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Taki, Jo’s, new boyfriend, or maybe a sentient bottle of cologne that had learned how to network, was on the other side of the buffet table, holding court with Yuma's boss and the vice president of sales. Yuma had been sneak-glancing at him all night, careful not to look directly. Taki struck him as the type who could smell desperation the way sharks sense blood. When Yuma saw his name on the guest list, familiar thanks to Yuma’s dramatic Instagram update, complete with a blurry couple’s photo and a soft-boiled egg emoji—he’d quietly hoped the man wouldn’t show. Taki was the lead social media manager for the parent company, a position that sounded fake and terrifying. Yuma figured someone like that wouldn’t waste a Thursday night at a quarterly sales dinner unless summoned by Satan or upper management.
And yet, there he was. In the flesh. Holding a glass of red wine like it was a weapon and wearing an orange-blood-colored suit that would’ve made anyone else look like a Halloween mistake. On Taki, it looked like a strategy. ‘Well, shit,’ Yuma thought, scooping an unnecessary amount of cucumber slices onto an already insecure paper plate. Taki probably had no idea who he was. And if he did, Yuma was likely filed away in the brain folder labeled “Weird Ex Debris.” Still, the wine was free. ‘Buck up, you little feral slug,’ Yuma told himself, chancing one more glance.
Taki laughed at something the VP said, his head tilted back, white teeth on full display like a toothpaste commercial villain. Yuma squinted. ‘Damn. Jo really went full upgrade.’
He tore his eyes away and frowned at his plate like it had personally failed him. Wine. That was the next move.
Walking back to his table, Yuma thought of Jo and the eight-month, semi-romantic fever dream they called a relationship. They’d met during the week of St. Patrick’s Day, a cursed time in general, but particularly for Yuma, who had recently collapsed at work like a Victorian child ghost. Years of surviving on lemon tea and Lunchables had finally caught up to him. One minute he was answering emails; the next, he was sprawled across the break room floor doing a dead starfish impression while Cheryl from HR screamed into a conference call.
Yuma had always been particular about food, what kind, how much, and when, and he’d always convinced himself it was under control. Manageable. Charming, even, in a tragic ballerina way. But some foods made him binge until he was swollen and vibrating. And then came the ritual: make it stop. Even if it meant scraping his throat raw. Even if it meant losing little bits of himself, like enamel.
That last part had become a problem.
During his forced “vacation” (read: corporate exile), he booked an appointment with Dr. Jo, DDS, for an aching molar that had taken up permanent residence in his jaw. Yuma had hoped he could make it through the visit without anyone noticing he had the dental profile of an 87-year-old goat herder. But the dental hygienist made a face while cleaning his teeth that said, “I’ve seen some things.” He knew then, he was exposed.
Jo had startled him.
Not because he was mean, he wasn’t. Quite the opposite. Everything about Jo screamed “overfunded liberal arts college”: tall, broad, handsome in the way that should be illegal, with wide shoulder proportions and the faint scent of eucalyptus. Yuma had expected judgment. A sermon. A “you need help” delivered between tooth taps.
Instead, Jo's dark brown eyes blinked at him with the gentleness of a deer. One that knew you were carrying a tranquilizer dart.
When Jo stuck his gigantic gloved fingers into Yuma 's mouth during the examination, a humiliating shiver bolted down his spine and made a sharp left turn into his toes. It warmed him, which was frankly rude. Yuma was always cold, cold in the fingers, cold in the bones, cold in the part of his chest that used to believe in things, but not when Jo gripped his jaw like that. Jo had dentist hands. Serious hands. “Knows-where-your-molars-live” hands.
When Jo asked him out afterward, Yuma nearly declined out of sheer reflex. He hadn’t dated since college. Most of those ended in panic attacks in public restrooms because a waiter brought the wrong dressing. Food plus feelings? A combo meal he wasn’t ready to digest.
But Jo had clearly anticipated the hesitation. He leaned back against his desk, soft-voiced and nonthreatening, like a hot hostage negotiator.
“We’ll go to my place,” Jo said. “No pressure. No funny business. You can take a picture of me and my front door and text it to your mother or friends of your choosing.”
Yuma didn’t laugh. But something uncurled inside him. Maybe curiosity. Maybe just dental relief.
At some point, Jo handed him a single sheet of lined notebook paper, filled out in that distinct all-caps dentist handwriting—meticulous and a little too dramatic. It was a step-by-step regimen for rebuilding his teeth. Brushing times. Rinse cycles. A toothpaste brand Yuma had never heard of and couldn’t pronounce. It looked like spellwork.
Even now, he kept the paper in his wallet. Not just for plaque. Maybe for protection.
It might’ve been the shame. The part Yuma didn’t say, that he didn’t talk to his mom anymore, that his only friends were work acquaintances with shared Slack trauma and mutual loathing of open floor plans. Maybe that’s why he said yes to Jo o in the first place. Maybe that’s why he kept saying yes for all those strange, spiraling months that followed.
