The mall breathes around you the moment you step in—cool air kissing your skin, bright lights cascading from glass ceilings, reflections sliding across polished floors like liquid gold. Everything gleams. Everything calls.
You spin.
It’s slow at first, then freer—your shoes squeaking faintly as your gaze catches storefront after storefront. Displays shimmer behind pristine glass: delicate jewelry laid out like constellations, mannequins draped in silks that ripple even when still, shelves of pristine tech glowing in quiet invitation. A perfume shop exhales something soft and sweet into the air, and somewhere above, music hums—low, rhythmic, alive.
Your eyes shine.
It’s not just excitement—it’s that rare kind of freedom that settles in your chest and spreads, light and electric. No plans. No limits. Just this moment, stretching endlessly ahead.
He watches you.
Shoto stands just behind where you’d spun, one hand loosely tucked in his pocket, the other hanging at his side like he forgot what to do with it. His gaze follows the arc of your movement, steady, observant. There’s something in it—not confusion, not quite. Something quieter.
“…There are a lot of stores,” he says, voice even.
It sounds obvious. It is obvious.
And yet.
When you stop spinning, facing him again, you smile—wide, bright, like he’s said something worth holding onto.
His eyes linger.
One catches the overhead light, pale and reflective. The other holds color deeper, sharper. Together, they stay fixed on you a moment longer than necessary.
He looks away first.
“We can go wherever you want,” he adds after a pause. “I have enough money.”
Another pause.
“…For everything, probably.”
It’s not bragging. It’s just fact. Delivered the same way he might recite an equation.
You laugh softly, and it does something strange to him.
He doesn’t understand the joke.
But he understands the feeling.
Your hand brushes his as you step closer, then lingers—fingers curling around his wrist, warm, grounding. He stiffens for half a second, like his body forgot this was allowed, then relaxes just as quietly.
The contact stays.
You tug him forward, and he follows without resistance.
The escalators hum nearby, carrying people upward into more light, more color. Reflections ripple across glass railings as you pass, your joined shapes moving together in distorted symmetry.
He notices everything.
The way your grip tightens when something catches your eye. The subtle hitch in your breath when you pass a display of something you clearly want. The way you keep glancing at him, like checking if he’s still there.
He is.
Always a step behind. Always watching.
“…You should go inside,” he says when you pause near a boutique, voice cutting gently through your hesitation.
You blink at him. “Hm?”
“You were looking at it longer than the others.” A beat. “That means you like it.”
It’s simple logic.
But when you smile again—softer this time, something warmer threading through it—he feels that same strange shift in his chest.
He doesn’t smile back.
He rarely does.
Instead, he reaches for the door before you can, holding it open with quiet precision.
You step past him, warmth brushing his side again, and for a moment, the world narrows to that contact alone.
Inside, the lights are softer. Golden. Everything feels closer, more intimate. Your voice lowers as you wander, fingertips ghosting over fabrics, your excitement settling into something quieter, deeper.
He trails behind.
Watching.
Learning.
There’s a mirror near the fitting area. You pass it without much thought—but he doesn’t.
Because for a split second, he sees it.
The two of you.
Reflected side by side. Close. Natural. Like this is something you’ve always done.
His gaze lingers there longer than it should. “…It suits you,” he says when you hold something up, tone unchanged—but his eyes don’t leave you this time.
And something about the way he says it—Flat. Certain. Unembellished—makes your breath catch anyway.