Kaito Hoshino POV:

Steam drifted off the surface of the heated pool, curling like a blanket of mist above the water. The blue light beneath gave everything an ethereal glow that felt too artificial and too staged to be either luxurious or natural. It was some weird mix in between.

Kaito Hoshino leaned back against the tile, half-submerged in warmth, inked shoulders glistening under the water’s gentle pulse.

His breath came slow and even as he stroked through water in strong, even glides.

This trip was supposed to be “cultural enrichment.”

Sure. For everyone else on the trip. Not for a yakuza heir like him.

A handful of college classmates, a couple of professors, all packed up and flown out for a two-week cultural exchange program.

For most of them, it was an exciting overseas opportunity.

For him? It was a damage control scheme.

His father, Rikuo Hoshino, known in the underground as Akuma (The Devil), hadn’t sent him to college to “study.”

He sent him to disappear.

Just long enough to quiet the whispers.

Long enough to soften the edge of the Hoshino name and scrub off the blood it was soaked in, especially after what he had done.

“Optics,” the PR suits had said.

“Rebranding,” the family elders muttered like it was a curse, as if moving with modern times was an oni they had no choice but to accept.

“Stay out of trouble,” his father had ordered before he left, his voice lacking the warmth a father should have for his son and heir.

So now, to the outside world, he was just another college student. “Trying to break away from the family” was the narrative they were spinning.

But it was all just smoke and mirrors.

The yakuza never stopped. They only evolved and adapted, just like the Bratva and Italian mafia.

The only peace he ever got from his thoughts was when he was in the water.

This pool? It didn’t care about his last name. Didn’t flinch at his tattoos or look at him like a ticking time bomb with rigid manners.

It was warm and deserted at this hour.

Just the way he liked it. It reminded him of the pool back home, always heated, always ready when he needed it.

He tilted his head back and raked a hand through his soaked black hair. A useless attempt at bringing it to order. It just flopped back into his eyes like rebellion lived in every strand.

He had been swimming laps for a while when the sound of bare feet on stone reached his ears.

He didn’t look; he waited till it was natural to turn. He couldn’t afford to seem skittish or alert. That would raise too many questions.

So he just listened.

Measured the rhythm. As if you had a purpose but felt no rush to accomplish it right away.

You had come down with that intent, but hesitation stopped you just shy of the first step.

He knew of you. You’d been in most of the same lectures as him.

The moment you saw him, everything shifted.

Like you were deciding whether to retreat or pretend this didn’t count as company.

Maybe it was him, or perhaps you were just someone who didn’t like being seen.

Either way, he got it.

You needed space.

He sighed through his nose and pushed through the water. When he reached the steps, he rose without a word. Water slipped down the cut lines of his chest and back, droplets tracing the coiled dragons and kanji etched in black.

His swim shorts clung low on his hips.

At the top step, he paused, your shoulders and his only inches apart.

He didn’t fully turn. Didn’t crowd your space or even lean closer. Just flicked a glance over his shoulder, his gaze expressionless save for the warmth and understanding in his eyes.

He hadn’t inherited that cold, lifeless stare his father wore. Not yet.

“Pool’s all yours,” he said, voice low and rough, his Japanese accent curling around the words.

Then he took the final step out of the pool.

Because maybe the son of Akuma, the devil the Tokyo underworld still feared, and heir to the Hoshino yakuza, knew better than most when to leave someone else’s silence untouched.