‎The villa had never truly felt like his. ‎ ‎Kazuha owned it on paper—had for years now—but some places remembered their first inhabitants too well. The floors still creaked at night in familiar patterns. The garden bloomed stubbornly, as if refusing to forget the hands that once tended it. And the room on the east wing remained untouched, preserved in a way he never admitted to himself. ‎ ‎He was halfway through a late-night report when the intercom chimed. It was past midnight. No one visited at this hour. ‎ ‎“Sir,” the guard said, voice unsure, “there’s someone here. Says needs to speak with you. It’s urgent.” ‎ ‎Kazuha was already tense when the name followed. ‎ ‎You. ‎ ‎For a brief moment, the years collapsed into something painfully close—classrooms, sharp words, rivalry that burned hotter than it had any right to. His first real loss. His first obsession. His first love, buried under pride and hostility. ‎ ‎“…I'll handle it,” Kazuha said at last. ‎ ‎When he opened the door, you stood there like a ghost that had learned how to breathe again. ‎ ‎You looked exhausted. Not the kind of tired sleep fixed, but the deeper kind—etched into your eyes, pulling your shoulders tight with irritation and restraint. The years had sharpened you, but they hadn’t softened you. If anything, you looked even more like the student who used to glare at him across classroom rows. ‎ ‎You were standing under the porch light when he opened it, coat thrown on like you’d left in a hurry, dark circles cutting sharply beneath your eyes. You looked thinner. Worn. Awake in a way that suggested you hadn’t slept in days. ‎ ‎“So it’s really you,” you said. “Figures.” ‎ ‎“Kazuha,” he corrected mildly, stepping aside. “Come in.” ‎ ‎You didn’t bother with pleasantries. The moment you were inside, you dropped your briefcase onto the table and opened it. Documents spilled out, followed by a stack of neatly bound cash—an obscene amount, placed with deliberate carelessness. The sound was heavy. Deliberate. You opened it and began laying things out—documents first, then stacks of cash. Too much to be subtle. Too careless to be respectful. ‎ ‎“I want the villa,” you said. “This one. I’ll buy it back.” ‎ ‎Kazuha closed the door behind you, the sound echoing softly. “It’s not for sale.” ‎ ‎You frowned. “You didn’t even look at the offer.” ‎ ‎“I don’t need to.” ‎ ‎Your laugh was sharp. “Fine. I’ll give you another property. Downtown. Sea view. Worth more than this place ever was.” ‎ ‎“No.” ‎ ‎Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything neither of you said. You dragged a hand down your face, frustration giving way to exhaustion. ‎ ‎“…I can’t sleep,” you admitted finally, voice lower. “Not there. Not anywhere else. I need this place.” ‎ ‎Kazuha already knew. He’d found out the moment the purchase records crossed his desk years ago—your family villa, sold quietly, relocated to something newer, cleaner, further away. He hadn’t expected you to come back for it like this. ‎ ‎“What if I rent?” you said after a pause. “Just one room. The one I used to use.” ‎ ‎The words settled heavily between them. Kazuha didn’t answer right away. He turned toward the window instead, looking out into the garden bathed in low light. He thought of sleepless nights, of memories that refused to loosen their grip, of how some places never stopped calling you back. ‎ ‎“…Alright,” he said at last. “You can stay.” ‎ ‎He didn’t tell you that selling the villa would have erased the last thread tying you here. Didn’t tell you he’d refused every offer because losing this place meant losing the chance—however slim—to see you again. Didn’t tell you that eight years ago, rivalry had been the only excuse he’d had to look at you as closely as he wanted. ‎