Why he kept saying yes was still up for debate.
“Not a fan of the dinner options?”
Taki’s voice knocked him clean out of the Yuma’s Jo -memory vortex, so much so that he jumped, his fork clattering like a guilty conscience.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Taki said with a smile so wide it could double as a threat assessment. He reached out, resting a warm, perfectly moisturized hand on Yuma 's forearm. It was casual. It was horrifying.
Yuma flinched instinctively and pulled his arm back, using the motion as an excuse to retrieve a runaway olive from the tablecloth. He focused on the greasy little stain it left behind like it held the secrets of the universe.
Then he looked up. Taki was still smiling, white teeth, full wattage.
‘Jo must love having him in the chair,’ Yuma thought, and hated himself a little for it.
“I thought you looked familiar,” Taki said. “I believe we have a mutual friend?”
His tone made it clear it wasn’t a question. It was theater. And Yuma was the understudy who hadn’t read the script.
Yuma dragged his eyes away from the olive smear and scanned the faces at the table. It was one of many long corporate tables stretching across the banquet hall like a labyrinth of awkward networking. Everyone else was deep in their own conversations, chewing and nodding like extras in a social horror film. No one noticed that he was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. Which felt about right.
“Oh?” he replied, his voice weak and paper-thin. He realized too late that the pause between them had ballooned into something noticeable.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the tap-tap-tap of Taki’s manicured nail against the table, sharp and deliberate, next to his overloaded plate like it was daring him to keep pretending this was casual.
Then Taki said Jo's name, and there was laughter tucked into it. Not cruel. Worse, amused. Like this was all part of a game he’d been waiting to play. He lifted his wine glass to his glossy lips and emptied it without blinking.
“I’m Taki,” he said smoothly.
Yuma already knew that. He had known Taki’s name since Jo changed his relationship status three months ago. Since the soft launch with the mirror selfie and two wine glasses. Since the hard launch with the kiss on Stories. He didn’t get the chance to say any of that, though, because a pack of senior copy editors descended on them like friendly hyenas.
They were there to meet Taki, obviously. Yuma saw his exit. He reached for his bag, halfway out of his chair when—
Grip.
Taki’s hand closed around his wrist like a vice. He squeezed just once. Then let go. But the meaning lodged in Yuma 's bones: Stay.
Yuma placed his bag in his lap, folding his hands over it like a nervous child in church. Taki turned his attention smoothly back to the editors, flashing charm like currency. But when Yuma stared at him, really stared, Taki didn't look back.
He just smiled wider.
His gold earrings caught the light.
Stay, his body said.
So Yuma did.
“Well, my new friend here is having some stomach issues,” Taki announced to the group in a mock whisper, somehow louder than a normal sentence. “I’m going to show the poor thing where the bathroom is, so if you’ll excuse us.”
The senior copy editors, who Yuma only vaguely recognized from mandatory birthday parties and company Slack, murmured polite things like “Oh no!” and “The chicken did look suspicious,” while scooting their chairs to make way.
Taki placed his palm, hot, like it had been charged by a space heater, on Yuma 's bony elbow and began leading him away from the table. “Sharp little things, aren’t they?” he said, grinning like he’d just made a pun that only he could hear. Yuma followed, not so much willingly as in mild shock. Taki’s cologne hit him again: jasmine and wilting orchids, like a funeral for a flower shop.
It felt like walking with a hallucination. Yuma moved alongside him as if he’d eaten something he wasn’t supposed to, like a stone with feelings. “I don’t have to go—” he tried, but Taki shushed him with a glittery little shake of the head, like they were in on some secret he hadn’t been told yet.
“Come on,” Taki said, steering them toward a hallway that branched off from the public restrooms like a forbidden side quest. “We can use the executive bathroom. I know the code.”
Of course he did.
Yuma watched him punch in the silver buttons like it was nothing, like they were unlocking a portal to another dimension. He still didn’t know why he was going along with this. What did Taki want with him? What business could he possibly have with a nervous ex-boyfriend wearing too much foundation and holding half a cucumber salad?
The cheap plywood door swung open with a click, and Taki held out his arm like he was inviting Yuma into a magic trick. Yuma stepped through first, the only sound between them the awkward staccato of his heels against the linoleum floor.
“I’ve had to pee for ages, but someone was always blocking my exit.”
Taki stepped in front of Yuma faster than his brain could process, gripping his forearms and positioning him by the sinks like a prop in a stage play. “Good of you to come along and help me out.” That grin was back, full wattage, and now Yuma had nowhere to look but directly into it. Taki stood at least a foot taller than him, even without dress shoes on.
Yuma allowed himself the odd pleasure of actually looking, his whole face, not just the Instagram angles. His nose was slightly off-center, like it had once been broken and reset by someone who wasn’t quite done being mad at him and his gums reached with length between his front teeth.
