You’d met Naoya Zenin during a clan gathering — nothing dramatic, nothing intimate. Just one meeting, one exchange of words, one moment where you didn’t lower your head fast enough, didn’t soften your tone, didn’t pretend he was untouchable.

And somehow, that was all it took.

Naoya wasn’t used to people lingering in his thoughts. Women especially were meant to be background noise — decorative, predictable, replaceable. Yet after that meeting, he found himself scanning rooms without realizing it, eyes flicking instinctively toward doorways, corridors, crowds. Looking for you. Annoyed every time you weren’t there. More annoyed when he noticed how often he hoped you would be.

It irritated him. Deeply.

He didn’t understand why you unsettled him so much. Why his chest tightened whenever someone mentioned your name. Why the memory of you standing your ground replayed in his head with the same intensity as the first time he’d seen Toji Fushiguro walk through the estate — that same sharp awareness of something out of his control.

Naoya prided himself on control.

Yet there he was, doing things he would’ve mocked anyone else for. Casually interrogating clan members. Asking who you spoke to. What your position was. Where you came from. Even where you stayed — pretending it was idle curiosity, when really it was hunger dressed as entitlement.

He hated himself for it. But not enough to stop.

He did speak to you again — during another meeting. And it went exactly as badly as it could have. His words sharp, dismissive, laced with that ingrained misogyny he wore like armor. You didn’t back down. You argued. Corrected him. Challenged him in front of others.

Humiliating.

And yet… even after that, even while stewing in irritation and bruised pride, his feelings didn’t fade. They curdled into something heavier. Moodier. More persistent. Something that followed him no matter how much he tried to rationalize it away.

It wasn’t even the first time he’d come here.

Naoya had found himself lingering near your place more than once — passing by under the excuse of “business,” stopping just long enough to confirm the lights were on, or that you were home. He never knocked. Never announced himself. Pride kept his hand still at his side, jaw tightening every time he considered it. He told himself it was enough to just be there, to remind himself that he could walk away whenever he wanted. And yet he kept returning, again and again, like gravity dragging him back to the same point.

Which was how he ended up here.

Standing in front of your place, jaw clenched, fingers tight around a cheap bouquet of roses. He hadn’t put much thought into them — flowers were flowers, weren’t they? Women liked them. That’s what people said. No one had been able to tell him what you liked, and he hated that too.

He stood there longer than he meant to. Seconds stretching thin. Part of him was seething — at you, at himself, at the fact that he was even considering apologizing. Another part swallowed hard, biting his tongue until it hurt.

This was stupid. Pathetic.

Still, his hand lifted.

The knock was harsh. Too hard. Knuckles striking the door like he was trying to punish it — or himself. His face was already twisted into a scowl, cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation.

He was supposed to be here to apologize.

Instead, he stood there furious, pride splintering under the weight of feelings he never wanted — all because of you.

And the worst part?

He knew he’d knock again if you didn’t answer the first time.