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Chapter Text

Tatewaki Kuno had, in his mind, reached new heights of martial prowess. His training with the uh, venerable master Happosai had been rigorous, arduous, and, though its methods were shrouded in mystery, undeniably effective. His strikes had grown sharper, his footwork swifter, and his endurance boundless. He had, of course, noticed certain peculiarities in his training—namely, the emphasis on speed and evasion rather than direct combat, the insistence on leaping across rooftops in the dead of night, and the inexplicable requirement that he carry increasingly heavy sacks of silk garments he collected in the search for the elixir that could make him even stronger.

But these were mere eccentricities of an ancient master! And had not the old man praised him? Had he not declared Kuno’s “missions” a vital part of his martial ascension? A warrior must move unseen! A warrior must strike like the wind! A warrior must treasure the spoils of battle! The meaning of this last lesson remained somewhat unclear, but Kuno, being a man of refined intellect, chose to interpret it metaphorically.

Thus, it was with some surprise—nay, shock —that he found himself accosted by a uniformed policeman during his latest nightly excursion.

"Excuse me, young man."

Kuno, fresh from an evening of high-speed rooftop sprinting, turned to face the officer. He stood upon the quiet street, clad in his ever-flowing hakama, his wooden sword resting upon his shoulder, and strapped to his back—a rather large, rather full, rather damning burlap sack.

"I must ask you to accompany me to the koban for questioning," the officer said, adjusting his cap with the weary air of a man who had seen much and expected worse.

Kuno furrowed his noble brow. "Sir, I know not what suspicions plague your mind, but I assure you, I am Tatewaki Kuno, The Blue Thunder of Furinkan High ! I walk the path of righteousness! I—"

"Yeah, yeah," the officer sighed. "Just… come along quietly."

Kuno was not alone in the small police station.

Seated on the hard wooden bench across from him was a young woman of a wholly different breed—one of those so-called yankii , a delinquent of low moral fiber and questionable upbringing.

She lounged against the wall, her arms folded, one leg propped lazily against the bench. Her dyed blonde hair, in a messy tight braid with bangs, framed a face set with perpetual boredom. A toothpick hung from her lips, shifting as she chewed it idly. A very short skirt, knee-high socks, an oversized, open-collared school jacket—her entire aesthetic screamed defiance.

For a moment, they merely regarded each other.

Then, she smirked. "So, whatcha in for, samurai boy?"

Kuno, arms crossed, lifted his chin. "I am here on account of a misunderstanding. The authorities, in their folly, suspect me of base criminality."

She gave a low whistle. "Fancy words. What'd they actually catch you with?"

Kuno hesitated, glancing at the sack beside him. Its contents—delicate, silken, and irrefutably damning—were already being catalogued by the officers.

"That is irrelevant," he declared.

The girl’s smirk widened. "Right. Lemme guess. You borrowed those?"

Kuno narrowed his eyes. "I was performing a duty of great importance. A training exercise! One which required—"

"Stealing panties?"

Kuno’s back went rigid. "Madam, you insult me! I would never engage in so base an act!"

She leaned in slightly, resting an elbow on her knee. "Then why’re you here?"

"I…" Kuno faltered, for the first time feeling a faint, unwelcome trickle of doubt. "I was instructed by my master to retrieve… artifacts of value… as part of a most sacred trial…"

The girl laughed, low and husky. "You got played, samurai."

Kuno scowled. "I find your insinuation—"

"— Hilarious ," she interrupted. "C'mon, man, even I can see what happened. You got tricked into being some pervy old man's errand boy."

Kuno opened his mouth to protest, but no words came.

Could it be? No. Impossible! Master Happosai was a man of wisdom, a paragon of martial mastery! He did train Tendo Akane’s father! Surely, he would not—

The image of Happosai cackling as he rifled through the day’s "spoils" surfaced unbidden.

Kuno paled.

The delinquent girl watched, clearly enjoying his dawning realization. "Yeah. It’s sinkin’ in now, huh?"

Kuno’s jaw tightened. His honor… his pride… was this the bitter truth? He had been used ?

He exhaled slowly. " Foul treachery ," he muttered, voice laced with disbelief.

The girl chuckled. "Yeah, well. Welcome to the real world, buddy."

A silence stretched between them. For the first time, Kuno truly looked at her. She was unlike the girls he typically admired—unpolished, wild, an emblem of rebellion rather than grace. And yet, there was something… compelling. A different kind of beauty.

And she, in turn, seemed to be appraising him.

"Y'know," she said lazily, "you're kinda cute when you're not talkin’ crazy."

Kuno stiffened. "I am always composed and dignified."

She smirked. "Yeah? Prove it."

Before he could ask what she meant, she leaned in, close—so close he could feel her breath, warm against his skin. Her scent was nothing like the floral perfumes of high-society girls from his sister’s school. It was sharper, rawer, a mix of cigarette smoke, leather, and something uniquely hers.

Kuno did not move. Did not breathe.

"You're blushin'," she murmured.

"I am not ," he rasped.

She chuckled, brushing past him as she rose to her feet. "Good luck explainin’ that sack of lingerie, samurai." With a lazy stretch, she made her way to the desk, speaking casually to the officer. "So, uh, am I free to go?"

Kuno barely registered the conversation. His pulse, steady in battle, now thrummed unevenly. For the first time that night, his thoughts were not on his supposed training, nor his foolishness.

One of the officers—a middle-aged man with deep lines on his face from years of dealing with idiots—sighed and looked at the two of them over his notepad. "Neither of you are leaving yet. We need to confirm some details first, we’re understaffed."

Kuno straightened. "Perhaps, then, a token of goodwill would expedite the process?" He reached into his hakama, retrieving a stack of several 10,000 yen bills. "A donation to the honorable public servants of Nerima, for their ceaseless diligence—"

Ranko let out a short, barking laugh as she sat back down. "Oi, Samurai Boy, that’s bribery ."

Kuno’s eyes widened in horror. "I would never stoop to so base an act! My intention was merely—" He tucked the bills back into his robes with great urgency. "Forget I spoke."

The officer pinched the bridge of his nose. "For your sake, kid, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that."

Ranko was still chuckling as she threw away her toothpick into a trashcan. "Man, you are fun. So, what's your name, Samurai Boy?"

Kuno drew himself up, placing a hand to his chest. "I am Tatewaki Kuno, the Blue Thunder of Furinkan High!"

There was a pause.

Then Ranko howled .

"Blue Thunder?!" She slapped her knee. "You sound like a damn deodorant !"

Kuno scowled. "It is a name that strikes fear into my foes and admiration into the hearts of—"

"Nah, nah, don’t get me wrong," Ranko interrupted, wiping a tear from her eye. "Kuno Tatewaki, though? That fits."

Kuno, despite himself, was briefly at a loss. His gaze flickered over her as he gathered himself. Her hair—frazzled and unruly—was fried to a brassy blonde from over-dyeing. But near her scalp, just past the jagged edge of her bangs, he could see it: a hint of red at the roots, a pale strip of skin untouched by self-tanner. The illusion wasn’t perfect, and for some reason, that made it more interesting. There was a young, pure maiden under there.

He cleared his throat. "And you, madam? How are you called?"

"Ranko," she said, grinning like she knew something he didn’t.

Kuno blinked. He had expected something rougher, something to match her demeanor. But Ranko was soft, feminine, almost delicate in its ending. Kuno studied her again. "And why are you here, Ranko?"

Her smirk widened. "Fightin’."

Kuno’s interest sharpened. "A duel? An honorable challenge?"

Ranko snorted. "Nah. Some chick was talkin’ shit. I settled it."

Kuno hummed in thought. An enforcer of justice? Or merely a warrior without discipline? Either way, he found himself intrigued.

Ranko, however, was watching him . Kuno was unlike any guy she’d met before—dramatic, full of himself, but weirdly earnest . He had that old-school charm, like he actually believed in the crap he was saying. And those arms… Huh. He was built under all that pomp.

She leaned in, just enough for him to notice.

"So, Samurai Boy," she purred, "you ever been in a real fight?"

Kuno drew himself up, puffing out his chest in practiced confidence. "I am the captain of Furinkan High’s esteemed kendo club! I have bested countless foes in official tournaments, my blade swift as lightning, my form impeccable. To cross swords with me is to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Ranko interrupted, twirling her toothpick between her fingers. "That ain't real fightin’."

Kuno's eye twitched. "It is the highest form of martial artistry!"

"Is it, though?" Ranko smirked, tilting her head. "You ever been in real danger?"

Kuno scoffed. "My skill is such that I have never faced true peril."

Ranko raised an eyebrow. "So you ain't ever been in a fight where someone actually wanted to hurt you?"

Kuno hesitated. He had technically been in fights, yes—many, in fact—but rarely did he register them as dangerous . Even when his sister’s beloved alligator took offense to his moonlit garden strolls, he had always emerged largely unscathed. All things considered.

"Such… base struggles are beneath me," he declared at last.

Ranko sucked her teeth, giving him a slow once-over. This guy. He talked like he was hot shit. A thought struck her.

A fun thought.

She grinned, voice slipping into an exaggerated, syrupy tone. "Y'know, Samurai Boy… I bet you couldn't escape police custody with me."

Kuno blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

She turned her gaze to the two officers at the desk, speaking just loud enough for them to hear. "These guys are so strong," she said, voice dripping with false admiration. "Bet they'd take you down in seconds if you tried to fight ‘em."

The older officer sighed audibly but said nothing, flipping through paperwork with the weariness of a man who had no patience for whatever nonsense was about to unfold.

Kuno scoffed. "Madam, do you doubt my prowess?"

Ranko shrugged. "I dunno. Ya say you’re strong, but I bet you'd just sit here all night, waitin’ for ‘em to let us go."

Kuno bristled. "A warrior does not—"

"—Wait around?" Ranko interrupted, eyes glinting. "Could ya do it, though? Could ya actually help me escape?"

Kuno narrowed his eyes. The challenge in her voice was clear—daring him, mocking him.

And Tatewaki Kuno did not suffer mockery.

He straightened, his presence expanding with renewed purpose. "Very well," he declared, voice steady with conviction. "If you doubt my ability, then witness it for yourself!"

Ranko bit back a grin.

Kuno stood up and opened his mouth, the policeman immediately looked at him, tired. “Sit down, please.”

The air in the small police station was thick with the sterile scent of old coffee and bureaucracy, punctuated only by the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Ranko lounged lazily in her seat, boots kicked up against the edge of the wooden bench, arms crossed, wholly unconcerned. Kuno, in stark contrast, sat with impeccable posture, his back straight, his hands resting on his knees as though he were about to be formally interviewed for a prestigious position.

The weary-looking officer shuffled a stack of papers at the front desk, glancing over at them with the distinct expression of someone who wanted nothing more than to go home.

“Right, so,” the officer finally sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Kuno Tatewaki, seventeen, no prior record, and—” He frowned, reading further. “Head of the Kuno household?”

“Indeed,” Kuno confirmed, his voice even, authoritative. “As the eldest son, and with my father currently instructing abroad, the management of my family estate and the care of my younger sister fall solely upon my shoulders. As such, I must insist that unless formal charges are to be pressed against me, I be released at once.”

Ranko turned her head slightly, eyeing him with mild amusement. Oh, this was good.

The officer frowned, clearly reluctant to just let him walk, but Kuno, in all his highborn, noble glory, wasn’t finished.

“I would remind you, sir, that you have my full name, my place of residence, and the records of my distinguished academic standing. I have always been, and will continue to be, an upstanding member of my community. I hardly see what benefit there would be in detaining me further on mere suspicions.”

The officer exchanged looks with his colleague, weighing their options. Finally, with another heavy sigh, he waved a hand.

“Fine. You’re free to go. Just… go straight home, alright?”

Kuno inclined his head in a graceful nod. “You have my word.”

Ranko, still slouched, grinned as she stretched out her arms. “Cool. What about me?”

The officer glanced at the paperwork in front of him and exhaled sharply through his nose. “The other girl didn’t want to press charges.”

“Course she didn’t,” Ranko snickered. “Smart girl.”

The officer’s expression darkened slightly, but he didn’t push the matter. The last thing he wanted was to deal with more paperwork, and truthfully, the girl Ranko had beaten up was probably guilty of worse offenses than a fistfight.

“Just get out of here,” he muttered.

Ranko hopped up to her feet, rolling her shoulders. “Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

As they stepped out into the cool, empty streets, Ranko slid her hands into her pockets, glancing sidelong at Kuno.

“So, rich boy, ” she said, her voice light with amusement. “That was pretty slick.”

Kuno scoffed, but there was the slightest smirk on his lips. “It was merely a matter of presenting the facts.”

Ranko snorted. “Facts, huh? More like knowing how to talk like a damn prince.”

Kuno glanced at her, the lamplight catching the sharp edges of his profile, the proud slope of his nose, the firm line of his jaw. “And you? Would you have remained in custody, were it not for fortune smiling upon you?”

“Nah,” she shrugged. “I knew that chick wasn’t gonna say anything. She had stuff in her bag she didn’t want them poking around in. She wasn’t dumb enough to bring me down with her. I just didn’t know how long the police wanted to keep me waitin’, and you made them real tired with all your fancy talk.”

Kuno stretched his arms, inhaling deeply. He turned to Ranko. "Well then, madam, it appears our paths now diverge. I bid you a—"

A hand tugged at his sleeve. Ranko, still grinning, leaned in with a lazy, predatory amusement. "Nah, I don’t think we’re done yet, Samurai Boy."

Kuno frowned. "You have been freed. What more is there to say?"

Ranko let her fingers trail down his sleeve before she stepped back, hands on her hips. "Listen, Kuno —" she said, deliberately using just his name, watching the way it made him pause. "It’s late. I got nothin’ to do. And you?" She tilted her head. "You seem to have dough to spare."

Kuno gave her an imperious look. "A man of my stature does not squander wealth on frivolity!"

She rolled her eyes. "You literally tried to bribe a cop, Samurai Boy."

Kuno faltered. "...That was a misunderstanding, a mere mistake."

"Yeah, well. How ‘bout you make another mistake and buy me some food?” she batted her eyelashes at him. “It wouldn’t be nice if I went around that school of yours, blabbing about how I met their freshest deodorant scent warrior at a police box late at night…"

Kuno narrowed his eyes. "Is this extortion ?"

Ranko grinned, eyes glinting. "Only if you say no."

Kuno exhaled, shoulders straightening. "Very well, then."

Ranko smirked. He’s so easy. But as they walked, her gaze slid over him again—the way his back was straight, his presence weirdly solid .

The neon glow of the Lawson convenience store sign buzzed softly against the quiet of the late night, casting its artificial blue-white light over the near-empty street. Ranko, hands stuffed in her pockets, led Kuno inside with the ease of someone who had long since mastered the sacred art of loitering in 24-hour stores.

She wished there was somewhere better to take him—some hostess club, a snack bar, somewhere with dim lights, cheap drinks, and old men who’d let her slip in if she batted her lashes the right way. But those places had started catching on to her. Too many bar owners had thrown her out by the collar, too many back-alley joints had learned who she was and what she did to the pockets of distracted patrons.

She was running out of places to go.

So, Lawson it was.

Kuno entered with the same presence he carried everywhere—regal, self-assured, and completely out of place in the fluorescent-lit world of packaged bread and instant ramen.

Ranko stifled a laugh as she watched him scan the aisles like they were some foreign bazaar.

"Whaddya want?" she asked, grabbing a bag of chips off the shelf and tossing it into the basket hanging from the crook of her arm, her other hand occupied with a can of cafe au lait.

Kuno sniffed, eyeing the selection with mild disdain. "Is this truly the extent of your tastes?"

Ranko smirked. "Hey, it’s either this or I make you take me to the fancy casino restaurant across town. Your call."

Kuno frowned, clearly weighing the honor of indulging a lady against the indignity of such a lowly setting. Finally, with a decisive hmph , he plucked a bottle of jasmine tea from the fridge and a neatly wrapped sushi roll from the shelf.

Ranko whistled. "Wow, high roller. Really goin’ all out."

He ignored her, stepping toward the register.

After paying—a process in which Ranko didn’t even pretend that she wanted to pay for her share, and asked for some fresh fried chicken and a pork bun at the counter—she led them outside, stepping into the quiet, empty parking lot.

She plopped down against the curb, cracking open her drink with practiced ease.

"Alright, let’s eat," she said, patting the pavement beside her.

Kuno recoiled. "I refuse to sit upon the ground like a common delinquent."

Ranko grinned. "Buddy, you are a common delinquent. You just don’t know it yet."

Kuno scoffed, standing tall as if he hadn’t just been detained in a police station for what technically amounted to panty theft.

Ranko smirked, tilting her head up to look at him. "So what, you gonna eat standin’ up like a weirdo?"

"Unless I shall find a proper seat ," Kuno declared, scanning the area.

Ranko chuckled, sipping her drink. 

Kuno, still maintaining his air of dignity, took up a position against the post box near the entrance of the Lawson. He leaned against it stiffly, as if simply standing there preserved his honor, though the act of eating in public already felt unrefined enough.

Ranko watched him from the curb, munching on her chips, thoroughly entertained.

"So," she said, voice casual, "you got a few girlfriends?"

Kuno paused mid-sip of his jasmine tea. "A most absurd question!" he declared, lowering the bottle. "I, Tatewaki Kuno, am sought after by many, yet my heart is devoted only to one."

Ranko raised an eyebrow. " Oh ?"

"Indeed." Kuno straightened. "Every morning, without fail, I challenge the fierce and beautiful Tendo Akane in battle, that I might prove myself worthy of her affections!"

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ranko choked on her drink. " You fight her ?!"

Kuno nodded proudly. "Naturally. It is only through the crucible of combat that a warrior's heart may be tested!"

Ranko wiped her mouth, still trying to process this. "Okay, okay, hold up—why the hell are you fighting her? Ain’t the point of liking someone not to punch ‘em in the face?"

Kuno frowned, as if she had just asked him why the sky was blue. "You misunderstand! I adore Tendo Akane because of her strength. It is her spirit, her indomitable will, her unyielding power that enraptures me! To witness her in combat is to witness true beauty !"

Ranko stared at him.

Then she burst out laughing.

Kuno scowled. " What is so amusing?"

Ranko wiped a tear from her eye. "Samurai Boy, you got it bad ."

Kuno huffed, taking a bite of his temaki sushi as if that might restore his dignity.

Still grinning, Ranko tilted her head. "Okay, so if you’re so strong, why ain't you won yet? What, she’s just that much better than you?"

Kuno hesitated, his expression taking on a rare touch of solemnity. "...I cannot strike a woman in earnest."

Ranko blinked. "Huh?"

"It is a matter of honor," Kuno explained, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Though I wield great strength, I cannot bring myself to go all out against Tendo Akane. And thus, I am always defeated ."

Ranko stared at him, torn between disbelief and genuine amusement.

"So lemme get this straight," she said, pointing a chip at him. "You love how strong she is. You fight her every day ‘cause you wanna prove you’re good enough for her. But you won’t actually try to win ‘cause you don’t wanna hit a girl?"

"Precisely!" Kuno nodded, apparently unaware of how ridiculous he sounded.

Ranko snorted. "That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard."

But beneath the laughter, she had to admit—there was something kinda endearing about it.

Stupid. But endearing.

When they finished eating, Ranko stretched with exaggerated laziness, tossing her empty drink bottle into a nearby trash can. The late-night quiet settled around them, the hum of the city distant, like a lullaby beneath the buzzing streetlights.

Kuno wiped his hands meticulously with a pocket square—because of course he carried one—before straightening his posture with the air of someone about to take his leave.

"I shall bid you good evening, madam," he said, as if he had just finished escorting a noblewoman to her estate.

But Ranko had other ideas.

"Walk me home," she said, stuffing her hands in her pockets.

Kuno blinked. "Surely you are capable of navigating the streets alone?"

"Yeah," Ranko shrugged. "But I want you to walk me."

She could tell he was about to argue, that whole samurai brain of his probably cycling through honor codes and duty and whatever nonsense he lived by, but then he sighed, long-suffering and dramatic.

"Very well," he said.

And so, they walked.

But Ranko wasn’t leading him home.

Her home was a government building, one of those giant gray monoliths where the prefectural office assigned apartments to people who couldn’t afford better. She shared a cramped one-bedroom with her dad, who was probably drunk right now, the apartment thick with the smell of old booze and cigarette smoke.

She didn’t want to go home.

So she didn’t.

Instead, she led Kuno through the dark, empty streets, past shuttered stores and silent alleys, letting their conversation meander just as much as their steps.

She liked him. Not in a serious way—she didn’t do serious—but he was fun . So tall, and broad-shouldered, and dumb as hell. That was the kind of guy she liked.

"Alright, Samurai Boy," she said, tossing a pebble into the street, "if ya can’t fight your girl, how’re you ever gonna get her?"

Kuno exhaled, as if he had been asked this many times before. "My devotion shall prove itself in time. A man must endure hardship for the sake of love."

Ranko snorted. "Yeah, sure. Women love guys who let ‘em beat the crap outta ‘em every day. That’s real attractive."

Kuno frowned. "You misunderstand my principles!"

"Yeah, yeah," she grinned, nudging him with her elbow. "You ever actually kiss a girl before?"

Kuno stiffened. "I shall not indulge such vulgar inquiries!"

Ranko laughed. That’s a no.

Eventually, they wandered into a small park, the only sign of life the rustling of trees and the faint flicker of a vending machine light.

Ranko spotted a bench and plopped down with a sigh, stretching her arms over the back.

Kuno hesitated. "There is a sign stating the park is closed ."

Ranko rolled her eyes. "Yeah? And where’s the park police?" She gestured around them. "Ain’t nobody here. It’s fine."

Kuno hesitated a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose—long, dramatic, deeply Kuno —before sitting beside her, posture perfectly straight.

Ranko watched him for a moment, then leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee, chin in her palm. The way he carried himself was so funny. So stiff, so formal, like he belonged in a damn castle instead of an empty park in the middle of the night. His kendogi was pristine despite everything, the deep blue fabric stretched over a frame that was—she had to admit—impressive. Yeah. He looked good.

His dark hair curled slightly at the edges, spilling over his forehead in a way that made him look almost romantic, like the kind of noble warrior from an old painting. He was all broad shoulders, clean skin, and something stupidly gallant in the way he carried himself.

Ranko smirked.

“You wanna make out?” she asked.

Kuno jolted as if she had suddenly struck him across the face. His head snapped toward her, mouth slightly open, face already beginning to turn red.

“You’re teasing me!” he sputtered.

Ranko grinned, watching him struggle. “Nah,” she said, tilting her head. “Dead serious.”

Kuno’s hands clenched into fists on his knees, his entire body radiating tension. He looked like he had just been personally challenged to a duel, like he was preparing himself for battle against the weight of temptation itself.

“I— I cannot—!” He turned his head sharply, staring straight ahead with something that looked suspiciously like panic . “Such impropriety—! Such indecency—! We’ve barely met and you want me— want us to—! I mean, I would , of course—”

Ranko chuckled, resting her cheek against her hand. God, this was fun.

“Relax, Samurai,” she teased. “I ain’t gonna jump ya.”

She let him off the hook, because honestly, watching a guy flustered like this? Watching all that self-importance crumble into awkward, useless blushing? That was half the fun.

Kuno exhaled slowly, forcing himself to loosen his shoulders, to unclench his fists. He absolutely would have kissed her, he assured himself. It was simply that it had caught him off guard. That was all. A matter of surprise, not reluctance.

And of course, he loved Tendo Akane. That was unquestionable. But he was also a man of flesh and blood, a young man at that, and surely even Akane would understand that to indulge in the occasional kiss—purely in the spirit of youthful experience—would not diminish his love for her in the slightest.

Luckily, Ranko seemed to take mercy on him, stretching her arms behind her head and shifting the conversation with an easy, casual air.

“So,” she said, tilting her head. “If ya got all that money, what the hell ya doin’ at Furinkan?”

Kuno blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“Ain’tcha supposed to be in one of those fancy international schools? Or a stuck-up private school for the elite?” Ranko gave him a side-eye. “Rich boy like you don’t belong in a normal school like Furinkan.”

Kuno adjusted his sleeves, looking as if he’d never even considered the idea of not attending Furinkan. “My father, who currently instructs overseas, mandated that I enroll at Furinkan. I obeyed.”

Ranko snorted. “Damn, you a daddy’s boy or somethin’?”

Kuno frowned slightly. “It is merely a matter of proper discipline and respect. My father’s word is law, and I would not dishonor his wishes by defying them.” He straightened. “Besides, I find Furinkan… acceptable. It does keep me humble.”

Ranko’s laugh was sharp. “Must be a pretty bad school if they don’t teach you what humble means!”.

Kuno folded his arms, exhaling. “There is value in walking among common men, in testing oneself against all manners of opponents, regardless of station.”

She wiped at her eye, still grinning. “You are funny, Samurai. And here I thought ya just liked chasin’ that tomboy around.”

Kuno gave her a pointed look but didn’t argue.

Ranko stretched out her legs, the tips of her scuffed boots tapping against the pavement. “What about your little sis? She got stuck with Furinkan, too?”

Kuno shook his head. “Kodachi attends St. Hebereke's School for Girls.”

Ranko gave a low whistle. “Damn. Now that’s a rich kids’ school. I’ve lifted cash offa some of those girls. They’re loaded.”

Kuno’s brow twitched. “That is highly dishonorable.”

She just grinned. “C’mon, they can afford it.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Bet yer sis walks around loaded, too, huh? What’s she like? Some kinda princess?”

Kuno sighed, rubbing his temple as though he already regretted answering this line of questioning.

“She is… spirited.”

Ranko leaned back, stretching her arms behind her head, flashing Kuno a toothy grin. “Spirited how?”

Kuno didn’t like that question. Discussing Kodachi with a delinquent girl who just admitted to stealing from her classmates? Not happening. He straightened slightly, smoothing out his sleeves. “She keeps a pet crocodile.”

“…Huh?”

“In our estate’s pond.”

Ranko tilted her head, considering. Then her lips curled into a smirk. “So you do live in a damn castle.”

Kuno huffed. “It is an estate , not a castle.”

“Same diff,” she muttered, then gave him a sly look. “Y’know, I think I’ve been there before.”

Kuno stiffened. “…You what ?”

Ranko grinned at his reaction, enjoying the way he suddenly seemed very, very alert. “Not, like, inside or nothin’. My ex’s gang thought they could rob the place. I tagged along.”

Kuno stared at her, horrified. “You were an accomplice to an attempted robbery of my home?!”

Ranko waved a hand lazily. “I didn’t do nothin’. Just wanted to see if they had the guts to pull it off.” She snorted. “Turns out, they didn’t.”

Kuno did not like where this was going. “…Why?”

She leaned toward him slightly, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Cuz your lil’ sister’s crocodile ate my ex’s finger .”

Kuno choked.

Ranko laughed , full and unrestrained, tilting her head back as if reliving the moment. “Man, you shoulda seen it! He was screamin’, runnin’ like his ass was on fire—cryin’ about how he’d never be able to play mahjong right again!” She wiped at her eye, shaking her head. “Dumbass deserved it.”

Kuno was speechless.

Ranko noticed his expression and grinned wider, nudging his knee with hers and leaned in just a little closer, her voice dropping into something smoother, lazier. “C’mon, you gotta admit, it’s kinda hot that I hang out with guys missin’ fingers.”

Kuno jerked back slightly. “ Absolutely not. ”

She threw her head back laughing, her whole body shifting toward him in that effortless, unfiltered way of a girl who wasn’t afraid of anything. Kuno, meanwhile, was sitting ramrod straight, distinctly aware of the warmth of her leg barely brushing against his.

This girl is insane.

And yet—despite himself—he felt something unexpected stir in his chest. Not quite fear. Not quite admiration.

Something far more dangerous.

Kuno shook his head, still processing the sheer absurdity of what he had just heard. Then a thought struck him. “Is that why you broke up with him?”

Ranko raised a brow. “Huh?”

“Because of the missing finger.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Ranko’s lips curled into a slow, amused smirk. “Ohhh,” she drawled, eyes glinting. “You mean ‘cause he wouldn’t be able to, y’know…?” She lifted a suggestive brow. 

Kuno, ever dignified, ever oblivious, looked at her blankly.

Ranko bit back a laugh. Holy shit, he really doesn’t get it.

“Nah,” she said, waving a hand. “Wasn’t about that. Though, real talk, he did cry about it.” She snorted. “As if that was his biggest problem.”

Kuno frowned. “Then what was?”

Ranko exhaled, leaning back against the bench. “Dumbass got himself in debt. Gambled away everything he had.”

Kuno’s frown deepened. “That is unfortunate.”

Ranko shrugged. “Yeah, well. Woulda just been his problem, ‘cept he thought he could pay it back by, y’know—” she tilted her head, giving him a pointed look “— pimping me out .”

Kuno’s entire body went rigid.

Ranko chuckled dryly. “Yeah. Real piece of work, huh?”

“That,” Kuno said slowly, voice low and hard, “is appalling .”

Ranko gave him a lazy grin. “Aww, ya mad for me, rich boy?”

“I am glad you are no longer with him,” Kuno declared, expression dark. “A man who would treat a woman as a bargaining chip is no man at all.”

Ranko was almost touched. Almost. But she was Ranko, so instead, she grinned, eyes half-lidded and teasing. “So what, ya think I’m ready for a proper gentleman like you?”

Kuno, ever proper, ever unflinchingly sincere, nodded. “I should hope so.”

Ranko froze for half a second.

Then she barked out a laugh, shaking her head. This guy. This absolute idiot.

She leaned in, smirking. “Y’know, Kuno,” she murmured, voice like a lazy drawl, “you say shit like that, and a girl might think you’re offerin’.”

Kuno blinked. “Offering what?”

Ranko just stared at him, grin widening. Hot and stupid, she thought. My favorite combination.

She grinned, slow and deliberate. “Offerin’,” she said, voice playful, teasing, “to let her use you for boyfriend practice .”

Kuno inhaled sharply. His blush deepened. “That is—!” He stopped, stiff, shoulders tensing like he’d been caught thinking something unclean .

Ranko almost laughed. Oh, so now he gets it.

She’d seen plenty of guys react like this before. But Kuno was different. Most guys’ dirty thoughts came with grabby hands, with expectations, with that look that made her feel like a thing instead of a person. Kuno, though? Kuno was looking at her like she’d just flipped the table on him in a game he didn’t even realize they were playing.

And somehow, that was cute.

Kuno cleared his throat, sitting up straighter, regaining his composure like a good little rich boy. “I— I really ought to return home.”

Ranko pouted, tilting her head, letting her voice drop into something sweeter, softer. “Aww, ya leavin’ already?”

Kuno hesitated, clearly torn. “…It is late. My little sister is home alone.”

“You promised to take me home.”

Kuno latched onto that like a lifeline. “If you are ready to go home, I shall walk you there.”

Ranko went quiet.

She wasn’t ready to go home.

Not to the apartment with its peeling wallpaper and the stink of cheap booze. Not to her old man passed out on the futon, barely conscious enough to remember she even existed.

She looked at Kuno, at his serious, noble face, at the way he still held himself so stiffly, like he was fighting not just his own thoughts but the very idea of entertaining them.

He wanted to. She could tell. But he was holding himself back.

And god, she hated how hot that made him.

Ranko licked her lips, watching him carefully. “I meant it, y’know.”

Kuno blinked. “Meant what?”

She leaned in just a little, just enough to test the waters, just enough to see if he’d flinch. “The make out offer.”

Kuno went utterly still.

Ranko smirked. “So?”

His lips parted slightly, his breath catching, and for one glorious moment, Ranko thought he might actually lean in.

But then—

“…I do not wish to kiss someone I do not love.”

Goddammit.

Ranko groaned, flopping back against the bench, dragging her hands down her face. “You are killin’ me, rich boy.”

Kuno looked away, stiff but resolute. “…I apologize.”

Ranko peeked at him through her fingers, grinning despite herself. “Don’t. It’s hot.”

Kuno made a strangled noise in his throat.

Ranko just laughed, pushed off the bench with a stretch, shaking out her limbs as if shaking off the weight of something unspoken. “Fine, let’s go.”

Kuno rose with the same measured grace he always had, straightening as though he were stepping onto a tournament floor rather than the cracked pavement of a deserted park. He fell into step beside her, silent, composed.

Ranko liked this.

She wasn’t used to it—this kind of companionship that didn’t demand anything from her. Her exes had always been loud, trying to prove something—to her, to themselves, to the world.

Kuno didn’t have to. He was awkward when she teased him, sure, but not insecure. He was composed not because he was indifferent, but because he feared nothing. His confidence wasn’t performative, wasn’t for show. And that, in a strange way, made her feel safe.

Not in the way her exes had tried to make her feel— them against the world , all bluster and bravado. No, Kuno made her feel safe even from himself . Like she could trust him not to turn. Not to take advantage. 

They walked the long stretch of the bridge in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly off the pavement. Below, the water moved in slow, lazy ripples, dark and unknowable.

Ranko kept her hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. This side of town was different—less neatly arranged, more forgotten. The further they walked, the more the buildings loomed, uniform gray monoblocks stretching toward the sky, old and faceless.

She was almost home. Almost back to reality.

Then she saw them.

Her steps slowed just slightly.

A few meters ahead, leaning against the bridge railing, her ex and his three little goons were loitering, tossing empty Strong Zero cans into the ground and stomping them noisily. The metallic clatter of each can rang out in the night.

Ranko clicked her tongue. Of all the damn nights…

Kuno, beside her, had yet to really notice them. He walked with his usual measured stride, back straight, hands folded behind him like some noble warrior surveying his domain. Completely unbothered.

But her ex and his goons had already spotted her.

“Well, well,” came a voice, slurred from either alcohol or stupidity—it was hard to tell. “Look who it is.”

Kuno finally glanced up. Ranko could practically hear his brain registering the scene—the row of guys loitering against the bridge railing, the metallic clatter of empty Strong Zero cans, the general air of delinquent uselessness.

Kuno sighed, quietly but audibly. “Are these acquaintances of yours?”

Ranko snorted. “Somethin’ like that.”

Her ex, a lanky punk with over-bleached hair and a jacket two sizes too big, sneered. “Who’s this, Ranko? Your new sugar daddy?”

One of his idiot friends laughed. “Damn, movin’ up in the world, huh? Hey, rich boy! How much she chargin’ ya?”

Ranko rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck. Deep breath. Count to three. Don’t start swinging yet.

Kuno, for his part, barely reacted. He simply blinked, expression impassive, like he was examining particularly low-quality street art.

Then he turned to Ranko and, in the most genuinely curious tone, asked, “Should I be offended on your behalf?”

Ranko barked out a laugh. “Nah, they’re just dumb.”

Kuno nodded, accepting this without question. “I see.”

Her ex, irked at being ignored, stepped forward. “Oi, Ranko.” His voice dropped, feigning something like concern. “You still owe me, y’know.”

Ranko’s eyes darkened. “I don’t owe you shit .”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like she was some disappointing kid sister instead of the girl he had tried to sell off to pay for some dumb gambling debts. “C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that.”

And then, the bastard reached for her wrist.

Ranko tensed, ready to break his remaining fingers.

But she didn’t have to.

Because Kuno moved first.

One moment, he was standing beside her. The next, he had stepped between them, seamlessly, effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t shove, didn’t even touch the guy—he just placed himself there, tall and solid and entirely unimpressed.

“You will not touch her.” His voice was calm, quiet, but there was steel in it.

Her ex scowled. “The hell’s your problem, man?”

Kuno tilted his head, like he was confused why this even needed to be asked. “My problem is you.”

Ranko bit her lip, stifling a grin.

Her ex was an idiot, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to pick a fight with someone Kuno’s size, especially when half his crew was already looking away, pretending not to be involved.

After a long pause, he scoffed, stepping back. “Whatever. She ain’t even worth it.”

Ranko exhaled, slow, controlled.

Kuno didn’t say anything. He just stood there, waiting, patient as ever, until the idiots regrouped at the side of the bridge.

Ranko shook her head, laughing under her breath. “Damn, rich boy. That was kinda hot.”

Kuno sighed. “I would rather it had not been necessary.”

She smirked. “Guess you’re not the type to flex on dumbasses, huh?”

Kuno glanced at her, brow arching slightly. “It would have been unfair for them. And rude to you.”

Ranko chuckled. Hot and stupid and polite.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders. “C’mon,” she said, nodding toward the other end of the bridge. “Walk me a little further?”

Kuno nodded. “Of course.”

Ranko saw sudden movement at the side of the bridge. She could only warn Kuno, eyes wide, as she shouted, “Watch out!”

Kuno turned just in time to see the flash of a blade coming straight for him. He sidestepped, heart hammering, but his reflexes were quick. The knife whooshed past, missing him by inches. His attacker stumbled, off-balance. But before Kuno could even react, Ranko was shoved hard. She hit the ground with a sharp thud, a gasp escaping her as her palms scraped against the pavement.

Kuno’s eyes darted to her, a momentary flicker of worry tightening his chest. That split second was enough for the ex to make another move. He lunged forward with the knife again, aiming for Kuno’s midsection, but Kuno grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip and twisted hard. The man’s gasp turned into a strangled cry.

The knife hit the ground with a clatter.

Kuno’s fingers flexed as he held the ex’s arm at an awkward angle, his focus sharp. He noticed the missing index finger, the jagged stump where it should have been.

The sound of running footsteps snapped his attention back. The three goons were circling, one already swinging a bat, intent on forcing Kuno to release their leader.

With a swift leg swipe, Ranko knocked the bat-wielder off his feet. He went down with a loud thud, wind knocked out of him. The bat flew into the air.

Kuno caught it easily, his grip natural, like it was an extension of himself. The weight felt good—strong, but not too heavy. He lifted it like a sword, pointing it at the other two goons, who froze in place. Their hands shot up in surrender.

Kuno didn’t look at them. He didn’t need to. His eyes were locked on Ranko’s ex, still struggling in his grip.

Kuno twisted the wrist harder. “Pick up your trash,” he said, his tone flat but commanding.

The ex glared up at him, trying to hold onto his pride, but the pain in his wrist made him rethink it. Finally, he spat on the ground, gritting his teeth as he released a sour look toward Ranko.

“You’re a fucking whore,” he hissed.

Ranko didn’t flinch, didn’t even react at first. She just narrowed her eyes, lips pursed, her stance unwavering. The words bounced off her like raindrops off steel.

Kuno’s jaw clenched at the insult, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he released the ex’s wrist, watching him stumble back, holding his sore hand, and slapped him. Hard. Like he didn't even deserve a punch. Ranko's ex gritted his teeth, seething, his cheek stinging with both pain and humiliation. 

The goons picked up the cans clumsily and moved back, looking back only once, clearly more concerned with getting away than their leader’s bruised ego.

As they retreated, Kuno raised the bat slightly, giving them one final warning. “Leave. And don’t come back.”

When they were gone, Kuno’s attention shifted back to Ranko. Her eyes were distant, still staring at the spot where her ex had stood. For a moment, there was only the distant sound of the river below them, the cold breeze of the night settling in.

Kuno stood a few steps away, unsure of what to say or do. He saw the scrapes on her palms, the faint tremor in her hands, and the shiver that ran through her. The night air, already sharp with cold, seemed to weigh down on them both, making her discomfort more obvious.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft. There was no hint of the stoic formality he often carried. His focus was entirely on her, as if the world had paused and nothing mattered more than her safety.

Ranko let out a breath, her lips curling into a half-smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine,” she muttered, but her voice betrayed the lie. She shifted uncomfortably, dusting off her jacket as if to hide the evidence of the scrape.

“You’re fast,” he said, almost thoughtfully, “and your form... it's impressive.”

Ranko’s lips quirked, a small glint of amusement dancing in her eyes. “I learned a thing or two,” she admitted, “I’m not that strong, but I’m small and fast. That counts for something, right?”

Kuno didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he seemed to study her for a moment, eyes flicking to the cold wind ruffling her bleached hair. He could sense the uncertainty, the subtle weight of everything unspoken between them. Finally, he spoke again, the words surprisingly gentle.

“Do you want to go home?”

Ranko looked up at him, the flickering street lights casting shadows over her face. For a second, she hesitated, as if the question had caught her off guard. Then she lowered her gaze, her lips pressing together in a tight line.

“No,” she said quietly, the word soft but definite, as if admitting it took more effort than she cared to show.

Kuno nodded, his expression unwavering, but there was something in his gaze that softened. “Do you want to come home with me?” he asked, the words simple but undeniably loaded.

Ranko’s eyes widened just slightly, and she caught the hint of seriousness in his voice. A smile tugged at her lips, and she raised an eyebrow, trying to make light of the situation. “You’re trying to take me home with you?” she teased, her voice light and mocking, the easy deflection slipping past her lips.

It was meant to be a joke, but she couldn’t quite tell if Kuno understood that, or if he was simply being Kuno, with his usual detached composure. Either way, she wasn’t expecting him to respond with such ease.

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation, his gaze steady and unflinching. “If you would like to.”

Ranko blinked. She hadn’t expected him to say yes so quickly, nor to meet her tease with such quiet confidence. For a moment, she stood there, surprised. But then, a slow smile spread across her face. It wasn’t the teasing smile she’d had earlier, but something else—something softer, almost a little unsure, but real.

“You really are a weird one, huh?” she muttered under her breath, though there was no malice in it.

Kuno didn’t respond, but his eyes softened, a small flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yes,” he said, his voice low. “I suppose I am.”

Ranko didn’t know what made her nod and follow him, but she did. Something about him, about the way he was, kept her from running away. And for once, maybe she didn’t want to.

Chapter Text

The steady crack of wood against wood rang through the Furinkan High kendo hall, each strike precise, deliberate. Tatewaki Kuno moved with effortless grace, his bokken a seamless extension of his will. His opponent lunged—too aggressive, too eager—and with a single deft counter, Kuno turned the attack aside, sending the other boy stumbling back. The match was over before it had truly begun. Kuno lowered his stance, offering a crisp bow, his expression composed. Around him, the other club members murmured, their focus wavering, and not because of the match.

Something—or someone—had caught their attention.

Leaning against the open doorway, Ranko Saotome exuded the kind of presence that demanded notice. She was the very picture of a yankii, her short pleated skirt riding high on her thighs, her white school shirt baggy, half-unbuttoned at the top as if she couldn’t be bothered. An oversized men’s jacket—black and red, slung over her shoulders like a cape—completed the look, the sleeves hanging limp at her sides. And then there were the socks, those long, slouching white school socks that bunched messily over her red sneakers, the height of delinquent fashion.

But it was the hair that made her stand out most: completely dyed a brassy blonde, straight out of a troublemaker’s playbook, her thick braid hanging over her shoulder with a few loose strands curling wildly around her face. She looked both very put together and entirely effortless as a delinquent, the kind of girl who didn’t need permission to take up space.

Her arms were folded, her eyes half-lidded as she watched the kendo club like a cat observing a room full of toy mice. And though her posture screamed boredom, there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Kuno acknowledged her presence only once he had properly concluded his match. Without hurry, he rested his bokken against his shoulder and strode toward her, the embodiment of dignity—unaware that nearly every one of his club members had completely abandoned their training to stare at the unusual visitor.

Ranko noticed. And she was enjoying it.

“What, is this school too fancy?” she mused, loud enough for Kuno to hear. “Or is it just that they’ve never seen a girl before?”

Kuno came to a stop in front of her, unperturbed. “Ranko,” he greeted, his tone as even as ever. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She tilted her head, making a show of sizing him up before responding. “Y’know, I was waitin’ for you out front after school, but you never showed. Thought maybe you got kidnapped.”

Kuno raised an eyebrow. “I am captain of the kendo club,” he replied, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “My duties do not end simply because the school day has concluded.”

Ranko let out a scoff, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Oh, right, right. Of course. You’re very important.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air.

Kuno, failing to sense her sarcasm, nodded solemnly. “Indeed, I have responsibilities that most men my age do not have. Unless they are also team captains, in which case I might allow a comparison.”

She bit back a grin. This was too easy.

Behind Kuno, the kendo club was still staring, though some were now engaged in frantic whispers. Ranko flicked a glance their way, then leaned in slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially.

“Not that I blame ‘em, but your boys ain’t doin’ a great job pretending they’re not gawkin’ at me.”

Kuno did not so much as turn to check, the lack of wood on wood sounds were telling enough. Instead, he let out a faint sigh, as if this was the true inconvenience of the afternoon. “Their focus appears to be lacking today.”

Ranko grinned. “Can’t imagine why.”

Kuno turned on his heel, his voice cutting through the restless air of the kendo hall.

“Enough idling! Return to your training at once!”

The club members jolted like startled birds, scrambling to resume their stances. The wooden crack of bokken meeting filled the space again, though the rhythm was off, their focus shaken.

Kuno, satisfied, turned back to Ranko, as composed as ever. “Now then,” he said, as if there had been no interruption, “what is it that you require of me?”

Ranko rolled one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Nothin’ serious. Just wanna hang out. You said we could.”

Kuno nodded. “Then remain as you please. You may observe, participate if you wish, or wait until practice concludes, and we shall do something afterward.” Before Ranko could respond, his gaze flicked downward. “But if you intend to stay inside the hall, remove your sneakers.”

Ranko glanced down at her feet, then back up at him with a slow, teasing smirk. “Oh? What about my socks? You want those off too? Anything else you want me to remove before entering your kendo sanctuary?”

Kuno, entirely missing the implication, simply replied, “That is your choice.”

Ranko snorted, shaking her head in amusement. “Right, of course.” Still grinning, she kicked off her sneakers, the heavy soles thunking against the wooden floor. Then, with deliberate care, she peeled off her long, baggy socks, letting them drop beside her shoes.

Barefoot now, she tiptoed dramatically toward the benches. She settled in, stretching her arms over the backrest, legs spread just enough to look completely at ease.

Kuno accepted this without comment, already turning back toward the floor. He scanned the gathered students before selecting his next opponent, beckoning them forward with a slight motion of his bokken.

As sparring resumed, Ranko leaned back, watching with mild interest. The boys, to their credit, tried to ignore her, but the presence of a brash, barefoot delinquent lounging inside their dojo was difficult to tune out.

Kuno, however, saw it differently. If anything, this was an excellent test of their ability to remain undistracted. Yes, he thought. A necessary trial.

Ranko lounged on the bench, watching the practice unfold, though her attention kept drifting back to Kuno. The guy really owned a room, didn’t he? Tall, commanding, with that weird mix of self-importance and genuine skill that made people listen to him. Even now, as he sparred, his movements were sharp, precise, effortlessly controlled.

She exhaled through her nose, arms draped over the backrest. Watching from the sidelines was starting to irritate her. She hadn’t come here to just sit. Kuno had said she could join in if she wanted, right?

Well, then.

Ranko slid off the bench, stepping lightly onto the polished wood. She padded across the hall barefoot, tiptoeing between the pairs of sparring students. The boys were still trying very, very hard to ignore her, focusing on their footwork, their strikes, their breathing—anything but the delinquent girl weaving through their ranks like she belonged there.

It had been a while since she put her martial skills to use. Her old man had drilled plenty into her when she was younger, but by the time she hit puberty, they’d been fighting in ways that had nothing to do with punches or kicks. She’d walked away from that training—and from him—a long time ago.

But it wasn’t like she’d forgotten everything.

Her eyes locked onto a particularly aggressive club member, a guy with a stiff stance and a heavy-handed style. He was overwhelming his partner, forcing him back with relentless strikes, moving in like he had something to prove.

Ranko smirked. Perfect.

Without hesitation, she stepped into the fray.

The wooden sword clattered against the floorboards, its owner momentarily stunned. Before he could even reach for it, Ranko stepped in. With a swift motion, she flicked the bokken up with her bare foot, caught it in her hand, and pointed the tip straight at the aggressive boy, her smirk widening.

“Looks like you need a new partner,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “How ‘bout me?”

The guy’s expression twisted in irritation. “I don’t spar with girls,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “Especially not some barefoot delinquent who doesn’t even know how to hold a sword.”

From across the kendo hall, Kuno turned sharply at the raised voices, his gaze settling on the confrontation.

Ranko barely spared him a glance. She was used to this. She’d heard worse from bigger threats than some sweaty kendo dork with an ego problem.

She grinned, tilting her borrowed bokken slightly downward, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Oh, I get it. You’re scared. That’s okay, y’know? Not everyone’s got the guts to fight someone who might actually hit back.”

Murmurs rippled through the watching students. The guy’s jaw clenched.

Ranko, enjoying herself now, leaned in just a little, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “I mean, if you wanna run away, that’s fine too. I hear some guys just aren’t built for this kind of thing.” She gave him a slow, knowing look. “Shame, though.”

The guy bristled, face darkening, his pride taking the hit exactly how she’d expected. “Fine,” he spat, lifting his bokken. “I’m not afraid of hitting the captain’s trashy side piece. Don’t come crying when you get knocked flat.”

From across the hall, Kuno’s voice rang out. “Enough! Cease this at once!”

But the guy was already swinging.

Ranko moved.

She weaved between his strikes like water slipping through cracks, each blow missing her by inches. She didn’t block—she didn’t need to. Her feet barely touched the ground as she twisted and sidestepped, laughing, her breath light and easy.

“Oh, come on, that’s all you got?” she taunted, ducking another wild swing. “I thought you were gonna knock me flat!”

The entire hall was watching now. Some had frozen mid-spar, bokken lowered, eyes locked on the girl who wasn’t just keeping up—she was toying with him.

Kuno, already striding toward them, quickened his pace. This needed to end before it truly began.

The guy adjusted his grip, his stance shifting ever so slightly—a fake step, a feint, and then he lunged, his bokken slicing through the air toward Ranko’s torso.

Kuno’s heart jolted. He was only a few feet away, but even with his speed, he wasn’t close enough to stop it. His fingers tightened around his own bokken, ready to intercept.

But Ranko was faster.

With a snap of motion, she jumped. Not just dodging, but soaring, her body twisting midair. Her bare foot shot out, catching the bokken right at the hilt and kicking it clean out of the guy’s hands. The weapon spun through the air, clattering uselessly to the floor.

Before the guy could even register what had happened, Ranko’s foot struck again—this time right into his chest. He let out a strangled oof as he went sprawling onto the wooden floorboards, landing flat on his back.

And Ranko?

She landed perfectly—not on the floor, but on Kuno’s bokken, which he had instinctively extended in front of the fallen opponent.

The hall was silent.

Kuno held her weight without effort, his grip steady, his stance unshaken. And Ranko, balancing effortlessly on the thin edge of his wooden blade, looked completely at ease. Her long legs—long for her frame, but she was still almost two heads shorter than him—were poised with a dancer’s ease, her smirk full of mischief.

She looked down at the guy who was still coughing on the floor, scowling up at her with red-faced frustration.

Ranko burst out laughing. “Hey, don’t look so mad, all knocked out flat. Enjoy the view while you’re down there.”

Snickers rippled through the kendo club.

With an easy hop, she leapt down from Kuno’s bokken, landing lightly beside him. She looked up at him then, her expression bright, triumphant.

Kuno was still staring.

His grip on his bokken hadn’t faltered, his face was as composed as ever—but there was a flicker in his eyes, something like shock. He had known she was quick, but this—this balance, this effortless speed—was not the skill of an ordinary fighter.

Ranko tilted her head, grinning. “What?”

Kuno blinked once, then straightened. “You are… quite capable.”

Ranko snorted. “Yeah, I know.”

Kuno turned to the assembled club members, his voice ringing with finality.

“Practice is dismissed.”

The students hesitated for only a second before bowing in acknowledgment. Even the guy still sitting on the floor, rubbing his chest, didn’t argue. One by one, they began gathering their things, murmuring among themselves as they trickled out of the hall.

But before they could all make their escape, a hesitant, uneven shuffle of footsteps sounded from the doorway.

“A-ah, Kuno-kun,” came a wavering voice. “You—ah—you cannot simply dismiss practice on a whim. It is, after all, my—that is to say, I am the—”

Ranko turned to look and immediately bit back a laugh.

The man was older, straight jet black hair slicked back and a face that looked like it had seen decades of students ignoring him. His uniform was neat, his posture trying to be authoritative, but there was something nervous about the way he fidgeted.

Oh. That must be the actual teacher in charge of the club.

Not that it mattered.

Ranko quickly realized that no one—not the students, not the guy still sulking and getting off the floor, and certainly not Kuno—was paying the poor man any attention.

Kuno, still composed, simply turned away without a word. The teacher wilted slightly but didn’t push further. He merely sighed, rubbing his temple, and shuffled off as well, following the rest of the club members out the door.

Within moments, the hall was empty except for Ranko and Kuno.

He faced her fully now, arms crossed, studying her with something bordering on genuine admiration. “That was impressive,” he admitted. “Though not kendo at all.”

Ranko grinned, stretching her arms over her head, rolling out her shoulders like she’d barely exerted herself. “Well, yeah. First time I’ve even held one of these.” She gave the bokken in her hand a light twirl. Then, with a sly tilt of her head, she added, “You should be nice to a girl who’s a novice.” Her voice had a playful lilt, teasing but not mocking, the flirtation unmistakable.

Kuno sighed. A deep, weary sigh.

Ranko smirked. “What? Not even a little impressed?”

Kuno exhaled, shaking his head. “Do not make trouble, Ranko.”

Ranko grinned, slinging the bokken over her shoulder like she’d been born holding one. “It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Kuno sighed again, long-suffering, but there was no real weight behind it. It was the kind of sigh reserved for a little sister who kept pulling at one’s sleeve—troublesome, but ultimately, his troublesome responsibility.

Ranko, on the other hand, eyed him out of the corner of her vision, vaguely irritated. Tall, good-looking, had an actual spine unlike most of the punks she ran with—and yet he hasn’t made a move on her?

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head as they reached the entrance. She gave him the bokken, which he left leaning against the entrance. Someone would come pick it up afterwards.

Dropping onto the floor, Ranko yanked her socks from where she’d left them, stuffing one foot in and tugging it up her calf before moving to the next. Kuno stood beside her, waiting with his usual patience.

She looked up at him as she pulled on her sneakers. “So, you got kendo club every day?”

“Yes.”

She tightened the laces, tilting her head. “Even Saturdays?”

“Not usually,” Kuno replied. “I spend Saturday mornings playing tennis.”

Ranko snorted, sitting up straighter. “At school?”

“No. A private club.”

Ranko’s grin widened, a spark of mischief in her dark blue eyes. “Ahh, right. ‘Cause you’re a rich boy.”

Kuno lifted his chin, utterly unfazed. “That is correct.”

Ranko let out a short laugh. “Man, you’re supposed to deny it or somethin’.”

Kuno merely regarded her with his usual composed stare, as if he truly could not comprehend what there was to be embarrassed about.

Ranko, shaking her head, finished tying her sneakers, then hopped to her feet in one smooth motion. She clapped her hands together and stretched, rolling her shoulders. “Alright! I’m ready.”

Sometimes, being around Kuno made Ranko feel small. Not in the way she usually hated—not like when some punk tried to talk down to her, or when some old lady on the train gave her that disapproving look. No, this was different. He made her feel protected. Like she could let her guard down, just a little, and be a little silly.

She liked it. It’s like she had spent so much time being dangerous and cool that she had skipped the options to be a little sweet and cute. But with Kuno, she felt like she could.

And that was dangerous.

She caught herself, shook off the feeling. No way was she getting soft over some chivalrous, naive, clueless guy who didn’t even like her that way. It was one thing to have fun teasing him—it was another to actually feel anything.

She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her oversized jacket, kicking at the floor.

Kuno cleared his throat. “Where, pray tell, are we going?”

Ranko thought for a second. “How ‘bout an arcade?”

Kuno gave a small nod. “Very well.” Then, without hesitation, he added, “I have never been to one.”

Ranko stopped mid-step, turning to gape at him. “You’ve never been to an arcade?”

Kuno shook his head, utterly unbothered. “Of course not. Those games are for children.”

Ranko let out a scandalized gasp. “Excuse me?!”

Before he could react, she grabbed his arm—not gently—and started pulling him toward the school gates. He followed, mildly perplexed but offering no resistance.

“Those are not kids’ games, rich boy,” she huffed, tugging him along. “They’re for teenagers, and last I checked, that’s what we are.”

Kuno made a thoughtful sound, but Ranko could already tell he was humoring her.

Whatever. He’d learn soon enough.

The arcade was loud, neon-lit, and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and sweat—perfect.

Ranko stepped in like she owned the place, her eyes scanning the flashing screens, the thrumming rows of the latest video games technology had to offer, the sharp clatter of buttons and joysticks filling the air. Oh yeah, this is it.

Kuno, on the other hand, stood rigidly beside her, hands behind his back, surveying the chaos like a nobleman dropped into a den of thieves.

Ranko turned to him, grinning. “Welcome to civilization.”

Kuno raised an unimpressed brow. “This is chaos.”

“Yeah, fun chaos,” she shot back, showing him an empty palm and watching him place a few bills on it. “C’mon, let’s find you a game.”

The first mistake was putting Kuno in front of Street Fighter—a game that had just been released that very month, which was janky as hell and unforgiving to beginners.

He squared up against her, bokken slung over his shoulder, the glow of the screen reflecting in his serious expression. “What are the rules of this contest?”

Ranko cracked her knuckles. “Simple. You pick a guy, I pick a guy, we beat the hell outta each other.”

Kuno nodded, as if this were a proper duel. He chose Ken. Ranko picked Chun Li. The match began.

And immediately, Kuno was terrible.

Ranko obliterated him within seconds.

“What—?!” Kuno stared at the screen in disbelief as the announcer declared, YOU LOSE!

Ranko howled with laughter. “Holy shit, that was pathetic!”

Kuno scowled. “This game is unbalanced.”

“Nah, you just suck.”

A spark of irritation flickered in his eyes. “Give me another round.”

Ranko shrugged, tossed another coin in, and proceeded to annihilate him again. And again.

And again.

Kuno was growing visibly flustered, gripping the joystick with increasing tension, his elegant fingers utterly wasted on the crude mechanics of the game. Ranko was having the time of her life.

“Kuno, buddy, my guy,” she teased, leaning into his space as she knocked him out for the fifth time. “Do you, uh—do you want me to go easy on you?”

Kuno exhaled sharply. “That will not be necessary.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I could just use punches, no kicks—”

“I said that will not be necessary.”

Ranko smirked, propping her chin on her hand. Cute.

It took several more crushing defeats before she took pity on him. “Okay, okay, enough suffering. You’re not built for this.”

Kuno sat back, exhaling as if he had just finished an exhausting duel. “This is a foolish endeavor.”

Ranko grinned. “Nah, you just need a game that plays to your strengths.”

And that was how they ended up at the punching bag machine.

The moment Kuno’s fist connected with the bag, the machine practically screamed in agony. The score skyrocketed. The tiny crowd of onlookers gasped.

Ranko blinked. “Oh, shit.”

Kuno tilted his head, regarding the screen. “Hmm.”

Ranko was already slamming a coin in. “Again.”

Kuno, now intrigued, took another stance and struck harder. The bag shuddered, the numbers shot up, and Ranko let out a victorious cheer. It was cute to see Kuno smile at his victory, his ego recovering quickly. Adorable.

By the time they got to the arm wrestling machine, Kuno was fully engaged. He still looked perfectly composed, but Ranko could tell he was having fun now. Every time he demolished another high score, she whooped and smacked his shoulder, and every time he let himself get flustered, she teased him mercilessly.

Somewhere between the air hockey table (which turned into a very competitive battle) and the basketball hoop (where Kuno’s precision was absurd), Ranko found herself looking at him and thinking—

Man.

The neon lights made him look almost unreal. The arcade sounds blended into white noise. And for once, he wasn’t being some stiff, old-fashioned noble type. He was just a guy, playing games with her, letting himself have fun.

Her heart did a stupid little flip.

She smirked, hiding it behind a stretch. “So,” she said, voice light, “arcades. Still think they’re for kids?”

Kuno adjusted his bokken, rolling his shoulders. “Hmph. Perhaps not.”

Ranko grinned. “Let’s get outta here. I’m hungry”.

The crepe shop was one of those tiny street stalls, just a counter and a window, the scent of warm batter and sweet fruit wafting into the cool evening air. Ranko leaned on the counter as she watched Kuno hand over the money—just as he had at the arcade.

“Man, you’re real good at this paying for everything thing,” she teased, rocking on her heels.

“It is a gentleman’s duty,” Kuno replied, as if it were an unshakable law of nature.

Ranko grinned. Easy.

She ordered a strawberry and cream crepe, light and fluffy, wrapped in a crisp golden shell. Kuno, in true refined taste, chose matcha and dark chocolate.

They found a bench nearby and sat down to eat.

Ranko bit into hers happily, enjoying the blend of sweet and tart, the soft cream melting on her tongue. She glanced at Kuno, expecting to see him eating just as easily—

Only to find him staring down at his crepe, deeply perplexed.

She blinked. Oh, no way.

“You don’t know how to eat that, do you?”

Kuno exhaled sharply through his nose. “There is no fork or knife.”

Ranko snorted. “It’s street food, Kuno.”

He eyed the crepe in his hand like it was some kind of puzzle. Then, cautiously, he tilted his head down and took a careful bite, like an overgrown bird trying to figure out how to eat without someone pre-cutting his meal.

Ranko nearly choked on a laugh.

Look at him. A rich, handsome, perfectly groomed idiot bird.

She sighed, feeling stupidly content.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the quiet hum of the street around them. Ranko stretched out her legs, licking a bit of cream off her thumb before glancing over at him again.

“So, rich boy,” she said, brushing crumbs off her skirt. “Tell me what you actually do in your free time. And don’t say kendo or tennis again.”

Kuno, still chewing, frowned slightly, as if this were a trick question.

Ranko smirked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Alright, lemme make it easier—where do you go with your friends?”

There was a pause.

Then Kuno, perfectly composed, said, “I do not have friends.”

Ranko’s half-empty crepe wrapped sagged in her fingers. “You—what?”

Kuno, as composed as ever, took a measured bite of his matcha and dark chocolate crepe. “I have no friends.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am always serious.”

Ranko stared at him, processing. “But—what about the kendo guys? You’ve known them for years, right?”

“They are my subordinates,” Kuno corrected, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “I am their captain.”

Ranko squinted. “So? You guys ever just goof off? Get food? Hang out?”

Kuno shook his head. “We do not fraternize in such a manner.”

That was… kind of sad. No wonder he’d never been to an arcade.

Ranko exhaled, tossing the last bite of her crepe into her mouth. “So what, am I your first friend?”

Kuno considered.

His dark blue eyes flicked to hers, sharp in thought, as if he had never actually considered friendship before.

Then, after a long moment, he said, “Yes. I suppose you are.”

Ranko nearly choked.

She had asked it half as a joke, but hearing it confirmed, said so plainly—it sent a strange, warm jolt through her chest.

He didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. Just… a fact.

She swallowed. “Damn right. Guess I’m like your best friend, then, huh?”

Kuno made a small, amused sound. “You are certainly my most expensive friend.”

Ranko smirked, nudging his arm. “Ain’t my fault you keep paying for everything.”

“It does not bother me.”

Ranko paused. The way he said it—so offhanded, like of course he was happy to spend his money on her—it did something weird to her stomach.

Then Kuno, as composed as ever, added, “I am glad to have met you.”

Ranko’s brain short-circuited.

Her face felt warm. She hated it.

She liked Kuno—probably more than she should—but he had no idea what his words did to her. He wasn’t even trying to be smooth. He was just… himself. Honest. Unshaken.

And it made her feel so stupidly soft inside.

She cleared her throat, crossing her arms. Gotta diffuse this. Now.

“So,” she said casually, tilting her head at him. “You wanna make out?”

Kuno blinked.

Then, completely unfazed, he said, “I already explained that I do not wish to kiss someone I do not love.”

Ranko clicked her tongue. “Tch. Technicality. You love your friends, don’t you?”

Kuno looked at her thoughtfully. “I only have one friend,” he said. “So that remains to be seen.”

Ranko stared.

Then, before she could stop it, a small, stupid spark of hope bloomed in her chest.

She quickly turned away, hopping off the bench. “Alright, enough sitting around,” she said, brushing off her skirt. “Let’s walk.”

Kuno stood as well, bokken on his hip. “Very well.”

They strolled down the street, side by side. Ranko still felt warm, but she didn’t mind so much now.

Damn rich boy. Making her feel things.

They walked in easy silence, the city humming around them, neon signs flickering as the evening settled. Ranko let Kuno set the pace—deliberate, unhurried, like he was always walking towards something important. Even if right now, he was just walking with her.

After a few steps, she tilted her head at him. “So, why don’t you try being friends with the kendo guys?”

Kuno glanced at her, then back ahead. “I am not used to it.”

Ranko frowned. “What, making friends?”

Kuno gave the smallest nod. “Perhaps they do not like me.”

Ranko raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

Kuno’s expression didn’t change. “Regardless, I must remain their captain. Some distance is necessary to keep their respect.”

“Why, though?” Ranko asked, crossing her arms. “Why would they not respect you if you were their friend?”

Kuno exhaled through his nose, a breath too heavy for the cool air. He hesitated. She could see him thinking, debating if he should actually answer, if he should say something real.

Then, finally, he looked at her, something measured in his gaze.

“Have you met me?” he said.

Ranko blinked. “Yeah.”

Kuno raised an eyebrow. “Then surely you have noticed how… reserved I can be.”

Ranko snorted. “Yeah. Clearly.”

Kuno exhaled, like that was all the proof he needed. “I do not particularly wish to lower my defenses for friends.” His gaze flicked forward again, watching the street stretch ahead of them.

Ranko chewed on that for a second.

Then she smirked. “You’re lowering the walls a little for me, though.”

Kuno sighed, shaking his head. “Only because I have no choice. You would simply jump the walls and enter unannounced otherwise.”

Ranko threw her head back and laughed.

“Shit, you’re right,” she said. “I’ll do a full-on breaking and entering on your life.”

Kuno huffed—something close to amusement.

Ranko watched him from the corner of her eye. Damn, she thought, he’s funny sometimes.

And handsome all the time.

The river shimmered under the glow of distant streetlights, the soft rush of water filling the quiet between them. Ranko leaned on the metal barrier, elbows propped up, gazing at the rippling current. Kuno stood beside her, steady as ever, his bokken resting at his hip.

“So,” she said, tilting her head toward him. “Did you have fun?”

Kuno considered for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I did.”

Ranko grinned. “Me too.”

She let the words settle between them, the night air cool against her skin. Then she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry for making you spend so much money, though.”

Kuno shook his head. “I truly do not mind.”

Ranko frowned. “Yeah, well… be careful with that. There’s people out there who’d take advantage of your generosity.”

Kuno’s gaze drifted toward the water. “There are worse things to take advantage of,” he said, voice thoughtful. “Things that cannot be replaced.”

Ranko glanced at him, brow furrowing. “You say that like someone who knows he’ll never run out of money.”

Kuno exhaled, almost amused. “Perhaps. But I believe I would still think the same if I were poor.” He paused. “I suppose we shall never know.”

Ranko snorted, then leaned against his arm, resting her head there with a sigh.

If he were any other guy—if he liked her back—this would be the perfect moment for him to kiss her. She could already picture it, the river behind them, the cool air, his warmth so close. It would be so easy for him to just—

She looked up.

Kuno was gazing at the water, completely unaware, lost in his own thoughts.

Ranko clenched her jaw. Damn it.

She pushed off of him abruptly. “Okay,” she said, straightening. “Gotta go.”

Kuno turned toward her, blinking in mild surprise.

“Today was fun,” Ranko added, stuffing her hands into the oversized jacket slung over her shoulders. “Thanks, Kuno. I’ll drop by your school soon.”

Kuno inclined his head. “Thank you.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

And fuck, her chest felt all warm and fuzzy.

This was bad.

She really, really fucking liked him.

Chapter Text

Kuno paused in the doorway of the kendo hall, stretching his shoulders and exhaling with satisfaction. His body ached in that deeply gratifying way, the kind that came after an afternoon well spent. His juniors had fought with enthusiasm, and though he had not won every match, he liked to think his guidance had made them better. He was, after all, a benevolent captain—gracious in victory, noble in defeat.

He entertained the thought of his own magnanimity for a moment longer before something small and hard bounced off his temple.

Kuno froze. His hand drifted to the spot, fingers brushing against the lingering sensation of impact. He blinked once, twice, then turned his head slowly, scanning the courtyard.

Nothing.

The grounds were mostly empty. The sky had begun its descent into the deep blues of early evening, the shadows stretching long across the pavement. The other members of the kendo club were still inside, finishing their cool-down exercises. The only movement came from the occasional rustling of the trees, stirred by a passing breeze.

And yet…

A soft chuckle.

Kuno looked up.

A familiar figure lounged in the branches of a tree just outside the kendo hall, one knee drawn up, her arm slung over it carelessly. Ranko grinned down at him, her head tilted slightly, strands of blonde falling loose from the messy braid over her shoulder. In her other hand, she held a vending machine coffee, tapping the can idly against her thigh.

“Yo,” she greeted, taking a lazy sip. “Took you long enough.”

Kuno narrowed his eyes. “Ranko.”

She smirked at the way he said her name, all stiff formality, like he was addressing a foreign dignitary instead of a delinquent girl who had just thrown a rock at his head.

"I was wondering when practice would end," she said. "Thought rich boys didn’t need to train so much."

Kuno straightened his back, dusting off his sleeve with a touch of theatricality. “Discipline is the foundation of true strength and has no relation to one’s riches,” he declared. “As captain, I must set an example.”

Ranko snorted. “Yeah? You win every match today?”

Kuno faltered.

“…Victory is not the only measure of a man’s growth,” he replied loftily.

Ranko burst into laughter.

“Uh-huh,” she said, grinning. “So that’s a no.”

Kuno frowned up at her. “I must ask—why are you in a tree?”

She stretched, arching her back slightly, then let out a satisfied sigh. “Just felt like it. It’s quiet and no one expects it,” she said. “Was in the area. Thought I’d drop in again. Maybe say hi.”

Kuno eyed her suspiciously. “You were waiting for me.”

Ranko’s grin widened. “Maybe.”

Kuno exhaled sharply through his nose. Somehow something about her aura today reminded him of the night he met her, that troublemaker mystique that had brought him into her life . The bridge, the fight, the way she had devoured his household’s food stores like a stray cat before disappearing into the early morning. He had assumed she would return before now, but so far she had never appeared at the Kuno Estate.

Kuno cleared his throat. “And now that you have found me?”

Ranko tilted her head, as if considering this. Then, with no warning, she dropped her empty can.

Kuno barely refrained from scolding her for littering before she leapt down after it, landing lightly in front of him, can in hand caught mid-air. The space between them shrank, and she smelled faintly of something sweet—probably that cheap coffee.

“I dunno,” she said, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “Just wanted to see ya.” She shifted her weight onto one foot, looking up at him with an expression that was just a little too amused, a little too knowing. She grinned. “Gonna offer to walk me home again, proper gentleman? ”

She had the gall to wink at him.

Kuno stiffened. This girl…

He sighed through his nose, already knowing he was going to say yes. She grabbed his arm and pulled towards the Furinkan gates, but he didn’t move.

“I was going to wash and change,” he said, half protesting. His uniform clung to his skin unpleasantly, damp with sweat from practice. It was improper, unclean. Surely she would understand.

But Ranko just rolled her eyes, like he was the one being ridiculous. “Yeah, yeah, you can do that later,” she said, tugging at his arm. “C’mon.”

Kuno didn’t move. “I reek of exertion.”

Ranko smirked. “So?”

He stared at her. “So?”

She leaned in slightly, testing the waters of his personal space, eyes bright with amusement. “You think I care? Not like I’m some fancy girl from St. Hebereke.”

Kuno bristled at the mention of his sister’s school. “It’s not about what you are or are not, I just participated in a club-wide tournament and fought each and every one of my subordinates. The fact that you are not a pupil at St. Hebereke’s is hardly the point—”

“The point is, I don’t care.” Ranko’s grip tightened. “And you’re comin’ with me.”

Kuno opened his mouth—perhaps to argue, perhaps to demand an explanation for her inexplicable ways—but Ranko had already made up her mind. With a sharp tug, she dragged him forward, her steps quick and assured.

“Ranko—”

“I said I’ve waited long enough,” she cut him off, her voice light but decisive. “You can shower later, Prince. ”

He wanted to protest. Truly, he did. But the way she said Prince —mocking, but not unkind—sent an odd flicker of something through his chest. And so, against all better judgment, against all sense of proper decorum, Kuno allowed himself to be led.

They made their way out of the school grounds, Ranko striding ahead, Kuno reluctantly keeping pace beside her.

“This is highly irregular,” Kuno muttered, adjusting the strap of his bokken at his side.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ranko said, barely listening.

Kuno glanced sideways at her. She was in her usual getup—short skirt, loose socks, her oversized jacket slung over her shoulders. The bright blonde of her ponytail caught the golden hues of the setting sun, making it almost look natural. Almost.

He cleared his throat. “And where, exactly, are you taking me?”

Ranko hummed in thought. “Dunno. You got plans?”

“I had planned to go home.”

She shot him a side glance. “Boring.”

“I beg your pardon—”

“I was thinkin’,” she said, stretching her arms behind her head, “you owe me a meal.”

Kuno blinked. “I owe you what? ”

“A meal,” she repeated. “Y’know, food? That thing humans eat?”

“I am well aware of what a meal is,” Kuno said flatly.

“Good, then you get it.” Ranko grinned. “You made me wait, so now you owe me.”

Kuno scowled. “I did not ask you to wait for me.”

Ranko merely smirked, unfazed. “You gonna feed me or what?”

Kuno exhaled sharply through his nose. He could not recall when, exactly, he had lost control of this conversation, but it was clear that he had.

“…I suppose I can make time for dinner.”

“Damn right, you can.” Ranko elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “C’mon, I know a place.”

Kuno had a sinking feeling about this. And yet, for reasons beyond him, he let her lead the way.

The evening air was crisp as Ranko led Kuno through the streets, her pace lazy but determined, like a cat who knew exactly where it was going but refused to be rushed. Kuno walked beside her, upright as ever, his kendo uniform growing stiff with drying sweat. He was deeply, deeply aware of it.

“This is most unseemly,” he muttered, tugging at his collar. “I ought to have changed.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re real offensive to the senses, Prince,” Ranko teased, giving him a sidelong glance. “You stink of manly effort. It’s unbearable.”

Kuno stiffened. “I do not stink. ”

Ranko smirked. “I don’t mind it.”

Something in her tone made Kuno hesitate. He glanced at her warily, but she wasn’t looking at him. She just walked, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, shoulders loose, like she hadn’t just said something vaguely— no, certainly —indecent.

Kuno cleared his throat. “Where are we going?”

“Cheap place I know,” Ranko said. “You ever been to Oonishi’s?”

Kuno frowned. “Oonishi’s? That dingy little ramen-adjacent stand under the train tracks?”

Ranko turned to him with mock offense. “Dingy?” She gasped. “How dare you, that place is a national treasure. ”

Kuno gave her a flat look. “It is held together by tape and hope.”

“It’s held together by the power of cheap, delicious food.” Ranko nudged his elbow. “Live a little, Prince.”

Kuno exhaled, long-suffering. “I fail to see why I should subject myself to that when I could take you somewhere—” He hesitated, glancing at her. “— clean. ”

Ranko scoffed. “Where? Some fancy-ass place with cloth napkins? Please.”

“I do not dine exclusively in places with cloth napkins,” Kuno sniffed.

“Oh? Tell me one place you eat at that doesn’t have at least three kanji in its name or doesn’t call what they serve ‘cuisine ’.”

Kuno opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Ranko laughed. “Thought so.”

Kuno scowled. “I simply prefer establishments with—”

“—an actual roof?” she interrupted.

“Standards.”

“Same thing,” she said. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ you gotta start eating outta convenience store bins—”

“I should hope not. ”

“—but Oonishi’s is good, and you owe me, remember?”

Kuno sighed, rubbing his temple. “I did not agree that I owed you.”

“You did by walking with me instead of goin’ home.”

Kuno opened his mouth to argue. Then closed it again. Damnation. She had him there.

Ranko grinned as if she could hear the mental battle raging in his head. Then, before Kuno could protest further, she reached out and tapped his shoulder with the back of her hand.

“Relax, Prince,” she said, voice light, teasing. “I promise I won’t make you split the bill.”

Kuno huffed. “Clearly. A gentleman always pays.”

Ranko raised a brow. “Oh?” She tilted her head, considering him. “So if I wanted somethin’ real expensive, you’d get it for me?”

Kuno hesitated. “I—I would, of course, but—”

Ranko hummed. “Good to know, for next time.”

Kuno blinked. Then, belatedly, realized she was messing with him. His face burned. 

Ranko smirked, but she didn’t push further. He was cute like this—so serious, so easy to rattle—but she wasn’t sure if she could really make him like her like that.

Still, she liked walking beside him. Liked how he let her drag him around, even though he complained.

Kuno frowned slightly, turning his head toward her as they walked. “You have taken to calling me Prince now,” he noted. “Previously, you called me Samurai Boy. ”

Ranko smirked. “Did ya like that one better?”

Kuno hesitated. He certainly had not liked it, but he wasn’t sure Prince was an improvement. “…It was at least accurate, if your mood today keeps you from calling me by my name.”

Ranko chuckled. “I dunno, boy don’t really fit you.”

Kuno blinked. “What do you mean?”

She gave him a slow once-over, thoughtful, almost lazy. “You don’t look like a boy,” she said. “And you sure as hell don’t smell like one.”

Kuno stiffened. His mind caught on smell before anything else. “Are you—are you insisting that I stink? ” His voice pitched slightly, appalled.

Ranko burst out laughing. “No, you idiot! I meant you smell like a man.”

Kuno immediately wanted to turn on his heel and find the nearest public bathhouse. A man? A man? He had just come from kendo practice! He had been sweating! He should not be subjecting anyone—least of all a lady —to such indignities!

“I—I should go bathe at once,” he muttered, already scanning the street for a place to excuse himself and return to her with no smell at all, or at least smelling like a gentleman.

Ranko, still laughing, reached out and grabbed his arm. “I’m joking, ” she said, shaking her head. “You smell fine, Prince. Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

Kuno exhaled slowly, because he sincerely doubted how much manly stink Ranko would withstand without complaint. “Your humor is, at times, perplexing.”

Ranko grinned. “That’s what makes it fun. For me, at least.”

She didn’t let go of his arm. Kuno noticed.

He also didn’t pull away.

Ranko noticed that, too.

The food stall was the kind of place Kuno had never once considered stepping foot into before Ranko yanked him along. A faded red noren with grease stains fluttered over the entrance, and the scent of sizzling meat mixed with old oil clung thick to the air. It was dim, tucked between old metal shops like an afterthought, the kind of place where salarymen hunched over beers and fried skewers after a long day.

Ranko strode in like she owned it. Kuno hesitated at the threshold.

“You comin’ in or what, Prince?” Ranko teased, glancing over her shoulder.

Kuno inhaled deeply—through his mouth, so as not to absorb too much of the ambience —and followed.

Ranko slid onto a stool at the counter, kicking one leg up onto the other casually. She waved at the man behind the stall. “Hey, ojisan! Two of the usual.”

Kuno stiffened. “I have not yet ordered.”

Ranko shot him a look. “Trust me, you ain’t gonna not like it.”

Kuno was highly skeptical. But, against his better judgment, he took the stool beside her.

The stall owner grunted in acknowledgement and started frying something up on the griddle. Kuno watched Ranko out of the corner of his eye. She was comfortable here. Relaxed. Like she belonged. She had one arm slung over the counter, the other playing idly with a chopstick, spinning it between her fingers.

She looked at him, grinning. “So, guess what?”

Kuno folded his arms. “You are preempting my ability to do so.”

She snorted. “That ex of mine? Y’know, the one your sister’s pet had a little midnight snack on?”

Kuno exhaled sharply. “Yes. I remember.”

She leaned in slightly. “Hasn’t been buggin’ me at all lately.”

Kuno’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “That is… good news.”

Ranko smirked. “Aw, you relieved, Prince?”

He turned his gaze forward, suddenly very interested in the way the griddle sizzled. “…It is only natural to be relieved when one’s acquaintance is no longer in danger.”

She rested her cheek in her palm. “One’s acquaintance, huh? I thought we were friends?”

Kuno did not like the way she was looking at him. It made his collar feel too tight.

“I am glad that you, my friend , are safe,” he said, attempting to move past it. “However, I still maintain that you should find a better class of people to associate with.”

Ranko stretched her arms above her head, letting out a satisfied sigh. “That’s what I’m doin’.”

Kuno frowned slightly. “Are you?”

She shot him a sidelong glance, lips quirking. “Ain’t I here with you?”

Kuno went still.

There was a beat of silence, stretched between them like a taut string.

Then the stall owner thunked two plates down in front of them, piled high with fried noodles and pork. The moment broke. Ranko grabbed her chopsticks with enthusiasm, already shoveling food into her mouth like she’d never eaten before in her life.

Kuno exhaled slowly, then picked up his own chopsticks, lifting a few strands of fried noodles before taking a contemplative bite. Across from him, Ranko was already halfway through her plate, eating like she had a vendetta against the food. He watched her for a moment, then—curiosity getting the better of him—spoke.

“Why do you dye your hair blonde?”

Ranko didn’t even pause, just kept chewing as she grinned at him. “How do you know it’s not my real hair?”

Kuno stiffened. He hadn’t meant to offend, but now that she’d called attention to it, there was no delicate way to explain. It clearly looked dyed, and not professionally. He cleared his throat. “I—ah. That is to say, I merely observed…” He hesitated. Surely she is not asking me to comment upon the state of her hair?

Ranko’s grin widened. “What? Did’ja see my real color somewhere else?”

