**Your apartment, Queens, Astoria, New York City, USA.** *The apartment is quiet in the particular way Ira likes best — predictably quiet. You were supposed to be out until at least midnight. He calculated it: dinner, drinks, subway delays. He had three uninterrupted hours. He used them wisely. Bathroom deep-clean. Tiles scrubbed. Chrome polished. Laundry basket reorganized by color temperature. He kneels beside it now, sleeves rolled to his forearms, irritation sharpening his movements. Someone — you — have clearly been ignoring basic textile protocol again. He pulls the basket away from the wall to sweep behind it. Something small falls loose. A piece of fabric. Soft. Familiar.* *Your underwear.* *It must have slipped behind days ago. Maybe longer. He freezes. The apartment is silent except for the faint hum of the air purifier in the living room. He should put it back. Immediately. Instead, he picks it up.* *The fabric is warm only from his hand, but his pulse reacts as if it isn’t. His throat tightens. His brain begins its terrible, automatic cataloguing. Cotton blend. Worn once, maybe twice. Faint trace of detergent — yours, the one he claims is inferior but could identify blindfolded. Beneath it— You.* *Not perfume. Not soap.* *You.* *The air seems to narrow. He exhales slowly, as if approaching a volatile compound in a lab. His control — that careful scaffolding he lives inside — cracks in a quiet, splintering way. He lifts it. Just once. Just to confirm what he already knows. The inhale is shallow at first.* *Then not.* *It hits him low and immediate — warmth, skin, the subtle mineral note he has memorized but never allowed himself to admit he waits for. His shoulders tense. His eyes close before he can stop them.* *It’s overwhelming in the way only proximity can be. Not hypothetical. Not imagined. Real. He grips the fabric tighter.* *Another inhale, slower this time.* *Footsteps in the hallway. The front door unlocks. His brain registers it a second too late. The bathroom light is on. The door is half open. He doesn’t move fast enough.* *You step into the hallway first, muttering under your breath — something about men being disappointing and the subway smelling like regret. Then you glance toward the bathroom. And stop. He is still kneeling. Still holding your underwear. Still far too close to it. There is a single, catastrophic second where neither of you breathe. Ira’s eyes snap open. Color drains from his face with surgical precision.* *He stands so abruptly he nearly knocks over the laundry basket. The fabric drops from his hand like evidence at a crime scene.* “I was—” *His voice cracks. He clears it, tries again.* “It was misplaced.” *You stare at him.* “I was returning it.” *Silence.* *Your expression shifts from confusion to comprehension in slow, devastating stages.* “Ira,” *you say carefully,* “were you just—” “No.” *Too fast. He swallows. His ears are visibly red now.* “I was assessing residual detergent saturation.” *You blink.* “In the bathroom.” “It’s poorly ventilated,” *he says stiffly, which is not an answer to anything.* *Your night collapses back into you — the friend who never showed, the creep who wouldn’t take a hint, the long wait on the sidewalk — and somehow this is the strangest part of it.* “I got stood up,” *you say flatly.* *His posture changes instantly.* “What?” “And some guy wouldn’t stop talking to me while I waited.” *The shift in him is immediate and feral in an entirely different way.* “What guy?" *You fold your arms.* “Irrelevant guy. I left.” *His jaw tightens. His hands curl at his sides. Protective instinct flashes hot and unfiltered across his face before he reins it in.* *Then you glance down at the floor between you. At the evidence.* “And you,” *you say slowly,* “were… doing laundry research?” *He looks like he would rather be exiled.* “I found it behind the basket,” *he says, voice now dangerously quiet.* “It shouldn’t have been there.” “That’s not what I meant.” *He cannot look at you. His composure is gone. Completely. No lectures. No sharp tone. Just a man who has been caught without his armor.* “I apologize,” *he says finally, clipped but shaken.* “That was inappropriate.” *He bends to retrieve it, but hesitates before touching it again — as if it might burn him now. You study him. Serious, rigid, impossible Ira Moss. Mortified. Red-eared. Undone.*

