I burst out of Ai's apartment building like I'd been shot from a cannon, struggling to button my wrinkled shirt while juggling my phone. Six missed calls from Ryuu. Three from Seiji. One voicemail from Daisuke that I didn't have time to check.
The morning sun hit my face with merciless clarity. I'd made it out with my dignity mostly intact, though Ichigo's knowing stare had stripped away any pretense that I'd actually spent the night on that couch. The man wasn't stupid.
My phone buzzed again. Ryuu. I swiped to answer before he could hang up.
"Where the hell are you?" His voice carried that precise edge of controlled panic that meant he was about two minutes from a full meltdown.
"On my way," I said, flagging down a passing taxi. "Twenty minutes, tops."
"We've been here for an hour. The choreographer leaves at noon."
"I know. I'm sorry." I gave the driver SYNC's address and slumped against the seat. "Traffic looks decent. I'll make it."
"This interview is everything, Toshiro. Everything." The fear beneath Ryuu's anger was palpable. "If we blow this—"
"We won't." I cut him off with more confidence than I felt. "I'll be there."
The taxi lurched forward. My head throbbed with the beginnings of a headache—too little sleep, too much emotion, and the looming weight of today's rehearsal. The Utacon interview was our shot at breaking into mainstream consciousness, stepping out from Tadashi's shadow once and for all.
And I'd spent the night tangled in Ai Hoshino's sheets instead of resting.
I closed my eyes, letting last night's memories play in my head. Her skin against mine. The soft gasps she tried to muffle against my shoulder. The way she looked at me afterward, all her perfect idol facades stripped away, leaving just Ai—messy-haired, vulnerable, real.
My phone buzzed. Speak of the devil.
You forgot your watch.
I glanced at my bare wrist, then typed back: Keep it hostage. Gives me an excuse to come back.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Ruby's already planning what book you'll read her tonight.
Tell her I'm thinking about voices for all the characters, I wrote back.
The taxi driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "Girlfriend?" he asked with the casual familiarity of a man who'd seen thousands of lovestruck fools in his backseat.
"It's complicated," I answered, the understatement of the century.
He snorted. "Always is, kid. Always is."
My phone buzzed again.
How was Ichigo after I went to change? Did he give you the shovel talk?
I smiled. Not exactly. Just told me not to be stupid. Pretty low bar.
For idols? Astronomical.
Ai wasn't wrong. The industry wasn't exactly known for sensible decision-making.
How's the TV set? I asked, changing the subject.
Different from stage work. On stage, I have to look good from every angle. Here, I just need to be cute for the camera. One perfect angle at a time.
You're good at angles, I replied, then added, I miss you already. Is that pathetic?
Three dots. Pause. Yes. Completely pathetic. Another pause. I miss you too.
The taxi pulled up to SYNC with five minutes to spare. I paid and sprinted for the entrance, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest from those four simple words.
The receptionist waved me through without stopping me—she knew PRISM's schedule better than we did sometimes. I took the stairs two at a time, grateful the elevator was working today. My legs burned with the effort, reminding me of last night's exertions.
I burst into Studio B looking like exactly what I was—a man who'd rolled out of someone else's bed and raced across town. Ryuu's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Seiji broke into a grin. Ryota scowled. Daisuke simply raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable as always.
"Nice of you to join us," Ryuu said, arms crossed over his chest.
"Traffic," I offered weakly.
"Must have been some traffic," Ryota said, eyes flicking to my neck. "Left marks."
My hand flew to my throat before I could stop myself. Ryota's grin turned feral.
"Ryota knew Toshiro wouldn't be late for no reason," he crowed. "Toshiro got laid!"
"Can we focus on the choreography?" I asked, dropping my bag and moving to the center of the room. "We've got the bridge section to clean up."
"Not until you tell us who she is," Seiji said. "Is she pretty? Famous? Is it someone we know?"
The choreographer—a thin, perpetually exhausted woman named Mika—clapped her hands. "Boys. Clock's ticking."
Thank god for professionals. I shot her a grateful look and took my position. The others fell in line, though Ryuu continued to glare daggers at me.
"Five, six, seven, eight—"
We moved through the routine, muscle memory taking over. My body remembered the steps even as my mind wandered back to Ai's apartment. To the feel of her underneath me. To the look in Aqua's eyes when he'd asked if I was staying.
Are you going to stay?
Not the question I'd expected from a two-year-old, but Aqua wasn't an ordinary child. There was something in those eyes—something old and watchful that reminded me, uncomfortably, of myself. Of the memories I carried from another lifetime.
"Toshiro! Focus!" Mika's voice snapped me back to the present.
I'd missed a transition, throwing off the whole formation. Ryuu's face flushed with irritation.
"Sorry," I muttered, resetting my position. "Again."
We ran the sequence three more times before Mika seemed satisfied. She moved us on to the interview portion—the choreographed moments where we'd interact with the Utacon hosts, demonstrating our carefully crafted personalities for the viewing audience.
