---
[Shibuya Shopping District]
Yukigami Nahiro needed a hospital.
But first—she needed clothes that weren't hanging off her body in shreds.
Less than two hundred meters from Seirin Academy's gates stretched a commercial strip lined with boutiques and cafés. The afternoon crowd thinned here on weekdays, most students either in class or at cram school.
Riku carried Nahiro against his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his uniform jacket with white-knuckled desperation, pulling it closed over the torn remnants of her blouse. Each step jostled them together, her fever-hot skin radiating through the thin barrier of cotton.
His eyes scanned the storefronts—a ramen shop, a phone accessories kiosk, a bookstore—before settling on a women's clothing boutique with mannequins posed in the window display like frozen dancers.
That'll do.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft chime as Riku stepped inside, Nahiro still cradled in his arms. The interior smelled of fresh linen and something floral—lavender fabric softener, maybe, mixed with the plastic-and-cardboard scent of new merchandise.
"Welcome!" A saleswoman chirped from behind the counter, her customer-service smile faltering as she registered the scene: a tall young man in a disheveled uniform carrying a half-conscious girl whose clothes were clearly... damaged. "Um—"
Riku didn't pause for pleasantries.
His gaze swept across the clothing racks with mechanical precision, mentally cataloging sizes against Nahiro's frame—the narrow shoulders, the impossible waist, those curves that his arms were currently very aware of. He snagged a cream-colored blouse from one rack, a hand towel from a display basket, and kept moving toward the fitting rooms at the back.
With his free hand, he dug out a bank card—years of part-time work condensed into a thin rectangle of plastic—and tossed it onto the counter without breaking stride.
"Ring it up."
"S-Sir—"
But he was already through the fitting room curtain, Nahiro pressed against him in the cramped space.
---
Single-occupancy fitting rooms weren't designed for two people.
The space measured maybe four feet by four feet, walls covered in full-length mirrors that multiplied their reflection into infinity. A narrow bench ran along one wall. The air hung still and close, carrying the faint chemical smell of sizing spray and new fabric, undercut by something warmer—the sweet, feverish musk rising from Nahiro's skin.
Riku became acutely aware of their breathing.
His—deeper, controlled through conscious effort.
Hers—rapid, shallow, each exhale brushing warm against his collarbone.
Is that the fever? Or...
The silence pressed in around them, intimate in a way that made the small hairs on his arms stand upright. Every micro-movement seemed amplified: the rustle of her torn blouse, the creak of the bench as he lowered her onto it, the thundering percussion of his own heartbeat.
Nahiro sat with her head bowed, silver-white hair spilling forward like a curtain. In this position, the crown of her head reached just to his waist level. The visual hit him somewhere primal, a flash of imagery he immediately tried to suppress.
"I'll... help you change."
His voice came out rougher than intended. Softer, too. Like he was speaking to something fragile.
Nahiro said nothing.
But her arms—which had been crossed protectively over her chest—slowly relaxed, lowering to her sides in silent permission. Her lashes remained downcast, those mist-colored eyes hidden behind them.
She's letting me.
Riku's throat went dry.
His fingers found the first button of her ruined blouse. The fabric was still damp from the rain earlier—had it only been a day ago?—and clung to her skin. The button slipped free with minimal resistance.
Then the second.
His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
The third button revealed the lace edge of something pale pink, a bra that probably cost more than his weekly paycheck. The fabric pressed against skin so white it seemed to glow in the fitting room's fluorescent light—not the healthy pink-white of a peach, but the luminous pallor of fresh snow or fine porcelain.
Fuck.
Fourth button.
The cups of her bra came fully into view—delicate lace stretched over curves that defied her slender frame, the kind of proportions that anime artists drew and real genetics rarely provided. Through the semi-transparent fabric, he could make out the darker shadows of her areolas, the subtle protrusion of nipples that might have been stiff from cold or fever or something else entirely.
Riku's mouth filled with saliva. He swallowed again, painfully aware of every sensation—the stuffy warmth of the enclosed space, the itching feeling along his spine like invisible insects crawling, the tight pressure building in his slacks.
His eyes burned into her skin.
"Nn..." Nahiro made a small sound in her throat, almost a whimper.
God, that sound—
He pulled the ruined blouse from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a wet heap. His hands found the towel, began running it across her collarbones, her shoulders, down the valley between her breasts—
Even through the cotton barrier, he could feel her.
The impossible smoothness of her skin, like cool silk under a layer of fever-sweat. The subtle give of flesh that yielded to pressure. The way her breath hitched each time the towel dragged across sensitive territory.
Inside his skull, that fucking narrator decided to offer commentary:
「A narrow fitting room—the perfect location, wouldn't you agree? Absolutely exhilarating. All you need to do is push her against the wall, work those buttons even slower, guide her pretty little head downward with both hands...」
Riku's temple throbbed, a vein visibly pulsing.
