First Names and First Lines Crossed

Senri had almost kissed her.

The thought circled through his mind like a persistent melody as he wrapped up the commercial shoot, changed out of his wardrobe, and thanked the staff. His lips had been so close to hers. Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Close enough to cross that final, impossible distance.

But he'd stopped himself. Pulled back at the last second and hidden behind Mr. Bun at the very last moment.

What am I doing?

He loved her. That much was undeniable now. Liked her more than he'd ever liked anyone, more intensely than he'd thought possible. That was what love was, wasn’t it? The way his heart raced when she smiled, the way that single touch of her finger against his dimple had sent electricity through his entire body, these weren't the feelings of simple friendship or even just liking someone.

If Nataria had been any other girl, he would have asked her out by now. Senri was straightforward by nature. He didn't play games or dance around his feelings. When he liked someone, he said so.

But Nataria wasn't any other girl.

She was an actress. A professional with a carefully cultivated image and a career that depended on public perception. And more than that, she'd been through public unjust cruelty before. She understood better than anyone how the industry worked, how dating scandals could derail everything you'd worked for.

He was lectured about it; idols were expected to be eternally available, eternally single, their romantic lives sacrificed on the altar of fan fantasy. Actresses had more freedom, but not much. People would care. They shouldn't, but they would.

What if he confessed, and it started a backlash against her? What if his feelings, however genuine, became the weapon that damaged her?

The thought made his chest tighten painfully.

He thought she might like him back. Small signs, fleeting moments, the way she'd touched his dimple, the softness in her eyes when she looked at him, the way she'd said she treasured him. But 'might' wasn't certainty, and even if she did feel the same, what then?

Senri pushed through the villa's front door, these thoughts still churning. Every muscle in his body sang a chorus of dull, specific aches from the day's work, his diaphragm felt like overstretched rubber, his throat was a well-used instrument, and his legs were leaden from hours of choreography practice.

But beneath the fatigue and the emotional turbulence, that bright, buzzing current of excitement still hummed. The commercial went well. Really well. His manager's pleased voice echoed in his head, praising his natural camera presence, his energy.

He headed straight for the kitchen. It was time for dinner, and cooking always helped untangle his thoughts.

He pushed through the swinging door and stopped.

The kitchen was warm, steamy… and occupied. Nataria stood by the stove, gazing down at a simmering pot with an intensity usually reserved for deciphering ancient texts. She wore a floral apron over her white sweater and jeans, her violet hair tied back in a loose tail.

The sight was so unexpectedly domestic, so starkly different from her usual elegant detachment, that it momentarily short-circuited his tired brain.

"Good evening," Senri said, his voice softer than he intended. "I'm back."

Nataria turned and smiled. A real smile that reached her black eyes, lighting them from within. It was a gift he still wasn't used to receiving.

"Welcome back."

Hibiki was there too, reaching into a high cabinet, his back to him.

Senri only noticed when he turned, a jar of some ochre spice in his hand.

"Welcome," he echoed, his tone pleasant. He crossed to Nataria and handed her the jar. "Here you go."

Senri watched, a strange little stone settling in his gut. Hibiki was also wearing an apron, a frilly, floral monstrosity that looked violently out of place on his tall, stylish frame.

The initial thought that it was cute on Nataria evaporated.

Nataria looked at the jar, then up at Hibiki, one eyebrow arched. In a tone Senri had only ever heard her use with the actor, playful and dry, she said, "Why are you handing this to me? This is your dish."

Hibiki's expression was grave, though a laugh danced in his silver eyes. "Don't question the chef. Put in a smidgen."

Nataria stared at him blankly. She then turned that utterly lost look on Senri. "What," she asked with deadly seriousness, "is a 'smidgen'?"

Senri walked further into the kitchen, the aromatic mess of slightly-burned garlic and wilting herbs hitting him. The stone in his gut grew heavier.

"Are you guys cooking?" he asked, aiming for light and missing. "Sorry if I'm late."

Hibiki wiped his hands on the ridiculous apron. "You work hard and come home tired. We just thought we could handle it tonight."

His tone was all helpful courtesy, but Senri's mind snagged on the phrase 'we thought'.

Since the evening in the van, an evening Senri now understood was a direct response to Takeshi’s attack, Hibiki had been nothing but impeccably pleasant. And yet, staring at his perfectly sculpted face and effortlessly cool hair, Senri felt a spark of pure irritation.

Nataria's voice pulled him back. That small smile still lingered, mixed with apology. "It isn't going so well. Sorry, but our best efforts won't yield much. We wanted you to rest tonight."

The irritation vanished, dissolved by the sight of a faint smudge of flour or something pale dusting her cheek, and the way she held the spice jar like it might contain unstable plutonium.

She'd done this… for him. His evening ritual in the kitchen, the time he secretly coveted because she was always there, cleaning, arranging the table, a quiet presence in his orbit, she'd tried to give him a break from it.

"I like cooking," he said, the words coming out more earnest than he planned. He moved to the sink to wash his hands. "I actually look forward to it," he said, a faint smile touching his mouth. "The routine. The quiet. You being here when I get back."

From beside the fridge, Hibiki made a quiet sound that was suspiciously like a snort.

And on Nataria's cheeks, a delicate flush of pink bloomed, visible even in the warm kitchen light.

"Well," Hibiki said, untying his apron with a flourish. "The master has returned. Amano, you can try to salvage whatever inedible mess we've concocted. I've fulfilled my charitable duty for the evening."

