Rio's arms tighten, and for a moment she doesn't move. The weight of Haruna against her chest, the curve of her spine under Rio's palm, the way her breath catches when she's lifted—Rio memorizes it. The feel of her. The trust in the way she doesn't brace herself, doesn't tense, just falls into Rio's hold like she's been doing it for four years. Because she has.
The bathroom is already warm from the shower Haruna started earlier, steam curling against the mirror in slow veils. Rio steps through the doorway and the humidity hits her skin, soft and wet, and she feels the silk of Haruna's sleep shirt clinging to her own cotton t-shirt where they press together. She doesn't set her down immediately. She stands there, Haruna cradled against her, and lets the moment stretch.
"You're heavy," Rio murmurs, and feels Haruna's laugh vibrate through her ribs.
"You're a liar."
"I'm a model. Lying is in my contract."
Haruna's hand finds the back of Rio's neck, fingers threading through damp hair. "Put me down, Rii."
Rio doesn't want to. She wants to stand here forever, holding Haruna like she's something precious enough to keep off the ground, something that shouldn't have to touch the cold tile of a world that doesn't deserve her. But she bends, slowly, lowering Haruna until her feet meet the bathmat, and the transfer is seamless—Haruna's body sliding down Rio's front, the wet silk of her shirt dragging against Rio's cotton, and when she's standing, she doesn't step away.
They're close enough that Rio can count her eyelashes. Close enough that she can see the faint redness still rimming Haruna's eyes from earlier, the vulnerability she rarely lets anyone see, the cracks in the porcelain that only Rio knows how to trace.
"The water," Haruna says, and her voice is quiet, almost lost in the hiss of the showerhead. "It's getting cold."
Rio reaches past her and adjusts the temperature, then steps back just enough to pull her shirt over her head. The air hits her skin and she shivers once, briefly, before Haruna's hands find her waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of her hips. Rio's jeans follow, and then her underwear, and she stands naked under the bathroom light while Haruna watches her with an expression that hasn't changed in four years: like she's still surprised Rio is real.
"Your turn," Rio says, and Haruna's fingers find the hem of her own shirt, pulling it up and over her head in one motion that sends water droplets scattering across her shoulders. The silk clings as it goes, peeling away from skin that's already flushed from the steam, and Rio watches the reveal the way she always does—like the first time, every time.
Haruna's underwear comes off and she stands there, naked, smaller than she looks on screen, softer than anyone knows. The actress who commands entire sets, who holds award rooms in the palm of her hand, who made an entire nation cry with a single acceptance speech—she stands in Rio's bathroom with her arms slightly crossed, self-conscious despite everything, and Rio wants to eat her alive.
"Come here," Rio says, and holds out her hand.
Haruna takes it. Rio pulls her into the shower.
The water hits them both at once, hot and steady, streaming over Haruna's shoulders and down her back, darkening her hair until it clings to her scalp. She tips her head back and lets it run over her face, and Rio watches the tension in her jaw ease slightly, watched the way her throat moves when she swallows. The water sluices over her collarbones, over her breasts, over the soft curve of her stomach, and Rio wants to follow every drop with her mouth.
Then Haruna lowers her head, opens her eyes, and looks at Rio.
There's something in her gaze that hasn't been there since the text message arrived. Something steadier. Something that's made a decision.
"Promise me again," she whispers, and her voice is barely audible over the water. But Rio hears it. She always hears it.
She doesn't answer with words. She steps forward, her body meeting Haruna's under the spray, and her mouth finds Haruna's throat—the place where her pulse beats fastest, where her breath catches, where she's most alive. Rio presses her lips to the hollow just below Haruna's jaw, and Haruna's head falls back, her hands finding Rio's shoulders for balance.
The water streams over them both, hot against Rio's back, and she traces her mouth along Haruna's throat, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of her skin, the sweetness of her soap, the warmth of her. She doesn't rush. She maps the column of Haruna's neck with her lips, her tongue, the gentle scrape of her teeth, and each point of contact is a promise. Each kiss is a word she doesn't need to say.
