Chapter 3: Reality?
The week that followed was the longest of Nami’s life. It was a seven-day marathon of manufactured busyness and deliberate avoidance. She arrived at the office early and left late, burying herself in the test kitchen, experimenting with flavors so obscure that even Kenji raised an eyebrow. She created a paste from fermented black garlic and shiitake mushrooms that was so intensely umami it made her eyes water, and another from roasted barley and chicory root that tasted like a sophisticated coffee substitute. None of them captured the magic of Moonlight Velvet, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to have a valid, work-related reason to be anywhere but near the top floor.
Every time her phone rang or an email from the executive office popped up, her stomach would clench into a cold, hard knot. But the summons didn’t come. The silence from Arima was deafening, a void filled with the roaring echo of her own memories: the feel of his lap beneath her, the strength of his arms, the whisper of his breath against her neck.
She replayed his words over and over. “You’re the first.” “I like my name on your tongue.” They were statements that should have filled her with indignation, with a sense of violation. And part of her felt that, deeply. But another part, a part she was deeply ashamed of, felt a thrill so potent it was addictive. The most powerful man she had ever met was confessing that she, quiet, invisible Nami, had gotten under his skin.
By the time Monday arrived, the anxiety had become a constant, humming companion. When the call finally came—the secretary’s crisp voice instructing her to report to Mr. Arima’s office—it was almost a relief. The waiting was over. Now, she had to face the consequences.
She walked the now-familiar route, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She had deliberately chosen her most nondescript outfit: a simple, loose-fitting blue dress that hung straight from her shoulders, paired with her trusted blue and white sneakers. It was a uniform of anonymity, a sartorial plea to be overlooked.
She knocked, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet corridor. “Enter.”
She pushed the door open. He was seated at his desk, bathed in the morning light. He wore a simple black shirt that made his hair seem darker and his presence even more imposing. He was studying something on his monitor, his profile sharp and focused. Her breath caught. He looked… devastatingly handsome.
“S-Sir, you called for me,” she said, stopping a safe distance in front of his desk, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
He looked up. And then he smiled. It wasn’t the small, fleeting smile of approval he’d given her paste. This was different. It was a slow, deliberate smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners slightly. It was a smile of intimate recognition, and it sent a shiver straight down her spine.
“Nami,” he said. Her name, in his deep baritone, was no longer just a name. It was a caress, a claim. It sounded different from anyone else, laden with a meaning that made her knees weak.
He stood up, moving around the desk with that same predatory grace. “You’ve been avoiding me?” It was phrased as a question, but his tone held a knowing certainty.
Panic flared. She took an involuntary step back. “N-No, sir. I was… thinking of new recipes.” It was the truth, but it sounded like a pathetic lie even to her own ears.
He took another step forward. She retreated again, until her back pressed against the cool, unyielding surface of the office wall. She was trapped. He stopped directly in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the clean, spicy scent of his cologne.
“I missed you,” he said, his voice low and quiet.
Her eyes widened, her cheeks flooding with heat. “S-Sir?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
He lifted a hand, his fingers gently tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark pools of intensity, holding hers captive. “I missed you,” he repeated, as if it were the most simple, obvious fact in the world.
His other hand moved to her waist, resting there lightly. She stiffened, every muscle tense. Then, his hand began to move, tracing the curve of her hip through the soft fabric of her dress, a slow, deliberate rub up and down her side. The touch was possessive, exploratory. A gasp escaped her lips. The loose dress, meant to hide her, now felt like a flimsy barrier against his intent.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips for a heartbeat before returning to her eyes.
The compliment, so direct and unexpected, stole the air from her lungs. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You’re different. And you’re my first. I haven’t spared women a glance till now. They disgust me. Not all, but most. Their agendas are transparent.” His thumb stroked her chin. “What are you doing to me, Nami? I’m scared of myself now.”
The confession was raw, vulnerable, and utterly disarming. It was the last thing she expected from the formidable Arima Kousei. Before she could process it, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her chin.