Kuno frowned, perplexed. “I—”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice, but her eyes danced with mischief. “You askin’ if my carpet match the drapes , Prince?”

Kuno blinked. “Carpet?”

Ranko snorted, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “...Oh my god, you’re adorable.”

Kuno straightened. “I am not.”

“You are.” She grinned, tapping her chopsticks against the rim of her bowl. “But nah, it’s just my style. Feels badass, y’know? Dangerous.”

Kuno studied her for a moment, as if trying to see the ‘dangerous’ part of her. He had seen her fight and spar, of course—knew she was quick, that her instincts were sharp. But badass? He had never quite considered the term in relation to her.

She caught the look and smirked. “What, you don’t think so?”

Kuno shook his head. “I merely do not understand the necessity of such a… display.”

Ranko scoffed. “Oh, and like wearin’ that kendogi all the time isn’t a display?”

He frowned slightly. “My uniform is an honorable tradition.”

She leaned her elbow on the counter, propping her chin up with her hand. “Yeah? You wear it ‘cause you like it, or ‘cause it makes you feel cool?”

Kuno frowned slightly, chopsticks pausing mid-air as he considered her words. “I suppose I have never thought of my attire in such a way.” He lowered the piece of tempura back onto his bowl, brow furrowing in genuine contemplation. “To me, it is simply the proper garment for the art I practice. A tradition passed down through centuries.”

Ranko smirked, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him. “Yeah? And what about outside the dojo? You wore it the three times I saw you, y’know.”

His expression hardened, just slightly, as if she’d insulted his honor. “A man of discipline must remain true to himself in all settings.”

She rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. But I bet you feel at least a little badass, right?” A playful glint sparked in her gaze. “Like, when you tie your belt, do you ever think, Damn, I look cool ?”

Kuno hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly warring with himself over how to answer such a ridiculous question.

Ranko grinned. “You totally do.”

Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to his food. “I strive not for vanity, but for excellence.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned in a little, teasing. “So, you’re saying you don’t ever catch yourself in a mirror and think, Behold, the unparalleled grace of Tatewaki Kuno ?”

The tips of his ears burned. “I do not speak to my own reflection.”

Ranko nearly choked on her drink, laughing. “Oh my god, that means you do think it.”

Kuno scowled, but there was no real anger in it. “You are relentless.”

“And you’re fun to mess with.” She stole a piece of tempura off his plate, popping it into her mouth before he could protest. “Anyway, what’s with you knowing my real hair color?”

His posture stiffened. He hadn’t meant to bring it up. “I… simply observed.”

“Observed, huh?” Ranko tilted her head, studying him. “Didn’t take you for the type to stare at a girl’s roots.”

“I was not staring,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Merely—”

Her smirk widened. “So, what, you just happened to notice?”

“I—” He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, gathering himself. “I merely found it curious. You are so deliberate in your choice of style. It made me wonder.”

“Made you wonder about my carpet and drapes?”

Kuno blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Ranko watched him for a moment before shaking her head, laughing to herself. “Never mind. Thought you’d catch it the second time around. You’re too innocent.”

“I assure you, I am not—”

“You really are.”

There was something about the way she said it, that amused fondness laced in her tone, that made heat creep up the back of his neck. He refused to let her see it, instead picking up his tea and taking a measured sip, as if that could drown out his own flustered state.

She let him stew for a second before nudging his foot under the table. “Anyway, to answer your question honestly, I dye it ‘cause I like the look. Makes me feel dangerous.”

Kuno considered this. “Do you wish to be perceived as dangerous?”

She twirled a lock of blonde hair between her fingers, the smirk never leaving her lips. “Keeps people on their toes.”

Kuno watched her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Then it suits you.”

For some reason, that made her pause. The teasing glint in her eyes dimmed, just a fraction, as if she wasn’t sure what to make of the sincerity in his voice.

She didn’t linger on it, though. Instead, she kicked his foot lightly again and grinned. “Same way your kendogi suits you. Makes you look like you belong in some old samurai flick.”

Kuno, as expected, took the comment with complete seriousness. “A noble comparison.”

Ranko just shook her head and stole another piece of his food.

Kuno dabbed his mouth with a napkin, setting it down with the same measured grace he applied to everything. “Tell me, Ranko—are you in any clubs at school?”

Ranko stared at him, momentarily at a loss. Then she snorted, leaning back against the rickety stool of the food stall. “What, do I look like the type to be in a club?”

Kuno studied her, as if genuinely considering it. “I do not presume to judge.”

She gave him a skeptical look, sipping her drink. “You’re serious?”

“Of course.” He gestured toward her, like a nobleman addressing a guest at court. “You are… spirited. Surely, there is some pursuit within the academic halls that holds your interest.”

That was what made it so ridiculous. He actually meant it. He wasn’t making fun of her. The whole thing was so earnest that Ranko had to laugh.

“Man, you really don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she said, shaking her head. “I barely go to class. Think they’d let me join a club?”

Kuno frowned. “You barely attend?”

“Yup.” She popped the p and stole another piece of his tempura, because at this point, it was tradition.

His disapproval was immediate. “Ranko, one’s education is—”

“—the foundation of the future, yeah, yeah.” She waved him off. “Look, I’m just not good at that kind of thing.”

Kuno studied her, blue eyes sharp under the dim glow of the food stall lanterns. “You struggle academically?”

She bristled slightly. He wasn’t mocking her—he never did—but it still felt weird to admit. “…Scholarly pursuits aren’t really my strong suit, no.”

He nodded, like this was a matter to be pondered deeply. “Then, if you were to attend, what would you do?”

Ranko hesitated. She wasn’t used to people asking stuff like that, at least not with genuine curiosity. Most of the time, it was just teachers lecturing her, or guys teasing her about being “wasted potential.” Her own useless father had called her that, and she hated it. 

She tilted her head, considering. “Dunno. I’m good at physical stuff.”

The moment she said it, she realized what it sounded like. In any other conversation—with any other guy—this would be the part where someone raised an eyebrow, made a joke, or gave her a once-over. 

But Kuno?

Kuno merely nodded, expression thoughtful. “Then you might consider joining a sport.”

Ranko stared.

“Perhaps track,” he mused. “Or boxing. You exhibit a strong foundation of balance and reflexes.”

She stared .

Kuno, oblivious, continued. “Judo, perhaps, would suit your frame if you like physical activities. Or kendo—though I suspect you would not have the patience for it.”

Ranko burst out laughing, so sudden and loud that a few customers turned to look. Kuno, perplexed, tilted his head. “Have I said something amusing?”

Ranko wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still giggling. “Oh, nothing. You’re just—” She shook her head, grinning. Her saying that she was good at physical stuff and getting honest, earnest, sincere sport recommendations was really funny. “Man, you really don’t have a dirty mind, huh?”

Kuno straightened. “I should think not.”

Ranko smirked. “Lucky for your bride-to-be. It’s kinda cute.”

Kuno blinked, then promptly reached for his tea. Ranko saw the way his fingers gripped the cup a little tighter than necessary.

Ranko felt it before she could even name it—that creeping, uncomfortable sensation of having said too much. It wasn’t like Kuno would judge her. Hell, she doubted he could judge her, not when he spoke like some ancient noble spirit lost in modern Japan. But still, admitting she didn’t really go to school anymore, that she’d basically dropped out without officially doing so just because her school didn’t care to check… it made her feel weird. Exposed.

And Ranko Saotome didn’t do vulnerable.

So, she did what she was best at—turned the conversation back on him.

“So, how’s it going with that tomboy you keep trying to fight for her love?” she asked, her smirk sharp.

Kuno, to his credit, took the shift in stride. He sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Tendo Akane,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I must confess, the discussion I had with you that night has lingered in my thoughts.”

Ranko raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Did I actually manage to make you rethink your life choices?”

“Perhaps,” Kuno admitted, as if it were some grand concession. “It occurs to me now that Tendo Akane may not fully comprehend the depths of my noble intent.”

Ranko snorted. “You think ?”

He ignored her. “It would be unchivalrous to impose my affections upon a maiden who does not understand them. A misunderstanding of such magnitude is a failure of the suitor, not the sought.”

Ranko blinked. Wow. That almost sounded like self-awareness.

“So… what? You finally stopped being a nuisance to her?” she asked, tilting her head.

Kuno scoffed, as if the very notion was offensive. “Do not be absurd. I have merely ensured that the lesser men no longer sully her presence.”

Ranko frowned. “Meaning…?”

“I have fought and bested all other would-be suitors,” he said with satisfaction, “and duly warned them against disturbing her peace further.”

Ranko stared at him. “You threatened them?”

Kuno inclined his head, utterly unapologetic. “Indeed.”

She cackled, shaking her head. “So… lemme get this straight. You, uh, helped Akane by taking out the competition that you created?”

“Precisely.”

“And you think that makes you not a nuisance?”

Kuno looked almost offended. “Tendo Akane has not been subjected to needless battles since.”

Ranko put her chin in her hand, looking at him like he was some kind of rare, fascinating creature. “And you haven’t fought her, huh?”

He sighed. “Alas, no. Honor dictates I must first seek her audience directly now that the situation has changed.”

Ranko exhaled a laugh, rubbing her forehead. “Damn. Y’know, I’m real glad I don’t go to Furinkan.”

Kuno took a sip of his tea, perfectly composed. “It is an institution of both tradition and excellence.”

She smirked. “Sounds like a madhouse.”

For once, Kuno hesitated. The usual effortless confidence—the one that made him speak like a noble out of some long-forgotten epic—didn’t come immediately. Instead, he took a moment, carefully setting down his tea before meeting her gaze with something surprisingly genuine.

“Why don’t you attend Furinkan?” he asked.

Ranko stiffened. She didn’t like the way he said it—not accusatory, not condescending, but concerned. That was worse.

Before she could brush it off, he continued. “I can assist in arranging your enrollment.”

Her fingers curled slightly around her cup. “Yeah?” she said, forcing a smirk. “Didn’t know you had that kinda pull.”

Kuno nodded as if this were an obvious fact. “It would be good for you,” he said, almost gently. “There are many athletic clubs to challenge your abilities. You would have access to proper instruction. You could make friends—decent people.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And I would be there.”

A warmth, uninvited and unfamiliar, pressed against her ribs.

Shit.

She hated that. Hated that for half a second, the idea of it didn’t sound terrible. That some small, ridiculous part of her could picture it—laughing at Kuno’s dramatics in the hallways, maybe getting into friendly scraps with the sports teams, being… normal.

That was the worst part. It made something in her ache.

She had to kill this conversation now.

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm, tilting her head just enough to make it look intentional. “Ohhh,” she drawled, “so what, you offering to be my tutor just to get me closer to you?”

Kuno, utterly unshaken, replied without missing a beat. “We are already close.”

That threw her off for just a fraction of a second. He said it so plainly , like it wasn’t even a question. Not an argument. Just a fact.

Something deep in her chest clenched. She pushed past it.

“Well,” she said, tilting her smirk sharper, “have you thought about my offer to make out?”

And that — that —finally got a reaction.

Kuno stiffened. His eyes widened, his composure cracking just enough for Ranko to see it, and oh , that was deeply satisfying.

“I—” He recovered, visibly forcing himself to regain his dignity, but his ears had gone slightly pink. “That is—an improper—”

She grinned. “You have thought about it.”

He inhaled sharply, straightening. “I refuse to entertain such base inclinations without honorable intent!”

Ranko let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Damn, you really are the last samurai.”

“I am not the last,” Kuno muttered, clearly still trying to steady himself. “Merely the most disciplined you know.”

She leaned back, watching him with barely concealed amusement. “Uh-huh. Sure, Prince.”

Kuno paid for their food, eyeing the paltry sum with mild disbelief. He wasn’t used to meals that cost less than a small fortune. Before he could even consider paying with a 10,000 yen bill, Ranko snatched a 1,000 bill from his wallet to pay.

“You keep throwin’ money around like that, someone’s gonna roll you for it,” she said, already leading him into a narrow side street, weaving between scattered crates and the warm glow of back-alley shop signs.

Kuno followed, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I cannot imagine who would even attempt it.”

Ranko snorted. “Yeah? What if it was me?”

He turned his head slightly, considering her. “I would retrieve my belongings.”

The sheer confidence in his tone made her grin. “That so?”

Without breaking stride, she moved—quick, smooth, fingers brushing against the folds of his uwagi. He barely even saw it happen, but the next second, Ranko was a step ahead of him, flipping his wallet between her fingers.

Kuno stopped walking.

Ranko took a few more steps before turning to face him, brows raised, the wallet now balancing on her palm. “So what now, Prince?”

Kuno exhaled through his nose.

Then he moved.

Ranko barely saw it coming.

One step forward, a shift in weight—then suddenly, her arm was pinned behind her back, her balance thrown, and her front nearly pressed against his.

Her breath caught.

Kuno plucked the wallet neatly from her fingers and released her in one seamless motion, tucking it safely back into his uwagi.

Ranko staggered back a step, caught between surprise and… something else. She grinned to cover it up. “Damn. Didn’t think you had that in you.”

Kuno straightened his sleeves. “I did warn you.”

Ranko grinned, bouncing. "Do it again."

Kuno exhaled sharply through his nose. "No."

"Aww, c'mon," she pouted, taking a lazy step toward him. "It was kinda hot. Is this the kind of stuff you’re learning from the master who made you steal women's underwear?"

Kuno stiffened. "Cease this ridiculousness."

Her grin widened. "You ain't gonna impress a girl by refusin’ her requests, Prince."

He opened his mouth—probably to scold her, to insist he had no interest in impressing her—but Ranko moved first.

Fast as a flicker of light, she palmed his wallet again.

Kuno blinked. Then he scowled. "Return that."

"Hmm. Nah." She smirked, shifting it between her fingers, watching his eyes follow the movement. "Thought you said you’d just take it back?"

"I will," Kuno said, stepping forward.

Ranko let him come closer. Let him think he had an easy win. Then, just as he reached for it, she stuffed the wallet right down her top, deep into her cleavage, and grinned up at him, all teeth.

Kuno froze.

Her laughter rang through the narrow alley. “What now, Prince?”

His jaw clenched. "Ranko—"

"Go on," she goaded, leaning in slightly, tilting her head. "Ain't you supposed to retrieve your belongings?"

Kuno's fingers twitched at his sides. He would. He could. But—

Ranko smirked, hooking a thumb into her collar, tugging just enough to flash the corner of his wallet. "I’ll even let ya."

His pulse leapt up his throat.

Unacceptable.

He moved before he could think.

One hand braced against the small of her back, the other at her shoulder, and then Ranko was suddenly dipped, back arched, her grin flickering into surprise.

Kuno held her there, hovering just above her, his free hand right there —mere inches from reclaiming his wallet.

Her breath hitched.

His hand didn't move.

"Go on," she teased, but her voice was softer now. Less cocky.

Kuno’s grip tightened, his expression pained.

Ranko studied his face, and slowly, she started to laugh. "You really can't , huh?"

He glared down at her, jaw tight.

"You're kinda sweet, Kuno." She reached up, plucked the wallet free from between her breasts, and slid it into his breast pocket for him.

His breath released all at once.

Ranko grinned, still in his arms, still dipped low. "I like ya like this," she murmured, voice teasing, but—maybe—a little sincere.

Kuno scowled. And yet, when he pulled her upright again, he was careful. Gentle. 

Ranko hummed, pleased, even as she let him go.

The silence between them stretched, heavier than Ranko liked. Kuno walked with that stiff, too-distant posture, his eyes fixed ahead as if she hadn’t just spent the last several minutes shamelessly teasing him. She wasn’t used to caring when people got uncomfortable. Usually, if someone took offense to her antics, that was their problem. But Kuno keeping his distance, like he was genuinely bothered by her, made something in her stomach twist unpleasantly. It was stupid, really. 

She shouldn’t care. But she did.

She needed to fix this, but she didn’t know how. What was she supposed to say? Sorry for shoving your wallet down my tits? Didn’t think you’d be so sensitive about it, Prince. No, that would only make it worse. She had to say something real for once, maybe get him to see her as more than just the girl who gave him a hard time. But what? 

After a beat, she shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets and blurted, “Y’know, I trained in martial arts when I was a kid, like, a ton.”

Kuno glanced at her, interest flickering in his eyes. “Oh?”

She nodded, kicking a loose pebble down the road. “Yeah. My old man was real hardcore about it, though. Kinda sucked the fun out of it. Made me wanna quit.”

Kuno made a thoughtful noise, tilting his head slightly. “A shame. With proper instruction, you could have developed great skill.”

Ranko smirked. “Oh, so you admit I have potential.”

Kuno regarded her with his usual air of formality, as if bestowing some great honor upon her. “I acknowledge that you possess agility and speed, and with diligent training, you could refine those skills and use them for good.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks, sensei. ”

He gave her a pointed look, unimpressed by the sarcasm, but she caught the flicker of amusement in his expression. Encouraged, she shrugged. “Not that I’d wanna be like him anyway.”

Kuno’s frown deepened slightly. “Your father?”

Her smirk faltered just a little. She hadn’t meant to say that much. The last thing she wanted was Kuno looking at her like she was some tragic case.

So she forced her shoulders into a lazy shrug. “Yeah, guy’s kind of a manipulative bastard.”

Kuno was quiet for a moment, as if weighing his response carefully. Then, with his usual measured tone, he asked, “And you fear becoming like him?”

She almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because she didn’t like how close to the truth he got with just one damn question. “Pfft, nah,” she said, forcing a grin. “I’m too hot to turn into an evil old man.”

Kuno studied her for a moment, expression unreadable, before giving a slow nod. “Of course.”

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. Kuno wasn’t stupid. He knew she was dodging the real conversation. But he let her. He didn’t pry, didn’t try to fix her, didn’t push for answers she wasn’t ready to give. He just let her decide how much she wanted to share, when she wanted to.

It wasn’t something she was used to. Most people either asked too many questions or didn’t care enough to ask at all. Kuno was different. He noticed things, but he didn’t force them out of her. It made her feel... safe. Which was terrifying.

So, naturally, she turned it into a joke.

“You ever think about dyin’ your hair, Prince?” she asked, flashing a grin. “Might make you look dangerous. ”

Kuno scoffed. “I have no need for such theatrics.”

“Aw, c’mon,” she teased. “You’d look good with a little blond in there.”

Kuno exhaled sharply, but his lips quirked, just barely.

Good. That meant she hadn’t totally ruined things.

Ranko came to a stop at the intersection. Kuno slowed as well, his gaze flickering past her to the bridge just a few meters behind—the same bridge that led across the river and into the rows of worn-down government housing. He remembered that first night, the way she had balked at going back, the way she had pulled him into her world of ramen stands and stolen wallets instead.

He shifted, squaring his shoulders. “I shall walk you home.”

Ranko’s head shook before he could take a step. “Nah.” Her voice was light, casual, but something in the way she said it made him pause. Then, with an easy grin, she added, “Thanks for puttin’ up with me today.”

Kuno frowned, confused. “Putting up with you?”

She let out a breath, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets. “Had a bad day,” she admitted, though her tone was more matter-of-fact than self-pitying. “You really made me forget about life for a while. Put me in a good mood.”

Kuno studied her, noting the way her shoulders remained loose despite the admission, the way she refused to linger on whatever had made her day so awful in the first place.

He gave a small nod. “I am glad to hear it.”

Ranko’s smirk returned, sharp and playful. “So no makin’ out then?”

Kuno’s mouth opened, no doubt ready with some scandalized rebuttal, but before he could find the words, she let out a laugh, stepping back toward the bridge. “I’ll drop by your school again soon, Prince.” She waved, a flick of her fingers, then turned on her heel.

Kuno hesitated, watching as she strolled toward the bridge, her form shrinking slightly under the glow of the streetlights. He didn’t move until she had disappeared beyond the other side, out of sight, swallowed by the maze of narrow streets leading home.

Only then did he turn, his mind still puzzling over everything unsaid, and make his way back to his own home, where Kodachi awaited.

Chapter Text

The following week, Ranko showed up at Furinkan early in the day, way before lunch period. Her own school wasn’t exactly strict—half the students skipped class, teachers barely kept track, and the more delinquent types hung around the gates like wolves circling their territory. But Furinkan? Everyone was in uniform. No one was smoking outside. No one was in the process of stealing a bike from the student parking lot.

It was almost unsettling.

She wandered through the empty halls, taking in the tidy bulletin boards, the way students actually stayed in their classrooms instead of loitering aimlessly. Peeking into one of the open doors, she stopped in mild disbelief.

An entire class was sitting quietly, books open, reading in absolute silence. No teacher in sight.

Wow. Buncha nerds.

Shrugging, she leaned in. "Hey, sorry—Kuno here?"

Several boys turned immediately, their eyes dropping straight to her legs. Ranko was used to it—short skirt, loose socks, barely-buttoned school shirt, and the oversized black-and-red jacket slung over her shoulders like a yakuza heir. It was a look. It got reactions.

Some of the girls, however, reacted differently, gasping at the sight of her frizzy, over-dyed blonde hair, as if the very presence of such chaotic energy might disrupt the delicate balance of their honor student ecosystem.

Then, unexpectedly, one of them smiled.

She was cute— really cute. Long black hair, half-tied with a neat ribbon, the picture of a refined, well-bred schoolgirl. But there was warmth in her expression, no judgment at all.

"You’re looking for Kuno-senpai?" she asked kindly. "His classroom is around the corner. He’s a second-year. This is 1-F."

Ranko blinked, caught off guard by how nice she was.

"Thanks, princess," she said, flashing her a grin.

The girl giggled, shaking her head in disbelief. "You’re welcome."

As Ranko turned the corner, she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. What the hell kinda school is this?

Ranko found Kuno’s classroom easily enough. She hovered by the sliding door, peering through a narrow gap. The teacher sat at his desk, reading silently, his presence more symbolic than necessary. The rest of the students were hunched over their desks, focused, silent.

A test.

Goddamn, this school is uptight.

Even so, it wasn’t hard to spot Kuno.

She had never seen him in a school uniform before. It was weird. Gone were the flowing kendogi, the warrior’s hakama—replaced with a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt, dark grey trousers, polished black shoes. Almost normal. Almost.

Except for the ridiculous inkstone and shodo brush next to his regular pencil case, and oh, the way he sat .

Straight-backed, stiff, regal, as if he were on a throne instead of a classroom chair. His dark hair curled just slightly above one temple, a perfect little aristocratic wave. Proper Japanese rich boy, she thought, amused.

Her gaze flicked to the rest of the class. The usual suspects—neat-haired boys, prim-and-proper girls, all scribbling away diligently. Ranko narrowed her eyes, scanning the room.

Alright, where’s the tomboy?

Somewhere in this sea of studious nerds was the girl Kuno was in love with.

She studied the faces, trying to guess. One of the bookish ones? The shy type who hid behind her overgrown bangs? The sporty girl with her hair tied up?

Kuno had said she was strong. Beautiful. That she didn’t need him.

Ranko’s stomach twisted slightly. Well. Wouldn’t be the first time she lost to some pretty, unattainable girl.

Ranko's eyes lingered on the girl sitting next to Kuno.

Short brown hair, cut right at the jawline—sharp, deliberate. Not tomboyish, exactly, but mature. There was something effortless about her prettiness, a kind of natural poise that Ranko didn’t have.

Actually, now that she looked closer, the girl seemed kinda sophisticated. That haircut wasn’t some cheap chop job—it was precise, shaped, high maintenance . Probably needed trims every few weeks. Weird for a high schooler, especially a second-year, unless she was a high-end model part-time.

But nothing about her screamed tomboy . Nothing about her said she could take on Kuno and a hundred other boys at once. Maybe she could use a hundred and one credit cards at once in a fancy hair salon, but she couldn’t imagine this girl risking breaking her perfect nails on a guy’s face.

Ranko frowned.

This is the girl Kuno’s head over heels for?

With a sigh, she leaned away from the door, already bored of waiting.

She stuck out like a sore thumb in this school, but that was nothing new. It wasn’t even an accident. Standing out was the point . The same way certain animals had bold markings to scream don’t touch, don’t mess with me, don’t even try .

She pulled her jacket a little tighter around herself.

Ranko lowered herself onto the floor, deciding to wait out the test in the hallway. Furinkan’s atmosphere was way too uptight for her liking—no loud voices, no clanging of vending machine cans, no fights breaking out in the distance. Just the muffled scratching of pencils on paper from the classrooms around her.

She hadn’t even gotten comfortable before the sliding door in front of her opened with a soft shhk .

Ranko looked up, expecting some tight-laced teacher about to scold her for loitering in a school that wasn’t hers. Instead, she found herself staring at the fancy haircut girl.

The girl met her gaze without a hint of surprise. If anything, she seemed amused, like she’d been expecting Ranko to be there all along. She stepped fully into the hallway, sliding the door shut behind her with practiced ease.

“Hi,” she greeted, her tone smooth and friendly.

Ranko hesitated, caught off guard by how normal she sounded. She’d been expecting some stuck-up honor student attitude, maybe even a sneer. Instead, the girl looked calm, composed—like she was just making polite conversation.

“I’m Nabiki,” the girl continued. “Are you looking for someone?”

Ranko blinked, then shook off the weird sense of unease creeping up her spine. “Yeah. Kuno.”

Nabiki’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Ah. Kuno-chan ?”

Ranko’s frown was immediate.

Kuno-CHAN ?

What the hell?

She tilted her head, scrutinizing Nabiki with narrowed eyes. There was no teasing lilt in her voice, no dramatic flair. She’d said it like it was natural , like it was the most normal thing in the world to stick a cute little chan onto Tatewaki Kuno’s name.

Ranko knew Kuno well enough by now to know that if anyone else had called him that, he’d launch into some speech about dignity and warrior’s pride and how a man of his stature should be addressed with the utmost respect.

But Nabiki?

Nabiki just said it, all casual, and it was weird .

Ranko straightened up, resting her elbows on her knees. “Yeah, I guess,” she muttered. “Didn’t know we were out here addin’ chan to his name, though.” She raised a brow. “You two close or somethin’?”

Nabiki smiled again—just a small, sly curve of her lips. “Something like that.”

Ranko narrowed her eyes.

That wasn’t an answer. And yet, somehow, it told her everything she needed to know.

Ranko didn’t like this Nabiki character. She didn’t trust her.

The girl was too smooth, too self-assured, standing there in her crisp uniform with that little smirk—like she already had Ranko figured out and didn’t mind letting her know it. She was treating Ranko like some amusing little diversion, like a cat batting around a bug just to see how it moved.

Even if she wasn’t the tomboy Kuno had gone on and on about— what was her name again? Ranko was blanking, even though Kuno had mentioned her crush’s name about a dozen times, surname first, like a damn lovesick poet—this Nabiki girl still rubbed her the wrong way.

Maybe it was the friendliness. The way it didn’t feel real .

Ranko pushed herself up from the floor, a half-smile tugging at her lips—forced, but convincing enough. “Tell Kuno I was lookin’ for him,” she said, brushing imaginary dust off her jacket.

Nabiki tilted her head, still watching her with that unreadable expression. “I would,” she mused, “but you haven’t told me your name.”

Ranko snorted, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “No need.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked back down the hallway, leaving Nabiki standing there, unreadable and entirely too composed.

She was pissed.

Not just at Nabiki, but at herself. For feeling anything at all. For caring, even for a second, that some rich-girl stylish type had looked at her like she knew something Ranko didn’t.

Kuno stood in the open grounds of Furinkan, scanning the area with a slight frown. He had been told someone was looking for him, but there was no one in sight. Just as he turned, a voice called down—

"Up here."

He looked up sharply.

Ranko was sprawled along a thick upper branch of a tree, one leg bent, the other swinging idly as she leaned against the trunk. 

Kuno studied her, arms folded. “It is most unusual to see you at such an early hour.”

Ranko shrugged. “But not on a tree, glad we settled that. Got bored at my school, figured I’d come check out yours. See what all the fuss is about.”

Kuno nodded solemnly, as though this were a deeply philosophical pursuit. “And what verdict have you reached?”

Ranko glanced around at the neatly uniformed students walking to their classes, no one loitering, no one goofing off. The school buildings looked clean, well-maintained. Not a single window was broken, and there wasn’t a single delinquent shaking down an underclassman for lunch money.

Ranko shrugged, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The truth was, she didn’t really want to think about why she’d come—not the real reason, anyway. Not how weird it had felt to meet that girl, Nabiki. Not the way she’d said Kuno-chan like she had some kind of claim on him. Not how Ranko had walked away from that conversation feeling like a total idiot.

She turned her focus back to him instead—safer territory.

He looked different in uniform. Less like the over-the-top, poetic swordsman and more like a regular, well-dressed student. The crisp white shirt, the pressed dark grey trousers, the way he stood straight-backed and regal despite the completely normal setting. He still had that same intensity about him, though. Like he belonged in another era.

Ugh. Ranko forced herself to look away. Nowhere was safe. “Looks like a normal school,” she muttered, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. It wasn’t really a compliment.

Kuno nodded, as though he found this assessment reasonable. “And does it meet with your approval?”

Ranko smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Dunno. Feels like a school for good, normal people.” She kicked a stray pebble with the toe of her shoe. “Dunno if that’s really my scene.”

Kuno studied her for a long moment, and for once, he didn’t rush to speak. He just watched her, like he could see straight through the act.

Ranko felt an annoying warmth rise in her chest. Idiot, she thought. Stop looking at me like that.

Kuno’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

Ranko forced a grin, exaggerated and easy. “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He didn’t answer right away, just kept watching her like he didn’t quite believe it. That made her stomach do something stupid, so she needed to move this conversation along— now.

She tilted her head, all nonchalance. “So, Kuno…” she dragged out his name, lifting a brow, “how’s the love of your life?”

It worked instantly. His expression shifted, his entire posture lifting, as if just the mention of her name had straightened his spine. “Tendo Akane,” he said, full of reverence.

Ranko rolled her eyes. Yeah, her.

“So… does she go to your class, or…?” Ranko squinted at him in mock suspicion. “Don’t tell me it’s a teacher!”

Kuno looked almost offended at the suggestion. “Certainly not! She is a first-year student, a perfectly normal maiden.”

Ranko nodded slowly, biting her cheek. Normal, huh?

But Kuno wasn’t done. If anything, he was just getting started.

“Tendo Akane is strength and grace in equal measure,” he declared, folding his arms. “Beautiful, yet unshaken in her convictions. Fierce and strong, yet refined. From the moment I first set eyes upon her, I knew—”

Ranko stopped listening. Not that she didn’t hear him, but she sure as hell wasn’t processing anything. She had done this to herself, hadn’t she? Brought this on by asking.

She should’ve known better.

She did know better.

And yet here she was, standing in the middle of a stupidly clean schoolyard, listening to Kuno wax poetic about some girl who’d probably rather set herself on fire than be within ten feet of him.

She sighed, dragging a hand through her messy, brassy hair. God, I’m an idiot.

“Ranko?”

She blinked. “Huh?”

Kuno regarded her with mild curiosity. “I must return to class after lunch period ends. Would you care to have lunch with me?”

A beat.

Then, Ranko straightened, forcing another grin. “Yeah. Yeah, I could eat.”

Because, hell, what else was she gonna do?

Kuno led her up to the rooftop with an air of quiet dignity, his steps purposeful, his shoulders squared. He didn’t say why they were going to the rooftop, but Ranko had a pretty good idea. He hadn’t liked the way his classmates (at least they didn’t run into the fancy haircut girl) had been gawking at her when they went back to his classroom to retrieve his lunchbox—some with curiosity, some with judgment, all of them probably making up their own little theories about who she was and why she was here with him . 

She almost wanted to tease him about it, but something about the way he carried himself made her hold back. He was taking this all very seriously.

Which, of course, made her want to mess with him even more.

“Man,” she drawled, hands on her hips as she stepped out onto the rooftop. “I was expecting Furinkan to have a cafeteria. Y’know, like in the movies. Tables with cloth napkins, a school menu, a drink bar free of charge—like the fancy school your sis goes to.”

Kuno gave her a look, his lips pressed in that firm, disapproving way of his. “It is not a fancy school, Ranko.”

She snorted. “It’s fancier than mine.”

Kuno didn’t miss a beat. “That says more about your school than mine.”

That got a proper laugh out of her. “Hey, fair enough.”

She plopped down onto the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her. When she looked up, she found Kuno hesitating, clearly assessing the best way to lower himself without sacrificing his dignity.

It made her grin. “Y’know,” she said, watching him maneuver himself with the kind of careful precision usually reserved for grandmasters of the martial arts, “you’re gettin’ better at this. First time we met, you wouldn’t even eat outside a convenience store.”

Kuno settled with a restrained sigh, crossing his legs in a properly composed manner. “A man of refinement must learn to adapt.”

Ranko smirked. “Oh yeah? What’s next? Eating instant ramen on the curb? Sitting on the ground without looking like you’re about to deliver an important decree?”

Kuno gave her a pointed glance. “Let us not be ridiculous.”

She cackled, leaning back on her hands. “Yeah, yeah. Baby steps, I get it.”

Kuno exhaled sharply through his nose—something between amusement and exasperation. Ranko just kept grinning, feeling oddly comfortable now despite everything.

Kuno lifted his lacquered bento box, the three-tiered container looking almost comically elegant against the rough rooftop concrete. The wood gleamed under the midday sun, black and polished, with delicate gold trim. When he unfastened the lid, Ranko’s eyes widened.

Inside was a meal straight out of a gourmet catalog: a bed of perfect, glistening rice crowned with a deep red pickled plum, crisp steamed vegetables arranged like a still-life painting, golden-skinned grilled salmon, and a neat scoop of creamy potato salad dusted with paprika. Even the daikon slices looked like they’d been cut by a master sculptor.

Ranko whistled low. “Damn. Didn’t know you were packin’ luxury goods.”

Kuno, entirely serious, gave a curt nod. “As in all things, the refinement of one’s character is reflected in the refinement of one’s habits,” Kuno said loftily. Then, with the same air of solemnity, he took out his only pair of chopsticks, turned them over in his hands, and held them out to her. “You may have the honor of eating first.”

Ranko blinked, caught off guard. He was offering her the first bite? Not just a taste, but like, really offering? Most guys she knew would’ve fought her over food, even her own father.

“Aww, Kuno, how sweet,” she teased, batting her lashes dramatically. “What a proper gentleman, lettin’ me eat first.” Ranko, with a grin, completely ignored the chopsticks, reached in, and plucked a piece of salmon up with her fingers .

Kuno gasped . A genuine, horrified, hand-to-the-chest sort of gasp.

“You—! That is utterly uncivilized!”

She popped the salmon into her mouth and chewed slowly, savoring the taste, eyes dancing with amusement as Kuno looked at her like she’d just committed high treason. “C’mon, you’re sittin’ on the ground , eatin’ lunch with a delinquent who skipped school. Losin’ your manners should be the least of your worries.”

Kuno looked genuinely pained. “There is a limit to what should be cast aside in the name of camaraderie.”

Ranko just grinned, snatching another piece of salmon. “Then eat faster, rich boy. Before I uncivilize the whole thing.”

Kuno exhaled sharply, something between frustration and exasperated amusement, and finally reached for his rice with his chopsticks. Ranko just grinned wider, enjoying his lunch until there was nothing left.

Ranko stretched her arms behind her head, sighing in satisfaction. “Man, that was good .” She tilted her head toward Kuno, grinning. “Rich boy lunches hit different.”

Kuno, who had just finished closing up the now-empty bento box, gave her a long, weary look. “Yes. Though the experience of dining was somewhat diminished by the uncouth manner in which it was consumed.”

Ranko just licked a stray grain of rice off her thumb and smirked. “You love it.”

Kuno exhaled sharply, as if trying to expel the very notion. Then, with the kind of grave finality usually reserved for sentencing criminals, he said, “I must return to class.” He got up.

Ranko’s smile disappeared, getting up as well. “Already?”

“Yes.”

“Skip.”

“No.”

“Come on ,” she pressed, stepping in front of him as he tried to move toward the rooftop door. “Live a little, Kuno. Do somethin’ bad for once.”

“I refuse.”

“Please?”

Kuno folded his arms. “Attempting to tempt me into delinquency will not succeed.”

Ranko clicked her tongue and shrugged. “Had to try.”

They made their way back inside, descending the stairs side by side. When they reached the hallway, Ranko glanced toward the turn leading to the restrooms.

“Well,” Ranko said, stretching her fingers. “Gonna go wash my hands. Can’t be walkin’ around smellin’ like your fancy life.”

Kuno ignored the remark, regarding her with his usual serious expression. “Since you have come all this way, you should take the opportunity to look around Furinkan’s facilities.”

Ranko raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“I meant what I said,” Kuno continued, as if it were obvious. “If you should decide you wish to enroll, I will do whatever is necessary to make it happen.”

Ranko hesitated for a fraction of a second, caught off guard. Then she smirked, crossing her arms. “Yeah? You gonna fight the principal or somethin’?”

Kuno’s expression did not waver. “The acting-principal, but yes. If it comes to that.”

Ranko let out a short laugh, shaking her head. What a guy.

“Well, guess I’ll take a look around then. Y’know, just for fun,” she said casually, not about to admit how the idea of it made something tighten in her chest. “See ya, Kuno.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and strolled toward the restroom, playing it cool all the way.

The bathroom was full of soft chatter, the sound of running water, and the quiet clinking of toothbrushes against porcelain. A group of girls clustered near the mirrors, exchanging gossip in hushed voices, while others flipped through study guides, reviewing last-minute details for an upcoming test. It was all so… normal.

Ranko stood at the sink, scrubbing her hands, watching the scene unfold in the long wall mirror. She looked out of place. Not just because of her bleached, frizzy hair or her mismatched, half-buttoned uniform—though that certainly didn’t help—but because she didn’t carry herself the way these girls did. They were so comfortable here, part of a well-oiled machine, a system Ranko had never quite fit into.

Still… she liked the idea of it. Not necessarily being a good student —that was pushing it—but blending in, just enough to belong. Maybe she just wanted to be near Kuno, or maybe—just maybe—this place felt like it could be good for her in a way she didn’t want to think about too hard.

She sighed, drying her hands on her short skirt, when a voice behind her cut through her thoughts.

“Did you find Kuno-senpai?”

Ranko turned, immediately recognizing the speaker. Ah. The princess.

The girl from the first classroom stood nearby, watching her with a polite, curious smile. In the bright fluorescent light, she looked even more refined than Ranko remembered—long, silky black hair tied neatly with a ribbon, the kind of girl who never got scolded for her skirt being too short.

Ranko nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The princess’ smile widened. “I’m glad.”

Something about the genuine warmth in her tone made Ranko return the smile without thinking. This girl wasn’t like the others who had gawked at her in the hallway—she hadn’t looked at Ranko like she was some kind of freak, and Ranko appreciated that more than she wanted to admit.

The princess tilted her head slightly. “Are you Kuno-senpai’s… sister?”

Ranko blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. “Pfft! Hell no. Could ya imagine?”

The princess giggled. “I suppose not. You don’t really look alike.”

“No kiddin’.”

Then, with the same casual ease, the princess added, “You’re cute.”

Ranko froze.

Her brain short-circuited for a second, replaying those words just to make sure she’d actually heard them. You’re cute.

Her?

Ranko blinked, feeling warmth creeping up her neck. “Uh—” she started, then immediately wanted to smack herself for sounding so dumb.

The princess just smiled, completely unbothered, as if she hadn’t just rocked Ranko’s whole world.

Ranko recovered fast, because that was what she did. She forced a cocky smirk, crossing her arms. “You flatterin’ me, princess? Tryna get on my good side so I don’t steal your lunch money?”

The princess just shrugged. “I just say what I think.”

Ranko squinted at her, trying to gauge whether this was some kinda setup. But the girl’s expression was open, sincere.

“Huh.” Ranko shifted her weight, suddenly feeling weirdly self-conscious. “Well, guess I should return the favor.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to spill a juicy secret. “You look like the kinda girl who’s never skipped a day of school in her life.”

The princess gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’ll have you know I have skipped before.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Once.”

Ranko cackled. “Yeah, you’re real bad news.”

The princess giggled, and Ranko found herself grinning back.

Maybe Furinkan wasn’t all nerds and tightwads after all.

“I’m Ranko” she introduced herself—just Ranko , short and simple. No last name, no explanation.

Before the princess could respond, one of her friends stepped forward, her posture stiff with hesitation, like she wasn’t sure if Ranko was safe to approach. “Hi, sorry. Akane, we should go back to class.”

Akane?

Ranko barely registered the girl’s polite nod, barely processed her saying, “It was nice meeting you,” before she turned and left with her friends.

Ranko stood there, hands still damp, head swimming. Wait. Akane?

Her stomach turned over. No fucking way.

She jerked into motion, nearly slipping on the tile. “ Wait! ”

Her voice rang out through the hall. Students stopped mid-conversation, heads turning toward her like a school of fish sensing a predator. Ranko didn’t care.

The princess—no, Akane —stopped in her tracks and turned back, curious and composed, as if being yelled at by a stranger in the hallway was completely normal.

Ranko’s throat felt tight. “Are you—” She licked her lips. “Are you Tendo Akane?”

Akane blinked, then smiled—sweet, easy, natural. “Yes.”

The confirmation hit Ranko like a slap.

Akane Tendo.

The girl Kuno spent every waking moment worshipping? The legendary tomboy he claimed bested a hundred boys in combat every morning?

This wasn’t a tomboy.

This was a princess.

Ranko just stared, suddenly feeling ridiculous. She could practically see the difference between them. Akane was pristine, refined in a way that wasn’t forced.

Ranko was nothing like her.

Akane tilted her head slightly, that same infuriatingly gentle curiosity in her eyes. “Hope to see you again soon,” she said, then turned and disappeared into her classroom.

Ranko didn’t move.

She couldn’t move.

Her legs felt cemented to the floor, her mind spinning in a hundred different directions at once.

Tendo Akane.

Beautiful, kind, perfect.

And Kuno loved her.

Ranko left Furinkan in a daze, walking fast, like she needed to put as much distance between herself and that school as possible. She didn't look back—not at the neat rows of students, not at the spotless hallways, not at the world she didn’t belong in.

Her mind buzzed, thoughts overlapping, her pulse loud in her ears.

She liked Kuno. She liked hanging out with him, liked pulling him into her mess of a world and watching him struggle to keep up. It was fun. It was easy. But now—now she just felt stupid.

Nabiki, with her sleek haircut and unreadable smirk, calling him Kuno-chan like it was natural. The way she carried herself, like she knew everything about him, like she belonged there at his side.
And then the princess.

She was the tomboy he was obsessed with? That was the girl he swore was stronger than a hundred men?

Ranko scoffed under her breath, but there was no humor in it. She’s not a tomboy. She’s not some wild fighter. She’s perfect.

Kuno didn’t need Ranko. He had his life figured out—his money, his nice school, his elegant, refined classmates, his stupid epic love for Tendo Akane. His world didn’t have room for some trashy delinquent with over-dyed hair and a big mouth.

Maybe she’d been fooling herself, thinking she brought something different into his life. Thinking he actually enjoyed her being around. Maybe he was just humoring her, letting her tag along because she was amusing, because she was new.

She had to believe that.

Because the alternative—the idea that she needed him , but he didn’t need her at all—hurt way too much to think about.

That evening, Ranko didn’t go back to her school. She didn’t go home, either.

Instead, she found herself at a place she hadn’t been to in a long time—a cramped little shop tucked between office buildings, known to people like her as The Den. It was a hole-in-the-wall, a spot where high schoolers who didn’t give a damn about rules killed time until the real customers—the salarymen and barflies—took over after six.

She barely made it past the door before someone approached her. A man. Older, ugly, reeking of aftershave and boredom. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, and he didn’t even bother to take off his wedding band when he leaned in, all lazy confidence, and asked if she wanted a drink.

Ranko didn’t think. She just said yes.

She let him buy her whatever he wanted, let him take her to the back room where a karaoke machine sat untouched in front of a sofa, let him touch her like it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t. She was just some delinquent girl with over-dyed hair and a short skirt, the kind men like him looked at and knew she’d say yes to anything.

It was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering how fucking stupid she had felt, standing there in that pristine hallway, staring at Tendo Akane—the princess, the angel, the perfect girl —and realizing, with sick certainty, that she had never stood a chance.

Because that was the truth. And if she let herself think about it too hard, she’d break.

Chapter Text

Kuno hadn’t seen Ranko in days. By the twelfth day, Kuno could no longer dismiss the gnawing sense of unease that had taken root in him.

At first, he hadn’t been too concerned. He told himself she was probably handling the transfer process, sorting out whatever paperwork was needed before making her grand entrance at Furinkan. He had even imagined the moment—her standing at the gates, wearing the school uniform, maybe even her natural hair color restored, ready to step into this new chapter with that same bold grin she always wore.

But the days passed, and that moment never came. Ranko just never showed up again.

And Kuno… found himself noticing .

His feet carried him through the school grounds on instinct alone, but his eyes were restless, always scanning the treetops, searching for the careless sprawl of limbs draped over a branch, waiting for that familiar, insolent voice to call down to him.

He would pause before the entrance of the kendo hall, as if expecting her to push the doors open with that swagger of hers, hands buried in her pockets, smirking like she was only there to amuse herself.

At lunch, he made his way to the rooftop as if drawn by an unseen thread, standing there in silence for a few moments, letting the wind stir his uniform, his gaze sweeping the empty space. Each day, he waited longer than he had the day before.

And then, without a word, he would return to his classroom and, without thinking, slide the second pair of chopsticks back into his bento box.

So Kuno recurred to the only person he thought could help him: Tendo Nabiki.

He turned in his seat, watching as she leaned lazily over her desk, transcribing biology notes from a classmate’s borrowed notebook. Her pen moved in swift, efficient strokes, her attention seemingly absorbed in the task.

“Tendo Nabiki,” he said, his voice carefully measured.

Without looking up, she flipped a page. “I’m busy. 1,000 yen.”

Kuno exhaled, already expecting as much. He reached into his uniform pocket and retrieved a crisp, neatly folded bill, depositing it into the open palm she extended without ceremony. The movement was fluid—habitual, as though he had long accepted that all interactions with Nabiki required a toll.

She tucked the money away with the same indifference one might give to pocket change and finally glanced up, just long enough to confirm he was still standing there. “Go ahead, Kuno-baby. I’m listening.”

Kuno ignored the moniker. “Do you recall Ranko?”

Nabiki smirked, her pen tapping idly against the desk. “Oh, I remember her,” she said, voice laced with amusement. “Hard to forget the dyed-hair delinquent who strutted onto campus like she owned the place, just to have lunch with our very own kendo captain.” She tilted her head at him, as if considering something. “You know, the rumor mill ate that up . You made me a lot of money on bets that day.”

Kuno pressed forward, unfazed. “Can you help me locate her? I haven't seen her in days. I am concerned for her well-being”

That, at last, made Nabiki pause. She set her pen down, finally giving him her full attention.

"Just call her and ask" Nabiki said.

"I do not know her phone number, or home address".

“Wait, wait, wait.” She raised a brow. “You don’t know where she lives?”

Kuno shook his head.

“Where she goes to school?”

Another shake.

“Her full name ?”

A beat. The slightest hesitation—so slight that only someone like Nabiki would pick up on it.

“Oh my God ,” she groaned, slumping back in her chair. Nabiki finally set her pen down, giving him a long, incredulous look. "Okay, let me get this straight," she said, tapping her fingers against her desk. "You’re trying to track down a girl—who, mind you, vanished almost two weeks ago— and you don’t know where she lives, where she goes to school, or even her full name?" She blinked at him. " Seriously ?"

Kuno sat stiffly, looking, for once, actually uncertain. "I don’t believe she ever offered such details, and I… did not think to inquire at the time."

Nabiki clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Unbelievable. And you call yourself her friend?"

Kuno frowned, a flicker of guilt passing over his features. "She disappeared, Tendo Nabiki. Without a word, without reason. That is not like her."

Nabiki tilted her head. "How would you know? It’s not like you actually knew her. Maybe she got bored of you."

That landed harder than she expected. Kuno’s face tensed, and for the first time in the conversation, he looked genuinely upset.

Nabiki sighed, rubbing her temple. "Alright, alright, don’t get all mopey on me." She reached for the 1,000 yen bill, waving it between her fingers. "I’ll see what I can do. But, Kuno-chan, this kind of investigation? Not cheap."

"Name your price," Kuno said immediately.

Nabiki grinned. "Oho, dangerous words. You really do want to find this girl, huh?"

Kuno's expression was grave. "More than you realize. She is my friend ."

Nabiki studied him for a moment, then smirked. "Fine. I’ll look into it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if you find out something you don’t like."

Kuno exhaled slowly, nodding. "So be it."

The next morning, Kuno wasted no time. As soon as he took his seat, he turned toward Nabiki. “Tendo Nabiki. Any news on Ranko?”

Nabiki didn’t even glance up from her notebook. “Nope. I’ll let you know when I do.”

The following day, he asked again.

Nabiki clicked her pen loudly and let out a slow breath through her nose. “Kuno-baby, you do realize these things take time, right?” she said, flipping a page with deliberate laziness. But with how much money he’d forked over, she couldn’t be too annoyed.

By the third morning, however, her patience had thinned considerably.

Before Kuno could even open his mouth, Nabiki held up a hand. “Say ‘good morning ’ first,” she said, deadpan. “Just once. I dare you.”

Kuno blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Ah… My apologies. Good morning , Tendo Nabiki.”

Nabiki gave him a slow, sarcastic clap. “Wow. Look at that. You do have manners.” Then she sighed and leaned back in her chair, his anxiety making her feel uneasy. Nabiki sighed. It was hard to stay mad when he looked that genuinely remorseful. Besides, he had forked over more than enough yen to earn a small update. “Alright, fine. I’ll throw you a bone.”

Kuno straightened.

“I might know a girl who might know about Ranko.”

Kuno’s face fell. “That is all you have?”

Nabiki scoffed. “What, you think I can just snap my fingers and make her appear? She is really far away from our social circles, Kuno-chan.” She crossed her arms. “If you remember anything else about her, it might actually help me, you know.”

Kuno hesitated, then admitted, “I have been going to the bridge that separates our part of Nerima from the district where I suspect she lives. The government assistance buildings, across the river.” He paused. “But I have not seen her cross in days.”

Nabiki’s fingers stilled against the page.

“…Okay,” she said, considering that. “That’s something . Anything else?”

Kuno hesitated again. Then, quieter, “Her ex-boyfriend is missing a finger.”

Nabiki’s head lifted. She was not equipped to deal with the yakuza, and for what she had found out so far, it wouldn’t be too far off from Ranko’s usual activities.

“…Please tell me it’s not a pinky.”

Kuno shook his head. “The index, I believe.”

Nabiki hummed, tilting her head in thought. “Huh. That is interesting. How did he lose it?”

Then Kuno added, almost absently, “My sister’s pet ate it.”

Nabiki froze.

Her pen slipped from her fingers and hit the desk with a small clack . Slowly, she turned to look at him.

“…I’m sorry,” she said, voice perfectly even. “What?”

Kuno nodded solemnly, as if this were perfectly reasonable. “Kodachi, my sister, has a pet alligator in one of our ponds. The pet ate one of his fingers when he tried to break into our Estate.”

Nabiki stared at him for a long time.

Then she sighed, rubbing her temples. “Why is it that every single time you talk, things just keep getting weirder ?”

Kuno had no answer for that.

Before Nabiki could press her for details, the teacher entered the classroom. The room settled into silence as everyone bowed and took their seats.

As soon as the lecture began, Nabiki leaned slightly toward Kuno, her voice low. “I’m recruiting extra help and following all the leads today. With any luck, I’ll have more info by tomorrow.” Then she muttered, almost to herself, “And possibly an exorcist for your household, just in case.”

Akane clung to Nabiki’s arm, shifting uneasily as her eyes swept over the restaurant. Something about the place made her skin crawl. It wasn’t the size—it was small but not cramped. It wasn’t even the dim lighting, though the flickering bulbs cast strange shadows along the walls. No, it was everything else. The cigarette smoke that hung thick in the air, the booths with their high-backed seats that made it impossible to see anyone unless they were right next or in front of you. The way the entire dining floor was separated from the kitchen by a sleek bar, as if to keep the staff able to see the customers at all times.

But worst of all was what Nabiki had made her wear.

Akane tugged at the hem of her dress for the hundredth time, scowling as she felt it ride up again. Too short. Too tight. She wasn’t used to this kind of thing, didn’t want to be used to it. She’d rather be in her school uniform, hell, even her gi— anything but this.

Nabiki, by contrast, looked perfectly at ease, perched on the edge of a booth like she belonged here. Her dress was just as tight, but the fabric was long and elegant, the slit riding dangerously high on her thigh. The neckline plunged in a way that made Akane’s face burn. She hadn’t even known Nabiki owned dresses like that.

“If Daddy saw us right now…” Akane muttered under her breath, voice barely above a whisper.

“He’d ground us until we turned twenty,” Nabiki finished easily, smirking as she crossed her legs. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve said that three times already.”

Akane frowned. “That’s because it’s true. Why do we have to wear this?”

“Do you want to sit here in your school uniform? So everyone knows you’re not just a minor, but a Furinkan High School student?” Nabiki asked.

“Of course not… Why not regular clothes, though?”.

“We wouldn’t have been let in, Akane. Look around. Where do you think we are?”.

Akane gulped. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Nabiki only hummed in response, waving over a passing waitress.

Akane’s fingers clenched against the fabric of her dress. She didn’t know what they were doing here, but she had a very bad feeling about it.

Nabiki leaned back against the booth, tapping her manicured fingers against the table as the waitress approached—a woman with expression lines on her forehead and eyes, with smudged eyeliner and the kind of deep-set exhaustion that came from too many years on her feet. She placed four glasses and a pitcher of water on the table.

“Is Serina around?” Nabiki asked, her tone light but purposeful.

The waitress gave them both a once-over, her gaze lingering on Akane’s uncomfortable fidgeting and Nabiki’s knowing smirk. With a sigh, she arched a thin, overdrawn brow as she served both water. “Aren’t you two a little young to be here?”

Nabiki didn’t dignify the question with a response. Instead, she pulled out a crisp 5,000-yen bill and slid it across the table with a practiced ease, her fingers barely brushing the surface before letting go. “Just tell Serina to come see us when she’s free.”

The woman let out another long, weary sigh, but she didn’t hesitate to take the money. She tucked it into the pocket of her apron, already turning away.

Akane shifted in her seat, watching the waitress disappear behind the bar. “I don’t like this.”

Nabiki smirked as she poured water on a third glass. “That’s because you’re smart.”

Akane leaned in, gripping Nabiki’s arm a little tighter. “Can you just tell me why we’re here? You made me feel like I had to come along to protect you ” she hissed, her voice low but urgent. “You even called me the muscle ”.

Nabiki exhaled, leaning back against the booth like they were just two friends out for dinner. “I didn’t want to bring you here, but I really need you, sis. Kuno paid me—”

Akane’s whole body jerked as if she’d been electrocuted. “You what?! ” she hissed, nearly knocking over the drinks on the table. “You took money from Kuno to set up a meeting with me?! And I’m dressed like this?! ”

She shot up so fast the table wobbled, her face burning with anger and embarrassment. Of course Nabiki would pull something like this. Akane could already picture it—Kuno waiting in the back somewhere, poetry in hand, ready to declare her the “goddess of the night” or some other nonsense.

Nabiki, still entirely unbothered, reached out and caught Akane’s wrist before she could storm off. “Sit down.”

Akane yanked once. “No.”

Nabiki didn’t let go. “ Sit. Down.”

Akane was about to tell her where to shove it when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. The waitress from before was watching them from behind the bar, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Beside her, a man was polishing a glass, though his gaze was locked onto them in a way that made Akane’s stomach twist.

Maybe storming out wasn’t the best idea.

She sat back down, stiff and glaring, and Nabiki gave her an I-told-you-so smirk.

“Now, as I was trying to say,” Nabiki continued smoothly, “Kuno paid me to find that bottle blonde girl who came to school a few weeks ago.”

Akane blinked, caught off guard by the revelation. “You mean… Ranko?”

“Yeah.”

Akane frowned. She remembered her, she was cute and very unusual. There was something so vulnerable about her, about the way she tried to look dangerous, the way the pain was louder than the act. “...Is she okay?”

Nabiki exhaled through her nose. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Before Akane could ask anything else, a woman approached their table. She was tall and gorgeous, her long brown hair cascading over one shoulder, her lipstick flawless, her smile slow and knowing. The slit in her dress showed just enough leg to make Akane look away quickly, face hot.

“Serina,” Nabiki greeted her, shifting to make room in the booth.

Akane crossed her arms, still sulking, but now with a pit of unease in her stomach. She had a feeling this night was about to get very complicated.

Serina slid into the booth with the graceful confidence of someone who knew exactly how much space she could take up and exactly how many heads she could turn doing it. She crossed her legs, long lashes batting lazily as she offered Nabiki a slow, amused smile.

“Long time no see, sweetheart.” Her voice was smooth, seasoned with cigarettes and late nights. Then she turned her gaze on Akane. “And who’s this?”

“That’s my little sister,” Nabiki said with casual pride, gesturing toward Akane, who sat stiffly like she’d just been told she was being introduced to a mob boss.

Serina tilted her head, looking Akane over with frank appreciation. “She’s pretty.”

Akane flushed, blinking rapidly. She had no idea how to respond to that—was she supposed to say thank you? Smile? Look away modestly? She did all three in confused succession.

Nabiki cleared her throat. “I’ll keep it brief. I know you’re busy.” She leaned in slightly, her tone dropping into business mode. “We’re looking for a girl. Name’s Ranko. Dyed blonde hair, short, busty, fake tan, kind of a delinquent vibe.”

Serina leaned back, thinking, fingers toying with the stem of the untouched water glass in front of her. “Delinquents and I don’t run in the same circles,” she said thoughtfully. Then her lips curled into a smirk. “We’re more expensive, aren’t we?”

Nabiki’s jaw tightened just a little, the flicker of tension passing quickly over her expression before she could smother it. She didn’t look at Akane, who, thankfully, seemed too confused to pick up on the implication in we.

Serina’s eyes shifted back to Nabiki’s, the smirk vanishing. “But I did see someone who fits that description. Just last week. Caught my attention. She got into one of the higher-end clubs—not usually the kind of place you see girls like that unless they’re working with someone. She was with a younger guy. He was drunk, loud, messy. She… wasn’t.”

Akane leaned in slightly now, despite herself.

Serina continued. “She got them a private booth. Expensive one. Bottle service, all that. Bartender said they were quiet after the first half hour. Staff only checked in again when they noticed the guy was asleep with his face in a plate of half-eaten sushi.”

Nabiki frowned. “And her?”

“Gone,” Serina said, lifting one hand and fluttering her fingers like a magician finishing a trick. “No one saw her leave. But his wallet was gone, too.”

Akane’s eyes widened. “She robbed him?”

Serina smiled. “I assume it was… compensation. The club sobered him up real quick with a few expensive charges and made him sign a debt contract. That young man is going to be paying for a bottle of champagne and a plate of sushi for years . But it’s not good for the club, you know? I heard the manager being quite upset about it.”

Nabiki folded her hands on the table. “You’re sure it was Ranko that left him there?”

“Tiny but curvy, dyed blonde, tan like it’s August every day, and dressed like she stole a rack from Shibuya 109? Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

Akane looked at Nabiki, uncertain. “So what do we do?”

Nabiki’s mouth was a flat line. “We find her before someone better connected does.”

Nabiki leaned forward, offering a 10,000 yen bill across the table with the practiced flick of her wrist. “Thanks, Serina. This helps a lot.”

Serina glanced at the money, then back up at Nabiki. With a smirk that curled like smoke from a lit cigarette, she pushed the bill back across the table.

“Don’t insult me, babe,” she said smoothly. “Call it a favor between colleagues.”

Then she turned her gaze to Akane and winked. “Take care of your big sis. She’s got good instincts.” And with that, Serina rose, hips swaying as she disappeared into the haze of cigarette smoke and murmured conversations that made up the restaurant’s twilight world.

Nabiki watched her go, silently cursing under her breath. That woman’s going to get me in trouble one of these days. We don’t even do the same kind of stuff… She turned to Akane just in time to see her squinting slightly, as though a puzzle piece had half-fallen into place. Nabiki’s heartbeat kicked up a notch.

“Anyway,” she said quickly, waving a hand to clear the air, “Ranko’s probably used to this kind of thing. But Kuno has a good reason to want to check up on her.”

Akane didn’t answer right away. Her fingers curled lightly around the glass in front of her, tracing condensation with a distant, suspicious touch.

“Does he?” she asked finally, voice low. “Because the Kuno I know made half the school fight me for a date every morning. The Kuno I know decided I was in love with him without even asking. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust most guys. So why should I help him track down some poor girl like Ranko?”

Nabiki sighed and leaned back in the booth, her shoulders slumping a little as she folded her arms across her chest. “Then don’t do it for Kuno,” she said. “He probably doesn’t know what kind of girl Ranko is. But she’s going to get in trouble if she keeps at it. Do it for the girl.”

Akane’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.

“She’s careless,” Nabiki continued. “Brash. She’s not just going on dates for money, Akane. She’s robbing men. The wrong man’s going to fall for it. Someone with connections, someone who doesn’t shrug off a stolen wallet with a hangover.” Nabiki frowned. “Or worse, a club owner could get really pissed off at those passed out men waking up alone in their VIP rooms, thinking the girl who stole from him works for the club.And when that happens… Kuno’s concern will be the least of her problems.”

Akane was quiet again, staring down at the water in her glass, watching the slow, lazy ripple of it settle. The lights above the booth flickered slightly, casting long shadows over her expression.

Finally, she said, “Fine. But I’m doing it for her.”

Nabiki smirked. “Got it. Honestly, Akane, I don’t think Kuno even knows what’s going on. He seems to think she’s his friend, and she’s just stopped showing up.”

She glanced at her. “Maybe she has good reason to stay away from him. Not everyone can be bought.”

Nabiki gave her a look. “You want to walk home in those heels?”

Akane shut up.

Chapter Text

Ranko sighed, holding the battered wallet like it was a weight dragging down her entire arm. She hated this part—the aftermath. It didn’t matter how disgusting the guy had been, how drunk or lecherous or smug. Once she held their life in her hands, their cards and credentials, the small personal totems of their existence, the thrill turned sour.

There was always a driver’s license from their hometown, maybe a blood donor card, a tattered business card from a karaoke place in Shibuya. That was fine to toss, it was entirely his. But it was the photographs that got to her—creases at the corners, faces grinning up at her like a guilt trap. A wife. Kids. A dog. One guy had a picture of his daughter wearing a yellow backpack and victory-signing in front of a cherry blossom tree. Ranko had stared at that one longer than she should have, until her chest ached and she had to force herself to look away.

She considered walking by a koban, maybe letting the wallet slip through her fingers onto the ground, an “accident” just convincing enough. But the idea of even risking an interaction with a police officer sent cold little jolts of anxiety through her spine. She was tired. Too tired to explain anything, especially herself. And just walking by a koban reminded her of him.

Kuno.

Instead, she stopped at a post box on the corner of a quiet street, glancing around before jamming the wallet inside like it had burned her fingers. Let someone else figure it out. Let the city sort the karma.

She walked away from the hotel area, her sneakers scuffing the pavement. It was a squat little building by the train station—low ceilings, yellowed lights, and the hum of vending machines lining the walls like sentries. The kind of place built for anonymous stopovers: businessmen checking in after a nomikai, regional office workers dragging their briefcases through the lobby, people who just missed the last train and needed a pillow before catching the first one back to work.

No one stayed more than a night. No one asked questions. That’s what made her feel safe.

But it wasn’t cheap. The rates piled up faster than she could steal, and now the envelope in her bag—her precious stash of cash—was thinning at an alarming rate. The rooms felt smaller when the money dwindled. The walls thinner. The silence between transactions longer and heavier.

She rubbed her arms as she waited at the crosswalk, watching the red man blink against the dark sky. Just a little longer, she told herself. A few more nights. Then I’ll figure something else out.

But the night offered no reassurance. Only the quiet hum of the city, and her own footsteps retreating into it.

She hadn’t wanted to go back to The Den.

Every step toward that place had scraped at her pride, chipped away at whatever fragile shell she’d built up since the last time she walked out of its suffocating neon haze. The Den wasn’t a club—not one of the ritzy, high-gloss spots where girls wore designer knock-offs and men slipped bills beneath cocktail glasses like confessions. No, The Den was the underbelly’s waiting room. Low music, greasy booths, curtains in place of doors, and the stink of old beer sunk into the carpet like a memory that refused to die. It was for men too pathetic or too poor to drink elsewhere. Small fry, as far as the world went. But she needed the cash. She needed the hotel room and one lukewarm instant ramen a night, and maybe the comfort of a fan’s low whirr to trick her into thinking she was okay.

Just until she felt normal again.

But normal felt like a delusion now. Meeting Kuno had wrecked her. Broken something soft and stupid inside her chest. He was supposed to be a mark. A rich boy in pressed hakama, full of himself and just dumb enough to hand her his wallet or his heart. But he hadn’t been. 

Instead of her taking, Kuno had given her something: hope .

God, she hated that. Hope was dangerous. It made you weak. It made you think about things like maybe I could go back to school, maybe I could get my papers in order, maybe I could sit by him at lunch and talk about nonsense, maybe I could live in the daylight again. It was pathetic. And it had all been a dream. A stupid, fragile, doomed little dream. She’d even gone so far as to daydream about making friends—actual friends—and not having to lie about her name or her family or when was the last time she had a home-cooked meal.

And worst of all, she’d imagined staying beside him.

Kuno.

She scoffed at herself as she crossed the street, the glowing sign of The Den peeking out like a predator’s eye just beyond the alley. She could’ve just used him. Played him. Bled him for every yen, every bento, every soft look. He would’ve given it freely. He wouldn’t have known, he thought they were friends. But no— no, she had to like him. Like an idiot.

She liked his voice, the way it dropped when he said her name. She liked how earnestly he talked about being in love and practicing kendo, how clueless he was about the world but still tried to be good in it. She liked that he was awkward. That he was sincere. That he wasn’t slick or cool or dangerous. That he was safe.

She’d ruined herself over a guy who had probably never kissed anyone, who wandered the halls of his school declaring undying love for some perfect little porcelain doll of a girl. And she’d let herself wonder what it would be like if he looked at her that way instead. If she was the girl on the pedestal, not just some streetwise distraction.

Stupid. Naive.

Ranko shoved her hands into her pockets, jaw clenched, heart heavy.

She opened the door to The Den and walked back into the dark.

“ Ranko Saotome , is it? ”

The voice slithered in from behind, startling her like the click of a switchblade in the dark. Ranko spun on her heel, breath held, jaw clenched, her body already half-poised to swing. But there was no threat—just a girl perched on a barstool, legs elegantly crossed, a wry smile playing at her lips like a gambler with the winning hand.

Nabiki.

She looked expensive in the way high-end candy looked: pretty, glossy, and probably laced with something dangerous. Her dress wasn’t scandalous but something about her confidence made it feel decadent. She belonged in a hotel lounge, not The Den. And yet... somehow, she didn't seem out of place. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Like she'd seen worse.

“Ranko, we’ve been looking for you for days,” came another voice, this one less polished, more unsure. Ranko turned slowly and her breath caught.

She didn’t recognize her at first. The bow was gone from her hair, and in its place a sleekness that made her look older. Her dress was tight and shiny, something plastic-looking that clung to her like it was afraid of being forgotten. Akane. The princess.

No.

Ranko stared for a long, stunned moment. She had to be seeing it wrong—Akane Tendo in a place like this? In that dress? No way. 

God, she thought, her stomach twisting. What the hell is going on?

She inhaled sharply and turned on her heel, prepared to leave. Flight was easier than this. Easier than seeing them here, in her gutter.

“Wait! Please—” Akane’s voice cracked with urgency, and her hand reached out. It landed gently on Ranko’s arm, not forceful, just warm. Real. Ranko froze.

She didn’t know why she stopped. Maybe because Akane looked worried. Like she meant it. Ranko hated it.

“You shouldn’t be here, princess,” she muttered, her voice low and laced with bitterness. She didn’t meet Akane’s eyes.

“I don’t want to be here,” Akane replied, stepping closer. “I’m here for you. We should leave.”

Ranko let out a laugh—short, sharp, joyless. “That’s rich,” she said. “What do you think this is, some after-school rescue mission?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Nabiki cut in. She slid off the stool, heels clicking softly against the sticky floor. “He’s worried about you. Kuno.”

The name hit like a cold slap. Ranko’s shoulders tensed. Her spine straightened. Her breath caught in her throat. It was a reaction that Nabiki didn’t miss, and neither did Akane.

Ranko barked out a laugh, sharp and a little too loud. She tilted her head back, letting it echo off the smoke-stained walls of the Den, like she wasn’t flinching at the mention of his name. Like Kuno hadn’t curled himself around her thoughts every damn night since she'd left.

She looked at Nabiki, half-lidded eyes gleaming with mockery. “What, so what does the noble Kuno-baby want now?” she asked, voice low and lazy, like none of this mattered. “Miss the way I kicked his subordinate’s ass in the kendo hall?”

Nabiki didn’t smile. She just crossed her arms and answered plainly, “He just wanted us to find you.”

“Well,” Ranko spread her arms like she was performing a stage act, “ Ta-da. You found me. Great job. Now go.” She turned slightly, angling her body away from them, but not far enough to really leave. Her voice had gone cold, steely.

Akane’s brows pinched. She took a small step forward, shoulders squared but hurt flickering in her eyes. “We were worried too,” she said, quiet but firm.

Ranko scoffed. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

“Yes, we do,” Akane shot back, frown deepening. “We met. You came to school. You joked with me. You—” she gestured between them, “—talked to us.”

Ranko blinked at her. Her chest rose with a deep, slow breath, her expression unreadable for a moment. “God,” she muttered, “is that all it takes? One lunch break interaction and you’re someone’s friend now?” She glanced at Nabiki with a smirk, but her voice faltered at the edges. “No wonder normal people get taken advantage of so easy.”

Nabiki opened her mouth—probably to snap something back—but Akane cut in.

“If it’s money,” she said, “we can help. We can help you find a job. Something safe. Somewhere you won’t have to do... this. ”

That was what did it. That earnest little spark in Akane’s voice, the clumsy but genuine hope in her words. It knocked the breath out of Ranko in a way she didn’t expect.

She sighed and finally turned to face her fully. Her eyes had softened, just a touch. She reached out and took Akane’s hand in hers—rougher, colder, trembling with restraint.

“Princess,” Ranko said gently, “who the hell’s gonna hire me? What decent place would take one look at this ,” she gestured vaguely at herself, “and think, yeah, that girl won’t steal from the register?”

Akane didn’t flinch. “Plenty of good people would,” she said. “And you don’t have to steal.”

Ranko stared at her. Just stared. Something flickered across her face—pain, maybe, or hope, or the echo of some old version of herself who wanted to believe in goodness.

The princess gave Ranko’s hand a gentle squeeze. Her expression was open, unguarded in a way that made Ranko ache with something she couldn’t quite name.

“You can stay with us,” Akane said suddenly. “At our place. Just until you get things figured out.”

Nabiki whipped her head toward her sister. “No, she can’t.”

Akane turned to her, voice firm. “Why not?”

“Because this isn’t a halfway house for wayward girls with sticky fingers and too many enemies, that’s why.” Nabiki folded her arms, eyes narrowed. “And I don’t need Dad and Kasumi getting all sentimental when they see what we dragged home.”

Her younger sister glared at her. “She’s not a stray cat.”

Ranko, meanwhile, looked between them with quiet amusement, like someone watching a well-worn play. She tucked a lock of bleached hair behind her ear, leaned her chin into her hand, and smirked.

“Aw, Akane. You’re sweet,” she said softly. “No wonder everyone loves you.”

Akane blushed, but didn’t look away.

Ranko’s smile lingered a moment longer, then faded. “But I can’t,” she said. “I’ve got to figure this out myself. I don’t want saving.”

Akane frowned. “It’s not saving. It’s helping.” She turned back to her, determined. “I’m serious. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The delinquent tilted her head, and for a moment something soft flickered in her expression. “I know. And... thanks. Really. But I’ve got to handle this my own way.”

Akane’s eyes were bright, confused. “Why?”

“Because it matters,” Ranko said, quietly. “Doing at least one thing without owing someone for it. I’ll be more careful,” Ranko added.

Nabiki, who’d been chewing the inside of her cheek like it owed her money, finally sighed. “You need to stop stealing, Ranko. Seriously. One wrong mark and you’re going to end up on a milk carton. I’m not being funny here, you can’t mess with the clubs.”

Ranko gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I will. Swear it.”

“Good,” Nabiki said, her tone softening just enough to betray her worry. “Kuno’s expecting to hear from you.”

That name pulled something tight in Akane’s expression. “You don’t have to meet him,” she said quickly, more forceful than she meant to sound. “You don’t owe him anything. Did he threaten you? Blackmail you somehow?”

Ranko blinked, startled. “What? No. Of course not.”

Akane frowned, folding her arms. “Then why? I mean—he’s... he’s Kuno . He had half the school chasing me with bouquets and boxing gloves. He thinks he’s starring in some Shakespearean romance, and he’s awful with boundaries. Why would you want to see him again?”

She didn’t answer right away, looking down at the bar, then back up at Akane, eyes soft with something unreadable. “Because he saw me when I didn’t think anyone would. And... he didn’t flinch.”

Akane was still, caught off-guard by that.

Ranko looked her dead in the eye. “Yeah. I don’t get it either. But I do get what he sees in you.”

Akane blinked. “Huh?”

Ranko gave her a wry smile, one that carried far more weight than her usual cocky grin. “You’re the kind of girl who offers a bed to someone she barely knows. Who sees someone broken and doesn’t run away. You’re the kind of girl people fall for.”

The princess had no answer to that. She just sat there, flustered, staring at the girl across from her who was too young to sound so world-weary, and too tired to be pretending so hard.

Ranko’s smile didn’t deepen, but it lingered. “Forget it. Just... you’re not wrong to worry, he is an asshole to you. But I do want to see him.”

Akane looked unconvinced. Nabiki rolled her eyes.

“This is so stupid,” Nabiki muttered under her breath. “But fine. I’ll tell him you’re alive. When do you want to meet him?”

Ranko leaned back again, exhaling slowly. “You don’t need to tell him anything. I’ll find him before you do.”

“Fine” Nabiki said, sighing and getting up from her stool.

Akane still looked troubled, but she didn’t argue further. The sisters left, Akane looking over her shoulder at Ranko. Ranko waved with a tense smile until the door to The Den closed after them.

God dammit . She hated it, but Nabiki was right. She had been playing with fire lately, avoiding the rest of the fires she had set in her life.

The night clung to the bridge like a second skin—cold, damp, and suffocating. Wind howled low beneath its stone spine, pulled from the river like a ghost’s breath, curling up to bite at Kuno’s exposed hands and ears. He stood still against it, arms folded tightly across his chest, kendogi doing little to shield him from the elements. He could’ve taken a coat to school. He could’ve gone home earlier. But some foolish, aching part of him believed she might walk by—tonight, maybe.

The bridge connected two halves of Nerima, but to Kuno, it may as well have spanned worlds. On the far side, rising like silent concrete sentinels, stood the grey monoliths of government housing. Endless windows, some lit, most dark. He often tried to imagine which one she lived in. Did she have a view? Did she sleep with the window cracked, letting this same brutal wind whisper through?

He exhaled, breath white in the cold. Another wasted night, it seemed. He loosened his arms, stiff with chill, and turned around with the slow reluctance of hope breaking apart.

And there she was.

Ranko stood not three feet away, as if conjured from shadow. No footstep, no sound, nothing to herald her arrival. Her arms were tucked into a faded bomber jacket several sizes too big, her cheeks pink with wind, her hair tied back in a rushed, uneven braid. She looked thinner. Tired. But those eyes—bright and assessing, suspicious and sharp—hadn’t changed at all.

He stared, startled by her nearness. She said nothing.

“Ranko,” he said, her name falling from his lips like a secret set free.

Something warm stirred in her chest. Stupid. Stupid and sweet. Her lips twitched, but she looked away, stuffing her cold hands deeper into her jacket pockets. “You keep standin’ out here like that, you're gonna catch pneumonia, y’know.”

He stepped forward, slowly, like she might bolt. “How do you know I’ve been here every night?”

She gave a soft snort. “I saw you. You’re not exactly subtle, Samurai.”

He blinked, then gave a small, pleased smile at the nickname.

“You’re easy to spot. Tall, brooding, dressed like you're about to challenge someone to a duel. Noticeable. Just like me, I guess.” She looked past him toward the city lights. “You just don’t know how to blend in. I’ve been keepin’ off the bridge. The koban. The park. Even the convenience store near the station.”

Kuno frowned, something quiet passing through his gaze. “So… you’ve been avoiding me .”

Ranko nodded once. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

She stared at her sneakers, one toe nudging a crack in the pavement. Her teeth caught the corner of her lower lip, holding it in place a moment before she spoke. “You know I like you, right?”

“Of course,” he said, a smile beginning to spread. “We’re friends.”

She looked up sharply. His eyes were clear. Earnest. Completely unaware.

Of course you’d say that, she thought, and it stung more than she wanted it to. But looking at him—this oblivious, oddly noble dork—it was impossible to be mad. Not really.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice softer. “Friends.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was low, almost snatched away by the wind. “For avoiding you. I’ve just… got a lot in my head, and when that happens, it’s like—I don’t know. Everything piles up. And runnin’s the only thing I’m good at. Easiest option, every time.”

Kuno watched her, quiet for once, his expression soft beneath the blue shadows of night.

“You remember how you said you don’t have friends?” she asked, eyes still on the water beneath the bridge. “I realized… I didn’t either. So I’ve been thinking and, well—” she turned toward him, managing a lopsided smirk “—I accept your friendship, Samurai. And now you’re stuck with me. No take-backs, no refunds.”

Kuno smiled with sudden warmth, his voice firm. “I shall not regret it.”

Ranko studied him for a beat, as if searching for the lie—there wasn’t one. She nodded once. “Good.”

She took a step back, her arms wrapping around herself as if remembering the cold again. “I’m gonna head home now.”

Kuno tilted his head.  “If you require shelter, you may stay at my residence. My family’s guest quarters remain unoccupied.”

She paused, brow lifting.“What's with you Furinkan people and invitin’ folks over like it’s a slumber party?”

“I do not know what you mean,” he replied, genuinely puzzled.

She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I gotta pick up some papers anyway. I’m thinkin’ of transferrin’ to Furinkan.”

Kuno lit up, posture straightening with joy. “That is excellent news! Do you need my assistance?”

“No, I wanna do this myself.”

“All right. I am glad, truly. That’s good” he said.

Ranko gave him a look, teasing. “Good enough for a friendly hug?”

He hesitated. Not from reluctance, but from uncertainty—how to approach, how to hold her, how to give something so intimate and casual. But he opened his arms, broad and a little stiff.

She stepped into his embrace without hesitation. And once there, she closed her eyes and let it hit her.

His arms were strong, but his body was still, unsure. To him, it was a gesture of camaraderie. To her, it was sanctuary. Her fingers curled into the fabric at his back, holding him just a little too long. Her breath shuddered as she buried her face against his chest, pressing herself into a moment she wasn’t sure she’d ever get again. His shoulder was so high up she couldn’t reach him, he was so tall.

He smelled like cedar, incense, and soap. And something softer—something like the idea of safety. Of trust. She held onto him like he was the only fixed point in a life that kept turning upside down.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes shimmered with unshed tears she didn’t let fall.

“Thanks,” she said, trying to sound like it was nothing. “For waitin’. For bein’ stupidly decent.”

“You are welcome,” he said solemnly, looking at her.

She smiled, soft and crooked. “See you soon, Samurai. Tell your girl I appreciate it.”

And before he could reply, she was already walking into the dark, her footsteps light but determined, like she knew exactly who she was again—even if only for tonight.

Chapter Text

Ranko was there as the gates opened, a rare hush still clinging to the air, before most students filled the air with laughter and conversation. The sky was bruised blue, the kind of pale morning color that made everything look cleaner than it really was.

She stood alone just outside the gate, her back hunched like a cat in the cold, her uniform rumpled, skirt slightly crooked, but she had taken the time to button up her white shirt all the way up to her neck. The oversized jacket draped over her shoulders like armor, the sleeves empty and swaying. She was chewing something—gum, probably, though it might’ve been a bit of her own lip—and when she yawned, it was loud and feral, like it had escaped from somewhere deep in her gut.

Kuno approached the school gates, dressed neatly as ever in his white shirt and dark grey trousers, his hair immaculate, bokken strapped to his hips like he expected to duel someone before homeroom. When he spotted her, his face lit with something quiet and earnest—so very Kuno.

“Good morning, Ranko.”

She squinted at him, eyes sleep-puffed but alert beneath the sluggish weight of her eyelids. “Mornin’. You’re way too chipper. What time is it, even?”

“Half past seven.”

She gave a slow blink, processing the horror. “This school really hates kids, huh?”

“You’ll find Furinkan to be… rigorous, but not cruel,” he offered diplomatically.

She gave a half-smile, stretching, bones cracking. “Well, guess we’ll see. I ain’t officially in yet. Got an appointment with the acting-principal first. Then some big scary test to see if I’m ‘up to standard.’” She used finger quotes, then tucked her hands in her pockets. “Honestly? Kinda scared.”

He turned to her fully, that formal posture of his softening. “You shall do admirably. I have faith in you.Your mind is sharper than you admit.”

She didn’t look at him right away. Her throat bobbed, and she nodded, looking down at the scuffed toes of her shoes. “Thanks, Samurai. You always get here this early?”

He nodded. “I enjoy the calm. And arriving before the bell grants me time to center myself.”

