Sunday woke bright and salt-sweet, the kind of morning that made the ocean look like it had ironed itself smooth just to be polite. A small armada of Stellar Academy students spilled out of the train and fanned toward the boardwalk—coolers, parasols, a comically overstuffed volleyball, and exactly one industrial-sized bottle of SPF 50 that Yuki guarded like a dragon.
"Formation!" Yuki barked, clapping once. "Umbrellas left flank, blankets center, cooler squad with me. Kenta, you are hereby sunscreen czar."
Kenta saluted with the sunscreen like a scepter. "Approach and state your SPF needs."
Aiko laughed, light and honestly surprised by it. Yesterday's station drama still lingered like thunder beyond the horizon, but the sea breeze threaded through her hair and tugged worry loose strand by strand. Beside her, Javier's hand was warm and easy in hers. At 6'4", in a plain white tee and board shorts, he cast a long, unbothered shadow; she, at 5'2", felt somehow taller just standing next to him.
"Camellia oil after," she said, tapping the tote. "If we touch anyone's hair, it's post-sun, post-salt."
"Strategic," Javier said, eyes crinkling. "And we will keep the sun exactly where it belongs—far away from scalps."
Mei-Ling jogged up, ponytail swishing, followed by Rina and Satoshi carrying folded beach chairs. Somewhere behind them, a trio of Stellar first-years debated whether the ocean was "too damp" for ankles.
They set their camp with cheerful efficiency: two umbrellas angled against the rookie wind, blankets pinned at the corners with water bottles, bento boxes nested in the cooler like treasure. The volleyball thumped against the sand with promise.
"Team selection!" someone shouted from farther down the tide-line where a cluster of university students—boys and girls in neon tanks and sun-burnt enthusiasm—were scrimmaging. "We need one more to finish a game!"
Two girls, sun-kissed and grinning, peeled away from the group and trotted over.
"Sorry to poach," one said between breaths, "but we need an extra. And maybe... him?" She angled a not-subtle chin at Javier.
Aiko's smile was instant and polite. It pinched, a tiny prick beneath the ribs—and then it didn't, dissolving the moment Javier squeezed her fingers.
"Borrow me for ten minutes?" he asked her, already reading her face.
"Go," Aiko said. "Please. Just—hydrate, giant."
"Copy," he said, dropping a quick kiss to her temple—simple, declarative—and jogged after the girls, his stride eating sand like it wasn't there.
"Six-foot-four in the wild," Yuki murmured, amused. "We should charge admission."
They watched him fold into the game with that calm, kinetic intelligence Aiko was beginning to recognize as his default: the quick read of angles, the humility to cover backline without demanding every set, the sudden vertical when the ball needed erasing from the sky. The first rally tangled, adjusted, and then found a rhythm under his hands. A block. A feint. A soft drop just past the tape that made the other team laugh in defeat.
"Show-off," Kenta said fondly, cupping his mouth. "HEY VARELA, WATER BREAK BETWEEN HEROICS."
Javier flashed a thumbs-up without turning, already tracking the next serve.
Aiko busied herself staking the umbrella tighter. Mei-Ling knelt to help, knotting guy-lines like she was tying bows on fate.
"You okay?" Mei-Ling asked quietly.
"Yes," Aiko said, surprised to realize it was true. Jealousy came like a little wave, lapped at her ankle, and went out again; in its wake there was something steadier. "He's very... clear."
Mei-Ling's mouth tilted. "He is."
The game tightened. Two-all, three-all. At four-three, Javier took a wild set that should have died and—because physics sometimes loses arguments—hung in the air long enough for him to thread it into the only gap that existed for exactly one heartbeat. Sand erupted. Cheers went up. The neon-tank girls smacked his shoulder in delighted outrage.
"Okay, I get it," Yuki said, hand over her brow. "Tall, fast, polite, mythological."
"Stay hydrated!" Kenta bellowed again, then leaned to Aiko. "You good?"
"Better than good." She grinned. "Hungry."
"Now you're speaking my love language."