He was already struggling—had been struggling since she'd given him that silent permission. The narrator's suggestions poured gasoline on a fire that needed no encouragement.
His breathing grew ragged.
Without conscious decision, his body leaned forward, closing the minimal distance between them. His shadow fell across Nahiro, engulfing her smaller form, and she instinctively pressed back against the wall—though whether in fear or invitation, he couldn't tell.
「Yes, just like that—」
His mouth found the junction of her neck and shoulder.
His teeth grazed skin.
"Ah—!"
Nahiro jolted like an electric current had passed through her. Her entire body trembled, eyelashes fluttering rapidly, that small cry escaping before she could suppress it. The sound shot straight to his groin, bypassed rational thought entirely, landed somewhere primitive in his hindbrain that whispered take.
His hands grew bolder.
One palm flattened against her ribcage, thumb brushing the underwire of her bra. The other slid lower, following the indent of her waist, the flare of her hip—
She's burning up, some distant part of his brain noted. Fever-hot everywhere.
But mainly he was processing the softness under his palms, the way her body was responding despite everything, the tiny sounds she kept making—
"Hah... here... we can't..."
Her voice was breathy, fragmented, barely audible.
We can't.
The words penetrated the haze.
Riku froze, hands still positioned on her body, face still buried against her throat where he could feel her pulse hammering rabbit-fast against his lips.
We can't—here.
Not "we can't."
Here.
The distinction mattered. His foggy brain clung to that grammatical nuance like a lifeline.
He pulled back slightly, enough to see her face. Those fog-colored eyes were half-lidded now, cheeks flushed darker than the fever alone could account for, lips parted around shallow breaths. The holographic display hovering above her head flickered:
[Yukigami Nahiro]
Affection: 31 (+1)
The fallen girl who lost interest in the world
Only one point?
The question sobered him faster than cold water.
One single point—when I just had my hands all over her?
Meanwhile, a passing comment from Mrs. Yamashita had earned five points of affection without any physical contact at all.
What the hell is the difference?
「You're overthinking it. She's right here, pliable, willing—take what's offered before the opportunity passes—」
"Shut up."
The words came out louder than he'd intended. Nahiro blinked, confusion flickering across her features, but Riku was already straightening, putting precious distance between their bodies.
This is insane.
Getting caught here, regardless of whether she's willing—that's a one-way ticket to prison.
Get a grip, you idiot.
He turned his back to her, presenting his shoulders and spine as a barrier. His breathing remained uneven, body still thrumming with unreleased tension, but the physical separation helped. Marginally.
"Change. Quickly."
Behind him, fabric rustled. The soft sounds of Nahiro dressing painted an audio picture his imagination insisted on visualizing, but he kept his eyes fixed on the curtain ahead.
「Such restraint! But for how long, I wonder? Take her home instead. A dose of fever reducer, and then you can explore exactly how hot 38.7 degrees feels from the inside—」
That goddamn narrator—
「Why resist at all? The thrill of the forbidden is precisely what makes conquered prey taste sweetest—」
"Hurry up," Riku ground out, more to silence the voice than to rush her.
"Mm."
A soft affirmative from behind.
It might have been gratitude. It might have been acknowledgment. It sounded almost warm—a tiny crack in the glacier of her apathy.
Minutes stretched like hours in the cramped, overheated space. Riku counted his breaths, willing his body back to baseline, aggressively not thinking about what had just happened.
She said I could. Anytime. Just not here—
No. Fucking stop.
A tug on his sleeve interrupted the spiral.
Riku let himself be pulled around, and—
Nahiro stood before him in the new cream blouse, buttoned neatly, hiding everything he'd just been touching. But her face remained flushed dark red, crimson staining her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Those mist-gray eyes peered up at him through silvery lashes.
Then she took his hand.
And pressed it flat against her chest.
His palm settled over the soft swell of her breast, feeling the rapid beat of her heart through layers of fabric—thump-thump-thump-thump, racing like she'd sprinted a marathon.
"Whatever Riku-kun wants to do..."
Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
"...anytime is fine."
A pause. Her gaze dropped to the floor.
"But it has to be somewhere private."
What?
She's—
Giving blanket permission?
Riku stared at her, brain temporarily offline, while the holographic display updated:
[Yukigami Nahiro]
Affection: 26 (-5)
WHAT?
It went DOWN? She just offered me—and the affection DROPPED?
By FIVE points?
The single point I gained earlier is already gone and then some—
Before he could process the contradiction, Nahiro's knees buckled.
"Oi—!"
Riku caught her on reflex, her body going limp in his arms. One palm pressed to her forehead confirmed the worst: she was burning hotter than before, skin dry and paper-thin over the fever underneath.
「How convenient! The maiden has fainted. While she's still warm—」
"Piss off."
He shouldered through the fitting room curtain with Nahiro cradled against his chest.
The saleswoman startled, nearly dropping the credit card she'd been holding. "S-Sir! Your total was 15,000 yen, and here's your receipt—"
Riku snatched both without slowing, stuffing them into his pocket alongside his phone as he made for the exit.