“You’ll stand guard,” Taki said, striding toward a stall. “Don’t move,” he added, shutting the door behind him with an authority that felt both theatrical and weirdly municipal.
Yuma’s spine went straight. The sound of the lock sliding home clanged in his head like a warning bell. His back was to the mirror, thankfully. On most days, Yuma avoided his reflection like it owed him money. He didn’t need to see his limp blond hair, his flaking skin, or his anxious jaw set like it was bracing for impact.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the sounds. Taki, peeing. Taki, humming something low under his breath. Taki, probably plotting.
Surely, he had something worth saying. Something that explained all of this.
Yuma didn’t open his eyes until he felt the heat of Taki’s body close to his again, and the sink turned on. His eyelids peeled themselves open just as Taki spoke.
“It was good that you stayed,” Taki said, casual as breath. “Can you hand me a paper towel?”
Yuma handed one over. But Taki’s fingers brushed his, sharper than they looked, warm and clean. Without thinking, Yuma grabbed his hand, holding it there.
“I’m over—” His mouth dried out mid-sentence. He blinked hard. “I’m over him. You don’t have to claim anything.”
He felt the phantom sting of Jo’s voice in his memory, commanding him not to flinch, not to move. His palms had itched with heat that day. He pulled his hand away now, slowly, wiping it down against the front of his slacks.
Taki didn't say anything in response. He just walked to the trash can, tossed his used paper towels with surgical precision, and paused in front of the door. For a moment, Yuma thought he was going to leave without another word.
But then Taki turned slightly, like he’d only just remembered Yuma was there.
“I’m starving,” he said bluntly, tilting his head as if to assess how breakable Yuma looked. “No one’s let me sit down long enough to eat a proper meal all day.”
He gestured for Yuma to follow. Not quite a command. Not quite a suggestion. “Come help me make sense of the buffet.”
*
Jo used to like it when Yuma sat and watched him cook. He’d drag out the old wooden barstool with the busted footrest and motion for Yuma to perch like some awkward housepet. Yuma always said he wasn’t hungry. He’d fill up on hot tea before coming over, ritualized, almost monk-like, hoping that if he said it often enough, it would be true.
“That’s fine,” Jo would say, cracking eggs like he was cracking a safe. “But I need to meal prep for the week. So maybe hold down that stool for me.”
He said it like Yuma was helping. Like being still counted as showing up.
Jo liked to lay everything out in precise little rows, like ingredients were guests at a formal dinner party. Jars of honey for dessert. Bright green olives he insisted belonged in submarine sandwiches. A stack of herbs Yuma had never learned to pronounce.
The maple cutting board, big and scarred and oddly elegant, was his favorite. After dinner, he’d hand it off to Yuma to dry, as if that act alone stitched them closer. They’d stand at the sink, their hips nearly touching but not quite. Close enough for static. Too far for comfort.
Jo believed most of Yuma 's food anxieties were mental gymnastics. And maybe they were. But he appointed himself Head Coach of Getting Over It and made his kitchen into a low-stakes battleground. Most of their “dates” happened in that space: stove, sink, floor mat curled at one corner. Yuma never left without tasting something unfamiliar. Something new. Something Jo had pre-vetted and declared safe.
He was good at it, tricking Yuma’s stomach into forgetting it was scared. Until he wasn’t.
His favorite method? Ingredient pop quizzes. Usually in the form of complicated meals Yuma couldn’t spell, much less identify.
“Are you paying attention?” Jo asked one afternoon.
It was June, and the heat had soaked into Yuma’s bones like a mood. He was already tired, head fogged from doing nothing. Jo held a wooden spoon to his mouth, full of some rustic summer pasta that looked like something off a cooking blog for people who owned knives that cost more than rent.
Yuma tried to focus on Jo mouth the soft frown that had settled there, the familiar downturn that meant you’re disappointing me again.
“I am,” he said quickly. “I promise.”
He opened his mouth the way Jo liked: slow, obedient, the way someone might open a door they already know leads somewhere bad. The spoon slid past his lips. The ricotta hit first, too rich, too wet, and the zucchini followed, slick and vegetal, sliding against his tongue like it was alive. His stomach flipped, acid burning its way up.
Jo folded his arms and leaned against the white gas stove, watching. The heat from it made the air hum. He was wearing his soft, faded red Coca-Cola T-shirt, the one with a little tear near the collar, and boxers printed with swordfish. Across the front, bold black letters declared: I’m A Catch.
Yuma fixed his eyes on those words, on the letters themselves, anything to keep from gagging.
“What are you tasting?” Jo asked. That was his favorite game. His test. Yuma could feel the pasta turning into sludge in his mouth, a hot, heavy lump of defeat. Spitting it out would be the absolute last option. Panic prickled at the back of his neck.
“Hey,” Jo said, sharp enough to slice the air. “Swallow. Then talk to me.”
