The Nishina mansion hadn't been this tense since Rin had accidentally released three rabbits into the parlor during a childhood banquet. Servants rushed about polishing tables that were already spotless, her father barked orders in clipped tones, and her mother paced the entryway in silk that shimmered like moonlight.
"Why are you all panicking?" Rin asked, balancing a basket of freshly cut cucumbers on her hip. "It's just a guest."
Her father nearly choked. "Just a guest? Miyazaki Hayate is not a guest, Rin. He is—"
"—the man who saved your daughter from starving to death?" Rin cut in sweetly.
Her father's glare could have melted steel.
Before he could retort, the sound of a car crunching over gravel filled the air. The servants lined up like soldiers. Rin set the basket on the counter and smoothed her plain dress nervously, palms damp.
The front doors opened.
And there he was.
Hayate Miyazaki stepped inside, tall and steady. He wore a perfectly tailored but understated suit, the kind of clothing that spoke of quiet wealth without a hint of arrogance. He carried himself with ease, calm but alert, his expression unreadable yet sharp. His dark eyes swept the room once before finding Rin — and for a dizzying moment, she saw him as both the composed businessman he truly was and the man who had taught her to scale cliffs and haul driftwood under a storm.
Her breath caught.
"Mr. Miyazaki," her father greeted coldly. "Welcome to our home."
Hayate bowed politely. "Thank you for receiving me." His voice was the same as Rin remembered—deep, even, the voice of someone who never wasted words.
Then his eyes flicked to her. Just for a second. And in that second, Rin's chest ached with every word she hadn't yet said.
They gathered at the long dining table. Silver gleamed, crystal sparkled, and Rin wanted to scream at how artificial it all felt.
Her father sat at the head, eyes sharp. Her mother smiled gently from the opposite end. Rin sat stiffly, directly across from Hayate.
"So," her father began, "you claim to have… helped my daughter survive."
"Claim?" Rin repeated, bristling. "Father, if not for him, I'd—"
"Rin," her father cut sharply. "Do not interrupt."
Hayate remained calm. "It is true, Mr. Nishina. Your daughter endured much. More than most could have. I did not save her—she fought for herself. I only ensured she had the chance to."
Rin's chest tightened. That was so like him—to downplay his role. To hand her the spotlight instead of claiming it.
Her father's eyes narrowed. "And yet, you failed to bring her home sooner. You kept her on that island."
"Father!" Rin slammed her hand on the table, startling the servants. "Do you think he built the storms? Do you think he wanted to be stranded with me?"
Her father's mouth thinned to a line.
Hayate's gaze sharpened, but his tone stayed even. "The island has no communication devices, by design. I chose to leave them behind. Every six months, a cargo ship brings me supplies. Until it arrived, there was no way to leave."
Her father frowned. "You chose to cut yourself off from the world?"
"Yes." Hayate leaned back slightly, unruffled. "I own that island. Years ago, I asked my sister—she is an architect—to design a home there that could withstand storms. I wanted solitude. I wanted honesty away from false smiles and shallow friendships. The price of that choice is patience."
He let the weight of his words settle before continuing. "When Rin came into my life, she was caught in that same waiting. The moment the ship arrived, I sent her home."
The room went still.
Rin's father leaned forward, his voice sharp. "So you risked her life for your… retreat from society?"
Rin opened her mouth, furious, but Hayate's calm cut through the tension. "I risked nothing. I provided her food, water, shelter. I made sure she lived. If you call that negligence, then perhaps you misunderstand what true negligence looks like."
For a moment, silence.
Then Rin's mother spoke softly, her gaze fixed on Hayate. "You brought my daughter home alive. For that, I thank you."
Hayate inclined his head, the faintest shadow of a smile crossing his lips.
Rin's throat ached with everything unsaid.
The heavy silence was shattered by a new voice.
"My, my, such a warm family gathering."
Rin stiffened as Hana entered, elegant in a pale blue dress. Every movement carried confidence, polished and purposeful. And at her side was Miyu Takahara, radiant and poised, her steps dripping with grace.
"Forgive us for intruding," Hana said sweetly, though her eyes flickered toward Rin with unmistakable sharpness. "But we couldn't let Hayate attend alone."
Rin's blood boiled. Of course.
Miyu bowed gracefully to her parents. "I am Miyu Takahara. It is an honor to meet the Nishina family."
Her father's stern face softened almost instantly. "Ah, Takahara… your family is most respected."
Rin gripped her fork hard enough to bend it.
Hayate glanced at Rin, his expression calm, unreadable. But behind his gaze, something unspoken stirred, burning like a hidden fire.