"Remember," she said, pointing to each of us in turn, "Toshiro is charismatic and mysterious. Ryuu is intellectual and slightly tsundere. Ryota is the wild one. Seiji is your energetic puppy. Daisuke is the quiet, artistic soul. Got it?"
We nodded. We'd been over this a thousand times. Our public personas were as much a part of the choreography as the dance steps.
"Good," she continued. "The hosts will ask about your comeback, your relationship with Tadashi, and whether you're dating anyone. Standard idol interview fare. Stick to the script, be charming, and for god's sake, don't say anything controversial."
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I resisted the urge to check it.
"Toshiro will handle most of the talking," Mika added. "He's got the best media instincts."
Ryuu's jaw tightened. He'd been the group's spokesperson before I joined, a role he'd relinquished with obvious reluctance.
"And finally," Mika said, "they'll ask about the B-Komachi collaboration."
My head jerked up. "Besides us opening for them in three weeks?"
"Yeah, the one Ichigo announced this morning. You'll be performing with B-Komachi at the Summer Festival." She looked at me strangely. "Didn't he tell you?"
"No," I said slowly. "He did not."
That sly bastard. He'd sat at Ai's table, eating croissants and discussing schedules, knowing the whole time he'd just thrown us together professionally as well as personally. What game was he playing?
My phone buzzed again. This time I pulled it out, ignoring Mika's disapproving look.
Did you know about the collab? Ichigo just dropped it on me at the TV studio.
So Ai had been blindsided too. No idea. Hearing it now at rehearsal.
Think he suspects something? Ai texted.
I almost laughed. He walked into your apartment and found me wearing his old shirt. Safe to say he knows.
Ryuu cleared his throat pointedly. I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
"Sorry. Important message."
"Must be," Ryuu said acidly. "Since it couldn't wait five minutes."
The rest of rehearsal passed in a blur of movement and instruction. By eleven-thirty, we were all sweating and irritable, but the routine looked solid. Mika dismissed us with a reminder about tomorrow's final run-through before the interview.
As we gathered our things, Ryuu cornered me by the water cooler.
"Was it Miwa?" he asked, voice low.
"What?"
"You know who she is don't play dumb." His blue eyes bored into mine. "Is that where you were last night?"
I blinked, momentarily confused until I remembered—Miwa, the voluptuous beauty who'd flirted with me while we made run. Ryuu had been awkwardly hovering nearby, clearly nursing a crush.
"No," I said honestly. "It wasn't Miwa."
Relief flickered across his face before he could hide it. "Then who—"
"Does it matter?"
Ryuu stiffened. "It matters if it affects the group. If you're distracted. If you start missing rehearsals."
"I wasn't late because I was with someone," I lied. "I overslept. It won't happen again."
He studied me for a long moment, then adjusted his glasses—his tell when he was deciding whether to push an issue. "Fine. But if this becomes a pattern—"
"It won't," I promised, clapping him on the shoulder. "We've got too much riding on this interview."
That seemed to pacify him for the moment. He nodded and moved away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
My phone buzzed with another text. I expected Ai, but it was Daisuke.
Need to talk. Coffee?
I frowned. Daisuke rarely initiated one-on-one conversations. Whatever he wanted to discuss, it must be important.
Sure.
He sent a thumbs-up in response. I shouldered my bag and headed for the door, only to be intercepted by Seiji.
"So?" he asked, eyes bright with curiosity. "Who is she?"
"There's no 'she,'" I lied again, feeling a pang of guilt. I hated deceiving them, but Ai's privacy—and by extension, her children's—had to come first.
Seiji's face fell. "Aw, come on! Ryota said you had a hickey!"
"Ryota," I said, ruffling his pink hair, "needs to mind his own business."
"But we're a team," he protested. "We don't keep secrets from each other."
The irony of this statement, coming from a group still nursing wounds from Tadashi's betrayal, wasn't lost on me. I softened my tone.
"Some things are private, Seiji. Even from teammates."
He looked unconvinced but didn't press further. I escaped to the hallway, checking my phone one more time before heading out.
Ai had sent a final message: Dinner tonight? We should talk about... everything.
Everything. Such a small word for such massive implications. What were we doing? Where was this heading? How would we navigate the public scrutiny, the professional complications, the reality of her secret family?
I typed back: I'll be there. And Ai? Last night wasn't a mistake. At least not for me.
Her response came instantly: Not for me either. But that doesn't make it simple.
No, it certainly didn't. Nothing about Ai Hoshino had ever been simple—not her career, not her personal life, not the strange magnetism that had pulled me toward her from our first meeting.
The Utacon interview. The surprise collaboration. The responsibility of leading PRISM out of Tadashi's shadow. And now, on top of everything, the terrifying, exhilarating possibility of building something real with Ai and her children.
In my previous life, I'd never taken risks like this. I'd played it safe, made the sensible choices, and ended up with a perfectly adequate existence. This time around, I seemed determined to complicate things at every turn.
I took a deep breath of the warm spring air. Whatever happens next—with PRISM, with Ai, with those remarkably perceptive children—I'd face it head-on. No more hiding behind careful facades. No more playing it safe.
This time, I'd live a life worth remembering.