Chapter Text
The days passed, as days do — smooth and slow and cruel in their indifference.
Meetings blurred together. The hierarchy shifted by decimal points. People whispered, gambled, betrayed each other with perfect etiquette. Yumeko smiled through all of it, a performance honed into muscle memory.
But the worst part wasn’t any of that. It wasn’t the meetings, or the stolen glances, or even the quiet rooms where Kira’s presence coiled like a second atmosphere.
No.
What’s really hard — what no one warns you about — isn’t the silence at night.
People think that’s when heartbreak hits the hardest, when the lights are off, when the room is quiet, when the bed feels too big and too cold. But Yumeko’s not alone, not really. Mary’s there, across the room, bathed in laptop glow and softly muttering about a loophole in the council constitution. There’s the rustle of her sheets, the clink of her tea mug, the quiet sighs of someone perpetually thinking.
It’s lonely — but never alone.
No, the hardest time comes at midday.
When the sun is high enough to warm your skin, but the wind still bites at your fingertips. When you don’t need a blazer but bring one anyway, just in case.
Yumeko walks outside during lunch, arms loose at her sides, path winding along the side of the main building where students sit in clusters under trees and on marble benches. It’s loud, but not overwhelming. The kind of background noise that lets her pretend she’s somewhere else.
And that’s the danger.
Because this weather — this stupid, perfect weather — is the same as it was in the Timurov’s garden in Russia.
She hadn’t packed enough clothes, but Kira lent her that soft gray coat, the one lined with silk. They walked through the pine-lined back garden of the Timurov estate, and Kira had reached for her hand — so gently — as if unsure it was allowed.
Yumeko can still feel it. The warmth of Kira’s gloved fingers slipping between hers. The careful squeeze. The silence they shared, broken only by birds and wind and the soft crunch of frost beneath their boots.
She’d let herself believe that maybe, maybe they could carve out a place in each other’s worlds. Just a sliver.
Now, here in the courtyard, surrounded by other students and the smell of early spring, Yumeko’s fingers twitch like they miss something.
She tucks her hands into her pockets.
She watches a first-year trip over a stone path. Someone calls for a rematch on a card game nearby. A couple kisses against the far railing like they’re the only people in the world.
This was the hardest part, the quiet part of the day.
She doesn’t cry.
She never does during the day.
That’s the worst part. When there was no excuse to ache.
When it’s too bright to grieve properly, and yet everything aches.
She had just passed the edge of the fountain court when she heard footsteps behind her — measured, certain. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“Hey, Yumeko.”
Mary.
She always said her name like that, like she wasn’t asking for her attention so much as already owning it.
Yumeko turned, slow and smiling. The smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Mary stood in the dappled shade of a tree, arms crossed, her uniform pristine. Her signature twin pigtails framed her face — high, neat, a little too symmetrical to be sweet. Everything about her was deliberate. Even the illusion of softness.
“Out stalking me?” Yumeko teased, forcing some melody into her voice. “I didn’t know you were the type.”
Mary didn’t smile. That’s when Yumeko knew something was off.
They started walking together, an easy pace, but the silence between them wasn’t usual. Not the good kind. Not the comfortable kind. It felt… loaded.
Mary kept her hands in her pockets as they walked. Her gaze didn’t waver, not even when they passed a cluster of underclassmen playing a rigged dice game. Yumeko expected a quip. A snort. Something.
Instead, Mary spoke quietly. Too quietly.
“You okay?”
Yumeko blinked up at her. “Now that’s a loaded question.”
“No, it’s not.”
Yumeko raised an eyebrow, but Mary didn’t look at her. She was scanning the school grounds ahead like she was studying patterns — watching people like they were numbers waiting to fall into place.
“You’ve been you.” She said finally. “Loud. Flashy. Flirty. I mean, yesterday you had that poor bastard Frederick down to the brink — one more chip and he’d be your house pet.”
