The gentle sound of the wind caressing the curtains woke me before the alarm. Golden light filtered through the white fabrics, dancing slowly on the cream-colored walls. I opened my eyes slowly, with that typical first-day feeling: a mixture of curiosity, fear, and the desire to start over. It was early in Tokyo, but a little jet lag still tingled inside me.
I sat on the bed, stretched gracefully, and rested my feet on the warm parquet floor.
I opened the small cupboard where they had left me a welcome breakfast: Japanese sweet bread, umeboshi jam, and a small bottle of hot (also Japanese) jasmine tea. As I chewed very slowly, I looked out the window. The sky was clear, the trees in the garden were swaying gently, and everything seemed ready.
Ready to welcome me.
After breakfast, I went to the bathroom, washed my face, and stepped into the warm shower. When I came out, I decided that today I wanted to feel more... powerful. Maybe it was because of Maki. Or maybe it was because I was staying with special sorcerers.
So I pulled my hair into a tight, high ponytail, letting my bangs fall lightly to the side of my face. I applied a light layer of makeup, pink blush, thin eyeliner, and cherry-colored lip balm.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
I looked ready.
I put on my training uniform: soft charcoal pants, a pearl gray long-sleeved shirt that barely exposed my collarbones. And I slipped on my black technical boots.
I felt a strange energy inside: quivering, expectant.
I walked toward classroom 1-EF, a long, silent corridor separating me from my first real witch class in Tokyo. As I walked, the walls told stories: old photographs, newspaper clippings, small traces of those who had passed there before me. Everyone, once, had feared they weren't up to it.
And then they'd grown up.
When I opened the classroom door, I found two familiar figures standing before me.
Maki and Yuta.
She was leaning against the window, arms crossed and one leg bent. He sat on his desk, his hair slightly tousled, his gaze fixed solely on her. They spoke in low voices, with a disarming ease. There was an invisible connection between them, a deep trust. I stared at them for a few seconds before making myself noticed.
"Good morning! Um... would I ruin the moment if I came in?"
Yuta turned sharply, smiling.
"Rebe! Perfect timing. Sit here."
I sat down next to him, silently glancing at Maki. She nodded at me. I wasn't sure if it was affection or defiance. Or maybe both.
Time seemed to have stopped in that room.
When, after a couple of minutes, he entered.
He wasn't wearing his usual high-cut sweatshirt, covering his face. Instead, he wore a tight-fitting black short-sleeved T-shirt that felt like a second skin, naturally highlighting every detail. The clean muscles and taut lines of his arms, his sculpted chest, his broad, defined shoulders, muscular but not overly so. Even the outline of his collarbone seemed drawn beneath the fabric.
His pale skin was like porcelain, and the tattoo that ran across his cheeks appeared alive, a vein of ink creeping across his face and disappearing beneath the edge of his lips.
His white pants, loose and comfortable, moved slightly as he walked, and each step displayed a controlled choreography.
He walked slowly, with his characteristic calm, his gaze slightly to the side. When he saw me, a small smile crept across his lips.
He approached the desk where I was sitting.
He sat down next to me, saying nothing. Then he took out his phone and quickly typed something. He handed it to me.
"Did you sleep well?"
I read the message and raised my eyebrow, amused. I looked at him. I nodded with a half-smile.
<
His very white eyelashes were slightly lowered, his face tilted, he was still typing:
"If you need anything, ask me."
My throat went slightly dry. No shouted statement, no dramatic scene. Just that sentence whispered through a screen, with its characteristic gentle power.
<
I paused to look at the tattoo closely. It followed the curve of his jaw, elegantly descending beneath his lips... I wondered how much it hurt, if it was magical, or if it had a meaning.
I didn't ask him.
Not yet.
It was then that the door swung open, almost forcefully.
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His purple coat billowed like a cape, his sunglasses still on his face. He had a huge cup of coffee in his hand, and a smile only he could allow himself. He stopped suddenly when he saw us. His gaze went from Yuta to Maki, then from me to Toge. Finally, to Panda.
<
He took off his glasses and placed them on the table. He took his phone out of his pocket and took a picture of us:
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We all burst out laughing.
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He paused dramatically.
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The lesson unfolded in an almost surreal silence. Gojo-sensei explained with his usual disarming wit, but he knew how to be serious when discussing techniques. I took notes, even though my hand shook slightly every now and then. Toge wrote in a small notebook, with neat handwriting. Our elbows brushed. Every now and then, he glanced at me.
