, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong!?” Jirou called back, already jogging toward her, shoes thudding against the dirt.

Natsumi didn’t even wait for him to fully reach them before she blurted it out. “Do you think you can run in the relay for Mei? She hurt herself!”

“Huh?” Jirou blinked, caught completely off guard. “I don’t—I mean—I don’t know if—”

“It’s fine. Really. I can just do it.” Mei tried to push herself upright, but the wince she failed to hide gave her away instantly.

“No you can’t!” Natsumi snapped, practically vibrating with panic. “You can barely stand! Your ankle’s swelling!”

“Natsumi, calm down—” Mei sighed, attempting to put on her usual relaxed bravado, but her leg trembled when she shifted, and that alone made Natsumi look like she might cry.

“I’ll do it,” Jirou said suddenly.

Both girls turned toward him.

“You don’t have to do it,” Mei murmured, clearly conflicted—embarrassed even. She hated being fussed over.

“I’ll do it,” Jirou repeated, firmer this time.

Mei’s brows knit in surprise. “Are you sure? You weren’t planning to compete in anything.”

“I’m sure.” Jirou nodded once, decisive. “Better me than you hurting yourself worse.”

Relief washed over Natsumi’s face so quickly it was almost dizzying. “Okay—okay! Thank you! Seriously, thank you so much—now will you PLEASE come see the nurse!?”

“I don’t need to see the nurse,” Mei insisted, though the way she had to lean subtly into Natsumi for balance betrayed her instantly.

“Yes you DO!” Natsumi grabbed her arm, tugging insistently like a stubborn dog dragging its owner. “You’re going to make it worse! You can’t even walk right!”

Mei groaned loudly, dramatic and resigned, letting herself be pulled along. “Ugh, fine—fine! But only because you’re being annoying!”

“You love me,” Natsumi declared triumphantly, not even looking back as she hauled Mei toward the nurse’s tent.

“Unfortunately,” Mei muttered, but her hand slipped into Natsumi’s without her even realizing, fingers threading together naturally.

Jirou watched them for a moment—Natsumi fussing, Mei pretending to complain while actually melting under the attention. A pang hit his chest, unexpected and sharp. Something warm. Something… lonely.

He shook it off.

He had a race to run now.

He adjusted the camera strap around his neck, took a steadying breath, and headed toward the teacher organizing the relay.

Anything to keep his mind moving. Anything to keep his thoughts from drifting back to pink hair, sunlight, and that smile he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried.

Jirou stood in the lineup, trying to steady his breathing as the crowd buzzed around him. Minami had asked if he was sure—twice—but he just nodded, clutching the baton like it might slip from his fingers if he loosened his grip even a little. He wasn’t sure why he agreed so fast. Maybe because Mei genuinely looked like she’d collapse if she tried to run. Maybe because Natsumi’s panic made it impossible to say no. Or maybe because he finally wanted to do something that actually mattered.

From the track, he watched Minami take off. She moved like she was built for this—quick and focused, her legs cutting through the air. The cheers from Class 1–4 rose instantly, a wave of voices crashing together.

He swallowed hard and stepped forward.

When Minami approached, she stretched out the baton with a quick, breathless “Go!” and Jirou grabbed it, pushing off the ground with more force than he’d intended. The world blurred around him—the track, the other classes, the distant flags fluttering. But the noise wasn’t a blur. The noise was sharp.

They were shouting his name.

“Yakuin! Go, go, go!”

He’d never heard a crowd say his name before. Not like this. Not loudly. Not excitedly. He’d always been easy to overlook—quiet, forgettable, background filler in his own school. But right now, every voice seemed aimed directly at him. Natsumi was shouting with both hands cupped around her mouth. Sachi jumped up and down like the track was on fire. Shiori clapped so enthusiastically her bracelet jangled with every movement.

And Akari—Akari was smiling like she fully believed he could win this entire thing on his own. Her cheer cut through all the others, bright and impossible to miss.

Even Mei, wobbling on one leg with Natsumi supporting her, still lifted her pom-poms and waved them like she wasn’t in pain at all.

Jirou’s chest tightened—but not in a bad way. It felt warm. Full. Strange.

He wasn’t used to this kind of attention.

He wasn’t used to being seen.

But here he was, running as fast as his legs could carry him, surrounded by a chorus of classmates who—just for this moment—made him feel like he actually belonged to something. Like he wasn’t invisible at all.

 

Jirou wasn’t used to noise like this—not aimed at him, not wrapping around him like it meant something. His legs burned, lungs tight, heartbeat pounding like it wanted out of his chest, but none of it slowed him. Every step felt lighter, almost unreal, like the ground itself was pushing him forward.

He heard Natsumi’s high-pitched yell.
He heard Mei’s pom-poms snapping through the air.
He heard Shiori shouting, breathless with excitement.
He heard Akari—her voice clearest of all—calling his name like she believed in him more than he ever had.

 

“Go, Yakuin!”

He’d never heard his name shouted that loudly. He almost stumbled from the shock of it, but the relay track curved ahead, and he pushed harder. The baton felt hot in his hand; it didn’t matter. For once, he wasn’t invisible. For once, the world had its eyes on him.

Jirou crossed the finish line with a final burst of speed, breath tearing out of his chest. People erupted—his class screaming, clapping, jumping. He bent over, hands on his knees, trying to breathe, feeling like his whole body was buzzing.

Minami reached him first, laughing as she clapped his back. “Dude! You were fast! What was that!?”

Jirou was too winded to answer, barely able to shake his head while trying—and failing—not to smile like an idiot.

Natsumi grabbed his arm, practically shaking him. “JIROU YOU DID SO GOOD—seriously I was worried you’d trip or explode or something but you didn’t!!”

“Thanks…?” he wheezed.

Shiori giggled, brushing hair behind her ear. “That was really impressive, Jirou.”

But Akari—Akari came running, breathless from cheering so hard, eyes shining with this open, warm excitement that hit him harder than the race had.

“Jirou!” she skidded to a stop in front of him, grin wide. “You killed it out there!”

He swallowed. Hard.

“Oh—uh. Thanks,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Akari leaned in a little, hands behind her back, rocking on her heels. “I didn’t know you could run like that.”

“I didn’t either,” he mumbled, cheeks hot.

Akari laughed, bright and soft. “Well, I’m glad you did. You looked cool.”

His brain short-circuited.

Cool.
She said he looked cool.
Akari.

He forced himself to stay quiet before something embarrassing fell out of his mouth, but she didn’t linger long—someone else from her class called her name, and she waved as she stepped back.

“I’ll come find you later, okay?”

Jirou blinked. “O-okay.”

When she ran off, he stood there among the lingering cheers, his body still overheating from adrenaline and something warmer he refused to name.

For most of his life, he’d been background noise.

But today—just for a minute—he was someone people looked at.

And the person he wanted to notice most of all… actually had.

The week after the sports festival felt different—louder, lighter, as if everyone was still riding the high of the event. Jirou spent most of it sorting through the hundreds of photos he’d taken, printing out the best ones for the school newspaper. Naturally, Minami’s winning-shot ended up front and center; nobody questioned it.

In front of the display board, Sachi folded her arms. “Your boyfriend did half the work and his picture’s the size of a rice grain.”

Shiori laughed softly. “He was the photographer. It’s hard to photograph yourself while running.”

Natsumi leaned closer, squinting at the tiny cut-out of Jirou mid-sprint. “He looks kinda cute here. Like one of those mini figurines.”

Akari burst into laughter. “Imagine if they sold that—300 yen, limited edition, ‘Runner Virg.’” The whole group dissolved into laughter as they continued down the hall, still teasing, still smiling.

As they passed the classroom, Akari slowed. “Ah—think I left something in my desk. You guys go ahead.”

“We’ll be at Minami’s,” Sachi said. “Don’t make us wait too long.”

“Grab my usual order!” Akari called after them, waving as her friends disappeared around the corner.

She took a breath, stepped into the quiet classroom, and let the door click softly shut behind her.

Akari slipped into the classroom, the door clicking shut behind her as the others’ voices faded down the hall. The room was mostly empty—only a few desks pushed slightly out of place from earlier, sunlight streaming through the windows in narrow beams.

She walked toward her seat with an easy pace, humming lightly to herself as she opened her desk to rummage through loose notebooks and a pencil case she kept forgetting to take home.

Jirou, meanwhile, was at the back of the room sorting the last of the printed photos into envelopes, completely absorbed in lining them up neatly. He hadn’t expected anyone to come back—everyone had left excitedly for Minami’s place—so when he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him, he jumped a little.

Akari blinked, surprised to see him.

“Oh—Jirou? You’re still here? Did you finish printing everything?”

He nodded a little too fast. “Yeah. I just… wanted to print a few extras.”

He dug out the basic answer automatically. “It’s nothing, really. Just part of the job.”

But Akari wasn’t looking at the photos anymore—she was looking at him. And her smile softened in a way that made Jirou’s stomach tighten.

“You know,” she said gently, “they didn’t have to use your photo at all. But they still did. Even if it was tiny.”

Jirou made a face. “Don’t remind me.”

Akari laughed, stepping around to his side. “Hey, I liked it. You looked serious. And a little cute.”

Jirou nearly choked on air. “C-cute?”

“Well, yeah.” Akari shrugged casually, leaning one hand on the desk beside him. “I think you’re always a little cute.”

He froze entirely.

She didn’t seem to notice—she was busy scanning the photos again, picking up the one of her laughing mid-pose as sunlight hit her hair just right.

“Oh, this one turned out really good,” she said brightly. “You really know how to make someone look nice.”

“You made that easy,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

Akari paused.

A slow grin spread across her face. “Jirou… did you just compliment me?”

He tensed. “No.”

“You definitely did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” she sang, teasing still light but warmer than usual.

Jirou tried to glare but his face was too hot for it to be convincing.

Akari lifted the photo again, studying it.

“These are really nice,” she said. “You should stick with photography.”

“Thanks. I, uh… I was actually thinking about getting a camera of my own.”

“You should!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got talent.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” she grinned.

Jirou’s lips twitched upward without him meaning them to.

His eyes drifted to a small pom-pom charm hanging from her bag. “Uh… is that from cheer?”

“Oh—this?” Akari lifted the keychain. “Our captain made them as keepsakes. Cute, right?”

Jirou gave a small, amused snort. Akari stretched her arms above her head with a dramatic sigh.

“Now that the sports festival is over it feels… weird.”

“You’ve been saying that for like two hours,” Jirou chuckled, hands sliding into his pockets.

“Because it’s true,” she huffed. Then her eyes flicked to the camera. “You’re gonna return that now?”

“Yeah. Once I print the last few.”

“Then take a couple of me first!” Akari brightened, picking up the camera and holding it out to him.

“W-why?”

“Because I said please?” she grinned.

“Nope. I’m returning it.”

“That’s exactly why you should take a few more!” Akari insisted. “I wanna get a whole bunch in my uniform before graduation.”

“You can take photos after you graduate.”

“It’s not the same, Jirou!”

He sighed, defeated. “Fine.”

Akari lit up immediately.

Jirou took the camera and nodded toward the space between the desks. “You’re too close. Move back.”

“Okay!” Akari chirped, stepping back. “This good?”

“Yeah. You can… come a little closer if you want.” He raised the camera. “Alright—look at the lens for me.”

She did. He took a few shots. Then more. And then more, each click of the shutter syncing with the sound of his heartbeat getting louder and louder.

He adjusted her angle, fixed her posture, guided her with soft instructions. She laughed, teased, glowed with that effortless warmth only she had.

And somewhere between all those tiny moments—her smile, her trust, her eyes meeting his through the lens—something inside him finally snapped into focus.

I’m in love with Akari.

Jirou froze with the camera still raised, finger hovering over the shutter button. The words crashed through him so suddenly, so sharply, that for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

I’m in love with Akari.

The thought didn’t feel hypothetical or dramatic or mistakable—it felt like something that had been building for months, layer by layer, moment by moment, waiting for him to finally notice. And now that it hit him, it hit him all at once—loud, clear, undeniable.

Akari, meanwhile, was still happily adjusting her pose, completely unaware of the emotional earthquake going on behind the lens.

“Jirou! Hellooo?” she laughed, leaning forward slightly. “You zoning out already? Take the picture!”

He snapped back to reality so fast he nearly dropped the camera. “R-right—sorry. Uh—hold still.”

He lifted the camera again, trying desperately to steady his hands. His pulse thudded through his palms, the kind of heartbeat he only ever felt when he sprinted too fast or panicked too hard. But he couldn’t show it. He didn’t want her to see any of it—not when he himself didn’t even know how to deal with it yet.

Akari stepped a little more into the center of the classroom, adjusting her skirt and brushing loose strands of hair behind her ear as Jirou lifted the camera again. The afternoon light filtered in through the windows in warm gold beams, catching in her hair and outlining her like some kind of soft glow. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly a little more self-aware now that he was focusing on her rather than a crowd of athletes.

“Okay—uh—look here again,” Jirou murmured, tapping the top of the lens with one finger. He was trying hard to sound casual, but even he could hear the slight crack in his own voice.

Akari’s smile relaxed into something more natural—less posed, more her—and he snapped the shot. Then another. And another. She turned her head just slightly to the left, her ponytail swaying gently. The tiniest laugh slipped out of her, like she couldn’t help it.

“Wait—hold that,” Jirou said quickly.

“Huh?” She blinked.

“That expression. The… um… the one you just did.”

Akari frowned in confusion, trying to recreate it, lips pursing, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Like this?” she asked, tilting her head.

Jirou swallowed. “Y-yeah. Exactly.”

He snapped another photo before she could move.

Akari giggled. “Wow, you get bossier every time you hold a camera.”

“You’re the one who told me to take pictures,” he shot back without thinking.

“And you’re the one who’s actually doing it,” she teased, stepping a bit closer as if challenging him.

He reflexively took a step back to readjust the shot. “Stop moving.”

“You’re the one backing away!”

“Because you won’t stay still.”

Akari laughed again, softer this time, and Jirou took another picture before he could even decide if it was the right moment. It didn’t matter—it always was, somehow.

When she finally stopped fidgeting and let him position her properly, something in the room grew quiet. Not awkward—just… calm. Like the world had shrunk down to just the two of them, her soft breathing, the faint hum of the printer behind him, and the click of the shutter.

“Okay, last few,” Jirou whispered more to himself than to her.

He lifted the camera slowly, his hands steadier now but his chest anything but. Akari tucked a strand of hair behind her ear again—nervous habit, maybe, or just simple instinct. It didn’t matter. It made his breath catch. He framed the shot carefully, adjusting the angle until the light caught her eyes just right.

“Jirou,” she said suddenly.

He paused. “What?”

“You’re staring really hard,” she teased with a grin. “I didn’t know taking pictures required that much concentration.”

His face burned. “I’m trying to get the lighting right.”

“Well,” she said, leaning in just a little closer again, “I appreciate the effort.”

He stepped back again, flustered, and she giggled, rocking back on her heels.

“Okay,” he muttered, “hold still for real this time.”

She did. And he took the single best picture he’d taken all day—maybe ever. Something about the way she looked at him, the slight tilt of her smile, the softness that wasn’t usually there when she was loud and dramatic and teasing him in the hallway. This was different. Quiet. Honest.

He lowered the camera slowly.

Akari stayed where she was, watching him with curiosity. “Did it turn out good?”

He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. His heart was pounding too hard, thoughts spinning in ways he wasn’t prepared to deal with. The realization crept up on him so suddenly he almost felt dizzy from it.

How long had it been like this?

How long had he been looking at her this way?

How long had she—without even trying—become the person who made him forget everything else?

