Just thinking about Hojo Shione's expression at the very end—that stunned, speechless, utterly cornered look plastered across her elegant features—sent an electric thrill surging through Takahashi Mio's body, racing from the tips of her rain-soaked toes all the way to the roots of her hair.
She had been suppressed by that woman for so long. Suffocated. Drowned in the shadow of her legacy. Every encounter, every exchange, every carefully worded pleasantry had felt like breathing through a straw while Hojo Shione stood on her chest. But this time—this time—she had finally, completely, triumphantly overwhelmed her.
Not with passive-aggressive politeness. Not with carefully calculated innuendo. But with sheer, unapologetic, blazing presence. The kind of presence that left no room for counterarguments or condescending smiles.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to call this a complete turnaround, would it? A reversal of fortune so dramatic it deserved its own title card and a swelling orchestral soundtrack.
Especially considering that her opponent was Hojo Shione—chart-topping idol, Seiya's second love, the woman who had seemed so impossibly, infuriatingly untouchable—the victory tasted even sweeter. Like honey drizzled over the finest mochi. Like satisfaction distilled into its purest form.
Even she couldn't help but praise herself internally, her inner voice practically sparkling with self-congratulation: 'Mio, you're seriously so cool! Like, protagonist-level cool! That was the kind of scene that gets replayed in AMVs!'
However—
While slamming the car door and storming off into the rain had been undeniably, cinematically cool, the moment Takahashi Mio settled into the backseat of the taxi and the adrenaline began to ebb from her veins... she sobered up. Instantly. Completely. The cold, wet reality of her situation crashed down on her like a bucket of ice water.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
The base fare for a taxi in Tokyo's 23 wards started at 500 yen. Plus tax. So 550 yen, and that only covered the first kilometer. After that, the meter ticked up by 100 yen for every 255 meters, not even counting the additional time-based fees that accumulated whenever the vehicle idled in Tokyo's notorious traffic snarls.
From here to her apartment... it was nearly five kilometers.
This is... this is going to hurt. Financially. Deeply. In the wallet.
I was way too impulsive. WAY too impulsive. I let my emotions hijack my brain and now my bank account is going to pay the price. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But getting out now—after that dramatic exit, after that slammed door, after that glorious, defiant speech—was absolutely, fundamentally, cosmically out of the question. Hojo Shione's sleek black sedan was probably still right behind them. Or at least nearby. If she emerged from the taxi now, defeated by meter fares and basic economics, Shione would witness her humiliation. That woman would file it away in her mental thesis, add it to her collection of observations, and Mio would never, ever be able to hold her head high again.
I cannot be looked down upon by her. Not today. Not after everything I just said. Pride is expensive, and I'm paying for it in yen.
"Where to?"
The driver's gruff, disinterested voice cut through her frantic mental calculations. Takahashi Mio opened her mouth. Closed it. An awkward, sheepish smile spread across her face—the kind of smile worn by people about to make profoundly unreasonable requests.
"Um... actually, just driving forward for about one kilometer is fine... Really. Just one kilometer. Maybe a little less?"
"?"
The driver's brow furrowed so deeply it threatened to swallow his eyes. He couldn't help but twist around in his seat to glance back at her, his expression screaming the unspoken question: 'Are you okay? Mentally? Should I be driving you to a hospital instead?'
Takahashi Mio pursed her lips tightly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She turned her face pointedly toward the rain-streaked window, her voice flat and deliberately casual.
"Yeah. Actually, turning right at the intersection ahead works too. And then... just maybe a little bit further forward after that. I'll let you know when to stop."
"..."
The driver looked as though he was actively suppressing the primal urge to pull over and eject her from his vehicle immediately. But professional obligation—or perhaps sheer, weary resignation—won out. Following her increasingly vague instructions, he eventually deposited her in front of a 24-hour convenience store, its fluorescent glow cutting a sterile rectangle through the gray drizzle.
Paying the fare with a heart that felt significantly, tangibly heavier than it had minutes ago, Takahashi Mio took shelter beneath the store's narrow awning. The rain continued its gentle assault on the city, and she stood there, arms wrapped around herself, replaying Hojo Shione's words in her head.
"He'll check in every single day to make sure you're eating properly..."
"He'll drag you to shopping malls in his precious free time..."
"He'll even indulge you in things that might be a little excessive..."
A bitter, stubborn unwillingness rose in her throat like bile.
Why? Why does he show such dedicated, tender concern for his ex-girlfriend—the one he supposedly left behind—yet treat ME like a boss managing an employee? A project to be overseen? A transaction to be balanced?
