The soft touch of the fabric made Kazama Haru freeze mid-breath. His body went still the way a startled cat does—complete, involuntary suspension—before his gaze dropped and found Wakaba Mutsumi's golden eyes staring up at him with an intensity that didn't belong on a face that quiet.
She stood barely past his collarbone, her dark bob-cut hair still damp at the edges where sweat had curled the ends against her pale neck. The stage makeup hadn't fully settled into her skin; traces of glitter clung to her cheekbones like scattered stardust, catching the warm yellow of the dressing room's overhead bulbs. Her small fingers pressed the towel against his temple—not dabbing, but holding. Firm. Deliberate. The terrycloth carried the faint scent of lavender detergent mixed with the salt of her own perspiration.
"Ah… thank you, Mutsumi."
His voice came out rougher than intended. Feeling the slight pressure from her palm through the fabric, a strange ache bloomed somewhere behind his sternum—not pain, exactly, but the particular tenderness of being noticed when you'd decided no one would.
He's been pushing himself again. He always does that. I wish he'd stop pretending it doesn't show.
Despite possessing seven points of [Stamina] well beyond an ordinary person's threshold—enough to sustain hours of grueling stage management, sound checks, and last-minute choreography revisions—the fatigue feedback carved into his muscles was merciless. Lactic acid pooled in his shoulders. His lower back had locked into a dull, persistent knot. The backstage air was thick with the mingled scents of electrical equipment, wood polish from the stage floor, and the clinging sweetness of five different perfumes blending into something almost narcotic.
He'd planned to power through on willpower alone. Ganbatte, and all that. But this girl—this impossibly perceptive, soft-spoken girl—had read him before he'd even registered his own exhaustion.
What a thoughtful kid.
His chest felt as though gentle fingers had traced the inside of his ribs. Kazama Haru let his eyes fall closed, surrendering to Mutsumi's ministrations with no pretense of resistance. She moved the kerchief down the line of his jaw, across the tendons of his neck where sweat had pooled in the hollow of his throat, her thumb inadvertently brushing the bare skin just above his collar. The contact was featherlight, barely a whisper, and yet it sent a ripple of goosebumps racing down his arms.
Mutsumi noticed. Her hand paused. Neither of them acknowledged it.
His skin is warmer than I expected.
The dressing room hummed with post-performance energy—muffled laughter from the venue staff filtering through the walls, the distant clatter of equipment being broken down on stage, a tinny pop song leaking from someone's phone two doors over. A half-empty bottle of Pocari Sweat sat sweating on the vanity beside a scattered constellation of hair clips and setlists.
---
Watching this scene from the opposite sofa, Togawa Sakiko felt a wave of regret crash through her so thoroughly it stung.
She'd noticed, too. Of course she had. She'd watched Kazama Haru sprint between lighting rigs and monitor speakers all evening, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, the veins in his forearms standing out each time he hauled cable. She'd even prepared—discreetly, like a proper lady—reaching into her monogrammed bag to retrieve a packet of tissues printed with a pastel kitten design, positioning them at the top of the compartment so she could present them at exactly the right moment.
Haru-kun, you worked the hardest today. Please, use these to wipe your sweat, desuwa.
She'd rehearsed the line in her head four times, adjusting the inflection each time for maximum casual elegance.
And now—Mutsumi had beaten her to it.
I even had the tissues ready. The kitten ones. The limited-edition kitten ones.
The frustration of a carefully choreographed gesture being intercepted mid-execution pressed against the inside of her chest like a held breath. Sakiko closed her eyes, her lips pursing into a pout that puffed her cheeks outward—the expression unmistakably resembling a disgruntled fugu. Her silvery-white hair, still swept into the elaborate stage arrangement that framed her porcelain features, shifted as she turned her head away. The rose-scented setting spray she'd used before the show lingered around her like a personal atmosphere.
"Saki-chan, here!"
The voice materialized at her ear—close, warm, entirely too present—with a familiarity and buoyancy that no amount of exhaustion seemed capable of drowning.
Nani—when did he—
Togawa Sakiko's eyes flew open. The transition from self-imposed darkness to light was disorienting enough, but the scene that crystallized before her stole every coherent thought from her skull.
Kazama Haru had bent forward to offer her a bottle of water, and in doing so had brought his face devastating millimeters from hers.