Akari stepped closer, just an inch, peeking at the camera screen. “Ooh, that one looks nice—wait, show me again—”

Jirou pulled the camera slightly away, trying to collect his thoughts. She didn’t notice—she was too busy reaching for the buttons.

“Hey, don’t delete it,” she warned him playfully, poking his arm. “That one’s my favorite already.”

“Yeah…” Jirou said quietly, eyes lingering on her without meaning to. “Mine too.”

Akari blinked, surprised by the softness in his voice. She opened her mouth to say something, but Jirou looked away too quickly, pretending to examine the next shot, his hands shaking just a little.

But inside—where he couldn’t run from it or deny it anymore—the truth settled heavily, warmly, terrifyingly.

I’m in love with Akari.

It wasn’t a maybe.
It wasn’t a confused thought.
It wasn’t something he could brush off or push down anymore.

It was real.

And it hit him so hard his breath stumbled.

Akari leaned close again, pointing at the screen. “Hey—can you print me that one later?”

“Y-yeah. Sure.”

“And another set for you too,” she said brightly. “You should keep your favorites.”

He froze for a second, but she didn’t even realize what she’d said—she was still scrolling through the pictures, humming happily.

Jirou watched her, the realization pounding in his chest with a mix of fear, wonder, and something too warm to name.

He didn’t know what would happen next.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

But he knew this:

He wanted more moments like this.
More of her smiles.
More of her teasing.
More of her looking at him like he mattered.
More of her in the light, in his camera, right in front of him.

More of Akari.

And for the first time since the sports festival—maybe for the first time in his life—Jirou didn’t feel invisible at all.

Akari’s eyes lit up the moment the idea struck her.
“Hey—we should take one together!”

Jirou blinked. “Why?”

“Why not?” she shot back immediately, hands on her hips like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He hesitated, then mumbled, “I mean… I guess so.”

“Great!” She beamed as he set the camera on a nearby desk, switching it to timer mode. He stepped back to stand beside her, trying to look normal, casual—anything but the flustered mess he actually was.

Akari, of course, immediately ruined any chance of that. She grabbed his arm for balance and reached up on her toes, fingers poised over his head.

“What are you—? Akari, stop,” Jirou groaned as she gave him bunny ears.

“You look adorable,” she teased, grinning mischievously. “Like one of those clueless mascots.”

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward anyway.

“Nuh-uh.” She stuck her tongue out.

Right as the camera blinked its countdown, Jirou shifted—just a tiny misstep, but enough to throw off his balance. He grabbed for the nearest desk, failed dramatically, and nearly took her down with him.

“Akari!” he yelped as they stumbled.

“You’re an idiot,” Akari laughed, brushing her skirt off as she stood up again.

Jirou rolled his eyes and retrieved the camera, flipping through the pictures to show her. “Here. Are you happy?”

She didn’t answer—just swiped through the photos with a focused look on her face, lower lip stuck out slightly like she was evaluating something important.

“I’ll print them out and give them to you later,” he said. “You don’t have to wait around.”

Akari’s expression softened immediately. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a quick but firm hug, squeezing his waist in gratitude. “Thanks, Jirou. We’re meeting at that café, okay? Don’t be long!”

She grabbed her bag and trotted toward the door, waving over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room strangely quiet—too quiet, considering it had been filled with their bickering and laughter only seconds ago.

Jirou exhaled, long and shaky, then sat down at the nearest desk with the camera balanced in his palms. The screen still showed the last image taken: the one where they'd both been off-balance, mid-laugh, almost falling over. Akari’s hand was gripping his sleeve to steady him, her smile wide enough to show the tiny crinkle in her cheek. His own expression—one he didn’t even remember making—was soft. Softer than he’d ever seen himself look. It startled him.

He flipped back to the first photo of the set.

The timer-shot one.

Akari on her tiptoes, leaning close to him, her fingers stretched up behind his head giving him bunny ears. Her grin was huge, bright enough that the afternoon light seemed to bounce off it. She was looking directly at him—not at the camera. At him.

And he…
He wasn’t looking at the camera either.

He was looking at her, mid-protest, mid-laugh, his hand halfway raised like he’d been about to swat hers away. But there was this warmth in his eyes—something he didn’t recognize at first because he’d never seen it there before.

He looked… happy.

Genuinely.

He swallowed hard and moved to the second shot.

This one had captured the exact moment he’d started losing his balance. The two of them were too close—closer than normal, closer than they’d ever been outside of bumping into each other in crowded hallways. Akari’s fingers were tangled in the sleeve of his uniform jacket as she’d instinctively grabbed onto him. She was laughing so hard her shoulders shook, her ponytail swinging wildly.

Jirou’s face was a blur of alarm and amusement, but even blurry, even mid-fall… the look felt natural. Like he belonged right there next to her, sharing something stupid and small and unbelievably important.

He scrolled again.

The third picture was after they’d hit the floor—Akari trying to keep her balance as she half-knelt beside him, Jirou propping himself up on an elbow looking up at her with a dazed expression. Her hair had fallen loose around her face, framing her cheeks, and she was reaching out to flick him on the forehead.

He didn’t even remember her flicking him.

But the photo caught it perfectly—her smile warm, his eyes wide and startled, their knees nearly touching.

Jirou sat back in the chair, heart hammering. The realization kept coming in waves—quiet, inevitable, undeniable.

They looked natural together.

Too natural.

Not just like classmates.
Not like two people forced into the same shot.
Not awkward strangers who happened to stand next to each other.

They looked like—

He shook his head quickly, trying to shut the thought down.

But the truth was already there, bright and impossible to ignore.

In the very first frame, she had her fingertips just brushing the top of his head, her smile wide and real, her eyes squinting in that way that always made his chest feel weird. He wasn’t even looking at the camera—he was looking at her, caught in the act.

And it wasn’t embarrassing.
It wasn’t ugly.
It wasn’t weird.

It looked… natural.

Like they were used to being close.
Like she always tugged him around by the sleeve.
Like he always leaned a bit toward her without thinking.

Like they fit.

He swallowed hard.

There was the photo right when he slipped—his expression caught between panic and disbelief, Akari’s knees buckling as she instinctively grabbed onto him. She was laughing even as she fell, her hair shifting forward, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. They were both mid-collapse, chaos and closeness captured in one frame.

And somehow even that looked… right.

Jirou stared at it longer than he meant to.

His thumb slid to the next one—a slightly crooked angle since the camera had shifted after they fell. Akari was pushing herself up off the floor, her cheeks a little flushed, brushing dust off her skirt. And he—off to the side—was half rising, still looking at her.

He hadn’t realized he’d been looking at her that much.

But the camera didn’t lie.

Another photo showed them right as Akari popped up again, fixing her hair with one hand while she stretched the other toward him, scolding him with a grin.

And then the last one—the one taken just before they both moved away completely. They were both slightly out of breath, slightly flushed, slightly disheveled… and almost smiling at each other.

Jirou’s breath caught.

He didn’t know how to describe it.

But if someone else saw this picture—just this one moment—they would assume something. They would see two people who belonged together. Who understood each other. Who could fall over laughing on a classroom floor and still look comfortable side by side.

He liked the second photo best. The one right before the fall. The one where Akari had turned to look at him, laughter in her eyes and trust in her grip, like she knew he’d steady her even though he absolutely didn’t.

She really did that thing when she laughed—her eyes squinted shut just enough that her lashes curved upward, the corners of her mouth lifting like she couldn’t contain all the light inside her. She always got like that when she found something genuinely funny, something real—not her loud, dramatic laugh she tossed around in groups, but the smaller, brighter one that slipped out without permission.

And he looked at her like…

Like she mattered.

Like she’d become someone important without him even noticing it happening.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the sharp thump-thump-thump that refused to calm down.

Akari had hugged him before leaving.

She’d squeezed his waist and rested her cheek briefly against his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like hugging him wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

He could still feel the pressure of her arms, the faint vanilla scent of her shampoo, the warmth that lingered even after she walked out the door. He wasn’t used to being touched—especially not hugged. Especially not by someone like her. Someone so bright she lit up every room she entered.

Someone he couldn’t stop looking at anymore.

He stared at the timer photo one more time, running his thumb over the screen, feeling something twist inside him.

They didn’t look mismatched.
They didn’t look awkward.
They didn’t look like an accident.

They looked like a moment caught between two people who fit together without realizing it.

He let out a small, helpless laugh.

“…I’m in so much trouble.”

Jirou sat slowly on the nearest chair, camera still in his hands.

His fingers brushed the edge of the screen again.

The photo of Akari leaning in with bunny ears—her eyes bright, her smile radiating warmth—lingered for a long moment before he switched the display off altogether. Because staring at it too long made his chest feel tight in a way he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

The hug she gave him replayed in his mind too easily. How casually she’d wrapped her arms around him. How she’d pressed her cheek briefly against him without hesitation. How she’d squeezed his waist like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Thanks, Jirou.”

His name in her voice was something far too dangerous.

He set the camera down gently, afraid that if he held it any longer the swirl of emotions would swallow him whole.

The chair creaked a little as he leaned back, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him answers. It didn’t.

But the truth was there anyway, crystal clear and undeniable.

He liked taking pictures of her because she was easy to photograph.

He liked taking pictures of her because she made every frame feel alive.

He liked taking pictures of her because she always ended up looking straight at him with that bright, unfiltered expression that made everything inside him twist.

But deeper than that—far deeper—was something he couldn’t hide from anymore.

He liked seeing her smile.

He liked when she teased him.

He liked how she always gravitated toward him just a little.

He liked that she noticed him when most people didn’t.

He liked that she was the first to cheer for him without hesitation.

He liked her.

He liked Akari.

He liked her so much it scared him.

Jirou pressed the heel of his palm lightly to his forehead, trying to steady himself.

The photos weren’t just photos.
They were proof.
Evidence of something he’d been denying, ignoring, brushing off, pretending wasn’t there.

No matter how natural it looked—no matter how much the pictures made it seem—Akari was Akari. Bright. Popular. Loud. Unpredictable. Someone who could walk into any room and instantly make it feel different.

And he was… Jirou. The background character. The guy people occasionally remembered existed.

But as he stared at the camera resting beside his hand, at the tiny reflection of the two of them on the blank screen, another thought crept in quietly:

Natural or not…
Real or not…

He liked the way they looked together.

He liked it too much.

He exhaled slowly, almost shakily, letting the truth settle in his chest the way a camera lens finally focuses into clarity.

He gathered the camera carefully, standing up to head toward the printer again—because she’d be waiting for those photos, waiting at the café, waiting with that bright grin and her impatient tapping heel.

And even if it scared him—
Even if he didn’t know what it meant—
Even if his heart felt like it was trying to sprint out of his ribcage—

He knew one thing for sure:

He wasn’t going to keep her waiting.

He slid the photos into a few envelopes and labelled them, packed the camera carefully, and slung his bag over his shoulder.

As he stepped out of the classroom and into the quiet hallway, one thought echoed again and again, louder than the click of the door behind him or the distant chatter from the courtyard below:

He wanted the real thing.
Not just photos.
Not just moments on accident.

He wanted more time with her.
More smiles directed at him.
More of her teasing, her laugh, her hand brushing his sleeve.
More reasons to take pictures of her.
More reasons to stand next to her.

He wanted Akari—

And he finally understood it fully.

Completely.

Unmistakably.

Notes:

PLEASE SOMEONE TELL ME THEY GOT THE REFRENCE

Chapter 15: I'm Sorry

The little bell above the café door jingled softly as Jirou stepped inside, a rush of warm air and familiar chatter wrapping around him immediately. It smelled like iced coffee, citrus cleaners, and the faint sweetness of whatever pastries Minami’s manager had baked for the day. Afternoon sunlight spilled across the floor in soft gold patches, catching on chrome counters and half-filled glasses.

And, of course, the noise.

The moment Jirou entered, the whole corner where Class 2-B had gathered felt like it shifted toward him—voices lifting, hands waving, eyes turning his way.

“Hey, Jirou!” Minami called from behind the counter, waving with the hand not holding a cloth. “We were taking bets on whether you got lost.”

“I did not,” Jirou muttered.

“It was mostly Kamo,” Minami added.

Kamo laughed loudly from where he sat sprawled between Sachi and Sachi’s phone. “Come on, man! You disappear for ten minutes and we assume you got abducted or something.”

Mei waved at him too, pom-pom keychain bouncing from her bag. “Hi, Jirou!”

Shiori looked up from the straw she was absently stirring into her drink. Their eyes met briefly—hers widened for half a second—then she glanced away again. Whether out of shyness or something else, Jirou couldn’t tell.

And then—

Akari lifted her head, spotted him, and beamed.

The kind of smile that lit up her whole face. The kind that made the fluorescent lights look dull.

She waved at him excitedly, calling his name in that bright tone that always seemed to find him first in a crowd.

He tried his best to look normal, offering a small nod, but inside his chest everything tripped over itself. Her hair was tied back in a loose ribbon today, her uniform slightly wrinkled from the sports festival cleanup and running around. There was still a faint glow of leftover adrenaline in her face, still that same spark she’d had earlier in the classroom when she’d been teasing him and laughing so loud the walls practically echoed.

Jirou swallowed, hard.

He forced himself forward.

He grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and dragged it toward theirs. The chair scraped a little on the floor, earning him a few glances, but he focused on sitting—on doing something that didn’t involve staring at Akari like an idiot.

“I just had to return the camera,” he grumbled as he dropped into the seat.

“Slowly,” Kamo teased. “Like you were savoring the moment.”

“I wasn’t,” Jirou snapped a little too fast.

Of course, the table immediately erupted.

Mei snickered into her drink.
Natsumi elbowed her with a grin.
Shiori quietly covered her mouth to hide a smile.
Sachi leaned back, absolutely reveling. “He’s flustered. I love this.”
Minami, from behind the counter, simply laughed.

Jirou shifted in his seat, trying to regain some sense of normalcy as the table’s teasing finally died down into little pockets of laughter. He reached for his bag, fingers brushing the stack of envelopes he’d brought, and pulled out the one with Mei’s name scribbled at the top.

Mei noticed immediately.

“Ooh—do you have the photos of Natsu and me?” she asked, leaning in with an adorable, over-eager tilt of her head. Her ponytail swished with the movement, the silver clips near her temple glittering in the afternoon light.

“Uh—yeah. Here.”
He slid the envelope across the table.

Mei took it with an excited grin, already pulling it open. “Yes! I’ve been waiting all day.”

Next to her, Natsumi snorted. “You say that like she didn’t text you twenty times last night,” she said, elbowing Mei, who swatted at her in embarrassment.

Jirou allowed the small smile that tugged at his mouth—it was always like this with them. Loud. Dramatic. Familiar.

But then—

“Um.”

The word was so soft he almost missed it.
Shiori lifted her head slightly, fingers wrapping and unwrapping around her straw. She looked like she wasn’t sure if she should speak at all, her voice barely above the low murmur of the café.

“Did… did you take any of me?”

The air around the table shifted—not in a dramatic way, but in a subtle, almost delicate one. Shiori almost never asked for attention. When she did, it felt like a small and rare bird landing in the open.

Jirou blinked, caught off guard.
For a moment he just stared—her eyes were big, hesitant, hopeful in the quietest way.

And then he remembered himself.

“Oh—yeah. Of course I did,” he said, offering her a small, slightly awkward smile.

Shiori’s breath hitched the tiniest bit. Her whole expression brightened—soft, not loud like Akari, not sparkling like Mei—just warm. Warm enough to feel like it seeped right into him.
“Thank you, Jirou,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
But the smile that followed was real. Small. Gentle. The kind that always looked like she was trying not to take up too much space, but couldn’t hide her gratitude even if she tried.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “No problem.”