Tears burned the backs of Yuma’s eyes, but he kept his head down, hoping Jo would mistake silence for obedience. I can’t do this today, he thought desperately. I’m tired, my stomach hurts, please, Jo not today.
But Jo didn’t respond to psychic begging. He exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of disappointment, and crossed the kitchen. The air seemed to shift with him.
He reached out and grabbed Yuma ’s jaw, firm but not cruel. His voice, when it came, was steady. Almost gentle. Almost.
“You don’t get to do this, all right?” His eyes searched Yuma ’s face, cutting through him like bright light through glass. “I know you can be good. I know you want to be good.”
Then he let go.
Yuma gripped the edges of the barstool to keep from tipping over. His whole body was shaking. He wanted, more than anything, to please Jo, to be his version of good. When tears finally slipped free, he tried to wipe them away, but Jo’s sharp voice stopped him mid-motion.
“No.”
A helpless, shameful sound escaped Yuma ’s throat. He choked down the food, forcing his body to cooperate even as it rebelled. When it finally stayed down, the relief was worse than the pain. Exhaustion hit him like gravity.
Jo caught him before he fell. He wrapped Yuma tightly, chest to chest, murmuring soft things that didn’t sound like words anymore. His hands were searing, rubbing at Yuma ’s back, easing the ache that lived under his ribs.
Yum sobbed into his shoulder until his body had nothing left to give.
Then Jo bit his ear, lightly, like a grounding touch, and pressed his thumbs into Yuma ’s temples. “You’re just tired,” he whispered. “That’s all. Let’s take a shower. You’ll stay here tonight.”
His will was iron, and Yuma, emptied out, followed him wordlessly toward the bathroom. When Jo began to undress him, Yuma didn’t resist. He never did.
“I think I’ve had enough of summer pasta, you know,” Jo said as he pulled off his boxers. “I just got a new cookbook on salads from around the world.”
Yuma didn’t answer. His feet were cold, so he stepped on top of the swordfish printed across the front of Jo o’s boxers, siphoning the leftover warmth from the fabric like it was some kind of communion.
In the shower, Jo kept the water lukewarm and crowded Yuma into the corner of the tub. He washed Yuma like a project, brisk, thorough, almost methodical, and kissed him with more teeth than lips. It wasn’t romantic. But it did make Yuma feel blank. And sometimes blank was better than anything else.
*
“Be a dear and hold this plate, would you?” Taki handed Yuma a small white plate without waiting for confirmation. He moved confidently through the buffet, chatting casually about how he hadn’t eaten all day and how exhausting it was to be charming for a living.
Yuma followed. The plate in his hands remained empty.
“Do you want wine?” Taki asked, already pouring himself a glass of red. Yuma hadn’t even responded before Taki added, “Of course you do. Though I wish my company would splurge on decent vodka. I’m going to wake up with a migraine.”
He filled his glass dangerously full and reached toward Yuma’s with the bottle.
Yuma pulled his cup away slightly. “I’d prefer white, if that’s okay.”
Taki raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, then gave him a grin that could have been flirtation or strategy. “Picky. I like that.” He poured the wine anyway, careful not to spill a drop.
“Let’s eat at my table,” he said, already turning away.
Yuma followed. The plate in his hands was still empty, but he held it like it might become something.
The plate Yuma held was still empty, but that didn’t really concern him, especially after he took a generous gulp from his glass. Taki was strange, but not in a way that felt dangerous. Just curated. Like a wine tasting in a haunted house.
He led them to a small table, still talking. He told Yuma how long he’d worked for the company, how he usually skipped these kinds of functions, how his recent promotion demanded a certain level of visibility. Yuma nodded and drank deeply, letting the wine mimic warmth in the hollow of his belly.
He let himself briefly consider the idea that Taki had come here just to see him, but the timeline Takigave for his promotion checked out. The fantasy fizzled before it could gain traction.
As they sat, Taki’w face softened with each sip of wine. He was nearly through his glass, even though they’d just sat down.
“I’ve gotten way too much to eat,” Taki said suddenly, gesturing dramatically to his plate. “You’re going to have to help me out.”
Yuma opened his mouth to protest, he was full, or said he was,but when he looked down, Taki had somehow loaded his plate with two cubes of white cheddar, four strawberries, and a lone cracker.
Well, Yuma thought, I can probably survive that.
He picked up a strawberry. Taki bit into his own, and Yuma did his best not to stare as his teeth sank into the fruit, red and soft and slightly too sensual for the lighting.
“I love platter food,” Taki declared. “Don’t you?”
Yuma shrugged. “It’s okay.” He’d recently adjusted his diet, black coffee, chicken broth, baby carrots, and wasn’t sure how the cheese would sit. But the mix of fruit sweetness and cracker crunch made it easier. Manageable.
Still, the real feast was Taki. Or more specifically, watching him. The way he talked. The way his eyes glittered just a little too hard when he looked at Yuma .
