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The neon lights of Tokyo pulsed like a living thing, their reflections swimming in the rain-slicked pavement as Yuno Kashiki navigated the late-night streets. Her designer heels clicked a steady rhythm against the concrete, each step sending tiny vibrations up her calves. The midnight-blue dress she wore—a gift from last week's rendezvous—clung to her frame with practiced elegance, the silver embroidery catching stray beams of light whenever she passed beneath a streetlamp.
Her phone buzzed insistently in her clutch. She knew who it was before she even looked.
[Unknown: 11:12 PM]
"The Imperial Suite. One hour. Don't disappoint me again."
Yuno's fingers tightened around the device, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the expensive case. She'd been dodging his messages all evening, ever since leaving the department store where she'd spent his latest "allowance" on a new bottle of perfume—something light and floral to mask the scent of whiskey that would inevitably cling to her later.
With practiced ease, she swiped the notification away and opened her chat with Mahiru instead, sending a quick "Studying at Kotoko's tonight! Don't wait up ❤️" before silencing her phone entirely. The lie came as naturally as breathing now.
The host club's entrance loomed before her, its heavy oak door polished to a mirror shine. She paused just outside, taking a moment to adjust the strap of her dress where it had slipped slightly off one shoulder. The faint tremor in her hands had nothing to do with the evening chill.
Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive cologne and top-shelf liquor. Plush velvet seats formed intimate islands in the low lighting, each occupied by women in designer outfits being entertained by impeccably dressed hosts. Yuno's gaze went immediately to the corner booth where Fuuta Kajiyama held court, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the table's candle.
He looked up as she approached, those black-and-gold eyes narrowing slightly before recognition smoothed his expression. "You're late," he grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. The way his fingers twitched toward the empty seat beside him betrayed him.
Yuno smiled, sliding into the offered space with practiced grace. "Miss me?" she teased, already signaling for a waiter.
Fuuta rolled his eyes but didn't protest when she ordered two glasses of their most expensive whiskey. "You're gonna drink that whole thing yourself?" he asked, eyeing the generous pour the waiter delivered.
"Only if you don't help me," she countered, pushing one glass toward him. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and Yuno pretended not to notice how quickly Fuuta pulled his hand back.
The alcohol burned pleasantly on its way down, loosening Yuno's tongue as she launched into stories about her week. She talked about school, about the monotony of lectures and the quiet comfort of her friends.
"Mahiru never gets mad at me," she giggled, swirling her glass. "Even when I forget my homework, she just smiles and helps me fix it. And Kotoko—" She wrinkled her nose. "She used to lecture me all the time, but now she just sighs and fixes my mistakes herself. I think she’s warming up to me." She would talk about everything except the messages still waiting on her phone.
Fuuta listened with his usual gruff attentiveness, interjecting with sarcastic comments that made Yuno laugh louder than necessary. When she reached for her third drink, his hand closed around her wrist. "Easy," he murmured, his thumb brushing against her pulse point. "You've got school tomorrow."
The concern in his voice sent warmth flooding through her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "Since when do you care about my attendance record?" she teased, but let him gently pry the glass from her fingers all the same.
The club's closing announcement came far too soon. Yuno pouted as the lights brightened slightly, signaling the last call. "No fair," she slurred, leaning heavily against Fuuta's shoulder. "I wasn't done yet."
Fuuta sighed, but there was something almost fond in the way he looked down at her. "You're plastered," he observed, carefully extricating himself from her grasp to stand. "C'mon, let's get you home."
Outside, the cool night air did little to sober Yuno up. She stumbled slightly on the uneven pavement, only to find Fuuta's arm suddenly around her waist, steadying her. "Careful," he muttered, his voice rough with something that might have been concern.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, Yuno's head lolling occasionally against Fuuta's shoulder. It wasn't until they passed a luxury hotel—its marble facade glowing under spotlights—that Fuuta's grip tightened slightly.
"That where you're usually headed this time of night?" he asked suddenly, his voice carefully neutral.
Yuno stiffened. The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken implications. She opened her mouth to deflect, to laugh it off like she always did, but something about the way Fuuta was looking at her—like he already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway—made the words stick in her throat.
"He's not... it's not like that," she tried instead, knowing how weak it sounded.
Fuuta stopped walking entirely then, turning to face her fully. The streetlight cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. "Then what is it like, Yuno?" he asked, his voice low. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like some rich bastard's buying your time with designer gifts and fancy hotel rooms."