Sachi didn’t even try to hide how she leaned forward, eyes bouncing between the two of them like she was watching the first five minutes of a drama she’d accidentally walked in on.

“Did we miss something here?” she asked, one brow arched so high it practically hit her bangs.

“What? No—everything’s fine,” Jirou said a little too quickly, his voice flattening into that defensive tone that always betrayed him. He shifted in his seat without thinking, edging slightly closer to Shiori—as if proximity alone could smooth over the tension that had been lingering between them since earlier in the week.

The movement didn’t go unnoticed.

Minami’s gaze sharpened. “Are you sure? You two are acting weird.”

It wasn’t accusatory, just observant. Minami was annoyingly good at that.

Shiori straightened in her chair, fingers gently curling around the edge of the table. She wasn’t a dramatic person; when she lied, she didn’t fidget or look guilty. She just became… quieter. Softer. Like she was afraid of stepping on something fragile.

“No—we’re fine,” Shiori said, her tone even but just a touch too delicate.

It wasn’t fine.

Not after the conversation they’d had earlier in the week.
Not after Jirou—awkward, overwhelmed, sincere Jirou—had asked her for a break.
Not after Shiori had nodded, trying to understand even though it clearly hurt her.

They’d been careful since then. Polite. Gentle. Almost overly so.

But now, sitting side by side again, Jirou’s knee almost brushing hers, Shiori’s shoulder angled toward him instinctively—there was a thin thread between them, frayed but not broken, pulled tight by every glance they shared.

Sachi’s eyes narrowed in the most suspicious way possible.

She murmured under her breath, “and now you’re all awkard… interesting…”

“Can you not,” Jirou muttered.

But Shiori didn’t pull away from him.
If anything, her hand relaxed slightly near his on the table, as if she wasn’t ready to close the distance but also wasn’t ready to let it go entirely.

And her voice, when she spoke again, held quiet certainty beneath the softness.

“We’re figuring it out,” she said simply.

Minami blinked. “Oh.”

Akari watched Jirou with a flicker of something unreadable.

But Shiori—Shiori finally let herself meet Jirou’s eyes for half a second, and the look that passed between them said more than any explanation ever could.

Jirou pushed himself up from the table with a quiet scrape of the chair, murmuring, “I’m gonna go order something,” before anyone could question him further. He kept his head down, shoulders a little hunched, trying not to let the weight in his chest show. As he stepped away, his eyes flicked—just for a second—toward Akari.

She wasn’t looking at him.

Akari sat with her elbows lightly against the table, picking at her fingers in that absent, fidgety way she only did when she didn’t want anyone to notice her expression. Her hair fell forward like she was hiding behind it. She hadn’t smiled since he walked in. Not really. And every part of her body language said she was trying not to think.

The distance between them felt heavy.

Shiori watched him go, too. Her gaze tracked him all the way to the counter—soft, hopeful in a way that twisted painfully inside his chest. She looked like someone waiting for a sign, waiting for a moment, waiting for him to sit back down beside her and everything to fall back into place.

But he moved like someone running away.

Once he was closer to the counter—far enough that the others’ chatter became a quiet blur—Jirou shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His fingers curled into fists inside the fabric, nails pressing into his palms. He felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. He felt guilty—so crushingly guilty it made his throat ache.

He didn’t want to hurt Shiori.
She didn’t deserve that.
Out of everyone in his life, she’d been steady, kind, patient. She liked him in a quiet way that made him feel seen instead of overwhelmed.

But he couldn’t pretend.

Not when something inside him kept pulling in a direction he didn’t understand. Not when every time Akari laughed, something in him cracked open. Not when he caught himself watching her when he wasn’t supposed to. Not when he felt things he wasn’t ready to admit—things that made him feel like a terrible person.

He didn’t even know if Akari liked him back.
Some days she looked at him like she did.
Some days she acted like he was nothing more than a friend-with-a-camera.

And Shiori…
Shiori cared about him so deeply she’d agreed to take a “break” even when the word itself had made her shoulders tremble.

He didn’t know how to tell her he couldn’t be with her.
He didn’t know how to say he’d been drifting away even before he realized it.
He didn’t know how to explain that he was falling toward someone else without risking losing them both.

Because if he ended it… Shiori would hurt.
If he confessed why… Shiori would break.
And if he was wrong about Akari—if he misread everything, if she didn’t return the feelings—then he’d be alone, completely, watching Akari smile at someone else while knowing he’d given up something safe and good for nothing.

Could he go back to that?
Constantly longing for someone from a distance?
Waiting for scraps of attention, hoping for moments that would never come?

His heart felt stretched in two directions—one familiar, one terrifying.
One safe, one full of possibility.
One he knew he could hold onto… and one he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.

He stared up at the menu board without seeing a single word.

His chest tightened.
His mouth went dry.
His feelings were becoming too big to hide.

And he still didn’t know which choice would break him more.

They left the café together because that’s what they always did—out of habit, out of routine, out of the part of their relationship that still moved on its own even when everything inside it had stalled.

The early evening air was warm, cicadas humming somewhere in the background, but between them it felt strangely cold.

Shiori walked half a step behind him at first, then beside him once she realized he wasn’t going to slow down. She kept her eyes pinned to her phone, the bright screen giving her something—anything—to focus on so she didn’t have to meet his eyes. Her thumb hovered over the screen without typing a single thing. Notifications popped up and faded. She wasn’t reading them.

She didn’t know what to say.
She didn’t know what would help.
She didn’t know if anything could.

Her chest felt tight in that small, anxious way she hated, the kind that made her swallow every few seconds just to keep her voice steady. She’d spent days trying to figure out what she did wrong, what she missed, what she could fix. But every theory she came up with crumbled when she remembered the way he looked away from her now, the way he hesitated when he talked, the way he refused to meet her eyes for too long.

She wished she could just ask.
She wished she could be brave.
She wished he’d give her something—some sign they weren’t slipping through each other’s fingers.

But all she had was silence.

Jirou walked with his hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders curved in like he was trying to make himself smaller. He didn’t say anything either. He didn’t even look at the screen she kept staring down at. He knew she wasn’t actually reading it. He could feel the quiet worry radiating off her, and guilt pressed harder into his ribs with every step.

He didn’t know how to start this conversation.
He didn’t know how to fix something he’d already cracked.
And he didn’t know how to tell her the truth without hurting her in the worst way.

The silence stretched.

Streetlights flickered on above them, casting long shadows across the pavement. Shiori’s hair glowed softly under the light, but she kept her head down, clutching her phone like a shield.

Finally—barely above a whisper—she spoke.

“…Jirou.”

His heart jolted.
He looked over, just slightly.

Shiori still didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on her phone, fingers fidgeting with the edges of the case.

“I know things are… weird,” she said quietly, voice careful, too careful. “And I know you needed space this week. I just…”

She swallowed, hard.

“…I just hope maybe we can… figure it out. Whatever it is.”

There was no accusation.
No bitterness.
Just tired hope—fragile and soft around the edges.

Jirou felt the words hit him like a punch.

She wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t demanding anything.
She wasn’t blaming him.

She just wanted a chance.

He didn’t deserve that kindness.
He didn’t deserve how gentle she was being.
He didn’t deserve Shiori standing next to him and still believing there was something worth saving.

And he didn’t know how he was supposed to answer without breaking her heart or lying to her face.

He opened his mouth—
then closed it.

Because for the first time in their entire relationship…
he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

Shiori stopped walking—not fully, just for half a second—because the words were exactly what she wanted to hear, but the way he said them felt like a door closing instead of opening.

“Me too.”
Soft.
Quiet.
Barely formed.
And his eyes stayed locked on the pavement, like looking at her would make the words fall apart.

She lifted her gaze slowly, watching him out of the corner of her eye. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was tight. His hands were still deep in his pockets like he was afraid they’d shake if he took them out.

It wasn’t reassurance.
It wasn’t comfort.
It was… an obligation.
And it hurt.

She bit the inside of her cheek, grounding herself, keeping her expression neutral even while something in her chest trembled.

“…Okay,” she whispered, nodding once, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “I’m glad.”

But he could hear the strain in her voice.
He could hear the disappointment she tried to iron out.
He could hear the tiny tear in the middle of the word glad.

The guilt twisted again, sharp and immediate. He knew she deserved someone who could look her in the eye when he said things like that. Someone who meant it. Someone who wasn’t thinking of someone else every time she smiled at him.

He hated himself for hesitating.

They kept walking, side by side, but it felt like there was an entire hallway between them now.

Shiori waited a few seconds—five, ten, fifteen—hoping he’d add something, explain something, give her even one extra word to grab onto.

But the silence stretched thin again.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tried to smile, even though it felt uneven. “…Do you want to walk home together? Or, um… I can go ahead first if you’re tired.”

She wasn’t asking because it mattered logistically.
She was asking because she needed to know if he wanted to be around her at all.

Jirou swallowed, the guilt tightening further around his ribs. He hated that she sounded like she was afraid of bothering him. He hated that he caused that. He hated that he couldn’t give her what she wanted—not honestly.

He still couldn’t look at her. Not yet.

“Together’s fine,” he mumbled.

Another answer that sounded right on paper and wrong in the air.

Shiori smiled again—small, thin, grateful—but her eyes flickered, just for a second, with something that looked like resignation.

“Okay,” she said softly.

They started walking again.

But even as they moved side by side, their shadows on the pavement no longer overlapped.

“I’m fine.”

It came out sharper than he intended—too sharp, enough that the air around them tightened. The moment the word left his mouth, Jirou winced internally. He hadn’t meant for it to bite like that. He hadn’t meant to let the frustration in his chest slip out and cut her.

Shiori stopped walking.

Not dramatically—just a small, startled pause, her steps faltering like someone had tugged a thread she was balancing on.

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she looked down, staring at the pavement as if it had suddenly become incredibly important. Her fingers tightened around her phone, knuckles going pale.

“…Okay,” she murmured, voice so soft it barely made it past her lips.

The word was small and delicate, like she was afraid raising her voice would set him off again. And the guilt that slammed into Jirou felt immediate and suffocating.

He opened his mouth—some half-formed apology sitting on his tongue—but he couldn’t push it out. If he apologized, if he softened now, she might think things were fine. She might think he just needed a bit of reassurance. She might think he was still trying.

And he didn’t know if he could give her that.

Shiori walked again, just a little ahead of him now. Not far. Not enough to look like she was avoiding him. But enough that he could see how stiff her shoulders were beneath her uniform. Enough that he could see she was fighting not to show how much it hurt.

She tried again after a moment—hesitant, fragile.

“I just… I want to understand,” she whispered. “We were doing so well before. You were happy, weren’t you?”

Her voice trembled—just once, barely—but Jirou heard it. He always noticed the small things. He hated himself for wishing he didn’t right now.

“I was,” he answered automatically, because it was the only thing he could say without lying outright.

And Shiori let out a breath that wasn’t quite relief.

“Then what changed?” she asked quietly. “Did I… do something? Or say something? If I did, just tell me. I can fix it.”

The desperation in her tone wasn’t loud—it was worse than that. It was quiet, steady, the sound of someone trying to hold themselves together with both hands.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling.

“Shiori… it’s not you,” he said, voice low.

“Then what is it?” she pressed, still not looking at him. “Please, Jirou, I don’t want to guess anymore.”

He wanted to tell the truth. He wanted to be honest. He wanted to free her from this.

But the words felt stuck in his throat, thick and painful. How was he supposed to tell her that while she was thinking about how to fix things, he couldn’t stop thinking about someone else? How was he supposed to tell her she’d done nothing wrong, and that was exactly the problem—that he couldn’t love her the way she deserved?

So instead he whispered:

“I’m just… tired.”

It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the truth either.

Shiori nodded slowly, swallowing. “Okay. Then… I’ll try not to bother you. Just let me know what you need. I want to help, even if you don’t want to talk about it.”

She still wouldn’t look at him.

And Jirou had never felt more like the villain in his own story.

The apartment door clicked shut behind him, and the sound echoed in the quiet hallway like something final. Jirou didn’t bother to take off his shoes at first—he just stood there for a moment, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to breathe past everything pressing against his ribs.

He didn’t want to think.
He didn’t want to replay the conversation.
He didn’t want to remember the look on Shiori’s face.

But his mind wouldn’t stop.

He kicked off his shoes mechanically and made his way down the hall, each step feeling heavier than the one before it. The living room light was off. The kitchen was untouched. He passed them without a glance.

His room.

He just needed his room.

The lock clicked almost too loudly as he shut the door behind him. He didn’t bother turning on the light. He didn’t need it. He knew exactly where his bed was—he moved on instinct, dropping face-first into the mattress the second he reached it.

The blanket bunched under him, but he didn’t fix it. He just froze there, sprawled on top of the covers like all the air had left his body.

And finally, without anyone around to see, he let himself unravel.

His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them like he needed something solid to anchor him. His chest hurt—tight, aching, messy. Everything he’d been forcing down all day was pressing upwards now, fighting to reach the surface.

It was too much.

He buried his face in the pillow to smother the sound of his own breath shaking. He wasn’t crying—he wasn’t—but he was close enough for the line to blur.

He hated this.
He hated the guilt.
He hated himself for putting Shiori through that.
He hated that Akari’s face kept rising in his mind no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

But lying there in the dim silence, he knew the truth he hadn’t spoken out loud:

He already had.

And the worst part—the part that made him shut his eyes tighter—was that the only thing he wanted right now wasn’t Shiori’s comfort.

It was Akari’s laugh.
Akari’s smile.
Akari’s stupid bunny ears from earlier.

Akari.

Jirou pressed his forehead harder into the pillow, like maybe he could push the thought out of his skull if he tried hard enough.

He felt horrible.
He felt selfish.
He felt like a coward.

And still—even through all that guilt—he couldn’t stop the small, awful whisper in the back of his mind:

I wish it was her.

Akari stirred the pot slowly, watching the broth circle in soft, lazy spirals as steam curled up toward her face. The apartment kitchen felt warmer than usual—not from the stove, but from the pressure sitting somewhere deep under her ribs, something she kept pretending she could ignore.

She bit her tongue again, a tiny sting grounding her for only a second.

She wished cooking helped more.

Behind her, the faint sound of Minami’s voice drifted from his room—half-laughing, half-focused, talking to whoever was on the other end of the call. Akari was glad he was distracted. It meant he didn’t hear the way her spoon clinked unevenly against the pot whenever her hands trembled just a little too much.

She hated this.

She hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about Jirou.

Every time she managed to convince herself she’d moved on—that her crush had been just a passing spark, something she’d shrug off eventually—he’d do something small, unintentional, infuriating that pulled her right back in. The way he’d compliment her photos without meaning to. The way he’d tried not to smile earlier. The way he always looked surprised that anyone cared about him at all.

It made everything hurt more.

Akari braced one hand on the counter, trying to steady her breath. She stared into the pot like it held the answer to something. Anything.

She kept telling herself she had no right to feel this way anymore.
He was dating Shiori.
He was trying to make things work.
She was supposed to be over it.

She wanted to be over it.

But every time she saw him—every time he laughed, or looked flustered, or even said her name—she felt her resolve slip like warm butter between her fingers.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

And she hated that she still drifted toward him without meaning to, like some part of her heart hadn’t gotten the memo that she was supposed to stop caring.

She stirred the pot again, but her eyes were distant, unfocused.

Because no matter how hard she tried to push herself in the opposite direction…

Her heart kept turning back to him.

The door swung open, the sound loud in the quiet room. Jirou stepped out of the bedroom, keeping his eyes on the floor, as he made his way to the front door.

"Jirou..." Shiori looked up at him

"I have to go", Jirou said, sliding his shoes on and opening the door.