Haruna's fingers tighten on her shoulders. Her breath comes in short, shaky exhales that steam against the wet air between them. "Rii—"
Rio pulls back just enough to look at her. Water drips from Haruna's chin, from the tip of her nose, from the ends of her hair, and her eyes are dark and open and full of everything she can't say in public.
"I promise," Rio says. Her voice is low, rough, barely carrying over the water. "I promise I'll come back. I promise I'll always come back. I promise that no matter what my father says, no matter what anyone says, I choose you. I chose you four years ago and I'll choose you every day for the rest of my life."
Haruna's lip trembles. Her eyes well, and the tears mix with the water streaming down her face, indistinguishable. "I'm scared."
"I know." Rio's hand comes up, cupping Haruna's jaw, her thumb brushing across her cheekbone, catching the water there. "I'm scared too. But I'm more sure of you than I am of anything."
"More sure than your family?"
"More sure than my own name."
Haruna lets out a breath that's half-laugh, half-sob. "That's dramatic."
"I learned from the best."
Haruna's hand finds Rio's wrist, holding it there, keeping Rio's palm pressed against her cheek. She turns her head slightly, just enough to press her lips to the center of Rio's palm, and the gesture is so tender, so intimate, that Rio feels it in her chest like a physical ache.
"Then show me," Haruna whispers against her skin. "Show me you're sure."
Rio's answer is her mouth again, but this time it's not gentle. This time it's claiming. Her lips find Haruna's and she kisses her like she's drowning, like the water is rising and this is the only air, the only thing keeping her alive. Haruna's mouth opens under hers and Rio drinks her in—the taste of her, the sound she makes when Rio's tongue finds hers, the way her body presses forward, seeking more contact, more heat, more proof that this is real.
Rio's hand slides from Haruna's cheek into her wet hair, gripping, tilting her head back, and she breaks the kiss to trace her mouth down Haruna's jaw, down her throat, over her collarbone. She kneels in the shower, the water hitting her shoulders, streaming over her back, and she looks up at Haruna—naked, wet, trembling, beautiful—and feels something crack open in her chest.
"I'm not going anywhere," Rio says, and her voice is hoarse, raw, stripped of every layer of composure she's worn since she was seventeen. "I'm yours, bunny. I've always been yours."
Haruna's hand finds Rio's head, fingers threading through her wet hair, and she looks down at Rio with an expression that holds four years of secrets, four years of stolen nights, four years of choosing each other in every way that mattered. "Then prove it."
Rio's mouth finds her.
She kisses the inside of Haruna's thigh, the water running over her lips, and she feels Haruna's leg tremble against her cheek. She kisses higher, her tongue tracing a path through the wet, and Haruna's grip tightens in her hair. She reaches the junction of her thighs and looks up once more, meeting Haruna's eyes, waiting for permission she already knows she has.
Haruna nods. Just once. Just enough.
Rio's mouth closes over her and Haruna's head falls back, a moan lost in the hiss of the shower, her hips pressing forward into the heat of Rio's tongue. Rio holds her there, steady, her hands gripping Haruna's thighs, her mouth working her with the patience of someone who has four years of practice, who knows exactly where to press, exactly how to move, exactly what makes Haruna's breath catch and what makes her cry out.
The water streams over them both, hot and constant, and the bathroom fills with the sound of Haruna's breathing, the wet rhythm of Rio's mouth, the occasional gasp that escapes when Rio finds the right spot and stays there. Haruna's fingers are in Rio's hair, pulling, guiding, wordlessly asking for more, and Rio gives it—gives her everything, her tongue pressing deeper, her mouth sucking gently, her hands holding Haruna steady as her knees start to buckle.
"Rii—" Haruna's voice breaks. "I'm—I'm close—"
Rio doesn't stop. She doubles down, her tongue moving faster, her grip tightening, and she feels Haruna's orgasm before she hears it—the way her thighs clench, the way her body arches, the way she gasps Rio's name like it's the only word she remembers. Rio stays with her through it, gentle now, easing her down, her mouth soft and soothing until Haruna's grip loosens and her breathing starts to steady.
Rio rises, water streaming from her body, and pulls Haruna into her arms. She holds her under the spray, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped around her waist, and she feels Haruna's heartbeat against her chest, slow and steady.
"You caught me," Haruna murmurs against her neck.
