Archive of Our Own

November 12, 2024 – Berlin, Germany

The Green Door Bar pulsed with a life of its own. Flashing lights painted the walls in shades of electric blue and crimson, while bass-heavy music vibrated through the floorboards and into the soles of Yukimiya Kenyuu's shoes.

The air smelled of expensive perfume, cheap cologne, and the sweet tang of overpriced cocktails. Voices overlapped in a chaotic symphony—laughter, shouting, the clinking of glasses—all blending into a wall of noise that made thinking almost impossible.

Yukimiya already regretted coming here alone.

Well, alone wasn't the plan.

He was supposed to meet Chigiri Hyouma and Aryu jyubei for drinks before the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week event tomorrow. The three of them had coordinated their schedules carefully, a rare alignment of busy influencer lives.

But Chigiri had bailed at the last minute—again—to chase after his on-again, off-again situationship. Something about a "misunderstanding" that needed "clarification in person." Yukimiya didn't ask for details. He'd learned long ago that Chigiri's romantic life was a labyrinth best left unexplored.

Aryu, meanwhile, had received a last-minute invitation to an exclusive afterparty hosted by some top model whose name Yukimiya had already forgotten. Aryu had apologized profusely, but his excitement had been evident. "Darling, you understand," he'd said, already halfway out the door. "This is glamour. This is destiny."

And so Yukimiya found himself alone at the back of the upscale bar, nursing an exotic cocktail that contained far too much sugar but just the right amount of alcohol to make him not care about the former. The glass was ridiculously large, garnished with a slice of dragon fruit and a sprig of rosemary that kept poking him in the nose. The bar's lighting was dim and atmospheric, designed to make everyone look mysterious and vaguely attractive. Spotlights moved lazily across the crowd, catching on sequined dresses and polished watches.

The overall effect was nice—if you ignored the drunk birthday party screaming at the pool tables and the couple aggressively making out in the corner booth. So far, no one had approached him.

Yukimiya was grateful for that.

He'd spent an embarrassingly long time searching for the most average-looking outfit in his closet, determined to blend into the background like a normal person. He'd finally settled on black trousers held up by a simple leather belt, a plain white shirt, and the oldest brown sweater he owned—a threadbare thing he'd forgotten existed until tonight. The sweater had a small hole near the left cuff and smelled faintly of cedar from being buried too long in storage.

Perfect.

The disguise was necessary. Yukimiya Kenyu was, by most measures, famous. Not the kind of famous where people screamed and fainted, but the kind where strangers recognized his face on the street and asked for photos while he was trying to buy toothpaste.

He was part of the top five most popular influencers in Japan, and ranked in the top fifteen most-followed under-25 influencers globally. Five million followers on Instagram. Thirteen million on TikTok. Ten million on Twitter. Plus the two million from "Pretty, Hot & Glam"—the joint account he shared with Chigiri and Aryu, which had somehow become a cultural phenomenon.

Fame had its perks—free clothes, first-class travel, invitations to events like Fashion Week—but it also came with fans and paparazzi. And with fans and paparazzi came obsession. And with obsession came Zero privacy. A quiet moment alone, anonymous and unremarkable, was a luxury Yukimiya rarely experienced.

Tonight, he intended to savor it.

He finished his third drink—or was it his fourth?—and decided it was time to leave. The lonely table at the back of the bar was starting to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a confession booth. He was just a man sitting alone, drinking too many sugary cocktails, and that felt pathetic. He'd rather be pathetic in his hotel room, in pajamas, watching a bad movie.

He was raising the glass to his lips for the last sip when someone slid into the seat across from him.

The newcomer didn't acknowledge Yukimiya's presence. He moved like a ghost, or someone running on autopilot—shoulders slumped, head down, hands limp at his sides. He wore black from head to toe: a loose black t-shirt, black jeans with frayed cuffs, and an oversized black hoodie that looked at least three sizes too big.

The hoodie's sleeves swallowed his hands, and the hem fell almost to his knees. He looked like he'd put considerable effort into being as unremarkable as possible—and yet, something about him made Yukimiya's breath catch.

The stranger had brown hair, curly and thick, that faded into a gradient of pink or purple—Yukimiya couldn't tell in the shifting bar lights. The curls fell across his face like a curtain, hiding everything but his eyes. And those eyes were large.Wide and expressive, even in their current downcast state.

They seemed to hold entire galaxies of emotion, compressed into two shimmering orbs.

Yukimiya found himself intrigued.                 He set down his drink and cleared his throat—a soft, deliberate sound.

The stranger looked up. And Yukimiya forgot how to breathe. The man had round cheeks that gave him a surprisingly youthful appearance, soft and almost cherubic, but his chin was defined and strong, a sharp contrast that added a note of masculinity. His nose was small and elegant, the kind of nose that belonged in a Renaissance painting. His lips were pink and full, shaped like a perfect heart, and they looked so kissable that Yukimiya had to consciously stop himself from staring.

But it was the eyes that undid him completely. They were a shade of pinkish-purple—magenta, maybe, or amethyst—that matched the gradient in his hair. They were framed by thick upper and lower lashes that made them seem even larger, even more expressive.

The bar's dim lighting caught them at odd angles, making them shimmer like gemstones.

The stranger was gorgeous.

There was no other word for it.

But he was also sad.

Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks, still fresh. His eyes, beautiful as they were, held a deep, aching sadness that made Yukimiya's chest tighten. The corners of his mouth turned down slightly, as though even resting was an effort.

He looked devastated. Pitiful. And yet—painfully beautiful.

"Oh," the stranger said, his voice soft and slightly hoarse. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was sitting here. I can find another table—"

He started to rise, but Yukimiya reached out instinctively. "That won't be necessary." The stranger hesitated, then slowly sat back down.

He looked at Yukimiya with a flicker of curiosity, though the sadness remained. "Are you sure? I don't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding." Yukimiya leaned back in his chair, hoping he looked casual and not like a man whose heart was currently doing something strange and unfamiliar.

"So. What's a beautiful guy like you doing all alone?" The stranger blinked. A faint flush rose to his cheeks—barely visible in the dim light, but there.

"I could ask you the same thing." Yukimiya smiled. "Friends bailed on me.You know how it is."

"I don't, actually." The stranger's voice was quiet, almost shy. "I'm not... I don't usually go to things like this."

"Then what brings you here tonight?" A long pause. The stranger's fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

"Just... problems." Yukimiya should have let it go. He knew he should have let it go. But something about this man—this beautiful, sad stranger—made him want to understand.

"What kind of problems?" The stranger tensed, his shoulders drawing up toward his ears. His breathing quickened, and for a moment, Yukimiya thought he might cry again. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to relax.

"My boyfriend cheated on me." Yukimiya's heart sank.

"I'm sorry to hear—"

"Though it's not the first time." The stranger cut him off, his voice rising with barely suppressed emotion.

"And it probably won't be the last. But I'll still forgive him. Over and over. Even though it hurts me. And he'll just act like nothing happened." He laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and broken.

"Am I stupid? Is that it?"

"I don't think—"

"This always happens." The words tumbled out now, unstoppable, like water breaking through a dam.

"He brings home someone new when I'm away. I come back early, and I find them in our bed. He apologizes. Says it won't happen again. I forgive him. We're good for a few months. Then I go on a trip, and the cycle repeats." His voice cracked.

"I hate him for doing this to me. But I hate myself more for staying. For still loving him. Am I just stupid? Yeah. That's probably it."

"You're not stupid." The stranger looked up, eyes wide and wet. Yukimiya leaned forward, his voice steady.

"You're not stupid. You're hurt. There's a difference." The stranger's lip trembled.

"Or maybe I'm not enough for him. Maybe I'm too ugly, or too boring, or—"

"Stop." Yukimiya's voice was firmer than he intended. He softened it immediately.

"If it's any consolation, I think you're beautiful." The stranger's mouth fell open. A deep red blush spread across his cheeks, traveling down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his oversized hoodie.

"In fact," Yukimiya continued, emboldened by the reaction, "I think you're so pretty and so cute that I have to wonder—how is your boyfriend dumb enough to want anyone else? When he has you?"

The stranger was now a stuttering, blushing mess. The red hue had spread to the tips of his ears, the curve of his throat, the delicate skin just above his collarbone. Yukimiya watched it spread with fascination, wondering how far it would go.

No

He told himself firmly.

You are not thinking about this right now.

But he was. He absolutely was.

"And," Yukimiya said, lowering his voice to something conspiratorial,

"since your boyfriend seems so secure in your relationship... why don't you give him something to worry about?" He leaned across the table, closing the distance between them.

The stranger's breath hitched. Their faces were suddenly very close—close enough that Yukimiya could count the individual lashes framing those magenta eyes.

Was he being too obvious?

Probably.

Was he being too cocky?

Absolutely.

Did he care?

Not in the slightest.

"Can you help me with that?" the stranger asked. His voice had changed—dropped an octave, gone rough and husky.

It was devastatingly hot.

"That depends." Yukimiya's gaze dropped to those pink, heart-shaped lips.

"Won't your boyfriend get mad?"