As he left, he gave Nataria a brief, pointed look, eyebrows raised teasingly. She gave him a mock glare.

It made Senri's fingers curl.

The space felt different once he was gone. Larger, but more intimate.

Nataria approached him, holding out the spice jar with both hands like a ceremonial offering. Her black eyes were solemn. "Good luck."

He couldn't help but laugh, taking the jar. "It can't be that bad."

It was, objectively, that bad.

The pot on the stove held a grim, greyish slurry that smelled confused. Vegetables had been chopped with wildly inconsistent dedication. Senri didn't mind. In fact, as he began clearing the counter, dumping the failed experiment, and pulling out fresh ingredients, a profound sense of calm settled over him. This was his language. This, he could do.

Nataria became a silent, efficient shadow. She scrubbed the scorched pot until it shone, wiped down every surface with military precision, and then stationed herself at the edge of the central island, watching him work. Her gaze was intensely observant, as if she were memorizing the way he diced an onion into perfect, even cubes, or the precise moment he added the soy sauce to the sizzling pan.

The only sounds were the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his knife, the hiss of oil, and the gentle hum of the refrigerator. It was a companionable silence. He'd explain little things without being asked, "We let the tofu drain so it gets a better texture," or "A pinch of sugar balances the saltiness," and she would nod, her expression one of deep concentration.

The comfortable rhythm of cooking, of her quiet presence, steadied something in him. But his earlier thoughts lingered, and before he could stop himself, he found himself speaking.

"Hidomu-san," he said, keeping his tone casual as he stirred the pan. "I've been wondering something."

"Mm?" She was drying the chopping board he’d just finished with, diligently fulfilling her cleaning duties.

"You call Shimizu-san by his first name." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "How long have you known each other?"

Nataria paused, tilting her head slightly. "Seven years. We've been friends since childhood. We met at an industry event when we were both still training to debut as idols."

Seven years. Friends since childhood.

The words settled over him like a weight. No wonder they had that easy familiarity, that casual intimacy of people who'd grown up together in this strange, glittering world.

Senri abandoned any pretense of subtlety.

"Then," he said, setting down his spatula and turning to face her fully, "I want you to call me by my first name too."

Nataria's eyes widened slightly. The dish towel stilled in her hands.

"We're friends too, aren't we?" His heart was beating faster now, but he held her gaze. "So you should call me Senri."

For a moment, she just looked at him, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, that small smile returned, softer now, almost shy.

"Senri-kun," she said, testing the name on her tongue.

His heart swelled so suddenly, so powerfully, that he had to grip the counter to keep his expression neutral. The way she said his name, with that gentle suffix, in that careful voice, it felt like something precious being offered.

"And you should feel free to call me by my name as well," Nataria added, chin up as if to steady herself. "If you'd like."

Silence stretched between them. She was looking at him directly now, her obsidian eyes locked on his, her hands paused in their cleaning. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the air between them charged with something unspoken.

But he wanted to go further than that. Wanted to close the distance she maintained so carefully, wanted to know if she felt even a fraction of what he felt when they were together like this.

Senri grinned. "Nata-chan."

The reaction was immediate.

She froze so completely it was like he’d pressed pause on her, and for a split second, Senri wondered if he’d misstepped. The way her shoulders stiffened, the way her hands stopped moving around the dish towel, it was enough to send a flicker of doubt through him.

Nata-chan.

Maybe that had been too familiar. Too fast.

Color crept into her cheeks, soft just the way he liked it, and she lowered her gaze as if she needed a moment to collect herself. The silence stretched just long enough to make his chest tighten.

“…That’s new,” she said at last, her voice quieter than before. “I never had a nickname before.”

That did it. He cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. “Oh, sorry. I mean, you said I could drop the formality, but if that was too much, I can…”

She looked up.

Her eyes were still a little wide, still flustered, but there was something else there too, something gentle, almost pleased.

“No,” she said quickly, then paused, her eyes traveled to the corner of the wall, where a camera was mounted to capture him in the best angle as he cooked.

Then she went on, as if choosing her words more carefully. “It’s okay. I did give you permission, didn’t I?”

She nodded to herself, as if reaffirming it out loud. Senri felt his breath catch when she didn’t ask him to stop. When she didn’t correct him. But he also felt the suffocating presence of the camera, the inability to speak freely.

“And…” She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the cloth. “I like it.”

The words landed hard. Warmth spread through his chest, and he had to fight the urge to grin like an idiot.

They resumed preparing dinner, falling back into their comfortable rhythm, but everything felt different now.

By the time the meal was ready and they were carrying dishes to the dining room where the others waited, Senri had come to a conclusion.

He couldn't ask her to date him. Not now, maybe not ever, given the circumstances. The cameras, the public scrutiny, the potential damage to her career, all of it stood like an insurmountable wall between them.

But he could be honest with her. He could tell her how he felt.

She deserved to know. Deserved to hear that someone saw her completely, treasured her completely.

He just needed the right moment. Preferably outside the show, away from the cameras and the manufactured drama, somewhere he could speak from his heart without worrying about how it would be edited or analyzed or turned into content for thousands of viewers.

Senri resolved then, carrying the last of the dishes to the table, watching Nataria sit with Sachiko and smile:

He would confess. Soon.

He was falling in love with Nataria Hidomu.

And she deserved to know.