The accusation stung, mostly because it wasn't entirely wrong. Yuno's chest tightened, her earlier buzz fading under the weight of his gaze. "It's just... easier," she whispered, looking down at her expensive shoes—another gift, another transaction. "I don't have to pretend with him. He wants one thing, I want another. It's simple."
"And what do you want?" Fuuta asked, his voice softer now.
The question caught her off guard. For a moment, Yuno couldn't speak. What did she want? Designer clothes? Expensive dinners? Or was it just the fleeting illusion of being wanted, even if the price was pieces of herself she'd never get back?
When she finally looked up, Fuuta's expression had changed. The anger was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous—something that looked like care.
"You deserve better," he said quietly, so quietly she almost missed it.
Her apartment building came into view then, cutting off whatever response she might have mustered. The elevator ride passed in silence, Yuno leaning heavily against the wall while Fuuta stood rigid beside her, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
Her hands shook slightly as she fumbled with the keys, the alcohol making her fingers clumsy. Fuuta wordlessly took them from her, unlocking the door with an exasperated sigh that didn't quite mask his concern.
The familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine greeted them as they stepped inside. Yuno's apartment was small but meticulously kept, every surface gleaming under the soft glow of the entryway light. The few designer items she actually cared about—a limited edition handbag here, a signed vinyl there—were displayed with careful precision.
"Home sweet home," she singsonged, kicking off her heels with less grace than usual. The room tilted slightly, and she would have stumbled if not for Fuuta's quick reflexes.
"Jesus, Yuno," he muttered, one arm wrapping firmly around her waist as he guided her toward the bedroom. "How much did you actually drink?"
"Enough," she giggled, leaning into his warmth. He smelled like expensive cologne and something uniquely Fuuta—a scent that had become more familiar to her than any expensive perfume.
He deposited her on the edge of the bed with surprising gentleness, kneeling to help her with the complicated straps of her dress. Yuno watched through half-lidded eyes as his fingers worked deftly at the closures, his touch careful and impersonal.
"You're good at this," she murmured, the alcohol loosening her tongue. "Do you undress all your clients?"
Fuuta's hands stilled. When he looked up, his expression was unreadable. "Just the drunk ones," he deadpanned, but there was something strained in his voice.
The dress pooled around her waist as the last strap came loose, leaving her in just her silk slip which made her bra be slightly visible. Fuuta's gaze flickered downward for the briefest moment before he quickly looked away, reaching for the pajamas she kept folded on her nightstand.
"Here," he said gruffly, thrusting them toward her. "Change. I'll get you some water."
He turned to leave, but Yuno's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Stay," she whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it.
Fuuta froze. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, he turned back to face her, his expression carefully neutral. "Yuno..."
"I don't want to be alone tonight," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. It was more honest than she'd been with anyone in months.
Something in Fuuta's expression softened. He exhaled sharply through his nose before sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, putting a careful distance between them. "I'm not him," he said quietly, his meaning clear.
"I know," Yuno replied, just as quiet. "That's why I asked you."
The admission hung between them, fragile and weighty all at once. Fuuta studied her face for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then, with a sigh that sounded like surrender, he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a second too long.
"You're gonna regret this in the morning," he murmured, but there was no conviction behind the words.
Yuno shook her head, leaning into his touch. "I won't," she promised. And for the first time in a long time, she meant it.
Fuuta's breath hitched slightly. In the dim light of her bedroom, with her face inches from his and her fingers tangled in his shirt, he looked almost vulnerable—a far cry from the brash host who pretended not to care.
Slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, Yuno leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. Fuuta didn't move, his breath warm against her lips. "Yuno..." he started, his voice rough.
"Just for tonight," she whispered. "Just... stay."
For one terrifying moment, she thought he might refuse. Then his arms were around her, pulling her close with a gentleness that made her chest ache. He smelled like whiskey and expensive cologne and something uniquely Fuuta, and Yuno found herself clinging to him like she might never let go.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped in each other's arms without speaking. Somewhere in the back of her alcohol-fogged mind, Yuno knew this changed everything. But for now, with Fuuta's heartbeat steady against her cheek and his fingers tracing absent patterns on her back, she let herself pretend it could last.
When she finally drifted off, it was to the sound of Fuuta's quiet breathing and the distant hum of the city outside—a lullaby far sweeter than any luxury hotel could provide.