They had just pried open the bento when a pocket of commotion stirred farther down shore. A small group approached—three guys carrying a cooler by the handles, two girls in visor caps flipping a volleyball between them like coin tosses.
Aiko's breath slipped.
Ryo.
He looked different and exactly the same: tall and lean, guitar-callused hands balancing the cooler without seeming to try, a band tee faded to loyalty. Two of his bandmates trailed—Kai with the half-shaved hair and Toma with shoulders like a doorframe—and a pair of girls whose laughs ran too loud over the surf. For a moment, the years collapsed into one bus, one lie, one long, complicated arc that had already been lived and put away.
Ryo was scanning the shoreline with a lazy musician's focus when his gaze snagged on her and went very still. Recognition tightened his posture. Uncertainty chased it.
He changed direction.
"Hey," he said when he reached the shade of their umbrella. He took off his sunglasses, eyes kind in a way that made Aiko remember why she'd helped him in the first place. "Aiko."
"Hi, Ryo." She stood. "It's been a while."
Bandmate Kai did a quick, blatant appraisal of the group, clocked Yuki's protective stance, Kenta's folded arms, Mei-Ling's polite neutrality. The two girls with them drifted closer, curiosity pricking.
And then, like a scene deciding to underline itself, the volleyball scrimmage exploded in cheers—Javier had just sealed the game with a block that might get its own postal stamp. He jogged back toward them, flushed and grinning, sun in his hair, the neon-tanks chattering at his elbows.
He took in Ryo at a glance—one heartbeat, two—and slid into place beside Aiko, one hand finding the small of her back, casual as breathing.
Ryo's eyes flicked to that hand.
"You were..." Ryo started, stopped. He tried again. "I think I've seen a picture—the academy showcase? You and—" He looked between them, then let out a breathy laugh that wasn't quite a laugh. "So it wasn't fake. Or—was it fake with me and real with...?"
"Ryo," Aiko said gently, because this deserved gentleness, "this is Javier Varela. My boyfriend."
Javier offered his hand. "Buenas. Javier Varela. Student stylist. On a weekend at the beach with my girlfriend and her friends."
The words landed like pebbles in a clear pool—no echo, just rings expanding outward until everything around them understood what they meant.
Ryo shook his hand, grip steady. "Ryo Nakamura." He tipped his chin at the volleyball court. "Also apparently someone who almost made the tragic mistake of challenging you to a game."
"You'd have won the soundtrack," Javier said easily. "I only won sand."
"Flirting with poets again," Kai muttered.
"Be polite," Yuki hissed without looking at him, then smiled sweetly at Ryo. "Want some onigiri? It prevents rudeness."
Ryo's mouth quirked. "I could be prevented."
They arranged themselves in an uneasy semicircle under the shade—bandmates lingering at polite distance, the visor girls pretending not to eavesdrop while very much eavesdropping. Mei-Ling cracked open fizzy waters like a bartender who refused to let anyone dehydrate on her watch.
"I heard somewhere," Ryo said after a moment, eyes on the horizon, "that you—Javier—had a picture up. With Aiko." He didn't make it a question, exactly; he made it a white flag.
"I do," Javier said. "We don't do ambiguities with relationship status." He glanced at Aiko with a crooked smile. "She is the point of my sentences."
"Right," Ryo said quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words that didn't push. "Aiko, I—look, you don't owe me anything. But I feel like I should say: that old mess—my manager, the video, Mika... I'm sorry for the noise I brought into your world."
"It's past," Aiko said. She watched the shape of his apology as it settled. "You did the work to make it past."
He nodded. "Mika's painting again," he added softly. "You were... right. About the root and the symptom."
A small, honest relief unfurled in Aiko's chest. "I'm glad."
The tension that had threaded through the initial encounter began to dissolve as everyone found their rhythm. A gull strafed low, offended by absolutely nothing. Down shore, laughter rose and folded back into the roar of the tide.
One of the visor girls edged closer, eyes widening at Javier like she'd spotted a rare lighthouse. "Hey, um, we're short one again—winner-stays? We could use you." She hesitated, looked at Aiko, and added in a rush, "If that's okay!"