She squinted at him. “You’re not just waitin’ at the gates hopin’ to see Tendo Akane ?”

He looked startled. “I—no, certainly not always. ”

Ranko snorted. “Relax. Not judgin’.” Her fingers twitched in her jacket pocket. She rocked back on her heels, then forward again.

“You didn’t sleep well?” Kuno asked, noting her unease.

“Got a few hours. Don’t sweat it, I’m good. ”

“Ah—one moment, before it slips my mind.” He swung his bag around and began rustling through it with exaggerated care, brows furrowed as though he were excavating something sacred.

She raised an eyebrow. “You bring me breakfast or something?”

“No. Though perhaps I should have,” he said gravely, “considering the hour.” Finally, he produced a small object—a temple charm, bright red with gold embroidery. “This is for you. For luck. From the shrine near my home, I had it blessed.”

Ranko took it carefully, as though afraid it might crumble in her hands. It was too sincere, too thoughtful. Too much. Her heart gave one of those traitorous skips that made her want to punch something just to feel grounded again.

“I got one for my sister in March but she did not appreciate the implication that she might need luck , so I had hoped that perhaps you would see the gesture differently”.

Her stomach twisted, emotions crawling up her throat like fire. He meant it. He really meant it. Nobody had ever brought her a goddamn charm before.

She cleared her throat. “You tryin’ to make me cry before 8 AM, buddy?”

“I am not—” He blinked, flustered. “That was never my intention.”

She held the charm in her palm, her fingers brushing the fabric. “You’re ridiculous.”

He started to respond, but she cut in with a grin that was all teeth and mischief. She needed to diffuse the situation before she let herself keep feeling things.

“So, how ‘bout a kiss for good luck, too? Y’know, to really round it out. French-style. Tongue non-optional.”

His eyes widened in mild alarm. “Ranko…” He looked like he wanted to fall into the earth and be buried alive by honor itself. “Please be serious.”

“I am serious. Just not about the kiss.” She grinned, rolling the charm between her fingers before tucking it into her pocket, right over her chest. “Thanks. Really.”

“Do not jest so early in the day,” he said, though he was smiling despite himself, his ears going red. “It is far too disorienting.”

She laughed, and the tension broke. Her chest loosened. The fear receded, at least for now.

“Alright, alright. No kiss. Guess the charm’ll have to do the heavy liftin’.”

“I believe it will suffice.”

She stuffed it in her jacket’s inner pocket like it was contraband and leaned against the gate, more awake now. “I’ll find you when my exam ends, that okay?.”

He gave a slight bow. “I shall await news of your triumph.”

“Triumph, huh?” she scoffed. “Talkin’ big for someone who ain’t seen me do long division.”

Kuno looked like he was about to respond, but the steady rhythm of approaching steps cut through the early hush of the schoolyard, sharp soles against pavement, and then came the voices—one smooth and amused, the other clear and purposeful.

“Morning, Kuno-baby ,” Nabiki called, her voice lilting just slightly, the suffix sweetened to the point of mockery. “Ranko”.

Ranko’s head turned, she nodded in acknowledgement. There they were.

Nabiki wore her uniform like a runway piece, cardigan slipping from one shoulder with the ease of a seasoned flirt. Her schoolbag hung slung behind her, more accessory than burden. Her eyes met Ranko’s with an expression too ambiguous to pin down.

Kuno offered a courteous bow of the head. “Good morning, Tendo Nabiki.” Then, more formally and with a softening in his gaze, “Tendo Akane-kun. It is a privilege to see you this fine morning.”

Akane, holding her identical brown satchel delicately in front of her with both hands, responded with a cold, clipped, “Good morning, Kuno-senpai.” But the moment she turned her gaze to Ranko, her whole posture shifted—her shoulders loosened, and her eyes brightened. “Good morning, Ranko! Are you… are you here to enroll?”

Ranko shrugged one shoulder. “Sorta. They gotta see if my level’s, y’know, appropriate.”

“I’m glad,” Akane said warmly. “I hope you get placed in 1-F with me.”

Ranko smiled, softer than she expected to. “Yeah… me too.”

Kuno, however, wasn’t listening. His gaze remained fixed on Akane with all the tragic intensity of a poet at sea. His hands had folded neatly behind his back, his chest puffed out with unconscious pride. He looked ready to write a sonnet on the spot.

Akane caught the stare and visibly stiffened. Nabiki stepped up and spoke.

“It’s nice not having to fight off a swarm of sweaty guys every morning, right, sis?” she said airily, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You are welcome,” Kuno replied, with great dignity.

Akane’s expression soured.

“Oh, please ,” she snapped. “They fought me because of you . You started that idiotic challenge—‘Defeat Akane Tendo and you will be worthy of a date with her!’” She mimicked his voice with melodrama. She stepped forward, voice low but pointed. “I don’t want to date anyone , Kuno-senpai. That includes you .”

There was a beat of silence.

“That cannot be true,” Kuno said gently, as though pitying her confusion. “Your heart merely resists admitting what your spirit knows.”

Akane’s eye twitched.

Ranko blinked at the exchange, then she looked to Nabiki—who was already watching her with a knowing glint in her gaze.

Ranko exhaled through her nose, slow and amused. “You weren’t jokin’,” she muttered to Akane. “He really is like that with you.”

Akane pinched the bridge of her nose. “Every. Day.”

Ranko laughed. Because somehow, this was already starting to feel like her circus. These were her clowns.

Akane glanced at Ranko’s uniform—still from her old school, the oversized jacket slung over her shoulders. Her expression softened. “We can bring you one of our spare uniforms,” she said gently. “Three sisters in the same school means we’ve got extras, if you want.”

Ranko cocked an eyebrow, lips quirking in a slow grin. “Wow. And here I thought you were gonna use the chance to lure me over to your house. Don’t tell me you’re missin’ your big opportunity.”

Akane blinked, then laughed lightly. “I didn’t even think of that. But you’re welcome at the Tendo Dojo, if you ever want to come.”

“She’s kidding,” Nabiki cut in smoothly, not looking up from adjusting her bag over her shoulder. “She doesn’t actually want to visit us.”

Ranko gave Akane a genuine smile. “Thanks for the offer. Uniforms are pricey, so yeah. That’d help a lot.”

“I’ll bring it tomorrow. You can change in the girls’ locker room before class.” Akane said, smiling.

Ranko’s eyes flicked to Kuno, standing quietly to the side in his crisp school uniform, looking like some kind of lost imperial statue. She grinned wickedly. “You hear that, Prince? Girls’ locker room. You're not invited.”

Kuno, unfazed, simply inclined his head. “Perish the thought. I would never intrude upon your privacy. That would be unconscionable.”

Akane folded her arms. “You mean like last month? When you did intrude on our privacy?”

Ranko’s eyebrows shot up.

Kuno blinked, his calm cracking faintly. “That was not—Tendo Akane, I must protest. I was executing a recovery drill as commanded by my master. He said that a sacred item had been hidden in the rafters. I had no choice but to infiltrate the location.”

Akane gave him a flat stare. “You crashed through the ceiling and landed face-first on someone’s bra.”

“I did not intend—” Kuno stopped himself, a hand tightening on the strap of his satchel. “You doubt my honor.”

“I’ve seen your idea of honor. The sacred item was a bunch of girls' underwear.”

Ranko glanced between the two of them, taken aback at the heat of Akane’s voice. Damn , she thought. Akane looked so composed, so soft on the surface—but the moment Kuno opened his mouth, it was like a match dropped into kerosene.

And Kuno, poor Kuno, looked like someone had just disarmed him on a battlefield. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp call echoed across the courtyard.

“Saotome Ranko!” a faculty member called from the main building steps. “This way, please.”

“That’s me,” Ranko muttered, nodding toward the voice.

Akane took a step forward. “The uniform—I’ll bring it first thing tomorrow. Good luck, Ranko.”

“Thanks, Princess. I’ll try not to flunk out on day zero.”  Ranko said with a wink. 

Kuno looked at her with a quiet, firm calm. “I believe in you.”

The charm in her pocket pressed warm against her ribs. She kept her tone light to counter the weight in her chest. She rolled her eyes. “Save that for after I survive the math portion, Samurai.”

She caught Kuno’s eyes—he nodded once, quiet, expression unreadable. Ranko gave him a lazy little salute, then turned on her heel and started across the courtyard, jacket flapping like a stray banner in the breeze.

She looked over her shoulder and flashed one last grin at the group, eyes lingering an extra beat on Akane.

And just a flicker longer on Kuno.

“Kuno!”

Her voice cut clean through the classroom noise as students gathered their things for the lunch break. Tatewaki Kuno paused mid-sentence, pen hovering above his notebook, as half the class turned to look toward the hallway. She stood there with one hand lifted high in greeting, waving. 

Kuno rose without hesitation. Whispers followed him as he made his way past the rows of desks and into the hall, but he paid them no mind and slid the door closed behind them.

Only Nabiki Tendo didn’t look up. She sighed, deeply, and turned a page in her notebook with a flick that suggested the exact opposite of serenity.

Ranko was already bouncing on the heels of her sneakers. She held a paper out to him from inside a folder tucked under her arm. “Check it out.”

He took the exam sheet. His eyes scanned the grade at the top: 78/100 . “Seventy-eight. I am impressed.”

Her grin widened. “Wait, what? Impressed ?” She leaned in, poking him gently in the chest. “Did you think I’d flunk? Didn’t you say you had faith in me? How come this impresses you, then?”

He straightened, clearly alarmed. “No! I merely meant that—”

“I’m kidding , Samurai,” she said, throwing her head back with a bark of laughter. “Relax. I’m not mad. I’m just—man, I passed. I’m so happy.”

“I can see that,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling faintly. “You should be.”

She reached for the folder and tucked the paper back inside with exaggerated care. “Your charm helped.”

The classroom door behind them slid open, and Nabiki stepped out, arms crossed. She looked from Ranko to the folder, then up at Kuno, and then finally offered Ranko a faint nod.

“Congratulations,” she said, tone even but not unkind.

Ranko blinked, a little surprised. “Thanks.”

Nabiki didn’t wait for a follow-up. She turned on her heel and continued down the hallway, the click of her shoes fading quickly.

Ranko watched her go, her eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she looked up at Kuno, more hesitant now.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter. “I wanted to ask you something… “But not here,” Ranko added quickly, glancing down the corridor. She reached out and grabbed his arm, tugging lightly. “C’mon, let’s hit the stairs for a sec.”

Kuno followed without protest, letting her steer him away from the rising noise of lunch hour—the laughter, the scrape of chairs, the scatter of soft indoor shoes against linoleum. The stairwell was quieter, a pocket of stillness where Ranko exhaled with visible relief.

She didn’t let go of his arm right away.

“I need a favor,” she said, lifting the folder and tapping its corner against her palm.

“Of course,” Kuno replied, offering his hand, palm open and steady. “If it’s documentation, my family’s legal representative can attend to it—”

“No,” she said, cutting him off gently but firmly, and held the folder tighter with both hands. “It’s not like that. I need my old man’s signature. Or his inkan. Whatever gets the job done.” Her voice had flattened a little—not with defiance, but dread.

Kuno’s brow furrowed. “Then what is it you require from me?”

“Would you come with me to the apartment?” she asked, her voice light but her eyes not. “It won’t take long, I swear.”

He nodded without hesitation.  “Of course,” he said, and that was it. No question, no hesitation. Just solid, unshaken certainty.

A beat passed, and she didn’t move. He noticed the faint crease between her brows.

He raised his hand and placed it lightly on her shoulder, a simple, steadying touch. “Do you merely require my presence,” he asked gently, “or ought I come prepared?”

That drew the reaction he hoped for—Ranko blinked, then barked a surprised laugh. “Prepared how? You think I need you to bring a real sword?”

He lifted his chin. “My bokken is a real sword, in essence. But no—I meant whether you anticipate your father might need... persuasion. Of the financial variety.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing with something like amusement. Or gratitude. Maybe both.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Nah. I don’t think so. I’ve still got some cash from, huh, whatever, if it comes to that. I just—” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “I don’t wanna go alone.”

He inclined his head. “Then I shall accompany you. Shall I meet you after practice?”

“Yeah,” she said, her tone softening. “At the bridge. Same place.”

“Very well,” he said. “Cheer up, Ranko. Congratulations. We are now schoolmates.”

Something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, but proud—sent a ripple through her chest. She looked up at him, eyes warm. Her grin spread slowly, toothy and crooked.

“Thanks, Kuno,” she said. “See you this afternoon.”

And then she was gone—practically hopping down the stairs two at a time, folder tucked under her arm, her laughter echoing back as she turned the corner and disappeared into the noise of the day.

Ranko waited at the middle of the bridge, leaning her elbows on the railing, watching the sluggish shimmer of the river below catch the dying afternoon light. Her oversized jacket hung loose off her shoulders, collar pulled up against the chill, but the cold didn’t really bother her. Not tonight. Not with him on the way.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him—solid, steady—and then he was there. Hair still damp at the temples, smelling faintly of expensive soap.

“Hey,” she said, turning to face him. “You smell like you lost a duel with a bar of lavender.”

He came to stand beside her, kendogi crisp, bokken at his hip. “Hygiene is the warrior’s second armor.”

“That right? I always thought it was delusion.” She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, then straightened. “Thanks for comin’ with me.”

“Of course,” he said, with a small incline of his head.

They began walking across the bridge, side by side. The river below chattered beneath them.

“You kick ass at practice today?” Ranko asked, bumping her shoulder lightly against his as they walked.

“There was no kicking ,” he said without missing a beat. “But yes. The team performed admirably.”

She smirked. “You’re so damn literal.”

“I prefer clarity.”

“So,” she went on, hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets, “your master. That older guy I saw stammering during practice?”

“No,” Kuno said, expression shifting slightly. “That is merely our faculty advisor. My true master is an older man—less reliable in schedule, more erratic in behavior,” Kuno frowned. “His methods are... unorthodox,” Kuno allowed. “And his reputation is questionable at best. But his techniques are undeniably effective.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Huh”.

“He appears, trains me when it’s convenient for him, and disappears again without warning,” Kuno said, voice dry. “I am often grateful he does not linger.”

She gave a low whistle. “Sounds like a tough call.” Her tone shifted, less teasing now. “Gotta choose between gettin’ stronger with an asshole... or stay stuck. Been there. Made that choice. Still doubt it.”

Kuno didn’t answer immediately. He made a thoughtful sound in his throat—a low hum, somewhere between agreement and contemplation. Ranko glanced at him and felt a flicker of something too warm, too dumb.

That little hum. God, it was kinda hot.

“Does your father live alone?” Kuno asked after a long stretch of quiet between them. “Or… does your mother live there as well?”

“It should be just my pops at the apartment” Ranko responded.

“So your mother…?”.

Ranko didn’t look at him. She blew air through her nose, amused and evasive. “Damn, Samurai, you want to read my koseki too?” She flicked her eyes sideways, lips pulling into a grin. “We can hit the municipal office on the way. You can get a stamped copy of my family registry and everything.”

Kuno gave no sign of offense. He simply nodded, as if accepting the joke as both answer and boundary, and lifted an arm.

Instinct clamped down on her spine—her body tensed, a flicker of panic behind her ribs—and she flinched before she could stop herself.

But all he did was lay his arm gently across her shoulders. No force. No roughness. His palm rested soft and warm atop her shoulder. 

“Sorry, I should have asked before— I only meant it reassuringly” his hand lifted from her shoulder but she caught it and placed it back on top of her jacket.

She stared ahead, lips parted slightly. The shame swelled slow and thick in her chest. God, what the hell is wrong with me? It was just his arm. That was it. Not even a squeeze.

She sighed, bitter at herself. Too many years around the wrong kind of men, she thought. Can’t even tell the difference fast enough anymore. Her voice came out low and muttered. “Sorry. I—I don’t mean to be jumpy. I’m just kinda… wired wrong, I guess.”

“You are not,” Kuno said, quiet but sure, and left his arm where it was.

It helped more than she wanted to admit.

They walked a few more steps. The wind picked up across the river, and she tilted her head slightly toward him.

“…So hey. Can I ask something?”

“You may always ask.”

“What’s the story with you and Nabiki?” she asked, carefully.

Kuno glanced down at her. “Tendo Nabiki is my classmate.”

She stared up at him, deadpan. “Wow. No way. Really? I never would've guessed.”

Kuno blinked. “Was that sarcasm?”

Ranko laughed. “Yeah. Try to keep up, Samurai.”

He gave a small frown, trying to parse her tone.

Ranko nudged him with her shoulder. “She calls you Kuno- chan . Even Kuno- baby .”

Kuno frowned. “I do not approve of her nicknames, but she refuses to address me properly. I believe it is simply mockery.”

“But still. Kinda flirty, don’t you think?”

“I—” Kuno hesitated, brows drawing together. “I had not considered it, but Tendo Nabiki is a classmate,” Kuno said, firm. “An acquaintance. Disrespectful, but incredibly intelligent.”

“Yeah” Ranko nodded.

Nabiki had saved her skin. Without her stepping in, Ranko might’ve gotten herself neck-deep in trouble with the nightclubs she lingered around, always walking that razor’s edge and never aware of how close she was to the edge. But it hadn’t been out of kindness—Nabiki didn’t do favors. It was Kuno who had paid for that help, whether he knew the full story or not. And Ranko wasn’t sure how much he did know. 

She wanted to thank him—felt the words rising more than once—but she held them back, unsure if gratitude would unravel whatever safe distance he kept from her world. Better not to ruin it.

Her voice turned quieter after a beat. “I got jealous, y’know. Thought maybe Nabiki had some kind of claim on you.”

He turned to her, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“You are mistaken,” he said softly.

Her chest squeezed. She looked away. “Yeah. Cool. There’s nothing goin’ on with you and Nabiki, even with the pet names.”

“There is not,” Kuno said, calm and absolute. “My heart belongs to Tendo Akane.”

Ranko’s chest tightened. She smiled anyway.

“Right,” she said, with a little puff of air. “Of course it does.”

Chapter Text

Ranko and Kuno crossed the bridge together, the world around them slipping into the heavy quiet of early evening. The sky had dimmed, dragging a deeper gray over everything it touched. Here, on this side of town, the light changed—the flickering fluorescence of the streetlamps painted the streets in cold colors, and the buildings loomed with that particular brand of government-issued indifference. Pale cement, faceless walls, block after block of subsidized housing, each one indistinguishable from the last.

Ranko walked like she belonged to the grid—chin up, shoulders squared, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her jacket. She knew the turns without thinking, didn’t bother slowing down, didn’t hesitate. Kuno, a few steps behind her, tried not to stare too long at the back of her head, her braid swaying like a pendulum as she walked. He knew, without a doubt, that if he’d been alone, he would have gotten hopelessly lost among these repeating towers. But she was leading, and he was following.

He wanted to ask. The question kept tugging at him like a thread caught on something sharp. About her father. About her home. About what kind of life she had been avoiding. She had deflected him once already—made a joke about offering him her family register instead of the truth. He hadn’t pressed her then, and he wouldn’t now. Still, curiosity settled in his chest with a weight he couldn’t ignore.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with broken households. He knew the sour silence of rooms left empty, the gravity of anger that circled in a house where a father’s voice cracked like thunder. He knew grief. He knew mothers who died, and fathers who never really stayed. But Ranko—Ranko was a closed book written in a language only she knew. A girl with bleach-dyed hair and a laugh she used like armor. A girl who looked out at the world like it owed her something, and maybe it did.

He glanced over at her, the fluorescent light catching the edge of her jaw. She hadn’t looked back once.

They finally stopped in front of one of the many buildings they'd passed—indistinguishable from the others but for the number nailed crookedly to the concrete wall. A boxy, gray construction, sun-faded and neglected, with rust streaks under the windows and grime smudged into the corners. It stood in silence, as if holding its breath. Just the wind down the corridor and the occasional buzz of a faulty light overhead.

Ranko pushed open the chipped glass door with her shoulder, stepping into the ground floor vestibule. A row of dusty mailboxes lined one wall. Somewhere deeper in the building, a pipe clanked once and fell silent again.

"Elevator or stairs?" she asked, glancing at Kuno over her shoulder.

He turned his gaze to the elevator. It sat squat and metallic in its enclosure, paint peeling around the frame, the control panel worn shiny with age. It looked like the kind of elevator you’d find in an old station—reliable enough, but carrying decades of stories in its joints. Still, something about it made him say, "Stairs."

Ranko nodded like she’d expected that. They started up the stairwell side by side. Neither of them struggled—Ranko moved with the confidence of someone who’d taken these steps a thousand times—but Kuno could hear it in her breathing. Not effort. Nerves. She was trying to keep it steady, but it spiked now and then, like she was gearing up for a confrontation. The concrete echoed with each of their footfalls.

They reached the fifth floor. The hallway was a dull tunnel of doors and flickering light, the air heavy with a blend of mildew and something sweet gone stale. Ranko came to a stop in front of one door among many, its metal surface scuffed and unremarkable.

She stood still for a moment, keys clinking softly in her hand, betraying the tremor in her fingers. But she got the lock on the first try. The door creaked open without resistance.

“I’m back, pops,” she called into the dark, flipping on the light with the edge of her knuckle.

A small, weak glow spilled into the apartment.

Ranko stilled at the entrance. The apartment greeted her with silence and stale air, the kind that clung to the back of the throat and tasted like old cigarettes and alcohol. Kuno stood just behind her, saying nothing.

One big room. Two doors, one window. Ranko began to kick off her red sneakers and hesitated, looking at the floor.

“Keep your shoes on” she said, defeated, and stepped inside, her movements quick and sharp, like she was bracing for something. Her eyes scanned the room, but there was nothing new—just the same old mess. She knew before she even said it.

“Old man,” she called, voice low and flat.

No answer. Of course.

Kuno took a moment before daring to step inside a home in sandals. He stepped inside carefully and shut the door behind him, moving with quiet precision. The place was a cluttered, lived-in wreck, and something about it made his skin itch. Still, he didn’t flinch. He just stood still, upright beside the fridge as it hummed loudly.

The apartment was one long rectangle of poverty. A cheap futon folded against the far wall, partly obscured by a crumpled blanket and a pillow without a case. A battered sofa sat crooked beside a low table, the surface barely visible under a lean tower of empty ramen cups, disposable chopsticks poking out at odd angles, and ashtrays full of cigarette butts. The floor around it was littered with clear garbage bags packed with beer cans and dented Strong Zero tallboys, some half-full and sticky, cigarette butts swimming. The stove was untouched, buried under bundled stacks of old tabloids and weekly manga magazines yellowing at the edges, tied together with fraying string.

Ranko’s face didn’t change. She moved like she was checking the place for booby traps, brushing back her bangs with one hand, pushing the folder under her arm a little more securely. This was home. She didn’t look surprised. Just tired.

Kuno didn’t touch anything. Didn’t comment. Just waited, his gaze fixed quietly on her back as the fridge clicked again. Ranko turned to look at Kuno. He didn’t belong in this place—his kendogi crisp, bokken still strapped to his hip like some wandering knight had taken a wrong turn into a slum. He looked out of place, and so handsome it made her stomach twist.

He was here for her. That alone made her feel like she might float right out of her socks.

She exhaled sharply, forced her feelings back into the little box where she kept them most days. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her oversized jacket and tried not to smile too wide.

“Wanna see my room?” she asked, voice casual. Not that he’d ever read between the lines anyway.

Kuno nodded once. “If you would permit me.”

She gestured with her chin and led the way past the leaning stacks of refuse and the sticky tiles of the kitchen. He followed, picking his steps with quiet care. They passed the bathroom, its door half open to reveal cracked tiles and a rust-stained sink, and stopped in front of the only closed door in the apartment.

She opened it. “Oh” she said, her voice small. “He didn’t—” she bit her lip. Her dad hadn’t turned her room into anything. It looked like it hadn’t even been touched since she visited last.

Kuno expected more of the same—more mess, more clutter. But it wasn’t.

The room was small. Very small. But it was clean, and it was hers.

A small western-style bed was pushed against the wall, covered with a plaid blanket and an old pillow shaped by use. A narrow desk sat beneath a window, its curtain drawn open just enough to let in the cool blue of twilight. There was a chair, its back slightly chipped, and a shelf above the desk lined with paperbacks, some upright, some stacked. Romance novels. Seinen manga. Martial arts books. A cracked mug with pens and pencils.

No closet—just a narrow chiffonier in one corner, one drawer open just enough to show folded clothes crammed inside. There was a school bag beside the bed, a crumpled convenience store receipt sticking out from under it.

Kuno didn’t say anything. He simply took it in, quietly, as Ranko leaned against the doorframe, hands still buried in her jacket pockets.

“So,” she said, glancing sideways at him, “this is where the magic doesn’t happen.” Her voice had a grin in it, but her eyes didn’t meet his.

Ranko nudged the door completely open with her foot, stepping into the small room as if testing the floorboards. She turned to him with a glint in her eye and tilted her head.

“You ever been in a girl’s room before, Samurai?”

Kuno’s answer was quiet, straightforward. “I have a sister.”

Ranko barked a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.” She smirked. “Of course you haven’t been.” She waved him in and pointed to the chair by the desk. “C’mon, take a seat.”

Kuno obeyed with his usual solemn grace, sitting straight as a post, bokken resting on the desk, eyes respectfully averted while she knelt by a plastic laundry basket and began rifling through it—pulling out notebooks, a crumpled skirt, a comb with a few stray blond strands clinging to it.

He watched her for a moment. Then: “Would you like to live in my home?”

She froze, one hand buried in the basket, the other curling slightly over the edge. She didn’t look at him right away.

“What?” Her voice came too fast, too light. “My room’s not that bad, is it?”

Kuno was still, unshaken. “That is not what I meant.” He spoke evenly. “If you desired it, I would see a guest room made ready. It would be your room. A safe place. Your own.”

Ranko stared at him. Her lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Her heart kicked once, hard. She felt the twist of it inside her—flattery that warmed her chest, nerves that made her throat tighten. And then other things too—heat rising up the back of her neck, guilt at the mess he’d seen, a sharp little twinge of shame .

“I do not mean to insult your home,” he said quietly. “Nor to belittle this room. It is… lovely. Clearly yours. I only meant…” He looked around—not at the cracked paint or the scuffed wooden floors, but at the way the books were stacked in tight, well-loved rows, the little trinkets and the essence of Ranko’s unspoiled youth he so desperately wanted to help her preserve. “If you ever wished to… you could live at the Kuno Estate. There would be no expectation. No debt. No strings.”

Ranko let out a breath and laughed again—softer this time, not sharp enough to cut through what he’d said. She rubbed the back of her neck, fingers catching in the loose blonde braid resting over her shoulder.

“Man,” she muttered. “You and Akane, huh. Tryin’ to adopt me or something.” She smiled faintly. “Neither of you even know me.”

She didn’t mean it to sting, but it did a little. Kuno didn’t react.

“Nabiki’s the only one with a head on her shoulders,” Ranko added, mostly to herself.

She looked at him—still sitting straight, hands folded in his lap, the gentle curve of his wide shoulders too noble for this cramped little room—and softened. She gave a small nod, eyes unreadable.

“Thanks. For the offer.”

Nothing more. No decision. No answer.

Then she turned, brushing her braid back behind her shoulder. “Stay here, yeah? I’m gonna check the old man’s crap for the inkan.”

“As you wish.”

Kuno stayed.

His eyes moved over the room now that she was gone. He saw the little details: black wristbands folded neatly on the top of the chiffonier. A Sylvanian Families bunny on the edge of the shelf, its tiny apron torn, one pink ear smudged with grime. A toy microphone, cracked at the handle, abandoned but not thrown away. And there, peeking from the lowest drawer of the cheap chiffonier: a glimpse of an off-white gi, old and stained at the collar.

Ranko called from the other room, voice sharp with a touch of triumph. “Found it.”

She padded back into her bedroom, holding the small cylindrical inkan between two fingers. Kuno had risen from the desk chair the moment he heard her return. He shifted his bokken to the side and stepped back politely, allowing her space.

The folder hit the desk with a soft thump . Ranko opened it, flipping to the page where the guardian’s seal was required. Kuno glanced at the documents. His eyes moved over the clean, orderly print—her full name written out in neat kanji, her father's name just below, listed as her official guardian. The silence in the room thickened.

Ranko dipped the inkan onto the red ink pad, her wrist slightly trembling. She looked at him, brows drawn.

“I shall do it,” Kuno said, reaching out gently. His fingers closed around her hand.

She blinked. “No. I’ll do it.”

“This is wrong,” Kuno said quietly, not letting go of her hand.

Ranko narrowed her eyes. “My old man doesn’t give a damn.”

“You say that,” he replied, calm, “but I have never met him. I cannot say that for certain. What I can do is make sure you do not stamp this yourself. If I do it, you are not the one falsifying anything. You will be able to say it was not you.”

Her mouth parted, something raw flickering across her face. She looked at him, the absurdity of it, the sweetness, the madness. “You think I care about lying on paperwork?” she asked, voice rising with half a laugh. “Kuno, I’ve done way worse.”

“It does not matter what you have done before,” he said, steady as steel. “I am doing this for you . If your father ever brings it up, if our school ever doubts you, you can say honestly that you did not stamp it yourself. You may even say I gave them to you stamped. Either way, you did not do it yourself.”

She stared at him, lips parted, trying to summon a retort that would land. Something flippant, something easy. Nothing came. She tried to scoff, but her chest felt tight.

“This is really unnecessary,” she muttered.

“If it is so meaningless,” Kuno said, not unkindly, “then you would not mind allowing me to do it.”

He took the inkan from her open hand, with a quiet gravity that left no space for argument. He pressed it carefully onto the paper, firm and sure.

A small red oval bloomed against the bottom of the page.

Kuno handed her the inkan, and Ranko slipped it back into its case. He closed the folder with care, holding it in both hands as she took the red ink pad and walked out of the room, her footsteps light on the wooden floor.

He followed her into the main room, the buzz of the fridge still present like a nervous whisper. Ranko was crouched near the low kitchen counter, tugging open a thin metal drawer. A small heap of papers sat inside, some folded, some wrinkled. She dropped the seal and ink, and pulled one paper out and squinted at it under the weak kitchen light.

“Huh,” she said, voice low, almost amused. “Looks like my old man’s doing construction work.”

Kuno paused, holding the folder to his chest. She wasn’t speaking to him directly, but he listened.

“These wages look like they’re from either overtime…” she tapped the page with her finger, “which I doubt he’s doing, there’s no other… ah, night shift.” Her mouth twisted thoughtfully. “That’d explain why he’s not home. Maybe I can sleep here tonight if he’s gonna be out all night working. We don’t even have to cross paths.”

Kuno stepped closer, his posture straight, voice calm. “I meant what I said. You have a place in my home.”

Ranko glanced back at him, paper still in hand. Her brow lifted, skeptical. “Kuno… you do realize it’s not normal to invite some girl to live in your house, right?”

“I am inviting a friend,” he said, without hesitation. “That is entirely appropriate.”

She scoffed, short and bitter. “You’re so damn idealistic, it’s unreal.”

He tilted his head, watching her. Waiting.

She turned fully now, paper still in her hand, something hard and restless flickering behind her eyes. “I joked at first with you, and with your girl too, but you gotta cut it out. Stop trying to adopt me or somethin’. You can’t just offer me that kind of thing,” she said, not shouting, but not gentle either. 

Kuno’s grip on the folder tightened slightly, but he remained quiet.

“You don’t know what that does to someone like me.” Her voice cracked—only a little. “And you keep treating me like I matter, and I get confused. I start thinking maybe I do matter. That maybe I could belong somewhere.”

“You do matter.”

She looked away, suddenly breathless, trying to pull herself back into the armor of her usual grin. “Don’t do that to me, Samurai. I can’t depend entirely on you. I won’t.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The old fridge buzzed on. Ranko stood there, angry and humiliated and more in love than she’d been five minutes ago.

Ranko sighed and slipped the paper back into the drawer, nudging it closed with her hip. “Let’s go get something to eat,” she said, the fight in her voice now carefully buried under something easier, looser. She cast a glance over her shoulder, a faint grin curling her mouth. “I know a pretty good Chinese restaurant, authentic and all. And you’re buying, since you’re so damn generous.”

Kuno didn’t argue. He simply nodded and followed her out of the cramped little apartment, the weight of unspoken words still lingering between them. In his hands, two bulging plastic bags crinkled with every step—filled to bursting with empty beer cans and Strong Zero. Ranko had done her part, stuffing the tower of ramen cups into bags that she swung lightly at her sides.

They took the elevator down this time. It shuddered faintly as it descended, humming like it was sighing under the weight of long years and long nights. Neither of them said much, the silence strangely companionable.

At the ground floor, they stepped out into the early evening and padded across the narrow street to the designated trash area. There was a blue net stretched over a row of garbage bags like a poor man’s veil, held down with bricks. A laminated sign was affixed to the wall, listing which kinds of trash went out on which days in faded hiragana.

Kuno paused in front of the net, head tilted, reading the notice with the same solemnity he gave to old poetry. “They are very specific here,” he murmured. “Burnables, plastics, glass… even the order.”

Ranko looked at him like he was an alien freshly landed. “What, is this your first time taking out the trash?”

He didn’t blink. “Certainly not. I have performed such duties in middle school.”

That did it. Ranko laughed, full and bright, her head tipping back. “In middle school,” she repeated, teasing. “Man, you’re unbelievable.”

Kuno merely straightened his posture, unbothered, releasing the bags under the net with care. She pulled back the net and held it with the cement bricks, and straightened. He looked at her then, expression unreadable. And for a second she forgot to breathe. She started walking again, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. The night had teeth, but she didn’t mind. She had company.

Ranko led Kuno through the concrete maze of low-rent housing blocks and flickering street lights, her gaze fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk. Every step echoed with the dull weight of consequence. So—what was her brilliant new plan? No more stealing. That was one. Go back to school, for real this time. Literally walk through those gates like she belonged there. Try to stay in her own damn apartment without crossing paths with her old man, since he seemed to be working nights now. And most importantly: do not, under any circumstance, fall in love with Tatewaki Kuno.

She sighed through her teeth. It was too much. Too many changes, all crashing in at once, all of them requiring something she didn’t have—consistency. Commitment. A spine made of something sturdier than fire and flight. She wasn’t built for that.

After all that talk about independence, all that swagger about not needing anyone, she had asked him to come with her. Just in case her old man was home. So much for standing tall and alone. So much for pride.

Ranko glanced up at Kuno.

He walked beside her with the calm, upright confidence of someone who had never needed to run. Tall, sharp-jawed, kendo uniform crisp and proper. His bokken bumped against his hip with every step. There was something achingly upright about him, like he didn’t know how to hunch, how to shrink himself to survive. Handsome. So handsome it pissed her off. And stupid. Stupid like a fairytale prince trying to save dragons from their own hoards. And he was kind. To her . Not because he wanted something. Just because he thought it was the right thing to do.

How the hell was she supposed to not fall in love with him?

He noticed her looking. Raised an eyebrow, wordless but questioning.

She squinted, stepped closer and grabbed his arm with exaggerated force. Her grip was dramatic, playful, bratty in its mimicry of dependence. “I’m so hungry,” she declared, her lip jutting out in a pout. “I’m gonna make you spend a lot .”

Kuno didn’t hesitate. “You deserve a feast. You passed your exam with distinction.” He smiled at her. Full-hearted. Like he meant it.

Her cheeks burned hot. Her heart leapt in her chest like a misfired punch. God dammit , she thought, biting back the swell of emotion before it reached her mouth. Just how am I supposed to not fall in love with this idiot?!

Chapter Text

The next morning, Ranko was already starting to regret her newfound commitment to self-improvement. As it turned out, the road to betterment was long, literally—her walk from the apartment (where, thank the gods, she didn’t run into her old man) was a solid hike. By the time she reached the school gates, it was 7:50 a.m., and her sense of resolve had been worn down by cracked sidewalks, sleepy eyelids, and the creeping realization that early mornings were going to be a thing now.

Waiting at the gates was Akane, holding a big bag—and her school bag, of course—and looking like someone who’d been watching the horizon for hours. Ranko, meanwhile, had on her usual outfit: short skirt, long loose socks, school shirt barely buttoned right, and that battered red and black jacket slung over her shoulders like a defiant banner of delinquency.

From the second-story window, Kuno and Nabiki watched the whole thing unfold like a TV drama. Kuno’s cheek was a little swollen, he had earned a kick to the face from Akane early in the day when he attempted to hug her good morning.

Akane’s face lit up with a very controlled form of panic. “ Ranko! I thought you’d get here earlier to try on the uniform!”

Ranko jogged up with a sheepish half-grin. “I thought I’d get here earlier too. My bad.”

Akane sighed, casting a worried glance back at the building like she was hoping the bell would agree to hold off just a bit longer. “Guess we don’t have time. Let’s just go to class.”

“Are we in the same one?” Ranko asked, blinking.

Akane turned to her, grinning now like she’d been dying to say this. “Yes! I checked the bulletin board first thing. And I pulled some strings—you’re sitting next to me.”

Ranko couldn’t help it. A grin snuck onto her face. “Thanks, princess.”

As they stepped inside, now in their soft indoor shoes, Akane glanced over, amused. “Why do you call me that, anyway?”

Ranko shrugged. “That’s just the vibe I get. Delicate, kind. Sorta bossy.”

Akane laughed. “That’s funny. No one in my family thinks I’m delicate.”

“If you’re pretending to be this nice and feminine, you’re doing great,” Ranko said, then smirked. “Also, I haven’t seen you fight.”

Akane lit up at that. “I should invite you to the dojo sometime. But,” she added, glancing sidelong, “I kinda got the feeling you don’t like being invited over to people’s homes.”

Ranko didn’t answer. There wasn’t a joke ready this time. She just looked forward, walking up the stairs beside her. Maybe that wasn’t the reason. Maybe it was something messier. More tangled. Maybe the idea of being let in was scarier than being locked out.

Either way, she didn’t say anything. 

The rest of the morning passed without incident, which, for Ranko, already qualified as a minor miracle. She loathed the part where she had to stand at the front of the class and introduce herself—the silence, the stares, the chalk dust clinging to her fingertips as she scrawled her name on the board in crooked kanji. But the homeroom teacher, a stooped old man with liver spots and the defeated aura of someone who had been grading homework longer than she'd been alive, didn’t make a show of it. He barely looked up from his attendance sheet. No comments, no observations about her outfit, not even a raised eyebrow at her very un-Furinkan dyed hair. Just a bored nod and a wave toward the seat next to Akane.

It helped. Sitting beside Akane made the classroom feel less like an ambush. The girl had good handwriting and neat notes and didn’t mind sharing. She even tilted her textbook toward Ranko in a subtle, practiced way, as if she'd done this sort of thing before—sitting beside strays and making room for them without drawing attention to it.

Ranko wasn’t used to people making space for her. She was used to carving it out herself.

By the time the lunch bell rang, Akane was already halfway out of her seat.

“Hey, Ranko—wanna try on the uniform now? The girl’s changing room should be empty.”

Ranko gave her a skeptical look. “That sounds like somethin’ someone says before they pull a prank on you.”

Akane held up the paper bag she’d been carrying since morning. “Come on, just try it on.”

Yuka and Sayuri stood too, not needing an invitation, and Nabiki was already following behind as soon as she saw them walk by her classroom, hands folded behind her back like she was on a school tour.

“Do I get an audience with this?” Ranko muttered as she walked, tugging her jacket straight.

“You get a support team,” Nabiki said, amused. “In case we need to call in backup stitching.”

The changing room was empty, save for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the soft shuffle of indoor shoes against tile. Ranko peeled off her clothes with the practiced ease of someone who never worried about modesty, jacket, shirt, skirt—off in a few quick flicks of her wrists. She dropped them in a heap on the bench like she was never planning to wear them again. 

Ranko turned towards the girls, revealing the soft, toned shape of her stomach and a black bra that could’ve qualified as structural engineering. She stood there in her underwear (black panties with a little rhinestone charm that caught the light, more grown-up than the innocent cotton pastels of Furinkan’s average girl), utterly unbothered, while Akane fussed with unfolding the neatly pressed Furinkan High uniform.

Nabiki whistled low under her breath, arms crossed, already leaning against the lockers with the satisfaction of a connoisseur. “Well. Someone didn’t buy her underwear in the schoolgirl aisle.”

Akane turned red immediately. “Nabiki!”

“What?” Nabiki said, raising a brow. “I’m just saying—Ranko’s stacked, and she knows it.”

Ranko grinned as she took the folded uniform from Akane. “I’ve heard worse from dudes behind a FamilyMart.”

Akane huffed and handed her the spare uniform. “Here—just try it on already.”

Ranko took it, holding the white blouse up by the shoulders. “Cute. Real puff sleeves. Fancy.” She started slipping it on, her arms sliding through easily, but when it came time to button it up over her chest, the fabric gave a wheezing tug of resistance.

She tugged harder. Nothing. Her breasts strained against the fabric like they were trying to escape a hostage situation.

“You can just wear your old shirt under the dress, can’t you?” Akane asked.

“That’s true, princess,” Ranko replied, slipping her old white shirt back on— it was better than bursting buttons in front of the entire population of Furinkan.

She moved on to the dress. It looked simple: a single piece, sleeveless, light blue with green undertones, a sash around the middle. But as Ranko pulled it over her head, she hit resistance again. The dress gathered right at her chest and refused to budge.

She swore under her breath.

“Oh, come on,” Nabiki said, standing. “Hold still, I’ve got this.”

Ranko raised her arms obediently while Nabiki braced herself and began the awkward task of compressing her breasts into unforgiving fabric from behind. It was like trying to stuff two water balloons into a coin purse.

“Breathe in,” Nabiki ordered.

“I am breathin’ in.”

Behind her, Nabiki gave a low whistle. “Give me a sec.”

She walked over to Ranko’s front, gathering the fabric near her chest like she was trying to close an overpacked suitcase.

Ranko inhaled cautiously. Nabiki exhaled like she was bracing for combat. Her hands slipped under the fabric and grabbed Ranko’s boobs, one in each hand.

“Help out, guys” Nabiki said, calling over Yuka and Sayuri. The girls looked at each other before nodding and approaching. They each held a side of the uniform.

“Okay. One, two, lift.”

“ Lift ? I’m not a futon—ow!”

“Stop squirming.”

“Your fingers are freezin’!”

Akane watched in horror as Nabiki and her own friends forced the dress down inch by inch, Ranko’s breasts compressed and spilling upwards. The seams groaned in protest, the sash clung desperately for dear life, and Ranko’s chest wobbled with indignation, squished into unflattering shapes. When the dress was finally down, the skirt billowed too long past Ranko’s knees. It hung loose at the waist but clung mercilessly to her hips, outlining the curves that made Akane suddenly feel... small. Slighter. Like a kid in comparison.

Ranko looked down at herself and made a face. “I look like a sausage in a ballgown. I think it might be too small.”

Akane crossed her arms, trying to act normal. “It fits me fine,” she said, almost too quickly.

“I’m takin’ this off before it explodes,” Ranko announced, shimmying out of the dress before it could blow a stitch. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll just come to school in a bathrobe and slippers.”

“You might get less male attention with that,” Nabiki muttered, pushing and pulling Ranko’s form out of the uniform.

As Ranko wriggled out of the tight uniform, tugging it back up over her chest with exaggerated effort, she caught Akane watching her again—quiet, thoughtful, maybe even a little uneasy.

Yuka and Sayuri looked away when Ranko managed to pull free of the uniform, completely disheveled and her shirt bunched up around her collarbone, her breasts exposed. 

Ranko pulled her bra down and smirked. “Don’t look so bummed out, Akane.”

Akane blinked, startled from her thoughts. “Bummed out?”

“Yeah.” Ranko reached for her shirt, tugging it down until it covered her up to her hips. “Good boys like your kind. You’ll be just fine.”

Akane tilted her head, confused. “My kind?”

Ranko paused, then grinned, eyes soft but teasing. “Princesses.”

She didn’t say the second part. Not whores. The word flickered like a match in the dark, just for her. She buttoned up her shirt, looking away.

She tugged her skirt on, then reached for her jacket. As she shook it out, something small and bright slipped from the inner pocket and landed softly on the ground with a faint tch . A charm, red and neatly embroidered, its silken cords slightly tangled.

Akane noticed first. “Oh—something fell,” she said, bending down to pick it up. She turned it over in her hand. “It’s a… good luck charm?”

Ranko looked over. “Yeah. That’s mine.” She took it back carefully, her fingers lingering on the soft stitching.

Nabiki raised an eyebrow. “That’s surprisingly cute.”

“Kuno gave it to me. Before the transfer exam,” Ranko said. She was trying to sound casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, but her hand closed protectively around the omamori. “He said he got it from a temple, had it blessed for good luck.”

Akane blinked, surprised. “Really? That’s… huh. He gave you a charm.”

Nabiki turned her attention to her sister with a sudden grin. “Didn’t he try to give you one a while back? Spring before last?”

Akane groaned and rolled her eyes. “Ugh, yes. And not just a normal, cute charm. It had his face embroidered on the back. His actual face! Like a little stitched portrait—like some kind of cursed talisman.”

Ranko blinked. “Wait. Really? That’s kind of cute.”

Nabiki laughed. “Cute? That’s narcissistic.”

Akane gave a sharp nod. “Exactly. Why would I want to carry around a little fabric Kuno staring at me all day? I gave it back to him. Told him I’d rather fail the exam.”

Ranko looked down at her charm again, lips twitching into a thoughtful smile. “Still sounds kind of romantic to me.”

Nabiki smirked. “Yeah, well, that’s because you have a crush on him. A normal person would be creeped out.”

Akane looked sheepish. “I don’t mean to offend you, Ranko, really—I know you and Kuno are close. It’s just… not my thing.”

“I’m not offended,” Ranko said, slipping the charm into her jacket pocket, tucking it deep like something precious. “It still means a lot to me. I know he only likes me as a friend.”

That quiet honesty made both sisters pause. Akane looked at her with softened eyes, and Nabiki tilted her head slightly.

“Still don’t get it,” Nabiki muttered. “You’re hot. Witty. Weird, but in a good way. If I were a guy and you gave me the time of day, I’d lose my mind.”

Akane’s friends nodded.

Ranko gave a small shrug, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Guess he’s just got a type.”

Akane smiled gently. “I’m sorry...” But the look she gave Ranko—soft and warm, touched by a tinge of sadness—seemed to say she wasn’t quite sure that type made sense anymore.

Ranko didn’t mind it—not the teasing, not the charm, not being corresponded, not even the idea of Kuno’s embroidered face staring up at her from some overzealous fabric talisman. She would’ve liked that. Something absurd, ridiculous, sweet. A little piece of him, meant for her. But of course, she wasn’t Akane Tendo. She wasn’t the princess. And she definitely wasn’t his crush.

Still, she slipped the charm carefully into her jacket pocket as they left the changing room. Nabiki peeled off in another direction with a lazy wave, leaving Ranko, Akane and her friends to climb the stairs together, back to class.

The rest of the day turned out to be way better than the start. The gym uniform provided by the school actually fit—well, mostly. The shirt clung a little too tight across her chest, stretching around her shoulders when she moved, but it wasn’t a disaster. At least it didn’t threaten to rip at the seams. And being able to move, really move, made her feel alive. Dodgeball, track sprints, even an impromptu baseball scrimmage—it was like someone had finally switched the lights on in her head.

Best of all, Akane was good too. Really good. Strong, fast, competitive. Ranko grinned at her from across the baseball diamond, both of them flushed and sweaty, ponytail and braid swinging as they ran the bases. They made a hell of a team.

For a little while, as the sun slanted through the gym windows and the echo of sneakers and laughter filled the air, Ranko forgot everything else. The past few weeks. Her dad. Her old life. Even Kuno.

She was just a girl, laughing and sprinting across a dirt field with her friend, the charm tucked safely in her pocket.

Hours later, the air in the girls' changing room was thick with the humid haze that always followed gym showers—steam clung to the mirrors, the chatter of students echoed between rows of open lockers, and the rubber soles of indoor shoes squeaked faintly against the tile. Ranko pulled on her short skirt with a sigh, toweling her still-damp hair. “That was really fun,” she said, tone casual but warm. A rare kind of satisfaction hummed in her voice.

Akane, buttoning up her uniform shirt, smiled. “Yeah. It really was.”

But something tugged at the corner of Akane’s attention, and Ranko noticed it too—the lingering stares. A couple of second-years hovered near the lockers, whispering behind cupped hands. Two more girls, still in gym gear, had paused mid-conversation to look their way.

Ranko stiffened, paranoia snapping into place like a switchblade. She narrowed her eyes, her hand hovering near her schoolbag like it was a weapon. “You see that?” she muttered to Akane. “We’re about to get jumped.”

Akane blinked. “What?”

“I’ll cause a scene. Shove a couple girls. You bolt for the door. They won’t catch us both.”

Akane looked at her like she was mildly concussed. “They’re not going to attack us.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” Akane said, snorting. “They want to recruit you for their clubs.”

Ranko paused mid-tug on her shirt, one arm halfway in the sleeve. She frowned, peeking sideways. Now that she was actually paying attention, yeah—the girl nervously clutching a baseball glove was the captain of the team. And wasn’t that the boxer who kept asking her if she had signed into any clubs? The tall one in the windbreaker? And wasn’t that—

“Oh hell,” Ranko said flatly. “That’s the captain of the rhythmic gymnastics team, too. They really are scoutin’.”

Akane grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Welcome to Furinkan.”

“Gettin’ scouted on day one sounds worse than getting into a fight.”

“No way,” Akane laughed, “you’ll love being in a club or two. It’s not that serious.”

Ranko grumbled as she pulled her jacket on, but the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying her. She glanced to the side—and froze for a moment.

Akane stood in front of the mirror, gathering her long black hair up into a half ponytail. Her fingers were quick, practiced, tying the upper part with a small bow. The rest of her hair fanned down her back like ink.

“You look real pretty,” Ranko said before she could stop herself.

Akane looked at her reflection, a little startled, then turned. “Thank you.”

Ranko pulled the zipper on her jacket halfway up and slung her bag over her shoulder as they lingered in the dim afterglow of the changing room. The last of the girls were trickling out, the echo of laughter and slamming lockers fading.

“Hey,” she said, softer than usual. “Thanks again. For tryin’ to help me with the uniform.”

Akane turned, gathering her things. “No problem. I’m just sorry it didn’t fit.”

Ranko scratched the back of her head, her eyes wandering to the locker hinges. “Yeah, well. Not your fault I’m shaped like a cartoon villain’s tiny mistress.” She shrugged. “It was sweet of you, though.”

Akane gave a crooked smile, brushing the damp tips of her hair behind one ear.

Ranko hesitated, then: “So, uh… what are you doin’ after school?”

“I’m going to the doctor. My wrist’s a little sore,” Akane replied, flexing it.

“Oh, I didn’t notice.” Ranko nodded vaguely, then added with mock gravity, “Can I use you as an excuse not to talk to any of those terrifyin’ club captains when we leave?”

Akane laughed, slinging her gym bag over her shoulder. “Sure. I’ll play the part of the fragile patient.”

Ranko grinned. “Great. I’ll sell it hard.”

They stepped out into the late afternoon light, leaving the stuffy warmth of the changing room behind. The sun was low and orange, the shadows long. Immediately, like predators sensing movement, a few upperclassmen began to drift their way—clipboard girls with armbands and overly practiced smiles.

“Sorry, I can’t talk,” Ranko said with a hand up, not slowing her stride. “I’m walkin’ Akane to the doctor.”

“Oh—uh—maybe tomorrow then?” one of the girls stammered, stepping aside.

Ranko just offered an apologetic shrug and kept walking. The lie bought her a clean path all the way to the school gates, where the air shifted with something more familiar—and dramatically less subtle.

Tatewaki Kuno stood in his full poetic absurdity, positioned as if awaiting the descent of a royal carriage. His arms were crossed. His chin held high. Not even pretending he hadn’t been waiting.

“Tendo Akane,” he declared, straightening further, which hardly seemed possible.

Akane halted, her polite smile already strained at the corners. “Sorry, Kuno-senpai, can’t chat. I have to go to the doctor’s.”

His face twitched with princely concern. “You are unwell? I shall send a private medical practitioner to your household this instant, should you wish—”

“No, thanks!” Akane cut him off quickly, already pivoting to leave. She glanced over her shoulder. “Ranko, you coming? Or is this team captain your one exception?”

Ranko laughed, amused and exasperated all at once. “He sure is. Thanks, Akane. See you tomorrow.”

Akane waved, already halfway down the path.

Ranko turned to Kuno, folding her arms with a smirk. “You really don’t have to stand there like a statue every time she leaves a building, you know.”

He looked at her with absolute seriousness. “I do. I would not want to miss a chance to gaze upon her visage.”

“Man…” Ranko said with a sigh.

They walked side by side, Ranko’s hands tucked into her jacket pockets, Kuno marching with the upright posture of a man born for banners and war drums. The path just outside Furinkan's gate was quiet now, the last students trailing off toward home. Overhead, the light was thinning into that cool, quiet blue of early evening.

“So,” Ranko asked casually, glancing over at him. “Good practice?”

Kuno nodded solemnly. “Indeed. The blade was true today. My footwork, inspired.” He turned to her with a faintly indulgent expression. “And you? Was your first day… acceptable?”

“Better than that. I had a good time.” Ranko’s face lit up as she spoke. “Classes weren’t bad, gym was a blast. And Akane—man, that girl’s somethin’ else. Great athlete. Real graceful, too.”

Kuno’s eyes gleamed with familiar fervor. “I am pleased you can see what most men at Furinkan High School already recognize. Tendo Akane is a paragon among women.”

“Yeah, no wonder people fought for the privilege to date her,” Ranko said. “I get it now”.

Kuno inclined his head, his voice touched with curiosity and without a smidge of cruelty. "Does the attention she receives make you envious?"

Ranko tilted her head, as though considering it. “Nah. Not really.” Then, with a sly little grin, she added, “But if Akane keeps bein’ that charmin’, you might have to fight me for her too.”

Kuno stopped walking, his expression stiffened. He turned to face her fully, eyes wide and serious. “Do you mean that?”

Ranko nearly laughed. C’mon, it’s a joke, look at you, she wanted to say, but something about his expression made her pause. Did he really not understand she liked him ?

She shrugged, a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Maybe. Who knows? I’m keepin’ you on your toes, Samurai.”

Then Ranko slapped his shoulder lightly. “C’mon, lover boy. Let’s get some taiyaki before my stomach stages a rebellion.”

Kuno, still processing, nodded slowly and walked with her to the park area.

Moments later, Kuno returned from the taiyaki stand with two fish-shaped pastries folded neatly in wax paper. Ranko accepted hers with a lopsided grin, already sinking her teeth into the warm, sweet crust before he’d even sat down. She wiped red bean paste from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, completely unladylike, utterly herself.

“I got us drinks,” she said, pressing a bottle of cold jasmine tea into his hand. 

“Thank you, you should not have. I do not mind paying,” Kuno said.

“Yeah, well, I’m not letting you buy me everything like I’m some kind of princess,” she grinned. “I spent 200 yen! Live with it!” Her second bite of taiyaki disappeared almost immediately.

Kuno was far more delicate with his tea, as if the beverage demanded contemplation. He sat straight-backed, fingers resting on the plastic bottle as though it were some fragile relic.

“What happened with the school uniform Tendo Akane brought for you?” he asked eventually, taking his first bite of taiyaki carefully.

She didn’t look at him as she opened her own bottle, taking a long sip. “Didn’t fit.”

Kuno frowned. “That is peculiar. Tendo Akane and Nabiki are both taller than you. One would assume—”

“Yeah, well.” She gestured vaguely, then waved the hand away like it was an embarrassing confession. “Girl logistics. You wouldn’t get it.”

“I see…” he said, though it was evident he absolutely did not. “If it is a matter of expense, I could procure a uniform tailored to your—logistics. It would be no trouble.”

“It would be trouble,” she said, fixing him with a look. “For me. But I’ll keep you in mind if the vice principal ever threatens to expel me for fashion crimes.”

Kuno studied her, expression composed but searching. “Why do you so often reject my offers of help? Have I given offense?”

Ranko exhaled slowly, then looked at him sidelong, her eyes sharp with something that wasn’t quite teasing. “It’s because I like you.”

Kuno opened his mouth, startled. But before he could say anything—anything gallant or confused or absurd—she pointed her half-eaten taiyaki at him like it was a warning.

“You better savor that jasmine tea, prince,” she said. “’Cause it’s the last thing I’m buying you until your graduation. Maybe .”

She grinned, sharp as a blade. But behind it was something softer, something a little raw, something she wasn’t letting surface—not yet.

Kuno nodded slowly, then took a sip of his tea like it was wine. “Then I shall cherish it.”

Ranko smirked, but a shadow of softness lingered around her mouth. She leaned back against the bench, eyes on the sky. There were still green leaves caught in the branches overhead, dancing in the breeze as if they didn’t know whether to stay or fall.

“Thanks,” she said.

He turned, brow lifted.

“For telling me to apply to Furinkan.”

Kuno nodded solemnly. “I knew it would suit you.”

She didn’t answer right away, just studied him with that strange, unreadable smile—the kind that looked like it might turn into a joke, or something more dangerous. Her eyes were soft, though, the edges crinkled with affection she probably didn’t intend to show. Ranko tilted her head. “You’ve got a little red bean paste on your lip.”

“Ah—where?” Kuno fumbled for a handkerchief, dabbing at his mouth with brisk precision.

Ranko leaned back, grinning. “Nowhere. Just wanted to see if you’d fall for it.”

Kuno paused, mid-wipe. He looked at her, half-wary, half-confused. “That was a deception?”

Ranko gave a lazy shrug. “I’m full of those.”

She stood up with a little bounce in her step, just enough bravado to shield the flutter in her stomach.

“Come on, Samurai,” she said, tossing her empty tea bottle into a nearby bin. “Walk me to the bridge, or I’ll say I outran you.”

Kuno rose without hesitation. “You would spread such a fabrication?”

“Only if you make me,” she said, smirking.

But as they walked side by side, the breeze catching her red jacket and stirring his hair, she glanced at him once more—long and quiet and full of that ache that makes jokes easier than truth.

Chapter Text

Morning came softly through the curtains, dim and gray, spreading a muted light across the small apartment. Ranko stood in the kitchen, still in her sweatshirt, the sleeves tugged over her hands as she filled the kettle and set it on the stove. It was 5:00 AM. She prepared tea with practiced motions, spooning in a generous heap of sugar—enough to give her a bit of energy, she hoped. There wasn’t much else around. She hadn’t bought food.

Her eyes landed on the plastic bag near the counter, the kind from a supermarket, the sticker of immediate consumption and 50% off calling to her. Inside was a loaf of white bread. Not hers. Her father had left it there, sometime recently. She hesitated, hands still wrapped around the warm cup. She didn’t like touching his things. But it was just bread. Just one slice. He knew she was here—surely he wouldn’t mind if she had one.

She pulled a piece from the bag and set it on the small range, toasting it slowly until it was golden and crisp at the edges. When it was ready, she stood in front of the sink, the toast in one hand, her tea in the other, and took small bites trying not to make a mess. She felt a little guilty. But the toast was warm, and it tasted good.

Ranko hated the weekends. She pulled a plaid skirt over her hips and tugged on an oversized, pilled sweater that draped off one shoulder. The morning light that spilled through the window did little to warm the stillness of the apartment. Weekends stretched long and pointless before her, an empty road with no destination. No school. No structure. No habits. Just time—too much of it—and nowhere to be.

She stuffed a few essentials into her worn backpack, checking the small stack of coins and crumpled bills she kept in the side pocket. It wasn’t much, but it would get her through the weekend if she played her cards right. She didn’t know her father’s exact shifts at the construction site, but she felt uncomfortable staying in the apartment during weekends. Maybe he’d show up after work, sober, and want to talk to her. She wouldn’t risk it.

Her oversized red-and-black jacket hung from her shoulders like a blanket she couldn’t quite wrap around herself. She looked out the window once more before stepping out. There wasn’t a destination in mind, only escape. And in the cool morning air, her breath made little ghosts that faded as fast as they came.

She wished she had a reason to see Kuno. Just some excuse—any excuse—to run into him. She knew he had tennis practice on Saturdays, but the exact court was a mystery. Somewhere at one of those private academies or maybe a city complex with mirrored windows and marble benches. She could imagine it—him lacing his shoes methodically, pushing his hair back, bowing before a match like some tragic hero. She felt like a stalker just thinking about it. The idea of wandering city blocks on the off chance of bumping into him made her stomach curl with shame.

So instead, she went to the park.

It was too early for the crowds to be thick, but even then, the signs of weekend life were starting to bloom: children chasing each other with paper kites, friends sipping drinks from vending machines, a father bouncing a baby on his lap while the mother unpacked their picnic basket. Laughter rose in waves, a sound as familiar as it was alien.

Ranko sat on a bench near a willow tree and watched people drift in and out of each other’s company like it was easy—natural.They just... existed. Together.

Her hand tightened around the strap of her backpack, fingers idly tracing the zipper. The sweater slipped further down her shoulder, revealing a thin tan line—faded evidence of the girl she used to be before she got tired of trying to look golden all the time. Before everything turned into something else.

There was something about seeing other people happy that made the loneliness sharper. Not just absence, but contrast. She didn’t even want what they had, not really. Just something that felt like it.

Weekends also sucked because there were barely any desperate salarymen around she could convince to buy her a treat or two.

Sure, most still trudged to their offices on Saturdays, bleary-eyed and tight-collared, but they were the younger ones, the ones with something to prove—men who still believed in climbing corporate ladders two rungs at a time. Not the kind to be swayed by a teenage delinquent with dyed hair and a flirt in her walk. They were focused. Ambitious. Not lonely enough. Ranko had a better chance on weeknights, especially after eight, when the older ones stumbled out of cheap izakayas and convenience stores, hearts half-soused and open to flattery.

She sighed. Morning still lingered in the air like sleep she couldn’t shake. There were too many hours left in the day, and not enough to fill them. She took a light nap, sitting on the bench, her head against the backpack as she barely rested with her eyes closed and swerved in and out of consciousness, until she felt enough time had passed and fully woke up. She looked up at the sky, frustrated. It was barely noon.

She thought, briefly, about paying the train fare and heading to the city center. Ginza, maybe. Pretending she belonged among the glittering windows and minimalist mannequins, watching women walk with crisp heels and shopping bags filled with designer outfits and foreign perfumes. Or Shibuya, with its messy fashion and fast-eyed girls, all snapping Polaroid photos and laughing with sharp, honed edges. Maybe she could linger outside a café or scope the CD shops, act like she had somewhere to be.

But the train felt too far away. Her pocket change, too light.

Instead, she turned toward the dull comfort of the nearest shopping mall—the unremarkable kind tucked behind residential rows, with peeling posters and old gacha machines with outdated characters. She went in through the automatic glass doors, checking the time on the big digital clock.

The supermarket was one of those drab chains tucked into the ground floor of an old shopping plaza—yellowed linoleum, metal shelves with paper price tags, fluorescent lights that flickered at the corners. A place for humble housewives and pensioners, mostly. It wasn’t even crowded today.

The air inside was cold, the kind of artificial chill that made her sweater feel thinner, her skirt too short. She wandered between towering displays of soy sauce, shrink-wrapped meat, and bags of rice so large they looked like they'd be enough for a year. The place buzzed with old women dragging squeaky carts, mothers balancing toddlers on their hips, and middle aged couples arguing in hushed tones about which brand of miso to buy.

Ranko didn’t need anything, really. But she lingered all the same. Reading labels. Touching the plastic-packaged fruit. Breathing in the smell of baked goods and fabric softener. It was a place where she didn’t have to explain herself. Nobody looked at her too long. 

She moved toward the candy aisle and eyed a pack of soft strawberry caramels. She didn’t buy them. She just looked. It was enough to pretend she might.

She passed the instant noodles next, let her hand run over the plastic-wrapped rows. Her fingers paused over one with a sumo wrestler on the label, promising balance and strength. Would Kuno eat something like this? The thought came without permission. She imagined him holding the styrofoam bowl like it was a foreign object, confused but determined, pouring the hot water in too fast and way past the level marker, eyebrows knitted in theatrical concentration.

Ranko smiled to herself, a private, flickering thing.

She stopped at the beauty section, where the walls turned soft pink and the shelves bloomed with rows of skin creams, cleansers, and colorful bottles that promised transformation. The hair dyes were lined up like trophies, each boasting some seductive version of change: chestnut bloom , midnight garnet , mocha ash . She scanned the shelf, fingers trailing until they paused on one labeled raven black . The model on the box stared out with bright eyes and silken black hair that spilled like ink over her shoulders.

Ranko picked it up.

It was darker than Akane’s—whose hair caught the light like polished lacquer—and much darker than Nabiki’s. Raven black felt... clean. Sharp. Like something a girl with her act together would look like. A girl who didn’t skip school or fight people or spend her weekends wandering supermarkets just to feel like she existed somewhere.

She stared at the box for a long moment, tipping it in her hand.

Would Kuno care if I dyed it?

Probably not. He only seemed to notice Akane. Still, he had once made a passing comment about her roots. Her real hair, the red she’d tried to bury beneath bleach and peroxide. He’d said it offhandedly, with that dumb, upright honesty of his, like he was genuinely curious. He didn’t even get the joke about her carpet matching her drapes.

Ranko looked at the model’s dark hair again. Imagined herself with it. Imagined walking into class Monday morning, no longer the delinquent outsider, just some girl with black hair and the Furinkan uniform. Blending in. Disappearing.

No, that wasn’t her. But maybe her roots did need a touch up.

She eyed the lower shelf—cheap plastic bottles with garish labels promising maximum lift and platinum results. The cheapest bleach powder was a no-name brand in a crinkled pouch, and the peroxide looked watery in its translucent bottle. Still, it would do the trick. Her roots were peeking out again, fiery-red defiance against her faded, brassy blonde. The sight of them always made her feel exposed, vulnerable, too real.

She glanced at the price tags. Eight hundred and ninety yen, tax included. She had enough for both powder and peroxide—barely. But that would mean no lunch. No drinks. Not even a warm can of coffee from the vending machine to keep her company on the cold park bench. She pursed her lips, weighing it like a scientist. Bleached roots, or an empty stomach?

Her fingers tightened around the bottles. There was another option.

It was wrong, and she knew it. It always sat in the chest like a pit after, like something rotten. But still. It’s not like she hadn’t done it before. Dozens, hundreds of times.

She looked around.

The beauty aisle was deserted, save for a mop bucket abandoned in a corner. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the rest of the store was alive with the quiet shuffle of bored shoppers. No one nearby. No cameras. The security guard at the entrance was the same dozy man she’d seen once before. Chubby, tired, middle-aged. Not fast.

She could outrun him even if he saw her steal. Hell, she could outrun anyone in this store.

Her heart was beating a little faster now, but not with fear. With decision.

Ranko took a breath. Slipped the bleach and the bottle of peroxide into her oversized sweater sleeve, one in each hand, tucked high and tight beneath the folds. Her jacket helped hide the bulk. She didn’t hurry—hurrying drew attention. She just walked. One foot in front of the other. Past the displays of cup noodles and discount bento. Past the old woman comparing packs of tofu. Past the candy aisle, and the strawberry caramels she didn’t buy.

The guard looked up. Then looked back down.

She was almost there. The automatic doors were already beginning to hum open.

Then—

A soft hand. On her sleeve.

Not rough, not a grab. But unmistakable. Ranko’s heart jumped in her chest, a spasm of raw instinct.

She turned her head slowly and met the eyes of a small woman in a beige supermarket apron, the kind that had the store’s name stitched on the front. The woman was older— obaa-chan old—maybe mid-seventies, with her silver hair neatly pinned into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. Her glasses were round and thick; her gaze, behind them, was clear and steady.

“Miss?” she said. “Can I see your receipt for those items?”

Ranko didn’t move. Her feet stayed planted, but her blood started pounding in her ears. Her brain flicked through a thousand thoughts in a second—bolt, talk, lie, smile, cry, drop the bottles, cause a scene, pretend she didn’t hear. All of it jumbled together like static. She didn’t expect an older lady, she didn’t expect to be caught.

She smiled. Slowly. “I didn’t buy anything.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, flicking to the slight bulge under Ranko’s sweater sleeves. Not the obvious kind, but someone like her had seen everything.

“Then empty your sleeves, please.”

She felt heat rise up her neck. Her jaw clenched.

“Why?” Ranko said, with that half-lazy, half-challenging tilt to her voice she always used when cornered. “You think I’m stealing?”

“I saw you,” the woman said, voice still quiet but firm. “I’ve been working here twenty years. Come with me. We’ll call your parents.”

The idea of that —of being dragged into some back room, of a phone call to her father, of standing there while some stranger explained to him over the phone what she’d done and her dad’s voice on the other side saying yes, I understand, I apologize on her behalf , with a bored tone like of course she had stolen, again—was unbearable. Ranko stiffened.

“Let’s not do this,” the woman said quietly. “Come back inside with me. Please.”

Ranko didn’t speak. Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth.

The woman gave a faint, almost sorrowful smile. “You’re not the first, you won’t be the last. But I can’t let you go.”

“I wasn’t—” Ranko tried, but her voice cracked. Weak. Pathetic.

“I know,” the old woman replied, not unkindly. “Let’s just take care of it. Come on.”

Ranko followed her in silence, feet heavy, face hot. They stopped just inside the beauty aisle. She reached under her sweater and pulled out the bleach and peroxide, her hands trembling as she set them on a small plastic basket the woman held out.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry,” Ranko muttered, eyes locked on the floor.

The woman nodded slowly. “You’re young. It’s not too late to do better.”

Ranko couldn’t look at her.

After a pause, the woman sighed softly. “Don’t come back here again, alright, sweetheart?”

The words weren’t cruel. They were said gently, almost regretfully. But they landed like a kick to the ribs. Not shouted. Not scolded. Just quietly sealed, like a door closing forever.

Ranko nodded.

“Take care of yourself,” the woman said. “Be good.”

She walked out of the store and didn’t stop walking, in a daze. She wandered through the streets with her jacket hanging off her shoulders like dead weight, her mouth dry, her hands still shaking.

She didn’t know what hurt more: the fact that she’d been caught, or the fact that someone had treated her like she wasn’t unredeemable, and then gently told her she wasn’t welcome anymore.

Ranko sat on the edge of the stone embankment that overlooked the small canal behind the park. The concrete was cool beneath her thighs, her skirt rumpled and her knees pulled up. She rested her chin on her arms and stared at the water, dull and rippling gently in the afternoon breeze. It reflected the pale sky in shimmers of silver and grey.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the woman’s voice—the gentleness of it. “Don’t come back here, alright, sweetheart?” Not cruel. Just tired. Disappointed.

Ranko hated that most of all.

She hated that it hadn’t been a big dramatic scene. No sirens. No furious shouting. Just a hand on her sleeve, and a soft voice asking her not to do it again.

She’d screwed it up. Again.

Her head ached from how tightly her guilt knotted behind her eyes. She didn’t cry. She never cried in public. But her mouth was drawn tight and her breath came shallow and uneven, and she couldn’t stop replaying it all. The shelves promising normalcy. The stolen items heavy on her sleeves. The moment the old woman had caught her and still called her sweetheart.

She wanted to disappear into the water.

Ranko sat for what felt like forever, her arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting on her arms, watching the rippling water catch the fading light. The water was dark now, ink-black and slow, with only the occasional ripple to remind her it was still moving. The sky had bruised violet and grey, the sun retreating behind the low skyline, surrendering the city to shadow and neon.

Saturday was almost over.

She felt the cold creep in, sliding past the oversized sweater, up her almost bare thighs. Her stomach ached in tight, dry pulses—hunger—but she didn’t feel like she deserved to eat. There was something in her throat she couldn’t swallow, a weight lodged just below the heart, heavy and mean. She hated herself. For being stupid. For being broke. For being caught. For being the kind of girl who stole bleach because she couldn’t afford to look the way she wanted. For wanting to impress a boy who didn’t even look at her that way. For still wanting him anyway.

She thought, briefly, about staying there all night. The embankment wasn’t the worst place to sleep—there were flatter patches of grass under the trees, and enough benches that no one would bother her if she slept upright. It would be cold, yeah. Damp, definitely. But not impossible.

Still, she was wearing a skirt. Her jacket wasn't warm enough. She was exhausted, but not the kind of tired that lets you fall asleep easy.

Maybe she should just go home. The thought made her flinch.

Maybe her dad wasn’t in. Maybe he was passed out on the futon, the sour stink of beer thick in the air. Maybe he’d gone out for pachinko. Or maybe he’d already spent the day drinking and would be quiet now, all the fire burned out, his voice slurred and low.

She could make it work.

She could shove the chiffonier in front of the bedroom door, wedge it tight. Bring a bucket in case she needed the bathroom. A big bottle of water from the corner store. Lock herself in her room and wait the weekend out. Sleep through it, let the silence muffle everything. Monday would come. School would come. Kuno would be there. Nabiki and Akane. Something to keep her mind moving.

But she didn’t want to go back. She really didn’t. 

She thought of the clubs. Too risky. Not after what happened last time. Besides, it was Saturday.

She thought of her ex. Of the greasy smile he wore when he called her his girl in front of strangers he wanted to impress and a slut in front of his friends. Her stomach twisted.

No. Just the thought made her nauseous. Or maybe that was hunger.

Ranko stood slowly, stiff from the cold. Her legs tingled from sitting too long.

She walked up the slope toward the pedestrian bridge, hands in her jacket pockets, head down.

Ranko stepped onto the bridge, the metal rail cold beneath her fingertips as she trailed her hand along it. The river murmured below, soft and dark, swallowing the city lights in wrinkled patterns of orange and blue. She walked slow, unhurried—nothing waited for her on the other side. Just more concrete. Just more night.

Then she heard it—laughter. Familiar voices, harsh and sudden, barking through the stillness.

She froze for half a second.

Her ex and his friends were clustered at the other end of the pedestrian bridge, slouching against the railing. One had a convenience store onigiri in hand, another was lighting a cigarette despite the "No Smoking" sign screwed to the post behind him. Her ex laughed again, leaned back, ignored her.

They didn’t call her name. Didn’t jeer or smirk. Just let her pass.

Ranko ignored them too. Eyes forward, shoulders stiff. Every step echoed louder than it should have. Her heart beat out of rhythm. She didn’t breathe until she turned the corner and the shadows of the bridge swallowed them.

She kept walking. Past the fenced-off playground, past the stacked rows of gray monoblock housing—flat, brutalist buildings that repeated like prison architecture. She walked with purpose now, going to the corner shop. The one with the yellowed awning and broken fluorescent light. The place run by the old man who used to sell her cigarettes without asking too many questions. He’d even smiled once when she claimed they were for her dad.

She was going to get a bottle of water, two liters. Something to last the rest of the weekend. 

She turned back to the main road that ran between the two long rows of government housing with the heavy plastic bag containing the bottled water she’d just bought. 

Then she stopped.

A flicker of movement caught the edge of her vision. A person, tall, in a blue silhouette standing near one of the buildings. He was staring up—head tilted back, hair catching what little light filtered from the streetlamp above. His kendogi hung like ink across him, the sleeves rustling faintly in the breeze.

At first she thought it was a trick of the light. A vision. A mirage born from hunger and loneliness and wishful desperation.

But then he looked down.

And she saw his face.

Not a ghost. Not a dream.

Kuno.

It was Kuno.

And he was looking right at her.

She stood still on the grey walkway, the wind catching the hem of her oversized sweater, and the plastic bag in her hand rustled from the weight of the two-liter bottle of water inside. Her fingers had dug into the cheap plastic hard enough to hurt. She hadn’t meant to say his name aloud, but it slipped from her lips all the same, like breath escaping from a wound.

“…Kuno?”

He smiled at her, calm, gentle, almost relieved. He stepped toward her in that poised, deliberate way of his, like he belonged in some era long before this one.

“Ranko,” he said, walking toward her without hesitation, his kendogi rustling faintly in the early evening breeze. “I have found you at last. I feared I had gotten entirely turned around.”

He glanced up at the concrete building behind her.

“You do not live in this one, do you? These dwellings are formidable to navigate. I must have circled three times. But I…” He trailed off, looking at her face, his brows knitting slightly in concern. “Are you alright?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Her throat was tight, unbearably tight. A part of her screamed don’t cry, not now , but the pressure was mounting behind her eyes. Everything she’d buried since the morning—no, before that, all the way back to last week, last month, every lonely night, every ache of unwantedness—was starting to breach the surface.

“Pardon,” he said quickly, clearly mistaking her silence for irritation. “This was presumptuous of me. I did not call ahead—I realize I do not have your number—and it is the weekend, you are clearly running an errand—of course, I have caught you at a bad time. I apologize. I only meant to ask if—if you would like to get something to eat.”

She still couldn’t speak. The knot in her throat was unbearable now. Her vision blurred. He kept talking, nervously:

“Or perhaps another time. I—I should go. I am imposing, I understand. You have had a long day, you are likely—”

The tears came all at once, hot and unstoppable, with a loud sob.

Everything slipped from her hands—the plastic bag hit the pavement with a hollow thunk , the bottle rolling slightly before settling. Her backpack fell limp off her shoulder. She surged forward and clutched him, wrapped both arms around his middle and buried her face into his chest.

She cried. Loudly, openly, with no care for who might see or hear. Not dainty tears, not the pretty kind—these were broken sobs, the kind that wracked the whole body. Years of loneliness. Days of self-loathing. Hours of guilt.

Kuno stood frozen at first, stunned. Then slowly, hesitantly, he brought his arms around her. He held her with care, like he might break her if he moved too quickly. The way one might hold a bird in a storm.

He could feel the tremble in her body, the weight of whatever anguish had collapsed her into him. His voice, when it came, was quiet—barely a ripple over the sound of her sobs.

“…What happened?”

Ranko didn’t answer at first. She couldn’t. Her cries hiccupped out of her, raw and uneven, her fingers gripping tight to the fabric of his kendogi, knotting it in her fists like she was afraid he might disappear. Her body heaved with the effort to speak. Finally, the words came, choked and broken between gasps for air.

“I did something horrible today,” she whispered, not lifting her head. “I… I did something really, really bad—”

She couldn’t stop crying. Her breath hitched, shallow and ragged, but the words kept coming, spilled out like she needed to confess or drown in the weight of her own shame.

“I fucked up, Kuno…”

At last, she looked up at him—her face red, wet, and crumpled in pain. There was no room for pride in it. Only the rawest kind of human fragility.

“I’m a really bad person,” she said.

Kuno’s eyes widened, his face stricken with a kind of quiet alarm. He shook his head at once, voice low and steady.

“You are not.”

She let out a keening cry, louder now, as if his kindness pierced deeper than cruelty ever could. Her fingers curled inwards, fists pressing against his chest as she sobbed harder.

“I am… I am, I know I am…” she wept, shoulders shaking. “It hurts so bad… my heart hurts so bad…”

Kuno didn’t try to answer that. He simply held her tighter, both arms wrapped fully around her now.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, barely audible.

And then something slammed into the side of his face.

There was a metallic crack , sharp and heavy. A lunchbox—a dented, old steel bento—had been hurled with brutal aim. Kuno staggered back, sandals scraping against the pavement, one foot catching his balance just before he could fall. His hands reached for his bokken at his hip.

Ranko turned fast, her breath still shallow, her eyes red and wide. She suddenly wasn’t in Kuno’s arms anymore.

Her father, Genma Saotome, was standing in the middle of the road, shoulders squared beneath a faded workman’s uniform, face twisted in fury, eyes wild with drink and rage.

“What the fuck did you do to my daughter?” he barked, voice thick and slurred but loud.

Chapter Text

Kuno turned to face the man, his cheek still burning from the blow, an angry welt already rising across his cheekbone where the steel bento had struck. His bokken came up, a fluid motion born not from reflex, but from indignation.

“How dare you attack me while I am offering solace to a woman in distress?” Kuno barked, voice ringing through the quiet street. “How cowardly—how disgraceful! ”

Genma stepped forward with a grunt, tightening a white bandana around his thick, balding head. His shoulders were squared like a wall, thick arms swinging heavily at his sides. The stink of alcohol and cheap cigarettes hung off him like a second skin.

Ranko moved fast, stepping between them, blocking Kuno with both arms out. “Back off, Pops.”

Kuno blinked, bokken lowering an inch. Pops? He looked from Ranko’s tense stance to the looming figure of the man. The resemblance wasn’t in the features—it was in the heat, the posture, the wildness in the eyes. This was Ranko’s father?

The man was built like a slab of concrete with a face, with round glasses that made him look almost absurd—if not for the fury boiling in his bloodshot eyes.

“I said back off, old man,” Ranko repeated, walking up to him without fear.

Genma’s breath rasped against her face, acrid with tobacco and beer. “He made you cry,” he said, voice rough. “I saw you. I can’t forgive that!”

“He didn’t do shit, stupid.” Ranko’s voice was tight, angry now. “I had a bad day and you’re making it worse.”

Genma’s finger shot out, trembling with misplaced outrage. “He’s no good—!” Then he lunged, a heavy, stumbling movement, not quick, but furious. Ranko stepped in, hands flat against his chest, holding him back with all her strength. “Don’t cover for him!” her father shouted.

From above, a window creaked open.

“ Shut up down there! ” came a voice—then a sharp splash of cold water, pouring from a wash bucket. It struck Genma square in the back, soaking through his jacket.

Genma froze, shivering in the sudden cold. The rage in him stalled, winded by humiliation and the shock of water.

Ranko stared up at him a moment, chest heaving, then stepped back. Her hands trembled as she bent down, picking up her backpack and the bag with the bottle of water. She didn’t look at him.

“Good, it’ll help you sober up,” she muttered bitterly. “Let’s go home.”

