Shō arrived at the bookstore twenty minutes early, hoping the quiet morning would calm his nerves. It didn't.
The place was empty except for the faint hum of the coffee machine and the smell of fresh paper. He clocked in with shaky fingers, tied his apron, and hid in the storage room rearranging boxes that didn't need rearranging.
Every creak of the floorboards made his heart jump. Every shadow looked like broad shoulders in a dark suit.
He might not even come today, Shō told himself. Maybe he'll stay in the corporate office. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he'll fire me.
The thought twisted his stomach.
By 10 AM, customers trickled in. Shō stayed behind the register, head down, bangs hiding his eyes. Yumi waved from the café corner, mouthing "You okay?" He forced a tiny nod and busied himself scanning books.
Then the front bell chimed.
Shō knew that footsteps without looking.
Heavy, confident, unhurried.
Kenji.
He walked straight past the counter without a word. No glance. No greeting. Jacket on today, tie perfect, face blank like marble.
Shō's chest caved in.
He's pretending it didn't happen.
The hurt hit harder than expected. He swallowed it down and focused on the customer in front of him, smile stiff.
Upstairs, Kenji shut the office door and leaned against it, eyes closed.
He hadn't slept much. The whiskey wore off around 4 AM, leaving a pounding headache and sharp regret.
He'd come in early to get work done before seeing Shō. Planned to keep distance. Act professional. Let the kid breathe.
But the second he walked in and saw Shō behind the register—pale, lips still slightly swollen from last night—every good intention cracked.
Those big eyes flicked up for half a second, then dropped fast.
Kenji's jaw clenched. He wanted to drag Shō upstairs, apologize, explain the alcohol, explain the want. Instead, he climbed the stairs like a coward.
The morning dragged.
Shō restocked shelves on autopilot. Every time he passed the stairs, his stomach flipped. He kept replaying Kenji's cold walk-by.
He regrets it. I was just a drunk mistake.
Around noon, the manager asked Shō to bring the updated inventory list upstairs.
Shō nearly dropped the folder. "C-Can't Yumi do it?"
"She's on break. You're fine, right?"
No. He wasn't.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier. Knocked softly.
"Come in."
Kenji sat at the desk, laptop open, coffee steaming beside him. He looked up—eyes sharp, but something softer flickered when they landed on Shō.
Shō stepped inside, held out the folder without meeting his gaze. "Inventory update."
Kenji took it. Fingers brushed Shō's—accidental or not.
Shō jerked his hand back like burned.
Silence stretched thick and heavy.
Kenji set the folder aside. "Matsuda."
Shō stared at the floor. "Yes, sir?"
"Look at me."
Shō's heart pounded. He forced his eyes up.
Kenji looked tired—faint shadows under his eyes, jaw tight. "About last night…"
Here it comes. The regret speech.
"I drank too much after the manager meeting," Kenji said quietly. "It lowered my control. I shouldn't have— I took advantage. It won't happen again."
Shō's throat closed. The words hurt more than he expected.
"So… it was a mistake?" His voice came out small.
Kenji's eyes darkened. "The alcohol was. But…"
He stood, rounded the desk slowly. Stopped a foot away.
"The want wasn't."
Shō's breath caught.
Kenji reached out—slow, giving time to pull away—but Shō didn't. Fingers brushed Shō's cheek, gentle this time.
"I've never felt this before," Kenji admitted, voice rough. "Not for anyone. Man or woman. You're… breaking something in me."
Shō's eyes stung. "I thought you regretted it. You didn't even look at me this morning."
Kenji's thumb stroked his cheek. "I was trying to give you space. Thought you'd hate me."
"I don't hate you," Shō whispered. "I… I can't stop thinking about it. About you."
Kenji's control snapped—just a little.
He cupped Shō's face with both hands and pulled him close, foreheads touching.
"I'm no good at this," Kenji murmured. "Feelings. Wanting someone this much. But I can't stay away from you. Every time I try, I end up here."
Shō's hands clutched Kenji's shirt. "Then don't."
Kenji exhaled shakily. "You're too young. I'm your boss. This could ruin—"
"I don't care," Shō cut in, voice trembling but sure. "I've never felt like this either. When you touch me… I feel alive."
Kenji's eyes closed. Conflict warred on his face.
Then he kissed Shō—soft, slow, nothing like last night's hunger. A question more than a claim.
Shō melted into it instantly, lips parting, small sigh escaping.
Kenji pulled back too soon. "We can't do this here. Not like this."
Shō nodded, breathless.
Kenji's hands dropped to Shō's waist, gripping lightly. "Tonight. After closing. My place. We talk. Properly. No alcohol. No excuses."
Shō's heart raced. "Okay."
Kenji leaned in again, lips brushing Shō's ear. "And if you still want me after we talk… I won't hold back."
Shō shivered hard. "I will."
Kenji's grip tightened, possessive. "Good."
He released him, stepped back. "Go. Before I lock the door and forget everything I just said."
Shō fled downstairs, face burning, lips tingling again.
The rest of the shift was torture.
They stole glances across the store. Every time their eyes met, heat flared—quick, intense, then away.
Kenji stayed upstairs most of the day, but came down twice. Once to "check displays." Once for coffee.
Both times, he passed close behind Shō. Hand brushing lower back. Whispered "soon" against his ear when no one watched.
Shō's body stayed on edge—flushed, sensitive, counting hours.
By closing, he was a mess.
Kenji waited by the door, keys in hand. Eyes locked on Shō as he locked up.
No words.
Just a look that promised everything.
Shō followed him out, heart in his throat.
Tonight would change everything.
And he couldn't wait.