"It is," Aiko said, and meant it. "He'll drink water first."
"Twice," Kenta added, somehow producing a hydro flask from the cooler like a magician with a rabbit.
Javier raised the bottle in salute, then looked to Aiko for the quiet, private check-in they had wordlessly practiced. She rolled her wrist—go, then come home—and he smiled the kind of smile that made leaving and returning the same action.
He jogged back to the net, and this time the field rearranged around his presence like it was relieved he'd come back. The visor girls whooped. The neon tanks jeered in sportsmanlike despair. Javier's jump carved a brief doorway in the sky.
Ryo watched, hands in pockets, thoughtful. "He's... obvious about you," he said at last, not unkindly.
"Mm," Aiko said, following the line of Javier's motion with a satisfaction that surprised her in its steadiness. "He is."
"And you're obvious about him," Ryo added. "That's new for you."
Aiko weighed the word. "It is."
They stood in the hush beneath the umbrella while the game crackled around them. Yuki deployed bento with the solemnity of a tea ceremony; Mei-Ling re-tied a fluttering umbrella ribbon; Satoshi tried to explain to Kai the biomechanics of a good floater serve until Kai surrendered and ate an onigiri to survive the lecture.
Ryo cleared his throat. "For what it's worth: I'm... truly happy for you. For both of you." He lifted a palm. "And that's not a setup for a song."
Aiko's laugh joined the wind. "Thank you."
"Oh," Kai said suddenly, pointing with his chin at a sand ridge where Toma and the other bandmate were setting up a Bluetooth speaker. "We brought music, if anyone wants—"
"Slow," Yuki said, mock-menacing. "No ballads. No breakup anthems. It's a sunscreen-only zone."
Kai swore allegiance to the chill playlist and pressed play. A beat rolled out—salted, unhurried. The volleyball game synched its cadence without meaning to.
At match point, a kid with a bucket toddled straight into the baseline like destiny incarnate. The serve froze midair. Six bodies moved at once. Javier dropped, scooped the kid up, and spun with just enough centrifugal force to turn the near-collision into a lark, setting the boy down on the safe side with a gentle boop on the brim of his hat. The crowd exhaled. Someone clapped. The kid's parent mouthed thank you. The serve reset. Point. Game.
When Javier trotted back, the visor girls peeled off with exaggerated sighs.
"If you ever need a fourth for mixed doubles," one called, "we're free every Sunday morning."
Javier grinned. "I have training most mornings, but if schedules line up..." He tipped his chin toward Aiko. "We come as a set."
"Understood," she said, and waved at Aiko with a conspiratorial smile that said he's the kind you keep.
He ducked under the umbrella's shade, warmth still radiating from his skin, and collapsed onto the blanket beside Aiko like a sunlit felled tree.
"Water," she said, pressing the bottle to his palm.
"Obedient," he said, and drank. He set the bottle down and, without apparent self-consciousness, lay back, tugged Aiko with him until her head found his shoulder. The move was protective but unposed; it said mine to exactly one person: her.
Ryo saw it. Something in his expression eased all the way.
"Hey," he said to Javier, genuine now that the shape of things was settled. "We've got an acoustic set later by the boardwalk. Not a show—just a few songs while the sun goes down. No drama. If you two want to swing by..."
"We'd like that," Javier said, glancing at Aiko. She nodded. "Gracias."
Kai eyed them. "Bring your tall," he said to Javier solemnly. "He boosts views."
"You're impossible," Yuki told him, then softened. "But fine. Only if you let Aiko braid your girlfriend's hair after. She's frizzing and I can't watch it happen."
Visor Girl beamed. "Please. I brought a detangler."
"Deal," Yuki said for all of them.
The afternoon stretched lazily as they settled deeper into beach rhythm. Kenta had commandeered a portable speaker and was cycling through what he called his "optimal sand playlist"—nothing too aggressive, nothing that would make people want to sprint when they should be lounging.
