After a measured pause that seemed to stretch like the final note of a song lingering in the air, Takahashi Miki's keen gaze swept over the two of them in turn. Her thin lips curved into a smile that was equal parts mischief and genuine concern.
"Think about it. Saving money on rent is one thing—Tokyo prices are absolutely brutal, after all. But more importantly, Uncle and Aunt would be able to sleep easier at night knowing Mio isn't alone. And..." She tilted her head, her eyes flicking meaningfully toward Shiratori Seiya. "...it would prevent situations like tonight from happening again, wouldn't it? No more panicked phone calls, no more racing across the city because someone forgot to check her messages."
As her words settled into the quiet room, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. The ambient hum of the refrigerator suddenly felt deafening.
Takahashi Mio's eyes darted toward Shiratori Seiya with the speed of a startled sparrow. When she saw that he wasn't jumping in to answer—his expression remaining that infuriatingly calm, unreadable mask—a tiny spark of panic ignited in her chest. She opened her mouth, the words tumbling out in a rush before her brain could fully vet them.
"W-Well, about moving in together... it's actually not that simple, you know! I mean, I literally just paid six months' rent last month. If I cancel the lease now, the entire deposit gets swallowed up. Like, completely gone. Poof. Into the void."
She paused, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her pajama sleeve.
"At the very least, I'd have to wait until next year when the lease is up. And besides..." Her voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, so soft it was practically a thought escaping into the world without permission. "...I haven't exactly prepared myself mentally for something like that. It's a huge step..."
As she trailed off, the girl's pretty face—still carrying that post-bath, dewy radiance—lowered until her chin nearly touched her collarbone. A fresh wave of crimson bloomed across her cheeks, spreading like ink dropped into clear water.
She bit her lip gently, a gesture so fragile and unguarded it could have been painted by a master of shoujo manga. In her amber, glistening eyes, a shy, flustered light flickered like a candle flame caught in a breeze. Her index finger, still damp from her earlier shower, traced absent-minded circles on the surface of the low table—round and round, an endless, nervous spiral.
Shiratori Seiya watched this performance unfold. For a single, suspended moment, he found himself genuinely stunned. She looked exactly like a blushing new bride, overcome with maidenly modesty.
Then, reality snapped back into focus.
Ah. Acting. Right.
He couldn't help but marvel internally at how terrifyingly fast her skills were progressing. If he hadn't known better—if he hadn't been fully aware of the intricate, transaction-laced architecture of their actual relationship—he might have been completely fooled.
Takahashi Miki was equally caught off guard by the display. Her eyes widened a fraction before memory caught up. Right. This is probably Mio's very first love. Her first everything, really. A warm, fond laugh bubbled up from her throat, chasing away the sharp edges of her earlier cynicism.
"Ahaha, you're right, you're right. It's definitely not that simple. Forget I said anything so rash." She waved a hand dismissively, though the knowing glint never quite left her eyes. "You two just think it over carefully. No need to rush into anything."
With that, the charged topic of cohabitation was temporarily laid to rest. The three of them chatted on for a while longer, the conversation drifting toward safer shores—university anecdotes, favorite ramen shops, the perpetual struggle of balancing part-time work with study. Just as the tension had fully dissipated and the meal was winding down, Takahashi Miki's phone suddenly erupted with a sharp, insistent ringtone.
"One moment."
She scooped up the device, her brow furrowing the instant her eyes registered the caller ID. Without explanation, she rose from the tatami in a single fluid motion and strode past the two of them, sliding open the balcony door and stepping out into the cool night air.
The bedroom fell into a suspended silence. Mio and Shiratori Seiya exchanged a wordless glance, their chopsticks frozen mid-air. Neither spoke.
Through the thin glass door, fragments of conversation drifted back into the room like scraps of paper on the wind. "...An advertisement shoot? Now? But I thought..." A pause. A sharp intake of breath. "...Wasn't I already rejected? They said the casting was finalized..." The voice was controlled, professional, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of brittle hope and confusion.
