Chapter Text
Kurosawa Yuichi steps into the office on Monday morning already smiling.
Mondays are always like this—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, everyone buzzing with leftover weekend energy—but today it feels brighter. Livelier. Kurosawa straightens his jacket, breathes in the familiar scent of coffee and printer ink, and thinks, I get to see Adachi today.
That alone is enough to make him absurdly happy.
He’s just come back from a business trip—one whole week away. One week without accidentally brushing hands at the copier, without hearing Adachi’s quiet “ah—sorry” when he bumps into desks, without watching him concentrate so hard he forgets to blink. Kurosawa had been embarrassingly down about it, but work is work. Sacrifices must be made.
Now, though? Now he can finally see his cute angel again!
And there he is.
Adachi is waiting in front of the elevator, standing a little too close to the doors like he’s afraid they’ll leave without him. His hair is soft and unruly, clearly the result of a rushed morning and a pillow that refused to cooperate. One little tuft sticks straight up in defiance of gravity. His eyes are still sleepy, movements a touch slow, like he’s only half-awake and still wrapped in the warmth of his futon.
It’s… devastating.
Kurosawa’s heart does that embarrassing little squeeze it’s been doing a lot lately.
He’s cute, Kurosawa thinks, far too fondly.
Too cute. How is this allowed in a professional environment?
Adachi notices him and bows politely. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Kurosawa replies, unable to stop smiling. “Back from the weekend already?”
Adachi nods, then hesitates when Kurosawa gestures toward the stairwell. “What do you say—stairs up to the tenth floor today?”
Adachi freezes.
His face scrunches up in visible distress, like Kurosawa has just suggested climbing Mount Fuji before breakfast. “T–ten floors…?”
Oh no. Oh no, that face.
Kurosawa wants to frame it. Wants to protect it. Wants to gently pat down the stubborn bed hair that’s sticking up and kiss those scrunched up lips.
“Just kidding,” Kurosawa laughs. “Elevator it is.”
Adachi visibly relaxes, shoulders dropping in relief, and Kurosawa has to bite back another smile. They step into the elevator together, and just as the doors slide shut, someone from accounting squeezes in, accidentally pushing Kurosawa forward.
He ends up very, very close to Adachi.
Like—close enough to notice his eyelashes.
They’re long. Ridiculously long. His eyes catch the light when he blinks, gleaming softly, and Kurosawa’s brain completely forgets how to function.
This is amazing, he thinks faintly.
Is this how I die? Pressed into Adachi’s personal space? Honestly, I’d accept it.
He can smell Adachi’s shampoo—something light, something clean. Kurosawa will absolutely not survive this commute.
The elevator dings.
The doors open. Kurosawa snaps back to reality, straightens up instantly, and bows. “Sorry about that.”
Adachi smiles at him, small and polite. “No worries.”
They step into the open-plan office together, and Kurosawa’s mood stays buoyant… until he notices something odd.
Coworkers greet him as usual—welcomes back, comments about his trip—but when they greet Adachi, there’s something different. Curious looks. Excited murmurs. People who usually barely talk to Adachi are suddenly stopping by his desk, asking him questions, leaning in a little too close.
“Is everything ready?”
“Are you excited?”
“That’s so soon, huh?”
Kurosawa watches from his seat, puzzled.
Did something happen while I was gone?
Adachi settles in like normal, opening his computer, chatting quietly with Fujisaki and Urabe. He looks… fine. Calm. It’s everyone else who’s acting strange.
Huh.
Curiosity bubbles up, but emails demand attention, and soon Kurosawa is swept into work again. The morning slips by faster than he expects. He sneaks glances when he can, smiling to himself whenever Adachi rubs his eyes or furrows his brow in concentration.
Monday morning passes in a soft haze of affection.
It’s not until around eleven, when Kurosawa stands to get a coffee, that everything changes.
In the kitchen, Urabe—Adachi’s deskmate and the unofficial office rumor mill—is leaning against the counter, chatting with another coworker. They’re talking about something unrelated, laughing easily.
Kurosawa greets them and moves to the coffee machine, listening half-heartedly while he waits. He hesitates.
If anyone would know what’s going on… it’d be Urabe.
“…Hey,” Kurosawa says casually. “Does it feel like the office mood’s a bit different today? Or is it just me?”
Urabe hums. “Hm? Not really. Why?”
Kurosawa feels an unexpected sting of disappointment. What do you mean not really? You’re supposed to know every gossip that goes through the office.