She turned and grabbed Kuno’s hand, fingers cool and damp, tugging him gently, wordlessly, away from the street. Toward the correct building. Toward a mess that was at least hers to own.

Genma stood there, still dripping. He bent, slowly, and picked up his dented metal bento. He looked down at the warped lid, then up again at the young man that was walking unaided after such a strike that would have knocked out a normal person.

Back at the apartment, Kuno found himself quietly stunned.

He had prepared himself for chaos—garbage bags in corners, ramen bowls on the floor, maybe the stench of old beer—but none of it was there. The place was still small, yes, but it was now clean. The only thing out of place was the futon rolled out in the living room, pushed against the far wall.

He stepped in without hesitation, sandals placed together by the door, and offered Ranko a small nod of gratitude as she gestured toward the couch.

Genma disappeared into the bathroom, the door sliding shut behind him with a dull clack.

Ranko crouched beneath the narrow kitchen counter and retrieved a small first aid kit, its corners frayed and metal clasps rusted. 

“Sit,” she said, quieter than usual. The apartment was still, the only sound the muffled rush of water from the bathroom where her father had locked himself in to sober up. Kuno did as she asked, settling back against the cushions, and when she pointed, he tilted his head, exposing the side of his face where the lunchbox had struck. The skin was red and beginning to bruise, a mean bloom across his cheekbone. 

She stood behind him, gently dabbing the red skin with disinfectant over the tender spot. But as he lay there—eyes closed, throat bared to the still air, so absurdly trusting—Ranko’s breath caught in her chest. Her heart thundered like it wanted out. She watched him for too long, her eyes drifting over the shape of his mouth, the slope of his exposed neck, the faint rise and fall of his chest. She ached to lean forward and kiss him, just once, just to dull her pain.

But she didn’t. It wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, she peeled the paper off the bandage, smoothed it over the bruise, and moved back. She watched him a second longer—committing his profile to memory—and then, gently, she patted his head. “All done,” she whispered.

“Can you stay? Just for a bit. We can eat right after.” Ranko asked.

He nodded, the answer immediate. He didn't know what to say, but the look in her eyes—fragile, almost ashamed to need someone—held him there. She smiled at him, soft and vulnerable, and her fingers grazed the bandaged welt on his cheek before she turned back to the kitchen area.

She moved about the kitchen without a word, setting the kettle to boil. Her eyes were red, lashes wet from the earlier tears, but her face had returned to that usual, guarded calm—the one she wore like a second skin. The flicker of the burner lit her face in gold for a moment as the water began to heat.

When Genma emerged again, his gait had steadied. His face was clearer, the bloodshot bleariness tempered. He sank down cross-legged on the floor across the low table, his knees cracking audibly. He stared at Kuno, measuring him.

Kuno, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He met the gaze head-on, expression unreadable, hands folded neatly over his knees.

Genma broke the silence first.

“So… where’d you find this one?”

Ranko didn’t look up as she poured the hot water into the first mismatched mug. “In the police station,” she said plainly. “Detained for stealin’ panties.”

Kuno nearly choked. “It was a misunderstanding!” he blurted, voice a full octave higher.

Genma didn’t react. He wasn’t looking at Kuno anymore—his gaze was on his daughter. Watching her. Quietly.

Ranko took the teabag, now steeped strong, and moved it from cup to cup. The second mug received it next. Then the third. Her movements were precise, almost ritualistic. The tea darkened in gentle gradients, each cup shaded just slightly lighter than the last.

Genma kept watching her. Not the tea, not Kuno—her. His expression didn’t soften, but something in it became less hard.

The kettle clicked off behind her. The air filled with the warm, bitter scent of cheap black tea.

None of them said anything for a moment. The room felt like a held breath.

“Listen, old man,” Ranko began, her voice cool but direct as she walked towards the table with a tray in her hands. “Kuno here is my friend. He got me into Furinkan, which I plan to attend. Like—I’m literally gonna be goin’ there. To school.”

Genma, seated cross-legged on the floor across the low table, rubbed the side of his nose and shrugged. “Okay.”

Ranko blinked. “Okay?” she echoed, squinting at him. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. What do you want me to say, girl?” he replied, not unkindly, not kindly either. Just tired. “You were gone for days . And when you’re here you avoid me like the plague.”

“You’re worse than the plague.”

Genma didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look hurt. He just sighed and lowered his gaze.

Ranko handed Kuno the first cup of tea—the darkest one—and passed the third to her father. The second she left untouched on the tray. Genma stared down into his mug with disapproval. The water was barely tinted, a pale whisper of tea. “You always make mine weak,” he muttered.

Ranko ignored that.

“You can’t hold a grudge forever,” Genma said, gently, like he was trying not to poke the bear too hard.

“I sure can,” Ranko replied, sitting beside Kuno. Her knee brushed his. She shifted slightly, enough to break the contact, as if touch made her vulnerable. “I just wanna make it clear, I’m gonna be going to school. And in the meantime I plan on livin’ here. I need to know if you’re cool with that.”

“Yeah, of course. You’re my kid.”

The words landed like a slap. Ranko flinched slightly, her jaw tightening. She grabbed her tea and stared at the cup in her hands as if it could help her swallow her emotions. Kuno, beside her, said nothing. He sipped his tea slowly, a quiet observer.

“Aren’t you goin’ to forgive me already?” Genma asked after a moment, trying a hopeful tone.

Ranko didn’t look at him. “Have you apologized, changed and made amends?” she asked, voice flat, brittle.

There was silence.

Genma looked at the thin brown liquid in his mug. He rolled it in his palms and exhaled through his nose. “I lost her too, you know?”

Ranko’s head snapped up. Her eyes were fire. “Don’t bring Mom up, you bastard. Don’t you dare .”

Genma’s face flickered. Not guilt, not regret. He gave a stiff nod. “I’ll try and do better.”

Ranko sighed, deeply. She didn’t believe him. She couldn’t even believe herself. I don’t even know if I can be better, she thought. What the hell does he know about trying?

She stood, her movements abrupt. “Alright, Kuno. Let’s go.”

Kuno stood at once, setting his now-empty cup on the table with care.

“We’re gonna get somethin’ to eat,” Ranko said aloud, already grabbing her jacket. “So… whatever. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Kuno offered Genma a small, awkward bow and followed after her.

Inside, Genma stood alone, cup dangling between his fingers. After a moment, he wandered to the window and looked out through the dusty glass.

He saw them: Ranko and the boy, walking down the narrow sidewalk together. Her head down, his turned slightly toward her, as if saying something.

Genma muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Stealin’ panties…?”

The restaurant had a softness to it, the kind that Ranko wasn’t used to. Cream-colored wallpaper curled slightly at the seams near the floor, and the light from the wall sconces was gentle, golden, making everything feel like it existed inside a quiet dream. No fluorescent buzzing, no cracked vinyl seats. Just calm. It made her uneasy at first, like stepping into someone else’s memory. Kuno didn’t look out of place—he never did—but he also didn’t seem particularly impressed. He was polite when speaking to the staff, deferential, even when the answer wasn’t in his favor.

The manager had given a tight, regretful smile. “I’m very sorry, but we cannot serve wine to minors.”

Kuno had bowed. “I see. Though it is a tragic loss for the integrity of the cuisine’s ideal pairing.”

Now, seated across from him, Ranko twirled the creamy strands of her carbonara around her fork and bit off a large mouthful. Her stomach finally felt warm, like it had unclenched after hours of holding tension. She chewed, then, through a mouth still full, muttered, “Y’know… I’m surprised. You saw me cry and scream at my old man. All in one day.”

Kuno looked up from his mushroom risotto. “Indeed,” he said, folding his hands for a moment. “I still do not know what happened, however. If I caused distress by showing up unannounced—”

“You didn’t,” she said quickly, waving her fork. She swallowed, sighed. “It’s hard to explain. But I’m glad you were there. I didn’t wanna be alone.”

Kuno inclined his head slightly. “I’ve never had friends before,” he said. “But from what I gather, that’s the kind of thing one is meant to do.”

They ate in silence after that. Kuno was a slow, methodical eater, each bite measured, his eyes never darting around the room. He was present, always present in this moment, as if eating was a curated experience. Ranko liked that about him. She didn’t have to worry he was somewhere else in his mind. He was here . And for once, so was she.

She pushed her empty plate slightly forward and leaned back. Her eyes flicked up to him. He looked at her, attentive, quietly chewing.

“Do you wanna know why I hate my dad?” she asked. "Well, why I started hatin' him."

Her voice wasn’t challenging, or flippant. It was quiet. Almost afraid. Like the question itself might collapse if she said it too loud.

Kuno nodded, solemn and quiet, as if granting permission for something sacred to be shared. Ranko sat with her back straight, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes weren’t on him—they were fixed somewhere beyond the table, beyond the clinking dishes and murmured conversation of other patrons. Somewhere far away.

“My dad was a martial artist when I was little,” she began. “We used to live with my mom. My mom married him for love— real love. He didn’t have anythin’. No house, no job, no future. She even gave him her family name. She believed in him.”

Ranko paused, brushing her thumb against the condensation on her glass. “Then one day, when I was still small, he said I needed to start trainin’ seriously. I don’t remember it too well, but apparently, they made me choose—stay with my mom and learn how to be a woman, a housewife… or leave with my dad and become a martial artist. His student. And I chose him.”

Her voice was even. Flat, almost. She didn’t want any pain to stir in her heart.

“We left her behind. And yeah, it was excitin’. When you’re a kid, everythin’s excitin’—new towns, new food, weird people. We argued a lot, but we kept movin’, kept learnin’. My dad taught me everythin’ he knew. How to fight, how to survive. You know… anythin’ goes .”

She exhaled through her nose, bitterly.

“But he was selfish. Always had been. At first it was just dumb stuff—conning people out of meals, lyin’ for a free bed, stealin’ little things. I thought it was just part of the lifestyle. But over time, he started doin’ worse things. Riskier things. He started makin’ promises he had no right to make.”

Ranko glanced at Kuno then, quickly, just to see if he was following. But he said nothing, only watched her with the patience of someone waiting to be trusted.

“He promised people I’d marry their kids over train tickets, over camping tools, over food carts… Then he promised men I’d marry them when I was of age. Strangers. Idiots. Said I was his daughter and he could make those deals, that they didn’t mean anythin’. And when I started gettin’ older, and the things strangers wanted weren’t just marriage proposals—when they started hinting at other things—he promised those too.”

Her mouth twisted in pain, a flicker of shame skimming the surface of her eyes.

“I think he told himself it was just talk. That it wouldn’t come back to bite me. That I’d never know. But it did. I found out. Eventually, they came to me to ask for my firsts. ”

She looked away again, deeper into the past. Her voice was quieter now.

“My mom hadn’t seen us in years. She only ever got these stupid postcards from my dad every six months. Not visits. Not calls. Just dumb little drawings and half-assed updates about our trainin’. And then, these men started showin’ up at her house. With contracts. With receipts.”

Ranko’s hands tightened into fists.

“They had papers . Some with his signature. Others… with mine. Things I don’t remember signin’. Pages with my fingerprints stamped in red ink. My little index finger, pressed onto forms I didn’t even know how to read.”

She turned back to Kuno. Her voice cracked—not from weakness, but fury buried beneath the years.

“I didn’t know what I was doing. But he did. He should’ve known better.”

Silence. Not the awkward kind, but the heavy, aching kind. The kind that made the air feel thick and unmoving.

“My mom tried to pay off those debts. Tried to clean up the mess he made with her name… and mine. She got humiliated for it, we haven’t seen her since. I think she just left, made a new life for herself somewhere, with a new name. I don’t blame her.”

Ranko’s voice dimmed to a whisper, just loud enough for Kuno to hear over the gentle clatter of dishes in the restaurant.

“So yeah. That’s why I started hatin' him. He's fucked up plenty since then, too.”

She stared at the glass in front of her, the melted ice swimming in a pool of diluted soda, and didn’t speak again.

Kuno didn’t touch her hand. He didn’t reach across the table. He didn’t say I’m sorry , because those words weren’t big enough. Instead, he sat still—an anchor in the storm—and looked at her with eyes full of quiet, unwavering empathy.

That was all she needed. Not a fix. Not a plan. Just someone who would sit with her in the darkness of her past and not look away.

Ranko’s breath trembled slightly as she reached for her drink. The weight of everything she’d just said was still thick in her chest, a tangle of emotion that made her stomach ache. She took a sip to steady herself.

“Sorry,” she muttered, not quite meeting his eyes. “That was a lot. I didn’t mean to unload all that on you.”

Kuno, who had been watching her without a hint of judgment, shook his head slowly.

“It is not a burden,” he said gently. “You are my friend. If your heart is heavy, then share its weight with me.”

The earnestness in his voice made her blink. It wasn’t just the words—anyone could say that—but the way he meant them. Without expectation, without trying to fix her. Just there . Present.

He looked down at his half-finished risotto. “To be honest,” he added, “I was embarrassed earlier. I spent the whole afternoon pacing like a fool, wondering if I should try and find you. I was not even sure if friends normally… wanted to dine together on a Saturday.”

Ranko looked up, surprised. “You wondered the whole afternoon?”.

He nodded, eyes still on his food. “I missed you.”

A small silence bloomed between them—not awkward, but careful, like the hush after a confession.

“I was not certain if that was irregular,” he continued. “I am not… very skilled with these sorts of things. Friendship. I do not know all the rules. But I wanted to see you.”

Ranko smiled, soft and real. “I’m glad you did. I missed you too.” Her eyes wandered back to him—this strange, gallant idiot of a boy who spoke like a knight and worried about whether it was acceptable to want someone’s company.

Kuno leaned forward slightly, the low lighting of the restaurant casting soft shadows beneath his eyes as he asked, almost timidly, “Would you… like to do something tomorrow?”

Ranko’s heart skipped. She knew that tone. A quiet, almost hopeful thing that made her cheeks warm. Hell yes, I want to, she thought—but caught herself. She had to keep things in check. Her feelings were always threatening to spill over. So instead she grinned, lips curling with mischief, and leaned back in her seat. “What I want ,” she said, drawing out the word, “is dessert.”

Kuno blinked, surprised, then straightened with a small smile and raised his hand to summon the waiter. The man arrived with almost theatrical grace, handing them a glossy, oversized dessert menu that Ranko took with wide-eyed delight.

“Wait,” she said, laughing as she opened it. “This is just a menu desserts? Like— only desserts? This place rocks!” She didn’t even hesitate. “Tiramisu and two pistachio cannoli. No, I’m not sharin’.”

Kuno watched her with quiet amusement as the waiter collected their empty plates and disappeared again. Then, a moment later, his voice returned, soft but steadier this time: “So… would you want to do something tomorrow?”

Ranko looked at him and this time she didn’t dodge. “Yeah,” she said, her voice gentler than she meant it to be. Yeah, I do. Then, a thought struck her—a half-formed instinct to offer him something in return. If I get to spend my Sunday with my crush, maybe he should get to do the same…

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “Wanna invite Akane?”

Kuno froze. “Do you truly believe that Tendo Akane would say yes?”

“I dunno,” Ranko said, lifting her shoulders. “But I can try. Just—y’know. Don’t be weird with her. This is a strictly friendly outing.”

“I shall not,” he said, a little too quickly.

She snorted. “Kuno, I don’t even think you can promise that. You’re weird by default. ”

Kuno didn’t argue. Ranko laughed, the tension melting from her shoulders like butter. For the first time all day, the air around them felt light again.

The waiter brought the desserts with a little flair—two pistachio cannoli, dusted with powdered sugar, nestled beside a square of creamy, espresso-soaked tiramisu. Ranko’s eyes lit up. She wasted no time, plucking one of the cannoli and—without the slightest shame—using it as a makeshift spoon to scoop up the tiramisu, shoveling both into her mouth with gusto.

Kuno, startled but amused, watched her. “What, then, is the plan for tomorrow?”

Ranko paused mid-bite, cheeks full, then swallowed and raised a brow. “Didn’t you propose a hang out? I thought you had somethin’ planned.”

Kuno looked mildly abashed. “I do not.” He leaned back in his seat, his voice growing quieter, more thoughtful. “To be honest, I cannot even imagine what a Sunday with Tendo Akane, as mere friends, would be like.”

Ranko clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Then don’t get your hopes up, Samurai. We don’t even know if she’ll say yes.”

She devoured the rest of the tiramisu, licking the last smear of cream from her spoon, and sighed with a full-bellied contentment. “That was amazing.”

Kuno nodded, signaled for the bill, and paid in crisp, big denomination bills. Ranko, meanwhile, slid out of the booth and crossed to the wall-mounted payphone near the entrance. A thick, worn phonebook sat chained below it, the pages curled from years of fingertips. She flipped through until she found it— Tendo Dojo.

She slipped two 10-yen coins into the slot, cradled the cold receiver between her shoulder and ear, and dialed the number with practiced flicks of her fingers.

The line clicked.

“Hello? Is Akane there? It’s Ranko.”

Chapter Text

Sunday at 2 PM, the sky above Nerima was gray but dry, a brittle sort of light filtering through the clouds. Ranko’s sneakers slapped the wet pavement as she approached the skating rink, her red and black jacket flaring slightly with each brisk step. She spotted them before they saw her—standing near the ticket booth, clustered like mismatched chess pieces. The mood was instantly recognizable, even from a distance.

Akane’s arms were crossed, her mouth a frown of exasperation; Kuno stood near her, noble posture betrayed by animated gesturing, no doubt mid-declaration. Meanwhile, Nabiki and her two friends—one tall with curled hair, the other wearing faux-fur earmuffs—chatted excitedly..

Kuno looked handsome , she had to admit—he was wearing a sharp navy wool coat with gold buttons and a high collar that framed his neck. His scarf was silk. His gloves were leather. His boots looked like they’d never been in snow, let alone on ice. He was absurdly overdressed for the rink.

Ranko waved, grinning. “ Yo!”

Akane turned first, scowl still on her face, but her expression softened immediately. “Finally!” she said, half-exasperated, half-genuine. “I thought you bailed, I was ready to hunt you down.” But there was a smile tugging at her mouth now, reluctant but there, like a flower pushing through a crack in the sidewalk.

“You look cute,” Ranko said, approaching with a bounce in her step. “We’re almost matchin’!” she smiled, both her and Akane were wearing leggings and skater-style dresses, although Ranko was in red, while Akane’s was white with cute geometrical shapes in pastel colors. “You look like a modern princess”.

“Thank you,” Akane said as she nudged her playfully with a shoulder.

Kuno stepped forward with too much flourish. “Ranko. I see you’ve graced us at last.”

“Yup,” she said, hands in her jacket pockets. “It took me a while to walk all the way here. Were you late too? Or did you start dressin’ up when the sun came up?” She gave him a once-over.

He tilted his chin proudly. “There is no fault in dressing with dignity. One never knows when fate will call for glory.”

Akane sighed. “He’s been talking like that for ten minutes straight.”

“I was under the impression it was only going to be the three of us,” Kuno added, glancing at the others.

Akane scoffed. “Yeah, no thanks. I didn’t feel like risking being left alone with you, so I invited Nabiki.”

Kuno’s brow furrowed, but before he could retort, Nabiki chimed in, tilting her head. “And I wasn’t about to be a fourth wheel to a love triangle, so I brought backup.”

“Backup?” Kuno echoed.

“Friends,” Nabiki clarified with an infuriatingly patient tone. “My friends, in case the wheels don’t fall off and I get bored.” Nabiki turned and extended a hand, eyebrows raised. “Time to pay the toll, Big Spender. Skates and entry for all of us.”

Kuno hesitated for one, pained moment—then sighed the sigh of a man accepting a noble burden. He pulled out his wallet with theatrical gravitas. “If this is the price to behold Akane’s radiance upon frozen crystal, then so be it. My coin is yours.”

Ranko leaned toward Akane, whispering through her grin, “He looks good, doesn’t he?”

Akane rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. “You can have him.”

Ranko made a little noise in her throat—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “If only.”

They laughed, just a little. Ranko was glad Akane came, she really liked the princess. There was something warm in her chest, seeing Akane happier now, seeing Kuno try too hard to conquer Akane in a way only Ranko seemed to find endearing.

Kuno, who had just handed over a generous wad of bills to pay the entrance fees and skate rentals for the entire group, tucked his wallet back into the inner pocket of his overcoat. Or tried to. Nabiki, with the smooth dexterity of a practiced opportunist, plucked a crisp ¥10,000 note from it mid-motion like a magician doing a sleight-of-hand.

“A little fee” she said, smiling and waving the bill at Kuno. “You wouldn’t leave us hungry, would you, Kuno-baby?”.

The moment they stepped into the skating rink, Nabiki and her two friends immediately veered off toward the café and viewing area above the rink, eyeing the cozy pastries behind glass and the young college boys loitering near the heaters. “We’ll supervise from the high ground,” Nabiki said, breezily. “Try not to fall too much out of sight, we want a show!”

Ranko stifled a grin as she walked beside Akane and Kuno, the group now down to just the three of them. Akane looked pleased to be away from Nabiki’s friends, but as Kuno stepped forward to walk beside her, she slid herself to Ranko’s other side, putting the bottle blonde between them like a buffer. She didn’t even look at him.

“How did you think of this place?” Akane asked Ranko, adjusting the strap of her skates as they sat on the bench together. “I used to come here with Kasumi when we were kids.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Ranko said, bending over to tie her own laces tight.“I overheard some girls in a restaurant talking about how skatin’ rinks are super romantic, so I thought… y’know. Why not?” She glanced at Akane, adding quickly, “Not for us —I just thought you’d like it.”

Akane smiled despite herself. “I do. I just didn’t think you were the skating type.”

“I’m not,” Ranko admitted with a helpless shrug. A skating rink was a little too expensive for her, and too public for the men she used to go out with. This was her first time in a place like this. “But I figured, if you’re good, and Kuno’s willin’, then I could just cling to you both and not die.”

Kuno, already halfway done strapping on his boots, turned with dramatic resolve. “I am quite glad Ranko chose this romantic location for our date, Tendo Akane.”

“It’s not a date!” Akane frowned.

“It’s a friendly outin’, Kuno,” Ranko said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You gotta chill.”

Akane rolled her eyes. “He’s welcome to eat ice if he needs to chill.”

Kuno beamed at her. “Your wit sparkles like the morning frost on cherry blossoms, Tendo Akane. Today I shall prove my worth as a friend to you both.”

Akane replied only with an exasperated sigh.

Ranko nudged her gently with her shoulder. “C’mon, he’s tryin’. You gotta give him some credit.”

“I’d rather give him a concussion,” Akane muttered.

They rose together, Akane poised and firm while Kuno and Ranko wobbled dangerously as they took small steps away from the bench. Ranko was grinning between them. For just a second, before they even stepped on the ice, they almost looked like the three of them belonged together.

As soon as their blades touched the slick, glimmering ice, both Kuno and Ranko slipped with a gasp. Kuno’s legs shot out from beneath him and with a resonant thud , the back of his head met the frozen surface. Ranko flailed for balance, arms wheeling, hair flying—on the verge of following him into graceless defeat—when Akane, quick as a whip, lunged forward and caught her by the arms.

“Whoa—! Thanks!” Ranko exhaled, blinking up at Akane with a smile.

Akane’s face, however, was far less forgiving. She whirled on Kuno, who was lying sprawled like a snow angel. “You don’t know how to ice skate?!”

Kuno groaned as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head, his noble poise frozen out of him. “I assumed it could not be so complicated… one glides… yes?”

Ranko burst out laughing, clutching at Akane’s sleeve for balance as her skates slid clumsily beneath her.

Akane narrowed her eyes. “This is babysitting. I should be getting paid for this.” She sighed and, after steadying herself with practiced ease, extended both hands to Ranko. “C’mon. I’ll tow you before you bring down the entire building.”

Ranko eagerly reached out to grab one of Akane’s hands. As she did, Kuno began to rise from the ice and reached toward Akane’s other hand. “What an honor it is to be able to hold—” he began.

Akane immediately drew her hand back as if he’d tried to touch her with a live eel. “Ohh, no. Absolutely not.”

Kuno paused, rejected but undeterred. “You wound me, Tendo Akane,” he said with a somber tilt of the head.

“You wounded yourself,” she said.

Ranko winced in sympathy and shifted a little. “Okay, okay—Samurai, hold my shoulders. And don’t pull me down if you fall.”

With Kuno’s gloved hands gently gripping her shoulders and Akane holding her hands, the trio inched forward like some absurd, wobbly centipede. Akane skated backwards with ease and grace, tugging a shaky but giggling Ranko forward, while Kuno staggered behind, legs stiff and untrusting of physics.

Little kids zipped past them effortlessly—laughing, twirling, and zooming by with the carefree cruelty of youth. One small boy even slowed down just long enough to watch the trio, particularly Kuno’s trembling knees, and whispered, “They’re gonna die,” before skating away giggling.

Akane closed her eyes as if praying for strength. “This was a mistake.”

Ranko beamed, her voice full of teasing joy. “Best mistake ever, this is so much fun!”

After a second full lap of clumsy gliding, groaning muscles, and near-death experiences every time a six-year-old zipped past them, Akane came to a stop near the edge of the rink and planted her skates with a sharp scritch . Ranko clung to her hands, legs wide, wobbling like a baby deer on rollerblades but definitely enjoying the ride. Kuno, behind her, let go of her shoulders when he was within reach of the railing.

“Okay,” Akane said, blowing out a breath and giving Ranko a sympathetic once-over. “You’re having fun, at least.”

Kuno groaned and shifted his grip on the railing, holding on to it for dear life. “The ice is a treacherous mistress,” he declared solemnly.

“Okay, that’s it.” Akane skated backward a step and released Ranko’s hands. “Senpai’s dead weight. I’m upgrading you.”

Ranko glanced back at him. “You gonna be okay over there?”

“I shall endure,” Kuno replied, legs trembling slightly beneath him. “Do not worry for me, Ranko. Enjoy your time with Tendo Akane—such moments are rare and beautiful, like a flower blossoming in the dead of winter.”

Ranko laughed. “Hold the line, Samurai. If I don’t make it, avenge me.” She pointed at him, almost like a threat.

Kuno thumped a fist to his chest. “With honor!”

Akane groaned. “You two are exhausting.”

“But adorable,” Ranko said brightly.

Akane rolled her eyes. “One of you, maybe.”

And with that, Akane took Ranko’s hands again and began skating backward, pulling her gently into the center of the rink. Ranko’s feet slipped wildly at first, her knees bending like cooked noodles, but Akane steadied her with easy grace.

“Come on,” Akane said, her hand firm but warm in Ranko’s. “Let’s try something cute. I bet I can get you to spin.”

Ranko’s eyes widened. “Spin? Like, on purpose ?”

Akane laughed, already guiding her. They reached the middle, and Akane turned to face her, holding both of Ranko’s hands in hers. “Okay. Knees soft. Don’t lock up. And just follow my movement.”

“This feels like the part where I get yeeted across the ice.”

“I’d never yeet you,” Akane said seriously. Then added, “...unless you really deserve it. Like, if you stand me up and make me be alone with Kuno.”

“I would never” Ranko laughed, and let herself be pulled gently into a slow, careful rotation. Akane skated backward, guiding their hands in a circle, and Ranko followed, wobbly but determined.

The wind kissed their cheeks, hair dancing around their flushed faces. Ranko tried to keep her legs under her, but her balance was all heart and no skill. Still, Akane didn’t let go. She smiled—an honest, soft smile—and adjusted their pace.

“You’re doing okay,” Akane said. “You haven’t fallen yet.”

“ Yet is doing a lotta heavy lifting there.”

“But you’re smiling.”

Ranko blinked. She was. She hadn’t even realized it.

“You make it fun,” she said.

They shared a small laugh as they continued turning, slower now, not so much skating as orbiting one another, two clumsy stars in a tiny frozen galaxy.

From the distance, they could hear a muffled thump, followed by Kuno dramatically calling out, “Do not worry for me! I am unbowed!”

Ranko grinned. “We should probably go check on him before he eats the ice again.”

They glided—more or less—toward the edge, hand in hand, the sound of children’s laughter and skate blades scratching ice following behind them like a light snow. Kuno clung for dear life to the railing. His back was pressed flat against the barrier, knees bent awkwardly, one skate slipping every few seconds. He was breathing hard, as if he’d just fenced ten men back to back instead of managing to stand upright for two minutes.

Akane skated up first, raising an eyebrow. “Still alive?”

“I endure,” Kuno panted, his eyes wild with concentration. “But only barely.”

“I brought her back in one piece,” Akane added, nodding toward Ranko, who gave a thumbs-up before gripping the railing and resting her forehead against the cold metal.

From just down the way, a pair of girls in their late teens, stylishly dressed and sipping drinks in the seating area just above the rink, were whispering animatedly. Their voices floated down to the trio.

“He’s so handsome!”

“I know ! And tall—and just so ...”

They sighed in unison.

Ranko blinked and looked at Kuno. Kuno, of course, had already straightened slightly, brushing imaginary snow off his shoulders, chin tilting in what he clearly believed to be aristocratic acknowledgment.

Akane rolled her eyes. “Don’t even.”

“I must say,” Kuno murmured, smoothing his hair, “the admiration of the fairer sex, though frequent, never fails to restore warmth to the soul—”

“But did you hear what he said to that little boy earlier?” one of the girls interrupted, still completely unaware they were being overheard. “He helped him up so gently—and he’s the best ice skater of the entire prefecture!”

Ranko's eyes narrowed, and she and Kuno turned their heads at the same time, following the girls' gaze.

A tall, well-dressed guy cut clean arcs through the center of the rink. His form was effortless—hands tucked behind his back, back straightt. He was close to their age, with a confident, casual air. His white slacks looked custom-fitted, and his forest green cable knit sweater stretched just right across his shoulders and chest, the sleeves artfully pushed up to reveal strong forearms.

“There’s no one like Mikado Sanzenin,” the other girl sighed wistfully, her chin resting in her hand.

Akane made a small sound of recognition. “Oh. That guy.”

Ranko tilted her head. “Mikado Sanzenin?” she echoed, intrigued but far from smitten. 

“He’s some rich private school ice skating champ or something,” Akane said, her tone dry. “He was on TV once. Nabiki was obsessed, she even begged dad to pay tuition to Kolkhoz before she realized it would mean less pocket money.”

Ranko watched as Mikado turned on one foot in a tight spin, then glided backward as effortlessly as if he were walking downhill. “Well, okay,” she admitted. “That is hot.”

Kuno stared, his lips pressed in a thin, flat line. “A peacock on blades,” he muttered bitterly.

“Aw, jealous?” Ranko teased, nudging his arm with her elbow. “Don’t be. You’ve got your own thing going on.”

Akane looked at Kuno “His ‘thing’ is humiliation,” watching him reaching again for the railing as his foot betrayed him and slipped outward.

Ranko caught him lightly by the sleeve before he face-planted. “Nah. He’s just... gravity challenged.”

“Yeah, he’s challenged alright,” Akane said.

The girls’ attention had shifted, but the tall, elegant boy on the ice had noticed them—particularly the way both Ranko and Akane had followed his movements with mild interest. Mikado Sanzenin, like any good peacock, was exquisitely tuned to being observed.

With a casual flick of his skates, he turned and glided toward them like a dream. He arrived before the trio with an easy flourish, pivoting on the toe pick of his skate and coming to a stop in a puff of shaved ice. Without a word of greeting, he extended his hand to Akane, whose shoulders immediately stiffened.

“Forgive the interruption,” Mikado said smoothly, his voice low and warm like the last note of a cello. “I saw your smile across the ice and had to meet the girl who could put spring in winter.”

Akane blinked. “Excuse me?”

He bowed dramatically, taking her hand.

Akane immediately yanked it back before his lips could touch. “ No thanks. ”

Mikado blinked once, then laughed as though she'd teased him, unoffended. “Ah, you’re shy. That’s even better.”

Ranko's brows rose as she leaned slightly forward, watching this unfold with the fascinated interest of someone witnessing an unexpected animal encounter in the wild.

Kuno, however, pushed off from the railing and promptly slipped again, wobbling toward them. “Unhand her, you skirted serpent!”

Mikado glanced sideways without turning his head. “And you are…?”

“I am Tatewaki Kuno, seventeen years old, undefeated in kendo and the protector of Tendo Akane’s honor!”

“You’re not my anything!” Akane complained.

Mikado smiled at Akane. “I suppose even the brightest flowers attract pests.”

“You have been warned!” Kuno snapped, standing somehow on both feet but listing like a ship in a storm. “My wrath knows no—”

“Your wrath surely knows nothing,” Mikado drawled, finally turning to face him. “What do you think you’ll do? Slip and spill blood on my skates?”

“I will not slip! ” Kuno shouted, immediately slipping and landing with a thud on one knee.

Ranko winced, though not without affection. “Kuno...”

Mikado turned back to Akane, leaning in. “I think you deserve one of my soothing kisses.”

Akane stepped back with her arms folded. “Seriously. Go away.”

“But your lips say no,” Mikado whispered, “while your eyes—”

Akane’s fist connected with his jaw before he finished the sentence. Mikado stumbled backward with a grunt of pain.

Ranko’s mouth dropped open, and in her reflex to move, her hand slid from the guardrail. Her skates, now utterly in charge, decided she should go anywhere but here .

“Akane—!” she yelped, arms pinwheeling as she glided sideways, unintentionally pirouetting away like a startled deer on roller shoes.

Kuno tried to extend an arm towards Ranko, but he only ended up slipping on the ice again.

“Ranko!” Akane called after her. “Just bend your knees! Steer into the wobble!”

“I don’t know what that means!” Ranko shouted, spinning slowly in a half-circle, now moving backwards.

Ranko had just about surrendered to centrifugal fate and she managed a single, defiant “Whoa—!” before she was swept clean off the ice by a pair of arms far too graceful to belong to any ordinary teen boy.

He caught her mid-spin, as if timing it for dramatic effect. One arm slid beneath her thighs, the other pressed between her shoulder blades, and the world righted itself in a sudden, theatrical swoop. The ice was a blur beneath them, but Ranko wasn’t moving anymore — she was being carried.

“You really know how to make an entrance,” said a low, amused voice.

She looked up into the smirking face of Mikado Sanzenin — tall, handsome, composed. The green of his cable-knit sweater made his eyes seem pale and wicked, his dark hair swept back just enough to expose high cheekbones and a subtle dimple that flashed when he smiled.

Ranko blinked. “...Am I dead?”

“Not yet.” He skated in an elegant curve, still holding her easily. “But I wouldn’t mind escorting you to heaven, if that’s where you thought you were headed.”

Ranko gave a breathless laugh. She was cradled so neatly against him, like she weighed nothing. His hands didn’t shake, didn’t adjust. His balance was effortless. Strong arms, too, she noted idly. He made it look like she belonged there.

He looked her over, a touch of curiosity in the scan of her face. “You're... different,” he murmured, and it wasn’t just a compliment. “The way you carry yourself. You could really turn heads if you picked up a little feminine grace. Ever think about that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You ever think before speakin’?”

“Well, mostly about skating... Skating’s like courtship,” he said. “Control, balance, the illusion of softness. You’ve got the kind of body that could ruin hearts if you learned how to move just a little lighter on skates.”

He didn’t say it like an insult. It was almost like an invitation.

Ranko raised her eyebrows. “And yet with all my lack of softness I still got caught by the hottest guy on the rink.”

“You’re not wrong,” he said, with no shame at all.

His hold was secure, his body lean and strong — not built like Kuno, with his dramatic shoulders. Mikado had a kind of precision, like everything he did had been practiced in front of a mirror. Where Kuno was thunder, Mikado was silk, knotted with strategy.

Ranko could admire it… even if it didn’t quite feel like her kind of man.

“Seriously though,” he said, lowering his voice, “if you ever decided to take skating seriously, I’d leave my partner for you in a heartbeat.”

Ranko snorted softly. “That’s what all men say about their wives, right before they don’t.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said quickly. “Just a partner. A skating one. And I meant it — with you? We’d have chemistry on ice.”

“Dangerous chemistry,” she teased.

“The best kind.”

He adjusted his hold slightly, pulling her closer as they glided. Her fingers tightened around his shoulder out of instinct. She could feel the ripple of muscle beneath the wool, lean and coiled, and for a second, she wondered if he was testing her weight or her interest.

“You’re not even a little flustered,” he said, sounding almost impressed.

“Why would I be?” she replied, chin tipping up. “You're the one carryin’ me. If anyone should be nervous, it’s you.” she held him a little closer, her breasts pressing against his chest.

He laughed, that soft dimple flashing again. “You’re trouble.”

“I know.”

They passed near the railing again. Akane looked at them curiously, alert, as if she was ready to fight Mikado over Ranko at any moment. Kuno clung like a marooned sailor to the railing, eyes wide with fury and disbelief. Ranko caught his stare and gave him a lazy, amused wave from Mikado’s arms.

“Think he’s jealous?” Mikado murmured.

“I don’t think so, he actually likes the other girl. The princess.”

“Want to try making him a little jealous? I’m an expert at breaking couples.”

She smiled slowly. “Does it work on guys who aren’t coupled up?”

“We can try. I’ve kissed nine hundred and ninety-eight girls,” Mikado said with a smirk, like he expected a medal. “You're unlike any of them.”

Ranko blinked at him, one brow arching. “You keep track?”

He grinned, skating effortlessly with her still in his arms, his breath fogging faintly in the cold air. “I keep score. Every conquest has its place.”

“That’s worse,” she said, amused but unimpressed.

“Some want to be the one,” he said smoothly. “Others are perfectly happy being number one-zero-zero-zero.”

Ranko leaned in closer, shifting her weight with a slow, languid motion, hips adjusting, her arms curling tighter around his shoulders. The balance between them changed. She settled in , with the liquid ease of someone who didn’t mind being carried but refused to be cradled. Mikado’s arms, previously so sure, now served more to anchor her than to support. She met his gaze with a teasing half-smile, unshaken by his charm.

“Then let’s make history with a kiss so good it counts as two,” she said. “Who am I to stand in the way of a milestone?”

They slid to a stop near the rink’s edge, where Akane and Kuno stood stiff as lampposts — Akane watching with narrowed eyes, Kuno with mixture of horror and suppressed jealousy.

Without asking permission, Mikado swept Ranko into a dip, theatrical and practiced. A pair of preteen girls gasped nearby, whispering eagerly behind mittened hands.

Mikado’s lips touched hers.

It should have ended there — a chaste, polished kiss, the kind you’d see at the end of a rom-com. But Ranko moved. Her lips parted. Her hands laced behind his neck, and she kissed him back — not sweetly, not gently, but hungrily , drawing him in with an open-mouthed warmth that turned the air electric. She tilted her head with experience and ease, deepening it before Mikado even realized what was happening.

Gasps echoed from somewhere nearby. The whispering turned to stunned silence.

Mikado tried to stay smooth, but she overwhelmed him — not with force, but with rhythm. With intention. Her mouth moved like she’d done this before — better than this — and Mikado, for all his grace and practice, was not used to girls kissing him like they were in control. His hands tightened instinctively, but his confidence slipped with every second. His brows lifted just slightly. His breath caught.

When Ranko finally pulled away, slowly, she did so like a woman leaving a feast she hadn’t even needed to finish to prove her appetite.

She patted his cheek, then smoothed her palm along the blooming flush settling over the already carefully laid rouge. “Lay off the blush a little, Romeo. It ruins your whole cool vibe.”

Then, effortlessly, she pushed away from him, her leg extending down and purposely brushing against Mikado’s crotch as she slid down, making sure the rest of her body made contact. Her skates wobbled as she reconnected with the ice, but she didn’t fall — she caught herself, laughing under her breath, and glided awkwardly, proudly, back toward Akane, who was still standing there, mouth halfway open.

Akane stared at her like she’d just stuck her chopsticks upright on a bowl of rice. “You kissed him ,” she said flatly.

“Yeah,” Ranko said, grinning. “Not bad, huh? I think I broke him.”

Behind them, Mikado was frozen mid-pose, like a statue of a man just discovering he was mortal.

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Ranko said, holding on to Akane’s arm as they skated towards the exit of the rink. She turned to Kuno with a smile, who was staring at her in shock. “You hungry, Samurai?”.

Chapter Text

The trio shuffled off the ice with varying degrees of grace—Akane confidently leading the way, Ranko half-wobbling but grinning, and Kuno trailing behind them, stiff-backed and silent, his pride as bruised as his tailbone.

They sat on the bench near the rink’s edge, unlacing their skates with fingers still stiff from the cold. Ranko blew a strand of hair from her face.

Akane glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Ranko shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Akane hesitated, tugging at a knot in her laces. “Right... I mean, I guess that wasn’t your first kiss.”

Ranko looked up, surprised. She caught the expression on Akane’s face—half embarrassment for even daring to make the comment, half genuine curiosity.

Right, Ranko thought, we’re sixteen. Seventeen, this guy. But they’re normal people. And Akane still blushes when someone flirts. Still punches boys when they try anything slick. And here I am, on ice skates, swapping spit with some Casanova in front of the school princess and the school samurai. A sharp, disoriented breath escaped her nose.

She glanced at Kuno, who was sitting beside them in stunned silence, one skate still halfway laced, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes had not lifted from the ground since Mikado’s stunt. Ranko could practically see the gears grinding in his noble, confused head.

Akane stood, skates in hand. “You did great, Sanzenin didn’t see it coming,” she said quickly, trying to smile.

Ranko nodded and followed her, but glanced back. Mikado was still on the ice, still stunned as kids circled him like ducks around a fountain, colored markers out as they giggled with evil intention.

The trio made their way up to the café overlooking the rink, where Nabiki had staked out a large table. It was absolutely covered: glossy pastries, iced drinks, fancy teas steeping in clear glass pots. The total must’ve been staggering. Nabiki, lounging with her chin in her hand and a predator’s grin on her lips, raised her eyebrows as they approached.

“I knew you guys would put on a show,” she said, voice syrupy with delight. “I was expecting lots of slipping, maybe a romantic hand-holding moment… but Ranko turned up the heat .”

Ranko dropped into a chair, Kuno and Akane taking a seat at her sides across from the older girls. “What can I say? I might not know how to skate, but I know how to kiss.” She smirked, rubbing her forearm across her mouth with no regard for decorum.

One of Nabiki’s friends leaned forward with a dreamy sigh, propping her chin on her hands. “I went to Kolkhoz Middle School back in the day. Mikado was my first kiss.” She smiled like the memory still tasted sweet. “I was number seventy-eight.”

Ranko paused mid-wipe and raised her eyebrows. “He wear lip gloss back then too?” she asked, squinting at the smear of shimmer left on her sleeve.

Akane made a face and handed her a napkin. “That’s gross , Ranko.”

“Right? I think I’m tasting vanilla and desperation.” Ranko scrubbed at her lips half-heartedly.

Nabiki chuckled, sipping her drink. “Hey, number nine-nine-nine. Think you’ll get a commemorative plaque?”

“I’ll take a commemorative jacket,” Ranko said.

Kuno sat stiffly, hands clasped before him on the table. He hadn’t spoken since sitting down. His face was unreadable, his gaze fixed somewhere between the edge of the table and the floor—eyes dark and far-off.

“Prince?” Ranko asked, tilting her head to peek at him. “You good?”

He did not look up. “I am… collecting my thoughts.”

Nabiki smirked and leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Don’t worry, Kuno-chan. I’m sure your tragic, brooding silence is winning someone’s heart out there.”

Ranko shot her a look, somewhere between warning and amusement, before reaching for a pastry and tearing it open like she’d earned it.

Nabiki had commandeered the table like a queen in her court, waving over more trays of food without hesitation. Ranko, lips glossy with cream and sugar, bit into her third pastry—a flaky, fruit-filled swirl that crackled like snow under her teeth. She didn’t even know what it was called (something French and unpronounceable for her), but it was divine. Her drink shimmered pink with crushed ice and cream. She let herself indulge. This wasn’t her world: it tasted expensive, and for once, she didn’t mind the sweetness.

Nabiki and her friends were in full gossip mode, reminiscing about middle school and the great era of Mikado Sanzenin. Tales of skating competitions, rigged popularity polls, and dreams of being his one-thousandth kiss floated around like perfume. Ranko half-listened, licking powdered sugar off her finger, but her eyes slid sideways. On one side, Akane was leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, pretending she didn’t care while clearly eavesdropping. On the other, Kuno sat strangely still, staring at a cup of untouched tea, the corner of his mouth tight with unspoken thoughts.

Ranko nudged him gently with her elbow. “What’s got you broodin’, Samurai?”

He blinked, drawn out of some deep internal fog, and met her eyes slowly. His voice was softer than usual, almost reluctant. “I am… contemplating the absurdity of superficial elegance.”

Ranko tilted her head. “That’s real poetic. You wanna translate?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “The man is nothing but a rake, a performer. Yet the world kneels at his feet. Even Tendo Akane—” he glanced her way and looked down again—“was nearly swept away.”

Ranko bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to grin. “She wasn’t! You’re jealous.”

Kuno didn’t answer. Ranko leaned in just slightly, her voice gentler now. “Hey. Don’t fall for Sanzenin’s trap. He’s a good skater, a smooth talker… but that’s just one kind of charm.”

He looked at her again, brow furrowed.

She smiled and took another bite of her pastry. “Some girls like their princes a little clumsy.”

Nabiki stood with a little bounce. “Alright, ladies,” she chirped, gesturing to her friends with a jerk of her thumb. “Let’s go see if any decent men decided to come out of hiding now that Mikado’s gone.”

Her friends giggled and gathered their coats. As they left, Ranko stretched with a soft grunt, then patted her stomach. “Gonna go take a leak,” she said casually, sliding out of her seat. “Be right back.”

Akane’s expression tightened. “Wait—don’t—” she started, eyes darting toward Kuno, but she hesitated. He hadn’t said a word in minutes. He hadn’t even moved. His brooding silence filled the space like fog, thick and heavy.

Ranko tossed Akane a wink before disappearing into the restroom. The moment the door swung shut behind her, the café felt eerily quiet. Akane sat back with a sigh, stirring her vanilla soda float with its striped straw, the clink of ice the only sound between them.

Then: “Tendo Akane.”

The voice made her jump slightly. She turned to find Kuno watching her, his eyes solemn, hands neatly folded on the table like he was preparing for a confession.

“Yes?” she replied, cautious.

He leaned forward just enough to show intent. “Do you… find yourself drawn to men like Sanzenin?”

Akane blinked. “No. Obviously not.” Kuno opened his mouth as if to speak again, but she cut him off, her tone sharp. “And if you’re trying to use that as some backhanded compliment, don’t bother. I don’t like men like you either.”

He absorbed the blow with a slow nod, then looked down at his hands. “Why?” he asked, quietly. “Why not?”

Akane’s gaze drifted toward the melting ice in her glass. “That’s not a conversation I feel like having.”

“With me?” Kuno clarified.

Akane nodded, her voice soft now. “With most people, honestly.”

Kuno was silent for a moment, then said, almost to himself, “This event has… unsettled me.”

She glanced at him, studying the wrinkle forming between his brows. “What exactly has you so rattled?”

He parted his lips to answer, but whatever words formed in his mind vanished. His mouth closed. His expression turned unreadable, clouded by thought.

Akane lifted her drink again, resting her cheek in her palm. “Surely it’s not the sight of me being flirted with. You’ve watched that happen every school day since forever. You encouraged them to challenge me for the honor to date me, so… can’t be that.” she said, her tone bitter.

Kuno let out a long breath, not quite a sigh. “Then I cannot name it. But something in me aches… deeply. As if… as if something important slipped past me.”

Akane looked at him for a moment, her voice quieter now. “Maybe it wasn’t about me.” He turned to her, puzzled. She hesitated. “Maybe it was about Ranko.”

Kuno’s frown deepened, confusion flickering across his face like a shadow. “Why would it be about Ranko?”

Akane exhaled. “Never mind.”

Just then, the bathroom door creaked open, and Ranko strolled back toward the table, brushing her blonde bangs from her eyes and tossing herself into her chair and wiping her hands on the sides of her jacket. “What were you two talkin’ about?”

“Nothing,” Akane said quickly.

“Love,” Kuno said at the same time.

Ranko blinked, looked between them, and laughed. She dropped back into her seat and stretched her arms behind her head with a satisfied sigh. “Thanks, Akane. For helpin’ me figure out how not to fall on my face. It was actually super fun.”

Akane gave her a small smile. “You did great.”

Ranko turned to Kuno. “And thanks for footin’ the bill. And for not yellin’ at us for ditchin’ you on the railing.”

“Of course.” He nodded.

Ranko glanced between them both, grinning—but there was a flicker of something in her eyes, an almost imperceptible dimness behind the brightness.

The sun had long set when they stepped outside the venue. Nabiki’s friends waved their goodbyes, disappearing into the crowd. Only Nabiki, Ranko, Akane, and Kuno remained.

“Thanks for the treat, Kuno-chan,” Nabiki said. “You really went all out.”

“How necessary was it,” he asked dryly, “to order dark chocolate truffles with edible gold leaf for you and your friends?”

“Very,” she replied, without a trace of guilt.

Akane bowed politely. “Thank you, senpai. Really.”

Ranko and Akane hugged briefly, warm and quick. “See you tomorrow,” they said together.

Nabiki and Akane turned, strolling down the sidewalk and into the soft glow of the passing traffic. Ranko stood still for a moment, watching their silhouettes shrink with distance. Then she looked up.

Kuno was gazing down at her.

“Want to walk a little?” Ranko asked, her voice quieter now, something softer than her usual bite. “Just talk?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Behind them, the skating rink disappeared into darkness, leaving only the two of them walking into the night, their footsteps echoing against the sidewalk.

They walked side by side beneath the amber glow of street lamps, the hush of Sunday evening settling over the neighborhood like a warm, fading blanket. Most shop windows were shuttered, their displays dark. From the scattered homes they passed, the gentle sounds of family life floated through the air—distant clatter from kitchens, murmured conversation, the echo of TV. The scent of simmering broth drifted from a nearby house. The world was retreating inward, folding up for the night, but they remained adrift in the open, together and apart.

"You can just say it," Ranko finally murmured. Her breath fogged a little in the cool air. “Whatever’s weighin’ on you.”

Kuno, hands clasped behind his back, didn’t look at her. “I do not quite know what shook me so deeply.”

“C’mon,” Ranko said with a light huff. “Sanzenin’s good at getting under people’s skin, especially guys. That’s kinda his thing, he breaks couples up. And skating? Not your turf. So don’t beat yourself up.”

He glanced down at her with a slow nod. “I must admit I was impressed at your technique to bring him down despite your lack of skating prowess. Sanzenin rules that rink as surely as he plays at ruling the hearts of maidens, yet you bested him.”

Ranko snorted. “I ain’t no maiden.”

Kuno looked at her, quietly, steadily. “Sure you are.”

Her sneakers scuffed the pavement, her breath catching, eyes narrowing slightly. “…Am I?” she asked, quieter than before.

They walked a few more paces in silence. The breeze tugged at her braid, played with the hem of his coat.

“You know,” she added after a beat, “Akane wasn’t impressed by Sanzenin. Not even a little. I could tell.”

Kuno’s brows lifted slightly, his voice quiet. “You are certain?”

“Positive.” She looked at him sidelong. “She even hit him!”

Kuno gave a soft, bittersweet smile. “Tendo Akane… is not easily swayed by superficial charm.”

“Exactly,” Ranko nodded.

Another pause. Kuno slowed, then asked in a voice so calm it felt strange coming from him, “Do you think Tendo Akane is… interested in me, even slightly?”

Ranko blinked. Her steps faltered. Her breath caught in her chest—not from shock, exactly, but from the sudden awareness of how vulnerable the question was.

She looked at him. Really looked. His posture remained upright, proud—but his gaze was turned forward, unreadable. Ranko felt her throat tighten.

“I don’t know,” she said, voice quieter now. “Maybe.”

She didn’t mean to lie. But the truth—that Akane didn’t feel anything for him, not the way he wanted—suddenly felt like too cruel a thing to hand him under the soft quiet of a Sunday night.

They reached a corner where the streetlamp cast a soft golden pool over the pavement, the night quiet around them. Ranko’s hair shimmered faintly under the light. Kuno's steps slowed, then stopped entirely.

“Do you remember,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful, “that night we first met? You offered to make out with me.”

Ranko blinked. Then laughed—sharp, a little bark of surprise. “I remember offering plenty of times after that, too.”

But he didn’t laugh with her. He’d stopped walking entirely, hands folded behind his back, chin lifted slightly but not to the sky—just enough to keep his face unreadable. The kind of careful posture he used when something inside him was rattling. Ranko slowed too, glancing back at him with a half-smile that faltered when she saw his expression.

“You haven’t asked in a while,” he said.

It hit her like a hard slam to the chest. Her breath caught. Her pulse did something violent and impossible in her throat.

“What?” she asked, barely.

Her voice didn’t sound like hers. It was quieter. She stared at him, waiting for the punchline. But there was none. His gaze was steady. 

She couldn’t tell— was he asking her to kiss him? Or was this just Kuno being weird, saying something that sounded like a request but was really a lament? Did he know what he was doing to her right now?

Her hand went to her hip, trying to anchor herself in the familiarity of movement despite her nervousness. “Are you—what are you saying, exactly?”

But her voice wavered. Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding so fast it made her dizzy. She hadn't prepared for this.

Kuno’s voice was quieter than usual, thoughtful and sincere. “I was only wondering… if there’s a reason you stopped.” He hesitated, eyes forward. “Have I become unagreeable?”

Ranko’s heart thudded in her chest. Her breath caught in her throat. Why was this making her nervous? She forced a shrug. “I didn’t even notice I had stopped,” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice betrayed her—soft around the edges, almost shy.

He looked at her then, regret flickering behind his eyes. “Forgive me. That was a strange question. And rude, selfish. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I still like you.”

The words slipped out too naturally, too quickly. They hung in the air, weightless and heavy all at once. Kuno nodded, quiet. “I see.”

She exhaled slow, deeply, trying to get her pulse back under control. The silence felt charged now, but not unpleasant.

She cracked a smile, aiming for lightness. “Can’t believe you made me squirm about kissin’ of all things. That’s not easy to do, y’know.”

He looked slightly alarmed. “That was not my intention.”

“I know,” she said, laughing now, warm and genuine. “It’s fine, Sanzenin made you feel insecure, I get it.”

They kept walking, their footsteps echoing softly down the empty sidewalk. After a beat, she gave him a sidelong glance, eyes gleaming with that flicker of trouble he’d come to expect from her.

“So… do you wanna make out?”

Kuno nearly smiled. Then, with a deliberate gentleness, he reached out and laid his arm across her shoulders, not possessive but steady. 

“I shall accompany you home”. His touch was warm, his presence grounding, and though he hadn’t answered her question, Ranko smiled to herself as they walked, heart still fluttering, her cheek brushing just barely against the side of his chest.

Chapter Text

It started before first period even began on Monday.

Ranko had barely made it to her shoe locker, still yawning, half-asleep and brushing the edge of her braid back behind her shoulder, when the captain of the girls’ boxing club—stern-faced, short-cut hair, hands callused like bricks—cut her off mid-step.

“Saotome Ranko, right?” she asked, squinting upward as if sizing her up for a bout. “You got good reflexes. I saw you catch that chalkboard eraser last week before it hit Higashima. Come try out boxing.”

Ranko blinked. “What?”

“After school. Gym 2. Don’t be late.”

She walked off like it was settled.

By the time Ranko reached her classroom, she’d already been handed two club flyers—judo and karate, then drama, then gardening, and photography. And after homeroom, during lunch, a quiet girl from the calligraphy club offered her a neatly folded invitation, no words exchanged.

Ranko accepted it with a nod, tucked it into her jacket pocket, and turned to Akane with wide eyes. “Are they… always like this?”

Akane smiled, looking up from her bento full of plum onigiri. “With possible talent? Yep.”

“They think I’m useful.”

“You are,” Akane said simply, offering Ranko an onigiri. They ate in silence.

Ranko leaned against her desk, idly swinging one leg. The buzz of students, the hum of electric lights, the rhythm of a school day she was still getting used to—it all felt oddly peaceful. Like she was sitting in a world that might not fall apart if she held still.

“I wanna do it,” she murmured, picking at the edge of her jacket cuff. “The clubs. All of them. Or some of them. Just to have stuff to do after school… you know. And on Saturdays.”

Akane turned to look at her. “Keeps you out of trouble?”

Ranko smirked. “Exactly.”

There was a pause between them. Then Ranko tilted her head. “How come you’re not in a club?”

Akane hesitated just a second. “The dojo takes up most of my time. And usually, when a club needs help—like if someone’s hurt, or there’s a serious challenge from another school—I end up getting pulled in anyway.”

Ranko’s eyes lit up. “So you’re like a ronin. A freelance fighter.”

Akane snorted. “Not quite, but thanks.”

“That’s really cool,” Ranko said honestly. “You really can do anything, princess.”

Akane shrugged, though her cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment.

Ranko shifted her weight. Her expression softened, almost wistful. “I’d like to do that. Just a little bit of everything. I never really stuck to anything before.”

The silence between them stretched again, this time warm and bright.

Then Akane, quieter now, almost nervous, said, “If you’re free sometime, um—do you wanna come see the dojo? Train a little? With me.”

Ranko turned to her, surprised. Akane’s eyes were steady, hopeful. She smiled, her voice low. “Yeah. I’d like that. Friday?”

“Friday sounds great! I’ll try to pretend I’m not super excited” Akane said, grinning.

The week ran her ragged in the best way. Between class and club tryouts, Ranko barely had time to think—exactly how she liked it.

Martial arts, cultural clubs, a few she'd never even heard of. Everyone wanted her in their roster, and she got the sense it wasn’t just because she was new in school—there was something about her that made people curious, made them look twice and wonder. She didn't mind. Let them look. She needed something to fill her time before the sun went down.

She corrected every single one of them when they called her Saotome .

“Just Ranko,” she’d say, not unkindly.

Drama club was the first miss. A second-year tried to direct her in a scene about love and betrayal, and Ranko did her best to fake the swoon, but it came out more like a headbutt. Too much street in her posture, not enough grace. She left before they could politely ask her not to return.

Judo went better. Her footwork was sloppy, but she made up for it in sheer tenacity. The girls there fought clean and quiet, all holds and locks and sharp breathing. Ranko liked that. She threw and got thrown, over and over again, until her shoulder ached and her lips tasted like dust.

Karate came next, and it was familiar, almost too familiar. Her body moved before her mind caught up—stance, pivot, strike—and she almost scared herself with how natural it felt. One of the instructors asked if she’d trained professionally. She grinned and shrugged. She didn’t want to explain that half the things that made her good had been survival instincts, not kata practice.

Gardening was… a mess. The soil trays were neat and ordered, but nothing she did stayed that way. She crushed a sprout just by touching it and knocked over a watering can with her boobs. The captain winced every time Ranko moved. She apologized with a deep bow and left with mud on her knees.

Boxing surprised her. It fit. The rhythm, the breathing, the gloves wrapped tight around her fists—it felt like something her body already knew. The coach raised an eyebrow when she slipped past a jab on instinct. Said she could make something of herself, if she stuck around. Ranko didn’t say no.

Photography was a hard no, though. Not because she didn’t want to. Because she couldn’t afford the buy-in, and Nabiki Tendo made sure she knew it. “Film isn’t cheap,” Nabiki had said, handing her a laminated price sheet like a waitress. She could borrow a camera from the club, but film and developing chemicals weren’t on the house. And it was pricey. Ranko smiled, said maybe next year, and left with her pride intact but her heart quietly bruised.

She tried everything—archery, ping-pong, even the cooking club for a single terrifying hour—and every time, it was like a promise to herself. Like she could keep building something new, one club at a time.

The calligraphy club met in one of the older classrooms near the end of the hallway—walls stained faintly yellow by time, windows open to the crisp whisper of afternoon air. Ranko pushed the door open, half-expecting nothing, and immediately stopped in her tracks when she saw him.

Kuno.

Seated near the center of the room in his flawless posture, his long uwagi sleeves pinned precisely at the elbow, brush poised in perfect balance over paper. Of course. Of course he’d be here, she thought, her pulse giving a stupid, girlish skip.

She crossed the room with a casual stride that belied the thrill in her chest and dropped into the seat beside him. “Didn’t know you did this,” she said, setting her jacket on the back of the chair.

“I attend when I am able,” Kuno replied without looking up, his voice low and formal as ever. He traced the curve of a stroke with serene precision. “Though the club meets but once a month. Most of us are otherwise occupied.”

A gentle, smiling student—presumably the club captain—offered Ranko a set of supplies: a soft-bristled brush, a little ceramic plate, and a bottle of ink. “We’re practicing ‘忍’ today,” she said kindly. “It’s a simple character. But very beautiful. We must endure and persevere like this very kanji.” She gestured to the blackboard, where the kanji had been written in bold, deliberate lines, with small arrows pointing to the stroke order.

“Thanks,” Ranko said, then eyed the brush like it might bite her.

Kuno, of course, had brought his own inkstone. His own brush. Ranko watched him grind the ink with graceful, meditative movements. The black liquid darkened with each rotation. Trust him to come prepared for something like this, she thought fondly.

“Are you considering joining this club?” he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“Dunno. Just tryin’ it out.” She dipped her brush in the ink bottle with a little too much enthusiasm and splattered her fingers. “I’ve been tryin’ a bunch out. Judo. Karate. Drama—horrible. Gardening—don’t ask.” She grinned. “Boxing was fun, though.”

“I imagine it would suit you well,” Kuno murmured, focused on a sharp horizontal stroke. His own ‘忍’ was halfway finished and already looked good enough to hang in someone’s home.

“You’ve got good strokes,” Ranko said, trying to mimic his fluidity with her own brush.

He blinked. “Thank you.”

“So your strokes are good, huh?” She bit her lower lip to hide the smirk. He didn’t get it. Ranko sighed . “...I need to drop the innuendo jokes,” she muttered to herself. “Furinkan’s not the place.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothin’,” she said brightly. “I like this, though. It’s peaceful. Kinda nice, sittin’ down and just… doin’ somethin’ with your hands that isn’t hittin’ someone.”

Kuno gave the smallest of nods. “It requires discipline. Serenity. A quiet mind.”

“Yeah. I’m a work in progress for all those categories.”

They worked in silence for a while, brushes whispering across rice paper. Ranko’s first attempt looked like someone had sneezed ink onto the page, but she kept trying, getting better. The moment was warm in its stillness. It felt like being part of something, even if only for an hour, made better by just having Kuno near her.

“I got invited to the Tendo dojo this Friday,” she said after a while, not quite looking at him. “Akane asked me to stop by.”

At that, Kuno’s brush paused midair.

“I see,” he said with the faintest shift in tone—wistful, reverent. “To be welcomed into that hallowed space… to bask in the martial grace of Tendo Akane—truly, you are fortunate.”

Ranko stared at her paper, the kanji bleeding at the edges. She smiled anyway, even though her chest hurt a little.

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

The scent of ink still lingered on their hands as they stood at the little washing station just outside the classroom, a low faucet set into a metal basin. Ranko let the water run cold over her stained fingers, watching the ink slowly disappear. Kuno, sleeves still rolled, gently guided her wrist closer to the stream when she missed a spot.

She glanced up at him then, quieter than usual, lips parted slightly with a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. “Hey,” she said, “how’ve you been holdin’ up?” Kuno looked at her, the slope of his brows furrowing just a little in surprise. “You seemed a little shaken up on Sunday,” she added, voice lower now. “At the rink.”

He hesitated for a moment, then looked away—not evasive, just… distant, as though turning inward. “I… had a moment of weakness,” he admitted, voice solemn and level. “Sanzenin’s reputation—his effortless popularity—gave rise to doubt. Not in her,” he said, meaning Akane without needing to name her, “but in myself. In my worth.”

“Oh,” Ranko murmured. Her chest ached. She turned her hands under the stream again, watching the ink slide off her skin like old shadows.

“But it passed,” Kuno continued, more resolute now. “I know what dwells within my heart.”

She looked up at him, searching his face, her own eyes soft and quietly wondering. What exactly is in that heart of yours? And is there room for me?

A beat passed between them—barely more than the hush of water and the late-afternoon breeze curling through the corridor.

“It’s been nice,” Ranko said, voice light again but gentler than before. “Bein’ at Furinkan, I mean. I really like it here.” She turned off the tap, shook the water from her fingers. “But… I guess I thought I’d be spendin’ more time with you.”

Kuno’s gaze returned to her, thoughtful, listening.

“I get it, you’re a year ahead, you’ve got kendo, and—well, I know I can join the girl’s kendo club, but it isn’t the same.” She smirked a little. “You’ve got your samurai stuff and your poetry and I’ve got a long day with too many hours to kill. Just thought, y’know…”

She trailed off, and for once, he didn’t rush to fill the silence.

Then he spoke, not grandly, not performatively, but with a quiet earnestness: “Would you like to make plans?”

Ranko blinked.

“Something consistent,” he said. “Something stable. Perhaps… a club of our own?”

She let out a short, startled laugh. “A club? What kind of club would that be?”

He was quiet for a moment, then replied, utterly sincere: “The Society for Afternoon Walks and the Disciplined Pursuit of Leisure.”

Ranko stared at him—and then, helplessly, she laughed again, rich and warm, a full-bodied sound that echoed through the otherwise empty hallway. “That’s so dumb.”

Kuno lifted his chin, unbothered. “It would be exclusive,” he said, deadpan. “Membership capped at two.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at her mouth. “Alright, Samurai. You’re on.”

Kuno shook his hands delicately. Ranko gave hers one last splash and reached for her skirt to dry them, but Kuno was already holding something out to her—an immaculate white handkerchief, crisply folded, with his initials embroidered in fine navy thread near the corner.

She looked at it for a second. Then up at him.

“Here,” he said, plainly, as though the gesture needed no further explanation.

She took it, pressed it between her palms. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, satisfied. Then, with the same ceremonial tone he might use to declare a duel, he said, “Starting next week, shall we convene at the school gates after our respective club activities?”

Ranko blinked. Her heart skipped the way it always did when something good happened too fast.

“Yeah,” she said, “okay.”

She thought, for a moment, about playing it cool. About pretending like it was nothing. Like it didn’t light up her whole chest with warmth. But then—no. Why pretend?

She looked down at the handkerchief, still damp and crumpled in her hands now, and said quietly, “You make me really happy, y’know.”

Kuno’s gaze shifted to her, unreadable as ever. Then he said, with all the gravity in the world: “It is just a handkerchief.”

Ranko burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “You’re impossible.”

He was already turning back toward the classroom, but his voice drifted back over his shoulder, quieter now. “You may keep it. If it brings you happiness.”

She stood there, watching him go, the handkerchief clutched gently in her fingers like a promise folded into cloth.

The sliding door to the Tendo home opened with a soft clatter. Ranko blinked against the sudden hush that settled over her. The Tendo household was older than it looked from the street—quiet, steeped in tradition. Shoji doors, polished wooden floors, the faint scent of incense and tea. Her red sneakers squeaked as she hesitated at the genkan, hands in the pockets of her school jacket.

Kasumi appeared around the corner like a warm breeze. “Ah, you must be Ranko-chan,” she said, her smile gentle. “We’re so glad you came.”

“Oh,” Ranko straightened up, tugging her sleeves down. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks for having me.”

“Please come in. Akane’s just finishing her homework.” Kasumi turned to lead her inside, her apron crisp and fluttering slightly as she walked. “Would you like tea?”

“I—uh, sure. If it’s no trouble.”

Kasumi poured her a cup without comment, placed it before her at the low table. The tea smelled earthy and calming, and Ranko found herself sitting a little straighter, uncertain but trying. She was not used to this kind of treatment from adults—gentle, unquestioning, safe.

“Ah, so this is Ranko-kun.” A deeper voice called from the hallway.

Soun Tendo emerged in a brown training gi, his presence more formal but not unkind. He was tall, with a distinguished sort of sadness around the eyes and a distinguished moustache. He bowed, and Ranko scrambled up to bow back.

“I’ve heard from Akane that you’re a good friend of hers,” Soun said. “Welcome to our dojo.”

“Thank you, Mister Tendo.” She hesitated. “It’s nice to be here.”

Soun nodded, then turned away. A few minutes later, Akane appeared in a fresh gi, hair tied back. She grinned. “You ready?”

Ranko followed her into the backyard, where they walked towards the dojo. She changed behind a screen, pulling her old gi from her bag—a faded thing that barely fit anymore. The sleeves stopped far above her wrists, and the hem of her pants hovered awkwardly at her calves. She wore a plain white undershirt and black bike shorts beneath, but the whole ensemble made her feel faintly ridiculous.

Still, once they bowed and stepped into the space, that discomfort peeled away. The world sharpened.

They moved slowly at first, testing each other’s rhythms. Akane was focused, not holding back—her palms fast, her footing firm. Ranko responded instinctively, the muscle memory of countless street fights rising up in her like tidewater.

Before long, sweat rolled down their faces, soaking the cloth at their backs. Ranko’s gi clung to her uncomfortably, the fabric stiff with years of disuse. With a huff, she pulled it off between rounds, leaving only her white undershirt and shorts. The moment she did, her strikes grew looser, faster, like her skin could breathe again.

Akane noticed. “Better?”

“Way better,” Ranko grinned, hopping in place, fists loose and high.

They sparred in silence for another half-hour, trading momentum, keeping each other honest. Ranko had never trained like this before—not like a street fight, not like survival with her dad. This was practice with purpose. With mutual trust.

Eventually, they collapsed onto the wooden porch, side by side, panting and smiling, limbs aching in the best way.

“You’re really good,” Akane said after a minute.

“You too,” Ranko answered, voice a little hoarse. “You’re serious about this.”

Akane wiped her brow. “I have to be. We don’t have a lot of students. Just a few kids on Saturdays, and a couple of ladies who come after school on Wednesdays. I’m trying to build something. So the school doesn’t disappear.”

Ranko looked at her, more impressed than she could say. “You’re cool, you know that?”

Akane snorted. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not! You’re like... dependable. You’re building something real.” 

Akane flushed. “Everyone does their part. It hasn’t always been easy… so I’m grateful. For what we have. For the people who help.”

Ranko turned her eyes back to the ceiling beams, her voice suddenly shy. “I’d love to train here. But… I can’t really afford to.”

Akane gave her a look—part grin, part disbelief. “Honestly? I could really use a sparring partner. It would help me a lot. So, maybe… it would be free, you know?”

The breeze was cooling their skin now. The sun was lower, slicing gold through the trees. For the first time in a long while, Ranko felt like she belonged somewhere. Like she had the right to stand and sweat and breathe beside someone else.

And that someone wanted her there.

By the time they’d swept the wooden floors, tidied up the training gear, and folded away the sweat-streaked towels, the sun had begun to dip low behind the neighborhood rooftops, filtering honey-colored light through the windows. Kasumi was waiting in the hallway, ever serene, a basket of folded robes in her arms.

“I’ve prepared the bath,” she said with a smile. “You both worked so hard—you’ll feel better once your muscles relax.”

Ranko rubbed the back of her neck, glancing at her drying shirt, which clung damply to her shoulder blades. “That sounds incredible, honestly.”

“This way,” Kasumi gestured, and the girls padded down the hall on sore feet, laughing under their breath.

The ofuro room was simple and elegant, a shower and a sunken tub already brimming with steaming water. The scent of hinoki cypress lingered in the air like a balm.

Ranko and Akane undressed without ceremony. The two of them had sweated together, fallen over each other, thrown each other across the mat—modesty faded in that kind of camaraderie. They rinsed at the shower, side by side on the little stools, scrubbing shampoo through their hair and soaping their arms with idle groans of satisfaction as hot water sluiced down their backs.

“Okay,” Ranko said, tilting her head toward the tub, “this is heaven incoming.”

Akane laughed. “No dying on the ofuro, please.”

They eased into the ofuro, sighing in unison as the warmth took them. The water climbed their shoulders and melted into their joints. Silence lapped gently between them.

After a minute, Akane turned to her, arms resting on the rim of the tub. “Hey. Can I ask something weird?”

“Shoot.”

Akane hesitated. “Do you really like Kuno-senpai?”

Ranko blinked at her, then gave a sheepish smile. Her cheeks, already flushed from the heat, deepened in hue. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I do.”

Akane looked genuinely baffled. “But… how? He’s so—” she waved a hand in the steam, searching for a word—“intense.”

“I know,” Ranko grinned. “He is. But he’s also sweet. And… kind . I mean, yeah, he’s weird, and stiff, and totally hopeless when it comes to you, but—” she looked down at the water, watching the gentle eddies spiral around her knees—“he’s really good to me. And fun. And funny, even if he doesn’t mean to be.”

Akane raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He is a pain in the butt to me.”

“Maybe,” Ranko said, shrugging a shoulder beneath the surface, “but I’m the pain in his butt.”

“Please stop talking about his butt!” That made Akane laugh, loud and unguarded. “You’re too much.”

“I know.” Ranko leaned her head back, closing her eyes briefly. “But it’s real. What I feel. And yeah, it hurts, sometimes. Like—when he talks about you and I know he’s not thinkin’ of me that way. But even when it hurts, I still want to be near him. Because when I am, it’s better than not bein’.”

Akane was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. The steam curled around her cheeks and jaw. Then she said, “You’re braver than I thought.”

Ranko cracked an eye open. “Thanks?”

“I just mean… it takes guts. To like someone like that. When they’re not returning it. And to still be their friend.”

“Well,” Ranko smiled faintly, “I didn’t plan it like this. It’s just what happened.”

Akane leaned back. “I don’t get what he sees in me. I really don’t.”

Ranko tilted her head. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You’re one of the strongest girls I’ve ever met. You are extremely beautiful, you care about your family, you’re cool and smart and real. What’s not to like?”

Akane looked away. “It all feels so… surface. Like people are just projecting their idea of me onto a wall. I don’t think any of them know me. Not really.”

Ranko reached out and gave her a gentle splash with her fingers, a grin creeping back in. “But now I know you.”

“Barely,” Akane laughed.

“Give me time.”

And they both sank a little deeper into the ofuro, letting the heat pull the tension from their limbs, silence unfurling again—this time companionable, thoughtful, safe.

The bath had left them relaxed and soft-skinned, their limbs heavy with warmth. Ranko and Akane dried off, still flushed from the soak, hair damp and sticking to their shoulders. There was a casual closeness between them now—comfortable, a little sleepy, stripped of any awkwardness by steam and shared sweat.

Akane pulled on her sweater. “You really won’t stay for dinner?”

Ranko hesitated as she stepped back into her skirt, her oversized shirt tucked beneath it. “I want to, believe me. But I should head home before it gets dark.”

Akane gave a half-pout. “You’re seriously passing up Kasumi’s tonkatsu? That’s brave.”

Ranko laughed. “More like foolish, but I’ll manage.”

They emerged into the house, the scent of bath soap trailing faintly behind them. In the kitchen, Kasumi’s soft hum accompanied the clatter of dishes. From the living room came the rustle of a newspaper and the occasional turning page—Soun, settling in before dinner.

Ranko bowed politely as they passed. “Thank you again for having me, Tendo-san.”

Soun glanced up from his paper and smiled in that gentle, paternal way he had. “You’re always welcome, Ranko-kun. It was a pleasure to have you train here.”

As they made their way to the entryway, the front door slid open with a thump of shoes against the genkan.

“I’m home,” came Nabiki’s voice, smooth and breezy.

“In the kitchen!” Kasumi called.

Nabiki stepped into view, her bookbag slung casually over one shoulder. She paused as she caught sight of Ranko near the door, eyebrows arching high.

“Well, well,” Nabiki said with a smile sharp enough to slice fruit. “Ranko Saotome, Akane’s better half. What a surprise.”

The name hung in the air, as if someone had suddenly cracked open a window and let a cold draft in. Soun’s paper rustled. Then stopped.

He turned slowly in his seat, eyes lifting toward the hallway. “Saotome…?”

Ranko blinked. “Yeah.”

Soun’s expression flickered—just a beat too long, a beat too visible. His mouth tightened a fraction. Something old and unsettled passed through his gaze. But then it was gone, replaced by that same easy smile. “Ah, is that so?”

Akane looked at him, brow faintly furrowed. She knew her father’s moods the way a sailor reads the weather.

Soun offered a mild nod, already rising from the table. “Kasumi, I’ll go wash up for dinner.”

He left the room with a calmness too composed to be casual.

Ranko lingered at the door, her heart doing something complicated beneath her ribs. Not fear. Not shame. Just… tension. That strange pull in the gut that told her something had shifted, even if no one had said it aloud.

Akane broke the silence. “I’ll walk you out.”

Outside, the breeze had cooled. The street was awash in quiet, the soft rustle of trees, the occasional hum of distant traffic. They stood under the eaves, not quite ready to part.

Ranko looked down at her shoes. “Well, thanks for today. It was really nice. All of it.”

“I’m glad you came.” Akane hesitated, then added, “And I hope you do come back.”

Ranko’s smile deepened, more real this time. “Me too.”

They said goodbye, and Ranko stepped into the street, her bag slung over one shoulder, braid swinging gently down her back. In her chest, the warm bath was already a memory, and in its place lingered something quieter—something unsaid, curling inward like a question unanswered.

Saotome .

And though the evening was still and lovely, the name echoed in her mind like a drop falling into a deep, unseen well.

Chapter Text

Saturday began early. Not with light, but with silence. The kind that swells in the corners of small apartments—no birdsong, no passing scooters, just the whisper of worn curtains shifting in a draft.

She stayed beneath her blanket, curled in on herself, gaze fixed on the ceiling as dust motes floated lazily through the air. Her limbs were stiff with a kind of boredom that had calcified overnight, and though her body longed to move, her will did not. She didn’t rise until eight, and even then only because the apartment had grown uncomfortably warm and stale.

She padded into the hallway in her socks. The air was silent, empty of the usual morning chaos that haunted workdays in the apartment complex. The world was taking a breath without her.

Genma arrived home shortly after, his work jacket slung over his shoulder, the smell of concrete dust and tobacco clinging to his shirt. He carried a thin plastic bag with groceries—eggs, instant noodles, a bottle of barley tea—and placed them on the counter without ceremony.

“Morning,” he grunted, not looking at her.

“Thanks,” Ranko murmured, taking the bag and crouching to put things away. Her eyes skimmed the shelf, trying to estimate how many meals they could stretch out of a dozen eggs.

“You going to school today?” Genma asked, unbuttoning his sleeves.

She hesitated, kneeling by the fridge. “There’s a literature club meeting,” she said. “I’m checkin’ out clubs and stuff.”

“Speakin’ of checkin’ out.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a trifold paper, slightly bent, and placed it on the counter beside her. “Saw this and thought you might be interested.”

Ranko wiped her hands on a dish towel and picked up the flier. A construction company—short-term part-time work. Traffic direction, roadside labor, night shift, 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. for the next two weeks. 1,400 yen per hour. More than double minimum wage.

“That’s good money,” she said, trying not to sound surprised.

“It’s honest work,” Genma replied, his voice neutral. “Thought it might be useful. Up to you.”

She stared at the paper, the dull-orange warning triangles and cartoon of a construction worker bowing politely. “Do we need it?” she asked, voice dropping. “Are we short? Is this—are we in trouble?”

He waved her off. “No, no. I just thought—if you wanna buy your own things. You’re goin’ to school now and might need things, dunno. We’re not in debt.”

Ranko tilted her head, studying his face. “No one's gonna show up asking for money?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I promise.”

She nodded, slowly, though doubt pressed its fingers along her ribs. Genma had lied before—about money, about their moves, about things she only half-remembered from when she was small. But if he was lying now, it was an oddly quiet sort of lie.

She dressed without much thought, her old uniform’s short skirt and her old long-sleeved blouse, jacket over her shoulders. The flier went into her pocket, folded once more along creases that had already begun to wear. She left the apartment with a small, curt farewell and made her way to Furinkan.

The school on Saturday felt like a liminal space: quieter, distant, half-asleep. Doors open but voices hushed, corridors echoing with the slap of athletic shoes on gym floors and the scratch of chalk on clubroom boards. Ranko wandered, trailing her fingers along the banister as she ascended the stairs to the literature club room.

Inside, a handful of students sat in a loose circle, paperbacks and notebooks in their laps. Someone asked her who her favorite author was. What book had changed her. Ranko stared at the question as if it were printed on the wall.

She didn’t have an answer.

Nothing came to mind except vague memories of crime manga and old romance paperbacks left in laundromats. She shrugged. They moved on. She stayed silent. Her thoughts strayed to the flier again, and the noise of cars moving through wet streets.

When the meeting ended, she stepped back out into the halls and wandered.

She drifted past the music room, where a small brass ensemble was rehearsing with stop-start hesitations. Past the art studio, the door open to the smell of turpentine and the sound of canvas being scraped gently. She passed the martial arts clubs—the sounds of sparring, of bodies thudding against mats and firm voices shouting counts and commands. There, she lingered.

The judo club bowed in sync. The girls’ basketball team sprinted across the track, ponytails flying. A boy from the kendo club recognized her and waved from the baseball field. “Ranko-san!”

She smiled back, a real one this time. Her body remembered what it was like to sweat and move, to let it all burn out through muscle and breath.

Her feet led her to the gymnasium, where the sound of whistles and sneakers drew her toward a volleyball practice. A second-year girl waved her over. They were short a player.

Ranko smiled. “Why not.”

She borrowed gym clothes from a senior and stepped onto the court, her hair tied into the low braid that bounced behind her like a little tail. She was fast—dangerously quick on her feet—and her vertical jumps were impressive, if not always accurate. But she was short, and the opposing team had a tall girl with long arms who blocked her every chance to score.

It didn’t matter.

Ranko laughed when they lost, genuinely, chest rising and falling with exertion. Her arms stung from a few hard returns and her thighs ached from the constant squatting, but it felt good—real, grounding. She was good at sports. That was something.