Yumeko tilted her head, smile still blooming. “Mary, if you’re just here to say I’ve lost my sparkle, I might cry.”
“He pissed himself.”
“Not my fault boys can’t hold their bladders.”
“But you didn’t finish the game.”
Yumeko’s smile faltered. Just a little. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying.” Mary said slowly. “You’re performing. Hard. All that chaos? All that shine? It’s a distraction. You’re not chasing the thrill. You’re running from something.”
Yumeko looked away. The wind picked up again, curling around her bare arms like the ghost of a glove she used to wear. A memory of warmth. A snowy garden. Fingers slipping between hers. Kira’s quiet sigh in the cold.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
Yumeko blinked. That word again. That quiet scalpel.
Mary watched her closely. Her voice dipped lower. “You’re throwing chaos at everyone else so you don’t have to look at yourself. That’s not strategy. That’s distraction.”
Yumeko laughed. Bright. Light. Deflective. “God, I love how you psychoanalyze me in the middle of campus. It’s very ‘femme fatale falling in love with the profiler’ of you.”
“Yumeko.”
The way Mary said her name — like she was pressing a hand over a wound Yumeko hadn’t meant to show.
“I’m fine. ” Yumeko said again, softer this time, and even she could hear how fragile it sounded.
Mary tilted her head, pigtails swinging slightly. “Look, you don’t owe me anything. Maybe we’re not that kind of friends. But I’ve seen what you look like when you’re burning for something. This?” Her hand gestured vaguely toward Yumeko’s whole body, like she could map the hurt in inches. “This isn’t hunger. It’s grief.”
The word landed so hard Yumeko nearly laughed. Grief. Like something died.
But didn’t it?
Mary studied her for another beat, then nodded. Just once.
That was all.
They turned, walked together again, the silence between them filled with more truth than either of them had the courage to name.
The silence between them stretched as they re-entered the building, the heavy wooden doors groaning open like something out of a cathedral. The temperature dipped the moment they stepped inside — cooler, sterile, the hum of ambition thick in the air. The halls of St. Dominic’s weren’t just corridors; they were veins, each one pulsing with legacy, power, and the endless shuffle of students hungry for more.
Yumeko wasn’t thinking. Not really.
She was walking beside Mary, letting herself feel the rhythm of the school beneath her shoes, the weight of the blazer slung lazily over one shoulder, still half-smiling from nothing in particular. That odd little warmth from earlier hadn’t entirely worn off.
She was mid-laugh — something Mary had said, something snide and meaningless — when her steps slowed.
Her pulse shifted.
Too late.
She looked up and realized exactly where she was.
The west wing corridor. Top floor. The Student Council’s primary domain — an unofficially marked territory, but everyone knew it. Students avoided it unless summoned. Teachers tread lightly here. It was silent, except for the echo of confidence. A hallway of glass and marble and domination.
And Kira Timurov stood right in the middle of it.
She wasn’t moving — of course not. Kira never needed to move. She could command a space with stillness alone.
She was facing a second-year house pet, speaking low and sharp enough to carve marble. Her posture was faultless, jacket crisp, the faint glint of her spade pin catching the sunlight filtering through the high windows. Beside her stood Riri, silent as always, mask drawn and hands loose at her sides like a shadow waiting to be useful.
Kira had her back to them at first.
But then she turned.
Because of course she did.
Her gaze swept lazily down the corridor and landed on them like a hawk locking onto movement — slow, poised, and merciless.
Yumeko froze.
Mary, too aware and unaware at the same time, stepped in.
“Kira.” She said smoothly, nodding in that way she always did — just a touch of deference, enough to stay out of the crosshairs. “You look taller today. New heels?”
It was meant to lighten the air. Or buy time.
But Kira didn’t smile.
Her eyes flicked to Mary, and her expression didn’t even twitch.
“Mary.” She said coolly. “Still talking like you matter.”
