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Reo Mikage had everything people were taught to want—wealth, talent, discipline, opportunity. He knew how to become exceptional. He had become exceptional.
And still, somehow, he could never be the one. Never first. Never irreplaceable.
There was always someone better suited to stand at the center, someone people would choose without hesitation, without doubt. Someone they wouldn’t even consider replacing.
Funny, isn’t it?
Funny how he fit the mold so perfectly—the composed prodigy, the boy with a clear path carved out for him.
Funny how he could do everything right and still fall short of the one thing that mattered.
Because in the end, none of it was enough to make Seishiro Nagi stay.
He’d been set aside with a kind of casual ease that stung more than any outright rejection. Not fought for. Not chosen. Just… replaced. Discarded the moment something—or someone—more interesting came along.
“Isagi was just revolutionary,” Seishiro said—as if Reo had never been anything more than a stepping stone.
The worst part was that Reo seemed to understand. He seemed to agree that this was all just a result of his inadequacy.
So when he found himself feeding into that same hollow cycle, he didn’t question it too hard. Whether it was desperation clawing at his ribs or some twisted attempt to reclaim control, he let himself fall into something he knew, deep down, wasn’t real.
Had he given his heart to the wrong person then, it would’ve destroyed him completely.
Fortunately for him, he found you.
Lil o’l you who was a hopeless romantic with soft edges and earnest eyes, someone who loved far too easily and far too much. Someone who, for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, chose him with a certainty he had never been afforded.
It started on a night he barely remembered… After the fallout with Seishiro, Reo wandered the streets in a state that would’ve scandalized anyone who knew the Mikage heir—tie loosened, composure gone, the sharp edges of his usual perfection dulled by alcohol and something far uglier beneath it.
That was when he ran into you.
And somehow—through slurred words, poor decisions, and a mutual misunderstanding of what either of you needed—it turned into something neither of you had planned: a transactional relationship.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Because if it was just a deal, just an exchange, then there were no expectations to fail. No risk of being left behind again. No chance of needing to be chosen.
And yet—you didn’t seem to be on the same page as him at all.
From the very beginning, you didn’t act like someone in a transaction—even after having agreed to the terms and conditions.
You never asked for anything.
Not when he first suggested the arrangement—laid it out in clean, impersonal terms, something easy to manage, easy to end. Not when he started transferring money you never touched. Not when he placed shopping bags into your hands, tags still on, prices he didn’t bother to hide.
You’d just look at him, confused more than anything.
“Reo… you don’t have to do this.”
But he did. He had to. Because if there wasn’t an exchange, then what was this?
He didn’t know how to exist in something that wasn’t measured. Didn’t know how to accept something that didn’t come with conditions, with balance, with a clear reason behind it. If you weren’t taking anything, then that meant you could leave at any time—for no reason at all.
So he insisted on the gifts, the dresses, the reservations, the quiet, excessive proof that this was something structured, something defined. Something he could control.
And you—you kept treating it like none of that mattered.
You wore what he gave you, but not because it was expensive. You went where he took you, but not because it was exclusive. You stayed, not because you were being given something, but because you liked his presence and liked to see him smile.
That was the part he couldn’t understand.
Reo kept trying to build walls around whatever this was—to label it, contain it, reduce it to something safe—you kept stepping past them and ignoring them.
To you, there had never been a transaction. Only a relationship.
Which was how he ended up sitting across from you that night, in a place that fit his version of things perfectly.
A private table at a high-end wagyu steakhouse. Soft lighting. Polished glass. A setting curated with the same careful precision he applied to everything else in his life.
You sat across from him in a sequined dress he had bought just hours before—something beautiful, something worthy of the space, of him. A glass of imported wine rested in your hand, untouched for longer than it should have been.
Reo had done everything right in his way.
Because if he made it perfect enough, structured enough, then maybe this—whatever this was—would finally make sense.
The conversation flowed easily at first. You smiled, you listened, you spoke to him like you always did—warm, open, like there was nothing fragile about this at all.
And maybe that was why he brought it up, the concept of marriage.
At first, he didn’t frame it as a proposal, just a possibility. Another step that could be defined, outlined, and understood.
Something that could finally put this into terms he recognized.
However, you didn’t seem to hesitate at all. You just smiled, said ‘I do’ before he could even present you with a shiny diamond-studded ring.
“That’s not what I mean at all, love,” he chuckled, trying to make light of the situation and maintain his expectations. “I’m not proposing right now, just making sure were on the same page…”
Yet, here it was again. That quiet, unwavering sincerity that ignored everything he thought was established.