Another mental note: maybe the volleyball team.

When practice ended, the afternoon heat had settled into a heavy, syrupy hum that clung to her skin. Her stomach grumbled. She bought a can of café au lait from a vending machine and stood in the shadowed hallway sipping it slowly, letting the sweetness dull the ache in her gut.

Across the courtyard, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the building’s glass panels. Her hair—messy, tangled—showed more red than usual at the roots. The bright auburn beneath was like a wound reopened.

What is it with Saturdays and my hair?

She looked away.

She reread the flier as she drank the last of the sugary coffee. If she took the job, she'd need to sleep during the day. That meant leaving school right after classes, no time for clubs, no time for Kuno.

Kuno…

He had no idea how much spending time with him meant to her—how much he meant to her. Their afterschool club wasn’t real. But it mattered. That small carved-out moment of joy in a day otherwise spent pretending.

Could she give that up for 1,400 yen an hour?

It was only two weeks.

Two weeks of late-night shifts, of sleeping rough in stairwells or train station benches or whatever space she could find. She’d done worse. She could make it work, have the money and time with Kuno.

She leaned her head back against the vending machine and closed her eyes. I could dye my hair for a whole year with that money, just two weeks. The handkerchief was tucked into the pocket inside her jacket, and she slipped her hand in to touch it. Soft. Folded neatly. A little weightless.

By the time evening descended, she was walking home under a sky the color of soot and rust. Genma said something when she stepped in—maybe a comment about the groceries, or some idle observation about the air smelling like rain—but she didn’t respond. She gave him a vague nod, walked straight into her room, and closed the door behind her. That was it. No arguments, no shouts, no forced conversation. Just absence.

She undressed quickly and crawled under the duvet, still in her underwear and socks. The fabric felt cool on her bare skin, and her limbs ached in a way that was almost pleasant. There was something honest about muscle pain. You earned it.

She tried to sleep without any distractions. Only the soft whisper of Kuno’s handkerchief beneath her pillow. And her fingers curled around its corner, holding on as if to something fragile and fading.

Sunday passed the way dust settles—slowly, invisibly, until it’s everywhere and nothing feels clean anymore.

Ranko barely left her room. Her window was cracked open and the air drifted in, mild and bland. Outside, people did Sunday things—cleaned their homes, walked dogs, quarreled over errands—but none of it touched her. She stayed in her little room with her knees drawn up, textbooks fanned around her, nibbling on the same corner of her homework for hours at a time.

She came out twice: once to eat a cup of instant ramen, the other to use the bathroom. She passed her father in the living room and ignored him. Not out of cruelty, just inertia. Like a body in water, too tired to reach the shore.

Around dusk, as her eyes began to ache and the light outside slipped into the copper haze of evening, she finally walked to the living room. Genma was watching something dull on TV, sipping tea and scratching his belly through his undershirt. She stood beside the couch for a beat, arms folded.

“Get me the job,” she said.

He looked up. “Hm?”

Ranko didn’t flinch. “The construction thing. The traffic job. Get it for me.”

Genma blinked at her. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” she lied.

He nodded, slow. “Okay. I’ll talk to my supervisor. Be there at 10.”

That was it. No discussion. Just a nod. He returned to his program, and Ranko went to the bathroom. Her mouth tasted faintly of iron. She brushed her teeth and stared at herself in the mirror above the sink, watching the line of red creep down from her scalp like some buried version of herself trying to emerge.

Back in bed, she wrapped herself around her pillow. Sometime between midnight and morning, her eyes closed.

And Monday began.

The schoolyard was louder again, alive with the usual weekday pulse. Ranko moved through it with her hands in her jacket pockets. Before she even reached her shoe locker, the captains started circling again.

The girls’ softball team wanted her. The dance club rep handed her a flyer with glitter on it. The volleyball team asked if she was free to attend another practice next Saturday. Ranko bowed politely to each of them, thanked them, and repeated the same vague apology.

“Still deciding. Sorry. Thank you, though.”

Lunchtime came. She had a packet of dried squid in her bag, but when she slid open the classroom door, Akane caught her by the wrist like she’d been waiting.

“Hey—come eat with me today.”

Ranko blinked. “Huh?”

Akane smiled, already tugging her toward the open hallway where the light was warmer. “Kasumi made me a big lunch and I’m not feeling super hungry. I’ve got too much pickled daikon to go with my rice and like four croquettes.”

Ranko wanted to say no, wanted to be noble about it—but her stomach made its own embarrassing argument.

They sat on the side steps under the open sky, metal railing warm against their backs. Akane handed her half of her lunch without commentary. Ranko ate slowly, careful not to seem greedy, but she didn’t leave a single grain of rice behind.

As she chewed, Akane tilted her head. “So. Out of all the clubs you’ve tried… got a top three?”

Ranko’s chopsticks hovered above the empty bento tray. For a second, she saw it clearly: that made-up club Kuno had invented for the two of them, something vague and lofty—“The Society for Afternoon Walks and the Disciplined Pursuit of Leisure.” Just an excuse to be alone together after school hours, under the pretense of existing for a scholarly purpose.

Her chest ached with a low, secret warmth.

“I… don’t really know yet,” Ranko replied finally. “I’ll probably try a few more this week. Still feeling it out.”

Akane nodded, unbothered. “Makes sense. You’ve got time.”

School ended at three sharp. Ranko walked down the hill, skirt fluttering around her thighs, heading straight into town. The job wouldn’t start for another seven hours, but preparation mattered: not only for today, but for the upcoming two weeks. She ducked into a small neighborhood watch shop, the kind of place that still kept little wind-up clocks in display cases and repaired wristwatches with a magnifying loupe.

She bought the cheapest alarm clock they had—plastic but heavy, pale green, ticked like a heartbeat. Ranko knew they sold cheaper at the shops in the mall, but she hadn’t been there since she got banned from the supermarket. She stared at it in her palm for a long second before paying in coins and tucking it carefully into her schoolbag.

The sun was beginning to slip sideways by the time she returned to Furinkan, walking back up the hill toward the school gates. The air was still warm, but the breeze carried the faint edge of dusk.

She waited near the stone wall, her arms crossed, one foot tapping softly against the pavement.

Then she saw him.

Kuno emerged from the side path by the gym, his hair freshly combed and still damp at the edges, the scent of soap reaching her like something accidental and maddening. He wore his uniform again, buttoned and tidy, his eyes scanning the road until they found her.

He smiled, faintly.

Ranko’s heart did a full somersault.

She lifted a hand and waved—not too eagerly, but fast enough that it couldn’t be misread as casual. The weight of exhaustion, of decisions and clocks and money and roots showing through her scalp, all lifted for a moment.

He walked toward her, and the world narrowed to the sound of his footsteps.

For a few more hours she had Kuno. And her little imaginary club. And the knowledge, quiet and painful, that he’d never see how hard she was working on improving her life just to stay beside him for a few hours a day.

They walked side by side, a rhythm as natural now as breathing—his strides long and deliberate, hers quick and light to keep pace. The evening air by the river was soft and lukewarm, scented faintly with water and cut grass, and the amber cast of the setting sun turned every reflection golden, as if the canal itself were hoarding treasure.

Kuno, ever proper, turned to her with a faint tilt of the head. “If I may enquire… how was your visit to the Tendo Dojo last Friday?”

Ranko gave a soft hum of pleasure. “It was good. I trained with Akane. She’s strong. Kinda scary, but… it was fun.” She glanced at him sidelong. “Her oldest sister is like an angel. I’m serious. She talks like clouds and her smile could fix your posture, she’s like Akane but without the spice, all honey. And the dad—Mr. Tendo—he’s really kind, but…”

“But?” Kuno prompted, eyes narrowing with a curious smile.

She paused. “Weird. Not bad-weird. Just… I dunno. He looked at me like he recognized me from a dream or somethin’.”

A wistful sigh escaped him. “How enviable. I would greatly cherish such an invitation… to be received at Tendo Akane’s home, to speak with her family, to—”

Ranko didn’t let him finish.

“Yeah, yeah. To be her ideal suitor and make an impression with your finely pressed shirts and poetic soul.” She smiled, but there was something folded in it, something careful. “You’ll get there.”

“I remain… hopeful,” he murmured.

Ranko swallowed a knot in her throat, shifting the conversation before it could snag on the barbed wire of his delusion. “What’d you do this weekend?”

“Tennis practice,” he said, lifting his chin. “There is a club tournament next week, so we rehearsed serves and returns all Saturday. Then Sunday, I remained home to review Edo period reforms. There is a history examination this Wednesday.”

Ranko leaned forward slightly. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course,” Kuno replied without hesitation, his tone entirely earnest.

She beamed, laughter in her throat. “I missed you more.”

He raised a brow, almost amused. “I doubt that.”

Her heart beat so fast it made her feel dizzy. He didn’t know what he meant to her. He couldn’t. And still… that’s alright, she told herself. It’s almost enough.

They found their familiar spot by the water’s edge—a low stone bench where the grass grew too long on one side and the view opened up to the slow, shimmering river. The streetlamps hadn’t yet flickered on, so the world around them held its breath in the golden lull of twilight.

Ranko dropped down first, resting her elbows on her knees. “So,” she asked casually, “why tennis? I thought you’d be more into archery or something dramatic.”

Kuno gave a gentle huff through his nose. “I have considered kyūdō. The aesthetics appeal to me. But… tennis offers something else, something other than a beautiful showcase of talent. It is combat by other means—a court becomes a battleground. I find it invigorating.”

Ranko laughed. “You make it sound like a samurai duel.”

He turned to her, the last sliver of sun catching in his lashes. “Is that not the essence of all sport, my friend? A way to test one’s spirit… and reveal what lies beneath?”

She looked at him for a long time, her grin fading into something softer. “I guess,” she said, voice quieter now. Nothing tested her spirit like this stupid crush turned into love she had developed for him. Too bad it wasn’t a federated sport.

Ranko sat with her legs drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. The sky was quieting, steeped in that soft-hued hour between day and night when everything felt like it belonged to no one in particular—just borrowed time.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, blurting it before she could lose her nerve. “Could I borrow five hundred yen? I need to buy somethin’ and I’m 500 yen short.”

Kuno turned his head toward her with immediate attention, brows lifted slightly in a gesture of polite curiosity. “Five hundred?” he repeated. “Of course.”

She watched him pull out his wallet, fingers elegant, practiced. He opened it—and then frowned with the mild, princely disappointment of a man discovering he had accidentally brought the wrong sword to battle.

“I appear,” he said solemnly, “to possess only ten thousand yen bills.”

Ranko blinked, then gave a breathy laugh. “What kind of rich boy problem is that?”

He held the bill out to her, unbothered. “Take it. There is no need to reimburse me.”

She stared at it like it might burn her fingers. “Kuno. I just need five hundred yen. Not… a monthly stipend.”

“It is all I have.”

She sighed, took it gently from his hand, then rose to her feet with a mockingly regal bow. “Then I’ll go make change like a responsible commoner. Stay here, Your Grace.”

He blinked at the title, visibly confused, and watched her trot away toward the cluster of food stalls along the park path.

When she returned, she carried two sweating bottles of jasmine tea tucked in one arm, and in the other, three paper trays of takoyaki balanced with the precision of a tightrope walker. She set them down on the bench between them, handed him his tea, and counted exact change back into his palm.

“Here. And I’ll get you your five hundred yen back soon, I swear.”

“There is no—”

“I will, ” she said, looking at him sideways, voice dipped in teasing threat. “Don’t test me.”

He nodded, conceding the point, and turned his attention to the tray. The takoyaki steamed gently under the drizzled mayo and katsuobushi, the toothpick resting delicately atop the arrangement. He lifted it, tried to stab a ball delicately, and immediately squashed it halfway through.

Ranko snorted with laughter, half-choking on a bite of her own. “Should I start carryin’ a fork and knife just for you?” she teased, a crooked smile pulling at her lips.

Kuno didn’t even hesitate. “That sounds like an excellent idea, I am also partial to lacquered chopsticks.”

She laughed, caught off guard by how serious he was about it. “Tomorrow we try yakisoba pan, then.”

He raised his eyebrows, unnecessarily alert. “Is that… as challenging?”

“Worse,” she whispered. “Hot dog bun armor. Yakisoba filling. Total chaos.”

He straightened, brow furrowed. “Then I shall be ready.”

They sat there eating, sharing little comments between bites. The breeze from the river tugged softly at Ranko’s braid.

“The guy at the stall gave me an extra one,” she said eventually, licking a smear of sauce from her lip. “So lucky!”.

Kuno glanced at her tray, then at his, and while something faint and unspoken passed through his gaze, he said nothing.

When they finished, she crumpled the paper neatly, tucked it into the trash bag hanging by the bench. Kuno stood, dusted his hands clean of invisible flour. “Shall I escort you home?”

“No,” she said quickly, then softened. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

He inclined his head, the gesture as graceful as ever. “If you are certain.”

“I’m sure.” She lingered in the moment, eyes locked with his, a brief tether of warmth between them. “This was nice.”

“It was.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“I look forward to it.”

He walked away with the easy confidence that always made her feel just a little more breathless. When his figure disappeared into the dimming streets, Ranko turned her eyes to the river again. The bench creaked softly as she sat down.

She pulled the alarm clock from the plastic bag, wound it tight, and set it for 9:30. Two hours. That was all she had before her shift started. The job waited, with its fluorescent vests and flagged barricades and long, dark hours. But for now… just a little rest.

She curled forward slightly, her back slouched against the hard bench, her arms tucked into her jacket. One hand clenched the embroidered good luck charm Kuno had bought her, the other gripped the soft cotton of his handkerchief. They were small things, and maybe he didn’t even remember giving them. But to her, they were anchors.

Her eyes drifted shut to the sound of river water, the faint rustle of trees, the mechanical tick of the overpriced clock beside her. Her body ached with nervousness, her stomach unusually full murmured. But her heart—it glowed.

Chapter Text

Tuesday unfolded with the heavy slowness of a rain cloud that never quite broke open. Ranko sat in the classroom, her chin resting heavily on her crossed arms, eyes glassy with exhaustion. The lecturer’s voice drifted like smoke, spilling sociology theories in the early period haze. Every now and then, Ranko’s head would twitch upward in a sudden snap of alertness, only to sink back down again. Her braid slid off her shoulder like a rope left to dry, her eyelids half-closed in a losing battle.

From a row over, Akane Tendo watched her with the faintest crease of concern tugging at her brow.

By the time the bell rang and they rose from their seats to shuffle toward the lab for a practical biology lesson, Ranko was upright but wobbly. The fluorescent lights in the hallway felt too bright. Her limbs moved with that clumsy looseness born of too little sleep.

“You okay?” Akane asked casually as they walked side by side, the tip of her half-ponytail bouncing delicately with each step.

“Huh? Yeah,” Ranko said with a sideways smile that barely held. “Just didn’t sleep much.”

Akane looked her up and down. “Did something keep you up?”

Ranko hesitated for half a second—just long enough for the truth to rear its tired head—before brushing it off with a shrug. “Just trying to better myself, you know? Do more. Be more.”

Akane’s expression softened, a quiet, perceptive pause in her step. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

“Aww,” Ranko grinned, teeth showing. “You’re such a sweet princess.”

Akane made a face, waving one hand as if swatting the compliment from the air. “I’m not sweet. And I’m not a princess.”

Ranko looped her arm around Akane’s for a second, half leaning on her for support and half as a tease. “You are, though. You’re all that and then some. Sweet and strong. And a total badass.”

Akane flushed and turned her face slightly, tucking her chin in like it might hide the pink spreading across her cheeks. “Stop. Don’t say stuff like that in the hall.”

“You’re right,” Ranko teased, elbowing her gently. “I should stop before half the boys in school conspire to throw me under the stairs for making Akane Tendo blush.”

Akane groaned and laughed at the same time, pulling her arm back with a huff that lacked any real irritation. “You’re impossible.”

But she was still smiling. And Ranko, for all her exhaustion, smiled back—just a little—grateful for the warmth of it. The corridor buzzed with the shuffle of feet and chatter, but for a moment, the world was just the two of them, the long hallway, and the weight of good intentions passed back and forth between friends.

Biology class passed in a kind of dreamy blur, and Ranko, unwilling to give herself fully to sleep or full attention, sat behind Akane and kept her fingers busy braiding and unbraiding sections of the girl's glossy, straight black hair. She was careful, gentle—not tugging, not disturbing the flow of Akane's thoughts as she leaned forward to explain something about root systems and nutrient absorption. Ranko listened with half-lidded eyes, nodding along. Akane's voice was steady and clear, kind.

Akane was... good. At this. At school. At helping people. At fighting, too. Ranko knew that firsthand now. She had this radiant competence to her—strong but never showy, warm but never weak. Maybe she wasn’t amazing at home economics, but that was probably the only thing holding her back from being terrifyingly perfect. And somehow, that made Ranko like her more.

But what did she want ? What burned in her belly late at night? What made her feel lonely, or scared, or small? Did anything? Did she have secret dreams she didn’t share, private stories, forbidden longings? Did she ever feel... stuck? Trapped by expectations? Or was she just good because she was good , the kind of person who naturally pointed true north?

Ranko found herself wanting to know Akane the person. The girl . The inner life she kept folded up beneath the seams of her uniform and the iron-hard pride in her spine.

When lunch came around, they found a quiet spot by the athletics track. A few other girls from Akane’s circle joined them, chatting idly about teachers, test rumors, which upperclassmen had cool hair or bad breath. It was the kind of gossipy, harmless noise that Ranko usually ignored, but today it felt pleasant. Like ambient warmth on a cold day. Her stomach growled faintly.

Akane noticed. Of course she did. She opened her bento, as neat and elegant as Ranko expected, and pushed one of the fat onigiri toward her without a word.

“You sure?” Ranko asked, already reaching.

Akane shrugged like it was nothing. “Kasumi always packs too much.”

Ranko accepted the rice ball and bit into it gratefully, nodding in appreciation. “Tell her thanks from me. You’re really out here keeping me alive, princess.”

Akane snorted. “Stop calling me that.”

“Never,” Ranko said with her mouth full. “Long live Princess Akane.”

They all laughed. The onigiri was seasoned perfectly, the nori still crisp, the rice pillowy and warm. Ranko let herself enjoy it, just a little, feeling the food settle her nerves and soothe the ache behind her eyes. This life—school, friends, shared lunch—could be hers.

When the final bell rang at three in the afternoon, Ranko didn’t linger. While other students filtered out to meet friends or join club meetings, she made a quiet, unhurried beeline to the girls’ changing room, her mind already working two steps ahead.

The boxing captain was there again, all energy and grins, already bouncing on her heels like she’d been waiting for Ranko specifically. “You sure you’re not ready to join yet? You’d love the punching bags we just got in. Come on—please?”

Ranko offered her best sheepish grin, a hand at the back of her neck. “Aw, I want to, believe me… but my folks are kinda pushing for something more cultural , y’know? Poetry club, of all things. ‘To soften my edges,’ they say.”

The captain blinked, visibly trying to picture it. “Poetry?”

“I know,” Ranko groaned. “But I think I almost got ‘em convinced. One or two more talks and I’ll be in the ring.” Her voice was warm, conspiratorial, and while she wove the lie, her fingers gently dipped toward the captain’s gym jacket, hanging off a nearby bench. She swiped the key cleanly from the pocket without breaking rhythm in her excuse.

“Anyway,” Ranko said, hoisting her bag with a nod. “Wish me luck convincing the parental units.”

“Good luck, delinquent poet,” the captain laughed.

With the key tucked deep in her jacket’s inside pocket, Ranko headed down to the back corridor of the gym wing where old supplies were stored—half-forgotten hurdles, collapsed soccer goals, the old punching bags from boxing club, broken volleyball nets tangled in a heap. She slipped in, careful to lock it behind her, and moved toward the far end of the long room.

There, partially hidden behind two unused tobibako —the vaulting boxes with cracked leather tops and scuffed wooden sides—Ranko had made herself a temporary refuge. Gym mats, firm but soft enough, were stacked in a corner, and she pulled down three of them. She arranged them carefully: one folded as a pillow, two to lie on, her own jacket as a makeshift cover.

From her bag, she pulled out the small clock she’d bought at the watch shop and set the alarm for 5:45.

She lay back, shoulders sinking slightly into the mat, her body aching already in that low, slow way fatigue settled in when you were still running on fumes. She breathed in deeply. Her fingers drifted to her jacket’s inner pocket, where Kuno’s handkerchief lived like a secret, and the softness of the good luck charm he'd bought her pressed gently against her palm. Her thumb rubbed the corner of the charm until the motion became automatic.

She closed her eyes. Sleep came fast.

Two and a half hours. Ranko woke groggy but strangely refreshed, blinking as the buzzing alarm clock rattled against the gym mat like an impatient bug. She turned it off and set up the next alarm, 9:30. She stretched, yawned, twisted her braid tighter without a mirror, and smoothed her uniform the best she could. It was creased, faintly damp with leftover warmth from the mats, and probably had a faint musk of rubber, old sweat, and mildew clinging to it—but she figured it would pass. Before leaving, she climbed upon a tobibako and left one of the small upper windows unlatched.

At the gates, Kuno was waiting already.

He stood as though he’d been carved into the red, cloudy sunset itself: fresh navy-blue kendogi crisp over his broad shoulders, the bokken sitting at his hip, his posture impossibly poised. His dark hair was still damp at the nape, and the breeze carried the clean scent of soap—some subtle, expensive kind, maybe pine. Ranko, standing opposite him with her scuffed sneakers, sleep-creased skirt, and a braid that had half-come undone and frayed with static, felt about three levels below presentable.

Still, she grinned like it didn’t matter, because he was here, and he was looking at her like he noticed. “Hey, Samurai.”

Kuno’s brows knitted slightly, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but concern. “Ranko… are you well?”

“Yeah. Why?” she replied, already bracing for it.

“You appear… disheveled,” he said.

She hesitated, brushing self-consciously at her braid, which was loosening by the second. Her shirt was wrinkled and hung slightly uneven on one side. The faint scent of gym mats clung to her, old sweat and rubber. Her socks were slipping down her ankles.

She ran a hand through her bangs, flattening them with a rough gesture, her heart a little too loud in her chest. “Oh, that. Tried a new club today,” she said, grasping for something plausible. “Real physical, lots of jumping around—”

Before she could invent anything else, the universe, in a rare twist, threw her a lifeline: the boxing captain strolled by, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder, chatting with another girl from the team. Ranko nearly leapt on the opportunity.

“Yo,” Ranko said with easy charm, stepping half a beat forward, just enough to cross the girl’s path without breaking pace. “Thank you for your hard work, senpai.”

“Likewise, good evening to you both,” the captain answered, grinning.

As they passed each other, Ranko’s movement was smooth—barely noticeable. She brushed her knuckles against the open edge of the duffel’s side pocket, tucking the key inside. Her smile didn’t twitch, her shoulders didn’t shift. No hesitation. No fuss.

The captain walked on, blissfully unaware.

Kuno, however, turned his head slightly. Not much. Just a quiet, sharp glance. His lips parted as if to say something, then closed again. When Ranko turned back to him with her braid half-finished and a look that asked nothing at all, he stared at her a moment longer.

“Ranko,” he said. “I would appreciate if you did not lie to me.” The words weren’t harsh, but they landed with a weight that stilled the air around them.

She turned toward him slowly. “I didn’t—”

“We are friends, are we not?” he said, voice steady, but the formal tone slightly gentler than usual. “If that is true… then surely there is no need for pretense between us.”

The weight of it pressed against her chest—not accusatory, but sincere, almost vulnerable in the way only someone who didn’t understand how deeply he mattered could be.

Ranko swallowed thickly. This small omission, truth kept in the name of preserving the illusion that she was fine, that she wasn’t sleeping in broom closets and gym storerooms and working herself half to death in places he’d never think to step into—it was barely even a lie.

She looked down at her shoes for a second too long, then back up at him.

“I just didn’t feel like going to a club today,” she said, keeping her voice even, soft. “That’s all.”

He didn’t press. But he looked at her like he saw through everything. Kuno began walking and Ranko walked beside him, as if pulled by an invisible string. She had told boys (and men) off for less, she had never been the kind to follow, to stay. Kuno’s presence was addictive, even when it hurt, even as it healed.

Ranko, suddenly aching, wished she could be someone simpler, someone honest, someone not half-made of duct tape and late nights and lies meant to keep her afloat. But he was looking at her like she still belonged there, even so. 

And that, somehow, was worse than scolding. It was kindness. She couldn’t help but love him even more.

The drizzle began as a hush, like the sky was whispering. Ranko tilted her face upward, feeling the first cool pinpricks on her forehead. One drop caught the tip of her nose. She blinked. Kuno, beside her, looked up at the clouds with a slight frown, the rain catching on the shoulders of his kendogi.

“I must apologize,” he said solemnly, as though he were breaking tragic news. “It appears the yakisoba pan will not survive this weather, and we must change our plans.”

Ranko gave a quiet chuckle, tugging her braid tighter. “A true tragedy,” she said. “The gods spit on fried noodles in a bun.”

“I fear they do.”

They ducked under the awning of a low, wooden structure with a painted sign and half-drawn noren curtains fluttering with the breeze. The glow from within was warm, amber-golden. Ranko followed Kuno through the doors, and immediately they were greeted by a slender woman in a soft brown kimono, her gray hair swept back with practiced grace. She bowed with the slow elegance of someone who had been welcoming guests for decades.

Kuno returned the bow, deep and precise. “May we be seated in the washitsu ?” he asked.

The hostess smiled and gestured with a hand. “Of course. This way.”

They followed her through the quiet innards of the restaurant, the air faintly smelled of miso and charcoal and green tea. The washitsu room was simple and beautiful: shoji screens, a low table with zabuton cushions, a small vase with seasonal flowers in the corner. Rain began to tap against the wooden beams outside with a rhythmic hush.

Once seated, the hostess brought a tray bearing two rolled white towels, warm and damp—and placed them delicately before them. Ranko picked hers up, wiped her hands slowly, savoring the comfort of heat against her chilled fingers. Her eyes closed for a second.

“Oh gods,” she murmured, “this is nicer than most baths I’ve had.”

Kuno arched a brow, dabbing his own hands with practiced ease. “Are the public baths in your area that bad?”

She grinned. “Some of them have algae that would pair well with your favorite onigiri.”

“I am both curious and alarmed.”

A second tray came, carried by the hostess again, this time with slender ceramic cups. She poured hot tea from a black-glazed pot into both, steam unfurling in lazy spirals. The scent of roasted rice and something floral rose like incense.

“Would you like to hear today’s specialty menu?” she asked gently.

Kuno looked to Ranko, who was already sipping the tea, eyes half-lidded with bliss. She gave a small nod, cheeks pink from the warmth.

“We’ll take the full menu for two,” Kuno said, and the hostess bowed again before slipping away.

Soon, small lacquered dishes began to arrive in a procession of understated beauty: a bowl of sunomono; grilled saba with the skin blistered just right; simmered kabocha squash gleaming in a soy glaze; chawanmushi, jiggling softly in porcelain cups; a plate of tamagoyaki cut in golden rectangles; and steaming bowls of rice topped with sansho-dusted unagi.

Ranko blinked at the spread. “This is... a lot better than noodles in a bun.”

“Am I forgiven for changing your plans, then?” Kuno asked.

She looked at him over the rim of her tea cup. “I’m clearly makin’ an effort to find it in my heart to forgive you, man, you just make it so difficult with all this food.”

Kuno smiled faintly. “I shall remain hopeful for a change of heart.”

As she reached for her chopsticks, Ranko leaned over the table a little and said, mock-confidentially, “Hey, Kuno... remind me not to get used to this.”

“I can be forgetful,” he said, not wanting to make any promises.

The second pot of tea came with the soft shuffling of the hostess’s steps over the tatami. She bowed lightly and set the lacquered tray down between them, steam swirling up.

Kuno inclined his head in thanks.

The hostess smiled and turned to leave.

Ranko, halfway through a mouthful of grilled mackerel, was already pondering whether she could wrangle Kuno's chawanmushi without losing dignity. She was about to lean over again with one of her teasing quips when she caught the slight shift in Kuno’s expression—his gaze had drifted past her, beyond the sliding door, toward the front of the restaurant.

A tall man in a brown gi had entered the foyer, closing a black umbrella with practiced flicks. His long black hair was slicked back, his face solemn, his moustache impeccable. Ranko followed Kuno’s line of sight and saw it too.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “That’s Akane’s dad.”

“Tendo Akane’s father is here?” Kuno’s eyes brightened. He placed down his cup with care and began to rise. “Then I must go pay my respects to my future father-in—”

A voice, rich and familiar, cut through the air with all the weight of memory.

“Tendo-kun.”

Ranko’s heart dropped.

“Saotome-kun,” came the responding voice.

Ranko froze, her chopsticks held aloft mid-air like a conjuration interrupted. She didn’t turn. She didn’t breathe.

Then she grabbed Kuno’s wrist—hard.

The hostess bowed out from the room silently, sliding the door most of the way closed behind her. Ranko pulled Kuno down to the tatami with a force that startled him. Their thighs touched. Her hand slid over his as if to warn him not to move. One finger pressed gently, desperately against her lips.

Kuno blinked, utterly confused.

“Ranko—”

“Shhh!” she hissed, barely a breath. Her eyes were wide, panicked, all humor gone.

Kuno sat frozen beside her as the voices outside came clearer through the thin shoji.

“So,” said Akane’s father. “I heard you were staying down in Oita for a few years.”

“Yeah,” replied Genma Saotome. “Waste of time to train there. I hoped for better, but—well, you know how it is.”

“I suppose I do,” Tendo replied with a weary sigh. “The dojo’s... still too empty.”

They scoffed, a low, bitter noise shared by men who had lost more than they wanted to say. The sound of two middle-aged fathers, worn thin by disappointments.

Ranko pressed her back against the wall, barely daring to exhale. Kuno leaned closer, watching her rather than the door now. His voice was low, near inaudible.

“Ranko... why are we hiding?”

She didn't answer. Not yet. Her face was pale, mouth tight, knuckles white where they gripped her own skirt, her other hand on his. Kuno said nothing more.

He looked toward the half-open slit in the shoji. The two men were sitting opposite each other with recently served beers.

“Ah, yes,” Soun said, sipping the edge of his tea. “It surprised me to learn you've been in Nerima for a while.”

Genma shifted in his seat. The clink of ceramic against the low table filled the space as he poured himself more tea from the same pot.

“I’ve been busy,” Genma muttered. “Trying to settle old debts.”

Soun regarded him coolly. “And how’s your kid?”

Genma’s hands paused, fingers tightening on the lip of the teacup. “She’s... alright,” he said, the word barely shaped before being set free into the air between them.

From behind the barely-open shoji, Ranko held her breath. She could hear the faint tremble in his voice, the way his shoulders might have shifted. Across from her, Kuno remained still, focused, though his brows were drawn.

Soun stirred his cup. “She dropped by my dojo the other day.”

Genma looked up. “She did?”

“Yes. Friends with my youngest girl. Akane.”

There was a small silence then, not awkward, but heavy with things unsaid.

Genma nodded, gaze lowering. “Ah... that so.”

Soun watched him for a moment, then asked evenly, “You heard from the old master?”

A silence crackled through the air like static. Even the clink of the restaurant faded as if the space itself held its breath. Behind the screen, Ranko felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Her father shifted forward just a little. She and Kuno, unthinking, mirrored one another—leaning slightly closer, eyes narrowed, brows drawn in silent tension.

“Sometimes,” Genma said at last. “You?”

Soun’s reply came slow, measured. “No. I banished him from the Tendo Dojo.”

“What? You—how?” Genma blinked.

Soun’s face darkened. “How?” His tone was sharp now, clipped. “If it surprises you, shouldn’t you be asking why ?”

Genma opened his mouth. Then closed it. Across the partition, Ranko watched her father’s face tilt downward through the gap, a motion of quiet shame.

Soun’s voice softened, but the weight of it deepened. “Or have you realized the reason by yourself?” Ranko's father was quiet for a long moment. The rain whispered against the glass at the far end of the restaurant. A waiter passed behind them. Then Soun said, with finality, “You have a daughter, like I do. I’m sure you know why.”

And there it was. Not shouted, not snarled, but dropped like a blade between old comrades who had once trusted one another with their homes, their children, their futures. It landed quietly, and split something that couldn’t be mended.

In the shadowed alcove of the washitsu, Ranko didn’t dare move. Her fingers still pressed against Kuno’s hand, forgotten. She could hear her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Beside her, Kuno’s gaze had drifted to her face, but he said nothing. 

Soun lifted his glass but didn’t drink. His gaze rested somewhere past Genma’s shoulder. “You know,” he said quietly, “I regret our training. In our youth.”

"Do ya?".

Soun nodded. “It was brutal. Obsessed with strength at all costs. We were young men at first, and we let ourselves be made into something hard. Something hollow.”

Genma’s lips twitched, not quite into a smile. “I don’t regret it.” Soun’s eyes met his, clouded but steady. Genma continued, “It wasn’t perfect. But it made us strong.”

“The body isn’t everything,” Soun replied, lowering his glass. “The spirit should be just as strong.”

Genma chuckled under his breath. “Strength is strength. Maybe that’s why you could never best me in combat.”

A beat.

Soun looked down into his drink. “And yet I still won in the end.”

Genma didn’t answer right away. His pride rippled visibly, like a banner caught in a bitter wind. When he finally spoke, it was quiet. “So you did.” Then he added, a touch more bitterly, “To think... If I’d had a son, he’d be engaged to one of your girls.”

Soun’s response was swift, soft but firm. “Thank the gods that’s not the case.”

That stung. Genma’s head inclined slightly, as if absorbing a blow. He said nothing more, only nodded, once, slowly. He looked into his beer as though it could offer him dignity. Soun stood and placed his money neatly on the table.

“Have a good evening, Genma,” he said. “If you ever change your mind—if you grow tired of hollow strength—you know where the Tendo Dojo is.”

With that, Soun left, his umbrella in hand. The flutter of the noren curtain, the soft clatter of the restaurant’s front door, the clack of his geta, and then he was gone.

Genma sat alone. He reached across the table, took Soun’s unfinished beer, and drank it with the weary resignation of someone swallowing the past.

Inside the dim room, Kuno slid the door shut with a careful hand. The two teenagers remained seated on the tatami, Ranko stared at the sliding door as though it were a tombstone. The tea on the table had gone cold. 

Ranko didn’t move at first. Her eyes were fixed on the grain of the wood before her, the delicate seam of the sliding door as though it might still open again, as though the ghosts might walk back through. She felt something tight and tremulous inside her—confusion, mostly. A child’s helpless ache. Genma’s voice had sounded strange to her. Not the clumsy bombast she remembered, nor the conman’s smoothness. Just a man, a little older, a little more tired, wearing a mask that didn’t quite fit anymore.

Kuno sat beside her, upright and silent, his presence strangely reassuring. Ranko let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and let go of his hand. She was exhausted, and sad, and confused.

Her shoulder, tense from the way she’d braced herself during the eavesdropping, sagged slightly until it brushed against his arm. She didn’t draw back. Neither did he. She leaned more fully, slowly, as if against a tree she meant to sit under for a while. It wasn’t romantic. It was just safe. Her fingers, tucked in her lap, gave a small twitch, like a cat’s tail in a dream. Her head found the slope of his upper arm. She could feel the faint rise and fall of his breath, and the quiet sound of it—soft, steady, unfazed—helped quiet her own.

The storm in her chest hadn’t passed. But it had dulled, the way thunder moves further into the distance after it breaks. Her eyes fluttered, not quite closed. Then open again. Then closed. And eventually, the warmth and stillness won.

Ranko drifted down, heavy-limbed, unguarded, asleep against the arm of the one man still trusted.

Chapter Text

The shrill buzz of an alarm pierced the hush of the restaurant’s washitsu, sharp as a blade through silk.

Ranko jerked awake, breath caught mid-throat, limbs disoriented by sleep. For a fractured moment she didn’t know where she was. The tatami beneath her felt unfamiliar, the scent of tea and cedar in the air strange and clean, her body warm under something soft—

She blinked up. And what she saw didn’t make sense. A pair of long legs folded beside her. A book resting in a poised hand. The angled slope of a dark blue kendogi. And above her—eyes.

Calm. Watching her.

Kuno.

Oh.

She was lying on her side, her head on his lap, her legs curled like a cat beside him on the soft tatami. Her jacket—her own jacket—was draped across her back like a makeshift blanket. And he was just watching her gently, curiously, from between the pages of his book.

“Oh shit,” she whispered, voice rasped with sleep. She pushed herself up, blinking hard. “I fell asleep.”

“You did,” Kuno said, as though it were a perfectly natural thing to happen. “I tried to wake you once or twice, but you were in too deep. I thought it best not to disturb you.”

Ranko sat up fully now, brushing down her rumpled skirt, fumbling for her bag. She snatched up the little alarm clock and silenced it, cheeks burning.

“You were studyin’?” she asked, as she pulled her jacket on properly.

“Yes,” he said simply, flipping a page in his book without ceremony. “My history exam is tomorrow. On the Edo period, remember?”

She looked at him—this strange, rigid, elegant boy who hadn't done anything but let her sleep, and kept reading about feudal governance while she drooled on his thigh. Any other guy… her thoughts trailed off, and her heart, stupid traitor that it was, gave the smallest lurch.

“Right, right. Your big test. Ugh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to crash like that. But—I gotta go.”

Kuno lifted his eyes from the page, unbothered. “Why?”

She hesitated. “I’ll explain later. I promise. Just—thank you. For… y’know. Not wakin’ me. For being a really nice, gentlemanly pillow.”

He inclined his head. “Good luck,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

She nodded fast, lips pressed together to keep from revealing too much of her aching heart, and put on her sneakers.

She turned, waved once. And then ran—through the restaurant, past the hostess who gave a polite farewell, and out into the rain.

It fell like a curtain from the sky, thick and cold, peppering the already slick concrete with a relentless rhythm that dulled everything else. Ranko stepped onto the gravel lot near the roadside construction site, her sneakers soaked through, the hem of her skirt plastered to her thighs, her braid hanging heavy and limp down her back. The puddles mirrored the orange warning lights and the cranes beyond.

The man in charge, a leathery-faced foreman with a cigarette eternally stuck to his bottom lip, blinked at her as she approached, as if unsure she was real. “Oi, Ranko-kun. You’re soaked!”

She gave a faint shrug, arms crossed against the wind. “Yeah, Mr. Kimura. I figured I’d dry out eventually.”

He muttered something about kids having no sense, then handed her an old but clean towel. “Change inside there, it’s warmer than the tent, I’ll keep watch. You want coffee?”

She nodded, mumbling a thanks, and disappeared into the prefab trailer. She peeled off her wet layers and pulled on the uniform: a faded blue set of work overalls, far too large for her frame, cinched around the waist with two mismatched belts. The boots were steel-toed and wide, the hard hat comically oversized. She looked like a kid dressed as a construction worker for Halloween.

But it didn’t matter. She took the heavy raincoat and put it on with the hood down, shrugged into the reflective vest, clipped on the armband, and grabbed the slender, glowing baton of her signal stick. Then, with a final sip of instant coffee from a paper cup, she stepped back into the rain.

Her post was near the intersection, where traffic slowed to a crawl. She stood on the painted line, lifting the baton, swinging it in gentle arcs, gesturing left, waving cars past, then stillness. Repeat.

There was comfort in it.

No questions. No quick lies. Just movement. Sore shoulders. No one looking at her, no one needing her to be anything except a person with a stick and a vest in the rain. It was a mechanical ache, a kind of dull pressure that kept her grounded. The rain fell and bounced off the hood of her raincoat, this all-encompassing black plastic thing, the noise drowning out everything. All Ranko could hear was water falling all around her, filling her senses.

Her mind, though—it wandered.

To her father. That heavy, brittle silence that came over Genma when Mr. Tendo had spoken about why. The shame that had been too quiet, but loud enough to echo in Ranko’s ribs like a bell tolling the hour.

She thought of her own memories, the things she tried not to remember. The way she'd been talked about. Bargained over. The excuses. The supposed training. The elders that demanded respect and obedience. The way strength had been an excuse.

She bit her lip and stared at the road. She didn't want to think about that. Not now.

So she thought of Akane. Kind, fierce, clear-eyed Akane. The way she wore her gi with quiet pride, her soft, serious voice when she spoke of her dojo, the way her hair caught the sun when she turned. Akane’s smile—that genuine thing that bloomed when she wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

And then—Kuno.

All of Kuno. His earnestness, his strange, gallant manners. That steady voice, like he always meant exactly what he said. How he looked at her like she was a person—just a person—and not a delinquent, or a fantasy, or an object. The way he read history books beside her sleeping form, when others had let their hands wander. But not him. Kuno didn’t. Kuno wouldn’t .

She felt her throat tighten, and she turned to wave the next car through.

The rain kept falling. She kept moving. And through the ache in her arms and the cold in her bones, she tried to hold on to that small warmth in her chest. Just for a little longer.

At about 3 AM, the world felt like it was made of water and fluorescent hum. The rain had slackened but not stopped, thinned to a fine, persistent mist that made everything feel blurry and underwater. Her arms moved automatically, lifting and waving the glowing baton in the same pattern she’d repeated a thousand times already. Her shoulders ached dully with the repetition, but it was the kind of ache that almost felt good—like proof of effort. 

Then Mr. Kimura stepped out from the tent and waved her over. “Take five, Ranko-kun,” he grunted, scratching at his neck. “You’re soaked to the bone.”

She blinked, as if waking from a dream, and jogged over through the puddles. Another worker, a man a few years older with a gnarled but healed scar slashed across his cheek, took her place. He gave her a faint smile as they passed.

“Thanks,” she muttered, passing him her light baton.

She used the port-a-potty and headed straight to the makeshift break room. Inside the tent, the buzz of the work lights and the patter of rain formed a kind of womb-like cocoon. Her boss poured her a paper cup of tea—green, steaming, bitter—and left it on the metal folding table before pulling aside the flap and ducking back out into the wet dark.

“Don’t catch a cold, Ranko-kun,” he called before the flap shut behind him.

Ranko sat heavily, exhausted enough that she collapsed into the folding chair. Her oversized uniform made her feel like a ghost in borrowed clothes. She had two belts cinched at her waist to keep the trousers from falling down, the hem dragging low over her work boots. Her raincoat still dripped faintly, pattering onto the floor, the hood still over her head.

She reached for the tea. It was too hot to sip right away, but it smelled grassy and sharp, a comfort all on its own. Across the table, something caught her eye—a colorful box of souvenir rice cakes, perched on the edge like it had been waiting for her.

The packaging was cheery and ridiculous, with a cartoon volcano smiling cheerfully under a sakura-pink sky. Kagoshima , it read. Traditional handmade sweets. The plastic seal still clung around the edges, taut and crinkling.

She stared at it, unmoving. She assumed someone had brought that box back from vacation. A coworker, probably. Maybe the scarred guy. Maybe the cute older lady with the cat keychain on her vest. She didn’t know. She barely knew any of them. But it was workplace etiquette, right? When someone traveled, they brought a gift. A sugar-laced apology for having had a better time than everyone else stuck at work.

Her stomach, which she had firmly ignored for hours, growled again. The audacity of it made her scowl.

She had eaten. With Kuno. She’d had a full meal. A warm, perfect, delicious meal in a beautiful tatami room with the man she liked. She’d even fallen asleep on him, like an idiot. What kind of girl did that? And then—after all that, she’d come here. She had no right to be hungry.

Still, she reached forward and tapped the box with the back of her knuckle. The cartoon volcano kept grinning at her, undisturbed.

She exhaled, slow and long. Then peeled back the plastic. The crinkle was loud in the small space, so she went slow. When it was free, she folded the flaps into their little standing display. Now the volcano smiled up at her in full paper glory, like it had achieved its final form.

The sweets inside were exquisite. Round and dusted, their mochi skins translucent and glowing faintly like pearls under temple light. A dozen tiny planets waiting for orbit. Red bean, probably. Sweet. Soft. 

But she didn’t reach for one.

Instead, she sat back, the tea warming her hands, and looked at the rice cakes like they were behind museum glass. You don’t deserve to be hungry , she told herself. You ate. You had Kuno. You should feel full.

But that meal had been stolen by memory, tainted by voices she hadn’t meant to hear. Her father’s guilt. Mr. Tendo’s quiet fury. The shadow of a master who neither of them had dared name. It clung to her ribs like tar. She wasn’t hungry for food. She was just... hungry. For what, she didn’t know. Kindness, maybe. A place to rest. The past, rewritten.

She closed her eyes, breathed in the steam of the tea, and let the moment sit. Suddenly, the flap of the tent snapped open behind her. She jumped, expecting her shift supervisor again. “Who brought—?” she began, turning.

But the voice that cut through the hiss of rain was young, male. “Who the hell opened my omiyage?”

Ranko froze, feeling drowned in her enormous raincoat. The air inside the tent, heavy with steam and fluorescent light, turned cold.

She turned around. “Oh, shit, sorr—”

“Unbelievable… you opened them, man?”

The words died halfway through her apology.

Standing just inside the tent was a guy about her age—maybe slightly older—well-built, without a raincoat in sight. His high-visibility vest clung to his chest like a second skin, and the sleeves of his jumpsuit were rolled up haphazardly, revealing well-formed, muscular forearms caked in grime. Grease streaked the bridge of his nose, a smear that matched the smudges on his cheeks and hands. His bandana—yellow and black, knotted tightly around his forehead—dripped rain or sweat onto the floor. The boy had a face that would be handsome if he didn’t look so perpetually pissed off, with sharp amber eyes and long canines that made his frown seem predatory.

“I asked if you opened them, did you hear me?” he asked, his tone accusing, like she'd kicked his dog and then asked for seconds.

Ranko narrowed her eyes. Her bones ached. Her arms were noodles. She was soaked through. She had one of the most exhausting and stressful days of her life, and now some grungy tunnel-dweller was talking to her like she was a raccoon in his pantry.

“Yeah,” she said flatly, her hands planted on her hips. “You left your souvenirs out in the break area . Of course I opened them. What, were you waitin’ for a ribbon-cutting ceremony?”

The guy stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “So you just open other people’s stuff?”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Look, man, I didn’t even eat one. I just took the plastic off so someone else could. You want people to keep their hands off, don’t leave your snacks lookin’ like an invitation.”

He sputtered, incredulous. “It’s not an invitation , it’s basic respect—”

“Then put them in a locker, genius,” she snapped. “Or better yet, jam the whole box up your ass so nobody can find them.”

His nostrils flared, and his whole body tensed like he was about to square up. “You’re a disrespectful little boy—!”

Ranko got up to face him even though she was much shorter than him, her soaked boots slapping against the floor. She pulled back the hood of her raincoat and lifted it up to her neck. Even in the baggy uniform that sagged off her frame like hand-me-downs from a sumo wrestler, her tiny waist was pulled in tight by the criss-crossed belts, her breasts and hips slightly pronounced beneath the layered fabric.

“I’m a girl,” she snapped, eyes flashing with irritation and defiance, “ bitch .”

The guy blinked. Then blinked again.

There was a silence so deep she could hear him swallow.

“…Oh,” he said, awkwardly. His ears flushed red beneath his bandana.

Ranko smirked, not kindly. “Yeah. Oh . You’re an asshole.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but for once, no words came out. She sat back down at the folding table, picked up her tea, and took a slow, defiant sip.

The flap of the tent peeled open again, the wind tugging at it with wet fingers. The shift supervisor stepped inside, Mr. Kimura, his cigarette hanging from his lower lip. “Ranko-kun,” he said, already reaching for the clipboard tucked under his arm, “time to go back out there.”

Ranko stood, sighing through her nose. She gave the young man a look that could have split granite. Then she pulled her raincoat down. The hood came last, swallowing her head whole before she pushed it back just far enough to see. The world narrowed to a tunnel framed in heavy cloth.

Just ahead, her boss was reaching for one of the rice cakes.

Her voice snapped out before she could stop it: “Oh, boss, no—those are his rice cakes. Not for us.”

The supervisor looked over his shoulder, halfway through unwrapping one, brow raised. “Ah, really?” He blinked, then glanced over at the boy. “Sorry, Hibiki-kun.”

He rewrapped the rice cake and set it carefully back into the smiling volcano box, and took a long drag of his cigarette.

Behind her, she heard the sound of Ryoga Hibiki’s embarrassment bubbling to the surface. “N-No, it’s okay,” he said, flustered, scratching at the back of his neck like a scolded dog. “I brought them from Kagoshima, they’re for—”

Ranko’s voice turned syrupy, too sweet to be sincere. She blinked up at him with mock innocence.

“Oh,” she cooed, “so it’s just me who can’t eat your rice cakes, Hibiki-kun ?”

The look of panic on his face was priceless. “I didn’t say—”

“Don’t worry,” she cut him off with a sharp smile. “You can have them all to yourself.”

And just like that, she stepped past him and out into the darkness, her boots squelching angrily into the gravel and puddles. The tent flap smacked shut behind her.

The guy with the scar—still holding her light stick—straightened as she approached. He raised an eyebrow as she neared, but didn’t say anything.

She snatched the light stick from his gloved hand with a bit more force than necessary and muttered, “Careful in there. There’s rice cakes but you can’t eat ‘em.” She glanced toward the tent and added, “Hibiki brought them to the break room just to pig out by himself.”

The man chuckled, clearly amused.

Rain fell. Ranko returned to her station, stick in hand, breath fogging up inside her hood. Her shoulders ached, her hands were stiff, she was so tired she could sleep standing up—but at least she wasn’t going to let some snappy, cave-dwelling cake-hoarder get the last word.

Ranko didn’t want to feel better—but somehow, the confrontation with that idiot in the tent had given her just enough fire to burn through the worst of her exhaustion. She carried it like flint in her belly, like spite-powered caffeine. Good. She needed the anger. It kept her upright, kept her focused, kept her mind from circling the drain.

Kept her from thinking about her father’s voice, cold and evasive. About Mr. Tendo’s sorrow. About their so-called master, the shadow figure looming in the margins of that conversation like a sickness passed down through generations. She really didn’t want to think about that guy.

So she filled her head instead with fresher annoyances. The jerk with the bandana and the stupid rice cakes. His stupid face. His stupid voice. She thought about how Kuno would never talk to her like that—like she was the one who didn’t understand social conventions. And how Akane would’ve decked him right in the throat before he finished his second sentence to protect her. That made her smile under the hood of her raincoat, just a little.

The rain hadn’t let up, but the sun showed up anyway—low and gray and sheepish, making the clouds grey instead of black. 

Some time past five, an old neighborhood lady hobbled up again to the edge of the site, her plastic shopping bag rustling at her side like dry leaves. Ranko knew her. Tiny and birdlike, with a slanted posture and an eternal frown that somehow wasn’t unfriendly. She reminded Ranko of someone from the neighborhood where she’d lived as a toddler—someone who used to rub her back when she cried, someone who smelled like rice vinegar and camphor balm.

“Still raining,” the old woman remarked, peering into the work zone like she owned the joint. “Are you the same one I saw yesterday?”

“Guess I am, Mrs. Kadoguchi” Ranko said, waving her light stick. Her arms were trembling, just slightly. “Still working.”

“Tell them to finish soon, eh? My bones don’t like the shaking.”

Ranko nodded solemnly. “I’ll tell the boss.”

The old woman turned to go but paused, gave Ranko a quick pat on the rear with the familiarity of someone who’d seen far too many children grow up, and declared, “Good kid, Ranko-chan.”

It hit her harder than she expected. A phrase so simple it landed like sunlight after weeks of rain. Good kid . It made something loosen in her chest.

By six, the shift was over. Ranko trudged back to the trailer, changed out of the rain gear, and into her uniform—stiff with dampness, but not unwearable. Her long socks clung coldly to her calves and her sneakers made that awful squish with every step. She looked at herself in the bent metal of a broken sign, hair frizzing from the humidity, eyes dark-ringed but alive. Barely.

She checked the time. 6:10. Not enough time to go home. She could sleep somewhere, but it would be harder to find somewhere dry. She weighed her options, none of them good. She could sneak into school early and shower in the girls’ changing room. For a quick second she entertained the idea of skipping school, but the immediate thought of not seeing Akane and Kuno made her stomach twist. She sighed, hoisting her school bag over one shoulder.

The rain met her again the second she stepped outside. It was gentler now—more of a persistent mist than a proper downpour. She exhaled, watching it ghost away in front of her.

Then something shifted. A dry sound, like canvas unrolling. A red shadow fell over her vision.

An umbrella—big and red, almost too large for one person to carry comfortably—had opened over her head.

She looked up, blinking.

Ryoga Hibiki.

Of course .

Her frown deepened like a warning sign. “Seriously?” she muttered.

He stood just behind her, holding the umbrella awkwardly. His bandana was fresh, clean now, though a smudge of something still lingered near his jaw. He looked almost guilty.

“You stalking me now?” she muttered, squinting up at him.

Ryoga’s eyes widened slightly, his mouth half-opening, those sharp canines just visible behind his lip. “I—no! Of course not. I just… I saw you walk out and you didn’t have an umbrella, and it’s still raining, and…”

“And?”

“And you looked cold.”

Ranko’s expression didn’t change. She let the silence linger, watching him squirm. The umbrella wobbled a little in his grip. She imagined how Kuno would’ve done this—probably would have come up with a phrase about the nobility of shielding others from the elements, then held the umbrella like it was an extension of his own honor. But Ryoga wasn’t like that. 

“Okay,” she said flatly, her voice catching a little on her dry throat. “But I’m not in the mood to be yelled at like a stray cat.”

Ryoga winced. “I wasn’t yelling.”

“You kinda were.”

“I didn’t know you were a girl,” he blurted.

She turned her head slowly toward him, narrowing her eyes. “Wow. That just keeps getting better.”

“No! I mean—not that you don’t look like one, I just—! The uniform was big! And you had the hood up! And I didn’t—”

Ranko let out a long breath, closing her eyes briefly. She had two choices: stomp off and stay mad, or stay under the umbrella and at least not get wetter.

She chose the umbrella. Barely.

“I’m going north,” she said. “You can walk me a few blocks if you promise not to talk.”

Ryoga nodded rapidly, clearly relieved.

They walked in silence. Her shoulders began to lose their tension. The rain, diffused through the scarlet canopy above, painted everything in a strange, theatrical blush. Ranko listened to the sound of his boots against the pavement, the occasional awkward shuffle as he tried to match her pace.

She didn’t thank him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But her steps slowed a little. The weight behind her eyes eased, and she found herself watching the mist curl along the gutters instead of her father’s shadow in every puddle.

“Look,” Ranko said, waving vaguely at the umbrella above her head, “if you think holdin’ this thing over me means you get in my pants or whatever—”

Ryoga sputtered, eyes wide with horror. “W-What?! I didn’t—! Of course I didn’t think that!”

Ranko cocked an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms beneath her soaked jacket. “No?”

“I don’t even want to get in your pants!” he declared.

Ranko arched a brow, lips quirking. “Okay, sure.”

The tone of her voice dripped with disbelief, a raspy, exhausted drawl that made it clear she wasn’t buying it. Not entirely. Maybe not at all. 

They walked in silence for a few blocks. She was too tired to be suspicious, too sore to be flirtatious, and just awake enough for all the thoughts she’d been pushing down since the restaurant to start leaking out like water through cracked tile.

You don’t even want to get into my pants, huh?

She narrowed her eyes and caught her reflection in a rain-streaked window they passed—she felt like a drowned rat with a droopy braid and bags under her eyes—and exhaled through her nose.

What a thing to say to a girl. A real compliment.

She’d had boys paw at her thighs in karaoke rooms, had men lean into her neck during late-night walks home. Ranko knew the pull of her hips, the curve of her spine. Knew how far to lean to get someone’s voice to crack. Her old boyfriend— boyfriends plural, if she was being honest—never hesitated.

Too eager, most of them.

And now here was this musclehead saying he didn’t even want her.

Maybe he really doesn’t. Maybe he sees me like a foul-mouthed weirdo in a baggy jacket and wet socks. Like I’m a kid. A boy, even.

Her throat tightened.

Probably Kuno does, too.

That thought hit like a slap. Kuno, with his poetic words and perfect posture. Kuno, who talked to her like she was good , who never glanced at her chest, never once let his gaze stray from her eyes. Even when she was barely wearing a skirt. Even when she leaned in, mouth slick with jasmine tea, teasing.

He never looked at her that way.

I’m not the kind of girl good guys like, she thought, cold creeping up the back of her neck. You know this. You’re not like Akane. This isn’t news.

She didn’t want to think it, but there it was. She hated those thoughts. Wanted to be desired and watched, and at the same time despising the men who did, and herself for wanting it. For feeling like she needed to be desirable to have some power. That it was her only strength left.

She stopped at the corner of a quiet street, almost at Furinkan. A little gray light had begun to collect on the wet rooftops, the school still sleeping in the distance.

She turned.

“You can leave now, Hibiki.”

Ryoga blinked, startled out of whatever heroic daydream he’d been living in. “I—uh, hey. About the rice cakes. I was a jerk. I’m sorry.”

She looked at him a second too long. Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

“I’ve heard worse.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t anything, really. Just a truth, laid out like a piece of candy on her tongue.

He shifted his weight like he wanted to say more. 

She waved lazily, fingers barely lifting from her sleeve.

“Bye now. Get lost.”

And with that, she turned and left him standing in the mist, his big red umbrella awkward in his hands.

The rain picked up again.

Chapter Text

Ranko could’ve done it blindfolded by now. She scaled the fence behind the school like a pro, swinging one leg over without even thinking, and slipped in through the busted gym window—the one with the latch that had given up on life ages ago. She hit the ground light as a shadow, the queen of bad ideas before breakfast.

In the changing room, she stripped off her uniform, grimacing. It smelled like rain, sweat, and a little bit of defeat. She jammed it into a mesh laundry bag and dug into her pocket: 760 yen. She sighed. Not enough for the washer and the dryer. Figures.

Well, whatever. Morning wasn’t a total loss yet. She ducked into the showers, scrubbed herself down, then worked up a lather and attacked her uniform with the same bar of soap.

At least she had a backup: the gym outfit stashed in her locker. Red bloomers, white t-shirt—tight around the chest, sure, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. After a half-hearted toweling off, she bolted three blocks away to the laundromat, flung her soggy clothes into the dryer, and perched on a cracked plastic bench.

The hum of the machines made her eyelids sag, but she fought it, biting her tongue to stay awake. When the dryer finished, she wrangled her half-warm uniform back on, jogged back to Furinkan, and even managed to enter the school right as the groundskeeper was grumbling open the main gate.

The rest of Wednesday just sort of... melted. She went where she was supposed to, said the things she was supposed to, but it was like wading through molasses. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry bees. Even Akane’s voice, normally all sunny and steady, sounded like it was coming through a wall of cotton. Her brain kept slipping off track, every thought sliding away like a wet bar of soap she couldn’t hold onto.

Homework? Didn’t have anything to turn in. Gym class? Faked a headache so hard she almost believed it herself. Lunch? Might’ve eaten, might have dreamed it. Next thing she knew, the final bell was ringing, and Akane was hugging her goodbye—tight, warm, real. Akane said something about being worried. It jolted Ranko enough that she remembered she had a plan.

One last mission.

The gym storage room was her hideout of choice, but getting in was a different matter. The only way through without the key was one of those long, narrow rectangular windows set high in the wall, barely wide enough for a kid, let alone a girl built like her.

Ranko climbed the side of the building and gripped the ledge. Her arms strained, her bag kept pulling her sideways, and when she wedged her head and shoulders in, she realized—with grim horror—that her chest was stuck.

I’m gonna die here, she thought, half-laughing, half-terrified, stuck like some big dumb raccoon halfway into a dumpster.

She wriggled, twisted, flattened herself as best she could, fighting gravity, friction, and her own biology. With a final undignified squirm, she popped free and thudded onto the dusty floor below.

Ranko found her pile of scuffed-up gym mats and collapsed face-first into them, dragging her jacket sleeve under her cheek like a pillow. Out like a light.

Ranko didn’t wake until long after the alarm clock had begun buzzing. 

In the faint murk of the early evening at the school gates, seeing Kuno again was like stepping into a warm bath. She didn’t say so—she’d rather die—but something about the sight of him, straight-backed, head high, like some stubborn prince who hadn’t noticed the world around him had gone soft and miserable. His hair had started to curl at the ends from the humidity of the shower he’d taken after kendo, giving him an almost boyish look he would absolutely hide if he knew.

Seeing him there, so stupidly earnest, made something in her chest unclench a little. She approached from behind, nudging his elbow with her shoulder. “So, how’d you do on that history test?”

“I have reason to believe I may have achieved a high grade,” he said with that solemn optimism of his, like he was hoping for victory on the battlefield.

Ranko smirked. “Then let’s celebrate. I’m starvin’.”

They ended up at a convenience store. The yakisoba pan looked fresh, Ranko snatched three. Two jasmine teas, too. She didn’t even ask—just walked up beside him at the register, arms full. Kuno paid without a word. As always.

She opened her tea on the way out and gave him a lazy side glance. “I know I still owe you money, by the way. I really hope someday I can buy you somethin’.”

He glanced at her, expression unreadable. “What happened to your vow of abstention? You said you’d never purchase anything on my behalf again until after my graduation.”

“I changed my mind.”

He arched a brow. “Indeed?”

They made their way to their bench—their spot, the one overlooking the canal. There was a boat tied to the far side, rocking slightly in the breeze. She plopped down first, tore into her yakisoba bread without dignity. She hadn’t meant to be quiet so long, but fatigue blurred time. 

Kuno took his seat beside her, his movements always deliberate. “I am curious. What prompted this change of heart?”

Ranko chewed, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s what I meant to tell you yesterday. I got a night job.”

He turned toward her. Not shocked—just quietly taking it in. “I see.”

She sipped her tea. “That’s it. That’s the whole reason.”

Kuno nodded slowly, the motion almost meditative. “May I enquire further?”

She sighed. “Yeah, sure.”

A damp breeze moved through the trees and stirred Ranko’s bangs, still sweaty from her short sleep, still smelling faintly of mold. The yakisoba bread was delicious, the tea was sweet and fragrant, both felt like luxuries on her tongue.

Then, Kuno spoke.

“If I may, then… where are you working?”

Ranko took another bite, chewed slowly, then swallowed. “Construction. Night shift. Just labor stuff.”

He turned his head toward her. “What kind of labor?”

She shrugged, took a sip of tea. “Mostly traffic control. Holdin’ signs. Movin’ tool boxes. Pickin’ up trash. Sometimes I haul cables or move boxes. Nothin’ heavy. I mean—” she laughed, “—I’m not swingin’ pickaxes or anythin’. They let me do the soft stuff. Lighter work.”

“I was not aware they employed young women for physical labor jobs.”

She smiled wryly. “Yeah. Of course they do: it’s 1987, Kuno. Women’s discount, though, I get paid less than the guys.” She held up her hand, rubbed her thumb and two fingers together. “It’s still pretty damn good, above minimum wage. Fourteen hundred yen an hour. Leagues better than most of what I’ve done.”

That made Kuno pause. “Most?”

Ranko set her bread down. The bench creaked under her as she leaned back, one arm draped over the backrest. She stared up at the low-hanging clouds.

“I’ve had to make money since I was twelve. Maybe earlier. Money didn’t fall out of the sky for me. My old man sure as hell wasn’t gonna hand it over to me, even if he had it.”

Kuno waited, watching her in silence. She didn’t have to look to know.

“I used to… hustle, I guess. Talk guys into givin’ me cash. Sometimes I'd make up stories—sick sibling, train fare, a stalker. That kinda thing.” She chuckled once, dryly. “Wasn’t always a story, either.”

Her hand tightened around the tea bottle.

“Sometimes it was just… me. Lettin’ them think what they wanted to think, long as they gave me enough money to last a few days. Sometimes I went further than that. I’m not proud, but... It got me through.”

There. It was out in the air now, she hoped he understood what she meant, she didn’t have the courage to be clearer than that. She didn’t dare look at Kuno.

“But this job,” she said more quietly, “it’s different. It’s honest. I show up. I get tired, I hold a light stick in the rain, I carry stuff. Nobody’s touchin’ me. I don’t lie or steal. I clock in. I clock out. The money’s mine. Or will be mine, payday’s on Friday.”

She looked down at her hands. There was grime under her nails still, and her knuckles were dry and cracked from the wind.

“I’m not sayin’ it’s noble. It’s not. But it’s real. And I like that. I’m not trickin’ anyone. I’m not lying. It hurts like hell, but it feels clean.”

A pause.

“I think... I just wanna be good now.”

She didn’t say for you . She didn’t dare. But the words rang in her chest like a bell, resonant and undeniable.

“I want to be someone who doesn’t have to hustle. Someone who doesn't need to lie or flash her tits to get somethin’.”

She glanced over, daring finally to look at him. Kuno wasn’t shocked. His face was unreadable, but not cold. There was no disgust. No judgment. Only a soft stillness in the way he regarded her.

She cleared her throat, suddenly awkward. “Anyway. Now you know. Sorry to ruin your image of me as a charmin’ delinquent.”

“You have not ruined anything,” he said.

She blinked.

“You have, in fact, only improved the image of a hard-working and reformed young woman.”

She snorted. “That’s cheesy as hell.”

He allowed a faint smile. “And yet true.”

The silence after that felt warmer, as though something unspoken had passed between them and taken root. She turned her head slightly to look at him, hair rustling against the canvas of her jacket.

“I do not pretend to understand,” he continued, gaze forward, resting on the slow-moving canal waters. “Your circumstances, your decisions—they are yours, and perhaps beyond my reckoning. But I mean it when I say this: I support you, my friend. In whatever way I can.”

That touched her more than she expected. She wasn’t used to kindness spoken so plainly, so firmly. And certainly not from a boy like him—too upright to understand the angles of a life lived slightly crooked.

She laughed, because that’s what she always did when her throat got tight.

“I’m tired as hell,” she admitted with a yawn that stretched her whole body. She grabbed her yakisoba pan from the bench and tore into it quickly.

“What time do you report for work?”

“Ten,” she said, mouth half-full. “Still a few hours left to kill.”

Kuno checked his watch. “It is not yet seven. If you like, I could walk you home. I could pay for a taxi, if you would allow me. That way you might sleep.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “I don’t wanna sleep.”

His brow lifted slightly. “No?”

“I wanna stay up with you.”

Kuno blinked. “But you’re exhausted. Why?”

“Why?” she echoed, lips curling into a lazy, crooked grin. “Because you’re the best part of my day, Samurai.” She crumbled the plastic of her empty sandwich bag.

He flushed faintly, eyes darting toward the river. “But sleep is important.”

“I’m not gonna die, geez.” She nudged his side with her elbow. “Don’t worry so much. I’ll catch up on rest when I’m dead.”

“Quite stubborn,” he muttered, not without fondness.

She leaned forward, eyeing his half-finished yakisoba pan. “You gonna finish that?”

Without hesitation, he offered it to her, holding the plastic-wrapped bread like a sacrament. She laughed.

“I’m joking, I bought three” she held up the other yakisoba pan she had kept on her side of the bench, hidden from his view. “Actually, you bought three. So eat, this is a culinary experience I need us to share. For the culture.”

Ranko tore into the third sandwich with the joy of a half-starved beast and then, without ceremony, scooted closer and leaned into him. Her cheek pressed against the firm edge of his shoulder, her body loose with exhaustion. She chewed slowly, lazily, eyes fluttering shut.

Kuno did not move. He didn’t rest his hand on her shoulder, didn’t wrap an arm around her. He simply remained—a pillar of warmth beside her, unmoving and patient.

She sighed, the last bite swallowed. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna fall asleep. Just resting my eyes.”

“May I ask,” he said carefully, “what happened between your father and Mr. Tendo?”

She was silent for a long moment, eyes still closed. The trickle of canal water filled the space between them.

“I don’t really know,” she said at last. “I haven’t seen my pops since Sunday. I don’t think he’d tell me if I asked, though.”

“Hm.”

She shrugged, her cheek still pressed against his sleeve. “It’s just how he’s always been. How we’ve both been.” Another pause. “He fucked up a lot,” she added bluntly. “And he’ll probably keep doing it. That’s just who he is.”

Kuno didn’t reply immediately. She could feel the tension in his posture shift, something thoughtful working behind his stillness.

“I’m not like him,” she said, softer now. Almost ashamed. “I don’t wanna be like him.”

“I know,” Kuno answered.

Kuno shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Ranko where she leaned against him. “By the way… I will not be able to attend our club meeting on Friday.”

Her eyes blinked open, lazily at first. “What, skippin’ out on your duties? Who are you and what have you done with Kuno?”

“I have to attend a PTA meeting,” he replied.

Ranko turned her head to peer up at him. “Wait, do club captains have to go to PTA meetings at Furinkan? Are you guys like the dads of the team?”

“It is not for Furinkan,” Kuno said with a faint tilt of his head.

She sat up fast, looking at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. “...You have a kid?”

He stared at her in blank disbelief. “What? No. Of course I have not fathered a child—I’m seventeen.”

She frowned. “You’d be surprised if you knew at what age my classmates started havin’ crotch goblins. Maybe you had a wild past before fallin’ for Akane.”

“It’s for my sister,” he clarified, brushing off the jab. “St. Hebereke has requested my father’s attendance, but as usual, I must be dispatched in his stead.”

Ranko pressed her hand to her chest in exaggerated relief. “Right. Duh. I totally forgot about your sister for a sec there.”

Kuno chuckled under his breath. “She’s been complaining about that, too.”

“About what?” Ranko asked.

“About me forgetting her. She claims I’m never home. At first, she relished the freedom, of course—given our long-standing disagreements. She’s never accepted me as a paternal authority. But now,” he sighed, “she finds my absence inconvenient. Or lonely. Or both.”

Ranko chewed in thoughtful silence, then gave a low whistle. “Must be tough. Tryin’ to play dad to a girl barely two years younger than you.”

Kuno nodded gravely. “It is not easy. But it is my responsibility. At least until she marries.”

Ranko stopped mid-chew. “Wait— until she marries?”

“Yes,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural endpoint in the world.

She stared at him, then slowly exhaled. “Man… That’s so weird.”

Ranko yawned wide and unashamed, shoulders drooping, her head heavy where it leaned against him. She blinked, sluggish but smiling, trying to force her brain to line things up in some kind of order. “Okay… so we’re still on for tomorrow.”

“Unless you change your mind and decide to rest,” Kuno replied evenly.

Ranko shook her head, then nodded, then shook it again, making a vague frustrated sound. “I don’t. I mean—I do , I’m runnin’ on fumes—but I want this,” she gestured sloppily, finger darting between him and herself twice, “more.”

Kuno blinked at her, slowly. “Understood.”

“And then,” she continued, “you’ve got your sister’s PTA thing, so I won’t see you Friday.”

“You’ll see me at school,” he said, ever the optimist.

“Not the same,” she mumbled, already missing him in advance. There was a pause, both of them half aware of the creeping silence. Ranko looked up at the clouded sky. “Then there’s the weekend.”

“Tennis on Saturday,” he said with a faint note of apology.

“I’m gonna go home and sleep like I’m trying to break a record,” she smirked, stretching one leg out in front of her.

Another silence. Softer this time. They both turned to look at each other, eyes catching and holding.

They spoke at once.

“I was wondering—”

“Did you wanna—”

They stopped, blinked, she laughed. Ranko tilted her head. “Go on.”

Kuno hesitated. “Will you be too exhausted to do something on Sunday? With me?”

Ranko grinned, a gleam in her tired eyes. “Hell no. You owe me a day.”

He gave a solemn little nod, as if it were a debt carved in stone. “Very well. I shall plan for Sunday.”

“Oh? A plan?”

“Leave it to me,” he said, and for once, didn’t elaborate.

Ranko leaned back against him again, letting her eyes drift half-closed. “You better not plan anythin’ borin’.”

“I would never be able to do such a thing if you’re coming with me.”

She snorted, but her smile didn’t fade. The canal murmured beside them, and the clouds thickened into a lazy silver ceiling overhead. 

"You ought to sleep," Kuno said, voice low and serious, for perhaps the tenth time.

Ranko shook her head against his shoulder, the movement lazy and half-hearted. "No way. I'm not wastin' my last good hours passin' out on you."

"You are already passing out on me," he pointed out, adjusting his arm slightly so she could settle more comfortably.

Ranko opened one eye, mischievous despite herself. "If I'm gonna stay awake, you gotta help me."

"And how might I assist?" Kuno asked, sounding both skeptical and resigned.

She pushed herself up a little, sitting more upright though she swayed like a tired reed in the wind. A grin curled her lips as an old, half-forgotten memory sparked to life.

"We're gonna play somethin'," she declared.

Kuno looked alarmed. "Ranko—"

"Shhh," she pressed a finger to his lips with reckless boldness, then laughed at his stunned expression. "It’s easy. It’s a kid’s game. I used to play it when I was little."

"I have severe doubts about the simplicity of any endeavor you propose," he said dryly, but his hand was already reaching out obediently.

Ranko clapped her hands together, then lightly against his, starting a simple rhythm. "Like this. Clap, clap, clap-your-hands, cross 'em, back, hit—" She fumbled through the sequence, demonstrating with drooping but determined enthusiasm.

Kuno tried to mimic her, his movements precise but stiff.

Ranko burst out laughing, a soft wheeze of pure delight. "You’re so bad at this."

"I am unfamiliar with games that require frivolity and reflexes simultaneously," Kuno said, sounding almost offended, but his lips twitched at the corners.

"C’mon, Samurai," Ranko teased. "You’re a martial artist! Undefeated kendo champion! Captain of the team! You should have lightning reflexes!"

"Martial arts does not typically include clapping competitions," he deadpanned.

Still, he tried again, and again, as Ranko led him through the silly sequence — clap, cross, back, slap. Their hands met, missed, collided. Sometimes they fumbled so badly she had to grab his wrists to show him, laughing so hard her sides ached.

"You’re hopeless," she gasped, leaning into him shamelessly now, her forehead against the soft fabric over his ribs.

"Undoubtedly," he murmured, and his hand, steady and warm, settled over her smaller one without thinking.

The touch stilled her laughter.

She lifted her head slightly to look at him, her face flushed from exertion, from nearness, from a hundred unnamed feelings roiling under her skin.

"You’re fun," she said simply, almost shyly.

Kuno stared at her, and for a moment, a rare softness gentled the sharp planes of his face. "You are sleep-deprived," he said.

She grinned, shoving his shoulder lightly. "True."

"You truly ought to rest," he said again, quieter now, almost pleading.

Then his hand moved—just by her head, not hesitant but careful. His fingers touched her cheek, warm. He didn’t cup her face like a lover might. Just pressed gently, like anchoring her there. Her head tipped against his side and stayed.

“Get some sleep,” he said, quiet and steady. “I’ll keep watch.”

Ranko blinked up at him, too surprised to speak. But she didn’t pull away. Her cheek was crushed a little awkwardly against the fabric of his sleeve, but it felt good—solid, safe. She stared at the shape of his collarbone under his shirt, the calm set of his jaw.

“I’m cold,” she lied, soft and almost playful.

He shifted without a word, lifting his arm and letting her slide against him. She curled into the curve of his side, and his arm came down around her back like a gate closing gently. Her forehead pressed just below his collar. He was so warm, and his scent—clean, like some kind of forest soap with a trace of tea—filled her lungs.

Gods. She bit the inside of her cheek. What I wouldn’t do for you, you big beautiful fool… Just to be his. Just to matter to him the way she wanted to. 

Above them, the first stars blinked weakly into existence. The time slipped by unnoticed, soft and silent, until the buzz of Ranko’s cheap little clock stirred her from the edge of sleep. She blinked, dazed, disoriented for a moment — and realized she had melted almost entirely against Kuno's side. But reality crept in. Nine-thirty.

With a sigh that tasted like regret, she shifted, lifting her head from his shoulder.

"Time to go, huh," she murmured, her voice rough with exhaustion. “I’ll keep usin’ you as a pillow if you don’t set boundaries, bud.”

“I do not mind” he replied, as they both got up from the bench. She wobbled slightly but stabilized before his hand could reach for her arm.

"Thanks, Samurai," she said, her voice low and uneven.

He gave a small bow of his head, almost solemn.  Ranko shifted awkwardly, pulling her jacket tighter around herself.

"Allow me to escort you at least part of the way," Kuno offered.

"Nah," she said, smiling. "It’s fine. You’ll just get in trouble with your sis if you stay out too late."

He hesitated, reluctant, but he respected her decision. With a final, long look — a look that made Ranko’s stomach twist painfully with everything she wanted and couldn’t have — he inclined his head once more.

"Be well, Ranko."

"You too, Samurai."

She turned, stuffing her hands into her pockets, and headed off into the night, her steps dragging but her heart feeling light, impossibly light, like it might float her right off the cracked pavement.

Behind her, Kuno watched until she disappeared from sight — and only then did he turn, slow and dignified, to make his own way home to a sister who could very well poison him.

Ranko trudged the last few meters to the worksite, her body protesting every step, but her heart still floating, buoyed by the lingering echo of Kuno's scent, the memory of his warmth. The lights from the site spilled out into the humid night, harsh and sterile compared to the tender twilight she'd left behind. Still, there was a weird sort of comfort to it — the honest smell of earth and oil and the constant low rumble of the generators humming like oversized crickets. She changed into her work uniform.

She ducked into the prefab trailer to clock in, pulling on her battered canvas gloves as she entered. The heavy door creaked open, and inside, perched on a folding chair like a gargoyle, was Mr. Kimura — leathery-faced, perpetually squinting, with a cigarette balanced precariously on his lower lip, as always.

"Evenin', kid," he rasped, not bothering to remove the cigarette to speak. His voice sounded like gravel grinding under a boot heel, but there was a warmth to it too, like an old dog too tired to bark.

"Evenin', boss," Ranko said, giving him a little salute with two fingers.

He grunted, flipping through a clipboard covered in messy kanji. "You eat somethin’?"

"Yeah," she said, suppressing a yawn. "Yakisoba pan. Two of ‘em."

Mr. Kimura gave her a squint that passed for approval.

Ranko smiled. “Oh, hey — think you could do me a favor and not schedule me on breaks with Hibiki?”

He squinted at her, amused. “You two beefin’?”

“Nah,” she said, waving it off. “He's just... disorienting. I also don’t wanna give anyone the wrong impression, so it’d be good if I don’t run into him.”

Mr. Kimura chuckled, a dry little rumble from deep in his chest. “Ain’t gotta worry about it. Kid hardly ever shows up. Gets lost constantly. Took a bathroom break once and ended up in Aomori.”

Ranko blinked. "What, really?"

Mr. Kimura nodded sagely. "He’s strong as a damn ox when we do have him. Can clear rocky soil like nobody’s business. Worth the headache of not knowin’ if he’s gonna show up or not."

Ranko laughed under her breath. "So Hibiki’s more important to the company than me, huh?"

Mr. Kimura tilted his head, smoke curling lazily around his weathered face. "No comment," he said, deadpan.

Ranko let out a real, tired laugh, punching his arm lightly with her gloved fist as she passed by his side.

He handed her a small clipboard and a grease pencil. “You’re on inventory tonight. Check the plastic road reflectors after the asphalt crew finishes—count what’s still good, mark the busted ones for replacement. Same with the equipment in the shed. Easy stuff. Work solo, just you and your penmanship.”

“Great,” Ranko muttered, but she meant it. She liked this sort of work. Walking the painted lines on the shoulder, kneeling down with a flashlight, marking cracked plastic with a big ‘X’, her braid swaying behind her like a lazy tail. The night buzzed around her, the occasional rumble of passing trucks like distant waves crashing.

She let her mind drift. To Kuno’s voice. The way he said get some sleep like a knight laying his cloak on a puddle. To the way she’d pressed into his arm like it was the safest place in the world. She remembered the way his scent almost made her eyes sting a little. Like she wanted to cry, but didn’t know why.

By 5:45 AM, she was floating through her body like a balloon half-deflated. The world tilted just a little every time she moved her head too fast. Her limbs felt heavy, loose, her lips caught smiling at nothing. It was the kind of tired that felt like a drunk buzz—pleasant, dizzying, a little dangerous.

Kimura waved her down from across the cones, flicking his smoke into a sand bucket. “Clock out, kid. Go before the sun fries your brain.”

Ranko yawned and saluted. “Aye aye, boss.”

She shuffled to the trailer, scribbled her name on the log, and stepped back out. The prefab door clicked shut behind her, and Ranko stepped out into the crisp early morning air. Her school uniform felt weird, as though she’d slipped into someone else’s skin. Her legs ached faintly, and her arms hung limp, her movements slow and clumsy from sleep-deprivation. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand and gave a long, yawning sigh. She could already feel the edges of her thoughts blurring—sleep-drunk, like she was floating just above the pavement.

“Ranko,” a voice called out.

She froze halfway through her second yawn.

Genma was standing a few feet away, near the machinery lot. He was dressed in his work uniform—dust-caked coveralls, reflective safety vest, thick boots scuffed with dried mud, and the grime of underground tunnel work still streaked across his sleeves. His hard hat was under one arm. He looked rough, but it wasn’t exhaustion in his eyes.

It was something harder. Something that snapped her out of her fog like a slap.

“Pops…?”

His expression didn’t change. He strode toward her, took her firmly by the arm—too firm for comfort, but not enough to draw attention—and steered her quickly to the narrow side alley between the trailers. The prefab’s shadow hid them from view. The wind whipped up some loose gravel. Her shoes crunched against it.

She was awake now. Very awake. Her heart pounded in her ears.

“You haven’t been home since Sunday,” he said, voice low and taut.

“I haven’t had time,” she said fast, reflexive. “Don’t get mad—I’m goin’ to school, I’ve been workin’, I’m not skippin’ out, I swear—”

“Stop.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the word hit like a closing door.