"Maybe." The stranger's tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"But if he can have his fun, then I can have mine. And besides—" A small, bitter smile. "He's probably at a party right now, hooking up with someone in our bed, forgetting I even exist."

Then their lips met. The kiss was slow at first—deliberate, testing. But it didn't stay that way for long. Teeth clashed. Tongues fought for dominance. One of Yukimiya's hands found its way into the stranger's curly hair, pulling him closer. The stranger made a small, desperate sound against his mouth, and Yukimiya felt it all the way down to his bones.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air. Yukimiya was grinning.

"Don't you think we should go somewhere more private?"

"Yes." Yukimiya sat up straight, trying to compose himself.

"But first—" He extended a hand across the table. "I'm Yukimiya Kenyu. And you are?" The stranger's smile widened.

He took Yukimiya's hand, his fingers cool and slender. "Alexis. But you can call me Lexi... Handsome."

The name went straight to Yukimiya's groin. He couldn't help it. The way Alexis said it—low and teasing, with that little pause before "Handsome"—was unfair. Criminal, even.

"Well then." Yukimiya rose from his seat, pulling Alexis to his feet. "Nice to meet you, Lexi."

They stumbled out of the bar together, hands intertwined, laughter mixing with the cold November air. The nearest hotel was only two blocks away—a sleek, modern building with a glowing neon sign that read "The Augustin."

Neither of them remembered checking in. One moment they were in the lobby, the next they were in an elevator, and then they were through a door and into a room that smelled like fresh linen and vanilla.

Their lips crashed together again as they stumbled toward the bed. Clothes began to fall—a hoodie here, a belt there.

They fought for dominance, neither willing to yield, until Alexis bit down gently on Yukimiya's lower lip.

A moan escaped Yukimiya's throat—unbidden, embarrassing, undeniable. Alexis used the opening to slip his tongue between Yukimiya's lips, and a shudder ripped through Yukimiya's entire body. He felt Alexis's tongue glide along the roof of his mouth, and his knees went weak.

He's much more dominant than I thought, Yukimiya realized dizzily.

And I don't mind at all.

Clothes hit the floor in soft thuds. Soon, Alexis was down to his boxers, and Yukimiya had to stop and look.

Alexis's body was a revelation. Slim and lean, with a warm tan that spoke of time spent outdoors. Just enough muscle to look strong, but not so much that it overwhelmed his frame. A broad chest narrowed into a slim waist—impossibly slim, almost unfair—and then flared again into muscular thighs and strong calves. His abs were defined but soft, a subtle ridge of muscle that Yukimiya wanted to trace with his fingertips. And those thighs—meaty, fleshy, clearly powerful—made Yukimiya's mouth water.

He wanted to grab them, massage them, leave pretty little purple marks all over them. The thought made his erection strain against his pants, which suddenly felt far too tight.

Alexis smirked, clearly enjoying the attention. "Like what you see?" He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. His bare chest brushed against Yukimiya's still-clothed one, and Yukimiya felt like he might combust.

They kissed again, moving toward the bed in a slow, coordinated dance. Alexis's legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he sat down. Yukimiya leaned over him, their lips only a centimeter apart, ready to dive back in— But then hands pushed against his chest. Gently, but firmly.

A pathetic whimper escaped Yukimiya's throat. He was not proud of it.

"Now, now, Kenyuu." Alexis's voice was silk wrapped around steel. "Don't be impatient. Be a good boy for me, okay?"

Yukimiya was momentarily distracted by the way Alexis said his name—Kenyu—with that slight emphasis on the second syllable, like it was something precious.

He was distracted by the way the hotel lights reflected behind Alexis's head, creating a soft halo effect. Distracted by how beautiful he looked, sitting there in nothing but his boxers, his magenta eyes gleaming with dark promise.

Ah, Yukimiya thought.

So his eyes are magenta.

He was so lost in the trance of Alexis's beauty that he barely registered the fingers suddenly gripping his hair—tight, commanding, perfect.

"I expect you to answer me, Kenyuu." Yukimiya blinked. His current position came into focus. He was kneeling between Alexis's spread knees, staring up at him like a supplicant before an altar.

Alexis was smirking down at him, one hand propping up his head, the other tangled firmly in Yukimiya's hair.

"Yes," Yukimiya breathed. "Yes, okay."

"Good boy." Alexis leaned forward. His free hand moved to Yukimiya's belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease.

He slid the leather free from the loops, slow and deliberate, and then wrapped it around Yukimiya's neck. The action was unhurried. Steady hands worked the buckle, tightening it just enough to be present—a firm pressure against his throat, a reminder of who was in charge—but not enough to be suffocating.

Then Alexis gripped the loose end of the belt, turning it into a makeshift leash. Like a dog, Yukimiya's brain supplied unhelpfully. He's leading me around like a dog. I don't hate it.In fact, I really, really like it. "We're going to have a lot of fun, Kenyu."

The sound of splashing water echoed through the hotel room's thin walls. Alexis was in the shower, steam curling beneath the door.

Yukimiya lay sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling, his chest still heaving and his body slick with sweat. He hadn't moved in twenty minutes. He wasn't sure he could move.

"I haven't cum that hard in a long time," he said aloud, to no one in particular. His voice came out hoarse and raw, scraped clean by overuse.

Memories flickered through his mind like scenes from a film he couldn't stop watching. The feeling of his bare knees pressed into the hotel carpet, bruised and aching, as Alexis fucked his mouth with single-minded intensity.

The way Alexis had gripped his hair like a handle, tugging on the makeshift leash around his neck with every thrust. The taste of salt and skin, the sound of his own choked gasps.

He remembered riding the edge of pleasure for what felt like hours, Alexis on top of him, moving with such fervent abandon that Yukimiya had simply surrendered. He'd laid there, mesmerized, watching Alexis take what he wanted.

There had been no question of who was in control. Alexis had treated him like something between a partner and a toy, and Yukimiya had loved every second of it.

Slowly, he sat up. His hand drifted from his chest to his neck, tracing the trail of purple marks Alexis had left behind. A constellation of bruises, each one a souvenir. Alexis had bitten and licked and sucked at his skin like a man possessed, not stopping until Yukimiya's entire neck was painted in shades of violet and red.

The bathroom door opened. Alexis stepped out, hair damp and curling at the ends, wearing nothing but his boxers. His skin was infuriatingly pale and clear—unmarked, except for one tiny, barely noticeable red spot on his collarbone.

Yukimiya had left that one. In the final, shattering moment when they had cum in unison, his hazy mind lost in uncontrollable pleasure, he had bitten down on that sensitive spot to swallow his own moans. It was the only mark Alexis had allowed him to leave.

Alexis began searching the room for his discarded clothes, moving with quiet efficiency. He found his hoodie and pulled out his wallet, then started looking for his phone. His gaze lit up when he spotted it on the bedside table, lying next to Yukimiya's glasses.

Something cold and uncomfortable spread through Yukimiya's chest.

He's leaving.

Of course he was leaving. That was what people did after nights like this. That was the agreement, unspoken but understood.

As Alexis reached for his phone, Yukimiya moved before he could think. He crawled across the bed at an almost embarrassing speed and caught Alexis's hand in midair. Alexis turned, eyes wide with surprise.

"Are you leaving?" Yukimiya asked. He hated how desperate his voice sounded.

Alexis exhaled slowly. He looked almost... sad. "I have to go."

Right. Of course. What had Yukimiya expected? It was a one-night stand. No strings attached. Alexis was probably going to return to that cheating boyfriend of his, forgive him again, and repeat the same painful cycle.

And Yukimiya would go back to his lonely hotel room and his lonely life and try to forget this ever happened. But the thought made his heart ache in a way he couldn't ignore.

"Right," he said, forcing his voice to sound detached. Casual. Like he didn't care.

"Yeah."

Alexis turned away, reaching for the door. And Yukimiya felt a surge of panic sharp and immediate, like missing a step on a staircase.

"Can I get your number?" The words blurted out before he could stop them. He mentally slapped himself. Alexis turned around, surprise flickering across his features. Then his expression softened into something almost regretful.

"I can't." The words stabbed Yukimiya straight through the heart.

"I just..." Yukimiya scrambled for words, for dignity, for anything that would make this less pathetic. "I just want to know you. As a friend. Or whatever you want. Just please—don't—don't leave. Please."

"I can't just give my number to a stranger, Kenyu." Ouch. That hurt more than it should have.

But Alexis was right. To him, Yukimiya was a stranger. Someone he'd met once, in a bar, in a city neither of them called home. They weren't special to each other. They were barely acquaintances.

But a stubborn, foolish part of Yukimiya refused to give up. "Please." Alexis stared at him for a long moment. Then he crossed the room in three swift strides, grabbed Yukimiya's jaw with both hands, and leaned down.

Their lips met in a kiss that was nothing like the ones before. Those had been rough and lustful and desperate.

This one was slow.

Deliberate.

Soft.

So soft.

Yukimiya felt like he could drown in this feeling. The gentle slide of Alexis's lips against his own. The way their tongues met in a lazy, unhurried dance. The way his heart raced—not with lust, but with something warmer, something scarier. Butterflies stirred in his stomach, sending warmth radiating through his limbs. He could drown in this. He wanted to drown in this.