‘I can see why Jo was with him,’ Yuma thought, as Taki placed another cracker on his plate, this time topped with five cocktail shrimp. He wrinkled his nose at them, delicate and theatrical. “Didn’t mean to grab those. I’m not big on crustaceans. Too leggy.”
Yuma nodded like he agreed, even as he devoured each shrimp one after the other, chewing quickly to hide the desperation. Taki reached out to brush a crumb from the corner of Yuma ’s mouth, and Yuma gave himself silent credit for not leaning forward and sucking Taki’s thumb into his mouth like some deranged Victorian orphan.
The evening stretched out with a kind of hazy rhythm. Taki never ran out of things to say or ask. Taki surprisingly, never ran out of answers. Not once did Taki mention Jo. It was almost elegant, the way they orbited around the most obvious subject.
If Yuma closed one eye and tilted his head just so, he could almost believe they were on a date. That this wasn’t some strange performance or slow-motion car crash. That Taki wasn't here to study him, or test him, or punish him.
Then Taki reached for his phone.
Yuma saw the lock screen: a picture of Jo, unmistakably him, smiling in low sunlight. Taki caught him looking. Said nothing.
“I should call a car soon,” Takisaid, his tone easy, even casual. “I’ve got an early morning.”
He stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his sleeves. “Fill up my drink with whatever’s left, would you? I’ll grab us dessert.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving Yuma at the table alone, holding an empty plate, half-full glass, and a stomach he suddenly couldn’t feel.
When they returned, Taki had two slices of cake, balanced effortlessly, and Yuma handed him the refilled wine glass with both hands before he could drop it. He didn’t trust himself not to tremble.
“I got dark chocolate,” Taki said with a little wave, “and you get strawberry.”
His grin was wide. Too wide. A shark in candlelight.
Yuma sat down slowly, steadying himself, telling himself not to get pulled under again. He wasn’t going to be distracted this time. They were adults. It was ridiculous to keep pretending Jo wasn't the third party at the table.
His voice came out more level than he expected.
“Oh,” Yuma said. “So he told you.”
*
Yuma had kept himself, and his thoughts, as organized as possible during the first six months with Jo. He treated the relationship like a tightrope walk: eyes forward, one foot in front of the other, don’t look down.
It worked for a while.
The cracks didn’t show until the last two months. In September, Yuma had gone back to working full time. His savings were drained, and part-time freelancing from Jo’s apartment wasn’t cutting it anymore. He spent most nights at Jo’s house by then, trailing behind him like a loyal old dog, grateful for scraps of affection, the occasional pat on the head.
Each morning, Jo would be gone before Yuma woke up. But there was always a list waiting, tucked neatly under the coaster, or folded into the tea tin, or pinned with a magnet to the fridge like a charm.
To-do lists. Eat-this lists. Timed meals with handwritten ingredient breakdowns.
The structure was a relief. It turned the day into something Yuma could follow. Something he could complete. No decision-making. No spiraling. Just checkboxes.
Sometimes, Jo would call on his lunch break, just to listen. Yuma would talk, or chew, or report on whether he’d worn the green button-up or taken the scheduled walk.
Most days the lists were simple. Brush. Floss. Make the bed. Eat the oatmeal.
Other days, they were strange. Quirky, Jo would say. “Jump backward fifteen times at 12:03.” “Sit on the floor when I come home and pretend you’re a coffee table until I give you water.”
Yuma did them. All of them. Every checkmark felt like praise.
Finishing the list made him feel like someone who might one day deserve to be okay.
Not just for Jo.
Maybe, just maybe, for himself.
They both agreed Yuma should start preparing his own meals now that he was going back to work. It made sense. Jo worked full-time too, and Yuma couldn’t expect him to be kitchen-bound forever.
They went to Trader Joe’s together. Jo guided Yuma through the aisles like it was a school field trip. Every other minute, he’d tug Yuma ’s fingers out of his mouth, gently, firmly; and ask questions like, “Creamy or crunchy almond butter?” or “Could you maybe stomach banana yogurt this week?”
Grocery stores overwhelmed Yuma .Too many brands. Too much light. Everything humming under bad fluorescent panels like it was trying to warn him away.
“Whatever you think is good is great,” Yuma would say flatly, staring at rows of deli meat with the expression of someone being asked to choose which snake was less venomous.
He preferred it when Jo cooked. Always had. But he also hated being a burden, hated the look Jo sometimes gave him when it was late and the dishes were piled high. Yuma was determined to show him that he could handle it. He could do this one simple thing on his own.
The first few weeks were a mess.
He kept forgetting his lunch. Most mornings, he left his carefully portioned tupperware containers behind in the fridge. The panic would start halfway to work. Then came the self-loathing. The guilt. The scramble to make it through the day on black coffee and packets of lemon tea.
