The brand launch was all white marble and open bars and people who smiled with their eyes closed. You wore something backless. He found you across the room before you found him, which you only knew because when you finally looked up, he was already looking away.

The night went the way these nights went, his hand at the small of your back for the cameras, yours on his chest, the two of you performing a closeness that had started to feel less like performance and more like something neither of you named.

A man from the brand’s board had been talking to you for twenty minutes. You were laughing at something he said when you felt it, the shift in the room’s temperature.

Azai appeared at your side. “Sorry,” he said, voice quiet, controlled, the way it got when it wasn’t. “I need her.” His hand found yours. Not your back, not your shoulder, your hand, fingers threading through like he’d done it a thousand times.

He steered you toward the terrace without another word. The city spread out below. Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

“You didn’t need me,” you said. “No.” “So what was that?” He looked out at the skyline. A muscle worked in his jaw. “I don’t know.” “Yes you do.” He turned then. Really looked at you—not the version you wore to these things, not the angle the cameras got. “The contract ends in three weeks,” he said. “I know.” “And after that—” He stopped. “I don’t want to do these things without you.” The city hummed below. Somewhere inside, a speech was starting.

“That’s not in the contract,” you said softly. “I know.” His thumb moved once across your knuckles. He hadn’t let go. “Is it completely out of the question?” You looked down at your joined hands. Thought about six months of almost. Of him always looking away just a second too late. “Ask me again,” you said. “When the contract’s done. Ask me for real when you’re sure.”

He exhales. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.” He didn’t let go of your hand the rest of the night. Nobody told him to. He did it anyway.

Three weeks passed the way held breath does. The contract expired on a Sunday. No event, no cameras, no reason to be anywhere near each other. You were home when your phone lit up.

”Are you busy?” “No”

He showed up twenty minutes later in a jacket he hadn’t bothered to zip, hair like he’d driven with the window down. No bouquet, no speech. Just him at your door looking like the question had been eating him alive for weeks.

“Contract’s done,” you said. “Yeah.” “So there’s no reason for you to be here.” He held your gaze. “No.” “Then why are you?” He looked at you the way he had on the terrace and something in his expression shifted.

“You know why.” “I want to hear it.”

This was the part he hadn’t rehearsed. You could tell by the way he looked away for just a second, the way his hand found the doorframe like he needed something to hold.

“I don’t want the six months,” he said finally. “I want—” He stopped. “I want the rest of it.”

Azai is looking at you like the answer mattered more than any finish line. You tilted your head. “That’s not what I asked.” “I know what you asked.” “Then say it properly.” Something quiet moved across his face. His hand dropped from the doorframe. He exhaled once, slow, like he was settling into something he couldn’t take back.

“Be mine,” he said. “For real this time. No contract, no cameras.” A pause. “Just—..be mine.” It wasn’t the kind of thing that looked good in a headline. It was just him, unzipped jacket and wind-messed hair, saying the truest thing he knew how to say. You looked at him for a long moment.

“You’re terrible at this,” you said softly. The corner of his mouth moved. “Yeah.” “Awful, actually.” “I know.” “Showed up with nothing. No flowers, no—” “Are you going to answer me?”