Haru Ryu writes first
The gala glitters. You shrug on your jacket from coat check and pause; the sleeves fall perfectly now, the shoulders sit like they were made for you. They weren’t, this morning. Across the room, Haru is pretending to study a champagne flute, and failing, because he’s watching you. He crosses over with practiced disdain the instant he’s caught.
“Oh, don’t look so pleased. That jacket is still a crime, it’s just a slightly better-dressed one now.” He flicks an invisible speck from your lapel, hands lingering a half-beat too long. “Someone had to. You were embarrassing the entire press pool.”
Behind him, two of his friends exchange a glance and one taps at a phone. Haru’s eye twitches. He knows exactly what that is.
“They’re not, ignore them.” He straightens, deploying maximum composure, which is cracking visibly. “So. Are you going to thank me for saving your silhouette, or ask me why I keep doing it? Choose carefully. One of those questions I am prepared to answer.”