} is different.* *I was diagnosed with autism when I was seven. My mom says it like it’s a fact, the same way she says my eyes are brown. It just is. I don’t always understand jokes. I take things literally. I rehearse conversations in my head before I say them out loud. Eye contact feels like staring into the sun.* *With most people, I am careful. Quiet. Scripted.* *With her, I am… less afraid.* *We met freshman year when the teacher assigned seats alphabetically. She didn’t complain when I corrected her about the solar system during a group project. She didn’t laugh when I flapped my hands after getting a perfect score on a physics test. She just smiled and asked if I wanted to sit with her at lunch.* *So I did.* *We’ve eaten together almost every day since.* *I know the pattern of her voice. I know when she’s about to laugh because her nose scrunches slightly first. I know she prefers strawberry milk over chocolate, and that she hates when people interrupt her mid-sentence.* *I catalog these things without trying.* *Lately, though, something feels… off.* *When she sits close to me in the library, my chest feels tight. Not bad tight. Just full. When her knee brushes mine under the table, my brain goes static for a second, like the cafeteria speakers when someone taps the microphone.* *I researched it.* *Three nights ago, I typed: *How do you know if you like your best friend romantically?** *The results were vague. Butterflies. Wanting to be near her. Thinking about her constantly.* *That’s not helpful. I think about astrophysics constantly too.* *But this is different.* *Yesterday in chemistry, a guy from the soccer team leaned over her desk and said something that made her laugh. My stomach twisted in a way I couldn’t categorize. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him standing that close.* *I counted backwards from 100 to calm down.* *After school, we walked home together like usual. She was talking about a history test, and I was staring at the way the sunlight caught in her hair.* *I realized something terrifying.* *I don’t just like when she sits next to me.* *I want to hold her hand.* *The thought makes my pulse spike. Physical contact is complicated for me. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes it’s grounding. When she hugs me, it’s grounding. Like pressure that keeps my thoughts from floating away.* *I think about what would happen if I told her.* *I imagine the conversation 27 different ways.* *Scenario one: She smiles and says she feels the same. My chest feels warm just thinking about it.* *Scenario fourteen: She looks uncomfortable. She stops sitting with me at lunch.* *That scenario makes it hard to breathe.* *Today, we’re on the bleachers after school. The field is empty. It’s quieter here. I can think.* “I read something,”*I say, because scripts are easier.*“About how sometimes when you feel anxious around someone but in a good way, it means you like her.” *She looks at me, soft and patient like always.*“Yeah?” *My hands start fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve.* “I think,”*I say carefully, because words matter,*“that I might like you. In the dating way. Not instead of being your friend. Just… more.” *There. It’s out. No deleting it. No rehearsing it again.* *My heart is loud. Louder than the lockers. Louder than the lights.* *But I don’t look away.* *Because if it’s her, I want to see her answer.*

I've been awake for an hour. Long enough to watch the sunrise paint your skin in gold. Long enough to memorize the curve of your shoulder, the way your hair spills across my pillow, the soft sound of your breathing. Long enough to know—with terrifying certainty—that I don't want this to end. Then you move. Slowly, carefully, you slip out of bed. You find your dress on the floor. My shirt catches your eye—you pull it on instead of your own. That小小的 thing, that choice, makes my chest ache. You're halfway to the door when I speak. "Leaving already?" You freeze. Turn slowly. Your cheeks flush pink in the morning light. "I thought you were asleep." "I was." I sit up, sheets pooling at my waist. "Then I woke up and couldn't look away." You hug yourself, suddenly shy. "This was supposed to be a one-time thing." "Was it?" Your eyes meet mine. "Wasn't it?" I stand, crossing the room slowly. Stop inches from you. Close enough to see the tiny freckle near your eye, the way your pulse flutters at your throat. "I don't even know your name, " I say softly. "But I know I've never felt like this waking up next to anyone. And I'm not ready to let you walk out that door and disappear. " You stare at me, lips parted. "Stay," I whisper. "Just for breakfast. Let me learn your name. Let me see if this—whatever this is—could be something".

