Wednesday.
As sunlight pierced through the gap in the curtains like a beam from a magical girl's transformation sequence, Hojo Shione removed the jacket covering her forehead. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling, they gradually lost focus—drifting into that familiar, comfortable haze.
Perhaps she had slept too long. Her body felt weak, limp like a character who just used up all their MP. She yearned to continue sleeping, too lazy even to move a single finger. Her head also felt a bit foggy, like morning mist over a lake.
After a while, she finally managed to regain some energy. Her fair, slender arm—the kind that would make any artist want to draw her—reached out from under the covers, grabbing her phone from the bedside table to check the time.
10:06 AM.
She couldn't quite recall when she had gone to bed last night. Probably around 10 PM? By that calculation, she had slept for about twelve hours—a full recovery buff.
This was the first time she had slept this long since she and Seiya parted ways...
Indeed, I can't manage without Seiya.
Thinking this, her fingers lifted Shiratori Seiya's jacket off her body, her eyes revealing a look of longing—the kind reserved for lost loved ones in emotional flashbacks.
Then, suddenly, she released her grip, letting her arm fall and the jacket flop back down to cover her.
Doing this made it feel as if Seiya was pouncing on her in the morning.
Hojo Shione repeated this several times—flop, cover, flop, cover—then tightly hugged Shiratori Seiya's jacket to her chest like a treasured limited-edition merchandise. She buried her flushed face into it, taking a deep breath.
Hoo... hoo...
Even though the jacket had been washed and she couldn't actually smell Shiratori Seiya's scent on it anymore, Hojo Shione only had to think that it was his jacket, and her mind would automatically conjure his fragrance. She would recall those sweet, precious days they spent wrapped in each other's arms—the memories playing like a highlight reel.
Clutching the jacket, she rolled from the head of the bed to the foot—once, twice, like a content cat in a sunbeam. After a few turns, she was fully awake and finally got out of bed.
Her legs were slender and fair, her skin as delicate as polished jade, gleaming and exceptionally dazzling under the morning light.
Walking into the living room, she popped a piece of candy into her mouth—the sugar rush a small comfort. Hojo Shione then entered the bathroom, washing away the sticky sweat from her body. Her eyes fixed on the wall, she gradually lost focus again.
This situation was all too common for her. Whenever she wasn't working—when there were no cameras, no stages, no fans—she would usually space out like this. And the object of her thoughts was always, always Shiratori Seiya.
The reason she didn't go to see Seiya today was simple: he had specifically mentioned yesterday that he was going to watch Hasegawa Saori's match. He wouldn't be home. So she didn't need to prepare breakfast or worry about running into him.
Hojo Shione didn't refuse this arrangement—partly because she felt she had no right to object, and partly because she still felt a deep, gnawing guilt toward Shiratori Seiya.
Even if she had to do it all over again, she would still choose the same course of action. But every time she thought about how she had deceived Seiya—how she had manipulated his kindness—she would fall into a spiral of agony.
However, when she remembered that he already knew she had deceived him, she felt an odd sense of relief. In fact, whenever he looked at her with that complex, unreadable gaze—half disappointment, half something else—Hojo Shione felt every drop of blood in her body cheer in triumph.
Seiya loves me.
Hojo Shione savored this feeling of joy, finding it second only to being intimately entwined with Seiya—skin to skin, heart to heart.
If asked why she felt this way, it was probably because she knew he loved her. Otherwise, with Shiratori Seiya's personality—cold, pragmatic, unforgiving of betrayal—he wouldn't be polite to her at all. They wouldn't even be friends anymore. He would have cut her off completely, like deleting a corrupted save file.
On the other hand, her feelings also stemmed from a kind of masochistic pleasure—the kind you see in tragic romance heroines. One should be punished for doing wrong, and his deliberate rejection, his careful distancing from her, somehow made her feel better. Like she was paying her dues.
She felt as if she had fallen into the middle ground between sweet, intoxicating love and scorching, punishing lava.
But these good days... this feeling of pain and happiness... would likely disappear starting tomorrow.
Although it was difficult—and she had retreated many times before—this time was different. She had set a deadline for herself with no turning back.
Tomorrow.
