I lay awake, ceiling tiles blurring into the soft light of early morning, the weight of the previous night pressing down like a phantom hand. Last night's memory still burned, stubborn as a candle flame I could not snuff.
My pulse ached as if it were still under Kaoru Nishimi's spell—his touch, his heat, the impossibly precise way he had invaded every nerve ending. Rational thought screamed at me to forget, to lock it away, yet the memory clung, curling around my brain like smoke.
I had promised myself, firmly, absolutely: never. Never would I—by accident, curiosity, or plain idiocy—step into a place like Pavilion Eight again. Not even a glimpse. Not even a "maybe." Never.
And yet, my body betrayed me. I shivered, curling tighter under the thin blanket, my damp hair clinging to my forehead. Every brush against the sheets felt like static electricity, like heat igniting anew. Rationality warred with sensation. Alien-born neurons short-circuited at the thought of his proximity. No. Never. Not again.
Morning crept in with the faint smell of jasmine and polished wood. Hiroshi was already moving about the house. The soft click of automatic blinds, distant hums of air systems, and muted footsteps of staff whispered control and wealth. The house itself was enormous, high ceilings, gleaming floors, corridors stretching beyond comprehension. I felt simultaneously awed and grounded—luxury surrounding me, yet somehow ordinary when Hiroshi's presence anchored it.
I stumbled out of bed, hair plastered to my damp forehead, and began unpacking, my London-bred logic desperate to assert order. Neatly folded shirts, rolled trousers, carefully stacked gifts—small treasures of my life abroad—offered a fragile sense of control.
First, the gifts. A finely carved music box, tiny trinkets meant to make him laugh. Sliding them across the gleaming kitchen table, I tried to sound casual.
"Here," I said lightly, voice fragile but teasing. "For the lucky guy who somehow survived ten years without me making fun of him properly."
Hiroshi's grin stretched impossibly wide. He shook the music box gently to hear the melody. "Hiroshima… only you would bring a gift like this just to make me laugh." He winked. "I'm assuming the rest of your treasures are safely locked away for… a wedding someday?"
I nodded, a faint blush creeping up my neck. "Yes… nothing dangerous yet. All the dangerous stuff stays here, safe, until then." My gaze flicked to the kitchen door and then toward the living room, half-expecting some phantom of Kaoru to materialize. Rationally, I was safe; irrationally, he could be anywhere, waiting.
Breakfast smelled like warmth—toast, eggs, and freshly brewed coffee. Even this mundane act grounded me—the sunlight through sheer curtains, silverware neatly arranged, the soft hum of quiet opulence. I perched beside Hiroshi, music box between us, trying to anchor my jittering thoughts.
"So… which lucky girl gets to meet you first?" I asked, attempting to focus on something normal, to ignore the phantom heat still pressing against my chest.
"Patience," he said, offering a smirk. "She's beautiful, kind… and a little bold. You'd know her—school friend, lost touch for ten years. We'll meet her after shopping."
Bold? Beautiful? My mind flared with curiosity and relief. That small sweetness, the mundane intrigue of normal life, grounded me. But even as he spoke, my thoughts tangled. Kaoru versus her… The comparison was instinctual, ridiculous, frightening. Kaoru's smirk, the teasing heat of his touch, lingered in every memory of my skin. And Hiroshi's fiancée—sweet, bold, undeniably alive—made my rational mind scramble to reconcile fear, fascination, and that lingering pulse of heat.
Breakfast became a ritual of recovery. I hid my racing heartbeat behind comments about his flawless toast, the strangely perfect texture of eggs, and meticulous arrangement of plates. Peeling fruit, stirring batter, placing sugar beside the coffee—mundane acts became anchors, grounding me. I clung to them, desperate to forget Pavilion Eight, to bury Kaoru's shadow beneath warmth and laughter.
Yet the memory lingered, tangling itself into the present. Every brush of my fingers against the table, every subtle movement of my chest under the shirt reminded me: heat, proximity, smirk, teasing fingers—every reflective window, passerby, flicker of shadow whispered him. What if I see him again? What if he waits… or recognizes me? Rationally impossible, irrationally terrifying.
After clearing the table, we spoke of relatives, future visits, and faint memories of childhood friendships lost to time. Hiroshi teased, nudged, smiled—a rhythm I hadn't felt for ten years. Just as I began to sink into this warmth, a pang struck my chest: the thought of his fiancée taking him away. I laughed it off, but the tiny twist of tension remained. The contrast—safe, sweet, predictable warmth versus Kaoru's incendiary unpredictability—tangled inside me, teasing, frightening, exciting.
Finally, we left for shopping. Rain had washed away the city's haze, leaving streets glistening under soft sunlight. Side by side, suitcase and small packages in hand, we moved through Tokyo's bustle. Brotherly banter punctuated every moment: debates over bakeries, minor squabbles over carrying packages, playful teasing over gadgets—all ordinary, yet I soaked them in like precious gold.
And yet… beneath the mundane, my chest throbbed with an undercurrent of fear and fascination. The memory of Kaoru's heat, smirk, teasing fingers, pressed against me in every reflective window, every passerby, every shadow. What if he's watching? What if he recognizes me? The rational part of my mind insisted it was impossible. The irrational one whispered conspiratorially: he could be closer than you think.
I promised myself again, softly, under my breath: never.
Still, laughter, brotherly warmth, and mundane small pleasures anchored me. I let my rational mind rest.
And for the first time in a long while, I allowed a quieter, sharper awareness to settle—a tiny, restless knot of curiosity and fear. Surviving the chaos wasn't just about fear or rational escape. It was learning to exist in a world where desire, danger, and curiosity collided—and realizing that, no matter how safe Hiroshi's world was, outside it, Kaoru Nishimi could still be waiting.
The knot twisted deeper in my chest, a warning, a thrill. And somehow… I didn't want to ignore it.