The headache hit her first.
A dull, pounding throb at her temples that felt like someone was playing a drum inside her skull.
Ayaka groaned softly, lifting a hand to her forehead as she sat up slowly. Every motion sent a ripple of nausea and dizziness through her body.
Her vision swam for a moment before gradually focusing on the soft light filtering in through long, sheer curtains.
A room she didn't recognize. High ceilings marble floors, and velvet furnishings.
"This isn't… my place?" she muttered, her voice hoarse.
Then her eyes trailed down.
She gasped.
Her body was wrapped in a clean satin robe—smooth, luxurious, clearly not her own. But the cardigan loosely draped over her shoulders... that was hers.
She clutched at it instinctively, frowning in confusion.
"I changed clothes…? Since when…?"
Before she could spiral any deeper into panic, the door clicked open with a soft sound. She flinched.
Makoto Miura stood there, framed in the doorway like a scene from some damn noir movie—black turtleneck, dark slacks, a cup of coffee in one hand, and that unreadable expression in his eyes. Calm and composed.
"Good morning." he said, voice smooth as velvet and just as rich.
Ayaka sprang into a half-defensive crouch on the bed, gripping the cardigan around her like armor. "Y-you! What did you do to me?!"
Makoto blinked once, unphased. "Relax, Ms. Midnight. You passed out at the bar. I didn't know where you lived. I brought you here—safe. You're fine."
Her eyes narrowed, not entirely convinced. "Then… how did I—" Her words trailed off as her gaze flicked down at the robe. A blush exploded across her cheeks. "Y-you saw everything?!"
Makoto chuckled, walking slowly toward the bed, his gaze steady and far too amused. "No." he said, setting the coffee down on a side table.
"The maids helped. I'd never touch you without permission." His voice dropped an octave. "Though I admit, you do make quite the vision when flustered."
Ayaka's blush deepened. "Stop saying weird things! Just—give me back my clothes, I'll get out of your way."
Makoto tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting. "You're in no condition to go anywhere. Besides..." he glanced toward the window, "It's pouring out there."
As if on cue, a rumble of thunder growled low in the distance, and sheets of rain lashed the glass. The storm outside was in full force.
"I'll take the bus." she muttered stubbornly, trying to stand—only for her legs to wobble beneath her.
She grabbed the bedpost for support.
Makoto was at her side in two long strides, his hand closing around her wrist—not too tight, but firm. "Stop. You're clearly still hungover and barely able to walk. Sit down, Ayaka."
The sudden use of her first name made her freeze.
She sat.
Makoto stepped back slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. "I had your clothes laundered. They're on the chair. But before you go, at least eat something. You'll feel worse otherwise."
He gestured to the small table by the window, where a breakfast spread had been carefully laid out—porridge, warm soup, toast, fresh fruit, and even a little jar of honey.
Next to the tray sat a small stack of pills and a glass of water.
Ayaka blinked, surprised. "You… made all this?"
Makoto's lips curved into a half-smile. "I'm not completely hopeless, you know."
Before she could argue again, he left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft *click*.
Ayaka sat there for a long moment, staring at the food.
Then she sighed and got up, slowly, shakily, putting on her clothes again.
The familiar fabric brought little comfort.
Everything still felt wrong.
The soup tasted nothing like what she was used to.
Akihiko used to make breakfast for her all the time.
The flavor of his miso—light, balanced, careful—was engraved into her memory.
This was bolder.
Heavier.
Spiced differently.
Not bad. Just… different.
Foreign.
She pushed away the ache swelling in her chest and forced herself to eat, chewing mechanically.
The pills helped dull the headache, and eventually, her strength returned enough to get up and make her way downstairs.
The apartment was quiet, except for the soft sound of jazz playing somewhere—a muted saxophone weaving through the silence like a thread.
Makoto stood by the front door, already dressed in his coat, holding an umbrella in one hand.
Rain beat heavily against the windows behind him.
When he saw her, he smiled.
"I was about to come check on you."
"I'm fine now." Ayaka muttered, clutching her cardigan tighter around herself.
Makoto stepped forward and opened the door for her, holding the umbrella just above them as they walked briskly to the sleek, black car parked out front.
He opened the passenger door and gestured with a small bow. "Your chariot."
Ayaka slipped in with a quiet, "Thank you."
As he got into the driver's seat, she took in the soft leather interior. No antiseptic. No lingering scent of hospital-grade cleanliness like Akihiko's car.
Instead, it smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, warm and personal.
"Something wrong?" Makoto asked as he adjusted the mirrors.
She shook her head. "Your car doesn't smell like… a hospital."
Makoto chuckled. "Should it?"
"No. I just… never mind." She looked away, rain tapping gently against the windows.
"Hey." he said quietly, glancing over at her as the car rolled forward into the storm.
"You don't have to filter anything when you're with me. Be messy. Say whatever you need to. I won't run."
Ayaka blinked at him. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her cardigan.
"I'm quite surprised that Moonlight Sonata is not as mysterious as I thought he would be." she said softly.
