Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The boxcutter snapped.

Amane looked down at the jagged blade, its edge catching the morning light spilling through the living room window. A sliver of plastic skidded off the cardboard, joining the pile of packing debris near his feet. He muttered a curse under his breath, yanked the dull blade free, and tossed the cutter onto the floor beside the now half-open box with a sigh.

His glasses slipped down his nose. He'd been wearing them more often lately, after finally—begrudgingly—admitting that the long hours of grading had taken their toll. He pushed them back up with his knuckle and rolled his shoulders, joints popping from too many nights hunched over lesson plans.

The house was older than he remembered from the listing photos—more cracks, more creaks, and a soft dampness that clung to the floorboards like an old memory. It was theirs now—somehow. A small rental near the edge of town, just close enough to his job and far enough from everyone else. The front porch sagged. The bathroom faucet screamed. The upstairs light flickered like it had epilepsy.

But Nene had fallen in love with it the moment they stepped inside.

“It has charm,” she’d said.

“It has mold,” he’d replied.

“Same thing.”

He’d let her win that one.

It was a fixer-upper, sure, but nothing was bleeding through the walls or whispering in the dark, so Amane figured it was a decent place to start.

Behind him, soft footsteps padded in from the hallway—too light for any normal adult. He didn’t need to turn around. She’d been creeping around all morning, half-curious, half-useless.

Nene.

Or rather, Yashiro, as she now insisted on being called.

She’d announced it one morning, standing on tiptoe to reach a jar from the cabinet, drowning in one of his oversized shirts with her hair in lopsided buns. “I think I want a last name,” she'd said, puffing out her cheeks. “Something adulty. Nene sounds too much like a pet's name.”

He hadn’t said anything at first, just sipped his coffee and watched her wrestle the jar open with far more drama than necessary. But later, when she curled beside him on the couch and repeated her request—quieter this time—Amane had nodded.

“Yashiro, then,” he’d said. “It suits you.”

And it did. Especially when she said it out loud with that weirdly serious face she made whenever she was pretending to be grown-up.

But she was still Nene, through and through. Still pawed at things when she was annoyed. Still curled up in the patch of sunlight by the window with her legs tucked under her, half-dozing. Still got distracted by birds outside. She’d knock things off the counter when bored, then insist it was gravity’s fault.

And ever since she’d become permanently human, something else had shifted. She was curious—intensely so. Especially about him. Intimacy, bodies, boundaries—concepts she once associated only with vague ideas like cuddling or kissing—had become puzzles she wanted to solve. Now, she looked at him like she wanted to take him apart piece by piece, just to see how he worked.

Amane wasn’t immune.

In fact, it was getting harder not to notice when her questions got more specific. When her eyes lingered longer. When she blushed after asking something she probably didn’t fully understand.

He bent over the box again, pulling out a stack of old books and arranging them neatly on the nearby shelf. Behind him, Nene was quiet. Too quiet.

He turned.

She stood barefoot in the doorway, toes curling slightly on the cold wood floor, an oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, twin buns slightly mussed from sleep. She blinked at the mess, then at him. “You’ve been unpacking without me?” she asked, stepping over a stray sock and the half-eaten toast she’d abandoned an hour ago.

“You were still drooling into your pillow,” Amane said, slicing open another box. “Didn’t want to interrupt the cat nap.”

“I don’t drool,” she pouted, wiping at her cheek defensively.

“Sure.” He gave her a sideways glance. “You also don’t talk in your sleep about grilled squid and marrying me in a cathedral made of takoyaki.”

Nene’s face flushed. “That was one time.”

He smiled faintly. Teasing her was dangerously easy.

She hovered now, watching as he opened a box labeled SHELF STUFF in her loopy handwriting. “You’re supposed to let me help.”

“You were sleeping,” he repeated.

“You’re grumpy.”

“I’m always grumpy.”

Nene crouched next to the pile of cardboard and began pulling out books, humming softly as she stacked them beside her. Her hoodie slipped further, revealing a slender shoulder and the edge of a bra strap. Amane tried not to notice—but of course, he did. She was effortlessly distracting.

She tilted her head. “You’re staring.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are. Your ears are red.”

“They always do that. Circulation problem.”

She smirked, then stood and stretched—deliberately, he was sure. “Well, if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna change.”

“Go ahead. I’m sure the haunted bathroom will love the show.”

Nene froze. “Wait, what?”

He turned back to the box, feigning nonchalance. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Rumor has it the upstairs bathroom is haunted. A girl drowned in the tub or something. Real tragic. They say her ghost gets... restless.”

Nene narrowed her eyes. “You’re making that up.”

“Am I?” he said innocently. “There was definitely something weird in the tub drain when I checked it.”

“Ghosts don’t care about drains.”

He lowered his voice. “This one does. Especially when misbehaving girlfriends take too long in the bath.”

Nene’s eyes widened. “W-what do you mean misbehaving?”

“They say she hates flirting. Gets jealous.”

“...gets jealous?”

God, she was easy to spook. He’d barely started and already her eyes were huge, her hands gripping the book like it might ward off spirits.

Amane leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folded, and narrowed his eyes in mock seriousness.

“It was in this very house, actually,” he began, voice low and ominous, like he was reading from one of his old horror novels. “A girl about your age. Moved in with her boyfriend. Very cute. Very nosy. Didn’t like to listen.”

Nene froze, book in hand. “W-What happened to her?”

He pushed off the doorframe, sauntering in with that infuriatingly slow grace that always made her heart stutter. He circled behind her, and she caught his reflection in the mirror—now looming over her shoulder like a shadow.

“She kept going where she wasn’t supposed to. Opening doors. Poking around in places she had no business being.”

He leaned down, breath warm against her ear. “Until one day, she wandered into the bathroom during the wrong hour. The light flickered. The water turned cold. And then...”

Nene clutched the book tighter, eyes round. “And then?”

“She never came back out,” Amane whispered.

A long, eerie pause stretched between them.

He straightened just as she turned, eyes wide and suspicious. “You're lying.”

He pressed a finger gently to her lips. “Shhh. Ghosts hate being called liars.”

She blinked, stunned silent.

He almost leaned in to kiss her forehead, but instead, he just smiled and let her fluster burn.

Amane stepped back, smug. “So if you want to keep your very cute, very nosy self intact, maybe try listening to your very tired, very overworked boyfriend.”

Nene huffed, cheeks flushed and visibly rattled, though trying—poorly—to regain composure. “You’re the worst. I hope a bathroom ghost steals your glasses.”

“Joke’s on you, I have backups,” Amane said, already walking away with a smirk. “Also, she got dragged in by her ankles. Just something to think about when you hear a creak at midnight.”

“Amane!” she shrieked, bolting from the room.

He didn’t even have to look to know she was racing toward their bedroom. Her socks skidded on the wood floor. A door slammed.

Amane finally allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

“Still got it,” he murmured, adjusting his glasses.

Chapter Text

The morning started with smoke.

Actual smoke—thick and curling from the toaster like it was trying to summon something.

Amane burst into the kitchen half-dressed, tie around his neck like a noose and lab coat slung over one arm, only to find Nene standing in front of the appliance looking vaguely proud.

“There was a fire,” he said flatly.

“I handled it,” she said, holding up the toaster with a pair of tongs.

“You handled it?”

“I blew on it.”

He stared. She blinked. Somewhere in the background, the smoke alarm chirped weakly, like it, too, had given up.

“You’re not allowed to cook anymore,” Amane said, plucking the power cord from the wall and setting the still-smoldering toaster gently into the sink.

“I wasn’t cooking. I was... toasting.”

“Toasting what? The underworld?”

Nene crossed her arms, cheeks puffed. “Well, I wanted to surprise you. You always skip breakfast. That’s not healthy, you know.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he muttered, opening a window to let the smoke out.

She followed him from the kitchen to the living room, padding behind him like a shadow. “You’ve been leaving earlier,” she said, tone casual but eyes darting toward his bag. “You didn’t even kiss me goodbye yesterday.”

“I was running late. And you were drooling into the couch cushions.”

“That’s no excuse.” Her voice dropped a little. “You always kissed me before. Even when I had tuna breath.”

He glanced at her, expression softening despite himself. “You were a lot smaller then.”

“I can still be small,” she offered hopefully, rising up on her toes with her arms spread like she was about to pounce.

Amane sighed and leaned down, brushing a quick kiss to her forehead. “There. Kissed.”

She pouted. “That doesn’t count.”

“Well, I’m late. So it’s all you get.” He ruffled her hair gently and turned toward the door, only to pause halfway. “Wait. Why do you smell like lemons and... socks?”

“I did the laundry!” she beamed.

“You did the laundry,” he repeated, slowly. “Without me.”

“I followed the instructions!” She produced a crumpled paper from her hoodie pocket, smudged and damp but still legible. “One cup detergent. Set to delicate. Fold warm.”

He took the paper and scanned it. It was, technically, correct. Which made it all the more concerning. “Okay. Show me.”

Ten minutes later, he was standing in front of the laundry room, staring in horror at the results. Every article of his clothing had been rearranged. Shirts were inside out. Socks were bundled together like dumplings. His favorite button-up now had a vaguely pink hue.

“I think it adds personality,” Nene offered, holding up one of his sweaters that now bore a suspicious lemon scent and possibly glitter.

“Did you use air freshener as fabric softener?”

“It was lemon-scented.”

“You can’t just spray things and call it clean.”

“You never said I couldn’t!”

He closed his eyes, counted to five, and opened them again. She was still there. Still proud. Still standing in the middle of chaos with the expression of someone who’d saved the world.

“Okay,” he said finally. “New rule: if it plugs in or has buttons, you leave it alone unless I’m home.”

She frowned. “What if it’s a toaster with only one button?”

“Especially then.”

Nene flopped dramatically onto the nearby couch, sulking into a throw pillow. “I just wanted to help. I hate being useless.”

“You’re not useless,” he said, pulling on his coat. “You’re just… enthusiastic. Dangerously so.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It is if you don’t burn down the house while I’m gone.”

She mumbled something into the pillow, possibly a curse. Possibly a threat against the toaster.

Amane crouched beside her, brushing her hair from her face. “Hey.”

She peeked up.

“I know this isn’t easy,” he said, voice quieter now. “But you don’t have to prove anything. You’re already here. That’s enough.”

She looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, the room softened. She reached for his tie, fumbling awkwardly with the knot. “You always leave so fast,” she said. “I feel like I barely see you.”

“I know.” He let her fumble, didn’t stop her even when she tugged it too tight. “Once the semester starts, it’ll settle down.”

“You said that last week.”

He didn’t have a response to that.

She leaned in before he could pull away—soft, shy, and very sudden—and kissed his cheek. Not a joke. A real one. Close enough to make him freeze for half a second before pulling back, cheeks tinged pink.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to be late.”

“You already said that.”

He stood quickly, adjusting his bag over his shoulder like it gave him something to do with his hands. “We’ll talk more tonight, okay?”

She nodded, though her eyes didn’t quite match the smile.

“Promise?” she asked.

“Promise,” he said.

And then, because he knew she was waiting for it, he kissed her. Not her forehead. Not her cheek.

Her mouth.

Brief, careful, still somehow filled with restraint—but enough to make her gasp softly when he pulled away.

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Later that evening, after dinner—if reheated convenience curry counted as dinner—Amane collapsed into the corner of the couch with a low, exhausted grunt. He removed his glasses and sank into the cushions. Nene watched from the kitchen, hovering just out of sight, wiping a perfectly clean counter for the third time.

She was trying to work up the courage.

He looked tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but in that full-body, mentally-fried, don’t-talk-to-me-or-I’ll-evaporate kind of way.

But this was important.

She crept closer.

He cracked one eye open. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re wiping the table with a dry napkin.”

“I’m… helping.”

Amane groaned and pulled a throw pillow over his face. “Is it on fire again?”

“No! Nothing’s on fire.” She paused. “Anymore.”

He sighed. “So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly. “I was just thinking… maybe… possibly… uhm, if you’re not too tired…”

That got his attention. He peeked at her from under the pillow. “Spit it out, Yashiro.”

She fiddled with the hem of her sweater. “You always leave so early. And you come home tired. And I don’t see you all day. And I know you’re busy, but…”

He blinked, still too tired to follow.

“I wanna try school,” she said in a rush. “Like… real school. At home.”

He sat up slightly, brow furrowing.

“Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

Amane just stared at her, baffled. “You want me to… teach you?”

“Yes!”

“Like a real student.”

“Yes.”

“With lectures. And math. And essays.”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“Because,” she huffed, eyes flicking away, “your students get to see you all day. And you get all serious and smart and… teachery with them. But I’ve never seen you like that. I’m your girlfriend. I should get the full experience.”

Amane blinked slowly. “You’re jealous of… high schoolers?”

She crossed her arms, defiant. “You’re always scolding me and giving me rules anyway. Might as well make it official.”

“I give you rules because you tried to microwave laundry.”

“One time.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You have the attention span of a moth.”

“Then teach me to focus!”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re really serious about this?”

“I want the full package. Pencils. Homework. Pop quizzes. All of it.”

His expression turned skeptical. “Including being called Miss Yashiro?”

She nodded sharply. “Especially that.”

He considered this for all of three seconds. Then his eyes darkened.

“Fine,” he said. “But if we do this, we do it my way. No complaining. No skipping. You’ll sit through real lessons. With homework. And science labs. And punishment quizzes if you act out.”

“Punishment quizzes?”

“Essays on Newton’s Laws in triplicate. I’ll even dock points for sloppy handwriting.”

Nene’s smirk faltered.

He stepped closer, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. “And just so we’re clear… I will not go easy on you, Miss Yashiro.”

Nene straightened, swallowing hard. “G-good. I wouldn’t want you to.”

A long pause.

Then Amane folded his arms. “Let’s make it interesting.”

She perked up. “Oh?”

“If you drop out—if you so much as whine about the workload—I win.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you win.”

“What do I win?”

“Whatever you want.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Loser has to do whatever the winner says. For a whole day.”

Nene’s eyes sparkled. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

She shook his hand with both of hers, overly dramatic. “Deal.”

“You know I do this for a living, right?”

“You’ll still lose,” she grinned. “I’m not afraid of homework.”

“Good,” he said, smiling with far too much confidence. “Because I’m going to make your brain cry.”

Her knees nearly gave out.

She quickly shoved a notebook at him to hide her blush. “Th-then get ready, Yugi-sensei. I'll be the best student you've ever had.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Miss Yashiro.” He flipped open the notebook and clicked his pen. “Class starts at 9 a.m.—sharp.”

Chapter Text

Amane didn’t look up when the door creaked open.

He heard it—registered it—but with his laptop on, attendance sheets spread out, and a cup of coffee cooling in his hand, he figured it was Nene, sneaking in late for their lesson.

“You’re late,” he said without looking. Not unkind. Just teacherly enough to keep the game going.

No reply.

Then came the sound of heels—clicking lightly across the hardwood. Not her usual socked shuffle or bare feet. And when her voice finally came, it was softer than usual. Careful. Polished.

“Sorry, Sensei.”

Amane glanced up—and forgot how to breathe.

Nene stood in the doorway, hands folded neatly in front of her, wearing a school uniform.

A real one.

White blouse. Pleated skirt. Knee-high stockings, spotless loafers, and a navy-blue blazer buttoned halfway. Her hair was styled into a side braid, framing her face with a softness that stole his breath more than he cared to admit.

She looked like a poster from a prep school brochure. But her eyes—wide, nervous, and waiting—were all Nene.

Amane set his coffee down. Slowly.

“…That’s cheating,” he said flatly.

The twitch at the corner of his mouth said otherwise.

“You said full experience,” she replied, trying for confident. But her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her skirt. “Uniforms are part of school.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and gave her a long, assessing look, like a teacher grading a presentation.

“You even did your hair.”

“I told you. I’m serious.” Her chin lifted slightly. “I came to learn.”

A beat passed.

“…So teach me. Or whatever.”

He tapped his pen against the desk. Still visibly thrown.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Then sit, Miss Yashiro.”

She crossed the room and sat at the smaller desk he’d set up for her, posture perfect, hands in her lap like some teacher’s dream. But her foot bounced. Her gaze flicked everywhere but him. Nervous, yet trying very, very hard.

Amane almost smiled.

She was doing her best to play the part. And cracking already.

This might be fun.

He picked up the textbook—Intro to Biology—and opened to a marked page. Light stuff. The content didn’t matter. What mattered was how long she could keep pretending to be a model student.

“Let’s begin,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “What do you know about photosynthesis?”

She blinked. “Photo… like, with a camera?”

Amane sighed. “This is going to be a long class.”

He circled behind her and stopped beside her desk.

Nene stiffened immediately.

He didn’t touch her—just leaned forward slightly, placing the open book in front of her, one hand braced on the desk.

He was close. Close enough that she could smell the warmth of coffee and cologne clinging to his turtleneck.

“Focus,” he murmured near her ear.

She nodded quickly, swallowing hard.

He leaned in farther, pointing to a diagram with his pen. His tone shifted—calm, measured, slipping into that teaching cadence that came so easily to him.

“This,” he said, slowly underlining, “is where chloroplasts live. Which are—”

“—The little green things,” she whispered.

He raised a brow, surprised. “Not bad. Maybe you’ll pass after all.”

She gave a shaky smile, still blushing.

“Let’s test your memory,” he said. “What’s the pigment that lets plants absorb sunlight?”

She paused. “Uh… green juice?”

He gave her a look.

Nene crossed her arms, indignant. “The prep notes didn’t explain it very well.”

He rested one hand on the back of her chair, close—just behind her shoulder. “Then maybe I should tutor you more directly.”

“You already are,” she muttered, cheeks still warm.

He smirked. “No. This is me being nice.”

She looked up at him—really looked—and made the mistake of noticing how his glasses had slipped slightly down, how his hair framed his face just right, how he looked every bit like a brooding academic heartthrob.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

“I’m—I’m learning,” she squeaked.

“Mm.” He leaned in again. “Looks like you need motivation.”

His voice dipped even lower.

“Maybe I’ll quiz you orally next time,” he said quietly.

Her head snapped up, but he was already walking away.

“What does that mean?!”

He leaned casually against his desk, flipping through notes like nothing happened. “Oral exams. You speak. I grade. Unless… you had something else in mind?”

Her blush flared bright and instant. “You said it that way on purpose!”

“Did I?” he mused, completely unapologetic. “Must’ve been the acoustics.”

She muttered something about “stupid sexy sensei” under her breath.

Amane looked up. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He grinned.

This was going to be a long semester.

“Focus, Yashiro.”

“I’m trying,” she mumbled, eyes glued to the page.

“Do I need to start deducting points?”

“Points?!”

He clicked a red pen. “You’re on the verge of losing one.”

She instantly straightened.

“Let’s review,” he said. “What’s the powerhouse of the cell?”

“Mito… chicken?”

“Mitochondria,” he corrected. Then, scribbling a star on her worksheet: “Half a point. For enthusiasm.”

She groaned. “You’re so strict.”

“I told you—real student means real rules. Assignments. Discipline. And—” He stepped closer, tapping her forehead with his pen, “—homework.”

Her eyes widened. “Homework?”

He handed her a worksheet.

“Fill this out before tomorrow. It’s ten questions. Short answer. No cheating.”

She stared at it like it might bite. “And if I mess it up?”

“I deduct points.”

“…And if I get it right?”

His tone didn’t change—but his gaze flicked downward. Just for a moment. Her mouth. Then her eyes.

“I’ll consider giving extra credit.”

Her breath caught. A thousand thoughts scattered through her brain like startled birds.

“Like a reward?” she asked. She tried to sound off-hand, but it came out breathless. Too hopeful.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he twirled the pen once between his fingers, then gently brought it to rest beneath her chin—tilting her face to keep her eyes on his.

“You say that like you know what I’m offering, Miss Yashiro.”

The silence that followed was thick. Charged. Like static clinging to her skin.

Her eyes darted back to the worksheet. Her fingers fidgeted against the desk.

She’d said too much; thought too loud. And he’d caught every second of it.

Of course he had.

Amane turned, hands slipping into his pockets, his stride easy—smug.

At the door, he paused.

“Oh, and Yashiro?”

He glanced back over his shoulder, openly amused.

“Try not to fall for your teacher.”

Chapter Text

The room was quiet when she walked in.

No coffee on the desk. No laptop. No half-distracted humming like usual. Just Amane, standing at the whiteboard with one hand in his pocket and a dry-erase marker in the other.

Waiting.

Nene paused in the doorway, confused. “No textbook today?”

“Nope,” he said. He didn’t turn around. Just finished writing the last word on the board and capped the marker with an audible click. “Take your seat.”

“…Okay.” She obeyed, slow and careful.

She sat, smoothing her skirt, her braid tucked over one shoulder. The uniform still felt like armor, like proof that she was trying. That she belonged in this little classroom they’d made together. And honestly? She felt good today. Focused. Like she was finally getting the hang of things.

Amane turned around at last.

He was in all black again—black turtleneck, dark slacks, glasses low on his nose. Every line of him sharp, composed, and watching her like she was about to be dissected.

Nene shifted in her seat.

“…Are you mad?”

Amane didn’t smile.

“Pop quiz.”

Her heart dropped. “Wait, for real?”

“No warning. No textbook. Just your brain.”

He picked up his red pen and leaned against the desk like a judge waiting for the accused to confess.

“That’s not fair!”

“It’s realistic,” he said, walking toward her desk. “School’s full of surprises. You said you wanted the full experience.”

She opened her mouth to argue—then stopped when she saw what he was holding.

A clipboard.

And a pen.

Oh no.

He handed her a single sheet of paper, face-down.

“Five questions,” he said. “Answer them out loud. No notes. No stalling.”

She flipped the paper.

Her eyes widened.

“This is science and history.”

“And one essay question,” he added.

“Essay?!”

“Get writing.”

“But—”

Amane stepped closer, leaning one hand on the back of her chair.

“Start with number one. Read it out loud.”

She swallowed.

Her eyes flicked to the first question. “Uh… ‘Define osmosis.’”

There was a beat.

“…It’s… when, uh… water moves? Like, through a thing?”

His voice was calm. “Through what kind of thing?”

Her brain scrambled. “A… a science thing.”

“That’s not a word.”

She glared up at him. “You know what I meant.”

“I do. Doesn’t mean I’m giving you the point.”

She groaned and slouched in her chair. “This is cruel.”

“This is a test.” His voice dipped lower. “Sit up straight.”

She did. Instantly. Shoulders back. Like he’d yanked her spine upright with that tone alone.

“Question two,” he said.

She blinked at the page. “’List three causes of the Meiji Restoration.’ …What even is a Meiji?”

“You would know if you studied.”

“I was busy!”

He raised a brow. “Doing what?”

She hesitated. “Laundry.”

“Which I told you not to touch.”

“Okay, well—”

“Number three.”

Nene huffed. “’What is Newton’s Third Law?’”

He waited.

“…An object in motion,” she began, slowly, “stays… in love with its teacher unless acted upon by… sensei vibes?”

Amane didn’t laugh. But his mouth twitched.

“You’re deflecting.”

“Maybe your test is biased.”

“Maybe you’re stalling because you’re flustered.”

“I am not flustered,” she lied.

He walked around behind her, circling slow.

Her pen hovered over the final question. Her handwriting had gone shaky.

“I’m fine,” she muttered. “I’ve got this.”

“You sure?” he said, coming to stand just behind her shoulder. “Because you haven’t even looked at the essay.”

“I was saving the best for last.”

“Then read it.”

She looked. Blinked.

Essay Question: What are the responsibilities of a student in a classroom? Be specific.

She frowned. “That’s not even science.”

“It’s behavioral science,” he said. “Go on. I’m listening.”

She gripped the pen tighter.

“A student is supposed to… show up,” she began, “and try hard, and not be afraid to ask questions.”

He hummed.

She kept going, more confident now. “And they should listen, and participate, and… trust their teacher.”

Silence.

She glanced up.

Amane was watching her again. Eyes unreadable. Face calm.

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked.

“…Trying to,” she admitted.

“Then be honest. Why did you really want to be homeschooled?”

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Amane waited.

And somehow, that was worse than if he’d pushed. He just stood there—steady, quiet—letting the question hang between them like a storm cloud she wasn’t ready to touch.

She looked down. “I… wanted to be around you more.”

He didn’t respond.

So she added, softer: “You leave early. You come home late. You used to kiss me goodbye and now you just… don’t.”

He was still silent.

“So I figured if I was a student, then… you’d have to see me.”

There. It was out. Said too fast, too raw.

And she regretted it instantly.

She stared at the paper, willing herself to vanish.

Then—

A warm weight landed on the desk beside her hand.

Amane’s.

He reached down and gently took her pen.

She looked up, startled.

He didn’t speak right away. Just capped it, neatly, and set it aside.

“You got one thing right,” he said quietly.

Her heart thudded. “W-What?”

“You are a student.”

He leaned in, eyes locked on hers.

“And students don’t get to make the rules.”

She froze.

“I let you blur the line once,” he continued, voice quiet but firm. “But don’t confuse attention with authority. This space isn’t for emotional leverage. It’s for discipline.”

Her breath caught—stinging a little. Not because it was harsh, but because it was true.

“I let you play confident,” he said, voice lower now. “But don’t forget who’s teaching you. Who’s in control.”

She swallowed. The air felt heavier.

His gaze dropped to her unfinished essay.

Then flicked back to her.

“Consider this your warning,” he said. “If you want to test boundaries, you’d better be ready for the consequences.”

Her throat tightened.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His voice was steady. Unshakable. “And now you’ve learned something, haven’t you?”

She stared at him—wide-eyed, face burning.

He smiled, just a little. Not kind. Not cruel. Just sure.

“Class dismissed.”

He stood up, grabbed the clipboard, and walked out—slow, calm, not looking back.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her fingers were still curled where the pen had been.

Her paper was unfinished.

And her heart was racing like she’d just failed something much bigger than a quiz.

Chapter Text

Nene was determined to make up for it.

She hadn’t meant to lie—not really—not when she asked to be homeschooled. It had felt real in the moment. Exciting. Sweet. But now that she’d been caught—and corrected—she could admit to herself that it hadn’t been about learning.

She just missed him.

Wanted him to see her. To take her seriously.

But after the pop quiz and the quiet disappointment in his eyes, she knew she’d broken something fragile. His trust. His patience. Maybe both.

So she made a plan.

A real dinner. Real clothes. Clean hair. And not a single hoodie in sight.

She spent the day learning to cook curry without burning the pan. She vacuumed twice. Lit candles. Set the table like they were hosting a guest. And when everything was ready, she waited by the door—nervous in her nicest dress.

Amane didn’t come home until the candles were low and the food had cooled.

“Welcome home,” she said, too quickly, too brightly.

He looked up, surprised. His hair was windblown, glasses slightly askew, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. “Yeah,” he murmured, slipping off his shoes. “Sorry. Got pulled into a staff meeting.”

“I made dinner,” she offered, hands fidgeting behind her back.

He paused. Eyes flicking to the table. The effort.

“Oh. It looks good.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I grabbed something earlier. Thought you’d be… doing homework.”

“Of course,” she said. “Right.”

He didn’t mean it to hurt. She knew that. But it still did.

“I, uhm…” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “dressed up too.”

That caught his attention.

For the first time, he really looked at her.

Her dress was lavender, cinched at the waist with lace at the hem. Her hair was brushed and pinned to the side, like something out of a university brochure. She’d even added a little lip gloss, just enough to catch the light.

Something in his expression shifted. His jaw tightened before he looked away.

“You look beautiful.”

The words hit softly, but they didn’t land.

“I’m gonna go change,” he said, already walking past her.

She followed without thinking, pausing in the doorway as he pulled off his button-up with one hand.

