One Step from the Stage

The last episode of Takeshi's talk show. The thought alone made Nataria's stomach twist into knots.

This episode would air tomorrow, strategically timed to hype the talent showcase happening the day after.

But more importantly, more terrifyingly, this was when they'd execute their plan. When six young people would attempt to seize control of a narrative and hope the industry didn't crush them for their audacity.

The van ride to the studio was a mobile pressure cooker.

The air hummed with a shared, unspoken anxiety about the coming night. Yet, amidst the tension, one presence was a distracting, luminous beacon.

Senri.

He was seated across from her, and he looked… breathtaking. Styled in a soft, ivory-colored suit and his hair falling in artful, gentle waves across his forehead, he resembled a prince from a winter ballad.

He'd never looked more handsome.

And right now, even though she could appreciate his appearance, could feel the same foolish flutter that every Senri fangirl experienced when looking at him… she was also getting increasingly flustered.

Because Senri was staring at her.

They sat across from each other in the van's facing seats. Nataria looked out the window at the city's streets blurring past. Tried to engage Sachiko in conversation about their styling choices. Attempted to review her mental notes for tonight's performance.

And through it all, Senri just... stared.

His eyes had taken on that slightly mischievous gleam she'd come to recognize, amusement dancing in their golden depths every time she blushed or forgot what she was about to say mid-sentence.

It was infuriating and exhilarating, and utterly impossible.

We are… something, she thought, the definition terrifying but no less glorious. We would be a couple if the world were a simple place.

In private, she knew how to navigate this, the overwhelming rush of him, the flustered joy, the whispered truths. But here, in the fishbowl of this van with four other perceptive, camera-trained housemates as witnesses, she was utterly lost. She felt like a novice actress handed an impossible role: Pretend you don’t notice the sun is shining directly on you.

Senri, the baffling man, seemed to exist in a universe where their audience was irrelevant.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She snapped her gaze to his, the movement sharp. “What?”

His grin widened, dimples appearing like he'd been waiting for exactly this question. "You haven't answered my last text yet."

Nataria’s eyebrows shot up. Was he for real? “I was in the styling room,” she said, her voice thin with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief. “The stylist came. I had to put my phone away.”

"You're not with the stylist now." His tone was completely unreasonable, the grin on his face suggesting he knew it and didn't care.

"I'm talking to you now, though." She gestured between them, as if this should be obvious.

Senri sighed, a theatrical little sound, and affected what might have been sulking if not for the amusement gleaming in his eyes.

She could tell he was teasing, could read the playfulness in every line of his expression. How he could be in the mood for this when his entire future could be decided tonight was beyond her comprehension, but here he was.

"It was kind of important," he said, his voice dropping into something softer, more sincere.

The shift made her breath catch. Aware of the curious eyes burning into her, Nataria reached into her nice clutch purse, pale gold, matching her heels, and withdrew her phone.

The text was simple, but it hit her square in the chest:

Senri: Can we sneak to the back of the studio again? If tonight goes badly, I want at least one good memory from today.

The breath left her lungs in a soft, silent rush. The coiled tension in her shoulders, the professional dread, the fear for him, it all melted, just for a second, under a wave of aching tenderness. He was building a life raft. For both of them.

She looked up from the glowing screen. Her gaze found his across the space, and she offered him a small shy smile. A happy warmth bubbling inside. “Of course.” she said.

The way his entire face lit up made her heart squeeze painfully. Like she'd given him something precious instead of just agreeing to meet him.

“Oooh, what did it say?” Momo’s voice was a sing-song intrusion as she leaned over Sachiko, her eyes sparkling with gleeful nosiness.

Nataria’s actress-mode slammed back into place. She pointedly hit the side button, plunging the screen into blackness, and tucked the phone back into her purse. “It was nothing.”

"Nataria-chan." Momo sat back with an exaggerated sigh. "I know you're a better actress than that. And Senri is about as subtle as a beam of light in a dark room." She turned to Sachiko for support. "Isn't that right, Sachiko-chan?"

