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A laugh rumbles through my chest as I stand on the curb, shoving my hands into my pockets to watch the taillights vanish around the corner.

Akira and Yuma jog up to me, stopping on either side of me.

“He looked mad. Did you make your lover mad?”

“No,” I say softly, the grin still tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I gave him a flower.”

Akira looks up at me, deadpan. “A flower is nice. Why is he mad?”

“He is shy,” I explain, turning them both back toward the avenue with a light shove between their shoulder blades.

“He doesn’t look shy,” Akira mutters under his breath, though the small smirk on his lips ruins the critique. “He looks like he wants to set your car on fire.”

“He probably will,” I agree proudly. “Come on. I promised you roasted almonds.”

Ilya

These last few days have been weird.

I keep waiting with candies on my bed and flowers in my locker. I know Kento puts the flowers there, but… is he putting the candies in my bed? Because if that is the case, then that means he has been in my room.

At night.

While I was sleeping.

The realization hits me at three in the morning on the fourth day, and I sit bolt upright in bed, staring at the door like it’s going to swing open and reveal him standing there with another handful of sugar.

He couldn’t have been here. He wouldn’t. That’s insane. Fuck, he is insane.

I’m so screwed.

I spend the rest of the week in a state of low-grade panic, checking the locks on my windows, sleeping with a knife under my pillow, and trying very hard not to think about the fact that Kento Kurosaki has apparently been crawling in my window.

And then, because the universe hates me, my father drags me to a party.

Not a fun party.

I want to be extremely clear about that before anyone gets the wrong idea. This isn’t the kind of party where people get drunk and do stupid things they’ll regret in the morning. This is the kind of party where mafia families stand around in suits and have boring conversations.

The venue is some obscenely expensive ballroom with marble floors so polished I can see my own scowl reflected back at me. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, dripping light onto tables laden with hors d’oeuvres no one is eating.

My suit is suffocating. I really hate wearing suits, and my father made me wear cufflinks, which I hate most.

I’ve been introduced to four different men in the last hour, all of whom I wanted to kill.

Dimitri is the only reason I haven’t walked out. He is standing next to me against the far wall, doing his own version of suffering in silence. His suit fits better than mine, but he looks just as miserable.

“This is so boring,” I announce, for roughly the fourth time.

“I know.”

“I’m going to die here.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Dima. This is the venue of my death. Somebody write it down. Put it on my headstone.”

“I know, Ilya.” He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes are scanning the room. “You’ve said that five times.”