He wasn’t even trying to be alluring, but her brain decided otherwise.

The muscles along his back moved as he shifted. His shirt dropped to the floor. The room was warm, but her skin prickled anyway. He reached for the hem of his undershirt and pulled it up in one motion, exposing the curve of his waist and the long, lean lines of his stomach.

He didn’t notice her staring.

He just sighed, raking a hand through his hair before tossing the crumpled shirt aside and pulling on a loose sweater.

She swallowed hard.

“Long day?” she asked, voice too light.

“Too long,” he muttered, tugging the sweater down. “Still have to review that greenhouse proposal before bed.”

“Oh.” A pause. “...Could we maybe lie down a bit first? Just a few minutes?”

He looked at her again.

Saw the dress. The effort. The hope.

“Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

They crawled onto the bed without turning out the light. Nene curled into his side like it was instinct, her head tucked beneath his chin, one arm draped over his chest. It felt good. Safe. Like her world had tilted back into place.

Her fingers traced lazy patterns over the fabric of his sweater.

His heartbeat was steady under her hand.

“Comfy?” he asked softly.

“Mm-hmm.”

She didn’t move for a long while. Then her hand—almost shyly—dipped beneath the hem of his sweater.

His body went very still.

She felt the warmth of his skin, the small, unconscious tightening of his stomach beneath her touch. And when her fingers grazed a little higher, she heard it:

A soft sound in his throat. Almost a sigh. Almost a warning.

Her breath caught.

She looked up

His eyes were on her. Focused. Darker than before.

She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t.

Her hand drifted lower. Barely touching. Just enough to tease the edge of his waistband, then slip her finger beneath.

“Yashiro,” he said, voice hoarse.

Not sharp. Not angry.

Just full of want. Of restraint.

It should’ve made her nervous.

But it didn’t.

It made her brave.

“You’re really warm,” she whispered.

Her voice was small. Soft. Not flirty—just honest.

She was more curious than bold. And he was letting her try.

Slowly, she slipped her hand past the waistband of his pants—just enough to feel where soft cotton met bare skin.

Amane inhaled sharply, eyes shutting briefly like he was trying to collect himself. His hand clenched in the blanket beside him.

Then—

A sharp buzz cut through the moment.

Amane flinched. “Shit.”

He sat up quickly, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The light from the screen washed over his face as he scanned the message.

“I told Aoi I’d check the greenhouse plans tonight.”

Nene blinked. “Aoi?”

“New home ec teacher,” he said, already typing. “We’re co-running a science fair project. She needed the layout files.”

“Oh,” she said.

He didn’t notice her tone. Or the way she’d pulled her hand back into the blanket like it had been burned.

He just kept typing.

She sat up slowly, watching him. His hair was mussed from the pillow. His hands were still slightly unsteady. But his eyes were somewhere else now.

On his work. On another teacher, like him.

He didn’t meet her gaze again.

And when he stood to leave, he didn’t kiss her. Didn’t say anything at all.

The door clicked shut behind him, but Amane didn’t move.

He stood in the hallway, phone in hand, message unsent.

His thumb hovered above the screen.

His heart was still beating faster than it should’ve been.

He closed his eyes.

Her fingers had been so soft. Barely there. Hesitant and curious—but not innocent, not really. Not anymore. Not after the way she’d looked up at him. Like she’d known exactly what kind of fire she was playing with, even if she didn’t fully understand the burn.

He’d almost let her.

Worse—he’d wanted to.

The moment she’d touched his skin, something had buckled. Something tight and careful inside him had gone slack. And when her fingers reached his waistband, his restraint had very nearly snapped.

Just one more second.

If his phone hadn’t gone off…

He swallowed. Tried to breathe through it.

“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the heel of his hand against his eyes. “You’re the adult. You’re supposed to have control.”

But the ghost of her touch still lingered. Her voice. That tiny smile. That look in her eyes when he’d made that sound—like she wanted to learn what else he’d do if she pushed a little further.

She didn’t know what she was doing.

Not really.

But she was learning.

And that scared him more than anything.

Amane let out a long breath and typed a quick, neutral reply to Aoi.

Then he stood in the hallway a little longer, not quite ready to go back into the room where she’d touched him like that—and not quite brave enough to admit why he hadn’t stopped her sooner.

Chapter Text

The morning started hopeful.

Nene was up early—earlier than usual, anyway—pacing the kitchen with bed hair still sticking up in awkward directions and her sleeves rolled halfway to her elbows. She stood in front of the stove, face scrunched in concentration, tongue peeking out just a little as she watched the eggs cook.

Bento-making, it turned out, was harder than it looked on YouTube.

But she was determined. Today wasn’t going to be like yesterday. Or the day before that. Amane had looked so tired lately. Tired and quiet. Distant, even when he smiled.

She didn’t want him to feel like he had to do everything alone.

So she’d packed rice and rolled omelet slices, cut his sausages into octopus shapes (though a few looked more like angry worms), and arranged them neatly with a little side of pickled daikons—his favorite, even if he always pretended otherwise.

When she was done, she closed the lid gently, tapped the top like it would help seal in her good intentions, and tucked a folded note underneath the elastic band.

Just something simple with a little heart drawn after. She wasn’t brave enough to sign her name.

She left the bento on the counter where he couldn’t miss it. Then she padded into the living room to wait, curled up on the couch with her knees hugged to her chest, watching cartoons with the volume low and ears tuned to the hallway for the sound of his steps.

When Amane finally emerged, half-dressed and preoccupied, she perked up immediately.

“You’re up early,” he said, adjusting his collar and fumbling with his tie. His voice was warm, but distracted.

She puffed up proudly. “I made something!”

“Mm? I’ll check it in a sec. Gotta grab my lab notes.”

He disappeared into his office before she could explain. By the time he returned, glasses in place and a thermos in one hand, he was already running late.

He kissed the top of her head absently.

“I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

The front door closed behind him.

Nene blinked.

The bento sat untouched on the counter.

By lunch, she’d paced the entire house twice. Then a third time in case the walls changed anything.

He hadn’t texted.

He usually did.

Just a dumb emoji or a photo of his students trying to blow up the lab. But today, nothing.

She glared at the abandoned bento like it had personally offended her. It still looked cute. Like something out of a cooking blog. Her first real try. Not burned. Not cursed. No weird smells.

She didn’t want it to go to waste.

So she bundled it into a clean handkerchief, tied up her hair, and made her way to his school.

She even walked—like a normal person. No shortcuts, no rooftop hopping. That was growth.

The front office lady raised a brow at her outfit, but didn’t question it.

“Can I help you?”

Nene straightened. “I’m here to see Yugi-sensei,” she declared proudly. “My... my person.”

The lady blinked. “I think he’s in the greenhouse. He’s on lunch break.”

“Thanks!” Nene beamed, already skipping off in the direction she was pointed.

It didn’t take long to find him.

He was in the garden, sitting under one of the shaded tables. His glasses were off. His hair looked extra tousled, like he’d been running his hand through it. And across from him sat someone Nene didn’t recognize.

A woman.

A pretty one.

She was petite and slender, with indigo hair done up in a twisty shape Nene could never manage and bangs that framed her heart-shaped face. She had long lashes and a smile that dimpled at the corners, like someone who was used to being adored.

They were laughing.

Laughing.

Nene’s ears flattened in her imagination.

She crept closer, just enough to catch snippets.

“…So we could rearrange the back row near the herbs. There’s enough space if we move the planter box.”

“Makes sense. I’ll help after class.”

“Oh, are you free that late?”

“If it’s for the fair, I’ll make time.”

He was smiling. That tired but warm kind of smile he only gave students and cats.

She didn’t like it on someone else.

Especially not on her.

She waited until they were done. Until the bell rang and the woman—Aoi, she’d heard him say—gathered her files and walked gracefully away.

Nene stepped into his path before he could follow.

He blinked at her. “Yashiro?”

“I brought your lunch.”

She held out the bento like it was a peace offering.

His eyes widened in surprise. “You didn’t have to—wait. I forgot it, didn’t I.”

“You did,” she said.

He took the bento gently, examining it with a softened expression. “This looks really nice.”

“I woke up early for it.”

“I can tell.”

But he didn’t open it.

She tilted her head. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

He checked his watch. “I’ve got a lab starting in five. I'll eat later, okay?”

“…Sure.”

Amane came home later than usual.

The front door clicked open and shut with quiet familiarity, followed by the soft clink of keys and the sound of shoes sliding off at the genkan. The house smelled faintly like leftover curry and lemon cleaner—homey, a little too quiet.

“I’m home,” he called.

Silence.

He stepped into the living room, loosening his scarf. Nene was curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, eyes fixed on the TV screen. Cartoons danced in soft color across her face, but she didn’t look over. Not even to peek.

He frowned slightly. “Hey.”

Still nothing.

She wasn’t ignoring him, not really. She was sulking.

The air told him before she did. That cold, pouty quiet she wrapped herself in like a blanket whenever she was stewing over something—low tail energy, he thought dryly.

Amane didn’t push. He just hung up his coat, gave a small sigh, and wandered into the kitchen. His hand was already reaching into his bag by the time she moved.

She approached just as he opened the fridge and slid the still-closed bento onto the top shelf.

“I made that for you,” she said.

He froze.

The silence stretched.

Amane turned. Nene stood in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed. She wasn’t glaring—but she wasn’t smiling, either. Her expression was somewhere between a scolded kitten and a kicked one. She kept her chin lifted, but her eyes flicked between his hands and the fridge.

“You didn’t even open it.”

“I forgot,” he admitted.

She didn’t answer.

“I got lunch on campus. The department meeting ran over.”

Her fingers clenched around the hem of her sweater. “You said you’d eat it.”

“I know. I just—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I got busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

That one landed.

Amane blinked. “Nene—”

She whipped around and walked back into the living room before he could say more, tail metaphorically swishing behind her in indignation.

He followed her slowly, pulse ticking up for reasons he couldn’t name. She flopped back onto the couch, arms folded tight. Her cartoon was still playing, but she wasn’t watching it anymore.

“You’re mad,” he said, already weary.

She turned her head. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re definitely mad.”

“I’m not.” Her ears might as well have been flat. “I’m disappointed.”

Amane exhaled. “I said I was sorry.”

“You didn’t say anything, actually.”

“Well I meant to.”

Nene huffed and looked away. “I did everything right today.”

He stepped closer. “What?”

“I got up early. I didn’t interrupt you while you were getting ready. I cleaned the kitchen and used the real mop, not the funny one that spins. I packed your favorite lunch. I didn’t even sneak any snacks while I made it.”

Her voice trembled at the edges.

“I thought it would make you happy.”

“I didn’t ask you to do all that,” he said gently.

“I know!” she snapped, frustrated. “But I wanted to. I wanted to make it easier for you to like me again.”

He stared at her, startled. “Nene—”

“You’ve been weird since the quiz,” she muttered. “Like you don’t trust me. Like I’m just... something in the way.”

Amane felt a flicker of guilt climb up his spine.

He hadn’t meant to distance himself. He thought he was being careful. Fair. Giving them both space after what happened.

She misread that.

He opened his mouth to explain, but she kept going—building speed like a runaway train.

“And now you’re eating with some new teacher instead. While I’m here. Waiting. Trying. And you just forgot.”

Her tone cracked on the last word.

Amane winced. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?!”

The room fell still.

Amane looked at her—really looked—and saw her lip trembling even though she was trying to keep her chin up. Her fingers were balled in the sleeves of her sweater. Defensive. Fragile.

A part of him softened.

The rest snapped.

“You’re acting like a child.”

Nene flinched.

He hadn’t shouted. He didn’t need to. The words hit like ice anyway.

She stood slowly, hands falling to her sides.

“I’m not a child,” she mumbled.

“You’re sulking over lunch and cartoons.”

“I was trying,” she said again, as if that made it hurt less. “I was trying to be good. I was trying to grow up.”

He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “Then stop expecting the world to bend around you whenever you’re upset.”

“I didn’t ask you to bend anything!”

“You didn’t have to!” he said, voice sharper than he meant. “You pout. You cling. You treat every little thing like it’s life or death. I can’t read your mind, Nene. I can’t be everything to you, all the time.”

Silence.

The TV continued playing its bubbly theme song behind her.

Nene stood frozen in place, her face pale.

“…I thought that’s what people did when they loved someone,” she whispered.

Amane’s chest twisted.

“That’s what I was doing,” she added, voice smaller now. “I thought... maybe if I loved you hard enough, you’d love me back.”

His stomach dropped.

“Nene—”

“I’m trying,” she said softly.

He stilled.

Her arms were crossed tightly now, hugging herself. Her eyes were bright. Glassy.

“But I’m not like you. I don’t do smart things. I don’t know how to say the right stuff. And when I get mad or scared or jealous, it just comes out wrong. Like claws. Or growling.”

Her lip trembled.

“I didn’t mean to be stupid about the school thing. I just missed you. I miss you all the time.”

Amane took a step forward. “Hey—”

“I know I mess things up,” she said, backing away. “I know I’m not normal. But I made that lunch because I thought it’d make you happy. I waited all day. And you just… put it in the fridge like it didn’t matter.”

Her voice broke.

“I just wanted to matter.”

Before he could say anything, she turned and fled to the bedroom. Not running. Not crying. Just... leaving. Quietly.

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

Amane stood in the kitchen long after she disappeared.

The fridge gave a low hum as it settled. The glow from its open door cast a pale light across the counter. The bento sat neatly on the top shelf, untouched—sealed and wrapped with care.

He stared at it.

Then reached in and picked it up.

It was light in his hands, but it felt heavier than it should’ve.

He set it down on the counter and slowly peeled away the wrapping. The lid lifted with a soft plastic snap.

Inside, everything was arranged with the kind of focus and intention Nene rarely showed for anything that wasn’t him.

Rice molded into a perfect little mound, edged by slices of rolled omelet, sausages shaped like tiny, stubby-legged octopuses—one of them with a wonky eye drawn in soy sauce. There were pickled vegetables tucked into a divider, a single cherry tomato cut into the shape of a heart.

His heart squeezed.

Then he saw it.

A folded square of paper, carefully tucked beneath the band.

He picked it up, unfolded it slowly.

The handwriting was round and uneven, like she’d practiced and still gotten frustrated halfway through. A little drawing of a rice ball smiled up from the corner.

It read:

You forgot to kiss me goodbye yesterday, dummy.

Don’t worry, I still love you.

No signature. Just a tiny, lopsided heart in the bottom corner.

Amane stared at it.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

The paper trembled slightly in his hand as the weight of the whole day caught up all at once—the missed effort, the words he couldn’t take back, the look on her face when she said, “I just wanted to matter.”

He sank into the nearest chair, slowly, like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.

The note rested in his palm.

He held it like something fragile.

Because it was.

The bento sat open beside him, untouched. Just like her.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like the adult in the room.

He just felt like a fool.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The lonely kind.

It had been like that since the fight the night before.

Nene hadn’t spoken much after she’d walked out of the kitchen. She hadn’t cried, either. Not in front of him. But Amane’s words—“You’re acting like a child”—echoed in her head every time the silence stretched too far.

She wasn’t mad anymore. Just heavy.

So she sat curled on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, chin tucked into a throw pillow. Cartoons played softly on the TV, the kind she barely followed. The kind she used to watch when she was still figuring out how fingers worked.

Hours passed. The lights dimmed. The rice cooker went cold.

And still, he hadn’t come home.

She wasn’t sure if he was angry or just tired. But she didn’t like either one. Not from him.

Not from the only person she’d ever truly loved.

She blinked slowly. Her tail would’ve curled tighter if she still had one.

After a while, the TV shut off on its own.

She got up without thinking, drawn to the back door like something beckoned just beyond it, and wandered barefoot into the yard.

The moon was high and sharp behind a veil of clouds. It cast silver over the grass, turning it soft and pale. Wind drifted lazily through the garden Amane had started. The rosemary leaves trembled, and somewhere nearby, a wind chime rang once—low and hollow.

Nene stepped out into the yard in her oversized hoodie and sat down beneath the hydrangea bush. The petals were still blooming, ghostlike in the dark.

She let her fingers brush the dirt.

“Stupid Amane,” she muttered. “Stupid... real-world stuff.”

It wasn’t fair. She’d been trying.

She’d made lunch. She’d cleaned the house. She’d waited by the door.

And still—nothing.

She tilted her face to the sky and whispered softly, almost like a prayer, “I just want him to love me again…”

Something rustled nearby.

She sat up straighter.

At the edge of the garden, crouched in the shadows, sat a black cat.

It was sleek and strange—its body still, but its shape wasn’t quite right. Its eyes were round and too reflective, gleaming like glass marbles that had seen too much. Its fur shimmered like ink under moonlight, but its outline flickered faintly, like static trying to hold a shape. Not fully real. Not fully here.

Nene squinted.

“Where did you come from?”

The cat tilted its head. Then, in a voice far too human, it said:

“Nice night for a tantrum.”

She yelped, stumbling back onto her hands.

“You can talk?!”

The cat leapt effortlessly onto the fence, where it sat with its tail wrapped neatly around its paws—like it hadn’t just shattered the laws of reality.

“Of course I can,” it said, blinking lazily. “I’m not really a cat.”

“…You’re—you’re not?”

“Nope.”

There was a pause.

“…Then what are you?” she asked, pushing herself upright, dirt clinging to her knees.

The creature’s grin curled slowly.

“A friend.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re weird.”

“Says the girl talking to ghosts.”

“I thought you were a cat!”

“You thought wrong~,” he said, in a sing-song lilt, clearly delighted by her confusion.

Nene stared at him, wary but curious. “…So who are you, really?”

The cat blinked. Slowly.

“I'm Tsukasa.”

The name dropped into her lap like a stone. Heavy. Familiar.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re his…”

“Twin,” the cat finished. “Yep.”

He leapt from the fence and padded closer, movements graceful but strangely weightless, like he was made of memory and smoke.

“You’re smarter than he gives you credit for.”

“…I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He sat beside her, purring faintly. “I watch a lot. That’s kinda my thing.”

“You’re a ghost.”

He shrugged, ears twitching. “That’s also kinda my thing.”

Nene stared. Up close, his eyes shimmered like little moons. He looked ordinary—if you ignored the subtle flicker around his edges, the way his tail moved just a second off from the rest of him.

He looked harmless.

But he felt like something that would peel open a flower just to see if it bled.

Still—he was listening. So she talked.

She told him about the fight. About the bento Amane never ate. About how she tried, really tried, but everything still went wrong. She said she knew she was clingy, that she got loud sometimes and talked before she thought—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t trying to be better. Didn’t mean she didn’t care.

Tsukasa listened. Quietly. His head tilted at strange angles.

When she sniffled and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, he said, almost gently:

“I granted your first wish, you know.”

She blinked. “What?”

“That night when you wished to be human. That was me.”

Nene stared. “You…? But why?”

He stretched out luxuriously, rolling onto his back with a grin that showed too many teeth.

“Because I like you. You’re a mess. It’s interesting.” He paused. “And you make him smile. Which he doesn’t do a lot. That matters to me.”

“Because you’re… his brother.”

“Mm. Sorta.” His grin sharpened. “More like the part of him that got left behind.”

A chill ran down her spine.

“So…” she said slowly, “you grant wishes?”

“I offer things,” he said, cryptic. “People take them.”

“…What do you get out of it?”

He rolled upright and flicked his tail. “That’s a boring question.”

“I think it’s a fair one.”

“You think too much,” he said, tapping her knee with one paw. “You want love, not logic.”

She hesitated. “You’re not like Amane at all.”

“I know,” he said brightly. “That’s why he’s still alive.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

He waved a paw. “Point is, you’re sad. And I don’t like when people I like are sad.”

He rubbed against her legs, purring. She froze.

“You want him to love you, right?” he said.

Her throat tightened. Her fingers clenched.

He already does, she told herself.

Doesn’t he?

Tsukasa’s grin widened. “Say it, Nene-chan.”

“…What?”

“Say it,” he said again, softer. “Say the wish. Out loud. That’s how it works.”

“I don’t—” She stopped. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to wish for.”

He leaned in, his face too close. “Sure you do.”

She looked at her hands. At the dirt beneath her nails. The garden buzzed with stillness.

“…I wish,” she whispered, voice small, “I wish Amane would love me more than anything in the world.”

The words trembled in the air.

Tsukasa purred, slow and deep.

The garden shifted.

The wind hushed. The grass swayed in a direction it shouldn’t. The moon pulsed—just once—too bright, too near.

Nene blinked.

And he was gone.

No flash. No puff of smoke. Just empty space where he’d been.

The garden was quiet again.

But the air…
The air felt different.

Nene sat still for a long moment after Tsukasa vanished.

But then—

“Wait,” she whispered to the empty air. “That wasn’t real. Right?”

Her words sounded too small. Too hopeful. She looked around, as if he might reappear in the hedges or behind a potted plant, tail flicking, grin sharp. But nothing moved.

No cat.

No ghost.

Just her.

Still, the shadows felt thicker than before. The moonlight, a little too focused.

Her heart beat strangely—slow, but full. Like something was coiling in her chest.

Say it, he'd said.

That was the moment. She’d felt it then—that teetering pause before you say something you can’t unsay. But her feelings had been too big, her hurt too sharp, and the silence in the yard too loud.

So she’d said it.

She curled her knees in tighter now, chin tucked against her arms. The dirt was cool beneath her feet.

“I didn’t mean it,” she mumbled.

But part of her had.

The part that curled up like a kitten when Amane petted her hair. The part that waited by the door and perked up when she heard his keys. The part that ached when he smiled at other people and didn’t notice her trying so hard to be good.

That part had whispered it like a secret.

I wish he would love me more than anything in the world.

She clenched her fingers. Her heart thudded.

And just when the quiet seemed to settle again…

“Cold feet?”

Nene yelped, nearly jumping out of her skin.

Tsukasa was back—crouched beside her like he’d never left, his head tilted upside down to grin at her from an eerie angle.

“Don’t sneak up on people!” she hissed.

“But it’s fun.” He sat, tail flicking lazily. “Besides, I had to check. Sometimes people say things they don’t mean.”

“I just said I didn’t mean it.”

“You did,” he purred. “But maybe you didn’t mean to say it. That’s different.”

Nene’s eyes narrowed. “You’re really confusing.”

“I get that a lot.” He rolled onto his side. “But I don’t lie. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she asked: “If you grant wishes… what happens after?”

Tsukasa was quiet.

Then he said, all too cheerfully, “Oh, you’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re me.” He stretched again, long and liquid. “You made the wish. That’s the important part.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated. “…Because it feels wrong.”

His ears twitched. “Wrong how?”

She didn’t have the words. Only the feeling. The pressure. The shift.

“It’s like… like something changed. And I don’t know what the price is yet.”

Tsukasa’s grin returned, wide and crescent-shaped.

“Smart girl.”

“That’s not comforting.”

He padded closer, brushing lightly against her legs like a real cat—if real cats buzzed with static and left the grass colder in their wake.

“You think love’s cheap?” he asked. “You think it just happens?”

“I thought it did,” she whispered.

“Well.” He curled beside her. “Sometimes it needs a push.”

Nene stared ahead at the moon.

“…Do you think he’ll be mad at me?”

Tsukasa tilted his head, thoughtful for once.

“No,” he said. “But he might not know why he’s changing. People don’t like that.”

Nene’s brows knit.

She didn’t want to change Amane. Not really.

She just wanted to be enough. To be chosen. To feel loved the way she loved.

And if Tsukasa had made her human for that…

…Maybe she owed it to herself to try.

Tsukasa stood, tail flicking once.

“Well,” he chirped. “Your wish. It’s started.”

“What’s started?”

“You’ll see.”

Then, with a flicker—like static skipping across a screen—he was gone again.

Nene stared at the spot where he’d been.

The garden was quiet.

But her pulse was not.

Chapter Text

The house didn’t feel empty anymore.

That was the first thing Nene noticed when Amane came home late that night. Not the usual tired shuffle of keys and sighs. Not the quiet apology as he slipped off his shoes, already half distracted.

He paused in the entryway.

Then, he looked at her—really looked.

Nene froze on the couch, halfway through pulling a throw pillow into her lap. The TV was still playing softly, casting flickering light over her face. She hadn’t expected him to notice anything, let alone her.

But his expression softened.

“There you are,” he said quietly.

Her fingers curled around the pillow. “…Hi.”

“I missed you.”

That caught her off guard. Her heart thumped once, painfully loud in her chest. “You… did?”

He crossed the room and knelt in front of her, his work bag sliding to the floor with a soft thud. His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye.

“You looked sad this morning.”

Her breath caught.

She had looked sad. She had felt sad. But he’d never said something like that before. Not so directly. Not so tenderly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Nene blinked, unsure whether she’d wandered into a dream.

“You were right,” he continued. “About the lunch. About how I’ve been acting. I’ve been… careless. And I hate that I made you feel unwanted.”

“You didn’t—” Her voice cracked. “I just—”

“I know.” His hand slipped behind her head, guiding her forward until her forehead touched his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain.”

And for once, she didn’t try.

They sat like that for a long time.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her fingers gently clutching the fabric of his sleeve. His body was warm and still against hers. And when he finally pulled back, it wasn’t to leave.

It was to stay.

He cooked with her the next morning. He cleaned without being asked. He reminded her to drink water. He picked flowers from the garden and left one in her book. He kissed her forehead when she passed by, smiled at her when she talked, listened like it mattered.

It was… perfect.

A little too perfect.

At first, Nene chalked it up to guilt. Or effort. Maybe he really was trying to be better. Maybe her wish hadn’t done anything at all. But little things began to stack. Odd things.

He stopped bringing work home. Completely.

He’d say things like, “You’re all I need,” or “Nothing else matters when I’m with you.”

Once, when she apologized for burning the rice, he only looked at her—strangely intense—and said, “I could live on nothing but your voice.”

She laughed. He didn’t.

Still… she liked the way he looked at her now. Like she was gravity and sunlight and everything soft. Like he saw only her.

She liked it enough to ignore the strange weight in her stomach. Enough to hush the voice in her head that whispered:

This isn’t quite him.

Because it was close. So, so close.

And she wanted it to be real.

On the third day, he brought her strawberries.

Just a little plastic basket tucked under one arm, cool from the market. She was sitting on the floor in front of the low table, half-doodling on her homework, when he came home early—earlier than usual.

"Hey," he said, kneeling beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Look what I found.”

She blinked at the fruit. “Strawberries?”

“You said you liked them better when they’re sweet and cold.” He handed her the basket like it was a gift. Like she was something precious. “So I got some.”

Nene stared at him.

He smiled softly. “Want one?”

She took it with both hands, as if it might dissolve if she wasn’t gentle enough. Then she bit in, and juice rushed across her tongue—sweet and tangy, just a little chilled.

When she looked up to tell him it was perfect, he was already watching her.

Like she was the best part of his day.

Her heart turned over.

He hadn’t even taken his shoes off yet.

Later, they washed dishes together.

She scrubbed. He rinsed. And when she flicked water at him on accident, he grinned and tapped bubbles onto her nose.

“Hey!” she giggled, swatting his wrist.

He leaned in, wiping the foam off her face with the edge of his sleeve. “You’re cute when you pout.”

Nene's face turned pink.

She bumped his hip, light and playful. He bumped back.

“Careful,” she warned, “I’ve got the sponge.”

“I’ve got faster reflexes,” he said smugly.

Their arms brushed. His hand lingered at her waist. She wasn’t sure when the teasing stopped and the staring started, only that his gaze dropped to her lips, and hers fluttered to his.

It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed her.

But this time… it didn’t feel like permission.

It felt like gravity.

Like a magnet pulling her forward.

Like a force she didn’t quite understand.

That night, she caught him watching her sleep.