Her breath hitched. Her hands, which had been frozen at her sides, came up. Her intention was to push him away, to create distance. But instead, her fingers curled into the soft black cotton of his shirt, holding on to him as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
He made a soft, approving sound deep in his throat and wrapped his arms around her fully, pulling her against him in a tight embrace. He was solid and warm, and she felt incredibly small and fragile in his arms. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his nose nuzzling against her skin. Her heart was beating so wildly she was sure he could feel it.
They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, pressed against the wall, his body shielding hers. The world outside, the company, Project Genesis—it all faded away. There was only the feel of him, the sound of his breathing, and the intoxicating, terrifying sense of being wanted so intensely.
After a few minutes, he pulled back slightly. His eyes were darker, softer. He pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose, a gesture so unexpectedly sweet it made her chest ache. Then, he took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers, and gently dragged her away from the wall towards his desk.
“Let’s focus on this for now,” he said, his voice returning to a more business-like tone, though it still held an intimate warmth. He sat down in his chair. “I need help with these recipes. Sit on my lap.”
The command was so blunt, so audacious, that it broke the spell. Reality came crashing back. “Wha-What if someone enters?” she stammered, her eyes darting towards the door in panic.
A flicker of impatience crossed his face. “I don’t care.” Then, a smirk touched his lips. “And also, before anyone enters, they require my electronic permission. The door is biometric and key-coded. No one can force their way in. Not even my mother.” The statement was a stark reminder of the absolute control he wielded in this domain.
She shook her head, taking a step back. “Arima, I can’t—”
But he was faster. He reached out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her down onto his lap before she could protest further. She landed with a soft gasp, the position even more intimate than the last time. She tried to get up, but his arms immediately snaked around her waist, pulling her back firmly against his chest.
“A-Arima,” she stammered, squirming in his grasp.
He groaned, a low, rough sound that vibrated through her. “Stay put, Nami,” he whispered directly into her ear, his breath hot. “Or I’ll kiss you.”
She stiffened immediately, every muscle locking in place. The threat, or promise, was terrifyingly effective. The memory of his lips on her chin was still burning on her skin.
He chuckled softly, a rich, dark sound. “I like my name on your tongue so much. It’s intoxicating.” He nuzzled her hair for a moment before shifting his attention to the computer. “Now, let’s work.”
And so began the most surreal hour of her life. With her perched on his lap, held securely in his arms, Arima Kousei, CEO of Gofood, proceeded to review product development reports. He would ask her opinion on a proposed recipe for a yuzu-infused ponzu sauce or a black sesame dressing, his voice calm and professional. She, with her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest, would stammer out a response, her mind struggling to form coherent thoughts about acidity and emulsion while acutely aware of the hard muscle of his thigh beneath her and the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back.
At one point, she shifted slightly to get a better look at the screen, and he let out another soft groan, his arms tightening. “I warned you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her earlobe.
She froze, and he gave a satisfied hum, returning to the document. The power dynamic was dizzying. He was conducting business as usual, while using his physicality to keep her in a state of constant, heightened awareness. It was a game, and he was the undisputed master.
When they were finally done, she tried to lever herself up, desperate for escape, for air. But his arms remained locked around her.
“Nami, I…” he started, his voice losing its professional edge, becoming heavy with something unspoken.
Panic surged through her. She couldn’t hear it. Whatever he was about to say would make this even more real, more complicated. “I have to go back to the office, please,” she cut him off, her voice pleading. She placed her hands on his arm, trying to pry it loose. It was like trying to bend steel.
He sighed, a sound of frustration and resignation. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her temple. “Okay,” he relented.
But he still didn’t let go. He held her for a moment longer, as if memorizing the feel of her.
“A-Arima?” she prompted, her voice small.
With a final, reluctant sigh, he pressed one last kiss to the side of her neck, a shiver-worthy caress, and then released his hold.
She scrambled off his lap so quickly she almost stumbled, straightening her dress with trembling hands. She didn’t dare look at him.
“Good night, Nami,” he said, his voice soft.
She was at the door, her hand on the knob. “N-Night,” she stammered, the word barely audible, and then she fled, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving him alone in the vast, silent office.
