Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the moving trucks came, Kira barely registered them.

She sat at her desk, back impossibly straight, book open but unread. The words blurred into white noise — distant, meaningless. Still, she held her posture perfectly. It was a rule in the Timurov house.

Spines stayed straight. Eyes stayed sharp. Mistakes stayed hidden.

Outside, the muffled sounds of new arrivals filled the air — shouts, doors slamming, a box thudding against the cracked sidewalk. Someone muttered a curse under their breath. Kira didn’t turn. New people came and went all the time, transient shadows with no claim on this house. None of them mattered.

And anyway, she didn’t need anyone. She had Riri.

Except Riri wasn’t here this weekend. She was at her mother’s apartment, a place that Kira wasn’t allowed to be a part of. The silence without Riri was unbearable. It wasn’t quiet — it was hollow. A space where something should have been, but wasn’t. 

Her parents were home, naturally, but their presence felt distant. Her father was probably locked away in his office, orchestrating family power moves no one was meant to know about. Her mother, lost in a stream of sugar-coated phone calls, detached and unreachable.

No one here to keep watch, to call her back when she drifted too far. So Kira slipped out, silent and deliberate, crossing the wild patch between her house and the new one.

The grass was overgrown, the trees tangled and thick, and near the center was a clearing — the kind of place they’d stumbled upon once during a game of hide and seek when they were younger.

Riri had called it ‘the fairy place’, a name that had earned an eye-roll from Kira, though she never said so out loud.

The clearing held a different kind of quiet. Not the kind that pressed on your ears, but the kind that held you, like a secret kept between old friends.

She was almost there when she heard the soft creak of rope.

Someone was already in the clearing.

A girl.

Sitting on the old swing, legs swinging lazily, her long black hair a curtain of shadows down her back. Bangs cut straight above her lashes, eyes bright like stars just before dusk.

The sun, low and golden, framed her perfectly — a moment caught between day and night. Something made to be seen at this hour and no other. Like a dream on the edge of waking.

When the girl saw Kira, she didn’t blink in surprise. She just smiled — wide, open, unguarded.

A smile that made Kira feel like she’d stepped into something unexpected. Something warm.

Too warm.

Like sunlight spilling through a window she hadn’t meant to stand in front of.

"Hi!" the girl said, her voice ringing out like a bell. "I’m Yumeko."

Kira stared. Her pale eyes, shifting between blue and green like a restless sea, flicked over the girl’s face, then the swing, then away, unsure how to respond.

“Okay.” She muttered, voice flat.

Yumeko laughed — light and bright, like wind caught in glass.

“You don’t have a name?” She teased, still swinging gently, her feet brushing the ground and sending her higher with each push.

“I wasn’t offering it.”

Yumeko tilted her head, unbothered. “That’s alright. I’ll find out eventually.”

Kira stepped deeper into the clearing, arms crossed. She tried to decide what irritated her more: the girl’s relentless warmth or the fact that it didn’t quite irritate her enough.

Yumeko was like the sun — reckless and bright — the kind of heat Kira would usually avoid, preferring cool sheets and quiet shadows. But this warmth was different. Insistent. It tugged at her, pulling her closer.

Kira sat on a gnarled tree root, deliberately stiff, as though her body could keep the intrusion at bay. She didn’t know what to do with this girl or her energy, so she did nothing. 

That was usually enough to make people go away.

Yumeko didn’t leave. The swing creaked, the rhythm syncing with the breeze.

“I didn’t think anyone else knew about this place.” Yumeko said, her voice softer now.

“I did.” Kira replied, her gaze locked on the ground in front of her. She didn’t want to say more, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave, either.

“Well… I’m glad.” Yumeko’s smile softened, genuine. “It’s better with someone else here.”

The quiet between them settled, not the kind that pushed you away, but one that wrapped itself around you like a secret. Kira felt it press against her ribs, something strange and tight, a small knot forming in her chest.

Then, from somewhere distant, a woman’s voice called out. “Yumeko! Time to come inside!”

The girl jumped off the swing, brushing dirt from her skirt, her movements quick and effortless.

“That’s Mrs. Kawamoto. I gotta go.”

Kira blinked at the name — Mrs.?

She didn’t ask. Asking would mean admitting they were talking. Really talking. And she wasn’t ready for that.

Yumeko glanced back over her shoulder, still smiling. There was a softness in her eyes now — a knowing warmth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She said, not asking but declaring it, as if it was already written in the stars.

Kira said nothing. Her mouth felt dry, her mind racing to catch up with something she couldn’t quite name.

Yumeko turned and slipped into the trees, her presence slowly fading as if she were a part of the wind itself.

The sun had fully set.

The clearing, once golden, now sat in shadow.

Kira looked up. The sky had shifted to that strange, pale color it turned just before night swallowed it whole — cool, slow, absolute.

And now that the sun was gone — and she was gone — all that remained was the wind.

Not quite cold. Not quite warm.

Just enough to remind Kira she was alone again.

The next day arrived with a quiet weight, the kind that presses down on the shoulders without warning. Kira could feel it in the stillness of the house, in the exacting order of everything around her. The clock on the wall ticked in perfect time, the light from the windows filtering in like it always did, without fail.

Kira sat at her desk, cradling a book in her lap that she wasn’t reading. She wasn’t sure where her thoughts had gone, but they weren’t with the words on the page. They never were, really, when she had to focus on things that didn’t matter.

Her father’s voice echoed in her head: "You are the Timurov heir. You must learn. Be perfect. Show no weakness."

It was a rule she had known since she was little — since she could remember. Perfection. Precision. It was the language of her family. Of Arkadi Timurov who had built everything around her from the ground up, and who would accept nothing less than the best. The best in everything. 

Nothing could be wrong. Not her studies, not her manners, not the way she sat or spoke or looked at anyone.

Nothing.

And Kira had learned. 

She’d learned quickly, watching her father, her mother, the servants, the way everyone moved like pieces on a chessboard. They were always arranged perfectly, no room for mistakes.

The sun streamed through the tall, narrow window in her room, casting long shadows that made the space feel even colder, more serious. But Kira’s eyes were drawn, once again, to the trees outside. The clearing was there, just beyond the thick trunks, where the grass had been wild and tangled — where Yumeko had smiled at her, so easily, so brightly.

Kira couldn’t help herself. She looked.

But no. No, she couldn’t go. Not today. Not now. There was too much to do. She had to study. She had to be better. There was no time to be distracted by… things — especially things that weren’t part of the plan.

It wasn’t like Yumeko was waiting for her anyway. She couldn’t be.

Still, Kira thought of the way Yumeko had smiled at her, the warmth that had made her chest feel strange. Like the sun had slipped into her and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

But no. She didn’t need to feel that way. She had other things to focus on — like being perfect. 

Like her duty. 

Like the Timurov name, which meant everything

Time passed in a haze of ink and paper. Kira barely noticed it — she couldn’t afford to. When the clock ticked, she kept her gaze fixed on the words in front of her, as if they could keep her tethered to what she knew was right .

But then, as she stretched her neck, the sound of the setting sun brushed through her room. The last rays of daylight poured through the window, touching the edges of her desk. The sky outside had turned to that soft golden hue, the kind she remembered from the day before, when Yumeko had been there.

The trees stood as shadows now, stretching across the clearing, and suddenly, Kira thought about the way the light had caught on Yumeko’s hair. It had looked like fire at the edge of the world.

Had Yumeko made it home safely? Was she disappointed that Kira hadn’t come?

Kira quickly shook her head. That was silly. She was busy. There was no reason to feel anything about it.

I shouldn’t have even thought of her.

The ache in Kira’s chest grew tighter, and though she didn’t fully understand it, she knew it wasn’t something that could be solved by just ignoring it. Her eyes strayed again to the trees outside — now shadowed and dark.

She let out a quiet sigh, and even though she knew she should get back to her books, she couldn’t help but wonder why she cared so much.

I should not care.

The thought came sharp and cold, like a knife she was forced to hold. It was a necessary blade, one she learned early to wield against her own heart. Closing her eyes, she pushed the curiosity deep down, burying it beneath layers of rules and expectations, beneath the cold, hard polish that the Timurov name demanded of her.

Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would forget.

And so, for a few days, she did. She buried the warmth of the clearing beneath the weight of schoolwork, the lessons, the sharp gaze of her father’s expectations.

But then came the evening when the sky bled bruised gold and soft pink, and the weight of her father’s anger dropped on her chest like a stone, heavy and suffocating. It wasn’t a disaster — a tiny, almost invisible slip on a hundred-item math test. One wrong answer on a perfect score. But to Arkadi, that single fault was a crack in the foundation. His voice shattered the fragile quiet of the house like a winter storm breaking ice.

“Do you think this is acceptable, Kira?” The words were sharp, slicing through her skin and leaving rawness behind. “You are a disgrace to my name.”

Those words weren’t punishment. They were a verdict.

Kira felt small. So small.

And she didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to fix this.

And for a six-year-old girl, they were unbearable.

So trembling and small, Kira slipped out of the cold marble halls of her home, seeking refuge in the wild, tangled space between the trees — the only place where the weight of expectation didn’t press down so hard.

There, bathed in the last fading light of day, she found Yumeko swinging gently on the old rope swing. Her black hair caught the sun’s dying embers, glowing faintly like dark silk set aflame.

“Hi.” Yumeko’s voice was soft, a melody carried on a warm breeze — the kind of warmth that settled slowly into chilled bones and made them ache for more.

Kira’s eyes were glassy, empty pools, reflecting nothing and everything all at once. She didn’t answer.

Yumeko hopped off the swing and stepped closer, concern softening her bright smile, making it real and tender. “Are you okay?”

Kira shook her head, a fragile no without words, as if even speaking would shatter her further.

Yumeko didn’t press. Instead, she sat down on a nearby tree root, close enough for Kira to feel the quiet pulse of her presence like sunlight on bare skin, a steady heat that seeped into her bones.

They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the whisper of wind threading through the leaves.

Then Yumeko’s voice cut through the quiet — a gentle invitation, a soft offer of comfort. “You should try the swing. I’ll push you. It might help.”

Kira’s first instinct was to refuse. 

She should have refused.

But there was something in Yumeko’s eyes — a golden earnestness, a silent kindness — that loosened the tight coil gripping Kira’s chest.

Without thinking, Kira stood and moved toward the swing. The moment was simple, almost silly in its innocence. But for Kira, it was like stepping out of the darkness and into the light, if only for a moment.

“Yay!” Yumeko whispered, her voice a soft burst of joy that felt like the sun itself.

The swing creaked as Yumeko pushed, the rhythm soothing Kira like a lullaby, carrying her through the fading light. The world softened, the sharp edges of her troubles melting away, if just for a brief moment. The last of the sun bled into the sky, turning everything golden, like the promise of something better, something warmer.

The day was ending. And with it, Kira felt something shift inside her — something fragile, something fragile and tender.

“I have to go soon.” Yumeko said, her voice barely a whisper as she glanced toward the darkening sky. “Mrs. Kawamoto will be expecting me.”

Kira nodded. She didn’t want her to go, didn’t want the warmth to fade away, but she couldn’t find the words to say it. She wanted to ask more — ask about her, about why she was so different from everything Kira had ever known — but the words wouldn’t come.

And so, instead, Kira whispered the one thing she could say. “I’m Kira.”

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough. But it was all she could give.

Yumeko’s eyes widened in surprise before her grin blossomed bright and warm. “See you tomorrow, Kira.”

But Kira didn’t go back the next day. 

Or the day after that. 

Not even the days that followed, the ones where the late afternoon light stretched long shadows across the yard and the breeze carried the faint rustle of leaves from the trees. She kept her distance, just as she had been taught. Timurovs didn’t chase after warmth or seek comfort in people who weren’t permanent fixtures of legacy or power. Yumeko Kawamoto, with her too-wide smile and soft eyes, was not part of the plan — not part of the carefully drawn lines around Kira’s life.

She promised herself she wouldn’t go back. She wouldn’t go to the clearing again. Yumeko’s warmth — the way she shone like sunlight through trees — was dangerous. 

It made Kira’s heart race, made her chest feel too tight. The rules she was supposed to follow, the life she was meant to live, had no room for feelings like that.

Every time she thought about Yumeko, she felt a strange, uncomfortable pull. The warmth was like something she shouldn’t be allowed to touch, like a flame too close to the skin. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. And it felt like a lie to even acknowledge it.

So Kira focused on other things, her studies, her family’s expectations, the weight of the Timurov name. She buried the thoughts in books and math problems, in the cold, hard rules of who she was meant to be. If she was perfect — if she worked hard enough — maybe she could pretend she hadn’t felt anything.

Maybe if she kept pushing forward, the warmth would fade, like the dying sun.

But it didn’t.

It lingered in her chest, a quiet hum that wouldn’t stop.

And on some evenings, when the light started to die and the sky bled bruised gold and pink, she would find herself staring out the window, her book forgotten in her lap. The clearing — the place she’d sworn she wouldn’t return to — was still there, just past the line of trees. She hadn’t gone. She hadn’t let herself.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

About Yumeko.

Not because she missed Yumeko — not exactly — but because she feared she had made the girl sad. And that was worse than she expected.

She wondered what the girl was doing, if she missed Kira’s presence, if she was sitting alone in the clearing, waiting for someone who wouldn’t come. The thought made her stomach twist in a way that wasn’t quite painful, but wasn’t comfortable either.

I shouldn’t care.

Kira pulled her gaze away from the window, trying to focus again. She opened the book, but the words blurred together. Nothing made sense when her thoughts kept drifting back to the girl who made her feel… too much.

It was only a few days later, when the late afternoon light was beginning to dip, that Kira found herself walking past her father’s study, as she often did. The door was slightly ajar, and though she didn’t mean to, she overheard their conversation.

“Her birthday’s this week. The Kawamotos are hosting something. I think we should let the girls attend.”

Her father scoffed, the coldness in his voice sharp and dismissive.

“A child’s party? That’s not a social event — it’s chaos.”

“It’s a chance for them to socialize. They don’t interact with children their age.” Her mother pressed, the edges of her voice tightening.

“They interact with the right children.” He replied flatly, the weight of finality in his words settling like a stone in the room. “I won’t have them surrounded by noise and mess. What are they going to learn there? Emotional instability? Bad table manners?”

Kira didn’t wait to hear more. She already knew how this would end. Her father always won. Not because he argued louder, or made better points. It was because Arkadi Timurov was the unshakable center of their world — the God who decreed what was right and what was wrong, and whose word rippled through every corner of their lives like a law carved in stone.

His decisions weren’t up for debate; they were the final truth. To question him was to question the very foundations of the family, and no one dared do that—not openly, not even in whispers.

Usually, his power needed no display beyond the calm certainty in his voice. But when silence wasn’t enough to bend wills, there were other ways. Subtler, darker things that twisted the air in the room and made even his wife flinch quietly, as if the weight of his gaze could crush without a word spoken.

Kira turned and walked away, the conversation folding quietly into the same dark place where she stored everything she couldn’t fix.

She didn’t know when Yumeko’s birthday was.

But the next evening, as honey-gold light spilled through the curtains and the air was heavy with the scent of late summer. 

She had told herself it didn’t matter. She had made a vow to not go back. Not to be fooled by that warmth again. But here she was, slipping quietly out the back door and into the trees, as though drawn by something invisible.

She didn't need to see her again.

That was what she told herself. But she was lying.

She thought, maybe, Yumeko would wonder where she had gone. Maybe she would think Kira had disappeared. Forgotten. Left behind.

But it wasn’t just that.

The truth was, Kira just wanted to see her again. To feel the warmth that hummed in the air whenever Yumeko was near.

She tried to quiet that yearning, tried to bury it deep where it couldn’t touch her, but no matter how she buried it, the desire kept pushing back to the surface.

She had to leave her house — her family, their rules, the suffocating pressure of Arkadi’s endless expectations — to find that little bit of freedom , that glimmer of something she wasn’t supposed to feel.

The clearing was empty when Kira arrived.

The swing hung there, unmoving, its ropes creaking softly in the evening breeze. The shadows of the trees whispered above her. The world was dipped in gold and rose, the light slipping away slowly as though time itself were trying to hold on for just a little longer.

But Yumeko wasn’t there.

Kira’s chest tightened. She waited anyway, standing straight, as if her posture could hold off the storm inside her. She had to hold it together. She couldn’t let herself be weak, not even here, in this place where the rules were almost nonexistent.

Minutes passed, stretching long and quiet.

The sun slid lower, casting the clearing in a pale blue as dusk settled. Yumeko didn’t come.

Kira stared at the swing, her pulse quickening with the rising uncertainty. Her hands reached into her coat pocket, almost of their own accord, and pulled out a small book — bright yellow and soft to the touch.

It was a graphic story called I Touched the Sun by Leah Hayes. A strange little book about a child chasing sunlight through fields and rivers, reaching for something impossible.

She wasn’t sure why she’d picked it for Yumeko. Maybe because Yumeko seemed like the kind of person who would touch the sun and somehow carry a piece of it back with her.

Gently, she set the book down at the base of the tree, nestled between roots curling up like reaching fingers.

Then she left.

The next day, the clearing seemed to pulse with an almost electric anticipation. Kira couldn’t explain it, but it felt as though the world was holding its breath.

And there Yumeko was.

She sat on the swing, her knees drawn up, the thin book open on her lap. Her eyes traced the pages with an intensity Kira wasn’t used to seeing. The soft murmur of her reading filled the space between them as Kira approached.

When Yumeko looked up and saw Kira, her face lit with a smile bright enough to lift the fading light.

“You came back.” Yumeko said, her voice light and soft, like the whisper of wind through the trees.

Kira glanced at the book in Yumeko’s lap, but her voice came out a little too sharp. “You’re reading.”

Yumeko nodded, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the page as if tracing the lines of something important, something delicate. “Mmhm. I love it. Thank you.”

Kira couldn’t help it — she looked at Yumeko like she was seeing her for the first time. For a moment, her mind went still, and she only saw the soft curve of Yumeko’s lips, the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled.

She tore her gaze away, feeling a little too exposed. “How did you know it was from me?”

Yumeko didn’t hesitate. “I just did.”

There was a quiet certainty in her words, as though it was obvious . And Kira couldn’t understand why she felt a twinge of both relief and discomfort in her chest at that answer.

Yumeko smiled, not a teasing grin this time, but something warmer. Softer. “It felt like you. Quiet but thoughtful. Kind of serious. But warm, underneath.”

Kira froze, something flickering in her chest, like a light sparking and then quickly dimming. She didn’t know how to answer that. 

Was that how I felt?

Before she could say anything, Yumeko spoke again, casually flipping a page. “No note. No name. Didn’t need one. I saw it and thought… yep, Kira.”

Kira felt her face flush. She didn’t know how to react to that — Yumeko’s words felt too close , too familiar. She didn’t want to feel like Yumeko understood her, but a part of her wondered if that was exactly why she was here, standing in this clearing. Maybe it was the first time in her life someone had looked at her and seen something real.

Finally, she forced herself to speak. “Happy birthday.”

Yumeko blinked in surprise, then grinned wide. “You’re silly. My birthday’s tomorrow.”

Kira glanced away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Then I’m the first to greet you.”

Yumeko tilted her head, her eyes glinting with something playful. “Can’t you greet me tomorrow, too?”

Kira hesitated. Her hands clenched slightly at her sides. “I’m not going.”

For the first time, Yumeko didn’t smile.

She wasn’t frowning, either — but Yumeko smiled so often, so easily, so constantly, that the simple absence of it felt like a frown, like a note missing from a song.

“Why not?” Yumeko asked, her voice soft, almost like she was afraid of the answer.

“We’re not allowed.”

Kira didn’t explain more. She didn’t need to.

Yumeko said nothing for a long moment. Then she turned toward the horizon, where the sun melted behind the trees.

Her eyes followed it quietly.

She didn’t smile.

And that absence — like a light dimming — unsettled something in Kira’s chest, something unnamed and dangerous, something a Timurov was never supposed to feel.

I don’t want to see her like that again.

Ever.

Finally, Yumeko spoke, still watching the last streaks of orange vanish through the leaves.

“Will you come here tomorrow?”

The question was barely more than a whisper, fragile and small, but it landed like a seed in the quiet earth of Kira’s heart.

Yumeko didn’t turn to face her. She kept watching the sun, as if it might give her strength.

“Think of it as my birthday gift.” Yumeko added, without looking back.

Kira swallowed hard, her mind racing with too many thoughts. She had already given something. She didn’t need to give anything more.

“I already gave you one.”

But it wasn’t enough. Neither of them seemed to believe that.

She rose slowly from the swing, brushing dirt from her palms as if trying to wipe away the quiet between them.

Still no smile.

And that absence — that flicker of dimmed light — sent a shiver through Kira, unsettling a part of her she didn’t know existed, something no Timurov was supposed to feel.

Then, as she stepped toward the path that led home, Yumeko turned back over her shoulder.

She smiled again — bright, too bright — but Kira could see it was a smile she had to force, a mask pressed carefully over the soft ache underneath.

“See you tomorrow, Kira-san!” She called.

And before Kira could say anything, Yumeko was gone.

Like the sun slipping behind the trees — sudden and final.

The next day, the sound of laughter and music spilled through the walls of the Timurov house, a stark contrast to the usually still atmosphere. Kira could hear it clearly, even though she was halfway down the long hallway, the walls thick with expectations. It was the unmistakable noise of a party — loud, chaotic, and unrefined.

Riri, walking beside her, slowed her step, tilting her head in the direction of the noise. Her brow furrowed. "Why is it so loud next door, Kira?"

She was just about to speak when a voice, deep and resonant, echoed from behind them.

"You, girls, do not need to know." Arkadi Timurov said, his tone sharp as a blade. He had appeared as if summoned by the air itself, his dark suit impeccably tailored, his presence filling the space like a storm that had yet to break.

Kira stiffened instinctively, her back straightening. The weight of her father’s gaze fell on them both like a mantle, thick with an unspoken authority. It was the kind of silence that preceded a lesson — a sermon.

"They are not people like us." Arkadi continued, his voice a low rumble. "The neighbors are hosting a screaming match for unruly children." He didn’t pause, didn’t flinch. His words were deliberate, harsh in their dismissal, as if speaking of the party was beneath him — beneath the Timurov name.

Kira’s chest tightened. Her eyes, however, flicked towards the windows at the far end of the hall, through which the sound of Yumeko’s birthday party drifted in louder now. She could almost see the flashes of color, the motion of the children as they ran around. And yet, it felt distant, foreign, like a world she wasn’t supposed to touch.

Her father's voice cut through the space like thunder. "Do you hear that noise?" His hand came down on her shoulder, a weight she knew would stay there for the rest of her life. "That is the sound of chaos. Of children unrestrained, of lives not disciplined. That is not your world. You are Timurov. You are not like them."

Kira’s pulse quickened. She felt the weight of his words, and yet, she couldn't help but think of Yumeko — of her easy smile, her warmth that Kira still couldn't quite shake from her thoughts.

A flicker of defiance stirred in Kira’s chest, but it was a silent rebellion, something she couldn’t let escape. Arkadi's eyes gleamed with something that could only be called divine certainty. To him, his rules were as unyielding as the laws of nature themselves — immutable, absolute.

Her father's words were the edict of a God, and Kira was the vessel, his chosen one. He was Arkadi, her father, her God. He shaped everything she was and everything she would ever become.

Her heart thrummed with the quiet hum of resistance, but her mind quickly reminded her of the price of such thoughts. Arkadi was the hand of God in her life, and defying him was a sin far too great for her to bear. She was his .

"The life you are meant for, Kira…" Arkadi continued, almost as if he could read the thoughts flickering behind her eyes. "Is one of restraint, of precision. You must always be careful who you associate with. You cannot afford weakness. You must never forget who you are." His gaze shifted to Riri for a moment, his eyes softening ever so slightly, but then they returned to Kira, harder now. "You both must learn to be perfect. Be immaculate. Do not lower yourselves to their level."

Kira swallowed hard, nodding silently. His words were like the weight of a heavy cloak pressing down on her chest, suffocating her.

Yet, even as she nodded, even as she buried the thought deep inside of her — the pull, the warmth, the lure of Yumeko’s brightness — there was a flicker of something else. The God-like certainty of her father loomed over her, telling her not to stray, not to indulge in such dangerous thoughts. 

Not when the world of perfect was laid before her, stone by stone.

But later, as she stood at the window, she couldn’t help but remember Yumeko's face, soft and warm in the late sun.

Tomorrow, Yumeko had said.

And though Kira knew she shouldn’t — couldn’t — go, a part of her was already slipping past the rules, already willing to step outside the divine order her father had built. Even if only for a moment.

Later, when the sun dipped low and the sky was painted in bruised purples and soft pinks, Kira slipped quietly out the front door. The cool evening air wrapped around her like a thin cloak as she made her way to the clearing between the houses.

Each step felt heavier than the last, like walking on the edge of a precipice. She had been here before, but tonight, it was different. The expectation her father had placed on her, the weight of his voice, lingered at the back of her mind. She had been chosen. She had been molded to perfection.

And yet — Yumeko’s warmth had called to her again, a light she could neither deny nor explain. The rule of perfection her father had set for her clashed with the quiet yearning that churned in her chest.

Even if only for a moment.

But the moment stretched on, and when Kira arrived in the clearing, she saw that Yumeko wasn’t there. The empty swing creaked softly in the evening breeze, a reminder that sometimes, what she wanted was never meant to be.

Still, Kira waited.

She told herself Yumeko would be expecting her. And it is only right to live up to expectations. But there was something more, something she hadn’t allowed herself to admit: she couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason for another absent smile.

The shadows lengthened, stretching like long fingers across the earth, the trees casting deep lines across the grass. Maybe Yumeko was lost in the party’s noise, caught up in the swirl of laughter and balloons and music. The thought tugged at Kira’s chest, but she dismissed it.

She was here now. 

She was waiting for her .

And then, suddenly — breathless and wide-eyed — Yumeko appeared, as if she’d run all the way. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming in quick little gasps. Her hair fell in soft waves, catching the last rays of the sun.

“You’re here!” Yumeko’s voice was a burst of warmth in the cooling air, and it pierced through Kira’s resolve, softening the tension in her chest.

Kira’s throat tightened as she nodded softly, barely able to breathe under the weight of everything she hadn’t said. Her voice was barely above the whisper of the breeze. “Happy birthday.”

Yumeko’s smile was gentle — a small curve that seemed to gather all the warmth of the fading sun, holding it close like a secret treasure. The kind of warmth Kira wasn’t supposed to need.

Kira’s feet itched to move, to slip away before the fragile moment cracked like thin glass. She started to turn, imagining Yumeko needing to return to the noise and laughter next door, the chaos of a party that wasn’t hers. The world that wasn’t hers.

But then, something tugged at her wrist — soft, almost hesitant, yet impossible to ignore.

Kira looked back.

There it was — the look she had never seen before on Yumeko’s face. Not the bright, endless sunshine, but something fragile and raw, like a flickering flame struggling against a cold wind. The look she hadn’t wanted to be the cause of.

Her voice trembled as she whispered, “You saw me already… I’m going back now.”

Yumeko’s hand slipped away from Kira’s wrist, but the wet glimmer of tears in her eyes caught the last light like fragile dewdrops, trembling on the edge of falling. Kira could feel the weight of that unspoken sadness settle between them, a gap too wide to cross.

“Don’t you like me?” Yumeko’s voice was barely audible — soft and hurt, a question too big for their young years.

Kira blinked, the words twisting inside her chest. “What?”

“Why are you leaving so soon?” Yumeko’s eyes searched hers, wide and vulnerable, and Kira’s heart stuttered in her chest.

“Because you have a party to get back to.” Kira said, the words tasting bitter and unfamiliar on her tongue. They felt like a lie, though she didn’t know why.

“I don’t have to.” Yumeko shook her head slowly, her soft hair falling around her face like a gentle curtain. “Not if you stay.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and warm, like the last rays of sunlight before the night swallows the sky.

Kira’s heart fluttered — an unfamiliar, dangerous feeling she barely understood. It was as if something deep inside her had been unlocked, a space she didn’t know existed, and now it was both thrilling and terrifying all at once.

She hesitated. She had no right to feel this way. To feel anything other than what Arkadi had commanded.

Be perfect. Be precise. Never falter.

But in that moment, Kira found herself lowering herself onto the swing beside Yumeko. The cold wood creaked beneath her as she did, a soft sigh against the silent night.

Her fingers found Yumeko’s hand, small and warm, trembling slightly.

Comfort was a language she’d never learned at home — where silence was thicker than words and emotions were locked away like dangerous secrets.

Still, she did the only thing she could think of.

She brushed her thumb slowly over the back of Yumeko’s hand.

The touch was soft, almost sacred. 

Then Yumeko’s grin bloomed — wide, radiant, like the sun breaking through heavy clouds after a storm.

In that quiet moment, as the last light faded from the sky and the first stars blinked awake, Kira thought to herself:

When Yumeko grew older, she would have a thousand smile lines etched on her face.

And Kira’s secret wish, tucked deep inside her, was to see every single one.

Since then, Kira had gone to the clearing almost every day.

Most times.

Only the rain stopped her. Or when she wasn’t home. Or when the winter wind cut too sharply through the trees.

But when the sun was low and the sky turned gold, Kira would walk to the quiet space between their houses, the secret place wrapped in leaves and branches, where the world felt smaller — and safer.

Warmer.

Chapter Text

Now they were eight.

The world around them shifted, in small but undeniable ways. Yumeko’s hair had grown longer, brushing her shoulders in soft waves that caught the light just so. Kira had shot up a little, taller now, their shoulders barely brushing when they sat side by side on the swing — the space between them shrinking with every passing day.

There were other changes, too, quieter ones. Kira found herself speaking more — little words, soft laughs, things she didn’t always understand but wanted to say anyway. Sometimes, just sometimes, she smiled without thinking about it. It was a feeling so foreign to her, as if the tension in her chest, the expectation of silence and restraint, had loosened just a little bit. And sometimes, Yumeko didn’t have to ask her to stay, Kira just did . It felt like the rules had softened, just a little at a time, in that secret clearing wrapped in leaves.

One evening, when the sun began to slip behind the trees like it always did, Kira found a question waiting on her tongue. It had been there for a while, pressing on her chest like something half-formed, something too big to ignore. 

She looked sideways at Yumeko, her voice steady but low, like she was testing the sound of it. “Why do you call her ‘Mrs. Kawamoto’?”

Yumeko blinked, caught off guard, as if the question had wrenched her out of a daydream. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Kira almost regretted asking, but Yumeko didn’t turn away, didn’t pull away.