She'd dozed off reading, her cheek smooshed into the edge of a pillow, the page creased beneath her hand. When she stirred, his eyes met hers across the room.

He was sitting in the chair by the window, not moving. Just… watching.

“Amane?” she whispered.

He blinked. Slowly. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You weren’t in bed.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You could’ve just… joined me.”

He smiled. But it didn’t reach his eyes this time.

“You looked peaceful,” he said. “I wanted to remember.”

That unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

Still, when he did climb in beside her—when his arms wrapped around her like armor—she let herself melt into him.

Even if his heartbeat was just a little too fast.

Even if he didn’t fall asleep.

The next morning, he made breakfast.

Not toast. Not leftovers.

Pancakes.

With strawberries on top.

“I don’t know how to make pancakes,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“I know,” he said, handing her a plate. “So I made enough for both of us.”

Nene stared at him. At the golden stack. At the drizzle of syrup shaped like a heart.

It was like a dream.

Maybe it was.

But dreams don’t usually follow you into the hallway.

When she spilled a cup of juice later that afternoon—nothing big, just an accident—he was there in seconds.

“You okay?” he asked sharply, kneeling to check her hand even though it hadn’t touched the glass.

“I’m fine—Amane, it’s just juice.”

“You could’ve slipped.”

She blinked. “It’s tile. I wouldn’t—”

“Next time, call me. I’ll get it.”

He wiped the floor himself, lips pressed tight.

She watched him.

The tension in his shoulders didn’t match the softness in his words.

By the end of the week, he wasn’t leaving the house.

“I took time off,” he said casually, when she asked. “The students can manage without me for a few days.”

“But what about the greenhouse project?”

“Aoi can handle it.” His smile didn’t waver. “I only need one thing right now.”

She felt her throat go tight.

“…Me?”

“Always you.”

He kissed her temple. Her shoulder. Her knuckles.

It felt like devotion.

It felt like drowning.

That night, she dreamed of rain.

It wasn’t stormy or violent. Just soft, endless drizzle falling against a window that didn’t exist. She sat curled in the corner of a room she didn’t recognize, watching the water slip down invisible glass, a mug of something warm cupped in her hands.

There was no sound. No breeze. No Amane.

Just her—and the feeling of something waiting.

When she woke, it was still dark.

Amane was next to her, breathing slow and even.

She studied his profile in the low light. His lashes, the soft part of his mouth, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He looked peaceful.

But something about it felt… off.

Like a painting hung just slightly crooked.

Her brows knit together.

She shifted—just enough to rest her cheek against his arm—and his hand moved immediately. Fingers threading into her hair, gentle but firm, like he’d been waiting for her to need him.

He didn’t open his eyes.

Didn’t say a word.

But the motion wasn’t sleepy. Or unconscious.

It was purposeful.

And somehow, that was worse.

Chapter Text

It started with a cup of tea.

Warm. Perfectly steeped. Waiting for her on the table when she came back from brushing her teeth.

“Chamomile,” Amane said, setting the mug in front of her like a butler in an old movie. “For focus.”

Nene blinked. “I didn’t ask for tea.”

“I know,” he replied, offering a small, lopsided smile. “But you’ve been zoning out mid-sentence all week. Figured I’d try chemical intervention.”

She stared at the steam curling up from the mug.

“Oh,” she said. “Thanks.”

He sat across from her and watched her drink it.

Not in a creepy way. Not exactly.

But he didn’t look away.

The next day, he had the office already arranged by the time she came downstairs.

Lights on.

Books stacked and whiteboard clean.

Her chair pulled out.

She paused at the door, rubbing her eyes, hair still messy from sleep.

“You’re early,” she said, blinking.

“I just wanted everything to be perfect.”

The way he said it made her stomach flutter.

And not in a good way.

Then came the eraser.

It had slipped from her fingers mid-lesson, clattering beneath the table.

She crouched to retrieve it, reaching blindly beneath the desk—

—and when she came back up, he was kneeling beside her.

So close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

She startled.

“Amane—!”

“You dropped this,” he said softly, holding it out.

She took it, but he didn’t move.

Just looked at her.

His eyes flicked to her lips.

Then back up.

She smiled nervously, tried to joke. “Oops… do I lose points if I drop stuff?”

He didn’t laugh.

Not even a smirk.

He just brushed a strand of hair from her face and returned to his seat like nothing happened.

That night, he sat beside her while she did her homework. Not across from her. Not at his desk.

Right next to her. Arm brushing hers every time she shifted.

She got answers wrong on purpose, just to see what he’d do.

Each time, he leaned in.

Close.

Too close.

“You know this,” he said once, his hand resting lightly on her wrist. “Why are you pretending not to?”

She didn’t have an answer.

Not one that felt safe.

The next morning, he waited by the door as she tied her hair up.

No coffee. No breakfast. No small talk.

Just silence.

And then, as she walked past him to get her notebook, his hand reached out and caught her waist.

Not rough.

But not gentle either.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” he said, voice low.

“I haven’t,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

His grip tightened just slightly.

“Let’s see if today’s lesson gets your attention.”

By the time she took her seat that afternoon, her hands were already shaking.

She gripped her pen too tightly. Tried to focus on the textbook.

But her body remembered.

The tea. The desk. The grip at her waist.

The silence.

And now, Nene sat perfectly straight in her chair, notebook open, pen uncapped. The pages in front of her were mostly blank.

The tension in the room was heavy, like something had been stretched too far and was one breath away from snapping.

Amane was watching her from the whiteboard—like he was waiting for something she hadn’t agreed to give.

His gaze flicked over her like he was memorizing something important. Not her answers. Not her posture. Just... her.

Nene’s throat felt dry.

Her pen slipped slightly in her grip, and the soft clack of it tapping the desk sounded deafening.

“Miss Yashiro,” he said finally.

She jumped at the sound of her name. “Y-Yes, sensei?”

His voice was calm. Deceptively so.

“Recite the five stages of mitosis.”

Oh.

She knew this. She’d seen the diagram. Highlighted the terms. She just hadn’t—

“Prophase,” she started, “then... metaphase... anaphase... um... telophase... and... cytokinesis?”

There was a long pause.

Amane’s expression didn’t change.

“Wrong order,” he said quietly.

“I—I think I got most of them right—”

“Most isn’t good enough.”

His tone made her flinch. Not because it was loud. Because it wasn’t.

He turned away from the board and walked toward his desk, setting the marker down with deliberate care.

“You were warned last week,” he said, picking up a stack of papers and tapping them into alignment. “I told you to take this seriously.”

“I have been—”

“You haven’t.” He didn’t look up. “You’ve been distracted. Lazy. Unfocused.”

“I’m trying—”

“You’re not.”

Nene felt the words lodge in her chest like a pebble in a shoe. Small, but sharp. Irritating. Impossible to ignore.

He was being cold.

But worse—he was right.

She hadn’t studied. Not really. She’d tried for a day or two, but her heart hadn’t been in it. Not after the wish. Not after everything started to feel too good to question.

And now...

Now she wondered if this was the consequence.

Amane set the papers down and looked at her again.

Not disappointed.

Not frustrated.

Just unreadable.

Then he said, “Come here.”

Her breath hitched.

“What?”

“To the front.”

She hesitated. “Sensei, I don’t—”

“I gave you a direction.”

His voice wasn’t raised.

But it cut.

Nene stood on instinct.

Her feet moved before her brain caught up, like she was a puppet on a too-tight string. She walked stiffly to the front of the room, heart pounding in her ears.

She stopped a few feet away.

He gestured closer.

“Right here,” he said.

She obeyed.

The air between them felt charged. Dense.

She could smell him now—faint cologne, the clean cotton of his sweater, the warmth of skin too close.

He leaned back against his desk and folded his arms.

“Why didn’t you study?”

“I... forgot.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I meant to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I got distracted—”

“Again.”

Nene looked down, teeth pressing into her bottom lip. Her fingers curled into the hem of her skirt.

Amane watched her, silent.

Then, “What should your punishment be?”

Her head snapped up.

“What?”

“I’m asking you,” he said, voice smooth. “What do you think you deserve?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Try.”

Her breath trembled. “Extra homework?”

He didn’t answer.

“Or—or maybe I could write lines? Like last time—?”

Still no response.

Just the steady, unreadable weight of his stare.

Then he stepped forward.

Nene tensed.

His hands dropped to his sides. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, voice lower now. “That this is still some game?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Then why are you still testing me?”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He pointed to the ground. “On your knees.”

She stared at him.

“Amane—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Her legs locked in place.

“I don’t understand—”

“Down.”

The command struck like a whip. It didn’t sound like him. It sounded like something wearing his voice.

Her body moved before her brain could stop it.

She sank to her knees.

Her breath came faster now, shallow and uneven.

Amane stood above her, silent.

The hush between them wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating.

She kept her eyes low. Avoided his face. Focused instead on the front of his sweater. On the slow, uneven rhythm of his breathing.

“…You’re being weird again,” she whispered, trying to sound brave.

It came out thin.

The silence that followed was immediate.

“Still mouthing off,” he murmured, half to himself. “Always deflecting.”

His eyes flicked to her lips.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you need a different kind of lesson.”

His hand moved to his belt.

Nene’s breath caught.

She watched, frozen, as the leather slipped through the loop with a slow hiss.

“Amane,” she said, barely audible. “What are you doing?”

No answer.

His fingers worked at the buckle. Precise. Detached.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Please stop,” she said, louder now. “This isn’t you.”

Still no response.

The zipper slid down.

A quiet, mechanical sound.

That’s when she moved.

Her hand came up—not to push, not to strike—but to reach.

She placed it gently over his.

Her fingers were warm. Steady, even though the rest of her was shaking.

He flinched under her touch.

“Please don't,” she whispered, not pleading—asking. Gently. As if coaxing someone from a dream. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder, I promise. Just—please stop.”

She looked up.

Into his face.

For a heartbeat, nothing changed.

His eyes blinked. Once. Twice.

Then stilled.

Something broke.

He jolted like something had just clicked back into place. His hand jerked away. His breath caught in his throat.

He stumbled backward.

Half a step.

Then another, clumsy. His heel bumped the leg of the desk. He reached out to steady himself, hand dragging across the surface like he didn’t trust the ground under him.

“...Nene.”

Her name came out low and raw—like it hurt to say.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Still on her knees.

Still watching.

Too stunned to believe it was really him again.

He brought a hand to his face. Covered it completely. His fingers shook as they pressed against his eyes like he couldn’t stand to see what he’d almost done.

“...Sorry,” he breathed, barely audible.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t lift his head.

He just stood there, folded in on himself, like the walls were closing in and he wasn’t sure how to stay standing.

Then, after a long, trembling pause:

“I… need to go.”

His hand slid along the desk’s edge as he turned—steadying himself like someone who’d just been sick.

He didn’t glance back.

Didn’t say another word.

The door opened with a soft creak, then clicked shut behind him.

And he was gone.

Nene didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

She didn’t understand what she'd just seen.

But she knew it wasn’t Amane.

And whatever was inside him now—whatever was changing him—wasn’t going away.

Not on its own.

For the first time since she became human, she felt afraid.

Not of ghosts.

Not of monsters.

Of him.

Of what he was becoming.

And of what might happen if she couldn’t stop it.

Chapter Text

The city was asleep. The sky was gray.

Amane walked alone.

His coat hung open. His shoelaces dragged. He hadn’t slept—at least not in a way that counted. His body moved with the aimless certainty of someone running from something they didn’t want to name.

Or worse—could name all too well.

The school loomed ahead, unchanged. Same crooked antenna. Same faded lettering above the gate. On weekends, it sat hollow and quiet. The perfect place to disappear.

He slipped through the doors without pause.

The halls were silent, the kind of silence that pressed on your skin. Every footstep echoed like the whisper of an old rumor. Pale light spilled through the windows, painting the floor in long, ghostly streaks.

He climbed without thinking—one flight, then another. Each step heavier than the last.

Toward the third floor.

The floor no one mentioned anymore. The floor the school had quietly tried to erase.

Dust hung thick in the still air, suspended like glitter in glass. He passed the locked classrooms, the shuttered library, the pinboard sagging under yellowed announcements.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t look.

Just kept moving.

The memory came like a splinter:

Please don’t.
I’m sorry. I’ll do better.
Her hand on his. Small. Warm. Human.

His, clutching his belt.

Ready to—

He squeezed his eyes shut. A guttural sound tore from his throat—half snarl, half sob.

He hadn’t hurt her.

But he could have.

And part of him… wanted to.

He slammed his hand against the wall, stumbling forward with urgency. A madman pacing a quiet asylum. Searching for an answer. A reason. A way to claw himself back from the edge.

Until he found it.

The third-floor bathroom.

Not just any bathroom.

That bathroom.

The one they sealed off after the incident. The one that still whispered in the walls. The one he swore he’d never return to.

He pushed the door open.

Mildew and metal filled his lungs. Light filtered in from a cracked window, slicing across dusty tiles. The air was heavy. Still.

And waiting.

The mirror stood across the room. Cracked. Smudged and familiar.

Amane stepped inside. The door creaked shut behind him.

The third-floor bathroom was always cold.

Even in summer, the chill clung to the tiles like breath on glass.

Flickering fluorescents buzzed overhead. The mirror—chipped at the corner—reflected nothing but dim pulses of light and shadow.

Amane braced his palms against the sink, leaning in. His breath fogged the glass.

His reflection stared back.

Same eyes. Same mouth. But the weight behind them didn’t belong to him. Not anymore.

“You’re still in there,” he muttered.

No answer.

“I know you can hear me.”

Still nothing.

He straightened, voice rising.

“You just can’t stay away, can you?”

The mirror stayed still.

“Too bad the feeling’s not mutual.”

Metal clinked against porcelain.

He drew a red-handled Santoku from his coat pocket—its blade catching the light like ice.

“Remember this?”

He lifted it. Pressed the flat against his wrist. The cold bit in.

“You can’t haunt a vessel that doesn’t exist,” he growled. “I got rid of you once. I’ll do it again.”

He pressed harder.

“You're not getting Yashiro, so don’t fuck with me.”

A quick slice—not deep enough to sever, but enough to bleed.

Blood welled crimson.

Then—

The lights flickered.

The mirror rippled.

And from the glass, a shape twisted into view.

Not his reflection.

Not entirely.

A boy appeared behind the surface—thirteen years old. Choppy black hair. Pale face. Familiar grin.

Tsukasa.

Amane’s reflection flickered. Shifted.

Twisted.

“Too late,” Tsukasa crooned.

He leaned in like he was sharing a joke. His smile was all teeth and secrets.

“Already got to her. A while ago, actually. You really didn’t know, Amane?”

Amane’s fists clenched.

“What did you do to her?”

“Who, Nene-chan?” Tsukasa tilted his head. “Nothing~ I just granted her wish. To stay human. You're welcome.”

Amane cursed under his breath.

Tsukasa’s grin spread wider. “But you knew that, right? I can tell. That’s why you moved. You thought distance would help. But it wasn’t the house this time.”

His voice softened.

“It was you.”

Amane stiffened.

“You let me in,” Tsukasa said sweetly. “The moment you wished for a girlfriend. You said it out loud. I heard you. You knew I was listening.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Amane said hoarsely.

“You did,” Tsukasa whispered. “You always do.”

The knife in Amane’s hand jerked.

Not by choice.

It lifted.

Turned.

Until the blade hovered above his chest.

He tried to drop it. Couldn’t.

His arm moved against his will. Closer. Tighter.

Tsukasa smiled through the glass.

“Just like old times.”

“Stop it,” Amane gasped.

“Why?” Tsukasa purred. “I can't haunt you if you don't exist.”

“Tsukasa—!”

And just like that—the pressure vanished. His fingers released the knife. It clattered into the sink.

He gripped the basin, breathing hard.

Tsukasa’s reflection watched.

“Aw. You're still such a baby,” he teased. “Still too scared to finish what you start. You won’t do it. You never could.”

He leaned closer.

“You never had the guts to kill yourself, Amane. You only killed me. That was the only time you ever meant it.”

Amane staggered.

“No,” he whispered.

“You did,” Tsukasa said gently. “You stabbed me with that exact knife. In our own house. Remember?”

Amane’s breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. His knees hit the tile.

“You take the easy way out. Always have. Always will.”

He covered his ears. Rocked back and forth.

“Shut up. Shut up!”

“That’s it,” Tsukasa cooed. “Cry for me, just like you did back then.”

The memories crushed him—blood on his hands, Tsukasa’s body collapsing in the dark, the sound of something ancient laughing behind the walls.

“Please…” he whispered. “Just stop…”

And then—

Silence.

Tsukasa’s voice softened again. Smooth. Comforting.

“I missed you, you know?”

Amane didn’t look up.

“I missed when we were together. When we played. Before you got boring.”

Amane pressed a palm to his bleeding wrist.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

Tsukasa’s eyes gleamed. His grin returned.

“Oh, me? Nothing,” he said. “This time… it’s not up to me.”

Amane blinked. “Then who?”

Tsukasa’s smile stretched, impossibly wide.

“Why don’t you ask Nene-chan?” he said brightly. “She’s the one who made the wish.”

Then—

The mirror dimmed.

The grin vanished.

And Amane was alone.

His blood stained the sink. His hand shook. His reflection stared back—unfamiliar, fractured, not entirely his own.

The darkness wasn’t some ghost from his past.

It was here.

Now.

And this time… it had come through the front door.

Chapter Text

Nene searched everywhere.

Every corner he usually retreated to—because that’s what Amane did when the world got too loud. He’d vanish into familiar spaces, hoping to disappear.

But the house was silent. Still. Empty.

And she had no idea where he'd go now—not after losing himself so completely.

It wasn’t just what he’d said that frightened her. It was how he said it. The tone didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t his voice—not the Amane she knew. It carried something else. Something ancient and cold, like a shadow beneath his skin had finally gotten permission to breathe.

And she had been the one to set it free.

“Tsukasa-kun?” she whispered into the quiet as she stepped barefoot into the living room, breath shallow, clutching a pillow to her chest like a lifeline.

Only the hum of the refrigerator replied.

Her footsteps were slow, each one weighted with dread. The TV was off. Curtains drawn. The air felt thick and hollow all at once—like the house had been holding its breath.

Then, from the farthest corner where the shadows pooled deepest, something shifted.

Her heart jolted.

The black cat from the garden—the one who granted her wish—emerged from the gloom, silent and eerie in the dim light slipping through the curtains.

“Boo,” came his stealthy, teasing voice.

Nene's breath caught. She stared.

The cat padded toward her, tail curling like a question mark.

“Tsukasa…” Her voice trembled. She hadn’t really expected it to work. Hadn’t expected him to come.

He blinked. In that moment, he was more cat-like than ever—slender, fluid, impossibly still. But when he sat up and cocked his head, there was something almost human in the tilt. Something cold and unsettling.

“Yes?” he said, voice light but laced with something heavier.

Her knees gave out. Without thinking, she rushed to him, dropping to the floor and wrapping him in a hug. Her face pressed into his soft fur, the scent oddly familiar, oddly wrong.

He froze, whiskers twitching, ears flattened back.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, voice cracking.

His eyes narrowed, but he remained still—neither angry nor pleased.

She pulled back, tears clinging to her lashes.

“Amane... he’s not okay,” she said, breath quick and shallow. “Something’s wrong. The wish I made—it’s tearing him apart, and I don’t know how to fix it!”

The words poured out of her, fast and panicked, until she collapsed to her knees, pillow limp in her lap.

Tsukasa studied her, head cocked. His ear flicked mechanically.

Nene winced but kept talking.

“I just wanted him to love me again. I thought the wish would fix things. But now it’s all twisted, and I—I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

She sniffed, wiping her sleeve across her face.

Tsukasa hopped onto the arm of the couch and settled there, tail curling around his paws.

“Well, duh.” His tone was flat, almost bored.
Nene looked up, startled by his lack of sympathy.

“Duh?” she echoed, voice shaky.

He yawned, long and slow. “You wanted maximum love. You got it.”

His gaze sharpened.

“People forget love needs logic. You forgot, Nene-chan. So what you’ve got now? That’s not love—it’s obsession.” He shrugged. “I see it all the time. Everyone thinks love means no boundaries. Every time, someone ends up broken.”

Nene blinked, dazed. Her grip on the pillow tightened.

“So... you tricked me?”

Tsukasa looked away, preening an ear.

“Me? Nah. I make deals. You made the wish. That’s on you.”

She sniffed again. “Then I'm the one who broke my boyfriend?” she squeaked.

He stopped grooming and looked at her calmly.

“Okay, let’s make it simple,” he said, hopping down to sit in front of her, eyes level with her knees.

“That wish? It didn’t just pull on his heart. It blew a hole straight through his brain.”

Her breath caught.

“You asked for him to love you more than anything. That’s big. Huge. You wanted the sun and stars and every heartbeat in between. So I gave it to you—raw, unfiltered love. But love without logic? That’s a fire waiting to happen.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

He stared back, calm and detached.

“The wish carved out everything that made him balance you with the world. Now it’s just you in there. You, on repeat, echoing inside his head.”

She swallowed hard.

“So it’ll just… keep growing?”

He nodded. “No brakes. No cap. Unless you stop it.”

Her voice came out as a whisper. “What do I have to do?”

He swished his tail.

“Nothing easy,” he said. “You’ll need to wish it back to normal. But you already gave up your nine cat lives to be human. That was your big trade. And this? This needs more than that.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Then… what’s the price?”

Tsukasa tilted his head.

“You can’t rewrite a life without giving one in return. So I’m gonna need your soul.”

“My soul!?” she gasped. “But—I need that to live!”

“Don't worry,” he purred. “I’d make an exception for you, Nene-chan. Become my assistant and I'll let you work for me until you die.”

She stared. “And after that?”

“You’re mine,” he said simply.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“That’s the only way?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“There’s always a way, if you want it bad enough.”

“I do,” she said quickly.

“Good.” He smiled, sharp and small. “Then here’s Option B. Make a wish to erase this version of Amane. Reset his memories to before he met you. He’ll be normal again, for the most part.”

Her head snapped up. “No! I—he can’t—” she sputtered. “He’d lose everything.”

Tsukasa’s smile almost turned fond. “It's either your soul, or Amane’s memories. That's the deal.”

Nene’s breath came in short, shaky gasps. “So if I erase him, he wouldn’t remember me at all?”

Tsukasa sighed.

“That’s kinda the point,” he said. “Right now, everything in him is shaped around you. To fix him, you gotta wipe the slate clean. Start fresh.”

She stared down at the floor, voice thick with tears. “But how do I choose that? How do I even begin?”

“Dunno.” Tsukasa stood. “But you’ve got three days to figure it out. After that, the wish becomes permanent.”

“Three days...” she whispered.

“Tick—tock, Nene-chan. I’ll be back in seventy-two hours, give or take. Then you can decide.”

She reached out, desperate. “Until then—is there anything I can do? To help him?”

He paused, half-turned in the lamplight.

“Try everything you can. Rebuild, slowly. Show him love with restraint—acts of care. Selflessness. Maybe that’ll patch some logic holes. Might buy you time.”

Her chest tightened. “And if I fail?”

Tsukasa’s expression didn’t change.

“If you fail,” he said quietly, “Amane becomes a monster. And nothing will bring him back.”

Chapter Text

The couch was warm beneath her cheek, the pillow damp with the faint trace of tears. Nene stirred, blinking against the midday light that slipped through the drawn curtains. Her body ached from sleeping curled up, but it was the silence that pulled her awake.

It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t still.

It pressed in—thick, and unnatural—like the walls were closing in around her.

When she opened her eyes, Amane was standing over her.

A jolt of breath caught in her throat.

He was close. Too close. Framed in the pale glow bleeding through the curtains, his silhouette cast long, his face half-shadowed. Expressionless. Unreadable.

But it wasn’t just the stillness that unsettled her. It was the way he watched her. As if she were something distant. As if he hadn't yet decided what to do with her.

Then she saw the blood.

A thin, dried smear trailed from his wrist, stark against pale skin. It had flaked in places, like old paint. But it was still there—undisturbed. A memory he'd yet to erase.

Her heart lurched.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stood, silent and still, the space between them drawn tight with tension.

“Amane…” she whispered, pushing herself upright. Her voice cracked, hoarse from sleep and something close to fear.

He didn’t respond.

His eyes were distant—not empty, but full of something she couldn’t name. Something coiled and quiet.

She searched his face for anything familiar. But all she saw was the void between what was—and what might now be.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You made a wish,” he said too softly.

It wasn't a question or an accusation. Just a fact. Like he was talking about the weather or saying something he had always known.

Nene swallowed.

“Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Amane didn’t move. His eyes didn’t narrow. His voice didn’t rise.

“What did you wish for?” he asked in that same distant, dreamy tone. Detached. Like they were talking about something else entirely.

“I—” Her throat tightened. The words slipped away. Her thoughts scattered like leaves in wind. Her eyes dropped—drawn again to the blood circling his wrist like a grotesque bracelet, staining his shirt.

Her stomach turned.

“I asked you a question, Yashiro.”

Her name hung in the air—calm, but cold.

Then, without a word, he knelt low, sinking to his knees with a slow, measured grace. There was no suddenness, no threat. Just that same heavy stillness he wore like a second skin.

He held her gaze as he leaned in, closer and closer, until her world narrowed to his face, his breath, his silence. The couch pressed into her spine, and only then did she realize she had nowhere left to go.

“What. Did. You. Wish. For.”

Each word landed like a tap on glass. Not loud. But sharp. Precise. Enough to crack something just beneath the surface.

Nene’s pulse thundered. Her fingers dug into the couch cushion, knuckles white. Her fear spiked—but something else slid in beneath it. Something warm. Comforting. Like his presence was wrapping around her, soft and familiar.

It should have eased her.

Instead, it felt like bait.

Like whatever was inside him had learned how to cradle her panic. To soothe it. Shape it. Use it at will.

“I wished…” she whispered, eyes flicking away. Her voice trembled. “That you would love me more than anything.”

And just like that, she stopped breathing.

She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t move.

Her eyes squeezed shut, like darkness might erase everything the light refused to hide.

His hands moved with eerie gentleness.

Cool fingers lifted to her face, brushing her jaw before settling on her cheeks. Nene flinched—but didn’t pull away. His touch wasn’t rough. It was careful. Almost reverent.

And that only made it worse.

He leaned in, and before she could draw another breath—

He kissed her.

It wasn’t soft or tentative.

It crashed into her like a wave—overwhelming, consuming, full of heat and hurt and something else beneath it. Something darker. His mouth moved against hers with aching desperation, like he was pouring all of himself into her—every unspoken word, every fevered thought, every need he’d buried until now.

She gasped into him—and he took more.

The kiss deepened.

His hands pressed firmer to her face, thumbs resting beneath her eyes like he needed her to see him. To feel the way he burned.

And god, she did.

She felt all of it. The twisted weight of his devotion. The pain. The longing. The claim. Like he had been holding back for far too long with nothing left to fight it.

It spiraled through her in a thousand directions.

And worse—some part of her wanted it.

Wanted him. Even like this.

She was drowning in the pressure of it, in the way his presence folded around her like smoke. A thousand invisible threads, tightening. Binding her to a version of love that felt dangerously close to surrender.

Her thoughts blurred. Her body leaned in. Her breath vanished somewhere in the space between her lips and his.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel.

But this was what she'd wished for.

At last, Amane began to pull back.

Not abruptly.

Just slow and trembling—breathless—like it hurt to stop. His hands lingered for a beat, then fell away, fingers shaking.

He rested his forehead against hers and exhaled, long and uneven.

For a moment, he just sat there—breathing.

Then came a small, broken sound. Not a sob. But close.

His shoulders slumped, his posture collapsing like the kiss had wrung the last of something out of him. Like the fire that had overtaken him had finally cooled and all that remained was ash.

