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Ryo Yamada prided herself on being cool.
She didn’t panic easily. She didn’t get flustered easily. She didn’t let emotions dictate her behavior, even when she felt them strongly. If she wanted something, she pursued it plainly, without hesitation, and if she didn’t, she ignored it.
This attitude had earned her a reputation.
To most people, Ryo Yamada was a shameless money glutton, a bassist who never missed an opportunity to borrow cash or casually propose exploitative business ideas with a perfectly straight face.
But Ryo wasn’t a bad person.
Most of her antics were exaggerated on purpose, sharpened into a performance because it amused her. It was easier to be the strange, aloof bassist than to explain herself. Easier to ask for money than to admit she liked spending time with people. Easier to joke than to linger on things that felt too soft, too sincere.
And there was no one she did this with more than Nijika Ijichi.
Ryo had tried to use Nijika for money countless times, but beneath the jokes, there was something real. They were friends, but more than that, they were longtime bandmates. Ryo knew she liked being with Nijika, but she would never admit that out loud. She knew she loved Nijika, but confessing was something too cutesy and romantic for the self-proclaimed “cool bassist.”
Ryo was not one of those people who held back their feelings because of embarrassment or meekness. She just felt that she was too cool for being a maiden in love.
Sometimes she showed up at Club Starry on off days, claiming she “had nothing better to do,” when in reality she didn’t want Nijika to be alone. Other times, she conveniently suggested lunch when Nijika seemed especially worn down during the stressful times of the month, pretending it was coincidence.
Today was one of those days when Ryo Yamada stopped being a cool bassist and became a worried friend.
When she heard Nijika was sick with a cold bad enough to cancel practice, something in her chest tightened. She knew Seika was busy running Club Starry, and while she wasn’t uncaring, she wasn’t exactly known for domestic attentiveness either. And Club Starry was never quiet.
Someone needed to check on Nijika.
Ryo spent the first half of her unexpectedly free day doing two things.
The first was placing herself in what she called a “zen mindset.” She wandered through quiet streets, sat in empty parks, leaned against cold railings, and tried to write music. She let the winter air clear her head, fingers idly tapping out basslines on her phone.
The second thing she did was worry incessantly.
It didn’t show on her face. Anyone passing her would have seen the same calm, detached expression as always. But internally, her thoughts circled relentlessly. Was Nijika eating properly? Was she resting, or stubbornly trying to move around? Had she taken medicine?
By the time it was late afternoon, Ryo had decided to go visit Nijika. She hadn’t done much music creation—her phone was filled with search results about “caring for sick people” instead.
Along the way, she stopped at a convenience store. She bought cold medicine, cooling sheets, throat lozenges, and multiple boxes of hot tea—a bunch of things she had no idea how to use, but she decided to trust what online sources were telling her. She carried the plastic bag loosely, walking through the cold toward Club Starry as dusk settled over the city.
Descending the familiar staircase, she heard voices before she saw anyone.
Inside, Seika and Kikuri sat at the bar, bantering loudly.
“Come on, Senpai~!” Kikuri slurred cheerfully. “We could totally be a thing!”
“We could,” Seika replied flatly. “But why would we?”
Kikuri laughed, undeterred.
They noticed Ryo entering. Seika cleared her throat, while Kikuri waved enthusiastically.
“Heyoo~!”
“Here for Nijika?” Seika asked, unsurprised. “She’s upstairs. Take care of her, will you?”
“Will you pay me for it, manager?” Ryo asked, deadpan.
“Absolutely not,” Seika snapped. Then, after a brief pause, she added, “And if you’re trying to act like you don’t care, you’re doing a terrible job.”
Ryo stiffened, just slightly.
Kikuri burst out laughing. “Senpai, you can’t be talking!”
“Shut up, Hiroi!” Seika snapped back.
Ryo didn’t comment. She simply turned and headed upstairs.
The apartment above Club Starry was quiet.
She found Nijika shuffling slowly toward the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket that looked far too big for her. Her hair was messy, and her movements sluggish.
“Ryo…” Nijika said hoarsely when she noticed her. She coughed harshly. “Are you… here to make fun of me?”
“Why assume the worst of me right away?” Ryo replied calmly.
“Because it’s you,” Nijika said, rolling her eyes weakly.
Ryo set the plastic bag on the counter. “…I was worried about you,” she muttered.
Nijika blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You were?”
Ryo straightened immediately, as if realizing she’d said something dangerous. “Of course,” she replied quickly. “It’s no good if my money source is sick.”
Nijika stared at her for a moment longer than necessary, then sighed as if disappointed.
“…Is that so?” she murmured, with a small frown that made Ryo’s chest tighten in a way she didn’t appreciate.
She turned back to the counter, pretending she hadn’t noticed. “You look awful,” she said flatly. “Go lie down.”
“I was going to get water…” Nijika protested weakly.
“I’ll handle it.”
Without waiting for an argument, Ryo pulled out the contents of the bag and began preparing food, following a recipe with intense concentration. Despite being a skilled bassist who had her fair share of difficult learned techniques, cooking had to be the most complicated thing Ryo had ever done in her entire life. She was only an expert at eating food—not making it.
Still, she followed the instructions as carefully as she could, moving slowly, double-checking every step. She didn’t want to mess this up.
As she worked, she felt arms slip around her waist.
She froze.
Nijika leaned against her back, face pressed lightly into her shoulder. “You’re so annoying, Ryo…” she mumbled. “You always mess with my head…”
“…You should lay down,” Ryo said quietly.
“No,” Nijika whined immediately, tightening her hold just a little. “You’re warm…”
Ryo felt heat creep up her neck, an unfamiliar sensation that made her grip the counter harder than necessary. “This is very dangerous, Nijika.”