“Well,” he continues, choosing his words carefully, “I noticed a lot of people stopping by your desk this morning. Thought maybe something happened while I was away.”
Understanding dawns on Urabe’s face.
“Ohhh.” He nods. “Right. You left for your business trip the day before it was announced.”
Kurosawa blinks. “Announced?”
The other coworker stares at him. “Wait—you didn’t know?”
“Know… what?”
Urabe grins. “Adachi’s getting married.”
Kurosawa’s brain short-circuits.
For a moment, everything goes blank. The words Adachi and married echo uselessly in his head, refusing to connect.
Married?
Adachi—his Adachi. The man Kurosawa has been quietly, carefully, hopelessly in love with for longer than he wants to admit. The man who blushes at compliments, apologizes to chairs, and has a tiny mole behind his ear that Kurosawa has absolutely, definitely noticed.
Not that Kurosawa thinks Adachi isn’t lovable. Or attractive. Or—dangerously—sexy in that gentle, understated way.
But… how?
Since when?
Adachi never mentioned a partner. Never talked about dates. Urabe himself was always teasing him about being single.
So when? With who? How did this happen without anyone noticing?
“Hey, Kurosawa?” Urabe says, waving a hand in front of his face.
Kurosawa realizes he hasn’t responded at all.
Urabe laughs and turns to the other coworker. “See? Everyone is shocked when they hear about it. Totally came out of nowhere.”
Somehow, Kurosawa manages to pull himself together enough to speak. His voice comes out steadier than he feels.
“Adachi’s partner,” he asks carefully. “Is it… someone from the office?”
Urabe shakes his head. “Nope. They met back in university, apparently.”
University.
The coffee machine beeps. His cup is full. Forgotten.
Kurosawa just stands there as the realization settles in—heavy, bewildering, and sharp all at once.
The realization hits him all at once—and then keeps hitting him.
University. Years ago. Someone who knew Adachi before this office, before the shy bows and the quiet apologies and the carefully ironed shirts. Someone who saw him laugh freely, maybe. Someone who earned his trust slowly, naturally, without even trying.
Kurosawa’s grip tightens.
“Oh—and,” Urabe adds casually, far too casually, “they’re getting married in about a month.”
A month.
Kurosawa nods. He even manages a smile that probably looks convincing enough. He’s very good at smiling. It’s one of his strongest skills.
“That’s… great,” he says. “Good for him.”
Urabe beams. “Right? I thought so too.”
The coffee machine lets out a sad little hiss as Kurosawa finally remembers to move. He picks up his cup, bows his way out of the kitchen, and walks back to his desk on autopilot.
His legs carry him there. His brain does not.
Adachi is getting married.
Adachi is getting married.
Adachi—
He sits down, stares at his monitor, and realizes he hasn’t absorbed a single word on the screen. His inbox might as well be written in hieroglyphs.
Across the room, Adachi laughs softly at something Fujisaki says. It’s the same laugh Kurosawa’s heard a hundred times before. Gentle. Warm. Familiar.
It hurts.
No—hurts isn’t quite right. It’s more like a quiet ache spreading under his ribs, heavy and slow.
I’m happy for him, Kurosawa tells himself immediately, firmly. He means it. He really does. Adachi deserves happiness. Adachi deserves someone who chose him, who loves him enough to marry him.
So why does it feel like this?
As if the ground shifted slightly and no one bothered to warn him.
A little while later, Kurosawa feels it before he sees it—someone standing beside his desk. He looks up.
It’s Adachi.
“Um,” Adachi says, clutching a folder to his chest. “Kurosawa-san… do you have a moment?”
Kurosawa’s heart betrays him instantly, leaping like it always does.
“Of course,” he says, standing too quickly. “What’s up?”
Adachi smiles—small, polite, the same one from the elevator earlier. “The department head asked me to get your approval on this.”
He hands over the folder.
Their fingers brush.
Just barely.
Kurosawa feels it like a shock.
“Oh—sorry,” Adachi says quickly, pulling his hand back.
“No, it’s fine,” Kurosawa replies automatically. It’s more than fine.
He flips through the documents, nodding where appropriate, offering comments where needed. He’s distantly aware that Adachi is watching him, listening carefully, like he always does.
Kurosawa scans the last page and hands it back.
“Everything looks good,” he says.
Adachi brightens. “R–really? Thank you!”
There it is again—that expression. That soft relief. That trust.