"Always."
They stand like that for a long moment, the water growing cooler, the steam thinning. Rio's mind drifts to the clock in the bedroom, to the two hours she has left, to the weight of her father's message and the unknown shape of what's coming. But she pushes it away. She stays here, in this moment, in the heat of Haruna's body against hers, in the quiet certainty of her own heart.
"We should get dressed," Haruna says eventually, but she doesn't move.
"Five more minutes."
"You'll be late."
"Let me be late."
Haruna laughs, soft and tired, and pulls back just enough to look at Rio's face. The water has nearly run cold now, and goosebumps rise on her skin, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's looking at Rio the way she always looks at her—like she's counting every detail, memorizing every angle, storing this version of Rio for later.
"When you come back," Haruna says, "I want to tell them."
Rio goes still.
"Not the world," Haruna continues, her voice steady even as her hands tremble against Rio's waist. "Not yet. But the band. My family. Yours." She swallows. "I don't want to be a secret anymore, Rii. Not from the people who matter."
Rio looks at her—her wet hair, her steady eyes, the set of her jaw that says she's already made this decision, she's just waiting for Rio to catch up. And Rio feels something shift in her chest, something that's been locked tight for four years, something that clicks open when she realizes: she wants this too. She's wanted it for longer than she's admitted.
"Okay," Rio says.
Haruna's eyes widen. "Okay?"
"Okay." Rio's hand finds Haruna's cheek, cupping her face, her thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. "When I come back, we'll figure out how to tell them. Together."
Haruna's face crumples, and she presses her forehead to Rio's, her breath hitching. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Rio says, and her voice is rough. "I haven't survived my father."
"You will." Haruna pulls back, and her eyes are fierce now, blazing with something that made Rio fall in love with her in the first place. "And when you do, I'll be here. I'll always be here."
Rio kisses her once more—soft, brief, a seal on the promise—then steps out of the shower, reaching for a towel. She wraps it around herself and turns back to look at Haruna, still standing under the cold spray, water streaming over her body, looking at Rio like she's the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"Come on," Rio says, holding out her hand. "Let's get you dry."
Haruna takes it. And Rio pulls her out of the water, into the towel, into her arms—where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where no amount of fathers or secrets or fear can touch her.
The clock on the nightstand reads ten-fifteen. Two hours until everything changes. But Rio doesn't look at it. She looks at Haruna, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping onto her shoulders, and she lets herself have this moment before the world comes knocking.
Forty-five minutes left to stay here. To hold her. To be sure.
She plans to use every second.
She plans to use every second.
Rio's hands find the edge of the towel wrapped around Haruna's shoulders, and she tugs gently, guiding her toward the bedroom. The carpet is soft under her bare feet, still damp from the steam that followed them out of the bathroom, and the air in the hallway is cooler, raising goosebumps along her arms. Haruna's hand is warm in hers, smaller, her fingers interlaced like they've been doing this for so long they don't need to think about it anymore.
The bedroom light catches the edge of the vanity mirror, and Rio guides Haruna to the chair in front of it—a simple wooden stool with a velvet cushion that Haruna bought at a flea market in Kyoto three years ago, the same weekend they'd sneaked away from a photoshoot to spend two days in a ryokan pretending they were just friends on vacation. Rio remembers the way Haruna had looked at her across the low table, the rice paper screens, the private onsen they'd shared after midnight when no one was watching.
"Sit," Rio says, her voice soft but firm.
Haruna looks at her in the mirror, then back at Rio's reflection. "Rii, you're going to be late."
"I don't care."
"Your father—"
"Can wait." Rio picks up the towel she'd draped over the back of the chair earlier, before the shower, before everything. She stands behind Haruna and drapes it over her wet hair, pressing gently, absorbing the moisture. "Turn around."
Haruna turns on the stool, facing forward, and Rio begins to dry her hair in slow, deliberate sections. She works the towel through the dark strands, squeezing, blotting, careful not to pull. Her fingers find the weight of Haruna's hair, the way it clings to her neck, the way the ends curl slightly from the humidity. She's done this a hundred times. A thousand. It never feels routine.
"You're going to be late," Haruna says again, but her voice is softer now, less insistent. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted slightly back, surrendering to the touch.