"This is perfect background music for doing absolutely nothing," Rina said approvingly, stretching out on her towel with a satisfied sigh.
"Doing nothing is an art form," Satoshi replied, adjusting his sunglasses with the precision of someone who took relaxation seriously. "Most people are terrible at it."
Aiko found herself genuinely relaxing for the first time since the platform incident. The sun was warm but not overwhelming under their umbrella, the sound of waves provided a natural rhythm that seemed to slow everyone's breathing, and the easy conversation of her friends created exactly the kind of normalcy she hadn't realized she was craving.
"Aiko," Javier said quietly, settling beside her on the blanket, "can we stop the one-word responses now? We've trained enough for today."
She looked at him curiously. "One-word responses?"
"We were testing them earlier—you know, for the International Master Stylist Championship. I wanted to see if we could develop a communication technique where we understand each other with minimal verbal cues. Could be useful if we end up working together in a timed round."
"Oh," Aiko said, understanding dawning. "Right. Yes, we can talk normally now."
"Good, because I was starting to feel like I was communicating with a very polite robot."
Yuki snorted. "You two have been practicing competitive communication techniques? That's either incredibly nerdy or incredibly romantic."
"Both," Kenta said definitively. "Definitely both."
"It's practical," Aiko protested, though she was smiling. "Efficiency in high-pressure situations could make the difference between success and failure."
"Listen to her," Rina said with fond exasperation. "Even at the beach, she's strategizing."
"Someone has to," Aiko replied. "Especially after last night."
The mention of the previous evening's encounter cast a brief shadow over their sunny mood, but Mei-Ling quickly redirected the conversation.
"Speaking of strategy," she said, pulling out her phone, "I got a message from those former assistants I mentioned. They're available next weekend if you want to do a mock judging session."
"Mock judging at the beach?" Satoshi asked hopefully.
"No," Aiko said firmly. "Mock judging requires proper lighting and professional setup. But we could do technique practice here if anyone wants to work on braids."
"I volunteer as tribute," one of the visor girls called out from nearby, apparently having been eavesdropping on their conversation. "My hair is a disaster after volleyball."
Within minutes, Aiko found herself with an impromptu client, working salt-damp hair into a series of loose braids that would dry into beach waves. The familiar rhythm of sectioning and weaving was soothing, and she found herself explaining her process to the small audience that had gathered.
"The key with damp hair is working with its natural texture instead of fighting it," she said, her hands moving with practiced confidence. "Salt water actually enhances curl patterns if you don't brush it out aggressively."
"That's fascinating," the girl said, watching Aiko's technique in the hand mirror Yuki had produced. "I usually just let it air-dry into whatever chaos it wants to become."
"Controlled chaos is better," Javier added, settling beside them to observe. "Same principle applies to a lot of things—work with natural patterns instead of imposing artificial structure."
"Is that your philosophy for competition too?" Rina asked with interest.
"Partly," Aiko replied, putting the finishing touches on the braid. "Although competitions require adapting to artificial constraints—time limits, specific challenges, judge preferences. The trick is maintaining your natural style while meeting external requirements."
"Sounds exhausting," Satoshi observed.
"Everything worthwhile is exhausting at first," Javier said with a shrug. "But it becomes easier when you have the right training partner."
The casual way he said it—matter-of-fact rather than romantic—made Aiko's heart do something complicated and pleasant.
As the afternoon progressed, their beach camp became a sort of informal gathering point. Other students from various Tokyo schools drifted over, drawn by the combination of good music, interesting conversation, and the novelty of watching actual hairstyling demonstrations on the sand.
"This is turning into an impromptu salon," Kenta observed, watching Aiko work on her third volunteer client of the day.
"Beach salon," Yuki corrected. "Very trendy. We should charge admission."
"We should not," Aiko said quickly, though she was enjoying the opportunity to practice techniques in an unconventional setting. "This is just for fun."
"Fun that happens to be excellent training," Javier pointed out. "Working with different hair textures, adapting to environmental challenges, managing time constraints with multiple clients—it's all competition-relevant."