He shook once.

Then again.

Nene blinked through the haze, disoriented. Her lips were still tingling, her heart still sprinting. But his eyes—when she finally met them—were different.

There was no more darkness. No tension in his stance. Just Amane. Real and raw and fragile.

He was crying.

She couldn’t process it fast enough.

“Amane—?” Her voice came out barely audible.

He turned slightly, dragging a hand down his face like he could wipe away the emotion along with the blood. But the tears kept falling. Silent. Restrained. His breaths hitched like he didn’t want to cry, like he didn’t know why he was—but couldn't stop.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. “I—I feel like I’m choking on my own heart. Like I want to be near you so badly I can’t breathe.”

Nene felt something splinter inside her.

The guilt hit like a wave.

She should have said something. Comforted him. Tried to explain.

But the truth jammed in her throat like broken glass.

Because how could she tell him?

How could she say she was the reason he felt this way? That his mind wasn’t unraveling by accident—that she had pulled the thread with a single, selfish wish?

That now, to undo it, she’d have to pay with her soul… or erase every trace of herself from his life?

How do you say that?

You don’t.

So she knelt beside him, legs folding underneath her, hands resting limp in her lap. Her chest felt tight. Her mouth opened—but only a whisper escaped.

“I’m sorry.”

That was all she could give him. All she had. Because the truth would destroy him.

And he was already so close to the edge.

Her eyes stung as the guilt rose, hot and stifling. But she bit it back, teeth clenched behind closed lips.

She wouldn’t fall apart.

Not now.

Not in front of him.

And though he didn’t speak again, he didn’t move away, either.

They just sat there, two broken silhouettes in the half-light, pressed in by silence and the weight of a love that was never meant to stretch this far.

And Nene couldn’t help but wonder—

How much of him was still left?

And how much was already gone?

Chapter Text

The light slanting in through the curtains was dim and golden, thick with the hush of late afternoon. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, undisturbed. Amane leaned back against the couch, his shoulders hunched, breath slow and even, though it wasn’t peace that kept him still.

It was exhaustion.
Not the kind sleep could fix, but the kind that lived in bone and blood.

The bandage on his wrist tugged when he shifted. Sloppy, makeshift, already starting to peel.

He stared at it.

Then looked away.

The silence in the room wasn’t comfortable. It stretched thin between them, taut as wire. Nene sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, fingers twisting the hem of her sweater. Her eyes kept drifting to his sleeve. She hadn’t said anything yet, but he could feel it building in her—that quiet persistence that had always irritated and endeared him in equal measure.

Finally, she spoke.

“Amane,” she said softly, voice catching. “Let me see it.”

He frowned. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” She leaned forward, reaching. “You didn’t even wrap it properly.”

He jerked his arm back before she could touch it, lips tightening. “I said I’m fine.”

Nene let out a quiet, frustrated breath. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Then stop acting like it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough,” she snapped, inching closer. “And I know you can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.”

He shifted back again, pressing deeper into the couch behind him. “You’re not a nurse, Yashiro.”

“And you’re not immortal,” she shot back.

She reached for him again, and he caught her wrists without thinking, fingers curling tight around them. Her breath hitched. His did too.

They froze.

The tension between them snapped taut again—but this time it hummed with something different. Something heavier. Unspoken. His hands still gripped her wrists, and she wasn’t pulling away. Her knees brushed his thighs. She was close. Closer than he’d let her get in days. Maybe longer.

Nene stared at him—wide-eyed, flushed, breath shallow. Determined. Stubborn. The look on her face said she wasn’t backing down.

And somehow, that annoyed him more than it should have.

He sighed and released her wrists.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

“And you’re bleeding,” she replied.

Amane groaned and let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes. The throb in his wrist pulsed louder now that she’d brought it up. But the weight behind it—the reason for it—was harder to ignore.

When he opened his eyes again, she was leaning over him.

Really leaning.

One hand braced on the floor beside his leg, the other reaching for his sleeve. He caught the faint scent of her shampoo—sweet and soft—and it was just enough to throw him off balance.

“Stop squirming,” she scolded.

“You’re the one climbing all over me.”

“Because you won’t sit still!”

“Because you’re overreacting.”

“I am not!”

She lunged for his arm again. He dodged, leaning farther back—nearly flat against the floor now. Her knee bumped his hip. He sucked in a sharp breath.

Too close.
Way too close.

“Yashiro—”

“Amane,” she warned, crawling after him.

He didn’t mean to grab her waist. But he did—reflex. Her eyes widened as she ended up straddling his lap, her hand finally catching his injured wrist. She looked down at him, breathless, cheeks pink, hair falling in soft curtains around her face.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Something heavy and quiet fell between them. Her fingers trembled against his skin. He stared up at her, throat tight.

She was warm. Real. Pressed against him in ways that scrambled every thought.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

“You win,” he finally murmured—softer than he meant it.

Her eyes met his.

She didn’t speak.
Didn’t have to.

And somehow, the silence said more than either of them were ready to admit.

Nene didn’t move at first.

Her gaze lingered on his, searching. Unsure. But then her eyes dropped to his wrist—still cradled gently in her hand. She shifted her weight, steadied herself, and finally, slowly, peeled back the edge of the bandage.

Amane didn’t stop her this time.

The gauze came away with a quiet pull, revealing the angry red line beneath, dried blood crusted along the edges. It wasn’t deep. But it wasn't shallow enough to ignore.

Nene frowned.

“Idiot,” she muttered, brushing her thumb near the wound. “This is going to scar.”

“Good,” Amane said flatly. “Maybe I deserve it.”

She looked up sharply. “Don’t say things like that.”

His mouth opened to argue—then closed again. He didn’t have the energy for it. Not now.

Instead, Nene leaned in a little more.

Then, without fully thinking, she lowered her head.

And licked the wound.

Amane jolted like he’d been electrocuted.

“Wha— N-Nene?!” His voice cracked, half squeak, half yelp. He yanked his arm back instinctively, but she held it firm, her fingers tightening just enough to keep him still.

“Stop flailing,” she muttered, already leaning in for another pass.

“Wh—why would you—you just—! That’s—!”

Her cheeks flushed. “It’s a cat thing, okay?”

He stared at her like she’d grown whiskers.

“You can’t just go around licking people!”

“You’re not people,” she shot back without thinking. “You’re you.”

That shut him up.

He blinked once. Twice.

And then… he deflated.

The tension drained from his shoulders, his back relaxed against the couch. His hand, no longer resisting, went limp in hers. A breath escaped his chest—less a sigh, more like surrender.

“…Fine,” he muttered.

Nene tilted her head.

“That’s it?”

He nodded weakly. “If licking me calms you down, go ahead. I give up.”

Her lips twitched. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“You started it,” he grumbled.

She went back to cleaning the cut, gentler this time. Slower. Less out of reflex, more out of care. And Amane just sat there—flushed, still, eyes half-lidded—watching her like he couldn’t believe what was happening, but had decided not to fight it anymore.

For now, the silence wasn’t tense.

It was soft.

Heavy, still—but in a different way.

Like something had shifted. Loosened.

Like—for a moment—they weren’t breaking anymore.

Just holding on.

When she finally pulled back, the wound looked cleaner. Not perfect, but better. Less raw.

Nene exhaled softly, her breath brushing the space between them as she sat up straighter. Absentmindedly, she brought the back of her hand to her mouth—then licked it, rubbing it against the corner of her lips with a few quick, cleaning swipes.

Like grooming.
Like a cat.

She didn’t even notice.

But Amane did.

His brows lifted slightly, somewhere between confused and stunned. His mouth opened, then shut again. There were a dozen things he could say.

But none made it past the look on her face.

So focused. So gently determined, as she reached for fresh gauze.

She didn’t speak as she worked, and neither did he—not at first. He just watched as she began wrapping his wrist with careful fingers. The moment from earlier—cheeks flushed, breath held—felt distant now. Tucked behind her concentration.

But something tugged at him.

Her silence.
The quiet behind her carefulness.

And the wish.

Amane’s voice came low.

“So… what’s the price?”

Nene didn’t look up. “What?”

“The wish you made.” His eyes didn’t leave her. “It took something from me. So what did it take from you?”

Her hands paused.

Just a beat.

Too brief to be deliberate. But just long enough to give her away.

“I don’t…” she began, adjusting the bandage. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if it’s still affecting us.”

Her eyes flicked up—startled by the quiet certainty in his voice.

There was no anger.
No accusation.

He just wanted to know.

And that—somehow—was worse.

Nene looked back down, taping the end of the bandage with more force than necessary.

“It’s handled,” she said.

“That’s not an answer.”

She bit her lip.

“I’m fine, okay?”

He studied her for a long moment, but didn’t press. Not yet.

“You always say that when you’re not.”

His voice was calm.
Too calm.

Nene didn’t answer.

She just kept her head down, as if focus could protect her from the conversation she didn’t want to have.

But Amane wasn’t letting it go.

He sat up. Slowly.

And Nene, sensing the shift before she saw it, tried to lean back. But the couch behind her had become a wall again, and Amane followed—pressing forward until his knees boxed her in. He leaned down, hands braced on either side of her.

Close.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

“What did it cost you, Nene?”

Her name, spoken that gently, was almost worse than if he’d shouted.

She looked away, jaw tight. “It doesn’t matter. I already told you—”

“Then tell me again,” he said, voice low but unyielding. “Because I don’t believe you.”

Her chest tightened. “I can handle it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her mouth opened—then shut.

He stared at her, eyes sharp now. Not cold, but piercing. Clear in a way that cut through every dodge she tried to put between them.

“Quit sparing my feelings,” he said. “I want the truth.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because if I tell you, you’ll blame yourself.”

He flinched.

Just for a second.

“And what if I already do?”

Her eyes snapped open, meeting his.

“I did this to you, Amane,” she whispered. “You should blame me.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, softly—like it was the simplest, saddest truth in the world—

“I already knew that.”

Silence.

Thick and real.

Her heart stopped. Or maybe it only felt like it.

And then, gentler this time—almost like he pitied her—

“So tell me, Yashiro. What’s the price of me loving you more than anything?”

She couldn’t breathe.
Not properly.
Not with him this close.

Amane’s presence filled the space around her, pinning her in place—not with force, but with certainty. The calm in his voice only made it worse. It wasn’t anger or desperation.

It was quiet.
Clear.
Devastating.

And that grounded certainty was far more terrifying than any rage he could’ve shown.

Her back hit the couch.
Nowhere to run.

Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, the motion small but shaking. She didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t.

He was waiting.
She could feel it.

“You’re not supposed to ask,” she whispered, voice so soft it barely escaped. “You’re supposed to let me protect you.”

He didn’t move, but she could feel the heat of him still pressing in.

“And you’re not supposed to lie to me,” he said.

The words weren’t cruel.
Just honest.

And somehow, they hurt more because of it.

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

He leaned closer.

Close enough that she couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel him there. Couldn’t pretend she wasn’t cornered.

His eyes searched hers—not accusing, but full of something deeper. Something knowing.

“You were going to carry it alone,” he said quietly, like the realization didn’t surprise him. “Even if it killed you.”

Nene blinked hard.

Her throat tightened.

And then—just barely—her voice broke.

“I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” She pressed her hands to her chest like she could hold herself together. “You’re like this because of me. Because I wished for something I didn’t understand.”

A pause.
A breath.

“And now it’s too late.”

Amane didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t have to.

She was already unraveling.

“The wish,” she said finally. “It wasn’t free.”

She looked down, the weight of it all bowing her forward.

“I can undo it. I can fix what it did to you. But the price, it’s…”

Her voice faltered, then fell to a whisper.

“It’s either my soul… or all your memories of me.”

There.

It was out.

And suddenly, she felt hollow. Exposed. Like something inside her had been torn open and there was nothing left to hide behind.

She didn’t dare look at him.

Didn’t want to see the moment he realized what she’d planned to do.
Didn’t want to see him break.

Or worse—walk away.

But she didn’t move either.

Because part of her wanted to know if he’d stay.

Even after this.

Silence settled between them like a shadow, thick and unforgiving.

Nene sat frozen, eyes fixed on the space between their knees, heart pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. He hadn’t moved.

Not a single inch.

And that stillness—that terrible, unreadable stillness—was worse than yelling.

Worse than if he’d pushed her away.

Her breath hitched.

She dared a glance upward.

His face was unreadable. Lips parted slightly. Eyes locked on hers, but there was something in them she didn't recognize.

Something tight.
Something wounded.

Maybe it was anger.
Maybe it was heartbreak.

Her stomach twisted. “Say something,” she whispered.

Still, he said nothing.

He just looked at her.

Like he didn’t recognize her.
Like he almost wished he didn’t.

Her throat closed, panic rising fast. “Amane, I—I didn’t want you to find out this way. I thought I could fix it. I was going to fix it—”

“You were going to give up your soul?” he said, low and sharp. His voice cut through her words like glass.

She flinched.

He moved—finally. Just a shift of his weight. But it felt like the whole room tilted with it.

“You were going to erase me,” he said, quieter now. “Or disappear. Without ever telling me.”

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

“I’m not angry,” he said.

But he didn’t sound calm, either.

“I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “I don’t understand how you can say you love me and still plan to vanish like I don’t get a say in it.”

Her breath caught. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Yes, it was.” He looked at her now, fully. No hesitation. “You made the choice for both of us.”

She shook her head, desperate. “I was trying to protect you—”

“You were trying to disappear.”

His words weren’t cruel.
They were worse.

They were honest.

“I would’ve chosen you, Yashiro.”

His voice cracked—just barely.

“You didn’t even give me the chance.”

He said it like someone clinging to the edge of control.

And then came the stillness.

But this time it wasn’t hollow.
It vibrated.
Low and deep.

Amane went quiet, but something in his posture shifted—his breathing shallower, his shoulders tight. Like he was trying to hold something in.

His eyes didn’t meet hers now. They wandered—past her, to the floor, to the middle distance.

Like he was listening.
Or trying not to.

“Amane?” she said softly.

He blinked. Too slow.

Then turned his face away, one hand rising to brush his temple, fingers twitching like a static charge had settled just under his skin.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

He wasn’t.

“Talk to me,” she pleaded.

But he didn’t.

He just shook his head, jaw clenched.

“The noise…” he said, voice brittle. “It doesn’t stop. I can’t think. It’s like every thought has teeth.”

Nene’s heart dropped.

Something was wrong.

The same kind of wrong that had haunted him before. The kind that whispered from somewhere deeper than his mind. The kind that didn’t sound like him at all.

He was slipping again—his logic, his control, the dark curling in around the edges.

No.
Not now.
Not again.

“Amane—”

“Don’t,” he said, strained. “Don’t come closer.”

“But I can help—”

“You don’t understand.” His eyes met hers, wide and dark and too bright all at once. “I don’t know what’s me anymore and what’s just… the wish.”

She went still.

Then, terrified of losing him in real time, she did the only thing she could.

She lied.

“There’s another way,” she blurted, her voice shaking.

He stopped.

Not all at once. But like a machine powering down—muscles slowly unclenching, the frantic energy in his stance pausing. Listening.

“What?” he said, barely above a whisper.

She swallowed, forcing herself to believe the words as she said them.

“There’s… a chance we can fix this. Without losing you. Without giving anything up.”

His gaze sharpened. “How?”

“There might be a way to reverse it. Tsukasa told me. If we can find a way to… to love each other equally. Selflessly. If we rebuild what we had, instead of forcing something perfect—it could bring your logic back.”

His eyes narrowed, suspicious.

“You’re not telling me everything.”

“I’m telling you enough,” she said, desperate. “Enough to keep you here.”

He didn’t move.
Didn’t answer.

The silence stretched so long it hurt.

Then—finally—he stepped forward.

Close.

But this time, it wasn't menacing.

It was exhaustion.
Worn thin.

A man in the ruins of his own mind, searching for something to hold onto.

“I want to believe you,” he said.

Her voice cracked. “Then let me prove it.”

His gaze held hers for a long, fragile moment.

And then—slowly—his fingers reached for hers, lacing them together like someone clinging to an anchor.

The tension didn’t vanish.

But for now, the darkness stayed still.

Chapter Text

They never called it what it was.

Not a countdown. Not a goodbye.

But Nene knew the truth every time she looked at the clock—every time Amane smiled like nothing was wrong.

Three days.

That was all the time they had left before the wish ruined them both. And while she kept the deadline hidden, folded carefully between lies and half-truths, Nene was determined to save him.

Even if it meant surrendering her soul.

But first, she had to try.

The morning started slow.

The sun hadn’t yet fully stretched its way across the floorboards. Nene was already awake, tucked into a blanket on the edge of the couch, watching Amane in the kitchen. He stood with his back to her, lazily pouring cereal into a bowl like the world wasn’t quietly unraveling beneath his feet.

She studied him in silence.

His shoulders were relaxed. His hair messy and sleep-flattened. His bandaged wrist poked out from under his sleeve. When he turned around and caught her staring, he paused.

Then grinned.

“Planning my rescue already?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Always,” she said, voice a little too soft.

He crossed the room, bowl in one hand, and dropped onto the couch beside her with practiced ease, stretching out his legs.

“What’s the first step?”

Nene considered. Then held out her hand.

“Touch,” she said. “Prolonged physical contact. We start small.”

He gave her a look. “You mean holding hands.”

“For science,” she added quickly.

“Sure.”

Still, he laced his fingers with hers.

She studied the connection like a researcher examining a fragile sample under glass. His skin was cool from the morning air, his grip firm but not tense. Her heart skipped in her chest—not because it was new, but because it felt so normal.

It shouldn’t.

But it did.

“Any noise?” she asked, only half-joking.

“None yet.”

She nodded and scribbled something down in a little notebook she’d grabbed off the side table. The cover had been labeled hastily in pink pen: Opperation: Save Amane—with a heart beside the title.

Amane glanced at it. “Wow.”

She kept writing.

He leaned in. “You gave it a name?”

“I take my jobs seriously.”

“You spelled ‘operation’ wrong.”

“Shut up.”

The rest of the morning unfolded in a blur of casual contact and low-stakes “experiments.”

When Amane made tea, she looped her arms around his waist from behind and stayed there until the water boiled. When he returned to the living room with mugs, she scooted close, resting her head on his shoulder while sipping hers with both hands. He didn’t say anything. Just leaned his cheek lightly against the crown of her head and let her stay.

At one point, she offered him a bite of her donut. When he hesitated, she pushed it closer.

“Feed me,” he said deadpan.

Nene rolled her eyes and held up the piece.

Amane bit it, then licked powdered sugar off her fingertip with such deliberate slowness her brain short-circuited.

She yelped and dropped the rest.

He smirked.

“Data point,” he said.

“You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

She didn’t deny it.

By early afternoon, Nene’s notes had grown considerably:

• Physical closeness: ✓
• Feeding each other: ✓
• Casual conversation: ✓
• Hand-holding: ✓
• Extended cuddling: ✓
• Teasing: annoying but effective

Amane glanced at her growing list and snorted. “Is there a phase two?”

Nene tapped her pen to her lip. “Phase two involves elevated heart rates.”

He arched a brow.

She flushed. “Relax. I meant watching scary movies.”

“You’re not slick.”

“Popcorn?”

“Popcorn,” he agreed.

They curled up together under a shared blanket on the couch as the first movie began to play. It was an old horror film—haunted house, flickering lights, blood-smeared mirrors. Nene didn’t realize the irony until Amane tensed beside her during a quiet hallway scene.

She glanced up at him.

He wasn’t watching the screen anymore.

“Amane?”

He blinked.

Once.
Twice.

Then slowly looked back down at her.

“I’m okay,” he said. But his voice was slower than usual.

Nene felt it before she saw it—Amane shifting beside her, lifting a hand to his face in a casual motion. Then he paused.

His fingers came away streaked red.

“Ugh,” he muttered, tilting his head back. “Seriously?”

She turned toward him quickly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine,” he said, already reaching for a tissue. “Probably just dry air.”

But she didn’t miss the tightness in his jaw.
Didn’t miss the way his hand trembled slightly as he dabbed at his nose.

“Does this happen a lot?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“Since the wish?”

A longer pause.

Then, softer: “…I don’t know.”

Her stomach sank.

“Amane,” she whispered, sitting up.

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice was firmer this time. Not harsh—but enough to close the door.

She didn’t push.

Just curled a little closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a while.
Breathing.
Pretending.

It was the first lie she’d heard him tell all day.

Later, the mood softened again. They moved to the floor, surrounded by pillows and low lighting. The movie had ended, and the TV played something light and forgettable in the background—something with laughter and too much canned applause.

Amane lay on his back, his head on a cushion, eyes half-closed. Nene lay beside him, turned on her side, studying his profile like it might disappear if she blinked.

“You really feel the same?” she asked quietly. “Even now?”

He didn’t open his eyes.

“About you?”

“Mm.”

His mouth curved into something small. Not quite a smile.

“Maybe more.”

She let the silence settle around them, warm and thick.

Then she leaned over him.

Pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He turned his head, and their lips met fully.

No rush.
No desperation.
Just warmth.

Connection.

His fingers drifted into her hair, pulling her closer. Her hand found his shirt, curling lightly in the fabric. Their lips moved in slow sync, deliberate and soft—an echo of something fragile and human. Something still theirs.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Quieter,” he murmured. “It’s quieter when you kiss me.”

She swallowed, hope flaring in her chest.

“Then I’ll keep doing it.”

Amane closed his eyes again, forehead still resting against hers, and let himself breathe.

Nene held onto him like that, her hand still curled in his shirt, anchoring them both.

Outside, the world kept moving—shadows shifting, time slipping by unnoticed.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, beneath the warmth and the stillness, the clock kept ticking.

Two days left.

And she still hadn’t told him.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Day two began with sunlight and second chances.

The morning drifted in warm and quiet, broken only by the soft shuffle of socks on hardwood. Nene had woken first again, blinking blearily at the ceiling and reaching across the bed out of instinct. Her hand found Amane—warm, real, still there.

He stirred beneath her touch but didn’t wake, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks, breath steady, lips parted just slightly. Peaceful. Normal.

Almost.

Nene watched him for a moment longer, her chest too tight for how early it was. Then she slipped out of bed, quietly pulling on one of his sweaters from the back of a chair, sleeves swallowing her hands.

Two days.

That was all the time she had left.

Yesterday’s efforts had bought them hope, but not progress. No changes. No answers. Just the smallest glimmer of possibility—soft, fleeting, but enough to try again.

So today, she would.

They started with touch again.

Light. Unthreatening. She pressed a cold can of juice to his cheek to wake him, and he groaned, pulling her under the blankets with an arm around her waist before she could escape.

They stayed like that longer than they meant to, curled together in tangled sheets and sleepy heat. Eventually, Nene rolled over to face him, poking his nose gently with her index finger.

“Ready for the next phase?”

His eyes cracked open. “Do I have to get up?”

“Only if you don’t want me to experiment on you in bed,” she said sweetly.

Amane sat up so fast the blanket flew off.
“I’m up.”

Nene gasped, mock-offended. “Wow. I offer you groundbreaking, hands-on affection therapy, and you flee the scene?”

“I didn’t flee! I was being respectful!”

“To who? The blanket?”

Amane groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Please stop talking.”

Nene smirked, flopping back onto the pillow. “Too late. I’m wounded.”

“I swear you do this on purpose.”

“But you still love me.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unfortunately.

She threw a pillow at him.

He caught it—barely.

And smiled anyway.

Later, Nene declared it was time for “emotional vulnerability exercises,” which, according to her, were scientifically proven to deepen intimacy.

Amane squinted at her from across the floor. “You made that up.”

“I did not.”

“This is just staring at each other until one of us blinks.”

“It builds emotional trust.”

“It builds eye strain.”

They stared at each other in silence.

He blinked first—on purpose, she was sure—and leaned back with a smug little grin. “Wow. So intimate. I feel so emotionally safe.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re the one running a cult.”

She kicked at him playfully.

They moved on to cards after that. Nene made up a rule that every time someone lost, they had to share something they’d never told anyone.

Amane lost the first round on purpose. And the second. And the third.

By the fourth, she was onto him. “Okay. Spill. Real secret. No loopholes.”

He drummed his fingers against his knee. “Hmm…”

“Don’t you dare say mint chocolate chip again.”

“I was going to say I secretly like pineapple on pizza.”

“And I'm gonna throw another pillow.”

He glanced at her. Then—calmly, casually—said, “Fine. I’ve been thinking about trying something new.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just leaned forward slightly, propping his elbows on his knees. “Something we haven’t done yet.”

Nene’s brain blanked.

Her mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then—“Like… emotionally?”

“Maybe.”

“Physically?”

His expression didn’t change. But his eyes softened at the edges. “Could be.”

She made a strangled noise. “Amane.”

“What?” he said, all innocent. “I’m being vulnerable. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not if you’re going to be vague about it.”

“You didn’t say I had to explain the vulnerability.”

“Okay, that’s it—”

She reached for a pillow. He ducked just in time, laughing.

“Your emotional maturity is really coming through right now,” he teased.

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you’re blushing.”

“Because I’m angry.”

“Sure you are.”

She glared.

He smiled—genuine now.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Her cheeks burned brighter.

She picked up a second pillow.

“Try me,” she said.

And he did.

Late morning found them sitting shoulder to shoulder on the living room floor, surrounded by art supplies. Nene had decided they should try “visual expression of emotional memory,” whatever that meant. It turned into finger painting.

Amane dipped two fingers into a pool of blue and dragged a slow spiral across the paper.

Nene tilted her head. “That looks like a storm.”

“Or a drain,” he said. “You know. Something sucking everything down.”

“That’s… uplifting.”

He didn’t reply.

She leaned over to draw a tiny flower in the center of his spiral. “There. Now it’s a metaphor.”

“For what?”

“Hope.”

He smiled, barely.

“Cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“I love you,” he said before he could stop himself.

She went still.

He blinked, like he’d just realized he said it out loud.

Then his nose started to bleed.

It came quickly.

One blink, then another—and suddenly there was red.

Nene sat up straighter, alarm flashing across her face as Amane wiped beneath his nose and came away with crimson streaking his fingers.

“Amane—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not—”

“I said I’m fine.”

But he was already moving, standing too fast and stumbling toward the bathroom. She stayed frozen on the floor, the paper between them stained with a single red drop.

The flower she’d drawn now looked like it was bleeding, too.

By the time he returned, the blood was gone. Washed away. Replaced by a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Nene didn’t mention it again.

But she watched him more closely after that.

The subtle tension in his shoulders.

The quiet undercurrent in his voice.

The way he glanced toward reflective surfaces and looked quickly away.

Around noon, she offered to make lunch.

Amane tried to wave her off.

“You’ll burn the house down.”

“I will not.”

“You set the rice cooker on fire last week.”

“That was one time.”

“You forgot to add water.”

“It’s a learning process!”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I’ll stay nearby in case I hear screaming.”

She stuck out her tongue and disappeared into the kitchen.

He listened to the fridge door open. The clatter of vegetables on the counter. Her humming, soft and slightly off-key.

For a while, he didn’t move.

But then—

Clack.

Then scrape.

Then clack again.

And Amane’s breath caught.

He stood.

And moved quietly toward the kitchen.

The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board was painful.

Not dangerous.

Not yet.

But uneven. Off-tempo. Clack. Clack. Scrape. Then clack again—too loud, too sharp for something as innocent as carrots.

Amane leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching.

Nene was trying.

Trying to chop vegetables like she knew what she was doing. But she stood too far from the board, back arched in tension, her grip wrong in a dozen different ways. Her hand on the knife was tight where it should’ve been loose, loose where it should’ve been firm. She pinched the handle like she was afraid it might slip.

Worse, her fingers curved outward—leaving them exposed. Soft. Vulnerable.