“Because…” Yumeko’s voice faltered, her eyes dropping to her hands folded in her lap, her fingers still and delicate. “She’s not my mom.”

The words hung in the air, simple but heavy, their weight sinking into the space between them.

Kira said nothing, but she stayed quiet, letting the moment breathe. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, not exactly, but it was a pause Kira couldn’t quite fill. 

Yumeko’s hand rested lightly on the swing’s worn ropes, fingers tracing the frayed edges. It seemed like she was gathering her thoughts, taking her time. The air was cool now, the kind of quiet that comes with the fading light of evening, when everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

Yumeko glanced up then, her smile still there but thinner than it used to be. The kind of smile that barely reached her eyes, a quick flicker of light that couldn’t quite banish the shadows.

“My parents… they died when I was four.” She said softly, as though the words were something she had said a thousand times before, but still, they weighed her down. Kira shifted, but she didn’t interrupt. “In a car crash. They were really good friends with the Kawamotos, so… now I live with them.”

The words fell into the space between them, and Kira felt a tightness in her chest she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t sympathy. It was something more.

Yumeko didn’t look at her as she spoke. Instead, her gaze was turned toward the horizon, where the last traces of sunlight were staining the sky with pinks and reds. Her hands were still. Still and quiet. The breeze rustled through the leaves above them, making the world feel both distant and intimate at the same time.

Kira turned just enough to meet Yumeko’s eyes. The smile Yumeko wore, the one that always seemed so effortless, so radiant, didn’t hold its usual warmth. It was there, but it felt fragile, like it might break if it was touched too hard. It was a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, that couldn’t fully hide the ache lying just beneath the surface.

That hollow flicker — something between sorrow and hope — twisted something inside Kira. Something raw and unfamiliar, like the slow tightening of a knot that refused to unravel. It made her chest hurt in a way she couldn’t quite name.

Without thinking, without a second of hesitation, Kira reached out and gently laced her fingers with Yumeko’s.

Yumeko blinked, startled by the touch, her breath catching for just a moment. Her hand was warm, soft, trembling slightly in Kira’s grasp. Kira didn’t pull away. She kept her fingers curled around Yumeko’s, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat beneath the skin.

Yumeko seemed to gather herself then, her shoulders relaxing. Slowly, as if it had taken a long time for her to trust the moment, she leaned her head against Kira’s shoulder. The soft weight of her hair brushed against Kira’s cheek, familiar and comforting, like something that had always been meant to be there. Kira’s breath slowed.

They didn’t say anything after that. There was no need to. The air between them was thick with words unspoken, and yet, it was the most comfortable silence Kira had ever known.

The swing creaked quietly beneath their weight. It was smaller now than it once was — the ropes fraying at the ends, the seat worn from use. But it still held them, still cradled them in a way that felt like a promise.

But then Yumeko’s voice broke the stillness. It was quieter this time, as if she was speaking more to herself than to Kira.

"I miss them, you know." She whispered, her voice so small, like a secret she hadn’t said aloud in a long time. "Sometimes, I think about them but I don’t know what I miss. Maybe I miss the idea of them. Or maybe I miss the feeling of having parents, but I don’t really remember what they were like."

Kira’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected this kind of admission, this vulnerability that was softer than any smile Yumeko had ever shown. It felt like a crack in the carefully constructed armor that Yumeko wore, a tiny sliver where Kira could see something deeper.

Yumeko kept talking, her words flowing faster now, as if she had been holding them back for far too long. "I remember… bits. Pieces. Like, the smell of my mom’s perfume — it was floral, really sweet. And sometimes, I still smell it in the wind and I think of her, but then the thought fades. And then I think of my dad’s laugh, like he was always amused by something, like life was a joke he got but no one else did. But all of it is just… blurry, you know?" 

She let out a breath, one that was heavy, a little broken. "Sometimes I wonder if I ever really had them at all. Or if they were just stories people tell me about someone who was once here."

The wind stirred again, lifting the strands of her hair, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the trees. The weight of Yumeko’s words hung in the air like a cloud, heavy and full, yet fragile. Kira didn’t know how to answer that. There was no easy way to respond to such rawness.

And yet, as she held Yumeko’s hand, she could feel the weight of those missing pieces, the parts of Yumeko’s life that never quite fit together. It made Kira’s heart ache in a way she couldn’t explain. She couldn’t imagine losing something so fundamental, someone who was supposed to be there. 

It was a loss that Kira couldn’t touch with words, couldn’t fill with anything.

Yumeko’s head shifted slightly, her cheek brushing against Kira’s shoulder, and Kira felt the wetness of her tears soaking into the fabric of her sleeve.

Kira’s chest tightened. She wanted to do something, say something, but nothing seemed enough. She didn’t know how to help — how to fix what couldn’t be fixed.

“I never knew what it was like.” Yumeko whispered, her voice breaking. “But sometimes… I think I would’ve been really happy to have had that, even just for a little bit.”

The quiet that followed felt thicker, deeper. Kira’s chest felt tight, like a fist, but she did nothing. She let Yumeko have this. She let her be sad without trying to make it better.

And yet, there was something about the way Yumeko leaned into her, her warmth, her light, that made Kira understand why Yumeko always seemed to shine, even on the darkest days. The brightness, the laughter — they were a shield, but not just that. 

Kira, in that moment, understood. Of course, Yumeko’s light shone so brightly. But such light could only shine so bright when it had lived in darker spaces. That was why Yumeko could be the sun, even on days when the clouds were thick and heavy.

She was a light that had to burn brighter because it had grown in a place of darkness.

Kira didn’t say anything, though. There was nothing to say. But in the quiet that settled between them, she felt the softest of smiles tugging at the corners of her lips.

By the time they were ten, everything had shifted again.

Not the clearing — the trees still stood tall and steady, sheltering their secret world where time slowed and the air was softer. The swing groaned beneath them, cramped but still holding, a quiet witness to the changes they couldn’t see but could feel, heavy in the air between them.

What had changed was harder to name.

Yumeko went to the public school nearby, a world full of noise and other kids with different stories and different laughter. Kira was enrolled in a prep academy a town away — a polished place with sharp edges and careful manners, where she was always being measured against invisible standards. 

She was growing, slowly. But the world she inhabited felt like it was made of rules, of expectations, of precision, while Yumeko was free to be messy, to be imperfect, to exist in her own skin with a kind of ease Kira couldn’t afford.

They still met at sunset, still slipped into their clearing when they could. Still shared stories about their days, about people they knew, about the little things that made the hours between each meeting stretch longer than they ever wanted. 

But as the days passed, Kira started to notice the subtle changes — the shift in the way Yumeko spoke, the people she talked about, the names Kira didn’t recognize anymore, stories that left her feeling like an outsider, like someone watching from behind the glass. 

It was as if a door had opened to a world Kira couldn’t follow her into, no matter how hard she tried.

Like today.

“I think I might have a crush.” Yumeko said lightly, swinging her legs back and forth, the movement rhythmic and restless, her eyes fixed on the distance beyond the trees. 

Her voice was casual, almost careless, but there was a quiet excitement in her tone that made Kira’s pulse spike in a way she didn’t expect.

Kira glanced at her, startled by the suddenness of the confession. For a second, the world felt as if it had paused. She could feel something twisting inside her chest — a sharp, sudden tightening she couldn’t place. Her heart beat faster, and she struggled to breathe through it, but the words that would explain the feeling lodged themselves somewhere deep, unreachable.

Yumeko didn’t notice — or maybe she did, but didn’t let on — because she kept speaking, her voice light, her smile so carefree that it almost made Kira ache.

“She’s in one of my classes.” Yumeko continued, her voice full of warmth and a hint of mischief. “She has the shiniest hair. And these tiny freckles just under her eyes. She’s really pretty.”

The words floated in the air between them, each one landing like a stone in Kira’s chest. She stayed silent. She didn’t know what to say. 

She didn’t know what she wasn’t supposed to feel.

Her throat felt too tight, her tongue too thick for words. She wanted to say something. Anything. But all that came was the silence, heavy and thick, pressing against her ribs.

But Yumeko turned toward her then, a sudden shift in her movements, just close enough to bump her shoulder with a gentle nudge. The touch was light, almost playful, but it sent an unexpected shock through Kira’s body — like an electric current, brief but intense. She hadn’t been prepared for it, hadn’t been prepared for how it made her skin prickle, how it made her breath catch.

“You’re upset.” Yumeko said, her grin wide and teasing. Kira couldn’t escape it, not with Yumeko looking at her like that, with her eyes full of laughter and some deeper, knowing kind of softness that Kira couldn’t place.

Kira’s chest tightened even further. She shook her head too quickly, her voice snapping out sharper than she intended. “I am not.”

Yumeko laughed softly — one of those easy, warm sounds that always made Kira want to melt a little inside, like her voice was made of sunlight. “Oh, Kira…” She teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief, but underneath it, there was something else — something more vulnerable, more gentle.

Kira tried to look away. Tried to hide behind the excuses, the walls she had built. But Yumeko tilted her head, her gaze steady and direct, and Kira found it hard to breathe under the intensity of it.

And then, with a casualness that made Kira’s heart stutter, Yumeko spoke again. “I just think she’s cute.”

She shrugged, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, a statement that didn’t come with any weight. And yet, for Kira, it was heavy.

“But you…” Yumeko continued, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

The words wrapped around Kira like a warm, suffocating blanket, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on them. She froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, loud and wild, like it was trying to escape her chest.

A warmth spread through her cheeks, but it wasn’t just her cheeks. It bloomed in her throat, in her fingers, as if every part of her had been touched by fire. Her eyes dropped to the ground, too scared to meet Yumeko’s gaze. 

What if Yumeko saw through her? 

What if she knew that those words — the way they made her feel — were something new? 

Something too big, too messy to sort out, too much for her to understand?

But Yumeko didn’t look away. She didn’t let Kira hide from her. She held her gaze, steady, unwavering, like she was offering Kira a secret promise, something unspoken but there, like an unbroken thread between them.

Kira’s mind reeled, spinning, trying to make sense of the storm inside her. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to run away and never come back, to bury herself in her thoughts and pretend she didn’t feel everything at once. But then, before she could even move, Yumeko spoke again, so soft and sure.

“So don’t worry, Kira-san.” She whispered, her voice full of warmth, of something deeper. “Because everyone else could only ever be second to you.”

Kira’s breath hitched in her chest. There were no words to answer, no way to tell Yumeko what she was feeling. All Kira could do was watch the way Yumeko’s smile bloomed — wide, radiant, and blinding like the last rays of the sun.

It hurt. It made something inside Kira twist and flutter and ache. But in the same breath, it was a warmth that curled in her stomach, something tender and powerful, like a secret she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

And as the golden light of the setting sun filtered through the trees, catching Yumeko’s hair and making her eyes shine like pools of liquid gold, Kira realized something. 

Something that felt like a truth wrapped in the softest of whispers, too quiet to speak aloud but too big to ignore.

Yumeko made her feel everything . Joy. Confusion. Longing. And something else she couldn’t name — a strange kind of hope, fragile and beautiful, like it was something she hadn’t known she needed until it was right there, staring her in the face.

But even though Kira didn’t understand it, didn’t understand her feelings, she knew one thing for sure.

She never wanted that feeling to end.

They were eleven when Yumeko asked a question that left Kira uneasy in a way she didn’t yet know how to name.

The swing creaked softly as Kira shifted her weight, arms wrapped around her knees, staring ahead at nothing in particular. Yumeko sat next to her, fiddling with a paper crane, the edges slightly crooked.

“Isn’t there anyone you like?” Yumeko asked suddenly, her tone light, without a care.

Kira blinked, her throat tightening before she could answer. Her breath felt heavier all of a sudden, a knot forming in her chest. It wasn’t the question she expected — hadn't even considered it.

“No.” Kira said, her voice flat, easy. It was the safest answer, the one that never brought trouble.

Yumeko’s smile was small, thoughtful, not teasing. “No one at that fancy school of yours?”

Kira swallowed, her pulse quickening. She hadn’t expected the question to feel like this. “There’s no point.” She replied, trying to make it sound casual, but it felt too thick, too loaded.

“No point?” Yumeko echoed, her voice a little more serious now. “Why?”

Kira shifted her weight again, fingers tapping nervously against the side of the swing. “My father will decide eventually. Who I’ll marry. Who fits. So there’s no reason to waste time thinking about it.”

The words left her mouth with a hollow finality that she had learned to perfect. No one had ever asked her what she wanted, so it was easier to just say it like it was a fact.

Yumeko was quiet for a moment, her eyes thoughtful but not judgmental. "That sounds kind of lonely.” She said quietly, as though she didn’t know how to make the words any softer.

Kira felt something sharp inside her, but she didn’t respond. There wasn’t loneliness, not in the way Yumeko meant. It wasn’t that simple. It was something colder, a feeling that pressed on her chest like a weight she couldn’t shake off. A weight she couldn’t name.

Yumeko moved closer, sitting down on the swing beside her, still holding the paper crane. She kicked her legs gently, the swing creaking softly under their combined weight.

“But don’t you want to know what it feels like?” Yumeko asked, the words drifting into the air like a question that was both delicate and dangerous. “To really like someone? Not just because it’s expected. But like, when you can’t stop thinking about them, and everything feels warmer when they’re near?”

Kira’s heart skipped a beat. She felt it — a flutter in her chest, too quick and too unfamiliar. The way Yumeko said it, so casually, but it felt like something sharp, like a crack forming in her world that she wasn’t prepared for.

She didn’t look at Yumeko. Her gaze dropped to the grass beneath her, feeling the weight of the moment press on her like a hand over her mouth, stopping her from saying anything real.

That flutter, the quickening of her pulse whenever Yumeko smiled, or when her laugh lingered in the air long after she had gone — Kira didn’t know what that was. Didn’t know how to make sense of the way her chest tightened when Yumeko casually mentioned someone else being pretty.

“I don’t need that.” Kira said, the words too flat, too controlled.

Yumeko didn’t argue. She didn’t push, but Kira could feel her gaze, the soft pull of her presence beside her.

“You don’t need it.” Yumeko said, her voice softer now. “But do you want it?”

Kira’s heart pounded, a sharp pulse that echoed through her chest. She could feel the truth sitting just behind her ribs, but she didn’t know how to let it out. It felt too raw, too exposed.

She turned her head just slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Yumeko from the corner of her eye. Her expression was open, unguarded, as she watched the world without the weight of all the things Kira carried.

Kira didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t even bring herself to breathe the question. Couldn’t say the things that were starting to burn too close to her heart. She wasn’t supposed to want these things. 

She wasn’t supposed to feel .

They sat together in silence for a while, the quiet stretching between them, thick with unspoken things. Kira’s fingers gripped the edge of the swing, her hands slightly trembling, though she didn’t know why.

Yumeko’s smile was soft, distracted, as she looked up at the sky. “I just think…” She murmured after a while. “If you don’t let yourself feel things, then what’s the point of life?”

The words hit Kira like a jolt, like a sudden shock to her chest. She wasn’t sure if they were meant to be comforting or confronting, but they unsettled her just the same. She glanced at Yumeko again, her breath catching for a moment before she quickly looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

Yumeko was looking at her like she wasn’t afraid of anything. She asked questions like she believed there were answers, like the world was full of things to feel, things to discover.

Kira felt something in her chest crack, a pressure that had been building up, and it left her raw and open. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready to feel the things Yumeko made her feel.

But she didn’t want to leave either. She didn’t want to walk away from whatever this was, from the way her heart had started beating too quickly, from the heat that bloomed in her chest whenever Yumeko smiled, or whenever their hands brushed by accident.

Kira nodded once, too small a movement to be real. She didn’t have the words, but somehow, she didn’t need them. Yumeko didn’t seem to notice. She just kept smiling, lost in her own thoughts.

Kira didn’t know how to say it. How to name it. How to make it stop — this feeling that was starting to take hold of her. But as the moments stretched on, and Yumeko’s presence filled up the space between them, Kira realized that she didn’t not want it.

The clearing faded behind her like a dream too bright to last.

Kira crossed the threshold of the Timurov estate, the echo of her steps sharp on the cold marble floors. The warmth that had clung to her skin, the echo of Yumeko’s voice in her ears, seemed to dissolve as soon as she passed through the heavy oak doors. 

Here, the air was different. It was cold and calculated, a vacuum where affection could never grow. It was as though the air itself had been purified, scrubbed of anything unholy — by Arkadi’s definition. 

The dinner table stretched before her like a ritual sacrifice. Thirty empty chairs, perfectly aligned, stood as silent witnesses to the judgment that would unfold. At the head of the table sat Arkadi, his presence suffocating, Godlike. The heavy silverware clicked sharply against the china as he carved through his duck, his movements deliberate, as though each slice was an act of divine precision.

To his right, Kira’s mother, silent as always, sat poised — her eyes distant, an empty reflection of the woman Kira had learned to never challenge. To Arkadi’s left, Kira and Riri sat in practiced, stoic silence, the weight of the Timurov name heavy on their shoulders.

The light from the chandelier above flickered faintly, casting sharp shadows across Arkadi’s face.

"They’re calling it love now." Arkadi’s voice sliced through the air, cold and deliberate, a tone more sacred than any sermon Kira had ever heard. 

He didn’t look up from his plate, there was no need to look at anyone. His words had a gravity that demanded attention regardless of where they fell. 

“Two boys. Two girls. Holding hands in public. Saying they want to marry. They say it’s ‘natural.’”

His voice dropped, lowering as though he were confessing a great heresy. Kira felt her pulse quicken. “Natural?” He spat the word out as if it were poison, the same way one would spit a curse from their lips.

Kira’s grip tightened on her fork, her stomach turned, but she didn’t flinch. The doctrine was clear. 

His doctrine.

She already knew what was coming. It follows the structure of a sermon she'd heard before — the one she had been trained to obey without question. 

But tonight, for some reason, the words felt heavier. As though something was shifting inside her, pushing against the walls she had built.

Arkadi continued, the weight of his voice growing with each syllable, each breath. “You know what it is?” 

He tilted his head slightly, catching Kira's eye for a fraction of a second before he turned back to his meal. “It’s wrong. Those people are broken. Diseased. A sickness spreading under the skin of this country.”

The words hit Kira like stones in her chest, each one landing with a heavy thud, burying deeper into the pit of her stomach. There was a heat rising in her cheeks, an unnamable discomfort that she quickly suppressed. She felt it — the way she always felt — an unease, like a ripple in a pool of water that should have been still.

Arkadi didn’t pause for breath. “It’s the fall of structure.” He said, his voice now reverberating off the walls of the grand dining hall. “The rise of filth parading itself as freedom. Weakness disguised as love.”

Kira’s throat tightened, her chest ached. She had heard it all before, but now, in the hollow space of the room, where everything seemed to echo and distort, it felt different. 

What if there was another way?

Her father, the eternal arbiter of right and wrong, continued. “You are Timurovs. You are not here to chase indulgence. You are not here to play. You are here to rise above the filth of the world. To become better than them.”

Better. 

The word resonated in Kira’s chest like a commandment, like a stone pressing against her heart. She could almost feel her father’s hand pushing her upward, forcing her to become something more — something that fit into the mold he had cast for her.

The word 'better' was not a suggestion. It was a dictation.

“You will marry well.” He continued, his tone as firm as a king laying down the law. “You will create heirs. You will honor your name.”

His voice softened, and in that softness was a chilling finality. “You will honor me.”

Arkadi turned slightly toward Kira. His gaze held no warmth. It was cold, calculating, measuring. “And you will never stray. Not once. Do you understand?”

Kira felt the full weight of his gaze like an iron crown on her head. “Yes, Father.” She answered, the words automatic, rehearsed, as if her soul had learned how to speak them without ever fully understanding their weight.

Her mother, who had remained silent until now, placed her wineglass down with a sound that was strangely gentle, yet final. “If I ever hear of either of you entertaining these… ideas.” Her voice was a whisper of ice, cutting through the room like a blade. “You will no longer be welcome at this table. Do you understand?”

Kira looked down at her plate, her vision blurry as the food swam in her eyes. Her mother’s voice felt like a final verdict, a binding contract she had no choice but to accept. 

A part of her wanted to argue, wanted to scream that she was more than this — more than just the future of a name. But she couldn’t. 

She was Kira Timurov. She was born to follow, not to question.

“Yes, Mother.” She said, her voice almost a whisper, swallowed by the weight of the room.

And then, Arkadi’s words hit harder than before, because now it’s like he spoke directly to her heart, his words heavy like a hammer striking the anvil. “Remember this.” 

His voice dropped into something lower but not soft, more dangerous. “What you think you feel is not the truth. It is a temptation. And if you entertain it for even a second, you will destroy everything we’ve built.”

Her father’s words clung to her skin like oil. She could feel the warmth of the tension between them, the way every word, every syllable, carried the weight of divine authority. He was right, of course. He always was.

But what about Yumeko?  

Kira’s heart thudded in her chest, out of rhythm with the conversation, out of place in this sacred space.

She thought of the softness of Yumeko’s smile, the glow that seemed to wrap around her like a halo, the way her laughter bubbled up from her chest like a song, pure and unfiltered. She thought of the times their fingers had brushed together, of the feeling of Yumeko’s head resting against her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

How could something so pure, so real, be wrong?

But she couldn’t say that. Not here. Not in this house. Arkadi’s voice rang in her ears again. 

“Diseased.” 

“They are broken.” 

“It is wrong.”

She was supposed to believe that. Supposed to live by it.

But the warmth she felt when she was with Yumeko — how could that ever be wrong?

It couldn’t be. It wasn’t.

But the truth of it settled in her gut like acid, sour and bitter. Arkadi’s words were the truth. And truth, in this house, was unbendable. Kira squeezed her eyes shut, as if by doing so, she could bury the warmth that bloomed in her chest. The warmth that was Yumeko.

No, Kira told herself, as she reminded herself of her position.

This is what’s right. This is what’s true.

Chapter Text

When Kira arrived at the clearing, the first thing she saw was the blanket — a soft, inviting spread of fabric laid out in the grass, much too large for one person to occupy. 

She blinked. 

Yumeko was already lying on it, head turned to the sky, her hair spilling in wild waves around her face. She looked completely at ease, the kind of comfort Kira wasn’t sure how to deal with anymore.

“Kira!” Yumeko called out brightly, sitting up on her elbows, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her. “Look what I did! I thought it’d be fun to just lie down, you know? We’ve outgrown the swing, so I figured this is the next best thing.”

Kira hesitated for a moment, standing awkwardly a few steps away. It felt new, this whole situation. They’d spent years sitting on the swing together, but now Yumeko had shifted the dynamic completely by spreading out this blanket. There was something about the change that made Kira’s chest feel tight. 

Something about the way Yumeko looked at her now. 

“Uh, I don’t know.” Kira said, voice a little unsteady as she glanced at the blanket. “I mean, it looks nice, but I—” She cut herself off, feeling her own hesitation.

Yumeko grinned, her eyes wide with excitement, and patted the blanket next to her. “Come on, just lie down! It’s perfect for stargazing, or, I don’t know, just talking. We can finally get comfortable.”

Kira felt a wave of warmth spread through her at the invitation, and despite her own nervousness, she found herself moving toward the blanket, her heart pounding in a strange way. She sat down carefully, at first, but then something about Yumeko’s carefree smile made her feel like it would be fine. 

She could do this. 

She could lie down beside her and just relax .

When she finally stretched out beside Yumeko, their shoulders brushed, the closeness unfamiliar and yet… right . The space between them was small now, and Kira could feel the heat radiating off Yumeko’s body, as if the world had contracted to this little spot in the middle of the grass.

Kira's breath hitched for a second, and her heart raced — not in a way that scared her, but in a way that felt strange, like she had forgotten how to breathe for just a moment.

Yumeko, however, seemed completely unaffected. She just hummed and flopped her head back onto the grass, staring at the sky with that easygoing smile. “Isn’t this perfect?” She asked, not looking at Kira, but the way her voice carried was soft and warm, almost like a secret shared just between them.

Kira’s throat felt dry, but she managed to nod, her heart still fluttering in her chest. She turned her head to look at the sky too, trying to focus on the clouds, anything to distract herself from how close Yumeko was. But the air felt heavy with something else now. Something hot crawled inside her.

Too hot, definitely.

“Look at that one.” Yumeko pointed at a cloud that was drifting lazily overhead. “Doesn’t it look like a cat?”

Kira followed her finger, squinting up at the puffy white shape in the sky. Her eyes traced the outline — it was clear to her that it looked more like a duck than anything else. The roundness of it, the little beak shape at the end, it was practically a perfect match.

“No way, it’s a duck.” Kira replied, her voice more certain than she felt. She was still trying to avoid the fact that Yumeko was right next to her , making everything feel too warm.

Yumeko tilted her head, squinting at the cloud with a playful grin. “No, Kira-san, you’re wrong. It’s a cat. Look, it’s got ears, see? And a tail — definitely a cat.”

Kira blinked, her breath catching slightly at the way Yumeko had said her name. 

Kira-san . 

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, but for some reason, the nickname sent a strange warmth all the way through her, right to her fingertips. 

It was soft. 

Unhurried. 

And it made her flush .

“Cat? No, Yumeko, it’s a duck. Look at the shape of it—” She tried to explain, to argue, but her voice was barely louder than a whisper now, lost in the closeness, in the heat of the moment.

But Yumeko wasn’t having it. She just laughed, a soft sound that made Kira’s heart skip. “Nope! It’s a cat. Just look closer. You always see things my way eventually.”

Eventually? She was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, Yumeko had more power over her than Kira would ever admit.

"Right…” Kira said softly, her voice almost too quiet, “Right. It’s a cat.” She felt the words slip from her mouth before she could stop them. 

She didn’t even know why she agreed. But the moment she said it, it was like the warmth between them deepened, and the weight in Kira’s chest — something that had been there since she first sat down — grew just a little heavier. 

A little more real.

Yumeko beamed, obviously pleased with herself, and Kira could feel her heart skip again. 

Why was her chest pounding so hard? 

Why did Yumeko’s laugh feel like it was sinking deep inside her bones?

And, all at once, Kira realized — without really understanding it — that it didn’t matter what the cloud actually looked like. What mattered was the way Yumeko made her feel. The way she made everything feel bright and warm , like it was okay to just exist in that moment with her.

So Kira stayed. Stayed under the heavy weight of the clouds, under the warmth of Yumeko’s body next to hers. She stayed, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to feel something she couldn’t name.

And started thinking that maybe it was okay.

A few days after the cloud argument, the air in the clearing had turned soft again — all fading warmth and slow, golden hush. Yumeko was already lying on the blanket when Kira arrived, her hands tucked under her head, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, gaze lost to the sky like she was waiting for a story to fall out of it.

Kira settled beside her without a word — not too close, not too far — just enough to feel the heat of Yumeko’s skin through the air between them.

“You’re late.” Yumeko teased, turning her head slightly, lips curved.

“I’m on time.” Kira said quietly.

“You’re not.” Yumeko grinned. “But I forgive you. You always look so serious walking through the trees — like a little forest God deciding whether we deserve sunlight.”

Kira blinked at her. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not supposed to.” Yumeko said, voice sing-song and soft. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

Kira didn’t answer. She just lay back beside her, arms at her sides, trying not to breathe too loud.

The silence settled in. Not heavy — just full.

Then Yumeko rolled toward her, propping herself up on one elbow. She reached over, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from Kira’s cheek. Her fingers were warm.

“There.” She said softly. “You had a little curl trying to escape.”

Kira froze.

It wasn’t a big gesture — not really. But something about it made her chest tighten, made the blood rise hot into her cheeks. Yumeko’s hand lingered for a second too long — not because she meant it to, probably. But it felt like it. And that was enough.

Kira’s breath stuttered. She turned her face back toward the sky, stiff and slow, as if that could make it easier to swallow whatever had caught in her throat.

Yumeko flopped back down beside her with a contented sigh, completely unbothered. “You’re so warm today.” She murmured. “Like a little sunspot.”

Kira didn’t know how to respond to that. She was pretty sure people weren’t supposed to say things like that to one another — not if it didn’t mean something more. 

Not if it did .

But Yumeko just lay there, all softness and sleepy light.

Kira willed herself not to move. Not to run.

“Why do you always go quiet when I say nice things?” Yumeko asked suddenly, voice quiet but curious. Not pushing. Just… wondering.

Kira’s throat felt tight again. “I don’t.”

“You do.” A pause. “It’s okay. I like it. You go all still. Like a cat pretending it’s not about to pounce.”

Kira swallowed. Her fingers curled slightly in the blanket.

And then — softly, half teasing, half something else entirely — Yumeko said, “Maybe you just don’t know what to do when someone means it.”

Kira didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

She just lay there, perfectly still, trying not to feel how fast her heart was beating.

Because the truth was — Yumeko was right. She didn’t know what to do with being seen like that. Being touched like that. Being spoken to like she mattered in ways that had nothing to do with lineage or expectation.

And for a single moment, Kira wanted to tell her everything — all the things she didn’t know how to name. The panic. The ache. The impossible want blooming in her like a forbidden hymn.

But instead, she just closed her eyes.

And let Yumeko hum beside her. Let the breeze tug at their hair. Let the silence wrap around them like a secret they hadn’t quite spoken yet.

“I like your eyes.” Yumeko said suddenly.

Kira opened hers, startled.

“They change colors.” Yumeko went on, matter-of-fact but soft. “Not like magic or anything. Just… when the light shifts. Sometimes they’re this pale blue, like glass. And sometimes they go all mossy green. I think it depends on your mood.”

Kira stared at the sky. Her pulse ticked faster.

“I like that you try to be cold.” Yumeko continued, voice light, thoughtful. “Even though you’re always warm. You act like you don’t care, but you do. All the time. About everything.”

Kira’s hands curled into the blanket. Her chest felt too full, like her heart was pressing hard against her ribs, like it might spill out if she moved too suddenly.

“And you always come back.” Yumeko added, turning her head now to look at her. “You could stay at that fancy school, hang out with all the rich, polished kids in clean uniforms. You could forget all about this old blanket and this little space and me, but you don’t. You always come back right before sunset.”

Kira’s breath hitched.

She could feel Yumeko’s gaze — warm, steady, impossibly close. And when she dared to glance sideways, just a flick of her eyes, she saw her.

Yumeko, smiling softly, her chin propped on her hand, staring at Kira like she was something gentle. Something good. Like a person worth knowing, not just a project to perfect.

Yumeko kept watching her. That soft smile didn’t fade — it only deepened, like she was gathering everything she ever thought about Kira and letting it rise to the surface.

“And I like the way you blush.” She said, almost laughing now, but not mean — never mean. Just full of awe, like it amazed her every time. 