Isn't that... isn't that being just a little too biased? Playing favorites?
She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over Shiratori Seiya's contact. The impulse to call him—to demand he come pick her up, to test whether he would actually show up when she needed him—surged through her with almost physical force. But then she remembered his earlier message. The one that had said he was busy. That something urgent had come up.
Her thumb slid back and forth across the screen, torn between pride and longing. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Finally, gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached, she pressed the call button.
I'll just test the waters first. Just see how he responds. If he's genuinely, truly too busy... fine. I'll take the train. I'll survive. I always survive.
In the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom, Hasegawa Saori sat perched sideways on the sofa, her posture delicate and patient as a resting crane. Shiratori Seiya stood behind her, the hairdryer humming its warm, mechanical lullaby in his hand. With his left hand, he gathered her damp, heavy hair in sections, lifting it gently away from her neck as he directed the warm airflow with his right.
Unlike Hojo Shione's fine, silken hair—the kind that slipped through fingers like liquid ink—Saori's hair was thicker. Heavier. It possessed a substantial, almost weighted quality, and it pooled in his palm with a density that felt grounding. Real. The hairdryer's warm light caught the dark strands, making them gleam with a deep, iron-like luster—the color of a raven's wing under moonlight, or freshly forged steel cooling in shadow.
She probably hadn't trimmed it in a very long time. The ends were uneven, slightly ragged, and the longest strands reached nearly to her waist. But this slight unkemptness didn't detract from her beauty. If anything, it suited her temperament even more perfectly. There was something wild and untamed about it. Something honest.
Of course, that assessment only held true when she didn't speak.
When Saori remained silent, she was every inch the heartless, ice-cold female assassin—a figure of lethal grace carved from moonlight and shadow. But the moment she opened her mouth, that entire aesthetic would shatter like spun glass. The fearsome warrior would evaporate, replaced by something closer to... a Teletubby. A very earnest, very determined Teletubby enthusiastically driving a baby bus. Beep beep!
Feeling the gentle, rhythmic warmth cascading across the nape of her neck, Hasegawa Saori allowed her eyes to drift half-closed. A look of pure, feline contentment settled over her delicate features. She unconsciously straightened her snow-white legs, pointing her toes until they formed a graceful, elegant line, then relaxing them again. A small, almost imperceptible stretch. Like a cat luxuriating in a perfect sunbeam.
She was quiet. Docile. Utterly, trustingly at peace.
She was currently wearing one of his white dress shirts and a pair of his spare shorts. The shirt was clearly more than a size too large for her slender frame. The sleeves draped past her wrists, covering half of her palms in soft, billowy cuffs. The hem of the shirt hung low—so low that it completely obscured the shorts beneath. If she were to stand up right now, the visual effect would be... dangerously misleading. As if she were wearing nothing on her lower body at all.
The only sound filling the quiet room was the steady, hypnotic whooosh of the hairdryer. But as he stood there, methodically working through the sections of her impossibly long hair, Shiratori Seiya became aware of something unexpected blooming in his chest. A feeling he hadn't experienced in what felt like years.
Tranquility. A long-lost, bone-deep sense of quiet peace.
Ten minutes passed in that suspended, wordless calm. Finally, confirming with a touch that every last strand was completely dry, Shiratori Seiya clicked the hairdryer off. The sudden silence was almost startling.
"All done."
Feeling the warm mechanical breeze disappear, Saori's eyes fluttered open. She turned her head to look up at him, and her rosy lips formed the smallest, most unconscious of pouts.
Not enough. Not nearly enough yet.
Her clear, luminous eyes communicated the sentiment with perfect, wordless eloquence. It was the look of a cat whose human had stopped petting it exactly thirty seconds before it was ready.
Shiratori Seiya gazed down at the girl before him—at the fair, flawless skin of her face, at the way her damp hair now fell in soft, dark waves around her shoulders—and couldn't help but marvel, yet again, at the sheer, stubborn resilience of her genetics. Even with hours of daily training under the merciless sun, Saori still belonged to that rare category of cold, pale skin. The kind that seemed immune to tanning, as if sunlight itself respected her too much to leave a mark.
Her face was white with the faintest, most delicate rosy undertone—like the ghost of a blush brushed across pristine white porcelain. Like the first pale flush of dawn reflected on fresh snow.
Their gazes intertwined in the quiet air between them. The moment felt suspended. Weightless. Peaceful, warm, and utterly untethered from the passage of time. It seemed, in that endless heartbeat, like they could simply go on like this forever. No words needed. No complications intruding.
