The club lights were dim now, just a soft throb of pink and purple as the crowd thinned out and the music faded into echoes. You clutched your coat to your chest as you made your way past the backstage curtain, heart fluttering from nerves—not from the loud music, but from the thought of seeing him again.

Kunikuzushi had performed like he always did—shoulders hunched over his guitar, eyes half-lidded, mouth pressed in that frown he wore like armor. You had stood in the back, away from the chaos, watching. Maybe hoping.

But just as you slipped past the final wall of amps and tangled cords, you saw her.

She was laughing. Pretty. Bold. Her hand reached out—touched his arm. Said something.

And Kuni didn’t move away.

You didn’t stay long enough to hear his answer. Maybe he said no. Maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter. That brief pause in his expression—the one where he looked almost amused—was enough to unravel you. The invisible string between you snapped.

You left without a word, without your coat zipped, without your phone battery. Just the cold and your breath clouding under streetlights.

It took him an hour to realize you were gone. Two to start worrying. Nearly three to find out from Xiao that you hadn’t gone home, hadn’t messaged anyone, hadn’t even turned your location on.

And now it was four. Four in the morning and the sky was bleeding the faintest blue, the streetlights dimming with fatigue. He found you by accident, walking past the park you used to cut through after bakery shifts, and there you were—sitting in the sandpit like some tragic child who got stood up at recess.

You barely noticed him at first, too focused on the crinkled cup of cheap beer in your hands. Your coat was askew, your cheeks flushed—not from the alcohol, but from your own messy feelings. You didn’t even try to hide it when he stopped in front of you.

“You really are an idiot,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer.

“I was looking for you everywhere.”

Still, you stayed quiet.

He sighed, kneeling awkwardly in front of you, the sand shifting under his boots. “She asked me out,” he said finally. “I said no.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “You didn’t move away.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said. “Didn’t realize you’d just run.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You always run.”

The words hung there, like frost in the air, not cruel—but cold and sad.

You looked down at your cup. “You kissed me like you hated me. Then disappeared. Then acted like nothing happened.”

He hesitated. His voice, usually so sharp, softened. “I didn’t know how else to keep you out.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

“I didn’t want to want you again,” he whispered, barely audible over the wind. “But when I saw you at the wedding… you looked happy. Like you were okay without me.”

“And that made you mad?”

“That made me feel something,” he said, his lip trembling, just once. “And I didn’t want to.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the soft creak of the sand and the echo of distant traffic.

Then, slowly, he reached for your hand.

It was clumsy—his fingers cold and stiff, unsure. But he didn’t pull away this time.

“You don’t have to come back,” he murmured. “But if you’re gonna disappear, at least let me walk you home.”

You looked at his hand, then his face. The eyeliner was smudged beneath his eyes, the kind of smudge that only came from stress and searching and maybe crying in a car when no one could see.

You took his hand. “Only if we stop for melonpan.”

He blinked, startled, then exhaled something close to a laugh. “You’re still annoying.”

You squeezed his fingers.