I collapsed onto my bed like a broken marionette, letting my limbs go slack and my head sink into the pillow. My muscles screamed in protest, lungs burning as though I'd sprinted a marathon up that rooftop just to prove something to the air itself. Even though the evening was soft and calm, without a drop of rain, my bones still carried the memory of last night's downpour. Damp hair clung to my forehead, cold seeping into my chest, and the lingering dizziness made the edges of the ceiling blur faintly. I pressed a hand to my temple, trying to force it away, but my mind refused to cooperate.
Emiko Kisaragi hovered at the edge of the bed, hands clasped, eyes wide. Her presence—so composed, so gentle—was at once comforting and excruciating. "Shima-kun… what happened?" she asked, voice soft and carefully measured. "Why did you run to the rooftop like that?"
Hitoshi leaned casually against the dresser behind her, arms crossed, smirk stretched across his face like he'd already won a private joke. "And that guy—Kaoru, right? The one you said was Pavilion Eight? I heard he's a famous cosplayer now. Is it really him?"
My stomach sank. "No," I said quickly, scrambling to separate Kaoru into two different people to save myself. That tattoo—the "H" inked neatly on his wrist—I had noticed it, of course, and I had almost blurted it out when I ran. My mind raced, calculating the consequences if I let Hitoshi—or worse, Emiko—connect the dots. I leveled a dangerous glance at my brother: Do not you dare… Or I swear I'll kill you, big brother.
Hitoshi blinked, caught the warning. His smirk softened into something like, alright, I believe you. Instead of pressing further, he chuckled and deflected with nonsense words. Emiko tilted her head, confused, but I exhaled, relieved. My little panic had passed, at least for the moment.
I let out a low groan, rolling onto my side, blanket creeping up over my chest. Tired. Irritated. Embarrassed. I muttered, "He… he was just teasing me. Not… Pavilion Eight. Not that guy. He… noticed how I… panic sometimes. Gay panic, even."
Hitoshi's grin widened like he was savoring a secret feast. "Gay panic, huh? You really don't make it easy to tease you, Shima."
I swatted at him half-heartedly, pulling the blanket closer. "I'm… still cold from last night… and—is my name really too long for you to say, so you shorten it to Shima?" My voice clipped, half annoyance, half complaint. "Besides… the rain soaked me last night. My nose is still red. So don't poke me now, Hiroshi."
Hitoshi laughed, warm and teasing. "Alright, alright. No more 'Shima.' Got it, complainy little brother."
"Complainy?!" I barked softly, half embarrassed, half furious. "I'm not complainy! I'm… I'm… cold!"
Emiko giggled softly at our back-and-forth, eyes glimmering with amusement. "You two are ridiculous," she said, brushing past Hitoshi. "Honestly, this is like watching a romantic comedy unfold in real life."
Hitoshi rolled his eyes dramatically but whispered loud enough for me to hear, "Future husband, future wife," and Emiko laughed, leaning into him. The warmth between them—soft, playful, teasing—made my chest tighten. I muttered under my breath: "Shameless… affectionate…" and rolled my eyes, trying not to squirm under the awkwardness.
I turned my gaze back to Emiko, softening my voice into something almost childish, small, sickly even. "I… I want something warm. Something soft. Please," I murmured, a hint of pleading in my tone. "I'm only here for two months… but Nii-san gets you forever. I deserve at least this."
Her laugh was musical, brushing my ears like delicate ribbons. She stepped closer, hand resting on my shoulder, warm and grounding. "Greedy," she said, smiling gentle, "but alright. I'll make something just for you."
Hitoshi chuckled behind her. "You hear that, Shima? You're spoiled."
I closed my eyes, letting the blanket cocoon me, letting the warmth of her hand settle in. The smell of rain-damp sheets mixed with the faint aroma of her tea lingered around the room. Dust motes floated lazily in the soft evening light spilling from the window. My chest rose and fell unevenly, dizziness prickling at the edges of my vision. Every footstep from the kitchen sounded amplified, deliberate. Every laugh from Hitoshi cut through the calm, teasingly soft.
