Spa Cargo

The air inside the crate was warm, thick with wood, canvas, and minerals—earthy, edged with sulfur and machinery oil. Around us, boxes stamped with Hokuriku Spa Supply Cooperative sat in neat rows, sealed with industrial tape, freight numbers, Japanese calligraphy, fake inspection stamps.

Water filters. Mineral salts. Descaling tools. All immaculate.

All counterfeit.

Our crate was wedged among the largest, hidden at the rear of a canvas-covered truck. The beige tarp swayed with the vehicle’s motion, wheels hissing on damp asphalt.

Light filtered dimly through slits in the canvas and a few ventilation holes Ryoji had carved with surgical precision. Barely enough to breathe.

We’d been in motion since dawn.

Loaded like cargo. Hidden in plain sight.

Destination: Awara.

I sat curled against the wall, knees to chest. The wooden floor was padded with thick shipping cloth—standard filler for fragile instruments. Or fugitives.

Our two duffel bags lay secured between us. One with clothing and burner items. The other… heavier. Metal clinks and a faint hum betrayed its contents.

Ryoji sat across from me, one knee bent, the other stretched, leaning back like he owned the space. Jeans, worn boots, an obsidian button-up without a trace of shine. His leather jacket, folded under his bag, served as a cushion.

We hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes.

Just the soft creak of suspension. The muffled clunk when the truck rolled over a bump.

He was still.

Watching the slats of shifting morning light above us, barely blinking.

I didn’t mind the silence.

Somehow… it fit.

I closed my eyes briefly, trying to focus on the rhythm of the truck, the dull clatter of cargo shifting. But instead, my mind wandered back. Back to just a few hours ago.

The underground level of the Yamada Building. Fluorescent lights humming faintly above. Cold tile beneath my shoes. A folding table had been set up near the auxiliary lift, and on it: gear.

Hiro was waiting there like a child unveiling a toy line, bouncing slightly on his heels, dark eyes glinting with pride. He handed me what looked like a keychain—rose gold, sleek, almost cute.

“Miniature capsaicin disperser,” he chirped. “Non-lethal, strong enough to ruin someone’s next three hours.”

Then came a compact case like makeup. “This one’s a pressure-pulse flashbang,” he said with a grin. “You drop it, you run. Three seconds. Loud enough to cause disorientation. Don’t use it indoors unless you want tinnitus.”

I blinked at him. “Is this… all disguised spy gear?”

He handed me something that looked like a lipstick tube but was in fact a GPS tracker, with a paper-thin antenna and a silent activation switch. “Only if things go really bad. Keep it off unless you’re in trouble.”

Last came a pen.

A pen.

“Is this going to explode?” I asked, half-joking.

“Nope,” he said proudly. “It’s a radio. FM band. It’ll broadcast an emergency ping if you uncap it and twist the barrel. Ryoji will know.”

I almost laughed. I was carrying a small arsenal inside what could’ve passed for a teen idol’s purse.

I thought, This is ridiculous. I’m not a spy.

But then… Hiro turned to Ryoji.

The shift was subtle. His cheer didn’t vanish—it cracked, like a thin film under pressure. He handed Ryoji something heavier, something wrapped in dense cloth and banded with industrial tape.

“Special delivery,” he said in that same loud voice. “For the guy who ruins perfectly good tracking gear and somehow still gets the job done.”

Ryoji took it silently.

And then Hiro stepped forward.

No more jokes. No teeth-baring grin.

He wrapped his arms around Ryoji’s waist and pressed his cheek to his side. Small. Fast. Like he didn’t want anyone to see.

“Just come back, okay? Nii-san,” he whispered, low. Too low for anyone else, but I was close enough to hear.

Ryoji looked down at him.

And—he smiled.

Not the smirk. Not the unreadable ghost of expression.

A real one.

He brushed Hiro’s hair once, lightly, like an older brother seeing off the kid he couldn’t protect anymore.

“I’ll be back,” he said simply.

That was when it hit me.

This wasn’t an adventure.

This wasn’t some over-glamorized dance into danger with backup and gadgets and fake hotel names.

Whoever had found our Osaka trail…

Whoever had walked into that decoy address pretending not to be agents…

They weren’t pretending anymore.

We were targets.

And this time, there wouldn’t be a second chance.