“Right there—” Her fingers brushed lightly along Kira’s cheekbone, feather-soft. “It climbs all the way up when I compliment you. Like your body doesn’t know how to hide it.”

Kira wanted to look away. Wanted to freeze time or rewind it or vanish into the earth. But she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every cell in her body was too busy trying to stay relaxed under Yumeko’s gaze.

“I like your hair too.” Yumeko said, now tucking a strand behind Kira’s ear with the kind of care Kira had only ever read about in books. “It always falls like that — perfect, without you even trying. Like some kind of… I don’t know, like if Aphrodite had a cold expression and plaid jacket.”

Kira’s breath left her in a soundless laugh. Her throat was too tight for anything more.

Yumeko shifted slightly on her side, propped on one elbow now. She looked at Kira the way people looked at stars in poetry — distant, delicate, holy.

“And your hands…” She said quietly, as if the words were slipping out before she could think better of them. “They’re strong. But you hold things gently. Like you’re afraid of breaking anything.”

And before Kira could pull away — not that she would, not really — Yumeko reached across the blanket and took her hand, slowly, like it was something sacred.

Her palm was warm.

Her fingers, sure.

And then — soft as a whisper — she raised Kira’s hand to her lips and kissed her knuckles.

Not long. Not showy. Just… reverent.

Like Kira was something beloved.

Kira’s heart stopped, then restarted in a stuttered rhythm.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

But inside — deep and trembling — something gave way.

It wasn’t the kiss. Not just that. It was the way Yumeko looked at her afterward. Not shy. Not expectant. Just… open. Like she had nothing to hide.

Like Kira didn’t have to be anything except who she already was.

And maybe that was the most terrifying part.

Because in all the silence that followed, Yumeko said nothing else.

She didn’t need to.

And Kira, still frozen there on the blanket, clutching warmth like it might slip through her fingers and thought.

What am I supposed to do with this?

Because this wasn’t friendship.

It wasn’t safety.

It was something far too big for the rules she’d been raised to follow.

Something sacred, and dangerous, and real.

And still — she didn’t let go of Yumeko’s hand.

Not even for a second.

A few weeks later, Kira sat in the back of the classroom, her pen dancing across her notes, but her mind was far from the lecture. The school felt colder today, like the marble walls around her were too close, too stifling.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She had learned early to ignore texts during class. It was part of the game she played, pretending she was as indifferent as the others who came from families just like hers. The Timurov legacy. Perfection, silence, control.

But then the phone buzzed again.

And again.

She glanced down.

It was a text from Yumeko.

Kira

u at school?

Kira-san

The message was so simple, so brief, that Kira didn’t immediately register its significance. They didn’t really text during school hours. In fact, they barely texted at all. But the weird thing? It wasn’t casual. It didn’t sound like a joke.

And that instant, like a cold shiver slipping beneath her skin, Kira’s heart tightened. Why would Yumeko text now, in the middle of school?

Kira’s thoughts splintered for a moment, but then she shook it off. Maybe something had happened. Maybe she needed her. That would explain everything.

Her mind raced as she excused herself from the class, her hands shaking as she pushed the door open. She was trying to calm herself down, but it wasn’t working.

As she reached the ladies' room, Kira opened the door, quickly locking herself in a stall. She checked her phone again.

Yes, I’m at school. 

Are you okay? 

What happened? 

Do you need me?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, worrying the edges of her phone, thinking of a million terrible things that could have happened to Yumeko.

Are you in danger? Reply ASAP.

It took what felt like an eternity for the three dots to appear. Kira swallowed hard, pressing her phone against her chest as she tried to steady her breathing.

Finally, after five agonizing minutes, a reply came through.

where u at rn?

Kira stared at the message, confused.

What do you mean? I left class because you texted me. Are you okay?

Another pause. Kira’s pulse hammered in her ears. She felt like she couldn’t breathe.

perfect

That was it. Just perfect.

Kira blinked, rereading the text. She waited for another message. A follow-up explantion. Something. But the reply didn’t come. Instead, her phone buzzed again.

can u go out?

Kira stared at the message. Outside?

What? Why?

Yumeko’s reply came almost immediately.

just answer pls

Kira’s brow furrowed. She didn’t want to go outside. Not now, not like this. Not with the walls of her perfectly crafted life towering over her. But she knew how this went. When Yumeko made up her mind, there was no arguing with her. Kira had learned that over the years.

She exhaled through her nose, typing one last message.

Most probably, yeah.

The seconds felt like hours. But finally, Kira stood up, her legs feeling weak under her uniform. She tucked her phone into her pocket and made her way out the door, moving swiftly down the hallway, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floors.

When she reached the main doors, she looked around, the towering stone walls of the campus seeming to grow taller the closer she got.

I’m outside.

The seconds between her text and Yumeko’s reply stretched long, like a thread pulled tight.

where?

Kira rolled her eyes a little, tapping her fingers against her phone screen. 

Outside?

Yumeko’s next text came swiftly.

like outside the gate?

Kira froze. The gate. The iron gate, beyond the walls of the school. The gate that was guarded all the time, the gate that only students and faculty could pass through with permission.

Kira didn’t have that permission.

No, I can’t do that. I need my driver to fetch me.

A moment of silence passed.

Then Yumeko’s message came through, more apologetic now, soft like the tone Kira had always known.

oh 

I just wanted to see u, so I’m kinda outside right now

but I didn’t know abt that…

Kira felt her stomach twist. Yumeko was there? Outside?

Kira’s breath caught, fingers trembling as she typed her response.

What?

Yumeko’s reply came quickly, but it only made Kira panic more.

sorry, I really didn’t know u can’t go outside

and it’s not like I can just walk in

Kira stood still, feeling her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She wasn’t supposed to be out there. She couldn’t just slip past the guards, not without the consequences that would follow.

Kira wasn’t even sure if she could explain it to Yumeko. But she wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. All she could focus on was the fact that Yumeko was outside, waiting for her.

Kira’s fingers flew across the screen again.

Wait.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but she couldn’t just leave Yumeko there. She couldn’t let this moment slip by.

Her breath hitched again, her chest tight. She tucked her phone into her bag and straightened her posture. She’d figure it out. 

She had to.

Kira walked towards the gate. The path was long, her heels clicking sharply with every step. The uniform she wore felt too heavy, too formal. But it didn’t matter. She was going.

When she neared the gate, her heart stopped as one of the school guards stepped in front of her.

“Miss Timurov.” The guard said, his voice measured, respectful. “Where are you going?”

Kira’s breath faltered. Her mind spun, trying to think quickly, to get past this. She was a Timurov. The world bent to her. But she had to act fast.

“My driver called.” She said, voice steady as she lied with practiced ease. “The car broke down a few meters away. He asked me to walk out and meet him.”

The guard looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, stepping aside. “Of course, Miss Timurov.”

Kira gave a small, careful smile. The second he looked away, she hurried out the gate, her pulse thrumming in her ears, her heart racing with every step.

Yumeko was waiting.

And Kira was willing to do whatever it took to get to her.

Kira had slipped past the guards, her heart still hammering in her chest, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts she couldn’t quite keep track of. She was too far from the school now for the guards to see her. She had no more excuses left.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled out her phone and sent a quick message.

Where are you?

Before the phone had even vibrated in her hand, she heard a voice — soft, but loud enough to make her freeze.

“Kira-san!”

Kira spun around, panic surging in her veins. She opened her mouth to shush her, to tell Yumeko to lower her voice before someone saw her, but then she saw her.

Yumeko was riding up to her, her legs wrapped easily around the frame of a bright red bike. The helmet she wore was shaped like a cherry, two oversized lumps atop her head. It should’ve looked ridiculous. It should’ve been silly. It was silly. But not on Yumeko. Never on Yumeko.

It was… adorable .

Kira’s breath caught as Yumeko came closer, and when she stopped, she slipped off the bike with effortless grace. Her smile—soft and playful—was the kind that could make any moment feel lighter, like the sun had suddenly found a way to slip through a cloudy sky.

“Hi!” Yumeko said, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like she wasn’t standing outside Kira’s school in broad daylight, on a bike that looked more like something from a child’s playground than an adult’s reality.

“Hello…” Kira blinked. “Is that all you wanted to say?”

Yumeko giggled, the sound like a breeze rustling the trees. It made Kira’s chest tighten in a way she wasn’t sure she understood.

“Of course not.” Yumeko said, her tone warm, teasing. She took a step closer. “I missed you, Kira.”

Kira’s heart squeezed in her chest. Her stomach flipped. There was nothing left in her that wanted to keep this distance — this separation. She wanted to be with Yumeko. She wanted to stay there, in this moment, for as long as possible.

But instead, Kira forced the words out. “We’ll see each other later.” She said, but even to her own ears, it sounded hollow.

The instant the words left her mouth, Yumeko’s smile flickered. It dropped, just enough that Kira noticed it. 

The sunlight that had been so bright suddenly seemed to dim, like Yumeko was the sun, and Kira had just caused an eclipse.

Kira could feel it — Yumeko’s smile dimming was like the whole world shrinking a little bit. She wanted to fix it, to make things right, but how? She was supposed to be in class. She was in class.

But none of that seemed important anymore. None of it seemed to matter.

Yumeko looked down at the ground, her fingers brushing against the handlebars of her bike. The space between them felt too large for something so simple.

“Well…” Yumeko said after a long pause, her voice quieter now. “I guess I just…” She hesitated, looking back at Kira, her smile shy now. “I wanted to be with you before sunset. But if you’re busy, it’s fine. I’m sorry. You can go back to class now.”

She turned as if to get back on the bike, but Kira’s feet were already moving before she could stop herself.

Without thinking, without even realizing how it happened, Kira reached out and grabbed Yumeko’s wrist, pulling her back, her pulse hammering.

“Wait.”

Yumeko froze, her eyes wide in surprise, but Kira didn’t let go. Her hand was warm, soft against Yumeko’s skin. And in that moment, it was like Kira had crossed some line she couldn’t go back from. She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care about the perfect record she had at school, or about the rules, or her family’s expectations. 

None of it mattered.

Yumeko smiled, the way she always did — bright and full of light. Her eyes were soft, her lips curving into that familiar, warm grin.

Kira’s smile softened as she caught up with Yumeko’s playful energy, her heart still fluttering in her chest from the earlier exchange. “So… where are we going?”

Yumeko’s grin widened, mischief dancing in her eyes. “There’s this local art place in the next town. It’s quiet, but really nice. I think you’d like it.”

“Art?” Kira asked, tilting her head, trying to keep her tone neutral. Art? That was something her father would’ve dismissed as a waste of time. But Yumeko’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and Kira was already intrigued, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “Well how do we get there?”

Yumeko’s grin got impossibly wider, and she casually pointed to her bike. “We’ll take my bike.”

“No.” Kira froze. “No, no, no. That won’t carry both of us.”

Yumeko didn’t flinch. She simply giggled, and before Kira could protest again, she took off her helmet.

Kira’s breath caught in her throat.

God, Yumeko was gorgeous .

She stood there for a moment, looking at Kira, her hair falling in soft waves around her face, the playful glint in her eyes. When she stepped toward Kira, that’s when her heart dropped again. Yumeko was so close, too close, and the world felt like it was spinning just a little bit faster.

“Come on, Kira.” Yumeko said with a soft laugh, fluttering her eyelashes at her in the most unfair way possible. “You’re not scared, are you?”

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. How was Kira supposed to refuse when Yumeko looked like that ?

Kira found herself almost holding her breath, her heart beating a little too fast. She struggled for words, trying to be as logical as possible, trying to cling to her well-practiced indifference. “I’m wearing a skirt.” She said, barely keeping it together.

Yumeko gave her bike a thoughtful glance. “Yeah… you can’t ride at the back.” she said, turning her attention back to Kira with a smirk. “Just sit in front of me.”

Kira blinked. “What?”

Yumeko’s laugh was like music, bright and full of humor. “Don’t worry, Kira.” She teased, stepping closer, her hand brushing Kira’s as she spoke. “I’ve done it before. A friend from school needed a ride once, and she sat in front of me. It was fine.”

Kira’s heart twisted for a reason she didn’t understand, and she looked away, trying to hide the sudden darkening of her expression. She couldn’t help it. Her mind raced with thoughts she couldn’t chase away.

Yumeko, of course, noticed. She tilted her head, studying Kira with a gentle, amused smile. “Aww, don’t be jealous, Kira-san. It was only once. I’ll never let anyone else ride my bike again.”

The way Yumeko said ‘Kira-san’ made her pulse skip. It felt like a quiet secret between them, something that didn’t belong anywhere else.

Yumeko leaned closer, her lips just inches from Kira’s ear. “I promise.” she said softly, as if she were making a vow.

Kira’s heart did a little somersault in her chest. Her face flushed hot, and she couldn’t find the right words to say. Instead, she rolled her eyes playfully, trying to hide the warmth in her cheeks.

“Okay, okay,” Kira finally said, exhaling sharply. “Fine, let’s ride your bike.”

Yumeko smiled so brightly it felt like the sun itself was grinning.

Without missing a beat, Yumeko took her helmet and stepped closer to Kira, carefully placing it on Kira’s head. Kira flinched in surprise, her hands instinctively going to her hair. “What— what about you?” she stammered. “What will you wear?”

Yumeko didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. She just smiled, watching Kira with that calm, easy gaze. “You’re much more important than I am. You should wear it.”

Kira opened her mouth to argue, but a deep worry gnawed at her gut. “We can’t do that. What if something happens to you?” Her voice cracked a little, her concern spilling out before she could stop it. “What if something bad happens, and you’re not wearing a helmet?”

Yumeko’s smile softened, her eyes warm as she reached out to cup Kira’s cheek. “Nothing will happen.” She said with the kind of assurance that made Kira’s heart ache. “It’s just a precaution. I’m a good biker.”

Kira’s concern didn’t vanish, though, and she was about to argue when Yumeko interrupted with a laugh. “And anyway, when I was texting you earlier? I was riding my bike.”

Kira froze. “You were—”

“Yep.” Yumeko said, her voice light, though her eyes were a little teasing. “I was fine. Don’t worry about me so much, Kira. I can handle it.”

Kira felt her heart skip, but instead of letting herself feel the worry, she chose to focus on her irritation. “You shouldn’t do that. You’re going to get into an accident, Yumeko.”

Yumeko’s eyes softened with affection. “I won’t do it again, if that’s what you want.” She said, her smile gentle but still teasing.

And just like that, Yumeko took Kira’s bag and placed it carefully in the basket of her bike. “Now,” she said, tapping the space in front of her on the bike, “sit here. It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Kira hesitated, looking at the bike and then back at Yumeko. “It looks…” She murmured, her mind still racing with what-ifs.

Yumeko, unfazed, gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, Kira. You can trust me.”

Kira took another deep breath, her eyes flicking back and forth between Yumeko and the road ahead. Finally, she relented, stepping toward the bike and awkwardly sitting sideways on the bar in front of Yumeko.

The moment she sat down, Kira immediately felt uncomfortable. Her legs felt awkward, the posture too unnatural for someone used to walking gracefully. But Yumeko was smiling at her, her hand already placed lightly on Kira’s waist, steadying her.

And for once, Kira didn’t care. If this was what made Yumeko happy, then she would deal with the discomfort. After all, it wasn’t about how she felt in that moment.

It was about being with Yumeko.

The wind rushed against Kira's face, whipping her hair in all directions, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t mind. 

She didn’t mind the wrinkles in her uniform, the little scratches forming on her pristine bag that was awkwardly jammed into the too-small basket of Yumeko’s bike. 

She didn’t care about the pristine leather of her shoes scuffing against the rough path, or the sharp contrast of her fancy uniform against the simplicity of the town they were passing through.

None of it mattered.

The only thing that mattered was this.

She was here , right now, with Yumeko, riding her bike through the open air. The wind in her face felt freeing.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Kira wasn’t worrying about being perfect. She wasn’t thinking about the Timurov name, the legacy, the expectations her family placed on her shoulders. She wasn’t thinking about anything but the way Yumeko’s warmth radiated from behind her, the soft hum of the bike’s tires on the road as Yumeko pedaled, and the steady motion beneath them.

She didn’t care that she had ditched school. She didn’t care that the rich, pristine life she had been trained to live seemed so far away in this moment. 

She was just Kira . 

She was just here with Yumeko. 

That was enough.

The soft cadence of Yumeko’s laughter drifted into her ears, and Kira couldn’t help but smile, despite herself. She glanced to the side, catching a glimpse of Yumeko’s grin.

And then there was the warmth of Yumeko’s body pressed against her back, the way her legs moved in a rhythm perfectly avoiding colliding with Kira’s legs. It felt good .

Kira found herself gripping the handlebars tighter, even though it didn’t make sense. Yumeko wasn’t going to let them fall. Still, there was something about the closeness, about how they fit together on that bike, that made Kira’s heart race. 

And the way Yumeko moved, the way her voice floated up from behind her… Kira didn’t know what to do with all the feelings swirling inside of her.

But in this moment, none of it mattered.

She wasn’t the Timurov heir. She wasn’t anyone’s perfect daughter. She wasn’t carrying the weight of a family legacy on her shoulders. She was just Kira. Just Yumeko’s friend. 

Or whatever this was.

She didn’t need to pretend. She didn’t need to be anything else.

Kira’s heart fluttered as Yumeko let out another laugh, her voice warm against the wind. Kira couldn’t help but steal another glance back at the girl behind her. The wind had blown some strands of Yumeko’s hair loose, and she looked so carefree. So… free. In a way Kira had never been.

“Are you okay?” Yumeko’s voice broke through Kira’s thoughts, carefree as ever.

Kira swallowed, trying to steady her breath, but she didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

“Good.” Yumeko said, her voice light, almost teasing. “Because we’re almost there.”

The sound of the bike’s tires hummed under Kira, and soon enough, they slowed to a stop in front of a small, cozy art museum. Kira felt her thighs and knees protest as she carefully climbed off the bike, but she ignored the ache. It didn’t matter. Not now, not when Yumeko’s face was lit up with that radiant smile, the one that made everything feel brighter, easier.

Kira let out a quiet breath, feeling the tension in her body melt away as she straightened herself up.

“Thanks.” Kira muttered, even though Yumeko didn’t need to hear it. But Yumeko had already grabbed Kira’s bag out of the basket and slung it over her shoulder, all while still wearing that mischievous grin. 

It made Kira’s heart do that fluttering thing again, and she was pretty sure she’d never get used to it.

“Ready?” Yumeko asked, her eyes sparkling. Kira just nodded, even though she wasn’t sure if she really was ready for whatever this was.

They walked toward the entrance of the museum, where a woman behind the counter greeted them with a polite smile. But as they went to buy tickets, the mood shifted. The woman glanced at the two of them and shook her head apologetically.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t sell tickets to minors without a guardian.” She said.

Kira’s chest tightened. She looked at Yumeko, who had started to smile, but it was the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, come on,” Yumeko tried, a playful charm in her voice as she leaned over the counter, her eyes wide and full of exaggerated innocence. “We’re both well-behaved, I promise. Can’t we just—”

But the woman shook her head again. “I’m afraid not.”

Kira’s stomach sank, and she saw the disappointment flash across Yumeko’s face. The smile, gone entirely now.

Yumeko stood there for a moment, staring at the counter, as if hoping it would magically change its mind. But when it didn’t, Kira quickly stepped in.

Kira thought for a moment, then came up with an idea to cheer her up. “We could always just go back to the clearing, you know?” She suggested, trying to lighten the mood. “We could lay on the blanket, watch the clouds drift by until the sun sets. That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Yumeko looked at her, eyes softening, but then her smile faded slightly again. “I… I just wanted to do something else , Kira. Something more than that.” She bit her lip, glancing away, her voice quieter now.

Kira’s heart broke just a little more. She wanted so badly to be the one to give Yumeko everything she needed, but she felt helpless. This wasn’t supposed to be hard. They were supposed to be just… together .

Then Kira had an idea. A small one. Something silly. She pouted and crossed her arms lightly. “Well… I guess we’ll have to find something else then. I’m pretty hungry now. Don’t you think?”

Yumeko’s face lit up instantly, her mood shifting in an instant. She grinned, practically bouncing on her feet. “Oh! I know a diner nearby. They have the best burgers.”

Kira smirked, her mood brightening too. “A diner, huh? That’s more like it.”

They both turned and walked out of the museum together, their footsteps light, and soon enough, they found themselves at a small diner not too far off. Yumeko led the way to a booth near the back, one that had a good view of the street. 

They settled into the booth, the sound of the diner’s quiet hum filling the space around them. Yumeko glanced over at the laminated menu, tilting her head. Kira, on the other hand, felt a little lost. 

She wasn’t used to places like this. Her meals were planned for her, and ‘diner food’ wasn’t exactly part of her schedule.

Yumeko raised an eyebrow as Kira fidgeted with her menu. “You’ve never been to a diner, have you?”

Kira’s lips quirked up in a sheepish smile. “I don’t know. This all looks… unfamiliar.”

Yumeko’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I got it. I’ll order for you, Kira-san.”

Kira blinked, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“No, no.” Yumeko cut her off, already leaning toward the waitress who had arrived at their table. She gave Kira a sly grin before turning to the server. 

“Hi, we’ll have two of the special cheeseburgers with fries. And  milkshakes. Strawberry and chocolate, please. And for her…” She pointed at Kira with a smirk. “A side of extra fries. I think she’ll need it.”

Kira chuckled, a little flustered at how easily Yumeko had taken charge. “I don’t need that many fries.” She muttered under her breath, but Yumeko was already focused on her next move.

As the waitress nodded and left them, Yumeko sat back in her seat, her fingers tapping the table rhythmically. Kira couldn’t help but watch her, the way she was always so confident, so sure of everything around her.

“So…” Yumeko said casually, her eyes glinting as she leaned in just slightly. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

Kira raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

Yumeko’s grin turned soft, almost fond. “That gift you gave me… you know, the one with the kid who wanted to touch the sun.”

Kira’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected that to come up. “Oh.” She said, swallowing thickly. “You remember that?”

“Of course, I do.” Yumeko said, her voice low and thoughtful. “You gave it to me when we were kids. I’ve read it so many times, I practically know it by heart. But… I’ve always wondered why you gave it to me.”

Kira shifted in her seat, the question catching her off guard. She hadn’t thought much about the gift in years. “Well, you know, it was your birthday. It was… it was a birthday present to me” 

She hesitated for a moment, then added. “But I wasn’t allowed to read it. It wasn’t on the list of books my tutor gave me.”

Yumeko’s eyes widened in mock offense. “A re-gift, Kira? Really?”

Kira laughed, the sound light and a little nervous. “I was six! Where else was I supposed to get a gift from? I just thought you were… kind of like the sun.” She glanced away for a moment, heat rising to her cheeks. “You’re always warm, like the sun.”

Yumeko raised an eyebrow, her lips curving up in that soft, knowing smile of hers. “Always warm, huh? That’s cute.”

Kira couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes, but she didn’t mind. “It made sense to me at the time. I couldn’t read it, so… I thought I’d give it to its rightful owner. You.”

There was a pause, and when Kira looked up, she saw Yumeko’s face softened, a tenderness in her eyes that Kira couldn’t quite put into words. Yumeko’s voice was quiet as she said, “Thank you, Kira. It’s my favorite book. Because you gave it to me.”

The weight of Yumeko’s words settled in Kira’s chest like a secret, a shared connection. Kira didn’t know what to say, so she simply met her gaze, her heart warming under the heat of Yumeko’s smile.

Just then, the waitress came back with their food. The smell of the cheeseburgers and milkshakes filled the air, momentarily breaking the stillness between them. Yumeko beamed as the food was set down in front of them, and Kira couldn’t help but smile back.

For a fleeting moment, the noise of the diner, the people, the world outside — it all disappeared. It was just the two of them, sitting across from each other in a small booth, sharing something simple, something comfortable. And Kira realized, with a quiet certainty, that maybe that’s all she needed right now.

The meal passed in a haze of laughter, easy conversation, and the comfort of just being with Yumeko. As the diner emptied out and the evening sky deepened with soft hues of purple and orange, Kira found herself glancing toward the window every few seconds. The sun was beginning to dip, and she felt a quiet urgency settle over her.

“We should go.” She said suddenly, surprising herself. “Before it’s too late.”

Yumeko tilted her head, eyes sparkling as she caught Kira’s subtle excitement. “Go where?”

“Somewhere we can watch the sunset. We need to.” Kira didn’t know exactly why she said it, but she was already standing up.

Yumeko smiled, that knowing grin of hers creeping across her face. “You’re on. I’ll get my bike.”

It felt good to be on the road again. The wind stung her face, but it didn’t matter.

The bike felt more like freedom than transportation. It was as if they were carrying each other, both light and weightless in the moment.

They reached a quiet spot by the side of the road, the landscape just enough to give them a clear view of the horizon, the sun spilling its last rays over the sky. Yumeko stopped the bike and helped Kira down, and they walked over to the railing together. Kira leaned against it, her eyes trained on the sun, and for a few minutes, the world was silent except for the distant hum of cars and the rhythmic rush of wind.

Kira felt the weight of the silence between them, but it was a peaceful kind of silence. It was the kind of silence that only existed when two people were comfortable, when words weren’t always necessary. She just had to be here.

The wind picked up and Yumeko shivered lightly, her arms folding around herself.

Kira’s gaze shifted to her, the sudden worry creeping into her chest. She immediately unbuttoned her blazer and slid it off, draping it over Yumeko’s shoulders without hesitation. Yumeko blinked, surprised.

“Oh, thanks.” She said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She pulled the blazer tighter around her, the warmth from Kira’s body still lingering in the fabric.

But Yumeko didn’t say anything for a while, just stood there, looking at the setting sun. And then, her voice broke the quiet.

“It’s almost winter…” She murmured, her tone distant. “I hate winter.”

Kira’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?”

Yumeko’s shoulders slumped a little, and her gaze drifted to the horizon, her breath fogging up in the cool air. “Because then it’s too cold. I’ll be at our spot every day, waiting for you to come, and you’ll be in your room, not even thinking about where I might be.”

Kira’s heart squeezed in her chest. She hadn’t gone to see Yumeko during winter in the past. She hadn’t thought it mattered. The idea of Yumeko waiting, alone, made something tight twist in her gut. She swallowed thickly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Yumeko looked at her, her lips curling up just a little. “Because I didn’t want you to come just because I was there. I wanted you to come because you wanted to. Because you hoped I’d be there, too.”

Kira stopped, her breath catching. She turned to look at Yumeko, who was still watching the sunset, but now Kira’s eyes were focused on her, trying to read the quiet ache in her voice. “Yumeko…”

She felt the weight of the moment, the shift in the air between them. There was so much Kira didn’t know, so much she hadn’t understood, but this? This feeling that seemed to gather in her chest — this was real.

“Sorry.” Kira said softly, the words feeling too small for what she needed to say.

Yumeko smiled again, her eyes kind. “It’s alright, Kira.”

Kira’s heart was still hammering in her chest, but she didn’t hesitate this time. “Don’t go there during winter anymore. You might get sick. I’ll call you every day instead.”

Yumeko’s eyes softened, the corners of her mouth curving into a gentle smile. “Really?”

Kira nodded, feeling a surprising warmth in her chest. “I promise.”

Yumeko stepped closer then, her expression a little bashful, a little uncertain. She wrapped her arms around Kira, pulling her into a warm hug. Kira froze for a moment, surprised by the closeness, but then the soft pressure of Yumeko’s body against hers felt like something she could never pull away from. She relaxed, her arms tentatively wrapping around Yumeko’s waist, holding her there.

“Thank you.” Yumeko whispered against her ear. Then, without a second thought, she pressed a soft kiss to Kira’s cheek, her lips lingering for just a second longer than Kira expected.

Kira’s heart stopped.

In that moment, everything clicked. It wasn’t the kiss itself. It was the weight of it — the sincerity behind it, the feeling of Yumeko’s breath on her skin, the way her heart was racing so fast it felt like it might break free. 

She wanted more of it. 

She wanted everything about this, wanted her . And she’d never known, not truly, until this very second. 

She was in love with Yumeko.

Chapter Text

The ride back was quieter than before. The wind still cut through the air, but Kira’s mind was elsewhere, her thoughts trailing far behind her and clinging to each fleeting moment they’d shared. She could still feel the warmth of Yumeko’s arms around her, the softness of her voice, the way everything felt so… right when they were together.

But now, as they made their way back home, the rush of excitement and freedom from earlier began to fade. Kira’s stomach tightened, her breath coming a little shorter. The farther they rode from the distant town, the heavier her heart became.

She realized then, with a sinking feeling, that she had crossed a line. 

Not just crossed, no.

She had gone so far there might be no way to go back.

She had walked away from her school, ditched her responsibilities, and worse, she had done it without thinking of the consequences. She had let herself forget who she was, who she was supposed to be.

Her fingers clenched tighter around the handlebars, but it didn’t help the panic rising inside her. The wind, once so liberating, now felt cold against her skin. It was as if it had sharpened in the fading light, biting at her, reminding her of the reality she was riding back into.

What did I just do?

She could almost hear her father’s voice — sharp, demanding, God-like — rising in her head. The expectations. The rules. The weight of it all pressing down on her like a thousand-ton wall.

She could already imagine the look on her mother’s face, so distant and cold, when Kira returned home. The disappointment would radiate off her, and Kira would be forced to sit through her father’s scathing words, his wrath, his lectures about duty, honor, and obedience. The punishment would be swift, and it would be severe .

Her heart pounded. She didn’t know how long she could keep up this facade, this life. She didn’t know how much longer she could live in a world that was never really hers to begin with.

And then there was Yumeko.

Yumeko, who had always seen her for who she was, not who she was forced to be. Yumeko, who had made her forget, if only for a little while, the hell she needed a break from.

But now… now Kira couldn’t ignore it. She couldn’t ignore the fact that her father would never understand her actions, her friendship with Yumeko, let alone the feelings she’d started to realize she had. 

In their world, relationships like this were dangerous. To even think about loving a girl, choosing to be with a girl, was a betrayal of everything her family stood for.

Kira’s throat tightened as she swallowed the rising lump of panic, trying to keep it down. But it didn’t help. She could already hear the echoes of Arkadi’s words, his venomous lectures, his expectations clawing at her from every direction.

“You will honor me. You will marry well. You will create heirs.”

A fresh wave of panic hit Kira’s chest. She shifted in her seat, her breath hitching as she looked down at the road they were riding. The familiarity of the route only made her feel more trapped. She wasn’t ready for what would come next.

When they got back… what then? How could she face her father? 

How could she face herself?

Yumeko’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. “We’re almost there.”