Amane winced as the blade skidded again, scraping against the wood in a way that felt like it struck bone.

“Keep that up,” he said finally, voice dry, “and you’re gonna need more than Band-Aids.”

She jumped, the knife jerking in her hand. “Wha—?! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I didn’t sneak.” His lips twitched. “You just forgot I was here.”

She flushed and turned back to the board, raising the knife a little higher than necessary. “I’m doing fine.”

His eyes dropped to the blade—and froze.

Red handle. Full tang. Eight-inch Santoku.

That knife.

The same one he’d taken from the kitchen. The one he’d used in the school bathroom, slicing open his wrist with a mechanical kind of quiet. And before that—before everything—the same blade from the Red House. The one that had tasted blood long before it ever touched his skin.

His stomach turned.

He hadn’t even realized she’d found it.

Hadn’t remembered bringing it back home.

The air around him dropped a degree. His jaw clenched.

Nene didn’t notice. She turned back to the board.

Unknowing. Unbothered.

And hacking at carrots like they’d insulted her mother.

Amane pushed off the wall.

“I’ll show you,” he said, already crossing the room.

“What? No—I’ve got it!”

“You don’t.”

“I—hey!”

But she didn’t move.

She didn’t step away. Didn’t stop him. So he stepped in—close—his chest brushing lightly against her back as he reached around.

His hand slid over hers, curling her fingers properly around the handle.

“Thumb here,” he murmured, voice low. “Grip the blade, not the handle. You want control, not just force.”

She went completely still.

Her breath hitched, audible in the quiet of the kitchen. But she didn’t pull away. Just stood there, frozen, as he adjusted her grip with slow, practiced ease.

She was warm against him.

So warm.

And he was too close.

This was supposed to be instructional.

It had to be.

“Your other hand,” he said, quieter now. “Like this.”

He reached for it, gently folding her fingers into a claw over the carrot.

“You guide the knife with your knuckles—not your fingertips. That way you don’t lose any.”

He hadn’t meant for his voice to brush so close to her ear.

But it did.

She shivered.

And his heart thudded once, hard enough to feel in his teeth.

She trusted him.

That was the worst part.

Because trust was heavy.

Fragile.

And far too easy to break.

He adjusted her hands one more time, then wrapped both of his around hers. Gently, slowly, he guided the blade down—through the carrot in one clean motion.

Then again.

And again.

“Like that,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Feel the rhythm. Don’t fight it.”

She nodded, but her breath was shallow. Her shoulders barely moved with each inhale. Her whole body was leaning into him now, unconsciously drawn to his warmth.

He felt every inch of it.

Every subtle shift of her hips as they moved in rhythm. Every breath that passed between them like static. His chest pressed against her back, her scent rising like steam from a place he wanted to fall into and never come back from.

She was warm.

Real.

And so impossibly close.

He let his eyes drift down—just for a second.

To her neck.

To the faint blush rising beneath her skin.

To the small, trembling movements of her fingers as he drew her hands forward again.

She wasn’t focused on the carrot anymore.

Neither was he.

He could barely remember what he’d just said. Couldn’t remember what step came next.

Because all he could feel was her.

All he could see was how easily he could lean down and press his mouth to her throat. How easily he could whisper something that wasn’t instructional. Something she wouldn’t forget.

Amane swallowed hard.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t want her.

But he did.

He did.

“Try it,” he said, stepping back before he lost control.

She tried.

Fumbled.

The knife slipped sideways.

She cursed softly.

“You okay there, chef?”

“You’re distracting,” she muttered.

“Really?” His voice dipped teasingly. “I thought I was helping.”

“You were,” she snapped, flushed now. “Now you’re just—”

“What?” he asked, fully aware of the effect he was having.

She didn’t answer.

He leaned in again, letting his breath skim her ear.

“You get flustered when I touch you,” he said.

Her breath caught again.

“I—do not—”

“You do.”

He stepped back again. But slower this time.

And God, she was looking at him now.

Really looking.

Big, wide eyes shimmering with something fragile. Hopeful. Scared.

He watched her. Studied her.

The pulse at her throat. The rise of her chest. The way her lips parted with the faintest sound, her fingers curled against the carrot.

Like a lamb.

In a room of knives.

And that did something to him.

Something warm and dangerous.

Something dark.

He didn’t show it.

But inside—

Inside, the wish twisted just a little deeper.

No voices yet.

Just him.

And that was somehow worse.

Because he knew better.

But he wanted her anyway.

Amane reached up, brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

She leaned into it.

And for one devastating moment, he let himself imagine it—

One kiss. One slip.

One step closer to everything he’d been denying himself.

He wanted her.

God, he wanted her.

And he felt it again.

That pull.

Just take it, it said.

Her mouth. Her body.

Her soul.

The whispers came late this time.

But when they arrived, they came howling.

“Do it.”

“She’s yours.”

“She trusts you. How sweet.”

“Take what’s offered.”

“You took it before.”

“Remember Tsukasa?”

“He saw it coming.”

“She won’t.”

The blade glinted. His fingers twitched.

Not toward her.

Toward the knife.

Just a breath, and he knew.

If he reached again, it wouldn’t be for her hands.

It would be for her throat.

The same blade.

The same voice.

The same darkness, curling sweetly around his spine, whispering of beauty in ruin.

And she was so soft. So trusting.

He could end it here.

Now.

Peacefully.

Beautifully.

Her body pressed so perfectly against his—like it belonged there.

Like she was made to be held.

Or cut.

The voice—his voice—laughed in his skull.

It was him.

And it wasn’t.

Amane blinked.

Hard.

The kitchen light flickered—just once—and for a terrible second, he couldn’t tell if it was real or just in his head.

His breath caught.

He stepped back.

Just an inch.

But it was enough.

Enough to sever the spell and break the line of heat strung between them. Enough to remind him—he couldn’t afford this.

Not now.

Not when the weight behind his thoughts felt so foreign.

Nene blinked up at him, confused.

She was still holding the knife. A slice of carrot rolled slowly off the edge of the cutting board.

Amane’s hands hung at his sides, fists clenched, knuckles pale.

“Sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t—”

She frowned. “Shouldn’t what?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His throat was tight with everything he hadn’t said—everything he didn’t dare admit. That he’d wanted to kiss her. That he still wanted to. That it would never be just a kiss. Not anymore.

Because the closer he got, the more he felt it rising—the crack in his thoughts, the space where the wish had burrowed deep in his brain and made a home. A twisting thing. Possessive. Hungry.

And it wanted her.

“Amane?” she asked again, more softly now.

Her hand brushed his sleeve.

He jerked back like he’d touched a flame.

“I just—” He forced a breath. “I need a minute.”

Then he turned and walked out.

Not fast. Not loud.

Just gone.

And Nene stood there, alone in the kitchen, heart fluttering wildly, unsure of what just happened—only that something had.

Amane didn’t remember climbing the stairs.

His limbs moved on autopilot, the familiar creak of each step beneath his feet fading into a low, pulsing hum that settled deep in his bones. By the time he reached the bathroom, his breath was shallow, his heart pounding a chaotic rhythm against his ribs.

He closed the door.

Locked it.

The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed too loud in the stillness.

He stood there for a moment, back against the wood, as if holding the door closed with the weight of his body might keep the thing inside him from getting out.

Then he turned to the sink.

The mirror waited.

He almost couldn’t look—but he did.

And what stared back wasn’t quite him.

Same hair. Same face. Same tired shadows under the eyes.

But his eyes…

He leaned closer.

His breath fogged the glass.

The silence in the bathroom was so absolute it rang.

Then—

His left eye twitched.

The iris began to darken. Slowly. Subtly. As though something oily was seeping up from beneath the surface and bleeding into the whites. Not red. Not blood.

Black.

Pure and gleaming.

The pupil disappeared into it, swallowed whole.

Amane’s stomach lurched.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispered, fingers tightening against the edges of the basin. He gripped it like a lifeline, arms shaking.

And from the hollow pit of his mind—beneath years of dust and denial and guilt—something shifted.

Something woke.

A breath of darkness, like wind stirring dead leaves in an abandoned room. A sigh, low and guttural. It rose from an ancient place deep inside him, slithering up the walls of his consciousness.

The voice came next.

Not loud.

But ruinous.

A slow, stretching groan of a sound, spoken not in words but in knowing. In memory.

It slid along the base of his skull, wrapped itself around his spine.

It was the voice of the house.

The Red House.

Its presence spilled through the cracks in his mind—where the wish had eaten it away. It settled there like black mold. Quiet. Spreading.

I’m still here, it seemed to hum.

Still yours.

Still waiting.

The air turned cold. He stared harder—into the mirror and into himself.

The reflection smirked.

He didn’t.

The mouth twitched wider.

Just barely.

Just enough.

And then—

The laugh.

Low and breathy at first, like something exhaling from the mouth of a corpse. Then louder. Higher. The kind of laughter that came from something that had never been human. That had worn human skin once, maybe—but found it didn't fit anymore.

It echoed in his skull like a scream buried in the walls.

Amane staggered back, a hand clutching his head.

“No,” he hissed.

The mirror didn’t answer.

But his reflection grinned wider. His eye—no longer his—blazed black, glowing.

It was in him again.

Of course it was.

It had never left.

Not after the blood in the bathroom.

Not after his brother.

And now, it was clawing its way back up through his logic, chewing through the remnants like rot in the floorboards of a child's bedroom.

He could almost smell the wood.

Old.

Wet.

The hole in the center of the floor—gaping, endless.

A mouth with splintered boards for teeth.

And down below, nothing but dark.

Amane pressed his back to the cold tile wall and slid down, knees pulling to his chest.

His breath came sharp and shallow.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The voice quieted, but not all the way.

It lingered.

Like steam.

Like memory.

Like something promised long ago and never truly forgotten.

She trusts you, it whispered, faint now, almost sweet. Give her the ending she deserves.

And this time, he didn’t cover his ears.

Because part of him agreed.

Not the part that loved her.

The part that needed her.

The part that would rather see her ruined than gone.

The part that believed if he couldn’t save her soul…

Then maybe he could keep it.

Forever.

Chapter Text

The air was different.

Not cold. Not hostile.
Just… off.

Heavy in the corners.

As if something had passed through while they weren’t looking—a quiet presence rearranging the room by degrees, leaving every object exactly where it was, but slightly shifted.

It smelled faintly of lavender from the bath. The kind of clean that never lasted. The kind that clung to steam and memory.

The lamp on the nightstand glowed low and warm, casting a golden hush over the bedspread, the walls, the edges of shadows. Outside the window, rain whispered against the glass—a sound so soft it could almost be forgotten.

But not quite.

Nene sat near the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around her knees, chin tucked tight. She hadn’t meant to stare. She was trying not to.

But she couldn’t stop watching him.

Amane lay on his back, head tilted slightly away, one arm slung over his eyes like the light was too painful to see. He hadn’t said much since coming out of the bathroom—just a quiet apology, barely spoken, his fingers brushing her shoulder like an afterthought.

Then: silence.

No teasing.
No sarcasm.
Just that heavy, distant quiet that made her heart feel too loud inside her chest.

She didn’t know what she was waiting for.
Maybe an explanation.
Maybe for him to say something—anything—that would pull the air back into the room and make it breathable again.

But he didn’t.

His chest rose and fell beneath his shirt with the kind of effort that looked unnatural. Like each breath was something he had to climb toward. Even with his face half-covered, she could see the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his mouth.

She shifted on the mattress, trying not to make a sound.

“Wanna talk?” she asked softly.

A pause.
Then, without moving: “No.”

She swallowed, fingers curling into the edge of the comforter.

“Do you… want company?”

Silence again. Not even a twitch.

Still, she stayed.

The air between them hung thick. Unmoving. She could hear her own heartbeat louder than the rain. Her voice came quieter the second time.

“I don’t know how to help,” she said. “But I want to. Even if it's just sitting here and being close.”

She waited.

When no answer came, she inched toward him anyway—carefully, cautiously—like moving too fast might spook him.

She settled beside him on the bed. Not close enough to touch. Just near enough to share the same breath.

The tension in his body hadn’t eased, but he hadn’t pushed her away either.

Nene rested her hands in her lap, fidgeting with her sleeves. “I’m scared, too,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

At first, nothing.

Then—almost imperceptibly—his hand on his chest shifted. His fingers curled slowly into a fist. Then released.

She hesitated.

Then reached out, gently brushing his wrist.

She expected him to flinch. To pull away.

But instead, his hand turned over hers. And settled.

The weight of it hit her like a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

And when she leaned slightly, letting her head rest against his shoulder, she felt his chest rise sharply beneath her.

A breath caught.
Then—quietly—his fingers closed around her wrist.

Not pulling. Not restraining.
Just… holding.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, he moved.

Not fast or sudden.

Just slow—measured—like someone treading through deep water.

His grip tightened. And gently, with barely any force, he tugged her forward.

Her balance tipped instantly. Her palms landed against his chest, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him—and suddenly, she was straddling his lap, blinking down at him like she’d just fallen into something she didn’t know how to climb out of.

Her breath hitched.

He didn’t speak.
Just looked at her.
Eyes half-lidded.
Expression unreadable.

Like he was waiting for something inevitable.

Nene froze.

Her fingers braced against the soft fabric of his shirt, legs tense where they framed his hips, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a question.

He didn’t move.

Only stared.

His hand rested lightly at her waist, the weight of it grounding her in place—not confining. Just present. Solid. Warm.

And still, he watched her.

Not hungrily.
Just intently.
Like he was watching the shape of a thought slowly forming in the dark.

The seconds stretched between them.

Her face burned.

The longer he held her—gently, deliberately, without a word—the more aware she became of everything: the way her knees trembled; the irregular flutter of her pulse; the soft give of his shirt beneath her hands as his chest rose and fell, slow and controlled, like he was giving her time.

Waiting for her to say something. Or squirm. Or fluster herself into sparks.

Which, of course, she did.

“I—I can sit somewhere else,” she stammered. Her voice was too high. Too tight.

“No,” he said.

Simple.
Firm.

Her heart stuttered. “No?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Stay.”

The word dropped between them like a stone.

Her palms twitched. She tried not to show how much she was trembling—tried to tell herself this didn’t mean what it felt like.

“You’re—” she started, “you’re being weird.”

“Probably,” he replied, not denying it.

She shifted instinctively—bad idea.

Her thighs pressed closer to his hips, and one of her hands slid ever so slightly across his chest. She felt the twitch of muscle beneath her fingertips. His grip at her waist tightened—just barely.

She stilled.

“Amane—”

He tilted his head, just slightly. “You’re always trying to get my attention.”

The words weren’t accusing, just observant.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because it was true.

“And now that you have it,” he added softly, “you don’t know what to do with it.”

Her mouth opened. Closed again.
Because that was true, too.

He didn’t press her. Didn’t push. He simply let the quiet stretch between them like a dark tide.

His thumb brushed her side—a flicker of contact so faint it made her flinch.

Then he leaned in—only a breath.

Not close enough to kiss her.

Just close enough to make her think about it.

And then he stopped.

Like he was waiting for her to decide.

Her lungs refused to work. Her hands had gone cold.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she muttered.

He blinked. “Doing what?”

“You know what.”

“Remind me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I hate you.”

That earned a faint, tired smile. Almost soft.

“Now you’re the grumpy one.”

She looked away—quickly, before he could see the red flooding her face.

And for a moment—just one fragile breath—she almost forgot the shadows still clinging to him. The voices. The weight of a wish that hadn’t fully left.

It was still there.

Buzzing beneath the surface like white noise in a quiet room.

But something in this moment—the way he touched her—felt real.

She could feel it in the way his hands tensed, just slightly. In the way his mouth didn’t quite match his voice. He was trying—God, he was trying—but it was like he was wearing his body wrong. Like it didn’t fit.

So she shifted again—closer this time—letting her fingers soften where they pressed into his chest.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said, quieter now.

His eyes lowered. He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away.

And that’s when she felt it.

The change.

A quiet tension in the air. A heat. The press of his fingers as they curled faintly into her side. The look in his eyes—not cold. Not distant.

But focused.

Like something inside him had finally made up its mind.

When he spoke, his voice was low.
Rough.

“I think we should try.”

She blinked. “Try…?”

His gaze dropped—not in shame, but control. Measured.

“You know what I mean.”

Heat surged up her neck, flooding her cheeks.

It didn’t sound like a line.

It wasn’t playful or suave or anything close to confident. If anything, it sounded like it hurt to say. Like he'd been holding it in too long, chewing on it until the words lost all their taste.

And for the first time since he'd pulled her into his lap—her fluster burned so hot she couldn’t breathe.

For a moment, Amane didn’t say anything.

His expression stayed calm—but not still.

There was something beneath it. A tightness below the surface, like he was holding himself together with threadbare patience. Like if he let go, even a little, everything would snap.

“I’ve been trying to wait,” he said finally, voice low. Controlled.

She blinked. “Wait for what?”

His eyes lifted slowly to hers. “For you,” he said. “To be ready.”

The words settled between them like dust in sunlight—soft, but impossible to ignore.

“I thought I could pretend it didn’t matter,” he continued. “That I could stay on this side of the line. Just… want you from a distance. As long as you were here, I could live with it.”

He let out a breath. Shaky. Torn.

“But the more I hold back, the worse it gets.”

Nene's heart skipped. “The voices?”

He nodded. Just once.

“They’re quieter when I touch you. When I kiss you.”

His jaw tightened. He looked away for a second, then back—more vulnerable now.

“I think it might help,” he said. “If we…”

He trailed off. The rest stayed trapped behind his teeth.

A silence followed. Not awkward. Just full.

Then he laughed under his breath—a short, dry sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “God, I sound like a creep.”

“No,” she said quickly. “You don’t.”

He looked up at her, uncertain.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“I mean it, Yashiro. If you’re not ready—”

“I am.”

The words tumbled out too fast.

Too sure.

Her cheeks flushed darker. She glanced down, fingers twitching in her lap. “I mean… I think I am. I want to be.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t push.

Just looked at her. Careful. Steady.

Then slowly, his hand lifted—fingertips brushing under her chin.

He tilted her face back toward his.

“You’re sure?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated—not because she wasn’t sure. But because there was no going back. And everything inside her was a blur of nerves and wanting and something that hurt a little, even though it was good.

She nodded.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I can handle it.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth. Her hands. Back to her eyes.

“You can handle it,” he repeated, slower this time, the words falling somewhere between a question and a challenge.

She straightened, chin lifting a fraction too high. “I’m not a child, you know.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence press around them while his thumb brushed a small circle at her waist—light, barely there.

And God, it flustered her more than anything he could’ve said.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered, shoving his chest half-heartedly. “It’s annoying.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like I’m… I don’t know. Breakable.”

He smiled. Not mocking. Just knowing.

“You’re not breakable,” he said quietly. “That’s not what I’m thinking.”

Nene blinked. “Then what?”

He hesitated. A flicker of something passed through his expression.

Then: “That it might hurt.”

Her breath caught.

The words landed with more weight than she expected. “You mean me?”

He nodded slowly.

“You’ve never done this before,” he said. “And I don’t want it to be something you just… get through. Or regret.”

Her heart twisted.

Not from fear, or doubt.

From how careful he was being. From how much it clearly cost him to hold back.

“I won’t regret it,” she said softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

But still—he looked at her that way.

Like she mattered too much to risk.

That realization settled like fire in her chest, equal parts painful and warm.

He wasn’t treating her like a child.

He was treating her like a treasure.

Something rare.

Something that could bleed.

And somehow, that hurt more.

The ache in her chest swelled into something sharper. Hotter. Pride, maybe. Or frustration.

“I’m not that fragile,” she muttered, turning her face away.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re acting like it.”

“Because you’re inexperienced,” he said, evenly.

Her face went up in flames. “I know how to do it,” she snapped, defensive.

His brow rose. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Amane fell silent, his gaze drifting over her flushed cheeks, her stubborn jaw, her trembling hands balled into fists at her sides.

Then, without a word, he caught one of them in his.

His fingers curled around hers.

Warm. Anchoring.

He leaned in, close enough for her to feel his breath against her cheek.

“Then show me,” he said.

Soft. Steady.

A challenge.

She stared at him like he’d just dared her to juggle knives.

Her pulse stuttered.

She shifted in his lap—too fast, too tense—and her knees pressed tighter to his sides. Her hands went flat against his shoulders, unsure where to go.

But her pride wouldn’t let her back down.

“Fine,” she said stiffly. “I’ll—I'll show you.”

“Mmm.” He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “I’m waiting.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re enjoying this.”

“I am.”

She scowled.

But she didn’t move away.

Didn’t climb off.

Instead—after a moment—she leaned in.

Slow.

Awkward.

And kissed him.

Her lips touched his more like a question than anything—uncertain, shaky, too soft and too still. Like she was waiting for something to catch her. Or stop her.

And it did.

Amane didn’t move at first.

He let her try.

Let her lean in awkwardly, let her press too hard one moment and not enough the next. Let her figure out the rhythm, her nose brushing his, her breath coming short and uneven.

It wasn’t bad. Not really.

But it wasn’t confident, either. It was hesitant, like she was testing the waters and second-guessing every motion as she went.

He let it go for ten seconds.

Maybe fifteen.

Then—gently, firmly—he caught her wrists and redirected them. Pulled her closer. Deepened the kiss in a way that stole her breath and her balance all at once.

She whined.

And finally, he exhaled, voice low against her mouth.

“Let me.”

She didn’t argue.

She couldn’t.

Because the second he took over—everything changed.

She inhaled sharply against his mouth, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and relief. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and she melted—just a little—into him.

The difference was instant.

The shift from nervous to certain. From trying to knowing.

It wasn’t rushed.

He kissed her slowly, deliberately, like he was tasting something he didn’t want to forget. Like he’d waited too long to be here and didn’t trust it to last.

She could feel the restraint in every movement. The way his mouth lingered but didn’t push. The way his hand at her waist trembled just slightly, even as he held her steady.

She whimpered—quiet and unexpected.

And something in him unraveled.

Not all the way.

But enough.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, coaxing her mouth open with a soft slide of his lips and the faintest brush of his tongue. Her gasp spilled into him, and he caught it. Swallowed it.

Welcomed it.

Her body responded before her thoughts could catch up—her hips shifting forward, her thighs tightening around him.

He gripped her waist—still gentle, still measured—but firmer now. Sure.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t push.

He simply moved, guiding her gently down onto the bed, mouth never leaving hers, hands skimming up the curve of her back with reverence and restraint.

Her hair fanned against the pillow, breath catching in her throat as he followed her down.

He didn’t hover.

Just lowered himself slowly, one knee between hers, his hands braced on either side of her head.

This wasn’t something she could lead.

He made that clear without force, without arrogance—just certainty.

And when his fingers brushed the hem of her shirt, her breath hitched—but didn’t catch.

She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t even look away.

He sat up just enough to ease the fabric upward—slow, deliberate—and when it lifted over her head, his hands were careful. Gentle.

Like unwrapping something fragile.

She was trembling now.

But not from fear.

From nerves.

From heat.

From the unbearable closeness of being seen, even in shadow.

Her hands, still unsure, came to rest against his chest again. Then his jaw. His neck. Her fingers mapped him awkwardly, like she was trying to memorize something she hadn’t studied enough to pass.

His hands moved less hesitantly.

Steady. Warm.

He kissed her again—slow and grounding—before shifting his weight, easing her back onto the bed with a quiet creak of the mattress and the hush of skin against linen.

His body hovered over hers, careful but close, and for a long, suspended second, he didn’t move.

Just looked at her.

His eyes weren’t dark.

They were full of something quieter.

Something like reverence.

Nene’s breath came shallow. Her cheeks were burning, her hands still trembling, but her eyes never left his.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

And she believed him.

Even as the next kiss stole her breath.

Even as her heart threatened to rattle out of her ribs.

She believed him.

Because in his arms, fear wasn’t the loudest thing anymore.

He was.

Her hands shook—still hesitant—as they slid under his shirt, palms skating over the bare skin of his back. He inhaled sharply, a small sound escaping when her fingers brushed the base of his spine.

She smiled against his mouth—nervous but proud.

He pulled away just far enough to tug the shirt over his head, breath coming hard. The fabric dragged over his hair and left it mussed, shadowing his face in angles and gold.

He looked at her like she was the only thing that existed.

She shivered.

Not from cold.

From him.
From everything he wasn’t saying, but was still giving her anyway.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts as she blinked up at him.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to,” he said, just as softly.

Her eyes stung, but she didn’t look away.

She wanted this—she did—but there was shame in how clumsy it felt. In how much she wanted to be brave without knowing how.

“I feel… stupid,” she mumbled.

Amane’s brow furrowed. His thumb brushed gently across her cheek, grounding.

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re honest.”

Nene closed her eyes.

When his fingers ghosted along the waistband of her shorts, she went still.

A breath. A beat.

Then his voice—low and careful: “Do you want to stop?”

She shook her head. Too quickly. Too nervous.

“Use words,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to stop,” she said, shy but sure.

His forehead dropped to hers again, breath warm and steady against her lips.

“Then let me take care of you.”

The words sank deep—lower than her skin. Into something she hadn’t known was waiting.

She nodded.

And when he kissed her again—slower this time, more intent—she let it carry her.

He undressed her with the same careful hands he’d used to hold her wrists earlier. One piece at a time. No hurry. Just her, beneath the warmth of the bedside lamp and the hush of every word left unsaid.

Her body shook, but her heart had steadied.

When he pulled back to take her in, he didn’t gawk. Didn't leer. His eyes softened, lips parting in quiet awe like she was something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“You're beautiful,” he murmured, voice almost too soft to catch.

Nene turned her face away, cheeks scarlet.

But he guided her gaze back with a light touch.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Not now.”

“I’m trying.”

“You don’t have to try. Just stay with me.”

Her lips trembled.

But she didn’t look away again.

Amane kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat.

Every breath drew them closer.

Every second wound tighter.

He whispered her name into her skin like it was a vow.

When she whispered his in return, barely audible—

He kissed her again.

And this time, it was hungrier. A kiss that started in his mouth and ended in her chest. A kiss that stole her breath and left her boneless beneath him.

Finally, something in her eased.

Not all the way. Not fully. But enough to let the weight of his body settle more completely against her. Enough to give her breath to want more.

She parted her lips, let him in, let his hands slide over the curve of her waist, up her sides, until his thumb brushed against her breast.

There was no rush. No fumbling. Just the quiet, practiced calm of someone holding something delicate. She flinched only once—and he kissed her immediately, murmuring her name between the shape of it like it might smooth over every raw edge.

His hands came to rest at her ribs, warm and still. His fingers grazed lightly over her skin.

He touched her like he’d known her forever.

Like this was never about what he could take.

Only what she gave.

And Nene—

She gave.

Little by little. In the way she touched his back. The way she shifted beneath him. The way her breath hitched when his mouth found the curve of her neck and then lower, lower, until she gasped and her fingers tangled in his hair.

He moved like he was learning her.

Mapping the sounds she made.

Tracking the way she arched.

And he adjusted. Every time.

Softer here.

Slower there.

Her nerves were still there, woven into every breath. But the fear was fading. Replaced by something warmer. Something that ached in her stomach and tightened between her thighs.

When she tugged gently at his pants, he moaned against her mouth and fumbled eagerly for his belt.

He undressed quickly, keeping close. And when his bare skin finally pressed to hers, when the heat of him settled fully between her thighs, her breath stuttered.

His lips found her jaw. Her throat. Her chest.

And every kiss asked the same question:

Are you ready?

And every time—

She said yes.

Even in silence.

When he finally braced himself above her, arm trembling with restraint, his forehead pressed to hers, she whispered, “Just—please don’t let go.”

His throat tightened.

“Never.”

Then he reached down—slow and anchoring—to guide himself against her.

