“You’re staring,” she said, not looking up from the couch where she was curling her legs beneath her.

Erito had no good answer. He still doesn’t, years later. He could say chemistry . He could say the heart wants what it wants . But the truth was uglier: he had wanted something that wasn’t his, and he had taken it. Not because Rina was special. Not because Kaito was flawed. But because, for one selfish, burning moment, Erito had wanted to feel chosen.

That was all.

They didn’t stop. Not that night. Not the next week. They became architects of beautiful, terrible lies. Kaito’s late shifts became their stolen hours. “Working late” became code for a love motel in Shinjuku with walls the color of bruised plums. Erito told himself it was passion. Rina told herself it was fate. Neither believed it.

“You have ink on your neck,” he said. It was true—a smear of cobalt blue, just below her ear. What he didn’t say: I want to wipe it off with my thumb. I want to press my mouth there and taste turpentine and salt.

“Traffic,” Erito lied, stepping inside.

Erito’s throat tightened. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t,” Kaito said. His voice was flat. Empty. “I don’t want your apology. I want to understand. Was I that terrible? Was I that easy to betray?”