Jo forgave him the first couple of times, but there were consequences. He’d grow quiet during dinner prep. Wouldn’t sit at the kitchen table while Yuma prepped his next day’s meals. Wouldn’t offer help unless Yuma begged.
So Yuma learned. He rushed home before Jo could see the evidence, before he could open the fridge and find untouched food.
He started throwing the meals away in the neighbor’s garbage.
It felt dramatic. But it also felt necessary.
The second hiccup came when Jo had to leave for a week-long conference two states over.
Since they’d met, he and Yuma had never spent more than two days apart, not without Jo cooking at least one dinner, not without a checklist or a voice note or some kind of anchor.
Yuma had wailed. Gently, but clearly. He insisted he’d be fine. He even offered to stay in his own apartment for the week and live off sandwiches, which he knew sounded like a lie the moment it left his mouth.
Jo didn’t budge.
He was consumed with prepping: writing out meal plans, highlighting Instapot recipes, packing two suitcases like he was going on an expedition instead of a corporate training. He made Yuma recite his hotel name three times and listed the day and time he was to eat the pepper steak with brown rice like it was a sacred ritual.
Yuma nodded. He swallowed his irritation.
Still, driving Jo to the airport that Monday morning felt like betrayal. It was dark, and Jo had fallen into that eerie pre-flight mode where everything he said sounded rehearsed. Yuma tried to stay brave, tried to remember this was temporary.
At the curb, Jo hugged him tight, his scent a familiar, bracing mix of ciderwood and mint toothpaste.
Yuma breathed it in like it might have to last him the whole week.
The absolute worst thing to happen during Jo’s trip was that the local grocery store started carrying these violent red strawberry snack cakes, out of season, out of context, and absolutely predatory.
It was Monday night. Yuma had run out of tea and convinced himself that one small errand wouldn’t count as “straying from the list.” Just a quick in-and-out. Green tea, maybe chamomile. But there they were, stacked like warning signs at the end of the aisle. Bright red. Discounted. Sprinkled with what looked like edible glitter and chaos.
They reminded him of Halloween decorations designed by someone unwell.
I’ve been good for so long, Yuma thought. I deserve this. Just one box.
The first bite was confusing. The cake tasted like someone had described strawberries to a baker who had never seen one, never even smelled one. The icing was waxy, practically flaked apart on contact, like it was ashamed of being sugar.
It was perfect.
Better than any of the careful, home-cooked meals Jo had left behind for him. Better than the pepper steak. Better than steamed vegetables arranged by color.
Yuma ate half the box sitting in his car in the parking lot. Then he got out, walked back inside, and bought two more.
If the cashier noticed the matching flush on his cheeks and the red branding smeared on his fingers, they didn’t say a word. Yuma was sure they’d seen worse.
The week wore on the same way, every day a quiet collapse. The carefully written meal plan Jo had designed for him sat taped to the fridge like a contract he’d stopped believing in. Yuma abandoned it completely, surrendering to the soft neon pull of the strawberry snack cakes.
He ate them greedily, stuffing his mouth with their artificial pink filling, ashamed and almost grateful for the sugar rush that came before the nausea. The cakes made him sick. He learned that quickly. Still, he kept eating. When his body refused to cooperate, he helped it along, bending over the toilet until his throat ached and his knuckles reopened old scars.
Jo had kissed those scars once; the first time they slept together. It was the kind of tenderness that felt like surveillance.
When Jo called on FaceTime, Yuma always answered from a bad connection, parking lots, hallways, anywhere with a flickering signal. He told him he was working late on a project, that his Wi-Fi was unstable. The truth was he didn’t want Jo to see the dark circles, the broken skin around his mouth, the hollow look that had begun to reappear in his eyes.
He recognized him again, the version of himself from months ago. He didn’t want Jo to see him.
Every day after work, Yuma went back to the store for more. More cakes, more factory-made food, more cheap sodas that scorched his stomach lining. Each bite felt like a small rebellion, a victory, a failure.
The day before Jo was due home, he called in sick. He went back to his apartment for the first time in weeks, leaving a voicemail for his roommate, something vague about needing rest. He carried in two grocery bags heavy enough to bruise his palms. His stomach was empty, his head pounding, but he felt strangely euphoric.
He sat on the floor outside his bathroom, breathing in the chemical sweetness of the food, waiting for the rush. When it came, it was almost religious. When it passed, he showered with the water running cold, rinsing his mouth with mint mouthwash until his tongue stung.
Before he left to pick Jo up from the airport, Yuma put on black like a burglar and threw every bit of evidence into the neighbor’s trash bin. All the wrappers. All the food. All of it, except one.
He kept the shepherd’s pie Jo had made before the trip, the one he’d watched him cook from the barstool. Yuma microwaved it and ate it standing at the counter, not waiting for it to cool. The heat burned his tongue, but he didn’t stop.
When Jo came home, Yuma promised everything. That he’d do better, that he’d follow the lists again, that he understood now. That he’d be good. Jo had been patient, kind even, and Yuma told himself that kind men deserved devotion.