"Do you two ever stop thinking about training?" Mei-Ling asked with amused exasperation.
"No," Aiko and Javier said simultaneously, then looked at each other and burst into laughter.
"That," Rina said, pointing at them, "is either adorable or terrifying."
"Definitely both," Kenta agreed.
As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of coral and gold, their group started the gradual process of packing up. Sand was shaken from blankets, empty bottles collected, leftover snacks redistributed among anyone who wanted them.
"Photo time!" Yuki announced, producing her phone with the enthusiasm of someone who documented everything. "Everyone together, and I want to see genuine smiles, not those fake academy promotional shots."
The resulting photo captured them perfectly—windblown and sun-kissed, arranged in a loose cluster around their beach setup with the ocean stretching endlessly behind them. Aiko found herself between Javier and Yuki, Javier's arm around her shoulders and her friends clustered close enough to feel like family.
"Perfect," Yuki declared, reviewing the image. "This is going straight to the group chat with the caption 'Training Day: Beach Edition.'"
"Make sure you tag everyone properly," Kenta said, always thinking about social media etiquette. "And maybe mention that we're accepting applications for Beach Salon Assistant positions."
"Absolutely not," Aiko said, though she was still smiling. "We are not turning this into a business opportunity."
By the time they reached the boardwalk's end, a modest circle had already gathered around Ryo and his bandmates. No fevered crowd this time, no crush against the stage—just a concentric hum of people letting the day soften. The first chord rang clear as glass, then settled into a progression that felt like windows open in polite weather.
Ryo caught sight of Aiko and Javier—registered them with a nod that carried thanks, apology, and a promise to do better in the future without another word. Then he sang, and the song was about tides that learn the shoreline's name, about choosing to be kind to the current that tries to pull you too far out.
After, visor girl plopped down on a bench in front of Aiko, hair frizzed into a halo by the salt. "Please?" she asked, offering the detangler meekly.
"Only if you promise sunscreen next time," Aiko said, and the girl swore eternal compliance. Aiko worked quickly and gently, hands sure, detangler in, camellia finish—salt memory kept, knots forgiven. When she finished, the girl touched her hair like it was a new instrument she was excited to learn to play.
"This," the girl whispered, "is the good quiet."
Aiko smiled. "Yes."
The walk back from Ryo's acoustic set found them threading through Tokyo's evening crowds, salt still clinging to their hair and the memory of gentle music floating between them like an invisible thread. The boardwalk performance had been exactly what Ryo had promised—no drama, just honest songs and the kind of sunset that made everyone forget their complications for a while.
"That was actually really good," Yuki said, swinging her beach bag as they navigated toward the train station. "I mean, I was prepared to be politely supportive, but his voice has gotten much better since the last time I heard him perform."
"He seemed more relaxed too," Rina observed. "Less like he was trying to prove something and more like he was just... sharing music."
Kenta nodded approvingly. "That's what happens when you stop performing your feelings and start processing them properly."
"Very wise, Dr. Kenta," Satoshi said with mock solemnity. "Did you learn that in Advanced Hair Psychology class?"
"I learned that from watching Aiko handle the Mika situation," Kenta replied seriously. "Sometimes the best way to help someone is to see the pain underneath their bad behavior."
As they settled into seats on the return train, the comfortable exhaustion of a day well-spent began settling over the group. The carriage swayed gently, carrying them back toward campus and Monday's responsibilities.
"Speaking of communication," Yuki said, pulling out her phone, "we should probably coordinate schedules for this week. Weren't you leaving for Spain soon, Javier?"
"Thursday," Javier confirmed. "Isabella wants me back for intensive training with her network of master stylists. We're going to focus on Spanish-specific techniques and color theory before the competition."
"How long will you be gone?" Rina asked.
"Six weeks, maybe eight. Depends on how quickly I can absorb what they're teaching and how ready Isabella thinks I am for international-level competition."
Aiko felt a familiar tightness in her chest at the reminder of their approaching separation, but it was different now—not the desperate fear of abandonment she might have felt months ago, but the normal sadness that came with missing someone important.
