To Hokkaido

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For a second, I just stared at him—like waking up too fast from a nightmare.

Then something cracked open inside me.

I grinned. Too wide, too sudden.

“Really?” I half-shouted. “You mean it?”

I bounced on my heels like a kid told she could skip school. Relief poured out of me in the form of motion, laughter, noise. Anything but stillness.

Because if I stopped—if I asked—

Why did you look at him like that?

Why did I feel like something ancient and cold passed through you?

—then I’d have to face the answer.

So I didn’t.

I made up my own instead.

Maybe he was pissed. At Kyoshi’s family. At being dragged through this tangled mess of ghosts and mandarins.

Maybe he was just fed up playing bodyguard to a girl with too many unresolved stories.

That, I could accept. That, I could laugh away.

“I knew you’d come around,” I said, already grabbing my phone. “Perfect! We’ll need plane tickets, some winter gear—oh my god, I haven’t seen snow in forever—do you think my dad still has that rust-bucket van—”

“No planes,” Ryoji cut in, flat.

I blinked. “What? Why not?”

“Too easy to track. Cameras, flight logs, ID scans—it’s a mess.”

“But we flew in from Italy.”

“Different story now. Unless we absolutely need to fly, we stick to the ground.”

“C’mon, let’s take the plane!” I insisted.

He didn’t reply.

I turned slowly. “And how do you even know that I prefer oranges?”

“Just a lucky guess,” he said smoothly. “Matured after comparing you and your high school best friend’s chest size.”

I gawked. “What does that have to do with fruit?!”

“No planes,” he repeated, deadpan. “We go by train.”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “But wait—when did you even… Did you ogle us at the pool this morning?!”

He didn’t answer.

Which, of course, was an answer.

I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s just… prepare the trip.”

“Good call. For once.”

I narrowed my eyes, mock offended. “Excuse you—for once?”

But he was already moving, heading to the corner where we’d dropped our bags earlier.

I watched him fold with surgical precision—jacket, gloves, calm.

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He could’ve been packing for war or a weekend spa trip. You’d never know.

I stared at him. Something about the clean efficiency of it all—the way he moved, the way he answered.

It wasn’t that he was cold.

It was that he’d been through fire so often, he no longer flinched.

And outside, the sky was turning the same rust-orange as those damn mandarins.

Then it hit me.

“Back at the table,” I said slowly, “with Kuroda-sama. You weren’t just being polite.”

“You stood between us. You interrupted the glass. Then you touched him.”

He said nothing.

“I saw your eyes. For a second I didn’t know who I was looking at. It was like—like your soul had stepped out of the room.”

Still nothing.

I leaned in. “By how weirdly you acted, I almost thought you were going to kill him on the way out”

Ryoji didn’t flinch. Just a long, still pause—then, dryly: “I didn’t.”

He turned slightly, adjusting the strap on the bag.

“Did he visit you often?” he asked.

I blinked. “Never did, actually.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—not surprise, not quite. A pause, just half a breath too long.

“I didn’t put a bullet in him,” he repeated. Then, with a ghost of a smirk: “Happy?”

I crossed my arms. “Not the word I’d use.”

“But if another Kuroda shows up before we leave,” he added, “I just might.”

“Oh great,” I said, bristling. “And what about another biker-rich-girl you drove crazy on some dark rainy night? She shows up at the hotel door, you gonna take her out too?”

He didn’t even blink. “If she crosses the line, yes.”

My mouth opened. Closed.

“Wow,” I muttered. “You’re either the most straightforward man I’ve met, or the most terrifying.”

“You’ll live.”

We stared at each other. The air between us sharp, but not cold.

Then I softened. Took a step closer.

“The man in the photo,” I said, tone even. “With my father. Satoshi-sama.”

He didn’t move.

“I know there’s more. I’m not pushing for secrets, Ryoji. I’m asking because you helped me—in ways you don’t even realize.”

My voice dropped, almost a whisper.

“Let me help you back.”

I reached up, steady, placing a hand on his shoulder.

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His neck moved slightly, like he might shift away—but didn’t. Instead, his hand lifted and touched mine, briefly.

It was enough to make my heart stutter. A rush of heat, a pang of doubt—was I going too far?

Then he said, gently, firmly:

“Thank you, Natsumi. But no more digging. Not for now.”

I froze.

Not because of the words. But because of the name.

He’d never said it before. Not like that.

No nicknames. No teases. Just Natsumi.

Like it meant something.

My breath caught, stupid and shallow in my chest.

He looked at me without apology. Just steady, calm.

And I—swallowed the thousand things I wanted to ask. A storm of them. About Kuroda-sama, about the man in the photo, about him.

But instead, I nodded.

Just once.

Then, needing air, I let a smirk curl back into place. “Wait—you said, ‘a bullet?’”

He arched his brow.

“I didn’t see you carrying a gun,” I said.

He rolled his neck slowly. “Neither did customs.”

My mouth opened, then shut. “So… you do have one.”

He gave the faintest shrug.

It said: if you have to ask, you already know.

I shook my head in disbelief—and maybe admiration. “You’re something else.”

“I get that a lot,” he said.

A beat.

I gave a shrug, easing back into irony. “You know, for someone trying to keep me safe, you’re suspiciously good at hiding what I need protecting from.”

His gaze didn’t waver. Like he was reassessing me again—not as a problem, but as someone catching up.

I smiled. Sweet. Sharp. “Well,” I added, heading for the door, “since I’m clearly not supposed to know what’s in Hokkaidō, let’s go there immediately.”

He sighed through his nose.

Then—finally—he slung the bag over his shoulder and muttered, “Good call. Twice.”

I grinned. “You say the nicest things.”

And as he passed to grab his jacket, I caught it—that tiniest twitch at the edge of his mouth.

Not quite a smile. But close enough.

Bags packed. Tension folded and tucked away like winter clothes.

Next stop: Hokkaidō.

Whatever waited there—truth, ghosts, or god-knows-what else—I’d face it.

With him.

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