Arima leaned back in his chair, the ghost of her warmth and weight still lingering on his lap. He ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of agitation. He had crossed every line he had ever drawn for himself. He had terrified her, he knew that. But he had also seen the flicker of response in her eyes, felt the way her hands had fisted in his shirt instead of pushing him away.
He was navigating uncharted territory, driven by an obsession he didn't fully understand. She was a vulnerability, a complication he could not afford. But as the scent of strawberries and roses slowly faded from the air, replaced by the sterile smell of his office, he knew with a chilling certainty that he had no intention of stopping. The game had only just begun, and Nami Watanabe was the prize he was determined to claim
Nami didn't stop until she was safely inside a bathroom stall on a deserted floor, far from the prying eyes of her own team. She slammed the bolt shut and collapsed onto the closed toilet seat, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw breath. The cold, hard reality of the stall was a stark contrast to the dizzying, warm captivity of Arima's lap. She shut her eyes tightly, but the image was burned onto the back of her eyelids: the intense darkness of his gaze, the feel of his hands tracing her hip, the shocking confession whispered against her skin.
What just happened?
The question echoed in the frantic rhythm of her heart. He had said he missed her. The CEO of Gofood, a man who existed in a stratosphere so far above her own she could barely comprehend it, had claimed to have missed the presence of a junior recipe developer. It was absurd. It was terrifying.
And yet, a treacherous, tiny flame of happiness flickered deep within the icy cavern of her fear. It was a feeling so foreign and so shameful that she immediately tried to smother it. This was dangerous. This was a professional catastrophe waiting to happen. He held her entire career in his hands. One wrong word from him, one misinterpreted incident, and she would be not just unemployed, but unemployable in the industry.
But she couldn't deny the visceral reaction of her own body. The way her skin had tingled where he touched her. The way her hands had clung to his shirt instead of pushing him away. The way his whispered words—"I'm scared of myself now"—had sparked a confusing sense of power alongside the panic.
She was drowning in a sea of contradictions. He was overwhelming, dominant, and crossed boundaries with an unnerving ease. But he was also, in his own bizarre way, vulnerable with her. He saw her. Not just as an employee, but as Nami. And for a woman who had spent a lifetime making herself invisible, being seen was the most potent drug of all.
When she finally felt steady enough to leave the stall, she avoided the eighth floor entirely. She claimed a sudden migraine and went home, spending the rest of the day wrapped in a blanket on her sofa, staring at the wall. The silence of her apartment was a relief, but it was also a vacuum that allowed her thoughts to race unchecked.
That evening, she broke down and called Akari. She needed an outside perspective, a voice of reason to cut through the chaos in her head.
"Nami? What's wrong? You sound strange," Akari said, her voice laced with immediate concern.
The story spilled out in a rushed, disjointed torrent. The summons, the confrontation against the wall, the shocking confessions, the intimate work session on his lap. She left nothing out, her voice trembling with a mixture of horror and a bewildered excitement she couldn't conceal.
There was a long, stunned silence on the other end of the line. "Wow," Akari finally breathed. "Okay. Just… wow."
"What do I do, Akari? This is insane! He's my boss! This is harassment!"
"Is it?" Akari asked, her tone shifting from shock to careful analysis. "I mean, it's definitely unprofessional and a huge power imbalance. But from what you're describing… it sounds less like harassment and more like he's completely, totally obsessed with you."
"That's not better!" Nami wailed.
"Isn't it?" Akari countered. "Think about it. He's not just trying to get you into bed. He's confessing that you're the first woman he's ever paid attention to. He's telling you he's scared. He's making you a part of his work. He's seeking you out for your opinion. This is… intense. This is good, Nami. Very good."
"Good? How is any of this good?"
"Because a man like that doesn't waste his time on trivial flings. If he's this fixated, it means he sees something in you that's real. But you can't make a move. You absolutely cannot. You have to let him lead. You have to continue to play hard to get."
Nami groaned in frustration. "I'm not playing hard to get! I am hard to get because this is terrifying! It's overwhelming and embarrassing! He's… he's my first, too, Akari. I've never… no man has ever even held my hand, let alone… all of that." The admission was whispered, full of shame.