“Mhm…” Nijika nuzzled closer.
Ryo took a slow, deep breath. She turned carefully, slipping one arm behind Nijika’s back and the other under her knees. Nijika yelped softly in surprise but didn’t resist, instinctively curling into her.
“Be glad I’m not as bad as you think,” Ryo muttered.
She carried Nijika back to bed, tucked her in gently, and returned to the kitchen. The soup took longer than expected, but eventually it was done.
Down below, she could hear Seika and Kikuri arguing about something—but she didn’t want to think about the nature of their relationship, so she ignored them. She placed the bowl of completed soup on a tray, along with a cup of hot tea, and carried everything into Nijika’s room.
“Nijika,” she said softly. “I brought food.”
Nijika stirred but didn’t wake.
Ryo hesitated, then scooped up a spoonful and carefully fed her. Nijika accepted it instinctively, half-asleep. She continued until the bowl was empty, wiping a small drip from the corner of Nijika’s mouth with her thumb before she could think better of it. She set the tea down on the bedside table, just within reach.
Finally, she leaned back slightly and watched Nijika sleep.
Her breathing was calm now, steady and soft, her face relaxed in a way Ryo rarely saw. Without the constant energy, bright smiles and snappy comebacks, Nijika looked very fragile.
The realization sat heavily in Ryo’s chest.
“I really was worried about you,” she whispered with a small smile. Then, hoping she wouldn’t be heard, she added, “Because I don’t like seeing you suffer like this.”
She would never say it when Nijika was awake. But here, in this hushed, peaceful winter quiet, she let the mask slip for just a little while.
Nijika Ijichi woke up feeling lighter.
That was the first thing she noticed. The past few weeks had been miserable, full of pounding headaches and coughing fits that left her exhausted. But this evening, the pain in her head was dulled, for some odd reason.
Slowly, her room came into focus piece by piece. The blanket tucked neatly around her shoulders. The cold press on her forehead. The cup of tea on her bedside table, long since gone cold. And a faint but pleasant scent lingering in the air, of something warm and savory.
Soup?
Nijika frowned slightly.
She tried to sit up, only to be immediately reminded by a terrible ache that her body still wasn’t ready to cooperate. Taking a deep breath, she carefully propped herself up, her gaze drifting to the chair beside her bed.
She froze.
Ryo Yamada was slumped there, arms crossed, head tilted forward, unmistakably asleep.
Her bangs fell messily into her eyes, her posture awkward in the way only Ryo could manage. A blanket had been draped over her shoulders at some point, though judging by how crooked it was, someone—probably Seika—had done it while she was already out.
“…Ryo?” Nijika whispered.
No response.
Her heart fluttered.
Memories began to surface slowly, warm at first. Ryo standing in the kitchen. A plastic bag on the counter. The quiet clink of a spoon against a bowl. Strong, steady arms lifting her with far more care than Ryo ever admitted to having.
But then, almost as if her mind was telling her not to be complacent, embarrassing memories followed.
You’re warm, Ryo…
You always mess with my head…
Nijika squeezed her eyes shut.
“Oh no,” she murmured, face turning pink.
She remembered leaning into her, saying things she absolutely should not have said while half-delirious with a fever. The embarrassment hit her sharp enough to make her groan.
She peeked back at Ryo, studying her more carefully now.
She looked tired.
Not dramatically so—Ryo never did anything dramatically—but there were faint shadows beneath her eyes, her expression unusually soft in sleep. Nijika noticed, with a strange twist in her chest, that Ryo’s hand was resting on the edge of the bed, fingers curled loosely, like she’d been there for a while.
How long…?
Her gaze drifted to the empty bowl on the tray.
She blinked.
“…Did you feed me?” Nijika whispered incredulously.
The realization made her chest tighten.
Ryo wasn’t like this. Not without layers of sarcasm or teasing or pretending it was all for her own benefit. And yet, here she was, acting like a dutiful caretaker, feeding her best friend, staying overnight in an uncomfortable chair instead of her own bed.
Nijika swallowed.
She thought back to yesterday, to the vague memory of Ryo muttering something in the kitchen. The way her voice sounded lower than usual.
I was worried about you.
Her face burned.
“You’re so unfair,” Nijika murmured softly, more to herself than to the sleeping bassist. “You say things like that and then act like it doesn’t mean anything…”
Carefully, so as not to wake her, Nijika shifted closer to the edge of the bed. The movement caused the mattress to creak slightly.
Ryo stirred.
Nijika froze, heart pounding.
After a second, Ryo only adjusted her posture, mumbling something incomprehensible under her breath before going still again.
Nijika exhaled slowly.
She studied Ryo’s face again, this time without the haze of fever. She’d known her longer than Kessoku Band, longer than most people realized. Ryo had always been like this, awkwardly dependable and hiding sincerity behind indifference.
Nijika reached out hesitantly, her fingers finding Ryo’s hand.
“…Thank you,” she whispered, barely louder than a breath. The words carried more than she could ever say out loud. She always yelled at Ryo, hit her sometimes too, but she really was grateful for her.
When Nijika had first gotten into music, when her dream was fragile and uncertain, no one had stood beside her except Ryo Yamada. Without her, Kessoku Band might never have existed. Her dream might have remained just that—a dream, left behind somewhere along the way.
But Ryo had been there. She was still here, even if she tried to pretend it was out of obligation or musical interest.
That was what Nijika was thankful for.
She would never say it when Ryo was awake. But here, in this hushed, peaceful winter quiet, she let herself admit it—just a little bit.
And for everyone, from the members of Kessoku Band, to the adults of Shimokitazawa, this cold night of honesty was well needed.
If only for now.