Ai stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, applying a light layer of makeup—just enough to look presentable without seeming like she'd tried too hard. Her gradient eyes studied her own work critically. Not too much blush. Subtle lip tint. No eyeshadow that screamed "date."
Because this isn't a date. Professional development dinner. Nothing more.
"Mama, are you going on a date?" Ruby's voice piped up from the doorway.
Ai's hand jerked, smudging her eyeliner. "What? No. It's a work thing."
Ruby giggled, twirling in her pajamas. "But you're putting on pretty makeup. And you've changed clothes three times."
"Observant little demon," Ai muttered, wiping away the smudge. "It's a professional dinner with a coworker."
"Is it the same coworker who made you laugh at your phone all day yesterday?" Aqua asked, appearing beside his sister with a book tucked under his arm.
Ai froze, mascara wand hovering near her eye. These kids were too perceptive for their own good. "I laugh at lots of things on my phone."
"Not like that," Aqua said simply, his blue eyes far too knowing for a child his age. "You laugh different when it's him."
"Different how?" Ai asked.
Aqua considered this with the seriousness only a precocious child could muster. "Softer. Like you're surprised by it."
Ai turned back to the mirror, avoiding those too-perceptive eyes. "Well, it's still just work. I need to discuss choreography with another performer."
"At night?" Ruby asked, skeptical even at her young age.
"Yes, at night. Because we're both busy during the day." Ai capped her mascara and turned to face her children. "Now, Miyako will be here with you, and I won't be late."
Speaking of which, she needed to convince Miyako to stay longer. Ai found her in the living room, scrolling through her phone.
"Miyako," Ai began sweetly, "would you mind staying a couple extra hours tonight? I have a... meeting."
Miyako looked up, one eyebrow raised. "A meeting? At eight PM?"
"Professional development." Ai kept her voice casual. "With another idol. About choreography."
"Uh-huh." Miyako's expression remained skeptical. "This wouldn't happen to be with that pretty boy from the new group, would it?"
Ai's cheeks warmed traitorously. "How did you—"
"You've been smiling at your phone like an idiot. It doesn't take a genius."
"It's strictly professional," Ai insisted. "We're comparing notes on performance techniques."
"Sure." Miyako set her phone down. "And I wear designer only because I appreciate the craftsmanship."
Ai sighed. "Can you stay or not?"
"Of course I can stay." Miyako waved a hand. "Go have your... professional development. Just remember you're Japan's pure-hearted idol. No scandals."
"It's not—" Ai stopped herself. The more she protested, the more suspicious it seemed. "Thanks. I won't be late."
After kissing the twins goodnight and promising Ruby she'd tell her all about the "professional choreography meeting" tomorrow, Ai grabbed her purse and headed out in her disguise.
In the quiet of the taxi, her thoughts drifted to what she was actually doing. This would be only the second time she'd been to a man's apartment since Hikaru Kamiki—the father of her children.
Hikaru had been like her in many ways—an actor playing roles, living behind masks. Their relationship had been built on mutual deception, a toxic dance of two people pretending to be what the other wanted. He'd been handsome, talented, and ultimately suffocating—too dependent on her validation, too wrapped up in his own demons. The baggage he carried had eventually crushed whatever genuine connection they might have built.
But Toshiro...
Even through their brief conversations, Ai sensed something fundamentally different about him. Where she manufactured light for her performances—that sparkle audiences craved—Toshiro seemed to generate it naturally. When she looked into his eyes, she saw a brightness she'd spent years perfecting in her stage persona. Not artificial. Not practiced. Just there.
He wasn't perfect—nobody was—but his presence created a warmth she'd only ever felt with her children. A comfort that didn't demand performance in return.
She didn't know what to call this feeling, but she needed more of it. After all, she was a greedy idol. Always had been.
"We're here, miss," the taxi driver announced, pulling up to a modest apartment building.
Ai paid and stepped out, checking the address on her phone. Sakura Heights, Apartment 602. The building looked ordinary—not fancy, not rundown. Just a place where people lived their lives away from spotlight and scrutiny.
The elevator, as Toshiro had warned, displayed an "Out of Order" sign. Ai sighed and began the climb, grateful she'd opted for flats instead of heels. By the fourth floor, she regretted her entire life choices. By the sixth, she questioned why anyone would voluntarily live in a walkup.
Finally reaching the correct floor, she paused outside apartment 602 to catch her breath. She smoothed her casual dress—not too formal, not too casual—and knocked.
A crash sounded from inside, followed by muffled cursing.
"Just a sec!" Toshiro's voice called.
More rustling, another thud, then footsteps approaching. The door swung open to reveal Toshiro, slightly breathless, hair disheveled, wearing a simple white t-shirt and black sweatpants. A smudge of something dark marked his cheek.