"Then I'll be late." Rio's thumbs press gently at the base of Haruna's skull, working in small circles, and she feels the tension in Haruna's neck begin to release. "Let me take care of you."
Haruna's breath hitches, just slightly. "You already did."
"I'm not done."
The towel comes away, damp and warm, and Rio sets it aside. She reaches for the comb on the vanity—a wide-toothed wooden comb that Haruna's mother gave her when she moved into this apartment, a small piece of home that Haruna keeps on her dresser like a talisman. Rio picks it up and begins to work through Haruna's hair, starting at the ends, gentle and patient, untangling the small knots the shower left behind.
"You don't have to do this," Haruna murmurs.
"I want to."
The comb glides through, and Rio watches in the mirror as Haruna's face softens, her shoulders dropping, her hands resting loose in her lap. The morning light filters through the curtains, catching the dust motes floating in the air, and for a moment the world outside—the father, the lunch, the fear—feels very far away.
Rio works the comb through the length of Haruna's hair, section by section, her fingers following each stroke, smoothing, straightening. She finds a small tangle near the crown and works it free with her fingers before the comb can catch, and Haruna makes a small sound of appreciation, a hum that vibrates through the quiet room.
"You're good at this," Haruna says.
"Four years of practice."
"You had good teachers. My mother used to brush my hair when I was little. Before every recital. She'd stand behind me just like this and tell me to breathe."
Rio's hand pauses, the comb resting in Haruna's hair. "Did it help?"
"Not really. I was always nervous anyway." Haruna's eyes open, finding Rio's in the mirror. "But I think that was the point. She wasn't trying to make me stop being nervous. She was just telling me she was there."
Rio's chest tightens. She resumes combing, slower now, more deliberate. "I'm here."
"I know."
The comb finishes its work, and Rio sets it down. She runs her fingers through Haruna's hair one last time, feeling the silk of it, the way it falls perfectly even when it's still slightly damp. She leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Haruna's head, right at the crown, where the hair parts naturally.
"Underwear," Rio says, and her voice is lighter now, teasing. "Where do you keep them?"
Haruna laughs, a real laugh, the kind that crinkles her eyes. "You've lived next door for four years. You know where my underwear is."
"I like hearing you say it."
Haruna points to the second drawer of her dresser, and Rio crosses the room, opening it to find a neat row of cotton and silk, folded with the precision of someone who learned to take care of her things early. She picks a simple pair—black cotton, soft, worn soft from washing—and brings them back to Haruna, who's still sitting on the stool, watching her with an expression that holds years of tenderness.
"Stand up," Rio says, and Haruna rises, the towel falling away from her body.
Rio kneels.
She holds the underwear open, and Haruna steps into it, one foot, then the other, her hands finding Rio's shoulders for balance. Rio slides the fabric up Haruna's legs, over her knees, over her thighs, and when she reaches her hips, she looks up. Haruna is watching her, eyes dark, lips parted, and Rio feels the weight of the moment settle between them—not sexual, not charged in the way the shower was, but intimate in a different way. A quiet intimacy. The kind that says I will dress you because I love you, because you are sore from the night we shared, because I want to take care of you before I have to leave.
Rio pulls the underwear into place, her fingers brushing the curve of Haruna's hips, and then she rises, her hand finding Haruna's, leading her back to the dresser for shorts. A simple pair of black cotton shorts, soft and worn, the elastic slightly loose from years of wear. Rio kneels again, and Haruna steps into them, and Rio pulls them up, smoothing the fabric over Haruna's thighs, her hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"You're being very thorough," Haruna says, and her voice is warm, amused.
"I'm a professional."
"A professional what?"
"A professional girlfriend." Rio stands, her hands finding Haruna's waist. "Now. Shirt."
Haruna looks at her, and something shifts in her expression. "Which one?"
Rio's mouth curves. She turns and walks to her own side of the closet—the side where she keeps a few things at Haruna's apartment, shirts and hoodies she's left over the years, things that smell like her. She pulls out an oversized black t-shirt, soft from a hundred washes, the collar slightly stretched, the fabric thin enough to be comfortable. She brings it back to Haruna and holds it open.