After what felt like an eternity, Takahashi Miki stepped back inside. The transformation was immediate and stark. Every trace of warmth, of teasing humor, had been wiped clean from her angular features. The harsh incandescent light from the ceiling fixture shone down on her gaunt face, painting it in shades of stark white and cold shadow. She looked, in that moment, like a porcelain mask.
"Sorry to cut this short," she announced, her voice clipped and businesslike. "My agency just called with an urgent notice. Something came up at the last minute. I have to head out immediately." She nodded briskly to both of them, the gesture efficient and impersonal. "You two keep chatting. We'll catch up properly another time."
Without waiting for a response, she hooked the strap of her handbag over her alarmingly slender arm and made for the door with the swift, clicking strides of someone accustomed to tight schedules and tighter margins.
Takahashi Mio scrambled to her feet, Shiratori Seiya rising just behind her. But at the genkan, Takahashi Miki raised a hand, palm outward, stopping them at the threshold.
"No need to see me off. Really."
Her gaze shifted to Mio, and for just a fraction of a second, the stern professionalism cracked, revealing a glimmer of the older cousin who used to sneak her out to karaoke boxes. "And Mio—don't forget to call your mom. She's been worried sick."
"I know... I will."
Mio stood in the doorway, watching her cousin's frail silhouette recede down the long, dimly lit corridor. The sharp click-clack of heels on linoleum echoed, faded, and finally disappeared as Miki rounded the corner.
The moment she was out of sight, Takahashi Mio's entire body sagged with released tension. She let out a massive, shuddering sigh—the kind that seemed to drain the very soul from one's body—and instinctively leaned sideways, her shoulder and temple coming to rest against Shiratori Seiya's solid frame.
"It's finally over..." she breathed, the words escaping on a gust of pure, unfiltered relief. "I felt like I was going to have a heart attack this whole time."
Shiratori Seiya reached out automatically, his hand steadying her before she could slide any further down. As he did, his brow furrowed with a question that had been hovering at the edge of his thoughts since the door first opened.
"Your cousin... what exactly does she do for work?"
Realizing, with a small jolt, that she'd been practically draping herself over him like a wet towel, Takahashi Mio hastily straightened up. She tucked a wayward strand of damp hair behind her ear, her cheeks still flushed.
"She's a model. Or... trying to be one, anyway. She announced she wanted to be a model back when she was still in high school—can you imagine? My uncle absolutely hit the roof." A wistful note crept into her voice. "But... her career doesn't seem to be going very smoothly. It must be rough, getting called in for a last-minute shoot this late at night. The industry really works its people to the bone."
"A model?"
Shiratori Seiya's mind flickered back to the woman's skeletal frame, the jutting collarbones, the way her clothes hung loose as if borrowed from someone two sizes larger. The pieces clicked into place with grim precision.
"Yes." Mio shut the apartment door and slid the chain lock into place with a soft metallic rattle. A heavy sigh escaped her lips. "She works way too hard. You should've seen her before—she was never this thin. She probably starved herself to fit the industry standard." She shook her head slowly, a mixture of pity and something like fear swirling in her eyes. "I could never do that. It feels like she's literally risking her life for this dream."
As she spoke, her thoughts circled back to the conversation they'd shared just before Seiya's arrival. Her delicate eyebrows knitted together, forming a small, troubled crease on her forehead.
"But, even after all that... after all that sacrifice... it seems like her efforts still aren't paying off. It's just so..."
She trailed off, unable to find the right word. Cruel? Unfair? Terrifying?
"What do you mean?"
The two of them gravitated back toward the low table, settling onto the tatami cushions like survivors regrouping after a battle. Shiratori Seiya reached for a skewer of leftover yakitori—the grilled chicken had gone cold, but his stomach didn't care. He hadn't eaten dinner before racing over, and the scattered snacks during their tense chat had barely registered. Now, with the crisis averted, his body was loudly demanding replenishment.