"Hi," he said, that natural brightness in his eyes immediately apparent despite his flustered state.
That warmth she'd been thinking about spread through Ai's chest.
"Hi back," she replied, suddenly feeling like a kid again instead of a seasoned professional with two children. "Bad time?"
"No! No, perfect timing." He stepped back, gesturing her inside with a slightly frantic wave. "Please, come in. Sorry about the..." He glanced over his shoulder at whatever chaos awaited inside.
Ai stepped into the apartment. It was small but neat, with minimal furniture and decoration. The main room connected to an open kitchenette, where evidence of culinary disaster spread across the counter. A pan smoked slightly on the stove, and various ingredients lay scattered across every surface.
"I, uh, tried to cook," Toshiro admitted, rubbing the back of his head. "Hamburger steak. The YouTube video made it look so simple, but then everything started happening at once, and the sauce did... that." He gestured to a dark splatter on the wall.
Ai bit her lip, fighting a smile. "Ambitious choice for a first attempt."
"Well," he said sheepishly, "someone mentioned it was their favorite food, so..."
The warmth in her chest expanded. He'd remembered that casual comment from the talk.
"You didn't have to do that," she said softly.
"I wanted to." His voice matched her tone, creating a sudden intimacy in the small space. Then he blinked, breaking the moment. "But I would understand completely if you'd rather order takeout."
Ai approached the stove, surveying the damage. The hamburger steaks themselves looked salvageable—slightly burnt on one side but otherwise intact. The sauce, however, resembled a crime scene.
"Let me see what we're working with," she said, rolling up her sleeves.
Toshiro moved beside her, close enough that she could smell his soap. "You don't have to fix my disaster."
"I'm not fixing it," Ai clarified. "We're salvaging it together. Professional collaboration."
A smile broke across his face—not the practiced idol smile she knew from promotional materials, but something genuine that reached his eyes. "Professional collaboration it is."
For the next fifteen minutes, they worked side by side in the tiny kitchen. Ai scraped the burnt bits off the hamburger steaks while Toshiro attempted a new sauce under her guidance. Their elbows brushed occasionally in the limited space, each contact sending that same strange warmth through her.
"So," Toshiro said as he stirred the sauce, "how was your day? Besides the meetings that were killing you."
"Long. Tedious." Ai sliced the hamburger steaks into more presentable portions. "B-Komachi has a new single coming out, so it's endless promotional planning. How's the choreography coming?"
"It's coming. Slowly." He tested the sauce with a spoon, then offered it to her. "What do you think?"
Ai leaned forward, letting him feed her the sample. The gesture felt strangely intimate. "Needs more soy sauce. And as for choreography challenges, I get it. Try coordinating with Nino when she's determined to add heart hands to everything."
Toshiro laughed, adding more soy sauce to the pan. "Ryota wants to incorporate a flying somersault over two other members."
"That sounds... dangerous."
"Extremely. But also potentially memorable."
"The eternal dilemma of performance," Ai agreed. "Safety versus spectacle."
They continued working in comfortable tandem, the conversation flowing naturally between professional topics and personal asides. When the salvaged meal was finally ready, Toshiro set his small table while Ai plated the food.
"It's not restaurant quality," she warned, placing the plates on the table.
"It's better," Toshiro said, pulling out her chair. "It has a story now."
That simple statement struck Ai unexpectedly. Hikaru had always demanded perfection—in himself, in her, in everything around them. A meal was either flawless or worthless. But Toshiro seemed to find value in the imperfect, the collaborative effort more meaningful than the result.
"Thank you for saving dinner," Toshiro said as they sat down.
"Thank you for attempting it in the first place." Ai picked up her chopsticks. "Not many people would try hamburger steak for a first cooking adventure."
"Go big or go home, right?" He grinned, then looked slightly embarrassed. "Though technically we are at home. My home. Which probably isn't what you're used to."
Ai glanced around the modest apartment. "It's nice. Peaceful."
"It's small," Toshiro corrected. "But it works for now. One day I'd like something with..." He trailed off.
"With what?" Ai prompted.
He shrugged. "Bigger space. A backyard garden, maybe. Something that grows."
The echo of her own text about strawberries didn't escape her notice. Another point of unexpected connection.
"Gardens are good," she said softly. "Roots are important."
Ai watched Toshiro take another bite of the salvaged hamburger steak, noting the slight crinkle around his eyes when he chewed. Not a grimace, but not exactly culinary ecstasy either.
"You can admit it's terrible," she said, setting her chopsticks down.
"It's not terrible," Toshiro protested, swallowing with dignity. "It's... character-building."
"Character-building food." Ai's lips quirked upward. "That's a polite way of saying it tastes like cardboard."