"Wait, you can't-" the words died on her tongue as he disappeared down the hallway she tried to follow. But her legs wouldn't move.

Shiori stayed frozen in the hallway long after he’d disappeared around the corner. The soft echo of his footsteps faded, but the weight of his absence settled in her chest like something dense and cold. She reached up and wiped hurriedly at her eyes, but the tears only threatened harder, stinging, gathering, blurring the edges of the world.

She’d spent weeks pretending everything was fine, telling herself he was just busy, just tired, just stressed. That once things settled down they’d talk like they used to. Laugh like they used to. Look at each other the same way they had before everything suddenly felt… different.

But the moment he avoided her gaze—really avoided it, like looking at her might break him—she felt something inside her twist sharply.

She stepped back until her shoulders touched the wall, needing something solid to lean against. Her breath shook as she tried to steady herself, pressing the back of her hand to her lips to keep quiet. It had been so long since she’d last heard him say anything meaningful. So long since she’d felt like she actually knew what he was thinking. And the silence—his silence—had become something she feared more than any argument.

Was he slipping away on purpose? Was he trying to spare her feelings by keeping his distance? Was there someone else? Someone he could talk to the way he couldn’t talk to her anymore?

She hated the thought, but the doubt clawed its way up no matter how hard she pushed it down.

Shiori closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even sure she had the energy to be. She was just scared—scared of losing him, scared of guessing wrong, scared of waiting for answers that might never come.

She wanted to chase after him, to grab his hand, to ask him to stay, to talk, to tell her anything. But the way he’d said “I have to go”—quiet, rushed, almost apologetic—held her in place. He wasn’t ready. And she didn’t want to push him further away.

Still… watching him walk off without looking back felt like watching a door close slowly, inch by inch.

She swallowed hard and whispered to no one, “Please don’t let this be the end… not like this.”

And then, with a shaky breath, she straightened up, wiped her eyes again, and tried to prepare herself for whatever came next—even though her heart wasn’t ready for any of it.

Jirou kept moving even though every part of him felt like it wanted to stop.

The city around him blurred into nothing—just lights and noise that didn’t touch him. His hands stayed shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense, head down. He wasn’t rushing anywhere, but he also couldn’t bring himself to turn back toward home. It was easier to walk, to feel the rhythm of his footsteps instead of the heaviness twisting in his chest.

Every few seconds he tried to think about something else—literally anything else—but his mind kept dragging him back to the same place. To the conversation. To the look in her eyes. To the words he’d managed to get out and the ones he hadn’t.

He didn’t regret saying it.

He just didn’t know what to do with the aftermath.

He kicked lightly at a pebble on the sidewalk, watching it skitter ahead before losing it to the dark. His breath came out shaky even though the night air wasn’t cold. He kept replaying moments—tiny ones that didn’t matter to anyone else but stuck to him like glue. Things he wished he’d said differently. Things he wished he hadn’t said at all.

A few people passed him, laughing, talking loudly, completely absorbed in their own worlds. It made him feel even more isolated, like he wasn’t really part of any of it.

He stopped at a crosswalk, staring at the red light without really seeing it.

He wasn’t falling apart, but he also wasn’t okay. His thoughts were too loud, too heavy, piling up in ways that made his chest tight. It was the kind of feeling you don’t want to talk about but also don’t want to face alone.

As the light changed, he stayed still for a moment before stepping forward again, slower this time.

He wasn’t sure where he was going.

He just knew he couldn’t go back yet—not until he could trust himself to breathe normally again.

Jirou’s steps slowed as he pulled his phone out again, the screen lighting up his face with that familiar blue glow. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the background photo he’d set months ago—something simple, something that felt steady at the time.

Now it only made his stomach twist.

He locked the screen quickly, shoving the phone back into his pocket like touching it burned.

He couldn’t go home. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

The weight of it wasn’t the dramatic kind—it was quieter, more suffocating. He cared about Shiori. He really did. He respected her, and he never wanted to hurt her. But the thought of walking through the door, pretending he was the same person he’d been even a week ago…

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

There was no pretending anymore. Not when someone else kept slipping into his mind without warning—when thoughts about them hit him harder and lingered longer than they should.

He hated how guilty that made him feel.

He hated how true it was.

A train rumbled nearby as he crossed a small bridge, the sound vibrating through the railing under his fingers. He leaned on it for a second, staring down at the tracks below while he tried to steady his breathing. He wasn’t in danger—just overwhelmed. Just exhausted in a way that wasn’t physical.

He wished he could switch off his head for a few minutes. Just a few.

But every time he blinked, he saw that other person’s smile. Heard their voice. Felt the pull he’d been trying so hard to ignore.

If he went home now, Shiori would look at him the same way she always did—warm, trusting, comfortable. And he wouldn’t be able to look back without feeling like he was lying.

He pushed off the railing and continued walking again, the night stretching out in front of him.

He didn’t know where he was supposed to go.

He just knew he couldn’t go back to her door with this storm still spinning inside him.

Jirou’s pace faltered as he passed the couple—hands intertwined, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder, whispering something that made both of them burst into soft, breathless laughter. It was such a small, ordinary moment, the kind people usually overlooked as part of the scenery.

But for him, it landed like a punch.

His throat tightened, and he dropped his gaze to the pavement, forcing himself forward. The air felt heavier now, almost sticky against his skin, each breath dragging in slow and uneven. He didn’t resent the couple. He didn’t envy them, either.

What twisted inside him was the reminder—sharp, unavoidable—of how far he’d drifted from what he was supposed to feel.

He kept walking, but the more distance he put behind him, the louder the truth echoed. It didn’t matter how many streets he crossed, how many turns he took—the storm in him followed.

By the time he reached a quiet stretch of road lined with closed shops and dim streetlights, the realization hit him so suddenly he stopped in his tracks.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t go home and smile through the tension. Couldn’t sit next to Shiori on the couch pretending his chest didn’t twist every time she leaned close. Couldn’t keep acting like loving her came naturally, like nothing had changed.

Because everything had changed.

His shoulders slumped as he stared at the ground, the weight of the admission sinking deeper.

He wasn’t in love with her anymore.

He still cared. Deeply. Enough to feel sick with guilt. Enough to feel like breaking apart at the thought of hurting her.

But love—the kind he was trying to force himself to feel—had shifted, reformed, and settled somewhere else entirely.

With someone he wasn’t supposed to want. Someone he kept pulling himself away from only to drift right back toward in his thoughts. Someone whose presence filled his chest in a way that was effortless, terrifyingly effortless.

He covered his face with both hands, dragging in a slow breath. The night air stung his eyes, but he didn’t know if it was the cold or something else.

He couldn’t keep pretending.

Not for her sake. Not for convenience. Not out of fear of the fallout.

Not when every lie chipped away at both of them.

He lowered his hands, staring at the empty street ahead of him. There was no clarity about what came next—not about how to break things cleanly, or how to explain the mess inside him without sounding cruel. He had no plan, no script, no comforting lie left to lean on.

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Going back to Shiori and pretending they were still happy… that was no longer something he could force himself to do.

The truth was already clawing its way out.

And soon, he’d have to face it.

Akari’s knife hit the cutting board with a sharper, louder thunk than she meant, the sound echoing in the too-quiet kitchen. Each slice sent tiny bits of carrot scattering, some rolling off to the side as if even the vegetables were trying to get away from the storm swirling inside her chest.

She clenched her jaw, shoulders tight. She wasn’t angry at Jirou. She knew that—deep down, she knew it with a heavy, sinking certainty. None of this was his fault.

She was angry at herself.

For the way her heart still tripped whenever he looked in her direction. For the way her mind replayed conversations that weren’t even special—conversations he’d probably forgotten ten minutes after they happened. For the way he felt like gravity, pulling her in no matter how much she told herself to stop, to grow up, to move on.

The knife came down again—thunk. thunk. thunk.
Too fast, too forceful, and her fingers were getting a little too close, but she didn’t slow down.

He wasn’t hers.

He had someone. A girlfriend. Someone he’d chosen. Someone he’d welcomed into that part of himself Akari could only hover around the edges of. Someone he’d held hands with, laughed with, walked home with. Someone who got the version of him Akari never would—steady, committed, certain.

Her stomach twisted.

Why couldn’t she just let it go?

Why couldn’t she be normal, supportive, the friend she was supposed to be instead of this useless storm of feelings that only hurt, only complicated, only made things worse?

She exhaled shakily,
He probably sees me like a kid, she thought bitterly.
Or a nuisance.
Or the loud one.
The clingy one.
The one who’s always around, always talking, always trailing just a step too close behind.

A little sister.

Someone harmless.
Someone safe because she wasn’t a threat.

Never someone he could fall for.

That was the part that stung the most—the certainty of it. No matter how long she’d known him, no matter how many moments they’d shared, he’d never looked at her with anything beyond friendly patience. He’d never paused, never flustered, never shown even a flicker of something more.

Why would he?

She wasn’t quiet or graceful. She wasn’t soft-spoken or put-together like Shiori. She was messy emotions and too much energy and feelings she couldn’t hide even if she tried.

Her grip tightened around the knife again.

She hated that she wanted what she couldn’t have. Hated that liking him made her feel small, foolish—even selfish. Hated that every time she told herself she was done, something tiny—a smile, a joke, a glance—pulled her right back in.

She wiped her eyes quickly, annoyed that she even felt close to crying. This wasn’t the kind of thing people cried about. This was the kind of thing you swallowed down, pushed away, pretended didn’t matter.

“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she continued to cut the vegetables. “I’m being stupid.”

But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of that, her chest still hurt.

Akari blinked at him, her hands still hovering over the cutting board as Minami’s fingers closed around the knife with a quiet firmness that didn’t match his usual laid-back voice. He didn’t yank it or scold her—he just held her gaze with that calm steadiness he slipped into when he knew something was wrong.

She opened her mouth again, trying to force a smile, trying to sound normal.
“I’m fine, Minami. Really, I just—”

“Akari.”

His tone stayed gentle, but this time there was a weight behind it, the kind that didn’t leave room for arguing. He set the knife safely aside, far out of her reach, then nudged the cutting board back toward himself. “Seriously. I’ve got it.”

She swallowed, the words she wanted to say getting stuck somewhere in her throat. Her fingers twitched, like she wasn’t sure whether to grab the knife again or fold her arms or just run out of the room entirely.

“You’ve… been chopping the same carrot for ten minutes,” Minami added quietly. “And I don’t think it deserved that kind of… violence.”

Akari let out a tiny huff that wasn’t quite laughter and wasn’t quite a sob. Her shoulders sagged, the fight bleeding out of her a little. She stared at the counter, at the pot, anywhere but his eyes.

“I said I’m fine…” she murmured again, but even she didn’t sound convinced.

Minami softened, the edge in his voice fading into something more careful.
“I know you said that,” he replied. “But you’re… not. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

She tightened her grip on the counter, leaning into it slightly like she needed the support. The kitchen felt too bright, too quiet, too revealing. She could feel the heat behind her eyes starting up again, and she hated it—hated crying in front of people, hated being emotional when she didn’t even have the right to feel this way.

Minami didn’t push her to explain. He just motioned gently toward the hallway.

“Go take a shower,” he said, his voice lowering further. “You know that candle you bought? The one you’ve been saving? Use it. It’ll help.”

Akari hesitated. Her throat tightened again, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded once, eyes darting away. The motion was tiny, but it was enough.

Minami gave her a small, understanding smile—one that didn’t feel pitying or intrusive, just… there. Solid. Like an anchor.

“I’ll finish dinner,” he promised. “Go.”

Akari finally stepped back, wiping her palms on her shorts. She didn’t look up, not fully—just enough to meet Minami’s eyes for a brief second.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Then she slipped out of the kitchen, walking quietly down the hall, the soft scent of vegetables and broth lingering behind her. And though Minami didn’t call after her or try to pry, he watched her go with worry etched subtly into his face, like he already knew this wasn’t just a bad mood or a stressful day.

Something was hurting her.
And she was trying hard—way too hard—to pretend it wasn’t.

Jirou slipped inside as quietly as he could, the door clicking shut behind him with barely a sound. It was strange—coming home used to feel warm, familiar, easy. But now every step felt heavier than the last, like he was walking into a room full of ghosts only he could see.

The apartment smelled like simmering broth and ginger. Shiori must’ve been working on something comforting, something she thought he’d like. She always did. She always paid attention. And that only twisted the guilt deeper.

She was standing at the stove, stirring gently, wearing one of those little aprons her grandmother sent her. When she heard the door, she turned quickly—almost too quickly—as if she’d been waiting for the exact second he walked in.

“Jirou… hey,” she said softly.

Her face lit up for the briefest moment, hope flickering across her expression like a fragile flame. She looked like she wanted to smile fully, but she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to anymore.

Jirou froze. He didn’t go to her. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t say hello the way he used to.

He just stood there.

He kept his eyes on the floor, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. He swallowed, searching for words that didn’t come. The silence stretched between them like a rope pulled too tight.

Shiori’s smile faltered.

She tried again, quieter.
“How… how was your walk?”

Jirou’s throat tightened. He shifted his weight but still didn’t look at her—couldn’t look at her. If he did, everything would crumble too fast. If he did, she’d see all the things he’d been trying to hide. She deserved better than a half-truth. She deserved better than him stumbling through excuses.

“…It was fine,” he muttered, voice low, barely above a whisper.

He set his keys on the counter, carefully, like he was afraid any sudden movement would shatter the fragile air between them. His shoulders stiffened, his posture closed off. He didn’t take a step further into the kitchen.

Shiori watched him, her hands slowly falling still at her sides. She wasn’t angry—just scared. Confused. Hurting in a way she was trying so hard not to show.

“You didn’t… you didn’t text,” she said softly. “I just—wanted to know if you were okay.”

He nodded once. A tiny motion. Still no eye contact.

“I’m… tired,” he said, the words clipped, automatic. “Just tired.”

But Shiori wasn’t stupid. She could hear the distance in his voice. She could see the way he kept his gaze fixed anywhere but her—on the counter, the floor, the wall—like looking at her would force him to confront something he wasn’t ready for.

“Tired,” she repeated, her voice cracking only a little. She tried to fix her expression, to act normal, to pretend they weren’t slowly drifting apart. But her fingers trembled at her sides.

“Right. Of course.”

Jirou’s jaw tensed. He wanted to say something—anything—to make it easier. But every word in his chest felt wrong. Every emotion felt tangled, messy, disloyal.

He finally lifted his eyes. Not to her face—he couldn’t manage that—but to the pot behind her.

“Dinner smells good,” he forced out.

It was such a simple sentence, but it made Shiori’s breath hitch. Because he used to say things like that while smiling, while stepping behind her to peek into the pot, while brushing against her without thinking.

Now it sounded like a polite sentence you’d give a stranger.

And he knew she could hear the difference.

Shiori looked down at the floor, her hands twisting together as she nodded quickly.

“I… I hope you’ll like it…”

Jirou inhaled shakily and looked away again.

The silence returned, heavier now—like both of them knew something was breaking, but neither had the strength to pick up the first piece.

"Can...can we talk later?"

Shiori’s breath caught in her throat the second he spoke.

Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them—careful, hesitant, almost like he was afraid of how she’d react. Jirou never used to sound like that with her. Not before the distance, not before the silence, not before everything started slipping.

She turned toward him slowly.
Her fingers were still curled in the hem of her apron, knuckles white. Her eyes lifted just enough to see his face—how he wasn’t looking at her, how stiff he looked, how uncomfortable he seemed just standing in the same room.

And still… still she tried to keep her voice steady.

“…Later?” she repeated quietly.

She swallowed, her throat tight. A tiny nod followed, small and shaky but genuine.