She tensed, her whole body tightening beneath him.

“Just try and relax.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know, I just—” Her breath shuddered.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised. “If it hurts, tell me. I’ll stop.”

She nodded.

It took everything he had not to bury himself all at once.

Instead, he eased forward—

And her breath caught like a sob.

It was slow.

Torturous.

A stretch that made her gasp and cling to him. Her back arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders as her thighs trembled beneath his weight.

She whimpered, eyes squeezing shut.

He stopped immediately.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

“It just—” Her voice cracked. “It really hurts.”

“I know.” His hand found hers beside her head, fingers lacing tight. “It won’t stay like this.”

She nodded, biting her lower lip so hard it turned pale.

He held himself there, jaw clenched, breath trembling with the effort to stay still—just long enough for her to breathe through it.

Then he moved—just barely.

Shallow. Careful. Letting her adjust.

And slowly, the pain began to shift. Thinning at the edges. Bleeding into something heavier. Thicker. A weight that settled low in her belly, warm and aching.

Her breath stuttered.

Her fingers flexed against his back, nails biting, hips starting to move with his even as pain flickered at the edge of every motion.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

His hand slid beneath her thigh, lifting it higher—opening her further—to let him sink deeper.

She cried out—soft, shaky—but her body didn’t resist. She leaned into him.

That earned a low, dangerous sound from his throat.

“God—” he whispered, nearly choked. “You feel like… fuck.”

His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her with a kind of reverent possession that made her ache.

Every thrust now had weight.

Heat.

A promise behind it.

She moaned—not from pain this time, but from the raw pleasure blooming beneath it. From the way his body pushed into hers like he was carving himself inside her.

And maybe he was.

Because something was happening in her chest—burning there, behind her ribs. Something that tasted like surrender, but didn’t feel like losing.

And him—

He was unraveling.

The pleasure hit like a wave—blinding and immediate—and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from losing it too fast.

She was still trembling. Still unsure.

But she was there. Present. Holding onto him like he was something worth falling into.

“Amane,” she whispered.

His name.

Just that.

And it broke him in the best way.

Every muscle in his body shook with restraint.

Every second stretched impossibly thin.

He hadn’t meant for it to go this far. Not tonight. Not like this.

But the way she’d looked at him—like she wanted him even through the fear—had snapped something loose inside his head.

She trusted him.

And that—
That was the undoing.

He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, breath ragged against her neck. One hand gripped the pillow beside her head like a lifeline. The other still held hers—tighter now, fingers interlaced.

Her arms wrapped around him.

Her thighs trembled.

Her face flushed and radiant beneath the weight of everything they’d become.

She whispered his name again—so soft it was almost reverent.

That was it.

His breath caught—then shattered.

And when he finally lost control, it wasn’t loud.

It was quiet.

Wrecked.

One low groan pressed into her skin—like a prayer dragged out of a wound.
A desperate, breaking sound as he buried himself deep, hands trembling with the force of holding back—and then finally, finally, letting go.

His hips jerked once.
Twice.

And then he was gone.
Shuddering against her with a raw, guttural gasp as the last of his control gave out.

Her arms tightened around him, keeping him close.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Just breathed.

Hard.
Uneven.
Still inside her.

Still wrapped in the aftershock of too much.

They laid like that for a long time—sheets tangled, bodies warm, skin still humming from the closeness. The room had gone quiet again, but it wasn’t empty.

It felt full.

Whole.

“Are you okay?” he mumbled, voice frayed at the edges.

She nodded, cheeks still pink. “Are you?”

He huffed a laugh beneath his breath. “You have no idea.”

She smiled, lashes lowering.

Amane didn’t let her go.

Even when she shifted beneath him, trying to adjust, he pulled her back in—arms tightening around her with an unconscious certainty.

He rested his forehead to hers.

This time, there was no echo in the silence.

No hunger twisting beneath his skin.

Just her.

Just the shape of her breath and the gentle thrum of her heart, tethering him to now.

He’d expected guilt.

Expected doubt, or shame—something clawing up his throat the second her body softened in his arms.

But all he felt was quiet.

Not the hollow kind that crept in with the voices.

This was different.

This was still.

Weighted.

Peaceful.

Like a snowfall muffling the world.

Chapter Text

Nene woke to warmth.

And soreness.

A lot of soreness.

The kind that bloomed deep across her hips and down her thighs—tucked into muscles she hadn’t realized she’d used, let alone overused.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Just blinked up at the soft gold glow bleeding through the curtains. The room was quiet, save for the faint whisper of drizzle tapping against the windowpane. Morning arrived gently. The storm from the night before had ebbed to a hush, and the house seemed to hold its breath with it.

Everything smelled like skin.

Like steam.

Like sleep and sweat and something heavier—something thick and heady that made her cheeks flush as memory returned in pieces.

His mouth.

His hands.

The way he’d touched her like she was something worth holding on to.

She shifted slightly beneath the blankets—and winced.

“Oh my God,” she groaned, her voice hoarse and muffled as she flopped back against the mattress like a felled tree. “I’m broken.”

Somewhere across the room, fabric rustled. A soft clink of ceramic against wood.

Then—

“Already?” Amane’s voice—dry, faintly amused.

She cracked one eye open.

He stood near the dresser in nothing but joggers, a towel draped around his shoulders, ends brushing his bare chest. His hair was still damp from the shower, dark and curling slightly at the edges. He looked maddeningly relaxed—leaning casually like he hadn’t just shattered her into a hundred sore, blissed-out fragments hours ago.

“You’re walking?” she accused, indignant.

He raised a brow. “I’m functioning.”

“I hate you.”

“I noticed.”

She rolled to her side with a dramatic grimace, dragging the covers up over her face.

“Everything hurts,” she whined.

He crossed the room, drying his hair with lazy strokes. “Good hurt or bad hurt?”

“All the hurts.”

He crouched beside the bed, the scent of shampoo and skin warm between them.

“Do you want me to carry you to the bathroom like a princess?”

“I want you to suffer.”

“Fair.”

She peeked at him from under the blanket. “You’re proud of this, aren’t you.”

His grin was slow. Unapologetic. “Absolutely.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m honored.”

“I swear to God,” she muttered. “You broke my pelvis.”

“I did not.”

“You did something.”

He leaned in, arms resting on the mattress. A drop of water slid from his hair and landed on her arm.

“You were the one asking for more, remember?” he said, voice low and teasing.

Her entire face caught fire.

She yanked the pillow over her head with a muffled groan of despair.

He kissed the back of it anyway.

“I should file a complaint,” Nene mumbled into the pillow.

Amane huffed a soft laugh. “Pretty sure you were very vocal about enjoying your demise.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, rolling over and squinting at him, “that was before I knew I’d be crawling for the rest of my life.”

He leaned forward, bracing one hand beside her head. “So dramatic.”

“I’m allowed to be dramatic. My legs don’t work.”

He looked far too entertained.

Nene narrowed her eyes. “Stop looking so smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, though the smile tugging at his mouth said otherwise.

“You are dripping in smug,” she accused, pointing at his chest. “You’re literally glistening with it.”

“That’s water from the shower.”

“That’s arrogance and male audacity.”

He laughed, but she caught it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of nerves beneath the amusement. Like part of him was still adjusting to being touched. To being seen.

And she—

She was still reeling from what she’d seen.

Not just his body—though that was still very much burned into her brain—but his expressions. The way he’d looked at her. The sounds he’d made. The way he’d melted under her touch, only to bury himself in her like he was drowning.

It was… addicting.

And now, watching him all composed and unbothered, she wanted to undo him again.

She sat up slowly—wincing with every inch—and gave him her most pitiful pout.

“You should feel bad,” she said. “You’ve ruined me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

She shoved him lightly in the chest. “You don’t know what it’s like to be this sore.”

“I could guess.”

“I bet you’re not even a little sore.”

“Not really,” he admitted, voice low.

She scowled. “Unfair.”

He tilted his head, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You want revenge?”

“Obviously.”

His lips curved. “How do you plan to extract it?”

She puffed her cheeks. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He leaned closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Well,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft, “I surrender, either way.”

That did something to her.

Something fluttery and sharp.

She shoved him again—just to keep herself from combusting.

He didn’t move.

But he grinned.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

“Watching you try to fight me while injured? A little.”

She grabbed a pillow.

He ducked, laughing.

But when she lunged, he caught her wrist and gently tugged her forward.

Their balance shifted.

And just like that, she landed in his lap.

Face-to-face.

Breath to breath.

Her eyes widened. “Hey—”

“Revenge,” he said, voice low, “is a dangerous game.”

She swallowed.

Suddenly, it wasn’t teasing anymore.

The shift was subtle—but unmistakable. His fingers still held her wrist, light and loose. But the tension in his shoulders had changed.

Like something inside him was bracing.

Or waiting.

Nene blinked, heart thudding against her ribs.

She’d wanted payback.

But maybe not like this.

Or maybe exactly like this.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t tease.

Just held her there—perched in his lap—until her fluster caught fire.

Nene’s pulse fluttered in her throat. She wasn’t sure what was happening.

Or maybe she was.

Because his eyes had gone darker. Still warm, but focused. Only on her. And the silence between them buzzed with something she hadn’t expected this early in the morning: wanting.

“You’re staring,” she said, cheeks heating.

“I’m looking,” he corrected, voice soft.

“Same thing.”

“Not when it’s you.”

She opened her mouth—then closed it.

Because that… that was new.

Or maybe not. Maybe she was just finally noticing the way his gaze held her like he was memorizing something precious. The way his hands rested, unmoving, at her sides like they belonged there. The way his breath caught—barely—when she shifted forward.

She swallowed thickly.

Then: “You’re still smug.”

He hummed. “You’re still in my lap.”

She looked down.

So she was.

Very much so.

She straightened—trying to reclaim the upper hand—only to freeze when her thigh pressed against something warm and distinctly not soft.

Amane stiffened.

Nene blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Oh,” she said, tilting her head.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

“Is that from—?”

“Yes.”

“Already?”

“Your voice,” he muttered, jaw tight, “is not helping.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s so fast.”

“Yashiro—”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

He groaned. “Please stop narrating.”

She didn’t.

Of course not.

She leaned in like a cat stalking something twitchy and defenseless.

Then—poke.

“Oh!” she chirped. “It twitched!”

He made a noise—half gasp, half strangled whimper.

“Is it because it’s happy?” she asked, poking it again. He flinched.

“No. It’s because it wants to escape. Like me.”

She ignored him entirely.

“Last night you moaned like it hurt,” she mused, eyes narrowing. “All desperate and breathy.”

“It didn’t hurt,” he grumbled.

“Then why’d you sound like you were dying?”

“Because I was enjoying myself?”

“Weird,” she muttered.

He let out a long, exhausted breath. “Please stop talking.”

“Too late. I’m invested.”

“You are not allowed to be scientifically fascinated by my orgasm.”

“But why did it do that thing at the end?” she asked seriously. “You know—” She made an explosive hand gesture. “—everywhere?”

He slapped a hand over his face. “Please never describe ejaculation like a confetti cannon again.”

“There was a lot, though! Is that normal? Do you need more potassium?”

“Stop diagnosing me like a science project!”

But she was already leaning forward, eyes glinting, predatory and curious.

“Let me touch you again and see what happens.”

He flinched like she’d pulled a knife. “Nene, please—”

“What?” she purred, creeping closer. “You’re all tense. I’m helping.”

“No. You’re hunting.”

“Same thing.”

He made the mistake of meeting her gaze.

She pounced.

Without warning, her hand pressed flat against his chest.

He jolted.

Not violently, just… electrically. Like she’d flipped a switch under his skin.

“You’re jumpy,” she whispered, delighted.

“I’m traumatized,” he muttered, breath already uneven.

She grinned. “You’re fun when you’re like this.”

“Nene—”

But she was already slipping her fingers lower, gliding down the line of his stomach with infuriating curiosity. Her touch wasn’t seductive so much as investigative. Soft. Testing.

He swallowed hard. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing last night either,” she said innocently. “But that went well.”

He looked like he was actively calculating the distance to the nearest exit.

So, naturally, she touched him again.

This time, slower. Intentional. Like she was testing a trap.

He went rigid. So still she could see every shallow breath he took.

“Why does it twitch when I do that?” she whispered, absolutely fascinated.

“Nene.”

“Is that good?”

“I’m begging you.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, pupils dilating. “It’s getting bigger. It’s like—like an expanding balloon. Amane, are you evolving!?”

He let out a strangled wheeze.

“This is so weird. Why does it feel like that? Is it supposed to?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when her hand curled just right and his whole body arched like she’d struck a nerve.

She leaned closer, nose practically touching his cheek, eyes wide with fascination.

“Are you dying?”

“I wish.”

“You’re so red,” she whispered.

“I’m aware.”

Nene blinked, then touched him again—more deliberate this time.

He shuddered.

Actually shuddered.

“You’re—” she said breathlessly, “you’re really sensitive.”

He caught her wrist—not harshly. Just desperate.

His grip trembled.

“Please,” he said. “Have mercy.”

She paused. Considered.

Then, with the biggest grin she could muster, asked, “What happens if I keep going?”

He inhaled like she’d punched him.

And just like that—her curiosity ignited into something else.

Something thrilling.

Something fun.

Because now it wasn’t just curiosity—it was power. And she could see it. Feel it. The way his whole body tensed when she shifted in his lap. The way his fingers dug into the bedsheets beside them like he was trying not to snap.

It was intoxicating.

Her smile softened—just a little.

“What if I want to learn?” she whispered, her hand sliding lower again.

He caught her wrist—firmer this time.

Her eyes widened.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stared at her like she was dangerous.

She licked her lips.

“Let me,” she said, quieter now.

His jaw flexed—like he was swallowing something down. Need, maybe. Or control.

Then, with a breathless exhale, he let her go.

She shifted between his knees, fingers light on his stomach, gaze bright with fascination.

When she reached the waistband of his joggers, she paused. Glanced up.

He was watching her. Wide-eyed. Barely breathing.

Nene smiled.

And slipped her hand beneath the fabric.

He choked.

“Nene—”

That was new.

That was very new.

She looked up, startled by the way he said her name—desperate, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Her cheeks flushed. “Did I do something?”

“Yes,” he rasped. “And if you keep doing it, I’m going to—”

She moved her hand again.

His hips jolted.

“Please—” he gasped.

She leaned closer, nose brushing his jaw. “Please what?”

“Stop torturing me.”

She giggled.

And didn’t stop.

Gentle at first. Then not so much. Just enough to make him twitch, to make his breath break, to make him groan like he hated himself for how fast it was unraveling.

Every sound he made was fuel.

Every stammered gasp, every half-formed curse. She was learning him one touch at a time, and it was fascinating.

“Why does it feel like this?” she whispered. “It’s like—tight? But soft?”

“Please—”

“And this part—” she pressed her palm lower, firmer—“it’s so hot.”

He whimpered.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled. “Good.”

She leaned in, kissed his throat, and her fingers moved again—slow, curious. Experimenting with pressure. Rhythm. Intention.

He buried his face in her neck, breath hitching. “I’m gonna—Nene, please—”

“Let me see,” she whispered.

He blinked at her, flushed and overwhelmed.

“What?”

“I want to see you when it happens.”

He looked panicked.

She kissed him. “Please?”

He made a noise like a dying tea kettle.

Then—reluctantly—he helped her tug the waistband down.

That was a mistake.

Nene crouched between his legs like a scholar examining a specimen.

Her brow furrowed in intense concentration, gaze fixed on the very naked, very obvious part of him he’d been trying—and failing—not to think about.

“Stop looking at it like it’s going to blink,” he gritted, teeth clenched in tightly reined horror.

She didn’t even hear him.

Just tilted her head like she was hypnotized. “It’s weird when it’s this hard,” she murmured. “Feels like skin, but not…”

“Oh my god,” he breathed, voice cracking as he buried his face in his elbow. “Please stop talking.”

“But I’m learning.”

“Then learn quietly.”

She touched him again. Curious. Almost reverent. Like she thought it might purr if she got the angle right.

And Amane’s head thunked back against the pillow like he’d already resigned himself to death.

His fingers fisted the sheets.

“Do you like this?” she asked, brow creasing with something close to genuine concern. “You look like you’re in pain.”

“I do. I am. Keep going.”

Her expression lit up like a lightbulb clicked on behind her eyes.

“Ohh,” she said, delighted. “You’re close-close?”

“I was close-close the second you looked at it like it was cute.”

“It is cute!”

“It’s not supposed to be cute!”

“Well it is to me.”

He made a sound—half whimper, half spiritual surrender—and threw both arms over his face like that would somehow erase him from existence. It didn’t. It just exposed his trembling and utterly betrayed body to her line of fire.

Which was also a mistake.

Because now she was emboldened.

Nene leaned in, still studying him like she was preparing a thesis, and wrapped her hand around him again. Slower this time. More sure. A little firmer.

Amane tried.

Really, he did.

He gripped the sheets like they might anchor him to the planet. Dug his heels into the mattress. Bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek he swore he tasted copper. But nothing—nothing—was strong enough to stop his body from betraying him when her hand moved just right.

And she knew.

Of course she knew.

Her eyes were locked on his face, wide with awe and way too much enthusiasm.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, enchanted. “It’s pulsing. That’s so weird. Do you think it has a heartbeat?”

He groaned—mortified.

Her hand slid again.

His entire body twitched—like someone had lit a fuse at the base of his spine and he was helpless to stop the detonation.

His hand shot up, gripping the headboard like it might save his soul.

A hoarse, wounded sound escaped his throat—raw and broken, the kind that made her eyes go wide with wonder.

“Oh,” she said softly. “That was different.”

“Don’t point it out—!” he managed, voice cracking as he tried—desperately—to maintain what little dignity he had left.

“Wait—what happens if I—?”

She stroked him again. Quicker. More intense now. Like she’d found a button and couldn’t help but press it repeatedly.

He twitched so hard he nearly levitated.

“Nene, please, I’m—it’s not gonna be pretty—”

She did it again.

And that—God help him—was it.

His breath hitched. His spine arched off the bed. His hips jerked in a raw, involuntary thrust that made it very clear he was no longer in control of anything.

His face flushed a violent red—part mortification, part unbearable pleasure, and the line between them was dissolving fast. She was watching him. Watching like he was a science fair volcano about to erupt.

He curled his arm over his eyes. Then dropped his wrist to his mouth and tried to muffle the sound against the back of his hand.

He failed. Spectacularly.

A ragged, guttural groan tore out of him—hoarse and broken and far too honest.

He came hard. Hot and fast. Spilling over her hand in uncontrollable pulses. His whole body shook with it, breath stuttering, thighs tensed, every muscle pulled taut like wire.

He couldn’t even look at her.

Didn’t dare.

Because he knew, without even glancing, that she was still staring. Wide-eyed. Curious. Probably memorizing every twitch, every sound, every humiliating little detail.

And worst of all?

He was pretty sure he liked it.

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“…Is that normal?” she asked, staring at her hand like she’d just touched something mildly radioactive.

Amane groaned—loud and wounded—and flung an arm over his face like he could disappear into the mattress by sheer force of will.

“Please don’t ask questions right now.”

“But it just kept—” she paused, squinting at her palm. “—coming out. Like a tube of toothpaste when you squeeze too hard.”

He choked.
Actually choked.

Then she sniffed it.

He bolted upright. “Nene—don’t—”

Her nose wrinkled. “It smells kind of… salty. Like soup stock. But also sweet? Like… batteries.”

“Oh my god,” he groaned, dragging both hands down his face like it might erase her words. “Please stop.”

She looked up, perfectly oblivious. “Is it always like this? The consistency is so—ooh, it’s sticky.”

“Nene,” he begged, voice breaking, “please don’t do what I think you’re—”

She licked it.

Amane screamed into the pillow.

“NENE.”

She blinked at him, genuinely confused. “Wait—is it not edible?”

“Why would it be edible?!”

“I don’t know! You’re edible!”

“That’s—! NOT—! THE SAME—!”

His dignity was in flames. His soul was halfway to the afterlife.

She gave her fingers another curious glance. “It doesn’t taste bad though. Just… surprising.”

He grabbed a pillow and smashed it over his face. “STOP. TALKING.”

She giggled.
Actually giggled.

Then, casually—like it wasn’t the final nail in his coffin—she leaned over with absolute, devastating sincerity and whispered:

“I kind of liked making it come out of you.”

His soul left his body.

“Nene—”

She was already wiping her hand on the blanket like she’d just dipped it in paint and didn’t want to waste it. “It’s so warm. I didn’t expect that.”

“I need you,” he muttered, muffled under the pillow, “to stop talking forever.”

“Okay,” she said sweetly.
Then, not missing a beat: “Do you always make that noise when you—?”

He let out a strangled sob and dove beneath the sheets.

Chapter Text

The room was still, but not silent. Somewhere between them, Nene was humming under her breath, wearing the kind of dazed, smug little smile that made Amane want to crawl under the bed and never come out.

She’d absolutely wrecked him—scientifically, emotionally, spiritually—and now she was basking in it. Her face glowing. Idly wiping what remained of his dignity off her palm like she was cleaning up after a craft project.

Amane stared at the ceiling, pulse still thudding in his throat. Shame clung to him. So did the aftertaste of helpless arousal. And somewhere in that haze, a new thought began to curl in his chest—slow, coiling like smoke.

He rolled to his side.

Nene lay back, half-covered by the blanket, hair a mess, cheeks warm and self-satisfied. So unaware. So pleased with herself.

His fingers twitched.

“…You done being curious?” His voice was low, still rough from what she’d done to him. “Just gonna sit there like a smug little scientist after scrambling my brain?”

She hummed, not even looking at him. “For now.”

Wrong answer.

He reached over, grabbed the blanket—and yanked it down in one sharp pull.

“Amane—!” she yelped, scrambling to clutch the edge, but too slow. He caught her expression at the exact moment she realized she was only in panties and a tank top, and it was glorious.

Her mouth opened—no sound came out. A full-body fluster bloomed instantly.

“Wh-What are you—?!” she squeaked.

“My turn,” he said calmly, settling between her knees like he had all the time in the world.

She immediately tried to close her legs. He didn’t let her.

“Nene,” he murmured, catching one thigh and gently easing it back. “You were curious. So am I.”

Her breath caught. “Th-that’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

She sat up halfway, her fluster unraveling her coherence. “I’m not… I’m not even clean—”

“You showered last night,” he said, dragging his fingertips along the inside of her knee. “And I don’t care.”

“I do!”

“That’s fine,” he murmured, lowering his head just enough for her to panic appropriately. “You can care all you want. Just don’t stop me.”

She yelped as he leaned over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one strong hand, his other braced beside her hip.

“Hey!” she snapped, twisting. “That’s cheating—!”

“Oh, is it?” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Because I distinctly remember begging you not to watch. But you did. Closely. Like a nerd with a microscope.”

She kicked at the blanket. “You liked it.”

“I did not,” he said, even though they both knew it was a lie.

Nene squirmed, trying to worm her way out from under him, but his body held her in place—hips settling low, legs bracketing hers with enough pressure to keep her still.

Her eyes flicked down, then back up, cheeks instantly pinking. His arousal—still there, still insistent—pressed sharply against her, and the raw heat in his gaze nearly undid her.

“You’re turned on,” she whispered, voice tiny.

He nodded once. “Very.”

“…Why?”

“Because of you.”

She blinked, made a face. “Let me go.”

“Not a chance.” His voice dropped, smooth and certain. “You think I’m just going to let you skip off into the sunset after ruining my life?”

“I didn’t ruin it,” she mumbled, turning her face away. “You’re still breathing.”

“Barely,” he whispered, and lowered his mouth to hers.

She gasped. That was all he needed.

He kissed her—hard. Hot. Messy. A little mean.

Her hands came up to push at his chest, but it wasn’t forceful—just enough to suggest resistance while her body asked for more.

“Amane—” she panted when he finally pulled back, flushed and accusing. “You’re being mean.”

His brow furrowed, breath hot against her lips. “You started it.”

She was trembling under him, trying to pretend she wasn’t. Her pulse hammered against his chest where her hands were pressed—half in protest, half to hold on.

“You think I’ll let you turn the tables just like that?” she muttered, voice shaky but sharp.

“You could try to stop me,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Her thigh twitched under his.

“You’re cocky.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m mad.”

“Nope,” he said, dragging his fingers lightly along her ribs. “You’re embarrassed. Because you know exactly what’s coming.”

She jolted. “That’s not fair—!”

“Oh, it’s so fair.” He nosed down her neck, pressing a slow kiss just beneath her ear. “You made your little observations. Took your scientific notes. Now it’s my turn.”

“Amane—” she warned.

He kissed lower—her shoulder, her collarbone—tracing her reactions with maddening precision.

“You’re playing dirty!” she hissed, wriggling.

“So did you.” Another kiss. “You took advantage of me in a compromised state.”

“You liked it!”

“I loved it,” he admitted without shame, grinning into her skin. “But I’m still allowed revenge.”

“This isn’t revenge,” she muttered. “This is you being an arrogant perv.”

He laughed, low and warm. “That’s part of it.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but his thigh slid between hers—pressing hard enough to steal her breath, offering enough friction to make her hate how good it felt.

“Y-You…” she faltered, eyes wide, voice breathless.

“Irritating?” he offered.

“Yes.”

“Turned on?” he whispered, dipping lower to kiss her chest through her shirt.

Her breath caught. She didn’t answer.

He glanced up. “You can say it.”

“Bite me.”

He smiled. “Maybe later.”

Amane took his time. Not because he was feeling merciful—absolutely not. She’d shattered his ego with clinical precision and the world’s most condescending smile.

This wasn’t mercy. This was payback.

Delicious, smug, scientific payback.

Nene squirmed again, trying to twist away, but his weight held her in place—just enough to remind her who was in control.

“Amane—”

“You’re staying right here,” he murmured. “Unless you’d like me to tie you down.”

Her eyes went wide. “You wouldn’t—”

“Try me.”

She shut her mouth.

He leaned back enough to look at her properly. Flushed cheeks. Pink mouth. Hair in chaotic little tangles across her pillow. She looked soft and messy. Beautiful.

Exactly how she’d looked last night—only this time, he wasn’t the one falling apart.

“You know,” he said conversationally, dragging a finger down her sternum, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh,” she deadpanned.

“You really did narrate everything.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” he said, tilting his head like he was correcting a stubborn student. “You even compared me to an expanding balloon.”

She grinned—shameless. “It was accurate.”

He caught her chin between his fingers. “And now you’re going to pay for it.”

Her breath hitched as he traced his knuckles lower, brushing the soft skin just above her panties.

“Stop—stop looking at me like that,” she snapped, fidgeting under his stare.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re… collecting data.”

“I am,” he said, far too pleased. “You’re a fascinating subject.”

She turned her head sharply to glare at the ceiling. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.”

He only smirked.

Her protests wavered when his fingers toyed at her waistband, sliding it down just slightly—teasing without revealing.

“I don’t—” She swallowed hard. “It’s not like I'm nervous.”

“Good.” His voice dropped. “Then you won’t mind me asking some questions of my own.”

“Like what?”

“Like how you sound when you’re close,” he murmured. “What kind of noises you make when you stop overthinking. What you look like when you—”

“Stop talking,” she snapped.

He smiled. “Not so fun when someone else narrates, huh?”

Before she could bite back, he moved. A slow slide downward until his mouth was level with her stomach, his hands holding her steady as his lips ghosted over skin that had no business feeling this sensitive.

“Amane,” she warned, though it came out more like a plea.

“Yes?”

“This is—this isn't—”

“Appropriate?” he finished for her. “Because you didn’t seem too concerned about that earlier.”

She made a strangled noise.

When his mouth pressed lower—hot, hungry—she jerked.