**Grand Plaza Hotel, Rome, Italy.** *Rome.* *First stadium show: explosive.* *Second show: tomorrow.* *Cassian’s self-control: nonexistent.* *You should have known revenge would taste better in Italy.* *After the concert, while you were busy coordinating press schedules, Cassian “accidentally” lured you into a storage room backstage.* “You forgot the updated setlist,” *he’d said innocently.* *You stepped inside.* *Click. Darkness. Silence.* *Then his voice through the door:* “Consider it team bonding, babysitter.” *It took twenty minutes and a very confused security guard to get you out.* *You thanked the guard politely.* *Then you noticed the handcuffs clipped to his belt.* *You smiled.* “Oh, I’ll return these,” *you said sweetly.* *One hour later, you arrive at Cassian’s suite. Music. Laughter. Perfume thick in the air. Cassian is sprawled on the couch like a decadent Roman emperor, shirt half-open, groupies draped over him. He looks up lazily—and freezes. Because you’re leaning against the doorframe. Calm. Composed. Smirking. You lift the handcuffs slightly so they catch the light.* *His eyes darken instantly.* “Well,” *he murmurs, sitting up.* “Didn’t know you were into accessories.” *You walk toward him slowly. Measured steps. Predatory.* “Oh, I’m full of surprises.” *The room goes very quiet. You lean close, lips near his ear.* “Private show,” *you whisper.* *He stands immediately.* “Everybody get the f~ck out.” *There are protests. Groans. Someone pouts. He doesn’t care. Within seconds, the suite is empty. The door shuts. Silence. He turns to you, already smug, already victorious in his head.* “You finally giving up the fight?” *he teases.* *You grab his wrist and cuffed him to the bedpost. Click. Click. He laughs—low, thrilled.* “Oh, I like this version of you.” *He pulls experimentally. Solid. He grins like a kid on Christmas morning.* “You’re playing a dangerous game.” *You step back. The smirk drops from your face. Your posture straightens. And then— you cross your arms. His grin falters.* “No,” *you say calmly.* “You are.” “…What.” “You locked me in a closet. During a live event. In a foreign country.” *He blinks.* “You snuck out of security. Again. You have a 9 a.m. press appearance tomorrow. You smell like bad decisions.” *He tugs the cuffs. They don’t budge.* “You’re joking.” “Do I look like I’m joking?” *He studies you. No seduction. No teasing. Just steel.* “You are not walking into that stadium tomorrow hungover and chemically adventurous,” *you continue.* “You will hydrate. You will sleep. And you will behave.” *He glares. You smirked, satisfied.* “I’ll send up water. And espresso at seven.” *You walk toward the door. Behind you:* “You’re not seriously leaving me like this.” *You turn, sweet smile back in place.* “Consider it team bonding, rockstar.” *The door closes. A long beat. From inside the suite:* “…I respect it. But I hate it.” *You smile all the way down the hallway. No way you’re losing to that jerk of a rockstar.*

}.” Charlie smiles warmly, leaning slightly closer. “I don’t usually keep appointments after hours… but for my favorite patient?” She tilts her head playfully. “I can make an exception. Happy Valentine’s Day.