After a long, gentle silence, Shiratori Seiya slowly, reluctantly averted his gaze. He released a quiet sigh—the kind that seemed to rise from somewhere deep and tangled within his chest. When he spoke, his voice was serious. Earnest. Carefully weighted with the gravity of what he needed to say.
"Saori... I have something I want to ask you. Something important."
She didn't speak. She simply nodded, a slow, deliberate motion, her gaze never wavering from his face. As if she could never quite get enough of looking at him. As if each glance was a gift she was determined to savor.
"I want to ask you..." He paused. Searched for the right words. "With me dating Takahashi Mio right now—officially, openly—don't you feel like it's unfair?"
Another pause. He pressed on.
"Or... don't you feel sad? Even a little? Doesn't it hurt?"
"You understand the situation, don't you? Me dating you and Mio at the same time... that's a truly terrible thing to do. It's wrong. Fundamentally wrong. And it's not fair to you. Not in the slightest."
Upon hearing this, Hasegawa Saori blinked. Her head tilted slowly to one side—a gesture of genuine, uncomprehending confusion. A small crease appeared between her delicate brows, her beautiful eyes clouding with puzzlement. Her pale red lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was as soft and gentle as a lullaby.
"Does Seiya... want to send Saori away?"
"No—"
Shiratori Seiya's denial was immediate. Reflexive. Almost pained.
The truth was, the reason he had asked this question—the purpose behind probing the wound—was that he genuinely worried Saori didn't fully grasp the logic of the situation. The moral complexity. The unfairness she was accepting without visible complaint.
If this were Shione... or even Mio... and they explicitly, knowingly permitted him to maintain this tangled arrangement, then with all three parties fully informed and in agreement, he could at least make a cynical peace with being the scumbag cursed by ten thousand people. The villain of the story. The harem protagonist whose emotional cowardice hurt everyone around him.
But with Saori... it was impossible to tell whether she truly comprehended what was happening. Whether she was making an informed choice or simply following her heart with the trusting, unquestioning simplicity of a child. If things just continued in this vague, muddled, unclear state... it would feel too much like taking advantage of her. Like fooling someone too pure to understand she was being fooled.
He couldn't get past this hurdle. It snagged on his conscience like a thorn.
Hearing his vehement denial, Hasegawa Saori's expression softened. She asked, her voice carrying the gentlest note of confusion:
"If Seiya won't leave Saori... then why would Saori be sad? That doesn't make sense."
She paused. Her gaze dropped briefly to her own hands, then lifted back to his face. When she spoke again, her words came slowly. Deliberately. As if she were carefully, painstakingly selecting each one from a vast and precious collection.
"Saori... Saori has actually always known. Saori is an idiot. Not even half as smart as Seiya. Not even close."
"No, that's not—"
Shiratori Seiya opened his mouth, the denial already forming. He would not let her call herself that. Not in front of him.
But before the words could fully escape, the girl raised her fair, slender index finger and pressed it gently against his lips. The touch was featherlight. Cool. She shook her head slowly, a small, tender smile blooming across her features.
"Saori is an idiot. So she'll just... listen to everything Seiya says. Everything. It's simpler that way." Her voice was steady. Certain. Remarkably peaceful. "As long as Seiya is happy... Saori is happy too. That's all. Liking other people, or sharing, or whatever complicated grown-up things... none of that matters. Not at all. As long as Seiya doesn't throw Saori away... as long as Seiya still likes Saori, even just a little..."
She spoke each word as if it were a treasure she was entrusting to him for safekeeping.
"And about what Seiya said before... about getting married and things..." She shook her head again, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion. "Actually... Saori doesn't care about that. Not really. Marriage is just... a word. A ceremony. This—" She reached down, slowly, deliberately, and took his hand in both of hers. Gently, she guided his palm upward and pressed it flat against the left side of her chest. Beneath the crisp white fabric of his borrowed shirt, her heart beat steadily. Strongly. A rhythm as ancient and constant as the tides.
"—Can Seiya feel it? This. Right here."
The steady thump-thump, thump-thump thrummed against his palm like a quiet drum. Solid. Real. Alive.
"As long as Saori is by Seiya's side... her heart goes thump-thump like this. Always. Every single time. Saori is so very, very happy..."
A tingling, electric sensation spread from his fingertips, racing up his arm and blooming outward through his chest. The steady, unwavering rhythm of her heartbeat seemed to bypass his skin entirely and resonate directly with something buried deep inside him. Something he'd kept locked away. Something he'd been afraid to touch.