“Y-yeah. We can talk later,” she murmured, trying not to let the hope rising in her chest sound too obvious. “Whenever you’re ready.”

But even as she said it, even as she forced a little smile, something unsettled twisted inside her. Because the way Jirou asked didn’t sound like someone preparing to fix things.

It sounded like someone preparing to end something.

Jirou’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag again. He nodded once—short, almost abrupt—like he couldn’t trust himself to say anything else. Like any more words would break him open.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Shiori looked down again so he wouldn’t see the emotions threatening to reach her eyes. She reached for a spoon, pretending to check the broth just to have something to do with her hands.

“O-okay,” she whispered. “Dinner will be ready soon. Just… take your time.”

She didn’t ask where he was going.
She didn’t ask why he couldn’t talk now.
She didn’t ask what changed.

Because she was terrified of the answers.

Jirou stepped away from the kitchen slowly, almost deliberately avoiding brushing past her. And Shiori stood there staring at the stove, blinking hard, the steam rising around her in soft waves that blurred everything she was trying to hide.

She knew—deep down—that “later” might not be the safety she desperately hoped for.

It might be the goodbye she wasn’t ready to hear.

After dinner, they cleaned up in near silence—polite, strained, unfamiliar. When the dishes were done and the kitchen lights flicked off, they ended up on the couch together because there was nowhere else left for the moment to land. The apartment felt too small, too quiet, too aware of them.

Jirou sat at one end, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping nervously against each other. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands like he needed the small jolt of discomfort to keep himself grounded. His other hand cracked his knuckles one by one, a restless, anxious rhythm he couldn’t break.

Shiori sat carefully beside him, not too close, not too far. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, though her fingers trembled each time she tried to still them. She watched him with a mixture of hope and dread, her eyes wide, expression uncertain.

After a long moment, she spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

“…What did you want to talk about?”

The question hung between them like a fragile thread, one Jirou felt certain would snap the second he touched it.

He swallowed hard, throat tight. “I…” His voice cracked, hoarse. He tried again, rubbing his face with both hands. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Shiori leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together, the slightest tremble in her voice. “It’s okay,” she said softly, gently. “You can take your time. I’m listening.”

But that only made the guilt twist deeper inside him.

Jirou exhaled shakily. “I’ve been… confused,” he admitted, voice low. “About us. About everything.”

Shiori’s breath hitched. “About… us?” she echoed.

He nodded once, the motion small, almost ashamed. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he whispered. “I’ve tried, I really have, but… I’m not all here. And that’s not fair to you.”

Shiori’s fingers curled tighter. Her chest ached with a quiet, rising panic she tried desperately to hide. “Jirou… what are you saying?”

His next breath sounded broken. “I think we should break up.”

Shiori froze.

It was as if every sound in the apartment vanished. Even the hum of the heater seemed to disappear. She blinked once, twice, her eyes wide and glassy, struggling to comprehend what she’d just heard.

“…Break up?” she repeated, her voice barely audible.

Jirou nodded again, but it was shaky this time, fragile. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never wanted to hurt you. I just… I can’t keep pretending everything’s okay when it isn’t. You deserve someone who can be fully present.”

Her lip trembled. She stared down at her hands, twisting the fabric of her skirt. She tried to breathe steadily, but every inhale felt thinner than the last.

“I thought we were happy,” she murmured. “I thought we were… still okay.”

He felt her words like a punch to the chest.

“I wanted that,” he said softly. “But I can’t lie to you anymore. And I can’t lie to myself either.”

Shiori swallowed hard, tears finally gathering on her lashes despite her best efforts. She didn’t sob. She didn’t yell. She just shook her head slightly, as if she could push the reality away.

“This is really it, then…?” she whispered.

“…Yeah,” Jirou said, voice small. “I think it has to be.”

She let out a breath that trembled all the way to her fingertips. Her shoulders sagged, the fight leaving her piece by piece.

“I hoped…” she began, then stopped. Her voice broke, too fragile to finish the sentence. She shook her head, blinking quickly as a tear finally slipped down her cheek. “…Never mind.”

Jirou clenched his jaw, guilt tearing at him. “Shiori… I’m so sorry.”

She nodded, though it looked like it took everything she had left. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you’re not trying to hurt me.”

Silence settled over them again—heavy, suffocating, filled with everything they’d lost and everything they’d failed to hold onto.

After what felt like a lifetime, Jirou stood slowly, hands shoved in his pockets because he didn’t trust himself not to reach out to her.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go have a shower.”

Shiori didn’t move. She just nodded, eyes fixed on her hands again, shoulders trembling faintly.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

Her voice was quiet enough that he almost didn’t hear it as he walked away.

Jirou braced his hands against the edge of the sink, shoulders drawn tight as he stared himself down. The harsh bathroom light did nothing to soften the tired shadows under his eyes or the way his expression kept collapsing into something bleak before he could force it into neutrality again.

He tried to breathe, but every inhale felt shallow, like his chest didn’t have the space for air. The apartment was too quiet—Shiori’s quiet. Her hopefulness when she’d looked up at him was still clinging to him like a weight he couldn’t shake off. He’d barely managed to ask her to talk later before retreating in here, shutting the door as gently as he could so it wouldn’t sound like he was running.

But he was. He absolutely was.

He splashed cold water on his face and gripped the sink again. It was done. He’d made his choice the moment he walked through the door and couldn’t even meet her eyes. There wasn’t any rewinding that. No pretending he could go back to how things used to be. No pretending he could keep living beside someone who loved him while his thoughts kept drifting toward someone else entirely.

Even thinking about Akari made something twist inside him—something confusing and frustrating and way too intense. She wasn’t supposed to matter like that. She was loud and stubborn, constantly telling him off and barging into his space like she owned it. She treated him like…like he was some hopeless case. Some clueless guy she’d tease and laugh at. The kind of guy she’d never take seriously. Never see in the way he had started seeing her.

And worse—she was someone he shouldn’t be thinking about at all.

He wiped his face with a towel, but it didn’t help. His reflection still looked like a mess. Like someone who’d made a decision he couldn’t undo and had no idea what came next.

Maybe Akari would only ever see him as that stupid virgin she teased. Maybe he’d wrecked his relationship with Shiori only to end up completely alone. Maybe this was the dumbest thing he’d ever done.

But the thought of staying—pretending—hurt more than the fear of whatever came next.

He straightened slowly, fingers curling around the towel as he forced himself to stand upright. One more breath. Then another. He’d chosen honesty, even if it broke something. Even if it made things messy and painful.

He just hoped he’d be able to live with it.

Chapter 16: I'm Paying

Jirou had barely slept, but the moment the first grey light pushed through the curtains, he was up. Moving quietly. Too quietly. He dressed without turning on the main light, grabbing whatever clothes were closest just so he wouldn’t have to open the closet and risk waking Shiori.

He wasn’t avoiding her.

He absolutely was, and he hated how painfully obvious it felt.

His bag was already by the door—he’d packed it last night when he couldn’t stand lying in bed any longer. Brushing his teeth felt mechanical. Tying his shoes felt like it took too long. Even breathing felt loud enough to echo.

Shiori hadn’t stirred once.

That made something in his chest tighten.

By the time he stepped outside, the hallway felt colder than usual, and he immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like that would steady him. The walk to campus was short, but his thoughts made it feel endless, looping around and around the same questions that refused to leave him alone.

Had he done the right thing?

Had he hurt Shiori more than he could ever explain?

Was Akari even someone he should be thinking about this much?

He tried to shove her out of his mind—her voice, her bluntness, the way she always looked annoyed with him even while quietly taking care of everyone else around her. But every time he pushed the thoughts away, they came back sharper, clearer, like his head was determined to torment him.

He reached the campus early enough that barely anyone was around. The courtyard was quiet, cool morning air brushing against his skin. Normally, that kind of silence would calm him. Today, it just made the weight in his chest heavier.

He found a spot on a bench, dropped his bag beside him, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His fingers kept tapping restlessly against each other because being still made his stomach twist.

Shiori would wake up soon. She’d notice he’d left without saying goodbye. Without the usual soft greeting. Without anything.

He pressed a hand against his forehead, eyes squeezing shut.

He hated this. Hated the guilt clinging to him. Hated feeling like he was hovering between two people and two realities he couldn’t reconcile.

And deep down, beneath all the noise and stress, there was the sickening truth he was too scared to say out loud:

He wasn’t sure if he regretted leaving early…
or if he regretted not doing it sooner.

“Jirou!”

Akari’s voice cut through the quiet courtyard like a spark, and Jirou’s head jerked up before he could stop himself. She was sprinting toward him, fast enough that her hair ribbon had come loose and the strands of pink hair blew wildly behind her. Her eyes were bright, focused entirely on him, and for a split second he forgot how to breathe.

She skidded to a stop right in front of him, sneakers scraping lightly against the pavement. She planted herself so close her shoes nearly touched his.

“What are you doing here so early?” she asked, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed from running.

Jirou tilted his head up and immediately regretted it. She looked good—too good. Fresh-faced, awake, the kind of effortless put-together she had when the day hadn’t worn her down yet. It made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

“Nothing,” he said a little too quickly, looking away before his brain betrayed him. “Just wanted to get here early. What are you doing here?”

“I was gonna go get breakfast from the cafeteria,” Akari said, pushing a piece of hair away from her cheek. “All the good stuff’s gone when I usually arrive.” She shrugged, then perked up. “Do you want to come with me?”

“No, I’m fine,” Jirou murmured, sinking a little further into himself.

Akari stared at him for exactly one second before she clicked her tongue.
“Come on, virg!” she said, without hesitation grabbing his arm in both hands. Her fingers curled around his sleeve with a confidence he absolutely did not feel. “I don’t wanna go there alone.”

“You were fine with it before you saw me here,” Jirou argued, rolling his eyes, trying—and failing—to ignore the warmth where her hand gripped him.

“This is different!” Akari insisted, tugging. “You’re here now, so let’s go!”

Before he could even think about resisting, she yanked hard enough to drag him halfway to his feet. Jirou stumbled, scrambling for balance.

“Wha—Akari! Slow down!” he protested, but she didn’t let go. If anything, she tightened her grip like she feared he might try to slip away.

Akari was already jogging toward the school, practically towing him behind her. Her bag bounced against her hip, and she kept glancing back with this excited grin like she was pulling him toward something monumental instead of cafeteria eggs.

Jirou’s feet hit the pavement faster than he meant them to, and he had to break into a run just to keep from falling. Students weren’t even on campus yet, and here he was being dragged across the courtyard by a girl whose hand fit around his arm a little too well.

The wind rushed past him, tugging at his hair, his jacket, the edges of his thoughts. But Akari’s grip stayed constant—warm, firm, grounding in a way he wasn’t ready for.

For a moment—just a small, fleeting moment—it almost felt easy.

Almost.

Akari slowed down just enough when they reached the small cafeteria window, but she still refused to loosen her grip on Jirou’s sleeve. It was like she half-expected him to bolt the second she let go—like he was a restless kid she had to physically keep tethered to reality. Her fingers stayed curled around the fabric, warm even through the material.

“Good morning, miss!” Akari chimed brightly, leaning forward on her toes to see the display inside. “Can I get one of those bacon and egg wraps? And a strawberry milk, please.”

She looked up at Jirou immediately after, eyes expectant in that stubborn way that meant he wasn’t escaping this interaction.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Jirou said, voice flat, hands sinking deeper into his pockets as if he could disappear into them.

Akari blinked at him, unimpressed. Then she rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it physically hurt her.

“You have to eat something,” she said, dragging out the words as if the concept should be obvious to anyone with a functioning brain cell. “You’re not living off coffee and air today. Pick something.”

Jirou stared ahead, avoiding her gaze, but Akari didn’t look away from him. She leaned a little closer, brows knitting with this strange blend of irritation and concern that made something in his chest tighten.

“You’re gonna be useless in class if you don’t eat,” she muttered. “And I’m not dealing with you being grouchy all day.”

She gave his sleeve a small tug, not forceful, just enough to pull his attention back to her.
“Come on. Just… choose one thing. It doesn’t have to be big.”

Her voice wasn’t teasing this time. It was softer—barely—but enough that he could feel it settle uncomfortably close to the guilt he’d been carrying since the morning started.

Akari’s fingers were still looped in his sleeve.
And despite everything—despite the mess in his head, the breakup, the heaviness he couldn’t shake—he didn’t pull away.

Jirou’s eyes skimmed the menu taped to the window, the fogged-up glass making everything look slightly warped. Still, he managed to make out the options and pointed to the safest one he could find.

“Uhh… can I have the pancakes, please?” he asked.

The cafeteria worker nodded, already turning to grab a plate.

Jirou started digging into his pocket immediately, fishing out his wallet with the rigid determination of someone trying very hard to focus on something simple—anything simple. Just pay. Keep your head down. Don’t think.

But the second he pulled the wallet halfway out, Akari’s hand swooped into her bag like a hawk diving for prey.

“I got it,” she announced, already thumbing through her coins.

“No, it’s fine, I can pay.” Jirou frowned, shifting his wallet into full view.

Akari clicked her tongue. “I was the one that wanted to come, so obviously I should pay.”

“I said I would,” Jirou shot back, not raising his voice but more firm than usual.

Akari lifted a brow at him in that don’t be stupid way she often used when talking to him specifically. “You’re literally only here because I dragged you. Don’t make me feel bad—”

“You don’t feel bad,” he cut in, rolling his eyes lightly.

“Exactly! And I want to keep not feeling bad,” she countered, jutting her chin out.

It sparked a small, familiar argument—the kind people had when they knew each other well enough to bicker without thinking. They went back and forth for a bit, Akari huffing dramatically, Jirou stubborn as ever, the cafeteria lady watching with the deadpan expression of someone who had witnessed this type of thing at least twenty times this week.

Eventually Jirou slid his money onto the counter faster than Akari could react.

“Too slow,” he muttered.

Akari let out an exasperated groan, slapping her hands to her sides. “You’re impossible!”

But there was no heat in her voice—just frustration laced with something warm, something relieved, something that made her shoulders loosen a little now that he’d finally picked a meal and taken a step—just a tiny one—toward acting like himself again.

She nudged him lightly with her elbow, still holding her strawberry milk.
“Fine. But next time? I’m winning.”

Jirou didn’t look at her, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his mouth.

Akari led the way to a bench near the courtyard’s edge, the kind tucked under a tree where morning light filtered through the branches in soft, shifting patches. Jirou followed without a word, tray in hand, shoulders tense like he was bracing for a conversation that hadn’t even started.

Akari sat first, folding one leg over the other with an easy, familiar confidence. She unwrapped her bacon-and-egg wrap and took a big bite, humming in satisfaction. Jirou settled beside her, his pancakes steaming in the cool air.

“You know Halloween is in a few weeks,” she said suddenly, mouth still half-full.

Jirou blinked at her. “…What does that have to do with anything?”

Akari shrugged, chewing. “Nothing. Just stating facts. The world keeps turning, holidays keep happening, whatever.” She took another bite. “Are you doing anything for it?”

“Probably just taking Hima and Leo trick-or-treating,” Jirou replied, shrugging lightly as he cut into his pancakes. “They’ve been talking about costumes since June.”

Akari perked up immediately. “Oh! How are they? The little chaos machines. They were so cute when I saw them last time.”

Jirou winced and laughed awkwardly. “Yeah… sorry about that, again. Hima gets excited and—well, she’s basically a projectile with legs.” He glanced at her hand without thinking. “Has your blister gone away?”

Before Akari could react, he gently took her hand, turning it palm-up to look. There was only a faint mark now—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“It’s been like ages,” Akari said, rolling her eyes even though her cheeks warmed a little at the attention. “It’s perfectly fine. I told you that like five times.”