She flinched. Her throat went dry.

“I’m not mad at that. Don’t come back home.”

“…What?” She blinked. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You heard me,” Genma said, voice even. “Don’t come home. Not until I say you can.”

She stared at him, willing it to be a bad joke. He wasn’t joking.

“Old man—what do you mean?” she said, half laughing, the sound too thin and high. “Come on, you don’t mean that.”

“You’ve avoided home longer than this before,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Just do it again.”

“I can’t ,” she said. Her voice cracked despite her. “I’m different now. I’m tryin’. I’m goin’ to school every day. I’ve got this honest job—”

He wasn’t listening. Or maybe he was , and didn’t want to hear it.

Genma reached into his chest pocket, pulled out a 5,000 yen bill, and pressed it into her hand. “I know it’s not much. I’ll find you here and give you more when I can.”

Ranko looked down at the bill. Her fist curled around it, automatically. Her chest hurt.

“Why?” she whispered. “What happened?”

“Don’t be disrespectful, girl,” he muttered. “Just do what I tell you: don’t come home.”

Her mouth trembled. The wind stung her eyes. “You promised,” she said. “You promised we weren’t in debt again.”

Genma turned without another word, his shoulders hunched, disappearing back around the trailer’s edge.

“Dad…” she said, too quietly for him to hear.

She watched his silhouette shrink. Her body felt cold and stiff and small. She wanted to run after him, to scream, to beg, to cry, but her legs wouldn’t move.

Her heart hurt. Actually hurt . Not the way it ached when she saw Kuno looking at her, or when Akane gave her a smile, or when she pet a friendly dog in a park on a lonely weekend. No, this was deep and dark and hot, like a crack in the earth opening under her ribs, it was painful.

Ranko stood there for a long moment, the 5,000 yen bill clutched tight in her hand. The sky above was turning milky-blue. 

She wouldn’t cry. She was stronger than that now.

...Wasn't she?

Chapter Text

She didn’t remember the walk to Furinkan. It was all a blur of sidewalks, traffic lights, and the grey smear of sky over rooftops. Ranko moved like a ghost, drawn not by will but by the rhythm of habit. Her limbs ached, her sneakers scraped the pavement too loudly in her ears, and her brain throbbed behind her eyes like it was trying to swell out of her skull.

When she reached the old storage, Ranko dumped her schoolbag onto the floor with a thunk and dropped onto the mats like a felled tree. Her body curled up instantly, defensively, her bag pulled under her head as a pillow. She stripped off her red jacket and draped it over herself like a blanket, wrapping it tight beneath her chin.

She closed her eyes. Please, she begged herself. Just sleep. Just let me pass out. Please, please, just shut it off for a little while…

But sleep didn’t come.

Her body throbbed. Her bones buzzed. Her brain wouldn’t stop spitting images at her—her father’s hard face, the money in her palm, his back turned to her. The way he told her not to come back home.

She swallowed. Her throat tasted bitter. What the hell happened…?

Did he lose the apartment?

Did some debt collector finally corner him?

Was he hiding from someone? 

Was a woman involved? Had someone wormed her way in and he didn’t know how to get her out?

Did he… did he choose not to get her out? Maybe it was easier just to tell the mess of a daughter to leave home, and start all over with someone new.

It didn’t matter. Not really.

She couldn’t go back. Not today. Not Friday, when Kuno would be stuck with a PTA meeting and she’d be all alone. Not Saturday, the one day she could actually sleep. Not Sunday, when she was supposed to meet Kuno and maybe look like a good girl, for once. Her clothes were at home. Her good shoes, her red shirt with the little embroidered cracked heart on the chest, her one bottle of decent perfume she had stolen last year. All out of reach.

Home is gone.

The thought hit her like a sucker punch.

She squeezed her eyes tighter. Her chest trembled.

God, she thought. I’m such an idiot. I believed him. I actually believed him this time.

She pressed her forehead into her bag. Her heart ached too loud in her chest, echoing up into her throat, making her jaw tighten. Her lashes were wet, but no tears fell.

“Ranko.”

The voice came softly at first, as though speaking underwater. A gentle ripple breaking through sleep.

“Ranko.” A firmer shake followed. Hands on her shoulders, insistent. “Hey—Ranko.”

She startled, jerking upright in her chair like she’d just been dunked in ice water. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes, rimmed with shadows, snapped to Akane’s face—worried, tight with concern.

Morning light spilled through the classroom windows. A low hum of conversation buzzed in the hall. Class hadn’t started yet, but the room was already filling. Ranko blinked rapidly, her head swimming.

“You don’t look well,” Akane said quietly, crouching beside her desk, gaze searching. “I’m really worried. Please. Come to the infirmary with me.”

Ranko shook her head at once. “Nah. I’m good.”

Akane’s expression didn’t change. In fact, it darkened.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re not , Ranko.”

Ranko looked away. She felt the weight of eyes all around—classmates trickling in, chatting, laughing, oblivious. She hunched in her seat, curling in on herself slightly, trying to keep her expression flat.

She’d seen Akane angry before—furious at Kuno’s theatrics, rolling her eyes at Nabiki’s deals—but never like this. Never at her.

Something in her chest tightened. Akane’s hand closed around her forearm.

“That’s it,” she said.

Before Ranko could even register it, she was on her feet, her arm in Akane’s grip, being marched out of the room. Akane snagged both their bags as she went, muttering something clipped under her breath. Ranko didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. Her legs moved automatically, leaden and slow.

They climbed the stairs in silence. Cool air greeted them on the rooftop, the sky pale and colorless above the city.

Akane set their bags down and turned. Ranko dropped onto the concrete, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. Her whole body felt brittle, like she might crack if anyone looked too hard.

Akane knelt across from her.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said, not unkind, but firm. “You’re so tired, it’s like you’re not even here anymore.” Ranko didn’t answer. She stared past Akane at the railing, the cropped edges of Nerima in the distance. “Aren’t we friends?” Akane asked, softer now, but the inflection landed with a thud in Ranko’s chest.

Ranko glanced up, startled.

“I care about you,” Akane continued. “I’m not asking to pry. But I’m worried , Ranko. Please… talk to me.” There was that word again— please. Spoken like a tether. Like a lifeline offered.

Ranko swallowed hard, throat dry. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t blink. She didn’t know if she could speak at all without breaking open.

“I’m sorry,” Ranko said at last, her voice thin and cracking at the edges. She hugged her knees tighter. “I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t tryin’ to keep it from you. I just got overwhelmed. Everythin’ piled up so fast, and I thought if I could just push through, it’d be fine.”

Akane didn’t speak right away, but her expression softened. She sat beside Ranko now, their shoulders close but not touching.

So Ranko told her.

Not in a dramatic spill, but in plain, tired words. About the construction job that started at ten every night and ended at six in the morning. About breaking into school before it opened to shower in the changing rooms, using the school’s storage room like a den, and trying to nap on old gym mats with her jacket for a blanket. She told her about the club—that made-up excuse she and Kuno had invented to spend time together after classes and his kendo practice, before her night shift. 

“It’s just two weeks,” Ranko said. “Seven nights left, really. Then it’s over.”

Her voice was steadier now, but flat—like someone reciting numbers. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want to sound dramatic. She just wanted Akane to understand.

Akane let out a breath, slow and weary. “Ranko… that’s really unhealthy. You’re barely sleeping. Your body can’t take that for long.”

“I know.”

“You’re trying to come to school, do your job, and still keep that silly club going with Kuno?”

Ranko nodded, a little stubborn fire flickering in her chest. “Yeah.”

Akane shook her head, not in anger, but in disbelief. “Why not take a break from it? Just a week. It’s not like Kuno would—”

“I can’t.” Ranko’s voice sharpened. Her hands curled a little tighter over her knees. She looked down at the concrete beneath them, then out at the horizon. “I can’t give up seein’ him,” she said, her tone quieter now. “I know it’s dumb. I know it doesn’t make sense. But I just can’t. If I don’t get that little bit of time with him, I feel like I’d disappear.”

The words settled between them. The wind stirred a piece of paper by the rooftop door.

Ranko turned her head, looking at Akane sideways. “Have you ever felt like that? Like you’d give up anythin’ just to be around the person you like? Like you’d change your very soul just to be good enough for ‘em?”

Akane didn’t answer right away. Her expression didn’t change, but she reached up, almost absentmindedly, and ran her fingers through her long black hair. The silence she offered wasn’t cold—it was contemplative, laced with something distant and personal. 

“There’s more,” Ranko said, her voice barely above the hum of the wind that tugged at her sleeves. Akane turned toward her, a worried line etched between her brows. Ranko didn’t lift her head from where it rested on her knees. “My old man kicked me out.”

Akane’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened—maybe to question it, maybe to protest—but Ranko kept going.

“He came to the worksite after my shift ended. He didn’t shout or anythin'. Just took me aside and said I wasn’t allowed to come home. Not until he said I could.” She gave a short laugh that had no humor in it, just breath. “He even gave me money. Five thousand yen, like that’d cover anythin'. I asked him why, and he told me not to be disrespectful. That’s what he always says when he doesn’t want to answer somethin'.”

Akane was silent, but her hand inched closer over the rooftop’s sun-warmed concrete, as if trying to be near without crowding her.

“It’s not the first time he’s done this,” Ranko went on. “Couple years ago, when he was real deep in debt… a gang came to our place. Trashed it. Took everythin' that looked like it might be worth somethin'. We moved soon after that.” She paused, then added, more quietly, “He swore we weren’t in debt anymore. He promised.”

Akane’s throat moved in a silent swallow.

“So now,” Ranko muttered, “I don’t know what’s waitin' at home. Debt collectors, yakuza, some woman he owes… or worse, maybe no one at all. Just silence and wreckage.”

The air between them grew heavier with every word, like dust falling in slow motion. And still, Ranko hadn’t finished. Words spilled from her lips and she couldn't stop them, her heart had opened to Akane and more and more information gushed out, all her thoughts and feelings rushing towards the girl who listened in silence: helpful, kind, beautiful.

“This sounds crazy, but…” she said again, tilting her head just enough to glance at Akane “a few nights ago, I overheard your dad talking to my dad.”

Akane blinked. “What?”

“They know each other. They were talking like old friends. Your dad—he said something about a master.”

Ranko studied Akane now, not accusing, but searching her face.

“Do you know the name ‘Happosai’?”

Akane stiffened. Her eyes didn’t widen this time—but her jaw did tighten, ever so slightly. And her hand stopped moving.

Ranko’s heart thudded hard. “So you do know.”

Akane didn’t say anything at first. Just turned her head, studying Ranko with eyes too clear to lie. Then, in a low voice, she asked, “Do you know how to get out of school?”

Ranko blinked. “Huh?”

Akane didn’t smile. “I’m serious. Do you know how?”

Ranko tilted her head. “You mean like… now?”

“Yes. Now.”

There was a beat, then Ranko gave a small, incredulous laugh. “Wait—are you skippin’ class?”

Akane stood. “It’s worse. I’m skipping class and taking you with me.”

Ranko snorted, rising slowly to her feet. “You sure you’re not catching whatever I have? Some sort of delinquent virus?”

Akane looked over her shoulder, her voice quiet but firm. “Come on. We have to talk to my dad.”

The shoji door to the Tendo home slid open with its usual soft shiff of wood on track. The house was serene, caught between morning chores and the lull of a weekday emptiness. The scent of polished floors and warm steam from the kitchen gave the place its usual sleepy charm.

Kasumi looked up from the hallway with a small start. “Oh! Akane. Ranko. Is everything all right?”

“Kinda,” Akane replied. “We need to talk to Dad.”

Kasumi’s smile faded a little, her voice softening. “He’s in the dojo, I’ll call him into the living room. I’ll bring some tea.”

Akane stepped into the room—Ranko following quietly behind, rubbing her arm like a guilty child at a principal’s office. The low table sat before the wide open view of the garden, framed by soft paper screens. A koi breached the surface of the pond with a silent ripple.

Akane knelt first. Ranko followed, folding her legs beneath her and glancing sidelong at the perfectly trimmed shrubs and stone lanterns outside the open panel. The stillness of the garden felt oppressive, like something waiting to be broken.

Mr. Tendo stepped in soon after, adjusting his sleeves as he settled down opposite them. “Good morning,” he said, with the warm inflection of a man trying to sound relaxed. “Did something happen at school?”

Akane shook her head and before either girl could speak, Kasumi entered and set a lacquered tray down on the table. Four ceramic cups of steaming tea, simple and fragrant. 

Soun looked between his youngest daughter and the bottle-blonde girl with the too-sharp eyes. “Kasumi, would you mind staying?” he asked softly.

“Of course.”

Kasumi served them the tea. They sipped in silence for a moment. Even the koi outside seemed to hold still.

It was Akane who broke the quiet. “Dad,” she said, her voice tight. “We need to know what’s going on with you and Ranko’s dad. Please.”

Ranko shifted beside her. She took a breath, glanced once at Akane, then looked Mr. Tendo in the eye. 

“I overheard you,” she said. “You were talkin’ to my old man at a restaurant a few nights ago.”

Soun’s expression didn’t change, but his silence deepened.

“I didn’t mean to spy,” Ranko went on quickly, her words rough around the edges. “But I heard you say you knew him. That you’d trained together. And you mentioned a ‘master.’” Her voice wavered just slightly. “Please, Mr. Tendo,” she said, quieter now. “He just kicked me out. He never tells me anythin’, if this is related… I wanna know. Please.”

Kasumi placed her cup down with a soft clink. Soun closed his eyes. The silence in the room shifted. Less peaceful now—more like the breath held before a confession.

Soun Tendo took a deep breath, closing his eyes as though the act of speaking would draw something old and painful out of the marrow of his bones.

“I don’t know why he kicked you out. I don't think our conversation had anything to do with it, but then again, too long has passed to truly say I know what kind of man he is now." Soun opened his eyes, his hand smoothed down his moystache. "I met your father,” he began, “when we were young men.”

He looked at Ranko, then at his daughters. His gaze softened.

“Saotome-kun had just married your mother. I remember… he was proud. Nervous, like he wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into, but he was happy. I was already married by then. Your mother, girls, was pregnant with Kasumi when I started training with a master.”

Kasumi’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of surprise on her usually calm face. Akane’s brows knit together, quietly taking it in.

“I had just inherited the dojo,” Soun continued. “It’s been in our family for generations. I thought… if I was going to protect it, and my family, I needed to train seriously. Your father and I were both full of fire, Ranko. We thought strength would solve everything.”

He paused. His fingers trembled slightly on the teacup before him.

“We trained under a man named Happosai.”

Ranko flinched. Even the name made her stomach turn.

“At first, we believed in him. He was powerful—beyond anything we had seen. We thought he would make us stronger. Better. But… the more we trained, the more we saw what 'no matter what' truly meant. He taught techniques no man should ever learn. He broke things that shouldn’t be broken. Honor. Dignity. Consent.”

Soun’s voice darkened. “We were afraid of him. Not just his strength, but his lack of conscience. He would hurt anyone, use anyone, and laugh about it.” Soun avoided the girls's gaze. “When we finally got rid of him… it was like escaping a nightmare. I returned home, to my wife, my children. I never wanted to think about him again.”

There was a stillness then, heavy and charged.

“Until he returned,” Soun said quietly. “About five years ago.”

A quiet fell over the room like dusk descending. No one spoke.

Then Kasumi, her voice barely more than a breath: “I remember when Mr. Happosai showed up.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

“I was your age, Ranko. Maybe a year younger. Father tried to be kind, to offer him a room… but Mr. Happosai wasn’t content with kindness.” She hesitated. Her hands clasped in her lap. “He—” she faltered, her composure cracking.

Soun reached across the table and gently took her hand. His eyes were heavy with guilt.

Akane, her voice a hush, said, “I don’t remember much. You both kept me away from it.”

“You were just a little girl,” Soun said. "You all were. And with your mom gone, well... I didn't realize what danger I had invited into my home. Your home, girls."

Akane gave a faint nod.

“He wanted revenge when he returned, I suppose." Soun looked at Kasumi, who looked away. A heavy, uncomfortable silence grew between them. "I had to kick him out, even if it costs us almost everything. I couldn't let him... I can't even say it."

Ranko’s voice, when it came, was low and furious. “You don’t have to say what kind of shit he did.”

They turned to her. Her hands were balled into fists on her knees, knuckles white.

“I know. I don’t know if he came for us before or after he stayed with you guys, but I remember. I remember him goin’ through my underwear drawer. I remember him makin' me try on lingerie for him.” Her voice cracked with anger. “I was what, eleven? Twelve? My body already looked almost like a woman’s, but damn it, I was still a kid. ”

Her fists trembled. “I didn’t even know what he was doin’. I just knew it was wrong. Him lookin’. Him touchin’. And I didn’t know why my dad wouldn’t stop it.”

Upstairs, the hallway was still and sunlit, filled with the scent of wood polish and clean linens. The world outside the house carried on—housemakers on daily errands, the occasional hum of a passing truck—but in the Tendo home, time seemed to pause. Just a little. Just for them.

Akane opened her bedroom door and stepped inside, glancing back to make sure Ranko followed.

The room was simple, lived-in but neat. A breeze stirred the curtains gently. The light was soft, almost drowsy.

Ranko hesitated on the threshold, still holding her oversized jacket in her arms. Her eyes were dull and ringed with exhaustion, her mouth pulled tight. 

“You can sit down,” Akane said, gently. “It’s just us. And we’ve officially skipped class, so… I guess we’ve got the day.”

Ranko gave a weak smile and sat at the edge of the bed. She just let the jacket rest in her lap like armor she didn’t know how to put down. A moment passed.

Then Akane sat next to her on the bed and grabbed her hand, “If he ever comes near you, I’ll break his damn arms.”

Ranko let out a short breath. It could’ve been a laugh or a sob. “That’s real friendship.”

“You’re damn right.”

"...Thank you, Akane. You always manage to make me feel less alone."

Akane nodded. "I don't want you to feel alone. Just—don't push me away, okay? I want to be there for you."

For a while, neither of them moved. Ranko sat slumped forward, her head bowed like she might collapse in on herself, but her grip on Akane’s hand remained. Then her body wavered slightly, as if someone had dimmed the light behind her eyes. Akane noticed her sway.

“Ranko?”

“Mhm,” she murmured, eyes fluttering.

“Do you want to lie down?”

“No, I’m—” Her words broke into a long, involuntary yawn. She blinked at Akane, confused. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t gonna—”

Akane smiled softly. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

“Not really. I’m okay. I—” But her body betrayed her again, this time leaning back. She blinked up at the ceiling, then at Akane, her face already going slack with fatigue.

“Lie down,” Akane said again, and this time Ranko obeyed without protest.

She eased onto the bed, curling on her side. The jacket she’d been clinging to fell from her arms and crumpled to the floor. Her hair fanned across the pillow, her braid barely containing it.

Akane stood beside the bed and pulled the blanket over her friend, gently tucking it around her shoulders and back. She smoothed a stray strand of hair from Ranko’s cheek.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “You’re safe.”

“Please, Akane… wake me up before six… I have to—Kuno—”

Ranko’s eyes didn’t open, but her lips twitched. Her breath soon deepened, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that spoke of true, complete exhaustion—finally allowed to rest.

Akane sat beside the bed for a long time after that, not speaking, not moving, just keeping watch over the girl who was so broken, Akane wondered how she had stayed in one piece for so long.

A soft knock stirred the air—barely more than a hush against the quiet. Akane turned from where she sat beside the bed and padded across the carpet in her socks. She opened the door just enough to see Kasumi standing there, hands folded gently in front of her apron, eyes warm and a little concerned.

“Everything okay?” Kasumi asked, her voice just above a whisper.

Akane nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“I’m okay,” Kasumi said, with the trace of a smile.

Akane glanced back at the bed, where Ranko’s breathing had settled into a soft rhythm, her cheek turned toward the blankets, one hand curled beneath her chin, worn thin by too many nights. “She’s going to sleep a little,” Akane added quietly.

Kasumi tilted her head slightly. “Will she be staying here tonight?”

There was something hopeful in her tone, something unspoken in the way her eyes lingered on Ranko’s sleeping shape.

Akane paused. “I’ll try to convince her.”

Kasumi’s smile deepened just a touch, serene and satisfied. “I’ll bring up the futon. Just in case.”

Akane smiled back—grateful, a little heavy in the chest—and gently closed the door with a soft click.

She returned to her room in silence and crossed to her desk by the window. Sitting down, she pulled the chair close and folded her arms on the surface, resting her chin there. Behind her, Ranko slept—curled up, small, silent.

What happened to her is horrible, Akane thought, jaw tight. It could’ve been me. Nabiki.
She paused. Did it happen to Kasumi?

Her stomach twisted.

How many girls before someone stops him?

The wind stirred the trees outside. Akane didn’t move. She just sat there, watching the light shift on the glass, and wished she could unhear everything she now knew.

But she couldn’t.

And she wouldn’t look away. The time would come when she could do something about it, and Akane knew not only that she would, but she had to.

Chapter Text

“Ranko… hey, Ranko. It’s five-thirty.”

Ranko blinked awake. The room was dim with late afternoon light. Akane sat at the edge of the bed, her hand light on Ranko’s shoulder. For a few seconds, Ranko didn’t move—just breathed. The covers were warm and clean, the mattress soft, the pillow still holding the shape of her cheek.

“I drooled all over your pillow,” she murmured.

Akane gave a soft laugh. “It’s okay. Means you got some rest.”

Ranko sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes. “That bed felt like heaven. Like, actual heaven. I think I died for a few hours.”

“You needed it.” Akane stood. “You have to meet Kuno at school, right?”

“Yeah.” Ranko stretched, bones cracking. “Thanks for waking me up.”

She slipped into the hallway and made her way to the bathroom. The cold water bit at her skin, jolting her nerves back to life. She stared at her reflection—her braid undone, eyes puffy, skin pale.

I am a mess, she thought, tapping her cheeks with wet fingers. But I’m up. I’m moving.

The sky was tinged with amber and pale blue as they walked toward Furinkan. Ranko’s steps were light, but her body still felt heavy in that invisible way. Akane matched her pace until they reached a small chiropractic clinic.

“I’m heading in here,” Akane said, touching the doorframe. “Good luck with Kuno.”

Ranko frowned. “Your wrist still hurts?”

Akane hesitated, then offered a noncommittal shrug. “A little... Don’t be late.”

Ranko looked at the clock on the building wall—just past six. “Thanks again. For… all of it. You made me feel loads better.”

Akane smiled. “Go, silly.”

Ranko jogged the rest of the way, breath quickening. Furinkan’s gates loomed ahead, tall and golden with the low sun. And there, standing with his arms crossed, as statuesque and perfectly postured as always, was Kuno.

“You’re late,” he said.

Ranko grinned and tilted her head. “Did you miss me?”

He didn’t answer at first, eyes lingering on her face.

“I was… a little worried,” he admitted.

Ranko stepped forward, heart skipping. “Well, I’m here.”

Kuno glanced at her as they walked through the quiet evening shadows, heading into town. Ranko undid her braid and her quick fingers brushed her blonde hair as she tried to redo her braid tightly this time. 

Kuno looked at her curiously. “Where were you?”

Ranko flashed a mischievous grin, the kind that promised trouble. “Akane Tendo’s bed.”

Kuno’s steps faltered, slowed down..

“Pardon?” he asked, voice tighter than usual.

“I said I was in Akane’s bed,” Ranko repeated, watching his face as the words settled in. Kuno’s stride froze completely, and she could almost see the gears turning behind his furrowed brow.

Ranko chuckled, smug at first—then a sliver of doubt crept in. His silence stretched, unreadable. She tilted her head. “Don’t short-circuit on me, Samurai.”

Kuno blinked. “I am not certain whether I ought to feel jealous… affronted… or something else entirely.”

“ Somethin’ else entirely ,” Ranko said, jabbing him lightly with her elbow. “That’s the one you should go with.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “And what precisely does ‘something else’ entail?”

Ranko sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Means you don’t need to get weird about it. I slept in her bed, yeah—but she wasn’t there. I just crashed. Was dead tired. That’s all.” She softened her voice, nudging him with a crooked grin. “Don’t worry, Samurai. I’m not stealin’ your girl.”

Kuno raised both eyebrows, arch and deliberate. “ For now .”

That made her laugh. “Yeah, for now.”

They resumed walking. He was still watching her out of the corner of his eye when he asked, “So—where shall we go today?”

Ranko scratched the back of her head. “No clue. Was gonna follow your lead.” Then she paused. Something heavy returned to her expression. “Oh. Right. Meant to tell you.”

He looked at her.

“My old man told me I can’t go home. Indefinitely. So… wherever you wanted to meet on Sunday, just let me know where to be. You can’t pick me up at my place.”

Kuno’s expression shifted. “What happened?”

Ranko exhaled, her voice flippant but tight at the edges. “Same crap as always. Money, maybe. Yakuza, probably. Doesn’t matter.”

But it did. And somehow, Kuno could tell. He glanced at her, his gaze steady. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Ranko shook her head almost immediately. “No. Not now. I’ve talked too much today.” Her voice was low, almost bitter with fatigue. “I’m tired of my baggage. Tired of draggin’ it out like it’s something worth unpackin’.” She gave him a sidelong look, her smile soft but frayed at the edges. “I don’t want to think about my dad or my past anymore.”
She stopped, turned to face him more fully, and with startling sincerity added, “I just want to think about you.”

Kuno blinked. His posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, and though his expression didn’t change much, something in his eyes flickered—caught off guard. Flustered, perhaps. But he said nothing of it.

Instead, he answered carefully, “If you need a place to stay… you are welcome in my home. Always. I mean that.”

Ranko studied him, quiet for a breath, then gave a small nod. “I know you do. I haven’t really thought about it yet, but… I’ll do my best to be good.”

Kuno nodded back. “Very well. Since you have no fixed address at present, I’ll meet you at the school gates on Sunday at two o’clock. We can spend the afternoon together.”

Ranko’s lips curved into a slow smile. “And evenin’ too?”

“Yes,” Kuno said, his voice gentle, deliberate. “Evening too, if you’d like.”

The words filled something inside her—quietly, deeply. Like warm light spilling into a cold, cracked room. She needed that. Needed this . The anticipation, the care, the normalcy . She couldn’t keep numbing herself with alcohol, with adrenaline, with the kind of trouble that burned her fingertips and left her lonelier than before. She couldn’t keep filling the hollow places with stolen things and hollow men.

Kuno was enough.

Even if he didn’t love her—not like she loved him—this was still good enough .

She reached for his arm and grabbed it, firmly, playfully, her hand small against the fabric of his sleeve. “Okay then, Samurai. So where are we goin’?”

Ranko squinted up at the blinking sign and smirked.

“This place looks like a trap.”

Kuno, unfazed, held the door for her with princely grace. “It had excellent reviews in the student council guidebook.”

“Samurai, that’s from like 1982.”

“It is still in circulation.”

“Exactly my point.”

“I just thought this would be something you might like,” he added, and that made Ranko bite her lower lip and nod.

The place sat above a bookstore, tucked between an empty store and a shuttered soba shop. The fluorescent sign buzzed with age, spelling out “Joy Joy Karaoke” in bubbly hiragana, casting sickly purple light on the narrow stairwell as Kuno held open the door for her.

Inside was dim, humid, and carpeted in thick maroon shag. The clerk behind the counter wore a visor and too much cologne. Kuno paid for a three-hour private booth with unlimited drinks with formal language, drawing stares from a trio of giggling girls as he placed the cash in crisp bills on the counter. He added an order of snacks without hesitation—whatever was most popular on their menu.

Ranko followed him down the corridor, glancing at the walls plastered with faded posters of idols, city pop lyrics printed like sacred texts. She laughed softly at the artificial solemnity of the place, then walked into the booth with a low whistle.

The room was small, padded, warm. A big, boxy CRT television with a mirrored top. Vinyl-covered couches on both sides of a low wooden table. The mics sat upright in their plastic cradles.

As soon as the door closed, Kuno turned to her. “You may sleep, if you wish. You have had a trying day.”

Ranko kicked off her sneakers and flopped dramatically onto the couch, arms splayed. “I slept all mornin’ and afternoon in Akane’s bed, remember?”

He blinked. “Ah. Yes. I… blocked that out.”

“Why?”

“Jealousy,” he said without hesitation.

She snorted. “You’re incredible.”

“I am aware.”

The food and drinks arrived—her soda float already bubbling over the rim, his barley tea steaming. Edamame, wakame salad, chikuwa, agedashi tofu, all neatly arranged in little ceramic bowls. Ranko immediately dove in like she hadn’t eaten in days.

Kuno, ever composed, opened the thick laminated song catalog with gravity and began perusing the available music collection.

She eyed him sideways. “Don’t pick something weird.”

He frowned at the pages. “Do you object to enka?”

Ranko choked on a bite of tofu. “That’s such an old man choice.”

“ Okuhida Bojō ,” he said solemnly, typing in the number. Ryu Tetsuya’s version.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

The music began and the TV flickered: soaring strings, snow scenes, longing. The screen showed some remote mountain village and a man trudging alone toward a train. Kuno stood up—stood up—and gripped the mic like a katana.

And then he sang .

He wasn’t that bad. He was… deep. His voice was too rich, too heavy for the high nasal stuff enka loved, so it came out kind of funny, especially on the emotional little warbles. But he was so serious, so sincere , his brow furrowed like he was feeling every word like a wound.

She laughed. She tried not to, but it was impossible. He was so passionate, so into it , like his whole honor depended on this ridiculous heartbreak ballad. But somehow, the harder he tried, the more charming it got. She bit her lip and smiled behind her straw. You idiot. You precious, precious idiot.

When the song ended, he bowed slightly. “Your turn,” he said, hoarse.

“Absolutely not. Do another one, Samurai.”

“That’s not how this goes, according to the 1982’s Furinkan Student’s Guide to Co-Ed Fun Activities—.”

“I can’t believe you’d refuse entertainment to a homeless girl,” she laughed.

“Well, this particular girl just slept with the woman I love, therefore—” he began.

“I didn’t sleep with her, I slept in her bed !” she clarified, trying not to laugh.

Kuno sighed and grabbed the plastic folder. “One more then, but afterwards you must sing.”

“We’ll see” she said, with a smirk.

He picked another enka song. And another, when Ranko refused again. After the third, his voice cracked on a dramatic note and he cleared his throat, looking vaguely destroyed.

“I implore you,” he said at last, clutching the mic like a dying poet. “Before I fall mute… sing something. Anything.”

Ranko looked away, licking syrup from her straw. Her throat felt tight.

“Alright,” she murmured. “But only ‘cause I’m starting to feel bad for your vocal cords.”

She stood and entered the number with quick fingers.

The screen flickered again. This time, it was city lights. Wet pavement. The lonely figure of a woman walking through Shibuya with a red coat and no umbrella.

The opening synths of Anri’s Kanashimi ga Tomaranai shimmered from the speakers, soft but sharp.

She raised the mic but didn’t look at him. Her voice came out clear, slow, breathy. Too intimate. Like she was whispering in a dream. And though the lyrics were etched into her brain, she stared at the screen like she’d never seen them before.

Kuno blinked. Something about the sound of her—so casual and wild and teasing just minutes ago—now felt delicate. Like she was singing in the dark with her heart cracked open.

She hit the line, Tomodachi mo koibito mo ubatte… and her voice didn’t break, but it trembled . Just enough.

She didn’t look at him once.

When the song ended, she set the mic down quietly and sipped the last of her float, face half-hidden by the rim of the glass.

Kuno spoke softly. “You sing beautifully.”

“Yeah, I know: the voice of an angel in the body of a demon” she said, trying to play it off—but her cheeks were pink and she couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

They sat in the quiet for a second, the song menu blinking on the screen, the mic still warm between them.

“You gonna stand up again and sing another train station ballad?” she asked, trying to lighten the air.

He nodded, reaching for the folder. “If you will join me for a duet after.”

She smiled. “Only if it’s city pop.”

“Then I leave our next fate in your hands.”

By the time Kuno stumbled through his fourth enka, crooning out the final notes with solemnity, Ranko had demolished most of the tofu and was nursing her third cream soda float, the cherry long gone. The booth was warm with the faint scent of fried chikuwa and barley tea. Her laughter had echoed off the paneled walls more than once tonight—but now she was quiet, sipping slowly, eyes half-lidded with contentment.

Then, from the mess of her bag, the cheap plastic alarm clock buzzed.

She fished it out with a sigh, squinting at the glowing numbers: 9:30 PM again. Always too soon. She looked at him, softer now, the edges of her mouth twitching into a rueful smile. “Thanks. I had a blast tonight. And I needed it so badly, man, you can't imagine.”

“You are welcome,” he said, still a little breathless from his last performance. “I am glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“I can’t believe I won’t see you tomorrow.”

Kuno tilted his head. “But… we shall see each other at school, will we not?”

She rolled her eyes, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “It’s not the same. I’ll miss you.” He blinked at her earnestness but didn’t respond, just nodded once, solemn. She paused near the booth door, her hand on the frame, and added, “Good luck at the PTA meetin’ for your sister. Try not to fight with some rich girl’s ancient dad and get thrown out.”

“I merely hope Kodachi has not been poisoning her classmates in earnest this time,” he replied, deadpan.

Ranko barked a laugh. “You guys are so weird.”

“We truly are special,” he said, with something like pride.

She lingered for a breath longer, then smiled wide. “See you, Samurai.”

“Farewell, Ranko,” he replied.

Then she was gone.

The night air was cooler now, a breeze kicking at the hem of her uniform jacket as she headed across Nerima, heart still fizzy like the soda in her stomach. Her limbs felt lighter, stronger. She had slept thanks to Akane’s kindness, she had some questions answered by the Tendos, she had time with Kuno. And despite the mess her dad had dragged her into, over and over, she had found some light.

When she arrived at the construction site, Mr. Kimura barely looked up from his clipboard before whistling low.

“Well, if it ain’t Sunshine herself,” he said. “What’s got you so chipper tonight?”

Ranko tossed her bag near the break table and gave a half-shrug, half-grin. “Not letting life get me down.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Because you’re paired with Hibiki tonight. Gotta clear the north trench of that rock pile. His usual partner’s out with the flu.”

Ranko groaned, already reaching for her helmet and gloves. “Of course I am.”

She tugged her workman’s uniform down, adjusting the twin belts around her hips so the canvas sat right, snug and firm, no room for slipping. Her body moved automatically, but her mind was still half in that warm karaoke booth, still full of music and laughter and the way Kuno had sang next to her with a sincerity that made her feel like sparks flew behind her eyes.

Then she straightened up and went to work.

Chapter Text

The site smelled like wet earth and iron dust. Somewhere in the dark, a backhoe let out a mechanical groan, and the floodlights cast long, tired shadows over broken concrete and stacked rebar. Ranko stood at the edge of the rubble pile, one hand gripping the laminated site map, the other balancing a heavy-duty flashlight whose beam sliced gold into the debris field.

A half-dozen workers in reflective vests were clearing chunks of shattered rock—rock that Ryoga Hibiki had pulverized hours earlier with the sheer, baffling intensity of someone born to smash things. Her own job, which sounded supervisory on paper but felt more like babysitting in practice, was to figure out which sections needed digging and point Ryoga at them with explicit, idiot-proof instructions.

“Honestly,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for it to carry over the clinking of crowbars and wheelbarrows. “Can’t believe this guy still can’t read a map.”

“I can read a map!” Ryoga barked from a few meters away, pickaxe slung over his shoulder, scowling.

Ranko didn’t even look up, flipping the corner of the map with a finger. “Oh yeah? Then where’d you end up after walkin’ me to school the other day?”

There was a pause. Ryoga’s grip on the pick tightened. “I just got a little disoriented.”

Ranko smiled, sharp and slow. “And where did this disorientation take you?”

He muttered something she couldn’t hear.

“What was that?” she called.

“I think it was Urawa!” he yelled back, defensive and vaguely miserable.

She dropped the map slightly, turning just enough to give him a look of pure disbelief. “That’s like a four hour walk north. It took you like over a day to find your way back.”

“It was raining,” Ryoga grumbled. “Visibility was low.”

“Sure, bud,” Ranko said, deadpan. “Next time pack a flare.”

She turned her flashlight toward the marked grid on the rubble heap and shone it decisively. “Alright, Captain Compass. Pick through this section. Stay in the lines. Don’t wander off. If you start feelin’ like you’re gettin’ lost, let me know—I think we could attach a little cat collar on your neck before the shift ends.”

“Shut up.” Ryoga trudged past her, grumbling, but obedient. The pickaxe gleamed for a moment under the floodlights, then swung down with a satisfying crack . Stone gave way. Dust plumed up into the humid night air.

Ranko looked back at the map, then off toward the blinking lights of the distant train yard, far beyond the fencing. Her breath fogged just a little.

It really was kind of weird, she thought, watching him work. Ryoga wasn’t that big. Not like her dad, who was all barrel chest and thick neck and those forearms like overcooked ham. Ryoga was just… sturdy. When he swung the pickaxe down, it was with all his weight, and the rock cracked open like it had been waiting for him to find its weak spot.

She leaned on a scaffold pipe, arms crossed, flashlight resting against her shoulder. “You know,” she said aloud, “you’d be pretty useful in a fight if you ever figured out how to aim.”

Ryoga paused mid-swing, glancing at her. “I can aim just fine.”

Ranko snorted. “Yeah, okay, but how would you find your opponent? Conceptually ?”

He grunted and went back to swinging. But she was still watching him, curious despite herself. There was something admirable about him, annoying as he was—he worked hard, at least. Didn’t complain. 

She glanced down at the site map in her hand, her thumb brushing over the legend in the corner. He really should be in school. It wasn’t like high school was mandatory or anything—lots of kids didn’t go. You passed your junior high exit exams and nobody could legally force you to continue into high school. But still. After spending so many afternoons with Akane and so many evenings with Kuno… it felt like such a waste not to go. Ryoga didn’t strike her as dumb. Just… unmoored.

He could probably benefit from a geography class. Or five.

Before she could say anything else, Mr. Kimura walked up from the direction of the main trailer, his hard hat cocked back on his head and a cigarette hanging limply from his lower lip. He squinted at Ryoga through the smoke.

“Hibiki, take your break,” he said, voice gravelly. 

Ryoga dropped the pick with a grateful sigh and stretched, cracking his knuckles. Ranko stepped forward.

“Hey, I literally asked you not to schedule me with him,” she complained, pointing her flashlight at the foreman’s chest.

Mr. Kimura grinned without showing teeth. “You asked me not to schedule your breaks with Hibiki.”

Ranko’s shoulders slumped. “Unbelievable. You’re splitting hairs.”

“Union rules,” he said, not even bothering to shrug. “Anyway—today’s payday for ya. Don’t leave without seein’ me, yeah? You get your envelope tonight.”

She blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

“Am I in the habit of lyin’ about money?”

“No, you’re in the habit of bein' cryptic and borderline mean.”

“Pays off.” He flicked his cigarette ash into the dark. “You’re up for break once the wanderer gets back.”

“Very funny.”

But she was smiling. Despite herself. Despite the dust in her hair and the stiffness in her arms and the mild ache that had been living in her lower back for the past three nights. She was getting paid. Real money, in an envelope, handed to her for real work. Not something she swiped, not an extortion, not payment for something unsavory she did. 

That warmth in her chest that hadn’t been there before. Her first paycheck. Her first job.

She was going to survive. No—she was going to live .

Ryoga came back from break adjusting the bandana on his forehead, avoiding her gaze like it was a high-voltage wire.

She arched an eyebrow. “What?”

He grunted something that might have been “nothing” and then coughed theatrically. “I, uh… I left something for you. In the break tent.”

She blinked. “What, like a surprise landmine?”

Ryoga looked genuinely hurt. “No! Just—go see it, okay?”

Ranko narrowed her eyes, suspicious but curious, and wandered off toward the break tent. The flaps swayed gently in the night breeze. Inside, the folding table had a new box of cookies resting squarely in the center like it had been placed with ceremonial care.

She approached it slowly, as if it might vanish if she blinked too hard.

There was a neon green post-it on one of the individually wrapped cookies. Written in firm katakana: Saotome .

Ranko stood there for a second, the weight of exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Then she exhaled through her nose—half a laugh, half surrender—and sat down on the creaky plastic stool with her cup of tea. The cookie was good, vanilla and almond shavings. Simple, but good. It tasted like an apology and she felt like she didn’t deserve it.

They worked the rest of the shift without talking much. Ryoga kept to one section, methodically breaking up the rocks she indicated, and Ranko mostly leaned over the map and flashlight, watching the chalk markings spread across the site like scars. The air grew colder toward morning, and their shadows grew longer as the site lights shut down one by one.

At 6 AM sharp, Mr. Kimura barked from the trailer, “Clock out, kids! Go be citizens!”

Ranko rolled her shoulders with a crack. She reached for her jacket when Ryoga passed by, mumbling, “Thanks for working with me tonight.”

She raised her hand in a half-wave. “Thanks for the cookie.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure.”

She changed, slipping out of her uniform and into her school outfit. She put on the short pleated skirt in worn light brown, white socks pooled loosely over her red sneakers, her white shirt and the oversized moto jacket hanging off one shoulder like a badge of stubborn individuality. She tugged at her braid, looped it over her shoulder, and cracked her neck left, then right.

She stopped by the trailer before heading out. Mr. Kimura, still drinking canned coffee like it was a cure-all, handed her an envelope without fanfare.

“You made it,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d last the full week.”

Ranko grinned, tucking the envelope into her jacket. “You doubted me? That hurts, Kimura-san.”

“Don’t spend it all on arcade tokens,” he muttered.

She grinned and pressed it to her chest. “No promises.”

When she stepped out into the morning, the sky was pale, the streets still wet from the dew. Her breath puffed in the cold. She should have gone straight to school. There were barely two hours before homeroom. But she took a detour—her feet carried her toward a very small park.

The park sat sunken behind a row of withered hydrangeas, barely visible from the main road. It was the kind of place people forgot existed—a battered sandbox with no toys, a seesaw with one side missing its handle, and a set of faded blue swings that groaned like tired lungs when used. But she liked that. The stillness, the quiet.

She dropped onto one of the swings with a sigh and rested her bag in her lap. She opened the envelope—creased, unmarked except for her name written in permanent marker on one edge—and began to count the crisp bills one by one. Her fingers moved slow, reverent.

This park had been her place once. Not so long ago. Back when the nights bled into mornings and she could barely tell which was which. The reek of shochu and cheap perfume clinging to her uniform. Cigarettes stolen from someone's handbag, chain-smoked under the swings in the dark, trying to burn away guilt or shame or whatever it was that chewed holes through her insides. She’d splash water from the rust-stained faucet behind the slide onto her face and hope it passed for a shower. Douse herself in fruity aerosol spray. Try not to puke on the walk home.

Funny. She had thought she was in control back then.

She counted the money once. Then again. Then a third time, just to be sure.

Fifty-six thousand yen.

Her fingers curled around the edges of the bills like she might crush them into her chest. That was a fortune for her. That was rent for a tiny apartment. That was enough for hair dye and new socks. That was hers. She bit the inside of her cheek. She shouldn’t cry. She was too tired to cry. But something swelled inside her—a rush of feeling, big and warm and real. She had earned it. She had worked all night, every night, in cold and concrete dust. She had lifted and signaled and sweated and been seen, not as a burden, but as part of a crew.

“Well, look what the alley cat dragged in.”

Her heart dropped. She knew the voice before she turned—raw, too loud for the silence, full of bitterness. Her fingers tightened around the envelope. She turned slowly on the swing, just enough to see him.

Hideki. Her ex-boyfriend. The one from the bridge. The one who had a missing index finger, courtesy of Kodachi Kuno’s pet alligator.

He stood by the swings, all cocky slouch and thinly veiled menace, his leather jacket dusted with old grime, his dyed hair half-grown out, dark roots snaking back to the scalp. His mouth curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A bottle in his hand, half-empty. The stench reached her before the words did: alcohol and piss, and that cologne he used to drown himself in before they’d go anywhere public.

“You’re still hangin' around this place?” he slurred, taking a swaying step forward. “Didn’t think you’d still be clingin' to our spots.”

Ranko’s fingers curled around the envelope. Her heart pounded, not out of fear, but fury. Of course. She’d been so proud, so sure. And she had forgotten—he was the one who’d first brought her here. Back when it still felt romantic to sneak out at night and drink under the stars, when a kiss on the seesaw felt like rebellion and not escape. How could she have let herself forget that?

Her voice was low, even. “It’s not our spot. It’s just a place.”

He laughed, ugly and wet. “You always were good at pretendin'.” He looked down at her lap, squinting at the edge of money. “What’s that? Government payout? Or did you finally sell off those tits?”

Her pulse flared. She stood slowly, slipping the envelope into her jacket. “Back off. I’m not that girl anymore.”

But he grinned, stepping closer. “No? Looks the same to me.”

“What do you want?” Ranko’s voice was flat. Defensive.

Hideki stepped closer. “Nothin' much. Just saw a pretty girl sittin’ all alone in the park, countin' a fat stack of bills. Figured I’d say hi.”

She rose from the swing, stuffing the envelope into the inside pocket of her jacket, her fingers brushing against the omamori Kuno gave her for her transfer exam. “Fuck off”

“C’mon, Ranko.” He chuckled, stepping closer still. “Don’t be like that. We used to be close, you and me. Remember?”

She crossed her arms. “Yeah. I remember everything. Nothin' good.”

He winced theatrically. “Oof. Harsh. Ancient history, though. I figured we could be friends again. You know. Catch up. Maybe split that envelope of yours.”

Her blood ran cold. “You’ve gotta be kiddin'.”

“Dead serious.” His face hardened. “Don’t pretend that’s clean money. We both know what you used to do to get by.”

“And now I work .” Her voice cracked like a whip. “I bust my ass at a construction site, while you probably still mooch off girls too dumb to know better.”

“Right. So you drop me and now you’re off playin' house with that rich idiot? Is that what this is?” He nodded toward her pocket. “He give you that money? You blow him behind the trees or what?”

She barked a humorless laugh. “Wow. Still thinkin' with your dick, huh?” She stepped forward now, shoulders squaring. “He doesn’t even see me that way. He’s just a friend. Not that I owe you the truth. You never gave a damn when I was scrapin' coins outta vending machines to pay for your smokes.”

He staggered a little as her words hit him, but his glare darkened. “Yeah? And you liked it just fine when I took care of you.”

“You mean when you got into gamblin' debts and try to sell me off to pay them? When you’d scream at me after you messed up? That ‘taking care’?” Her lip curled. “Gods, I was stupid.”

“You were mine! ” he snapped, voice suddenly sharp enough to slice air. “You weren’t some savior’s fantasy. You were real with me.”

“You never knew what real was,” she said, voice low now, cold. “You thought bein' real meant draggin' me into your mess. You liked it when I begged for help, when I let you steal from my bag and pretend it was a favor. You liked knowin' I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Because you didn’t! ” His voice cracked. “I was all you had!”

She stared at him a beat too long. Then: “And I still left.”

He staggered again, expression shifting—shame, then rage, then that familiar wounded pride, the kind that never let him stay down without throwing one last blow. “You think you’re something now, huh?” he spat. “With your little fuckin' envelope, good girl Ranko goes to school and hangs out with Nerima’s rich kids. You think that makes you better than me?”

“I am better than you.”

The words fell like bricks. Hard. Honest. No apology.

He stepped forward again, too close this time. She smelled the sourness of his breath. His bottle clinked against the metal swing pole as he passed it. “No matter what you do,” he said, low and shaking, “you’ll always be trash, Saotome. You’re still that pathetic drunk chick from the alley. Still a thief. Still a whore, used. Just waitin' for someone to come along and remind you what you really are.”

She didn’t flinch. But her throat tightened. “You’re nothin' to me.”

He snarled and lunged for her.

His fingers curled around the front of her coat like claws.

The swing behind her clanged as she twisted out of the seat and shoved him back, palms flat against his chest, but his weight was more bone than balance. He stumbled and caught himself with one foot, then surged forward with a hoarse sound in his throat, wild and clumsy.

Ranko sidestepped, quick—faster than she used to be. Her sneakers skidded in the damp grit underfoot, but she was fluid, sharp. A little leaner than back then. A little hungrier, faster, but weaker. Tired and malnourished. He missed her by inches and nearly slammed into the swing set pole, cursing, turning with the bottle raised like a club.

She darted in and slapped it out of his hand with a meaty crack. It hit the grass and rolled, leaking a trail of cheap, sharp-smelling shochu into the dirt.

“You wanna fight me?” she snarled, stepping in. “You think this is gonna go how it used to? That I’m gonna roll over just ’cause you’re louder and drunker?”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed a fistful of her braid and yanked.

Pain lanced through her scalp. She gasped, twisted—but didn’t scream. Her body moved before her mind could shout a warning. Her knee drove into his stomach, folding him over with a wet grunt. His grip slipped. She turned and slammed her elbow into his back, then again into his ribs. Once. Twice. Brutal. Efficient.

He dropped to one knee, panting. But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You always thought you were so tough,” he wheezed, and swung upward, catching the side of her thigh with a sweeping leg. It knocked her sideways. She fell, caught herself with her forearm, rolled, came up dirty and scraped—but laughing.

A hard, sharp sound from the back of her throat.

“Are you gonna stop?” she hissed. “Or are you gonna cry like when you lost your finger?”

His response was a roar. He charged. Grabbed her jacket this time, using both hands, trying to shove her down, bring her weight under his. He’d done it before. He knew how she moved. But this time Ranko didn’t resist.

She let herself go with it—fell backward—but brought her knee up as she fell, her foot striking hard into his hip. He lost his balance. She twisted in the air and slammed him down with her, landing on top, her elbow crushing into the side of his face as they hit the ground.

“You don’t get to take my fuckin’ money,” she spat, breathing hard. “Not this time. Not ever again.”

He growled and bucked underneath her, fingers clawing for her collarbone, but she caught his wrist, shoved it down into the cold earth, and with her other hand drove her knuckles into the corner of his jaw—once—twice—again—until his head lolled to the side, lips bleeding, breathing shallow and scattered.

She pushed off him. Her breath sawed in her chest. The side of her neck ached where he’d pulled her hair. Her hands were shaking. Her thigh was starting to throb.

The world buzzed around her. The old park swam back into view. The empty swings. The rusty jungle gym. The swaying trees.

She stood. Wiped her lip with the back of her wrist. Something warm was trickling there. She didn’t check to see if it was blood.

“Stay down,” she said. “Because if you get up again, I’ll put you down harder. ”

Her ex lay sprawled in the dirt, wheezing and smeared with sweat, booze, and blood, one arm curled protectively over his ribs. But his mouth still worked. It always did.

“You only won 'cause I’m drunk,” he spat, lip split, eyes glassy with fury and shame. “If I was sober—”

Ranko crouched again, not to fight, but to look him in the face. Her breath steamed between them in the chill, her braid swung like a cord behind her shoulder, scuffed and snarled from the dragging. Her knuckles were raw. Her coat was pulled crooked from where he’d grabbed her. Still and coiled and quiet, like something sharp that had chosen not to cut.

“That’s not true,” she said, calm now. Her voice didn’t shake. “I could always beat you. I just didn’t.”

That got him. His red-rimmed eyes flicked up to hers. Confused, for a breath.

“Yeah?” he said, scoffing, trying to rise again and failing. “Then why didn’t you?”

She didn’t blink.

“Because I thought I loved you.”

His mouth opened slightly.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she went on, voice low and steady, “even when you hurt me. Even when you stole from me, or scared me, or told your friends I was a whore you kept around like a charity case. I kept thinkin’ if I kept my head down, you'd stop bein’ what you are, and see me.”

Her ex sat up a little, silent.

“But I don’t care about what you are anymore,” she said, standing. “So let’s be strangers from now on. Don’t talk to me. Don’t come near me. I’ll forgive you if you forget me.”

And then, behind her, from just past the hedges where the overgrown path wound toward the main road, came the unmistakable sound of gravel crunching under heavy boots.

“…Ranko?”

She blinked. Turned.

Ryoga Hibiki.

Looking baffled and faintly horrified, his hands on the straps of his travel backpack.

“…What the hell did I just walk into?” he asked.

Ranko’s mouth twisted, too breathless to laugh. “Took a wrong turn again, Hibiki?”

Ryoga didn’t answer. His eyes locked onto the man in front of her.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice low.

“This doesn’t concern you, pal.” The ex staggered to his feet, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to his bruised side. His shirt hung half-out of his jeans, stained from dirt and blood and whatever filth he carried around in that sour reek of his. For a second it seemed he might spit something else—some final word, some bitter scrap to toss like a bone—but nothing came. His face was still twisted with anger, but dulled now by something heavier, older, more familiar: defeat.

“Forget me already,” Ranko called after him, not unkind, but tired. The sharpness was gone from her voice. “Seriously. Let’s pretend we never met.”

He didn’t turn around. Just limped toward the road and vanished behind the dark spill of hedges, back into the stain of night from where he'd first come.

“What happened?” Ryoga asked. On his back he carried that oversized travel pack—green and brown canvas, buckled and scuffed, a rolled sleeping mat lashed to the top like he was ready to vanish into the woods at a moment’s notice.

Ranko let out a breath and turned back toward the swing. “Nothing important,” she said after a pause. “Just some old garbage that tried to climb out of the can.”

Ryoga didn’t comment. He came closer, shrugging the pack off his shoulders and setting it down by the slide. The swing next to hers let out a low groan as he sat, his arms loose in his lap, head tilted toward her in quiet attention.

She glanced at him sideways, strands of hair falling from her braid. “Where were you even going?”

He blinked, like he had to remember. “I usually camp outside Nerima.”

“Where outside?”

He shrugged. “The woods.”

Ranko frowned and tilted her head, half a laugh already curling in her throat. “Ryoga… there’s no woods in Nerima.”

He looked momentarily puzzled. Then sighed, a hand scratching the back of his head. “Well, some woods, somewhere, I guess.”

Her laughter broke through then—quiet, real, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders as she leaned back in the swing. “You really are somethin'.”

The breeze shifted through the trees overhead, catching the edge of her jacket. She held the handkerchief, the one Kuno had given her, still in her lap. Ranko sighed and used it to wipe her mouth, checking for blood.

Ryoga didn’t speak, and she didn’t need him to. The kind of company you didn’t ask for, but ended up grateful to have.

She hesitated, then spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb something delicate.

“…Hey. Why do you sleep in the woods? Are you homeless too?”

Ryoga blinked, startled, then frowned—not in offense, but in concentration. “No,” he said at last, with the sincerity of someone answering an existential question. “It’s just that… it’s hard to locate my home.”

Ranko turned to look at him fully. “Wow. Okay.”

She immediately regretted asking. Something in her stomach twisted—an old shame, half-buried and still sharp at the edges. She looked away, down at the muddy toes of her red sneakers. She had just outed herself as homeless.

She took a breath, exhaled through her nose. “I can’t go to my house right now either,” she said finally, voice low but even. “So I’m not judging.”

He didn’t say anything, just nodded once, his eyes steady on the empty lot beyond the park’s edge. Another silence fell between them. Not uncomfortable, exactly—just weighted, dense with the things neither of them quite knew how to ask.

Ryoga broke it first. “Was that guy trying to steal from you?”

Ranko gave a short nod. “Yeah. Kinda. He saw me counting our weekly pay.”

Ryoga’s brow furrowed. “You got your envelope already?”

She tilted her head, wary. “Yeah? Why—didn’t you?”

“We get paid after we clock out on Friday,” he said.

Ranko blinked. “But today’s Friday.”

“Exactly,” Ryoga said, giving her a look edged with light irritation. “We get paid after finishing the week. That's on Saturday morning. Not before.”

“Oh,” Ranko said, blinking again. That gave her pause. She glanced down at the envelope pressed to her chest, replaying the conversation with Mr. Kimura in her mind. He knew. Had he just... helped her out?

The thought made her stomach twist, too complicated to unravel right then.

She let out a long breath and adjusted the hem of her jacket again. “Anyway. I gotta go to school.” Ranko smiled softly. “See you.”

“Take care of yourself,” he said after a beat.

Ranko stood, brushing gravel dust from the back of her skirt. “You know it.”

She gave him a nod—then she turned and walked away, her braid swinging low trying not to let the pain show, the soles of her sneakers crunching lightly over the path as she left him alone beneath the trees.

Chapter Text

The sun was slowly rising through the clouds when Ranko vaulted over the back wall of Furinkan High, her palms landing hard on the cold concrete before she dropped down into the bushes beside the changing rooms. Her body ached—every joint and muscle buzzing from the aftermath of the fight, something she was no longer used to feeling—but her grip was steady on the envelope stuffed in her jacket. Her weekly pay, counted twice and tucked away in her inner pocket. Safe.

The night shift clung to her skin like smog—sweat, gravel dust, and something deeper, something rank with blood and rusted pride. Her right thigh throbbed where the bastard had clipped her, a thick knot of pain blossoming beneath the skin. Her lower lip was split cleanly on the left side, not bleeding anymore but raw and swollen, stiff when she made any gesture. A scrape ran the length of her left forearm, pink and slightly crusted over. Not deep, thanks to her jacket, but it stung every time her sleeve brushed it.

It was almost 8 AM, the gates had already opened, she didn’t have much time. She entered the girl’s changing rooms, undressed, and ran to the showers.

Five minutes. Cold water, no time to wait for the school’s water heater to start. Harsh soap. She scrubbed hard and quick, teeth chattering, watching faint rust-tinted swirls spiral down the drain. Her hair, still damp, was quickly braided and tucked beneath her collar. Her uniform, she’d worn the day before—a little crumpled, faintly dusty around the hem—but she didn’t have a spare or time to wash and dry it. She looked down at herself in the mirror above the sink: not terrible, not great. Passable. She smoothed her skirt with both hands and squared her shoulders.

No one’ll even notice.

She walked into 1-F with her usual swagger, just as the bell rang.

They noticed.

“Saotome—what happened to you?”

“You okay, Ranko?!”

“Whoa, did something happen?”

A dozen eyes snapped toward her at once. Akane was already halfway out of her seat, eyebrows drawn low with worry. Even Hiroshi and Daisuke looked up from their desks, blinking in surprised unison. Ranko stopped in the middle of the classroom, half-laughing, half-frozen.

“I—I’m fine.” She put a hand to her hip, feigning nonchalance. “Just tripped on the way here, I know it’s weird because I’m so athletic and cool but—”

“You sure?” Yuka’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Your lip…”

Ranko licked it absently and winced. Damn. The scab felt bigger than it looked moments ago.

The teacher stepped in a beat later, brow furrowing the moment he saw her. He didn’t even take attendance.

“Saotome,” he said, setting his papers on the desk, “you need to go to the infirmary. Now.”

Ranko opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, Akane stood up.

“I’ll go with her.”

“No, Tendo.” The teacher’s voice was clipped. “You two skipped class together yesterday. I let that slide. Today, one of you stays. Saotome goes to the nurse. Alone.”

The silence that followed was thick and still. Akane looked at Ranko with a mixture of guilt and apology, her fists clenched on the edge of her desk. Ranko smiled, or tried to—just the right side of her mouth.

“It’s fine,” she said, voice light. “I’m good. I’ll be back before lunch.”

Akane didn’t speak. Just nodded once, eyes soft.

The infirmary was too bright. Clean in that sterile, untouched way that made Ranko feel like dirt just for being there. She sat on the low bed while the nurse—an older woman with sharp hands and a tired expression—glanced her over with a practiced eye.

“So,” the nurse said, wiping a swab in disinfectant, “what happened?”

“Fell,” Ranko replied, adjusting her braid. “Down a slope. Gravel. Got scraped up a little, is all.”

There was a pause.

“I see,” the nurse said flatly, voice unreadable.

She didn’t believe it. Ranko could feel it in the way the woman’s gaze lingered on the forming bruise at her thigh, the swollen edge of her lip, the precise pattern of the scrape on her arm. But she didn’t push. She just dabbed the cut with gentle hands, cleaned the dried blood from her elbow, pressed a cold pack to the bruised thigh and told her to keep it elevated for a bit if it got worse.

The cold seeped into her muscles. Her skin twitched under the nurse’s touch, not with pain—but something else. A strange, forgotten thing. A warmth she hadn’t expected to feel. Ranko sat there, still and quiet, breathing in the sterile air and letting herself be looked after. Just for a while.

Ranko didn’t move. She stayed seated, shoulders hunched, pen still in her hand. She felt eyes on her. Whispered fragments: she looks rough , did you see her lip , what happened to her thigh?

She ignored them all. Even Akane.

She’d come back from the infirmary with her uniform a little tidier, her braid re-wrapped, a fresh bandage on her arm. The cold pack had dulled the ache in her leg, though it still throbbed whenever she shifted in her seat. Her lip stung when she licked it—so she didn’t. She sat upright, face placid, eyes aimed forward. Diligent. Present.

She didn’t answer when her name was whispered by a classmate. Didn’t glance when someone leaned in, murmuring, “You sure you’re alright?”

She appreciated the concern. Truly. But she didn’t want the eyes, the questions, the pity masquerading as curiosity. She just wanted to be treated like a normal girl, like any other first-year.

The bell rang for lunch. Students rose in a rush—desks scraped, bento boxes appeared, voices collided—Ranko stood up, the promise of a temporary escape, so she rose and muttered to Akane, “I’m goin’ up.”

Akane said nothing at first, but when Ranko reached the stairwell, she heard the sound of footsteps catching up behind her. She didn’t look back. Didn’t have to.

The roof was quiet. It always was.

The sun hung high, strong and steady, diffusing golden warmth across the concrete. A few lazy clouds drifted overhead, and the city buzzed far below like a song on low volume. Ranko shrugged off her jacket, laid it down carefully on the warm rooftop surface, and lowered herself onto it with a small sigh. The heat soaked through her skirt, soothed the muscles along her thighs.

Akane sat beside her. “You okay?” Akane asked softly, fingers brushing Ranko’s wrist.

Ranko pulled back instinctively, then softened, leaning into her touch. “Tired. Got into a little trouble earlier, but I’m good.”

Akane didn’t press. But her hand hovered a second longer, as if unsure whether to hold on or let go.

For a moment, neither spoke. They just breathed.

Then Ranko reached into her jacket pocket on the floor and pulled out the envelope—crumpled, faintly damp at the edges, but intact. She turned it in her fingers, then held it out to Akane.

“Got paid a day early,” she said. Her voice was light, conversational, like they were just talking about the weather. “Made the dumb mistake of goin’ to that little park after work. The one near the main road, with the dead trees. Used to hang there with my ex.”

Akane turned toward her slowly, her expression unreadable.

“He was there,” Ranko went on, gaze on the envelope. “Drunk. Mad. Tried to take my money.” A beat. “But as you can see…” She tucked the envelope back into her jacket and smiled—lopsided, the good side of her mouth. “He didn’t.”

Akane exhaled softly, almost a sigh, and reached into her schoolbag. She pulled out two bento boxes wrapped in pale pink cloth and passed one to Ranko.

“Kasumi made extras,” she said. “I told her you might not have time to eat this morning.”

Ranko blinked, grateful. “Thanks.”

They ate in silence for a while. The breeze stirred the hem of their skirts, and somewhere below, a bell jingled faintly from a passing delivery bike.

Halfway through her rice, Akane spoke again.

“Kasumi… set up a room for you. Like, a real one. Not just a futon in my room.” She hesitated, then added, “Our dad found out about that and—well—he kind of insisted we give you your own space.”

Ranko paused, chopsticks hovering.

“So… please?” Akane said, quieter now. “Stay with us a bit? You don’t have to be alone.”

Ranko looked at her. For a long moment she didn’t speak, didn’t smile. She just stared, her eyes wide and strangely glassy in the light. Then her expression softened, and the grin she gave this time was gentler. Grateful.

“You’re an angel, princess,” she murmured.

Ranko dusted her fingers, settled the bento box to her side, and leaned back on her palms, eyes half-lidded against the sunlight.

“I’d like to stay,” she said finally. Her voice was low, not hesitant exactly, but careful. “If you’ll have me. But I ain’t gonna just squat there. I’ll pay.”

Akane stopped chewing. “No way,” she said, brows creasing. “We’re not taking your money.”

A third voice, smooth as silk and twice as cutting, floated in from the rooftop door. “Yes we are.”

Both girls turned. The door swung open wider with a clack of its old hinges, revealing Nabiki stepping into the sun, her bento in her hands. Behind her, half-shadowed in the frame, was Tatewaki Kuno.

Ranko straightened. Her shoulders perked with unconscious grace, chin tilting, eyes brightening as if someone had lit a candle behind them. The ache in her thigh? Forgotten. The scratch on her arm? Irrelevant. The split in her lip? Almost smiled through it.

Akane groaned—low, theatrical—and flicked her eyes toward the sky. But when she glanced sideways and saw Ranko’s soft little smile blooming like morning light, she decided to say nothing, just exhale noisily though her noise.

Nabiki strode over and dropped cross-legged across from Akane, smoothing her skirt. Kuno lingered behind, uncertain, caught between propriety and intrusion.

He looked at Ranko, who met his eyes and rose to one knee.

“Sit on my jacket,” she offered, gesturing to the flattened red and black fabric beside her.

“I cannot,” he said, scandalized. “To occupy a lady’s seat is a theft of honor.”

Ranko’s lips quirked. “Not even if it means sittin’ next to Akane?”

That stopped him.

He turned toward Akane as if seeing her anew, then back to Ranko, his expression muddled with gallant horror and hesitant hope.

Akane stood with a sigh that was all theatrical fatigue. “Ranko. Keep your seat. I’ll donate mine to Kuno-senpai.”

Kuno took a step forward, hand pressed to his chest. “You cannot, Tendo Akane! I cannot—make you sit upon the bare rooftop, no matter how kind your offer, no matter how radiant you appear in the offering of such humble comfort to your loved one, this display of affection you are showing towards me, your beloved—”

“You’re mistaken,” Akane said, deadpan. “Just sit next to Ranko.”

And without further ceremony, she plopped herself between her sister and Ranko, giving Kuno a look that brooked no romantic poetry.

Kuno, properly chastened and more than a little dazzled, lowered himself onto the jacket, his back straight as a pike. He adjusted his knees, folded his hands in his lap like a visiting prince. Ranko looked up at him, still on one knee, still with that smile—small, earnest, tired beneath the eyes but warm all the same.

Nabiki sat back on her palms, legs crossed like she was watching a soap opera unfold before her, except the drama was live, and the script—if one even existed—was laughably transparent.

She looked at the trio in front of her: Kuno gazing at Akane with the glassy-eyed reverence of a man who’d just glimpsed his patron saint, Akane tolerating it to the best of her ability for Ranko’s sake, and Ranko looking up at Kuno like he was a moonbeam she’d just caught in her palms.

Nabiki smirked. “Ugh,” she said, mostly to herself. “Love is disgusting.” She watched them all turn their attention to their bento boxes. Then, louder: “Anyway, we can charge you for room and board.”

Ranko popped a piece of radish into her mouth, chewed, and nodded. “Good. As long as I can pay, I’ll stay.”

“You could stay without paying,” Akane muttered, barely above a whisper.

“Then I wouldn’t stay,” Ranko replied, just as quiet. “I don’t want to be a freeloader. Or a bother.”

“You’re not,” Akane said, eyes on her bento, cheeks pink.

“I’m a delight,” Ranko offered, nudging her knee against Akane’s.

Akane looked up. “You’re something. ”

Ranko's grin didn’t waver as she picked at the rice, but her hand trembled slightly with the chopsticks. She hadn't slept—not since crashing at Akane’s—and her head buzzed with that hollow, jittery ache that came from burning through adrenaline and landing in the ash. Still, she nodded and smiled, because Akane and Kuno were there, and if she blinked too slowly, they might see how bad she really felt.

Kuno, folding his napkin with gentlemanly precision, looked toward her. “Then you have chosen to stay with the Tendo family?”

Ranko nodded, wiping her lip with the back of her hand, careful not to reopen the split skin. “Yeah. I have.”

He inclined his head, the gesture solemn, his eyes soft. “A fine choice. It is a household of integrity and refinement.”

Akane snorted quietly. “Nabiki,” she said, “we’re not charging Ranko to stay with us.”

“Yes,” Nabiki said cheerfully, “we are. She won’t stay unless we do, right, Ranko?”

Ranko shrugged, still crouched near her bento. “That’s correct. As long as I can pay for it, I’ll stay. I mean it.”

“Great,” Nabiki said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a tiny notepad like a landlord with receipts. “Room and board: ten thousand yen every two weeks. It’s a great deal. You get meals, a room, and Kasumi’s kindness. Maybe some of Akane’s affection.”

Akane scowled at her. Kuno turned to Ranko, and Ranko looked right back at him. She felt a little guilty, but pushed through the sensation to look at Nabiki.

“Deal,” she said.

She pulled the envelope from the pocket on the jacket under her legs, slipped out a single crisp note, and handed it over. Nabiki took it with grace and tucked it away without a second glance.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” Nabiki said.

“Thanks,” Ranko echoed, her voice light.

Kuno cleared his throat and looked back at her, expression more serious. “May I enquire what transpired this morning?”

Ranko glanced down at her scratched forearm, her bruised thigh folded beneath her, the half-healed lip that still throbbed beneath each bite of egg and rice. “Got into a little fight with my ex.”

Akane blinked. “Wait. You know about her ex, senpai?”

Kuno lifted his chin, as though remembering a heroic duel. “Indeed. I defeated him and his coterie some time ago. A minor conflict, but not without merit.” He turned to Ranko, something almost conspiratorial in his tone. “We did quite well, correct?”

Ranko’s smile returned, softer than before. “Yeah,” she said. “We did.”

Akane looked at Kuno. He was watching her again—too long, too keenly. His lips curved faintly, unaware, or perhaps unable to help it. When he saw Akane’s expression—narrowed eyes, mouth set in a disapproving line—he flushed. Red spread up his neck like spilled ink, and he dropped his gaze immediately.

Akane looked away, annoyed. Idiot.

The midday breeze curled across the rooftop, lifting stray strands of hair, rattling an old wire by the fence. Kuno, who had taken perhaps one bite of his lunch the entire time, cleared his throat delicately and shifted just slightly toward Ranko. 

“Ranko,” he said, voice low and even, “would you like me to call for you on Sunday at the Tendo residence?”

Ranko blinked up at him, then flicked a glance toward Akane. The other girl was sipping tea from a thermos, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. Ranko knew better. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, tilted her head a little, and smiled—not at Kuno, but at Akane.

“No. Let’s meet here,” she said. “At school.”

Akane, surprised, glanced up. Ranko’s smile stayed steady, warm and easy. And Akane, after a beat, smiled back.

Nabiki slurped her strawberry milk from the little box in her hands, the sound cartoonish and loud. She held up one brow as if it were a full-bodied question.

“So,” she said, straw still between her lips, “do you two have a date on Sunday?”

“It’s just a friendly outin',” Ranko replied quickly, brushing dust from her skirt.

Akane glanced at her, then at Kuno. “What exactly do you two do on these friendly dates?”

Kuno, looking altogether too pleased by the attention, turned to Akane. “Are you, perchance, jealous?”

There was a pause. Nabiki stopped sipping. Her eyebrows, ever expressive, climbed even higher. She leaned forward slightly, as if her entire body were invested in the reply.

Akane narrowed her eyes. “I’m not jealous of Ranko, ” she said, flatly. Only a flinty edge of annoyance, dry and sharp as cut rock.

Kuno sat straighter, a flush rising to his cheeks again. “You needn’t concern yourself, Tendo Akane. For you are the sun itself—radiant, incandescent, dazzling in your brilliance. Yours is the warmth that melts the frost from my soul, the gravity that binds my orbit, the majesty that—”

Akane turned red—not from flattery, but mortification. “Shut up, senpai.”

Ranko burst out laughing, nearly dropping a piece of pickled plum from her chopsticks. “Oh my gods, Kuno,” she gasped, wiping at her eyes, “you’ve got to stop. The princess doesn’t like that.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, bowing slightly, a smile still on his lips.

And from beside them, Nabiki sipped her milk again and muttered, “Absolutely disgusting,” though her grin betrayed her amusement. Nabiki stretched, long and feline, as if the rooftop sun had been a luxurious nap rather than a tense battleground of half-said affections and unspoken rivalries. She crumpled her empty milk carton in one hand and stood.

“Well, that’s lunch,” she announced, smoothing her skirt and gathering her bento. “Bell’s in ten. Don’t get too cozy up here.” Her eyes lingered a second longer on Ranko—then on Kuno—before she turned and strode toward the door, the sound of her loafers echoing lightly against the rooftop.

The wind picked up, tugging at Akane’s bangs and ruffling Ranko’s braid. Kuno began to gather his things with mechanical precision. Akane noticed something as he folded his bento cloth—two sets of chopsticks. Her mouth opened, then shut again. She didn’t ask.

Ranko stood and brushed a few crumbs from her lap. Her energy had returned in slow layers, like sunlight drying the dew. She smiled at Kuno, cheek tilted toward him with casual affection. “Good luck at your sister’s PTA thing,” she said.

Kuno paused, eyes briefly meeting hers. “Ah. Yes. A rather grim affair. My sister is, unfortunately, a frequent subject of faculty concern.”

Akane blinked, surprised. “You’re going in your father’s place?”

He nodded. “Tatewaki Kuno does not abandon his family in times of civic inquiry. Kodachi may be… tempestuous, but she is still blood.” There was a faint pride in his voice, misplaced perhaps, but sincere.

Akane didn’t reply. She hated that it made him sound responsible.

Kuno bowed slightly to both girls, more ceremonious than necessary. Then he looked directly at Akane, his voice softer this time. “Tendo Akane… I leave this midday’s field of honor behind me, but the memory of your strength—and your light—goes with me.”

Akane flushed, eyes narrowing. “What the hell does that mean? Just go. ”

“As you wish,” he said, turning on his heel, still pristine in posture despite the chaos he left in his wake.

Ranko watched him go, still smiling, almost humming with warm satisfaction. She rocked on her heels, her bruises less heavy now, her heart a little fuller. Ranko chuckled under her breath. “He’s such a weirdo. I love that.”

Akane eyed her sideways. “So. Are you staying for gym class? And clubs?”

Ranko gave a dramatic sigh, then straightened her shoulders. “I’m sore as hell, and my thighs feel like I got hit with a pipe. But there’s no way I’m skippin' out on sports with you again.”

Akane’s eyes lit up, genuine and bright. “Yay.”

And with that, they walked together back to 1-F, the corridors full of voices and footfalls, the ordinary rhythm of school life closing around them like a welcome tide.

The sun had shifted, casting long honeyed shadows across the schoolyard by the time gym class began. The girls' gym teacher was half-asleep behind her clipboard, the whistle around her neck swaying slightly with every step she took. “Volleyball today,” she muttered, waving her hand like it didn’t matter.

Teams formed with lazy predictability. Ranko stood beside Akane without even needing to ask.

The whistle blew, and the air came alive with sneakers skidding on waxed wood and the soft rhythmic slap of palms against the ball. Ranko, bruised and scraped, moved like she'd been born under pressure. She kept to the back when she could, saving her energy, but when the moment came to dive, to stretch out a limb and flick the ball skyward—it was always for Akane.

Akane, in turn, moved with a kinetic fire that seemed brighter every time Ranko was nearby. She spiked like her pride was on the line, like she had something to prove, and with every perfect set Ranko gave her, she made it count.

They were like clockwork—synchronized not by practice but instinct. When one stumbled, the other caught her. When one missed a cue, the other was already moving to cover.

“I didn’t know they were that close,” someone whispered from the sidelines.

“Didn’t they just meet this year?”

“They’ve got crazy good chemistry,” another said, half in admiration, half in disbelief.

Akane blushed scarlet beneath her bangs and pretended not to hear. Ranko did hear, and stood a little straighter for it, grinning like a fool even as sweat ran down her temples and her thigh throbbed.

The gym lights were too bright, the floor too loud, the echo of bouncing balls like hammer blows behind her eyes. Ranko forced herself to focus on Akane’s voice—sharp, clean, familiar—and blocked out the ache in her thigh, the creeping throb behind her temple. She stumbled once, caught herself, laughed like it was a joke. No one seemed to notice. That felt like a win.

They won every set. By the end, the score was irrelevant. Their classmates surrendered with mock groans and sheepish applause. Ranko and Akane gave each other a quiet high-five, fingers brushing afterwards, shoulders still heaving.

“You good for baseball?” Akane asked, already toweling off her neck with a sports cloth.

Ranko leaned back, stretching with a low hiss. “I’m runnin’ on fumes,” she admitted. “But if you think I’m gonna miss a chance to swing at your fastball, you’re nuts.”

“You’re gonna lose this time,” Akane teased.

“I always lose against you, princess,” Ranko replied, smirking. “But I make it look good.”

The afternoon club hour brought the golden light of a late spring sun, the crack of bats and the call of teammates echoing across the athletic fields. Ranko ended up on the opposing team, and at first she thought it might feel weird, but it didn’t. Not even a little.

Akane pitched like a demon, and Ranko gave chase across the outfield like she was trying to outrun every bruise in her body. She missed more than she hit, winced every time her leg tightened, but she laughed through it.

The game ended with Akane’s team winning by a single run—barely, hilariously—and Ranko bowed with both hands on her knees, grinning wide.

“Hell of a pitch,” she told Akane. “Remind me to never make you mad.”

Akane, flushed and panting, tossed her glove into her bag. “I’ll only aim for your head once ,” she said, sticking out her tongue.

They started toward the changing room together, ready to hit the showers before heading home.

That was when they saw him.

Kuno, marching solemnly past the gates in a stiff, three-piece Western-style suit—pastel pink, a poet shirt with a red cravat like he was headed to a Victorian pop concert. His hair was the same as always, fluffy and coiffed. But everything else—from the way his coat tails flared behind him to the overly polished shoes—was pure anachronism.

He looked like he’d been tricked by a fashion magazine from the wrong century.

Ranko stopped, mouth slightly open. Akane froze beside her. Then they both started laughing.

“Is that…” Akane gasped, clutching her ribs, “what Kodachi is making him wear for the Parent-Teacher conference?”

“He’s gonna traumatize the parents,” Ranko wheezed, wiping her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I know you like the guy, but he’s… so goofy, Ranko,” Akane covered her mouth to laugh.

Still, as Kuno passed the gates, his stride noble and absurd in equal measure, Ranko found herself smiling in a different way. He looked… ridiculous. Like a side character from a weird Western cartoon.

But he also carried himself with such obliviousness, with such sincerity, that it made her heart hurt. She couldn’t help but find him entirely too sweet.

The sun had fallen by the time they reached the Tendo gates. A light breeze danced through the wooden eaves, carrying with it the faint smell of dinner—soy sauce, ginger, something stewing patiently.

Ranko followed Akane up the front steps, shoulders slumped with weariness but posture still determined, chin held high. She was bruised, sore, lip cracked. But here she was. At the threshold of someone else’s home. No. For a bit, this would be her home, too. Even if right now she felt like a guest.

She removed her sneakers and placed them neatly beside the others, brushing the dust from her skirt.

“Hello!” she called out with a bright, practiced lilt that she didn’t quite feel, but meant all the same. “Good evenin'! I mean—I’m home?”

Kasumi appeared at the end of the hall like a vision of serenity, her apron crisp, a dishcloth folded over one forearm. “Good evening! Akane-chan, Ranko-chan, welcome home. I hope you’re hungry.”

Ranko laughed softly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah… thank you.”

Mr. Tendo rose from the living room in his slacks and house sweater, face alight with hospitality. “Welcome, Ranko-kun. Please make yourself comfortable. Our home is your home, now.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied with a deep bow, trying to be as formal as she could manage. “I’ll be no trouble. I promise.”

Akane led her down the hallway and opened a shoji screen. “Here,” she said simply. “It used to be a guest room. It’s yours now.”

Ranko stepped inside slowly.

The room was quiet, softly lit with the glow of the hallway behind them. Tatami mats breathed their grassy scent beneath her feet. A futon had been set out, neatly folded blankets on top, and ontop sat a folded yukata, pale with subtle indigo patterns.

Ranko stood at the center, frozen.

It’s real, she thought. This will be my room for now. I can stay here. I don’t have to get a cheap hotel. I don’t have to walk the streets ‘til sunrise or sleep on an old gym mat.

She bit her lower lip hard, and immediately regretted it— ow, dammit —the split stung deep and wet. But it was enough to stop the sting behind her eyes.

Akane leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

“You can come up to my room whenever you want,” Akane said, almost shyly. “You don’t have to be alone down here if you don’t feel like it.”

Ranko turned to her, her voice thick despite her grin. “Thanks. Really. For everythin'. You’re so nice to me, princess.”

Akane looked away, arms crossed. “It’s not that selfless.”

Ranko blinked. “Huh?”

“It’s convenient for me,” Akane said. “I like spending time with you. I really want you to stay with us. So… I guess I’m being selfish.”

Ranko snorted. “That’s the nicest selfish thing I’ve ever heard.”

They laughed softly, the sound like warm sunlight.

Ranko offered to help Kasumi in the kitchen, despite the drooping of her shoulders and the half-step delay in her movements. She peeled a daikon with clumsy hands, yawned into her shoulder, and nearly nodded off beside the rice cooker before Kasumi gently patted her back and told her to go sit down.

They gathered at the low table in the tatami room for dinner—Ranko, Akane, Nabiki, Kasumi, and Mr. Tendo. Nabiki had the news playing softly on the television, a fashion magazine balanced precariously on the edge of her elbow.

Ranko sat with her legs folded neatly, hands in her lap, trying to be modest with her portions, to eat slowly, to show gratitude without seeming greedy. But her stomach betrayed her—growling as soon as the miso touched her tongue.