Akari's voice softened. "Oh, Nami. I know. And that makes this even more complicated. But listen to me. Your inexperience, your genuine shyness… that's probably what's drawing him in. It's real. It's not a game to you. And a man as powerful as he is, who's probably surrounded by people playing games all day long, can probably sense that authenticity from a mile away. So, you don't have to act. Just be yourself. Be nervous. Be flustered. But don't hide from him. And for God's sake, stop wearing those baggy clothes. You need to meet his intensity with your own quiet confidence."
The advice swirled in Nami's head long after she hung up. Play hard to get. Be yourself. Meet his intensity. It felt like contradictory, impossible advice.
The next day, she forced herself to go to work. The need for normalcy, for the familiar sanctuary of her craft, was overwhelming. She couldn't control the storm that was Arima Kousei, but she could control what happened in the test kitchen.
She decided to shift her focus. Moonlight Velvet was a success, but a paste needed a vehicle. She wanted to create something that would complement it perfectly. She envisioned a chip, something delicate and elegant, that could be used for dipping or as a gourmet accompaniment. It had to be gluten-free and vegan to align with the Genesis philosophy.
She started with a base of rice flour and tapioca starch for lightness. Then, she incorporated the very essence of her paste: finely ground almonds and unsweetened coconut flakes. She added a pinch of salt and enough warm water to bring it together into a soft, pliable dough. After letting it rest, she rolled it out paper-thin, using a pasta machine to achieve a perfect, translucent consistency. She cut it into small, elegant triangles and rectangles.
The first batch she fried in coconut oil. They puffed up beautifully, turning a pale golden brown. She sprinkled them with a tiny bit of the coconut sugar she'd used in the paste. They were good—crispy, nutty, slightly sweet. But frying felt too heavy, too common for the ethereal quality of Moonlight Velvet.
She tried baking the next batch. She brushed them lightly with a mixture of the almond-coconut milk and baked them at a low temperature until they were crisp and dry. These were better. They were lighter, more delicate, their flavor more nuanced. But they were still missing something.
She spent the entire day in the kitchen, a whirlwind of flour and experimentation. Kenji popped his head in at one point, sniffing the air appreciatively.
"Something smells amazing in here, Nami-chan. What's the new masterpiece?"
"Just trying to make some chips to go with the Moonlight Velvet paste," she said, gesturing to the latest batch cooling on a rack.
Kenji snatched one and popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened. "These are incredible! They're like… a cloud. A tasty, nutty cloud. You're a genius."
The praise from her colleague, so simple and professional, was a balm to her frayed nerves. This was her world. This was where she was in control. For a few hours, she managed to forget the storm waiting for her on the top floor. The focus required to perfect the chip—the exact ratio of rice flour to almond meal, the perfect baking temperature, the ideal thickness—was a form of meditation.
As the afternoon sun slanted through the windows of the test kitchen, casting long shadows across the stainless steel counters, Nami held up a final, perfectly baked chip. It was pale, almost white, with a delicate, lacy structure. It was the physical manifestation of the paste: elegant, unique, and full of subtle flavor. She dipped it into a small bowl of Moonlight Velvet. The creamy, spicy-sweet paste clung to the crisp chip. She took a bite.
It was perfect. A harmony of texture and taste.
In that moment, surrounded by the evidence of her own talent and hard work, she felt a small surge of the confidence Akari had spoken of. Arima Kousei might be a powerful, intimidating man who was turning her life upside down. But she was Nami Watanabe, and she was brilliant at what she did. She had created something beautiful today. And that was a power he couldn't touch.
She packaged a small box of the chips carefully, placing them next to the jar of paste. She didn't know if she would ever have the courage to show him. But the act of creating them, of proving her worth to herself, felt like a silent act of defiance. The game was far from over, but she was no longer just a pawn. She was a player, and she was starting to learn the rules.