"She told me..." Mio's voice was quiet, strained. "She feels like she can't keep going down this path anymore. She said she's thinking about giving up modeling and trying to become an actress instead."
She bit her lip, hard. An inexplicable, thorny irritation prickled inside her chest—not at her cousin, but at the situation itself. At the universe. At the cruel mathematics of effort and reward.
"But she's already persevered for so long! For years! If she just gives up now, right when things are at their hardest... wouldn't that mean all her previous efforts were completely in vain? All those skipped meals, all those rejections, all that pain—just... meaningless?"
Noticing the intensity in her voice, the way this question seemed to matter far more than casual curiosity, Shiratori Seiya set down his empty skewer. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and met her gaze head-on. When he spoke, his voice was serious. Deliberate.
"Mio. Effort doesn't always guarantee a reward. That's not some profound philosophical truth—it's just common sense. Basic math. And when you're making a major life decision, sunk costs shouldn't even be part of the equation. The past is the past. Sometimes, changing paths isn't giving up—it's the clearly, objectively correct strategic move."
"I know that's what logic says..."
Takahashi Mio bit the corner of her mouth, a complicated tangle of emotions knotting in her chest. She twisted her fingers together in her lap, her knuckles whitening. Another sigh, heavier this time.
"But 'persevere to the end, never give up, follow your dreams no matter what'... that's what Miki-nee told me back then. That was her whole philosophy. I've always admired her so much because I never had that kind of determination. I was always too scared. Too weak. And now that I finally have a goal, now that I'm finally preparing to chase my dream with everything I have... she tells me it's better to just give up."
Her voice cracked, and she had to pause to steady herself. When she continued, her eyes had grown glassy, the telltale shimmer of unshed tears gathering along her lash line. Her palms clenched into fists on her thighs.
"It's as if... it's as if her present is going to be my future. Like I'm looking at a prophecy of my own failure."
The weight of the confession hung in the air, heavy and raw. Despite working herself to exhaustion every single day. Despite the tangible sensation of improvement—the way her body remembered techniques faster, the way her voice found emotional notes she'd never been able to reach before. Despite the strict instructor Araki-sensei, who rarely offered praise, grudgingly admitting she had made remarkable strides. Despite Nagata Nanase's genuine astonishment at her accelerated growth.
Strictly speaking, she hadn't even properly started yet. She had no achievements to point to. No roles. No credits. No concrete proof that this was all worth it. Her future was still a blurry, indistinct fog.
And when it came to sheer effort... her cousin's dedication was absolutely no less than her own. Probably far greater. The evidence was carved into Miki-nee's very body—the hollow cheeks, the protruding bones, the physical toll of years of relentless striving. And that was surely just the visible tip of a vast, submerged iceberg. No one knew how much effort she'd poured in behind closed doors. How many tears she'd shed into her pillow at night. How many times she'd picked herself up after being knocked flat.
Looking at the girl consumed by spiraling self-doubt, her radiance dimmed by clouds of uncertainty, Shiratori Seiya stroked his chin thoughtfully. His expression remained calm. Utterly unshaken.
"Eagles are born with the ability to fly. It's in their blood. Their bones. An antelope, no matter how many times it hurls itself off a cliff, will never soar through the sky. That's not a moral failing—it's just nature." His voice was steady, carrying the absolute certainty of someone stating an immutable law of physics. "I'll say it again. If you can't trust yourself right now, then trust me. Unconditionally. That's what I'm here for."
He had no particular interest in dissecting her cousin's career trajectory, and he had no intention of indulging Mio's spiraling negative thought loop. That wasn't productive. That wasn't the point. He pointed directly at her phone, his tone shifting to something more immediate. More concrete.
"Besides. I didn't come charging over here tonight just to play boyfriend charades in front of your cousin. I actually had a purpose."