But Sachiko wasn't listening. Her attention was fixed across the van where Hibiki sat in the furthest corner, and they were engaged in some kind of silent conversation conducted entirely through meaningful looks and barely perceptible expressions.

"Huh?" Sachiko blinked, finally registering that she'd been asked a question. A faint blush colored her cheeks. Her hand, which had been absently playing with a strand of her navy hair, froze mid-motion.

Momo's gaze sharpened, tracking between Sachiko and Hibiki with the focus of a predator who'd just spotted prey. Hibiki, sensing the attention shift, turned deliberately toward the window, his profile giving away nothing.

But Nataria saw the moment Momo made her decision as she abandoned the Senri-Nataria investigation in favor of this new, equally promising target.

"Sachiko-chan?" Momo's voice went sweet, dangerously sweet, as she wrapped an arm around the younger girl's shoulders and pulled her into a sideways hug. "You've been staring at Shimizu-san like he's a piece of cake you can't wait to devour. What's going on there?"

Nataria's eyes widened. Sachiko turned a shade of red that probably wasn't medically advisable, her mouth opening and closing without producing coherent sound.

"I mean, I don't judge," Momo continued with a wink. "Who wouldn't want a little Shimizu-flavored cake? But seriously…"

"Momo-san!" Sachiko managed to squeak out, looking like she wanted the van seats to swallow her whole.

Hibiki's glare could have frozen lava. "I preferred you when you were playing the sweet, innocent girl."

Momo shot him a brilliant, unrepentant smile over her shoulder. “You’re just saying that because I’m hugging Sachiko-chan and you can’t.”

A snort of laughter came from Shou’s direction. The tense, pre-show atmosphere in the van evaporated, replaced by a shared amusement. Nataria watched as Shou’s shoulders, which had been carrying the weight of the world since his confession, finally lost their rigid line.

In this unguarded moment, with no cameras rolling, the personas had fallen away. They were just six stressed young people, finding absurd relief in each other’s embarrassment.

The conversation swirled around her, Momo needling, Sachiko spluttering, Hibiki delivering deadpan retorts, but Nataria was only half-listening, her mind rehearsing the delicate verbal dance she’d have to perform on Takeshi’s stage.

Then, a fragment of dialogue pierced her focus.

She missed the question, but Senri’s answer, calm as ever, froze the blood in her veins.

“... it’s because I have something to look forward to.”

Her head snapped up. He was looking directly at her, that dreamy golden gaze brimming with feeling directed entirely, unapologetically at her.

The van erupted. Momo let out a dramatic “AWWW!” Sachiko giggled, her own embarrassment forgotten. Shou chuckled and shook his head. Even Hibiki let out a soft, amused huff.

Nataria felt her face combust. She leveled a glare around the interior, her famous “Ice Queen” glare that had made interns quake. It worked. Momo’s cooing cut off. Sachiko bit her lip. Shou held up his hands in mock surrender.

All except Hibiki, who merely raised an eyebrow, a faint challenge in his eyes. You brought this on yourself, his look seemed to say.

But the ice couldn’t hold under Senri’s sun. Her gaze finally landed on him, and the glare melted into something helpless and fond.

He looked so unashamedly proud of his declaration, so amused by her reaction. He enjoys this too much, she thought, but the complaint had no heat.

It was a privilege, this public, playful claiming, even if it sent her professional instincts into a screaming spiral.

The van slowed, then stopped. The brilliant, intimidating facade of the television studio lit up the night outside.

The moment of levity snapped. The real world was back.

They began to shuffle out. As Nataria gathered the folds of her midnight gown, a hand appeared in her periphery. Senri’s hand, offered without fanfare.

She looked at it, then up at his face. His expression was still soft, but the mischief was gone, replaced by the special soft warmth he always displayed for her.

She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure, and he helped her navigate the step down from the van. The contact lasted only a few seconds, but the warmth of his touch imprinted itself on her skin, a brand of courage against her palm.

They walked separately into the gleaming studio, the space between them charged with everything unspoken, with fear, with hope, and with the secret promise of a meeting in the shadows, where the camera couldn’t reach, and love didn’t have to wear a disguise.