Yūto Shō stood there with his brain buffering like a bad stream. On reflex, his eyes swept the lot and clocked a black sedan parked maybe thirty feet off — had to be Tachibana Hina's husband's ride, lurking like an NPC waiting for the cutscene trigger.
The system notification had spelled it out plain: a guy named Natsuo Fuji was crouched inside that car, holding his breath, waiting for Yūto Shō to make a move on his wife. And the dude was *thrilled* about it. Practically front-row at the cinema.
Why, though.
Yūto Shō's frown deepened, because logically speaking, any man worth his salt watching his wife limp around in pain would haul ass over there himself, not benchwarm in a sedan letting some random kid swoop in. That was basically handing over the NTR doujin cover free of charge.
Then a possibility hit him like a quest pop-up, and his expression went weird. Could this be the legendary honey trap arc?
Tachibana Hina LARPing as the wounded damsel, hubby tucked away in the car like a hidden boss — was *he* the loot they were farming?
But the math didn't add up. The system wouldn't have flashed him a warning if this were some setup, and he was just a high schooler, no inheritance, no clout, nothing worth speedrunning a scam over. Had to be something deeper buried in the questline.
His brain spun for another second before he just shrugged internally and trusted the system. It had carried him this far.
He stepped up and called out, "Hina-nee, did you twist your ankle? Need a hand?"
Tachibana Hina lifted her head, hesitated half a beat, cheeks doing the embarrassed-shoujo-lead thing. "Then I'm really sorry to bother you, Shō-kun. I rolled it walking back. Could you help me upstairs?"
Her voice was soft as a lo-fi beats track — gentle, watered down to a whisper, the kind that slid straight under your ribs without permission.
Yūto Shō nodded and reached out to brace her arm.
Her whole body twitched at the contact, a small visible shiver, and then — almost too smoothly — she let half her weight tip against him.
Yūto Shō raised an eyebrow internally. Couldn't tell through her loose clothes, but Tachibana Hina's frame was straight-up *stacked* — soft everywhere it counted, a body like a memory-foam plushie pressed flush against his side, the kind of contact that registered in HD. But her angle felt rehearsed. Too clean. Like she'd rolled this scene before.
"Shō-kun, the injury's worse than I thought. Sorry to put you out like this." Tachibana Hina murmured an apology, her body still doing that little tremble — nerves, fear, or something else entirely, hard to call.
"It's nothing, Hina-nee, let's just get moving."
Yūto Shō kept his voice flat, smothering the weird electric crackle behind his sternum, and steered her arm toward the residential block's entrance.
He'd decided to play along, see what kind of side-quest this couple was actually running. If they really had him pegged as a free XP piñata, he wasn't going to feel guilty about flipping the script on them.
The plush warmth of the woman pressed into his ribs sent a slow ember of heat curling through his chest.
They reached the elevator. Yūto Shō held her steady with one hand and reached out to thumb the call button with the other. When he turned his head, he caught Tachibana Hina's chest rising and falling in a quick, shallow rhythm, her breath gone uneven, a pink flush climbing the column of her throat like spilled ink in water.
A glint surfaced in Yūto Shō's eyes, but he kept the dumb-protagonist mask glued on. "Hina-nee, you tired?"
She startled, ducked her head low. "A little, I think. With one foot out of commission, walking's harder than I expected."
Yūto Shō tested the waters. "Why don't you just lean your hand on my shoulder?"
She paused. "Wouldn't that be too much for you, Shō-kun?"
The fact that she didn't actually refuse only cranked his suspicion meter higher, but on the outside he just gave her a sunny, dumb-jock smile. "Nah, Hina-nee's light as anything, and we'll be on the elevator in a sec anyway. Hardly any distance."
She bit her lip, smiled sweet enough to give a man cavities. "Then I'll be in your care, Shō-kun."
She lifted her hand to his shoulder as she spoke, but the height gap made the angle awkward — his shoulder sat higher than her arm wanted to reach, and the whole pose looked stiff, like a cosplay photo that didn't quite land.
Tachibana Hina bit her lip harder, a deeper red blooming across her face. "Shō-kun, how about… you put your arm around my waist instead? It'll be easier walking that way."
"That's, uh, that's probably not a good idea. If Natsuo-nii catches a glimpse of that, what if he gets the wrong idea—"
Yūto Shō recoiled like a stammering harem MC who'd just walked in on the heroine changing, blushing on cue, the whole bashful-rookie cosplay running at full performance capture.