Kira didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t. She felt dizzy, overwhelmed. She had to breathe. She had to think clearly. But every time she tried, she only saw the consequences of her actions — her father’s wrath, the judgment, the expectations she couldn’t run from.

The door of the Timurov estate loomed ahead, and the moment she dismounted Yumeko’s bike, she felt the sharp weight of the world crash back into her. The weight of expectations. The cold fingers of obligation.

She couldn’t bring herself to look back at Yumeko. Not now. Not when the smile that had lit up her heart felt so out of place here, in the hollow, rigid structure of her family's world. 

Though her parents were not waiting by the door, she knew, deep down, that they were watching her — observing from the shadows. Her heart thrummed in her chest, each beat louder than the last.

She gave Yumeko a quick wave, murmuring a hurried “Goodnight.” before turning away, her movements stiff with the growing tension.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she reached the door, dreading what she knew awaited her on the other side. Yumeko’s warmth, the rush of freedom they’d shared, felt like a distant dream now. As soon as she stepped foot inside, everything would change. She would have to face it.

Riri was already there, standing by the entrance, her small frame tense and stiff. The younger girl’s eyes flickered nervously over Kira, her lips covered by her mask. She didn’t say anything at first, just shook her head slowly, almost imperceptibly, a silent warning.

"They're waiting for you." Riri finally said, her voice shaky, eyes wide with something that could only be described as fear.

Kira met her gaze for a beat, then nodded stiffly, though the weight of the situation was becoming too much to carry. Riri’s eyes didn’t show anger — no, they showed something deeper, something far more raw: concern.

Kira could feel the pressure mounting inside her chest. The air was thick with the weight of her family's expectations. There was no turning back now. She could already feel the ground shifting beneath her feet.

Without another word, she stepped past Riri, trying to steady her breathing as she made her way down the hallway. 

She knocked softly, and without waiting for a response, she entered.

The study loomed before her, a vast, oppressive space like a cathedral of control and expectation. The scent of aged paper, ink, and polished leather filled the air — everything suffused with a sense of weight, as if the very walls were absorbing the sins and transgressions of generations. 

Kira could feel the pressure in her chest, like a heavy, invisible cross bearing down on her.

Her father was seated behind the grand desk — his throne, a pulpit of authority. He sat in his high-backed chair as though it were his altar, his hands folded in front of him like a priest preparing to deliver a sermon. 

His eyes met hers, cold and unyielding, like the gaze of a God whose disappointment could not be escaped. The silence in the room thickened, almost suffocating.

Beside him stood her mother, poised and statuesque, the high priestess to his king. 

Kira felt as though she were walking into the lion’s den. A place of judgment. A place where no prayer could save her now.

“Kira.” Her father's voice rang out, low and deliberate. It wasn’t a command. It was a decree, a pronouncement of fate. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

The words hung in the air like a cloud of incense, heavy with judgment. Kira’s heart thundered, thumping painfully against her ribs, and her breath caught in her throat. She tried to steady herself but only felt the overwhelming sense of a thousand eyes upon her, watching her every movement, dissecting every word she uttered.

“I…” Kira’s voice faltered, her throat dry, the weight of her mistake pressing down on her like the weight of the cross itself. She tried to meet her father’s gaze but felt her resolve crack beneath the cold intensity of it. 

She wasn’t sure she could breathe, let alone speak.

The weight of the silence in the study was like a thousand bricks pressing down on Kira’s chest. Each second stretched on like a punishment, and her heart was pounding in her ears as she stood there, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. 

She was nothing but a child — his child, his property. And yet, here she was, standing before her God, the person who had shaped her entire life with one unrelenting rule: obedience above all else .

Her father’s voice, like thunder crashing, shattered the stillness. “Cutting class? Lying your way out of campus — those are things a Timurov does not do. You think you can act outside the rules? Disgrace your name like this?” His words weren’t just angry — they were the inevitable wrath of a God scorned.

Kira’s throat tightened. The walls of the study, suffocating with cold and unyielding power, seemed to close in on her. She was just thirteen. She shouldn’t even know how to feel fear like this. But she did. 

And it was suffocating.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, the words coming out almost instinctively. It was all she could offer. Sorry for being born, sorry for breathing, for not living up to his expectations. It was easier to say sorry than to face the truth that she was powerless.

Arkadi didn’t react immediately. He didn’t need to. He was the God of this house, the ruler of her world, and she knew her place .

She had always been taught that there was no question in it. His gaze alone could make her skin crawl. She wasn’t allowed to be anything but perfect. 

And now, she is failing.

The slap came out of nowhere. It was the first time in her life that he had raised his hand to her. His cruelty had always been in his words — cutting, sharp, and deadly. But this? This was different. This was new .

The sound was deafening. It was like a holy strike, a reminder that she was nothing more than a tool for his will. The sting was so sharp, so foreign, it almost didn’t register at first. But then her face burned with it. 

It wasn’t just pain — it was humiliation. She, his child, had displeased him. She had failed him.

For a moment, Kira froze, her vision blurring with the sting. She had no choice but to stand there, to take the punishment, because the God who ruled her life had spoken.

I can’t cry . 

She couldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her weak, of seeing her break. She wouldn’t. She was his perfect daughter — the one who never cried, who never faltered. Even when her insides screamed, her face remained still.

Her father, seemingly unaffected, stepped closer. His towering figure was almost suffocating now, like a dark cloud looming over her. 

“Did you go out with the neighbor girl? Yumeko Kawamoto?” His voice was low, an icy undertone that sent a shiver through her bones.

Yumeko.

Her heart skipped. 

No . 

She could lie. She should lie. If she said no, then maybe her father would forget about it, move on, and Yumeko would be safe. Safe from this.

But the truth clawed at her throat, and she knew, as if some dark force had a hold on her, that she couldn’t lie. 

Her father knew already. He always knew everything. There was no escape from his omnipresent gaze.

“I saw you both.” Arkadi said, his voice like an echo from a forgotten, divine past. “The cameras. You think I wouldn’t know?” His eyes bored into her, his words cutting deeper than the slap had. 

She couldn’t escape. She couldn’t even run away in her own house. She wasn’t allowed to escape.

Kira stood still, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She wasn’t just a child anymore — she was the one who had disappointed him . 

The God who created her was angry, and there was no space for disobedience in his world. She had done wrong, and there was no coming back from it.

“Tell me, Kira. How long have you known this girl?” His voice was softer now, a serpent’s hiss that made her feel small, helpless, like a broken vessel that could never be put back together. 

Her breath caught. 

She couldn’t lie. 

She couldn’t betray Yumeko, but she couldn’t fight against her father either. 

Kira’s entire life had been a symphony of obedience. And her father's face was the conductor.

Silence stretched on, agonizing and heavy.

Arkadi’s eyes darkened. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a glass smashing to the floor, the sound so sharp it felt like it would split her open. He was a God smiting a sinner. She was the sinner.

“She is deviant, Kira. A stain on the world.” He hissed the words with venom, as though just saying her name was an offense. “Her kind is sick. And you— you are letting her poison you.”

Kira felt her insides twist with anger, but she couldn’t fight it. She couldn’t. Not when the punishment could be worse than just silence. She had been taught to bow her head, to silence her own voice. To accept it, all of it. Every single word.

Arkadi’s anger didn’t subside, but his voice grew colder, harder. “You will never see her again. Do you understand?”

Kira’s chest tightened. Never again?

She dared not look up, not at him. She couldn’t look at him, because it was too much to bear. 

How had this happened?  

She was just a girl. A girl who had gone outside for a few hours. A girl who had let herself be alive for just one day.

Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade. “Answer me, Kira.”

The way he said her name, so sharp, so final — it crushed her . She nodded slowly, the weight of his authority pulling her down. She didn’t dare fight him. She couldn’t. She was nothing. She was just a vessel for his commands, his expectations.

Her father’s gaze softened, just for a moment, and it felt like a god's final decree. “Good. Go to your room.”

She turned slowly, her legs like lead, and walked toward the door. She could feel his eyes on her back, watching her every step, every movement. 

Every breath she took .

And as the door clicked shut behind her, she was no longer just Kira Timurov. 

She was nothing but a sinner in the eyes of her God.

The next day, Kira didn’t leave.

She sat on her bed as the sun dipped into the horizon, its golden light crawling across her floor like an invitation — soft and familiar, like the warmth of Yumeko’s hand wrapped around hers. But she didn’t move. Didn’t so much as glance toward the closet where her shoes were kept.

She just sat. Staring at the sky through the window, watching as it bloomed from orange to bruised violet. She could almost feel Yumeko waiting — sitting cross-legged on their blanket, looking back toward the path, hoping Kira would appear between the trees like always.

She didn't.

And when the sun had long set, when the sky was a quiet ache and the clearing sat empty behind her ribs, Kira whispered under her breath, Please don’t be too sad.

She pressed her forehead to the windowpane, the cold biting into her skin, and told herself it was better this way.

If she left again — if she went back — it would only make things worse.

This was the consequence of disobedience.

Of loving someone she was never meant to.

Later that evening, she moved to finally open her bedroom door, summoned by the dull sound of porcelain and silver downstairs — the kind of silence that accompanied her family dinners. But before her hand even reached the knob, there was a knock.

Three soft raps. Not urgent. Not hesitant.

She opened it to find Riri.

Her younger sister stood holding a silver tray. A single plate, a bowl, utensils, water. Neatly arranged. Sterile. There was no warmth in the meal — only order.

Riri didn’t speak.

She didn’t meet her eyes either, not at first. Just held out the tray with both hands, her expression unreadable — a blank mask Kira recognized all too well. They had both been trained to wear it. She knew the silence behind it was not cruelty. It was fear.

Kira blinked. “Oh.”

At the sound of her voice, Riri finally looked up. Her eyes were glassy, dark. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

She just shook her head — once. A subtle, simple motion. But it said everything.

You’re not allowed at the table tonight.

The words didn’t have to be spoken aloud. Kira already knew.

She took the tray wordlessly and stepped back. The door clicked shut behind her.

She set the tray on her desk, but didn’t touch it. Her appetite was gone. Instead, she stood there, staring at the food, wondering how something as small as a few hours of freedom — of sunlight, of warmth, of Yumeko — could warrant this much punishment.

It had only been one day. One moment. One yes to a girl who smiled like the sun.

But this was what it cost.

Her chest felt hollow. Her limbs ached with heaviness. And somewhere in her ribs, where laughter used to live, there was only silence.

Maybe this was the price of sin.

She had disobeyed Arkadi — her God. Lied. Broken rules. Fallen .

And though they hadn’t said it, hadn’t asked — she knew why the punishment felt this heavy. Why it wrapped around her like chains.

Because of what she felt.

Because of Yumeko.

Because something inside her had fluttered, then burned. Something she hadn’t understood, couldn’t control — but it bloomed anyway. Soft and warm and terrifying.

And wrong.

It was wrong. Her parents hadn’t said it this time — not out loud — but she heard their voices anyway. Echoes of the night before, of sermons and condemnations disguised as fatherly wisdom.

Her kind is deviant.

They are broken.

They are filth parading as freedom.

And so, alone in her room, a silver tray untouched at her side, Kira sat on her bed and stared at the wall until the night swallowed her whole.

She told herself she deserved this.

That she had stepped out of the light. That she had walked willingly into temptation.

That Yumeko — bright, sweet, golden Yumeko — was a sin wrapped in sunlight.

And that loving her, even just a little, even in secret, meant Kira could never be saved.

The next morning, Kira woke to the low chime of her phone.

She blinked blearily at the light filtering through her curtains, reached for it out of habit — and there it was. A message.

That was all it said. Simple. Soft.

But Kira stared at it like it was a wound.

Her thumb hovered. She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Instead, she set her phone down face-down on her nightstand, as if that could silence the pull in her chest.

She told herself it was for the best.

Yumeko was wrong. Her father had said so. 

God had said so.

So she got up. Washed her face. Pressed her uniform until the lines were sharp. Ate her breakfast in silence at the table, beneath her parents’ impassive gaze. Repeated the family maxims in her head like scripture: 

Control. 

Discipline. 

Devotion.

And when the day passed, as slow and cold as penance, she kept moving.

She did her assignments. Sat through her tutoring sessions. Studied the economics of legacy like it was holy text.

Even when the sky outside began to shift — from white to gold to the kind of warm pink that always meant almost time — she didn’t look.

Her chest clenched. Her hands trembled a little.

But she didn’t move.

Because Kira Timurov, despite all the warmth blooming like wildflowers beneath her skin, knew who she was.

She was the daughter of Arkadi.

She was the heir to a kingdom built on obedience and silence.

She was a child of sharp lines and colder expectations — not a girl who gave in to softness. 

Not a girl who let her knees buckle just because someone smiled at her like even the sun would beg to look at her.

Yumeko glowed in ways Kira wasn’t allowed to. She radiated warmth that felt like freedom. She was kind, and bright, and honest in ways Kira had never been taught were safe.

But that warmth — that dangerous, lovely, impossible warmth — could burn.

And Kira had already been warned of what fire could cost.

So when sunset came, and the sky outside blazed in gold and scarlet, Kira didn’t run to the clearing.

She didn’t reach for her shoes.

She didn’t reply.

Instead, she recited the commandments in her head:

Obey. Endure. Become worthy.

And if something inside her ached like the breaking of a sacred thing, she buried it under the weight of her last name — and told herself that this was the only way to salvation.

The weeks that followed blurred into cold, gray obedience.

Kira did everything she was meant to. She rose early. She answered questions before they were asked. She kept her back straight, her words minimal, her presence sharp. A perfect daughter. A perfect Timurov.

And every day, without fail, Yumeko’s name lit up her phone.

Sometimes it was a simple “Will you be there?”

Sometimes it was longer — little updates, thoughts, memories, things Yumeko might’ve said aloud if they’d been together in the clearing. Kira read all of them at first. Quietly. Secretly. A habit she couldn’t break.

But temptation is a dangerous thing.

And so, weeks ago, Kira stopped reading the messages entirely.

It was the only way to keep herself from slipping. Because slipping — choosing softness, choosing her — meant disobedience. Meant betrayal. Meant the sting of her father’s palm across her cheek and the silence of a mother who always looked past her.

That wasn’t how her world worked.

But then winter came.

The first snow dusted the edges of the Timurov estate, clean and cruel. The sky turned white and the trees wore silence like mourning. And Kira remembered.

“You’ll get sick.”

She’d told Yumeko not to go to the clearing in winter.

“I’ll call you instead.”

She had promised.

And now, she wasn’t even doing that.

So that day, without telling anyone, Kira went.

She didn’t know what she expected. Maybe just cold. Emptiness. A way to mourn what she had lost without Yumeko’s gaze there to undo her. Maybe it would be easier that way. Maybe it would hurt less.

She sat down on the swing.

It groaned faintly beneath her. The seat smaller somehow. Or maybe it was just that her heart didn’t fit here anymore, not without Yumeko beside her.

Still, she sat — quiet, wrapped in her coat, watching the pale sky.

And then a voice said softly. “You came.”

Kira turned.

And there she was.

Yumeko.

Wrapped in a red coat that looked too thin for the cold, cheeks flushed pink from the wind, a little out of breath like maybe she hadn’t let herself hope until this very moment — like maybe she'd run the last stretch just in case.

Kira didn’t speak right away. Her mouth parted — as if something should’ve come out, but nothing did. Her heart was in her throat, beating like it wanted to claw its way out of her.

She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t let herself expect this.

And now Yumeko was here — real, radiant, vulnerable in a way that made the air feel thinner — and Kira didn’t know how to stand in the same space as her without feeling like she was about to break.

“I didn’t know you’d come.” Kira said, finally.

Yumeko’s smile was soft. But there was a crack in it. “I didn’t think you would. Ever again.”

And that broke Kira.

Because she heard what Yumeko didn’t say:

I waited.

Every day.

Even when I knew you wouldn’t come.

Kira looked down at the frozen ground, suddenly ashamed of how still she’d been. How easy it had been to disappear into silence. She hadn’t thought it would hurt Yumeko this much. Or maybe she had, but she told herself it didn’t matter.

Because she wasn’t supposed to want her.

Because her father said no.

Because silence is obedience, and obedience is survival.

“It’s cold.” She said instead, quietly. “You might get sick.”

Yumeko’s laugh was soft and short, like it surprised her. “The same way you’re sick of me?”

The words stung. Not because they were cruel. Because they were honest.

Kira’s chest tightened. “No. That’s not—”

Yumeko stepped closer. Her voice was quiet now. Almost trembling. “I miss you, Kira. Whatever I did… I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Don’t say that, Kira wanted to beg. Don’t ever say that again. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who’s broken.

Because how could Yumeko ever be the one at fault? 

She was warmth.  

She was joy.  

She was color in a grayscale world. 

Kira had done the wrong thing by leaving — by obeying. But she still couldn't say it. Not aloud. So she whispered instead. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Yumeko’s eyes searched hers.

“Then why did you stop coming?”

Kira’s throat closed. Her whole life had been one long lesson in silence. In standing still. In doing what she was told and burying anything that wanted more than survival.

And Yumeko? Yumeko made her want everything.

“It’s… complicated.” She said.

Yumeko didn’t flinch. “Then explain. I’ll understand.”

She reached for Kira’s hand, and Kira let her — even though everything in her was screaming not to, even though her bones remembered her father’s voice like scripture.

Her fingers were cold. Really cold. Kira could feel them through the fabric of her gloves.

Without thinking, she pulled off her scarf and wrapped it around Yumeko’s neck. Her fingers lingered at the knot. She couldn’t look her in the eyes.

“I’m sorry.” She murmured.

She hated how small it sounded. Like an apology could erase weeks of absence. Of silence. Of choosing obedience over love.

Yumeko’s lashes lowered slightly. She swallowed. “Just promise you’ll be here tomorrow.”

And Kira paused.

Because she wanted to say yes. She wanted to say yes more than anything she’d ever wanted in her entire life.

But she could still feel the heat of her father’s fury like it was yesterday. Still hear the glass shattering, still taste the silence of punishment and guilt. Still believe in the voice that told her Yumeko was the sin — not the world that made her feel like loving was wrong.

“I… I can’t promise that.”

Yumeko looked away. Kira thought she saw her flinch — just a little — as if she’d just realized hope could bruise.

“It’s too cold.” Kira added. “You shouldn’t be here either. You’ll get sick.”

Yumeko was silent for a long time. The sun was bleeding orange and red behind her, and for a moment, Kira thought she looked like some kind of myth — something fragile and divine. Her hands were still clinging to the scarf like it meant something more

than warmth.

And then Yumeko whispered. “Will you call me instead?”

A pause.

“You promised.”

Kira felt it deep in her chest — that same ache that had lived inside her ever since she’d started lying to herself. She was trembling, though she didn’t know if it was the cold or the guilt or the sheer weight of being seen by Yumeko again.

She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have come.

She was a coward.

A failure.

A bad daughter .

And worse — a willing one . She knew what she was doing the moment she stepped outside that day. She knew, and still she came.

She looked at Yumeko.

At the soft, open face of the girl who’d waited.

At the eyes that still held enough hope to reach her.

At the scarf that no longer belonged to Kira, but to someone who deserved warmth more than she ever had.

Her lips parted. Her throat tightened.

She hated herself — hated how easily her resolve melted in Yumeko’s presence, hated that all her promises to stay away shattered the second she saw her smile again. She hated how weak she was. How small .

But worst of all, she hated how much she needed this.

“I promise.” She whispered.

And when Yumeko smiled — that bright, unguarded smile that always looked like it was meant just for her — Kira didn’t feel victorious.

She felt damned.

Like she'd just failed another test she was supposed to pass.

Like she’d chosen the wrong thing again and again and again, not because she wanted to, but because she didn’t know how to want anything else.

There was no elation. No warmth.

Only the quiet understanding, as Yumeko’s hand slipped into hers, that this was going to ruin her.

And worse — that she’d let it.

Not because she was brave.

But because she was powerless .

Later, Kira didn’t taste dinner.

Her plate had been arranged with exact symmetry — the fork set at an angle that must’ve been deliberate — and still, none of it settled in her stomach. Her hands had trembled once when she reached for her glass, but she’d hidden it. Of course she had.

Because she knew what came next.

“Kira.”

Her father didn’t need to say anything else.

After the table was cleared, she followed him. She didn’t need to ask where. The study had always been his throne room — and tonight, she was the one summoned.

The house was cold. It always was in winter, but tonight it sank into her bones like judgment. The long corridor to the study stretched like a church aisle before a sermon. Her shoes barely made a sound. Maybe she wasn’t really here. Maybe if she held her breath long enough, she could disappear.

The door was already open.

Of course.

Arkadi Timurov sat behind his desk, hands folded over crystal glass, half-full with gold-dark whiskey. A portrait of his father — that same cold face — loomed above him. The curtains were drawn. The light was low. It felt like confession.

Kira stepped in, back straight, eyes down.

She didn’t speak. She hadn’t been invited to.

Her father sipped his drink and looked at her the way one looks at a chessboard — not with affection, but with strategy.

“You may sit.”

She obeyed.

The chair was cold beneath her. She kept her spine straight, knees together, hands on her lap like prayer.

Silence lingered.

Then Arkadi spoke.

“You’ve been misled.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. Smooth, like glass before it shattered.

“Influenced by people who do not know who you are.”

The words came smooth. Not angry. Just… decided.

“And I don’t blame you. You’re still young. Still impressionable. But I’ll be damned if I allow you to be led astray.”

Kira stared at a crack in the woodgrain of his desk. Anything to avoid his eyes.

“You are a Timurov,” he said. “You are not common. You are not small. You are not to be found sneaking out with degenerates and cutting class like some street child.”

Degenerates.

She knew who he meant.

And for a second, her heart throbbed so loudly in her chest that she thought it would give her away.

“I have failed.” Arkadi continued. “In assuming your convictions were already strong enough. But that is what correction is for.”

He stood.

Kira’s shoulders stiffened instinctively.

He moved to the shelves behind him, fingers brushing the spines of books that all looked the same — old, leatherbound, unreadable. She remembered being five and believing those shelves held all the world’s answers. Now, they only felt like locked doors.

He pulled one out.

Black cover. Gold-lettered spine. She didn’t need to see the title to know.

Arkadi walked to her, placed it in her lap like a weight.

“You will begin with this.”

Kira blinked.

The Bible.

Not because she asked for it. Not because she wanted to learn.

But because something inside her was wrong.

Her hands gripped the edges of the book. She couldn’t feel her fingers.

“Tomorrow.” He said, returning to his seat. “You’ll meet with your new tutor. 6AM sharp. She will guide you. Reshape you. Your soul is a garden, Kira. And right now, it is overrun.”

Her throat closed.

He looked at her then. Something in his expression softened — or tried to.

“This isn’t punishment.”

It was.

“This is protection.”

It wasn’t.

And yet she believed him.

She wanted to believe him. Because if her father was wrong, then everything she’d ever trusted would collapse. And she couldn’t afford that. Not when her ribs still ached from holding her breath all evening. Not when the ghost of Yumeko’s smile still flickered behind her eyes.

She swallowed. Hard.

Then she looked at him, slowly — and for a moment, she saw not a father, but something greater. A man who controlled every breath in this house. A man whose voice sounded like truth because it had never been questioned out loud.

And she spoke. “Understood, Father.”

The words tasted like rust on her tongue.

Arkadi smiled.

“You may go.”

She stood. Not too fast. Not too slow. The Bible was still pressed to her chest like a shield she didn’t know how to use.

“Thank you, Father.”

She turned and walked out.

She didn’t cry.

Because if she cried, it meant something was broken.

And if something was broken, she couldn’t fix it — not with obedience, not with scripture, not even with love.

The next morning, Kira was up before the sun.

The Bible her father gave her sat on her desk, untouched. She hadn’t even dared to crack the spine. It felt alive somehow — like it could see into her, like it already knew everything she’d ever felt and was judging her for it in silence.

She washed, dressed in uniform, and made her way to the library by 5:58.

At 6:00 sharp, the door opened.

The woman who entered was dressed in black. Her habit framed a face that had never smiled in this lifetime — pale, angular, austere. She introduced herself as Sister Magdalene, but not with warmth. Her voice was cold marble.

“Let us begin.” she said.

No good morning. No kindness.

Only command.

Kira sat in the wooden chair across the long library table. Sunlight had only begun to pour in through the windows, catching on the gold lettering of the books Arkadi lined the shelves with. It glinted like warning.

The nun set her own Bible down — worn, marked, loved — and began reading.

“Genesis 2:22. And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made He a woman, and brought her unto the man.”

She looked at Kira as she shut the book gently.

“You know what that means, Kira?”

Kira didn’t answer.

“You are a reflection of Eve.” Sister Magdalene continued. “As all women are. You are made not from earth, like Adam, but from man. You are made to accompany him, to serve, to fulfill your ordained purpose.”

The words weren’t sharp. That would’ve been easier.

They were soft. Controlled. Absolute.

“God gave Eve to Adam so that he might not be alone. He gave her a role. A direction. And He gave them the charge to multiply — to fill the earth. That is your charge, too.”

Kira’s hands curled against her skirt.

She wanted to ask what if I don’t want that?

She wanted to ask what if I feel something else?

She wanted to ask what if there’s someone who makes me feel more divine than anything else and it’s not a boy nor will it ever be?

But she didn’t.

Because she already knew the answer.

“You must not stray from your creation.” The nun said. “The moment Eve disobeyed, the moment she took the forbidden fruit and took a bite, sin entered the world. And for that, she was cursed. Childbirth in pain. Submission to man. Banishment from paradise.”

Kira looked at her knees. Pale from the cold.

“You know what that means, child?” the nun asked. “Disobedience to God brings suffering. Especially for those like Eve — like you.”

A pause.

And then, like a final hammer to the chest. “If you choose to live in sin.” The nun said softly. “You will go to Hell.”

Kira’s breath caught.

Hell.

It wasn’t fire she pictured, but emptiness. Isolation. A world where Yumeko never smiled again. Where no one looked at her like she was more than what she was born to be.

Hell wasn’t the pit.

Hell was the clearing without Yumeko in it.

Hell was her , ruined.

She nodded quietly, even though the room felt like it was collapsing in on her.

“But Sister…” She found herself whispering. “What if… it’s not chosen? What if it’s just… there?”

The nun didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“It is a temptation.” She said, firm. “One the Devil whispers. One that must be silenced with prayer. With discipline. With faith.”

The word temptation made Kira flinch. Like her heart was an insect that had just been pinned to a board. Cold and unmoving.

“But I—”

“Temptation is not your identity.” The nun cut in. “It is your test. And you must pass.”

Kira wanted to sink into the chair. Into the floor. Into the shadows.

All she could think about was Yumeko’s hands on hers, Yumeko’s cherry-shaped helmet, the warmth of her voice when she said ‘Kira-san’ like it meant something holy.

If that’s temptation , Kira thought, then how is it the only thing that’s ever made me feel like I exist?

But she didn’t say that.

She didn’t say anything.

She nodded like a good girl. Like a Timurov. Like someone who was supposed to believe the fire was real.

The nun opened her Bible again.

“Let us pray.” She said.

Kira bowed her head. Clasped her hands together. Recited the words.

But inside, her thoughts twisted.

Am I really Eve? Is that all I’m supposed to be?

If what I feel is sin, then am I sin?

If Yumeko is wrong… why does it feel like the only thing that’s ever been right?

And then, like a whisper: What if I was never made for Eden at all?

She said amen with the rest of Sister Magdalene.

But her soul didn’t echo it.

That night, Kira went to bed early.

The sky outside her window had already bruised deep blue, and still, she didn’t move. She had finished her readings. The verses were underlined. The lines about obedience. About righteousness. About the narrow road.

She had highlighted the part where Eve was cast out. She’d even read it twice. Just in case.

Sister Magdalene had made it clear. Her feelings were not sacred. They were trial. They were temptation.

And temptation, when acted upon, became sin.

So, she did what a good girl would. She didn’t call. Not tonight. Not the next nights.

Even when the ache in her chest felt more like a bruise with every passing day.

Even when she felt Yumeko waiting for her like a ghost at the edge of every thought.

She held her phone once.

She stared at Yumeko’s name, where it had rested untouched for days now.

But she didn’t reply.

Because if Sister said it was wrong, then Father thought it was wrong.

And if Father thought it was wrong… then who was Kira to think otherwise?

Who was she to argue with God?

So she turned the phone face down and whispered forgive me under her breath, not sure who she meant it for. Then pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and tried to sleep before the guilt could swallow her whole.

This became her ritual.

For three nights, she held the silence like it was something holy.

And every time she shut her eyes, she pictured Yumeko on that swing, all alone in the cold.

On the fourth night, she didn’t even open the curtains. It was easier to pretend the sky was empty.

Until the sound started.

A light, tapping rhythm. Soft. Insistent.

Stone against glass.

Kira sat up.

Another tap. Then another. Then something rolled off the window frame — a marble maybe, or a pebble — clicking against the wooden floor.

Kira stood, heart already pounding. She pulled the curtains aside—

And there she was.

Yumeko.

Down in the garden, grinning like a secret. Wind-tousled hair. Woolen coat too thin for the night. A slingshot in one hand, mischief glowing in her eyes like starlight.

She looked up and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Kira!”

Kira opened the window fast. “What are you doing?” she hissed, panic already blooming in her chest like a fever.

Yumeko just beamed. “Climbing up! Wait!”

“No—Yumeko, wait—!”

But of course Yumeko wouldn’t wait. Yumeko never waited.

Yumeko did what she wanted. And when she smiled like that — bright and wide and unstoppable — it was always Kira who broke first.

So Kira stepped back from the window, helpless. Her hands shook at her sides.

What if someone sees her? What if Father finds out? What if the guards hear?

And then, What if she falls?

Kira leaned out the window. “There’s no trellis!” She whisper-shouted. “You can’t—”

But she could. Somehow she was already halfway up the vines that framed the side of the house, boots slipping a little against the painted bricks.

She shouldn’t be able to. She shouldn’t be laughing. She shouldn’t be real, after all this time, after all the guilt.

And yet.

There she was.

And Kira — who had swallowed silence like it was sacrament, who had turned her back on the only place she’d ever felt safe — felt something in her crack like thawed ice.

Because Yumeko was coming back to her.

Even after all of it.

And Kira could do nothing to stop her.

She didn’t even try.

Yumeko climbed into the room with the recklessness of someone who’d never known caution. She scrambled in through the window like it was something she’d done a thousand times, though the wind was freezing and the climb steep. Her cheeks were flushed, breath shallow, hair a little tangled from the climb.

She looked like a mess. She looked like home.