The simple, unadulterated joy of a creative breakthrough carried Nami all the way home. The weight of Arima’s overwhelming attention, the confusion, the fear—it all felt momentarily distant, pushed back by the solid satisfaction of having created something beautiful and delicious. She placed the carefully packaged box of almond-coconut chips in her refrigerator, a secret treasure. After a long, hot bath that washed away the lingering scents of the test kitchen, she slipped into her softest, most worn-in university t-shirt. It was a ritual of shedding the day, of returning to her most essential self. The freedom of wearing nothing underneath was a small, private rebellion, a claim to her own comfort and space.
She was just settling onto her sofa with a cup of tea, the evening news a quiet murmur in the background, when her doorbell rang. A smile touched her lips. Akari. She must have decided to check in on her after their frantic phone call. Nami beamed, a genuine, unforced expression of happiness, and hurried to the door, pulling it open without a second thought.
"Why are you here so late—" she began, her cheerful greeting dying in her throat.
Her eyes widened, her breath catching so sharply it was painful. It wasn't Akari.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway of her modest apartment building was Arima Kousei.
But it was an Arima she had never seen, could never have even imagined. Gone was the impeccably tailored CEO in his stark black or grey suits. He was dressed in a soft, heather-blue cashmere sweater and dark, well-fitting jeans. On his feet were simple, expensive-looking sneakers. He looked… relaxed. Approachable. Human. And there, scattered across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, was a faint dusting of freckles.
Freckles?
The observation was so startling it momentarily overrode her panic. Did he always have them? Did he wear makeup at work to conceal them, to maintain that facade of flawless, untouchable severity? The revelation was profoundly disarming. This small, human imperfection made him seem suddenly, terrifyingly real.
"Can I come in?" he asked, his voice quieter than it ever was in the office, lacking its usual commanding edge.
Her mind screamed no. Every rational cell in her body was firing warning signals. But her body, traitorously, acted on its own. She felt herself shaking her head in a silent, frantic denial, even as she stepped aside, her arm moving as if pulled by a string to open the door wider for him.
He stepped across the threshold into her personal sanctuary. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound seemed to snap her out of her daze. Her eyes widened in horror as she realized what she had just done. She had let the wolf into the sheep's pen.
"W-What are you doing h-here?" she stammered, her voice thin and reedy. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly, acutely aware of her state of undress beneath the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
He turned slowly to look at her, his gaze taking in the small, cozy apartment—the shelves of books on food science, the collection of spices on the open kitchen shelf, the framed photo of her and Akari, the soft, worn-out sofa. His eyes finally settled on her, standing frozen by the door. She couldn't meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on a crack in the floorboards.
He took a step closer. She instinctively stepped back, her shoulders pressing against the cool wood of the door. There was nowhere left to run.
"Nami," he began, his voice low and serious. "Do you hate my touch?"
The question was so direct, so raw, it stripped away all pretense. It wasn't a CEO asking an employee. It was a man asking a woman.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting answers. Yes, it terrifies me. No, it sets me on fire. Yes, because of what it represents. No, because it makes me feel alive. The truth, the complicated, shameful truth, tumbled out before she could stop it.
"No," she whispered, the admission feeling like a surrender. "I like it."
The moment the words left her lips, she slammed a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror at her own confession.
A slow, devastating smirk spread across Arima's face. It wasn't a smirk of triumph, but of deep, primal satisfaction. He took another step closer, and then another, until he was standing directly in front of her, his body not quite touching hers but close enough that she could feel his body heat.
She stretched out a hand, pressing her palm flat against his chest in a futile attempt to keep him at a distance. "S-Stay where you are," she stammered, her voice trembling.
To her astonishment, he stopped. He looked down at her hand splayed against the soft cashmere of his sweater. Then, he raised his own hand and gently intertwined his fingers with hers, his grip firm but not painful. He lowered their joined hands and used his other arm to wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
She gasped, the contact sending a jolt through her entire system. He was solid and warm, and the feel of him against her, with only two thin layers of fabric between them, was overwhelming.
"Y-You… what are you doing? L-Leave me," she pleaded, her words losing all conviction.
His eyes, which had been warm with satisfaction, darkened with a flicker of something more dangerous. "Should I?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.
