Chapter 2 - Glance
Sleep never came. His voice still clung to me in the dark, claiming me with nothing more than my name. By morning, my body moved as if it had rested, but my chest was hollow, scraped raw. I needed noise, light—anything to drown the silence he had left behind.
That's how I ended up at the pub, choking on smoke and sweat, with faint citrus from spilled beer mixing with the bitter tang of old wood.
Apollo raised his glass high, foam dripping onto his wrist.
"To freedom!" he shouted, laughing too loudly, too easily, like it didn't cost him a thing.
I forced a small smile, clinking my glass against his. The beer was warm, sharp on my tongue, but it tasted empty—just like everything else tonight. Around us, voices collided, chairs scraped the floor, a song stumbled off-key. It should have been distracting.
Instead, Asami's voice clung to me, heavier now, the sound of my name pulling me back into his gravity.
Apollo slammed his glass down, grinning at me. "You're not even listening. Again."
"I am," I lied.
"No, you're not. You've been staring at that same spot on the wall for five minutes."
He leaned closer, his breath thick with alcohol. He studied me for a beat, then jabbed his finger toward the far wall.
"You've been staring at that same spot for five minutes. What's going on in that head of yours?"
His breath was thick with alcohol, but his eyes were sharp.
"Tell me, Ichinose—what's got you like this? Don't say the garden. You're worse than an old man when you start talking about flowers."
I laughed, but it cracked, hollow. "Maybe I am an old man already."
Apollo snorted. "At twenty-five? Please. You should be out chasing women. Or men. Or whatever sets your heart on fire."
His words cut too close. I coughed into my glass to hide the flush rising in my cheeks.
"Not everyone has the energy for that."
"You don't need energy. Just courage." He nudged me hard.
"So? Who is it? There's someone, I can see it. You go quiet like this only when your heart's tangled up."
I shook my head quickly. "It's nothing."
"Liar." Apollo smirked, satisfied.
"But fine. Keep your secrets. Just don't waste away before my eyes. Life's too damn short."
I tried to laugh, but his words stayed under my skin. Life's too damn short. If only he knew how every second burned when I was near Asami. It was eating me alive. But if I ever told him who, he'd laugh—or worse, pity me. Some secrets were safer rotting inside
*****
The morning garden was damp with early dew, each leaf beaded in silver. I moved on habit—pulling weeds, tying stalks—though my mind drifted far from the garden. Each rustle of wind teased me, a phantom footstep just behind me. Every slant of light through the branches caught, like his gaze—too familiar, too close.
I knelt to fasten a branch when I felt it: the weight of his presence, pressing down like a storm. My pulse spiked, heart racing before my eyes even dared to lift.
"Working already?"
His voice slid into me, low and dangerous, close enough that I could almost taste it.
I fumbled, my hand unsteady, the shears slipping from my grip.
"M-Master Asami. Good morning."
"Morning." His gaze swept over me, unreadable. "You were out late."
My throat tightened, the words caught somewhere between my tongue and my chest.
"I… was with a friend."
"Friend," he repeated, rolling the word slow, as though measuring it on his tongue.
"A good friend?"
"Yes," I whispered. Not good enough to scatter the thought of you.
He crouched beside me. His sleeve brushed mine, and the small contact jolted through me like lightning. My hand shook, and before I could hide it, the shears bit into my skin—sharp, bright blood welled up quickly.
"Tch." He caught my wrist with precision before I could hide it. "Careless."
"It—it's nothing," I stammered. "Just a scratch."
His grip was steady, thumb pressing gently against the cut. The simple act of his touch stole the air from my lungs, like the world had narrowed to just that single moment.
"Even small wounds matter."
The world seemed to narrow around that single touch—warm, firm, too gentle for what it did to me inside. My chest thrashed, every heartbeat threatening to betray me.
If I looked at him for too long, he'd see everything: the want, the hunger, the shame. His gaze always stripped me bare, and still I couldn't look away.
Oh, my God help me, I never could.
Finally, he released me, rising with a faint frown. "Be careful. The garden needs steady hands."
"Yes," I managed, clutching my hand against my chest as though to hold in the storm.
The cicadas drowned. The silence between us grew thick, pressing on my lungs.
Then he asked, "Do you enjoy drinking with your friend?"
The question struck harder than it should have. "Sometimes."
"Do you laugh with him?"
"I… yes."
A shift flickered in his expression—small, almost nothing, but I felt it.
"Good," he said.
The word lingered, heavy and unreadable.
"Does he make you smile more than I do?"