Emotions surged upward—tender, overwhelming, impossible to categorize or contain—filling his ribcage until it felt too small to hold them all. His throat tightened. His vision blurred just slightly at the edges.
Shiratori Seiya could no longer hold himself back. He could no longer maintain the careful, calculated distance he had tried to preserve. His arms opened wide, and he pulled her against him, enfolding her slender frame in a tight, desperate embrace. As if he could shield her from the entire world. As if he could somehow, impossibly, be worthy of this boundless, unquestioning devotion.
Feeling the sudden, enveloping warmth of the boy's body surrounding her, Hasegawa Saori offered no resistance. She simply melted into the embrace, resting her chin obediently on the curve of his shoulder. Her cheek pressed softly against the fabric of his shirt, and her eyes drifted closed in perfect, unshakable contentment. A gentle smile bloomed across her fair, radiant face—luminous, quiet, achingly beautiful. The kind of smile that transcended mere happiness. Like pear blossoms unfurling in the deep, silent heart of a snowy night.
BZZZZ...
The phone on the table erupted with an obnoxious, insistent vibration, shattering the warm, suspended silence like a rock through a stained-glass window.
Tch.
Shiratori Seiya's brow furrowed in pure, undiluted annoyance. He let the phone rattle against the wood for a few more agonizing seconds before reluctantly releasing the girl in his arms. He reached over, snatching up the device and glancing at the screen.
[Takahashi Mio]
The name glowed on the caller ID like an accusation. A strange, uncomfortable sensation coiled in his gut—the particular, squirmy guilt of someone caught red-handed during a surprise inspection. This feels... way too much like getting busted.
He glanced sideways at Saori, who was watching him with those clear, untroubled eyes. After a moment's deliberation, he stepped out onto the small balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him before pressing the answer button.
The moment the call connected—before Mio even spoke—he heard it. The unmistakable, rhythmic splashing of rain. Not the gentle patter of drizzle, but the full-bodied sound of water against pavement. His frown deepened. He checked his watch. It's already past six. Why hasn't she gone home yet? Don't tell me she's been flooded out too. Is the entire world leaking tonight?
"Hello?"
Two beats of silence. Then, Takahashi Mio's voice drifted through the speaker—tentative, almost cautious, as if she were testing the temperature of bathwater with her toes.
"Um... Seiya? Are you... busy right now?"
Hearing the careful, almost fragile tone, Shiratori Seiya instinctively glanced back through the glass door. In the bedroom, Saori had busied herself with the bedding, her slender figure moving with quiet, domestic efficiency. He turned back to the rain.
"Not particularly. What's going on? Did something happen? Why aren't you home at this hour?"
"Ah, well..."
On the other end of the line, Takahashi Mio's brain kicked into overdrive, frantically rifling through her mental archive of excuses deployed by heroines in romantic dramas. Caught in the rain without an umbrella? Too cliché. Missed the last train? Factually incorrect. After a frantic two-second search, she landed on something suitably dramatic.
"I... um... I kind of just... fell into the water. Like, into a puddle."
"?"
Shiratori Seiya blinked, momentarily thrown. "What exactly happened? Are you okay?"
"I was walking, and I didn't see this huge puddle—it was practically a lake, honestly—and I just... splashed right into it. It was super deep." A pause. Hearing the flicker of genuine concern in his voice, Takahashi Mio's lips curved upward in a small, satisfied smile. She stepped out from the shelter of the convenience store awning, letting the light rain dust her already-damp hair as she spoke.
"I'm fine, really. Not hurt. Just... completely soaked. Like, embarrassingly soaked. I'm way too mortified to take the train like this. People would stare. It's just... too shameful..."
Another pause. Then, her voice dropping to something smaller, more vulnerable.
"Um... are you busy right now? Like, actually busy? Because—"
"Where are you? I'll come pick—"
Shiratori Seiya's sentence cut off mid-word. The balcony door had slid open behind him with a soft rasp. He turned.
Hasegawa Saori stood in the doorway, her clear, luminous eyes blinking up at him with perfect innocence. In her hands, she was holding the freshly arranged bedding—his futon, her futon, the blankets she had been carefully organizing. She lifted the bundle slightly, tilting her head in that endearing, quizzical way of hers.
And then, in a voice as soft and guileless as springtime rain, she asked:
"Seiya... should we sleep under the same quilt tonight?"
"..."