Gripping the lyric notebook in his hand, Kazama Haru couldn't shake the feeling that Togawa Sakiko's words to him had been far more than empty flattery.
Without question, Takamatsu Tomori possessed genuine genius when it came to songwriting.
Every line read like melancholic modern poetry—each verse capturing that unmistakable ache of a "Lost Child" standing paralyzed at the crossroads of adolescence. The words tasted of uncertainty and quiet hope, the kind that settled heavy in the chest.
He confirmed it once more: Tomori never wrote haphazardly. Every lyric carried weight—a corresponding creative background, an emotional journey traced in ink and longing.
Had things followed their original trajectory, MyGO!!!!!'s debut song would have been "Hekiten Bansou"—the so-called "Ai-Tomori Love Song." But fate had rewritten that script. Because he had been the first to reach her, the one who'd pulled her from the suffocating shadows of being lost, she'd penned these moving words instead. Gratitude woven between the lines, addressed to him.
"This is truly wonderful, Tomori."
His praise came from somewhere deep—no performance, no polish. His amber eyes burned as they held hers.
"We'll compose music that does justice to every word you've written here. I promise you." His voice dropped, sincere and unwavering. "One day, we'll carry this song—our song—to the highest stage there is."
"Mm!"
Even Tomori, with her razor-sharp emotional intuition, couldn't detect a trace of hollow flattery in his declaration. That sudden spark of joy flickered through her irises like light catching crystal.
Closing the notebook with care, Haru offered it back to her with both hands—a gesture of respect for something precious.
But she didn't reach for it.
Instead, Tomori tilted her head toward him at a noticeable angle, eyes drifting shut with an expression of quiet expectation. Her lashes fanned against her cheeks.
Eh?
Haru scratched the back of his head, genuinely confused.
"Tomori?" he tried, but she remained still—stubbornly committed to whatever ritual this was, showing no sign of opening her eyes.
"Oi. Are you playing dumb?"
Ryuzu Momo's voice drifted from the sofa, accompanied by the soft tap-tap of her fingers against her phone screen. Her tone carried that particular brand of nonchalant amusement.
"She wants you to pat her head. You're surrounded by girls every single day—how can you still be this dense?"
She's asking for... a head pat?
Haru's brain stuttered. They'd just been reviewing lyrics. When had the mood shifted to—
He glanced at Tomori. No denial. No shake of her head to dismiss Momo's interpretation. If anything, her stillness confirmed it entirely.
Well...
It wasn't as though he disliked being close to her. And watching her maintain that stiff, neck-straining pose any longer felt cruel.
He reached out.
His right hand settled gently atop Takamatsu Tomori's hair.
Just a head pat. The simplest gesture imaginable.
If something this small could make her happy, he'd do it a thousand times—ten thousand—without complaint. As long as she didn't worry about going bald from the attention.
The sensation struck him immediately—unexpectedly vivid and clear.
The soft bristle of her cropped hair held a fuzzy, almost plush texture beneath his palm, like a meadow in early spring when the first shoots push through warming soil. Or perhaps the downy belly fur of some small, trusting creature, brushing warm against his fingertips with each subtle movement.
His hand slowed instinctively, movements becoming feather-light, reverent—as though he were handling something irreplaceable. His warm palm traced the gentle curve of her skull, fingers threading through those short strands with impossible care.
"Nn..."
A soft, barely audible hum escaped from somewhere deep in Tomori's throat.
Her shoulders relaxed by degrees. Her head dipped lower, leaning into his touch with an almost feline submission—eyes still closed, expression smoothing into something approaching bliss. The warmth of her scalp seeped into his palm.
She's... really enjoying this.
The realization made something flutter oddly in his chest.
She was accepting his touch more naturally now than ever before. Bolder about it, even. Greedier. As if no amount could ever truly satisfy.
I want more. The thought whispered through Tomori's mind, unbidden and unashamed. His hand is so warm... just a little longer...
When the moment finally passed—too soon, always too soon—a satisfied Tomori packed her belongings with precise, careful movements. She pushed her chair back, turned, and offered Ryuzu Momo a small bow.
"...See you tomorrow, Ryuzu-san."
Haru followed her lead. "See you, Ryuzu-san."
"Mm, see you tomorrow, President~" Momo's gaze lingered on Tomori with genuine fondness before sliding to Haru, sharpening with mischief. "And you—make sure to protect our dear President properly, Tokyo Sword Saint-kun."