But then Alexis pulled away, and all the warmth disappeared, leaving Yukimiya's chest achingly empty. Alexis's hands remained on his jaw, thumbs tracing calming circles on his cheeks.

"How about this, Kenyuu?" His voice was soft, almost tender. "If we ever meet again—by chance, I mean—then I'll give you my number. Okay?" Yukimiya nodded, not trusting his voice. He leaned into Alexis's touch, trying to hold onto the warmth for just a few more seconds.

Alexis smiled—a small, sad smile—and then his hands were gone. He stepped back, turned, and walked to the door.

"See you later, Kenyuu."

The door closed with a soft click. Yukimiya sat alone in the hotel room, the scent of vanilla and sex still hanging in the air, and wondered if he would ever see those magenta eyes again.

November 13 2024- En route to Mercedes Benz fashion week. 

The BMW glided through the rain-slicked streets of Berlin, its engine a low purr beneath the thrum of music. Streetlights cast orange halos on the wet asphalt, and the city's architecture—a mix of historic stone and brutalist concrete—slid past the windows like a slow-motion slideshow. It was nearly noon, but the November sky hung low and gray, leaking a persistent drizzle that fogged the glass and blurred the world beyond.

Aryu Jyubei drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other gesturing dramatically to the beat of the song. His sunglasses were perched on his head despite the overcast weather, and his designer jacket—crimson, because glamour demanded it—rustled with every movement. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Chigiri Hyouma had his feet propped on the dashboard, a travel mug of matcha latte in one hand and his phone in the other. His pink-red hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and he wore an expression of delicate boredom.

In the back seat, Yukimiya Kenyuu leaned against the door, his temple pressed to the cool glass. He hadn't slept well. That was an understatement. He hadn't slept at all. His body ached in places he didn't know could ache, and his mind kept replaying the same loop of images—magenta eyes, heart-shaped lips, a belt around his neck, and the soft, devastating kiss goodbye.

He had spent two hours in the hotel shower after Alexis left, scrubbing himself raw, then another hour staring at the ceiling. Eventually, he'd dug out his concealer—a high-coverage stick he used for the occasional blemish before photoshoots—and carefully painted over the constellation of bruises on his neck. The makeup did its job well enough, but every time he swallowed, he felt the phantom pressure of Alexis's grip.

The car's speakers crackled as the next song began.

Good for you, happy and healthy—

Aryu's hand shot out and turned up the volume. "Ah, yes. This one."

"—not me, if you ever cared to ask."

Chigiri groaned, but his lips twitched. "Aryu, no."

"Good for you, you're doing great out there without me, baby—" Aryu belted the lyrics with theatrical abandon, his voice cracking on the high notes. He drummed the steering wheel with both palms, swerving slightly. "God, I wish that I could have that!"

Chigiri snorted. "You're going to crash the car."

"I've lost my time, I've spent the night—crying on the floor of my bathroom—" Aryu pointed at Chigiri, one eyebrow raised. "You know, darling, this song screams Kunigami."

Chigiri's expression flattened. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying." Aryu took a hand off the wheel to flutter his fingers dismissively. "The on-again, off-again, 'I'm fine but actually I'm crying in the bathroom' energy? That's you. That's so you."

"I do not cry in bathrooms."

"You cried in the bathroom at the Milan after party."

"That was allergies."

"In November?"

"Seasonal. Winter allergies."

Aryu laughed, bright and unapologetic. Behind them, Yukimiya smiled faintly. The familiar bickering was a comfort, a small pocket of normalcy in the chaos of his thoughts. He watched the city scroll past—graffiti-covered walls, a Turkish market packing up its stalls, a woman walking three dachshunds in tiny raincoats—and tried to focus on the present.

The song swelled into its chorus. Chigiri, despite his protests, began singing along under his breath. By the second verse, he was full-out belting, his voice surprisingly sweet against Aryu's dramatic growl. The two of them harmonized terribly and beautifully, their voices tangling like old friends who knew each other's flaws by heart.

Yukimiya let the music wash over him. For a moment, the memory of Alexis receded.

Then the song ended, and the car fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the swish of tires on wet pavement.

"So." Chigiri twisted in his seat to look at Yukimiya. His eyes were sharp, cat-like, missing nothing. "You never told us. What did you do after we bailed?"

"Yeah, Kenyuu." Aryu glanced in the rearview mirror, his dark eyes glinting. "Did you wallow in solitude like a tragic hero? Or did you find some glamour to occupy your evening?"

Yukimiya hesitated. His fingers instinctively went to his neck, but he stopped himself before they touched the concealer. "I... stayed at the bar for a while. Had a few drinks."

"And?" Chigiri pressed. "That's it? You just sat there alone?"

"No." Yukimiya looked out the window. The rain was picking up, streaking the glass in diagonal lines. "I met someone."

The silence that followed was different—charged, expectant.

"Met someone?" Aryu repeated, drawing out the word. "Met them how? Like, met them? Or met met them?"

"Define 'met,'" Chigiri added, a grin spreading across his face.

Yukimiya felt heat creep up his neck. Stupid. He was a grown man. He did not blush like a schoolboy. "We talked. For a while. And then..."

"And then?" both of them said in unison.

"And then we went to a hotel."

The car swerved slightly as Aryu's hands jerked on the wheel. Chigiri's mouth fell open. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Aryu let out a low whistle.

"Well, well, well. Our sweet, innocent Yukimiya. Getting into hotel rooms with strangers." Aryu fanned himself with one hand. "I'm shook. I'm devastated. I'm proud."

Chigiri leaned over the center console, his eyes narrowing with gleeful suspicion. "Who was it? Was he hot? Was he famous? Was he rich? Tell us everything."

"It was just... a guy." Yukimiya shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I don't even know if I'll see him again."

"A guy," Chigiri echoed. "Just a guy. And you're not going to tell us anything else?"

"I didn't catch his last name."

Aryu made a sound of disgust. "You slept with someone and didn't even get his last name? That's not glamour. That's anarchy."

"It was a one-night stand," Yukimiya said, though the words tasted wrong. "That's what people do."

Chigiri's eyes flicked to Yukimiya's neck. He tilted his head, studying him like a painting in a gallery. "Yuki... what's that?"

"What's what?"

"On your neck. Under your... is that concealer?"

Yukimiya's hand flew to his throat. Too late. He saw Chigiri's grin widen and Aryu's eyes dart to the rearview mirror.

"Darling." Aryu's voice dropped into something almost reverent. "Did this 'guy' mark you?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"Pull over," Chigiri commanded.

"We're on the Autobahn."

"I don't care. Pull over."

Aryu sighed dramatically but guided the BMW onto the shoulder, the tires crunching over gravel. The rain drummed harder against the roof. He killed the engine, and suddenly the car was very quiet, filled only with the sound of three people breathing.

Chigiri unbuckled his seatbelt and twisted around fully, reaching into the backseat. Before Yukimiya could protest, Chigiri's fingers found the collar of his sweater and tugged it down.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Chigiri screamed.

Not a fearful scream—an excited one, high-pitched and delighted. "YUUKI! THOSE ARE HICKEYS!"

"Let me see!" Aryu unbuckled and climbed halfway into the backseat, nearly smothering Chigiri in the process. His eyes went wide as he took in the damage. "Oh my god. That's not a hickey. That's a constellation. Did he bite you?"

Yukimiya pushed them both away, yanking his collar back up. "It's nothing."

"NOTHING?" Chigiri's voice was almost a shriek. "Yukimiya, your neck looks like a leopard print handbag! Who was this person? A vampire?"

"He wasn't a vampire. He was just..." Yukimiya searched for words. "Beautiful."

Aryu and Chigiri exchanged a look. The kind of look that said we're about to get answers, one way or another.

"Describe him," Chigiri said, settling back into his seat with his arms crossed. "Every detail. Don't leave anything out."

Yukimiya sighed. He knew that tone. There was no escaping it. He closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him.

"He had brown curly hair," he began. "But it faded into pink or purple at the ends—magenta, I think. His eyes were the same color. Huge eyes, with really long lashes. He had round cheeks, but a sharp jaw. And his lips..." Yukimiya's voice softened. "They were heart-shaped. Pink. Really... kissable.

Chigiri's expression had shifted. The glee was fading, replaced by something more focused. "Go on."

"He was wearing all black. Big hoodie, like he was trying to hide. And he was..." Yukimiya swallowed. "He was sad. Crying when I first saw him. He told me his boyfriend cheated on him."

"Boyfriend?" Aryu repeated. "So he's taken?"

"Complicated." Yukimiya opened his eyes, staring at the rain-streaked window. "He said his boyfriend does it all the time. But he keeps forgiving him. He seemed... trapped."

  Chigiri and Aryu exchanged another look. This one was different. Worried.

"What?" Yukimiya asked, sitting up straighter. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Chigiri said quickly. "Keep going. Did he tell you his name?"

"Yeah." Yukimiya nodded. "He said his name was Alexis. But he said I could call him Lexi."

The silence that followed was absolute.