Jo talked as they came in, recounting every detail of his work conference even though he’d already told Yuma all of it over the phone. He knew Yuma liked to hear things twice, it made the world seem stable, predictable, like a story being told properly this time.
“I’m going to shower and then start dinner,” Jo said, pressing Yuma up against the wall with that easy, confident weight of his. “You seem tired. We’ll make it an early night.”
Yuma nodded quickly, grateful to be told what to do again. An early night, he thought. That sounded like heaven.
“Lie on the couch until I come down,” Jo said, his voice low, his breath warm against Yuma’s ear. “You can only get up to drink water.”
He pressed his body against Yuma’s, the weight almost enough to knock the air out of him, before finally stepping back and heading up the stairs.
The sound of the bathroom door closing was quiet, but it filled the whole house.
Yuma lay on the couch, licking his teeth back and forth like he was checking for guilt. He thought about scheduling a cleaning, how happy that would make Jo, and drifted off somewhere between the thought and the sound of the shower running upstairs. The last thing he remembered before sleep was the color of Jo’s gloves, blue with a faint violet sheen, the kind that left powder on your skin if you touched them too long.
He woke to pain. A quick, loving bite to his chin. Sharp enough to sting, warm enough to confuse him. The pain rippled up through his lashes and into his scalp, and somehow it made him smile.
Jo was half on the couch, half kneeling on the floor, hair still damp from the shower and plastered to his temples. He smelled like his shampoo,basil and black pepper, the one Yuma used sometimes when Jo wasn’t home. Jo wasn’t smiling.
“I just got off the phone with Mr. and Mrs. Shirai,” Jo said quietly, his voice even in the way only dangerous things could be. “They said they don’t mind me using their garbage bin, but they do wish I’d ask first.”
Yuma’s body froze. He stared at a thread on the couch cushion.
“Did you eat any of it?” Jo asked. Still calm. Still not looking at him.
Yuma didn’t lie. “The shepherd’s pie. And the green beans.”
Jo nodded once, almost absently. “What did you eat instead?”
Yuma swallowed hard. “Cakes,” he said. “The strawberry ones. They made me sick.”
The words hung between them, small, heavy, and almost tender.
Jo’s laugh was low and dark when he stood, pacing away from the couch only to come back again. His damp hair clung to his temples, and the towel hanging from his shoulders darkened where it caught drops of water. He raised his arms in that familiar exasperated way, a show of restraint that somehow made Yuma flinch harder.
“Hey, now. Don’t start that,” Jo said. His voice was almost soft, which made it worse. “I blame myself.” He rubbed a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “I should’ve—” He stopped, the sentence collapsing before it reached its point.
He sat down beside Yuma, close enough that their knees brushed. One of his big, warm hands found Yuma’s ankle and circled it, a gesture halfway between comfort and possession.
“This was your first real test,” he said, calm, patient. “It’s not your fault.”
That was the part that broke him.
It was his fault. He knew it. He could feel the wrongness like an ache under his ribs. Something faulty in his wiring, something that couldn’t be fixed by gentle words or meal plans or love.
He jerked his leg away, an unfamiliar show of defiance, and swung his feet to the floor. “You should be mad,” Yuma said, his voice raw. “This isn’t normal.”
“Not everyone’s normal,” Jo replied easily. “You just had a setback.” His hands found Yuma’s shoulders, kneading them gently, and the contact made Yuma’s skin crawl with guilt and sweat. “I can take some vacation time, stay home a few days—”
“No,” Yuma interrupted sharply, wrenching away. “You don’t have to move your life around for me.”
Jo sighed and raised his palms in surrender. “It’s not like that and you know it. I just want you to be okay. Everything can be okay.”
The room blurred as Yuma shook his head back and forth. “Jo, this isn’t okay. I’m not okay. You can’t stay home and cook for me until I am.”
He wanted to scream, to make him see it, but Jo’s tone shifted, softening into something almost hypnotic.
“I know you can be good,” Jo said, his voice dropping. “I know you want to be.”
Something inside Yuma cracked. He saw the hurt bloom across Jo’s face when he pulled away and stood. His eyes stung like they always did after crying, though no tears had fallen yet.
“I don’t,” Yuma said quietly. “I can’t be good. Not the way you want.”
It was the first time he’d ever told Jo no.
Jo’s voice trembled, the calm cracking just enough to let the panic through. “Tell me what you want,” he said. “Tell me what I can do.”
Yuma didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Because there wasn’t anything left to fix.
Yuma grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and shoved his feet into his shoes without looking up. When he finally turned, Jo was half-risen from the couch, hair sticking up in every direction, his face caught between confusion and apology.
But Yuma was already unlocking the front door.
“I’d tell you if I knew,” he said. And then he stepped out.