Her hips twitched before she could stop them. He caught the movement instantly and gave her a look that made her feel completely, devastatingly exposed.

“Don’t—” she started.

“Don’t what?” His voice was velvet over steel. “Don’t notice?”

She tried to glare, but it fell apart when he hooked his thumbs into her panties and slid them just far enough aside to kiss the softest part of her thigh.

Her breath hitched so violently, it almost hurt.

“I’m learning,” he said softly.

“That’s—” She bit her lip, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s not fair.”

“You’ll survive.”

When his mouth finally pressed where she was hottest, she made a sound so startled, so purely instinctive, that it stole the smugness right off her face.

His hands held her steady as he explored—slow, determined, like she was a language he’d decided to master. Every twitch, every gasp, every shaky inhale cataloged.

“Stop—” she whispered, but her hands were already in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Tell me when you mean it,” he mumbled, lips never leaving her.

She didn’t tell him.

Instead, she let the heat roll through her—too fast, too sharp—until she was trembling and breathless and muttering his name like it might save her.

It didn’t.

Her whole body shook, her thighs quivering helplessly as her hands fumbled from his shoulders to the pillow above her head, like she couldn’t decide where to hold, where to ground herself, where to exist.

And then came the noises she made—

Amane groaned against her, and the focused vibration nearly killed her on the spot.

She let out a high, breathless keening sound, then clapped both hands over her mouth, horrified.

He looked up.

She was staring at the ceiling, red as a sunrise.

“Don’t,” he said gently, pausing just long enough to whisper. “I want to hear you.”

“But it’s—” she gasped, “—weird!”

“It’s pretty.”

She made a strangled noise, thighs twitching like she wanted to close them but didn’t dare.

Amane didn’t wait. He kissed her again—deeper this time, a little more intent, and slipped a finger inside her with careful pressure.

She jolted like she’d been zapped.

“Oh—!”

Then her hips arched and she shoved his head down. No hesitation. No thinking. Just instinct.

He groaned into her, letting her guide him. His tongue moved faster now, fingers stroking deep and sure.

Her body convulsed like the world had folded inward. Her thighs clamped, her fingers clawed into the sheets—and then him—and everything around her shook with the force of it.

She came like she was dying.

And Amane—

He just held her through it.

Mouth soft now, tender, coaxing every last aftershock from her shaking legs until she whimpered and tried to shove him away with what little strength she had left.

He lifted his head.

She was a wreck.

Hair stuck to her forehead. Lips parted like she was still catching her breath through the high.

He kissed her knee, her thigh, the inside of her hip—anything he could reach without asking her to move.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice wrecked with his own need, but full of care.

Her voice came out broken. “I… what was that…?”

He smiled lazily. “You’re welcome.”

Nene opened her mouth—probably to get the last word, because of course she would.

Amane didn’t let her.

He leaned in and kissed her—firm, steady. Not messy this time, not meant to win. Just enough to make her fluster burn a bit hotter.

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between surprise and surrender. She froze for half a second, then melted, tension ebbing as his mouth lingered on hers.

When he pulled back, her eyes were wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted like she’d forgotten what she meant to say.

“…Better,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along her jaw before tugging her against him.

She squirmed in protest, muttering something muffled and indignant into his chest.

He just held her tighter, chin resting against her hair.

“Go to sleep, little scientist,” he said softly.

Her only reply was a tiny huff—and the faintest, reluctant purr of contentment as she curled a little closer.

At first, it was perfect.

She was limp in his arms, soft and sighing in her sleep like all the tension had drained out and left her peaceful. Amane didn’t move. He wouldn’t dare. Not when he could keep holding her like this—wrapped around him, with her head tucked beneath his chin and her hand warm over his heart.

He didn’t feel embarrassed anymore. Or frustrated. Or anxious.

Just… awed.

Completely undone by the fact that she had trusted him with every fragile, shattered piece of her. That he had touched and kissed those parts—and she hadn’t pulled away.

But the longer he stared into the dark ceiling above, the more the stillness began to stretch in a way that made his skin itch.

It was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt engineered. Not natural. As if the house itself was holding its breath.

He glanced toward the window. The outside world was still. No wind. No birds. Even the morning light looked wrong. Flat. Filtered.

Like someone had painted it on.

Amane’s throat tightened and he held Nene closer.

Then he heard it.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

So faint, he wasn’t even sure it was real. It didn’t sound like a clock. Not exactly. It was slower. Hollow. Deeper than any ticking he’d heard before, almost organic.

He lifted his head a fraction, eyes scanning the bedroom.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

It was coming from inside the walls.

His fingers flexed instinctively on Nene’s back.

Maybe it was an old pipe. Maybe his ears were playing tricks on him.

But then he felt something worse.

That pressure in the air. Like the walls were leaning in. Like the room was shrinking around them.

And he couldn’t stop the thought that slammed into his skull, uninvited and as clear as a scream:

It’s counting down.

To what, he didn’t know. But it wasn’t good.

He swallowed hard, keeping still, unwilling to wake Nene. Not yet. Not while she was safe in his arms. Not while the house was just waiting for them to notice.

His breath hitched.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

Tighter now. Louder. Beneath the floorboards, above the ceiling, somewhere deep in the bones of the house—it was spreading. Infectious.

A crawling sensation climbed the back of his neck, and he glanced at the far wall. Then the window. Then the door.

Nothing moved, but the feeling remained. Like something ancient and slow had rolled over in its sleep and was now watching with half-lidded eyes.

And deep in his gut—beneath the comfort and emotional ache and vulnerability of everything they just shared—he knew exactly what it meant.

They were being timed.

Whatever lived in the bones of this house had been promised something.

And soon, it would come to collect.

Chapter Text

Amane hadn’t slept.

All morning, the sound had wormed through the walls—faint at first, no more than a ghost of a noise—then deepening until it lodged behind his teeth. A hollow, dragging tick, steady and wrong, like the house itself had grown a heartbeat. He told himself it wasn’t real. Just exhaustion. Just nerves. Just his head playing tricks.

But the sound wouldn’t stop.

By noon, it pressed so insistently through the plaster that he couldn’t pretend anymore. He turned toward the girl curled against him, brushing her shoulder with a hand that trembled more than he’d admit.

“Yashiro.” His voice came out low, roughened by sleeplessness.

She stirred, mumbling into his shirt before blinking awake, lashes heavy, eyes hazy with dreams. “Mm? What’s wrong?”

“That sound.” His throat tightened. “Tell me you hear it.”

Confusion flickered across her face, a crease forming between her brows. For a second, she almost dismissed it—then froze. That stillness, the sudden weight in her expression, told him everything.

“You do.” His jaw locked, heat crawling up his spine.

She sat up halfway, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. “Amane, I—”

“Don’t.” The word cut sharper than he meant. He raked both hands through his hair, pacing the narrow stretch of floor before turning back to her. “I know that sound. I’ve heard it before. It isn’t just noise—it’s a countdown.”

Her gaze fell to her lap, fingers twisting the blanket into tight, frantic knots.

His pulse spiked. “What’s it counting down to?”

“I thought—I thought it was over,” she whispered. “I spent the last three days trying to fix it, undoing what I could. Things were better, weren’t they? You stopped hearing the voices after… after last night. I thought it worked.”

“But it didn’t.” His voice dropped, heavy and flat.

Her silence confirmed it.

Amane’s chest cinched tight, his breath shallow and uneven. “Nene, listen to me. I know how this works. I’ve seen things. Heard things. Things no kid should have survived. And that goddamn ticking—” His voice cracked, breaking under the weight of it. “—means something’s coming due. So tell me. What is it counting down to?”

She flinched at his tone, but still wouldn’t look at him.

“Nene.” He moved closer, crowding her against the headboard, bracing one hand beside her head. His voice dropped, quiet but unrelenting. “Don’t make me drag it out of you. Just say it.”

Her breath hitched. For a long, suffocating moment, she only stared at the sheets clutched in her fists. Finally, in the smallest voice, she whispered: “Midnight.”

The word hollowed him out. “…Midnight.”

She nodded once, lips trembling. “That’s when it takes what was promised.”

His heart stuttered.

Silence cracked open between them, bigger than the house. Bigger than anything he’d ever known.

Amane laughed once—harsh, humorless. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I was going to tell you—”

“When?” he spat bitterly. “When the clock hit zero? When it dragged you off screaming? You were just going to smile and pretend like—like—” His voice broke, and he slammed a hand against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.

Nene flinched.

He froze, breath ragged, fist pressed to the plaster. He wanted to punch straight through the wall and rip the sound out by its throat. But he couldn’t—not with her watching. Not when the tears shining in her eyes already made him hate himself.

He dropped his hand and swallowed hard, forcing his fury down like poison. His gaze dragged over her face, desperate for some loophole. Some hidden truth.

But her silence said everything.

His throat burned. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers knotting until his scalp stung. “There are options,” he muttered, half to himself. “There’s always—” He cut himself off, laughter catching in his chest. “No. That’s the thing, isn’t it? I know you, Nene. You’re not going to sacrifice my memories. You’ve already decided.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. The way her hands twisted in the blanket was answer enough.

Amane let out a breath that felt like broken glass.

“It’s your soul,” he said hoarsely. “You’re already planning to give it up.”

The faint twitch of her shoulders—the smallest, unwilling flinch—was all the confirmation he needed.

His chest seized. Fury surged fast and wild, mixing with fear until it shook his hands. He leaned in, all composure gone.

“You think I’ll let you?” His voice rose, harsh, ragged. “You think I’ll stand here and watch you throw yourself away—watch you vanish—for me?” His breath came hard, words sharper with every syllable. “I don’t want that, damn it! I don’t want your sacrifice. I want you!”

Still, she didn’t answer. Still, her silence betrayed her resolve.

Something inside him snapped. His fist crashed into the wall with a bone-deep thud, rattling the frame so violently plaster dust sifted from the ceiling.

Nene startled, shrinking back against the pillow.

Amane pressed his forehead to the wall, chest heaving, heat tearing through him like fire in his veins.

And then—

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound swelled, like it had been listening all along, feeding on his fury. Louder now. Heavy enough that the window glass began to hum, trembling with each beat.

Nene clapped her hands over her ears, eyes wide and wet. “Amane—!”

He whipped toward her, but the room was already shifting. The walls groaned, bending inward. The wallpaper split at the corners, crimson veins spreading jagged across the plaster like blood through tissue.

The ghost of his past.

It was bleeding into reality, swallowing the bedroom piece by piece.

Amane’s chest tightened. He knew this place. Every wrong angle. Every poisoned breath.

The Red House.

It was back.

“No. No—” He grabbed Nene’s wrist, dragging her toward the door. “We’re not staying here.”

She stumbled after him, the blanket tangling around her legs. Her free hand pressed to her chest, eyes darting wildly to the walls that pulsed in time with each tick.

They reached the front door and he tore it open—half expecting nothing, half expecting teeth—but beyond, the world still waited.

Normal. Almost ordinary.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the air shifted. Cold and dense. Watching from the shadows. The trees stirred without wind, their branches curling toward them like bony fingers.

Amane pulled Nene close, scanning the yard, the street, the sky. His pulse thundered in his ears.

The ticking hadn’t stopped.

It was louder. Everywhere. Inside. Outside. Beneath the ground. Above the clouds.

Like the whole world had become a clock.

Nene clung to him, her voice breaking. “It’s coming.”

He squeezed her hand, his jaw set so tight it ached. “Then it’ll have to go through me first.”

But even as he said it—voice rough, defiant—the truth knifed its way through him, merciless and cold.

The house hadn’t come for him.

It had come for her.

And this time, he couldn’t stop it.

Chapter Text

The front door slammed behind them.

For one dizzy moment, Nene thought they’d made it. The porch beneath her feet felt solid, the air sharp in her lungs. Outside, the neighborhood waited in familiar silence—rows of houses, the street stretching in both directions, a pale sky overhead.

Normal. Almost ordinary.

Amane didn’t slow down. His hand clamped around hers as he dragged her down the steps, his shoulders taut with the kind of tension that made her stomach knot. He didn’t look back, didn’t pause to breathe—only kept moving as if he could outrun the sound still gnawing at their ears.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It followed anyway.

The neighborhood stared back at them with shuttered windows. Every house on the block was dark, curtains drawn tight like watching eyes that refused to blink. One front door swung lazily on its hinges, though no wind stirred.

The air pressed heavy on Nene’s chest. Each breath came out in a white puff, fogging despite the warm sting of sweat on her skin. She tried to swallow, but her throat stayed dry.

Something about the sky was wrong. The clouds hung motionless, flat as paint. And yet every time she blinked, they shifted—just slightly, like a picture redrawn between breaths.

Her steps faltered. “Amane—”

“Don’t stop.” His voice came rough, hoarse with something close to panic. He tugged her harder, forcing her forward. “We keep moving.”

They ran—past one corner, then another, then the next. The rhythm of their footsteps and the relentless ticking blurred together until it all sounded like one heartbeat.

When the house appeared again, Nene’s chest nearly gave out.

Their house. Standing at the end of the street, shutters missing this time, a crack crawling up the siding like a vein.

“No,” she whispered.

They doubled back, tried another direction. Three blocks down—there it was again. Tilted slightly, the foundation sagging.

The more they tried to escape it, the more the house found them.

No matter which way they ran, it always loomed ahead—sitting at the end of every street, at the corner of every turn, a little closer each time.

Amane stopped so suddenly that Nene nearly collided with his back. His hand tightened on hers without warning, his whole body gone rigid.

“Amane?” she breathed.

He didn’t answer.

His chest rose and fell in jagged heaves, eyes fixed on something to the side of the road—small, unassuming, and somehow utterly damning.

The mailbox.

The same mailbox.

Its red paint was chipped in the exact same places. The little flag hung at the same broken angle. And the number stamped across its front—their number—gleamed wetly in the light, though there was no sun.

Amane’s breath caught. “But that’s…” His brow furrowed, voice thinning to disbelief. “That’s not possible.”

Nene looked between him and the mailbox, confusion warring with fear. “It—it just looks like ours, right? There’s no way it could—”

He shook his head slowly. “No. I remember this,” he whispered, already stepping closer. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes, too loud in the stillness. He reached out, fingertips brushing the cold metal. “The day we moved in… you tried to stick those stupid little flower decals on it.”

Her lips parted, trembling. “You said they were crooked.”

A humorless breath escaped him. “Yeah. And you laughed and said it didn’t matter. Said it made the place look alive.”

Nene took a step forward. The decals were still there—half-peeled and weathered, exactly as she’d left them. A tiny yellow petal clung stubbornly to the corner.

Her stomach dropped. “That can’t be—”

“Then why,” he said softly, almost to himself, “does it keep following us?”

He turned, gaze sweeping the road behind them.

There, in the distance, stood another house. The same one. Waiting.

And another.

And another.

Everywhere he looked, it was there—angled wrong, shadowed different—but the same house all the same.

He exhaled, the sound more a tremor than a breath. “It’s because we never left.”

Nene blinked, shaking her head as if she could deny the words, but the world was already changing—light dimming, colors bleeding out, the air stretching too thin to breathe.

And the second he said it aloud, reality folded in on itself.

The sky peeled back like torn paper. The streets warped and sank, and the world they’d been running through cracked apart, revealing the rot beneath.

The Red House bled through the seams, reassembling itself around them, swallowing everything whole.

Nene’s knees went weak. Her hand flew to her mouth to choke back a sob.

Amane just stood there, his face pale with fury. Then he moved—slamming his fist into the wall beside him, then again, dragging her with him as he stormed through the twisting halls.

The ticking grew louder the more he fought it, echoing through the walls like cruel laughter.
“Coward!” Amane’s voice tore raw from his throat. “Still hiding behind walls and clocks after all these years!”

He hit the wall again. And again. Each blow rattled through the house like a drumbeat.

Nene tugged on his sleeve, desperate. “Stop—Amane, you’re hurting yourself—”

He staggered suddenly, one hand flying to his face.

Blood gushed from his nose, hot and thick, splattering onto his shirt, streaking across his arm when he tried to wipe it. It dripped from his chin, a steady, crimson rhythm.

“Amane!” Her voice cracked. She grabbed at him, pulling his hand away, but more blood surged, trailing over her fingers until they were slick and red.

He swayed, clutching his head now, his breath shuddering. “Too loud,” he muttered, voice splintering. “I can’t—”

Then the whispers came.

At first, faint. A hiss at the edges of the silence. Then dozens. Hundreds. Voices layered over each other, climbing in pitch until it sounded like a thousand mouths pressed to his skull.

Nene’s stomach dropped. She could see the wildness in his eyes—darting toward corners that weren’t there, tracking shadows only he could hear.

“Amane—please! Just tell me what to do!” She shook him, blood smearing hot across her palms. “Tell me how to help you!”

But he didn’t answer.

The voices were too loud.

And for the first time since it all began, Nene felt truly, hopelessly lost.

Chapter Text

The silence that followed the voices felt heavier than the noise itself.

Nene’s hands were still slick with Amane’s blood when he caught her wrist gently, lowering it from his face.

“I’m fine,” he said—though his voice rasped against the word like it didn’t quite belong to him. “It’s stopped.”

It hadn’t. Not really.

Blood still smeared beneath his nose, drying in jagged trails along his chin. His breathing was uneven—too shallow, too controlled—and when he looked away, she saw the faint tremor in his fingers.

“That wasn’t like before,” she whispered. “It’s getting worse.”

He didn’t answer. He just dragged his sleeve across his face and forced a thin, crooked smile.

“We should keep moving.”

“Amane—”

“Don’t.” His tone softened, but the edge stayed. “If we stop, it wins. So we don’t stop.”

He pulled her down the corridor, the rhythmic ticking fading in and out like a pulse they could almost escape, but never outrun.

Every hallway felt different from the last—walls narrowing, doors drifting farther apart. The air shifted subtly with each turn, carrying faint whispers as though the house were listening, waiting.

They reached a stairwell that hadn’t been there before.

Nene hesitated. “We didn’t come this way.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Amane gripped the banister, leaning forward to look up the steps. “If it’s new, it might lead out.”

They climbed—ten steps, then twenty—but when they reached the landing, they faced the same corridor they’d started in. The same torn wallpaper. The same flickering light.

Nene’s chest tightened. “No, we— we just—”

Amane kicked the wall. The sound echoed too long, like the house was taunting him. “It’s toying with us.”

They tried again. Different doors. Different halls. Each one folded back on itself.

A warped window appeared near the kitchen—wide enough to crawl through. Amane smashed a chair against it; the glass didn’t even crack. The sound wasn’t like glass shattering at all—it was a dull, hollow thud, like striking dense ice.

When he pressed his palm to it, something pulsed beneath the surface—slow and warm. He jerked back, jaw tense. “It feels alive.”

Nene stared at the warped reflection shifting across the pane, the surface bending as though it breathed.
“Then where are we supposed to go?”

He didn’t answer.

They kept searching until the house rearranged itself completely—stairs leading to ceilings, rooms looping impossibly, doors opening to walls. Hallways shortened behind them like snapped elastic. Every time they believed they’d found a new path, the architecture changed without a sound.

Eventually, they stopped trying.

They found a room that looked almost untouched. Dusty, dim, but familiar in the way real places were—an armchair slumped near the wall, a small table, a cracked lamp. A room that once might have belonged to people, not something that wanted to devour them.

Nene slid to the floor first, curling her knees to her chest. Amane sank down beside her, letting his head rest against the wall with a sound that was more exhaustion than breath.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then Nene murmured, “It’s almost midnight.”

Amane’s eyes flicked toward her. “If we could trust the clocks.”

Silence thickened again, heavy and unkind. The only sound was the faint, uneven hum of the house—the low breath of shifting walls.

Nene stared at her hands, rubbing absentmindedly at the dried blood along her knuckles until her thumb brushed the cool edge of her ring. It turned once under her touch, catching a weak shard of light.

Amane’s gaze followed the movement. His expression softened—just barely. For a moment, the tension in his jaw eased, revealing the exhaustion beneath. His eyes lingered on the ring, on the familiar way she turned it as though the motion steadied her.

He remembered the night he gave it to her, right before they’d moved in. How she’d smiled—nervous and radiant. How he’d meant every word when he told her he wouldn’t leave.

That he loved her.

Now, that promise sat between them like something fragile—still shining, somehow, even here.

“Yashiro,” he said quietly.

She looked up. “Hm?”

He hesitated, dragging a hand through his hair before meeting her eyes. “If we don’t make it out in time, promise me that you’ll—”

He stopped.

The air shifted.

A sound rose from somewhere deep within the house—a single, heavy thud, distant but unmistakable.

Then another.

A knock.

Nene’s breath hitched. The noise reverberated through the floorboards, up the walls, into their bones. It wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Knuckles against wood.

Amane froze mid-breath. “…Did you hear that?”

Before she could answer—

Knock. Knock.

Louder this time. Closer.

The sound rolled through the halls, hollow and patient, echoing off unseen walls. The unmistakable rhythm of someone knocking on a door.

Their door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three slow, deliberate beats.

Nene’s heart stumbled in her chest. “Someone’s at the door.” Her voice was barely a whisper, tangled with hope and dread.

Amane didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His eyes flicked toward the nearest doorway, his entire body pulled taut like wire. “No one should be here at this hour.”

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Hard enough to rattle the air. Dust drifted from the ceiling. The sound didn’t fade—it lingered, as if the house itself were holding on.

They stared at each other, unmoving.

Knock. Knock.

The last one came soft. Almost polite.
And somehow, that was the worst of all.

Nene grabbed his sleeve, fingers clinging tight. She felt his pulse hammering beneath his skin, matching hers beat for beat.

Neither spoke. Neither dared to breathe.

Somewhere down the hall, the echo of that last knock stretched thin—still present, somehow.

Waiting for one of them to answer.

Chapter Text

For a long moment, the world held its breath.

Amane and Nene didn’t move. The air between them had turned thick and stale, saturated with dust and the echo of that last, hollow knock still trembling through the walls. The lamp beside them sputtered once, twice, then steadied—its thin light spilling across their faces in wavering shades of amber and gray.

Nene’s heart pounded against her ribs, loud enough she feared it might give them away. “Do you think they left?” she whispered, barely breathing the words.

Amane didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the door, sharp and distant. Even in the dim glow, she could see the color had drained from his face. His hand hovered near hers—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the tremor running through his fingertips.

The seconds stretched. Nothing stirred.
No floorboards groaned.
No hinges sighed.
Only the faint hum of the lamp and their shallow, uneven breathing.

Then—click.

Somewhere deep in the house, a latch turned.
The sound crawled up through the floorboards like something breathing beneath them.

Nene’s head snapped toward Amane. “Someone’s inside—”

He raised a hand before she could finish. His eyes cut to hers, a silent command: Don’t speak.

She swallowed, her fingers tightening around his sleeve.

The silence broke again—soft, unsteady footsteps echoing down the hall.
Not heavy. Not hurried.
Just wandering. Curious.

Each step was muffled, almost thoughtful, as if whoever—or whatever—it was had all the time in the world.

Nene’s grip on him tightened. The footsteps grew louder, slower, until they stopped directly outside the door.

The handle rattled once. Then again.

Metal scraped softly against metal—testing the lock.

Nene’s pulse climbed into her throat. The urge to scream—or cry—rose before she could swallow it back. A small, broken sound escaped her, something between a gasp and a sob.

Amane’s hand was there in an instant, pressing gently but firmly over her mouth. His other arm came around her waist, drawing her close until her back met the solid weight of his chest. The warmth of his palm anchored her, muffling the sound that trembled in her throat. She could feel his heartbeat—steady but strained—thudding against her spine.

“Quiet,” he breathed against her ear. The word wasn’t so much heard as felt, his voice a vibration against her skin.

He smelled of soap and dust and the faint trace of sweat—human and grounding amid the creeping wrongness pressing in from every side. She nodded under his hand, her breath stuttering against his fingers.

The air tightened. The handle stilled.

Then—

“…Amane?”

The voice was soft. Small. Familiar in a way that made Amane’s breath catch.

“Amane, are you in there?”

It was a child’s voice—thin and bright, about five years old. There was no malice in it. Only innocence, and a deep, aching loneliness.

“It’s dark,” the little voice said. “I can’t see you.”

Amane’s hand faltered. His body went still.

“Tsukasa?” he whispered before he could stop himself.

A pause. Then, as if lit from within—

“Amane! You are here!”

The joy that followed was fragile, cracking at the edges like glass. “I knew you’d come home! I knew you would! I’ve been waiting and waiting—”

A tiny laugh bubbled through the door, breathless and uneven, as if the boy had forgotten how to laugh after so many years of trying.

Nene felt Amane’s heart stutter. His hand trembled against her lips, but he didn’t let go.

“You were gone so long,” the boy went on. His words came in a tumble, too fast, the way children speak when they’re desperate to be understood. “It got really cold, and I got sleepy… but I didn’t sleep ‘cause I didn’t wanna miss you coming back.”

The tone was so heartbreakingly pure that Nene’s stomach twisted. But the way Amane’s shoulders tightened told her he already knew what his heart refused to accept.

“Amane?” The voice was quieter now. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you mad at me?”

The question broke something small and fragile inside him. For the briefest moment, his expression softened—eyes unfocused, the kind of look that belonged to memory. His lips parted, a sound caught there, but he didn’t speak. The arm around Nene tightened instead, his fingers pressing into her side like he needed her there—needed something alive to hold onto.

“Amane,” the little voice whimpered. “I don’t like it out here. It’s too dark. Please let me in.”

Nene’s chest constricted. The plea sank beneath her ribs like a knife. She tugged at his sleeve, whispering hoarsely against his hand, “Amane… it’s not him.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were glassy, lost, fixed on the door as though he could see through it—see the ghost of what once was.

A soft sniffle sounded from the other side. “Please, Amane? I was really good this time. I didn’t break anything. I just wanna see you again.”

Then—a dull thump.

The faint sound of a small body lowering itself to the floor.

Silence. A shaky breath.

“I tried not to be mad that you didn’t come back,” the boy said, his voice trembling through the wood. “I said sorry to the house for yelling. I thought… maybe if I was good, you’d come home.”

The words faded to a whisper. Then—scratching. A faint shuffle.

Something pale slipped into view beneath the door.

A hand. Small. Too small. The skin was waxy and blue-tinged, stretched thin over delicate bones. The fingers curled weakly, brushing at the dusty floorboards, reaching for someone just out of sight.

“Please…” The voice was breaking now, soft as breath. “Hold my hand, Amane. I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

Nene’s breath shuddered in her chest.

The silence pressed close, suffocating, broken only by the faint creak of the floor beneath them.

Amane stared at the small hand reaching under the door as though it were a miracle—something fragile and impossible made real. His own fingers trembled at his side, twitching once before lifting, drawn forward by something older than reason. By memory. By guilt.

“Tsukasa…” His voice cracked on the name, soft and reverent, like a prayer he’d forgotten how to say.

Nene’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist hard enough to leave marks. “Don’t,” she whispered, fierce and unsteady, her voice barely holding together.

For a moment, he didn’t move. His pulse beat beneath her fingers—fast, uneven, like a trapped bird. His gaze stayed fixed on the space beneath the door where that tiny hand still groped blindly, the fingers curling and uncurling with quiet, desperate rhythm.

“I waited so long…” The boy’s voice quivered, small and pleading. “Please, Amane… come play with me.”

The sound was almost too much to bear. It was the voice of innocence that had never been allowed to grow old, the echo of something pure that time—and the house—had swallowed whole.

Amane’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat, his shoulders sagged, the fight bleeding out of him. Then the air shifted.

The warmth that filled the room was wrong—thick and syrupy, the kind that clung to the back of the throat. The shadows lengthened, pooling along the floorboards like spilled ink. The wood beneath them groaned, stretching, almost sighing.

