They came back still carrying a bit of music with them: the bass in their legs, their hands tapping a rhythm that lingered on their skin. Outside, the city was breathing more slowly; traffic lights cast red and green tides over the puddles, a bar closed with a metallic creak. At the first draft from a doorway, Aiko took his hand—warm, steady fingers—and before going upstairs, she looked at him under the weary glow of the sign.
"Stay at my place tonight."
Yuji blushed as he always did, the flush rising up his neck, but he gave a wide, almost relieved smile.
"If I'm not in the way..."
"You're only good for me, never in the way," she cut him off, gently and held his fingers a moment longer than necessary. The keys jingled against the lock; in the hallway, the air smelled of wet paper and mandarins drifting from some landing further ahead.
At home, Aiko handed him an oversized T-shirt with the faded print of a music tour—it was cotton and carried that mix of fabric softener and her shampoo that drove Yuji crazy—and a towel still warm from the radiator.
"Quick shower for you, I'll make some tea in the meantime."
"I obey," he said, raising a hand to his forehead in an exaggerated salute; then he paused, serious, in a single breath.
"If, in a while... something happens... I'm here. With you."
She nodded, brushed his wrist with her thumb.
"I know and if you want a break afterwards, you'll tell me."
The bathroom soon filled with steam; on the mirror, an oval blur appeared, blooming back each time he wiped it away. Yuji splashed his face more than necessary, counted to eight, listened to his own breath settle. The T-shirt fell over his thighs like a light blanket and from the hallway he could catch the scent of ginger and honey along with the faint clink of teaspoons.
They drank something warm sitting on the carpet, backs against the couch, their heels touching and pulling away again as if in play. The cups steamed; they talked about nothing in particular, then heard a cat meow on the outside stairs, then silence. They spoke in general about the evening: the song that had made them laugh, the guy at the reception who sang under his breath, off-key on the second verse, how the DJ had missed his cue and no one had noticed.
Every now and then Aiko brushed the hair out of his eyes with two fingers; every now and then Yuji kissed her knuckles, shyly, as if asking permission. She let her hand rest there for a few seconds, then pulled it back—only to offer it to him again.
At 11:10 p.m., Aiko's phone vibrated. She looked at it, then at him.
"Five minutes left."
Yuji drew in a breath, then nodded. "Okay."
"Here's what we'll do," she said, matter-of-fact. "You on the couch. I'll stay here, just past the kitchen doorway. The distance is clear."
"Alright," he replied. "If I say something that isn't mine... just ignore it."
"I know, I know who you are," she whispered, holding his fingers a moment longer. "If you feel dizzy, breathe."
They positioned themselves as she had said. The warm lamplight cast shadows across the floor; on the table, two cups still steaming. Aiko leaned against the doorframe, shoulders straight, chin lifted. Yuji sat on the couch, hands on his knees. He looked at her to keep himself steady.
At exactly 11:15, his breathing changed rhythm. A shiver ran across his shoulders; his smile slipped away and another appeared, sharper. His eyes darkened. He was no longer himself.
***
"What a domestic scene," I savor the words as if they were meat. "Did you think of me too, girl? Furniture and chains in the same bundle?"
The maid does not step back, and that alone is already an affront. "There are rules."
I tilt my head, sliding like a blade finding the soft spot. Ah, what fun! One step, the bond jerks me back like a leash: not yet, but almost... maybe.
"Rules, yes. And debts." My eyes slide over her lips, still and taut at the edge of uselessness. "There's something heavy on your tongue."
"Yes." A breath that burns her. She looks at me. "My king."
The room bends, the walls seem to breathe with fear. My smile snaps, clean as a knife.
"Better. Keep your back straight. Do not lower your gaze. You could be my wife — not as an honor, but as a punishment."
"I won't," she replies. And she does not tremble. A delight: the others here bend like beasts before the whip; she does not. A new blade, not yet bloodied.
"Say it again," I command, fangs pressed to her throat. "Remember I can demand as much as I want."
"The pact says once only." Her voice is like well-seasoned wood, dry. "And I keep pacts. You?"
I laugh softly. "Only when it amuses me. A pact is nothing but an illusion: I decide whether it holds."
The clock marks time, each tick a blade scoring the flesh of time. Ten minutes to tear from her what I need. Ten minutes for her to try to nail me to her little order. Let's see who devours whom.
She leans against the doorframe, her hand steady on the invisible line that restrains me. "You told me there's a man attached to Yuji. A regular client. Smells of booze and envy. I want to know who he is and what he wants."
Ah. She wants to grab without asking. Tender presumption.
I tilt my head, the gesture almost regal. "You are forgetting the toy, brat."
Her gaze slides to the little bell, lingers, then returns to me. She does not touch it. "Speak anyway."