The insult wasn’t loud, but it carried — down the hallway, across the walls, through Yumeko’s chest.
Mary raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. She knew better than to challenge Kira in her own dominion.
Yumeko should’ve looked away.
She knew that. She told herself she would, if this ever happened. That she’d walk past with her head high and her gaze elsewhere and the same smile on her face that she gave to everyone else she didn’t care about.
But Kira looked at her.
And Yumeko looked back.
It wasn’t long. Maybe two seconds. Three, at most.
But it felt like something inside her cracked.
Because Kira didn’t look angry.
She looked untouched. Distant. Polished into perfection, like she’d already rewritten whatever story they were in. Like it had never happened.
But her eyes…
Her eyes were a wound.
Yumeko forgot to breathe.
The moment snapped like a stretched rubber band, and then Kira turned, already resuming her conversation, already cutting the air with her voice and that perfect, effortless disdain.
Yumeko blinked and forced herself to keep walking.
Mary didn’t say anything this time. She didn’t have to.
But she walked a little closer than before, her pigtails swinging, sharp as ever.
And Yumeko?
She didn’t look back.
Later on, the cafeteria at St. Dominic’s buzzed like a trading floor — deals brokered over trays of imported sushi, betrayals cemented in glances passed over sparkling water. At the very top of it all sat the Student Council table, gleaming like a throne. But Yumeko?
She was tucked away near the windows, sunlight spilling across her lap, knees bare.
Across from her sat Ryan Adebayo, the school’s most harmless disaster, nervously peeling the label off his bottled water.
“You look— uh. Good. Really good, actually.” He managed, his voice cracking like a middle schooler’s.
She smiled, slow and amused, resting her chin against her hand. “Do I?”
Ryan turned red in the ears. “I mean— not like I was looking, just— people notice things. I mean— I noticed. Just a normal amount. God.”
“You’re adorable.” Yumeko said, stealing a cherry tomato from his tray. “Like a baby deer caught in traffic.”
He made a noise — half-laugh, half-groan — and dropped his eyes to the table.
People were watching. She knew they were. Her laughter rang out like a bell, just sweet enough to be sharp. It was all intentional. Her skirt. Her smirk. Her fingers brushing Ryan’s hand as she leaned forward.
It was all for show.
But not for them.
Yumeko didn’t look at the Student Council table. Not directly.
But she knew exactly where Kira was sitting. She knew Kira’s posture—always straight-backed, never relaxed, like she’d forgotten how. She knew Kira’s way of setting down her teacup too precisely, like anything less would make her unravel. She could feel Kira’s presence across the room like a second sun, colder, sharper.
She told herself she didn’t care.
And then, like always, she slipped.
Maybe she’s watching
Maybe she hates seeing this.
Maybe she’s jealous.
Yumeko wanted her to be.
God, she needed her to be.
Because wasn’t that love, in its ugliest form? Possessiveness. The ache of seeing someone else touch what used to be yours?
But Kira didn’t look.
Or — no. She was looking.
Not at her, but past her. Over the rim of her cup, eyes like ice, expression unreadable. She didn't have to look back to know.
Because Yumeko had known that face up close. She’d traced the worry between her brows with her fingers. Kissed the tension out of her jaw in quiet hours no one knew existed.
She knew when Kira was watching.
And Kira was watching.
Just enough that it hurt.
Yumeko let her fingers graze Ryan’s again, playful. Ryan blinked at her like she’d thrown him a lifeline.
“So— um.” He started, voice barely steady, “I was thinking, maybe… Spring Gala? Like, not as a thing-thing. Unless you wanted it to be. Or even as a joke. A good joke. I’m very funny, according to— my dog.”
She laughed — sweet and loud and performative.
And then the fire struck the back of her neck.
It always happened like this. Heat. Pressure. The sense of being not just seen but known.
She looked up.
Riri.