"Artisanal cardboard," Toshiro corrected. "Very exclusive."
A laugh escaped her—not her practiced idol giggle but something genuine that bubbled up from her stomach.
"So," she said, poking at a particularly charred piece, "I have to ask. How does someone reach your age without learning to cook even the basics?"
"Orphanage life. Communal meals. Then convenience stores and instant ramen once I was on my own."
"Same," she admitted. "Though I did learn to make rice balls. Survival skill when you're always hungry."
His eyes met hers, a flash of recognition passing between them. Not pity, which she hated, but understanding.
"Did you also perfect the art of making cup noodles taste different each day?" he asked, a gentle redirect.
"Absolutely." Ai straightened, warming to the subject. "Monday was normal. Tuesday, crack an egg in. Wednesday, add green onions from the cafeteria. Thursday, extra hot sauce packets. Friday, all of the above plus whatever protein I could scrounge."
"Amateur," Toshiro scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "You forgot crushed chips for texture."
"That's disgusting." She wrinkled her nose.
"At least I didn't just admitted to cafeteria green onion theft."
"It's not theft if they leave them out in little containers!"
"Pretty sure that's still theft."
"It's resourcefulness," Ai insisted, crossing her arms with an exaggerated pout.
Toshiro's eyes widened slightly. "Is that the famous Ai pout I've heard about?"
Heat crept up Ai's neck. "I don't have a famous pout."
"You absolutely do. There are compilation videos. 'Ai-chan's Top 10 Pouty Moments.'"
"You're making that up." She narrowed her eyes, but couldn't maintain the stern expression when Toshiro's face split into a grin.
"Maybe," he conceded. "But it should exist. Very effective."
"Shut up," she muttered, fighting her own smile. "When's your birthday, anyway?"
"June 11th. Why?"
Ai sat up straighter, pointing her chopsticks at him triumphantly. "Ha! I'm older. January 25th. That makes me your senior."
"By what, five months?"
"Six-ish," she calculated. "That means you should show me proper respect, kouhai."
Toshiro raised an eyebrow, standing to his full height beside the table and looking down at her. "I'm also a foot taller. Short stack."
"I am perfectly average height for a woman!" She stood too, which only emphasized their height difference. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
"You're tiny," he insisted. "Like a pocket idol."
"Take that back!" She reached up to swat at his shoulder, but he dodged easily, laughing.
"Make me, short stack!"
Something about his teasing sparked a childishness in her she'd thought long buried. Ai grabbed her napkin, wadded it up, and threw it at his face. It bounced off his forehead, leaving him looking so comically surprised that she doubled over laughing.
"Oh, it's war now," Toshiro declared, grabbing his own napkin.
What followed was ridiculous—two professional idols engaged in a napkin-throwing battle across a tiny apartment kitchen. Ai ducked behind the counter, stifling her laughter as she prepared another ammunition round from paper towels. Toshiro used his height advantage to lob projectiles from above, his normally composed face transformed by boyish delight.
"Surrender!" he called, advancing around the counter.
"Never!" Ai pelted him with her remaining napkin balls, backing away until she bumped into the refrigerator. "Idols don't surrender!"
"This one does." Toshiro raised his hands, napkin fragments caught in his blond hair. "I'm out of ammo."
They stood there, both breathing hard and grinning like idiots. Ai couldn't remember the last time she'd played like this—just fooled around without cameras, without calculation, without thinking about how it would look to others.
"You have—" Toshiro reached out, then hesitated, his hand hovering near her face. "Napkin in your hair."
Ai nodded slightly, giving permission. His fingers gently removed the paper fragment, brushing against her temple. The touch sent a strange current down her spine.
"Got it," he said softly, his voice deeper than before.
Ai became acutely aware of their proximity—her back against the refrigerator, his tall frame just centimeters away. The kitchen felt smaller, warmer. His eyes held hers, blue and searching.
Then the refrigerator hummed loudly, breaking the moment. Ai slipped away, returning to the table to gather their plates.
"That was..." She searched for the right word. "Unprofessional."
"Completely," Toshiro agreed, following with their glasses. "Utterly unprofessional paper warfare."
"Rui would be scandalized."
"Ryuu would have an aneurysm."
They looked at each other and burst out laughing again, the tension dissolving into something comfortable.
"I can't remember the last time I did something that stupid," Ai admitted, rinsing plates at the sink.
"Me either." Toshiro leaned against the counter beside her. "Though I did once put salt in the sugar container at the orphanage. That was pretty chaotic."
"You rebel." She handed him a wet plate. "I'm shocked they let such a troublemaker into the idol industry."
"Says the girl who steals cafeteria green onions."
"I maintain that's resourcefulness." She flicked water at him. "Don't start another war you can't win."
