Chapter 38: The Hotel Ride

Kosuke’s POV

The reunion had wound down, the laughter and chatter of old classmates fading into the warm hum of memory and nostalgia. I walked beside Hanami toward the parking lot, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my coat. The evening air was crisp, tinged with the faint scent of the nearby ocean. Each step we took together felt weighted, as though the years had stretched our connection into something fragile, waiting for a single misstep to snap it entirely.

“You don’t have to walk me,” I said, voice low. Not really a question. Not really a suggestion.

She glanced at me, a small, polite smile touching her lips. “It’s not far,” she replied. But I caught the slight hesitation in her eyes. The same hesitation I felt myself, the unspoken acknowledgment that neither of us truly wanted to be apart just yet.

“I insist,” I said, tilting my head toward the car. “It’s safer. The streets are quiet. And… I’d rather drive you than see you disappear into the hotel lobby alone.”

The words carried a subtle weight, a possessiveness I had tried to bury for years. I didn’t intend it to sound protective, though perhaps it did. I only knew that I didn’t want her out of my sight yet, not tonight, not after seeing her, not after feeling the pull of years collapsing into a single moment.

We walked together in silence to the car. She opened the door with practiced grace, and I caught myself staring, briefly, at the line of her shoulders, the delicate tilt of her head, the way she carried herself even now. I had memorized it all years ago, yet seeing it again was like reading a familiar page in a book I thought I had closed.

The engine hummed to life, and we drove through the quiet streets. The city seemed to slow around us, the neon signs casting soft reflections on the wet pavement. The conversation started awkwardly—small talk about the reunion, her work, a mutual memory of a class festival. Words felt inadequate, stilted, as though they were trying to cover a gap far too wide to bridge.

Every so often, our hands brushed—lightly, by accident, but it sent shivers down my spine. I stole glances at her, catching the way her eyes flickered toward me, hesitant yet searching. I wanted to say something, anything, but the years of silence had built a wall I wasn’t sure either of us was ready to climb.

“I still can’t believe it’s been so long,” I said finally, voice quiet, almost drowned out by the hum of the car. “Seven years… it feels like yesterday, and yet…” I trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence. The words would have revealed too much, and I wasn’t ready.

She nodded, eyes forward, fingers drumming lightly against her knee. “Time moves differently for everyone,” she murmured. The simplicity of her words carried a weight I couldn’t ignore—the acceptance of a life that had moved on, and the unspoken acknowledgment of what might have been.

We passed familiar streets, the corners of our old town illuminated in soft, golden light. I wanted to tell her how much I had missed her, how each spring, each snowfall, each quiet evening had been haunted by the memory of her. But the words lodged in my throat, heavy with years of restraint and the knowledge of her life now.

Finally, we reached the hotel. The lobby glowed warmly through the glass doors, inviting yet distant. I parked, shutting off the engine, the sudden silence pressing in. I turned toward her, trying to read her expression, trying to gauge if she felt the same ache I did.

“Here we are,” I said softly, opening the door for her.

She stepped out, tucking her hair behind her ear, her hand brushing briefly against mine as she adjusted her bag. The contact was electric, and I felt the familiar tug of everything I had carried quietly for so long.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low, polite, carrying a subtle weight I recognized instantly.

I smiled gently, hiding the longing that threatened to spill over. “Be safe,” I murmured, the words more than a farewell—they were a plea, a hope, a quiet confession all rolled into one.

She hesitated at the hotel entrance, as if unsure whether to linger or leave. My chest tightened at the sight, at the idea of her walking away and the moment slipping through my fingers. But I forced myself to step back, forcing the air between us to expand, giving her space, though every fiber of me wanted to close it entirely.

She turned briefly, a small glance over her shoulder, and I caught the faintest curve of her lips, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was enough to remind me that she was alive, happy in her own way, yet impossibly close to the ache I felt in my own chest.

I watched her enter the hotel, the door sliding shut with a soft click, and my shoulders sagged slightly. Relief mingled with longing, heavy and insistent. I had driven her safely, yes—but I had also been reminded, in every glance, every brush of her hand, every unspoken word, of how much I had missed her, how much I still carried.

The engine started again behind me, and I sat in the quiet car for a long moment, staring at the closed doors. The night air seemed colder now, filled with memories, wishes, and the ache of things left unsaid. I took a slow breath, willing myself to move, to leave, but unwilling to let go completely.

Because even in a city that moved on, even in a life meticulously organized and composed, some things refused to fade. And she—Hanami—was one of them.