"Now. Open your phone. Look at the two files I sent you."
"Huh...?"
Startled out of her melancholic reverie, Takahashi Mio blinked rapidly, the tears retreating. She fumbled for her phone, unlocking it with slightly trembling fingers. Following his instruction, she navigated to their LINE chat and tapped on the first file.
"The first attachment is a script I wrote," Shiratori Seiya explained, his voice level. As if this were the most natural thing in the world. "The second one is the original novel it's based on."
"I know you're absolutely swamped right now—classes, training, all of it. You won't be able to digest everything in one sitting. So here's the plan: starting tomorrow, read a little bit each day. A few pages. A scene. Digest it slowly. And if there's anything you don't understand—absolutely anything—ask me."
Her mind still struggling to catch up with her ears, Takahashi Mio's lips parted in blank astonishment. She turned her head slowly, staring at him as if he'd just announced he'd purchased the moon.
"You... wrote this? An entire script? You? "
She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet, post-crisis stillness of the room. Her finger moved almost involuntarily, scrolling down the screen. Once. Twice. Three times. The pages kept cascading past, an seemingly endless river of formatted dialogue and scene descriptions. She hadn't even reached the halfway point yet. Her voice emerged as a breathless whisper, equal parts awe and sheer, uncomprehending disbelief.
"How... how on earth did you actually do this? This is insane!"
Shiratori Seiya didn't take the bait for her awestruck question. He sidestepped it entirely, cutting straight to the practical heart of the matter. "You'll be auditioning for the female lead role in this drama."
"Audition?! Wait—is it actually confirmed that it's going into production? Like, for real?! This isn't just some practice exercise?!"
Takahashi Mio felt her head spinning, the room tilting slightly on its axis. In her private mental estimation, Shiratori Seiya writing a complete, viable script would have taken at least a year and a half. Possibly longer. After all, he'd probably only started learning the craft recently—she'd seen the notes, the textbooks, the late-night study sessions. And now he had actually produced not just a script... but an accompanying novel as well? A whole original work?!
A warm, surging current erupted from somewhere deep in her chest, flooding her ribcage with an emotion too complex to name. Gratitude. Awe. A fierce, almost painful affection.
For my sake. He did all of this... for my sake.
Her eyes, still glassy with the remnants of earlier tears, glistened with a new, brighter light as she stared at the young man before her. How many sleepless nights? How much effort? How much of himself did he pour into this?
"More or less, it's pretty much locked in," Shiratori Seiya replied, his tone casual—as if securing a television drama deal was no more remarkable than ordering takeout. "But the actual auditions probably won't kick off for another few months. We have a window."
He had brought the script tonight with precise, calculated intention. He wanted Takahashi Mio to absorb the story early. To steep herself in the world, the atmosphere, the character's psychology—days, weeks, even months before any other actress even glimpsed the material. He was handing her an insurmountable head start. By the time auditions began, the role would already feel like a second skin.
Without waiting for her to process the full magnitude of what he was saying, Shiratori Seiya shifted position—rising from his cushion and settling down right beside her, close enough that the fabric of his shirt sleeve brushed against her bare arm. He leaned in, his finger tracing across the screen, and began explaining the overarching structure of the story. The central mystery. The character she would inhabit—her motivations, her hidden wounds, her quiet strengths.
The two of them huddled together over the glowing phone screen, shoulders pressed close, heads nearly touching. The boy's body heat radiated through the whisper-thin cotton of his shirt and seeped into her skin, and Takahashi Mio became acutely, overwhelmingly aware that her entire arm was burning.
This proximity. This is... dangerously close. Battle-station-level proximity. Code red.
No matter how she tried to rationalize it—he's just explaining the script, this is professional, completely normal work behavior—this felt like crossing some invisible line into territory marked only on maps of the heart.