“It’s not often I’ve had to expose my client to protect them,” Ryoji said, his voice low over the rumble of the truck.

His words snapped me back to the present. I blinked, disoriented for a second, then turned my eyes toward him. “What do you mean by that?”

He shifted slightly, head still against the wall, one leg bent.

“We left a fake trail at the Granvia Hotel. As far as our pursuers are concerned, we were there. Registered under real IDs, logged the check-in… and before anyone could actually verify it—”

“—we were already gone,” I finished for him, catching on.

“Exactly,” he said. “And while we were there—our imaginary selves, I mean—we also booked an onsen day trip. To Awara.”

“Oh, of course. Because nothing says espionage like hot springs and sake,” I muttered.

Ryoji continued, unfazed. “To the eyes watching us, we’re a couple on a tour—ballerina and her overpaid, overly devoted bodyguard. After a passionate multi-day hotel honeymoon where we barely left the room, now we’re heading to the romantic countryside to continue the fairytale. Low-profile. Classic.”

I snorted. “So we’re newlyweds now.”

He didn’t answer.

I narrowed my eyes. “Let me guess. In this imaginary honeymoon, I’m the one who initiated everything. Or did you drag me into bed with your stoic magnetism?”

He finally gave a hint of a smirk. “Does it matter? It worked. We left a trail convincing enough for a dozen intel analysts and three different black ops units.”

“Wonderful,” I replied dryly. “Can’t wait for our fake wedding photos. Do I get to wear a tiara?”

“I’ll have Hiro forge something tasteful.”

I let the silence stretch for a bit after that, but the question had already begun building inside me, humming like an unresolved note. I looked at him again.

Serious now.

“But why all this though? Why go through the trouble, the false leads, the honeymoon narrative? What’s the real goal here, for us?”

The truck rocked slightly beneath us as we rounded a bend. Ryoji didn’t answer immediately.

And that silence, more than anything, made the question feel even heavier.

“To find out who is actually interested in my new bride,” Ryoji replied flatly, eyes still half-lidded.

I choked on air. “Your what?”

“And by the way,” he continued, unmoved, “when I said multi-day hotel honeymoon, it was just to imply our supposedly prolonged intimacy in the rooms. I didn’t leak a fake wedding photos or marriage records… though, wouldn’t have been a terrible idea.”

I blinked. Twice.

“You’re kidding.”

“Am I?”

“Getting married after four days? That’s not espionage, that’s soap opera drama.”

“Depends on how we play it.”

“Oh yeah?” I huffed. “So what, you like thrillers and flash marriages now? Is that what you and Reika did? Hit the registry after a high-speed car chase?”

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t blink.

Just went quiet.

The crate jolted slightly with a bump in the road. He looked away.

I stared at him. “Oh my god. You didn’t—”

His silence stretched long enough to wrap itself around my ribs.

And squeeze.

I folded my arms, leaned my head back against the wood, and let out a sharp breath through my nose.

“Right. Of course. Classy.”

Still no reply.

I hated how my chest tightened like that. Hated how stupid it made me feel—for asking. For caring. For even imagining I had the right to pry.

But also… I hated that I couldn’t stop myself from feeling it.

“You—” I pointed a finger at him, sputtering. “You’re the worst communicator I’ve ever met in my life, Ryoji.”

Without a word, he began to move.

First the boots. Then the jeans. Then the shirt.

I froze.

I blinked once. Twice.

“Wha—what are you doing?” I stammered, shrinking instinctively to my side of the crate as denim landed between us.

“Being very bad at communicating,” he said dryly, pulling a folded uniform from his bag.

It was a pale-gray delivery outfit, crisp and anonymous, with a patch on the chest that read Hokuriku Spa Supply Cooperative.

Touché.

As he shrugged into it—utterly unfazed—I just stared at him, trying to remind my lungs how to function. I caught myself hugging my knees, not sure if it was to shield my modesty or protect my brain from short-circuiting again.

It hit me: first the changing booth in Osaka, then the spa thermæ last night… and now, this. All in under a week.

“Do you—do you always get naked around your clients?” I asked, only half-joking, eyes narrowing. “Because I think this makes it, what? Three times now?”

“I usually don’t keep count,” he replied coolly, buttoning the collar.

I wanted to throw a shoe at him.

Or maybe… something softer.

Like my heart.

But I kept it in my chest.

Barely.