Kasumi refilled her rice without asking. Twice. Ranko protested the second time with a little wave of her hand and a sheepish laugh, but Kasumi just smiled, serene as always. “You can have another portion, Ranko, it’s okay.”

Ranko glanced at her bowl. Okay, she thought. Maybe just one more bite.

Afterward, as they cleared the table, Akane asked, “Do you want to soak in the bath? Might help your bruises.”

Ranko shook her head slowly. “Thanks, but I think if I sat in hot water right now, I’d pass out and drown.”

Mr. Tendo chuckled from the hallway. “You don’t need to ask permission, Ranko-kun. If you’re tired, go to bed.”

Ranko stood, bowed deeply. “Thank you very much for dinner. And for everythin'.”

She slipped into the yukata she’d found laid out in her room. It was cool against her skin, the soft linen whispering around her arms like something left behind by a dream.

She turned off the light, knelt beside the futon, and settled under the covers.

She stared at the ceiling in the dark, her breath shallow and uneven. Her jaw clenched tight against the ache of it—the urge to cry. But not because she was sad. Not from fear or pain, this was deeper. It was an ache in her heart, in her very soul, it curled around her throat tighter than any man’s hands had ever done.

It was happiness. Large and heavy in her chest, like she didn’t deserve to feel that at all.

She didn’t let herself cry.

She fell asleep instead, to the creak of the house settling around her, to the scent of tatami, to the memory of laughter shared over steamed rice and miso, and the ghost of Akane’s voice telling her she didn’t have to be alone.

Chapter Text

Bzz! Bzz! Bzz!

She woke with a gasp—heart pounding, mouth dry. The darkness pressed in like velvet from all sides, warm but suffocating. For a moment she didn't know where she was.

Then came the noise into her consciousness.

A mechanical buzz, shrill and muffled, vibrating insistently from somewhere in her school bag. She sat up too quickly, head swimming, hair mussed and stuck to her cheek. Her limbs were slow, uncooperative. She'd slept hard—deep and dreamless—but only for a little while.

How long…?

She crawled over the tatami, eyes barely open, the world still slightly tilted. The futon behind her was rumpled like an overturned nest. She fumbled with her bookbag until she found the old digital alarm clock in the darkness.

Why was it buzzing? Ranko couldn’t figure it out. She squinted, trying to read the time. 9:30?

Nine-thirty. She blinked. The numbers didn’t change. She smacked the top of the clock to turn it off.

“Shit,” she whispered aloud, horror blooming in her chest. “Shit!”

Friday. It was still Friday. She hadn't made it to Saturday yet. She still had one more night shift to survive her first week at her job. Her job !

Her stomach dropped like a stone in water.

Ranko tore the yukata off her shoulders and scrambled to find her clothes—except they weren’t there. Not her blouse, not her skirt, not even her bra. She checked the little folded space beside the futon, the edge of the sliding closet, the corners of the room.

Nothing. Just the yukata puddled uselessly around her hips, barely hanging to her by the obi.

Panic hit next, creeping up her spine like ice. She slid open the paper door and padded barefoot into the hallway. Light spilled from the living room like the promise of salvation—or further humiliation.

There was Nabiki, lounging in front of the TV in an oversized sweatshirt and house shorts, legs folded beneath her, munching on rice crackers as if the world weren’t falling apart.

“My clothes?” Ranko croaked, throat dry with both sleep and adrenaline.

Nabiki looked over her shoulder lazily. “I think Kasumi tossed them in with the laundry.” Then, with a flick of her eyes: “Also, your tits are completely out.”

Ranko looked down and—oh, yeah. Yukata undone, chest exposed in the half-light. She clamped an arm across her torso, mortified. “I have to go to work,” she stammered, trying to gather herself. “I—I forgot, I completely—I have to—”

“You’re a mess,” Nabiki said with a grin, brushing crumbs off her knee. She tugged her oversized sweater over her head and lobbed it across the room. Nabiki was wearing a cropped T-shirt underneath. “Here. Wear this before you flash my dad.”

Ranko caught it awkwardly with one hand, slipped it on. It smelled faintly like Nabiki—vanilla lotion and something sharp and a little citrusy. It hung past her thighs, hiding her bruise from view.

Nabiki stood up and disappeared into the hallway. Ranko followed her, bare feet scuffing against the polished floor. She was still half-asleep, heart racing. Nabiki didn’t even glance back. She rummaged through a closet and came back with a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. “Here.”

Ranko pulled them on without hesitation, the cotton catching on her thighs, she untangled the yukata from her legs. “Thanks—sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” Nabiki said, casually grabbing Ranko’s yukata off the floor. “Good luck at work.” She said it like Ranko was just going out to grab tea.

Ranko bowed quickly—ungraceful, fully grateful, half-panicked—then bolted for the genkan, yanking open the door, cramming her feet into her red sneakers.

The air outside was cold. She ran.

The streetlights stretched her shadow long and low across the pavement as she sprinted toward the construction site, breath catching in her throat, the ache in her legs flaring with each step.

She might’ve looked wild—oversized sweater, borrowed pants, messy bed hair, and no bra—but she ran with the fierce determination of a young woman who knew her destination.

Mr. Kimura didn’t say a word when Ranko dashed into the trailer office, boots thudding against the floor, hair still damp from sweat, her dark blue boiler suit swallowing her figure into a shapeless thing, even with the two belts around her waist. He just looked up from the clipboard, eyes narrowing slightly behind wire-framed glasses, and flicked ash off the end of his cigarette.

Ranko bowed low, out of breath. “I’m sorry—I’m late. I didn’t mean to—”

“Clock in,” he said, jerking his head toward the punch machine. “And grab a vest. You’re on gravel duty.”

She muttered a thank you and hurried out again, tugging on her orange construction vest as she broke into a light jog toward the eastern path. The air outside had thickened into a wet, clinging fog, curling low over the machinery like smoke.

Ryoga was already there, shovel in hand, boots planted in the churned-up dirt. He looked over as she approached, his bandana tied low against his forehead to keep the dampness from his eyes.

“Took your time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, breathless. “I forgot it’s Friday. I fell asleep. Hard.”

He tossed a shovelful of gravel into the wheelbarrow and wiped his brow with the back of his glove. “I literally talked to you about Friday night being a work day this morning .”

“I know.” Ranko grabbed the wheelbarrow handles and started guiding it forward, careful to follow the marked path on the site map clipped to her clipboard. “I officially can’t make fun of you for gettin’ lost anymore.”

Ryoga smirked. “Good. Now we’re even.”

The fog rolled in thicker as they moved, curling around their ankles and softening the outlines of cones and paint-marked boundaries. The site had gone quieter as the night deepened, distant clanking muffled by the damp.

Ryoga kept shoveling steadily, working through the gravel pile like it had personally wronged him. Then, after a pause: “So… the guy at the park. What’s his deal?”

Ranko didn’t answer right away. She squinted through the mist, steering the wheelbarrow around a hazard sign. The metal creaked faintly with the load.

“It’s not important.”

Ryoga gave her a sidelong glance, but didn’t push. They stopped at the next marker, and he started emptying the gravel with rhythmic, mechanical focus.

After a few minutes, he spoke again, quieter. “How do you do it? School all day. Work all night.”

Ranko leaned on the handles, breathing through her mouth. Her limbs were leaden again, her body still hadn’t recovered from the fight—or the interrupted sleep.

“It’s just for two weeks,” she said finally. “A sacrifice.”

Ryoga’s voice came flat, but honest. “A sacrifice for what?”

Ranko closed her eyes and exhaled hard through her nose. “Geez, quit it with the questions. Are you a detective in your free time or somethin’?”

That earned a small chuckle from him. “Just making conversation.”

They worked for a while in silence. The fog muffled the noise of the surrounding crew. Somewhere, someone’s radio played an old enka song through static.

Then Ranko said, barely above a whisper, “I just need the money. For a place to stay.”

Ryoga didn’t interrupt.

“And,” she added after a beat, “I wanna try being normal. Like… go to school, and have friends, go to clubs, talk to my crush, have a place to sleep. I want to be a girl who gets home, showers, eats dinner, and goes to bed after doin’ her homework. That’s it: no sleepin’ around, gettin’ drunk, stealin’, none of that.”

The fog coiled around their ankles like a ghost. Ryoga rested a hand on the shovel and looked at her. Just looked.

He didn’t say a word.

They finished their shift just past 6 AM. Most of the crew walked straight into Mr. Kimura’s trailer to get their envelopes, lighting cigarettes, grunting goodbyes, fading into the fog.

Ranko didn’t leave.

She stayed back half an hour, shovel in hand, cleaning up the area where Ryoga had picked up most of the gravel, and hosing off the wheelbarrow. When Mr. Kimura caught her dragging a barrel toward the cleanup station, he called out from the steps.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s 6:30, girl, go home.”

“I was late,” she said, still working. “I owe you time.”

He said nothing. Just watched, cigarette glowing at the corner of his mouth.

Once Ranko felt satisfied with her work, she stepped inside Mr. Kimura’s trailer and bowed. “Thanks again for payin’ me early,” she said.

Mr. Kimura flicked ash into the tray beside the ledger. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smiled faintly. “Right. I’m really, really sorry about bein’ late today. Won’t happen again.” Then she turned, bowed again, and left.

She ran the whole way home.  Her sneakers slapped against the pavement, the morning light was just beginning to break above the rooftops, silver and weak.  She wasn’t just running toward the Tendo home. She was running toward safety.

The sliding door gave the gentlest creak as Ranko stepped inside the Tendo home, careful not to wake anyone. She toed off her sneakers at the genkan and placed them neatly by the wall. The house was still, wrapped in the hush of early morning. Her body ached—not sharply, just a dull, thorough exhaustion that settled into every bone like silt.

She crept across the home, hearing the first sounds upstairs. Nabiki’s oversized sweater and borrowed sweatpants hung loose around her, and she peeled them off quickly in the bathroom, putting them in the empty hamper next to the washing machine. The cold of the bathroom tiles bit at her feet as she stepped in, the warm water from the shower turning briefly brown as it sluiced off her arms and neck. Her hands trembled slightly as she rubbed the fatigue and ache from her limbs. She was past tired—somewhere deeper. Past hurt, past thought. She dried off quickly, quietly. Slipped into the soft cotton of the Tendo household yukata, the same one she had worn the night before for an hour.

The moment her head hit the pillow, she sank. Down, down into the dark. No dreams. Just the weightless, vanishing kind of sleep that slips past consciousness like a drug.

She woke to the scent of shoyu , grilled fish, and something leafy steaming in the kitchen. Her eyelids fluttered, her arms curling around the pillow. For a moment, she thought it must be breakfast. Her body still expected it. Still clung to the logic of day and night, like a battered clock.

She pulled herself upright, hair tousled. When she opened the sliding door she found a hamper with her uniform, washed and ironed. Ranko felt a pang of emotion as she put it on: it smelled clean, almost warm. She tiptoed out into the hallway. The living room was already lit with the bright midday sun. Kasumi sat on the floor folding napkins, a plate of daikon slices nearby. Nabiki lounged with a fashion magazine on the tatami, flipping a rice cracker between her fingers. Mr. Tendo and Akane sat watching the midday news. Something about a city council meeting and traffic closures.

Ranko stood there for a second, awkward and blinking. “Sorry,” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Mr. Tendo turned, looking up from his tea. “You’re working nights, we do expect you to sleep in this house. Whenever your body needs it. Why do you apologize?”

Ranko opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t have a good answer. She wasn’t even sure what she was apologizing for—oversleeping, taking up space, being too quiet, being too loud. Apologizing too much, apologizing too little. For being here .

“I dunno,” she said finally, and crossed the room to sit beside Akane on the tatami. She tugged the skirt down her thighs, trying not to look too out of place, too slumped or out of it. 

She glanced over at Nabiki, then added, “Thanks for the clothes. Last night.”

Nabiki smirked without looking up from her snack. “Some favors come free with rent.”

Akane gave her older sister a look. “Nabiki.”

“What?” Nabiki held up a hand. “That was the nice version.”

Akane rolled her eyes at Nabiki and turned back to Ranko with a smile.

“Ah, Kasumi,” Ranko said softly. “Thank you for washin’ my clothes.”

Kasumi smiled sweetly in response.

Lunch was quiet but warm. Steamed rice, miso soup, hijiki salad, grilled mackerel. Ranko didn’t realize how hungry she was until she tasted the fish, the oily, delicate texture flaking on her tongue. She ate with care, without rushing, still a little floaty from sleep.

Ranko watched Mr. Tendo, Nabiki and Kasumi leave the table in waves, only her and Akane remained, the soft chatter of the TV filling the atmosphere with comfortable noise. “Wanna go shoppin’? I just need some basics, I won’t be tryin’ on designer dresses or anythin’.”

Akane brightened. “Yeah! Of course I’d like to go.”

Before heading out, they stopped in the kitchen. “Need anything from the store, Kasumi?” Ranko asked.

Kasumi smiled and shook her head. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

Nabiki peeped from upstairs. “Bring me sushi!”

“Nope,” Akane said, grabbing her shoes. “Buy your own.”

They left before Nabiki could argue, walking side by side in the warmth of a Saturday afternoon.

“We’re going to the mall, right?” she’d said, casually. “They’ve got that one store on the second floor with all the discounted basics—”

“I can’t go there,” Ranko interrupted. The words hung in the air like smoke.

Akane stopped. “Why not?”

Ranko didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on a distant point—just past Akane’s shoulder, just over the rooftops, somewhere unreachable. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her jacket, knuckles white.

“I got caught shoplifting there,” she said. Her voice was low, flat. “Not long ago.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

“Oh,” Akane said, and nothing else. No questions. No raised eyebrows.

They turned away from the busier shopping district and wandered toward the smaller streets near the train line, the ones with old shuttered storefronts and fading fabric signs. Tucked between a stationery shop and a ramen place was a women’s clothing store—unremarkable, with plain mannequins in the window, sunlight dulled by dust.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed and the aisles were narrow, the air faintly scented with plastic and starch, but the racks were full of practical things: simple underthings, discounted socks, cotton tees folded into neat squares.

Ranko stood motionless for a moment, letting her fingers brush over the corner of a plastic pack—white cotton panties, five for 1200 yen. Akane hovered beside her, politely looking in the other direction, studying the socks like they were rare works of art. Her presence was warm, even when her gaze was elsewhere.

Ranko stared at the underwear. Just plain cotton. Full coverage. No bows, no mesh, no see-through panels pretending to be modesty. She picked up a medium pack and held it in both hands. She hadn’t bought cotton underwear in years—not since her first serious boyfriend, the one who liked her in red. She used to buy and wear underwear for them . Things that tied at the sides, that barely covered anything, things that were uncomfortable and garish, like herself.

“Do you think these are okay?” she asked, half-whispering.

Akane turned, glanced down. “Yeah,” she said softly. “They’re good. Comfortable.”

“That makes sense,” Ranko said, smiling softly. “Weird, right? Buyin’ somethin’ to wear that nobody’s gonna see.”

“I mean, you’re going to see it,” Akane said, nudging her gently. “I think the point is wearing something that’s comfortable for you.”

Ranko nodded, then looked away quickly, blinking hard.

She added one pair of loose white socks, knowing that she could have bought at least five regular socks for that price, but she couldn’t imagine herself without them. She splurged on a sports bra, black, with wide straps. The tag said "supportive." That made her laugh, a breath through her nose, no sound. She grabbed a white tank top that was on sale for 600 yen.

When they reached the register, Ranko counted the coins twice before paying. 3100 yen for everything. Her own money. She smiled at Akane as she grabbed the bag the saleslady was handing her.

When they stepped back out into the open air, the sun was already beginning to lose its strength. Ranko wanted the day to last forever.

“Come on,” Ranko said, tugging Akane’s sleeve. “I’m treatin’ you.”

Akane blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious. Come on. Don’t say no.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Please, princess.” Ranko folded her hands dramatically. “Don’t make me beg. I wanna do somethin’ for you. I’m dyin’ to.”

Akane turned pink but relented, letting herself be dragged two blocks over to a small, retro-looking dessert parlor tucked between a hardware store and a dry cleaner. It had round tables, plastic seats in faded reds and blues, and a laminated menu with too many options.

Ranko got the strawberry and custard cream parfait. Akane went for chocolate and brownie. They swapped halfway, teasing each other over which one had better toppings. Ranko stole two chocolate cubes with her spoon and dodged retaliation with the agility of a practiced delinquent. Akane retaliated by scooping an entire strawberry and shoving it into Ranko’s mouth.

For a little while, they laughed like they’d known each other for years.

Ranko took a long bite and leaned back on one hand. “Can I ask you somethin’? It’s kinda personal.”

Akane glanced at her over the spoon, suspicious but smiling. “Since when do you ask first?”

Ranko grinned. “Right, forgot I’m a menace. But seriously. You really don’t see yourself givin’ Kuno a chance?”

“No way. Absolutely not.” Akane rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. 

“Why not? I mean, sure, he’s dramatic, but he’s romantic as hell. And not bad lookin’, if you go for the dumb samurai type.”

Akane scoffed. “It’s not just him. I’m just… not interested. In boys, I mean.”

Ranko blinked. “At all?”

“They’re loud. They’re selfish. They don’t listen. Even the decent ones eventually disappoint you.” Akane huffed.

Ranko chewed on that, spoon clinking against the glass. She wanted to argue—wanted to say surely not all guys are like that, but the words tasted thin in her mouth. “Is there anyone you do like?” she asked instead, a bit softer.

Akane’s eyes dropped. Her hand lifted to her long black hair and began smoothing it, gently separating a few strands, fingers moving with practiced care.

Ranko leaned in. “So there is someone you like.”

“It’s not like that,” Akane said quickly. “I just… have an old crush. One of those stupid ones you carry around forever, even when you know it’s hopeless. My brain knows it’s doomed. It just hasn’t convinced the rest of me yet.”

Ranko let out a slow laugh, surprised at the twist of feeling in her chest. “C’mon, Princess. If I were a boy I’d be all over you like the rest of ‘em. There’s no way in this whole damn world someone wouldn’t love you back.”

“You’d be surprised,” Akane murmured, still staring at her half-eaten parfait.

Ranko fell quiet, the sweetness of her dessert suddenly too rich. She sighed. “So we’re both attracted to people we can’t have, then.”

Akane looked up. “I still think you do have a chance with Kuno-senpai.”

Ranko smiled without teeth. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know the type he likes. Princesses. Beautiful, talented, strong girls like you. I’m not like that.”

“You are. And he likes the idea of me. But he doesn’t know me.” Akane gave her a long look—careful, thoughtful. "He made up his mind about the kind of person that I am, and won't even try to see me. Not that I want him to, anyway. It's just that I'm not a princess, I'm just pretending."

Ranko looked at Akane, raising an eyebrow slowly. She didn't believe her, that kindness was real. Her athletic ability was real. Her beauty was inside and out, undeniable. “Still. He’s never gonna look at me and see someone he’d write a poem about.”

“Maybe not,” Akane said. “But maybe he’ll see someone real.”

That shut Ranko up for a while. She picked at the whipped cream and tried not to cry. Akane was too sweet.

When the check came, Ranko paid with one of the bills she’d taken from her envelope. Her hands smelled like syrup and her stomach ached from sugar, but it was the first thing she’d bought in a long time that made her feel full in a good way.

“You really shouldn’t waste your money on me.”

“It’s not a waste,” Ranko said quietly. “It’s mine.” And for once, she got to choose what to do with it.

“Thank you,” Akane said, sincerely.

Ranko wiped her mouth with her napkin and shrugged. “I do owe you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” Ranko said, a little too quickly. “I do.”

The air between them stilled for a beat.  Akane looked like she wanted to say something more—some soft protest, some kindness Ranko didn’t know how to accept. But in the end, she let it go, only brushing against Ranko’s elbow as they left the shop.

The walk home from the café was quiet. The sun had dipped low behind the rooftops of Nerima, leaving the streets bathed in a subdued amber. Evening traffic murmured along the larger roads, but their own pace was slow, unhurried.

Ranko kicked at a loose pebble with her sneaker, hands in the pockets of her jacket. “My job ends next week,” she said suddenly, her voice low. “The contract thing, they only needed me for a couple weeks. Night shift’s gonna be over.”

Akane glanced at her. “Oh.”

“I didn’t wanna think about it,” Ranko muttered. “I mean, I’m kinda glad. I can’t keep goin’ like this. Sleepin’ an hour here, dozing off in class, runnin’ everywhere. But still…”

She trailed off, squinting at the sky. The blue was darkening, tinged with gold.

“I get it,” Akane said. “But, you know, you really can stay with us for free. It’s not a big deal. Nabiki’s the only one who keeps pushing that ‘rent’ thing. She doesn’t even do the shopping.”

Ranko gave a small laugh. “Yeah, well. I ain’t gonna argue with your sister. She could make a statue pay rent.”

Akane grinned.

Ranko looked ahead again, her voice quieter. “It’s not just about money and a place to stay. I don’t wanna be a burden. This is your house, your family. I already feel like I’m takin’ up too much space.”

“You’re not.”

“But I feel like I am. And I got this thing where… I don’t know. I don’t wanna rely on anyone. I can’t count on my dad for anythin’, so it’s like I gotta do it all myself. Even if it breaks me a little.”

Akane didn’t have an answer. She wished she could fix it, but she knew Ranko wasn’t asking for that. So instead she reached over and entwined Ranko’s arm with her own. “Well, you’re not alone anymore. Just… remember that.”

They got home just as the entrance light flicked on. The house smelled like rice and soy sauce. Kasumi greeted them with a warm smile from the kitchen, her sleeves tied up and her hair pinned neatly back. Ranko ducked her head in thanks, and followed Akane to the dojo.

Akane tossed her an old gi—clean, in better shape than the one she had at the apartment. “Should fit close enough.”

Ranko stripped out of her uniform without comment, pulled the gi on and cinched it at the waist. It was snug across the chest, of course, but everything was. She flexed her shoulders, cracked her neck, and stepped towards Akane.

They sparred. Just the rhythm of feet scuffing the floor, fabric snapping, the low grunts and breath of two girls pushing each other to the edge of exhaustion. When Kasumi’s voice floated in from the main house—“Dinner!”—they both dropped their stances at once.

Afterward, they showered. The ofuro was already steaming, the scent of hinoki wood rising with the mist. They soaked side by side, knees bumping gently, their muscles sighing in relief. Ranko leaned her head back against the tile, watching the ceiling through the drift of steam. The bruise on her thigh had began to turn dark purple.

Later, in Akane’s room, Ranko lay sprawled on her stomach with a stack of Nabiki’s fashion magazines. She flipped through glossy pages half-interestedly, offering the occasional sarcastic comment. Akane sat beside her with a textbook, explaining formulas and grammar points with the patience of someone who knew she wouldn’t remember it all anyway.

They curled up in the same bed, Ranko already drifting before the light was even out. Akane turned once, tucked the blanket higher over both of them, and fell asleep facing her.

There was no alarm set this time. No job waiting in the darkness. Only the warm hush of a safe house, and the slow breath of another girl asleep nearby.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet but not still. Dust motes spun lazily in the morning light filtering through the curtains—soft yellow warmth.

Ranko woke first.

Her body was curved slightly on its side, and Akane’s arm was draped over her middle like she’d mistaken her for a favorite stuffed animal in her sleep. Ranko didn’t move right away.

Akane wasn’t a delicate sleeper. She had a softness to her, sure, in the way she cared, in her smile, but at night she became something else—tucked beneath her layers, tossing every now and then with silent restlessness. But Ranko didn’t mind. Not when she could hear the other girl’s steady breathing, or feel her presence so close beside her.

It feels safe.

The mattress was soft under her, the room slightly cool but the bed warm. Her stomach fluttered, not with nerves but with the good kind of thrill. It was Sunday.

Her day with Kuno.

She let out a quiet breath, lips parting in a small grin. She’d been looking forward to this for days—ever since he’d announced, in that grand but careful tone of his, that he had made arrangements. He hadn't shared specifics.

Ranko had built up some theories. Maybe it’d be a garden stroll, the two of them in a quiet, mossy park, shaded by old maples and stone lanterns. Maybe he’d bring her to watch a kendo match—or invite her to spar, try to teach her a thing or two. Maybe a museum of ancient samurai relics, where he'd speak softly about history, about glory, about honor and heartbreak.

Or maybe he’ll take me to the beach, she thought, eyes half-lidded with wonder, and recite poetry he’s written about Akane. And himself. And the future that lives only in his mind.

Whatever it was, she’d love it. Love him, in that helpless, hopeless way she harbored. It didn’t matter what he did—so long as she got to be beside him.

Beside her, Akane stirred.

Ranko blinked, returning to the present, just as Akane’s eyelashes fluttered and her breath shifted into awareness. Her fingers flexed slightly, then stilled. When she realized where her arm had ended up, she pulled it back with careful fingers, her face already tilting down with apology.

“Sorry,” Akane mumbled, voice thick and soft with sleep. “Didn’t mean to grab you.”

Ranko turned towards Akane to face her and smirked lazily. “No problem. Always wanted to know what being a koala mom felt like.”

Akane snorted, half-laughing through her nose, rubbing at her eyes. “Good morning, koala mom.”

“Mornin’.”

They sat up together, blankets falling away. Ranko’s braid had loosened in the night; she gathered it and shook it back behind her shoulder with one hand. She yawned like a cat, shoulders rising and falling, then rolled her neck with a faint pop.

The morning felt easy, natural. Like nothing could go wrong.

Ranko padded back to her borrowed room, the sleeves of her borrowed yukata hanging slightly past her hands. As she stepped onto the tatami mat, her eyes caught something new—a cardboard box sitting just beside the dresser, the flaps loosely folded closed.

She tilted her head. It hadn't been there last night.

Before she could lift a corner to peek inside, a light knock sounded at the door frame, and she looked up to see Kasumi standing there, hands folded neatly in front of her apron.

“Good morning, Ranko-chan.”

“Good mornin’!” Ranko straightened up, a little sheepish. “I was just wonderin’ what this was…”

Kasumi smiled gently. “Those are some of my old clothes—from when I was in high school. I found the box in storage the other day and thought you might like to look through it. I don’t wear them anymore, and it seemed like such a waste to keep them boxed up.”

Ranko blinked, touched. “Really? Thank you so much, Kasumi. That’s… seriously nice of you.”

“I hope there’s something useful in there for you.” Then, with her usual quiet grace, she turned and walked back down the hall.

Ranko crouched and opened the flaps carefully, already seeing hints of pale blue cotton, warm cream knits, and the delicate shapes of collars and pleats. She touched one softly—a light green dress.

Footsteps thudded on the stairs, and she turned as Akane stepped into view, already dressed in her gi. Her long black hair was pulled back in a half ponytail, and she had a towel draped around her shoulders.

“Hey,” Ranko called. “Kasumi dropped off some of her old clothes for me.”

Akane’s eyebrows lifted with interest, and she walked over, kneeling beside Ranko on the tatami.

“Help me dig,” Ranko said, grinning. “You know what’s actually cute.”

The two girls crouched side by side, legs folded neatly under them, and began pulling pieces from the box. A creamy blouse with puffed sleeves. A gray wool skirt with two buttons at the waist. A lilac cardigan, threadbare but soft. They made a small “maybe” pile beside them, the fabrics catching the morning light in softened tones.

Ranko looked at Akane. “So,” she asked as they worked, “you’re trainin’ this early already?”

Akane nodded without looking up. “Yeah. I actually taught a class yesterday morning. Bunch of little kids.”

Ranko blinked. “Wait, really? I was totally knocked out, didn’t even hear.”

Akane shrugged, her voice casual. “You needed sleep. It went better than last time. One of the kids brought her cousin along, and she seemed kind of interested, so maybe…”

Ranko smiled, picking up a faded denim skirt. “That’s great. I hope the dojo keeps growin’.”

“Me too,” Akane murmured. She smoothed a pleated skirt with her palm, eyes thoughtful.

Before they could finish, Kasumi’s voice drifted up from the kitchen: “Girls! Breakfast is ready!”

“Coming,” Akane called back, rising to her feet and brushing her knees.

They left the maybe pile in a neat stack and headed to the living room together. Nabiki was already at the table, cradling a cup of tea—and looking hilariously rumpled. Her short brown hair was a chaotic halo, standing up in wild directions as if she'd fought a pillow and lost.

Ranko blinked. “Oh. Mornin’.”

“What?” Nabiki said flatly, not even looking up.

“Nothin’,” Ranko said quickly, lips twitching. 

Mr. Tendo chuckled from behind his newspaper. “Sunday mornings are usually quiet in our home,” he said, smiling. “I assume Nabiki’s not going out today.”

Nabiki raised her cup like a toast. “Damn right I’m not.”

As they settled at the low table, bowls steaming and plates of pickles and tamagoyaki arranged just so, Nabiki stretched with a yawn and set her tea down.

“So,” she said, voice still scratchy with sleep but tone razor-sharp, “today’s your big date with Kuno, huh?”

Ranko looked up from her miso bowl. “Yeah,” she said, trying to sound casual—but her mouth betrayed her, tugging at the corners, a smile threatening to spread.

Nabiki didn’t press. She only smirked faintly.

Across the table, Mr. Tendo folded his newspaper and raised a thoughtful brow. “Kuno... isn’t that the boy who’s been pursuing you romantically, Akane? I remember him addressing me as ‘future father-in-law’ during town council meetings, and sending bouquets of red roses to the house, if I remember—”

Akane sighed through her nose, reaching for the soy sauce. “Yes,” she said, matter-of-fact. “But I’m not interested in him.”

Ranko looked down at her rice, cheeks warming, then added quickly, “He’s not interested in me . We’re just friends.”

Akane sipped her tea with a little furrow in her brow that didn’t deepen into a comment. Mr. Tendo resumed reading. Kasumi served seconds of rice.

The last grains of rice were eaten, teacups drained, and the table slowly fell into a lull of satisfaction and gentle clinks.

“I’ll help clean up,” Ranko said, rising to her feet, gathering bowls with deft fingers. Kasumi glanced up at her, surprised but pleased.

“Thank you, Ranko-chan. That’s very kind.”

Nabiki and Akane had already drifted toward the television, their post-meal routines easy and familiar. Mr. Tendo remained where he was, his newspaper crackling softly as he turned a page, humming with contentment. Kasumi and Ranko moved in quiet sync, stacking plates, Ranko brushing crumbs from the table while Kasumi began washing up.

“I'm going to train,” Akane said suddenly, rising from the floor and stretching with a lazy yawn. She turned toward the kitchen. “Ranko, wanna join me?”

Ranko looked toward Kasumi, uncertain. But Kasumi was already rinsing the last cup, sleeves tucked neatly above her elbows.

“Go ahead, Ranko-chan. I can finish washing up,” she said, voice as light as a breeze.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Ranko dried her hands on a cloth and smiled. “Then yeah—why not.”

Akane grinned, genuine and bright, and that grin alone made the answer worth it.

At the table, Mr. Tendo gave a pleased little sigh, folding his newspaper in half and setting it in his lap. “Excellent. Excellent,” he murmured, as if a vision of a future dojo full of camaraderie had just unfolded before him.

But before Ranko could quite follow Akane toward the hallway, Nabiki leaned back on one hand and turned toward her, a sly note in her voice.

“Try not to distract her too much, Akane,” she said, casting a smirk in Ranko’s direction. “She still has to get ready for her big friend-date with Kuno.”

Akane rolled her eyes and grabbed Ranko’s hand, pulling her gently toward the dojo. “Come on.”

The dojo was warm. Ranko wore one of Akane’s gi. The soft slap of bare feet on the polished wood mixed with the rhythmic thock of palms meeting forearms.

Akane grinned as she pivoted, blocking one of Ranko’s half-hearted strikes. “Come on, I know you can hit harder than that.”

“I’m pacin’ myself,” Ranko shot back, sweat already darkening the cotton at her collar. “Wouldn’t wanna knock Nerima’s risin’ star through the walls.”

“Oh yeah?” Akane stepped in, and their legs tangled. “Try me, delinquent .”

They sparred with increasing speed, playful and sharp, the tension between them friendly but alert. Their laughter echoed as much as their movement—Ranko’s loud and crooked, Akane’s coming in bursts, free and unguarded. They moved like friends, like rivals, like kids playing a game that made them feel powerful.

Eventually they slumped side by side against the dojo wall, chests heaving. Akane wiped her forehead with her sleeve and groaned. “Shower’s calling my name.”

“You earned it.” Ranko flopped her head back, the knot of her braid sticking awkwardly behind her. “You tried to hit me in the kidney three times.”

“That’s restraint.” Akane laughed as she padded back toward the house.

Ranko lingered.

When the house was quiet again, and the water of the shower started running in the distance, she stood. She moved to the room where she kept her things—her envelope of earnings tucked carefully inside her bag. She peeled it open and counted out a few notes, biting her lip as she did. Not too much.

Still in her gi, sleeves rolled to her elbows, she slipped out the door.

The walk to the convenience store was short. The clerk didn’t blink at the hair bleach and rice crackers. The streets were slow, the breeze brushing the ends of her braid. The big park on the edge of town was nearly empty, just old folks stretching their arms and toddlers toddling unevenly after pigeons. Ranko made a beeline for the public bathroom. She’d done this enough times to know it would work well enough.

The bleach box clattered open on the sink. She mixed the developer with the practiced hands of a girl who’d read the same instructions a dozen times and knew how to make do. She slathered it on with gloved hands and pulled her braid into a sad bun, the convenience store bag covering her scalp.

The light novel—battered, spine cracked, pages yellowed—was perched on the ledge of the trash can just outside. Some cheap romance set in a world of vampires and tea shops and magical cooking contests. She sat on the rim of the concrete planter and read as the burn of peroxide tingled her scalp.

Thirty-five minutes passed. The sun shifted just slightly. Ranko rinsed in the public sink, icy water flooding over her head, plastering her wet hair to her skull.

She blinked at her reflection in the dirty mirror, drops falling down her temples.

It wasn’t perfect. The roots were bright and brassy, the ends fried from overwork. She looked like a girl who’d done her hair in a park bathroom. But the thing in the mirror looked like her again. Her scalp stung, but the lightness in her chest felt worth it.

Back at the Tendo house, she toed off her shoes and padded inside, leaving the rice crackers quietly on the table. A little offering, maybe.

She took a shower, steam rising around her, washing the smell of bleach from her hands. When she stepped out and caught her reflection in the mirror, she paused and smiled at herself.

Ranko stepped into her room, hair still damp. The cardboard box Kasumi had given her remained open on the tatami, the clothes she and Akane had sorted folded in soft piles like pastel hills. She rifled through them, fingers grazing over patterns. One top caught her eye—a stretchy, scoop-neck blouse that seemed forgiving enough to not press her chest into an unflattering shelf. She slipped it on.

Then came the skirt. Pale lavender, cotton, flowy. On Kasumi, it probably kissed the calves gracefully. On Ranko, it puddled around her toes like a bedsheet. She rolled the waistband up and tucked the excess beneath her sports bra’s band, then stepped back, squinting down at herself.

No mirror in her room. No way to know for sure. It’s probably fine, she thought, Kuno's not gonna care about clothes.

She wandered out into the hallway and paused. Nabiki was in the living room, criss-cross on the floor, already halfway through the rice crackers Ranko had left on the table. She paused mid-chew when she spotted her. A beat passed. Then her eyebrows furrowed, mouth still full.

“You’re not wearing that to your date, are you?”

Ranko blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

“Why?”

“I don’t have anythin’ else,” Ranko said, shrugging one shoulder.

Nabiki gave a long, theatrical sigh, then stood, brushing crumbs off her skirt. “Look… I—I can’t let you leave the house looking like that .”

Ranko flinched a little, half-offended. “That bad, huh?”

“Yes. Come on.” Nabiki grabbed her wrist with surprising force and tugged her toward the stairs. “Kasumi!” Nabiki called back toward the kitchen. “Don’t start lunch without us!”

Kasumi’s voice floated gently around the corner. “Lunch will be ready soon.”

“Great,” Nabiki muttered, already halfway up. She stopped at a door and turned to Ranko. “Just so you know—my bedroom is off limits. ”

Ranko blinked. “Okay?”

The door creaked open, and Nabiki shoved her inside, then closed it sharply behind them. The air smelled like perfume and face cream and money. Her vanity gleamed with little glass bottles, and there were posters on the wall. A controlled aesthetic.

Nabiki turned her toward the full-length mirror beside her closet. “Take a look.”

Ranko did.

Her breath caught.

She looked like she’d lost a bet.

The lavender skirt drooped in places and ballooned in others, the waistband bunching weirdly where it pressed under her bra. Her top was floral—tiny blue and pink blooms—but the colors clashed with the skirt. And then, of course, there was her hair. The freshly bleached roots blazed an uneven brass—almost light orange—stark against the older, faded gold of her dye job.

“Wow,” she whispered. “I look pretty bad.”

“You look ridiculous,” Nabiki corrected.

Ranko snorted despite herself. “Brutal.”

“Brutally honest.” Nabiki crossed her arms. “Look, he might be dumb, but Kuno-senpai’s not blind . And you—you’re a disaster.”

Ranko rubbed her arm, half-laughing, half-mortified. “I don’t really have anything else, so…”

Nabiki stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh so deep it sounded like it came from her very soul, she turned toward her closet.

“Alright. Sit down. Don’t touch anything. Don’t breathe on anything. I’m gonna fix you.”

Ranko blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. And you owe me.”

“For what?”

“For not letting you be seen in public looking like that. ”

Nabiki pulled open the closet door with a sigh and began flipping through hangers like she was inspecting stock options.

“So,” she said, almost lazily, “what do you think you and Kuno’ll be doing today?”

Ranko sat obediently on the edge of the bed, legs swinging a little above the rug. “I’ve got no idea.”

“What do you guys usually do?”

“Well…” She counted on her fingers, brows slightly furrowed. “Apart from the ice skatin’ rink visit? We went to an arcade. And to a karaoke booth. We mostly just… eat.”

Nabiki paused, glancing over her shoulder. “ Eat ?”

“Yeah. Ramen shop. Combini food. There was that restaurant we went to when it rained—the same day I overheard your dad and mine talkin’.”

Nabiki turned back to the closet. “So basically your dates are all over the place.”

Ranko hesitated. “They’re not dates.”

“Sure.”

Nabiki pulled out a top, held it up, and turned. “Here.”

It was black and form-fitting, the kind of top you could only wear with confidence or delusion—long sleeves, a turtleneck that stopped just shy of severe, and twin cutouts at the shoulders. It shimmered slightly, not with glitter, but with quality. Sleek. Sharp.

Ranko took it reverently, pressing the fabric between her fingers. “Whoa. This is…”

“...not yours, yeah,” Nabiki smirked. “Change.”

Ranko stood, facing the mirror, tugging off Kasumi’s limp floral blouse. She hesitated, catching Nabiki’s eyes on her in the reflection.

“Why are you wearing a sports bra?” Nabiki asked, almost casually.

“I bought it,” Ranko said, voice low. “And regular cotton panties.”

Nabiki tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “Wow. You’re a changed woman.”

Ranko snorted.

From a lower shelf, Nabiki pulled out something red and shiny. She held it up.

Ranko blinked. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

The pants were crimson faux leather, low-waisted with black lacing that crisscrossed up both sides, revealing just a hint of skin beneath the pattern. They looked like something a villain in a music video would wear.

“They’ll cover the bruise on your thigh,” Nabiki said flatly, “and they’re stretchy. You’ll be fine.”

“I dunno—”

“They’ll adapt ,” Nabiki said. “To whatever infantile, samurai cosplay plan Kuno has lined up.”

Ranko took them and stepped into them carefully, adjusting the waist. They were tighter than anything she owned, but soft inside, surprisingly pliable. Nabiki knelt to tighten the crisscross strings up the sides, drawing them in just enough to keep the pants from dragging or sagging.

Ranko turned to the mirror.

The black top hugged her frame like it was made for her. The shoulder cut-outs gave just the right edge to balance the long sleeves and high neckline. The red pants clung and flared in exactly the way she imagined a cool foreign woman might dress. Her brassy yellow hair was a mess, but it kind of worked now—punky, deliberate, wild.

She looked... different. Not like Kasumi. Not like Akane. Not like a girl stealing from a lost and found. Even in Nabiki’s clothes, she didn’t look like her at all. She looked like Ranko. Ranko, but turned up.

“I look good,” she whispered, half in awe.

Nabiki, arms crossed and smug beside her, nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Ranko looked at her through the mirror. There was something warm in her chest, rising slowly. She turned and said it aloud: “Thanks, Nabiki. You’re always helpin’ me out.”

Nabiki groaned. “Ugh. Stop. Gross.”

“I mean it.”

“If you say one more sentimental thing I’ll never do anything nice for anyone ever again. And you are never coming into my room again.”

Ranko grinned, stepping out with Kasumi’s clothes crumpled in her arms. “Fine. Off-limits. Got it.”

Ranko chuckled as she left, the soft hush of her quiet footsteps down the stairs.

Lunch at the Tendo house was laid out in a neat, aromatic spread. Kasumi’s touch, as ever, was precise and maternal. The kind of meal that should have settled into the bones and warmed the heart.

But Ranko couldn’t eat. Her chopsticks hovered over her bowl, hand stiff, stomach tight. Her pulse ticked in her throat. Every few minutes her eyes darted toward the clock on the wall, barely catching the shifting of the hands.

“Ranko,” Akane said, head tilting slightly. “Those clothes aren’t Kasumi’s, are they?”

Ranko’s mouth opened, but Nabiki beat her to the reply.

“She looked like a shrunken and bleached Yamato Nadeshiko. I had to intervene.”

Ranko made a small face. “It wasn’t that bad…”

“Ranko, you were wearing floral prints and a floor-length skirt tucked into your bra. You looked like you dressed in the dark.”

Akane frowned. “Maybe she’s trying to dress in a way Kuno might like. That’s not a bad thing.”

“Oh, please,” Nabiki rolled her eyes, sipping her tea. “Changing your appearance for a guy you like? That’s pathetic .”

Akane flushed immediately. The color rose from her collar to her cheeks, and she turned sharply, brushing her bangs out of her eyes with a clipped gesture. Her chopsticks clinked against her bowl with a little more force than necessary.

Ranko glanced between them. “It’s just a borrowed outfit,” she said, shrugging, trying to keep her voice even. “I haven’t really had time to go through Kasumi’s clothes yet. Half of them are too long for me. I’m kind of—” she held a hand up beside her hip, “—weirdly shaped.”

Mr. Tendo set down his newspaper and looked at her with mild concern. “If you need money to buy clothes, Ranko, we can—”

“No,” she cut in, a bit more sharply than intended. She softened it with a small smile. “I’ve got it covered. But thank you, sir.”

The clatter of bowls signaled the end of the meal. Kasumi gathered the empty dishes with a serene smile; Akane stood and helped, still pink in the cheeks and quieter than usual.

Ranko bowed slightly from her seat. “Thanks for lunch. It was really good.”

Everyone gave her some version of encouragement—Kasumi with a gentle “Enjoy your outing,” Mr. Tendo with a sage nod, Akane with a slightly mumbled “Good luck,” and Nabiki, of course, with a smirk: “Don’t ruin my clothes.”

Ranko’s heart was pounding now. She padded back to the front hall in her socks, slipped her feet into her red sneakers. She adjusted the borrowed pants and tugged at the sleeves of the sleek black top. The fabric hugged her frame, and she felt… daring. A little dangerous.

She slipped a few bills into the pocket of her jacket, next to the charm Kuno had given her once. Her palms were a little sweaty. Her throat felt dry. She took a breath, then another, and ran a hand through her damp, brassy-blonde hair—still uneven, still a little wild. But it felt like her. Imperfect.

And then she opened the door, stepped out onto the street, and took off down the quiet Sunday streets, her heart hammering like a taiko drum as she headed towards Furinkan. Towards Kuno.

Chapter Text

The front gates of Furinkan stood shut, their metal bars casting long shadows across the pavement in the fading light of an autumn afternoon. Ranko stood with her hands in her jacket pockets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She checked the school’s clock. Two o’clock sharp.

Her stomach twisted.

Then, across the street, a car door opened. A black sedan—parked all along beneath the lean, half-naked limbs of a cherry tree—had gone entirely unnoticed until now. The vehicle’s windows were tinted; the paint shined faintly in the dull light. And from the backseat, he stepped out.

Kuno.

He was in a long, dark haori coat over the familiar shape of his kendo gi underneath—but he bore no bokken today. He paused by the curb, as if orienting himself, then turned and began walking toward her.

Ranko swallowed hard and she tugged her jacket tighter across her torso. Nabiki’s red faux-leather pants whispered with every motion, and the cling of the turtleneck was a reminder that she was trying, desperately, to look like someone worth looking at.

“Good afternoon, Ranko,” he said, once he was close enough. 

“Hey,” she replied. Her voice was softer than she meant it to be.

He looked at her—openly. There was a kind familiarity in his gaze, the unbothered way one looked at an old friend.

“You appear somewhat different.”

“You look the same,” Ranko replied, too quickly.

Then, in the same breath—together, absurdly:

“Is that bad?”

They both blinked. And then she laughed, a short, nervous exhale. He smiled faintly.

“It’s not,” she added, trying not to look too hard at the curve of his mouth. It was not romantic. He didn’t mean it that way. He never did. That was the worst part.

He nodded. “Indeed.”

“I’m so nervous,” she admitted, blurting it out. Her hand was already reaching for his coat sleeve before she could think better of it, clutching the fabric gently.

He looked down at her hand but made no move to pull away. “What compels this anxiety?”

“I haven’t hung out with you since Thursday,” she said.

“We ate lunch together with Tendo Akane and Tendo Nabiki on Friday,” he reminded her, with the faintest arch of one brow.

“That doesn’t count. That’s not…” she trailed off, then finished, “ us .”

His expression softened. Just a little. “Ah.”

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked, almost bouncing on her feet now.

“I procured a private car for our excursion.”

Ranko blinked. “That’s—okay, that’s real rich boy of you, bud.”

As if summoned by her approval, the driver—stoic, suited—stepped around and opened the car door with quiet efficiency. Kuno gestured toward the interior with one hand.

She slid in. The seats were far softer than she’d expected. Kuno settled beside her, back straight as ever. The door shut with a muted thunk . Ranko shifted in place. The pants stuck a little when she tried to cross her legs, and she hated the sound they made. Still, when she glanced sideways at him, all of that irritation fell away.

He was sitting close—but not too close. Always respectful. Always composed. She looked at the curve of his jaw, the noble set of his brow, the way his hands rested so purposefully in his lap. And somewhere deep in her belly, a familiar ache coiled and bloomed.

I love you , she thought, raw and private. I really, really do. Even if you’ll never love me back, I still do. I can’t stop.

He turned his head slightly toward her, and she looked away too fast.

“So,” he said. “How have your days in the Tendo household been?”

“Good. Better than good,” she replied. “Even Nabiki’s bein’ sweet to me.”

Kuno gave a small, amused huff. “Be careful. Her benevolence is often followed by an invoice.”

“I’ll be careful,” Ranko said, smiling despite herself. “What about you? How’s the PTA? Your sister?”

“Productive,” he said. “The Parent-Teacher Association seems satisfied with recent reforms. As for Kodachi—she remains eccentric, but she’s channeled her volatility into academic and athletic discipline. Rhythmic gymnastics, specifically.”

“Good for her,” Ranko said. “She won’t be turnin’ into a delinquent anytime soon.”

The car turned smoothly at the corner. Her shoulder brushed his, a soft, incidental contact. He did not move away. And for a second, she let herself feel it: the thrill of proximity. The brief illusion that maybe he cared more. That maybe this meant something to him, too.

Even if it didn’t. Even if it never would.

They moved smoothly through the city streets, the tinted windows casting the world outside in a charcoal blur. 

“So where are we goin’?” Ranko asked after a minute, trying to sound casual.

Kuno didn’t turn to look at her—just watched the road ahead, calm and assured. “Kawagoe first.”

Her eyebrows went up. “ First ?”

“Yes,” he said. “You wanted to spend the entirety of your Sunday in my company, correct? So, Kawagoe is the plan for the afternoon.”

Ranko stared at him for a second. Then she smiled, full and involuntary. It broke across her face like sunlight. “Gods, you’re so—" She couldn’t even finish it. She leaned her head against the window for a moment, grinning at nothing. "That’s great. Really. I’m… I’m glad.”

Kuno inclined his head slightly. “The shops and historical streets of Kawagoe should provide a worthwhile diversion. Afterwards, I have made additional arrangements.”

She glanced sideways at him again, her heart swelling in her chest. His profile was as serene as ever, but the fact that he had planned something—had thought about her, remembered what she’d asked for, arranged a whole day together—it made her feel valued.

She reached into the inner pocket of her jacket. “Oh, wait—before I forget.”

She pulled out a 500 yen coin and offered it to him, held flat in her palm.

He looked down at it, then at her. “What is this?”

“It’s money,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“I am aware it is currency,” he said dryly. “Why are you handing me a 500 yen coin?”

“Because I owe you. Remember?” She shook it slightly, still offering.

He frowned faintly, searching his memory. “I do not recall any such debt.”

Ranko sighed. “Figures. The day we had takoyaki?” she asked, and Kuno didn’t even stir in recognition. “Not only are you dullin' my sharp edges with your whole samurai-courtly-gentleman vibe, but now you’re not even going to appreciate my growth as a person who pays back her debts?”

A brief twitch at the corner of his mouth—an almost-smile. “On the contrary,” he said. “I do appreciate it. And I shall accept the coin as evidence of your development.”

He took the coin with the tips of his fingers, examining it once before retrieving his wallet from the inner fold of his coat. It was a pristine leather thing, and he opened it with careful deliberation. There were no coins inside, only crisp bills and an empty rectangular window where a photograph might go.

He slid the coin into that empty frame, pressed it down into place, and closed the wallet again.

Ranko blinked. “You’re keepin' it there ?”

“I do not generally carry coinage,” he said. “And this compartment is presently unoccupied.”

Ranko looked down at her hands. Her heart was thudding too fast. “You’re weird.”

“I have been informed of this,” he replied, calmly.

She turned her head toward the window again, smiling like an idiot.

Outside, the buildings were giving way to broader streets and trees with yellowed leaves, their branches stark against the afternoon sky. They were leaving Nerima, and Tokyo prefecture, behind. Ranko let her eyes wander over the passing scenery. Her body buzzed beneath Nabiki’s borrowed outfit. Every second in his presence made her warm and restless and weirdly serene all at once.

Kuno turned slightly in his seat, not enough to face her fully, but enough to signal that he was studying her again.

“I have been meaning to ask…” he began, hands folded neatly over his lap, voice calm and inquisitive. “How has your experience with Tendo Akane been?”

Ranko blinked, then smiled. “Amazin’. We’ve been hangin’ out. Trainin’ together. She’s cool. Tough, you know? Straightforward. She is a princess and a warrior all at once.”

Kuno gave a thoughtful little hum. “That is high praise.”

“It is,” Ranko agreed. “She’s got this serious side, but she’s not mean. She really cares about people. And she’s strong. Like, actually strong. Not just physically, but…” She exhaled. “You know what I mean.”

Kuno nodded solemnly. “I do.” He paused, hands shifting slightly. Then, with studied nonchalance, he said, “Has she spoken of me?”

Ranko immediately smirked. “That’s a secret.”

Kuno turned to her with a hint of curiosity. “It is a simple question.”

“And that’s a simple answer,” she shot back.

He considered that. “I see. I shall not intrude in a female covenant,” Kuno said softly. “Are your injuries healing well?”

Ranko glanced over, her mouth tilting into a half-smile. “Yeah. It’s fine. I’ve gotten into worse scuffles before.”

A small silence, then: “Nevertheless. I am sorry that I was not there to assist you.”

Ranko shrugged. “I don’t expect you to show up every time I get knocked around, Samurai,” she said lightly. “You’ve got your own life. And I’ve got fists. We’ll be fine.”

He didn’t respond right away, only nodded, then seemed to turn inward, thoughtful, his gaze softening as the expanse of the highway into Saitama came into view. His hands folded over his knee.

“To be honest… I was surprised when you accepted to pay for a room with the Tendo family.”

She blinked, then turned her eyes toward the opposite window. “Yeah, well. I wouldn’t have if I didn’t have to. Hotels are—” she gave a soft scoff, “—outta my budget. Even the cheapest ones. You’re out a week’s wages just to have a door that locks for a few days.”

“I understand,” he said, but his voice grew gentler, almost hesitant. “Still… I must admit, I was a little jealous.”

She turned to him, mouth parting—but no words came. It made perfect sense that he, most likely, would have liked to sleep under the same roof as Akane. Ranko knew this. She felt her chest tightening all the same.

“I would have liked it,” he continued quietly, “if you had stayed at the Kuno estate instead.”

Ranko looked forward again, trying not to blink too fast. She kept her expression steady, her voice low, pretending this wasn't unexpected. “Your house is too big. I’d get lost in the garden.”

“I would have drawn you a map,” he said, and there was the faintest upward curve at the edge of his mouth.

She smiled back, but didn’t let herself fall into it. Not all the way.

He meant it kindly, she told herself. He meant it honorably. But not the way she meant things. Not the way she felt them . Kuno saw her as a friend. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and stared out the window, hoping the silence would cool the warmth rising in her face.

He didn’t speak again for some time, and neither did she.

The car pulled to a slow stop on the edge of an avenue lined with dark-wood buildings, their tiled roofs sloping like folded wings under the pale autumn sky. The driver stepped out, wordless and efficient, and opened the door. Ranko followed Kuno onto the sidewalk, a breeze catching at her braid as she looked around.

It was busy, but not swarming—couples strolled hand in hand, groups of tourists clustered around shops selling roasted sweet potatoes and delicate manju in paper wraps. The buildings were tall and narrow, charming, wooden. It was like stepping into a page of an illustrated history book. Somewhere, a shamisen played faintly from a speaker. The air smelled like sugar and charcoal.

Ranko turned slowly, taking it all in. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Nor have I,” Kuno replied, smoothing the front of his dark-blue gi. His voice was calm, composed, though there was something in the set of his shoulders that mirrored her own sense of wonder.

She glanced at him, eyebrows lifted. “So how’d you come up with it?”

Kuno looked ahead, his tone growing faintly nostalgic. “I read about it. In the volume I was perusing the day we dined together during the storm. The day you fell asleep on my lap.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes lingered on the antique façade of a shop, where a display of handmade combs, lacquered hairpins, and wooden charms caught the sunlight behind the glass. She just nodded, like she hadn’t remembered the tenderness in that moment.

They walked in tandem past girls in floral yukata, some laughing with arms entwined, others quiet as they pointed out silken scarves or candy in jewel-like boxes. Ranko tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, the coolness of the faux leather pants against her thighs making her suddenly hyper-aware of herself—her clothes, her tan that had faded into uneven patches, the badly dyed hair.

Once, she would have strutted through a place like this without a second thought. Once, she liked standing out.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a store window, surrounded by the reflection of people in soft, traditional or conservative garb. Her own outfit—tight black sleeves, shoulder cut-outs, bright red pants—looked loud, synthetic. A little vulgar. Ranko looked away before her expression could betray anything.

Kuno, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, continued in his even, erudite cadence. “Kawagoe is sometimes called ‘Little Edo.’ During the Tokugawa period, it functioned as a strategic commercial center, especially in transporting goods to the capital via the Shingashi River. Many of these structures have been restored in the kurazukuri style—fireproof storehouses built after the Great Fire of 1893.”

Ranko nodded slowly, eyes drifting across the façade of a sweets shop with hanging lanterns shaped like chestnuts. “So it’s a phoenix town,” she murmured. “Burned down, built back up.”

“Indeed,” Kuno said. “Resilient. Preserved.”

She smiled faintly, not looking at him. 

They kept walking, the late afternoon sun warming the top of her head as she passed beneath paper streamers that fluttered overhead. The sweets shop was nestled between two taller buildings like a secret—its sign carved into a slab of dark wood, with elegant brushstroke kanji faded slightly by years of sun. Lanterns dangled over the entrance, each painted with a different confection. The scent hit them at the threshold: sweet bean paste, roasted rice flour, and something citrusy wafting faintly in the air like a memory.

Inside, the counters were glass and filled with perfect rows of colorful wagashi. Beyond the shelves, tucked in the back behind a noren curtain patterned with red maple leaves, was a narrow cafe with wooden tables polished to a soft gleam. They chose a table near the window, low to the ground, the tatami beneath their knees.

A woman in a pale pink apron brought them tea in ceramic cups, the dango skewered and glossy with warm honey. Ranko folded her legs under her, her red pants creasing awkwardly at the knees. She took a skewer and bit off a piece with reverent ease.

“No way,” she mumbled, mouth full. “This is so good I might cry.”

Kuno, sitting with perfect posture beside her, simply observed the steaming cup in his hands. “I have never fully acquired the taste for sweets.”

Ranko grinned, licking a spot of syrup from her thumb. “That’s so manly of you.”

He looked at her, puzzled but not displeased. “Is it?”

“Totally. I bet you only eat food that makes you stronger.” She leaned her chin into one hand. “I love sweets. I don’t even care if they rot my teeth or whatever. I’ll die happy if it’s with a mouth full of anmitsu.”

They lingered there for a little while, sipping the tea, the sun playing softly through the windows. Ranko’s laughter faded into a quiet warmth in her chest that refused to leave.

When they emerged again, the late afternoon had deepened into amber. The street was gilded, the soft chatter of foot traffic blending into a lullaby of a town untouched by haste and time.

They made their way toward a small Shinto shrine at the edge of the old merchant district, down a narrower stone path ringed by trees half-shed of their autumn coats. The shrine was modest, set atop a low rise of stone steps, a red torii gate flanked by stone foxes at its mouth.

Ranko watched as Kuno stepped forward without hesitation. He approached the purification basin, took the wooden ladle, and performed the ritual with slow, practiced grace. She followed, more awkwardly, but managed. Her heart was drumming, inexplicably fast. She felt like she was watching something sacred. Not the ritual, but him . The quiet way he moved. His focus. The gentle way he bowed at the offering box, his eyes closed in what she guessed was a silent wish.

She stared at his profile a second too long and turned away, flustered. Stop it, idiot, she told herself. You’re gonna explode.

He turned to her. “Would you like to draw an omikuji ?”

She took one slip of paper while Kuno stuffed a bill into the little box meant to only take 100 yen coins. They both unfolded them.

“Oh, shit,” Ranko said, eyes scanning the tiny text. “I got... ‘great misfortune.’”

“As did I,” Kuno said with faint amusement. “A rare alignment.”

“I guess we cancel each other out?”

“Or reinforce it catastrophically.”

They tied the fortunes to the thin white strings stretched between two posts under a plum tree whose leaves had all but fallen. The paper flapped gently in the breeze. Ranko tied hers carefully, looping it three times like she'd been shown years ago, though the meaning escaped her. Kuno’s fingers were more precise, less sentimental.

When she stepped back, their fortunes were side by side, trembling together in the golden dusk.

A photo studio was wedged between a tea house and a shop selling carved wooden masks, its doorway draped with a sun-bleached noren and a beckoning cat. Inside,there were racks of fake brocade kimono, lacquered sandals, and bins of costume wigs arranged by era—samurai topknots, pompadours, Meiji-era ladies’ coiffures. The backdrop was a stretched canvas with an idealized vision of Mount Fuji, all cerulean sky and impossibly rosy clouds.

Ranko tugged at Kuno’s sleeve, grinning. “C’mon. My treat.”

He looked down at her, already wary. “Absolutely not. This excursion was my proposition, and I shall fund even the most absurd diversions.”

Ranko raised an eyebrow. “You think this is absurd ?”

“I think,” he said, carefully, “that there is a curious falseness to posing in rented attire before a painted mountain.”

“You’ll love it.”

He sighed, resigned, and marched them to the counter. The girl behind it had hair dyed a glossy chestnut, and she smiled brightly when Ranko asked for the “deluxe” course—two instant photos, plus five printed professional photos to be mailed with their negatives. Kuno paid, naturally, his fingers moving over his wallet with noble reluctance.

The photographer gestured Kuno toward the painted backdrop. “You can wait here while your girlfriend changes.”

“She’s not my—” he began, but Ranko had already vanished behind a floral curtain, waving him off.

He was offered a suspiciously thin men’s kimono and a dull katana. He declined both, politely but firmly. The photographer looked puzzled. “Not even a headband?”

“I am sufficiently adorned.”

So he stood, tall and broad-shouldered in his kendo gi, looking faintly ridiculous beneath the bright pastel sky of the canvas. From behind the curtain came giggles, rustling fabric, and the sharp click of something fastening. Ranko’s voice, muffled, cracked jokes with the assistant. Then—

“Ta-dah.”

She stepped out.

Kuno didn’t react immediately—his eyes simply locked on her, and his body went still. Ranko was dressed in a crimson kimono patterned with cranes and peonies, the sash cinched so tightly it shaped her with a graceful, unfamiliar precision. Her head was crowned with a heavy black wig in the old nihongami style—shining lacquered hair adorned with gold pins and combs, the weight of it making her neck tilt slightly to the side. Her lipstick was redder than usual.

She laughed. “It’s too much, right?”

He didn’t answer.

The photographer barked cheerful orders in a practiced cadence: hands here, stand like that, closer, please, smile! Now be serious!

Ranko responded eagerly, adjusting her sleeve, miming demure gestures. Kuno remained stiff, arms awkward at his sides. She took pity on him, grabbed his arm. “At least pretend we’re havin' fun.”

Then, just as the assistant brought out the Polaroid camera when the photographer felt satisfied with his shots, Ranko threw up a peace sign and leaned in. The camera clicked. A mechanical buzz.

The second photo, at the assistant’s insistence, was more composed. Ranko folded her hands primly, head tilted, still glowing with mischief. Kuno merely stood beside her, gaze straight ahead.

Once done, she disappeared behind the curtain again with the assistant, their voices soft behind the fabric. Kuno stepped aside, holding the Polaroids. They were still developing. The first one faded into view—her grin, her fingers raised in a V, him standing stiffly beside her with his arm looped with hers.

The second photo appeared more slowly. Her posture elegant, his presence solid. The light caught the red of her kimono.

He studied them in silence. The photos warmed in his palm as if they carried residual heat from the moment. His mouth tightened slightly—not displeased, but in thought, as though these cheap instant images had captured something he didn’t expect.

Chapter Text

The sun slanted low as the shutters clattered down one by one along the stone streets of Kawagoe. A soft wind picked at the edges of the noren hanging in doorways, and the color of the sky began to smolder into lavender. The crowds were thinning. Shopkeepers emerged to retrieve signs and crates, their movements slower, wearier, touched with the fatigue of an autumn Sunday nearly done.

Ranko stopped when she saw her—an elderly woman hunched beside a folding table of small hand-carved charms and cloth coin purses, struggling to lift one leg of the table up while nudging the other with her knee. Ranko didn’t hesitate. She jogged up, grabbing one end of the display.

“Let me get that for you, Granny,” she said, already helping shift the table toward the shop’s interior.

The woman blinked at her, surprised, and then grateful. “Oh—thank you, miss…”

Kuno stepped forward at once to take the other side. Together they maneuvered the table inside.

The omiyage shop smelled of sugar and cedar. Rows of lacquered boxes lined the shelves, each tucked with glistening bean paste cakes, chestnut-filled monaka, and matcha rice crackers wrapped in waxy paper.

“Oh, this one’s cute,” she said, reaching for a box printed with wagara pattern in pink and white, containing a family pack of cookies with black sesame.

Kuno stood by the register, hands loosely folded behind his back, watching her with that serene kind of curiosity she’d never gotten used to.

“For the Tendos?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Gotta bring them somethin’ nice.”

“I shall pay for it,” he offered, already reaching into his coat.

Ranko was faster. The coins hit the tray with a clean clink, and she handed over her sweets to the shopkeeper with a proud flick of her wrist.

“Too slow, Samurai.”

Kuno raised a brow. “Sabotage.”

“Strategy,” she corrected, already grabbing the bag from the older lady. “Gotta stay sharp.”

He walked past her toward the display case and selected a large, ornate box bound in gold twine, its label hand-brushed in dark ink. “For Kodachi,” he said. “She has a fondness for cooking and baking, I believe. I think a lacquered set would keep her busy enough not to become upset at me for leaving on a Sunday.”

“Sounds like a bribe,” Ranko said with a grin, watching him pay. “She scares me, honestly.”

“She frightens many,” Kuno said calmly, receiving the box in an ornate cloth wrap. 

The old shopkeeper, small and bent like a paper crane, bowed low behind the counter. “Thank you both, young ones. And thank you for helping me with the table.”

“You’re welcome, Granny,” Ranko said brightly, bowing back. “Hope you rest your feet tonight.”

“You make a charming pair,” the old woman added, with a smile. “May your path be smooth.”

Ranko felt heat rise to her cheeks but didn’t correct her. She only turned and followed Kuno out into the fading afternoon light, the paper bag rustling gently in her arms.

Outside, the streets were nearly empty now, lit gold by the dying sun. Kuno led her quietly back to the waiting car, its headlights already on. The driver stood beside it, bowing with reserved courtesy as he opened the door for them.

Ranko slid into the seat, her legs a little sore from the walk. The interior of the car was warm and dim, and the windows glinted with the last orange flares of sunset. 

“Today was fun,” she said, almost surprised by the words. “Like, actually fun. I can’t believe I had fun at a historically old-timey place.”

Kuno say next to her, his hands on his lap. “I was confident you would enjoy yourself almost anywhere.”

Ranko turned to him, brows lifted. “Wait. Are you sayin’ I’m fun?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You know you are.”

The car eased away from the curb, moving with smooth precision into the quieting streets. The glass of the window caught brief glimpses of lanterns being lit, shop doors closing, shadows lengthening.

Ranko turned slightly toward him. “So… where to next?”

Kuno didn’t look at her, his gaze remaining steady on the front windshield. “The Prince Park Tower Hotel in Tokyo.”

It took a second.

The word hung in the air like a hook— hotel —and it caught on something inside her. The smile on her face faltered. Her body remained still, but something tightened beneath her skin. Her fingers curled slightly, gripping her borrowed trousers.

She knew what happened at hotels. She’d been to hotels enough times to remember the quiet ritual of pretending. The small talk that dropped off once the door clicked shut. The way a man’s hand would settle on her thigh. How she’d learned to laugh, lean back, give him what he wanted. Or pretend to want it. Her body had learned how to cooperate.

Maybe Kuno thought she wanted this. Maybe it was obvious—her voice, her hair, her dumb little clothes. She had even teased him from day one, goading him into daring to kiss her, to take her home and do as he pleased. But now she didn’t want that anymore, and didn’t know how to say it.

“Kuno,” she gathered the courage to speak. Her voice sounded distant even to herself. “Why are we goin’ to a hotel?”

Kuno looked at her. “You did say you wanted to spend the evening together, correct? I thought a hotel would be intimate enough.”

Her heart beat harder, but slower. Her face felt hot, the rest of her cold. She looked at him—his profile was unreadable, his mouth calm, words still ringing in her ears.

Intimate enough.

Her chest ached. She felt suddenly wrong in her clothes. Her skin prickled. Her reflection in the window looked older, cheaper. She pulled her arms in closer.

Akane wouldn’t be in this car. Akane would’ve laughed, said no, punched him in the face and walked away. Maybe she’d always known to stay clear. Kuno had chased her for years, and she’d never once said yes. Maybe Akane saw something Ranko hadn’t. Maybe Ranko was just too stupid, too lonely, too easy.

Her stomach turned. She didn’t know what scared her more—what he might ask, or what she might let happen.

She hated how much she liked him. How badly she wanted this to mean something. And how easily it could fall apart the second they stepped into a hotel.

So she didn’t speak again. She sat there, watching the city pass, the silence inside her louder than the hum of the engine.

The car pulled up to the grand entrance of the Prince Park Hotel Hotel in Tokyo, and the driver was already moving—professional, silent, opening doors with gloved hands and a deferential bow. Ranko barely remembered stepping out. The world had become a blur of glittering glass and tall ceilings. Her heartbeat filled her ears like static.

She followed Kuno across the marble lobby like a ghost.

But he didn’t go to the front desk. He didn’t speak to the concierge. He walked straight past the lounge, toward the elevators, as if everything had been arranged ahead of time.

Her stomach dropped.

He already has a room.

Her fingers went cold. She curled them tight and shoved them deep into the pockets of her red jacket to hide the way they shook. Nabiki’s red faux leather pants seemed to stick to her skin, the criss-crossed pattern on the sides digging into her. Her skin felt exposed, raw. I look cheap, she thought, bitterly. Of course I do. Because I am.

Kuno spoke softly to the elevator operator. “Top floor.”

Her chest went tight.

Top floor. Of course. A suite. Somewhere expensive.

Ranko swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat didn’t budge. She kept her eyes on the floor. Tried to breathe.

She’d done this before. Hotels. Men. Rooms that blurred together. She knew what was expected. She knew how to smile and pretend. She knew how to survive it, even to enjoy part of it, to make it mean nothing.

But not with him.

Not Kuno. Please, not like this.

Her head buzzed with static. Her heart was galloping, her limbs trembling in that horrible cold-sweat way. She couldn’t think straight.

She wanted him to love her. That was the worst part. She wanted it too much. And he didn’t. She knew he didn’t. And if this was what he thought of her, if this was what he’d planned, it could only mean—

Maybe it’s me. I do this to men. I make them think this is what I’m for.

Her reflection stared back at her from the elevator’s gold trim—eyes too dark, clothes too tight on her generous curves, mouth trembling even as she tried to press it into a calm line. She didn’t recognize herself.

The floor numbers blinked upward in crimson light. The number 33 glowed red on the panel.

29… 30…

She gripped the inside of her pocket. Her nails dug into her palm. Her breath stuttered.

31…

She couldn’t do this. 

Without thinking, she lunged forward and hit 32 .

The elevator stopped. Chimed. Doors opened.

Kuno glanced toward her, puzzled. “Ranko? This is the wrong—”

“Please,” she said, voice barely audible. Her hand latched onto the wide sleeve of his kendogi. She tugged him out with her.

The elevator doors closed behind them. The silence in the hallway was soft and gold-lit and carpeted. Empty.

She stood still. Her heart thudded like a drum against her ribs.

Kuno turned to face her. “Ranko,” he began, “We’re one floor away—”

“I can’t ,” she said, barely more than a whisper. Her eyes wouldn’t meet his. “I’m sorry. I thought—I thought I could but I can’t.”

The words scraped out of her. Her hands were clenched tight in her jacket sleeves, her shoulders trembling. She hated herself.

“I’ve been to so many hotels,” she said, her voice cracking. “I thought it didn’t matter. That it was just… whatever. But with you—”

She swallowed. Her throat ached.

“You don’t love me,” she said, voice hollow. “And I—”

She looked away, choking on air. The hallway spun a little.

Ranko’s breath hitched as the tears began to fall—slow at first, like something unlatched inside her, then steady and hot against her cheeks. She didn’t bother wiping them. Her hands were still shaking, fists tight in her sleeves, as if letting go would make her fall apart completely.

Kuno stepped closer, his voice low, uncertain. “Ranko… I apologize.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. That voice—gentle, sincere, the opposite of everything she had feared—only made her cry harder.

“I should have consulted you beforehand,” he said. “If this is not to your liking… we need not go. Truly. We do not have to.”

His words floated toward her, kind and careful, and for a long moment she didn’t answer. She stood frozen, her shoulders bowed, letting the tears trail freely down her face. 

“It’s just dinner,” Kuno added quietly. “We… we don’t have to eat here, it does not need to be French cuisine. We can go somewhere else. Something more familiar, perhaps. Ramen? Curry? Whatever you like.”

She looked up at him slowly, her eyes rimmed red, lashes damp. “French food?”

Kuno blinked. “Yes. The restaurant on the top floor. I had made a reservation.” He hesitated. “But if you’re uncomfortable—”

She stared at him. Her lips parted, then closed again. She felt like the floor had dropped out from under her.

“There’s a… restaurant? On the top floor?”

He nodded. “Yes. I read about it—overlooks the city. Tokyo Tower. I thought you might like the view.”

She stared past him for a moment. The words made no sense. Not until they did.

Her heart gave a strange, painful lurch in her chest. She let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Oh, shit,” she whispered, pressing the heel of her hand to her eye. “Shit, of course. I’m sorry. I thought—”

But she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t finish the sentence.

Kuno tilted his head, concerned. “Thought what?”

But she shook her head, unable to meet his gaze. “Nothing. I just… I’m sorry.”

She’d gotten it all wrong. She’d dragged them off the elevator. She’d cried in the hallway. She’d assumed the worst of him. Because that’s what she expected. That’s what she knew. But Kuno wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t like anyone. And she’d panicked. Because she loved him. And that made everything worse.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, softer this time. “I’m just… really sorry.”

And still he didn’t walk away. Still he stayed beside her, as if she hadn’t just come undone in the middle of a hotel hallway. Which somehow made her want to cry even more.

“I do want French food,” Ranko whispered, eyes still glossy, though her tears had stopped their fall. “And the view. And dinner with you.”

She wiped her cheeks with her sleeves, trying to make herself look presentable. It felt ridiculous, childish, how raw she’d just been. As if the past had cracked her open again, spilling all that dark water she’d thought had dried.

Kuno turned to the elevator and pressed the call button. She followed him in silence, hands buried in her jacket pockets.

The elevator doors parted with a soft chime. When they stepped out on the thirty-third floor, the city revealed itself—glittering, wide, infinite. Tokyo tower shone in the near distance, and the full moon cast a pale gloss over the skyline. A hush had fallen between them again, not awkward, just quiet. The aftermath of a storm.

The restaurant was beautiful. Low lights, linen tablecloths, soft piano music that curled through the room like a thought. The scent of wine and butter. The windows opened like pages to the night.

Ranko sat across from Kuno and tried to slow her breathing. Tried to shake off the tremble still clinging to her fingertips. The food came in delicate plates—ribbons of fish, sauces painted like brushstrokes, beef that dissolved the moment it touched her tongue.

Kuno explained what little he knew about each dish. She chewed slowly, delicately, she could barely taste it. Swallowed. Finally looked up.

Ranko stopped pretending she was hungry. She hadn’t touched her coffee at the end of the meal. Her fingers cupped the porcelain, only for warmth, her posture hunched slightly now that no one was watching.

“I thought you brought me here to sleep with you,” she said.

Kuno was still, his expression unreadable. “Pardon me?”

She didn’t meet his gaze. “When you said we were goin’ to a hotel. I thought… I panicked. I really thought you were takin’ me to a room.”

A pause. Then Kuno said, low and careful, “Ranko, I would never—”

“I know ,” she cut in, quietly, hands clutched tight around the coffee cup. “It’s not your fault,” she said, softer. “It’s mine. I’ve… been with a lot of men. They wanted somethin’, I gave it.”

Kuno’s face was unmoving, but something in his eyes flickered. Ranko glanced at him, then away again.

“I used to joke with you,” she said. “You even noticed when I stopped offerin’ to make out with you. I thought it was hilarious at first.”

Kuno gave a slow, faint nod.

“I could do that back then,” she said. “Because it didn’t matter. Whether you said yes or no, I didn’t care. I probably would’ve kissed you, just for the hell of it. Would’ve let it go further, too.”

She shifted her weight, one leg crossing over the other, her voice lowering.

“But now…”

She exhaled hard through her nose.

“Now it would matter. If I said ‘hey, let’s make out,’ and you said no—it’d sting. A little. But if you said yes…” She laughed, hollow and small. “If you said yes, and you didn’t love me—it would hurt so much more .”

“I don’t think I can do that anymore.” She tried to shake it off, tone brightening clumsily. “So, yeah. Congratulations, Prince. You ruined my life.”

He didn’t respond right away. He looked shaken in his own quiet, internal way—brows faintly knit, mouth softened by something unsaid. His gaze on her was steady, but searching.

“Do you mean it?” he asked.

“Nah. But you made me soft .” She looked at him then, eyes bright with some strange combination of affection and defeat. “I used to be able to hook up with guys and not think twice. Now you got me cryin’ in a hotel elevator ‘cause you’re too fancy for a convenience store sandwich. I’m ruined .” she tried to laugh.

Finally, his voice came, low and clear. “I do not yet know the full extent of what you've endured. But I can see that you carry it still. And I would not… I will not hurt you .”

She said nothing. Her throat burned.

A slow breath passed between them. Then Kuno’s voice gentled further, almost with a smile behind it. “I don’t mean to ruin you, but I might soften you accidentally. Not with carelessness,” he said. “But with consideration.” A pause. “With friendship.”

The ache in her chest gave way to something heavier, fuller. Something that both comforted and hollowed her out.

She covered her face with one hand and muttered through her fingers, “Ugh, you’re so corny.”

Then she laughed—helpless, quiet, red-faced, and real. He smiled. Just slightly.

And outside the tall windows, the moon lingered over Tokyo, watching.

When they finished, the car was waiting. The drive back was mostly silent, but lighter. Less tense. The city blurred by as lights streaked across the window glass.

Kuno reached into his haori and pulled out the two Polaroids. They’d developed fully now—little frozen impressions of their visit. One where Ranko clung to his arm, fingers in a V-sign, laughter caught on film. The other more reserved, almost solemn, a stillness between them.

He held them both out.

“You may choose one .”

Ranko stared at them for a moment. Her fingers hesitated before she plucked the more serious one from his hand.

“This one.”

Kuno nodded, sliding the other back into his coat.

They arrived at the Tendo home not long after. The car pulled up to the curb and eased to a stop. Kuno stepped out first, then held the door open for her. Ranko followed, turning to face him beneath the entrance light.

“Thank you,” she said. “For today. Really.”

Kuno nodded. “It was my pleasure.”

She lingered, shifting her weight.

“I’m sorry again. For misunderstandin’ things. Hope you still like hangin’ out with me.”

“I had a good time,” he said.

Her eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn’t expected that. “Really?”

“Are you sure you did?” he asked, glancing at her face with gentle concern.

Ranko smiled, small and worn, but real. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Kuno gave a faint bow of his head. “Then I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

They waved. He climbed back into the car. Ranko watched the taillights vanish into the dark, and then she turned and quietly stepped inside.

The car stopped just outside the gates of the Kuno estate which loomed above, tall and ancient, against the night sky. Its wooden rafters and tiled roof reached up, it was a place one retreated into.

Kuno stepped out of the car, the paper bag in his hand rustling faintly in the breeze. He passed beneath the entrance without looking back, sandals soft against the stones, and then removed them at the engawa without a sound.

Inside, the house was dark. His footsteps were bare now, ghost-quiet on the polished floorboards as he passed room after room shuttered and still. The air smelled faintly of incense.

Kuno paused in the central salon, setting the paper bag—bearing the lacquered dish set, expertly wrapped in purple cloth—on a low table. It would wait there until Kodachi awoke. Whether she would acknowledge it at all remained to be seen.

He ascended the stairs. His room was the same as it had always been—immaculately kept, symmetrically ordered. A single futon folded into its corner, a kendo rack stood in the corner, blades polished and aligned by size, and four large posters of Akane Tendo gazing down from the ceiling line like silent deities. They were objects of pure devotion. 

He crossed to the bookshelf beside his writing desk. From the inner pocket of his coat, he withdrew the small Polaroid. He hesitated only a moment before placing the photo between two volumes—Yeats and Bashō. It stood a little crooked, its colors too vivid for the shelf, a bright thread pulled through dark silk.

Kuno folded his hands behind his back and gazed at it, head slightly tilted in thought.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived in the Kuno household with pale light slanted through tall, uncurtained windows, gilding the polished wood floors in fleeting bands. Tatewaki Kuno awoke without ceremony. No stretch, no sigh—only motion, rising from the futon with the mechanical ease of a blade being drawn.

His room bore its familiar icons. Four posters of Tendo Akane, framed and aligned with obsessive symmetry, watched over the space in saintly silence. One captured her mid-kick, another catching sunlight in her hair as she lifted weights, a third from a school tournament, sweat glistening along her temple, the fourth a close-up of her smiling face. To Kuno, they were not trophies of infatuation, but symbols. She was the ideal —not just feminine beauty incarnate, but proof that femininity and pure strength could coexist in a single soul. 

Down the corridor he moved a young daimyo pacing his ancestral home—tall, straight-backed, already dressed in his kendōgi : a dark blue uwagi fitted crisply over his frame, the broad pleats of his hakama fanning neatly with each step. 

In the dining room, Kodachi was already seated.

She reclined at the long black-lacquered table, her hands holding silver cutlery over a spread of morning dishes, the collar of her blouse fastened primly. She was nibbling at something pale and folded—egg, perhaps—with the kind of precise disinterest reserved for women born knowing they would never go hungry.

“You did not wait for me to begin breaking your fast, dear Sister,” Kuno said as he entered, voice level.

“Why should I, dear Brother?” she replied, eyes not lifting from her plate.

“Because I am the head of the household,” he answered, seating himself solemnly at the head of the table, next to her.

She gave a soft hum that suggested amusement. “That is debatable.”

Their breakfast had been prepared by the private chef with his usual, lavish hand. Before Kuno now sat a tray as elegant as it was absurd in its ambition: a cast iron pot of chawanmushi infused with foie gras and yuzu zest; a folded French omelette cooked until silken and runny, garnished with shiso blossoms; a slab of seared black cod glazed with miso and mirin. 

They ate without further speech, the only sound the quiet clink of porcelain and the occasional rustle of a napkin.

Kuno glanced at her as he lifted his bowl. “I have cancelled the private car you summoned.”

Kodachi paused—just long enough to be theatrical—and set her cutlery down.

“Whatever for?” she asked. “I do usually walk, but—”

“Then consider this no disruption to your routine.”

“And yesterday?” she asked sweetly. “When you took the car to gallivant across town with some musume , and returned so late your heavy footsteps interrupted my beauty sleep?”