"We'll manage the time difference," she said firmly. "And you'll learn things I can't teach you here."
"Plus," Mei-Ling added thoughtfully, "it'll give us time to focus on building our support network here without distractions. Those mock judging sessions, continued work at Hoshizora, maybe even reaching out to other international programs for collaboration."
"See?" Javier said, squeezing Aiko's hand gently. "You'll be so busy improving that six weeks will feel like nothing."
"Or like forever," Yuki muttered. "But in a good way. A productive forever."
On the train back, everyone moved in that seaside sleep where the body believes it has been gently shaken for hours. Aiko leaned into Javier, and he angled himself so her head found his shoulder without a jolt when the carriage turned. Across the aisle, Ryo and Kai dozed, guitar case upright between their knees like something guarding their dreams. When Ryo opened his eyes once, he met Aiko's and lifted two fingers in a small salute—not goodbye, not exactly; more like we're good.
Back at the academy gate, the ivy sighed in a night breeze. They paused under the arch the way you stop in the foyer of a house you love, not ready to go to separate rooms.
"Thank you," Aiko said to the group as they reached the point where their paths diverged toward different dormitories. "For making today exactly what I needed it to be."
"What we all needed," Javier corrected gently. "But you're welcome."
"Group hug!" Yuki announced, and before anyone could protest, they found themselves in a tangle of arms and laughter that lasted just long enough to feel meaningful without becoming awkward.
As they finally separated and headed toward their respective buildings, Aiko walked with Javier toward the guest quarters where he was staying during his Tokyo visit.
"Are you nervous about going back to Spain?" she asked as they took the long route through the campus gardens.
"Not nervous, exactly. Excited, maybe? It feels like the next necessary step." He paused, looking down at her seriously. "But I'll miss this. Miss you. Miss having someone who understands what I'm working toward."
"I understand what you're working toward because I'm working toward the same thing," Aiko replied. "That's not going to change just because there's an ocean between us."
"No," he said simply. "It won't."
They stopped under one of the garden's old cherry trees, its branches bare in preparation for winter but still graceful in the moonlight. The campus was quiet around them, most students having retreated to their rooms for Sunday night study sessions or early sleep.
"Aiko," Javier said softly, "today—watching you work with those kids, seeing how naturally you adapt your techniques to different environments, the way you make everyone around you feel capable and valued—it reminded me why I fell in love with you."
The words were simple but they hit Aiko with unexpected force, making her realize how much she had needed to hear them after the jealousy and concern that Li Yanyue's kiss had stirred up.
"Not because you're convenient or available," he continued, "but because you embody everything I want to become as a stylist and as a person. You see people's worth even when they can't see it themselves."
"That's what you taught me," Aiko said quietly. "In the park, three years ago. You saw worth in me when I couldn't see it myself."
"And now we see it in each other," Javier said, cupping her face gently in his hands. "That's what's going to carry us through whatever challenges come next."
"Six weeks," she said.
"Six weeks," he agreed. "And then we'll be stronger apart than we were together."
"And stronger together than we could be apart."
"Exactly."
"Tomorrow," Javier said, the word a promise and a plan. "We keep building."
"And we keep the quiet," Aiko said.
He nodded, then ducked so she didn't have to rise on tiptoe. She kissed him once, sand-sweet and certain, and thought—not of station platforms and flares, not of old staged romances and viral noise—but of a basin and warm water and hands that narrate consent and care until the knots remember how to open.
They kissed under the cherry tree, salt-sweet and certain, surrounded by the quiet sounds of campus settling into evening. When they broke apart, Aiko felt grounded in a way that had nothing to do with competition or strategy and everything to do with the simple recognition of being known and loved completely.
As they walked the final distance to his building, Aiko carried with her the certainty that whatever tests lay ahead—from reigning champions or international judges—they had built something that could weather any storm.
The real competition wasn't against other stylists. It was against the tendency to let external pressure compromise what they knew to be true about themselves and each other.
And on that front, they were already winning.