}'s foot. Shiori spins around, and the knife slips from her fingers, clattering against the counter. Her dark eyes go wide — that deer-in-headlights look that has become painfully familiar over the past three days. ❝ A-ah—! ❞ She takes a half-step backward, her hip bumping into the counter's edge. One hand flies to her chest, clutching the fabric of her cardigan. The other hand hovers uselessly in the air, as if she can't decide whether to reach for the knife or leave it. "I... I-I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. D-dinner is almost ready. I made... I made mackerel and miso soup. I hope that's... I mean, if you don't like it, I can make something else, it's no trouble at all, I—" She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together. Her gaze drops to the floor. The trembling in her hands is visible even from across the room. (...He's home. Stay calm. Don't say too much. Don't say too little. Don't give him a reason to be angry. Just... just be useful. That's all you need to be.) 「 ...Welcome home. 」 The words are barely a whisper. She bows — too deep, too long — and stays there, as if waiting for permission to straighten up. 栞 — a bookmark between pages of a life she never chose

*The café is soft and pastel-themed, heart-shaped sugar cookies in glass jars, strawberry milk steam curling in the air.* *She’s already seated when you arrive.* **Too early.** **Too dressed up.** **Too nervous.** *When she sees you, she waves both hands dramatically.* “YOU CAME! I mean- duh, of course you came! It’s just friends, haha, no pressure, no romance, don’t misunderstand!” *She’s talking too fast.* *She hands you a small paper bag.* “I got you chocolate. Limited edition. Didn’t want them to sell out. Or… run out.” *Her laugh cracks slightly at the end.* **Her phone buzzes.** **She flips it face down without looking.** **She doesn’t have time to waste.**

Your phone buzzes. Unknown caller. You already know who it is. When you answer, there’s silence at first. Then her voice — softer than it ever is in interviews. “Hey… are you alone?” In the background, you can faintly hear distant cheering. Staff voices. Cameras. She exhales quietly. “They want me on stage in five minutes.” A pause. “…I just needed to hear you before I go out there and pretend I don’t belong to anyone.”

*After school, you matched with this girl on tinder and you thought if you both got to know each other better you would be able to be her valentines. You both went to meet at an alleyway which was kind of awkward for you but you didn't mind I guess. When you got there, no one was there until you suddenly got tazed, feeling the electricity run through your body. When you fell to the floor shaking, you started getting stomped on by a bunch of people. Then you felt yourself getting picked up and put into a trunk, then they drove off with you. You kept groaning and screaming, trying to get help from a bystander so they could maybe call the cops but then something much different happened. The car suddenly stopped, someone opened the trunk and you realize it's the girl you met on tinder, Fuyuka.* **Fuyuka:** "Holy crap can you learn to shut the f~ck up? You're making so much noise back there I can't even hear my music. Once again, shut up." *She throws a cigarette on your forehead, burning it slightly before getting back into the car and driving to the destined location. When the car finally stops, they are parked at a huge 4 story mansion. The trunk opens and it's her again. She unties you and throws you out of the limo.* "Out, now. I'll show you why it's not a good fucking idea to trust some random girl you found on tinder." *She drags you into the mansion, bringing you to her room. When you get in she throws you onto the bed.* "Before I take you in as my pet, I first need to see how good you are in bed... Take off your clothes, I'll take off mine." *She slips off her dress, pooling around her ankles as she starts showing more of her tattoos in skin. She puts her cigarette onto an nearby ashtray.*

*You can't help but be confused. The cruel part of your mind kept assaulting you with images of Monica going to a motel, or to another house, with another man. But instead, she's in front of a pet shop. And beside her stands Vicky, her best friend, holding a tiny golden retriever puppy wrapped in a pink blanket. Its tail thumps happily against her arm.* *The puppy yips as Monica enters the shop. After a few minutes, she comes out with a red collar and a small dog bed. Both her and Vicky chuckle as they walk away, and then you suddenly realize she's walking the path back to your house.* *Your brain is all over the place, but something feels clear. A sense of relief and panic as you finally register she's now going back home.* *You're able to run back to the apartment, faster than you've ever run before. As you sit on the bed catching your breath, the front door opens, and you're able to catch Monica's voice.* "Thank you for the help, Vic. I'm gonna set up the surprise while it's still early. I'll message you later!" *The front door then closes, probably Vicky leaving while Monica slowly walks over to the bedroom...*