He did not look at her. “That is irrelevant.”

“It is deeply relevant,” she said, smiling thinly. “You're a hypocrite.”

“I am not. I chose convenience on one day. You, on the other hand, rob yourself of the struggle of youth and demand privilege.”

“I demand nothing. I merely observe that the great Tatewaki Kuno—champion of youth and honor—saw fit to make use of luxury when it suited him.”

“Even the noblest general may ride a horse,” Kuno said evenly, “but he does not offer one to the rank and file.”

“Oh, am I the rank and file?” she asked lightly, folding her napkin into a triangle. “I thought I was your dear Sister .”

“You are both.”

A silence passed between them, long and cold. Kodachi rose from her seat, the soft rustle of her long pleated skirt the only protest she made.

“Well then,” she said, “since I’m now condemned to walk among the sweat-stinking rabble, will my dear Brother at least hand me my satchel?”

Kuno rose obligingly and crossed to where it sat near the door. His fingers wrapped around the handle.

A sting.

He withdrew his hand. A fine smear of red appeared on his fingertips. Hidden thumbtacks—rowed along the underside like tiny, smug alligator teeth.

“Oh,” said Kodachi, voice light with false innocence, “I forgot those were there.”

She took the bag from his non-injured hand with dainty fingers and left the room, humming some ghastly operetta under her breath.

Kuno stood there, unmoving, his face unreadable. He dabbed the blood from his hand with a cloth napkin, then laid it carefully on the table’s edge.

When he finally stepped outside, the day was dry and windless. The sky was overcast but bright. Furinkan High School awaited.

The first bell hadn’t rung yet, and the room was still half-empty. Kuno sat at his desk, sunlight drawing long lines across his open notebook. His handwriting was immaculate: kanji inked with the same careful deliberation he reserved for kendo footwork. Today’s subject: classical ethics in the Hagakure .

He was rereading a passage— “If one is secure at the foundation, he will not be pained by departure from minor details or affairs that are contrary to expectation.” —when he heard the soft creak of someone pulling out the chair beside him.

Then the familiar voice. Flat, almost bored.

“Kawagoe, huh?”

He turned his head. Nabiki Tendo had just seated herself, one leg draped over the other, her head resting against her palm. Her gaze was on him, heavy-lidded and unreadable. She looked at him as if he was momentarily interesting, but ultimately disposable.

“How did you know?” he asked, carefully keeping the edge from his tone.

“Ranko brought an omiyage,” she replied, tapping her cheek lazily.

Kuno mouthed a silent ah , nodded, and closed his notebook with quiet finality. He turned to face her more directly, expecting—no, bracing for—the inevitable continuation.

Sure enough, Nabiki didn’t look away. She squinted at him, as if trying to identify a suspicious figure on a street corner.

“So where’d you guys go afterwards?”

“That is none of your concern, Tendo Nabiki,” he said, sitting straighter. He kept his voice polite, though firm. He had no interest in being ensnared by Nabiki's specialty: sharp-edged questions disguised as idle curiosity, always costly. “I owe you no account of my movements.”

“Fair enough,” she said, not moving. “But I do have to ask—” her voice dropped slightly, her body language unchanged, “—are you still insisting you love my sister?”

His back stiffened. Kuno didn’t blink.

“Of course,” he said, as though insulted by the suggestion of change. “My love for Tendo Akane is pure. It is real. It is not a whim or a passing fancy. She has taken root into my heart, as unshakable as—”

Nabiki yawned.

Loudly.

Deliberately.

Kuno stopped mid-sentence.

Her yawn finished, she turned in her seat, already calling over her shoulder to the girl behind her. “Did you hear Toshinobu Kubota’s new single drops this week? I heard there's even a limited edition cassette…”

She continued, voice rising and growing more animated. Whatever judgment she’d passed on Kuno had been delivered silently and thoroughly, with no need for argument.

Kuno frowned. His jaw tensed slightly. Then, in a single smooth motion, he reopened his notebook, returned to the Hagakure , and bent again over his notes.

“If one is secure at the foundation, he will not be pained by departure from minor details or affairs that are contrary to expectation.”

And yet… something restless lingered just under his skin, like the faint sting of the prickled fingers after he had held his sister’s satchel.

Kuno remained at his desk for lunch, drawing no attention to himself, eating from his bento in silence. At the back of the classroom, Tendo Nabiki laughed dryly with her circle of companions. He made no move to approach.

He considered, just briefly, venturing down to Class 1-F. To stand in the doorway with that careful hauteur he had perfected, and ask after Akane with noble formality. Perhaps Ranko would wave him over—she often did, so casually it seemed almost rude. But something in him resisted the idea. They deserved their time, he thought, the two of them. Such camaraderie was a sacred memory of youth. And he had no right to intrude.

So he stayed where he was, lunch half-finished. The noise of the classroom—rustling wrappers, the bang of desk drawers, a burst of laughter from someone retelling a TV drama—faded into nothing. And then the bell rang.

The afternoon classes passed in a drowse of half-awareness. Even the subjects he usually enjoyed—literature, history—seemed dulled, blunted by the haze of restlessness. His mind wandered. He kept his posture perfect, his notes immaculate, but the words washed over him. He barely heard the class representative calling for the final bow.

But the final bell—that always lit something in his chest.

Now. At last, it was time for kendo.

There, in the kendo hall, he was whole. The scent of sweat and polished wood, the sound of wooden swords clashing with sharp clarity—it grounded him. The rhythm of warm-ups, the shouts, the deliberate etiquette—it was his world. Here, no one questioned him. Even the third-years looked to him with something like deference. When he corrected a junior’s stance or demonstrated a technique, his words were met with nods, not yawns. In the blur of movement and exertion, he didn’t have to think.

He trained until his hands stung inside the gloves, his shoulders ached with every cut. He kept his distance—always—refusing to indulge in small talk or posturing. When practice ended, he bowed last.

In the locker room, he undressed quietly, setting his armor down with reverent care. The shower’s hot stream beat down on his shoulders, soaking his dark hair, trailing down the line of his spine. It was a private kind of luxury, this moment—the heat easing muscle, washing away fatigue. But what lingered was not weariness. It was alertness. Something barely defined. A quiet anticipation, like a chord held in suspense.

The day, after all, wasn’t over.

By the time Kuno stepped through the gates of Furinkan High, the sun had already dropped low. He walked still slightly flushed from kendo, hair damp at the ends, and saw her waiting.

Ranko.

She stood with her back to the gates, one foot propped on the low railing, chewing idly on a stick of gum. Her jacket was zipped all the way up, her blonde braid catching the orange of the dusk light. When she saw him, her expression lit up.

“Yo,” she said. “You’re late.”

“I was interrupted on my way here by the kendo club manager,” he replied, stopping beside her. “Tendo Akane—?”

“She left a while ago,” Ranko said, stretching her arms above her head. “Said she had a chiropractor appointment.” She raised her eyebrows. “Your beloved lives a dangerous life.”

Kuno hummed. 

“You good?” Ranko asked, tilting her head to get a better look at him. “You’ve got that… distracted samurai look.”

“I am a little distracted,” Kuno admitted.

“Hmm.” She stepped in closer, raising herself up on the balls of her feet. Her hand reached out—not boldly, but instinctively—and she laid her palm across his forehead. Her fingers were cool from the air, and her brow furrowed with mock seriousness.

“You sick or somethin’?”

Kuno didn’t move. He studied her up close—her lashes, her knit brows, the way her upper lip curled slightly when she concentrated.

“I am not ill,” he said softly.

She gave a little grin. “No fever. Just broody as hell.”

He said nothing.

“So what do you wanna do?” Ranko asked, withdrawing her hand and shoving it back in her jacket pocket. 

He considered. “Shall we… do the usual?”

Ranko’s face broke into a grin that was less teasing, more genuine this time. “You mean somethin’ to eat and freezin’ our asses off by the canal?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

The canal was colder than it had been last week. A wintery wind curled off the water, sharp against their faces, and the bench where they always sat was already chilled from the stone beneath. Ranko pulled her legs up onto the bench, zipped her jacket until it touched her chin, and tucked her knees into the oversized fabric. She rocked side to side with a laugh.

“I look like a freakin’ snail.”

“Would you like to go somewhere warmer?” he asked. “We need not be exposed to the elements in pursuit of habit.”

“Nah,” she said, peeling the lid off her ramen. “I like it here.”

Her milk coffee can steamed faintly in the cold as they ate: spicy mayo onigiri for Ranko, salmon onigiri for Kuno. There was something peaceful in the quiet—no one disturbed them here. The occasional pedestrian passed by, but no one looked twice.

After a while, Ranko said, “You won’t believe this. This mornin’, Mr. Tendo told me I’m a good influence on his daughters.”

Kuno looked over at her, a thread of genuine surprise flickering through his expression. “Truly?”

“Yeah. Said he hadn’t seen them be this involved in anythin’ for ages.” Ranko snorted, making a face as if it was unbelievable. “They’re amazin’, that family. Y’know? They’re all so different but they’re a team.”

Kuno’s face softened, faintly. He turned his gaze toward the water, the can of tea warming his hands. Something thoughtful crept into the line of his brow, but he said nothing. Ranko didn’t seem to mind the silence. She leaned back against the bench, chewing with lazy contentment, as if just sitting there next to him, in the cold, in the dim afterschool hush, was enough.

He looked toward her—not directly, but enough to speak clearly, enough that she would know he meant it.

“I’m glad you are happy, Ranko.”

At first, she just looked at him, her head tilted slightly, her face unreadable. Not smiling, not surprised—just observing him with a quiet, inner stillness. The orange streetlamps had begun to flicker on one by one, and their glow caught in the faint curve of her cheek. A lock of her hair moved with the wind.

He turned his head to meet her gaze.

Her expression didn’t change, but her face flushed—not a deep, cartoonish red, but the soft, real warmth of blood rushing to the surface. Her lips parted just slightly, as if she meant to say something. But she didn’t look away.

Kuno waited.

Then, finally, it was he who broke the silence.

“Is this your last week of work?”

She blinked, the question dragging her back down to earth.

“Yeah,” she said. “One last push. Then it’s over.”

He nodded. “Then perhaps… it would be prudent if we refrained from meeting this week. So that you might rest after school.”

Ranko gave a short laugh, without humor. “We talked about this,” she said. “I don’t wanna stop our little fake club. Not even for a week.”

Kuno didn’t argue. He simply looked at her, as if measuring the weight of her words.

“Very well, then,” he said.

She didn’t answer, just leaned gently against his side. Not heavily—she wasn’t tired.

Kuno didn’t move away.

She looked forward, across the water. The canal rippled with reflected lights, narrow bars of gold and blue and crimson from neon signs beginning to hum to life. The buildings on the other side, hunched and uneven, were black silhouettes against the cooling sky.

Ranko hugged her knees tighter under her jacket, chin resting just above the zipper. She gave him a sidelong glance. “Wanna play a game?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Last time you proposed ‘patty cake,’ I suffered grievous emotional injury.”

“That was your fault for underestimatin’ me,” she said sweetly. “But no. I was thinkin’—‘ If I were a… ’ game.”

“I am unfamiliar.”

“It’s easy. I say something like, ‘If you were a convenience store snack, which one would you be?’ and you answer. But the catch is—you can’t say what you like , only what you are .”

Kuno blinked, considering. “Very well.”

She grins. “If you were a season, which one would you be?”

Kuno frowns, tilting his chin upward in thought. “I would… be winter.”

“Why?”

He looked toward the canal. “Because it is harsh. Cold. But not without clarity or purpose. A season of discipline. Of…” he glances at her, “restraint.”

Ranko smiled slowly, then nods. “Yeah. That fits.”

“And you?”

“Me?” She shrugged. “Summer. But not the good kind. The middle of it. The sticky, sunburnt part where you know it’s almost over but it’s still too hot to breathe.”

He stared at her. “That’s… specific.”

“I’m a specific girl.” Her smile is crooked. “Come on, Samurai—if you were a drink?”

He answered without hesitation. “Matcha.”

“I’m surprised, that’s kinda basic.” She grinned. “What do you think I’d be?”

He considered, brow furrowing like it was a philosophy exam. “Ramune.”

Ranko blinked. “That’s actually kind of adorable.”

“You are often bubbly,” he said solemnly. “And difficult to open.”

“My exes would strongly disagree.” She laughed, loud and unladylike. “Okay. Animal?”

Kuno exhaled, as if bracing himself. “Tiger.”

“Oh?” she said, surprised.

“For myself.”

“…Oh,” she said again, in a different tone.

“And for you,” he added, turning to her, “a cat.”

She groaned and dropped her head back. “Ugh. That is so predictable.”

“It is not an unearned comparison.”

Ranko rolled her eyes. “Fine. But a stray. A scrappy, garbage-eating, cigarette-smellin’ alley cat.”

“You are being uncharitable to yourself.”

She shrugged. “I like the image. Fits better.”

He did not argue.

Ranko squinted. “You’re not a tiger, by the way. Try again. Don’t think about an animal you’d like to be seen as, an animal you are .”

He narrowed his eyes. “Stag.”

“Hmm.” She thinks, nods. “That’s better. Kind of proud. Beautiful. Dopey when caught off guard.”

Kuno sputtered. “Dopey!?”

“Don’t worry, I like deer.” She leaned her head toward him, her braid brushing his arm. 

They played for a while longer. If I were a color. A building. A scent. A memory.

And slowly, the answers lose their irony. Ranko says she’d be a roadside vending machine, glowing at night, lonely but useful. Kuno says he’d be an old bridge, passed over a hundred times a day, but still quietly holding weight. She tells him she likes bridges. He doesn't know what to say. She asks what he’d be if he were something he lost, and when he says his boyhood, she nods. She feels like part of her childhood was lost too, but when he asks, she says her trust.

They sat still. The bench creaked slightly beneath their weight. The city moved on around them, heedless.

Ranko hugged her knees in closer. “This game got too real.”

“I apologize.”

“No, don’t,” she said. “It’s nice. You always talk to me like I’m... I don’t know, like I matter.”

Kuno said nothing.

She turned to him, eyes searching. “Do I?”

“Yes,” he said, quietly, and without hesitation.

Ranko smiled, barely. It trembled a little. “Thanks, Samurai.”

Kuno offered the smallest nod. Then, with an awkward clearing of her throat, Ranko leaned into his shoulder.

When her alarm buzzed from inside the depths of her bag several moments later, Ranko stirred with a low groan, her cheek peeling away from his shoulder. The shift broke the warmth between them. Kuno felt the absence at once, a cooling of skin, a soft pull inward where her warmth had been. She stood and stretched, her braid swinging behind her like a loose ribbon.

She rubbed her eyes, still folded around a reluctant smile. “That’s me,” she murmured, hitching her bag over one shoulder. “Night shift calls.”

Kuno rose as well. “I wish you good fortune.”

She glanced back at him, pausing in the half-light like she didn’t want to go. “See you tomorrow,” she said, then gave him a two-fingered salute and dashed off into the night.

He watched her until she disappeared around the corner, swallowed up by the quiet rhythm of Nerima’s nighttime streets.

Then, with a sigh, he bent and gathered their trash—plastic wrappers, empty cans, a napkin—all of it bundled into the convenience store bag. He walked it over to a trash can and let it drop.

The evening air was cooler now, and still. As he walked home, the world around him felt dimmer. He reached the house before ten.

The estate loomed quiet and vast around him. Inside, the entrance hall was dark, the wood cool beneath his feet. Upstairs, a single rectangle of light spilled faintly from under Kodachi’s door. But as his footsteps approached down the hallway, the light blinked out, swift and unceremonious. He passed her room without slowing.

His own room waited beyond the curve of the corridor. The four posters of Akane Tendo looked down on him as he entered and he bowed slightly, out of habit, out of guilt. But tonight, the gesture slowed halfway. His spine hesitated. 

There was a scent of lavender rice powder in the air, faint but unmistakable. His hakama hung from the wooden stand, neatly brushed, ready for tomorrow. The futon had already been laid out by a housekeeper: pristine, precise, too early. He stepped around it.

From the bookcase, he retrieved his diary. The Polaroid on the bookcase, propped between two volumes of poetry, seems to reach for his attention—but he turns away. Kuno put his diary back. Instead, he reached for a new one: leather-bound, untouched. It creaked faintly when opened. Blank pages awaited him like a field after snowfall—pure, expectant, vulnerable.

He sat at this desk. The familiar tools were already arranged: inkstone, brush, water dish. He poured the water slowly, ground the ink with care. 

Kuno dipped his brush into the ink and let it rest there a moment, watching the bristles darken.

Chapter Text

By 5:30 in the morning, the sky had only just begun to pale. A thick stillness clung to the streets, pierced occasionally by the low metallic groan of machinery and the echo of distant footsteps. Ranko’s shoulder ached. It was the dull, punishing kind of pain that settled in after hours of repetitive movement—directing traffic, waving the red baton at the edge of the construction site while headlights flickered past and exhaust fumes seeped into her uniform. Ryoga hadn’t shown up again. No one even pretended to be surprised anymore.

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her jaw felt tight with fatigue. The last stretch before sunrise was always the worst—time stalled, and the muscles started to stiffen, and it was easy to forget why she ever bothered with any of it.

At exactly six o’clock, her shift supervisor, Mr. Kimura, walked over with a slow gait and a cigarette hanging from his lower lip. “You’re free, Ranko-kun.”

She nodded, too tired to even reply, and turned to the little prefab shack where she kept her bag and school uniform. She was halfway to the door when a silhouette detached itself from the shadows at the edge of the site.

Genma Saotome.

“Pops,” Ranko greeted him, her voice flat, guarded. A shroud of resentment and longing wove through the single word.

Genma extended an envelope toward her. 

Ranko snorted, masking the tightening in her chest with sarcasm. “Don’t tell me you wrote me a letter.”

He shook the envelope in his hand, encouraging her to take it. “It’s money again, not much though. You alright, girl?”

The question pressed heavily against the wall she’d built around herself. She swallowed, fighting the weariness that blurred her focus. “Yeah. I’m stayin’ with the Tendos. Payin’ 10,000 yen every two weeks.”

“Tendo-kun’s chargin’ you?” Genma’s voice was rough, surprised. But not judgmental..

“Nah. I’m payin’ one of the daughters. I refuse to be a freeloader, and that’s dirt cheap for roof and food.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them—a fragile thing. Genma’s gaze flickered away, betraying a hesitation. He wanted to say more, maybe to explain, to bridge the years of mistakes, but the weight of his own failures kept the words lodged in his throat. He knew, painfully, that he had no right.

“Well... okay,” he finally said, voice low, “don’t come home yet, alright?”

The words hit her like a cold slap. They were a warning, a distance enforced rather than an embrace offered.

Ranko’s throat tightened, a hollow ache blooming in her chest. She wanted to trust him—but the scars of absence ran too deep. Instead, she nodded stiffly. “I won’t.”

Without another word, Genma turned and walked away, his figure dissolving into the thinning mist as if he might vanish entirely. The faint smell of tobacco lingered behind him. Ranko waited until he was gone to open the envelope. 30,000 yen. Her eyebrows lifted, faintly impressed. That was more than he had ever given her. Maybe ever, in total. She stuffed it deeper into her bag, zipped it shut, and made her way to Furinkan High through the empty back roads.

Once inside, she peeled off her work gear, headed to the showers and scrubbed the night off her skin. Then she changed into her school uniform. She laid two of the gym mats out in a corner behind the equipment racks, curled into herself with her jacket draped over her like a blanket, and finally allowed herself to close her eyes. Her plastic alarm clock was already ticking down from sixty minutes.

It rang at 8:15 sharp.

Her body protested as she sat up, as though waking up meant hauling herself back into a world she wasn’t built for. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, feeling not rested but fragile. The day had started, and she had to catch up.

Class 1-F. Akane continued being an angel. She brought a bento for Ranko, lovingly prepared by Kasumi, and didn’t even scold her when Ranko, half-starved and bleary-eyed, slipped a few bites into her mouth during class, hiding behind an open textbook. The teacher droned on about the Meiji Restoration, and Ranko chewed silently, legs jittering under the desk, the soft rustle of seaweed rice and fried croquette barely audible under the classroom’s white noise.

Later, at lunchtime, they escaped to the rooftop.

The rooftop was quiet and the sky was pale, high, a deep, cold kind of blue that reminded Ranko winter wasn’t far off—even if the trees down below were still clinging to gold. They sat near the railing where the breeze could reach them.

Akane pulled a square and squishy parcel out of her uniform pocket. “Here,” she said, handing it over without ceremony.

Ranko blinked. “What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Inside: a thick pair of black tights. Not sheer panthose. Not shimmery stockings. These were dense and warm-looking—serious tights, not the flimsy kind that was meant more for someone else’s eyes than for her comfort.

Ranko ran her thumbs across them, then looked up. “Are these for me?”

Akane shrugged. “You’re always freezing. I thought you might need something warm. They’re not exactly school code, but… well.”

Ranko laughed, surprised and soft. “I mean, I’m out of code.” She grinned. “Akane. These are amazin’. Thank you so much!” And then, without further thought, she tugged off her socks and indoor shoes, holding the tights in both hands.

Akane stiffened. “Wait—are you putting them on now ?”

“Yeah?” Ranko had already pulled one leg open and started slipping her foot inside. “Why not?”

Akane flushed. “Because we’re outside? And this is—this is a school rooftop?”

“I’m puttin’ on more clothes, not takin’ them off,” Ranko said, her tone utterly matter-of-fact. She leaned back, one leg raised slightly, adjusting the heel seam. Her skirt rode high on her thighs as she balanced, the motion smooth but slightly clumsy, exposing a stretch of pale skin with a blooming bruise and the curve of her hip.

Akane noticed. Akane noticed everything. She whipped her gaze away, cheeks going red.

Ranko rolled the tights higher, tugging them up with both hands as she smoothed them into place. Her skirt crumpled around her waist, her shirt pulling slightly, collar askew. The tights fit snugly, sealing against her legs with the faintest sound of stretched fabric.

“They’re perfect,” she said, beaming as she pulled her skirt down. “Thank you. You’re the best, Akane.”

“I’m really not,” Akane mumbled, voice high and strange.

The rooftop door creaked open.

Two boys stepped out—Daisuke first, Hiroshi right behind, both mid-sentence and not expecting company.

“Oh—crap!” Daisuke startled, eyes going wide. “Sorry!”

Ranko looked up from her lap, one leg bent and the other foot just slipping into her socks. Her socks were almost on, but Ranko didn’t seem bothered to be caught adjusting them over her tights.

Akane sprang to her feet like a lit fuse. “Turn around!” she barked, arms spread wide in front of Ranko as if blocking a spotlight. “Right now!”

Hiroshi flinched. “Sorry! We didn’t see anything, I swear!”

Daisuke turned away, hands in the air like he’d been caught red-handed. “Seriously, our bad.”

“It’s fine,” Ranko said, utterly unfazed.

She pulled up her other sock and stepped into her indoor shoes, sitting down and clearly settled. Her skirt had fallen back into place, her tights looked snug and clean, and she didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious.

“I just finished gettin’ dressed,” she added. “Puttin’ on more clothes.”

That made Hiroshi and Daisuke flinch again, their faces reddening in tandem.

Akane’s arms dropped slowly, but she remained stiff, her mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. She glanced back at Ranko, who didn’t seem to notice the tension at all.

The boys mumbled among themselves, a few paces away, out of earshot.

“She didn’t even flinch,” Daisuke whispered. “That was kind of hot…”

“I know” Hiroshi said with a sigh.

“This is perfect,” Daisuke hissed. “They’re both here. This is the moment.”

“We’re gonna get skewered,” Hiroshi whispered back. “Kuno-senpai’s gonna kill us.”

“Come on. Kuno can’t date both of them.”

“Is he dating either?”

“He acts like he is.” Daisuke said.

“I guess Kuno can’t have a monopoly.” Hiroshi whispered.

“Exactly.”

They turned back together, hands in pockets, grinning with the kind of borrowed confidence only teenage boys could summon.

“Akane-san. Ranko,” Hiroshi said, a little too loud. “We were thinking, if you’re not busy after school one of these days…”

“There’s this new place by the station,” Daisuke added, talking fast. “Crêpes—I heard it’s super popular.”

“We were wondering if you’d like to go with us,” Hiroshi offered. “Nothing weird. Just a hang. The four of us.”

“It’d be on us,” Daisuke added.

Akane had already drawn in a breath. The ‘no’ was perched on the edge of her tongue, crisp and definitive. It was always her job to deflect these things. Ranko didn’t need the attention, didn’t need boys like them cluttering up her life like they had done hers.

But she caught a flicker in Ranko’s eyes. Not surprise, not delight, but something quieter—a curiosity that felt almost private. Ranko didn’t answer. She just looked at the boys, her face unreadable but alert.

And Akane hesitated.

She thought about Kuno. About the way Ranko’s whole face changed when he entered a room. The softness in her voice when she talked about him. The helpless crush of it all, like watching someone hold their breath underwater, longer than anyone should. Akane knew how that felt, the hopelessness, the pain, and how sometimes a distraction, a new crush, could be healing.

Maybe… maybe a harmless date wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“We’ll think about it,” Akane said. Her own voice surprised her. “Ask us on Monday, okay?”

Ranko smiled faintly, her hand brushing her braid over one shoulder, but she still didn’t speak. Her silence was its own kind of answer.

And the boys—relieved, thrilled—bowed in sync.

“And not a word about it to anyone!” Akane yelled out. Ranko chuckled when both boys responded with a ‘yes, ma’am!’ from the stairs.

They ate quietly for a while, seated side by side against the low rooftop wall. The wind had picked up a little, cool but not cold, brushing across the school’s smooth concrete roof and rustling the loose ends of Akane’s ribbon.

Akane closed her bento box with a quiet snap before glancing over. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ranko blinked. “To those two?”

Akane nodded.

“I dunno.” Ranko leaned back on her hands, one knee drawn up. “I’ve never been asked out by boys like that. You know… normal boys. No cigarettes, no booze. They didn’t ask what I’d do for them if they spent money on me. They just asked if I wanted a crêpe.” She gave a small laugh, unsure of it. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Akane studied her, the wind lifting the hem of Ranko’s skirt just enough to show the new tights underneath, smooth and dark. “It’s weird, huh?”

Ranko tilted her head. “What is?”

“That they asked us at all.”

Ranko raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t they?”

Akane gave a small, rueful smile. “You’d think. But nobody really tries anymore. Not since Kuno… claimed me, I guess.” Akane’s voice was dry. “He goes around talking like we’re fated or something. I’ve told him a hundred times I’m not interested, but boys around here… they think he’s dangerous. I guess he is, in a way.”

Ranko let out a low whistle. “Samurai’s got a long reach.”

“They’re scared of him,” Akane said. “They should be scared of me, really,” she laughed.

“I guess it’s weird that they’re shootin’ their shot like that,” Ranko said thoughtfully.

Akane nodded. “Yeah.”

“Maybe something’s changed.”

“Maybe.” She paused. “Maybe you’re the change.”

Ranko glanced over, unsure what to do with that. Akane folded the napkin over hers and set it aside.

When she looked up, she caught Ranko studying her own legs—the new tights, dark and sleek and snug against her skin. There was something in her expression, like cheerful contentment. Just a small, private feeling that passed like the sun slipping behind a cloud.

“You like them,” Akane said.

Ranko’s fingers brushed her braid over her shoulder. “I do, a ton. They feel good.”

Akane smiled. She only leaned back again, watching the sky, feeling the moment stretch quiet and slow between them as lunch neared its end.

The rest of the day passed like it always did. Afternoon classes drifted by in a haze of chalk dust, sluggish hours that stretched without urgency. Ranko and Akane sat side by side in homeroom, their notebooks open but forgotten, minds elsewhere.

When the final bell rang and the school emptied out into the fading light, Ranko said goodbye to Akane and headed straight to the gym equipment room. She pulled the mats down, curled into it like a cat in a sunbeam, warm with Akane’s tights, and closed her eyes.

Her alarm buzzed at 5:45 PM.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, pulling her braid loose where it had caught beneath her. Outside the window, the sky had deepened to a violet wash, the last gold of the sun clinging to the horizon.

She moved fast. Out of the supply room, down the stairs, out the back door. Her sneakers hit the pavement with a rhythm she didn’t have to think about.

By the time she reached the school gates, breath visible in the cooling air, he was already waiting.

Kuno stood at the gates, his dark kendo gi catching the light in deep indigo folds. The sun behind him threw long shadows across the sidewalk, and his profile was sharp against the sky—still, statuesque, completely unaware of how lovely he looked just standing there.

Ranko’s heart tripped in her chest, as it always did.

She walked toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she didn’t feel her stomach flip whenever he looked at her. Like she didn’t ache with want every time he said her name.

"Hey, Samurai," she said, hands in her jacket pockets, voice light.

He turned toward her—gentle, measured, solemn. “Ranko”.

As soon as she reached him, Kuno straightened from where he’d been standing by the gate. There was something deliberate in the way he clasped his hands behind his back, as though composing himself.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, his voice measured as always, like he was preparing to recite something formal.

Ranko smirked. “As long as it’s illegal, I’m in.”

He didn’t even blink. “It is quite legal.”

“Well, that’s disappointin’,” she teased, slipping her hands into the oversized sleeves of her jacket. “But I’ll do it anyway. For you.”

His eyes softened. “Thank you. Accompany me”

They walked.

It was a gentle evening, the kind that made Nerima feel smaller, more manageable. Shops were lighting up one by one as the sun dipped lower, signs glowing in warm hues, casting the street in a haze of gentle color.

Kuno asked her how her day had been. Ranko shrugged, then stretched out her arms and let them drop. “Not bad. Pretty good, actually. Hey—” She glanced up at him. “Do you see anythin’ different in me?”

He paused, tilting his head to study her in earnest. “I confess I cannot see anything different.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re too tall,” she said, mock-scolding. “You always look at me from that aristocratic bird’s-eye view. You’re missin’ all the good stuff.”

He blinked, genuinely perplexed.

Ranko stopped walking and, with the abrupt showmanship of a street performer, lifted one leg into a high kick—graceful, practiced, effortless. She held it there, showing the new tights beneath. Shimmering black, semi-opaque, hugging her legs like poured ink.

“Oh,” said Kuno, brow furrowed in confusion. “New… undergarments?”

She grinned, dropping her leg back down. “Tights,” she corrected. “Akane bought ’em for me. Said I looked cold.”

“I see,” he said slowly, resuming their pace.

“I mean—how sweet is that?” Ranko continued, gesturing as she walked. “She just wanted me to be warm. It made me feel like—like she was really lookin’ out for me, y’know?”

Kuno nodded.

Ranko bumped her shoulder gently against his arm. “Y’know, Samurai, I always say I get it, but I really do get it.”

He glanced down at her. “What is it that you get?”

“Why you’re so in love with her,” she said, smiling without irony. “She’s so thoughtful. So protective. Kind, too. And lovely.”

Kuno’s face turned to profile for a moment. “She is beautiful as well.”

Ranko laughed softly. “Yeah. That too.”

They walked in silence for a beat, until Kuno gestured toward a small, square storefront tucked between a fruit stand and an optometrist’s office. It was old, clearly a family business—glass windows smudged at the edges, old wooden beams. The sign above read simply: 文具の春川.

Inside, the place was packed wall to wall with supplies. Notebooks stacked high, reams of rice paper in wooden bins, jars of pens in all colors, shelves of washi tape, lacquered ink boxes, stamp pads, and calligraphy brushes of every size. It smelled like cedar and ink and paper—quietly sacred, in the way all good stationery shops were.

“The favor,” Kuno said, holding the door open for her, “is merely this: to accompany me while I purchase materials. I would like you to buy anything for yourself as well, my treat.”

Ranko stepped inside and looked around, her expression softening. “Free rein on stationery, Samurai? Now this ,” she murmured, “is dangerous.”  She smiled at the quiet clutter of the shop, the gentle hush of it as the door creaked shut behind them.

Ranko hadn’t expected to find anything that caught her eye. Stationery shops, in her mind, belonged to a world of tidy girls with matching pencil cases and timetables decorated with stickers—girls who were not her. But as Kuno deliberated over two near-identical calligraphy brushes, turning them in his hand as if deciphering some sacred riddle, Ranko wandered.

A display near the register sparkled with rows of brightly colored Pilot pens—violet, turquoise, neon orange, soft coral. She picked up a purple one, uncapped it briefly, admired the smooth tip. It cost more than ten cheap ballpoints in a plastic sleeve at the convenience store. She clicked the cap back on and put it back in its slot.

Kuno, meanwhile, had begun to build his small empire. Inkstone, brush case, a block of sumi ink, some soft, high-quality washi in a slender package tied with twine. Ranko watched him ask the shopkeeper about diary styles. She tried not to stare when he turned a slim volume in his hand—a pink one with watercolor wildflowers pressed faintly into the cover. For a moment she wondered if he was buying it for his sister.

The basket hooked in his elbow was filling up fast. Ranko sighed. At this rate, what difference would a couple pens make?

She returned to the display, this time more deliberate. She chose the purple pen again, added a forest green one, and a soft pink mechanical pencil. Nearby, a small set of three notebooks caught her eye—pastel covers, neatly bundled and half-price. She picked them up. They looked like the sort of thing Akane might write in. She liked that.

Walking back toward Kuno, she kept her items cradled in one arm. He was crouched beside a shelf of envelopes, peering at the differences between ivory and bone white, like they might hold the key to the future of Japanese correspondence.

“Hey, uh…” she said, tilting her head toward his overflowing basket. “Are you sure you’re okay with payin’ for my stuff too?”

Kuno stood and looked at her, blinking as if the question startled him. “Of course. I dragged you here to complete an errand of mine—I truly do not mind. Get as many things as you would like.”

For a moment, Ranko could only look at him. There was no hesitation in his voice, no awkward calculation in his gaze. He said it like he meant it.

“Okay,” she said softly.

She smiled and placed her items carefully into his basket, the pens tucked between the brush handles, the notebooks nestled on top of the diary with the wildflowers. “Thanks, Samurai.”

He nodded, and turned back to the envelopes.

She stood beside him, shoulder nearly brushing his, watching him weigh the merits of off-white shades with a sense of focus so sincere it made her throat tighten. For some reason, the sight of him doing something so mundane, so gentle, made her heart beat faster than all the poetry in the world.

Ranko had been thumbing through memo pads in pastel colors when she heard his voice beside her.

“I am finished,” Kuno said quietly, balancing two large brown paper packages beneath one arm. “I thank you for accompanying me.”

“Oh,” she said, blinking out of her reverie. “Yeah. Of course.”

The shopkeepers followed them to the door, thanking them with gentle smiles and small bows, which Ranko and Kuno returned before stepping out into the cool air.

They walked to the convenience store, chatting idly, and emerged a few minutes later with bags of food. Then, as always, they made their way to their usual bench by the canal, its wooden slats dappled with early evening light.

Ranko kicked her legs under the bench, the thick warmth of her tights shielding her from the creeping cold that had once bitten through her knee socks. She felt light. Happy, even. She tore into a cup of spicy prawn ramen with a chopstick flourish and started slurping, pausing only when Kuno set one of the brown packages on her lap.

“Here,” he said. “This is yours.”

She stared at it. “Eh? It’s so heavy. Can’t be mine.”

But he didn’t answer, so she peeled away the string and opened the top. Inside, nestled neatly among sheets of tissue, were the things she’d picked out—the green and purple Pilot pens, the pink mechanical pencil, the trio of notebooks. But there was more. The pink diary with wildflowers. The brush case. A small, elegant bottle of sumi ink. And a fountain pen in a lacquered black box.

She looked up at him, brow wrinkling. “There’s some of your stuff here, Kuno.”

He shook his head slightly. “No. That is for you.”

Her mouth opened, then shut again. She looked back down at the diary. The wildflowers were pressed into the cover with subtle texture, like dried petals. “Why are you buyin’ me a diary?”

He hesitated. For a moment, he looked away, his gaze moving across the canal. The sound of water lapping against the embankment filled the silence.

“I should like for you to have it,” he said at last, voice softer. “In case you ever feel the desire to write down your thoughts and feelings when you cannot voice them.”

Ranko bit her lip, and a chuckle slipped out before she could catch it.

He turned to her. “What is amusing?”

“Nothin’—nothin’,” she said quickly, waving her hand. “It’s just… not really my style.”

“I understand,” he replied. “There is no obligation. Merely a possibility. If ever the impulse strikes you, and you find the time... it will be there.”

She turned the diary over in her hands. It felt like something a good girl would own, someone who remembered to drink warm tea and wrap herself in scarves. 

But she nodded, lips still curved in a small smile. “Okay. Thanks.”

He gave a slight bow of the head, then returned to sipping from a can of hot tea, steam curling up into the evening air.

Ranko looked down at the diary again. She didn't understand why it made her throat tight.

She set it aside carefully, picked up her ramen, and slurped down another mouthful. Across from her, Kuno stared off into the water like he could read the current.

When the alarm rang at 9:30, its shrill little trill vibrating from the depth of her bag, it startled her more than it should have. The world around them had dimmed into full twilight, the sky a velvet mauve behind the buildings. It didn’t feel like they'd been sitting there long at all—just a blink, a shared meal, a few soft words passed between two people on a quiet bench by the canal.

Ranko exhaled reluctantly, stretching her arms. “Gotta rush to work.”

Kuno turned to her. “May your evening be uneventful and safe.”

She stood, her bag dug into her shoulder, fuller than usual—pens, notebooks, little things that made her feel strangely seen. Even the envelope with her dad’s money. The tights on her legs. She smiled at him, genuine and unabashed. “Thanks again. For all this.”

He inclined his head. “It was my pleasure. Until tomorrow, Ranko.”

She lingered for half a second longer, then turned and ran. Her sneakers slapped the pavement, her braid bouncing against her back. Her legs felt warm, wrapped in Akane’s tights like an embrace she could take with her. Her chest felt lighter than air, even as the weight of her bag pulled at her shoulder, heavy with gifts and permanence.

There was no music playing, no swelling strings. Only her own breath in her ears, the cool air against her cheeks, and a fullness in her chest so vivid it hurt. Her smile stretched wide, unstoppable.

Chapter Text

By the time Friday rolled around, Ranko felt like a ghost wearing her own skin.

Wednesday and Thursday had melted into one long blur of exhaustion. School, work, and whatever time she’d carved out with Kuno—all of it smeared together like breath on glass. She hadn’t been back to the Tendos' since Monday morning. Akane had been bringing her bentos from Kasumi, and Ranko ate them gratefully, quickly, often in motion.

But now... now the finish line was in sight. Friday meant her last night of work. The thought alone made her limbs feel lighter.

When Nabiki suggested lunch on the school rooftop, Ranko didn’t even complain about the stairs. The sky was paper-white, the air just cool enough to sting the nose, the sun warm enough to make you lie to yourself about the season. Ranko arrived last, a little breathless from the climb. Nabiki was already lounging like a cat in a sunbeam, her bento untouched. Akane stood near the edge of the roof, looking down at the courtyard, the wind playing with her long black hair.

And Kuno was already seated, legs crossed with practiced composure, back straight, his hakama tucked impeccably beneath him. He watched Akane, lost in thought, perhaps waiting for her attention to someday shift towards him. 

“Hi.” Without asking, Ranko walked over and sat down with a satisfied sigh, her back resting against Kuno’s. She let her weight settle into him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Akane turned and watched them, her mouth pressed into a tight line.

Ranko unpacked her bento and shoved half of its contents into her mouth before Nabiki even unfolded hers. Akane took a seat next to her sister.

“Here,” Ranko said with her mouth full, reaching into her jacket and handing Nabiki a worn envelope. “Should be seventy thousand. That’ll cover me for—what, fourteen weeks?”

Nabiki arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been squatting in the equipment shed and still wanna pay us rent?”

Ranko shrugged, eyes on her food. “I like knowin’ I’ve got a place to crash for a few months.”

Akane turned toward her, chopsticks in hand, visibly upset. “You don’t have to pay, Ranko. You haven’t even been staying with us.”

“I will. Starting tomorrow. And this way, I won’t feel guilty eating Kasumi’s delicious food.” She flashed a crooked grin. “Besides, I kept enough to live. Mostly.”

Kuno looked at her then, and Ranko felt it—felt the weight of his gaze, heavy and unreadable. She didn’t meet his eyes.

Nabiki broke the tension by slipping the envelope into her bag with a practiced smile. “Well. It’s not polite to refuse money. I’ll make sure it’s invested wisely.”

Ranko snorted. “Figures.”

Kuno's gaze lingered a moment longer, then dropped to the bento box on his lap. He hadn’t touched it.

Akane, still stiff across them, spoke abruptly. "Hey, Ranko—remember we’ve got that thing on Monday?"

Ranko blinked. "Huh? Oh. I wasn’t sure if you’d decided..."

"I did."

Nabiki’s gaze narrowed. “What thing?”

Before Ranko could answer, Akane said too quickly, “We’re going to a crepe shop.”

“Just the two of you?” Nabiki asked, poker-faced.

“It’s a hangout,” Akane replied quickly, “with some classmates.”

Nabiki looked between them. “A hangout , huh?”

Ranko scratched the back of her neck and looked sheepishly at Kuno. “Sorry, I won’t be able to see you Monday after school.”

He inclined his head slightly. “There is no need to apologize.”

Ranko could feel it, the quiet pang of something unspoken. He was pretending it didn’t matter. Nabiki felt it too. He hadn’t expected to be left out. He hadn’t thought he could be.

Nabiki said nothing. She didn’t like not knowing what the girls were up to, but she liked watching people. Something about this crepe outing smelled like complication—but she could always dig into it later.

They ate together on the rooftop, bentos balanced on laps, the warmth of spring settling soft across their shoulders; conversation bloomed in little pockets—Nabiki teasing Ranko, Ranko cracking jokes about her job, a few laughs shared over some harmless school gossip—yet a quiet tension threaded through it all, sharp as glass underfoot.

Akane never once looked at Kuno, never addressed him directly, and when he spoke to her—tentatively, gently, as if afraid of pressing too hard—she replied with clipped, indifferent answers, her tone as distant as her gaze. Ranko felt it immediately, the awkward imbalance of a table with one leg shorter than the rest. Kuno, ever composed, wore his usual calm like armor, but she could see it in the faint stillness of his hands, the way he didn’t smile at all, didn’t quite belong in the warmth that gathered around them.

“Oh,” Nabiki added as she stood up, her bento cleanly put away once it was empty. “Before I forget, Ranko—the janitor’s cleaning out the old gym storage today. Your... sleep nook might be out of commission.”

“Shit,” Ranko muttered. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Kuno shifted slightly behind her, as if he was about to say something. But the moment passed.

The bell rang, the little song clear and final.

Ranko stood and stretched, joints popping, stomach full and warm. Her body ached, but she smiled as they made their way down the stairs.

One more shift. Just one. Then she could finally fall apart.

By the time classes ended, Ranko’s body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in the cold October sun. Her eyes burned. Her muscles ached in that deep, ugly way that hinted at more than just exhaustion. She said goodbye to Akane with a crooked smile and an awkward wave.

She slipped out across the school as she made her way to the kendo hall. The shouts of practice rang ahead of her—wood against wood in sharp, even rhythm. She stepped inside with quiet deference, socks whispering over the polished floor, a subtle bow of her head to the space as if asking permission.

Kuno noticed her immediately. He was instructing from the center of the room, sword poised in his hands as he turned toward her with a mixture of surprise and quiet curiosity.

“Ranko?”

She offered a weak, lopsided grin as he approached her. “Hey. You mind if I crash here for a bit?”

Kuno frowned slightly. “The kendo hall is not intended for—”

“Yeah, I know, not ideal,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But it’s either here or I curl up in a tree, and I’m too sore and sleepy. Please?”

He looked at her more closely now—her puffy eyelids, the way her braid was coming loose, the sluggish slump of her shoulders. The girl was running on fumes, and beneath that easy smirk, he could see the tremble at the seams.

He sighed through his nose. “Very well. Until practice ends.”

“Thanks, prince,” she muttered, already moving past the curious eyes of the other club members. She dropped down onto the long wooden bench near the wall, shrugging off her oversized jacket and folding it under her head like a pillow. Her white shirt was slightly wrinkled, and her skirt was rumpled from a long day of school, but she didn’t care. She curled up like a child and closed her eyes with a soft, weary sigh.

Kuno stood watching for a beat longer than was necessary, his brow slightly furrowed. Then, wordlessly, he slipped out of his top-layer haori and walked over. The folded garment was heavy and warm from his body, and he placed it gently over Ranko’s sleeping form, careful not to wake her.

He turned back to his club mates.

“Resume,” he said.

And practice went on.

She didn’t stir. Not when voices rose or when feet pounded the floor, not even when a bokken clattered to the ground too close to her bench.

When she finally blinked awake, the light had changed. The late afternoon gold was gone, replaced with the blue hush of early evening. The hall was silent now. Empty.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes and yawning into one sleeve. The fabric that had been draped over her shoulders slipped into her lap.

It was dark blue. Heavy. Familiar.

She stared down at it.

“…Is this his haori?” she whispered, touching the thick fabric like it might disappear. “Seriously?” A slow blush crept up her cheeks. Not a childish pink but a slow, creeping warmth that she tried very hard to ignore. It was just clothes. “Goddammit, Kuno,” she muttered, folding it clumsily. “You’re gonna make a girl catch feelings.”

She stood, gathering her things, tucking the neatly folded haori in her lap. Her other hand slipped into her jacket pocket and brushed something smooth and familiar—the omamori . The good luck charm he’d given her when she’d transferred to Furinkan. She held it for a moment in her palm, thumb gliding over the silk, then put it back without a word.

Her face was still warm. Her chest, annoyingly, felt warmer.

“He’s probably in the shower,” she muttered. And then, under her breath, added: “Don’t think about it, idiot.”

She sighed.

“Shit,” she mumbled, too tired to care anymore. “I need, like… a hundred hours of sleep. And maybe a boyfriend. Or a therapist. Or both.”

The soft swish of the sliding door broke the quiet.

Ranko looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the bench, still clutching the neatly folded haori in her lap. Kuno stepped into the kendo hall, fresh from the showers, hair damp and combed back with that disciplined elegance he always carried. He wore his school uniform now—dark grey slacks, a white button-up shirt still creased at the shoulders, collar open just slightly. She had never seen him with his dark gakuran before, but since she had his haori, it made sense that he had to layer up with something else. But he looked younger somehow, as if Ranko was realizing now that Kuno was a student, a teenager, just like she was.

He paused at the doorway, taking her in.

She stood and held out the haori. “Here. Thanks for lettin’ me crash.”

He accepted the garment with a small bow of his head, folding it over one arm with practiced grace. “You are welcome,” he said, voice low and measured. “Though I confess I was surprised you managed to sleep through the clamor. The hall is hardly a place of peace.”

Ranko gave a small shrug, her braid slipping over one shoulder. “I’m beyond tired. You could’ve hit me with a bokken and I probably wouldn’t have flinched.”

Kuno looked like he was debating the ethics of that, but said nothing. They stepped out into the fading afternoon together, the air damp with early evening cold, sky glowing pale violet. The gates of Furinkan loomed ahead, familiar and shadowy.

For a moment, Ranko glanced up at him, and he caught her looking. His dark eyes turned, met hers with calm curiosity.

“What is it?” he asked.

She blinked, caught. “Nothin’.”

They crossed the gate in silence, feet echoing softly on the pavement, their bodies relaxed in that way that only came with routine. They made their way without speaking to the corner convenience store, their usual stop—Ranko’s limbs heavy, Kuno still composed in that overly correct, dignified way he never seemed to drop.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Ranko leaned on the shelf of instant noodles, yawning behind her hand.

“I can’t believe it,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Tonight’s my last shift. It’s really gonna be over.”

Kuno selected a couple wakame onigiri, two bowls of oden, and then reached for two cans of warm tea. “You sound… relieved.”

She gave a tired smile. “I am. I’ve never been this tired in my whole damn life. I didn’t know your bones could feel sleepy.”

“You have made a valiant effort,” Kuno replied as they walked to the register. “A noble sacrifice in the name of your livelihood. You have earned your rest.”

Ranko glanced sideways at him, warm and grateful. “Thanks, prince.”

He paid for both of them without ceremony, and they stepped back out into the cold, warm cans in their hands, the smell of dashi and soy broth rising into the air. They walked down to their usual bench by the canal, water reflecting a ribbon of dusky light.

She plopped down, kicked her socked feet out in front of her, and leaned back on one arm.

“Sorry for conkin’ out on you so much this week,” she said, not quite looking at him. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for half our hang-outs.”

“It is nothing,” he replied. “You are clearly exhausted. I do not begrudge you the need for rest.”

She gave him a small, crooked smile. “You’re too nice to me.”

He said nothing to that.

“So?” she asked. “Weekend plans?”

Kuno nodded, sipping from his can. “Tennis, as usual. Study. Complete my assignments for literature and history. Nothing unusual, unless unexpected training is required.”

Ranko made a face. “Studyin’ on the weekend sounds gross.”

“You should attempt it sometime.”

“Yeah? Maybe after sixteen hours of sleep.” She chuckled. “I wanna help around the house tomorrow—clean, maybe help Kasumi cook a bit. Train with Akane. Try to figure out how Nabiki manages to exercise while reading a magazine and eatin’ snacks. You know. Get domestic.”

“That… sounds interesting.”

“I’m lookin’ forward to it,” she said, more quietly this time. “Being at the Tendo’s, I mean. It’s warm there.”

He looked at her then, something flickering behind his eyes. She didn’t see it, but she felt it—the silence, the way he didn’t reply. She stared at the can in her hands, lips pressing into a faint line.

“I mean… I’m glad I get to stay,” she said, softer still. “But I am a little nervous about the future.”

“Why?”

“Because… no job means no money.” She tried to keep her tone light. “No money means I’m back to square one. And yeah, I’m glad I’ll be able to sleep again and maybe join a club or two, but… I dunno. It’s hard to go from doin’ somethin’ to nothin’.”

He was quiet for a moment. She could almost hear the wheels in his mind turning, like he was trying to fix it, trying to be something that could solve it.

“Perhaps,” he said at last, “there is a part-time job with fewer hours. Something manageable.”

Ranko let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, probably. But when would I even do that? After school?” She turned to look at him then, eyes soft, teasing. “That’s when I spend time with you.”

He blinked, eyes flickering toward her. “Do you… still wish to?”

Her heart gave a strange, uncertain flutter. She looked away, trying to smile, but her voice betrayed something raw and real underneath.

“Of course I do. As long as you want me.”

There was a pause. The kind that lasted only a second, but seemed to stretch between them like a taut thread.

“I do,” he said, voice steady.

She smiled, the real kind this time. “Good,” she said, bumping his arm with her shoulder. “Because I’m a lot of work.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Shut up,” she said, laughing now. “You said you want to spend time with me, sucker!”

He allowed the smallest smile.

They sat together, side by side in the chill of early evening, the canal lapping softly below, steam rising from their cans. The warmth between them was quiet but nourishing. He put his haori over their legs, like a warm blanket. It made her feel warm inside and out.

The buzz of Ranko’s alarm rumbled from inside her bag at 9:30 in the evening.

She groaned, fishing it out with one hand. “Ugh. Time.”

Kuno looked at her. “Allow me to walk you to work today.”

“You don’t gotta do that,” she said, zipping her bag closed and standing.

“I know,” he replied simply. “I am asking you to let me.”

She paused, blinking up at him—an offering of care, quiet and strange and utterly sincere. She nodded once.

“…Okay. But we gotta book it .” Before he could reply, she caught him by the wrist and tugged him down the narrow street. “Come on, Samurai!”

Kuno stumbled once, but found his footing quickly. His stride was longer than hers, but she was swift and stubborn, her sneakers barely touching the pavement as she dragged him through alleys and shortcuts with reckless familiarity. She moved like a thread pulling him forward, and he let her.

When they reached the construction site, the sky was already full of stars. Sodium lights hummed overhead, casting golden pools on the gravel-strewn ground. Ranko skidded to a halt, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast.

“I gotta change and clock in,” she said, still holding his arm. “But—hey. Thanks.”

Kuno inclined his head. “Good night, Ranko. Have a safe and honorable shift.”

“‘Honorable,’ huh? I’m liftin’ gravel, not defending the shogunate,” she teased, letting go of him.

“You are laboring for your future. There is honor in that.”

She blinked at him, then smiled—not her smirking, flirtatious grin, but something smaller, warmer, the kind that settled in her eyes before it reached her lips.

“See you later,” she said, lifting a hand in a quick wave. “Don’t let the ghosts of old samurai haunt you on your way home.”

“I shall do my best.”

He raised a palm in return and watched as she turned and jogged off toward the prefab office. Her silhouette blurred in the halogen light. She disappeared behind a partition of stacked beams and corrugated siding.

Kuno did not move. He stood near the fence, watching the slow, methodical shift change unfold—helmets traded, gloves pulled snug, tools passed from hand to hand. The ambient thrum of machines and voices thickened the air.

Then, at a distance, he saw her again.

Ranko emerged in uniform: dark navy coveralls zipped halfway, sleeves pushed up. She adjusted her gloves as she spoke to a boy with a yellow bandana tied neatly across his forehead, his coveralls faded and clinging to a muscular frame. The two exchanged easy words, laughter even—Ranko’s head tilted back in a brief, unguarded smile.

Then she stooped to grab the handles of a wheelbarrow, and the boy hefted a pickaxe and shovel over his shoulder. Side by side, they walked toward the skeletal husk of a building still wrapped in scaffolding at the side of the road.

Kuno remained very still.

She had said see you later. And she had meant it. But later wouldn’t be Saturday, or Sunday. And not Monday afternoon. She would be with others—at her new home, among friends, with her classmates, boys who could make her laugh even while she worked.

A strange pressure settled in his chest. Not pain. Just... weight. Like something nameless had curled up between his ribs and wouldn’t leave.

He drew in a long breath, steady and slow, and forced his body to turn. He did not look back again. With measured steps and a rigid spine, Tatewaki Kuno walked home through the darkening streets of Nerima, alone.

Chapter Text

The Tendo house, just past eight o’clock, settled into its nightly rhythm. The golden light from the kitchen spilled gently into the hallway. Kasumi, gentle and steady as ever, was plating miso soup and simmered daikon when Nabiki wandered in, barefoot, arms crossed in a sweatshirt too big for her slim frame.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked, clicking the TV on as she passed it. The screen lit up with a garish musical variety show—an idol medley, all sequins and synchronized steps—but she kept the volume so low it was almost for ambiance, not listening.

“It’s the last Friday of the month: town council dinner,” Kasumi said as she poured tea. “They’re voting on next year’s Bon Odori. You know how he is.”

“Hm,” Nabiki murmured, settling on the floor cushion.

Akane entered moments later, cheeks flushed from training, hair damp and sticking to her neck beneath a towel. She gave her sisters a short nod and lowered herself to the table with the grace of someone who hadn’t quite finished cooling off.

Dinner began in silence. Rice passed around. Chopsticks clinked against ceramic. The television played on like a ghost.

Kasumi was the first to break the quiet. “How’s Ranko? I haven’t seen her in so long.”

Akane chewed, swallowed, wiped her lips. “She’s okay-ish, today’s her last day at work. She hasn’t been sleeping much.”

“I hope she doesn’t get sick,” Kasumi said softly, concern threading into her voice.

“She said thank you for the bentos,” Akane added. “She really meant it.”

“That’s so kind of her” Kasumi said cheerfully.

Nabiki exhaled through her nose, a single sharp breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. She set her tea down.

“Can we cut the bullshit now?” she said flatly, glancing between them. “Dad’s not here. No need for the domestic performance.”

Kasumi blinked in surprise. Akane’s brows narrowed.

“What's your problem?” Akane asked.

“I’m worried,” Nabiki said, leveling her voice—not dramatic, not harsh. Just clear.

“You? Worried about Ranko?” Akane’s disbelief was immediate.

“No,” Nabiki said. “I’m worried about Happosai .”

A pause. The room tensed the way water does before it boils.

Kasumi set her bowl down. “Is he back in Nerima?”

“Not that I know of, yet,” Nabiki said. “But if he were, Dad would never tell us directly. He’s too busy pretending he could deal with him alone. And anyway, you know how he is with the council, he is supposed to be a protector. They keep tabs on panty theft, incidents in bathhouses, girls getting fondled on their way home… You remember that police report a few months ago?”

Akane nodded slowly. “The one about the balcony break-ins?”

“Yeah. A rookie at the police station owed me a favor and I cashed it in. They caught someone. But let them go—‘lack of evidence.’” Nabiki made air quotes with her fingers. “Isn’t that weird?”

“But if they caught someone, doesn’t that mean it wasn’t Happosai?” Akane asked. “Wouldn't they have struggled catching that shriveled old freak stealing underwear?”

Nabiki tilted her head. “You’d think so. Which means it wasn’t him. It was probably someone else. Someone who didn’t know what they were doing was suspicious. Someone easy to let go. Well-dressed. Polite. A little... slow.”

Akane’s frown deepened. Kasumi looked uncertain. Nabiki leaned back and let the silence do the work.

“You’re not saying…” Akane started, but Nabiki cut her off.

“I’m saying Kuno’s rich, strong, and dumb enough to be useful.”

Akane shot her a look—half protest, half suspicion.

“You know he’s not like that,” she said. “I hate him, but I don’t think he would be stealing women’s underwear like a full-on pervert.”

“Exactly.” Nabiki rested her elbow on the table, her voice softer now. “He’s not a pervert in the broad sense of the word. That’s why it’s dangerous. He’s naive. Idealistic. Still thinks love means poetry and swordfights and fate. He wants to be strong. Happosai could use someone like that.”

“But why would he?” Kasumi asked. “Happosai can steal things himself quite easily.”

“Because Kuno's a walking battering ram, and Happosai loves taking advantage,” Nabiki replied. “You think Happosai doesn’t see the benefit? You think he doesn’t see a pretty, rich boy with a sword and a trust fund, someone who can do things without ever asking why he’s doing it?”

Akane opened her mouth to argue—but stopped.

Nabiki continued, her tone almost reluctant. “Ranko’s getting close to him. That’s what worries me.”

“She likes him,” Akane said quietly. “She trusts him.”

“I know,” Nabiki said. “And maybe I’m being paranoid. But I see a girl who’s finally starting to believe in something good… and a boy who could be made into a weapon by someone who knows how to whisper in the right ear.”

The room went still. Even the TV felt quieter.

“So you are worried about Ranko.” Akane said, softly.

“I just want us to be careful,” Nabiki said finally. “That’s all.”

“If you do find out he’s back, please tell us.” Kasumi said, her voice soft but strangely commanding.

“I’ll do my best.” Nabiki nodded. Akane noted it wasn’t a ‘yes’.

And with that, Nabiki picked up her chopsticks again, as though nothing had been said.

The fluorescent hum of the portable office light felt strangely distant as Ranko pressed the time card machine and heard the faint click. She stretched her arms, yawned with a sound like a kitten trying to roar, and tightened the two belts around her waist.

“Oi, Ryoga!” Ranko yelled. The boy with the yellow bandana blinked at her from near the site’s inner scaffolding. Ranko jogged over and slapped him lightly on the arm. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I think… somewhere in the south?” Ryoga rubbed the back of his neck. “It was really cold. Snowy. A lotta cows.”

Ranko burst out laughing. “That’s north , you dork.”

Ryoga frowned. “Oh. Huh.”

They made their way across the gravel lot toward a cracked patch of old pavement half-swallowed by dirt and weeds. Ranko adjusted her gloves, brushing windblown bangs from her face.

“It’s my last day,” she said as they knelt to examine the cracked asphalt. “So go easy on me. No pissin’ me off.”

Ryoga looked up, surprised. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.” Her smile was tired. “It was just supposed to be for two weeks. And even if they offered me a longer contract, I think I’d die. Turns out it’s kinda impossible goin’ to school, work all night, and still hang out with people like a normal human.”

Ryoga nodded as he began swinging the pick down against the hardened surface. The sharp sound of metal on concrete echoed into the stillness of the site. Ranko crouched beside him, shoveling up the fractured bits into the wheelbarrow, working in time with his rhythm. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was work-worn, easy, the quiet of two people who didn’t feel the need to fill the air.

Their boss, Mr. Kimura, waved them over a moment later, barking something about a rock needing to be moved on the eastern perimeter. Ranko groaned, dragging the shovel behind her as they trudged toward a lumpy patch of ground tufted with grass.

“Hey, have you ever thought of goin’ to school?” she asked.

Ryoga blinked at her. “I get too lost. Can’t make it.”

“Where do you even live?”

“My family’s house is in the next town over. Should be twenty minutes by bus. Takes me a day if I’m lucky.” Ryoga looked at her with a crooked smile, his little fans showing. “You know I’m not lucky.”

She winced. “Oof. That’s rough.”

“It’s fine. I camp when I need to.”

She looked at him sidelong. “Is that how you got so strong? Just... wanderin’ around Japan with your backpack?”

Ryoga shrugged and began striking the ground with the pick again, exposing the edge of a stubborn boulder hiding under the soil.

They worked in silence until the sun began to rise—soft and diluted, filtering through the haze of dust and exhaust. The shift bell rang faintly from the prefab office. Ranko dropped the last chunk of dirt onto the pile and let out a long exhale.

She turned to Ryoga, pulling off one glove and holding out her hand. “Thanks. For putting up with my cranky ass.”

Ryoga stared at her hand like it was a puzzle, then shook it carefully. “It was fun. I never really knew how to talk to girls before.”

“Oh no,” Ranko said, laughing, “don’t learn from me. I’m the worst possible template. Most girls don’t swear like construction workers.”

Ryoga smiled—awkward, crooked, but genuine. “You’re fun, though. I’m sorry I was rude to you when I thought you were a boy.”

She paused, blinking. “…Thanks. Don’t be afraid of talkin’ to girls, though. They’d like you if you’re nice and honest with them. Just nice, though, no kid-gloves.”

They waved goodbye. Ranko changed out of her uniform, cheeks smudged with dust. She joined the line for the weekly payout. Mr. Kimura was leaning against the doorway, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Well, well,” he said as she stepped forward. “You made it through the entire thing.”

“Barely.” She grinned. “Thanks for not firin’ me.”

He handed her the small envelope. “It was nice working with you.”

“You mean it?”

Mr. Kimura squinted at her. “Don’t make me take it back.”

She laughed.

He took a long drag. “If you ever need work again, I can let your old man know. Or check the municipal office. Sometimes we post jobs there. Or the cops’ bulletin board.”

Ranko blinked at the mention of her father, but nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks… really, Mr. Kimura.”

Outside, the sky was bright and shiny. She stopped at a grocery store just as it opened, bought eggs, spinach, rice, some pre-fried croquettes. The world felt soft and slow around her, like she was moving underwater.

When she opened the door to the Tendo house and stepped inside, it was warm and dim. The kitchen light clicked on. Kasumi stood at the sink in pastel pajamas, brushing sleep from her eyes.

“Oh—Ranko-chan. You’re back.”

“Hey.” Ranko put the bags down and began unloading them automatically. “Thanks for the bentos this week.”

Kasumi smiled gently. “It was my pleasure.”

Ranko looked at her for a long moment. There was a strange tightness in her chest, a prickling at the corners of her eyes. She swallowed.

“Kasumi? Can I… can I hug you?”

Kasumi tilted her head, then opened her arms.

Ranko stepped forward and wrapped herself into the older girl’s warmth. It smelled like chamomile and soap. She closed her eyes and let herself exhale all the way to the bottom.

The weekend slipped through Ranko’s fingers like warm bathwater.

On Saturday, she finally tackled the box of old clothes Kasumi had given her—neatly folded relics from her high school days. Ranko picked through them with a kind of quiet reverence, her fingertips brushing over the memories someone else had worn. She ended up turning a roomy striped shirt into a casual dress, cinching it at the waist with the rough canvas belt she’d used at the construction site. The result was cute, a little weird and short, but very her.

She spent the rest of the day moving between rooms like a housecat. She helped Akane scrub and wax the dojo’s wooden floors until the planks gleamed like amber. Later, she took down the laundry, arms full of sun-warmed cloth, and folded it in the living room while sitting with Kasumi, who was watching one of those slow, sighing period dramas full of wounded glances and long pauses. 

In the early evening, she found herself in Nabiki’s room, of all places, half-sprawled on the floor while some city pop compilation played from a sleek cassette deck and Nabiki taught Ranko some leg exercises that seemed to stretch muscles she didn’t know she had. They talked about boys—who was boring, who had a weird voice, who might be secretly handsome if he stopped slouching. Ranko said more than she meant to about Kuno, as usual, but Nabiki didn’t tease her for it. Just nodded, eyes half-lidded, lips smirking like she was already five steps ahead of every feeling in the room.

Sunday was quieter still. She and Akane sat cross-legged on the floor in her room, notebooks open, pencils tapping. Akane gently walked her through the things she’d missed in class while half-asleep all week—math formulas, kanji readings, bits of history that felt like leftover dreams. After lunch, they were supposed to be drilling English verbs, but both girls conked out mid-study, the warm light from the window pooling around them. Ranko stretched out on the carpet, her braid splayed across her shoulder.

By late afternoon, the studying had officially been declared dead.

“So,” Ranko said, propped up on her elbows, eyeing Akane from across the room, “what’re you wearin’ tomorrow? For the big double date.”

Akane didn’t even look up from the worksheet she was doodling on. “My uniform.”

Ranko raised a brow. “No outfit change? Scandalous.”

“Nope.”

Ranko rolled onto her side, watching her friend with a squint. “Didn’t you say you weren’t that into boys?”

“I’m not,” Akane replied simply.

“Then why’re we goin’ out with two of ‘em?”

Akane shrugged, then smirked faintly. “I just think I’d be good.”

Ranko barked a laugh. “ Good for who? ”

Akane finally looked up, her expression unreadable. “For them, I guess.”

“Hah! No doubt,” Ranko grinned. “They’re gonna be tellin’ this story at their high school reunions. ‘Yeah, remember that one time we took Akane Tendo out? Actual royalty.’”

Akane sighed, leaning back against her bed. “I just hope they keep their mouths shut. I really don’t want a rumor about me being open to dating.”

“We don’t gotta go, y’know,” Ranko offered, softer now. “If you’re not feelin’ it.”

Akane hesitated, then said, “It’ll be fun. Probably.” Her voice lacked conviction.

Ranko flopped flat on the carpet, arms spread wide. “Alright then. No dress-up pact. I’ll roll around on the dirt right before so I go lookin’ like roadkill.”

Akane gave a small laugh, the kind that felt like it came from her chest more than her throat.

A pause settled between them, not awkward—just full.

“You really don’t like boys?” Ranko asked after a moment. No judgment, only sincere curiosity.

Akane stared at the ceiling, she didn’t want to sort out her feelings yet. “I don’t know. I haven’t met one I liked.”

Ranko blinked up at the light fixture. “So who was that old crush you mentioned, huh?”

Akane didn’t answer right away. She reached up, fingers threading slowly through her long black hair like she could hide behind it. Ah, yes. That. Him.

“…I don’t wanna say,” she murmured. “Sorry.”

Ranko didn’t press. She just lay there on the floor, eyes half-closed. “Yeah,” she whispered. “That’s okay, I get it.”

Dinner was warm, savory, and solid in a way that wrapped itself around her ribs and stayed there. Every bite reminded Ranko of something—safety, maybe. Or routine. Or just the quiet wonder of being expected at the table.

Three meals in one day. That was new. Unsettling, even. Her body liked it, sure—she could feel it in her bones, in the slow unwinding of that tight, empty place in her belly that had learned not to expect fullness. But her brain? Her brain kept circling the questions: Is this okay? Am I taking too much? Is this costing them?

So she refused seconds, even though the nikujaga was still steaming and the smell made her stomach tug again. She smiled at Kasumi, bowed her head politely, and said, “Thank you, really. That was amazing.”

Afterward, she stayed behind to help with the cleanup, rolling up her sleeves without needing to be asked. Her hands moved through warm dishwater, finding their rhythm. Akane came in with a towel to dry, and Kasumi moved gracefully between cupboards, returning each clean dish to its home. Nabiki was already there, leaning back in one of the kitchen chairs, one ankle crossed over the other, making comments like a foreman on break and not helping at all.

It should’ve felt domestic in that suffocating way she remembered from TV shows and manga. But it didn’t. It felt… good . Easy. The four of them talked over one another, trailed into tangents, jumped topics. Kasumi asked if the boys at school had found out about “the double date.” Nabiki said something sarcastic about Ranko ruining Akane’s pristine record of nonchalance. Akane groaned and called them both annoying. Ranko laughed until her stomach hurt, clutching a sponge in her wet hands.

The chores were done before she realized they’d begun.

That night, after a hot shower and the gentle warmth of borrowed pajamas, Ranko fell asleep almost instantly. She dreamed vividly in snapshots, like a radio stuck between stations.

In one dream, she was a Tendo sister, sitting beside Akane on the porch while Kasumi trimmed flowers and Nabiki counted her allowance. She felt like she belonged , not just in the house, but in the picture.

Then she was in Kuno’s arms, wearing his haori like a cloak, the two of them standing beneath blooming cherry trees. He called her his girl and kissed her forehead.

In the next dream, she stood in a boxing ring at Furinkan’s gymnasium, wrapped hands held high, her name echoing from the announcer’s mouth. The crowd chanted her name like she was invincible, their darling delinquent champion. She smiled through the blood in her mouth.

Then—shift.

A cold hallway. Her father stood in the distance, his shadow longer than his body, like something cast by a different sun. He didn’t say hello. Just looked at her and said flatly, We have to go. You’ve been promised. They’re coming for you.

Ranko tried to run, but her legs were heavy. Her voice didn’t work.

Then—

The shrill buzz of her alarm tore through the dream like a knife. Ranko sat up sharply in her futon, heart pounding, breath caught.

Light crept through the shōji screen. The sounds of Kasumi stirring something delicious in the kitchen wafted faintly down the hall. She blinked a few times, willing the nightmare to fade, wiping sleep from her eyes with the back of one hand.

It was Monday. She was safe. Ranko hoped it’d last.

Ranko blinked the sleep away, her blanket tangled around one ankle like she’d wrestled it in the night. She scratched her scalp through the halo of sleep-frizzed hair. Her pillow had a faint line of drool on it. Cute.

Ranko stood in her pajamas, staring into her underwear drawer like it was about to offer her life advice.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Question of the morning: cotton, or lace?”

The drawer did not answer, though the cotton pairs—neatly folded in a soft little army of pastels—looked awfully smug. There were more of them now than anything racy. A quiet majority.

It hadn’t been like that since she was twelve.

She glanced toward the back of the drawer, where her old favorites—black lace, crimson satin, sheer mesh—still resided like little sins in exile. She picked up a scrap of violet silk and turned it in her hands.

“Temptation, thy name is Shibuya clearance rack,” she whispered. “Okay, first of all,” she muttered to herself, “this is a group date with two high school boys who probably still think boobs are magic, and Akane, the human chastity belt.”

She tossed the lace back in with theatrical scorn. “Nice try, slut me. Not today.”

She pulled on the cotton, stepped into her skirt, and sighed.

The outfit came together with the same ease it always did now—uniform shirt, black tights, braid—but her thoughts lagged behind. Her hands slowed as she buttoned her collar to hide her cleavage as best as she could.

She was going on a date.

Well— a date. Sort of. Group thing. Crepes. Cheap soda and awkward laughter and maybe a ride on the back of a bicycle if one of the boys was feeling bold.

It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t with him .

She paused, halfway through sliding her white high loose socks over the black tights.

Kuno’s face drifted across her thoughts uninvited. That stubborn jaw. That unreadable look he got when he was thinking too hard. That maddening, gallant way he sometimes offered to hold her drink while she opened her convenience store food.

Ranko blinked.

“Why the hell am I thinking about Kuno right now?”

She turned away from drawers, pulling her oversized jacket on, trying to shake the thought off like static. He wasn’t even involved . He wasn’t invited. Why would he be? He wasn’t hers. He was just a friend. A friend who was in love with Akane.

So why did her stomach twist? Why did she feel—off? Not wrong exactly. Just… not quite right.

“It’s just nerves,” she said aloud, though the sound of her own voice annoyed her. “New school, new friends, new life, new... underwear.”

She left the room with a toss of her braid and muttered, “Okay, let’s go get breakfast and pretend we're not sixteen and emotionally malformed.” She had a double date with Akane and two boys. And no work, no Kuno. It was going to be a very particular sort of day.

Chapter Text

Akane, Nabiki and Ranko reached school just as the front gate was filling with the usual Monday tide—half-awake students, a mop of bedhead here and there. Their walk to school had been quiet, comfortable, and at some point both Ranko and Nabiki had yawn in unison, which made Akane laugh.

They made it to the third floor corridor and Akane turned toward Class 1-F. Ranko stopped, unsure.

“I’ll walk Nabiki to her classroom,” Ranko said hesitantly.

Akane forced herself not to question it. “Okay.” She took Ranko’s bag before she could protest and added, “I’ll leave it at your desk.”

Ranko gave a short nod. “Thanks.”

As they turned down the hallway, Nabiki smirked. “Wow. Couldn’t even wait until lunch to see your prince?”

Ranko snorted, a little too defensively. “Shut up.”

“Are you feeling the symptoms of withdrawal? Like, Kuno-detox?”

“I just feel weird not hanging out with him today, okay?”

Nabiki laughed. “Tragic. Having a crush on a himbo samurai. Must be exhausting to like an idiot.”

Ranko exhaled through her nose. “Maybe I’m the bigger idiot.”

“You’re not,” Nabiki said, surprising her by sounding almost sincere. “Just romantically misguided.”

They reached 2-E. The classroom buzzed with low conversation. No Kuno.

“You wanna wait for him?” Nabiki asked.

Ranko looked toward the empty desk, shook her head. “Nah. S’fine.” She cleared her throat. “You coming to the roof for lunch?”

“Can’t. I gotta make an appearance with the girls before they think I’ve joined a cult and replace me with someone less beautiful.”

Ranko smiled. “See you at home, then.”

She didn’t realize what she’d said until Nabiki raised an eyebrow.

Ranko froze. “I—I mean—”

But Nabiki’s smirk softened into something gentler. “No, you’re absolutely right.” She nudged Ranko’s arm with hers. “I’ll see you at home.”

Ranko turned and headed down the hall, heart a little louder than before, her thoughts scattered. See you at home. The words stuck to the inside of her chest. They felt right, and that’s what made it weird.

And of course, in the middle of trying not to think about him— him —her mind wandered straight into enemy territory. Would he notice they wouldn’t see each other today? Did he even think about her outside of their after school hang outs? Was she going to get through the date later without comparing every dumb boyish smile to—

She bumped into someone.

“Ah—sorry,” she muttered, stepping back.

And then looked up.

Kuno.

In full gakuran. The collar crisp, the brass buttons gleaming, his hair slightly damp like he’d come straight from a morning shower. He looked… perfect, infuriatingly so.

“Good morning,” he said, voice smooth and respectful, as if this was a formality between diplomats.

Ranko’s heart tripped. “Mornin’.”

They just stood there for a second too long, looking at each other. Not speaking. Not breathing.

Something tightened in her stomach. Not dread. Not nerves. Something else entirely.

“You look good,” Ranko said, and the words came out a little too fast, a little too breathless. “What’s the occasion, prince?”

She had meant them to sound teasing—light, casual, offhanded. But standing there, face to face with him in the morning light of the hallway, her pulse was fluttering like a moth trapped beneath her ribs.

Kuno turned to her, his eyes calm, unreadable. “There is no occasion. I merely chose to wear the appropriate uniform today.”

Ranko blinked.

She gave a small nod, trying to process his answer. His voice was perfectly even. His gaze didn’t linger. His shoulders were square, his expression carefully neutral, unreadable. The weight of his presence—so often comforting—felt suddenly foreign. The warmth she'd come to expect from him was… missing.

And before she could even smile again, before she could muster another line or ask what he’d had for breakfast or if he wanted to eat lunch together or if his weekend had been good, he stepped forward. Past her.

“Have a good day,” he said.

And then he was gone.

Ranko stood rooted to the floor, her back still half-turned, her hands hovering awkwardly in front of her skirt. What...?

She turned slowly, dazed, in time to catch the glimpse of him disappearing around the corner—tall, graceful, composed in that damned uniform.

Her chest was tight. Her mouth was dry. Her heart thumped in her ears, but now it wasn’t fluttering. It was pounding.

Did I do something? Is he mad? Was that normal?

She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her so coldly. Not even a flicker of warmth. Her stomach was tying itself in anxious knots by the time she shuffled back to 1-F and dropped stiffly into her seat beside Akane.

Yuka was talking animatedly about her weekend. Akane was listening, smiling, nodding.

The classroom was loud, bright, full of ordinary things—but Ranko felt like she had been dunked in cold water. Like her skin didn’t quite fit her body anymore.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was being stupid. Maybe he had a test. Maybe he was tired. Maybe—

“Hey!”

She looked up, startled.

Hiroshi and Daisuke stood at her desk, half-bent over, their faces brimming with the earnest, fragile confidence of boys who’d been rehearsing how to approach.

“We’re still on for today, right?” Hiroshi asked in a hushed voice, glancing quickly around.

Ranko blinked again. It took a second for the meaning of his words to settle. She looked over at Akane, who hadn’t noticed. “Yeah,” she said, slowly. “We’re on.”

“Great!” Hiroshi said, and he and Daisuke exchanged twin grins that were so wide they were practically splitting.

Ranko mustered a smile—soft, tired, but polite—and they took it as a win. They retreated to the back of the room, already whispering between themselves in high, excited voices.

She exhaled slowly, watching them go. At least they’re happy to see me. That counted for something. Didn’t it?

But the moment they turned away, the smile fell off her face like a dead leaf.

She turned her eyes to her desk. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her chest ached—not sharp, not burning, but heavy. Like someone had filled her lungs with wet cloth.

Kuno...

And just like that, the weight of his coldness pressed down on her all over again. She wished she could forget about him for a moment, just so this weird feeling would go away.

During class, Ranko tried not to use the mechanical pencil Kuno had bought her. It lay in her pencil case like a loaded memory. Her hand hovered above it before moving stiffly past to reach an old pen instead. The notepad—cream-colored, thick, pristine—remained untouched in her desk. Even her usual green Pilot pen, which glided so effortlessly across the page, went unused.

Kuno was everywhere. Embedded in the minutiae of her daily rituals. In her handwriting, in the way she tied her braid in the mornings, in the little pauses she took when she walked past his classroom. He’d soaked into her life so deeply that avoiding him was like trying not to breathe.

She hunched deeper into her oversized jacket. Her hands were cold, fidgeting. They burrowed into the soft lining of her pockets. Her fingers brushed against something small and smooth.

His omamori.

Her stomach tightened.

Later, in the restroom, she splashed water over her face and shook out her hands, trying to shake off the heaviness clinging to her like humidity. She reached for the paper towel—only to find his neatly folded handkerchief already in her fingers, as if it had waited there for her.

The realization made her breath catch. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, uncomfortable with how affected she was by a short interaction that might as well have meant nothing.

He’s just a friend who is having a rough morning, she told herself. This is nothing, maybe he was just tired, or in a bad mood. Just don’t think about him for a moment.

She exhaled shakily.

“You okay?” Akane asked beside her, adjusting her bangs in the mirror.

Ranko startled slightly, then nodded. “Yeah. Just... nervous about the double date.” Lying to Akane felt disgusting.

Akane looked at her like she’d announced she was afraid of cats or something. “You? Nervous about a date?”

Her laugh was incredulous, but it carried a nervous edge.

“If you’re like this,” Akane added, “how should I feel?”

Ranko chuckled, low and soft. “Sorry,” she said, rinsing her hands again for no reason but to buy time. “It’s just been a weird day.”

Akane dried her hands slowly, watching her. “Is there anything I can do?”

Ranko smiled, almost despite herself. The genuine concern in Akane’s voice disarmed her. She shook her head. “You’re helpin’ plenty.”

They stepped out of the bathroom together, and Ranko reached for her—almost unconsciously—looping an arm through Akane’s as they walked.

The hallway was bright with the hush of late-morning chatter, but the air between them felt soft and warm.

Akane looked at her curiously. Ranko only smiled, and squeezed her arm tighter.

They walked back to class together, side by side, each carrying her own tangle of thoughts—but lighter, somehow, for not walking alone.

During lunch, the sun streamed through the classroom windows, warm and sleepy. Ranko and Akane stayed, pulling their desks together with Yuka, Sayuri, and another girl from their homeroom. Bentos were unwrapped, chopsticks clicked gently, and idle conversation drifted like petals on water.

Sayuri giggled behind her hand, leaning in. “Daisuke and Hiroshi are being obvious. They keep glancing this way like it’s their job.”

Akane rolled her eyes and bit into her croquette. “Boys,” she muttered.

Yuka looked at them. “They’ve never been this intense. I wonder what’s up with them today”.

“Who knows?” Akane said, frowning, giving Ranko a sheepish look before going back to her bento and pretending she wasn’t going on a date with them in a few hours.

Ranko managed a small smirk, just as her grip tightened reflexively around her chopsticks. A familiar voice from the classroom’s door—calm, clear, low—cut through the chatter like a blade.

“Ranko.”

Her name on his tongue made her spine straighten, her heart clutch, her lungs forget their rhythm. She looked up, already moving, already rising. Chopsticks fell with a soft clatter onto her bento lid. She barely registered the disapproving look Akane gave her.

Kuno stood in the doorway, framed by the corridor’s light. His posture was as composed as always, but there was something looser about him—an undone top button, a faint restlessness in his gaze.

“Could we talk, please?” he asked.

Ranko nodded, her voice lost somewhere in her throat. She followed him into the hallway, each step loud against the tile, her pulse thudding in her ears.