“You’ve been busy today,” Kurosawa adds before he can stop himself. “Lots of people stopping by.”
Adachi pauses.
Then he lets out a small, nervous laugh and scratches his cheek. “Ah… y–yeah. I guess word spread pretty fast.”
Kurosawa feels his pulse spike. “Word…?”
Adachi looks at him, eyes widening slightly. “Y–you know. About… um.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Oh,” Kurosawa says softly, because he’s an idiot and because this is the only thing his brain can come up with. “Congratulations.”
Adachi freezes.
Then his face turns red. Not a little pink—red. Ears included.
“T–thank you,” he says, bowing quickly. “I was really nervous about telling everyone.”
Kurosawa smiles. It’s gentle. Supportive. Perfect.
“I’m happy for you,” he says, and this time, it’s completely true—even if it hurts. “Really.”
Adachi looks at him for a second longer than usual, something unreadable flickering across his face.
Then he smiles back. Brighter this time.
“I’m glad,” he says.
And just like that, he turns and walks back to his desk.
Kurosawa watches him go.
The familiar slope of his shoulders. The careful steps. The little tuft of bed hair that’s still sticking up, stubborn and soft.
They met in university, Kurosawa thinks faintly.
He sits back down, exhales slowly, and places a hand over his chest like it might calm his heart if he presses hard enough.
“Well,” he murmurs to himself, staring at his screen. “That explains everything.”
It doesn’t.
Not really.
For a long time, Kurosawa had told himself he never had a chance anyway. They barely talked beyond work. It would have been strange—no, inappropriate—to suddenly confess feelings that came out of nowhere. And when his small, careful efforts to get closer never seemed to go anywhere, he’d drawn his own conclusions.
I’m probably not his type.
Adachi liked cute things. Fujisaki, for example—bright, soft, easy to smile with. Kurosawa had been called handsome more times than he could count, but cute? Never. Handsome was sharp, polished, distant. Handsome didn’t make Adachi’s eyes light up.
And besides—Kurosawa was a man too.
He’d accepted that. Quietly. Sensibly.
But now he knows there was someone else all along.
Someone Adachi had met years ago. Someone who probably saw him at his most open, most unguarded. Someone who knew him in ways Kurosawa never could, not through stolen glances or careful observation, not through collecting tiny details like treasures and pretending that was enough. Someone gentle. Someone kind. Someone who fit neatly into the future Kurosawa had never dared imagine himself in. Adachi’s partner is probably a cute lively woman with unmeasurable charm.
Kurosawa’s gaze drifts, unbidden, back to Adachi’s desk.
She’ll take care of him, he thinks. She’ll make him happy.
She’ll smooth down his stubborn bed hair every morning. She’ll make sure his suits fit properly, that he eats breakfast instead of skipping it, that he doesn’t forget important things. She’ll pack him lunch—something cute and carefully balanced—and smile when Adachi thanks her too earnestly.
She’ll hear the things he never says out loud.
A quiet, humorless laugh escapes Kurosawa’s throat.
He’d really believed he’d crushed his hope long ago—pressed it flat beneath logic and patience and self-restraint. But clearly, some small, foolish part of him had kept it alive anyway.
Still warm. Still aching.
Kurosawa closes his eyes for a moment.
That can’t continue.
Adachi is getting married. To someone else. To a woman who fits easily into his life in ways Kurosawa never could.
There’s no room left for maybe. No room for lingering glances or soft thoughts or silent wanting.
He straightens in his chair, shoulders settling, expression smoothing into something calm and composed.
Kurosawa Yuichi has always been good at self-control.
So he makes a decision—quiet, firm, and final.
He will crush what remains of that hope.
Completely.
The rest of the day passes agonizingly slow for Kurosawa.
The light, buoyant happiness he’d walked in with that morning has twisted into something heavy and dull, settling in his chest like a weight. He moves through his tasks on autopilot—reviewing documents, replying to emails, attending meetings and contributing just enough to not raise concern. His voice sounds flat to his own ears. His smiles feel borrowed.
Every so often, his gaze drifts—traitorously—toward Adachi’s desk.
Adachi is the same as always. Focused. Gentle. Unaware of the quiet implosion happening several desks away.
By the time work finally ends, Kurosawa feels wrung out.
He shuts down his computer, stands, and reaches for his bag, ready to go home and nurse his feelings in solitude. He barely makes it two steps when—
“Kurosawa!”