My smile opens slow, with the precision of a wound that won't stop bleeding. "You give the orders? Oh, I like that. But remember: every command without tribute... costs more than you think."
I lift my gaze as if raising her chin with my pupils, without moving a muscle. "You knocked with good manners. You earned my smile. The rest has a price."
Her knuckles whiten against the doorframe, but her hand stays fixed there. "If I ring you...you answer. Clear?"
"Crystal clear." I step up to the boundary: the invisible rope pulls tight, but does not snap. "Call me tomorrow. Do not forget your place, little rulebook on legs."
"Don't call me 'little'."
I smile—cold, reflective, like freshly filed metal. "Then you call me..." The breath is a blade. Beneath my skin, I feel the hunt straining, the heartbeat turning taut like a cord. "...Just as you called me before."
Her lips tremble, a quiver that dares not become a word. "The pact... says once only."
"What a pitiful waste..." I bend slightly, slow and predatory, like someone who lets you choose only to wound deeper. "Tomorrow, behave—and ring."
"When I ring tomorrow..." she says, "don't play smart."
"If I play smart, I lose windows for two days." I show her the chain as if it were my most treasured jewel, shiny and useless to those who do not know how to use it. "I do not waste tools that work."
The clock spews seconds; the edge of the world shortens. I whisper almost in her ear, low as an order already fulfilled. "Put your pup to sleep without triumphs. Turn off the scene. Tomorrow the bell will cut cleaner."
"I won't use you to hurt him."
"You will use me to win." The domestic light draws a clear blade across her cheek; I follow that trail like a surgeon choosing the cut. "Tomorrow I will throw the truth on the floor like a bone. But first you pay: a ring, obedience, no tantrums. And you will do what I order."
My smile is cold like an offer that cannot be refused. "Remember: I grant the blow — and I also decide how much it will hurt."
The bond pulls and the final second lays its flat blade against my neck. I hold her gaze one beat longer, to etch the promise into the flesh of her eyes. In there, behind the glass, the boy breathes again without knowing that his breath still carries her scent. I know. Two words cling to me: "my king." She spoke them without bending, without lowering her gaze. That is the spark that sets the blood alight.
I smile, but not from tenderness — from hunger. It's the hunger that bites when the prey looks you straight in the eye and refuses to run. New blades sharpen pleasure: they cut deeper. She is blade. I will be the pressure.
And I will press.
It comes back to me how she held herself: chin high, voice steady, no tremors. Most people crumble here; she does not. And that warms me more than any prayer. Seeing her resist whets my appetite: I want to make her choose, slowly, piece by piece, until she can no longer say no — using her own rules. I will exploit them. No wait, better: I will shape them for her, until she understands who she is really dealing with.
The container moves, exhausted. The heart beats — an excellent metronome for measuring the hours. Eight. Then the bell. Then the sound that dissolves. Then the truth that will arrive, and she will buy it with the price I impose.
I count. And she will learn to fear the tally.
I'm not interested in the smell of fear — everyone has it, rancid and predictable. I am drawn to the scent of challenge: what clings to you when you do not bend. She wants to command the distance? Fine. She wants to put a price on every word? Excellent. I'll make every syllable cost dearly until her voice tastes of me even in silence.
Tomorrow I will watch her enter straight as a sword. She will ring, and I will listen like someone counting heartbeats before the strike. I will give her a sharp name, then take two more goods: her breath and her gaze. They will be mine for exactly ten minutes. Enough for the hunger to begin again.
The boy closes his eyes. I count. Eight hours. One bell. A girl who does not fear the king.
Perfect.
***
That morning the sun came through the curtains like a wide-toothed comb, dividing the light line by line. Aiko opened her eyes calmly: Yuji was sleeping on his side, one hand open on the pillow, the other folding the blanket at chest height as if he had clutched it during the night. His fringe fell over his eyes and his steady breathing gave her peace. Aiko looked at him, then smiled.
She kissed his forehead gently, careful not to wake him. A brief kiss, habitual, like the simple gesture of slipping a lucky charm into one's pocket. She slid out of bed, making sure not to pull the sheets and moving as quietly as possible; her feet touched the cool parquet and, for an instant, the room held only the sound of their two breaths.
From the kitchen came soft noises: the gurgle of the moka pot, cups touching, her mother's low voice asking, "Sugar?" and her father's reply, "Just a little." Aiko stretched her arms above her head, then went to the bathroom, one hand caressing her abdomen as she yawned. 8:00 a.m. flashed on the clock beside the mirror: the 7:15 window had long passed. The thought brushed her mind and slipped away smoothly with the steam from the tap, leaving her relieved.