“Yeah, and I can just say ‘I do’ again if that’s what you wish… for formality’s sake.” You smiled shyly. “But I’d prefer if you didn’t blow your pockets just for a measly tradition. You could even propose with a paper ring! I think paper rings are romantic too.”
Reo stared at you, something in his chest tightening in a way he couldn’t immediately name. He couldn’t tell whether he was astounded, touched, or offended—perhaps he was all three all at once.
Because, really, a paper ring?
Why would you settle for something like that when he could give you more? When had he been giving you more?
He frowned as he leaned forward, almost inspecting your every facial feature for any sign of a bluff.
“... Love, you know I don’t like joking about serious things like this, right?”
You tilted your head to the side curiously. “I’m not joking, though? What makes you think that?”
“Because I’m a Mikage, I can afford to give you a ring that thousands of girls can only dream of. So, I’m offended that you’d even talk as though I have a budget to maintain.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “Just tell me if you want your band to be in gold or silver.”
“... and if I don’t want to?”
“... (Y/n).”
“Because if I’ve offended you for ‘acting like you’re a cheapskate’, imagine how offended I feel for your insistence on a materialistic relationship.” She wasn’t smiling anymore, nor was she pretending to be. “I don’t give a flying fuck that you’re a Mikage, I love you because you’re Reo.”
The scrape of your chair against the floor cut through the low hum of the restaurant, sharp enough to turn a few heads.
Reo didn’t move. He didn’t reach out, nor did he call your name. He simply watched.
He watched as you stood there—eyes showcasing that you no longer had the patience to spare. There was something raw in them now, something wounded and resolute all at once. For the first time since he’d met you, you looked like someone who was done waiting.
“And if you’re truly insistent on this whole transactional relationship,” you said, voice steady despite everything, “then I don’t want any part of it.”
Then, you left.
The door shut behind you with a quiet finality that felt louder than anything else in the room, and Reo sat there, frozen and unmoving.
For a moment—just a moment—his first instinct was irritation.
You were being so childish, so irrational… to throw everything away over something so trivial—over a ring, of all things—
But the thought didn’t settle right.
Because if it was so trivial, then why did it hurt as if something had just been torn out of him?
“Shit.”
He didn’t remember leaving the restaurant.
Didn’t remember the ride home, or the way the city blurred past his window in streaks of light and noise.
All he could think about was the look on your face. For all the effort he’s put into making you stay, he couldn’t believe he was the one to draw such a look of hurt from you.
Reo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
All this time, you were never actually asking for more. As a matter of fact, you’d been asking for less.
Less distance. Less performance. Less… him hiding behind everything he owned.
And he hadn’t known how to give you that.
You weren’t expecting him. You’d certainly regretted blowing up at him the day before, and you were truly convinced you’d never see or hear from him again (except for when he appeared on the news and elicited the most bitter response from you, of course).
Yet, here he was, humbly standing at your door in nothing but his school uniform. It was clear he’d rushed over as soon as classes had ended.
“Reo?”
He looked… different. No big, flashy bouquet of flowers arranged by the city’s most prestigious florist. No velvety box in his hand, which undoubtedly contained an expensive piece of jewelry, in hopes of “buying your loyalty” —the usual works.
It was just him. And in his hand was something small… crinkled even. Almost laughably insignificant.
“I—” Reo stopped himself, exhaling softly before starting again. “Can I come in?”
You hesitated just for a second, then you stepped aside.
The silence inside was heavier than anything from the night before.
Reo stood there, just inside the doorway, but he eventually spoke. “…I messed up. I hurt you. I kept pushing my own insecurities on you. And I’m sorry, I really am.”
Your fingers tightened slightly at your sides, but you didn’t interrupt.
“I kept trying to turn this into something I could understand,” he continued, voice quieter now. “Something I could control. And I didn’t realize I was… ruining it in the process… I didn’t realize you were already giving me exactly what I wanted.”
That made your expression falter ever so slightly.
Then, Reo stepped closer, making sure to observe your body language so as not to overstep any line you’d not verbally set.
“…I don’t know how to do this properly,” he admitted. “But I’ll try.”
He held out his hand, and that was when you saw it clearly.
It was a ring… If it could even be called that. A thin strip of colored construction paper, folded and shaped—uneven in places, clearly handmade with its asymmetrical appearance.
It was nothing like him at all.
Well, he did get on his knee, not bothering to care about potentially muddying his usually sleek, white uniform slacks.
He looked up at you with earnest eyes and asked again, “Will you marry me?”
Except, this time, there was nothing else attached.