Silent. Imposing. Still as glass. Standing at the head of their table with her arms loose at her sides and her masked expression unreadable.
Just behind her, the cafeteria had quieted — just slightly. Enough to feel it.
Riri tilted her head toward the Council table. A summons.
Yumeko tilted her own in return, all mock confusion. “What if I don’t want to? What if I’d rather stay here? With Ryan?”
Ryan nearly choked on air.
Riri didn’t flinch. She never did. But her eyes lingered just a moment longer than usual.
That was when one of Kira’s house pets — some sophomore trying too hard to matter — stepped in.
“You really should come.” He said, stiff. “You’re part of Student Council now. It’s about appearances.”
Yumeko smiled at him like he was something sticky on the bottom of her shoe.
Then, finally, she stood.
She felt the pull of Kira’s attention like a tide even before she looked. But when she did — just briefly, just enough to see if what she thought was true — Kira’s gaze met hers.
Just once.
For a second.
And in that second, Yumeko could almost feel it: the ice cracking, slow and dangerous under pressure. Kira’s jaw tight. Her grip on the cup just a fraction too hard.
It wasn’t much.
But it was enough.
She let her smile sharpen, just slightly. A private thing. A message.
Then she turned, and made the long walk to the Council table.
Mary looked up as she sat beside her, giving her a sideways smirk but saying nothing. Business as usual.
Kira didn’t speak immediately.
She was watching her house pet refill her teacup, the way someone might stare at a fire they refuse to admit is warm.
Then, calmly, she said. “We should be seen together. It’s important to project unity.”
Yumeko laced her fingers together in her lap, her voice sugar-sweet.
“Funny, I don’t remember ‘public affection’ being in our job description.”
Kira didn’t react.
But Riri did.
Yumeko could feel her watching. And not her face.
Her feet.
The socks she’s wearing. Again.
Plain white. One small embroidered ‘T’
And suddenly, Yumeko felt her stomach drop.
Riri’s eyes met hers. Questioning. Quiet. Almost mournful.
Yumeko looked away.
She hadn’t worn them for this. She just hadn’t had the heart to leave them behind.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
She heard nothing during the last period, not the drone of a professor talking ethics with the conviction of a limp lettuce, not the rustle of paper, not even the whisper of students making side bets over who’d be a house pet by Monday. She floated through the hallways like a ghost in pressed uniform, just real enough to be seen, just hollow enough to avoid being touched.
She made it back to her dorm before Mary. The sky was shifting into dusk, that gentle lilac hour when everything looks softer than it really is. The room was quiet — too quiet — and Yumeko was grateful for the silence, even if it felt like it might devour her.
She peeled off her jacket, kicked off her shoes, and sat at the edge of her bed. Her eyes lingered on the socks folded neatly beside her pillow. Plain white. Just fabric. Just thread.
But the tiny ‘T’ stitched at the side?
That was a brand. A bruise. A quiet kind of proof.
She hadn’t meant to keep them, not really. She’d shoved them into her bag on the morning she left the Timurov estate, too early, too sad, too undone.
And now they sat there, quiet and loyal, the only piece of Kira she had left.
That was when the knock came.
She was startled.
Slipping off the bed, she padded barefoot to the door and pulled it open.
Only to come face-to-face with Riri Timurov.
Yumeko blinked once. “Mary’s not here yet.” She said automatically, with a lazy smile. “She’ll be back later, unless she got herself locked in a match. Come flirt with her another time.”
She started to shut the door — but Riri stepped in, silent as a shadow.
Yumeko frowned, her hand still on the knob. “Okay, wow, strong silent type. Sexy, but a little rude, Riri.”
Riri didn’t say a word. She turned her head, eyes sweeping over the room — then landed on the socks.
Folded neatly.
Beside the bed.
Yumeko followed her gaze, then looked back at Riri with practiced confusion. “What, you want them? I think you can them anywhere. It's just white cotton.”
Riri took a single step forward, arms at her sides.
