The Foreign Prince’s Rain Plan

I know I said I didn't mind not knowing what would happen next. I take it back.

"Next" is apparently me, standing in my crush's apartment—dripping all over his perfect floor.

One second we were running from the rain. Then somehow we were in an elevator. Now, boom. I'm in his apartment. No tutorial. No loading screen. Straight to the endgame.

Louis's place looks less like an apartment and more like a castle in the sky—with a Japanese twist. Wood and glass everywhere. Soft lighting. Clean lines. A whole wall of windows framing Sakurajima like it's a background from a movie. Even the air smells expensive—cedar and rain, with a side of calm perfection.

I'm too busy calculating how many centuries I'd have to work at Mandarake just to afford a closet in this place when he says, perfectly calm, "Go ahead and take a bath. You'll catch a cold if you stay like that."

"B-bath?" I say, as if the word is foreign to me.

He nods, unfazed. "There's a spot by the door—just leave your clothes there. I'll grab them for the dryer and leave the clean ones outside, okay?"

And then he leaves. Like it's the most casual thing in the world. Before I can spontaneous combust.

Right. Take a bath. Totally normal. People do that all the time... In their crush's apartment. After a rain event. Perfectly normal.

The bathroom looks like a luxury spa commercial—warm lighting, marble tile, a tub deep enough to hide from my social anxiety forever. There's even a sliding door separating the bath from the changing space. Fancy.

I turn the tap. Steam rises almost instantly. I step in before my courage evaporates.

The warmth seeps through me, steady and soft. Totally normal. Not overthinking. Definitely not imagining him using this same bath.

My reflection in the water looks smug. Traitor.

Just as my muscles start to relax, there's a knock.

"Sorry," he says, voice steady. "I'll grab your clothes for the dryer. Don't worry—I won't look."

The door slides open a little. Light slips in. The soft rustle of fabric.

My heart freezes. He's right there. In the changing area. One wall away from a full emotional crash screen.

"Done," he says after a pause. "I'll leave the clean ones here."

The door clicks shut again.

Silence. Steam. My entire system overheating.

"Okay," I whisper.

Why is doing laundry suddenly the most intimate act in human history?

The water's perfect—warm, soft, the kind that turns your brain into melted tofu.

I slide lower, finally relaxed... until my brain wakes up.

...Wait. My underwear's in the dryer.

The thought hits like a jump scare. I jolt upright, splashing water everywhere.

"Oh no," I whisper. "I'm actually gonna have to go commando until it's done."

Silence. Steam. Existential dread.

"This is fine," I lie to myself. "Totally fine. Just... natural ventilation. I can survive this."

Spoiler: I can't.

Eventually, I climb out, dripping and defeated. I towel off and reach for the clothes he left—

—and freeze.

A white button-up shirt. Black shorts. And underneath, folded neatly... a brand-new pair of men's boxers.

He really thought of everything. Somehow, that makes it worse.

I slip the shirt on and immediately regret it. It's long enough to count as a dress, but tight across the chest. The fabric strains a little—those buttons are holding on for dear life. If I breathe wrong, they're gone.

Figures. His shirts were probably designed by angels who've never met a D-cup.

And of course, because the devs hate me, the shorts don't fit either.

So now I'm stuck walking around with my chest about to explode—no pants, no dignity. Just me, half-dry, half-naked, and 100 percent done with life.

How did this shōjo story turn into a spicy josei?

When I open the bathroom door, the apartment feels too big. Too quiet. Louis steps out of his room at the same time, holding a towel and a change of clothes.

He pauses. I freeze. His eyes move—once, slowly.

"Oh," he says softly. "That's... tighter than I expected."

Tighter? I'm one sneeze away from an R18+ rating.

Before I can implode, he gestures down the hall. "I'll take my turn then. Make yourself comfortable."

I nod. Probably more like a panicked bobblehead. "R-right. Sure. Take your... turn. The bath. Water. Yes."

He smiles—gentle, amused—and disappears into the bathroom.

My heart commits war crimes.

I shuffle into the living room, clutching the hem tighter and trying very hard to look like a respectable human.

The sofa swallows me whole. I sit there, breathing too carefully. Trying not to think about the fact that I'm in Louis Devereux's apartment. Wearing his shirt. And his boxers.

This doesn't say "after-school romance." It screams "18+ side story."

"Oh my god," I whisper into a pillow. "What am I doing?"

It's quiet—too quiet. The hum of the fridge. The tick of a clock. The faint scent of citrus and soap.

No clutter. No manga. No chaos. It's like a furniture catalog—polished and calm. Too calm.

Weird. If Louis is the Prince of Trash Manga, there should be something here. Stacks. Shelves. Anything.

I squint at the bookshelf. "Where are you hiding it, Devereux?"

My inner gremlin stretches awake. Operation: Find the Forbidden Collection—initiated.

I creep across the room, checking behind shelves that probably cost more than my rent. Nothing.

Then I notice a door—slightly open. Curiosity pings. I nudge it.

Bedroom. Minimalist. Spacious. Sunlight spilling over a bed that looks hand-ironed. And the most beautiful view in all of Kagoshima.

Perfect. Too perfect.

Something's off.

There's another door, half-hidden on the far wall. I open it as silently as I can.

It's not a closet. It's a study.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with manga and notes. Limited editions. Collector's sets. A collection that could bankrupt a small nation.

And on the wall—a board covered in panels, maps, and string. Notes like: "Common Japanese high school phrases—practice daily." "Cultural references to memorize." "Trash Manga list—analyze tone + tropes."

My pulse rises.

Every memory replays at once—the perfect timing, the charm, the cinematic rain. The way he always said the right thing.

This isn't natural. This is... rehearsed.

My throat tightens. He's been studying—training to be one. A protagonist.

One note catches my eye, written in different ink like it was added later: "How to feel?"

It clicks. The smile. The tone. The lines. He's been performing this whole time.

The warmth from before drains out of the room.

Then—

"You couldn't just enjoy the protagonist role, could you?" His voice—flat, cold. "You had to go snooping and turn yourself into the victim instead."

I freeze. Slowly, I turn.

He's in the doorway—hair damp, towel loose around his neck. But the posture's different now. Straight. Cold. Controlled.

The polite smile is gone. The one from the shop is back. The Prince of Trash Manga.

He looks bored. Annoyed. Like I spoiled his favorite show.

My pulse hammers in my ears. The light feels sharper. The room, smaller.

He takes a single step forward. Just one. But it's enough.

Danger flag—triggered.

"I—uh— I was just... looking for the... Wi-Fi?"

My voice cracks. Perfect.

Leave it to me to turn a shōjo fantasy into a psycho ren'ai.

I think—I just unlocked the bad ending.

Next Episode: Victim Route-Unlocked