"Peace. I've learned my lesson."
As they finished cleaning, a comfortable silence settled between them. Ai found herself sneaking glances at his profile—the straight nose, defined jawline, the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward. He was objectively beautiful, but that wasn't what kept drawing her eye. It was the authenticity in his expressions, the way his face showed what he was feeling without calculation.
"What?" he asked, catching her looking.
"Nothing." She turned back to the sink. "Just wondering which of us is weirder."
"Definitely you," he said without hesitation.
"Excuse me?" She turned to face him, hands on her hips. "You're the one who remembers my favorite food and then nearly burns down your kitchen attempting to make it."
"That's thoughtful, not weird." He crossed his arms. "You're the one who threw the first napkin."
"You called me short stack!"
"Because you are one!"
They stared at each other, mock indignation dissolving into smiles.
"Fine," Ai conceded. "Let's say we're equally weird."
"Deal." Toshiro dried his hands. "Want to take our professional development meeting to the couch? I have tea. Or coffee, if you prefer."
"Tea sounds perfect."
While Toshiro prepared the tea, Ai explored his living room. It was sparsely decorated—a small sofa, a low table, a TV mounted on the wall. No personal photos, no mementos. It reminded her of her first apartment after leaving the orphanage—functional, impersonal, a place to sleep rather than a home.
One thing stood out: a notebook on the table, open to a page filled with choreography diagrams. She picked it up, studying the detailed formations and movement notes.
"Sorry about the mess," Toshiro said, entering with two steaming mugs. He set them down and reached for the notebook.
"These are good," Ai said, genuinely impressed by the precision of his diagrams. "You account for everyone's strengths."
Toshiro sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "It's a puzzle. Ryota needs space for acrobatics. Ryuu needs predictable patterns. Seiji needs room to freestyle. Daisuke needs subtle moments for emotional expression."
"And what do you need?" Ai asked, turning to face him.
He considered this, his eyes thoughtful. "To make them all look their best, I guess."
"That's not an answer about you."
His gaze dropped to the notebook. "I'm still figuring that part out."
Something in his tone resonated with her—the careful deflection, the focus on others rather than himself. Another point of connection she hadn't expected.
She took a sip of tea to hide her embarrassment. "This is good."
"Thanks. One of the few things I can make without disaster."
"A crucial skill." She set her mug down. "So, Mr. Professional, what's your weirdest habit? Since we've established we're both equally strange."
Toshiro thought for a moment, then said, "I talk to myself when I choreograph. Full conversations, different voices. It freaks Ryuu out."
"That's pretty weird," Ai agreed. "I organize my closet by color and sleeve length."
"Amateur. I organize my playlists by emotional resonance rather than genre or artist."
"I can name every constellation in the northern hemisphere."
"Cap. I can recite the periodic table backwards."
"That's definitely cap. I secretly watch children's anime for the life lessons."
"I collect interesting rocks I find on the street."
With each confession, they shifted closer on the couch, the space between them shrinking as their voices lowered to conspiratorial tones. It became a game—who could admit to the stranger quirk.
"I have different walking styles for different personas," Ai said.
"I sometimes pretend I'm narrating a nature documentary about the other members."
"I make up backstories for strangers on the train."
"I have extensive conversations with my plants."
"You don't have any plants," Ai pointed out, gesturing around the plantless apartment.
"Exactly. That's what makes it weird." Toshiro's eyes crinkled at the corners.
Ai laughed, leaning back against the couch. "Okay, you win that round."
Toshiro's gaze lingered on her face. "You laugh differently when you're not on camera."
"What do you mean?"
"Your stage laugh is perfect—musical, controlled. This one's messier. Real."
Ai should have felt exposed, caught out in her careful performance. Instead, she felt seen in a way that wasn't threatening.
"Most people prefer the perfect version," she said quietly.
"I don't." His voice matched her tone, creating an intimate bubble around them. "Perfect is boring. Real is..." He trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Messy?" she supplied.
"Beautiful," he corrected.
The word hung between them, simple but heavy with meaning. Ai looked away, suddenly conscious of how close they sat, how easy it would be to lean into him.
"It's getting late," she said, though she made no move to leave. "I should probably go."
"Probably," Toshiro agreed, equally stationary.
Neither of them moved. The silence stretched, comfortable rather than awkward.
"This was nice," Ai finally said. "The professional development."
"Very educational," Toshiro nodded solemnly. "I learned critical industry skills like napkin warfare and the importance of cafeteria green onion appropriation."
"And I learned the vital importance of not letting you near a kitchen unsupervised." She smiled, meeting his eyes again. "We should do it again sometime."
"Definitely. For professional reasons."
"Absolutely. Strictly business."