“Hi.” She said, with that kind of smile that made Kira want to cry.

Kira didn’t return it. She couldn’t.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice harsh with panic. “Are you— are you insane?”

Yumeko blinked, startled, but not offended. Of course not. Yumeko never thought Kira could be cruel, even when Kira said things in tones she didn’t mean. 

She just looked around the room, the soft curtains, the desk with all its neat books, the bed that hadn’t been slept in properly for days.

“You could’ve gotten hurt.” Kira added, stepping toward her, lowering her voice. “You could’ve fallen . What if someone saw you? What if—”

“I missed you.” Yumeko cut in.

Kira stopped.

It shouldn’t have hit her like a knife. But it did.

That one sentence split her straight down the middle.

She swallowed it down, turned her head to the side. “You said you’d call,” Yumeko added, voice quieter now. “You didn’t.”

“I’ve been busy.”

A lie.

She hadn’t been busy.

She’d been praying. Studying. Drowning. 

Telling herself no again and again in the silence of her room.

“You haven’t replied to my texts either,” Yumeko said. There was no accusation in her voice. Just hurt. Deep and disappointed.

“I’ve been busy .” Kira said again, sharper this time, as if repeating the lie might make it feel more like truth. 

As if it might crush down the guilt that clawed its way back up her throat every time Yumeko looked at her like that — like she was a person worth loving.

Yumeko stepped closer. Her presence was warmth. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Kira.” She said. “If I did something wrong, just… tell me, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll say sorry. Just don’t shut me out like this. I hate not knowing what I did.”

Kira looked at her. Really looked. And it felt unbearable.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” She whispered. “You could never be wrong.”

But that wasn’t true, was it?

Because someone had to be wrong. The world said so. Her father said so. The Bible said so. 

So if it wasn’t Yumeko, then it had to be her.

Yumeko took another step closer. “Then why are you avoiding me?”

Kira opened her mouth, but couldn’t make the words come. She was about to say something — anything — just to deflect, when her eyes dropped down.

Red.

There, down her leg, staining her jeans just beneath the knee. It wasn’t much, but it was there . Bright. Ugly.

“You’re bleeding.” Kira said, her breath catching.

Yumeko followed her gaze, then shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

Her voice cracked. It sounded too loud in the quiet.

“You could’ve seriously hurt yourself.”

“I’m not the one hurting me…” Yumeko said softly. “You are.”

And that — that was worse than the blood.

Kira turned away for a second, because if she looked at her too long, she’d break. But she couldn’t run either, so she reached for a pillow, grabbed the desk chair, dragged it close.

“Sit.” She said. It came out more desperate than commanding.

Yumeko looked at her for a long moment before obeying.

Kira knelt in front of her, careful and clinical, her fingers trembling as she rolled up the torn fabric. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was ugly — all raw skin and smeared blood and proof that Yumeko had risked everything to be here.

For her.

For Kira Timurov, who could not even return a text.

She tried to focus on cleaning the cut. Not on the way Yumeko flinched when the antiseptic stung. Not on the way her hands fit perfectly on her skin. Not on the smell of her, like wind and cold air and something sweet that Kira could never name.

Kira gently finished wrapping Yumeko’s leg, tying the bandage into a careful knot, her fingers lingering just a little too long before she pulled away.

“You can’t go down the window.” She said, quiet but firm. “You might— you will fall.”

Yumeko looked at her, brows furrowed. “Why are you ignoring me?”

Kira didn’t answer. She stood and walked to the window instead, drawing the curtains tighter, glancing outside like the dark might give her an excuse not to look back.

“You can’t go out through the door either.” She continued, her voice too even, too rehearsed. “The guards. Or the help. Someone might see you.”

“Kira…” Yumeko said, her voice breaking gently around the syllables.

“We’ll figure something out.” Kira said quickly, too quickly, trying to move past the moment. “There must be another way out. Maybe when—”

“Kira.” Yumeko said again, and this time she reached forward, her hand finding Kira’s cheek, holding her in place. Her voice was small, but the ache behind it was enormous. “Please answer me?”

Kira froze.

Just like that, her whole body caved in on itself. Her breath caught.

Who was she to be doing this?

To Yumeko, of all people?

Who was she to be standing here, cold and stiff like her father’s goddamn commandments, while Yumeko — Yumeko, who always gave her warmth without asking for anything — was breaking right in front of her?

Kira looked at her then, really looked.

The way Yumeko’s hand trembled slightly where it touched her skin.

The way her eyes shimmered, waiting for a truth Kira didn’t know how to give.

The way she still smiled at her like she deserved to be forgiven.

“I’m sorry.” Kira whispered. That’s all she could offer.

Yumeko shook her head, eyes growing glassier. “I don’t need an apology, Kira. I need an explanation.”

And Kira — Kira thought of every possible thing she could say.

That this was wrong.

That she was wrong.

That her heart was broken and bent and not shaped the way it was supposed to be.

That her father told her to stop.

That the Bible said she'd burn.

That love wasn't love when it looked like this.

That maybe she didn’t even deserve to love Yumeko.

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

And all that came out was:

“I really am sorry, Yumeko.” She said again, voice thinner now, barely holding together. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Yumeko looked at her, gaze quietly falling apart. “Then stop ignoring me.”

And Kira couldn’t speak.

She couldn't breathe.

Because what was she supposed to do now?

She was thirteen — just thirteen — and already her heart was caught between two laws of the universe.

An immovable object and an unstoppable force.

Her father would never change.

Arkadi Timurov was carved from stone, unmoved by weather or war or time.

His truths were scripture, and she’d been raised at the altar of his expectations — kneeling, confessing, believing.

He was the God in their narrative.

Not the loving kind. Not the merciful kind.

The kind who commanded. The kind who demanded. The kind who punished.

He had built her spine from steel and scripture, and there were days she feared even blinking the wrong way in front of him.

There was no part of her life untouched by him.

Her walk, her words, the books she was allowed to read.

The people she was allowed to love.

And Yumeko, with her silly cherry-helmet and cloud-shaped dreams.

Yumeko, who knocked on her window like she was trying to knock into her soul.

Yumeko was the unstoppable force.

She would climb walls. She would brave winter. She would sit alone in the cold and wait — for what? For Kira.

For a version of her who was brave enough to climb out of the story her father wrote and into the one Yumeko imagined.

But Yumeko… Yumeko could never belong in Arkadi’s world.

She was everything his world rejected: warmth, softness, defiance that wasn’t loud but lived in every gentle thing she dared to believe in.

Kira felt split right down the middle.

One half of her ached to fall into Yumeko’s arms and never come back.

The other half whispered that obedience was survival, that disobedience was fire and brimstone and exile.

Yumeko flinched.

It was small — just a twitch, a tightening of her jaw, a shift of her hand — but Kira saw it immediately. Her concern flared fast and wordless.

“You should sit.” She said, trying not to sound as panicked as she felt. “On the bed. Just… rest for a bit.”

Yumeko blinked at her like she wanted to argue, but then nodded. She moved slowly, carefully, favoring the leg with the wound Kira had cleaned and wrapped earlier. She sank onto the bed and leaned back on her elbows, still looking at Kira — always looking at her.

And that was the worst part.

Yumeko looked at her like Kira had put the stars in the sky. Like she wasn’t someone who had been ignoring her texts for weeks, who had left her to freeze alone in the cold, who had let others talk about her like she was filth. 

Yumeko still looked at her like she was someone worth loving.

Kira sat down on the floor, facing the bed. She didn’t want to be too far. She needed to watch Yumeko’s face, needed to know if she winced, if her breathing changed, if she was in pain. If anything hurt. She had to know.

And then Yumeko spoke.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t loud. It just was — like a truth the world had always known, but Kira was hearing for the very first time.

It hit her like a slap.

Yumeko’s eyes didn’t waver. She continued, each word laced with more than just breath — it was heart, it was desperation, it was hope trying to survive.

“Not as friends… Not like sisters.” Yumeko said. “I love you more than anyone. And I’m not good with words, I know. That’s probably because all phrases ever made are just recycled pieces of dictionaries. And not even the most carefully crafted sentence could describe how I feel when I’m with you. What I feel for you.”

And that was when Kira broke.

No tears fell — not yet — but something cracked within her. Something fundamental. Something too deep to fix.

Because Yumeko had named it. What Kira had spent weeks — maybe years — pretending didn’t exist. Something that couldn’t be covered by a scarf or excused by cold weather or hidden beneath phrases like “I’ve just been busy.”

And suddenly Kira understood.

She didn’t want Yumeko like the cautionary tale of Adam and Eve.

No.

She desired Yumeko like Eve had wanted the apple.

That terrible, impossible longing. That unbearable beauty — so wrong and so right — shining just out of reach.

She wondered if Eve too, had escaped for a few hours each day just to gaze at the apple. To crave it at a distance, always resisting to take a bite but never fully staying away. 

Had Eve made promises to herself the way Kira did — that she would not give in, not today, not now ?

But Kira swears that unlike Eve, she would never give in. That temptation is for the weak. And Eve is one because she was molded by God while Kira was raised by Arkadi. 

Because in Kira’s world, there was no sin greater than disobedience.

And there was no power greater than her father.

So she sat there, breathing in Yumeko’s love and wishing she could be someone else. Wishing she could be the kind of girl who could bite the fruit and live with the shame.

But Kira was not Eve.

Kira was her father’s daughter.

Chapter Text

Kira didn’t say anything, not that night. Not about what Yumeko said. Not about how her heart leapt and crashed and burned all at once.

Instead, she did what she always did — she took control of the situation. Calculated. Planned. Found a way for Yumeko to climb down safely without alerting the guards or the help. Her hands were steady even though her soul was not. She watched Yumeko disappear into the night like a wish she never had the courage to make, and she closed the window behind her. Locked it. Like that could keep the ache from seeping in.

And after that — silence.

Kira didn’t call.

Yumeko didn’t message.

And Kira didn’t know what that meant. Maybe Yumeko had finally had enough. Maybe she was tired of chasing someone who only knew how to run away. Maybe Yumeko realized that love wasn’t supposed to feel like this — like praying in a burning church.

Kira kept telling herself it was for the best. That this — this distance — was protection. For both of them.

But if it was right , then why did it feel like hell ?

Why did every breath feel like ash in her throat? Why did her chest tighten every time she passed by the clearing in the estate or glanced at her phone during study breaks? Why did her fingers twitch with phantom memory, always wanting to reach out but never moving?

Why did she feel damned — and not in the metaphorical way?

Real damnation, the kind Sister Magdalene spoke of. The kind that stripped you of peace, of light, of love. The kind meant for the wicked and the lost. The kind that felt like punishment for a sin Kira hadn’t even committed, only felt.

There were nights she stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself until her reflection blurred. Until she couldn’t tell if the girl looking back was Kira Timurov, perfect heir and dutiful daughter, or the one Yumeko loved.

Sometimes, she almost called.

Her fingers hovered over the screen.

But she didn’t.

Because she told herself it was temptation.

So instead of dialing, she prayed. Whispered hollow words into her hands, into her pillow, into the cracks of her chest. Sister Magdalene said prayer would cleanse her, center her. Anchor her back to righteousness.

But it didn’t.

There was no peace in it.

She still fell asleep with the same weight in her stomach. The same ache behind her ribs. A dull throb in her throat where her voice used to be.

She still dreamed of red bikes, red blood and cherry red helmets, and a girl with sunlight in her smile, and woke up with guilt clinging to her like a second skin.

The day before her birthday, Kira left the house without asking for permission.

She didn’t even lie about it — didn’t construct one of her airtight excuses or fake a headache for her afternoon lesson. She just walked. Down the hallway, past the guards, across the field. Nobody stopped her. Maybe they didn’t care, or maybe they knew better than to interrupt a Timurov moving with purpose.

Despite the cold, she went to the clearing.

She didn’t know exactly what had pulled her there. Maybe it was the ghost of habit — the memory of how, every afternoon before the frost came, she used to meet Yumeko here. Maybe it was that small voice in the back of her mind, the one she kept trying to silence, that whispered maybe she'll be there.

She wasn’t.

But Kira sat down on the swing anyway. The wood was cold beneath her, and the chains creaked in protest as the wind pushed them gently back and forth. The sun was already dipping low in the sky, its warmth diluted by the thick winter air. She wrapped her coat tighter around her body and stared ahead, at the trees stripped bare and the grass turned brittle.

Everything looked so different in winter. So colorless. The clearing didn’t feel like it used to — it didn’t hum with laughter or smell like sunlight and grass and candy from Yumeko’s pockets. It just felt... empty.

She waited anyway.

She didn’t know why. Maybe she was trying to prove something to herself — that she could be there without expecting anything. That she could sit in this place without her heart clawing at the memory of animal-shaped clouds and fingers laced through hers.

Or maybe... maybe she was hoping.

Maybe, deep down, she thought Yumeko would come crashing back into her life like she always did — uninvited but never unwanted. Climbing windows. Throwing stones. Smiling like she knew secrets Kira had never dared to dream of.

But Yumeko didn’t come.

The sun sank, slowly and then all at once, behind the trees.

And still, Kira waited. For what, she wasn’t sure. A miracle, maybe. Or just for the ache in her chest to subside. But neither came.

Eventually, she stood up. Her legs were stiff, her hands numb. She didn’t cry — she never did anymore — but the cold in her bones had a grief to it. The kind that didn’t need tears to be known.

When she walked back to the house, it was darker than when she left. And colder, somehow.

Because as it turns out, the clearing was just as cold — if not colder — than everything else when Yumeko wasn’t there.

And that was the most unbearable part of all: that the warmth had never been in the place. It had always been in the person.

And Kira had let her go.

The day of Kira’s birthday came and went quietly, as expected. There were no balloons, no laughter, no songs. Just dinner — sterile and silent like every other evening in the Timurov house.

Except tonight, there was a cake.

It was modest, with perfectly smooth white icing and no decorations beyond a small chocolate plaque bearing her name in neat cursive. And there was no candle. Of course there wasn’t. Candles were for wishes, and in this house, wishes were seen as childish indulgence. 

Kira had never blown out a birthday candle in her life. She didn’t even know that was a thing until she was eleven, when a movie at school showed a little girl grinning with her eyes closed, making a wish before she blew one out.

She’d gone home that day and asked why they never did that. No one answered her, but she remembered what her father had said once, offhand, like it was fact written into law: There is nothing gift-worthy about surviving another year.

That stayed with her.

So the cake sat there, untouched for most of the meal, a quiet symbol of something unspoken. Something not allowed.

After dinner, Kira rose from the table like she always did and made her way back to her room, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her like she was still in prayer. But before she could reach the door, Riri stepped out from her own room, holding a small box.

Kira blinked. “What’s that?”

Riri hesitated, then offered it to her, her voice low. “It’s for you.”

Kira stared at it, unmoving. A gift. That alone made her heart tighten. No one gave gifts in this house — not for birthdays, not for anything.

She didn’t reach for it. Her arms stayed at her sides.

Riri glanced around, then leaned in just a bit. “It’s from Yumeko.”

Kira’s breath hitched.

“…What?”

Riri didn’t answer, just signaled with her eyes, a glance down the hall — someone might hear . Then, without a word, she pulled Kira gently into her room and closed the door.

“She gave it to me earlier.” Riri said once they were inside. “I was in the garden. She just… showed up. Said it was for your birthday.”

Kira looked down at the box. She still hadn’t touched it.

The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that presses down on your ribs like it’s trying to break them.

Yumeko had remembered. Even after everything. Even after the silence. Even after Kira had disappeared into obedience, trying to scrape Yumeko out of her life like she was a stain. And yet, she still remembered. She still cared.

That knowledge wrapped itself around Kira’s throat like guilt with fingers.

“Are you still…” Riri shifted a little, watching her. “Seeing her?”

Kira finally blinked, voice small and flat. “I’m not.”

Riri frowned. “Then why’d she give you something?”

“I don’t know.” Kira snapped, too quickly. Too defensively. She stepped forward and snatched the box from Riri’s hands, her body tense, her jaw tight.

She made for the door, eager to leave, to be alone with this impossible weight in her hands.

But Riri’s voice followed her, soft but sharp. “Just… be careful.”

Kira paused.

“You know what you have to do.” Riri said quietly behind her. “And it’s not… whatever this is.”

Kira didn’t turn around. She didn’t respond.

She just stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind her, box clutched to her chest like it was contraband.

Kira’s footsteps quickened.

She didn’t know what possessed her — maybe it was longing, maybe guilt, maybe the tiny, aching ember of hope still glowing under the ashes of everything she was trying to bury. Whatever it was, it dragged her back to her room with frantic, quiet urgency. She didn’t even notice how hard her fingers were trembling until she turned the knob and slipped inside.

And then she froze.

Because Yumeko was there.

Sitting on her bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she belonged there. As if she hadn’t become this ache in Kira’s chest — this glowing, terrible contradiction.

Kira’s back hit the door as she shut it gently, breath catching. “What… what are you doing here?” She whispered. Not with anger. Not with fear. Just with the softness of someone afraid the moment might break if spoken too loudly.

Yumeko stood, her eyes warm, if a little tired.

“So you got it.” She said, nodding toward the small box still in Kira’s hands.

Kira looked down at it, almost surprised to still be holding it. She nodded. “Riri gave it to me.”

Yumeko gave a little smile at that, the kind that twisted Kira’s heart because of how easily she smiled, even now. Even after everything. But then, her voice turned quiet again.

“You didn’t call.”

Kira’s grip tightened around the box.

“I… I wasn’t sure if I should.”

The air was thick between them — not heavy with tension, exactly, but with something harder to define. The kind of silence that had been waiting too long to be filled.

A pause. Kira’s eyes flicked up, unsure.

“Aren’t you mad?”

She didn’t say what for. She didn’t have to. It was there — the weight of that night, those words left hanging in the air, unanswered.

But Yumeko shook her head, smiling again, soft and sad. “No.”

Kira’s brow furrowed slightly. “Then… why didn’t you message me anymore?”

Yumeko took a step closer. Her hands were loose at her sides. Her voice was even. “I just needed space. To think.”

Kira swallowed. “And?”

Yumeko looked at her for a moment, really looked at her. Then she stepped forward again — slow, careful — and took one of Kira’s hands into her own.

Her touch was warm, familiar, unthreatening. 

It ached.

“And…” She said. “You shouldn’t feel guilty for not feeling the same way.”

“I can’t blame you for not loving me.” Yumeko went on, voice barely above a whisper now. “The same way I can’t hate snow for being cold.”

Her fingers tightened gently around Kira’s.

“That’s just the way it is. Maybe I don’t like it. Maybe it hurts. But that’s just life.”

Kira felt something break inside her.

Because Yumeko had it wrong.

But how could she possibly say that? How could she explain that it wasn’t absence of love, but too much of it — too much to hold, too much to say, too much to live with when everything else in Kira’s life told her that this love, this beautiful thing, was a sin stitched into her bones?

She said nothing. Not yet. Only stared at Yumeko with eyes that shimmered, wide and heavy, and held her hand back.

Yumeko then smiled and whispered. “Happy birthday, Kira-san.” 

Then, softly, she pressed her lips to Kira’s forehead — featherlight, reverent. It was warm and brief and over far too quickly.

“I should probably go back now.” Yumeko added as she turned away. “I just really wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

But before she could take another step, Kira’s hand shot out, delicate fingers wrapping around Yumeko’s wrist.

“Why don’t you sleep here instead?” She asked, voice barely above a breath. “We’ve never had a sleepover.”

Yumeko turned back, surprised. “What if they see me?”

Kira didn’t answer with words. She turned around, walked to her door, and twisted the lock into place with a soft, final click. Then she looked back over her shoulder.

“They won’t.”

Yumeko stared for a moment. Then she smiled, full and bright, and pulled Kira into a hug.

They lay on Kira’s bed later, under the sheets, side by side in the dark.

And God. Yumeko was close. So close that Kira could hear her breathing, feel the warmth of her breath ghosting over her cheek. Their knees occasionally bumped under the blanket, small electric touches that felt too much and not enough all at once.

Her father would say this was a sin. Sister Magdalene would say the devil was whispering in her ear. But lying there, side by side with Yumeko, nothing about it felt unholy.

It didn’t feel like a fire waiting to consume her.

It felt like warmth. 

Like home.

Then Yumeko spoke, quiet, certain. “I still love you. That didn’t change.”

Kira turned to face her fully, wide-eyed, unsure how to respond. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

“I just wanted to tell you.” Yumeko said gently. “So you know. Just because I can be your friend doesn’t mean that changed. It hasn’t.”

Kira swallowed. “Well… isn’t that hard?”

Yumeko gave a soft laugh and reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Kira’s ear. Her fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary. “It is.” She admitted. “But I’d take this with you over silence. Silence hurts in ways I don’t know how to explain. It’s like…”

She paused, looking up at the ceiling. “Like you died. But I know you didn’t. I know you’re just next door. And yet, it feels like you did.”

Then she looked at Kira again. “Except this is weirder, because when someone dies, you know they will never come back. But with you… I grieve your loss in my life but there will always be a possibility of resurrection because you didn’t really die. And so I can’t let go. Because I’ll always cling to the hope that you might still come back.”

Kira’s chest tightened painfully. “I’m sorry.” She whispered.

But Yumeko just smiled at her, tired but kind. “You don’t need to be sorry. We can’t control what we feel. And we can’t control what we don’t. You did nothing wrong, Kira.”

Then, quietly, she reached under the sheets, found Kira’s hand, and brought it to her lips. She kissed the back of it softly and said. “Goodnight, Kira.”

And then she turned away, her back now facing Kira.

But Kira didn’t close her eyes. She just lay there in the dark, staring at Yumeko’s silhouette.

How is it that Yumeko — the one everyone insists is wrong for her, the one who doesn’t belong in the world her father built — could say something like that? 

Could look at Kira, even when she’s hurting, and still say Kira had done nothing wrong?

While her father, while Sister Magdalene, people Kira had never harmed, never even defied until recently, kept insisting she was broken. 

That what she felt was unnatural. 

Sinful. 

Worth eternal damnation.

But the only person Kira was actually hurting… was Yumeko. And Yumeko still told her she wasn’t wrong.

So maybe — just maybe — someone was wrong. 

But Kira didn’t know who. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was Yumeko. Maybe it was her father. Maybe it was sister Magdalene. Maybe it was even God. 

She didn’t know. 

She wasn’t even sure she’d ever know.

But tonight… tonight she wanted to believe it was Yumeko who was right.

So with trembling hands, Kira closed the small distance between them and wrapped her arms around Yumeko from behind, fitting herself into the familiar warmth of her body. She pressed a soft kiss to the back of Yumeko’s head and whispered into her hair:

“Goodnight, Yumeko.”

She didn’t say I love you .

But she held her like a prayer.

And for now, that was the closest thing to truth she could offer.

Kira woke slowly, the faint weight of Yumeko still beside her, warm and unbothered by the looming day. Her eyes fluttered open to the dim morning light leaking through the curtains. She blinked, heart immediately sinking — 6:05.

Her stomach twisted in panic.

I’m late.  

The tutoring session with Sister Magdalene was at 6. 

Yumeko was still asleep, her soft breathing a peaceful rhythm that made Kira’s chest ache. She didn’t want to wake her — not yet. Not when Yumeko looked so calm, so innocent, like everything was okay. But time was running out. 

Someone would come knocking, eventually. And she couldn’t keep the door locked forever.

Kira swallowed hard, shaking Yumeko gently. “Yumeko.” She whispered.

Yumeko’s eyes opened, and that stupid, brilliant smile spread across her face — the one that always made Kira’s defenses crumble in an instant. “Good morning, Kira-san.” She said, voice sleepy but full of warmth.

Kira smiled back, even as the anxiety gnawed at her. It was already 6:07. Too late.

Yumeko shook her head, pouting playfully, then stretched out her arms. “Hug?”

Of course Kira melted. She couldn’t say no. She wrapped her arms around Yumeko, the tension in her body easing for just a moment. But then Yumeko pulled her back down, lying beside her again.

Kira’s breath hitched, and the panic shifted — because Yumeko was so close now, so impossibly close. Her warmth, her scent, her steady heartbeat against Kira’s skin — it was a dangerous distraction. 

Kira’s eyes locked onto Yumeko’s, those deep, shimmering eyes that felt like they could unravel her from the inside out.

God, why does this feel like the only safe place and the most forbidden place all at once?

Just then, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

Panic slammed into Kira with full force. 

No, no, no.

Her voice was barely a whisper, urgent and trembling. “Hide. Under the bed. Now.”

Yumeko didn’t hesitate. She slipped beneath the bedframe, disappearing just as Kira hurried to unlock the door.

Standing there were Riri and one of the help, both eyes immediately going to Kira’s flushed cheeks and slightly disheveled hair.

Riri’s brow furrowed, confusion clouding her usually unreadable expression.

The help leaned closer, concern in her voice. “Oh my God, you’re red. Are you sick?”

Kira’s throat tightened. But the redness in her cheeks betrayed her, making the lie fragile and weak. “I’m not.” She said quickly, voice strained. “It’s… nothing.”

The help shook her head with a tired sigh. “I’ll inform your father. You need to stay in bed today. I’ll bring you breakfast and some medicine.”

Kira nodded numbly, the world narrowing around her.

The help left, but Riri didn’t. 

Instead, she stepped inside, eyes narrowing sharply as she scanned the room with an unsettling intensity.

Kira’s panic spiked. 

She’s not supposed to come in here. Not like this. Not when Yumeko’s—

“What are you doing?” Kira’s voice cracked, her anxiety breaking through.

Riri didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on Kira’s face, cold and assessing. Then, with a voice edged in accusation and something darker, she said. “You never miss your duties, even when you’re sick.”

Kira forced a bitter laugh, feeling cornered and helpless. “That’s how sick I am today.”

Riri’s eyes swept the room again, sharper, more searching. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Then, without a flicker of hesitation, Riri sat on Kira’s bed, leaning forward. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Yumeko, get out. I know you’re under the bed.”

Kira’s breath caught in her throat. Heart pounding like a drum in her ears. 

No. Please no.

The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in. She swallowed hard, panic choking her words. 

Riri’s eyes locked onto Kira’s, unblinking and sharp, as if daring her to lie or to refuse. The weight of that gaze crushed Kira’s breath in her chest.

“Are you both going to make me look?” Riri said, voice low but hard, laced with both challenge and warning.

Kira’s mind raced — every escape route vanished, every denial pointless. There’s no way out. The consequences were clear, looming like a storm on the horizon.

With a slow exhale, Kira gave in. “Yumeko, come on…” She said quietly. “It might be dusty under there.”

Yumeko emerged, brushing off imaginary dust with a nervous grin that tried to lighten the moment. “Oh wow, didn’t know you were here, Riri.” She teased playfully.

But Riri didn’t even glance at her. Her eyes were fixed on Kira as she asked sharply. “What’s Yumeko doing here?”

Kira’s heart slammed. “It’s none of your business." She answered immediately, voice defensive.

Riri’s expression hardened. “It is my business, because I have to tell Father. And so I have to know.”

Kira’s heart thundered in her chest, each beat pounding louder than the last, drowning out reason and clarity. The weight of Riri’s stare pressed down on her like a physical force, heavy and unforgiving. She could feel every second stretching, the air thick with unspoken threats and impossible choices.

Her mind raced — images flashing of their father’s cold, unyielding face, the scolding, the punishment, the chilling finality in his voice whenever rules were broken. 

He’ll never forgive this. This won’t just be a warning; it’ll be a reckoning.

The silence dragged on, the air thick with tension, until the words slipped out — fragile, desperate. “Don’t tell Father, Riri.”

Even as the plea left her lips, Kira felt the walls closing in tighter, the weight of her decision settling over her like a shadow she couldn’t escape.

Riri’s gaze didn’t waver, cold and calculating, like she was weighing every ounce of Kira’s soul against some invisible scale. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Riri’s voice was quiet but sharp, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Because if Father knows... everything breaks.

Kira’s mind spun — the punishments, the whispered warnings, the cold nights where guilt was the only warmth. 

I can’t lose Yumeko. Not like this. 

“Because I said so.” Kira’s voice was barely a whisper, trembling but resolute.

Riri’s eyes narrowed, sensing the fragility beneath the words, the quiet defiance. “Then tell me, why is she here?”

Before Kira could answer, Yumeko’s voice broke through the tension, light but nervous. “I just wished Kira a happy birthday.”

Riri’s stare snapped to Yumeko, unamused. “I’m not asking you.”

The irritation in Kira flared like a sudden flame. “Riri, don’t be rude.”

Eyebrows raised, Riri said flatly, “She’s an unwelcome guest in this house.”

Kira’s breath caught. “She’s welcome in my room.”

Riri’s voice dropped, cold as ice. “Will she still be, if Father finds out?”

The question lingered in the air like a curse. Yumeko’s lips parted, defiant. “Would he really be that mad I snuck in?”

Both Kira and Riri answered, almost in unison: “Yes.”

Yumeko’s gaze sharpened, fierce. “Why? I’d apologize for not having permission, but what’s so wrong about having a sleepover with your friend?”

Riri’s look flicked to Kira — sharp, knowing. “You haven’t told her?”

Kira’s insides twisted into knots. Yumeko’s eyes searched hers. “Tell me what?”

“Nothing.” Kira said quickly, trying to shut the door on the truth.

Riri’s voice cut through, low and warning. “Is it?”

“Stay out of it.” Kira snapped, the panic tightening her chest.

Yumeko frowned, concern etching her face. “Riri, what is it?”

Kira’s voice was a low warning. “Riri.”

But Riri didn’t relent. Her eyes locked on Yumeko’s. “Father disapproves of your... connection.”

The words hung between them like a blade poised to fall. Yumeko’s gaze turned glassy, on the edge of breaking, and Kira felt a hollow ache open inside her chest.

Riri stood abruptly. “I’m leaving. You have a lot to talk about.”

As she passed the door, she stopped and glanced back. “Make sure Yumeko goes home soon. Your breakfast will be here shortly.”

The click of the closing door left Kira alone with a storm raging inside — fear, guilt, love, and the unbearable weight of all the choices she couldn’t undo.

The moment stretched thin — so thin Kira could feel it threatening to snap. Yumeko was looking at her like her whole world was tilting, like the ground beneath her was turning to water. Her voice, when it came, was too gentle to carry the weight of what she was asking.

“Is it true?”

Kira froze. That voice wasn’t made to sound like that. It wasn’t meant to be soaked in disbelief, in betrayal. Kira couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even look at her. Her lungs felt too tight, like she hadn’t breathed in hours.

Yumeko stepped closer. “Kira.” She said again, firmer now. “Is it true?”

