How long does it take to change a person?
In Shiratori Seiya's estimation, that question was about as meaningful as asking how long it takes for a person to grow up.
Takahashi Mio was like a young eagle accidentally raised among chickens. She had the capacity to soar—it was in her bones—but if she spent every day pecking at the ground with the flock, she'd eventually forget she was meant for the sky.
She didn't need to change. She needed direction.
That was true for Mio. It had been true for Hōjō Shione. For Hasegawa Saori. They all carried something special, something latent. All he had to do was give them a push, and their natural strengths would emerge.
Of course, the execution was a bit more complicated than the classic "how to put an elephant in a refrigerator" thought experiment.
First, he had to get Mio up into the treetops. Let her see the vast horizon from up high. Let her crave it.
Once she was immersed—once she couldn't imagine going back—he'd give her that final push. And she'd fly.
The tricky part? Not getting emotionally tangled up along the way.
He'd learned that lesson. If the young eagle grew too attached, she might dive down mid-flight, circle back, and land on his shoulder instead. And when he asked why, she'd look at him with earnest eyes and say something like, "I just want to stay by your side and take care of you."
That wasn't happening again.
But with Takahashi Mio? Someone obsessed with money and status, not romance? He was probably safe.
>>>>
"Please put these in the back seat."
"Of course, sir."
Shiratori Seiya directed the staff as they loaded bag after bag into the car. By the time they finished, the back seat was practically overflowing with high-end shopping bags.
He and Mio climbed into the front.
Finally. Finally she could sit down.
The moment her body sank into the soft leather seat—still warm from the sun, but comfortable—Takahashi Mio felt a wave of relief wash over her. She reached down, rubbing her sore calves, then stretched her neck, rolling it slowly.
When she glanced at the driver's seat, she froze.
Shiratori Seiya sat perfectly upright. No slouching. No visible fatigue. His posture was so straight it was almost military.
Is this guy made of iron?
She loved shopping. Since high school, she'd gone countless times with Reika, with other friends. She'd never felt this exhausted.
And her friends had always complained about their boyfriends:
"If I ask him to go shopping, it's like I'm asking him to sacrifice his firstborn. But suggest a love hotel? Suddenly he's Usain Bolt."
"He didn't even have to spend money, and he still whined about how shopping is pointless."
"Seriously. The guy has infinite energy for games and... you know... but put him in a mall? Instant zombie mode."
Mio couldn't remember what she'd said in those conversations, but the message had stuck: Men hate shopping.
Clearly, no one had told Shiratori Seiya.
She studied his profile. Come to think of it, he hadn't made a single inappropriate move all morning. Kept his distance. His gaze never lingered where it shouldn't. No creepy, skin-crawling feeling of being mentally undressed.
Faced with a beauty like herself? Completely unmoved.
Is he even a man?
The thought slipped out before she could stop it. A man with no apparent desires. Probably couldn't get a girlfriend if he tried.
Unless—unless the perversion was just better hidden.
A string of thoughts flickered through her mind. She caught herself staring and quickly looked away. But then, unconsciously, she straightened her posture. Imitated his perfect alignment.
"If you're tired, lie down. No need to force yourself."
Shiratori Seiya had turned to look at her.
Mio startled, then summoned her practiced gentle smile. "Ah, I'm fine, really. Not that tired. Today was so much fun, I barely noticed—"
She stopped mid-sentence. He was leaning closer.
Her eyes widened, just slightly. Her hands, resting on her thighs, tightened.
What is he—
She could smell him now. Something clean and simple. Her body went rigid.
Click.
The seatback beneath her reclined smoothly, settling at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Relaxation mode.
"Lie down. I didn't leave time for a nap today. After lunch, we're going to the salon to fix your hair. Consider this your rest period."
He sat back, buckling his seatbelt like nothing had happened.
Mio blinked. Then, slowly, she buckled her own belt.
"...Thank you."
She bit her lower lip, just slightly. A shy, sixteen-year-old girl expression.
"Shiratori-kun... you're very gentle."
His hand paused on the gear shift.
He turned. Looked at her. Really looked.