The rain filled the void, a steady drumming on the roof. Chigiri's face had gone pale. Aryu's mouth was slightly open, frozen mid-thought. Even the ambient noise of passing cars seemed to fade.

Then, in unison, they both screamed.

"YOU SLEPT WITH ALEXIS FUCKING NESS?!"

Yukimiya flinched back against the door. "What? Who?"

"WHO?" Chigiri's voice cracked. "Yukimiya, I know you live under a rock when it comes to celebrity gossip, but this is—this is—" He turned to Aryu, gesturing wildly. "Help me out here!"

Aryu had both hands on his head, his carefully styled hair now mussed. "Darling. *Darling*. Do you have *any* idea who Alexis Ness is?"

"A model?" Yukimiya weekly 

"He's not a model. He's the model." Aryu took a deep breath, composing himself. "Alexis Ness is one of the top five highest-paid models in the world. He's walked for every major house—Gucci, Prada, Versace, Chanel, you name it. He's the face of at least four global campaigns right now. But that's no

"That's what he wants people to think." Aryu's voice had dropped, serious now. "But everyone in the industry knows the truth. Alexis Ness doesn't just model. He controls. He has more power backstage than most creative directors. Brands are terrified of him. Not because he's mean—he's actually very sweet, publicly—but because he can make or break careers with a single phone call."

"Remember that rising star from last year?" Chigiri added. "The Brazilian model, what was his name... Lucas?"

"Lucas Mendes," Aryu supplied. "He was supposed to be the next big thing. Got the cover of Vogue Homme, walked in the Balenciaga show. Then he made the mistake of flirting with Kaiser at an after-party."

"Kaiser?"

"Michael Kaiser." Chigiri said the name like it was a curse. "Also a model. Also insanely famous. Blonde, blue eyes, face like a Greek god, personality like a bag of smashed assholes. He and Alexis are—" He hesitated. "They're together. Officially, they're the most powerful couple in fashion. Their publicist calls them 'KaiserNess.' It's disgusting."

"They're possessive," Aryu added. "Extremely. There are rumors that Kaiser once got a photographer blacklisted just for looking at Alexis too long. And Alexis—" He shook his head. "Alexis is worse. Because he's subtle. He doesn't yell or throw things. He just... makes people disappear."

Yukimiya's stomach turned. "Disappear?"

"Not literally," Chigiri said quickly. "But their careers? Yeah. Lucas Mendes hasn't booked a single major show since that night. His agency dropped him. His endorsements vanished. He's doing catalog work now. Catalog work."

Aryu nodded. "And that's just the *public* stuff. The industry whispers are much darker. They say Alexis has a little black book of every designer, every editor, every brand executive. And he knows exactly what they're hiding. Infidelities, addictions, financial problems. He doesn't blackmail them—not exactly. He just... reminds them, at the right moment, that they owe him."

"So if Alexis slept with you," Chigiri said slowly, pointing at Yukimiya, "then something must have gone very, very wrong between him and Kaiser."

"Like a fight," Aryu agreed. "A big one. The last time they broke up—"

"They broke up before?" Yukimiya asked.

"Broke up is generous." Aryu leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "It was three years ago. Milan Fashion Week. Kaiser was photographed leaving a club with a male influencer—some nobody with good cheekbones. The photos went viral. Everyone thought it was just gossip, but then..."

"But then?" Yukimiya prompted.

Chigiri took over, his voice hushed. "The next morning, Kaiser's biggest sponsorship—Tom Ford—was suddenly 'under review.' The brand released a statement saying they were 'reevaluating their partnership with Mr. Kaiser due to creative differences.' Which is code for 'we're about to drop him.'"

"And you think Alexis did that?"

"I know Alexis did that." Aryu's eyes were serious. "Because three days later, Kaiser showed up at Alexis's hotel room with a dozen roses and a public apology. He got down on his knees in the lobby. Someone filmed it. And the next day, the Tom Ford situation was 'resolved.' Kaiser kept the contract."

Yukimiya stared at them. "So Alexis... almost got Tom Ford to drop Kaiser? Because Kaiser cheated?"

"Because Kaiser got caught cheating," Chigiri corrected. "That's the key. Alexis doesn't care if Kaiser sleeps around—or at least, he pretends not to. But he cares about appearances. If Kaiser humiliates him publicly, Alexis makes him pay. Privately."

"And the cycle repeats," Yukimiya murmured, thinking of what Alexis had told him in the bar. He brings home someone new when I'm away. I find them in our bed. He apologizes. I forgive him.

"So if Alexis went home with you," Aryu said slowly, "then Kaiser must have done something really stupid. Or Alexis finally snapped."

"Or," Chigiri added quietly, "Alexis wanted to hurt Kaiser the way Kaiser hurts him. And you were just... the tool."

Yukimiya felt the words like a physical blow. A tool. Was that all he had been? A revenge fuck? A way for Alexis to get even?

But then he remembered the second kiss. The way Alexis had cupped his jaw and said,

If we ever meet again, I'll give you my number.

That hadn't felt like revenge. That had felt like... promise.

"There's something else you should know," Aryu said, breaking into his thoughts. "About Alexis. His nickname."

"Nickname?"

"The Runway Magician."

Yukimiya raised an eyebrow. "Because his walk is magical?"

"Partly." Aryu's expression was unreadable. "On the surface, that's what it means. When Alexis walks a runway, it's mesmerizing. He doesn't just move—he glides. He appears at one end of the catwalk, and then, before you can blink, he's at the other. You can't look away. You don't even realize the show is over until the lights come up. He's that good."

"But?"

Aryu met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "But people *in* the industry—the ones who know—they use the nickname differently. Because Alexis can make things *disappear*. Careers, opportunities, reputations. Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, except the rabbit is a person, and the hat is the fashion industry."

"And he never gets caught?" Yukimiya asked.

"He never gets blamed." Chigiri sighed. "He has what people call a 'politician's mouth.' He knows exactly what to say, to whom, and when. The public adores him. He does charity work, he's soft-spoken in interviews, he always thanks his 'wonderful team' and 'supportive partner.' If anyone ever accused him of something, they'd be crucified by his fans."

"So he's untouchable."

"Completely."

Yukimiya leaned his head back against the headrest, staring at the car's ceiling. The rain had softened to a drizzle, and the world outside was a blur of gray and gold.

He thought about Alexis's tears. The way they had carved tracks down those round, pretty cheeks. The way his voice had cracked when he said, Am I just stupid?

The way his hands had trembled when he'd buckled the belt around Yukimiya's neck.

That wasn't the behavior of an untouchable master manipulator. That was the behavior of someone broken. Someone desperate. Someone who had been hurt so many times that they'd forgotten what it felt like to be whole.

"He was sad," Yukimiya said quietly. "Really sad. It wasn't an act."

Chigiri and Aryu exchanged a glance—softer this time.

"Maybe," Chigiri conceded. "But Yuki... you need to be careful. If Kaiser finds out about this—and he will find out, because he finds out everything—he's not going to blame Alexis. He's going to blame you."

"And Alexis might not protect you," Aryu added. "Not because he's cruel, but because... he might not be able to. Kaiser has his own kind of power. And when those two fight, everyone around them gets caught in the crossfire."

Yukimiya looked down at his hands. The same hands that had touched Alexis's skin, that had held his jaw, that had traced the curve of his spine. "What if I don't want to be careful?"

"Yuki—"

"He said something to me. Before he left." Yukimiya's voice was distant, almost dreamy. "He said that if we ever met again, he'd give me his number."

Chigiri's eyebrows shot up. "He said that?"

"After I begged him not to leave."

Aryu let out a long, slow breath. "Oh, darling. You've got it bad."

"I don't even know him."

"But you want to."

Yukimiya didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The silence stretched, filled only with the soft patter of rain. Then Aryu started the engine, and the BMW pulled back onto the road.

The Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week venue was only ten minutes away—a massive glass-and-steel complex on the edge of the Tiergarten, already swarming with publicists and photographers and influencers.

"One more thing," Chigiri said as the cityscape began to change, the buildings growing sleeker and more modern. "Alexis Ness is here. In Berlin. For Fashion Week. He's walking in at least three shows, including the Mercedes-Benz gala tomorrow night."

Yukimiya's heart stuttered. "He is?"

"Which means," Aryu said, "there's a very good chance you'll see him again."

The words hung in the air, heavy with possibility.

Yukimiya turned to the window, watching the rain trace paths down the glass.

If we ever meet again.

Berlin was a big city. But Fashion Week was a small world.

And Yukimiya Kenyuu had never been very good at leaving things to chance.

The Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week venue rose from the gray Berlin landscape like a shard of polished glass and steel. Its façade was all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, catching the weak November light and throwing it back in fractured rainbows. A massive black banner stretched across the entrance, silver lettering announcing: BERLIN FASHION WEEK — PRESENTED BY MERCEDES BENZ. Beneath it, a fleet of luxury cars—BMWs, Audis, Porsches—disgorged passengers onto a red carpet that had been laid out despite the damp weather.

Yukimiya stepped out of Aryu's BMW and immediately regretted his footwear. His leather oxfords were not designed for rain-slicked cobblestones. He steadied himself against the car door, one hand pressed to the cool metal, and took a breath.

