Kaito's almost-smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, his mask of stern control snapping back into place. He cleared his throat and looked away, breaking the intense, breathless moment between them. But it was too late. Aiko had seen it. He had seen her laugh, and for a fraction of a second, he had almost laughed with her.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was different. Lighter. It was broken by the steady drip... drip... drip of water from the ceiling and a pathetic meow from Mochi, who was now peeking out from under the sofa, surveying his kingdom of chaos.
"I'll call Kenji," Kaito said, his voice all business again. "He can have a team here within the hour to fix this."
"No," Aiko said, surprising herself with her own confidence. "It's just water. And the power is out. What can they do in the dark? We have towels. Let's just clean it up."
Kaito looked at her, then around at the dripping, dark apartment. She was right. Calling in his men would be an overreaction. It was a domestic problem, not a clan war. He gave a short, reluctant nod. "Fine. The linen closet is down the hall."
Working together in the dim emergency light was a strange, almost surreal experience. They found a pile of thick, fluffy towels and started on opposite ends of the living room, sopping up the pools of water on the floor. At first, they worked in silence, but the shared, ridiculous task was a powerful icebreaker.
"So," Aiko started, a teasing note in her voice as she wrung out a towel into a wastebasket. "The great Ishikawa-sama. Brought to his knees by a J-pop idol group."
He shot her a dark look, but there was no real heat in it. "It was a tactical assault on the senses," he said, his voice a dry murmur. "A form of psychological warfare."
Aiko laughed again, a much quieter sound this time. "Right. And I suppose the sprinklers were part of their 'shock and awe' campaign?"
"A necessary countermeasure," he replied, deadpan. He was actually bantering with her. Aiko was so surprised she almost dropped her towel.
They worked efficiently, a strange, unspoken rhythm falling into place between them. She would gather the soaked towels, and he, with his longer reach, would drape them over the backs of the dining room chairs to dry. She noticed he was careful around the expensive furniture, his movements precise even when mopping up a puddle.
After twenty minutes of work, Aiko started to shiver, her wet clothes clinging to her skin. Kaito noticed immediately.
"You're cold," he stated, his voice flat. "Go change before you get sick."
"You're one to talk," she pointed out, nodding at his own soaked clothes. "Your shirt is... uh..."
He looked down, finally seeming to realize that his white dress shirt was completely transparent, revealing the black ink of his tattoos like a second skin. For a moment, he looked genuinely uncomfortable, vulnerable. With a deft, efficient motion, he unbuttoned the shirt and shrugged it off, leaving him in just his black pants.
Aiko froze.
It was one thing to see hints of the tattoos on his arms and neck. It was another thing entirely to see them in the dim light, covering his chest and shoulders in a breathtaking, intricate tapestry of scales, claws, and waves. A massive dragon coiled around his torso, its head snarling over his heart. It wasn't just a tattoo; it was a masterpiece. A story written on his skin. It was beautiful and terrifying.
He caught her staring. A hard, defensive look came over his face, and he turned away to grab a dry towel, rubbing it briskly over his hair. The moment of connection was broken.
"Go," he ordered, his back still to her. "Change your clothes."
Aiko retreated to the bedroom, her heart beating a little too fast. She quickly changed into one of the simple sweaters and pairs of pants Kenji had brought. They were soft and comfortable. When she came back out, Kaito had finished the floors and was sitting on the arm of the sofa, looking out the window. He hadn't put on another shirt.
The apartment was still dark, the power still out. The dripping had mostly stopped. The city lights twinkled below them, a silent, glittering ocean. The chaos was over.
Aiko looked at him—the clan heir, the man who commanded shadows—sitting there shirtless in the dark, his dragon tattoo a silent guardian on his skin. He was no longer just her warden, or a monster, or a dangerous Yakuza.
He was Kaito. A man who liked art history, who was clumsy with a laser pointer, and who looked surprisingly at home while cleaning up a mess. The wall between them hadn't just cracked. It had started to crumble.