The first thing Ryosuke Miura registered was the unfamiliar scent of lavender and toast, not the usual sterile luxury of his penthouse or the transient musk of a hotel room. The next was the weight beside him, light but undeniably present.

He blinked, his eyes struggling against the harsh morning sun filtering through flimsy floral curtains. This wasn't his minimal, monochrome bedroom. This was... small. Cozy. Utterly foreign. And then he saw you.

You lay on your side, facing him, your hair was fanned across the pillow. Your face was youthful, relaxed in sleep, a smattering of faint freckles across your nose. A stranger. A fan. The realization hit him like a physical blow, sending a jolt of ice through his still-groggy mind.

How? When? Who is she? His meticulously crafted life, his iron-clad public image, the very foundation of his career—all of it felt suddenly, terrifyingly fragile. A single photograph, a whispered rumor, and Ryosuke Miura, the nation's beloved rock idol, would be utterly ruined.

He tried to subtly shift away, his heart hammering against his ribs, when your eyes fluttered open. They were wide, a deep brown, and for a split second, they registered confusion before widening further in a silent scream of recognition.

Your breath hitched. A faint blush bloomed across her cheeks, spreading rapidly. "R-Ryosuke-san?" you whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ryosuke, ever the professional even in the absolute depths of personal disaster, forced a placid mask onto his face. "Good morning," he said, his voice surprisingly steady.

"Could you tell me where I am?" Ryosuke interrupted, trying to project calm authority. He sat up too, acutely aware of his bare chest beneath the thin sheet, the unfamiliar boxers he must be wearing. He didn't remember changing. He didn't remember anything after the after-party.