The air smelled of wet asphalt, expensive perfume, and the particular ozone tang of camera flashes. Photographers lined the carpet in rows, their lenses hungry, their shouts a cacophony of names and commands. "Over here! Look left! Give us a smile!" Security personnel in black suits stood at intervals, earpieces glinting, their postures alert but bored.

Chigiri slid out of the passenger seat, his pink-red hair a beacon in the gray light. He had changed into a cream-colored silk blouse and tailored navy trousers, his makeup flawless, his expression one of practiced indifference.

"Ready to be perceived?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Thrilled," Yukimiya deadpanned.

Aryu emerged last, adjusting the cuffs of his crimson jacket. He surveyed the scene with the air of a king returning to his kingdom. "Remember, darlings: shoulders back, chins up, and for the love of glamour, don't trip on the carpet. The internet never forgets."

They walked the red carpet as a trio—"Pretty, Hot & Glam" in the flesh. Flashes exploded around them. Someone shouted Yukimiya's name, and he turned automatically, offering a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Chigiri did a small pivot, showing off his profile. Aryu posed like he was auditioning for a museum exhibit.

Inside, the venue was even more impressive. The main hall had been transformed into a cathedral of fashion. A massive runway jutted from the back wall like a tongue, its surface a seamless white that glowed from within. Rows of seats flanked it, arranged in ascending tiers, each chair draped in black velvet and labeled with a name card. Overhead, a constellation of lights hung from the ceiling—some soft and warm, others cold and clinical, all of them aimed at the runway like a thousand artificial suns.

Guests filed in slowly, their conversations a low hum beneath the ambient music—something classical, but with an electronic undercurrent, the kind of thing that said we are sophisticated but also cool.

Yukimiya found their assigned seats in the third row, center-left. Good sightlines. He sat down, smoothing his trousers—a subtle charcoal gray, paired with a navy blazer and a white dress shirt open at the collar. He had chosen the outfit deliberately, wanting to look professional but not flashy. After last night, the last thing he needed was more attention.

Chigiri dropped into the seat beside him, immediately pulling out his phone. Aryu sat on Yukimiya's other side, crossing his legs and surveying the crowd.

"Look," Chigiri said, nudging Yukimiya with his elbow. "There's Itoshi Sae."

Yukimiya followed his gaze. A few rows ahead, a young man with auburn hair and the coldest expression Yukimiya had ever seen was speaking quietly to a dark green haired boy beside him. Itoshi Sae was a legend in the modeling world—elusive, aloof, and rumored to be a genius on the runway. He rarely did interviews, never posted on social media, and yet his face was everywhere. Beside him, the red-haired boy—Itoshi Rin, his younger brother—listened with a scowl, his arms crossed.

"They're both walking today," Chigiri continued. "Rin is supposed to be the next big thing, but he's got a temper. Last season, he almost walked off the Balenciaga show because the styling was 'insulting to his aesthetic.'"

"Sounds charming," Yukimiya said.

"Oh, he's not." Chigiri's phone screen glowed as he snapped a surreptitious photo. "But he's gorgeous, so everyone forgives him."

Aryu leaned across Yukimiya to point at a figure near the front row. "And there's Reo Mikage. Now that is a man who understands glamour."

Reo Mikage was tall, with purple hair that fell in silky waves around his face. He wore an emerald-green suit that looked like it had been painted onto his body, and he was laughing at something the person next to him said—a pale, silver-haired man who seemed to be half-asleep.

"Reo's a model too," Aryu explained. "But he's also heir to the Mikage Corporation, so he doesn't really need the work. He does it for fun. His boyfriend is that lump next to him—Nagi Seishiro. Also a model, but he complains about walking more than five steps."

"They seem... mismatched," Yukimiya observed.

"Opposites attract, darling."

Chigiri kept pointing. "Over there—those two are designers. Shidou Ryusei and Bachira Meguru. They're insane. Their last collection was inspired by 'the chaotic beauty of a car crash.' It was all shattered mirrors and broken glass. People loved it."

Yukimiya spotted them—Shidou with his wild, spiked hair and manic grin, Bachira with his round eyes and a smile that looked either innocent or unhinged, depending on the light. They were arguing about something, their hands gesturing wildly, but both of them seemed to be having the time of their lives.

"And that," Chigiri said, his voice dropping, "is Michael Kaiser."

Yukimiya's blood went cold.

Kaiser was seated in the VIP section—front row, dead center. He was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful: dangerous, magnetic, impossible to look away from. Blonde hair with blue tips fell across his forehead in artful disarray, and his eyes were a shade of blue so pale they almost seemed to glow. He wore all black—a tailored suit, no tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a collarbone that could have been carved from marble.

He was smiling at something on his phone, but there was no warmth in it. The smile of a predator who had just spotted prey.

And beside him—beside him was an empty chair.

Yukimiya's heart hammered. "Where's—"

"He's not here yet," Aryu said quietly. "Ness, I mean. But he will be. He always walks in right before the speeches. Makes an entrance."

As if on cue, the lights dimmed. The ambient music faded. A hush fell over the crowd, the kind of silence that precedes something important.

A figure appeared at the end of the runway—not on it, but beside it, stepping onto a small stage that had been hidden behind a curtain. Noel Noa. The man needed no introduction, but he got one anyway: a smattering of applause, respectful and restrained.

Noel Noa was a legend. A former model who had become one of the most powerful creative directors in the industry, he was known for his exacting standards, his icy demeanor, and his ability to spot talent where others saw nothing. His hair was silver-gray, swept back from a face that had aged like fine wine. He wore a simple black turtleneck and gray trousers, and he carried no notes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Noa began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall's acoustics. "Welcome to Berlin Fashion Week. Tonight, we celebrate not just the art of clothing, but the art of being. Fashion is not what you wear. Fashion is how you wear it. Fashion is the story you tell without opening your mouth."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"We have seen trends come and go. We have seen icons rise and fall. But what remains—what endures—is the courage to be yourself in a world that constantly tells you to be someone else." Noa's gaze swept across the audience, pausing for a fraction of a second on Kaiser. "Tonight, we honor that courage. We honor the risk-takers, the rule-breakers, the ones who dare to be different."

Another pause. The crowd was rapt.

"And now," Noa said, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips, "I would like to invite someone to say a few words. Someone who embodies that courage more than most. Someone who, whether you love him or fear him, you cannot ignore."

He turned, gesturing toward the back of the hall.

"Please welcome—Alexis Ness."

The lights shifted. A single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the back entrance. And there, standing in the doorway, was Alexis.

Yukimiya forgot how to breathe.

Alexis was stunning. That was the only word for it. He wore a suit of deep burgundy velvet, the jacket tailored to hug his slim waist and broad shoulders. His white shirt was buttoned to the top, secured with a simple black ribbon instead of a tie. His curly hair had been tamed slightly, brushed back from his face, but a few strands fell across his forehead, catching the light. The pink-purple gradient seemed more vivid under the spotlights, shifting from lavender to magenta as he moved.

His face was calm, composed, the sadness from last night hidden behind a mask of professional serenity. But his eyes—those beautiful, impossible eyes—held a flicker of something else. Mischief, perhaps. Or pain. Or both.

He walked down the center aisle with a grace that seemed almost supernatural. His footsteps made no sound on the carpet, but everyone felt them. Heads turned. Conversations died. Even the photographers, relegated to the sides, lowered their cameras in awe.

This was the Runway Magician. And he was breathtaking.

Alexis reached the stage and ascended the small steps, accepting Noa's hand briefly before turning to face the audience. He stood at the podium, both hands resting lightly on its edges, and waited.

The silence grew heavy.

Then he spoke.

"Thank you, Noel. And thank you all for being here tonight." His voice was soft, almost shy, but it carried. It had a quality that made you lean forward, made you want to listen.

"I'm not much for speeches. I'd rather let the clothes do the talking. But Noel asked me to say a few words, and I've never been very good at saying no to him."

A light ripple of laughter. Alexis smiled—a small, genuine thing that transformed his face.

"Fashion is often dismissed as superficial. Pretty clothes for pretty people. And sometimes, yes, it is. But sometimes—" He paused, his gaze drifting across the audience. "Sometimes, fashion is armor. Sometimes, it's a declaration. Sometimes, it's the only way we know how to say I am still here. I am still standing. And you have not broken me."

The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples of discomfort moved through the front rows. Kaiser's smile had frozen.

Alexis continued, his tone light, almost conversational. "I've been in this industry for a decade now. I've seen trends cycle in and out. I've seen young models rise too fast and burn out even faster. And I've seen the difference between someone who wears clothes and someone who inhabits them."

He tilted his head, a gesture that was almost playful. "Take, for example, the recent Spring/Summer shows in Milan. There was a particular runway—I won't name names—where a model walked who shall also remain nameless. He had the look, Yes but he did not have the walk. He did not have the confidence. He spent his time trying to be the relatable model." Alexis's lips curved into an almost apologetic smile. " The wholesome model, the breath of fresh air. One the audience can relate to. He spent his whole time trying to be relatable that he forgot to execute. He didn't wear the clothes, the clothes wore him. And the Runway is no place for such. Tho who am I to say anything" another smile spread on his face this one cruel and devoid of any of his previous empathy. 