It was a genuine question. He was giving her a choice, however coercive the circumstances. She shook her head, a frantic, involuntary denial of his departure. Then, realizing what that meant, she nodded just as frantically, before finally letting her head fall in a confused, helpless shake. She didn't know what she wanted. She was utterly lost in the storm of him.
He chuckled, a soft, rich sound that vibrated through her. "You're adorable," he murmured, and before she could process the endearment, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.
The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that her blush deepened, spreading down her neck. Her defensive posture softened slightly.
"W-What are you doing here?" she whispered again, the question filled with a bewildered vulnerability.
He sighed, his grip on her waist tightening just a fraction. "I came to see you. I told you. I can't stop thinking about you." His hand, which had been resting on the small of her back, began to move, sliding down to cup her hip, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles through the fabric of her t-shirt.
The intimacy of the caress, here in her own home, was a thousand times more potent than it had been in his office. Her breath hitched. The awareness of her own nakedness beneath the shirt became a screaming alarm in her head. She quickly brought her free hand up, placing it over his hand on her hip to still its movement, while her other hand flew to cover her chest.
"I-I'm not wearing anything underneath," she stammered, her face burning with a mortification so complete she thought she might dissolve from it.
He stilled. "Huh?" he asked, genuinely confused for a moment. Then, understanding dawned in his eyes. "Oh," he said, the single syllable laden with a new, heavy awareness. His gaze dropped to her body, to the thin cotton t-shirt, and she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.
For a terrifying second, she thought that was it. That the last barrier had fallen and he would take what she had so foolishly revealed was available.
But he surprised her. His eyes met hers again, and they were filled with a startling intensity, but it was an intensity of restraint. "That's fine," he said, his voice huskier than before. He deliberately moved his hand from her hip back to the safer territory of her waist. "I won't do anything you don't want, Nami. I promise. I'll touch you, yeah," he conceded, his thumb stroking her side, "but I won't cross the line."
He leaned in again, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck, just below her ear. It wasn't a demanding kiss, but a slow, savoring one. Her breath hitched again, a soft, helpless sound. Her hand, which was still on his chest, curled into the cashmere, her knuckles white.
"A-Arima?" she called his name, a question and a plea all in one.
He sighed, a sound of immense frustration and self-control, and stopped his ministrations. He pulled back just enough to gaze into her eyes. The proximity was dizzying. She could see every one of his freckles, the dark flecks in his irises, the long, thick sweep of his lashes. The raw, undisguised want in his expression was so potent it stole the air from her lungs. Her blush intensified under his scrutiny, and she had to look away, her gaze dropping to the floor, overwhelmed by the vulnerability of the moment.
He didn't force her to look back at him. Instead, he simply held her there, against her front door, in the quiet intimacy of her home. One hand was still intertwined with hers, the other a steady, warm presence on her waist. He was a paradox—a man of immense power exercising incredible restraint, a storm contained within a calm harbor. And Nami, trapped in the eye of that storm, had never felt more terrified, or more alive.
(This segment continues the chapter, focusing on the intense, quiet intimacy of the moment and the profound shift occurring in their relationship dynamic.)
The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken things. It was broken not by words, but by the distant, tinny sound of the television news from her living room. The mundane noise of the outside world felt like an intrusion from another planet.
Arima was the first to speak, his voice a low rumble that she felt more than heard. "Your home is... you." He didn't elaborate, but she understood. It was quiet, a little messy with cookbooks and notebooks, warm, and unpretentious. It was everything his sterile, powerful office was not.
He gently disentangled their fingers, but kept his arm around her waist, as if afraid she would bolt the moment he let go. With his now-free hand, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of her damp, red hair behind her ear. The gesture was so tender, so domestic, that it sent a fresh wave of confusion through her.
"Can I sit down?" he asked.
The question was so normal, so polite, it was disorienting. She managed a small, jerky nod. He guided her away from the door, his hand a steadying pressure on her back, and led her to the sofa. He sat first, pulling her down gently to sit beside him, though he maintained a few inches of space between them. It was a concession, a small granting of the distance she so desperately needed to think.
