Chapter 22: The Edge of a Question

POV: Kaito Minami

The penthouse always felt different each moment I stepped in.

Not wrong—just… off-balance. Too quiet, even for me. Yesterday, her absence had registered more than it should have. An irritation at first. Then something emptier.

But today—

She was here.

Hana was kneeling by the coffee table, aligning a set of books with the gentleness of someone who understood that order wasn’t a requirement—it was a kindness. Her every movement was quiet, unobtrusive, smoothing the room simply by existing in it.

When she looked up, she straightened quickly.

“Minami-san. Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

But my eyes lingered a moment longer than appropriate. She looked the same—hair tied neatly, uniform crisp—but something behind her expression was… tight. Like she’d been somewhere she didn’t belong.

The question left me before I could rationalize it.

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

“I was reassigned,” she said, polite but subdued. “Temporary rotation.”

My jaw tightened. I kept my voice even. “I see. Did everything go well?”

A pause.

“Yes,” she said, then added, more quietly, “It was… different.”

Different. Polite code. I’d heard it a thousand times in boardrooms. It meant discomfort. It meant strain. It meant something was wrong but she wouldn’t say it.

I lowered my voice without meaning to. “Different.”

She nodded. “The clients were… demanding.”

Cold flickered through my chest—not anger at her, but a sharp, unwelcome awareness. I didn’t know where she’d gone. I didn’t know who she’d been dealing with. But I knew enough about the city’s upper rungs to understand what “demanding” could mean.

And for reasons I refused to examine, that knowledge made my breath tighten.

“You preferred it here,” I said.

Her eyes lifted. “I did. It’s calmer here.”

Calmer. With me.

The thought hit harder than expected.

“Good,” I said, almost too quickly. I softened my tone. “I was wondering if you would come back.”

She blinked. “The company didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

“They should have,” I muttered, more sharply than intended.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she didn’t comment. I cleared my throat.

“You’re consistent, Fujimoto-san.”

“Consistent…?” she echoed.

“In a way that isn’t dull,” I clarified.

A faint color rose in her cheeks. I looked away before I dwelled on it.

I reached for a cup, then paused. Words pressed at the back of my throat, unpracticed, unpolished. But I’d replayed her quiet absence enough times already. Rationality wasn’t helping.

“Fujimoto-san.”

She turned. “Yes?”

I forced the words out carefully, steadily. “Would you have time this weekend?”

She blinked. “For cleaning?”

A flicker—just a flicker—of amusement tugged at my composure.

“No,” I said, voice low. “Not for cleaning.”

Her fingers tightened around the cloth she held.

“Then… for what?”

I met her eyes directly. No distance, no corporate barrier.

“I thought we might go somewhere,” I said. “Just—outside of this.”

Her breath hitched. Her cheeks warmed again.

“I—” she whispered, voice catching. “You mean… like—”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “Like that.”

The silence that followed was so charged I could feel my pulse in the base of my throat.

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate, Minami-san,” she murmured, eyes dropping.

“Probably not.” I lowered my gaze as well. “But I still wanted to ask.”

The words hung between us—heavy, fragile, unmistakably real.

I stepped back then, putting space where none had existed a moment before. Control was necessary. For her. For me. For the structure my life demanded.

But as I walked away, her presence stayed lodged in my thoughts.

Her voice.

Her hesitation.

Her warmth against the gray interior of my world.

I told myself it was unwise.

But I also knew this:

Her absence had weighed on the room.

And her presence—with all its quiet steadiness—made it impossible to ignore how much I’d missed it.