Then, at the end of the lesson, sensei closed the session with a smile.
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He turned, writing something on the board.
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My heart skipped a beat.
I turned slowly.
Toge was already looking at me.
Lavender eyes, intense.
And he spoke.
<
Nothing else was needed.
I knew.
The afternoon sun filtered in streaks through the trees of the institute's training field. The air was still warm, but a light breeze ruffled strands of hair and carried with it the sweet scent of trampled grass.
We all walked out in silence, each with our designated partner.
Me next to Toge.
The field was the same one we'd seen in videos of past drills: vast, bordered by cherry trees in the distance and barely visible white lines on the packed ground. Footsteps crunched on the gravel. The sky was clear, cloudless.
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Toge and I looked at each other.
No words. No hasty moves.
Just a nod.
We raised our hands, as if in a slow dance.
Our bodies moved closer, until they were just inches apart.
I felt the heat of his skin before I even touched him.
Then he, swift and fluid, lunged with a sideways thrust. I parried it, my hands brushing his exposed arms. His skin was smooth, soft like warm silk, but beneath it lay the hardness of trained muscles, ready for tension.
I breathed slowly.
Every touch of his was like an extra beat in my heart.
He pushed me back slightly, but not forcefully: it was an invitation. So I accepted it. I rolled onto my side, grasping his wrist. His hand closed around mine, with a firmness that didn't hurt.
Just control.
Just attention.
We were searching for each other.
The movements became faster, more intimate.
He moved like a feather, charged with power. Every blow was precise, but never violent.
Our legs brushed, sometimes intertwined. My breathing quickened as I tried to keep pace, to interpret the silent language of his body. With every contact, his skin responded. He didn't tremble, he didn't flinch.
He welcomed my touch as if he'd been waiting for it all along.
He lifted me with a sudden grip, trying to unbalance me. But I reacted, turning with a bang, and ended up behind him, an arm around his torso trying to immobilize him. His heart was beating fast. I could feel it under my fingers. The scent of his skin—fresh, almost spicy—rose to my nose and confused me.
For a second, he paused.
Not out of tiredness, not out of calculation.
But because we were too close.
I felt him holding his breath.
The tattoo on his cheek seemed to pulse gently.
We broke away only to catch our breath, but our gazes... never left each other. His eyes were slightly red from the effort, his jaw clenched, his chest heaving. He bent over for a moment, hands on his knees, and typed something on his phone, handing it to me.
"You're incredible."
I smiled.
<
He turned to the side, as if to hide a faint smile.
We continued. More grips, slipping steps, arms crossing like entwined branches. In a rush, I ended up beneath him.
He took advantage of it. He pinned me to the ground, his hands on my wrists, his face inches from mine. He was breathing slowly. His breath was shaking.
I could have kissed his tattoo.
But I didn't.
The moment was already perfect.
Then he stood up, offering me a hand to help me.
I took it.
His fingers closed around mine more tightly than necessary.
Perhaps he didn't want to let go?
Me neither.
Gojo-sensei whistled from afar, his expression amused, his hands in his pockets.
<
Toge lowered his gaze slightly. I turned away, pretending I hadn't heard.
But the pounding in my chest... had already become a new language.
---Soon after...
I sat in the shade, wiping away the sweat with a towel. Toge came over silently and sat down next to me, still out of breath, handing me a small bottle of water.
<< Kombu. >>
<< Thanks. >> I said, drinking. << You don't drink? >>
He nodded, pulling out the bottle of cold water he had in his pocket.
<< I was afraid I'd end up flying away at some point...>> I joked: << But you seemed calm. >>
Toge took out his phone and typed:
"I knew you wouldn't get hurt. You moved like you were dancing."
I read, then looked at him.
<< I'll take that as a compliment. >>
<< Okaka. >> he said, almost shyly, with a smile. Then he added, in a very low voice, "very."
<< Can I ask you a question this time? >>
He looked up, curious.
<< Why do you always watch in silence? Sure, it's your technique, I know... but it also seems like you want to hear everything. That you really care. >>
Toge was silent for a few seconds. Then he typed:
"Talking is dangerous. But listening... is my strongest weapon. I understand people better if I don't interrupt them."
It struck me.
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He looked at me seriously. Then he slowly nodded.
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