A faint, clean scent drifted into her awareness. Soap? Laundry detergent? Whatever it was, it was unmistakably him. Without conscious permission, she found herself inhaling just a little deeper, drawing the scent in like a secret. Her legs pressed together beneath the low table, an unconscious, instinctive response to the electric current humming through her nerves.
She carefully averted her gaze from the phone screen and focused instead on his profile. The curve of his jaw. The way his eyelashes caught the lamplight. The movement of his lips as he spoke—wait, why am I staring at his lips?!
Her chest grew warmer and warmer, a tingling, effervescent sensation spreading outward like ripples in a still pond. Even with the air conditioner humming steadily in the corner, Takahashi Mio felt her thoughts churning sluggishly, like a rusted, half-jammed fan desperately trying to spin.
A strange, unfamiliar feeling plucked at her heartstrings—a single feather drawn across them, producing a chord that was equal parts sweet and torturous. Sour and itchy. That's what this is. The world's most frustrating emotional combination.
"Anyway, that's the basic framework. You can study the details on your own time, and if any questions come up, bring them to me. I'll—"
Shiratori Seiya's voice cut through her haze, and Mio jolted as if shocked. She snapped back to attention with the speed of a student caught daydreaming in class, nodding vigorously. "Ah! Yes! I pretty much understand! Mostly! Sort of!"
Her response was too quick. Too automatic.
Shiratori Seiya paused mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed, studying her face with that uncomfortably perceptive gaze—the one that always made her feel like he could see straight through her skull and read the subtitles of her inner monologue. "Were you actually listening? Just now?"
"Uh..." Mio's cheeks flushed a guilty crimson. "It's... it's a lot to take in all at once. I'll study it more thoroughly later. Really. I promise."
She delivered this flimsy excuse with as much conviction as she could muster, then pursed her pink lips. A different question—one that had absolutely nothing to do with mystery crime dramas—pushed its way to the forefront of her mind.
"Um... Seiya? There's something I need to ask. About the script."
"What?"
"This story... it won't have any kissing scenes, will it?"
"Huh?"
The sheer randomness of the question seemed to catch him off guard. Shiratori Seiya blinked, then shook his head with a sigh of exasperation. "It's a mystery crime drama. Suspense. Investigation. Plot twists. There's no romance subplot at all. Where exactly would a kissing scene even fit?"
"Oh. Okay. Good."
Mio nodded, her tongue darting out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. A tiny, furtive motion. Then, beneath the cover of her long skirt, her knee shifted—nudging gently, deliberately, against his leg.
"But, you see... Araki-sensei told me something really important during our last session. She said that to truly immerse yourself in a character, to make them feel real, you have to experience those emotions firsthand. You can't just fake it. And lately, I've been watching all those films and dramas you recommended—the ones with complex emotional arcs—and I've noticed something frustrating."
She was rambling now, her brain desperately spinning a web of justification.
"I can't seem to properly immerse myself in characters who are experiencing heartbreak. Or falling in love. Or... you know... that kind of intimate romantic connection. I just can't access those feelings. And I think..." She swallowed, her throat suddenly parched. "I think it's probably because I've never actually had that kind of real, physical, intimate contact in a romantic relationship context."
She was scrabbling for excuses now, cobbling together fragments of half-remembered acting theory. Her face felt like it had been set on fire, but she forced her voice into a clear, serious register—as if she were genuinely, academically discussing performance methodology.
"So, I was thinking... purely for research purposes, of course... if we were to, hypothetically... kiss..."
Her eyes blinked rapidly, trying to project innocence and professional curiosity. "Wouldn't that help me better understand the emotions of a character in love? It would be like... method acting. Right?"
Before he could respond, before her courage could evaporate entirely, she reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. Her grip was firm. Her eyes, still glistening with that unreadable light, fixed directly on his face.
"And besides... you did promise you'd fulfill your duties as a boyfriend. Properly. Those were your exact words. So I'm just... I'm just asking you to keep your promise."
Her voice dropped. Softer. Almost a whisper.
"A kiss...?"
"..."