Kira lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

Just that. One word. But it was enough to wreck everything.

Yumeko flinched, and her voice wavered. “Why?”

Kira opened her mouth. “Because…” But the rest of it died before it even touched her tongue.

Because what? Because it’s sin? Because her father had carved commandments into her skin and spine? Because love was only allowed when it fit inside the walls he built?

She couldn’t say it in pieces. There was no version of the truth that didn’t burn at the edges. She couldn’t tell Yumeko she loved her. She couldn’t lie and say she didn’t. And silence was a wound, but at least it wasn’t a betrayal of either.

Yumeko was still waiting. Her voice now was sharper, more cracked than soft. “Because?”

“I… I can’t tell you…” Kira said, her voice thin, like breath through a crack in a wall.

Yumeko blinked at her, a sharp flicker of confusion crossing her face before her brows knit, her lips trembling. “Why not?”

Kira’s mouth opened, closed. The words clung to her throat like thorns. Her chest burned. She wanted to scream the truth, spit it out before it rotted her from the inside, but how could she?

Because I love you.

Because my father would call it a sin.

Because he would call me a sin.

Because I don’t know how to exist if he’s right.

Because if he’s right, then you’re wrong. And that can’t be true. 

But all she could manage was a broken. “I just—” H er voice cracked. Her eyes stung. “I just can’t.”

Yumeko stared at her, long and hard, her expression morphing from confusion to devastation in slow, excruciating degrees. “What is so wrong with me…” She asked, voice quivering. “That your father hates me?”

“No.” Kira said instantly, horrified, shaking her head. “Don’t say that. Yumeko, no . There is nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why?” Her voice rose, a brittle edge slicing through it. “Why doesn’t he like me? Why does he think that I’m something he has to keep away from you? What did I do?”

Kira’s stomach turned. Her nails dug into the fabric of her skirt, clenched tight in her lap. The pressure behind her eyes pulsed.

“I can’t tell you.” She whispered, finally. “I’m sorry.”

But sorry wasn’t enough. Sorry was a bandage on a bullet wound. It wasn’t the truth Yumeko deserved. It wasn’t the love Yumeko gave.

And Yumeko knew that.

She stood frozen for a beat, blinking fast. Then, slowly, quietly, she crouched down and began gathering her things. Her movements were mechanical, careful — the kind of careful that comes when you’re trying not to fall apart. Like every breath hurt.

Kira watched in silence, every instinct in her screaming to move, to stop her, to say something, anything. But the war inside her — love versus loyalty, feeling versus fear — had gutted her voice.

“When you’re ready to tell me the truth…” Yumeko paused, her gaze locked on the floor. “Call me.”

She turned to the window, shoved it open. The morning sun flooded the room with unforgiving light. She climbed out without looking back.

And Kira sat there, motionless.

There were probably guards now. Someone might see. Someone might tell her father. But none of that mattered.

The only thing Kira could feel was the silence left behind — thick, suffocating, absolute.

Yumeko was gone.

And Kira was the reason.

She’d done it again. Pushed her away. Chosen silence over softness. Doctrine over devotion.

And she hated herself for it.

Kira didn’t move for a long time after Yumeko left.

The window stayed open, cold morning air slipping through and brushing against her skin like a quiet scold. She kept staring, like if she looked long enough, Yumeko might climb back up again.

But she didn’t.

Eventually, her fingers found her phone.

Did you get home safe?

She stared at the message, her thumb hovering above the send button for a second too long before she tapped it. The screen lit up with ‘Delivered.’

And then nothing.

No read receipt. No response. Not even the blinking dots that used to give her hope.

Kira swallowed down the lump rising in her throat.

She understood. She did. Yumeko had been clear — more clear than she ever had to be.

If Kira wanted to keep her, if she wanted to keep this , she had to call. She had to be honest.

But Kira couldn’t.

She was still too scared to put a name to what she felt.

Too scared to say it out loud and watch it shatter everything her life was built on.

Because what if she spoke the truth and God struck her down?

What if she let it slip and her father exiled her from the only world she’d ever known?

She’d tried to live with the lie. But the silence was starting to rot her from the inside.

She curled into her bed, fists clutching the sheets.

Tears started slow — as if she was still trying to be strong for no one. But they didn’t stop. They kept coming, wave after wave, until she was choking on sobs, face buried in her pillow like that would hide her from it all.

Her father thought she was sick.

The help did, too.

And Riri knew better, so she wouldn’t say anything.

So fine. Let them think she was sick.

She was sick — just not in the way they meant.

She was sick with grief.

With longing.

With guilt and regret and a shame that didn’t belong to her, but had been stitched into her skin like scripture.

And if hiding under the covers gave her a day’s worth of silence — a day where no one expected her to pray or confess or pretend to be someone she wasn’t — she’d take it.

Because today, Kira didn’t have the strength to lie anymore.

And she didn’t have the courage to be honest either.

So she just cried.

And when she finally fell asleep, face damp and body curled into itself like a question mark, she dreamed of a world where love wasn’t a sin.

Where Yumeko could walk through the front door.

Where Kira didn’t have to choose between what she felt and what was allowed .

And where none of this would’ve ended in silence.

Chapter Text

The thing about time was that it never asked if you were ready to move on.

Winter had passed — bitter and gray and cruel — and spring followed like it was supposed to, blooming with new life and softness Kira couldn’t feel. She went through the motions, each day a hollow performance of obedience. 

Wake. Pray. Study. Repeat.

She smiled when expected, nodded when required, and locked every forbidden thought behind a face that had learned how not to betray her.

But the ache didn’t leave. She thought it would, but it didn’t.

It only grew quieter. Sharper. Smarter.

Like grief that learned how to dress itself in silence.

It was summer now. The air was thick with heat and humming with insects, and yet Kira still felt cold most days. She told herself this was how it had to be — that Yumeko’s absence was a necessary wound. 

But lies don’t stop hurting just because they sound noble.

And today, the ache sharpened into something unbearable.

Because today was Yumeko’s birthday.

And Kira wasn’t there.

She didn’t know if Yumeko was smiling or surrounded by people or blowing out candles on a cake she never got to see. She didn’t know if Yumeko remembered the last time they were together — how she left through a window and never came back.

She didn’t know if Yumeko still waited.

Or worse — if she’d stopped.

Kira had spent the entire day pretending not to care. Pretending it didn’t matter. But as the hours dragged on, it became harder to breathe. Every shadow looked like her. Every breeze felt like memory. Every time her phone buzzed with nothing, it hit like a punch to the ribs.

And by sunset, Kira gave in.

She told herself it was just a walk.

But her feet knew the way by heart.

The clearing hadn’t changed much. A little too overgrown, maybe. The swing groaned louder than before. No one had been here in months, that was evident.

Kira sat.

The world around her was gold, bleeding slowly into violet. She watched the sun melt behind the trees and told herself she’d leave as soon as it set.

Because if she stayed longer, it might mean she was still waiting.

And she wasn’t.

She couldn’t be.

She chose this.

She had to.

Didn’t she?

Far in the distance, she heard the familiar sound of tires crunching on gravel — the return of the Kawamoto car. They’d been out celebrating, probably. A nice dinner. Laughter. Maybe a gift.

Kira didn’t turn around.

She couldn’t bear the thought of looking and not seeing her.

But she also couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her either — of seeing Yumeko from a distance, happy and healed, and untouched by the ruin Kira left behind.

The sun disappeared. A warm breeze stirred the grass. Kira closed her eyes and stood, ready to leave this place behind once more.

But when she turned around — her breath caught.

Because standing there, at the edge of the clearing, as if conjured by the ache in her chest, was Yumeko.

She looked almost exactly the same — maybe a little taller, her hair longer, her posture straighter — but her eyes held something Kira hadn’t seen before.

Distance.

Or maybe just time.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither spoke. The world held its breath for them.

They just looked at each other like ghosts who remembered how to be alive.

And finally, after what felt like an entire season passed between them, Kira said, quietly, awkwardly. “Oh… hi.”

Yumeko blinked. Then said, just as softly. “Hello.”

A pause stretched between them again before Yumeko added. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I.” Kira said, voice barely audible. Like speaking too loud would break the spell.

Yumeko tilted her head a little. “So… why are you here?”

“I…” Kira opened her mouth, but nothing came out. What was she supposed to say? That she couldn’t stop thinking about her? That she missed her more than she missed her own reflection? That being apart hadn’t made her forget — it had made her feel more?

Her silence answered for her.

And the look that passed over Yumeko’s face — quiet disappointment, soft and unsurprised — nearly split Kira in half.

“I remembered it was your birthday.” Kira said quickly, the words tumbling out like a confession. “And… happy birthday, Yumeko.”

Yumeko’s eyes lit up. Just slightly. Just enough to make something in Kira’s chest unclench. “You remembered?”

Kira smiled, small and sad and real. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I just…” Yumeko hesitated. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text. For months. So I thought maybe… you forgot about me.”

“I’ll never forget about you.” Kira said, and she meant it like a promise. A vow. A quiet truth that had lived in her marrow all this time.

Yumeko didn’t say anything in response. She just stepped forward, closing the final space between them, and wrapped her arms around Kira like she never stopped belonging there.

“I missed you, Kira.” She whispered into her shoulder.

And Kira melted.

Because God — oh God — she had spent months pretending she didn’t need this. Pretending she was fine. Pretending she didn’t have space in her life for Yumeko.

But in that moment, held in Yumeko’s arms, everything she’d buried came surging back — warmth, feeling, breath — like the first gasp of air after too long underwater.

When they pulled away, just enough to look at each other, Kira whispered. “Sorry I didn’t bring a gift. I… I didn’t know I’d see you today.”

Yumeko smiled, eyes still shining. “Well… how about the truth?”

Kira froze.

The truth.

It settled in her throat like stone.

But after a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”

They moved to the swing, brushing off leaves and dust, and sat together like they used to — but this time, it was different. They’d grown. Just enough for the space to feel smaller. 

Their arms and legs pressed too closely. It felt like closeness, like tension, like a secret waiting to be said aloud.

Kira hesitated for only a second before looping her arm around Yumeko’s waist — more for space than comfort, or at least that’s what she told herself — and Yumeko responded by wrapping her arm around Kira’s shoulder.

They fit. Somehow, still.

Kira’s heart was a storm. But she focused. She owed Yumeko that much.

“It’s because of that time we, um… went to that diner.” She started. “I skipped class that day. I’m not supposed to skip. Ever. And… after that, he told me I couldn’t see you anymore.”

Yumeko’s brows knit together. “Can’t I just apologize to him? Maybe it’ll fix it?”

Kira shook her head. “No. It won’t make a difference because…”

She trailed off. The words were there, raw and blistering, but she couldn’t bear to let them out. 

I love you.

Not yet. Maybe not tonight.

But Yumeko saw it. The weight. The fracture. The fight she wasn’t ready to name.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now, Kira.” She said gently. “I’m okay just knowing you’re trying. That… that you’ll get there. It’s alright, even if you can’t say it all yet.”

Yumeko smiled — and it was just a smile, really. Simple. Quiet. The kind that softened rather than pierced. And still, it felt like something ancient stirred.

There were people, once — before churches, before books, before names carved into stone — who looked up at the sky each morning and found divinity in the sun. Who bent their heads not out of guilt, but out of awe. Who didn’t fear it. 

Who needed it.

Kira had always been taught that was wrong.

That worship had rules. That it had to be earned through obedience and sacrifice. That it came from above — distant, towering, never to be questioned.

But tonight, in the hush of the clearing, under the breath of trees and the thin silver veil of moonlight — she understood something she wasn’t sure she was supposed to.

Because Yumeko was just sitting there, not trying to be anything, and yet Kira felt her chest ache like she was being pulled by something older than rules. Something older than shame.

And even though the sun had set hours ago, she still felt it. Not on her skin — but beneath it.

And that was the terrifying part. The beautiful part.

That Yumeko didn’t have to be daylight to carry its warmth.

For a moment — just one — Kira let herself believe . Not fully. Not loudly. But in the way your breath catches in your throat when something touches the part of you that you thought had gone quiet.

And maybe that was what the old worshippers felt, back when faith wasn’t about punishment, but proximity — when it was enough just to be near what kept you alive.

Yumeko turned to her, the moon casting soft shadows across her cheekbones, and Kira felt it again.

Not God.

Not salvation.

But something that felt just as holy.

And she finally understood why people once turned their faces to the sun and called it sacred.

Yumeko was the one to break the silence this time.

“We probably should leave now.” She murmured, though her voice carried no real urgency. It sounded more like a suggestion made out of politeness than anything either of them truly wanted.

Kira nodded, but neither of them really made an effort to do so. They just stood there, feet half-turned toward home but bodies still facing each other, hands hanging too close, eyes not yet done memorizing the other’s face. As if they were afraid that once they turned away, the moment might vanish. Or worse — they might vanish.

And then Yumeko reached out.

She took both of Kira’s hands gently in hers, warm fingers lacing through, grounding them in something real. She looked down at their hands, then up at Kira, voice barely more than a breath.

“Will I see you here tomorrow?”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand. Just a quiet question, trembling with hope. 

Kira didn’t answer right away. She looked at Yumeko — at the girl who had haunted every hour of silence, every ache in her chest, every night she tried to fall asleep without crying.

And then she smiled.

“Only if I get to see you too.”

Yumeko’s face lit up at that, the way it always did when Kira said something that made her happy. That same smile—the one that seemed to turn even the darkest sky into morning. That same warmth that had made the coldest months bearable.

Kira stepped forward, leaned in, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Yumeko’s cheek. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just gentle and sure, like something she’d been waiting her whole life to do.

And then she turned around, letting go only because she had to.

She walked home slowly, the smile never once leaving her face. It was the kind of smile that felt too big to belong to someone like her — someone who had spent the last few months trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing by pushing Yumeko away. And yet, there it was.

That night, when Kira climbed into bed, she didn’t cry. She didn’t have to. No guilt curled inside her chest. No ache gnawed at her ribs.

For the first time in months, sleep came easily.

Because for the first time in months, she let herself feel what she really wanted.

And what she wanted… had smiled back.

Since that night, the girls began meeting again every single day.

It was almost as if nothing had ever changed. Like all those months apart were just a long, strange dream. They fell back into their rhythm easily — talking about nothing and everything, sharing stories they could never say aloud anywhere else, finding each other’s presence in the quiet again. There was a sense of ritual to it. 

As if the sun’s descent each day was the bell that called them home.

And then winter came.

The cold stung sharp this year, frost biting at every surface by late afternoon. The clearing, once filled with the golden light of long days, was now subdued, hushed under pale skies and bare branches. Kira didn’t want to make Yumeko walk in this kind of cold. 

She knew how fragile she got during winter, how her lips turned blue too quickly, how her hands stayed cold no matter how many layers she wore. Kira worried. She offered to skip some days, stay home, meet when it was warmer again.

But Yumeko refused, gently but firmly. “I still want to see you, even in the cold.” She said, and that was that.

And of course, Kira couldn’t argue with her. She never really could.

So they met. Every day. Even in the biting air. Even with numb fingers and bundled scarves and breath fogging between them. Still, they came.

And now it was Kira’s birthday.

She hadn’t told Yumeko not to bring a gift out of politeness — it was guilt. The guilt of last year still lingered, like a bruise that hadn’t quite healed. 

Kira had never opened the gift Yumeko gave her back then. It had sat in the drawer of her desk all this time, tucked in a corner like something she was afraid to look at. A small box, wrapped with soft paper and careful hands, too full of love she hadn’t known what to do with.

She kept it, of course. Of course she did.

And today, finally, she slipped it into her coat pocket.

She figured it was time. She’d open it in the place where it was always meant to be opened — in that clearing, with Yumeko beside her.

She had texted her earlier that day. “Please don’t bring anything.” She kept it short. Didn’t explain. Just hoped Yumeko would listen.

She didn’t.

Kira was already sitting on the swing when she heard the familiar footsteps crunching lightly over the frost-covered leaves. And then came the sound of a voice — soft, melodic, teasing.

“Happy birthday to you...”

Kira turned, the swing creaking a little beneath her, and saw Yumeko walking toward her, bundled in layers, her nose pink from the cold, and in her gloved hands — a small, round cake, pale blue and perfectly frosted.

Kira couldn’t help the way her face broke into a smile. And beneath that smile was a tremor of something deeper. Something that sounded a lot like God, I missed you even when you were right here.

Yumeko grinned, holding the cake like a prize. “It’s blueberry. I thought it was fitting since you like blue.”

Kira laughed softly, shaking her head. “I told you not to bring anything.”

“And since when have I ever listened to that?”

“You’re so silly.” Kira said softly, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.

“No.” Yumeko replied firmly, her eyes shining with quiet conviction. “I just love you.”

And there it was again — despite everything, despite the silence, the distance, the fear, Yumeko still loved her. And Kira, for all her walls and hesitation, still couldn’t find the courage to say it back.

So she simply said. “Thank you.”

She was about to take the gift when Yumeko pulled something small and familiar from her own pocket — a candle and a lighter.

Without missing a beat, Yumeko placed the candle carefully on top of the cake and flicked the lighter until the flame danced atop the wax.

“It’s time to make a wish, Kira-san.” She said with a bright, hopeful smile.

Kira’s heart melted. Yumeko had put so much thought and effort into this. Here she was, giving Kira a new experience — something simple yet so deeply special, even if she didn’t know how much it meant.

“Well?” Yumeko pressed, a playful impatience in her voice. “What are you waiting for? Make a wish and blow, so we can eat now.”

Kira giggled softly at Yumeko’s eagerness. She closed her eyes, whispering a silent wish — to be able to love Yumeko without fear, without doubt, without hesitation.

Then she blew out the candle in one steady breath.

When she opened her eyes, Yumeko cheered, “Yay! Happy birthday, Kira!”

Giggling, Kira held the cake carefully as Yumeko reached into her bag and pulled out a warm blanket. She laid it gently on the snow-covered ground, then took the cake back and set it down on the blanket.

Yumeko sat down and held out her hand to Kira, helping her settle beside her.

From the bag, Yumeko produced two spoons, a knife, and two plastic plates.

She sliced the cake neatly, placing a piece on each plate, and handed one to Kira with a smile full of warmth and quiet joy.

Yumeko gently nudged Kira’s hand holding the plate. “You take the first bite.”

Kira blinked, surprised. “Why?”

“Because it’s your birthday.” Yumeko said with a grin that was all warmth and teasing.

Kira couldn’t help but laugh — a quiet, warm sound that seemed to soften the cold around them. She lifted the fork slowly, tasting the cake.

The sweetness hit her immediately. Too much sugar, too much frosting. It was definitely not her usual flavor.

Yumeko leaned forward, eyes sparkling with anticipation. “How is it? I made it.”

Kira swallowed hard, the lump of emotion tightening her throat. She smiled gently, cheeks warming beneath the cold winter air. “I love it. Thank you.”

Yumeko bit into her own slice, then froze for a moment, her face scrunching up in a mix of worry and disappointment. “Oh no… I think I made it too sweet.”

Kira shook her head quickly, eager to ease Yumeko’s worries. “No, it’s perfect,” she said softly, finishing her bite. The cake wasn’t just sugar, though it definitely mostly was, it was something made by Yumeko, for her.

Yumeko’s lips curved into a playful pout, teasing but with a hint of vulnerability. “Don’t lie to me.”

Kira met her gaze steadily, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small, mischievous grin. “No, really. I love it.”

She reached for another slice, and Yumeko laughed—a gentle, light sound that floated between them like warmth in the crisp air.

“You don’t have to pretend, it’s okay.” Yumeko said, eyes twinkling. “It’s too sweet, I know.”

Kira held Yumeko’s gaze, holding back a smile that said, I know you want me to stop lying.

“Fine.” Kira admitted with a soft sigh. “It’s too sweet. But you made it, so of course I love it.”

She helped herself to another slice, the snow crunching faintly under their feet as they sat close.

“Hey!” Yumeko said, mock-serious. “You’ll get diabetes.”

Kira chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s fine. Doctors exist for a reason anyway.”

Her hand brushed against her coat pocket, and she suddenly remembered.

“Oh, I almost forgot.”

She pulled out the small box Yumeko had given her a year ago, holding it carefully like a fragile treasure.

Yumeko’s eyes softened with quiet hope. “You haven’t opened it?”

Kira shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think I deserved it last year.”

Without hesitation, Yumeko reached out, taking Kira’s hand in both of hers. Her touch was warm, steady, and unshakable. “Kira, you don’t have to do anything to deserve it. I’ll always think you deserve everything.”

The weight of those words settled deep inside Kira’s chest. She looked into Yumeko’s eyes, the flicker of moonlight making them shine like promises.

“Well…” Kira said slowly, her voice trembling just enough to be honest. “I think I’m deserving now too.”

Kira’s fingers trembled slightly as she carefully unwrapped the box. Inside, nestled on soft velvet, was a bracelet — a graceful string of blue and green charms, catching the last golden rays of the setting sun. But the most striking was the larger charm at its center: a yellow sun, glowing warmly in the amber light.

Kira lifted the bracelet, her eyes meeting Yumeko’s. She smiled, soft and grateful. “Thank you.”

Yumeko’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and tenderness. “Aren’t you going to ask why I gave you this?”

Kira blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

Without a word, Yumeko took the bracelet from Kira’s hands and gently slipped it around her wrist. Her touch was light but sure, like a silent promise made in the fading sunlight.

“Because…” Yumeko said slowly, her voice quiet but steady. “You told me I’m kind of like the sun. And I thought… if I was the sun, I’d want to be around you all the time — even when the sun isn't really there anymore.”

Her smile softened, glowing like the charm itself in the warm light. “So here — a little piece of the sun for when we’re not together.”

The bracelet felt cool against her skin, but inside, a warmth spread through Kira that was almost too much to bear. She looked at Yumeko — her smile, her eyes, the way the fading sunlight caught her hair — and everything inside Kira swelled with something fierce and gentle all at once.

Being loved by Yumeko — really loved — was more than she’d ever dared hope for. It was a quiet kind of magic, a steady light that filled every empty corner inside her.

Her heart was beating so loudly, she could barely think past the rush of it. She wanted to hold onto this feeling forever — to never let go of the way Yumeko’s smile made the world seem softer, brighter, safe.

And before she knew what was happening, the words tumbled out, soft and sudden, slipping past her lips like a secret she hadn’t meant to share just yet.

“I love you.”

The moment hung between them, fragile and real.

Yumeko’s gentle smile stayed bright, and she asked softly. “Really?”

Kira’s breath hitched. The words she’d just said weren’t supposed to be out there — weren’t supposed to exist. I love you — how could that have slipped out? How could she have allowed herself to say what her whole world forbade?

Her heart hammered painfully in her chest, a desperate rhythm that drowned out everything else. Being a Timurov meant no space for love. No room for softness or weakness. The legacy she carried demanded coldness, control, a mask that never faltered.

And now she’d shattered that mask with one simple phrase.

Panic surged through her limbs, urging her to flee before Yumeko saw the turmoil storming behind her eyes.

Without thinking, Kira stood up, her hands trembling. Her voice caught in her throat as she scrambled to put distance between them.

“Wait— Kira!” Yumeko called out, reaching toward her, but Kira’s feet only moved faster.

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one a stab of panic that threatened to undo her completely. 

No, no, no. I wasn’t supposed to say that. I never meant to say that. I can’t let it be real — this can’t be real.  

I don’t get to feel this. I don’t get to love. I don’t have the right. 

There is no space for this. No space for softness or longing or weakness.  

The weight of her heritage crushed her chest, tightening like a vise with every frantic step.

The cold winter air bit cruelly at her cheeks and numbed her fingertips, but she barely felt it. Her mind was a storm of doubt and fear, a suffocating fog blurring everything but the unbearable truth she’d just let slip out.

How could I be so foolish? 

How could I betray everything I was raised to be?  

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out Yumeko’s fading calls behind her. The guilt was a heavy, suffocating cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders.

She didn’t want to run from Yumeko — not really. She only wanted to run away from the part of herself that had just spoken the words she wasn’t allowed to say. From the feelings she wasn’t allowed to have.

She ran to escape the overwhelming rush of everything she had buried for so long — the fragile, terrifying hope, the unbearable warmth of love she wasn’t supposed to want.

And as the clearing disappeared behind her, so did the fragile light that had briefly touched her heart.

Chapter Text

When Kira got home, her heart still hadn’t slowed. It beat with the kind of stubborn panic that refused to be calmed by reason, echoing in her throat and ears like it was trying to warn her of something. 

She didn’t change her clothes. She didn’t even take off her coat. She just smoothed her expression in the hallway mirror — rearranged her panic into composure — and walked to the dining room like nothing had happened.

Dinner was already served.

Arkadi sat at the head, of course, unmoving, framed by the chandelier’s golden light like a statue carved by faith itself.

It was like every other birthday dinner Kira had known. Nothing ever changed in their household anyway. 

Just a quiet tension that filled the long, empty stretches of the table with more presence than any guest could. 

She reached for the bread and dipped it into her bowl. The movements were mechanical, the prayers silent.

Then Arkadi spoke.

“I ran into Ray Hennessey yesterday.” He said, casually. His voice was deep, deliberate. He never rushed. “He brought his nephew to the meeting. Tall boy. Studied in Zurich. Hands clean, suit clean. Knows how to listen.”

Kira didn’t look up.

“He mentioned you.” Arkadi went on, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Said he remembers seeing you at one of the holiday galas. He thought you looked… composed. Well-raised.”

There was a pause.

“The Hennessey family has been loyal to ours for generations. Their shipping assets are stronger than ever. I told him I’d think about inviting them over for dinner.”

Kira’s grip tightened around her fork.

“He’d be a good match.” Arkadi added, almost like an afterthought. “Steady. Smart. Knows how to follow a structure. The kind of man who understands how to maintain legacy. That’s what matters.”

Kira felt it building again — the burn in her chest, the buzzing under her skin. The panic hadn’t left her. It was only growing, spiking under her ribs with every word her father said. His voice was calm, but it carried weight. Not the weight of suggestion — of decision.

“You’re not a child anymore.” Arkadi said, still not looking at her. “You’ve reached the age where companionship becomes not just expected, but strategic.”

Kira could feel the bracelet under her sleeve like a brand.

“I’m not talking about love, of course.” Arkadi went on, with the cold practicality of someone discussing assets. “Love fades. Love distracts. I’m talking about partnership. Power. Continuity. You are a Timurov. This is what should feel good.”

Kira stared down at her plate, suddenly unable to breathe.

You don’t get the luxury.

That was always the lesson. Nothing was for her. Not her time. Not her body. Not her future. Even her heart belonged to the empire Arkadi built with iron fists and unspoken threats.

He decided what was right. What was wrong. What had value.

And she — his perfect daughter — had always followed that truth like it was gospel.

But today she’d said something she was never meant to say. She’d told Yumeko she loved her. 

She felt love. Real love. And that single moment — sweet, accidental, honest — now throbbed in her chest like a wound.

“I’ll reach out to the Hennesseys.” Arkadi said finally, voice settling like a sentence. “We’ll have them for dinner next month. See if the boy is worth anything.”

The chandelier above cast golden shadows over his face. A king seated at the head of an empire. A God of his own making. And Kira, devout and breaking, sat to his left like she always had. Smiling. Nodding. Obedient.

The bracelet burned against her wrist.

After dinner, Kira came back to her bedroom.

Kira stepped inside her room, closing the door behind her with the weight of the world still pressing hard against her chest. Her hands were still trembling from dinner, from the eyes of her God burning holes into her spine, from every word she had to swallow down just to keep existing.

But then — she froze.

She wasn't alone.

There, standing by the window, her dark hair catching the moonlight — was Yumeko.

Kira’s breath caught. The light hit Yumeko like it always did, like it was made for her, like the moon knew Yumeko is the source of light. For a second, Kira couldn't even move. Couldn't think. Couldn't speak. 

All she could do was stare.

“What… what are you doing here?” She asked, her voice sharper than she meant it to be, frightened and fragile all at once.

Yumeko turned to her slowly. “You left.” She said simply, her voice quieter, like a confession.

Kira didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mouth parted slightly, but no sound came. Her mind was blank, like she’d been wiped clean. Like the only thing she remembered how to feel was shame.

Yumeko stepped forward, and Kira’s breath hitched. She was too close and too kind and too warm and Kira had no idea how to survive this.

“Why did you leave?” Yumeko asked, her voice softer now, searching.

Kira looked away. “Because I… I shouldn’t have said that.”

Yumeko’s hands came up, gentle, and held Kira’s cheeks like something delicate and sacred. Kira froze again, her entire body tensing under the weight of being touched with that kind of reverence. No one touched her like this — no one ever dared. 

“Why not?” Yumeko asked, so tender it hurt.

Kira met her gaze finally, and the tears welled fast, unbidden. “Because I should be letting you move on. What I should’ve done was keep it buried, like I’ve always done, because nothing’s changed. We still… can’t. We can’t exist like that.”

“Why not?” Yumeko whispered again, not letting go.

“Because we’re both girls!” Kira burst out, the words leaving her mouth like a confession torn from the depths of her ribs. 

“Because my father— he’ll never approve, he’ll ruin everything, and you—” her voice broke, splintered with panic and exhaustion. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Yumeko didn’t flinch. Her eyes didn’t waver. There was only calm there, and something else too — grief maybe, or understanding, or love dressed in defiance.

“I don’t care what he approves of.” Yumeko said, soft but sure, her voice carrying weight like iron. “He’s wrong. There’s nothing wrong with us.”

“There is.” Kira cried, louder than she’d meant to, her voice cracking under the pressure of it all. “The Bible says there is. We’ll go to hell!”

Yumeko tilted her head. “Why are you scared of an old book?”

Kira staggered back, as though the question itself had struck her. “Because it’s not just a book.” She said, and the room spun for a moment, her pulse a rapid knocking in her ears. 

“It’s what my father believes. It’s the voice of my father and he— he decides what’s right. He is what’s right. And if I keep loving you, then I’ll be what’s wrong.”

Her voice shook violently on that last word. Kira felt like she was unraveling at the seams, a holy tapestry ripped loose stitch by stitch. She was trembling now, but not from cold — this was something deeper, something older. Like the foundations she’d built her entire life on were shifting beneath her feet.

For a second, she was eight years old again, standing in the long marble hall outside her father’s study, blood pounding in her ears while she practiced how to smile the way he liked. For a second, she could hear him reciting things over dinner in that familiar, booming voice: that weakness had no place in the family, that love only existed if it was useful, that this was a sickness the world punished.

She had believed him. She had made herself in his image.

And now Yumeko was undoing all of that — just by being here.