And yet… despite all that, Kaoru's presence crawled back into my chest. That grin, precise, teasing, the way his fingers had brushed my forearm in the car. The way he had stared—mocking, insistent, knowing. I had nearly tumbled into the void. The phantom heat of that moment curled along my spine again.
I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over the shop profile. In Your Shape. The name suddenly felt fragile, almost ready to betray me. Kaoru's song, the teasing tone, had burrowed deep into my chest. Changing the shop name now would be catastrophic. Everything I had built in London—campaigns, social media presence, client base—would collapse. But my chest burned anyway, anger and frustration swirling with the residual fear.
And yet, I hated it. Hated that one man could leave me flustered, tease me into flinching. My pulse betrayed me. My body jumped at phantom touches that weren't real. I cursed under my breath. Stupid bird. Stupid hand. Stupid… everything.
I tapped through my phone, checking scheduled Instagram campaigns, metrics for Facebook posts, emails to international suppliers, adjusting paid ads. Analytics dashboards, inventory updates, customer feedback forms—I knew my business, yes. But with Kaoru lingering in my mind, everything felt precarious, like the floor beneath me could crumble at any moment.
Hitoshi's voice floated back from the kitchen, teasing, low. "Emiko, you've got it easy. He's soft, and he's spoiled. How are you not melted already?"
I muttered under my breath, eyes rolling. "Shameless."
Emiko laughed softly, brushing past Hitoshi. Their subtle touches—fingers lingering, elbows brushing—made my chest tighten. "Future husband, future wife," I whispered, sarcasm and genuine amusement tangled together.
I glanced at the window. The soft evening light settled across the room. Trees swayed faintly outside. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
My mind drifted back to Kaoru, that dangerous, teasing presence. That wrist—had the "H" tattoo, stylish, deliberate. Why did I even care? The tattoo shouldn't matter, yet it burned in my chest. He had nearly killed me… and then saved me. I could at least tell Hitoshi he wasn't Pavilion Eight because of the song he aimed directly at me and the way he carried himself, the tattoo aside.
He had two faces to me: one like a celebrity, precise and polished; another… something else entirely. Dangerous, chaotic, relentless. My lie to Hitoshi felt small, ridiculous… but necessary. He laughed faintly, unbothered. Emiko didn't press. And I didn't mention the bar. Hitoshi didn't notice—couldn't catch the subtle cues I left unsaid.
I exhaled sharply. The phone buzzed again—emails, campaign updates, supplier responses, inventory alerts. I tapped through dashboards, adjusting seasonal ad targeting, reviewing click-through rates, planning influencer partnerships. Fingers moved automatically, but my thoughts kept straying to that grin, that teasing warmth, that phantom hand.
I pressed my palm to my forehead. Heart racing. Fever or not, I had to stay in control. Shop, campaigns, posts, metrics, inventory, emails. Professional side on, full force. And yet… the phantom of Kaoru's hand slid down my arm again. My chest clenched. My body jumped. Even when alone, I flinched.
I cursed under my breath, muttering things I couldn't admit aloud. Stupid… dangerous… bird.
The warmth from Emiko's care lingered. Hitoshi's laughter faded from the kitchen. And Kaoru… Kaoru was still out there. Teasing, dangerous, impossibly close.
I pressed my thumb against the shop profile again, staring at the name. In Your Shape. For now, it stayed. But the memory of Kaoru—the song, the grin, the phantom hand—would haunt me.
I shook my head and exhaled sharply. Work first. Campaigns, emails, inventory. Kaoru, dangerous as he was, couldn't touch the business side of me. Not yet.
I stayed on the bed, wrapped in blankets, heart racing, feverish, mind circling endlessly around a teasing, dangerous younger memory.