---
The drive home felt longer than usual. The city lights bled into soft ribbons through the tinted glass, glowing and fading like breaths he couldn't quite catch. Yuu sat back, eyes half-closed, letting the hum of the car steady him. The quiet was dangerous — it left room for memory to whisper.
He turned his gaze toward the window. His reflection stared back: composed, polite, immaculate. Exactly as it should be.
But beneath the surface of that calm, he could still feel the faint echo of something older — the same hollow ache that used to wake him in the middle of the night.
He pressed a hand over his chest, where the ache had once been sharp enough to break him open.
---
The Tachibana residence came into view, elegant and distant as ever. Light spilled from the garden windows, cutting across the pond where fish swam in slow, careful circles. Yuu stepped out of the car, greeted the driver with his usual gentle nod, and made his way up the steps.
His mother was waiting for him in the foyer. She never asked anyone to announce his return; somehow, she always knew.
"Yuu," she said softly, eyes warm yet searching. "You're late again."
"Board meeting," he replied, forcing a small smile. "It went… well enough."
Her brow lifted, just slightly. "You saw him."
Yuu paused, fingers tightening around the strap of his briefcase. There was no point pretending with her.
"I did."
For a moment, neither spoke. The faint hum of the garden lights filled the silence between them. His mother's gaze softened — not pitying, but careful, as though she were stepping across fragile glass.
"How are you feeling?"
He looked away. "I'm fine."
"Yuu." Her voice was quiet but steady. "You don't have to pretend. Not here."
He smiled again, because it was easier than answering. "It's been years, Mother. I'm not a child anymore."
"You weren't a child then either," she murmured. "That's what frightened me most."
Yuu flinched before he could hide it. The air seemed to shift — the faint scent of lilies from the garden, the soft sound of fish surfacing. All of it too familiar, too safe.
He didn't want to think about the way he'd fallen apart — the months that had blurred into white walls, whispered reassurances, the sterile hum of machines meant to calm him. The way she'd sat beside him, silent, holding his hand until the tremors in his voice stopped.
"I've moved on," he said finally, his voice almost convincing. "It's in the past."
His mother didn't argue. She simply reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his face. "The past has a way of following us when we leave the door open."
He gave a quiet laugh, the sound fragile but light. "You make it sound like it's alive."
"Sometimes it is."
Her eyes softened again, that same mixture of love and worry that always made him feel both grateful and guilty. "Your father said we're finalizing the contract with Nakamura Investments by next week. You'll be in close contact with Mr. Nakamura from now on."
Yuu's smile faltered. "I see."
"He doesn't know," she continued, almost in a whisper. "Your father. I didn't tell him. I thought… maybe it would only complicate things."
He swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat. "Thank you."
Her gaze didn't leave his face. "Just promise me you'll take precautions this time. Don't let old wounds reopen."
"I won't," he said, though they both knew it wasn't true.
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Go change. I'll have tea sent to the garden."
As he walked toward the stairs, he felt her eyes on his back — the silent weight of a mother who had seen too much and could say too little.
---
Later, in the garden, Yuu sat by the pond, watching the fish cut through the water with slow grace. The night air was cool against his skin. He loosened his tie, leaned back, and let the quiet wrap around him like an old memory.
It had been years, and yet the mention of Ren's name still carried that strange pull — half ache, half warmth. He could still remember the way it ended: Ren's voice steady but detached, like he was explaining a concept instead of shattering someone's world.
You're hard to hold.I don't want to fall in love. This is just puppy love.
That had been the day he ever considered suicide.
Yuu had smiled then, too. Always smiling. Even when the ground gave way beneath him.
He never told anyone what happened after — not the sleepless nights, not the hollow days that blurred into hospital walls and whispered diagnoses. His parents had called it "a breakdown." The doctors used words like "stress response," "emotional fatigue," "temporary collapse."
None of them said what it really was: heartbreak that didn't know how to stop beating.
Six months.
Six months to learn how to smile again. To convince everyone he was fine. To convince himself.
And now, after all those years, Ren had returned — sitting across the boardroom table as though he hadn't once been the reason Yuu had forgotten how to breathe.
The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
---
"Still awake?"
Yuu turned. His father stood by the doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled. He looked tired but satisfied — the kind of man who carried fatigue as a badge of purpose.
"Just getting some air," Yuu replied.
Daigo nodded, stepping closer. "I know today was a lot. You handled yourself well."
"Thank you."
"The board respects you. They see your potential. I'm proud of that."
Yuu smiled. "That means a lot."
Daigo's expression softened briefly, then turned thoughtful. "You'll be spending time with Mr. Nakamura's team soon. Learn from them. He seems like a capable young man."
Yuu forced himself to nod. "He is."
"Good. Stability and trust are essential in our line of work. I expect you to build both."
"I will, Father."
Daigo clapped him gently on the shoulder, the gesture warm but final. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's another long day."
As his father left, Yuu watched his silhouette disappear through the doorway, his voice echoing faintly down the hall — calm, proud, unaware.
When the house finally fell silent again, Yuu let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
His mother had been right: his father didn't know. And maybe it was better that way.
If Daigo ever learned that his prized consultant was the same boy who'd once broken his son beyond recognition, it would unravel everything the foundation had built — their reputation, their alliances, their carefully maintained image of grace.
Yuu couldn't allow that.
So he sat quietly in the dark, pretending that his pulse wasn't racing at the thought of seeing Ren again. Pretending that the tremor in his hand was from the evening chill, not something older and deeper.