He looked around again, his gaze lingering on the photo of her and Akari. "Your sister?" he asked.
She nodded, surprised he knew. "How...?"
"Akari Watanabe. A quick look at your employee file," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. To him, it probably was. "You look like her."
Nami pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, making herself as small as possible. The t-shirt rode up her thighs, and she saw his gaze flicker down for a fraction of a second before returning to her face. The awareness of her near-nudity was a constant, humming current between them.
"Why are you really here, Arima?" she asked, her voice a little steadier now that there was space between them. "You can't just... show up at an employee's home. This isn't... this isn't normal."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. He stared at his own hands, as if they held the answer. "I know it isn't," he admitted quietly. "I have never done anything like this in my life. I have rules. Protocols. A wall between my professional and personal life that is ten feet thick and electrified." He looked at her, his expression stark. "And then you bumped into me."
He said it as if that single, clumsy moment had been a seismic event that shattered his entire world order.
"You are a variable I did not account for, Nami Watanabe. Your recipe was interesting. Your shyness was... intriguing. But the woman in that red dress, the one who looked at me in the mirror like she was discovering herself for the first time... she has been living in my head rent-free for weeks." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of genuine agitation. "I find myself in meetings, thinking about what you would say about a marketing plan. I taste a new product, and my first thought is to wonder what you would think of the flavor profile. I see a color, and I think if it would suit your hair."
He was confessing to an obsession, laying it out with a brutal, disarming honesty. "Showing up here is the most illogical, unprofessional, and reckless thing I have ever done. I know that. But the thought of waiting until Monday, of pretending in that office that you are just another employee... I couldn't stand it. I needed to see you here. In your element. I needed to know if the pull I feel is just... power, and proximity, or if it's something else."
Nami listened, her heart hammering against her knees. His words were a mirror to her own chaotic feelings. The confusion, the inability to stop thinking about him, the way he had become a constant presence in her mind. He was just as lost in this as she was. The realization was equal parts terrifying and empowering.
"It's overwhelming," she whispered, finally giving voice to her core feeling. "You're... you. And I'm... me. This doesn't make any sense."
"Does it have to?" he asked, turning his body fully towards her on the sofa. "Can't it just... be?"
He reached out slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, and brushed his knuckles against her flushed cheek. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver through her entire body.
"I told you I'm scared of myself," he murmured. "This... wanting... it's a new sensation for me. And it's focused entirely on you. I don't know what to do with it, other than to pursue it. To pursue you."
The word "pursue" hung in the air. It was a hunter's term, but the way he said it felt more like a supplicant's plea.
Her resolve, her fear, began to crumble under the weight of his raw honesty. The carefully constructed walls she had built around herself, the ones that kept the world at a safe distance, felt paper-thin in his presence. He wasn't trying to seduce her with smooth lines or empty promises. He was showing her his own confusion, his own vulnerability, and in doing so, he was disarming her completely.
Slowly, hesitantly, she uncurled herself. She lowered her knees, letting her feet rest on the floor. She didn't look at him, but she didn't pull away from the hand that still cupped her cheek. It was a silent answer.
He understood. He shifted closer, closing the small distance she had created. He didn't kiss her. He simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a tight, warm embrace, tucking her head under his chin. She went rigid for a moment, then, with a shuddering sigh, she melted against him. Her arms came up to wrap around his back, her hands fisting in the soft cashmere of his sweater.
They sat like that for a long time, holding each other in the quiet dimness of her living room. The television news ended, and the room was filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the city. It was the most profound peace Nami had felt in weeks. In his arms, the chaos stilled. The fear didn't vanish, but it was quieted, soothed by the simple, undeniable rightness of being held by him.
This was no longer about power dynamics or professional ruin. This was something far more primitive, far more real. It was a connection that defied logic, a gravitational pull between two people who were, against all odds, finding a strange, complicated solace in one another.
And as Nami buried her face in his sweater, breathing in his clean, spicy scent, she knew with a terrifying certainty that there was no going back. The line had been crossed. The game was over. Something real had begun.