“We’re just in love, Kira.” Yumeko said softly. “That’s not wrong. That’s never wrong.”

“It is.” Kira choked, barely getting the words out. “And I can’t let you be punished for it. I can’t let you go to hell. I’d never survive it.”

She looked at Yumeko like she was watching a star fall from the sky, like she couldn’t decide whether to wish on it or cry for its burning.

“I can’t let anything happen to you.” She whispered, her voice brittle with emotion. “Not when I’ve wanted you since I’ve learned to want at all.”

Yumeko’s eyes glistened — not with tears, but with something steadier, stronger. She stepped forward, slow and gentle, as if Kira were a frightened deer she didn’t want to startle.

“If you believe you’re going to hell anyway…” She said. “Then why not go with someone whose demons are already in love with yours?”

Kira’s breath stilled. The world held its breath too. Her heart pounded against the inside of her chest like it wanted to be let out.

“It won’t save you.” She murmured. “That won’t protect you.”

“Love is a weakness.” The words tasted like blood on her tongue.

Yumeko shook her head. “Not when it’s you.” She said. “Never when it’s you.”

She took Kira’s hands — small, cold, shaking — and held them like they were the most natural thing in the world.

“I would leave everything I had ever known.” She whispered. “And burn everything else if it gave me a chance to hold your hand out in the sun. I would never call that weakness.”

A silence bloomed between them, heavy and bright and aching.

“Loving you…” Yumeko continued, her voice cracking now too. “Is the most freeing thing I’ve ever felt. To love you is to soar through the air and fly amongst the clouds.”

Kira’s chest burned. Her lungs ached like she hadn’t been breathing for years and had only just remembered how.

“Everything that flies eventually falls.” she said, barely audible.

Yumeko smiled — soft and solemn. “Then let me.”

She leaned in, not quite touching, eyes glowing. “Because being with you is the highest I could ever be. And when I’m down there, burning in hell, I’d know that at least once, I experienced Heaven.”

And it was too much. It was too much.

“You don’t belong in hell.” Kira whispered.

“I don’t belong anywhere else…” Yumeko replied. “Except with you.”

Kira couldn’t take it. Couldn’t bear it. Every word Yumeko said lodged into her like splinters of light cracking through years of darkness. Her mind screamed at her to run, to retreat, to preserve whatever fragile illusion of control she still had left—but her heart, traitorous and loud, begged her to stay.

She kissed her.

It was sudden and terrified and electric. Kira leaned forward like she’d been pulled by gravity itself, like something divine inside her had finally taken control. She kissed Yumeko with every ounce of fear still rattling in her bones. She kissed her like she had something to apologize for and something to protect and something to finally let herself want.

Yumeko kissed her back like she had known this moment would arrive long before Kira had even dared to dream of it. Like she had been holding her breath for years, and only now — only now — could she finally exhale.

Kira’s whole body trembled. Her hands tightened in Yumeko’s, clutching like she might disappear if she let go. Her soul felt like it was clawing its way out of her chest, gasping to be free.

This wasn’t safe. This wasn’t right. This was profane and doomed and holy.

It was everything she had been taught to fear.

And yet — for the first time in her life — Kira felt truly alive.

This wasn’t just love.

It was a sacred revelation through a transcendent connection.

Chapter Text

For weeks now, Kira and Yumeko had been stealing moments whenever they could. They weren’t girlfriends — not officially, at least. They hadn’t even talked about what they were to each other. 

But in the quiet, hidden clearing where they kept meeting, Kira found herself able to love Yumeko freely, even if just in secret. The sunsets were their little sanctuary, a soft pocket of time where Kira could forget about her father, the family expectations, and the heavy weight pressing down on her chest.

But a month had passed, and now the day Kira dreaded was here — the day she had to meet Sean Hennessey. Her father’s candidate for the perfect match. Ray Hennessey’s nephew. A union to strengthen the two families, to further the family business, to tie Kira even tighter to a life she was taught to want.

And of course, she hadn’t seen Yumeko all day. There was no stolen moment this evening — only the tedious ritual of preparing herself for the dinner: hair pinned just so, makeup that made her look perfect but felt like a mask, and the stiff dress she hated.

Dinner was exactly how it always was. Her father boasted loudly to Sean’s uncle and father about their families’ accomplishments and how this marriage would benefit both sides. Kira forced herself to keep her eyes steady, clenched her jaw to stop from rolling her eyes.

When the meal ended, Arkadi’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation. “Kira, you’ll show Sean around the house. We’ll be in my study — talking business.” His tone brooked no argument.

Kira nodded, bracing herself. She followed Sean through the grand halls, past portraits of ancestors she barely knew, trying to keep her mood in check.

They reached the library, a cavernous room drenched in shadow and lined from floor to ceiling with rows of ancient, leather-bound volumes. The faint, musty scent of old paper and polished wood hung in the air, thick and comforting in its own way — like a secret whispered through generations.

Sean paused just inside the door, his eyes drifting across the shelves as if weighing the stories trapped behind the gilded spines. Then, almost abruptly, he turned to Kira, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

“Are there other people here?” He asked casually, but something in his tone made Kira’s stomach tighten.

Her heart beat faster, a cold prickle crawling up her spine. Was this some kind of trap? Was he testing her? Or worse — was this going to end badly?

Kira squared her shoulders, narrowing her eyes. The brittle veneer of calm she’d been holding together all night cracked slightly. “Whatever you think you’re doing.” She said, voice low and tense. “You better think twice.”

Sean blinked, clearly amused. His lips twitched into a smirk, one eyebrow lifting. “Girl, please. I am so not interested in you.”

Kira’s confusion sharpened into disbelief. “What?”

He exhaled dramatically, rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair. “Call me Suki.”

Her brows furrowed. “What?”

“I’m gay. Hello? Is that not a thing around here?” Suki’s grin was equal parts exasperated and amused, like he couldn’t believe he had to spell it out.

Kira stared at him, caught off guard by the bluntness — and the ease with which he spoke a truth she’d never dared voice aloud. For a moment, all the tight control in the room seemed to loosen, like an unseen thread snapping.

“Well, then why did you even ask my father about me?” Her voice was quieter now, tinged with suspicion and a flicker of hope.

Suki shrugged, the grin stretching wider. “I figured you could be a good beard. And if my suspicions are right…” He lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. “I bet you need a beard too.”

Kira blinked, genuinely baffled. “A what?”

Suki laughed, a sharp, almost theatrical burst that echoed off the walls. “Wow. Do you even know anything?” His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was an edge of truth behind the teasing.

Kira’s patience snapped. “I won’t hesitate to strangle you right now.” She shot back, voice low but fierce, the warning clear.

“Calm down, ice queen.” Suki said with a smirk, holding up his hands like a peacekeeper. “Look, a beard is someone you ‘date’ to hide the fact you’re gay. It’s all just for show.”

Kira’s cheeks flared. “I’m not gay.” She insisted, the words sharp, defensive.

“Sure you’re not.” Suki drawled, arching an eyebrow in amused disbelief.

“I’m not.” She repeated, louder this time, as if saying it twice would make it truer.

“Honey, your aura screams ‘I’m a lesbian.’ in bold, all-caps.”

Her mind flashed back to the clearing — Yumeko’s smile, the blue-and-green bracelet tucked carefully beneath her sleeve, the warmth of that secret light she hid from everyone else.

Kira clenched her jaw. “Well, that’s wrong, because I’m not.”

Suki’s gaze sharpened. “Are you sure?”

Kira swallowed. 

How can I be when Yumeko exists?

“Yes.” She said firmly, though her voice wavered just a little.

Suki’s eyes flicked to her wrist, where the delicate bracelet hid under the edge of her sleeve — the one gift she had never dared to wear openly. 

“Well, what’s up with that?” He asked, voice low.

The room seemed suddenly colder. Kira froze. 

How did he see that?

The bracelet — a fragile promise from Yumeko — was supposed to be invisible to the world

Suki grinned, triumphant. “Gotcha.”

Kira bit back a sharp retort. “That doesn’t make me…” She trailed off, and her fingers twitched at the hidden bracelet.

Then, barely audible, she muttered. “Gay.”

Suki’s grin softened into a knowing smile. “Then where is that from? Not some random thing, right? Isn’t that from a very close girl best friend?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Yumeko. Her secret. 

How much does he know? 

How much can I risk?

“You kind of give off that vibe.” Suki said, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Like you’re in love with your best friend.”

Kira’s heart pounded, a rapid drumbeat echoing all the reasons she shouldn’t admit it, the danger lurking in every stolen moment. 

If my father finds out…

“Shut up.” She said, voice tight.

“See? I’m right.” Suki pressed, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

“No, you’re not.” she insisted, but the words felt fragile.

“So, you’re not in love with your best friend?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer.

Suki’s tone softened. “Look, I get it. It’s hard for us to be like this.”

Hard is an understatement. 

“So?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Well…” Suki said, stepping closer with a conspiratorial smile. “We could pretend to date. Keep everyone off our backs. And then we could actually date whoever we want.”

Kira blinked, the idea settling in her mind like a tentative spark. 

Pretend to date… use the system against itself?  

It was risky — but maybe the only way to carve out some space for herself and Yumeko. 

Suki held out his hand, offering a lifeline in a world that demanded masks and lies. “Deal?”

Kira met his gaze, searching for something real beneath the teasing bravado. She saw understanding. Acceptance. And maybe… a glimmer of hope.

Slowly, she shook his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

As their hands clasped, her mind was already back in the clearing, back to the warmth of Yumeko’s smile and that bracelet — the quiet symbol of a love that bravely dared to exist in the shadows.

And so, that’s what they did.

Kira Timurov and Sean Hennessey were suddenly the picture of young, promising couplehood — sharp outfits, proper smiles, dinner reservations with too many forks, and stiff nods to elders who approved of everything they saw.

But the truth?

They rarely even sat at the same table.

Instead, Suki would slip away with a boy whose name changed every time — some actor-in-training or barista with nice forearms and a laugh Suki found cute. Kira didn’t bother to ask for names anymore. What mattered was that she had an excuse. A reason to disappear. A buffer between her and her father's expectations.

Because while Suki was off charming someone new, Kira was with Yumeko.

Together.

In places lit by real sunlight and neon.

For once, they didn’t have to meet only in the clearing, hidden like a secret. They could be out — not as lovers, never officially, but enough to pretend. Enough to walk beside each other with their shoulders nearly touching, enough to laugh without lowering their voices. Enough to look at each other like they meant something.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs .

And tonight, it was amusement parks and caramel popcorn and the sound of children screaming on rollercoasters.

Kira stood before a crooked stall lit with flickering bulbs, sleeves rolled up like she was about to go to war. Before her, a pyramid of tin cans stacked like smug little enemies — untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly balanced.

Yumeko stood beside her, grinning wide. 

Then Kira threw.

The ball hit the cans dead center… but only the top row fell.

“What?” She loudly groaned, whipping around to Yumeko. “That should’ve worked! Did you see that? That was physics! ”

Yumeko burst out laughing, sipping from a red slushie. “I think you’re trying too hard.”

“No. No. I refuse to leave without that bear.” Kira slapped another bill on the counter like she was placing a bet in a mob movie. “One more.”

“That’s what you said three tries ago.”

Kira didn’t answer — too focused now. She took another ball, exhaled like a pro athlete, and threw.

Clink. Fail.

“Ugh.”

Yumeko cheered dramatically. “So close! You only missed all of them! ”

Kira turned slowly to glare at her. “Do you want to go home without that bear?”

Yumeko giggled. “I mean, I don’t need it…”

“Yes you do.”

“But I already have you—”

“Yumeko.”

“Okay, okay!” She said, holding her hands up in surrender. “Serious business. Stuffed bear. Got it.”

Kira gritted her teeth and lined up the ball in her hand. “If I don’t get you that stupid bear.” She muttered. “I’m going to set this entire stand on fire.”

Another throw.

Another miss.

Yumeko was wheezing now, doubled over with laughter. “Kira, please, you’re going to bankrupt yourself.”

“I’m going to win .”

“You’re going to cry when your dad asks why you spent hundreds of dollars on beanbags.”

Kira turned to the booth operator. “Again.”

He raised an eyebrow but took her money.

Yumeko leaned on the counter beside her, resting her chin in her hand. “You know you’re very cute when you’re determined.”

“I’m not doing it to be cute.”

“I know.” Yumeko said. “That’s what makes it cuter.”

Kira huffed, squared her shoulders, and picked up another ball. “Okay, I’ve got it this time. I feel it.”

“You’ve said that every time,” Yumeko teased, already smiling.

Kira shot her a look, aimed, and threw.

Clink.

Only the bottom row wobbled. Nothing fell.

Kira let out a frustrated noise halfway between a groan and a growl. “This is rigged. I’m being scammed. I could be a national athlete and I still wouldn’t win.”

Yumeko laughed, eyes sparkling. “Can I try?”

Kira blinked, surprised. “You want to try this ?”

“I’ve been watching you suffer for like ten minutes.” Yumeko said sweetly. “I think it’s my turn.”

Kira stepped aside, arms crossed but with a grin tugging at her lips. “Go ahead. It’s harder than it looks.”

Yumeko picked up the ball, rolled it in her palm, took one step back, and threw.

Crash!

All the cans clattered to the ground like dominoes. The booth lights blinked and a little bell dinged to signal a win.

Kira stared, stunned. Mouth open. Eyes wide.

“What…” She said flatly.

Yumeko turned to her, beaming. Not smug — not even proud, really. Just happy. The kind of smile that warmed everything around it. Like she had just wanted to try and had ended up winning the moon.

The booth operator handed Yumeko a bear, and she accepted it with a small nod. Then she turned, took a step toward Kira, and placed it gently in her hands.

“For you, Kira-san.” She said.

Kira blinked down at the bear, then up at Yumeko, baffled. “What— how— when did you get good at this?”

Yumeko just shrugged, the picture of innocent mystery. “Must be luck.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.” Yumeko winked. “Come on. Let’s try something else.”

They wandered through the park, glowing under strings of lights, their shoulders bumping with every other step. They tried everything. Balloon darts. Ring toss. Shooting targets. Kira tried. She really tried. She squinted, adjusted her stance, did mental calculations — and missed.

Every single time.

And every single time, Yumeko clapped for her like she’d just won gold at the Olympics. 

“That was so close!” 

“You almost had it!” 

“You’re getting better!”

Kira grumbled, half-laughing. “You are a terrible liar.”

“I’m an excellent liar.” Yumeko said, eyes bright. “But I just really like watching you try.”

Kira tried to stay annoyed, but she couldn’t. Not when Yumeko looked at her like that — like she was the most fascinating thing on earth.

Then, finally, they reached a booth with water guns and moving targets — the kind where you had to shoot water into a clown’s mouth to raise a little bar.

Kira picked up the plastic gun, narrowed her eyes, and the bell rang before anyone else’s bar even reached halfway.

She blinked.

Yumeko gasped. “You won!”

Kira turned, stunned. “I won?”

The operator handed her a large plush dolphin, and for once, Kira didn’t hesitate. She turned to Yumeko and said, “Now that’s for you.”

Yumeko giggled as she took it. “Kira Timurov — sniper.”

Kira lifted her chin, smug. “I’m officially good at one thing.”

“Wrong.” Yumeko said, tugging her close by the sleeve. “You’re good at making me feel like this.”

Kira looked down at her, cheeks warm. “Like what?”

Yumeko’s eyes flickered up to meet hers, and her voice dropped to a soft whisper, just for the space between them. “Loved.”

And Kira — well, her heart nearly burst.

So of course, she did what any girl in love and on a winning streak would do: she marched right back to that booth, planted her feet like a soldier returning to war. “Again.”

Yumeko laughed, cradling the plush dolphin in her arms. “Kira, what are you doing?”

“Getting you the entire marine life section.” Kira declared, gripping the water gun with purpose. “If this is the only game I can win, I’m gonna win the hell out of it.”

The operator raised a brow but gestured grandly for her to go again. The bell rang. Another win.

This time, a bright green frog.

Kira handed it to Yumeko like it was a medal. “For your emotional support frog collection.”

Yumeko giggled. “I don’t have one.”

“You do now.”

The next one was a penguin. Then a duck. Then a goldfish. Every time she won, she’d just shove another soft toy into Yumeko’s arms.

Yumeko was laughing so hard she could barely hold onto everything. “Kira, please, I’m running out of limbs.”

“Then balance them with your will to live .” Kira said, firing another perfect shot.

Kira just kept going. Something about the game, the silly prizes, the ease of winning — it felt like reclaiming a piece of her life. Something that belonged to her and only her.

And it didn’t hurt that Yumeko kept smiling like that .

Like she was proud of her.

Like she was looking at Kira and seeing something worth loving.

When Kira finally stopped, Yumeko was practically buried in a pile of color and fluff, a blue narwhal perched precariously on top of her shoulder.

Kira looked at her — really looked — and felt that familiar ache.

She wanted to say something. Anything.

Like, You’re the only person I want to win things for.

Or, I think about you all the time. Even when I’m not supposed to.

But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

Kira brushed some lint off her sleeve and tried not to think about how her heart was still thumping from winning.

“We should probably get something to eat.” She said, mostly to break the silence, but also because the smell of fried food was starting to mess with her brain.

Yumeko perked up. “Yeah, definitely. I can hear my stomach threatening me.”

They wandered off the midway, away from the ringing bells and flashing lights, toward a row of food trucks parked beneath a string of fairy lights. Everything smelled like grease and sugar — maple syrup, popcorn butter, and the unmistakable aroma of deep-fried everything.

They settled on something simple — two burgers from a truck run by a group of tired-looking but friendly university students, plus a paper bag of hot mini donuts rolled in cinnamon sugar.

Kira sipped her bottled water and tried to play it cool while Yumeko bit into her burger like she hadn’t eaten in days and ate a mouthful of fries.

“Oh my God.” Yumeko said. “This is so good. Better than yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry.” Yumeko said, not sorry at all. “But facts are facts. You over-salt your fries.”

Kira gave her a flat look. “I should’ve let someone else win you those.”

“You didn’t win me.” Yumeko said sweetly, holding up the plush. “You only won these . You never have to win me.”

Kira tried not to look at her for too long after that.

They sat on a bench near the edge of the lights, their knees brushing sometimes, and shared the mini donuts straight from the bag. Yumeko kept licking sugar from her fingertips, which Kira had to pretend not to watch too closely.

It was one of those moments where nothing felt forced. No pretending. Just… this. Just her and Yumeko, sharing food and warmth and soft laughter under night lights.

They’d just finished the last of the cinnamon sugar donuts — fingers dusted and warm, laughter still lingering in the space between them — when Kira wiped her hands on a napkin. “Do you… wanna try the rollercoasters?”

She asked it casually, half-hopeful, half-testing the waters.

Yumeko’s smile faltered — not a lot, just a little. Barely enough for someone else to notice, but Kira did. She saw the way Yumeko’s shoulders tensed slightly, the way her gaze drifted toward the rides in the distance with something like hesitation.

“Do you really want to?” Yumeko asked, her voice softer than before.

Kira blinked. “I mean… it is an amusement park.” She said, offering a crooked smile. “But we don’t have to.”

There was a pause. Then Yumeko glanced down, her fingers twisting the edge of the paper donut bag as she said quietly. “I just— I’m not really into those. Ever since my parents died…” She didn’t finish the sentence right away. It hung there, unfinished but understood.

Kira froze. Right. She remembered now. Car crash.

“Yumeko.” Kira said, voice low. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“You don’t have to be.” Yumeko interrupted quickly, meeting her gaze with something steady. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Still.” Kira murmured. “I am sorry.”

There was a beat of silence before Yumeko smiled, lighter this time. “Besides…” She said, nudging the small mountain of stuffed toys between them. “We can’t exactly go on a rollercoaster with these guys tagging along.”

Kira snorted, relief slipping into her laugh. “True.”

Then Yumeko tilted her head toward the lights, her voice brightening. “How about the Ferris wheel? That one doesn’t bother me.”

Kira’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really.”

Kira stood, brushing sugar off her jeans, and glanced at the pile of toys with mock seriousness. “I’ll just drop these off at Suki’s car, so we don’t have to carry them.”

But Yumeko reached out and tugged gently at her sleeve. “You’re so silly.” she said, laughing softly. “We’ll bring them. Together.”

And so they did.

Two girls, arms full of too many stuffed animals, walking through a sea of lights and music and noise. And somehow, despite everything — the lies, the fear, the pretending — it felt like something real. Like something theirs.

They headed toward the Ferris wheel — tall and glittering in the night — and for once, Kira wasn’t thinking about the world that couldn’t see them.

She was thinking about the one person who always did.

The Ferris wheel creaked as it lifted them slowly above the blinking lights and laughter of the park. The air was cooler now, but the warmth between Kira and Yumeko was unmistakable, their fingers intertwined without needing to say a word.

From this height, everything below looked small and distant — the crowds, the food stalls, the games. People moved like tiny figures, laughter and chatter barely reaching them up here.

“Oh my God.” Yumeko giggled, pointing discreetly to a pair of teenagers near the cotton candy stand. “Look at those two. I think he’s trying to confess, but she’s pretending she doesn’t notice.”

Kira leaned forward to squint. “Where?”

“There. See the way he’s standing all stiff? That’s classic nervous confession posture.”

Kira laughed softly. “And she’s definitely doing the ‘I’m not paying attention’ hair flip.”

“Poor guy.” Yumeko said with mock sympathy. “He’s about to get friendzoned.”

“Maybe not.” Kira teased. “She just smiled at him.”

Their laughter faded into a comfortable silence. Kira felt the familiar nervous flutter growing in her chest. Their hands, still linked, felt like an anchor, steady and warm.

The wheel slowed as they reached the top, pausing with a breathtaking view of the sparkling park beneath them.

Kira’s voice came out softer than she intended. “Yumeko, I… I have something important to say.”

Yumeko turned to her, eyes bright and patient. “What is it?”

Kira took a breath, steadying herself.

“We’ve known each other for so long, and… I’ve never really had anything that felt like it was truly mine. Or that made me feel like I could be myself.”

She looked down at their hands, squeezing gently.

“But with you, I feel like I can be. You make things brighter, even when I’m scared.”

Yumeko’s gaze stayed on her, calm and encouraging.

Kira swallowed hard. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is… will you be my girlfriend?”

Yumeko blinked, a slow slightly confused smile spreading across her face. “Aren’t I already?”

Kira’s mouth fell open in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Yumeko tilted her head, playful spark dancing in her gaze. “Well, think about it. We go on dates — real dates, not some fake you and ‘Sean’ nonsense. You bring me gifts. Lots of gifts. You kiss me every day like it’s some sacred ritual. And we say we love each other.” She nudged Kira’s hand with hers. “Isn’t that what girlfriends do?”

Kira’s cheeks flamed, heat rushing like wildfire beneath her skin. “Well… yeah, but we never actually talked about it. Never said it out loud like this.”

Yumeko’s grin widened, eyes shining with delight. “So, let me get this straight, you did all of that, but you never thought I was your girlfriend?” She laughed, a soft, teasing sound that made Kira’s heart skip.

Kira looked away, biting her lip, cheeks burning hotter. “I mean, I wanted you to be. I guess I was just scared to say it.”

“Oh my— Kira, you’re such a dork.” Yumeko leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss against Kira’s cheek. “Of course I’m your girlfriend. You’re stuck with me now.”

Kira couldn’t help but laugh, the tension inside her unraveling like a thread. “Good.” She said, voice trembling just a bit. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Yumeko’s fingers tightened around hers. “Well, good thing you don’t have to find out.”

They stayed like that for a moment longer, the city lights below flickering like distant stars, the hum of life far away from their little world. Kira’s thoughts floated — tentative but hopeful. 

Maybe love doesn’t have to be so complicated. Maybe it can just be this — simple and honest.

The Ferris wheel began to move again, carrying them gently down. But Kira felt like she was floating, buoyed by something stronger than fear or doubt — a quiet certainty that, with Yumeko by her side, maybe she could finally breathe.

Riding the high of knowing — really knowing — that Yumeko was her girlfriend, Kira felt like she couldn’t stop smiling. Even as the Ferris wheel gently lowered them back to solid ground, even as the night breeze brushed cool against her flushed cheeks, nothing could ground her now.

Yumeko was hers. Not just in the half-spoken way they used to be. Hers. For real. For good.

Their hands stayed joined, fingers woven together like they’d always known how to hold on. Kira didn’t let go even after they stepped off the ride. She didn’t think she could, even if she tried.

They walked toward the parking lot in no rush, the amusement park still buzzing behind them — lights flashing, laughter echoing faintly from somewhere across the rides. The air smelled of sugar and cold metal and something distant but warm.

Kira’s heart was still thudding like she was on the ride.

Yumeko’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand, and Kira couldn’t help but glance over. The way the lights caught her profile, soft and golden, made her feel like they were in some kind of teenage dream — one of the good ones. The kind that didn’t end when the sun set.

They reached Suki’s car, tucked in the corner of the lot, its windows fogging slightly in the cool night air. It was quiet here — only the hum of far-off rides and the distant roll of a cart wheel from someone packing up for the night.

Kira slowed, turning toward Yumeko, her heart pounding like it might trip over itself.

“You know…” She murmured, voice low, “I’m still kinda waiting to wake up.”

Yumeko tilted her head. “You’re not dreaming, Kira.”

Kira blinked slowly, caught in the warm brown of her eyes. “It feels like one.”

Yumeko smiled — wide, radiant, just a little crooked, like the sun rising in reverse. “Well…” She whispered, tugging Kira gently closer. “Let’s make sure you remember it.”

Before Kira could ask what she meant, Yumeko leaned in, and kissed her.

It wasn’t their first kiss. Not by a long shot. But this — this one was different. This one wasn’t hidden under trees or stolen between the ticks of a clock. This was open. Unapologetic. Real.

Kira’s back pressed lightly against the side of the car, cold metal touching the curve of her spine. Yumeko’s hands settled at her waist like they belonged there, and Kira kissed her like she didn’t care who saw — because for once, she didn’t.

The world didn’t stop. But it blurred.

It blurred into streaks of light and the taste of strawberry lip balm and the press of two girls in love against the side of a car in a quiet parking lot under a navy-blue sky.

When they broke apart, Yumeko stayed close, noses nearly brushing, her breath warm against Kira’s cheek.

“You okay?” She whispered.

Kira nodded, still dazed. “Yeah.” She said. “I think I’m actually perfect.”

Yumeko grinned, kissed the tip of her nose, and laughed softly. “Told you I was your girlfriend.”

Kira rolled her eyes, smiling too hard to pretend to be annoyed. “Shut up.”

Yumeko’s soft laughter still hung between them when the night cracked open again — this time with Suki’s voice, echoing off the car's metal shell.

“Hey there, lovebirds.” He called, stepping out from the lights. His smile was mischievous, knowing. Behind him trudged his friend, shoulders drooping but grin ready.

Kira blinked, shaking out of the after-kiss daze, her hand still tucked inside Yumeko’s. “Suki!”

“Sorry to interrupt your RomCom moment.” He teased, though his tone was warm — like he’d expected this all along.

Yumeko grinned and let out a quick, teasing, “You didn’t miss anything, promise.”

Kira rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. Still, she ducked her head a little and pulled Yumeko toward the car. They slipped into the back seat, settling together in the soft quiet of the drive ahead.

Kira leaned her head gently against Yumeko’s, their fingers still linked between them, resting on Yumeko’s thigh. It felt natural now — like this was how it had always been, how it should be.

But as the car pulled away from the lot, reality started to seep back in like the cold through the windowpane.

The further they drove, the more the magic of the night retreated. The amusement park lights blurred in the rearview mirror, fading into a streak of gold and shadow. And Kira felt it — that ache, that quiet shift.

The ride back felt like a return to another world. One where she didn’t get to hold Yumeko’s hand in public. One where she couldn’t press her against a car and kiss her without worrying who might see. One where saying ‘I love you’ out loud had to be done in whispers and hidden spaces.

She held on a little tighter.

Suki’s friend got dropped off first, disappearing with a wave and a 'thank you'. Then it was Yumeko’s turn.

They stopped near a quiet bus stop, one ride away from home. Not her actual stop, of course — that would’ve been too close. Too dangerous. Her house was right next to Kira’s. They couldn’t risk her being seen getting out of this car.

Yumeko reached for the stuffed toys, but Kira stopped her gently.

“Suki will drop them off for you tomorrow.” She said, almost too quickly.

Suki blinked. “I will?”

Kira shot him a warning look. “Yes. You will.”

Suki let out a soft, theatrical groan. “Fine. But only because this is true love and I’m the fairy Godmother.”

Yumeko giggled and gave Kira one of those smiles — the kind that made Kira feel like she could do anything and survive it. “You’re sweet. Bossy, but sweet.”

Kira’s lips tugged into a shy smile. “Just… be careful.”

“I will.” Yumeko said, already cracking the door open.

Kira hesitated, leaning forward just a little. “I love you.”

Yumeko paused, her smile softening. “I love you too.”

And before she could step out, she leaned in one last time and pressed a kiss to Kira’s cheek — slow, warm, unhurried. Then she disappeared into the cool night air, leaving Kira staring after her, heart thudding against her ribs.

The door shut with a quiet thud.

And just like that, the world started shifting again. The giddy weightlessness of earlier faded into something quieter. Heavier.

Kira leaned back in the seat, her hands resting in her lap where Yumeko’s warmth still lingered. The lights from the bus stop buzzed dimly, casting long shadows through the windshield.

This — this drive back — felt like the slow descent from a dream.

She had everything she wanted in the parking lot. But now, she was heading back to a house where even love had to be hidden.

Still, she smiled to herself — small, private.

Because now, at least, that love was official.

And no one could take that part away.

The car pulled up quietly outside Kira’s house. The streetlamps cast long, flickering shadows across the pavement, the world hushed under a heavy blanket of night.

Suki glanced back with a grin. “Home sweet fortress.”

Kira smiled softly, clutching the small teddy bear Yumeko had won for her — a rare softness in a life built on strict rules and cold expectations.

“Thanks for the ride.” She murmured, slipping out of the car.

The door closed behind her with a muted click, and she stepped into the warm glow of her home. The familiar scent of polished wood and burning candles wrapped around her like a protective cloak.

She headed toward her room, the bear tucked under her arm, but before she could reach the stairs, a quiet voice stopped her.

“Your father wishes to see you in his study.” Said one of the household staff, eyes steady and unreadable.

Kira nodded and followed the silent figure down the dimly lit corridor.

The study was a cathedral of power. Heavy oak shelves lined with leather-bound volumes soared toward the shadowed ceiling, like silent witnesses to generations of ambition. A single beam of pale light cut through the gloom, falling on Arkadi’s sharp profile as he sat behind the massive desk — a monarch surveying his realm.