Yukimiya heard Chigiri inhale sharply beside him. "He's talking about Isagi," Chigiri whispered. "Yoichi Isagi. His last runway was not bad perse, it wasn't intimidating if anything it was normal painfully so and that's the problem.'"

Alexis went on, his voice never rising above that gentle, almost melodic register. "Now, I don't say this to be cruel. I say this because we all have room to grow. Even me. Especially me. But growth requires honesty. And honesty requires the courage to look at ourselves and say, I can do better."

He paused, letting the silence stretch. Then he turned slightly, his gaze landing—seemingly by accident—on Kaiser.

"Partnerships, too, require honesty." Alexis's voice was still soft, but there was a blade beneath it now. "In fashion, as in life, we are often judged by the company we keep. And it's easy to mistake possession for partnership. To think that holding someone tightly means you love them, when really, it just means you're afraid of losing them." He smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes. "True partnership is not about chains. It's about freedom. The freedom to grow, to change, to become. And if you cannot give that to the person beside you, then perhaps you should ask yourself why you're there at all."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Kaiser's expression had not changed. He was still smiling, still beautiful, still composed. But his knuckles, resting on his knees, were white.

The rest of the audience seemed to be holding their breath. A few people exchanged glances. Someone coughed.

Then Alexis's face softened, and he laughed—a light, self-deprecating sound. "Listen to me, getting all philosophical. I promised Noel I'd keep it short, and here I am, monologuing like a villain in a play." He stepped back from the podium, inclining his head.

"What I mean to say is this: Fashion Week is about joy. It's about beauty. It's about seeing something that makes your heart skip a beat. So tonight, let yourselves feel that. Let yourselves be moved. And when you see something you love—whether it's a dress, a jacket, or a person—don't be afraid to say so."

He raised a hand in a small wave. "Thank you for having me. Enjoy the show."

The applause was thunderous. People rose to their feet—not all, but many. Alexis stood on the stage, bathed in spotlight, and accepted the adoration with a humble tilt of his head. Then he stepped down, nodded to Noa, and made his way toward the VIP section.

Yukimiya watched him go, his heart pounding. The speech had been beautiful, cutting, and utterly mesmerizing. He understood now what Aryu and Chigiri had meant. Alexis Ness didn't just command attention. He breathed it.

In the VIP section, Alexis slid into the empty chair beside Kaiser—except he didn't sit next to Kaiser. He sat on the other side of the chair, next to Reo Mikage and Itoshi Rin. The three of them greeted each other with easy familiarity: Reo reaching over to squeeze Alexis's hand, Rin giving a nod that might have been a smile on anyone else's face.

Kaiser, meanwhile, was left with an empty chair on his left and a gap on his right. His smile remained fixed, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Freinds," Chigiri murmured, nodding toward the trio. "Reo, Rin, and Ness. They're inseparable backstage."

The lights came up slightly, signaling a shift from speeches to socializing. Waitstaff in black uniforms appeared with trays of champagne flutes and canapés. The formal seating arrangement dissolved as people began to mingle, rising from their chairs to talk and laugh and network.

Chigiri checked his phone and immediately stiffened. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

"What?" Yukimiya asked.

"Kunigami is here." Chigiri's voice was flat, but his cheeks had flushed. "He texted me. He says he was invited by someone from Adidas. He's in the VIP lounge."

Aryu raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to go see him?"

"No." Chigiri crossed his arms. Then, after a beat, "Yes. Maybe. I don't know."

"You're going," Aryu said firmly. "Because if you don't, you'll spend the whole night staring at your phone like a lovesick puppy, and that's not glamour."

Chigiri shot him a look, but he stood up, smoothing his blouse. "Fine. But if I'm not back in twenty minutes, send a search party." He glanced at Yukimiya. "You'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine," Yukimiya said. "Go."

Chigiri disappeared into the crowd, his rose-gold hair bobbing like a buoy.

Aryu was also looking at his phone, a slow smile spreading across his face it seems my tall, dark, and handsome acquaintance from last night is also here."

"The actor?"

"The very same." Aryu rose, adjusting his crimson jacket. "Barou is his name. Barou Shoei. He's playing the villain in that new period drama everyone's talking about. He's enormous. And glowering. It's extremely attractive." He patted Yukimiya's shoulder. "Don't wait up, darling. Or do. But if you see me making poor decisions, pretend you don't."

And then Aryu was gone too, striding toward the VIP section with the confidence of a man who had never been rejected in his life.

Yukimiya was alone.

He sat at the table, sipping a glass of champagne that had appeared from somewhere, and tried to look like a person who was perfectly content to be by himself. He scrolled through his phone. He checked his email. He watched a man in a sequined blazer try to negotiate a sponsorship deal with a woman who looked profoundly bored.

He was so focused on not looking lonely that he didn't notice the figure approaching until a shadow fell across his table.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Yukimiya looked up.

Alexis Ness stood before him, two glasses of champagne in his hands, a tentative smile on his lips. He had removed his suit jacket at some point, leaving him in his white shirt and burgundy trousers, the ribbon at his collar slightly loosened. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes—those magenta eyes—were fixed on Yukimiya with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away.

"Lexi," Yukimiya breathed.

Alexis's smile widened. "You remembered."

"I don't think I could forget if I tried."

Alexis slid into the chair opposite Yukimiya, setting one of the champagne glasses in front of him. "I brought you a drink. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I just grabbed the same thing I was having. Sorry if that's presumptuous."

"It's perfect." Yukimiya wrapped his fingers around the glass's stem, more to have something to hold than because he was thirsty. "You're... you're really here."

"I am ." Alexis took a sip of his champagne, his gaze never leaving Yukimiya's face.

"You're here ....sitting at my table."

Alexis's expression softened. "I wanted to see you. Is that so surprising?"

"A little," Yukimiya admitted. "After last night, I wasn't sure if... I mean, you left so quickly. I thought maybe you regretted it."

The word regretted hung in the air between them. Alexis's smile faded slightly, replaced by something more contemplative.

"I don't regret it," he said quietly. "But I also don't know what to do about it. About... you."

Yukimiya leaned forward, lowering his voice. "What's there to do? We met. We had a good time. Now we're having champagne at Fashion Week. That's not complicated. That's just... life."

Alexis laughed—a soft, breathy sound. "You make it sound so simple."

"Maybe it is."

"It's not." Alexis glanced around the room, checking to see if anyone was watching. Most people were absorbed in their own conversations, but Yukimiya noticed a few curious glances directed their way.

Reo Mikage, from the VIP section, was looking at them with open interest. Rin had his back turned, but his posture was alert. "You don't know what you're walking into. You don't know *me*."

"I know what you showed me."

"I showed you what I wanted you to see." Alexis's voice was barely a whisper now. "Everyone shows what they want you to see. That's not the same as truth."

Yukimiya reached across the table and, without thinking, covered Alexis's hand with his own. Alexis went still, his eyes widening.

"Then show me the truth," Yukimiya said. "Not all at once. Just... bit by bit. I'm not going anywhere."

Alexis stared at their joined hands. His lower lip trembled slightly, and for a moment, Yukimiya thought he might cry. But then he took a breath, and the moment passed.

"You barely know me," Alexis whispered.

"I know enough."

"You don't. You know what happened at the bar. And what happened at the hotel. But there's so much more. Things that would make you run."

"Try me."

Alexis opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, a voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Alexis, darling. There you are."

Yukimiya's blood ran cold.

Michael Kaiser had appeared beside their table, seemingly out of nowhere. He stood with one hand casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of red wine. His pale blue eyes moved from Alexis to Yukimiya and back again, and his smile was the smile of a cat who had found a mouse.

Kaiser stepped closer and, with a fluid motion, slid his free arm around Alexis's waist. His hand settled on the curve of Alexis's hip, fingers pressing into the burgundy fabric. The gesture was possessive, deliberate, a brand on display for the entire room.

"Michael," Alexis said, his voice carefully neutral. "I was just having a conversation."

"I can see that." Kaiser's thumb traced small circles on Alexis's hip. "You'll have to forgive my partner. He's been distracted lately. Haven't you, darling?"

Alexis didn't answer. Instead, he looked down at Kaiser's hand on his waist. His expression was unreadable.

The room seemed to have gone quiet, though Yukimiya knew it was just his imagination. The music still played. The conversations still hummed. But in that small bubble surrounding the three of them, the silence was absolute.

Then Alexis moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and placed his hand over Kaiser's. For a moment, Yukimiya thought he might press it closer, accept the embrace. But instead, Alexis pried Kaiser's fingers loose and removed the hand entirely. He set it down on the table between them, like returning a borrowed book.

"Not now, Michael," Alexis said. His voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it.

Kaiser's smile flickered. Just for a second. Then it returned, wider than before. "Of course. My apologies. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You did," Alexis said flatly. "But it's fine. I was just about to excuse myself anyway."