"What?"
Mio's confidence wavered under that stare. Her eyes darted away, then back. A flicker of guilt.
"You seem to have forgotten how you were when we first met."
The smile froze on her face.
"I won't think any differently of you whether you act gentle or harsh. So please. Stop forcing yourself."
Silence.
Mio's expression went rigid. Her toes, hidden in her sneakers, curled against the insoles. She wanted to disappear into the leather seat.
Could he be any more tactless?
But even exposed, even humiliated, some instinct made her keep trying. An awkward smile plastered itself on her face.
"No, that time—it was a misunderstanding. I'm not usually so—"
"Too sweet."
She stopped.
"You have talent for acting. But your skill isn't at that level yet. And your self-awareness isn't accurate enough to pull it off consistently."
Words she didn't understand.
"People don't fall in love that fast. And I'm not going to be your type."
His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact.
"Besides. We're going to be together for a very, very long time, Takahashi-san. Are you sure you want to perform every single time you face me?"
The smile vanished.
Mio's expression shifted—complex, unreadable—then settled into something blank. Neutral. She slumped back into her seat, shoulders relaxing, and stared at the ceiling.
Straight men are so boring.
But she had to admit. This car was really comfortable.
What does his family do, anyway? First-year university student with his own car? Spending money like water? Must be nice to be rich.
Rich kids are so annoying. And his parents too. All they taught him was how to spend money, not how to talk to people.
But fine. If he wanted to be blunt, she could stop pretending. She'd thought, since he was paying, she should at least provide some emotional value. Clearly, that wasn't necessary.
Made things easier.
Mio let her gaze drift across the car ceiling, preparing to actually rest.
Then something caught her eye.
A sticker. Pinkish-white. Stuck to the ceiling above the passenger seat.
She blinked. Lifted her hips slightly, leaning closer to read it.
...Emergency Contact: If found unconscious, please call...
A phone number.
A name.
Hōjō Suzune.
Mio stared at it, her mind suddenly very awake.<｜end▁of▁thinking｜>Chapter 9: Straight Men Are Truly Boring
How long does it take to change a person?
In Shiratori Seiya's experience, that question was about as meaningful as asking how long it takes for a person to grow up. There was no single answer. It happened when it happened.
Takahashi Mio was like a young eagle that had been raised among chickens by mistake. The capacity to soar was there—woven into her very bones—but when you spend every day pecking at the ground with the flock, you forget you were ever meant for the sky.
She didn't need to change. She needed direction.
That truth applied to Mio. It had applied to Hōjō Shione. To Hasegawa Saori. They all carried something special, something latent. All he had to do was give them a push, and their natural strengths would emerge on their own.
Of course, the execution was a bit more complicated than the classic "how to put an elephant in a refrigerator" thought experiment.
Step one: Get Mio up into the treetops. Let her see the vast horizon from up high. Let her crave it.
Once she was immersed—once she couldn't imagine going back to the ground—he'd give her that final push. And she'd fly.
The tricky part? Not getting emotionally tangled up along the way.
He'd learned that lesson the hard way. If the young eagle grew too attached, she might dive down mid-flight, circle back, and land on his shoulder instead. And when he asked why, she'd look at him with those earnest eyes and say something like, "I just want to stay by your side and take care of you."
That wasn't happening again.
But with Takahashi Mio? Someone obsessed with money and status, not romance? He was probably safe.
"Please put these in the back seat."
"Of course, sir."
Shiratori Seiya directed the staff as they loaded bag after bag into the car. By the time they finished, the back seat was overflowing with high-end shopping bags. The trunk, too.
He and Mio climbed into the front.
Finally. Finally she could sit down.
The moment her body sank into the soft leather—warm from the afternoon sun but still impossibly comfortable—Takahashi Mio felt a wave of relief wash over her. She reached down, rubbing her sore calves, then stretched her neck, rolling it slowly.
When she glanced at the driver's seat, she froze.
Shiratori Seiya sat perfectly upright. No slouching. No visible fatigue. His posture was so straight it was almost military.
Is this guy made of iron?