She blinked at him, momentarily thrown, then let out a soft giggle that bordered on indulgent. "Shō-kun, you're still hung up on that? Don't sweat it, your Natsuo-nii isn't that petty, and I really can't make it on my own right now. If you don't take my waist, you'll wear yourself out before we hit the door."
A flicker passed through her eyes as she spoke — something a few shades darker than concern.
"If you put it like that…" Yūto Shō screwed his face up in mock-conflict, voice tight with manufactured guilt. "Alright then, but Hina-nee, please don't mention this to Natsuo-nii. If he gets the wrong idea I'm cooked."
Full novice-brother routine, blushing through every syllable. He clenched his jaw like a man crossing some moral checkpoint, then slid his arm around her waist — and the second skin met fabric met skin, he registered her waist as something almost unreal, narrow as a willow switch, his fingers practically wrapping the whole circumference.
A surprised beat. Damn, her waist was barely there. Hourglass-tier, the kind of silhouette that lived in gravure shoots.
Tachibana Hina felt the boy's arm cinch around her slim waist and her face went ten shades pinker, that warmth pooling lower than she wanted to admit. A small involuntary tremor ran the length of her body, her breath caught audible, and her gaze drifted up to Yūto Shō's profile with a hazed-over softness that read straight off a dating-sim heroine's CG. Without quite meaning to, her body listed further into his.
He felt her sink into him, and his arm tightened, hauling her in another half-inch.
*She thought: god, his arm. He's so warm. What am I — I shouldn't — Natsuo Fuji told me to, this is fine, this is fine, mn, he smells like soap and that boy-sweat thing—*
The elevator dinged open right then. Yūto Shō guided her in, and she nestled against his chest like a tsundere finally dropping the act, flushed face buried half against his collar.
As the doors slid shut, Yūto Shō caught Natsuo Fuji in the periphery — far across the lot, half-tucked behind a planter, watching the two of them with the focused stillness of a guy live-streaming his own NTR arc.
*He thought: bro is actually doing it. Bro is actually watching. What kind of side-character life choices led to this.*
Yūto Shō's brain stuttered; the plot twist made zero sense by any normal genre conventions, and he still couldn't crack what endgame this couple was speedrunning toward.
The elevator hit the floor with a soft chime. Yūto Shō snapped out of his loop, glanced down at Tachibana Hina — gone limp against him like a heroine after the confession scene — exhaled through his nose, and walked her out.
He reached her door, helped her work the lock, and stepped inside.
He guided her to the sofa, settling her down with careful hands. "Hina-nee, we made it. Sit for a minute."
She blinked her eyes open, irises still glassy with that intoxicated haze, and the second she clocked her own living room she snapped back into her social mask — pretty face flushing fresh, perching herself primly on the cushion, looking up at Yūto Shō with a gaze full of careful gratitude. "Shō-kun, thank you. Really. I don't know what I would've done without you."
"It's nothing, we're neighbors after all. Oh, Hina-nee, your foot — should we get your shoe off and take a look?" Yūto Shō tipped his chin toward her foot, expression all rookie-helpful.
Tachibana Hina wiggled her foot the tiniest bit and gave him a small smile. "It's not serious. A little ointment and it'll be fine by morning."
Yūto Shō quietly slid his hand back. She hadn't noticed he hadn't even specified *which* foot — turned out the whole sprained-ankle questline was just a flag she'd planted.
"I'll head back now then. Take care, Hina-nee." Yūto Shō gave her a long look, layered enough to read three different ways, then pulled off the casual farewell and let himself out.
The instant the door clicked shut behind him, Tachibana Hina's carefully composed face caved. The blush surged all the way up to the tips of her ears, and she clapped both hands over her cheeks like she'd just committed some unforgivable hentai-protagonist sin, burying her face in her palms.
A moment later, the door clicked again. She lowered her hands, looked up — and her expression frosted over the second she registered Natsuo Fuji walking in. A flash of pure disgust crossed her eyes, her pretty face going arctic, and she said absolutely nothing.
Natsuo Fuji either didn't notice the temperature drop or didn't care. He beelined straight for her, voice pitched with eager-puppy energy. "Hina-chan, how was Shō-kun? You like him?"
Her face flushed at the question. The memory rushed her unbidden — the boy's burning body heat, that sharp masculine scent, sweat and soap and something raw underneath, still phantom-clinging to her skin like an aftertaste. And now, replaying it in her head, her body actually went a little weak all over again, thighs pressing together on the cushion as she stared down at her own hands.