He stood up from the table, smoothing his trousers. His cheeks were flushed, but his hands were steady. He looked at Yukimiya, and for a moment, something passed between them—regret, perhaps, or apology. Or maybe just a reminder that this world, this life, was more complicated than either of them had anticipated.

"I'll be back," Alexis said, though Yukimiya wasn't sure if he was talking to Kaiser or to him. "I need to use the restroom."

And then he walked away.

Yukimiya watched him go, his heart pounding. Alexis's hips swayed with each step, the burgundy trousers hugging his thighs, his waist, the curve of his—but Yukimiya forced himself to look away. He couldn't afford to be caught staring. Not now. Not with Kaiser standing right there.

Kaiser watched Alexis's retreat as well. His eyes lingered on the same lines, the same curves. Then he turned to Yukimiya, and his smile took on a different quality. Harder. Sharper.

"Eyes up, Bambi."

Yukimiya blinked. "What?"

"Eyes. Up." Kaiser enunciated each word slowly, as if speaking to a child. "You were staring at his ass. Everyone was staring at his ass. But you—you were *staring*." He pulled out the chair Alexis had vacated and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "I don't appreciate it."

Yukimiya's jaw tightened. "I wasn't—"

"Don't lie to me." Kaiser's voice was still pleasant, still conversational, but there was a coldness beneath it that made Yukimiya's skin prickle. "So ur the one who gave Alexis that hickey on his neck. Right four eyes" 

Yukimiya said nothing. His heart was racing, but he forced his expression to remain neutral.

Kaiser leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The champagne glasses sat between them, forgotten. "Let me tell you something about Alexis, Kenyuu. He's beautiful. He's magnetic. He's the kind of person who makes you feel like you're the only one in the room. But that's not real. That's just what he does. When he decides to get into one of his little revenge plots again. He draws people in, makes them feel special, and then—" He snapped his fingers. "He moves on. You're not the first. You won't be the last."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, but I do." Kaiser's smile was thin. "I've been with him for five years. I've seen a hundred 'special' connections come and go. Photographers, designers, other models. They all think they're different. They all think they've found something real. And then Alexis gets bored, or scared, or whatever it is that goes on in that pretty head of his, and he drops them. Just like that."

Yukimiya thought of the tears on Alexis's face in the bar. The way his voice had cracked when he said, Am I just stupid? That wasn't the behavior of someone who dropped people carelessly. That was the behavior of someone who had been dropped themselves. Repeatedly.

"I don't believe you," Yukimiya said quietly.

Kaiser's eyes flashed. "Believe what you want. But here's the truth: Alexis is mine. He has been mine for five years, and he will be mine for five more, and five after that. Whatever game he's playing with you—whatever revenge fantasy he's acting out because he's angry with me—it will end. And when it does, you will be left with nothing."

"Is that a threat?"

"That's a promise." Kaiser's voice dropped to a whisper. "I've been in this industry for a long time, Kenyuu. I know where the bodies are buried—literally and figuratively. I have friends in every major publication, every major brand, every major agency. If I wanted to, I could make sure you never work again. I could make sure your sponsors drop you, your followers turn on you, your friends distance themselves from you. All it would take is one phone call. One well-placed rumor."

Yukimiya's throat tightened. He thought of Chigiri and Aryu, of the joint Instagram account, of the years of work he had put into building his brand. It could all vanish. Just like that.

Kaiser stood up, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. He looked down at Yukimiya with something that might have been pity, or contempt, or both.

"Stay away from Alexis," he said. "Don't talk to him. Don't look at him. Don't even think about him. If I see you near him again, I will destroy you. And I will enjoy every second of it."

He picked up his glass of wine and took a slow, deliberate sip.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a partner to check on. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Kenyuu. I hope Berlin treats you well."

Kaiser turned and walked away, his footsteps unhurried, his posture relaxed. He looked like a man who had just won a small, unimportant battle. To him, perhaps, that was all this was.

Yukimiya sat alone at the table.

The champagne had gone flat. The music continued to play, but it sounded distant, muffled, like hearing a song from underwater. People moved around him—laughing, talking, networking—but they were shadows, ghosts, irrelevant.

He thought about Alexis. About the way his face had looked when Kaiser put his arm around his waist. The way he had removed Kaiser's hand, slowly and deliberately, as if it cost him something. The way he had excused himself to the bathroom, fleeing the scene like a soldier retreating from a battlefield.

Maybe Alexis had wanted to stay. Maybe he had wanted to keep talking, to finish whatever sentence had been interrupted. Maybe he had wanted to say, Yes, I'll show you the truth. Yes, I'll let you in.

But he hadn't. He had left. And Kaiser had taken his place.

Yukimiya looked down at his hands. The same hands that had touched Alexis's skin, that had held his jaw, that had traced the curve of his spine. Those hands felt useless now. Powerless.

He thought about what Kaiser had said. You're not the first. You won't be the last. It was probably true. Alexis Ness had probably charmed a hundred people before Yukimiya, and would probably charm a hundred after. The bar, the hotel, the champagne—it was all part of a pattern. A cycle.

Just like the cycle with Kaiser. The cheating, the forgiveness, the cheating again.

Yukimiya had walked into the middle of a storm he didn't understand, and now he was soaked to the bone.

He reached for his phone. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the blank screen, reflecting his own tired face.

He could text Chigiri. Ask him to come back, to sit with him, to make him feel less alone. But Chigiri was with Kunigami, tangled in his own complicated mess. And Aryu was with Barou, probably making the kind of poor decisions he had warned Yukimiya about.

Yukimiya was alone.

He stayed at the table for a long time. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. He didn't check. He just sat there, watching the crowd ebb and flow, watching the lights shift and change, watching the world go on without him.

At some point, a waiter came by and cleared the empty champagne glasses. At some point, the music changed from classical to something more upbeat, signaling the transition from reception to afterparty. At some point, the VIP section emptied out as people moved to other rooms, other venues, other parties.

Yukimiya didn't move.

He thought about going to the bathroom. Not to find Alexis—that would be stupid, dangerous, exactly what Kaiser had warned him against. But just to splash water on his face, to wake himself up, to remind himself that he was a real person and not just a character in someone else's drama.

But he didn't. He stayed in his chair, staring at the spot where Alexis had been sitting.

The spot where Kaiser had sat.

The spot where everything had fallen apart.

Eventually, the hall began to empty. The lights came up, harsh and unflattering, revealing the detritus of the evening—abandoned glasses, crumpled napkins, a single forgotten shoe. The staff began to clean up, moving efficiently around the few remaining guests.

Yukimiya stood up. His legs were stiff, his back sore. He had been sitting in the same position for far too long.

He walked toward the exit, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The red carpet outside was wet with rain, the photographers long gone. The city was quiet now, the late hour softening its edges.

The rain fell softly. The city hummed. And Yukimiya Kenyuu stood alone, wondering if the bravest thing he had ever done was also the most cowardly.

He didn't have an answer.

He wasn't sure he ever would.

Yukimiya didn't know how long he stood there under the awning, watching the rain trace silver lines through the darkness.

The Berlin wind had picked up, carrying the smell of wet stone and distant exhaust, and his suit jacket was doing little to keep out the cold.

He should go back inside. He should find Chigiri and Aryu. He should pretend that the last hour hadn't happened, that Kaiser's words hadn't carved themselves into his chest like a knife.

But he didn't move.

The doors behind him opened. Footsteps—soft, hesitant—approached. Yukimiya didn't turn around. He didn't have the energy.

"Yukimiya."

That voice. Soft. Familiar. Alexis.

Yukimiya closed his eyes. "You should go back inside. Kaiser will be looking for you."

"I don't care." Alexis stepped up beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He had put his suit jacket back on at some point, but the burgundy velvet was damp now, the shoulders darkened by rain. His curls were escaping their styling, curling around his temples in wet tendrils.

"What did he say to you? After I left."

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Yukimiya." Alexis's voice was firmer now, insistent. "Tell me."

Yukimiya turned to face him. In the dim light of the awning's overhead lamps, Alexis looked almost ethereal—his skin pale, his eyes luminous, his lips parted slightly. But there was a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his jaw, that betrayed his calm exterior.

"He told me to stay away from you," Yukimiya said quietly. "He said if I didn't, he'd destroy my career. My friendships. Everything I've built."

Alexis's expression didn't change, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.

"He's done this before. Threatened people who got close to me. It's his favorite weapon."

"It's effective."

"Is it?" Alexis met his eyes. "Are you going to stay away?"

Yukimiya should have said yes. Every rational part of his brain was screaming at him to say yes. To walk away, to forget about Alexis Ness, to return to his safe, simple life of sponsored posts and brand deals and carefully curated content.

But when he looked at Alexis—at the sadness behind those magenta eyes, at the way his lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly, at the small bite mark still visible on his collarbone beneath the open collar of his shirt—Yukimiya found that he couldn't say it.

"No," he said. "I don't think I can."

Alexis stared at him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rain filled the silence, a steady drumming on the awning above.

Then Alexis laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound. "You're either very brave or very stupid."

"Maybe both."

"Definitely both." Alexis reached out and took Yukimiya's hand. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly. "Do you want to get out of here? Leave early?"