His eyes locked on the stuffed bear in Kira’s hands, sharp as a blade. “That… Sean got it for you?”

Kira’s throat tightened. The truth hovered just beneath her lips — Yumeko had won it for her, but to Arkadi, it had to be Sean. Her shield. 

“Yes, Father.” She said, voice steady, though her fingers clenched the soft fur tightly.

Arkadi’s gaze was like cold iron, unyielding and absolute. “Sean is a valuable asset — a necessary ally. But remember this, Kira, the power in your veins must never be diluted by sentiment. You are the heir. The future. This legacy is a privilege, your duty. Sean must never hold sway over you.”

His words dropped like frost, formal and commanding, yet beneath the surface, a God’s warning — a celestial decree wrapped in earthly chains.

Kira’s heart twisted. The weight of her father’s world pressed against her ribs, cold and relentless. But in the quiet sanctuary of her mind, Yumeko’s smile shone brighter than any crown — fierce, radiant, the sun breaking through the shadows of duty.

Kira bowed her head slightly, reverent and measured — a worshipper before her God. Her spine remained straight, her shoulders still. She’d been taught since childhood how to move in Arkadi’s presence: with grace, with silence, with the gravity of the chosen.

“Yes, Father.” She said, and it was almost a prayer.

Arkadi’s eyes, sharp and unblinking, flicked to the bear still clutched in her arms. He said nothing about it again, but his gaze lingered long enough to burn. Kira held it tighter — not in defiance, but like a relic, quietly sacred.

“This is good.” Arkadi said at last, folding his hands before him. “Necessary. A bond between you and Sean strengthens more than just appearance — it ties blood to blood. House to house. That is what matters.”

Kira nodded again. 

“You must be close.” He continued, voice low, deliberate, like liturgy. “Let him like you. Trust you. Believe in you. But you must never forget — you are above him. He is not your equal. No one is.”

It was a sermon Kira had heard a thousand times, in a thousand forms. Spoken from pulpits and palaces, whispered into her dreams by a father who had appointed himself both God and Prophet. Arkadi did not raise a daughter. He built an instrument. And Kira was the blade at the altar.

“Do not mistake affection for favor.” He intoned. “That boy is a useful star, but you are the sun. Never orbit. Never kneel.”

“I won’t.” She answered, softly — an offering.

Arkadi leaned back, shadows drawing long across the sharp lines of his face. “Good.”

His gaze seemed to reach beyond her, as though seeing a future only he had the right to envision. “There is power in sentiment, when you know how to wield it. But let it wield you , and it will rot your purpose from within. You, Kira, are the sacred line. The vessel of our will. Your blood was chosen. Do not squander it on desire.”

Her fingers twitched slightly at that — barely. The bear's fur brushed against her wrist like a reminder: soft, innocent, entirely human.

Desire. That was the word he used for it. As though love was a disease. As though Yumeko’s laughter, sweet and bright and free , was some kind of toxin.

“I understand.” Kira said. She wore her mask perfectly. The devoted acolyte. The pure disciple.

But in her mind — in the quiet sanctum where Arkadi’s voice could not reach — Kira saw only Yumeko. Her smile, the one that cracked through every wall Kira had ever built. Her lips, still warm on her cheek. Her fingers, laced with hers beneath the night sky.

Kira didn’t need to wield Yumeko.

She needed to belong to her.

And she did. Fully, irrevocably. Not because it made her strong. Not because it was strategic. But because it made her real — something holy in its own right, far from Arkadi’s cold cathedral of legacy and control.

Let her father believe what he wanted. Let him believe that Suki — Sean — was drawing close. That he held sway. That a careful romance was blooming in Kira’s hands like a political flower, artfully tended.

He could believe in the fiction, and Kira would uphold it. With every smile, every strategic silence, she would offer him the illusion of his perfect daughter.

Because a God like Arkadi didn’t need the truth.

He only needed devotion.

And Kira had always been good at worship.

She stood still beneath the weight of her father’s gaze, the silent echo of his judgment humming in her bones. Her fingers still curled softly around the teddy bear — that small symbol of her true religion.

But then — a quiet knock. The latch turned.

The heavy door opened with a whispering creak, and both father and daughter turned their heads as Ray Hennessey stepped through the threshold.

He was dressed immaculately as always — in a tailored navy coat and polished shoes that barely made a sound on the marble floor. His presence filled the room not with Arkadi’s divine severity, but with something quieter. A kind of calculated warmth. The polished mask of diplomacy.

“Ray.” Arkadi said, his voice neither cold nor welcoming — just measured , like the swing of a pendulum.

Kira offered the smallest of bows, every inch the dutiful daughter. “Good evening, Uncle Ray.”

“Ah, Kira.” Ray said, smiling with familiar ease. “It’s good to see you, sweetheart. You’re growing more and more like your mother every time I see you.”

She smiled, her lips rehearsed. “Thank you.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the bear tucked in the crook of her arm, and the smile curved deeper — not mocking, but gently knowing. “I take it you’ve just been out with Sean?”

“Yes.” she answered, steady, calm. “He won it. For me.”

Ray’s brow lifted ever so slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Did he now? Well… looks like you two are getting along quite nicely.”

Before Kira could respond, Arkadi’s voice cut cleanly through the room — serene, absolute.

“They are.” He said. “And we encourage that. Our house is eager to strengthen the bond between our families. It’s a union worth tending.”

Ray turned toward Arkadi fully, his smile cool but pleased. “I agree. The future depends on alliances we can trust.”

Arkadi gave a single, sharp nod. “Indeed.”

There was a pause — a shift in the air, something slipping beneath the surface of pleasantries.

Then Arkadi turned to Kira once more. “You may go now.”

She bowed once more, murmured a respectful “Yes, Father.” And turned toward the door.

Ray stepped aside as she passed him, and for a second, his hand brushed her shoulder — light, paternal, almost fond. “Good night, Kira.”

“Good night.” She said without looking back, her heart still steady in her chest.

She slipped out into the hall, and the door swung slowly shut behind her.

But it didn’t catch.

The latch stopped just short of the frame with the softest of clicks — almost imperceptible.

And Kira — perfect daughter, dutiful heir, blessed instrument of her father’s design — paused.

This wasn’t what she was supposed to do.

She should have walked away. She should have gone to her room. But something rooted her feet to the floor, something ancient and electric. A flicker of instinct beneath all the rules.

A quiet voice inside her said: Listen.

So she stayed. Just outside the door. Silent as breath. And she listened.

Kira pressed her back against the wall just beside the study door, barely daring to breathe. The slight gap in the doorway spilled only a sliver of muffled voices — low, composed, deliberate.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, louder than either of them. And yet, she listened.

Arkadi’s voice came first — smooth and controlled, but heavy with weight. The kind of voice one used in prayer. Or judgment.

“Have you taken care of it?”

A pause.

Ray answered, calm as still water. “Yes. It’s done.”

Another pause. Kira could hear her father exhale — a slow, pleased sound, like a priest finishing a long psalm.

“Good.” Arkadi said. “I don’t like loose ends. And that one was… unsustainable.”

The silence that followed wasn’t still. It shifted . Darkened. The weight of his words coiled around her spine.

Ray spoke again, quieter now, though his tone was no less matter-of-fact. “It was clean. No complications. No witnesses.”

No witnesses.

Kira’s stomach twisted — not in fear, not yet. In confusion .

She’d heard her father speak about enemies before. People who betrayed the family’s trust. But this wasn’t strategy. 

It was finality .

“Do you think they suspected anything?” Ray asked.

Her father’s reply was barely above a murmur, but every word sank into her like a nail.

“It doesn’t matter. They won’t know.”

Kira’s breath caught in her throat. Her mind scrambled to understand.

Kira knew death. She’d read every scripture that warned against it. Thou shalt not kill. It was the fifth commandment. A soul’s weight measured by its mercy. Judgment belonged to God, not man.

Sister Magdalene had said it often. Softly. Sternly. As if saying it enough could press it into Kira’s bones.

Arkadi had never spoken of it. Not once. But he’d hired the nun. And he approved of the faith she was raised in. 

He expected her to live by it. To breathe it.

But he had done this.

He had killed.

With no guilt. No tremble in his voice. No hesitation.

A chill bloomed down her arms.

If my father does not obey the Word… then what is the Word worth?

Was the Bible a rulebook only for the weak? 

A performance for girls with pious hands and doll-soft hearts? 

Was it just another tool? Like Sean? Like her ?

Her thoughts spiraled, threatening to slip into something dangerous. But then — footsteps. Soft, but approaching fast.

The staff.

Panic flared. She broke away from the door and moved down the hall with practiced silence, ducking into the curve of the stairwell just before the light around the corner shifted.

No one saw her.

She didn’t stop until she reached her room, slipping inside and shutting the door with a careful hand. Her breath came fast now, all the things she wasn’t supposed to hear flooding through her head like broken hymns.

Kira sank onto her bed in silence, her lips parted — as if to pray.

But no words came.

Her room was dark. Not shadowed, not dim — dark , in that way that meant something had changed. Like a veil had fallen over everything she used to trust. Over what she thought she knew.

What even makes something right?

The question came softly, curling up in her like smoke. She had never had to ask before. Not really. The answer had always been handed to her — gilded and heavy, tucked in pages worn thin by reverent fingers.

The Bible is right.  

That was the rule. 

The Bible is the Word, and the Word is father’s law.

And her father had made sure she learned it. He hadn’t taught her himself — no, that would’ve required softness, time, touch . But he’d chosen Sister Magdalene, with her hard hands and endless prayers and sharp, unyielding eyes.

Arkadi had never said why the Bible was right.

He just made it so .

But if the Bible said Thou shalt not kill and Arkadi had someone killed .

Then one of two things had to be true.

Either the Bible is not right.

Or Father does not think it’s right.

The thought coiled in her stomach like something wrong. Like sacrilege. But it wouldn’t leave.

Because Arkadi wasn’t careless. He never forgot things. If he had someone killed, then it wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice . And if he could choose to do something the Bible said was wrong — and feel no remorse — then where did that leave everything else?

Where did that leave her ?

Her breath hitched.

Then is loving Yumeko wrong?

Not in the way she usually asked it. Not in the guilty, half-praying way she’d whispered to herself late at night, hoping for comfort in the idea that God understood. Not the way she told herself it’s not real sin if it feels this gentle , or God will forgive it because it’s just love .

No — not like that.

She asked it now like she’d never asked it before.

Is loving Yumeko really wrong?

If Arkadi could break the rules and stay righteous , then couldn’t she? If he could kill , couldn’t she love ?

And if he wasn’t righteous…

Then what even is?

She looked toward the ceiling, though she couldn’t see it in the dark. Her eyes burned. Her thoughts wouldn’t quiet. But her body was already sinking, heavy with the weight of everything she couldn’t say out loud.

And as sleep pulled her under — bear clutched to her chest like a prayer no one would hear — Kira thought, for the first time in her life, that maybe her father was not what’s right.

And if he wasn’t…

Then maybe she didn’t have to be what he wanted her to be.

Maybe right and wrong weren’t written in scripture.

Maybe they were written in her own heart.

And maybe — just maybe — now she could truly believe Yumeko is right .

Chapter Text

The smell of buttered popcorn filled the air, warm and nostalgic, drifting through the velvet-curtained theater like a promise. Kira’s fingers curled tighter around Yumeko’s as they stepped into the empty screening room, the lights dimmed just enough to bathe the space in a soft golden hush.

It was quiet — not the cold, echoing quiet of big, empty rooms, but the kind of quiet that wrapped around them like a secret. The theater was theirs. Just theirs. Kira had made sure of it.

“I can’t believe you rented out the whole place.” Yumeko whispered, her eyes wide as she looked up at the ornate ceiling, then back at the plush seats stretching before them. “You know normal people just… go to the movies, right?”

Kira shrugged, feigning casual even as her cheeks warmed. “Well, we’re not really normal. And it’s my birthday, so…”

“So you flexed your terrifying power to get a private theater.” Yumeko said, grinning. “Naturally.”

“It’s not terrifying .” Kira mumbled, but her smile betrayed her. She squeezed Yumeko’s hand. “I just wanted to watch something dumb and funny with you. Without, you know… anyone else watching us.”

Yumeko’s grin softened, turning fond. “Then we’ll make it the dumbest, funniest movie night ever.”

They settled into the center row — blankets and pillows already arranged by the staff ahead of time, along with two comically large sodas and a stack of candy that Yumeko had immediately claimed as hers. Kira leaned back, sighing as her shoulder brushed Yumeko’s. The lights dimmed further, the screen flickered to life, and everything else fell away.

Somewhere behind them, two seats creaked softly. Suki and his boyfriend — or, as he insisted with theatrical vagueness, his ‘extremely close male companion who occasionally sleeps over’ — were already passing a tub of popcorn between them with too much enthusiasm and zero respect for movie theater etiquette.

“I swear to God, if they start making out during the chase scene—” Yumeko muttered.

“I’m more worried about the chase scene being their cue to make out.” Kira whispered back.

Sure enough, five minutes later, a suspicious giggle and a shushing noise came from behind them. Kira rolled her eyes, but Yumeko just laughed.

“Should’ve rented a second theater for them.” She teased, popping a gummy bear into her mouth. “Or a cage.”

“Next year.” Kira said, deadpan.

The movie started — some ridiculous spy comedy with an over-the-top villain and explosions that made Yumeko jump and clutch Kira’s arm on purpose. Kira pretended to be annoyed, but she didn’t move away. She never wanted to.

Halfway through, Yumeko leaned over and whispered. “Happy birthday, by the way.” Before planting a kiss on Kira’s cheek.

Kira’s whole face turned warm. “You already said that this morning.”

“And I’ll keep saying it. All day. Every hour. Until it’s legally your birthday in every time zone.”

Kira tried not to smile too hard. Failed.

They fell into a soft silence again, sharing candy, brushing fingers now and then, heads tilting closer as if the movie was just background noise to whatever quiet, glowing thing was growing between them.

And as the credits rolled and the screen faded to black, Yumeko nudged her.

“Happy sweet sixteenth.” She whispered, voice like honey. “My sweet Kira-san.”

Kira’s breath hitched. The words shouldn’t have surprised her but still, her cheeks flushed as if it was the first time she’d ever been called sweet . As if it was the first time someone had looked at her not like she was an heir, a daughter, a weapon — but like she was Kira . Just Kira.

She ducked her head a little, her voice barely above a murmur. “Thank you.”

Yumeko smiled and reached up to cradle her cheek, her thumb brushing softly across the skin like it was sacred.

Then she leaned back and, from the side pocket of her jacket, pulled out a small, dark blue gift box — the kind that clicked when opened, the kind that held secrets and promises.

Kira blinked. “Yumeko… you didn’t have to—”

“What do you mean I shouldn’t have?” Yumeko interrupted, teasing but earnest. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday. Of course I’m giving her a gift.”

The word girlfriend still made Kira feel like the floor might vanish beneath her feet. She couldn’t stop the grin that spread slowly across her face — wide, foolish, stunned.

She took the box with careful fingers and opened it.

Inside was a ring.

Not flashy. Not encrusted with diamonds like the ones Arkadi bought to boast. It was simple — silver, thin, with a tiny sapphire glinting shyly from its center.

Kira stared.

“What…?” she whispered.

Yumeko immediately shrank in her seat, fidgeting with her sleeves. “I know it’s not like the really fancy ones you have.” She said quickly. “But I saved up from my allowance, and I picked up some extra shifts at the café in the evenings, so—”

Kira cut her off, voice trembling. “No. No, this is already too much. I love it so much. I love you so much.”

Yumeko’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes.” Kira breathed, and then smiled, so soft it almost hurt. “This ring is now my favorite. And so are you. You’re my favorite, Yumeko.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She leaned in and pulled Yumeko gently by the collar of her hoodie, kissed her full on the lips like it was the only way she knew how to say thank you.

Thank goodness Suki and his boyfriend had gone to the men’s room. Which they’ve been for a while now — suspiciously long, if she were in any state to think about it — but Kira absolutely wasn’t going to think about it right now.

Right now was for Yumeko.

And this kiss.

And the ring warming her finger like a promise that didn’t need anyone’s permission to exist.

Not from her father.

Not from God.

Just hers — and Yumeko’s.

And months later, in a different kind of warmth — one of buttered pans and low laughter — the world shifted again.

The scent of garlic, butter, and fresh herbs wrapped around them like a soft blanket as Kira carefully diced shallots with mechanical precision. The stainless-steel countertop gleamed under the warm studio lights, and the instructor’s voice floated through the room like a gentle background hum.

Yumeko, on the other hand, had somehow managed to get flour in her hair, a smear of sauce on her cheek, and was staring down at the mangled pile of what should’ve been julienned carrots with a look of genuine betrayal.

Kira glanced over from her station and couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at her lips.

“You okay there, Master Chef?”

Yumeko pouted, nudging her cutting board away like it had personally offended her. “This is a setup . Carrots shouldn’t be allowed to have this many rules.”

Kira laughed, light and melodic, and slid over a perfectly cut stack of hers. “Here, use mine. You can pretend you did them.”

Yumeko lit up immediately, eyes twinkling as she leaned close — too close — and whispered. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“You mean my knife skills?” Kira teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope.” Yumeko said, smug. “Your face.”

Kira flushed, ducking her head, trying to stay focused on the pot of sauce she’d just started stirring. “Yumeko…”

“What?” Yumeko grinned, nudging her side playfully. “You’re good at this, I’m terrible, and you’re still the prettiest person in the room. That makes you the full package.”

Kira was halfway to muttering something back when a loud clang erupted from across the room.

They both turned.

Suki stood frozen beside his cooking station, looking sheepish and completely unbothered by the pot lid he’d just dropped. “I meant to do that.” He announced, with the tone of someone who very much hadn’t.

The boy beside him — this one with shaggy dyed purple hair and an eyebrow piercing — was holding back laughter, shoulders shaking.

Kira just shook her head with a smile, returning to her pan.

The instructor wandered past, offering a quiet nod of approval at Kira’s neatly arranged station. “Excellent work.”

Kira murmured a soft thank you, but Yumeko beamed like she was the one being complimented.

As the class continued, Kira effortlessly folded herbs into dough, adjusted the simmering sauce’s heat, and plated everything with elegance. Yumeko… mostly stood beside her and stole bites of whatever she could without getting scolded, and once, accidentally used salt instead of sugar in her tart crust.

She blamed the lighting.

Kira didn’t mind.

Every time she looked up, Yumeko was watching her — chin resting in her hand, heart in her eyes — like Kira was a miracle unfolding in the soft light of a Sunday afternoon.

Maybe she was.

Maybe, for once, she got to be something soft and good , just like this. 

Maybe being good didn’t need rules. 

Maybe it could just be this — gentle hands, warm smiles, and the quiet joy of being adored.

But time, as always, moved forward — indifferent to clarity or comfort.

Days slipped by like silk through fingers. Weeks, even. And though the warmth lingered, life returned to its steady rhythm.

The late afternoon light filtered softly through the trees, casting dappled shadows over the grass. The clearing was quiet, save for the low rustle of wind and the occasional creak of the wooden swing where Kira sat, legs gently swaying above the grass.

Yumeko stood behind her, fingers weaving strands of Kira’s hair with care and idle affection. Kira could feel the warmth of her breath now and then, the faint tug of a braid forming, undoing, forming again.

It had always been like this here — soft, unhurried, safe.

Kira tilted her head slightly. “What are your plans for your birthday?”

Yumeko’s hands stilled for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, she resumed twisting a lock between her fingers.

“Well…” She said, voice low and a little hesitant. “We’re planning to go to the beach for three days, actually.”

Kira glanced over her shoulder. “Really?”

“Mm.” Yumeko nodded. “And… I kinda want you to come.” She let out a nervous laugh. “But I didn’t know how to ask.”

Kira hesitated, then smiled. “Oh.”

Yumeko added, quickly. “Suki can come too, if that’s needed. He could even bring a plus one. I just— I want you there.”

Kira’s gaze dropped to her lap. She gripped the swing’s rope tighter. “I’m not sure…”

Yumeko froze again.

“…Because the Kawamotos will be there.” Kira added, quieter.

Behind her, Yumeko didn’t move.

The absence of touch was immediate. Kira could still feel the ghost of fingers in her hair — the warmth, the weight — but it was gone now, replaced with stillness. 

No braid. No hum. No quiet laugh brushing past her ear. Just silence.

Then, quietly, not accusing yet not soft either, Yumeko asked. “Do you… not want to meet them?”

Her voice wasn’t angry. Not yet. It was careful. Like she already suspected the answer would hurt.

Kira turned on the swing, just enough to meet her eyes. “Of course not.” She said, too quickly. “I just…”

She didn’t finish.

Yumeko tilted her head slightly. Her hands were still hovering in the air, unsure whether to return to Kira’s hair or just fall away. “You just what?” She asked. Her tone was flatter now. Guarded. The earlier warmth had cooled, tucked behind a wall that wasn’t usually there.

Kira looked away, heart stuttering in her chest. She hadn’t meant to upset her. She hadn’t even meant to hesitate. “I’m not sure if I should…”

Yumeko blinked. Once. Twice. Her whole face shifted — not dramatically, not all at once, but in that subtle way someone looks when something precious is slowly cracking.

“You’re… not sure?”

Her voice came out quieter, but the disbelief in it was razor sharp. Her hands dropped to her sides.

“Kira, we’ve been together for more than a year.” Her voice rose with each word. “And you’re not sure of me?”

Kira’s breath caught. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“No?” Yumeko took a step back, her expression tight. “But it sounds like that’s what you meant. Don’t lie to me.”

Kira stood now, the swing swaying slightly behind her. “I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t want to be in my life.” Yumeko cut in, her voice brittle.

Kira’s eyes widened. “Of course I do—!”

“Really?” Yumeko’s laugh was a single breath — short, tired. “I get it, okay? I’ve gotten it. I know I can’t be some grand entrance in your house. I’ve made peace with that. But this is my family. My life. The Kawamotos won’t care, Kira. They won’t look at us the way your world does.”

Kira felt her chest tightening, panic creeping up her throat. “It’s not about that—”

“Then what is it?” Yumeko snapped. “Why can’t I have this one thing? Just this? A beach trip. A few days. A chance to wake up and not have to pretend like I’m just your next-door neighbor.”

“It’s risky.” Kira managed, weakly.

“So what?” Yumeko's voice cracked, but she didn’t look away. “What are we doing then, huh? Are we just killing time? Are we going on dates in secret until you marry Sean and I get to be promoted to your mistress?”

The word hit like a slap. Kira’s stomach twisted. “No!” She said sharply, stepping forward. “Yumeko— please.”

She reached for her.

Yumeko flinched, stepping out of her grasp like the touch would burn her. Her eyes were glassy now, but she refused to let the tears fall. She stared at Kira for a long, hard second — not angry, not even disappointed, but something heavier.

“Never mind.” She said, her voice low. Final. “Forget I said anything.”

“Yume—”

“I have to go.” She turned, shoulders stiff. “I have homework.”

Kira didn’t move. She didn’t know how to. Her hand was still half-outstretched, frozen in the air, reaching for someone who no longer wanted to be reached.

Yumeko walked away without looking back.

The clearing, their sanctuary, their shared world, felt colder now. The trees didn’t rustle the same. The swing creaked behind her like a warning.

Kira stood in the silence.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, it didn’t feel like safety anymore.

It felt like loneliness.

Like something beautiful had cracked down the middle — and Kira wasn’t sure she knew how to fix it.

The sun spilled through the stained-glass windows in long shafts of colored light, dyeing the aisle in amber and rose and blood-wine red. Dust shimmered like incense in the morning hush. 

Somewhere above, the choir stirred — a gentle breath before the first hymn, a sigh between two names that were never supposed to be spoken together.

Kira sat beside Suki in the front pew, her dress bone-white and stitched with solemn elegance, the kind of color worn not for joy but duty. The chapel was full — Timurovs to the left, Hennesseys to the right — all gathered to bear witness to the blessing of the ‘budding’ relationship of two heirs, two lineages, two futures.

A farce wrapped in liturgy.

She bowed her head as the priest rose to the pulpit, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling, smooth and certain, carved from years of rehearsed righteousness.

“Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud…”

Kira blinked slowly, her eyes locked on the hem of her skirt. She knew this passage. Sister Magdalene had made her memorize it when she was thirteen, her knuckles red from rapping the edge of her bible too loudly during recitation. 

It was a beautiful verse. Comforting. Gentle. The kind of scripture that made people believe the world could be soft.

But what about when it wasn’t?

The priest continued:

“It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs…”

Kira’s gaze flicked sideways to Suki his posture relaxed, hands loosely clasped, like he had nothing to prove to anyone. There was a quiet elegance to the way he pretended, a grace she almost admired. 

Almost. 

But he wasn’t Yumeko.

Yumeko, who bit her lip when she laughed. Yumeko, who braided wildflowers into Kira’s hair without asking. Yumeko, who almost cried last night in the clearing because Kira hadn’t said yes to the beach.

Her chest ached at the memory — not because Yumeko had left angry, but because she'd deserved to be.

Wasn’t love supposed to be brave?

“Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth…”

The words hit her differently now.

Because if this was love — this farce in satin and stained glass — then what did that make hers ? If blessing something made it true, then was the thing she shared with Yumeko false?

And yet…

Yumeko’s hands were always warm. Her voice, low and certain. Her smile, real. When Kira held her, she wasn’t pretending. She wasn’t performing.

Maybe, Kira thought, real things didn’t need to be announced from a pulpit. Maybe they just needed to be felt.

The priest’s voice softened.

“Choose love above obedience. Choose joy above arrangement. Choose mercy above mercy’s sake…”

She nearly laughed. Now the Bible decided to agree with her?

But the laughter didn’t come.

Because part of her still felt suspended between two versions of herself — the girl her father had designed, and the girl who dared to believe she could be loved by someone who would never be approved.

Yumeko had asked her to come to the beach.

And Kira’s hesitant.

Why? Because the Kawamotos would be there? Because someone might see? Because her father's expectations outweighed Yumeko’s pain?

Or was it because, deep down, she didn’t believe she could be hers completely — not without losing everything else?

“Love always protects. Always trusts. Always hopes. Always perseveres.”

Then maybe, maybe it was time she protected something for herself.

The mass ended with a final Amen , the echo rippling through the wooden pews like a bell toll. Kira stood with the others, the weight of their blessing pressing into her shoulders like a crown she didn’t ask to wear.

Her father’s hand found her back — not heavy, not light. Just present. Just enough.

She tilted her head toward the altar one last time. Let the candles blur. Let the color swirl through her tears.

If love never fails…

Then she would not fail it either.

And maybe, just maybe — when Yumeko blew out her candles next week — Kira would be beside her after all.

Not as a secret.

But as someone brave enough to choose love.

The sun had climbed higher by the time the families moved from pews to the long, elegantly laid lunch table on the rectory lawn — the white linen catching the light like a summer wedding. Wine glasses clinked, quiet laughter rolled like background music, and somewhere nearby, a string quartet played something tasteful and forgettable.

Kira sat beside Suki, her posture perfect, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She barely heard what anyone was saying. Some remark about mergers. Someone else chiming in with something about legacy. Mrs. Hennessey was showing Arkadi a photo of a vineyard. Kira didn’t care.

She typed on her phone under the tablecloth.

Will I see you later? At the clearing?

She watched the typing bubbles flicker in and out before the reply came.

can’t, got a shift tonight.

Just that. No smiley face. No heart. It wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. Worn quiet and frayed at the edges. The kind Kira couldn’t pretend not to feel, even through a screen.

Her fingers hovered, useless. What was she supposed to say? 

Sorry I can't tell my family about you, but will you please wait for me anyway? Sorry I made you feel like a secret again?

She shoved the phone down beside her plate and tugged gently on Suki’s sleeve.

He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised.

She tilted her head, then motioned toward the chapel. “We need to go.” She whispered.

He blinked. “Now?”

Kira gave a tiny nod. “Now.”

A beat passed — just enough for Suki to look at her the way only he could: like he didn’t ask questions because he already knew the answers.

They both stood. Suki offered a quick excuse about a call from his father and with a few murmured nods from the table, they slipped away from the clinking silver and garden pleasantries.

When Kira stopped, Suki leaned against the wall across from her, arms crossed, one foot lazily propped behind the other. “So?” He asked. “What’s this really about?”

Kira hesitated — not because she didn’t know what to say, but because saying it out loud made it feel more dangerous. More real.

“Yumeko’s birthday’s in a week.” She said finally, quietly. “She’s going to the beach. Three days. Her family’s bringing her.”

Suki didn’t move.

“She wants me to come.” Kira added. “Asked me last night. I didn’t say yes.”

Something flickered across Suki’s face — not surprise, but something close to sympathy. He didn't say why didn’t you? He already knew. Instead, he just waited.

“I want to go.” Kira whispered. “I want to be there.”

“And you want me to be your excuse.” He said, voice not unkind.

Kira nodded.

“She said you could come.” She added. “Bring a… someone.”

Suki’s smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “That does sweeten the deal.”

“Suki.”

He straightened, finally taking her seriously. “You want me to lie for you?”

“We’ve done it before.”

“You want me to do it again?”

“I just…” Kira took a breath. “I need her to know I want to be part of her life. Even if it’s just one weekend.”

Suki was quiet for a moment. “You do realize what you’re risking.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Kira looked at him, and this time, she didn’t look away.

“I’m not asking to burn everything down.” She said. “Just… let me. For three days.”

Suki nodded once, slowly, almost reverently — the kind of nod that meant I get it, even if he’d never say it out loud.

“Well then…” He said, already pulling out his phone. “Let’s fabricate a beach trip, Honey.”

And just like that, Kira’s fingers unclenched. Her lungs remembered how to breathe.

Because maybe she couldn’t give Yumeko everything.

But she had to give her this.

They didn’t ask Arkadi that evening.

You didn’t bring requests to a God when he’d just been fed and praised by his congregation.

You waited.

It was late the next day, after Suki had gone over for a “casual breakfast with my future in-laws” , after Kira had lingered at the piano like she was just another soft, obedient girl with no secret agenda tucked under her ribs.

The timing had to be perfect. And even then, approaching Arkadi Timurov for permission was never easy — not even for his daughter.

He was in the study. As always. The door was open, which was rare enough to mean he expected them.

Suki went first, with his usual confident ease, hands tucked in his pockets like he didn’t already know the stakes. Kira followed, spine straight, palms damp where they touched the folds of her skirt.

Arkadi looked up from his ledger.