“You know what that is.” She said, voice flat. Soft, but unshakeable.
Yumeko crossed her arms. “It’s laundry.”
“That’s the Timurov family crest.” Riri replied. “Hand-stitched. Only relatives have those.”
Yumeko paused. Then she tried again.
“Maybe it’s yours.” She said, more lightly this time. “You probably have fifty pairs. Lost track of one?”
“I don’t have those.” Riri said, quiet. “Only Kira does. She’s the only… legitimate child.”
Yumeko’s throat tightened.
It wasn’t like Riri was accusing her of anything. She wasn’t angry. There was no judgment in her voice.
That made it worse.
She sat down on the bed, legs crossed, voice full of mock sweetness. “Okay. Fine. You want the big reveal? I took them. From the laundry room. Back when I had laundry detail when I became a house pet?”
Riri stared.
“I was going to mess with her.” Yumeko said, tone sharper now, a little bitter. “Wear them down the hall. Parade it around. Let her see. Let her react for once.”
Still nothing from Riri.
“Or maybe I just like the way they feel, it’s very soft, you know?” She added. “But if you feel that strongly about it, go ahead. Take them. Deliver them back to Kira. Tell her I sniffed them first, though. That’ll really make her day.”
Riri walked over, picked them up without ceremony. She didn’t speak again. Didn’t demand more. Just held them in her fingers like they were something fragile and looked at Yumeko like she wanted to say something she couldn’t.
And then she left.
The door clicked softly behind her.
Yumeko sat still.
The silence was louder now.
She rubbed at her arms, even though she wasn’t cold. Looked at the empty spot beside her pillow. Told herself it was just a pair of socks. Just cotton and thread and some useless embroidery.
But it was more.
It was the only real thing she had left. A mark that Kira had once let her close. A trace of the life that had lived — briefly, impossibly — in the quiet hours of someone else’s estate.
And now it was gone.
And all she had left was the ache.
The next day dawned slow and painfully quiet.
It wasn’t a silence of peace. It was the kind that hovered just beneath the skin — too still, too clean, like a bandage over a wound that still bled. Yumeko drifted through her morning like a ghost with nowhere left to haunt. She was all idle hands and empty thoughts, too many vacant periods stacked one after the other. Time became something loose and slippery, like a trick coin in someone else’s hand.
She wandered.
Past the South Hall where the newest student council house pets whispered about power. Past the old library where laughter never meant kindness. Her feet carried her across campus without direction, until the noise of the school dimmed behind her and she found herself somewhere new.
A garden.
Private. Tucked behind a crumbling arch draped in ivy. Soft with early blooms. It wasn’t large — just a curve of path, a cluster of benches, and the kind of green space that had no right existing in a place like St. Dominic’s.
She stepped in cautiously, unsure if she was trespassing on something sacred.
And then she saw her.
Kira Timurov, sitting on a bench like something carved from porcelain and old grief. Her back was straight. Her legs crossed neatly at the ankle. She wore the school uniform like armor, perfect down to the last fold. A book rested in her lap, one finger tucked between pages. She was alone.
Yumeko stopped breathing.
It hit her all at once — the curve of Kira’s wrist, the set of her mouth, the way a single lock of hair had slipped free from her clip and curled against her cheek. It had only been weeks since she last saw her like this. Really saw her. But it already felt like a memory too delicate to hold.
She lingered.
Not because she forgot Kira’s face. No, she remembered everything. The freckle under her left collarbone. The scar on her knee from when she fell off a horse at thirteen and refused to cry. The way her fingers always curled into Yumeko’s sweater while she slept, like she was holding on to something she wasn’t allowed to keep.
But Yumeko still needed an excuse to look.
Just a few seconds more.
Just to remember.
And then Kira looked up.
Their eyes met.
Yumeko’s body jolted like she’d been caught stealing something — which, in a way, she had. Time. Memory. The chance to look at Kira like she was still hers.