The teasing lilt didn't fool him. He caught the undercurrent—stay alert, watch for Ryujin-kai retaliation—and answered with a knowing nod.
---
The evening rush transformed the train into a hive of compressed humanity.
Stepping through the doors with Tomori tucked close against his side, Haru kept a firm grip on her slender arm, navigating through the press of bodies with practiced efficiency. The carriage smelled of metal and exhaustion—stale recycled air mixing with the lingering traces of perfume, cologne, and the honest salt of people who'd worked long hours.
No seats this time. They'd been lucky before; luck had apparently spent itself.
They managed to secure a corner where the crowd thinned marginally—backs to the junction of wall and window, a small pocket of defensible space.
"Tomori, hold onto the railing beside you."
A sensible suggestion. Her physical stamina left much to be desired; one wrong jostle from the crowd could send her sprawling.
"No."
The refusal came soft but immediate.
He blinked. "No?"
Tomori's eyes lifted to meet his—calm on the surface, but threaded through with something shy and wanting beneath.
"Haru-kun... there are so many people." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I'm not... used to it. Could you... like last time..." She swallowed. "...surround me?"
A pause. Her teeth caught her lower lip.
"Is that... okay?"
Those watery eyes blinked up at him, so earnest it almost hurt to look directly at them.
Surround her. Like last time.
But last time she'd been seated. The height differential had made it natural—him leaning over her, arms braced on either side, creating a protective barrier.
Now they were both standing. Against a wall so smooth it practically gleamed.
If he did what she was asking, that would be—
—a kabedon. A full, unambiguous wall slam.
"Tomori... you're sure you want me to do that? Here?"
"Mm." The affirmative came without hesitation. "Is it... not okay?"
Her words carried the shape of a question, but her body had already answered. Before he could respond, Tomori had curled her petite frame into the corner—shoulders pressed to the cool metal wall, chin ducking slightly, making herself small and vulnerable and waiting.
Like a small animal seeking shelter. Seeking him.
The gazes of surrounding passengers pressed against his awareness—curious, amused, openly envious from more than a few young women in school uniforms.
This is definitely going to look...
But who could refuse Tomori when she looked at him like that?
A heartbeat of hesitation. Then his arm rose.
His palm flattened against the wall beside her head with a soft thunk. His body shifted, angling to cage her small form in the protective bracket of his chest and arm.
Suddenly the space between them compressed to almost nothing.
He could smell her now—clean and faintly sweet, like mild shampoo and something softer underneath. The natural warmth of her skin. Each shallow breath she took brushed warm against his collarbone through the thin barrier of his uniform shirt.
Tomori's eyes had fluttered closed the moment his arm came down.
This is... mine.
The thought curled through her consciousness with quiet, possessive satisfaction. This warmth. This closeness. Only mine.
The corners of her mouth lifted—just barely, just enough—into a small, private arc of contentment. She let her head tip forward until her forehead nearly brushed his chest, breathing slow and deep like she was memorizing his scent.
Around them, the train rattled and swayed. Passengers shifted and murmured.
But in their small corner, time seemed to move differently.
Haru kept his arm braced, hyper-aware of every point where her presence bled warmth toward him—the crown of her head so close to his jaw, her shoulder nearly grazing his chest with each jostle of the carriage. His heart thudded harder than any crowded train should warrant.
She's so small. So trusting.
Something protective and tender coiled tight in his ribcage.
He stayed exactly where she needed him until the automated voice announced their stop.
---
The familiar doors of Live House RiNG welcomed them with the scent of polished wood and old amplifiers.
Haru's eyes found Shiina Taki immediately—the beauty with the tear-drop mole stood behind the counter, deep in conversation with a customer. In work mode, all trace of her usual fierce edges had smoothed into professional composure. Polite smile, attentive posture, business voice.
She finished the order, handed over change, then turned—spotting them instantly.
First, that fierce gaze softened completely, landing on Tomori with undisguised warmth and affection. The two exchanged a long look, some silent communication passing between them.
Only after several heartbeats did Taki's attention finally drift to Haru.
A single nod. Brief. Acknowledging.
Well. Haru's mouth quirked. At least it's not the fully-armed hostility from our first meeting.
Progress came in small measures. He'd take what he could get.