The alarm buzzed beneath her pillow like an angry bee.
Sara groaned, rolled over—and hit something warm, furry, and extremely offended.
"Willow, move," she mumbled.
The gray tabby lifted her head, blinked once in slow judgment, and then flopped right back down on top of Sara's legs, pinning her like a soft, fuzzy anchor.
Sara shoved at her gently. "C'mon, girl, some of us have responsibilities."
Willow stretched, chirped indignantly, and finally slinked off the bed, tail flicking to show exactly how rude she found all of this.
Sara sat up, hair wild, eyes half-open, and shuffled to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection until she looked slightly more like a functioning human.
Back in her room, she tugged open her closet and tried to decide what kind of day she wanted to have.
She finally chose:
light-wash high-waisted jeans,
a soft cream sweater with embroidery around the neckline,
and her favorite brown boots that made her feel slightly put-together even when she wasn't.
Cute, but not trying too hard. Comfortable.
Willow trotted in, headbutted her knee, then settled proudly on the pile of discarded clothes like a queen on a throne.
"Keep them warm," Sara muttered.
Downstairs, the smell of toast and eggs filled the kitchen. Her mom was humming softly as she cooked. Sara slid into her seat, reaching automatically for the plate of toast—only for a smaller, faster hand to snatch the last piece before she could.
"Jamie!" she barked.
Her eight-year-old brother grinned triumphantly around a mouthful of toast. "You're slow."
"You're annoying."
"You're both loud," their mom said without looking up.
Sara huffed, stabbed at her eggs, and shot her brother the kind of glare that would end civilizations—if an eight-year-old ever actually took those hints.
After breakfast, she headed upstairs to grab her bag. Her eyes fell immediately on the sketchbook on her desk.
She froze.
The drawing.
The one she had absolutely not planned on making. The one she'd slammed shut fast enough to scare Willow off the desk. The one of Aiden.
She sat slowly and opened the sketchbook. His eyes stared back at her—soft, careful, intense in a way she hadn't meant to capture so accurately.
Her stomach twisted.
No one could see this.
Not her mom. Not her brother. Not a single soul.
She carefully tore the page out, the sound loud in the stillness of her room. She folded the sketch once, then again, then slipped it into a dusty folder beneath her bed—the one with her old drawings: half-finished portraits, abandoned ideas, personal things she never showed anyone.
It disappeared into the pile like a secret tucked into another secret.
She exhaled slowly.
No more thinking about Aiden.
She grabbed her backpack—and then, of course, immediately thought about seeing him again today.
Aiden woke to the soft buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand.
5:17 AM.
Too early for anyone sane—too early for him, even—but he didn't care. He groaned into the ridiculously soft pillow, the kind hotels bragged about, though this was his new home for the year. Shadows from the blackout curtains cut the room in half, and for a moment he wondered if he was still on tour.
But no.
No stage lights.
No managers.
No last-minute rehearsals.
Just…school.
A normal American high school.
He scrubbed a hand across his face. What am I even supposed to wear for that?
He threw open the closet—rows of designer outfits, stage jackets embroidered with silver thread, hand-tailored shirts, and high-end boots he'd been photographed in dozens of times. Every piece screamed idol, not 17-year-old blending into homeroom.
He needed help.
Real help.
He grabbed his phone and called the one person he could think of for fashion advice—Ren, his lead guitarist and best bud, who knew he was in America being a "normal kid."
Ren picked up on the third ring, sounding like he already regretted every life choice that led to this moment.
"Aiden? Dude. It's almost 7:30 PM here. Why are you awake so early? Did something explode?"
Aiden exhaled. "I don't know what to wear."
"…Wear for what?"
"School."
A beat of silence.
Then Ren burst out laughing. Loud. Unhelpful.
"You woke up early to ask what to wear to school?"
"You're the only stylish normal person I know," Aiden muttered.
"Wow, hurtful—and fair." Ren sighed. "Okay, send me what's in your closet."
"No. You'll just make fun of me."
"Definitely. But still send it."
Aiden angled his phone toward the closet so Ren could behold the chaos of sequins, embroidery, and clothes worth more than most people's cars.
Ren groaned. "Dude. You look like you're choosing outfits for a world tour, not normal highschooler."
"That's why I'm calling you."
"Okay, okay." Ren shifted, the sound of guitar strings in the background. "You want to blend in? You need to look boring."
"I don't own boring."
"Then create boring. Jeans. T-shirt. Sneakers. Nothing that requires a stylist or comes with its own dry-cleaning instructions."
"And here's the color rule," Ren added. "Stay away from white. You spill stuff. Black hides everything—your fear, your shame, your spilled coffee."
Aiden laughed under his breath. "So black shirt. Got it."
"Good luck, man. And don't do anything stupid. I can't bail you out from across the ocean."
"Thanks," Aiden said dryly.
"Anytime. Now let me get back to rehearsal before the drummer breaks something."
Ren hung up.
Aiden got dressed—jeans, black shirt, black hair falling over his eyes—and slipped on the only non-flashy pair of sneakers he owned that weren't recognizable from paparazzi photos.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Aiden?" Mrs. Takahashi's voice, warm and gentle. "Breakfast is ready."
"Coming," he called.
He went downstairs to the dining hall where a massive feast was laid out. French toast, oranges, apples, bananas, milk, juice, toast and eggs. "What's all this?" He looked at Mrs. Takahashi confused.
"It's breakfast… I tried some American dishes to help you feel "normal" she explained. "Ummm… thanks." He sat down and ate what he could even though it was way too much. Mrs. Takahashi always made sure he lots of food for a growing boy and it didn't Phase him one bit. It was more then what his mother ever cooked for him.
He grabbed his backpack—plain, new, painfully normal—and headed out.
In the driveway, Mr. Toba stood beside the sleek, nondescript black SUV. To everyone else, he looked like a professional driver.
Only Aiden knew he was a bodyguard in disguise.
"Ready for school?" Mr. Toba asked with a wink.
"No," Aiden muttered, climbing in.
"Excellent. Means today will be interesting."
As the SUV pulled away, Aiden stared out at the quiet neighborhood and took a slow breath.
A normal school.
A normal day.
He hoped.