Jirou’s fingertips brushed her skin lightly before he let go, his expression soft but thoughtful. “Still. I felt bad.”

“You feel bad about everything,” Akari teased lightly, nudging his shoulder. “It’s like your full-time job.”

Jirou snorted under his breath, but the sound was warm, not annoyed. He went back to eating his pancakes, though he kept glancing at her—tiny, quick looks, like he couldn’t help it.

Akari kicked her foot idly as she sipped her strawberry milk, leaning back on the bench. “So do you know what they want to dress as this year? Please tell me Leo’s not trying to be a ninja or something. He tripped over his own shoelaces twelve times just trying to get to the bathroom.”

“Hima wants to be a fairy… or a dragon… or a fairy riding a dragon? She hasn’t decided.” Jirou made a helpless gesture with his fork. “Leo wants to be a… uh… ‘super ultra mega hero ninja cyborg.’ His words.”

Akari burst into laughter, a bright, warm sound that made a few students glance their way. “Oh my god. That sounds exactly like him.”

Jirou found himself smiling—not forced, not awkward, but small and real.

For the first time since last night, something in his chest loosened. Akari didn’t know what he was going through, not yet, but sitting here—eating pancakes and listening to her talk about Halloween—felt strangely grounding.

Almost like he could breathe again.

Jirou poked at the last piece of his pancake while Akari leaned forward, eyes bright with sudden determination.

“Are you dressing up as anything?” she asked, narrowing her eyes like she already didn’t approve of whatever answer he might give.

Jirou shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “Probably not.”

Akari gasped dramatically, nearly choking on her strawberry milk. “JIRŌ! You can’t just… not dress up!”

He lifted a brow. “Why not?”

“Because it’s Halloween! It’s, like, illegal to be boring on Halloween.” She pointed at him accusingly, the long sleeve of her cardigan slipping down her arm.

Jirou sighed through his nose. “Akari, what would I even dress up as? A prince? An evil wizard?” His tone carried more sarcasm than actual consideration, but the moment the words were out, Akari’s eyes lit up like she’d just been given a mission from the gods.

“Yes,” she declared confidently. “You should absolutely be a prince. Or—wait, no—an evil wizard fits you way more.”

“Why would I—?”

“To match with your cousins, idiot.” Akari rolled her eyes at him like this was the most obvious thing in the entire universe. “If Hima is gonna be a fairy or a dragon or whatever she settles on, and Leo is… whatever that ninja-cyborg-thing is, you need to be something that looks like you belong with them.”

Jirou gave her a look that hovered between disbelief and annoyance. “I’m not wearing a wizard robe.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Akari tossed a piece of her wrap wrapper at him, which bounced off his shoulder and fluttered to the bench. “Yes. You. Are. Do you know how cute that would be? Imagine it—Leo dragging you around screaming about candy while you look like you crawled out of some cursed castle.”

“That sounds… terrible?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Jirou shook his head, but there was a faint twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Akari noticed, and her own lips curved slightly.

She leaned back, sipping her strawberry milk through the straw with an exaggerated slurp. “Besides,” she added, voice softening just a little, “they’d love it. Hima would lose her mind.”

Jirou’s expression softened despite himself. “Yeah… she probably would.”

“And that’s why you’re doing it,” Akari said triumphantly, kicking her feet lightly under the bench. “End of discussion.”

“No—wait, I didn’t agree to that.”

“You did in your heart.”

“I did not.”

“Yes you did.”

He groaned, dragging a hand across his face, but Akari only grinned wider, immensely proud of herself.

The two of them sat there like that, bickering lightly as the morning sun warmed the courtyard edges—and for the first time all morning, the weight on Jirou’s chest eased just a little.

“You seriously think you can handle the little demon for a night?” Akari teased, nudging Jirou with her elbow as she took another bite of her wrap.

“Probably not,” Jirou admitted without hesitation. “Leo has way too much energy for someone that small. It’s unnatural.”

Akari laughed, loud enough that a few students glanced over. “Honestly, yeah. That kid’s like three shots of espresso in toddler form.”

Jirou huffed out a small laugh. “Are you going by yourself?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Jirou said, brushing some hair out of his eyes. “My aunt’s going out to dinner with my uncle, and Kamo’s stuck handing out lollies for his parents. So it’s just gonna be me and… chaos.”

Akari chewed slowly, then shrugged. “I don’t have any real plans. Natsumi wants me to go to some haunted house thing with her and Mei, but I’m not exactly interested in being third wheel material. I might go to a party, but…” She wrinkled her nose. “I dunno.”

Then she looked up at him, almost too casually.
“Do you want me to come with you?”

Jirou blinked. “Huh?”

“To go trick-or-treating,” she clarified, rolling her eyes but smiling. “I mean, you don’t want to be alone all night chasing two hyper small children. I’m giving you an out here.”

“Oh.” Jirou rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I mean… you’re right. I’ll have to ask though. I don’t wanna get in trouble.” He meant his aunt, but Akari’s mind went somewhere else entirely—somewhere involving Shiori—but she kept quiet, just nodding.

Jirou continued, “They were asking about you the other day, by the way.”

Akari perked up instantly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, lips tugging into the smallest smile. “Leo said the pancakes you made were the best he’s ever had.”

Akari snorted. “It’s literally just pancake mix, Jirō.”

“Who am I to crush a child’s hopes and dreams?” he said dramatically, putting his hands up in mock surrender. Akari burst out laughing, nearly dropping her wrap.

“And Hima was… well, she was talking about you too.”

Akari tilted her head, curious. “What’d she say?”

“She said she wants hair like yours someday.”

Akari’s whole face softened, her eyes lighting up like someone had handed her a box of puppies. “Awww,” she breathed, one of the warmest sounds he’d heard from her in weeks.

She hugged her strawberry milk to her chest for a second, grinning like she couldn’t help it.
“They’re seriously too cute…”

Jirou watched her for a moment longer than he meant to, something warm twisting in his chest—dangerous, familiar, impossible to ignore.

“…Yeah,” he murmured, unable to stop the small smile forming. “They really are.”

“IF I do come, you’re totally dressing up!” Akari said, giving his shoulder a playful shove.

“No!” Jirou groaned, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna look stupid.”

“You won’t!” Akari insisted, eyes bright. “I’ll wear a costume too!” She grabbed his arm, tugging slightly. “Please!”

“No.” Jirou rolled his eyes, trying to pull his arm back, but she held firm.

“Please?” Akari asked again, tilting her head and smiling sweetly.

“Nooo!” he protested, louder this time, trying to laugh off how ridiculous he felt.

“Pretty please!” Akari batted her eyelashes dramatically, exaggerating the motion just enough to make him groan.

“…Fine.” Jirou muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… stop doing that.”

Akari laughed, the sound ringing light and teasing. “You’re so easy, virg.”

Jirou huffed, rolling his eyes, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” she said with a grin,

He looked away, pretending to be annoyed, but she caught the faint blush rising to his cheeks. Akari just giggled again, tugging him along as they walked, her energy infectious, leaving him feeling lighter than he had all morning.

The bell rang out sharply across the courtyard, cutting through the lingering chatter and laughter like a snap of reality. Akari flinched a little before laughing under her breath.

“Guess that’s our cue,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “We should head to class.”

Jirou rubbed the back of his neck, nodding slowly. “Yeah… yeah.”

Akari glanced at him for a second, like she wanted to say something else, but then Sachi’s voice called out from a few steps ahead, and Natsumi waved dramatically for her to hurry up. Akari lit up instantly, jogging forward to catch up with them, already talking as if nothing heavy had ever existed.

Jirou stayed behind.

He walked at a slower pace, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze unfocused as the crowd of students flowed around him. Shoes scuffed against the pavement, lockers slammed in the distance, voices overlapped in fragments—but it all felt muffled, like he was underwater.

He watched Akari from behind without meaning to.

The way she walked so confidently, hair bouncing lightly with each step. The way she leaned in toward Sachi, laughing at something Natsumi said, completely at ease. It struck him, suddenly and painfully, how natural it felt to be around her. How light. How different it was from the tight, careful feeling he’d carried around Shiori for weeks.

His chest tightened.

He hated that part of himself—the part that kept comparing, the part that felt relief mixed with guilt, the part that had already crossed a line in his heart long before he’d said the words out loud.

Akari glanced back briefly, just a quick look, like she was checking to see if he was still there. Their eyes met for half a second.

Jirou looked away first.

He swallowed, jaw tightening, and kept walking.

Class loomed ahead, another routine he’d have to sit through pretending everything was normal. Pretending his head wasn’t full of second thoughts and “what ifs.” Pretending he hadn’t just ended something important, and hadn’t just started wanting something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hope for.

Ahead of him, Akari laughed again—bright, unrestrained—and for a moment, despite everything, Jirou felt something ease in his chest.

Just a little.

Then the classroom doors came into view, and reality settled back in, heavy and unavoidable, as he followed her inside.

“Hey, where’s Mei?” Akari asked as she dropped her bag onto her desk, glancing around the classroom instinctively, like Mei might somehow appear if she looked hard enough.

Natsumi shrugged as she leaned back against the desk beside hers, arms crossed loosely. “She texted me earlier. Said she’d be late today. I didn’t really ask why.”

Akari turned to stare at her, unimpressed. “You didn’t ask why?” she repeated, eyebrows lifting.

Before Natsumi could answer, Sachi snorted from the seat behind them. “She never asks questions. Like, ever. If Mei said she was being abducted by aliens, Natsumi would just go, ‘Okay, text me when you land.’”

Natsumi shot her an unamused look. “Excuse you, I care. I just… don’t interrogate people.”

“Mm-hmm,” Sachi said, resting her chin on her hand. “Meanwhile, I ask enough questions for all three of us, so it balances out.”

“That’s not balance,” Natsumi replied flatly. “That’s you being exhausting.”

Akari rolled her eyes fondly, watching the two of them bicker like it was second nature. “Speaking of exhausting,” she said, turning back to Natsumi, “are you still stressing about your anniversary? You know it’s, like, two months away, right?”

Natsumi immediately stiffened, shoulders tensing just a little. “Yes,” she said defensively. “And that’s exactly why I’m stressing now. Mei always plans something big, and I don’t want to mess it up by doing something basic.”

Sachi laughed softly. “There is literally no universe where you give Mei something basic. You don’t even know what ‘basic’ means.”

Akari nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Last year you got her a signed soccer jersey, brand new shoes, and tickets to a game. That wasn’t a gift—that was a full-on campaign.”

Natsumi huffed, cheeks tinting slightly. “That was different. She mentioned liking that team once. One time. I just… remembered.”

Sachi raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s not the most ‘you’ thing ever.”

Natsumi looked away, muttering, “I just want it to be special.”

Akari’s expression softened a little at that. She leaned back against her desk, arms folding loosely. “It will be. You care—that’s the part that matters.”

Natsumi glanced at her, surprised, then looked away again, ears turning faintly pink. “Yeah… well. Still.”

The classroom slowly began to fill with other students, the low hum of conversation growing louder. Somewhere near the door, chairs scraped against the floor. But the three of them stayed where they were, wrapped up in their own little corner of conversation.

Akari rested her chin in her palm, gaze drifting briefly toward the window, her smile lingering—but just a bit quieter than before.

Natsumi followed Akari’s line of sight, watching Jirou for a moment longer than she probably meant to. He sat a little slouched in his chair, one elbow propped on the desk, gaze fixed on nothing in particular as if his thoughts were somewhere far from the classroom. It wasn’t how he usually looked—normally there was at least some awareness in his eyes, even if he was quiet.

“…Yeah,” Natsumi murmured after a beat. “Something’s off.”

Sachi leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice even though the teacher had already started writing on the board. “He looks tired. Like, not ‘stayed up late studying’ tired. More like… mentally exhausted.”

Akari didn’t respond right away. She uncapped her pen, then capped it again without writing anything, fingers fidgeting. “He’s been like that for a bit,” she said finally. “Not just today.”

Natsumi glanced at her, sharp enough to notice the way Akari’s shoulders were held just a little too stiff. “And Shiori?”

Akari hesitated. That hesitation alone felt like an answer. “They don’t really talk around us anymore,” she admitted quietly. “Not like they used to. And when they do, it’s… awkward. Like they’re both choosing their words too carefully.”

Sachi frowned. “That’s not great.”

At the front of the room, the teacher cleared their throat and began the lesson in earnest. Pages flipped open. Pens started moving. The normal rhythm of class tried to reassert itself, but it felt thin, like a backdrop rather than something real.

Akari forced herself to look down at her notebook, though the words blurred together. Every so often, she could feel it—Jirou’s presence, just a few rows away. She didn’t look back again, but she didn’t need to. That brief moment of eye contact lingered in her mind, replaying itself over and over. No smile. No teasing glance. Just something quiet and heavy, like a door half-closed.

Natsumi leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper. “You okay?”

Akari nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Sachi exchanged a look with Natsumi but didn’t push. For once, she stayed quiet.

Across the room, Jirou finally opened his notebook, though his pen hovered over the page without moving. He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening just a bit, and then—almost unconsciously—his gaze drifted forward again. Not to Akari this time, but close enough that it felt intentional all the same.

Whatever was going on, it wasn’t something that would be solved in a single class period.

The lesson continued. Notes were taken. The clock ticked on.

But beneath the normalcy, something fragile had shifted—an unspoken tension stretching between seats and desks, waiting patiently for the moment someone would finally give it a name.

The rest of the day dragged on in that strange, heavy way where nothing was technically wrong, yet everything felt slightly off. Classes blurred together—math, literature, history—each one passing without incident, but also without much meaning. Teachers talked, students answered, notes were taken. It all felt automatic, like everyone was just going through motions they’d memorized long ago.

Lunch came and went almost too quickly to register. Akari sat with Sachi and Natsumi as usual, laughing at the right moments, chiming in when expected, but part of her attention kept drifting. Her eyes would flick across the cafeteria now and then, instinctively searching.

Jirou sat a few tables away.

He wasn’t alone, but he wasn’t really with anyone either. He ate quietly, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze lowered to his tray more often than not. A few times, Akari thought he might look up—but if he did, their eyes never met. It was like they were both unconsciously avoiding that possibility.

Mei showed up partway through the day, slipping into class with a quick apology to the teacher and an easy smile, as if she hadn’t been late at all. Everything about her seemed normal—too normal. She laughed, whispered to friends, took notes diligently. But instead of drifting back toward Akari and the others like she usually did, she stayed close to Shiori.

The two of them spent most of the day together.

They walked side by side between classes, heads bent close in quiet conversation. At lunch, Mei sat with Shiori, listening more than she spoke, occasionally nodding or offering a soft comment that made Shiori smile faintly. If there was tension there, it was subtle—wrapped up neatly beneath polite expressions and calm body language.

From the outside, it looked like nothing had changed.

No arguments. No raised voices. No dramatic confrontations in the hallway. No rumors buzzing louder than usual. Just another ordinary school day ticking forward.

And yet.

Akari couldn’t shake the feeling that she was watching something fragile being carefully held together, not fixed—just preserved. Like everyone involved had silently agreed to act normal until they figured out what to do next.

By the time the final bell rang, the day felt longer than it should have been. Chairs scraped back, conversations picked up, and students poured into the halls, already shifting their focus to after-school plans.

Jirou packed his bag quietly and left without looking back.

Akari watched him disappear into the crowd, her chest tightening for reasons she didn’t quite want to name. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

And somehow, that made it worse.

The courtyard was quieter than usual, the space between buildings filled with soft afternoon light and the low hum of distant voices. Leaves skittered across the stone path as students passed through in small clusters, but Mei and Natsumi walked a little slower, fingers intertwined like they had nowhere else to be.