"Well." Makoto's gaze returned to the road, but his voice held an edge of something—firmness, maybe, or protectiveness. "Get used to me, then."
The words hung between them, bold and unyielding.
The drive was long, the storm slowing traffic to a crawl.
But the silence inside the car wasn't uncomfortable—it was oddly charged.
Tense in a way neither of them wanted to name.
Halfway through the drive, Makoto reached over to the dashboard and turned the heat up slightly.
Then, without a word, he took a soft cashmere scarf from the backseat and draped it gently over Ayaka's lap.
"You were shivering." he murmured.
Ayaka stared at the scarf, touched it, and then whispered, "You don't have to be this kind to me."
Makoto's jaw flexed. "And you don't have to act like kindness is something you owe back. Let me do it. I want to."
That silenced her.
When they finally pulled up in front of her apartment, the rain hadn't slowed.
Makoto got out first and opened her door, holding the umbrella above her again.
"I'll walk you up." he said.
"You don't have to—" she began.
But the look he gave her silenced any protest.
It wasn't aggressive—not quite. But it brooked no argument.
He wasn't asking.
The hallway to her door was quiet except for the echo of their footsteps and the rhythmic pattern of rain behind them.
When they reached her apartment, Ayaka turned to unlock the door, her fingers fumbling slightly.
Makoto watched her.
"I'm sorry about last night." she said suddenly. "You shouldn't have had to deal with me like that."
"Then don't apologize." he said. "Just… don't do it again."
She blinked up at him. "What?"
"Don't destroy yourself like that." Makoto said, stepping closer. His green eyes were sharp now, no longer teasing. "If you're hurting, come to me. Don't drown in it alone."
Ayaka's breath caught.
"You don't even know me." she whispered.
"I know enough." His voice lowered. "Enough to see when someone's hanging by a thread."
She looked away.
"I'm not looking for someone to save me." she said, trying to inject steel into her voice.
Makoto's smile was slow and deliberate. "Good. Because I don't save people. I stand by them. I fight with them. And if you think I'm going to just stand here and let you disappear into your own misery, you're underestimating me."
He leaned in just slightly—close enough for her to feel the heat of him.
"Let me be here." he said. "Not as your collaborator. Not as some passing stranger. As me."
Thunder rumbled again in the distance.
Ayaka stared at him—wet hair, jaw clenched, eyes intense and filled with something she didn't know how to name.
Then, finally, she whispered, "You're stubborn."
Makoto's grin returned—slow, lazy, and unrepentant.
"Get used to that too."
------
The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sound of the rain.
Ayaka leaned back against it, chest rising and falling as she took in the silence of her apartment.
The familiar scent of lavender and paper greeted her like an old friend, wrapping her in solitude.
It was the first time she'd been alone in what felt like forever—yet somehow, it didn't feel like peace. It felt… empty.
Her bag dropped with a soft thud by the shoe rack, and she slipped off her shoes like muscle memory.
Each movement was slow, as if her body were made of porcelain, one wrong move away from shattering.
Makoto's scarf was still wrapped around her shoulders.
She held it in her hands, fingers brushing the fine weave of the cashmere. Warm. Thoughtful.
Still clinging to the faintest trace of his cologne—deep cedarwood, subtle spice. He'd been gentle. Protective. He hadn't crossed any lines.
And yet…
Ayaka let out a soft exhale and moved toward the couch.
The apartment was dim, but she didn't turn on the lights.
Instead, she curled up, knees drawn to her chest, Makoto's scarf draped around her like a question she didn't want to answer.
The thunder was quieter now. Just a soft rumble in the distance.
Her eyes wandered to the coffee table, where an old mug still sat—faded blue ceramic, chipped at the rim.
One Akihiko always used when he came over. When he brewed coffee in her kitchen like it was his own. When he moved through her apartment like he belonged there.
Like he belonged to her.
Her heart ached.
No matter how kind Makoto was… no matter how he stood close enough to reach her… he wasn't Akihiko.
He wasn't the one who lingered in her dreams.
He wasn't the one who had brushed her hair behind her ear and said in that low, unreadable voice, "You're impossible to ignore."
He wasn't the one who left.
Ayaka buried her face into her knees, the scarf pressing against her cheek. Her throat tightened.
Why did Akihiko feel like a wound that refused to heal?
Why did the very thought of him still hurt more than the pain of being left behind?
Makoto had been nothing but sincere—sweet in his own assertive, maddening way.
He said things no one else dared to. He looked at her like she mattered.
Like she wasn't a burden or a ghost of someone she used to be.
But still.
Still, her heart beat for someone who wasn't here.
For someone who chose silence over goodbye.
For someone who disappeared, leaving her with a cardigan, a hole in her chest, and no answers.
Akihiko's face haunted her like a melody stuck in the back of her mind.
Makoto had told her not to drown in her pain alone.
But what if she didn't know how to surface?
Ayaka lifted her head slowly, eyes glassy, and whispered into the dim apartment, "Why couldn't you have stayed?"
No one answered.
Only the quiet hum of the rain outside.
And the ache that reminded her—she still belonged to him.