"This one."
Haruna's breath catches. "That's yours."
"I know."
Haruna slips her arms into the sleeves, and Rio pulls the shirt over her head, guiding it down over her body. The fabric falls loose, the hem reaching mid-thigh, the collar slipping off one shoulder. It's clearly Rio's—the way it hangs, the way it smells, the way it makes Haruna look small and soft and completely hers.
Rio's hands smooth the fabric over Haruna's shoulders, over her collarbones, and she steps back to look at her. Haruna stands in front of the vanity, wearing Rio's shirt, her hair still slightly damp, her face bare of makeup, her eyes holding everything she's never been able to say in public. She looks like she belongs here. She looks like she's always belonged here.
"Beautiful," Rio says, and the word comes out rough, honest.
Haruna's cheeks flush. "You're biased."
"I am. Completely."
Rio steps forward and cups Haruna's face in her hands, tilting her head up, and kisses her. It's soft at first, a brush of lips, a question. Then Haruna's hands find Rio's waist, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepens—slower, warmer, full of everything they don't have words for. Rio's thumb traces the line of Haruna's jaw, and she feels Haruna's breath against her mouth, the small sound she makes when she doesn't want the kiss to end.
Rio pulls back slowly, her forehead resting against Haruna's. "I should dry my hair."
"Let me."
Rio blinks. "What?"
"Let me do it for you." Haruna's hands find Rio's shoulders, guiding her to sit on the stool. "You took care of me. Let me take care of you."
Rio hesitates, the clock in her mind ticking, her father's face surfacing behind her eyes. But Haruna is looking at her with that steady gaze, the one that says I'm not letting you go yet, and Rio finds herself sinking onto the stool, her back to the mirror, her eyes finding Haruna's reflection behind her.
Haruna picks up the towel, the same one she used, and begins to dry Rio's hair. Her touch is different from Rio's—lighter, more tentative at first, as if she's relearning the shape of Rio's head, the weight of her hair. But she finds a rhythm quickly, her fingers working through the damp strands, squeezing and blotting with a care that makes Rio's chest ache.
"You're good at this too," Rio says, her voice low.
"I had a good teacher." Haruna's fingers find Rio's scalp, pressing gently, and Rio's eyes flutter closed. "Your hair is so soft. Even when it's wet."
"Expensive conditioner."
"Shut up." Haruna's voice is warm, fond. "Let me compliment you."
Rio smiles, her eyes still closed. "Sorry."
The towel comes away, and Haruna reaches for the comb. She starts at the ends, just as Rio did, working through the tangles with a patience that surprises Rio. Haruna is always in motion, always thinking ahead, always planning the next scene, the next interview, the next performance. But here, in this quiet bedroom, with the morning light slanting through the curtains and the clock ticking somewhere in the background, she is still. She is present. She is here.
The comb glides through Rio's hair, and Rio feels herself sinking into the sensation, her head tipping back slightly, her body relaxing into Haruna's touch. Haruna's fingers follow each stroke, smoothing, straightening, and Rio hears her breath, steady and calm, a counterpoint to the racing of her own heart.
"You have a lot of hair," Haruna murmurs.
"Complaining?"
"Never."
The comb works through a knot near Rio's ear, and Haruna's fingers free it with a gentleness that makes Rio's throat tight. She thinks about how many people have touched her hair—stylists, makeup artists, photographers, strangers on the street who reach out without asking. But none of them have touched her like this. None of them have touched her like they were memorizing the shape of her.
Haruna finishes, setting the comb down, and her hands rest on Rio's shoulders. She leans forward, her chest pressing against Rio's back, her chin finding the curve of Rio's shoulder, and she looks at their reflection in the mirror. Two women, one sitting, one standing, tangled together in the morning light.
"I love you," Haruna says, and her voice is quiet, almost lost in the space between them.
Rio's hand comes up, covering Haruna's where it rests on her shoulder. "I love you too."
They stay like that for a moment, breathing together, the world held at bay by the thin walls of Haruna's apartment. Then Haruna straightens, her hands squeezing Rio's shoulders once before letting go.
"Your turn to get dressed," Haruna says, and her voice is lighter now, a return to the surface. "You can't go to lunch with your father wearing a towel."
