Friday mornings were merciless.
Kenji entered the office with his usual steely calm, but his inbox was already a battlefield. Three client revisions, a budget concern from finance, and a calendar notification that made him pause mid-sip of coffee.
Subject: Creative Retreat — Last-Minute Rooming Update
He clicked.
Due to venue renovation delays, some rooms at the retreat site are under maintenance. We've reassigned rooms accordingly. See the attached schedule.
– HR
Kenji scrolled to the bottom of the spreadsheet.
Room 312: K. Takahashi / Y. Hayama
He stared at the screen.
Surely not.
The retreat wasn't optional. Every quarter, Aizawa & Partners shuffled their top teams to a serene countryside inn under the illusion of "team building" and "strategic reflection." In practice, it was a tense three-day sprint of presentations, workshops, and awkwardly personal icebreakers—interrupted only by late-night drinking and the occasional karaoke-induced scandal.
By early afternoon, Kenji was in the company shuttle, laptop balanced on his knees, pretending not to be aware of Yuu seated beside him.
Yuu smelled faintly of citrus and cedar—clean and warm, like sunlit laundry—and his leg kept brushing Kenji's with every bump in the road. Not enough to be intentional. But not far from it, either.
"Hey," Yuu said, tilting his head toward Kenji. "So… roommates, huh?"
Kenji didn't look up. "Apparently."
Yuu grinned. "Gotta say, I didn't have sharing a room with the infamous Kenji Takahashi on my career bingo card."
Kenji gave him a sidelong glance. "You'll live."
"Will I?" Yuu mused. "I've heard your snoring causes structural damage."
Kenji arched a brow. "You're misinformed. I don't snore."
"We'll see."
The inn was beautiful. Traditional tatami rooms with sliding shoji doors, a koi pond in the courtyard, and the comforting hush of a place too old to care about Wi-Fi signal.
Their shared room was larger than expected, with two futons laid out side by side and a low wooden table stacked with towels and yukata robes. Outside, wind chimes clinked in the breeze.
Yuu tossed his duffel bag onto the floor and looked around. "Cozy."
Kenji was already unpacking. "Just keep your side tidy."
Yuu kicked off his shoes and stretched, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. "No promises. I'm an artist. Chaos is part of my brand."
Kenji turned away. Focus. This was just a logistical hiccup. A minor inconvenience.
Then Yuu flopped onto his futon and sighed, the sound low and soft.
"Kenji."
Kenji looked over, half-unbuttoning his cuffs.
"What's your deal?"
Kenji frowned. "Elaborate."
"I mean—you're this brilliant, intimidating guy who barely talks to anyone, and when you do, it's like getting lectured by an expensive ghost. But then you help a new guy fix a coffee machine and quietly compliment his weird skincare pitch."
Kenji hesitated. "Are you asking if I'm secretly nice?"
Yuu laughed. "No. I know you're not nice."
Kenji blinked.
"I think you care," Yuu said. "You just hide it really, really well."
Silence fell.
Then, Kenji said, almost reluctantly, "People waste too much time trying to be liked. I'd rather be useful."
"Being liked and being useful aren't opposites."
Kenji sat on the edge of his futon, staring at the floor. "Maybe not for you."
Yuu's voice softened. "You think I'm trying to be liked?"
Kenji didn't answer.
Because the truth was: yes. But not in a bad way.
Yuu had a warmth that made people lean closer without realizing it. It was dangerous—especially in a world where proximity could lead to confusion. Missteps. Or worse, wanting something you weren't allowed to want.
Yuu shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. "You ever get tired of being alone?"
Kenji looked at him.
Really looked.
The question was too raw, too real, too… close.
"I don't have time to be tired," he said.
But something in his chest twisted, betraying the lie.
That night, after the welcome dinner and awkward team charades, they returned to their room in a comfortable quiet. Kenji changed quickly, folding his clothes with mechanical precision. Yuu emerged from the bathroom with damp hair and no shirt, towel slung around his neck.
Kenji didn't look. Not directly.
Yuu crawled under the blankets, yawned, then said: "You can relax, you know. I don't bite."
Kenji turned off the light.
Silence.
Then Yuu's voice again, soft in the dark:
"But if you ever want me to…"
Kenji's breath caught.
Yuu chuckled under his breath. "Kidding. Mostly."
Kenji stared at the ceiling, every nerve in his body lit like a warning flare.
Yuu turned over. A minute passed. Then two. His breathing slowed.
But Kenji remained awake long after.
He'd always thought of desire as something controllable. A box you sealed tight and shoved onto the highest shelf.
But Yuu Hayama… had a way of picking locks.
And Kenji wasn't sure he wanted the door to stay closed.