She washed her face, tied her hair back with an elastic, then let it fall again: she was supposed to work that day, Sunday at lunchtime, and Yuji was meant to help her by filling in for Kazuma, who had caught the flu. Dark jeans, a light shirt half tucked in, clean sneakers; she slipped into her bag the apron, an order pad, and the pen she had always used to write. She peeked into the kitchen: her mother handed her a glass of water and a croissant, her father raised his cup of long coffee as if making a toast. "Good day," he said. "Clear sky: people will go out."
"Even better," said Aiko, stealing a sip of coffee from her mother's cup. "At lunch it'll be just me and Yuji in the dining room. Then we'll see about the rest."
She went back to the bedroom for a moment. Yuji had turned onto his other side; his eyelashes cast a shadow on his cheek. She whispered in his ear: "I'm heading to the restaurant. You keep sleeping, alright, love?" He made that sound between sleeping and waking that she adored; he didn't open his eyes, but reached for her hand and held it gently. Aiko let him keep it for two heartbeats, then pulled away softly and kissed his shoulder.
Once outside, the air smelled of freshly baked bread and freshly opened newspapers. The street toward the restaurant moved with the slow pace of Sundays: the florist was setting out crates, a bicycle chained up cast its shadow on the sidewalk, parents carried children on their shoulders, people sat in front of cafés with their drinks. Aiko walked along, counting in her head and thinking of what was still missing—placemats, glasses, bread to warm, sauce to finish—but every so often, without meaning to, the memory of the karaoke night came over her: Yuji's beautiful laugh clinging to her skin like light.
At the restaurant, the shutter was already halfway up, her father having dropped off the still-warm fresh bread that morning; she slipped in the key and pushed the last part up with a sharp pull. Inside lingered the scent of the night before: sweet tomato, lemon, polished steel. She flung open two windows, switched on the row of warm lights beneath the shelves, set up the counter and tables with the measured gestures of someone who knows exactly where the chairs belong, prepared the bread baskets, placed a jug of water with orange slices near the till, checked the reservation book: three couples, one family, a table for four at 1:15 p.m.
The phone buzzed on the counter.
Yuji: Just woke up. Dreamed I was making pasta and it turned out good. Lie—it turned into glue. Need chef supervision.
Aiko: Supervision granted. Bring your smile too, please.
Yuji: Comes bundled with me. I'm coming with Nobara and Megumi. They say if I don't invite them, they'll pin me to the bench.
Aiko: Fine. I'll set them to peeling potatoes. 😀
Yuji: She already said 'never in my life.' But I can 😇
Aiko laughed to herself, that laugh that softened her shoulders and relaxed her face. She put water on for the staff's tea, cut two slices of bread to taste, sampled the ragù with two spoons that didn't touch any other dish; then she went to the back, pulled out a crate of tomatoes that smelled of sun and lined them up like little planets on the cutting board.
The little bell over the door chimed half an hour later, cheerful as a songbird. Yuji came in first with his restrained run—backpack slung over one shoulder, hair hastily fixed, a smile that lit up the room, tall, the faint muscles of his arms, broad shoulders... Beautiful. Behind him, Nobara strode in with purpose, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown and a bag far too small for everything it somehow carried; Megumi walked a step aside, hands in his pockets, gaze straight ahead—though it softened for a moment when he saw Aiko.
"Good morning, favorite owner," Nobara announced. "We're here to criticize everything and pay nothing."
"Excellent review," Aiko replied, joking. "So here's the deal. I'll make you work too. You set the tables, Megumi pours the water. Yuji..."
"Smiles?" he said, already blushing.
"Smiles and comes to the kitchen to greet my parents," she cut him off, with a sweetness that flushed across his cheeks.
Megumi shifted two chairs without a sound, then simply said, "Good morning," with a nod that, for him, was almost a hug. Nobara took off her sunglasses and looked around with stern approval. "I like the light. Instagram-friendly."
"The meatballs are stomach-friendly," Aiko shot back, "and for those you don't need a filter."
Yuji stepped up to the counter like someone coming home. "Can I steal a slice of bread?"
"If you share it with them, yes." She handed him the little plate. Their fingers brushed for a moment—a tiny spark, like a secret—and then each went to their place.
The dining room arranged itself around them: glasses shining, napkins folded on the diagonal, the daily menu chalked on the blackboard ("Pasta al pomodoro, Sunday meatballs, Dad's tiramisù"). Outside, the sun beat down gently; inside, everything was readying for that good kind of chaos that makes a lunch a success. Aiko gave the room one last glance, drew a breath and tapped the edge of the pass with the back of her hand.
"Okay, team," she said softly, to Yuji, but with that tone that moved everyone. "Tomorrow's rest. But today, let's do it right."
Yuji winked at her, while Nobara sat like a queen on her chair and Megumi lined up the cutlery in front of him to the millimeter.
Sunday could begin.