Rio stands, and she feels the loss of Haruna's warmth immediately. She crosses to her side of the closet and pulls out her clothes—a simple white blouse, tailored black trousers, a blazer she keeps here for emergencies. She dresses quickly, efficiently, the movements practiced from years of quick changes between events. But she feels Haruna's eyes on her the whole time, watching from the stool, and she slows down, letting herself be seen.
She turns, fully dressed, and finds Haruna standing now, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Rio walks to her, stops in front of her, and looks down at the woman who has been her secret for four years.
"I don't want you to go," Haruna says, and her voice cracks on the last word.
Rio's hands find Haruna's face, cupping her jaw, tilting her head up. "I know."
"I mean it. I don't—" Haruna's breath shudders. "I don't want you to leave this apartment. I don't want you to go to that lunch. I don't want you to face whatever he's going to say alone."
"I'm not alone." Rio's thumb traces the line of Haruna's cheekbone. "I have you. I always have you."
"But I'm not there." Haruna's eyes are wet, her voice breaking. "I'm not in that room with you. I can't hold your hand under the table. I can't—"
"Hey." Rio's voice is soft, firm, cutting through the spiral. "Look at me."
Haruna looks at her.
"I am going to walk into that club, sit across from my father, and listen to whatever he has to say. And then I am going to walk out, get in a car, and come back here. To you." Rio's forehead presses against Haruna's. "Nothing he says changes that. Nothing changes us."
Haruna's hands grip Rio's blazer, pulling her closer. "Promise?"
"I promise."
Haruna kisses her, hard and desperate, and Rio meets her with equal force, her hands sliding into Haruna's hair, tilting her head back, claiming her mouth like she's trying to memorize the taste. Haruna makes a sound against her lips—frustration, fear, love, all tangled together—and Rio holds her through it, steady, unmoving.
When they break apart, both breathing hard, Haruna's eyes are red but dry. She laughs, a broken sound, and shakes her head. "I'm being dramatic."
"You're allowed to be dramatic." Rio's hand finds hers, squeezing. "You're an actress."
"I hate that you're funny right now."
"I'm always funny."
Haruna laughs again, and this time it's real, a release of tension that softens her whole face. She looks at Rio, and Rio looks at her too, and something shifts in her expression—a flicker of heat, of mischief, of the woman who has spent four years learning exactly how to undo Haruna.
"When I come back," Rio says, and her voice is lower now, rougher, "I'm going to fuck you."
Haruna’s breath catches.
"Both your pussy and your ass," Rio continues, her eyes dark, her lips curving into a smirk that makes Haruna’s knees weak. "If you want it again."
Haruna feels the heat flood through her, the shiver that starts at the base of her spine and spreads outward. She opens her mouth to respond, but Rio’s hand comes up, pressing gently against her lips, quieting her.
"Go," Haruna eventually says, and her voice is steady now, sure. "Go face your father. And then come back so you can make good on your promise."
Rio grabs Haruna's wrist, and kisses her again—faster this time, hungrier, more promise of her own. Then she pulls back, her hand lingering on Haruna's cheek, and she lets herself memorize this moment: Haruna in her shirt, hair still damp, eyes fierce, standing in the morning light like she was made to be here.
"I'll be back before you know it," Rio says.
"You'd better be."
Rio turns, grabs her bag, and walks to the door. She pauses with her hand on the handle, looking back one last time. Haruna is still standing there, watching her, and Rio feels the weight of everything they've built pressing against her chest.
"Forty-five minutes," Rio says. "Maybe an hour."
"I'll be here."
Rio opens the door, steps through, and closes it behind her. The hallway is quiet, empty, the morning light filtering through the window at the end. She stands there for a moment, her hand still on the handle, and she lets herself feel the fear, the uncertainty, the weight of what's coming.
Then she straightens her blazer, lifts her chin, and walks toward the elevator.
Behind her, in the apartment, Haruna presses her hand to her chest and feels her heartbeat slow. She turns to the vanity, looks at her reflection—Rio's shirt hanging off her shoulder, her hair still damp, her eyes still red—and she smiles.
She has forty-five minutes to wait.
She plans to use every second.