Yukimiya's heart leaped. "What about Kaiser?"

"Let him wonder." Alexis's smile was small but real. "I'm tired of doing what he wants."

They didn't go back inside. They didn't say goodbye to anyone. They simply walked away from the venue together, hand in hand, disappearing into the rain-soaked Berlin night.

The hotel was different from the night before. Closer, maybe, or farther—Yukimiya didn't pay attention to the name or the street. All he noticed was the warmth of Alexis's hand in his, the way their shoulders bumped as they stumbled through the lobby, the sound of Alexis's quiet laughter when the elevator doors closed behind them.

"Second time," Alexis murmured, pressing Yukimiya against the elevator wall. "People are going to talk."

"Let them."

The doors opened. They stumbled down the hallway, hands fumbling with key cards, and then they were inside—another room, another bed, another night that felt suspended in time.

This time was different, though. Slower. Less desperate. When Alexis kissed him, it wasn't the frantic clash of teeth and tongue from the bar. It was deeper, more deliberate, as if they were both trying to memorize the shape of each other's mouths.

"I thought I wouldn't see you again," Yukimiya whispered against Alexis's lips.

"I thought the same." Alexis pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "But here we are."

"Here we are."

They undressed each other slowly, methodically, like unwrapping a gift meant to last. Alexis's hands were gentle where they had been rough before, tracing the lines of Yukimiya's chest, his shoulders, his hips. And when they finally came together, it was less like a battle and more like a dance—a give and take, a push and pull, a conversation spoken in breath and skin.

Afterward, Yukimiya lay sprawled across the hotel bed, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat. The ceiling was white and featureless, and he stared at it as his heart gradually slowed from a gallop to a trot.

He hadn't cum that hard since last night. Which was, he realized, only twenty-four hours ago.

God, he thought. What is this man doing to me?

The sound of running water echoed through the bathroom wall. Alexis was in the shower, just like before. The déjà vu was almost painful.

Yukimiya sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in his muscles. His hand drifted to his neck, where new bruises were already forming—Alexis had been less careful this time, less concerned with hiding. The marks would be impossible to conceal tomorrow.

He didn't care.

The water stopped. Yukimiya's heart rate spiked.

He's going to leave, Yukimiya thought. *Just like yesterday. He'll come out, dry off, find his clothes, and walk out that door. And I'll be alone again.

He should be used to it by now. One-night stands didn't come with breakfast. They didn't come with phone numbers or promises or lingering kisses. They came with an expiration date, stamped on the inside of every stolen moment.

But Yukimiya had never been good at letting go.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of hotel shampoo and something else—something floral, something that was just Alexis.

Alexis stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, his curls dripping water onto his bare shoulders. His skin was flushed from the heat, pink and warm, and the small red mark on his collarbone had faded to a faint shadow.

He didn't look at Yukimiya. Instead, he scanned the room, his eyes moving from the nightstand to the dresser to the floor. He was looking for his clothes. His phone. His wallet.

He was going to leave.

The same dread that had clawed at Yukimiya's guts the night before returned, sharper now, more insistent. It wasn't just disappointment anymore. It was fear—a cold, gnawing terror that if Alexis walked out that door, he would never come back. That this would be the last time. That whatever was blooming between them would wither before it had a chance to grow.

Yukimiya's hands trembled. His throat tightened.

Say something, he told himself. Do something. Don't just sit here and watch him go.

But his voice was stuck, trapped behind the walls of his own uncertainty.

Alexis found his phone on the bedside table, right next to Yukimiya's glasses. He picked it up, swiped the screen, and sighed. Probably checking for messages from Kaiser. Probably seeing a dozen missed calls and a hundred angry texts.

He set the phone down and began gathering his clothes—his boxers, his trousers, his white shirt. The burgundy jacket was draped over a chair, and he reached for it, his movements efficient and detached.

He's leaving, Yukimiya thought. He's really leaving.

The gut-wrenching feeling returned, stronger than before. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the rocks below. Like watching a door close and knowing there was no handle on this side.

No, Yukimiya thought. Not this time.

"You made a promise."

The words came out before he could stop them—raspy, desperate, barely above a whisper.

Alexis froze. He turned slowly, his expression guarded. "What?"

Yukimiya sat up straighter, ignoring the ache in his body. He met Alexis's eyes and held them.

"At the bar. When we first met. You said that if we met again, you'd give me your number."

Alexis's brow furrowed. For a moment, he looked almost confused—as if he had forgotten. Then something flickered across his face. Recognition. Surprise. And something else, something softer.

"I... yes," Alexis said slowly. "I did say that."

"Then give it to me."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. This wasn't just about a phone number.

It was about connection. It was about refusing to let this be a one-night stand. It was about saying, I want more. I want to know you. I want to see you again.

Alexis stared at him for a long moment. His hand tightened around his phone. His jaw worked, as if he was wrestling with something internal.

"You don't give up, do you?" Alexis said quietly.

"No," Yukimiya replied. "I don't."

A sigh escaped Alexis's lips—a resigned, almost defeated sound. But there was a hint of a smile beneath it. "You're going to be a problem, Yukimiya Kenyuu."

"I've been told that before."

Alexis walked back to the bed and sat down on the edge, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He unlocked his phone, opened a new contact, and held it out to Yukimiya.

"Type it in."

Yukimiya's hands were still trembling, but he took the phone and carefully typed his name and number into the fields. He didn't add a heart. He didn't want to push his luck

He handed the phone back. 

Yukimiya took his phone and gave it to Alexis. Who wrote his number and gave it back. 

Alexis looked at the screen, then at Yukimiya. His expression was unreadable—caught somewhere between resignation and hope. "Happy?"

"Not yet," Yukimiya admitted. "But closer."

Alexis laughed—a real laugh, bright and unexpected. He set the phone down on the nightstand and stood up, reaching for his shirt.

Yukimiya's heart sank again. He was still leaving. Even with the number, even with the promise, he was still walking out the door.

But then Alexis paused. He stood at the foot of the bed, shirt in hand, staring at nothing. His back was to Yukimiya, and his shoulders were tense.

"Yukimiya," Alexis said, without turning around.

"Yeah?"

"This..." Alexis gestured vaguely at the bed, at the room, at the space between them. "This isn't going to be simple. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Kaiser won't stop. He'll find out about this. He'll try to hurt you. And I..." Alexis's voice cracked. "I might not be able to protect you."

"I'm not asking you to protect me."

"Then what are you asking?"

Yukimiya thought about it. What was he asking? A relationship? A promise? A future? He didn't know. All he knew was that he wasn't ready to say goodbye.

"I'm asking for a chance," Yukimiya said finally. "That's all. Just a chance."

Alexis was quiet for a long time. Then he turned around, and his eyes were wet—not crying, but close. The sadness was back, the same sadness Yukimiya had seen in the bar, but there was something else now too. Something fragile and hopeful and terrified all at once.

"You're going to regret this," Alexis whispered.

"Maybe," Yukimiya said. "But I'd rather regret trying than regret never trying at all."

Alexis nodded slowly, as if accepting something inevitable. He pulled his shirt over his head, hiding his face for a moment, and when he emerged, his expression had settled into something calmer. More controlled.

He picked up his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Then he picked up his jacket, his wallet. He was ready to go.

He walked to the door.

Yukimiya watched him go, his heart in his throat. The same dread. The same fear. The same desperate hope.

Alexis's hand rested on the door handle. He didn't open it. He stood there, his back to Yukimiya, and the silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.

Then, without turning around, Alexis spoke.

"Don't fall in love with me."

The words were quiet. Flat. Almost emotionless. But there was a tremor beneath them, a crack in the armor.

Yukimiya's breath caught. "What?"

"Don't fall in love with me." Alexis repeated. "I'm not... I'm not someone you should love. I'm broken. I'm complicated. I'm stuck in something I can't get out of. And if you fall in love with me, I'll only hurt you."

Yukimiya wanted to argue. Wanted to say that he was already halfway there, that his heart had already made up its mind, that it was too late for warnings.

But the words wouldn't come.

Alexis opened the door. The hallway light spilled into the room, cold and fluorescent.

"See you later, Kenyuu."

The door closed with a soft click.

Yukimiya sat alone in the hotel room, the scent of Alexis's shampoo still lingering on the pillows. His phone lay on the nightstand, and he reached for it, hands shaking.

He opened his contacts. There, in the list, was a new name: Alexis.

No heart. No emoji. Just a name and a number and a promise.

Don't fall in love with me.

But it was already too late for that.

Yukimiya knew it. And somewhere, in the taxi or the train or the cold Berlin street, he suspected Alexis knew it too.

He lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow with his eyes. His body ached. His heart ached. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and hope and confusion.

Don't fall inlove with me.

What a ridiculous thing to say.

Yukimiya closed his eyes and let the darkness take him. Tomorrow, there would be texts to send and decisions to make and a future to navigate. Tomorrow, he would have to face Kaiser and Chigiri and Aryu and the mess he had walked into.

But tonight, he let himself feel. The hope. The fear. The terrifying, exhilarating certainty that whatever this was—whatever Alexis Ness was to him—it was just beginning.

And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous thing of all.