Mei squeezed Natsumi’s hand gently, thumb brushing over her knuckles as if grounding herself. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much today,” she said, her voice low, careful. “I didn’t mean to disappear on you.”

“Hm?” Natsumi glanced up at her, surprised, then softened. “It’s fine,” she said honestly. “I figured something was up.”

Mei hesitated for half a second before leaning in and pressing a light kiss to the back of Natsumi’s hand. “Shiori and Jirou broke up.”

Natsumi stopped walking. “Wait—seriously?” Her brows knit together as she looked at Mei. “Since when?”

“Last night,” Mei replied. “She told me this morning. She tried to act like she was okay, but…” Mei exhaled quietly. “She’s not.”

Natsumi leaned into her then, resting her shoulder against Mei’s arm, gaze drifting across the courtyard as she processed it. “I don’t even know how to feel about that,” she admitted. “I kinda thought they’d be together for like…forever. It’s weird imagining them not… being them.”

“I know,” Mei said softly. She laced their fingers together again, a little tighter this time. “I just didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you. I wanted to be there for Shiori, but not at the cost of you feeling pushed aside.”

Natsumi turned toward her, expression easing into something warm and fond. “You don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “I get it. That’s just who you are.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

Mei’s face softened instantly. She leaned down, forehead brushing against Natsumi’s hair. “Love you too,” she murmured, kissing her hand once more before squeezing it reassuringly.

The bell rang in the distance, sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet moment. Around them, students began moving again, conversations resuming, the world snapping back into its usual rhythm.

Mei straightened slightly, still holding Natsumi’s hand. “Guess we should head to class.”

“Yeah,” Natsumi agreed, smiling as they started walking again.

But even as they moved, the weight of Mei’s words lingered—Shiori and Jirou, broken apart so suddenly. Somewhere else on campus, lives were shifting, lines being redrawn.

And none of them quite knew what that would mean yet.

Afterschool came with dark clouds rolling in fast, the kind that swallowed the sky before anyone could really prepare for it. By the time the final bell rang, rain was already pounding against the windows, loud and relentless, drenching the school grounds within minutes.

Shiori left as soon as she could.

She walked carefully beneath her umbrella, fingers tight around the handle as rain splashed against the pavement around her shoes. The umbrella barely shielded her from the downpour, the wind tugging at it insistently, but she didn’t adjust her pace. Her head stayed down, eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her, as if looking up might invite someone to call her name. The world felt too loud today—the rain, the traffic, the distant laughter of students running past each other—and she wanted nothing more than to disappear into it. By the time she reached the gate, her shoulders were tense, her grip white-knuckled, her thoughts heavy and tangled as she made her way home alone.

Back on campus, most students had already rushed off, eager to escape the rain and warmth of home. The sidelines near the practice field were nearly empty, the benches slick with water and the air cold and damp.

Natsumi sat there anyway.

She hugged her arms around herself, watching the rain blur the world beyond the field. Mei was still practicing, running drills with the team despite the weather, hair plastered to her face, uniform darkened with rain. Natsumi had forgotten her umbrella that morning and now had no choice but to wait it out. She didn’t really mind—she’d rather wait than leave—but the quiet made her restless. Every so often, she checked the time on her phone, then looked back up at the field, her gaze softening whenever Mei glanced in her direction, just for a second, before focusing again.

Near the shoe lockers, Jirou sat on the steps with his elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the curtain of rain beyond the overhang.

He’d forgotten his umbrella again.

Water splashed just beyond the shelter, forming ripples that stretched across the concrete. A few minutes earlier, there had been others with him—students complaining, laughing, checking their phones—but one by one they’d all left, sharing umbrellas or sprinting through the rain. Now it was just him, the steady sound of rainfall filling the space around him.

He leaned back slightly, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. Going back inside felt pointless, and going home felt… complicated. So he stayed where he was, watching the rain fall, telling himself he was just waiting for it to let up—even though he knew storms like this rarely ended quickly.

“Jirou!”

Akari’s voice cut through the sound of the rain. He barely had time to look up before she was running toward him, shoes splashing through shallow puddles, pink hair darkened slightly at the ends from the damp air. She skidded to a stop in front of him and dropped down beside him on the steps, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

“How come you didn’t tell me you and Sakurazaka broke up?” she demanded, breath a little uneven from running.

Jirou blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?” He looked at her, then away again, his gaze drifting back to the rain pouring down in sheets. “I didn’t think it was important.”

Akari stared at him like he’d just said something completely insane. “Not important?” She grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to force him to look at her. “This is so important!”

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t really react at all. “Guess so,” he said quietly.

Akari’s expression softened, the frustration giving way to concern. “What happened?” she asked. “Did you two fight? Did you do something dumb?”

“No,” Jirou replied, shaking his head slowly. “I broke up with her.”

Akari frowned. “You… what?” Her grip loosened. “Why? You’ve been in love with her since, like, forever.”

Jirou shrugged, a small, helpless movement. He stared straight ahead, watching the rain hit the ground and scatter. “It just… didn’t work out.”

“Jirou.” Akari grabbed his arm this time, her voice sharper, more insistent. “You have to take this seriously. You can’t just break up because you got nervous or scared or—”

“That wasn’t it,” he interrupted softly.

She stopped mid-sentence.

“I just don’t like her anymore,” Jirou said, the words quiet but steady, like he’d already said them too many times in his head.

Akari blinked. “…What?”

For a moment, all she could hear was the rain and her own heartbeat. Jirou still wasn’t looking at her, his face calm in that way it always got when something was eating him alive from the inside. She searched his expression, waiting for him to laugh, to take it back, to say he didn’t mean it.

But he didn’t.

And suddenly, the rain felt heavier, the space between them filled with something fragile and dangerous neither of them quite knew how to name.

Akari froze, her fingers still curled around his sleeve as if letting go might make the words rewind themselves. The rain filled the silence between them, loud against the concrete, against the metal roof above the shoe lockers. For a moment, she just stared at him, searching his face for the familiar signs of deflection—the smirk, the shrug, the joke he used when he didn’t want to talk about something real.

But there was none of that.

Jirou kept his gaze fixed on the rain, jaw tight, shoulders slightly hunched, like he was bracing himself for something he’d already decided to endure. His voice had been quiet, almost flat, but it wasn’t careless. If anything, it sounded exhausted.

“You… don’t like her anymore?” Akari repeated slowly, as if testing the words out loud might make them make sense. Her grip loosened, hands dropping back into her lap. “Since when?”

Jirou swallowed. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the step, tracing a crack in the concrete. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Not all at once. It just… faded. Or maybe it changed into something else and I didn’t notice until it was too late.”

Akari frowned, hugging one knee to her chest. “That doesn’t just happen, Jirou. You don’t wake up one day and stop loving someone you’ve liked for years.”

“I know,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging. “That’s why I tried to ignore it. I kept telling myself it was stress, or school, or that stupid ‘break’ I asked for. I thought if I just waited it out, everything would go back to normal.”

He finally glanced at her then, eyes dark and conflicted. “But it didn’t. And every day I stayed with her, pretending I felt the same way, it just felt worse.”

Akari’s chest tightened. She looked away, staring at the rain pooling near their feet. “So you broke up with her last night?” she asked quietly.

Jirou nodded. “Yeah. She deserved honesty. Even if it hurt.”

Akari bit her lip. Images of Shiori—soft-spoken, kind, always trying—flashed through her mind, and guilt crept in before she could stop it. “She must’ve been crushed,” she murmured.

“I know,” Jirou said, his voice barely above the rain. “That’s what makes it suck so much. She didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who changed.”

Akari glanced back at him, studying his expression. There was no relief there. No sense of freedom. Just heaviness. Regret mixed with something unresolved, something he clearly hadn’t figured out yet.

“…Is there someone else?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

Jirou stiffened almost imperceptibly. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he looked away again. “No,” he said. Then, after a pause, more honestly, “Not really.”

Akari’s heart skipped, then sank into confusion. She forced a laugh, trying to keep things light even as her thoughts spiraled. “Wow. That’s a really convincing answer.”

Jirou let out a short, humorless breath. “I’m serious. There’s no one I’m with. I just… couldn’t keep lying to her. Or to myself.”

They sat there in silence again, rain blurring the edges of the world around them. Akari hugged herself tighter, torn between wanting to shake him for being so frustratingly vague and wanting to sit closer, to bridge the distance he’d unknowingly created.

“…You’re an idiot,” she muttered finally, though there was no real bite behind it.

Jirou huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Neither of them said what was really sitting between them—too fragile, too dangerous to name—but the air felt heavier for it, charged with something neither of them was ready to face yet as the rain continued to fall.

“So… there’s really no one?” Akari asked again, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes slightly, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. Her hand twitched toward his arm, a subtle, insistent nudge.

Jirou hesitated, his gaze dropping to the rain-slicked steps beneath them. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, fingers curling into the edges of his jacket as if it could shield him from her curiosity. Finally, he muttered, almost reluctantly, “There’s no one.”

Akari’s eyes widened, and she let out a sharp gasp, grabbing his arm and giving it a gentle shake. “No way! There totally is someone! Who is it? Tell me! Is she in our year?”

“I… I don’t like anyone!” Jirou argued, his voice a mixture of frustration and defensiveness. He groaned, leaning back slightly, as though putting physical distance between them might somehow make the question go away.

Akari’s grin widened, though, and she leaned closer, her hands still lightly gripping his arm. “You’re blushing! Admit it! You like someone—just tell me who it is!” Her voice was a mix of teasing and insistence, warm despite the drizzle around them.

Jirou’s ears heated, and he looked away, trying to keep his composure. His hands flexed, then rested awkwardly on his knees. “I’m not… I’m not blushing,” he said quickly, too quickly, his words lacking conviction.

“Uh-huh,” Akari said, tilting her head with exaggerated suspicion. She poked him gently in the chest. “Sure, keep denying it. But your face says otherwise, Jirou. C’mon, I won’t tell anyone!”

He groaned again, burying his face in his hands for a moment, exhaling sharply. “It’s… complicated,” he admitted finally, his voice muffled but strained. “I… I just—It’s not something I can just tell you right now.”

Akari narrowed her eyes, but her tone softened a bit as she sighed, letting go of his arm and settling back on the steps. “Complicated, huh?” she murmured, staring at him with a mix of curiosity and something gentler—concern, maybe, hidden behind the playful banter. “Fine… I’ll wait. But you’re definitely thinking about someone.”

Jirou stayed silent, staring at the falling rain, letting the sound fill the space between them. Every nerve in his body felt on edge, the weight of the truth pressing against his chest, knowing it was only a matter of time before Akari would see through his careful defenses. And yet, just for a moment, watching her there—the way she tilted her head, her eyes so focused on him, so alive—he couldn’t find it in himself to regret holding his tongue.

“Did you forget your umbrella again?” Akari asked suddenly, glancing at the steady curtain of rain spilling down from the roof above them.

“Yeah,” Jirou admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh. His shoulders lifted in a small shrug, like he already knew how ridiculous it sounded. “I keep telling myself I’ll remember next time, but…”

“You’re such an idiot,” Akari said immediately, rolling her eyes, though there was no real bite to it.

Jirou snorted softly, then looked at her more closely, eyebrows knitting together. “Then why are you still here?”

Akari froze for half a second. Her gaze slid away from him, toward the rain-soaked courtyard, lips pressing together as if she were debating whether or not to lie. “…I forgot my umbrella,” she said finally, quieter than before.

Jirou stared at her. Then a slow grin spread across his face, genuine and warm, breaking through the heaviness that had clung to him all day. “Woooow,” he said, drawing the word out. “And I’m the idiot?”

“Shut up!” Akari snapped, immediately swatting his shoulder with the back of her hand. The hit wasn’t hard, more reflexive than anything.

Jirou laughed, really laughed this time, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. It surprised even him—how easy it felt, how natural, like something unclenching in his chest.

Akari crossed her arms, huffing, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “You’re lucky it’s raining,” she muttered. “Otherwise I’d ditch you.”

“Sure you would,” Jirou said, still smiling, glancing sideways at her.

They sat there together on the steps, rain drumming steadily around them, neither of them making any move to leave. For the first time that day, the silence didn’t feel heavy—it felt… comfortable.

Akari pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked it, the familiar chime of some bright, overly cheerful game cutting through the steady sound of rain. She tilted the screen slightly, thumbs moving quickly as a little character ran endlessly across the screen, jumping over obstacles and collecting coins. It was one of those basic runner games—nothing special, nothing that really required much thought—but she seemed focused on it anyway, brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

Jirou tried not to stare.

He really did.

But his eyes kept drifting back to her without him even realizing it. The way she leaned forward just a little when things got intense on the screen. The way she muttered under her breath when she messed up, tapping the restart button with exaggerated annoyance. Her hair, slightly damp at the ends from the wind and mist, clung faintly to her neck.

Her nose was red from the cold, more noticeable now that she wasn’t talking, and it made her look… softer, somehow. Not flashy or dramatic. Just real. Just Akari.

She didn’t look perfect. She didn’t look like someone out of a magazine or a fantasy he’d built up in his head. She just looked okay—normal, a little tired, a little cold, absorbed in something silly to pass the time.

And somehow, that made his chest ache more than anything else had all day.

Jirou looked away briefly, staring out at the rain, but the image of her lingered anyway. He felt that familiar twist of guilt settle in his stomach, tangled with something warmer, quieter. He wondered when exactly “just okay” had started meaning so much to him.

Akari glanced up at him suddenly. “What?” she asked, suspicious, pausing the game.

“N-nothing,” Jirou said quickly, looking away again, rubbing his neck. “Just… bored.”

She squinted at him for a moment, then shrugged and went back to her game. “You’re weird.”

“Yeah,” Jirou muttered under his breath, watching the rain instead this time. “I know.”

“Ugh, this stupid game is rigged,” Akari groaned, jabbing the screen one last time before letting her phone drop into her lap. She leaned back on her hands, tilting her head toward Jirou with an exaggerated sigh. “Anyway—did you actually think about wearing a costume?”

“Oh my god,” Jirou muttered, rolling his eyes so hard his neck almost hurt. “You’re really never going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” Akari said cheerfully, grinning at him like she’d just won something.

He huffed out a breath, staring up at the grey sky for a moment before finally giving in. “I’ll probably just… find something at home,” he said, tone reluctant but honest. “My dad used to chase me and my brother around with this old oni mask when we were kids. It’s still lying around somewhere. I might just use that.”

Akari’s eyes lit up immediately. “Wait—seriously?” She turned fully toward him, excitement breaking through her earlier boredom. “That’s actually perfect.”

“It is not,” Jirou argued. “It’s creepy and old and probably smells like dust.”

“That’s what makes it good!” she shot back. “You could totally scare the kids with it. Leo would lose his mind.”

“He already does that on his own,” Jirou said dryly, but there was a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m not trying to traumatize him.”

Akari laughed, nudging his knee lightly with her own. “You’ll be fine. Besides,” she added, eyes sparkling a little, “I kind of want to see it.”

Jirou glanced at her, then quickly looked away again, ears warming. “Yeah, well… don’t get your hopes up.”

She smiled anyway, rain still pouring around them, like the idea alone was enough.

Akari tilted her head back against the wet steps, raindrops clinging to the strands of her pink hair. Her eyes followed the streaks of water running down from the roof, and she tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I could do some other folklore creature,” she said, her voice low, almost dreamy. “Maybe… like a futakuchi-onna or something?”

Jirou’s brow furrowed as he shook his head slowly, the dampness of his hair sticking to his forehead. “That… wouldn’t really work,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

Akari blinked at him, her playful curiosity mixing with a flicker of disappointment. “Why not?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. She shifted slightly to face him, rain dripping off the edge of her umbrella and splattering on the concrete between them.