She turned to leave.
But Kira’s voice stopped her.
“I don’t have those kind of socks here.”
Yumeko froze.
The words slid across her like silk and wire.
Slowly, deliberately, she turned back around.
Kira hadn’t moved. Her gaze was fixed on her — calm, unreadable, dangerous.
Yumeko’s heart kicked against her ribs. “Strange. Must’ve been someone else’s, then.”
“They aren’t.” Kira said quietly.
Yumeko didn’t say anything.
She walked over.
She sat down.
Not close. Not far.
Just enough distance that their bodies wouldn’t touch — but their shadows might.
She didn’t say anything at first. Neither did Kira.
The silence between them was heavy with the knowledge they’d both carried all along.
It was never going to last.
From the very first night in that cold Russian villa, pressed under thick quilts and thicker lies, they had known the truth. A Timurov and a Jabami were never meant to be anything but enemies. One was born of empire. The other, of the blood spilled beneath it. Their families’ fate had written the ending long before they’d ever touched.
And still, they touched.
Still, they chose to have something , knowing it could never become everything.
Yumeko looked straight ahead, eyes glazed with sunlight. “This garden’s pretty. You’ve been keeping it a secret?”
“No one else comes here.” Kira said. “They don’t look for things they can’t use.”
“You do.”
“I don’t use everything I find.”
Yumeko let a smile play at the edge of her lips. “No? Not even people?”
Kira didn’t answer.
Yumeko’s fingers twitched in her lap. “Do you remember the last morning?” she asked, her voice too soft to be casual. “At the house. Before I left.”
Kira’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
"You never called."
“You didn’t say goodbye.”
“You didn’t either.”
"How was I supposed to know you were leaving?"
Yumeko looked at her then — really looked.
Kira’s expression hadn’t changed. But her fingers had curled tight around the edge of her book. Her knuckles were pale.
“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back.” Yumeko whispered. “And I knew if I looked at you, if I saw your face, I wouldn’t leave.”
Kira exhaled, shaky and quiet.
“We agreed.” She said after a long pause. “No illusions. Just the break. Just us. Just then.”
“I know.” Yumeko murmured. “I’m not trying to rewrite it.”
But she was.
In her head, every night.
Again and again.
A version where Kira called her. Where she turned back. Where they met in the dark and said fuck them. A version where their love was louder than history.
Yumeko stared down at the dirt between her shoes.
“You still sleep with the window open?” she asked suddenly.
Kira glanced at her, wary. “Yes.”
“Even when it’s cold?”
Kira nodded.
Yumeko smiled, barely. “You said it helped you breathe.”
Kira didn’t speak.
Yumeko leaned back. “Sometimes, I wake up freezing. And I think of you. Of how you curled into me when the wind snuck in. How you used to rest your forehead on my collarbone like you were trying to hear my heartbeat.”
“I remember.” Kira said.
Yumeko turned to her.
Kira was staring forward again. But something in her throat moved — a swallow, a tightening.
“I remember...” She said again, softer. “More than I should.”
They didn’t speak after that. Not for a long time.
The breeze stirred.
Somewhere beyond the wall, a bell rang.
Kira stood. “I have class.”
Of course she did. Kira always had something. Some duty. Some rule. Some reason to stay distant.
Yumeko nodded without looking up.
“Don’t be late, Kaichou. Wouldn’t want to ruin the Timurov reputation.”
Kira didn’t laugh.
But as she turned, she reached into her coat pocket.
She placed something on the bench where she had sat.
White socks. Folded neatly. The small ‘T’ embroidered at the side.
She didn’t say a word.
Then she left.
Yumeko sat very still, staring at them.
The last proof that they had ever happened — two plain pieces of fabric holding everything she couldn’t say aloud.
And Kira had given them back.
Not out of cruelty.
Not to erase her.
But as a quiet mercy.
A way of saying it mattered.