Close enough that she could count the individual beads of sweat still clinging to his brow. Close enough to see the micro-furrow between his eyebrows—that particular crease of confusion that appeared whenever he couldn't parse someone's mood. Close enough to catch the scent rolling off him in waves: clean sweat layered over cedar-noted cologne, the ghost of guitar-string metal on his fingers, something warm and distinctly him underneath it all that made her stomach flip like a fish on a dock.
His dark eyes held hers with the unselfconscious directness of someone who had absolutely no idea what he was doing to her.
Too—too close…!
Her heartbeat relocated to her throat. Heat crawled up from beneath the lace collar of her stage costume, flooding the pale column of her neck and igniting both cheeks in a blush so vivid she could feel it pulsing.
"Saki-chan?"
He tilted his head. The movement shifted a strand of sweat-dampened hair across his forehead, and Sakiko's gaze betrayed her by tracking it. He leaned fractionally closer—barely a centimeter, driven by nothing but genuine concern—and the distance between their lips narrowed to something that felt less like a measurement and more like a dare.
"Why do you seem a little unhappy? The performance just now was perfect, wasn't it? Or… are you feeling unwell?"
His breath ghosted across her upper lip. Warm. Faintly sweet, like the ramune he'd been drinking earlier. Her entire circulatory system staged a mutiny.
Is it that obvious?! And Haru-kun himself noticed—mou, this is mortifying!
"N-No! I'm not unhappy, desuwa!"
Her voice cracked upward by at least half an octave, guilt and panic wrestling behind every syllable. She snatched the water bottle from his hand with a speed that bordered on violent, her fingers brushing his knuckles in the process—a contact that lasted less than a second but imprinted on her nerve endings like a brand.
She tipped the bottle back and drank deeply, letting the cold water carve a line of clarity down her throat, willing it to extinguish the inferno in her chest. A thin rivulet escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing along her jaw before disappearing beneath her collar.
Calm down. Calm down, Togawa Sakiko. You are a lady of refinement and composure, not some blushing heroine in a shoujo manga—
Her brain was mid-excuse-fabrication when salvation arrived from the most unlikely source.
"Nee nee, let's take a picture!" Yuutenji Nyamu's voice erupted from the sofa where she'd been sprawled, her twin tails of cotton-candy pink hair bouncing as she bolted upright with the energy of someone who'd absorbed the entire audience's excitement directly through her drum kit. Her amber eyes sparkled with unspent adrenaline. "While everyone's still in their stage outfits! It'll be super cute!"
Nyamu… you absolute angel.
Inside Sakiko's mind, a chibi version of herself—tiny, immaculate, pearl-earringed—dropped into a deep, reverent bow toward the drummer, hands clasped in gratitude.
Under normal circumstances, the word "picture" would have triggered Sakiko's surveillance instincts like a tripwire. Identity concealment protocols. Risk assessment. Polite-but-absolute refusal.
But right now, the same suggestion landed on her burning ears like a rescue helicopter's rotor wash—cool, loud, gloriously distracting.
"Eh, is that okay?" Misumi Uika's blue-violet eyes widened with eager light, her stage costume's dark ribbons shifting as she turned toward Kazama Haru. Her indigo hair, worn long and slightly wavy past her shoulders, still carried the static from the stage lights, individual strands floating like antennae. She clasped her hands together in front of her modest chest—an unconsciously pleading gesture.
It would be nice to have something to remember this night by. Something real.
"Hmm… after all, it's a precious memory from our very first stage performance. Kinen ni naru yo ne—it definitely holds commemorative value."
Kazama Haru cupped his chin, index finger tapping against his lower lip. The dressing room's single standing lamp cast his shadow long across the linoleum floor, stretching behind him like a second presence.
The band's cardinal rule was clear: member identities stayed concealed. But he understood. That wild, trembling joy in their eyes—the particular glow that only came from having poured everything onto a stage and hearing the crowd roar back—deserved to be captured. Held. Kept.
"If you can guarantee it won't end up online for personal promotion… then it's not impossible."
His gaze drifted—just slightly, just for a beat too long—toward Nyamu.
"Oi! Why are you looking at me like that!"
Nyamu puffed her cheeks and stamped one boot against the floor, the metallic buckles on her stage costume jingling with the motion. Her protest came out in the sweet, indignant register she reserved for moments of maximum theatrical offense.
Mou, that's so mean! I wasn't even thinking about it this time!
If this had been three months ago, the temptation would have been real—a cryptic Instagram story, a blurred backstage selfie, breadcrumbs scattered for her subscribers to decode. But that impulse had gone quiet, replaced by something she hadn't expected: the genuine desire to protect what they'd built together.
