[Kazama Residence — Saturday, 8:02 AM]
"Excuse me."
The words floated through the genkan like a small confession. Togawa Sakiko stood framed in morning light, wearing soft ivory casual clothes that whispered against her skin with each breath—the kind of outfit that looked effortless but probably took thirty minutes to choose.
After confirming his position as Ave Mujica's Band Manager, they'd agreed to use this holiday morning to map out the band's future. Neutral territory would've been ideal, but Kazama Haru understood the math: Sakiko's home was impossible given her family situation, and neither of them had money to bleed on overpriced café lattes.
His apartment it was.
First time I've invited a girl here who isn't Sena. The thought had made him rehearse his invitation three times before sending it—careful word choices, neutral tone, nothing that could be misread as... anything.
Sakiko had agreed instantly. Eagerly, even.
Zero hesitation. Zero wariness toward a teenage boy living alone. Either she trusted him completely or her danger instincts had atrophied from disuse.
"So this is Kazama-kun's home." Her golden eyes swept the modest space, genuine warmth in her voice. "It feels nice. Lived-in."
She stepped up from the entryway and bent to remove her grey-brown leather shoes. The motion pulled her blouse taut across her shoulder blades, and Haru's gaze dropped involuntarily to watch the reveal: small white socks hugging the delicate architecture of her feet, then her ankles emerging—pale as fresh cream, the fine bones visible beneath translucent skin.
Don't stare. Don't—
He stared.
The hollow behind her ankle bone. The gentle swell of her Achilles tendon. Such an innocent part of the body, and yet his mouth went inexplicably dry.
"Phew~ As expected, May weather is getting warmer."
Sakiko straightened and began removing her light jacket with zero self-consciousness, arms lifting, fabric sliding down her shoulders. The movement pulled her thin blouse against her chest before settling, and suddenly Haru could see everything—the proportioned hourglass of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts beneath white cotton, the impossible length of her legs disappearing into a modest skirt that somehow made them look longer.
Her thighs pressed together as she folded the jacket. Smooth. Pale. The hem of her skirt brushed mid-thigh, and when she shifted her weight, he caught a flash of inner softness that made his stomach flip.
She has no idea what she's doing to me.
Or maybe she did. Maybe that's what made it worse.
The apartment suddenly smelled different—her shampoo, something floral and clean, mixing with the faint sweetness of her skin. Like someone had opened a window to a garden that didn't exist.
"Kazama-kun, where are your parents?"
The question came after she'd settled onto his living room floor, legs folded neatly beneath her, head tilted with innocent curiosity.
Japan respected its labor laws. Parents should be home on Saturday mornings.
"I don't have any." Haru's voice stayed flat, unbothered. "Been living alone since I was ten."
"...Ah?"
Sakiko's motion froze mid-sit. The soft smile on her face cracked like thin ice, and the color drained from her cheeks so fast he could practically watch it go.
She's connecting the dots. His part-time work schedule. The empty apartment. The careful way he budgeted everything.
She knew what loss felt like—knew it in her bones, in the hollow space where her mother used to be, in the slurred voice of a father who'd stopped trying. She knew how much you wanted people to just not ask.
And she'd asked.
"I-I'm sorry!" Her fingers clenched against her skirt, knuckles whitening. "I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have—"
Something in Haru's chest softened unexpectedly.
"Togawa-san." He tapped the table, letting a small smile surface. "It's been years. I'm used to it. Really."
She didn't look convinced, guilt still swimming in those amber eyes.
"We should hurry," he continued, deliberately casual. "The only time I can give Ave Mujica this weekend is this morning. I'm 'two-timing' bands right now—this afternoon belongs to my school group."
"Pfft—" The absurd phrasing startled a laugh out of her, delicate and bell-like. "'Two-timing'? What a way to put it."
But something flickered behind her smile. Something sharp.
I'm the mistress band, her expression seemed to say. The one he sneaks away to meet. The one who gets his stolen hours.
The thought should've bothered her.
It didn't.
If anything, knowing she was monopolizing time meant for someone else sent a strange thrill curling through her stomach—dark and warm and completely inappropriate.
"Speaking of which..." Her voice dropped half an octave, honeyed with false innocence. "What's she like? The girl who formed a band with you?"
Danger.
Every instinct Haru possessed screamed the word.
He turned to face her slowly, searching her expression. Sakiko blinked back at him, golden eyes wide and guileless as a kitten's.
She's fishing. Why is she fishing?
According to his plan, both bands needed to mature—needed to develop enough trust in him—before he revealed the overlap. By then, he could feign ignorance about their tangled histories. Plausible deniability.
"She's..." He chose each word like stepping through a minefield. "Quiet. Reserved. But stubborn about the things that matter." A pause. "Like you, actually."
"Eh?" Sakiko's cheeks puffed out, round and soft and desperately poke-able. "Where am I stubborn? Does Kazama-kun think I'm some kind of child who won't listen?"
You literally just described yourself, he thought, fighting down a grin.
Her stubbornness had destroyed CRYCHIC—that inability to explain, to share burden, to let anyone past her walls. But that same stubbornness had also kept her standing when her world collapsed. When her father's fraud scandal broke. When her grandfather offered adoption like a business transaction.
She'd refused. Chosen loyalty over comfort. Chose to work herself half to death supporting a man who'd given up on himself.
That's what makes you beautiful.
The thought surfaced before he could stop it, and suddenly he realized he'd been staring—really staring—at the curve of her jaw, the slight part of her lips, the way morning light caught in her hair like trapped honey.
"U-um..." Pink crept across Sakiko's cheeks. "Kazama-kun? Is there something on my face?"
Her voice came out breathy. Uncertain. Her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I'll..."
You'll what?
The question hung unspoken between them, electric and heavy.
"Sorry." Haru broke eye contact like tearing off a bandage. "That was rude. Let's focus."
He grabbed his laptop—purchased last night specifically for this—and opened a fresh document, desperate for something to occupy his hands that wasn't her.
"Mm." Sakiko's soft agreement vibrated through the small space.
Then she moved.
Not away. Closer. Her knees shifted across the floor until her thigh pressed warm against his, the thin barrier of their clothes doing nothing to mask the heat of her skin. She leaned in to see the screen, and her shoulder brushed his arm, her scent flooding his awareness—flowers and clean skin and something underneath that was purely, devastatingly her.