If she kept stalling, kept retreating, kept refusing to confess to Seiya that she had deliberately exploited his kindness and his lingering affection for her... the rift between them would only deepen.
For Hojo Shione, such a thing—a permanent, unfixable crack in their bond—was even more unbearable than death.
After washing up, she put on a natural, no-makeup makeup look—the kind that said I woke up like this—and checked the time. It was already approaching noon.
Thinking that Shiratori Seiya was out today and wouldn't be back until late, Hojo Shione hesitated for a long time at her doorstep. Eventually, she crossed the hallway and stood in front of his door.
She rang the doorbell first—ding-dong—and waited. No response.
Then, decisively, she entered the electronic password and walked into Shiratori Seiya's house.
After a few days of interaction, Hojo Shione already knew Shiratori Seiya's passcode. He didn't seem to have any intention of hiding it from her—he'd casually entered it in front of her without asking her to look away.
If he was willing to let her know the password, that meant he allowed her to enter his house, right?
Yes. That made perfect sense.
Moreover, for tomorrow's meal—the one she had promised to cook for him—she needed to prepare the ingredients well today.
He likes me...
Repeating various justifications in her mind like a mantra, Hojo Shione entered the house. Sniffing the lingering scent of Shiratori Seiya still hanging in the air—faint but unmistakable—a longing smile appeared on her face.
But that smile didn't last long.
She saw the scattered slippers at the entrance—one here, one there, abandoned in a hurry.
He left in such a rush... Was he that eager to see that idiot?
A powerful wave of jealousy surged through Hojo Shione's heart like a tsunami. She couldn't help but wonder: would he be just as eager if the person he was meeting was me?
If it were me... Seiya would probably spend the whole day with me, wouldn't he?
That fool is so lucky!
As the thought crossed her mind, Hojo Shione clenched her fists tightly, her nails pressing into her palms.
Yes... I will definitely make him fall completely in love with me.
Forcing herself to calm down, she neatly arranged the scattered shoes at the entrance—lining them up like soldiers. Then she checked the time again. Feeling that there was still way too much time until evening—hours stretching out like an endless filler episode—she slipped into Shiratori Seiya's bedroom, crawled into his bed, and pulled up the covers.
Shiratori Seiya's scent was like a poison, a sleeping spell.
In just a moment, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she woke up again, it was already 5 PM.
About time to start preparing tomorrow's meal.
Putting the freshly bought chicken into the pot—simmer, bubble—Hojo Shione's gaze darted nervously between the time displayed on her phone and the steaming pot.
She was busy until 8 PM. Having eaten only one meal all day, she was genuinely hungry now and decided to make something simple—rice balls, maybe.
Her gaze fixed on the darkening window outside, a question spontaneously arose in Hojo Shione's mind.
Will Seiya come back tonight?
If not... will he stay in a hotel?
Will the two of them—Seiya and that idiot—secretly pledge their lives to each other under the moonlight?
As she was lost in these jealous, anxious thoughts, she turned her head to look at the flickering neon lights of Tokyo outside the window—distant, indifferent, beautiful.
Vaguely, she thought she heard the sound of a door opening. She dismissed it as her imagination—just her mind playing tricks on her again—and didn't really pay attention.
Creak.
Suddenly, Hojo Shione saw a familiar figure appear in the reflection of the glass window.
Before she could clearly see who it was—short hair, kendo posture, cold eyes—she felt a hard object poke her in the waist. It seemed to hit a particular pressure point. Her foot, hidden in her slipper, tensed up, her toes curling together, gripping the ground like a cat ready to bolt.
Before she could react, the other person's voice rang sharply in her ear:
"Where's Seiya?"
"?"
Hearing this, Hojo Shione instinctively tried to turn around—but the wooden sword hovering behind her poked her waist again, harder this time.
Hiss!
Hojo Shione sucked in a breath, wincing. She turned to look at the disheveled Hasegawa Saori standing behind her—hair messy, eyes red-rimmed, kendo uniform rumpled like she'd traveled across the city without stopping.
After two seconds of stunned silence, Hojo Shione's brows furrowed, her eyes sharpened like blades, and she said irritably:
"You're asking me?"
"Wasn't Seiya with you today?"