To risk Kazama Haru's anger—to fracture what Ave Mujica was becoming—for a spike in engagement metrics?
She'd sooner eat her drumsticks.
Reading the sincerity behind her pout, Haru nodded. The girls moved with the practiced instinct of performers toward a section of the room where the lighting fell evenly—away from the cluttered vanity and the tangle of charging cables. A faded poster for a local jazz festival clung to the wall behind them, its corners curling with age.
"Then, I'll handle the camera," Haru said, smiling as he stepped back.
"For that, wouldn't a professional staff member be better suited?" Yahata Umiri tilted her head, her forest-green hair swaying across the fitted shoulders of her stage jacket. Her eyes, sharp and observant beneath their calm surface, studied him with quiet insistence. She sidestepped gracefully, opening a gap in the lineup. "Kazama-san, you've been running yourself ragged. You should be in the photo, too."
He always tries to disappear behind the scenes. Someone should tell him he's allowed to be seen.
Wakaba Mutsumi nodded, her bob-cut framing the small, certain smile on her lips. "Haru-kun. Come join us."
"It's what everyone wants, Haru-kun~" Nyamu winked, one hand already beckoning. "Don't be a tsundere about it."
Sakiko said nothing. Neither did Hatsuka. But when Haru's gaze swept across them, he found their invitation written plainly in the angle of their bodies—Sakiko's chin lifted just so, Hatsuka's fingers curling in a small, shy wave.
"Then… yosh. Alright."
He scratched the back of his head, mussing his dark hair further. A part of him resisted—leaving photographic evidence of his proximity to Ave Mujica's members was a calculated risk, especially with GO Band connections still in play. Any premature exposure could unravel carefully laid groundwork.
But the five of them were looking at him like that, and the word "no" dissolved somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
He wanted this, too. Memories worth keeping.
"Yatta! Okay, okay, everyone line up!" Nyamu seized command with the natural authority of someone who'd been organizing group selfies since middle school, positioning the others with rapid-fire hand gestures and bossy little nudges. But when her attention landed on Kazama Haru, her momentum stalled.
Side position? Too peripheral—like an afterthought. Center, flanked by five girls? Too suggestive—the internet would have a field day if this ever leaked, guaranteed.
Noticing her hesitation, Kazama Haru's gaze drifted across the dressing room wall—the patchwork of rehearsal schedules, sticky notes covered in musical notation, and a single polaroid of the empty stage taken during soundcheck that morning. His expression softened.
"I'll stand behind you all."
The words settled over the room like a held chord. The girls paused—a collective half-breath—and then, without discussion, without choreography, they understood. They sank into relaxed crouching poses before the camera, shoulders touching, costumes rustling, the warmth of shared exhaustion binding them together at every point of contact.
Kazama Haru stepped back. One measured pace. He planted his feet behind them, his frame filling the negative space between their silhouettes—broader across the shoulders, taller by a full head, steady as a retaining wall.
The staff member manning the camera adjusted the lens and paused, one eye still pressed to the viewfinder. "This composition… sugoi. It's got a really incredible feeling."
Through the tiny LCD screen, the image resolved: five girls in elaborate stage costumes, radiant and flushed with the aftermath of their debut, crouched together in loose formation. And behind them, standing with his weight evenly distributed and his hands resting naturally at his sides—Kazama Haru. Present. Solid. The kind of figure you'd trust to catch you if the stage collapsed.
Pachiri!
The shutter's crisp snap echoed once off the dressing room walls.
"Ding."
"Ave Mujica successfully held its first performance. Reward: 20,000 Wish Points."
The system notification arrived silently, overlapping with the camera's click like a hidden harmony.
After the shot, Nyamu's momentum didn't so much as flicker. She launched herself sideways, hooking one arm around Kazama Haru's neck with the casual possessiveness of a cat claiming a warm surface. Her twin tails brushed against his jaw. The scent of strawberry lip gloss and stage-light-heated hair flooded his immediate airspace.
She turned her grin on the rest of the group, eyes bright as sparklers.
"Nee, everyone—after tonight, we're different, aren't we? Like, actually different."
Her free hand swept outward, encompassing the cluttered room, the discarded setlists, the five breathless girls and the one steadfast boy who'd built the stage beneath their feet.
"So that means there's only one thing left to do, right?"
She squeezed Haru's shoulder, fingertips pressing into the muscle hard enough to feel the tension still knotted there, and let her voice rise into its most imperious, most irrefutable register—
"The celebration party!"