[Spent ¥15,000 on Yukigami Nahiro]
[Cashback received: ¥150,000]
The notification pinged silently. His bank account swelled by tenfold the purchase price—but he barely registered the windfall. His attention was locked on the status display hovering above Nahiro's unconscious face, where a new indicator had appeared in angry red:
[Status: High Fever]
---
[Shibuya Central Hospital, March 14th, 7:23 PM]
The hospital smelled of rubbing alcohol and industrial disinfectant, that particular sterile sharpness that clung to the inside of your nostrils and refused to leave. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in flat, shadowless white.
Riku had carried Nahiro through the emergency entrance, filled out the forms with educated guesses about her medical history, and hovered anxiously until a nurse threatened to call security on the "suspicious young man loitering outside the examination room."
They'd given her a private room eventually—IV drip snaking into her arm, saline and fever reducers flowing in clear liquid through plastic tubing. The machines beeped softly, monitoring vitals, while Nahiro lay motionless beneath thin hospital blankets.
Since her condition required observation, Riku had texted his teacher a vague excuse about a family emergency.
Then he'd sat down beside her bed.
And promptly passed out.
The emotional whiplash of the past few hours—the attempted assault, the narrator's constant intrusions, the fitting room incident, the panic of watching her collapse—had drained him more thoroughly than any physical exhaustion. The moment he allowed himself to relax, unconsciousness claimed him like a tide pulling under.
He slept with his head pillowed on his folded arms, face pressed against the thin hospital mattress beside Nahiro's hip, completely dead to the world.
---
When Yukigami Nahiro opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was white.
White ceiling. Harsh lights. The smell of antiseptic.
For a disorienting moment, she assumed Riku had brought her to his home—or perhaps some love hotel—and that she'd simply missed whatever had happened after she passed out. The fitting room was still fresh in her memory: his hands on her skin, his mouth at her throat, the desperate hunger in every movement.
She'd expected to wake up somewhere... different.
Not that it matters, she thought distantly. Riku is acceptable. If that's what he wants—
But as her vision cleared and she processed her surroundings—the IV stand, the heart monitor, the window showing night sky outside—realization clicked.
"A hospital?"
Her voice croaked from disuse. The alcohol-and-bleach smell confirmed what her eyes were telling her.
He brought me to a hospital.
Not his bedroom. Not a back alley. A hospital.
Something stirred in her chest—a tiny flicker in the vast emptiness, like a single match struck in an underground cavern.
She turned her head.
And found him there.
Riku was slumped over the edge of her bed, face hidden in his arms, shoulders rising and falling with deep, even breaths. His yellow hair caught the fluorescent light, bright as summer wheat, tousled and sticking up at odd angles. One hand rested near her hip, fingers slack in sleep.
How long has he been here?
The window showed darkness. She'd collapsed in the afternoon—which meant hours had passed.
Hours that he'd spent... waiting.
He really was here the whole time.
Something warm unfurled in her chest.
The corners of her mouth curved upward—a genuine smile, small but unmistakable, touching her features like the first crack of dawn over a winter landscape.
Interesting.
Her hand lifted from the blanket, drifting toward his disheveled hair. The strands looked soft. She wanted to know if they felt as bright as they appeared, wanted to touch something real and warm and here—
Her fingertips were an inch away when Riku stirred.
Nahiro's hand snapped back like she'd touched a hot stove. Her face flushed crimson as she whipped her head toward the window, suddenly fascinated by the view of nighttime Shibuya.
I wasn't—I didn't—
Behind her, she heard him yawn.
"Mmnh... Yukigami?"
The rustle of fabric as he straightened up.
"You're awake."
Don't turn around. Don't let him see your face—
"How are you feeling?"
A pause.
Then warm fingers pressed against her forehead.
The touch was gentle. Clinical, almost—checking for fever. But it lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary, thumb brushing a strand of silver hair away from her face.
"Fever's broken," he murmured, half to himself. "Good. That's good."
Nahiro finally turned to look at him.
His eyes were still bleary from sleep, a red crease marking his cheek where it had pressed against his sleeve. He looked rumpled and tired and—
—worried.
About me.
The match in her chest caught fire.
Not a blazing inferno—just a small, steady flame, warm and persistent, illuminating corners of her inner world that had been dark for so long. The color seeped back into reality by degrees: the gold of his hair, the concerned furrow of his brow, the gentle pressure of his palm still resting against her forehead.
One person, she thought. Just one person who notices.
Maybe that's enough.
Above her head, the holographic display exploded with a cascade of hearts:
[Yukigami Nahiro]
Affection: +20
[Yukigami Nahiro]
Affection: 46 (Someone who interests me)
He stayed, she thought, watching him through fog-colored eyes. He actually stayed.
And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Yukigami Nahiro found herself looking forward to tomorrow.