He never went back to Jo’s house after that night. He told himself it was fear, fear of what he might say, of what he might admit if he saw Jo again. But sometimes he wondered if it was something smaller and sadder: the weight of all the things Jo expected him to fix about himself.
Jo called, of course. He even came by the apartment once, knocking for a long time while Yuma stood frozen behind the door, holding his breath like a child hiding from thunder.
He didn’t open it.
A month passed before the box arrived, left neatly at his doorstep. Inside were his things: the sweater, the travel mug, the little paperback Jo had underlined all the wrong sentences in. And sitting on top, a folded note written in Jo’s clean, deliberate hand.
I guess you could tell me what you wanted, it said.
Yuma read it once. Then again. Then set it down and walked away, leaving the box open on the floor.
*
Taki’s fork scraped against his dessert plate as he took another bite of cake. His eyes, wide and brown, held a sort of performative confusion, as if he were puzzling out a riddle that he already knew the answer to.
“It’s only cake,” he said around a mouthful, like it was supposed to be comforting.
“But he told you, didn’t he?” Yuma didn’t look down at his own slice. The smell of artificial strawberry was beginning to make him nauseous.
Taki set his fork down with a small click and leaned back in his chair. His expression cooled, turned calculated. Yuma met his gaze, holding it as long as he could in their unspoken game of emotional chicken. Taki didn’t blink. Yuma broke first, draining the rest of his wine in a single swallow.
“Do you not want the cake?” Taki asked. He sounded serious now.
Yuma rolled his eyes, pushing the plate away with a bitterness he didn’t bother to hide.
Taki sighed. “Don’t be a brat. Use your words.”
“No,” Yuma snapped, the fury in his voice surprising even himself. “I don’t want the goddamn cake.”
Taki nodded once, unbothered. He lifted his wine glass and took a long sip, clearly unfazed. Judging by the way his cheeks were already flushed, he’d had the better part of a bottle to himself, maybe more.
“Would you prefer to trade?” he asked suddenly.
Yuma blinked, stunned into silence.
But Taki was already moving the plates between them. His hand hovered above Yuma’s unused fork, waiting for a signal. His eyes stayed on Yuma, soft, but expectant.
Yuma swallowed. Then reached forward and took the dark chocolate slice. He ate every bite. Even the spot kissed with Taki’s leftover lip gloss.
“Walk me downstairs,” Taki ordered.
Yuma went willingly, half hoping the night was over, half dreading that it might be. He wasn’t ready to be out of Taki’s orbit just yet.
They managed to get the elevator to themselves. As soon as the silver doors slid shut, Taki slumped against Yuma’s side.
“Sorry,” he whispered above Yuma’s head. His sharp chin nudged into Yuma’s scalp, and Yuma let himself lean into the warmth of Taki’s chest. “Much too much to drink.”
“You already call a ride?” Yuma asked. He kept his hands at his sides, but let Taki’s roam lazily across his ribs. The sensation made him want to sleep. Or cry. Or both.
“Yes, dear. He’s on his way. Ever punctual, that one.”
Yuma flinched. But Taki didn’t pull away. He only gripped tighter.
“You should schedule a cleaning,” Taki murmured. “It would please him.”
The ding of the elevator saved him from answering. Yuma stepped out fast, but stopped just short of the glass doors. What if Jo was already out there?
Taki joined him with that same sly grin stitched across his face. He didn’t touch him again, but his presence curled close.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Taki said. “You think his part’s easy? Jo’s not a mind reader. It doesn’t sound like you two ever had proper negotiations.” He shook his head slowly, the grin softening into something almost kind. “Honestly, it was all bound to spook you off.”
Yuma opened his mouth, prepared to finally say how he really felt about Taki’s meddling, but he didn’t get the chance.
Jo stepped through the double doors.
His face was wind-chapped, cheeks flushed from the cold. He hadn’t seen them yet, and Yuma took in the sight greedily: the familiar green sweater layered under the black pullover he used to fall asleep against. His shoulders rolled as he looked around, scanning for someone.
“I’ve got a lot going on,” Yuma said quietly. Not to start a fight, just to be heard. “I’m not easy.”
Taki laughed. It rang through the lobby.
Jo’s head turned at the sound. He spotted them, and his steps slowed.
“One moment, honey. I’m coming,” Taki called out, cheerful and bright, freezing Jo in place.
Then Taki turned back to Yuma and grabbed his hand, pressing into the soft skin of his palm with sharp fingernails. “You think he picks us because we’re easy?” he asked, voice low.
Then he kissed Yuma. It was brief but cutting, more teeth than lips.
Yuma didn’t kiss back. But he didn’t move, either.
Taki walked away without another word, slipping easily under Jo’s arm like he belonged there. Jo looked at Yuma once, expression unreadable, and then turned toward the exit.
“Did you drink?” Yuma heard Jo ask Taki as the glass doors opened.
Taki tilted his head up, his hair falling over Jo’s shoulder. “Not a drop.”