She loved shopping. Since high school, she'd gone countless times with Reika, with other friends. She'd never felt this exhausted.
And her friends had always complained about their boyfriends:
"If I ask him to go shopping, it's like I'm asking him to donate a kidney. But suggest a love hotel? Suddenly he's training for the Olympics."
"He didn't even have to spend money, and he still whined about how shopping is pointless. Pointless! While I'm trying on things that make me look amazing!"
"Seriously. The guy has infinite energy for games and... you know... but put him in a mall? Instant vegetable."
Mio couldn't remember what she'd said in those conversations, but the message had stuck: Men hate shopping.
Clearly, no one had told Shiratori Seiya.
She studied his profile in the afternoon light. Come to think of it, he hadn't made a single inappropriate move all morning. Kept his distance. His gaze never lingered where it shouldn't. No creepy, skin-crawling feeling of being mentally undressed.
Faced with a beauty like herself? Completely unmoved.
Is he even a man?
The thought slipped out before she could stop it. A man with no apparent desires. Probably couldn't get a girlfriend if he tried.
Unless—unless the perversion was just better hidden.
A string of thoughts flickered through her mind. She caught herself staring and quickly looked away. But then, unconsciously, she straightened her posture. Imitated his perfect alignment.
"If you're tired, lie down. No need to force yourself."
Shiratori Seiya had turned to look at her.
Mio startled, then summoned her practiced gentle smile. "Ah, I'm fine, really. Not that tired. Today was so much fun, I barely noticed—"
She stopped mid-sentence. He was leaning closer.
Her eyes widened, just slightly. Her hands, resting on her thighs, tightened.
What is he—
She could smell him now. Something clean and simple. Her body went rigid.
Click.
The seatback beneath her reclined smoothly, settling at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Relaxation mode.
"Lie down. I didn't leave time for a nap today. After lunch, we're going to the salon to fix your hair. Consider this your rest period."
He sat back, buckling his seatbelt like nothing had happened.
Mio blinked. Then, slowly, she buckled her own belt.
"...Thank you."
She bit her lower lip, just slightly. A shy, almost demure expression.
"Shiratori-kun... you're very gentle."
His hand paused on the gear shift.
He turned. Looked at her. Really looked.
"What?"
Mio's confidence wavered under that stare. Her eyes darted away, then back. A flicker of guilt.
"You seem to have forgotten how you were when we first met."
The smile froze on her face.
"I won't think any differently of you whether you act gentle or harsh. So please. Stop forcing yourself."
Silence.
Mio's expression went rigid. Her toes, hidden in her sneakers, curled against the insoles. She wanted to disappear into the leather seat.
Could he be any more tactless?
But even exposed, even humiliated, some instinct made her keep trying. An awkward smile plastered itself on her face.
"No, that time—it was a misunderstanding. I'm not usually so—"
"Too sweet."
She stopped.
"You have talent for acting. But your skill isn't at that level yet. And your self-awareness isn't accurate enough to pull it off consistently."
Words she didn't understand.
"People don't fall in love that fast. And I'm not going to be your type."
His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact.
"Besides. We're going to be together for a very, very long time, Takahashi-san. Are you sure you want to perform every single time you face me?"
The smile vanished.
Mio's expression shifted—complex, unreadable—then settled into something blank. Neutral. She slumped back into her seat, shoulders relaxing, and stared at the ceiling.
Straight men are so boring.
But she had to admit. This car was really comfortable.
What does his family do, anyway? First-year university student with his own car? Spending money like water? Must be nice to be rich.
Rich kids are so annoying. And his parents too. All they taught him was how to spend money, not how to talk to people.
But fine. If he wanted to be blunt, she could stop pretending. She'd thought, since he was paying, she should at least provide some emotional value. Clearly, that wasn't necessary.
Made things easier.
Mio let her gaze drift across the car ceiling, preparing to actually rest.
Then something caught her eye.
A sticker. Pinkish-white. Stuck to the ceiling above the passenger seat, slightly faded from sun exposure but still legible.
She blinked. Lifted her hips slightly, leaning closer to read it.