The air left my chest in a broken gasp. "No—it's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" His eyes narrowed, not cruel, but unyielding.
"I don't know," I muttered, turning back to the soil, hands shaking. "It doesn't matter."
"Everything matters," he said softly. Then he stepped away, leaving me trembling in his shadow.
*****
Later that day, he asked me to bring tools to the old west fence. The path was uneven, stones slick from last night's rain.
My boots slid, and before I could catch myself, I lurched forward—right into his hand. His grip was firm, steady, his fingers closing around my arm with a force that sent heat straight to my chest.
"You really are clumsy lately," he murmured, voice low, a touch of amusement threading through the words.
"Sorry," I whispered, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
His hand burned through my sleeve, the heat of it searing my skin. My chest was too close to his, and in that suspended second, the world narrowed to just the space between us, as though nothing else existed.
"Do you do this on purpose?" His breath ghosted against my ear.
"What—no! Of course not." The words tumbled over themselves, frantic, panicked.
"I'm just… tired."
His lips curved faintly, so close I felt the shape of his smile more than I saw it.
"You should rest. I can't have you breaking apart."
But I was already breaking.
Not from work, not from exhaustion, but from you.
From the way his voice coiled around me, from the heat of his hand. Every glance from him was a blade I pressed against willingly, helplessly.
We reached the fence at last. He inspected the wood while I set down the tools, my hands trembling so badly I nearly dropped them.
"You need a new hinge here," I said, the words falling out too fast, anything to break the silence.
"Show me," His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now—sharp.
I pointed, hands trembling, trying to explain, but he stepped closer, leaning over my shoulder. His breath stirred the hair at my temple, and it was too much, too close. My voice cracked under the weight of his proximity.
"See—here. Right here, where the wood splits."
"I see," His words were softer now, almost amused. "You notice everything."
I swallowed, my throat dry. "It's my job."
"No," he said. "It's you."
The words hit like a strike to the chest, sharper than any blade. My body locked, heat rushing through me. His eyes slid down, lingering at my mouth before lifting again. I felt it like a touch.
"Why are you shaking?" he asked.
"I—I'm not."
"You are." Calm. Certain. A flicker of amusement. "Is it me?"
I broke then, stammering nonsense. "I'm just tired."
"Then rest," he said, stepping back at last. His voice was still soft.
"But don't lie to me."
The distance between us should have given me air. Instead, it left me hollow, gasping in the silence he abandoned me to.
That night, I lay awake in the guest room again. The sheets smelled faintly of soap, but they couldn't wash away the ghost of his hand on mine, the weight of his eyes. Every glance, every word dug deeper, closer to the truth I fought to bury. If this continued, I'd shatter into pieces
The floor creaked outside my door. I sat up, heart pounding so hard it rattled the bedframe. A shadow slid beneath the crack of light. His shadow.
A knock followed—soft, deliberate, like a slow countdown. My throat closed, the air thickening around me.
"Yes?" My voice cracked through the silence, barely more than a whisper.
No answer. Then, his voice—low, certain, and cutting through the tension like a blade: "You're hiding something from me."
My chest seized. My breath caught, as if I couldn't draw air into my lungs.
"I… I don't know what you mean."
"You do." His voice remained steady—unnervingly so. It wasn't anger. It was something colder, more controlled. A calm, quiet promise. "And one day, I'll have the truth."
The door never opened. His footsteps faded down the hall, each one striking like a hammer inside me.
I curled beneath the sheets, shivering. He knew. God, he knew. And if he asked again, if he pressed just once more, I'd break apart and confess everything. It would ruin me. I should run. I should stay. I couldn't tell which would kill me faster.
Only his shadow remained, stretched long and endless across my mind.
The house was silent again, but silence no longer soothed me. I lay still, rigid under the thin sheets, every creak in the wood magnified, every shadow stretched long across the walls.
I told myself to breathe. In, out. Calm. But calm never came.
His voice lingered, steady and inescapable: One day, I'll have the truth.
The words burrowed deep, threading through my chest until I couldn't tell whether it was dread or desire that ached more. My body longed for escape, but the thought of distance from him hollowed me. I was cornered either way.
I turned my face into the pillow, damp with sweat, and let the night press down heavy. I would not sleep. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever again. His shadow had already claimed the room, claimed me.
By morning, nothing would have changed. He would greet me as always, calm, unreadable. And I would follow, hands steady enough to work, heart breaking in silence.
Because he knew. He always knew. And the truth he wanted was already burning me alive.
To be continued…