The arrival of Hana and Miyu shifted the atmosphere instantly. What had been tense and brittle now crackled with something sharper, a kind of social electricity that made Rin's skin prickle.
Hana swept across the dining room as if it were her stage. She leaned down, brushing her hand across Hayate's shoulder with casual familiarity before taking the seat beside him — uninvited, but entirely at ease. Rin's jaw tightened.
Miyu moved more slowly, every gesture deliberate, as though she floated instead of walked. She bowed to Rin's mother, smiled sweetly at her father, and took a seat opposite Rin, not beside Hayate but close enough that her presence drew eyes.
It was a well-practiced choreography: Hana with her assertive claim, Miyu with her polished grace.
The servants rushed to adjust the seating, flustered, but Rin hardly noticed them. Her eyes locked with Hana's for a fleeting moment — cool, sharp, a flicker of challenge hidden behind her polite smile.
"So," Hana said lightly, pouring herself wine as if she owned the bottle. "How strange it must be, Mr. Nishina, to have your daughter vanish only to return in such… unexpected company."
Her father's expression remained carefully neutral. "Strange, yes. Troubling, even more so."
"And yet," Hana continued smoothly, "fortunate that it was Hayate she found. Few men could have ensured her safety as he did."
The words sounded like praise, but Rin caught the subtle emphasis: few men — but one woman knew him first.
Rin forced a smile. "Yes, and fortunate she didn't find herself stuck with someone who talks too much."
Hana's brows arched, her smile never faltering. "Some of us know when words are unnecessary. Others… are still learning."
The exchange was polite on the surface, barbed underneath. Rin's mother noticed, her eyes flicking between the girls with quiet amusement. Her father, however, seemed pleased by Hana's composure.
Miyu joined in gently, her tone like honey. "I've heard so many admirable things about Mr. Miyazaki. To dedicate oneself so fully to solitude, to live without the noise of society… it shows remarkable strength of character. Don't you agree, Mr. Nishina?"
Her father nodded, almost reluctantly impressed. "Indeed. It takes discipline."
Rin bit the inside of her cheek. Miyu hadn't said much, but her elegance, her charm — it was obvious she knew exactly how to speak to win favor.
Through it all, Hayate sat steady, observing, answering only when needed. When Rin's father asked about his company, Hayate replied with modest precision.
"Miyazaki Dynamics functions best when I remain unseen. I have no desire for the spotlight. What matters is the work — and that the people I trust can move freely without my face overshadowing theirs."
"Spoken like a man who knows power," her father murmured.
"Spoken like a man who knows peace," Hayate corrected evenly.
Rin nearly smiled. It was so like him to turn sharp words into something calm.
When the servants brought out the next course, Hana leaned slightly toward Hayate, speaking just loud enough for Rin to hear. "It reminds me of the nights on the yacht, doesn't it? When we used to sit on deck and you refused to come inside until you finished reading."
Rin's fork froze midair. The yacht?
Hayate glanced at Hana, expression unreadable. "That was a long time ago."
"Not so long," Hana murmured with a smile.
Rin set her fork down a little too hard, the sound sharp. "Funny," she said sweetly. "I never took you for a man who enjoyed being spoiled. You seemed more… resourceful when I knew you."
Hana's eyes flicked up, and for a heartbeat, sparks danced silently across the table.
Hayate looked between them, the faintest crease in his brow, but he said nothing.
As the meal wound down, Rin's mother leaned slightly toward her daughter, speaking low enough that only she could hear.
"You're glaring at your food, dear."
Rin startled, blinking. "I am not."
Her mother's smile was knowing, soft. "I haven't seen you this restless since you were twelve and the neighbor's boy tried to give you flowers."
Rin nearly choked on her drink. "Mother!"
Her mother's hand brushed hers, reassuring. "You'll find your way. Just remember — storms reveal what's real. And you've already weathered one."
Rin's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to hide, but her mother's words slipped under her guard.
When the final dish was cleared, Hana rose first, graceful as a cat. "Thank you for hosting us, Mr. and Mrs. Nishina. I hope we'll see much more of each other." Her glance toward Rin was like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Miyu curtsied elegantly. "It has been an honor. Your daughter is… extraordinary."
Her father beamed at that, but Rin felt the sting of rivalry in Miyu's tone.
Hayate stood last, bowing politely. "Thank you for allowing me this evening."
And then, just before he turned away, his eyes flicked once more to Rin — calm, steady, unreadable.
It left her chest tight, her thoughts spiraling.
Because for the first time since the island, Rin understood something terrifying: surviving storms had been easier than surviving this — her father's doubts, Hana's sharp smiles, Miyu's elegance.
And worst of all, the silence between herself and Hayate.