Urabe’s voice stops him. Kurosawa turns, forcing his expression into something neutral.
“Up for a drink?”
Normally, Kurosawa would have declined politely. Tonight, he definitely doesn’t want to go. He opens his mouth to excuse himself—
“Yes! Me!” Rokkaku jumps in from beside him, hand shooting up enthusiastically.
Kurosawa blinks. “Rokkaku—”
“Come on,” Rokkaku says, grinning. “I owe you, Kurosawa-san. That client last week? You saved me. And I still owe Urabe-san too, so this is perfect. I’ll treat you both.”
Urabe’s eyes light up immediately. “Oh? If you’re paying, let’s go to a diner then and get both drinks and food!”
“Urabe-san! That’s—” Rokkaku protests, flailing a little. “You’re totally taking advantage of your poor junior!”
Urabe pats him on the shoulder, utterly unapologetic. “Think of it as a valuable life lesson. Never offer to treat seniors unless you’re ready for consequences.”
Rokkaku opens his mouth to argue… then his stomach betrays him with a very audible growl.
There’s a brief, shameful pause.
“…Okay,” Rokkaku admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am kind of starving.”
“See?” Urabe says smugly.
Kurosawa watches the exchange with a faint, distant smile. Normally, he’d find this whole thing amusing. Tonight, the thought of sitting somewhere noisy and social feels exhausting.
“I think I’ll pass,” Kurosawa starts to say. “I’m a little—”
“Come on, Kurosawa-san,” Rokkaku interrupts quickly. “Seriously, I owe you. You saved me with that client last week. If you hadn’t stepped in, I’d still be apologizing.”
“And,” Urabe adds, grinning, “you’ve been working nonstop lately. You deserve a break.”
“It won’t be long,” Rokkaku insists. “Just one drink. I’ll pay. Please.”
They both look at him expectantly.
Kurosawa hesitates. He really isn’t in the mood. All he wants is to go home and be alone with his thoughts. But Rokkaku keeps insisting—saying it’s the least he can do, promising it won’t take long, saying Kurosawa deserves it.
Eventually, Kurosawa exhales.
“…Alright,” he says quietly. “Just for a bit.”
Rokkaku beams. “Yes! Thank you!”
Urabe claps his hands together. “Decision made. Diner it is.”
They end up at a nice, quiet diner not far from the office. The lighting is warm, the noise low—mercifully calm. They settle into a booth, order drinks, and for a little while, conversation flows easily between Urabe and Rokkaku.
Kurosawa drinks.
The alcohol doesn’t dull the ache like he hoped it would. If anything, it makes it heavier, closer to the surface. He laughs when appropriate, nods along, but he feels hollow.
Urabe watches him over the rim of his glass.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Urabe says. “What’s up, Kurosawa?”
Kurosawa opens his mouth to answer—
And then he freezes.
The bell above the diner door rings.
Two people step inside.
Kurosawa’s breath catches.
Adachi.
And a man walking beside him.
Conversation at the table dies instantly.
“Oh—Tsuge-san!” Rokkaku blurts out, recognizing the man first.
Then, a beat later, “Ah—Adachi-san!”
“You know each other?” Rokkaku asks, surprised.
Adachi looks between the man at his side and Rokkaku, then notices Urabe—and finally Kurosawa. His eyes widen slightly.
“K–Kurosawa-san,” Adachi says hesitantly, bowing. “Urabe-san.”
The man beside him offers a polite, tight smile. “Good evening.”
They exchange brief, awkward pleasantries. Too many people. Too little space. Kurosawa feels the alcohol buzzing in his veins, his thoughts slow and tangled.
And then Urabe’s eyes flick downward.
“…Huh.”
Urabe leans forward, squinting. “Wait a second.”
Kurosawa follows his gaze.
Rings.
Matching rings.
Simple, understated bands on both their left hands.
Something inside Kurosawa twists painfully.
Adachi notices. His ears turn red immediately.
“H–haha,” he says, lifting his hand shyly. “Y–you caught us.”
The man beside him exhales through his nose, unamused.
Adachi swallows, then straightens just a little.
“This is Masato Tsuge,” he says, voice soft but steady. “My… husband-to-be.”
The words land like a final, irreversible blow.
Kurosawa stares, heart cracking open, the alcohol in his system doing nothing to protect him now.
Husband.
Not girlfriend. Not fiancée.
Husband.
The world tilts.
And suddenly, nothing about today makes sense at all.