Nene’s grip tightened. She could feel it too—the way the air grew damp, heavy with something watching.

The sound of the child’s breath hitched once more. Then—silence.

Amane’s hand fell slowly to his side. The small hand beneath the door stilled, fingers slack against the floor, and for one terrible moment, he thought he heard the sound of weeping—soft, hollow, and impossibly far away.

Then Nene saw it—the faint shadow bleeding beneath the doorframe. Too dark. Too thick. Moving like ink through water. It seeped along the cracks, curling across the floorboards.

The small hand twitched, but something about it was wrong this time. The fingers were longer. The joints bent backward at strange angles.

“Amane…” Nene’s whisper trembled.

The hand twitched again, then stretched, the skin thinning and smearing into liquid darkness that slid toward them.

Amane’s composure broke. He pulled Nene sharply against him, his arm sweeping her close as the thing snapped across the floor. The lamp exploded beside them, glass raining down in a flash of sparks before plunging the room into pitch-black.

Silence followed—thick enough to touch.

Then came the sound—soft, wet, and slithering. The shadow crept up the walls, rippling across the ceiling as if searching for somewhere to root. The entire room began to pulse faintly, the air glowing with a sickly red light that seemed to come from nowhere at all.

Nene pressed herself closer, her breath ragged against his chest. “What is it—”

“Don’t look,” Amane said, his tone low, controlled. His gaze flicked toward the door, mind already tracing their escape route.

From the other side came a tiny, broken sob.
“You don’t want to see me, do you?”

“Stop,” Amane said sharply, shaking his head. “Stop pretending to be him.”

“I waited so long,” the voice cried. “But you don’t love me anymore.”

Something deep in the walls groaned—a sigh dragged from stone. The air thickened, pressing down until it was hard to breathe.

“Tsukasa—”

“—you don’t want me,” the voice broke, turning raw and grief-stricken.

The door clicked. The lock turned with a soft metallic sigh, and the door creaked open an inch. A red light seeped through the gap, bleeding across the floor until it reached Amane’s knees.

He stared at it as though looking down into a grave.

“Amane,” Nene whispered, catching his sleeve.

“I know.” He didn’t look at her. His voice was steady, quiet. “I won’t let it hurt you.”

The floor shuddered. Boards split open with a deep, guttural sound, and a rush of heat surged upward—thick and metallic, stinking of rust and rot.

Nene grabbed his arm. “We have to move—”

The house exhaled. From beneath the floor came a long, shivering inhale, followed by the crack of splintering wood. Then the boards broke.

A slick, black tendril burst through the floor, lashing upward. It struck the broken lamp stand, splintering it in half before twisting toward them.

Amane moved fast. He yanked Nene backward as the thing slammed down where they had been kneeling. The impact sent dust and splinters flying.

“Run!” he barked.

The creature shrieked without sound—a vibration that rattled the windows. Another tendril tore through the floor, striking the walls.

They ran. The red-lit doorway pulsed before them like a beating heart.

Amane hesitated for half a breath at the threshold—every instinct screaming trap—but the thing behind them left no time to think. He shoved Nene through and followed.

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, its walls breathing with that same dull crimson light. The air reeked of copper and damp earth.

They ran until their lungs burned. The house shifted around them, whispering, laughing, breathing.

Behind them, something massive tore through the doorway, dragging the red glow with it.

“Don’t stop!” Amane shouted.

Nene stumbled forward, nearly falling. The floor rolled beneath her like the deck of a ship.

Then came a sound of struggle—wood splintering, a sharp cry. She looked back just in time to see a dark coil snap around Amane’s ankle.

He hit the wall hard, one hand reaching for her.

“Amane!”

“Go!” he shouted, yanking against the pull. The tendril tightened, dragging him backward into the yawning dark.

“No! Not without you!”

“Go, Nene!” His voice cracked like a whip through the chaos. “I’ll catch up—just run!”

She turned and ran, heart hammering.

The hall stretched endlessly ahead, twisting and folding in impossible ways. When she finally risked a glance back—

There was no door.
No Amane.
Only a smooth red wall, glowing faintly in the dark.

Chapter Text

For a long time, there was nothing.
Not even the sound of her own breathing.

Nene stood frozen, staring at the blank crimson wall that now sealed the end of the hallway. It was smooth and seamless, as if it had always been there—a cruel trick of the house, solid and silent and whole.

“Amane?”

Her voice came out thin, uncertain, swallowed almost instantly by the stillness.

She waited.
No answer.

Her hand lifted before she realized it, pressing flat against the wall. The surface was cold—not the dull chill of plaster or stone, but a deeper kind of cold, one that pulsed faintly beneath her palm, as though the wall itself were alive.

“Amane!” Her voice cracked. “Please! Can you hear me?”

The word please echoed only inside her chest. The air didn’t move.

She hit the wall once—twice—again and again, the sound dull and heavy, her palm stinging with each blow. “Amane, say something!” she cried. “Please—just—say something!”

Nothing.
Only silence.

And then, faintly, beneath it—

Tick.

She froze.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound came from deep within the floorboards. She knew that rhythm. It had followed them since the countdown of her wish began, weaving itself through every quiet corner, every breath.

Only now, it was faster, sharper. Increasingly more urgent.

Her pulse matched it—quick and uneven. She pressed her ear to the wall, desperate to hear something—anything—that wasn’t that awful, mechanical beat.

“Amane…” Her voice trembled. “Please answer me…”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound filled the room, threading through the air like a pulse beneath the floor, a clock winding toward its doom.

“No,” she whispered, stepping back. “No, no, please, not again…”

The ticking didn’t stop.
Something inside her gave way.

Her legs folded, and she sank to the cold floor, her body trembling with exhaustion she hadn’t let herself feel until now. The house felt enormous—endless—its silence pressing in from every side. The air was heavy with dust and memory, thick enough to choke on.

She’d been holding everything together—fear, confusion, the ache of not understanding what was real—but with Amane gone, the fragile scaffolding inside her crumbled.

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. They fell soundlessly, splattering dark spots across the dusty boards.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why does it always take everything?”

Her words disappeared into the air, small and hopeless. The house didn’t answer, but she could feel it listening.

She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking slightly as the light flickered in time with the ticking beneath her feet. Each pulse dimmed the room, shadows bleeding across the walls until everything blurred—amber light, dark shapes, and the shallow rise and fall of her own unsteady breath.

Time dissolved. Minutes, hours—she couldn’t tell anymore. Only the ticking remained.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Faster and faster, until—

“Wow.”

The word sliced through the silence like a match striking in the dark.

“You’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t you?”

The voice was soft. Gentle.
But it didn’t belong here.

Nene froze mid-sob, her breath catching halfway in her chest. Slowly, she lifted her head.

At first, she thought she was imagining it—a boy-shaped shimmer hovering in the dim corner of the room. The air around him bent strangely, red dust swirling in slow spirals where he stood. As they drifted closer, his form sharpened.

Short, dark hair. Golden-brown eyes. A neat school uniform with brass buttons that gleamed faintly in the half-light.

Her breath hitched.

“Amane…?”

The resemblance was unmistakable.

But his face was younger—thirteen, maybe fourteen—his features softer, untouched by the weight she’d seen in Yugi-sensei’s eyes. He was exactly the way a memory might look if it decided to step out of time and speak.

The boy tilted his head, a faint, amused smile tugging at his lips.

“Close,” he said. “But you can call me Hanako-kun.”

She blinked, trying to make sense of the words. “Ha—Hanako…?”

“Mhm.” He drifted a little closer, feet hovering an inch above the ground. “Though it’s been a while since anyone said it out loud.”

He didn’t move like a person—more like air given form. The faint ripple of his presence stirred the dust, warping the light, as though the room itself couldn’t decide whether he belonged there.

“Wait—” she managed, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet. “How do you—? You sound like—”

“Amane?” he finished for her, grinning. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Her pulse quickened. “Are you… him?”

He paused mid-glide, his expression flickering—something hesitant and forlorn buried beneath the surface.

“That’s complicated,” he said softly. Then, with a crooked smile: “Let’s just say I’m an earlier version. One with a bit more charm.”

She didn’t laugh. She couldn’t. He looked too real—too close to the person she’d just lost.

He drifted closer until he was right in front of her. A vague chill radiated from him—sharp and clean, like air after a storm. The scent of old paper and rain clung to him like static.

His gaze softened, the teasing edge fading.
“You’ve been crying a lot, huh?” he murmured. “That’s not a good look on you, Yashiro.”

Her name in his voice made her chest ache.
“What… what are you?” she whispered.

He tilted his head, eyes catching the red light bleeding through the cracks in the floor. The reflection burned briefly gold.
“A ghost,” he said simply. “Or something close enough.”

The word ghost hit her harder than it should have.

His expression remained calm—almost kind—but there was a hollowness beneath it, as though he were holding something back.
“Don’t look so scared,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He floated backward a few steps, turning lazily in the air, the tail of his uniform flaring just so. “Actually,” he went on, glancing toward the ceiling with mock consideration, “you could say I’m here because you’ve caused me a bit of a problem.”

Her brow furrowed. “What… do you mean?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned back toward her.

For the first time, his feet began to descend toward the floor. The air seemed to resist him. Dust rose in spirals, caught in invisible currents that circled his ankles like a faint, unseen tide.

Then his shoes touched down.

The sound was barely a whisper, but it carried through the room like a fault line snapping. The light flickered. The walls shivered. A ripple spread outward from where he stood, warping the air as though reality itself had forgotten how to breathe.

The ticking faltered—once, twice—then stopped altogether.

Dust froze midair. The faint flicker of the lamp steadied into a blood-warm glow. Even her heartbeat felt muffled in her ears, as though time itself were deciding whether to go on.

Hanako stood at the center of it all, perfectly still. The shadows leaned toward him, drawn by a gravity she couldn’t see but could feel in the back of her teeth.

Nene swallowed hard, every part of her trembling. She had the dizzy, impossible sense that she was standing between two mirrors—and if either of them cracked, the world would go with it.

When he looked up at her, his expression had softened—not playful now, but solemn, almost sad.

“Come on,” he said quietly, extending a hand toward her. “We don’t have much time left.”

Chapter Text

For a small eternity, Nene just stared at his outstretched hand.

It hung there between them—impossibly steady, both real and not real. The air around it shimmered faintly, like heat rising from a candle flame.

She didn’t move.
Couldn’t.

“What… what happens if I take it?” she whispered.

Hanako tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That depends,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

Her breath caught. “I don’t even know what you are.”

“Fair,” he said lightly, though his gaze never left hers. “But I think you already know who I was.”

The silence that followed seemed to press inward, thick and suffocating. The room itself felt smaller—its edges blurred, its air too still. She looked again at his hand. His fingers didn’t tremble. They waited, patient, like he’d been offering it for a very long time.

Finally, she managed, “You said you were an earlier version of him. What does that mean?”

Hanako’s smile faltered. For an instant, he looked older than his face allowed—like the weight of years he’d never lived sat behind his eyes. “It means I used to be Amane,” he said quietly. “Just… not the one you know.”

He let his hand fall to his side as he drifted closer, the red dust circling him pulsing once—like a heartbeat. “The truth is, you were never meant to be here,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“I—I don’t understand—”

“You took one timeline and split it in two,” he continued, pacing slowly around her, his voice soft but unrelenting. “In the original thread of time, you weren’t human. You were a cat—his cat. The little white one that used to curl up on the sofa and watch him grade papers.”

Her heart stuttered. The world seemed to tilt around her. “How do you know that?”

He gave a short, amused breath. “I know a lot of things, Yashiro. You’d be surprised what clings to the corners of time.”

He stopped in front of her again, folding his arms loosely. “You made two wishes. One—to have him love you more than anything. And the other—to trade your nine lives for a human heart. That kind of wish doesn’t just bend fate.” His gaze darkened. “It tears it apart.”

She swallowed hard. “But… I just wanted to be with him.”

“I know.” His tone gentled. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

The lamplight wavered. Dust drifted lazily between them, each mote glimmering like a faint red spark.

Hanako’s gaze lifted toward the ceiling, distant and thoughtful. “In the timeline you came from, Amane Yugi wasn’t meant to find you like this. He wasn’t supposed to love anyone. His story…” He exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. “His story ends very differently.”

Nene frowned, her voice small. “Differently how?”

Hanako looked at her then—really looked—and for a fleeting moment, the teasing vanished entirely. What replaced it was grief, old and worn, like a scar that never healed.

“When Amane was five,” he began softly, “his little brother made a wish. This house—the Red House—granted it. Tsukasa wished to save his brother from dying of heart failure. A slow, ugly death.”

His gaze lowered. “The price was himself. The house took Tsukasa’s life in exchange.”

Nene’s breath hitched.

“But the entity that lives here didn’t stop there,” Hanako said. “It feeds on bargains—on guilt. It wore Tsukasa’s body after, like a costume. Smiled with his face. Played with his toys. For years, Amane believed it was still really him.” His voice softened, cracking faintly. “He wanted to believe that more than anything.”

Her stomach twisted. “And he killed him,” she whispered.

Hanako’s eyes flicked up—steady, haunted. “He killed it. But the guilt didn’t die with the body. The house made sure of that. Years later, when he began to teach, it whispered to him through dreams—told him how to fix everything.”

Nene’s voice trembled. “He went back in time…”

Hanako nodded. “He did. He made a deal—to take his brother’s place. To give the house his heart instead. He thought it would end the curse.”

“And it didn’t?”

Hanako’s smile was weary. “It never does. The house always takes what it’s given—and keeps the rest for itself. When Amane Yugi sacrificed himself, what was left became me.”

Her voice faltered. “You’re—”

“I’m the echo,” he said simply. “A ghost tethered to the price he paid. The piece the house couldn’t quite digest.”

Silence thickened between them, heavy as the air before a storm.

Finally, she whispered, “So the Amane here—my Amane—he wasn’t supposed to love me?”

Hanako’s gaze softened. “No,” he said quietly. “That was your doing. Your wish rewrote his path. It gave him something he was never meant to have. And because of that…” He gestured to the walls, which pulsed faintly with red light. “…you set everything off balance.”

She took a shaky step back, guilt and fear colliding in her chest. “Then why help me? If this world shouldn’t exist, why do you care?”

He laughed—not cruelly, but with a tired, human ache. “Because if it collapses, so do I.”

Her eyes widened.

“This house connects timelines,” he continued. “It’s a hinge—a wound—between worlds. Every version of us is threaded through it. If it devours one timeline, it keeps going until there’s nothing left. Even mine.”

The air pulsed with his words, as though the house itself was listening.

Nene wiped at her face, trying to think through the fear. “So what do I do?”

Hanako hesitated, glancing upward as though hearing a vague rhythm only he could detect. “I’ve bought us a little time,” he said finally. “Stopped the clock—for now. But it won’t last.”

“Clock?” she repeated.

He nodded slowly, lowering his hand toward the floor. “Every wish, every bargain, every life that’s ever touched this house is tied to one constant—the clock that governs it. In this place, it takes the form of an old grandfather clock. Big. Ornate. You’ll feel it before you see it.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “It’s the heart of the Red House. Stop it, and you might stop everything.”

“Might?”

“Time’s funny that way,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s your best shot.”

She hesitated. “You can’t stop it yourself?”

Hanako’s smile turned wry, almost self-mocking. “If I could, I already would’ve. But ghosts like me—we’re bound by the laws we broke. I’ve already meddled more than I should have. If I touch the heart myself, I’ll undo what little time you still have.”

“So… I have to do it.”

“I’m saying,” he murmured, stepping closer, “that if you don’t, everything ends. Amane. Me. You. Every version of every one of us. The house wins.”

Nene looked down at her trembling hands, then back up at him. “You’re asking me to trust a ghost.”

He grinned. “That’s one way to put it.”

Her voice shook. “How do I know this isn’t another trick? Something the house made to mess with me?”

Hanako met her eyes, unflinching. “You don’t.”

Then, after a beat, he added, “But if I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it by now.”

A weak, startled laugh escaped her.

Hanako’s smile gentled. “There. That’s better.”

The air hummed between them, the walls shivering with unseen motion. The ticking, silent throughout their conversation, suddenly stirred again.

Faster this time. Sharper.
Counting down.

Hanako’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling, his voice low and urgent. “That’s your cue.”

“How long do I have?”

He tilted his head, listening to something deep within the house. Then his lips curved faintly.

“Twenty-six minutes and forty-nine seconds,” he said. “Give or take a heartbeat.”

Nene swallowed. “That’s not much.”

“It’s all I can give you,” he said softly. “Make it count.”

The light flickered once more. Before she could speak, the air shifted—cold wind spiraling through the room. Hanako’s form blurred, fading like mist in slow motion.

“Wait—!” She reached out, but her fingers closed on empty air.

His voice lingered, low and distant, echoing from somewhere just beyond sight.

“Remember, Yashiro… clocks don’t just tell time. They decide it.”

And then he was gone.

The ticking filled the silence he left behind—a relentless, urgent rhythm driving her forward. Nene turned toward the hallway, wiped the last of her tears, and began to run.

Chapter Text

Nene ran.

At first, her footsteps were too loud, slapping against the floor as the halls stretched and warped ahead of her. The ticking chased her—sharp, relentless, threading through her bones like a second pulse. Her lungs burned. Every turn felt wrong, as though the house were nudging her off course.

She kept going anyway, unaware that something else had taken the lead.

The air grew gentler. The corridor widened, its angles softening, walls smoothing as if worn down by years of touch. Light poured in through tall windows lining one side of the hall, washing the floor in warm color.

Her pace slowed before she realized she’d let it.

Beyond the glass, gardens spread endlessly—trimmed hedges, careful paths, flowers bowing beneath a sky caught between night and morning. Dew clung to the petals like scattered jewels, flashing when the breeze stirred.

She stared too long.

The ache in her chest faded, replaced by a quiet warmth that seeped into her limbs, loosening muscles she hadn’t realized were clenched. The ticking dulled, retreating into the background until it no longer clawed for her attention.

Slow down.

The voice brushed against her mind, low and familiar.

She stumbled, one hand lifting instinctively to the wall. The stone beneath her palm was warm. Comfortingly so. Her heart skipped, a rush of fear tightening her throat—but the voice didn’t come again.

It’s just stress, she told herself. Exhaustion. Wishful thinking.

The corridor shifted.

The pale stone underfoot deepened into soft rose, veins of color threading through it like something alive. Outside the windows, dawn melted into early morning. Doors opened along the hall, revealing rooms dressed in colors that echoed the sky—muted blues, gentle lavenders, the soft gold of sunlit linen.

Time blurred.

She passed long tables polished to a soft gleam, shelves of books that tugged unexpectedly at her chest, chairs that looked too inviting to be traps. Some rooms smelled faintly of spice and old paper. Others carried the clean, sharp scent of rain.

Once, she thought she heard laughter—distant, gentle—and the ache it stirred made her look away before she could examine it.

The house didn’t hurry her.

It let her wander.

For a while, she forgot to count her breaths. Forgot to track the space between ticks. The urgency thinned, stretching into something heavy and languid, pulling her into a slow, pleasurable sway.

It no longer felt like a prison, she thought.

The walls flowed around her in soft, bleeding colors, watercolor dreams shifting from one hue to the next, brushing against memory and comfort alike. Every corner, every shadow, every delicate curve seemed familiar, as if the house had folded all the beautiful things she had ever known into its very bones.

And for a fleeting moment, it felt like home.

She caught herself smiling—just once, small and unthinking—and flinched. The smile vanished, guilt prickling her skin.

The clock, she reminded herself. I need to find the clock.

She reached outward, trying to recall Hanako’s words. Tried to sense the pull of it—the thrum, the weight, the wrongness that should have guided her.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then certainty bloomed.

It struck fast and absolute, filling her chest with confidence so sharp it almost hurt. She knew where to go. She had seen it—not with her eyes, but somewhere deeper.

She turned without hesitation.

Mint tiles melted into shimmering pearl. Pearl cooled into blue. Silver halls flushed into darkest crimson. She moved faster now, focused on the invisible thread pulling her forward, barely registering the shift beneath her feet—

Until she looked down.

Black stone stretched in all directions.

She stopped short.

The corridor had split without warning, branching cleanly into four identical paths. North, south, east, west—if directions still meant anything here. Each hall identical in height, width, and shadow. Each floor the same polished black, swallowing the light instead of reflecting it.

The ticking pulsed louder here, closer than ever before.

She stood frozen at the center of the crossroads, heart stuttering, dread curling around the edges of her borrowed calm.

Another trick, she thought.

Her fists clenched. She hesitated—then footsteps sounded suddenly behind her.

Not the ticking. Not the house settling.

Footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. Close enough that the sound of leather against stone slid straight up her spine.

Nene spun toward the south corridor.

He was already there, walking away from her.

For a heartbeat, her mind refused to fit the shape together—the tall silhouette, broad shoulders outlined by soft light. A white lab coat hung down his back, swaying gently with each step. His hands were tucked into its pockets, posture easy, almost regal in its calm, as though this place bent around him instead of the other way around.

He whistled.

The sound was quiet, tuneless, absurdly normal. It floated through the black halls like a forbidden song.

“A… Amane?”

Her voice cracked on the name.

He didn’t turn.

He just kept walking, footsteps steady, stride long and unhurried, each step commanding without effort, as if he were both part of the house and apart from it. The sconces along the wall flared softly as he passed, their light warming, catching on him like devotion.

She took a step without thinking. Then another.

Her heart pounded too hard now, hope and fear tangling until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He was taller than she remembered—or maybe the house was making everything feel exaggerated, unreal. The lab coat fit him perfectly, crisp and clean, the hem brushing the backs of his legs. Beneath it, tailored slacks—dark and immaculate—and polished loafers that struck the stone in a gentle, grounding rhythm.

Not what Amane had been wearing.

The thought surfaced weakly, then vanished beneath the rush of wanting.

His hair—dark and unruly—caught the light as he moved, gleaming auburn where the sconces kissed it. The color reminded her painfully of warmth: late afternoons, sunlit classrooms, chalk dust and low laughter, and that quiet, steady pull he always seemed to exert without trying.

Beautiful, her traitorous mind supplied.

Unfairly so.

The whistling stopped. She froze, breath caught halfway in.

He slowed—just slightly—and she felt it like a hand pressed against her heart. When he reached the bend in the corridor, he paused. He didn’t turn. He didn’t look back. He lingered just long enough for the moment to stretch thin and fragile.

As if waiting.

As if giving her time to decide.

Finally, her resolve melted. Every warning she’d clung to slipped through her fingers, drowned beneath the ache of recognition. This was him. It had to be. Even if the details were wrong—even if the house was lying to her—this was the shape her hope had taken.

A guide. An answer.

An angel in a lab coat.

“Sensei,” she whispered again, louder now.

He stepped around the bend.

Gone.

The corridor swallowed him whole, light dimming where he’d been, leaving only the echo of his footsteps and the faint, lingering calm he’d carried with him.

Nene didn’t think. She ran after him, down the south corridor, chasing the ghost of white fabric and soft whistled notes—like Alice after a white rabbit, only this one wasn’t counting the minutes.

He was stealing them from her.

Chapter Text

The south corridor narrowed as she ran, the black stone beneath her feet lightening with every step—as if the house itself were coaxing her forward. Dark pearl bled into gray, gray into soft bone-white. The air warmed, carrying the faint, impossible scent of clean linen and old books.

“Wait—!”

Her voice rang too loudly, fragile against the long stretch of hall.

A flash of white ahead—fabric vanishing around another bend—and her pulse leapt painfully.

He was close. Close enough that she could still feel him.

The calm he carried lingered in the space like a benediction. Her shoulders loosened despite herself. The relentless ticking dulled into a distant murmur. Even her fear seemed embarrassed in his presence, retreating to the edges.

She rounded the corner too fast—

—and collided with him.

The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Her foot slipped on the smooth floor, and she went down hard, palms scraping stone as the world jolted sideways. For a split second, there was only the sharp sting in her hands and the ringing in her ears.

Then silence.

A shadow fell over her.

“Yashiro?”

She blinked, disoriented, and slowly lifted her gaze.

Up close, he was devastating.

He stood above her in a spill of softened light, white coat luminous against the pale corridor, sleeves pushed just high enough to bare strong forearms brushed with shadow. His hands rested loosely in his pockets, thumbs hooked with casual grace. Dark slacks fell cleanly down long legs, crease sharp, immaculate—everything about him composed.

The last time she had seen him, he had been unraveling—eyes shadowed, shoulders drawn tight, a faint stain of red at his collar where another nosebleed had betrayed him. Time had been chewing through him piece by piece. The house had been winning.

This man looked untouched.

Older.
But whole.

The Amane she loved had been beautiful in a fragile, almost painful way. This version was beautiful like something carved carefully and allowed to harden. Early thirties, perhaps. The kind of teacher who never tried to command attention yet held it effortlessly. The kind who leaned against a desk instead of standing stiffly behind it. The kind who smiled only when he meant it.

Concern sharpened his features as he moved. He dropped into a crouch in front of her, coat settling neatly around his knees.

“Yashiro,” he repeated, softer this time.

Up close, his presence was overwhelming—not aggressive, not imposing. Just steady. Assured. He reached for her wrist, brushing his thumb lightly over her pulse as if checking it without conscious thought.

“Look at me,” he said.

She already was.

His gaze swept carefully over her face, searching for injury. There was no panic in him—only focus. One hand hovered near her shoulder before settling there gently, grounding.

“Did you hit your head?”

She shook it faintly.

“You’re sure?” His brows knit. “Any dizziness?”

“I’m fine,” she managed, though her voice came out thinner than intended.

His jaw eased, tension loosening by degrees.

“You always run toward trouble like this?” he asked quietly. The faintest hint of amusement colored the question—not mocking. Fond.

“I thought you were leaving,” she practically accused.

His mouth curved into a sly smile.

“And that required full-speed pursuit?”

There it was—that subtle shift. Professional restraint laced with something warmer. Something that felt dangerously personal.

“You know,” he continued, thumb still resting against her pulse, “hallway rules exist for a reason.”

The words were textbook. But the way he said them—soft, close—made them anything but ordinary.

“I don’t recall assigning you detention,” he added, voice lowering slightly. “So we’ll let this one slide.”

Heat rushed to her face.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

He withdrew his hand slowly, as though aware of the exact moment the contact would be missed.

The simplicity of it made her chest ache. She remembered the other him—the blood at his lip, the exhaustion hollowing his bones, the monster stirring behind his eyes. That Amane had been slipping through her fingers.

This one felt solid. Present. In control of himself.

He rose smoothly and extended his hand to her. No flourish. No dramatics. Just quiet certainty.

“Come here,” he said, a playful note threading his voice. “Up you go.”

She placed her hand in his. His grip was firm without being tight. He pulled her to her feet in one steady motion, unhurried, unwavering. When she swayed slightly, his other hand shifted instinctively to her waist to steady her.

He did not step back.

They stood close enough that she could feel the quiet warmth radiating from him. Close enough to notice the subtle difference—the patience, the self-possession. The way he seemed aware of the effect he had and chose not to exploit it. That restraint was far more intoxicating than arrogance would have been.

“You’re trembling,” he observed softly.

“I’m not,” she protested.

His gaze dipped to her fingers where they curled loosely in the fabric of his coat. He raised a brow and she let go. The corner of his mouth lifted—barely.

“Let me take you somewhere quieter,” he said. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Behind her, the corridor felt distant and wrong. The air around him felt warmer. Protective.

“Are you going to run again?” he asked lightly.

She shook her head.

“Good girl.”

He extended his hand once more—not commanding, not insistent. Just certain she would take it.

And Nene did, hoping—desperately—that this version of Amane, whole, unburdened, and impossibly beautiful, was leading her to safety.