Jirou leaned back a little, crossing his arms, trying to appear nonchalant even though he felt his chest tighten in a strange way just watching her so animated. “How would you even get a mouth on your head?” he asked, his tone both practical and teasing.

Akari laughed softly, shaking her head as she leaned back again, letting the rain pepper her shoulders. “Oh… yeah, that’s true,” she admitted, her voice softening. Her mind kept spinning, trying to find a creative solution, her eyes tracing the water as though the patterns might inspire her. “Hmm… maybe like a kuchisake-onna… or a Yuki-onna?” she suggested, her voice low but full of fascination, the way she always got when she stumbled across something that captured her imagination.

Jirou let out a quiet snort, the sound mingling with the rain around them. He could see the way her eyes glimmered, full of mischief and curiosity, and something inside him ached slightly, strange and unfamiliar. “You’re just trying to find something creepy enough to scare the kids,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the tension in his chest. “You don’t actually care about folklore accuracy, do you?”

Akari tilted her head, pretending to think deeply. “Maybe a little,” she said, then grinned slyly. “But mostly I just want to look cool… and scare you a little.” She nudged his arm gently with hers, eyes gleaming.

Jirou exhaled quietly, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. He glanced at her, the rain framing her face, her hair sticking slightly to her cheeks, and he had to look away quickly. “Yeah, well… mission probably impossible,” he muttered under his breath, but there was a trace of amusement in his voice now.

Akari leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Come on, you know it’ll be fun. Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jirou said quickly, his fingers tightening around the edge of his umbrella for no real reason. “I just… prefer practical costumes.”

“Pfft, boring,” Akari replied, sticking her tongue out playfully. She tilted her head back, staring at the sky as the rain kept falling, and then, just as quickly, she glanced over at him, her smile softening. “You know… it’s nice… just hanging out like this. Even if it’s raining like crazy.”

Jirou’s chest tightened again at the subtle warmth in her tone. He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on a spot near her shoulder, trying not to betray how much her words, her presence, were sinking in deeper than he wanted them to. “Yeah… it’s… not bad,” he admitted, voice quieter than intended, almost swallowed by the rain.

The two of them sat there, soaked by the relentless drizzle, brainstorming impossible costumes, teasing each other lightly, and for the first time in days, the heaviness that had pressed down on Jirou began to lift, replaced by a small, strange warmth he didn’t entirely understand but couldn’t deny.

“Go as a Yuki-onna,” Jirou said after a brief pause, his voice quieter than before. “You wouldn’t scare the kids that way.”

Akari hummed thoughtfully, lifting a hand to run her fingers through her hair as she considered it. “Maybe,” she said, dragging the word out. “Cold ghost lady does have a certain vibe.” She glanced at him sideways. “So… your dad really used to chase you around with an oni mask?”

Jirou laughed, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. “Yeah. Except we didn’t actually know it was him at the time,” he said, shaking his head. “He’d come out of nowhere, full mask, yelling and stomping around. We were convinced an actual demon had invaded the house.”

Akari’s eyes widened. “That’s terrifying.”

“It was,” he agreed, still smiling. “We’d throw soybeans at him and yell the chant to make him go away. My brother used to take it way too seriously—he’d come up with these elaborate strategies, like how to corner him or distract him before we ran out of beans.”

She laughed softly at that. “Wait. Brother?” She turned fully toward him. “You have a brother?”

“Yeah,” Jirou nodded. “He’s older than me.”

“How come you never told me?” Akari asked, not accusatory, just curious.

He shrugged, shoulders lifting slightly. “It never really came up. I don’t talk about my family much, I guess.” After a beat, he glanced at her. “What about you? Any siblings?”

“Nope,” Akari said, shaking her head. She looked back out at the rain, watching it pour down in steady sheets. “Just me.”

They sat quietly for a moment, the sound of rain filling the space between them. Akari sighed. “Do you think it’s gonna let up soon?”

“Probably not,” Jirou replied, following her gaze. “It’s been like this all afternoon.”

She groaned softly but didn’t move. “Great.”

After another pause, she glanced back at him. “Hey… did you ever get a camera?”

Jirou nodded. “Yeah. I bought one last weekend.”

Her expression softened. “That’s good,” she said quietly, like it mattered more than she wanted to admit.

They stayed there a few more minutes, neither of them in any rush. Eventually, Akari yawned, long and unguarded, and without really thinking about it, leaned against his shoulder while still watching the rain.

Jirou froze for half a second, then relaxed, careful not to move too much. “You’re always tired after school,” he said after a moment, trying to sound casual. “And hungry.”

Akari huffed, eyes half-lidded. “I’m so hungry,” she countered immediately, like that explained everything.

Jirou let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when she leaned against his shoulder. For a split second, his whole body went rigid, every muscle locking up like he’d been caught doing something illegal. He stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the rain-soaked courtyard, afraid that if he moved even a little, she’d pull away.

“…You always say that,” he murmured finally, forcing himself to relax just enough to breathe normally. “Hungry, tired, or both.”

“Because it’s always true,” Akari replied without lifting her head. Her voice was muffled slightly against his shoulder, softer than usual. “School drains the life out of me. I swear they design the schedule just to make people miserable.”

Jirou huffed a quiet laugh. “You say that, but you’re still the loudest person in class by the end of the day.”

“Wow. Rude,” she said, though there was no real bite to it. She shifted just a little, settling more comfortably, and Jirou felt the warmth of her through his jacket. His ears burned, and he silently thanked the rain for the chill that might excuse how warm his face suddenly felt.

They sat like that for a while, the steady sound of rain filling the space between them. The world felt oddly small—just the two of them under the shelter, the gray sky, the wet concrete, and the faint smell of rain and school grounds. It was quiet in a way that wasn’t awkward, just… still.

“You know,” Akari said after a moment, eyes still on the rain, “a Yuki-onna costume wouldn’t be that hard. White kimono, pale makeup, maybe some fake frost stuff.” She tilted her head slightly, glancing up at him. “You’d make a convincing oni too. You’ve got the whole quiet, scary vibe down.”

“I do not,” Jirou protested immediately.

She smiled, the corner of her mouth lifting. “You do. Especially when you’re thinking too hard about something.”

That hit a little too close to home. Jirou looked away again, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the step. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” she teased, then yawned again, longer this time. She brought a hand up to rub at her eyes, lashes fluttering. “Seriously though… I could eat like, three meals right now.”

“Didn’t you eat breakfast?” Jirou asked.

“You watched me eat breakfast,” she reminded him. “That was a snack.”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Unbelievable.”

Akari laughed quietly, then fell silent again. The rain showed no sign of letting up, droplets bouncing off the ground in endless ripples. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled faintly, low and far away.

“…Thanks,” she said suddenly.

Jirou blinked. “For what?”

“For staying,” she replied simply. She didn’t look at him when she said it, but her grip tightened just a little on the sleeve of his jacket. “You could’ve left, or told me to go home, or… I don’t know. But you didn’t.”

He swallowed. “I didn’t really have anywhere else to be,” he said, though even to his own ears, it sounded like only half the truth.

Akari hummed softly, like she accepted that answer for now. She stayed leaning against him, warm and solid, and Jirou let himself stay still, let himself exist in that moment without overthinking it to death.

For once, the rain didn’t feel like something he needed to escape.

When Jirou got home, the familiar smell of food hit him first—something warm and savory simmering on the stove. It was such a normal thing that it almost hurt. Shiori stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully chopping vegetables like she always did. For a second, it felt like nothing had changed at all.

Then she glanced up.

Their eyes met briefly before she looked away again, focusing a little too hard on the cutting board. The rhythm of the knife was steady, controlled—but Jirou noticed how her shoulders were tense, how she didn’t hum the way she usually did when she cooked.

He exhaled slowly, setting his bag down by the door. His hand came up to rake through his hair, fingers tangling there as he searched for the right words. Or at least, words that wouldn’t make things worse.

“Hey, Shiori…” he started, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. He paused, swallowed, then forced himself to continue. “I… can—can we talk for a second?”

The knife stopped.

Not dramatically. Just… still.

She didn’t turn around right away. “About what?” she asked softly.

Jirou shifted his weight, heart pounding in a way that felt unfairly loud in the small kitchen. “I was just thinking,” he said carefully, “and I wanted to ask if… if we could try going back to being friends.”

Shiori’s hand tightened around the handle of the knife. For a moment, she didn’t move at all. Then she set it down slowly, deliberately, like she needed the extra time to steady herself.

“…Do you really think we can do that?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was tired. Wary.

Jirou nodded immediately, even though she wasn’t looking at him yet. “Yeah. I do,” he said. “I don’t see why not.”

She let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but not quite—and picked the knife back up, resuming her cutting. “Why?” she asked quietly. “Why do you want that?”

He hesitated, watching her back, the way she kept her movements precise, controlled. “I just…” He struggled for a second, then decided to be honest, even if it came out clumsy. “I still care about you. A lot. Even if we’re not together anymore. And I don’t want things to stay awkward or painful forever. I just want… something normal again. Something like how it was before all of this.”

The knife slowed.

“…Me too,” Shiori said after a long moment. Her voice wavered just slightly before she steadied it. She finally looked up at him, offering a small, strained smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I miss that. I miss not overthinking every word I say. Not wondering what I did wrong, or what changed.”

Jirou’s chest tightened. He managed a small smile in return. “Then… maybe we can try?” he asked, hopeful but careful, like he was afraid to push too hard.

“I don’t think it’ll be easy,” she said honestly. “And I don’t think it’ll feel the same right away.”

“I know,” he replied quickly, shaking his head. “I’m not expecting it to. I just… I don’t want to lose you completely.”

She studied his face for a long moment, like she was searching for something—sincerity, reassurance, maybe even regret. Finally, she nodded once.

“Okay,” she said softly. “We can try. To be friends again.”

The tension in Jirou’s shoulders loosened just a little. “Thank you,” he said, meaning more than he could put into words.

“I’m gonna set the table,” he added gently, stepping away to give her space.

“Thanks,” Shiori replied, turning back to the stove and sliding the vegetables into the pan. The sizzle filled the kitchen, loud in the quiet that followed.

They moved around each other carefully after that—no touching, no lingering glances—but there was something different now. Fragile, uncertain, but calmer than before.

It wasn’t fixed.

But it wasn’t broken beyond repair, either.

They didn’t go back to normal instantly—not even close—but they began.

At first, it was small things. Awkward things. Careful things.

They stopped avoiding each other in the common areas. Shiori didn’t suddenly disappear into her room the moment Jirou walked into the kitchen anymore, and Jirou didn’t linger in doorways wondering if he was intruding. They shared the same space again, even if it felt unfamiliar, like furniture rearranged just slightly enough to throw off your sense of balance.

Dinner stopped being silent.

The first few nights were still stiff, conversations clipped and surface-level—comments about homework, about what was on TV, about whether they were out of soy sauce again. But it was better than the quiet that had pressed down on them before, heavy and accusing.

One evening, Jirou tried to fill the space a little more than usual.

“So, uh,” he started, poking at his food with his chopsticks, “did you know that octopuses have three hearts?”

Shiori paused mid-bite. “I… didn’t,” she said carefully.

“Yeah,” he nodded, a little too earnestly. “Two of them pump blood to the gills, and one pumps it to the rest of the body. Which is… kind of unfair, honestly.”

She blinked. “…Unfair?”

“I mean,” he continued, warming up just a bit, “imagine having three hearts and still only using one brain. Seems like a bad trade.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Shiori let out a small laugh—surprised, involuntary, but real. She quickly covered it with her hand, shaking her head. “That was… that was a terrible joke.”

Jirou winced. “Yeah. I know. I’m bad at those.”

“But,” she added softly, lowering her hand, “it was kind of funny anyway.”

That earned him a small, relieved smile.

Moments like that started happening more often.

They began to talk about their days again—not in detail at first, but enough. Shiori mentioned things Mei said, or how Natsumi dragged her into studying even when she didn’t want to. Jirou talked about class, about Minami being loud as usual, about how Akari somehow managed to make everything chaotic even when nothing was happening.

Neither of them lingered too long on emotions. Neither of them brought up the breakup again. It was an unspoken agreement: step carefully, don’t reopen wounds unless you absolutely have to.

Sometimes there were still awkward pauses—times when one of them would almost say something, then stop. Times when Jirou would catch Shiori looking at him with something unreadable in her expression before she looked away again.

But there was also comfort starting to grow back in.

They watched TV together again on opposite ends of the couch, not touching, but not deliberately distancing themselves either. They complained about chores. They shared snacks without making it a big deal. Shiori even scolded him once for leaving his shoes by the door instead of putting them away properly, and the familiarity of it made his chest ache in a strange, bittersweet way.

It wasn’t the same as before.

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was fragile and tentative and imperfect—but it was real. And for now, that was enough to let them both breathe a little easier, to move forward without feeling like they were constantly walking through broken glass.

They were learning how to exist again—not as a couple, but as something gentler, something quieter.

Friends.

Akari sat curled up on the couch beside Minami, her legs tucked neatly beneath her as she half-watched whatever variety show was playing on the screen. The TV cast flickered light across the room, laughter from the speakers filling the air, but her attention drifted in and out. She absently picked at the sleeve of her hoodie, eyes unfocused.

Minami glanced over at her. The corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar, knowing way—the look he got when he was about to say something he probably shouldn’t, but absolutely would anyway.

“You know,” he said casually, leaning back against the couch, “Jirou’s single again.”

Akari’s head snapped toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, brows knitting together instantly.

Minami shrugged, unfazed. “I’m just saying. You did say you’d try your hardest,” he added, tone light but pointed. “Maybe it’s time to actually… you know. Do something.”

Akari scoffed, rolling her eyes as she turned her gaze back to the screen. “They broke up like a week ago. I’m not a monster.”

Minami tilted his head, studying her. “We’re in high school,” he said simply. “Some breakups aren’t that deep.”

She frowned at that, her jaw tightening. “It is deep,” she shot back. “He’s liked her since, like, the beginning of time. That doesn’t just disappear overnight.”

“Yeah, well,” Minami replied, stretching his arms behind his head, “maybe something changed.”

Akari didn’t answer right away. Her fingers stilled, her eyes dimming slightly as his words sank in.

“Think about it,” Minami continued, quieter now. “How are you gonna feel if you never say anything? If you just… let it pass?”

Her shoulders tensed. “And what about Sakurazaka?” Akari countered, voice sharper than she meant it to be. “She’s really sweet. I don’t want to do anything that could hurt her.”

Minami sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Akari. They were together for less than a month.” He glanced at her again. “She’s not going to be upset at you. You didn’t break them up. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Akari chewed on the inside of her cheek, eyes dropping to her hands. “Still,” she muttered, “it feels wrong.”

There was a brief pause, the sound of the TV filling the space between them.

Minami leaned forward slightly. “You’re not responsible for protecting everyone else’s feelings at the cost of your own,” he said more gently. “Especially when you haven’t done anything bad.”

She let out a quiet breath, leaning back into the couch cushions. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Minami admitted with a small smile. “But doing nothing isn’t easy either.”

Akari stared at the screen without really seeing it, her thoughts spiraling. Images of Jirou—quiet smiles, awkward jokes, the way he looked at the rain—slipped into her mind uninvited.

“…I don’t even know what I’d do,” she said softly.

Minami chuckled. “You don’t have to plan your wedding. Just… don’t shut yourself down before anything even happens.”

Akari hugged her knees closer to her chest, lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t respond, but her silence wasn’t dismissal—it was consideration.

And that, Minami knew, meant he’d planted the seed.