The quiet hum of the hairdryer finally ceased. Emi turned it off, setting it down carefully on the vanity before brushing a final hand through her damp, now-fluffed hair. Dressed in one of the clean sets of clothes she'd brought, she took a long, slow breath in front of the mirror.
She looked… normal. But she didn't feel it.
Not when her heart was still racing from the moment she stepped out and saw Ren Kazama. Not when her skin still felt the warmth of his touch. Not when the tension between them hadn't gone away.
Her feet moved on their own, carrying her down the stairs. She felt lighter in clothing but heavier in everything else. Ren sat on the couch, one arm resting along the back, his phone beside him, eyes fixed on the quiet street outside.
She hesitated at the base of the steps, her hand gripping the rail briefly before she made herself cross the final distance.
"Ren…" her voice was soft, cautious.
He looked up.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, standing a few feet away, her hands clasped in front of her. "For earlier. I shouldn't have spoken like that."
He said nothing, just raised a brow slightly. So she took a breath—and continued.
"I… I didn't expect any help," she confessed. "All my life, it's just been me trying to fix the messes my father left behind. Especially after my mom passed." Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed through. "I got used to it. To always being the one to shoulder things, to patch holes that kept ripping open again and again."
Ren's eyes didn't leave her.
"So when you helped me… when you gave me that job… when you tore up the contract without asking for anything back—" her voice cracked, "—it felt like too much. Like something I'd have to repay somehow. Like I'd owe you."
Her gaze dropped.
"I didn't want to be a burden. I still don't. I didn't know how to say thank you, not when I was scared of what that might mean. You've done more for me than anyone ever has. And sometimes… It makes me feel guilty."
"Guilty?" Ren's voice was quiet, but it cut straight through her.
Emi nodded, eyes glistening. "Because it's too peaceful. Too safe. And I'm not used to that. I don't know how to accept something that doesn't come with a cost. Every time I wake up these days and don't have to worry about debt collectors or back-to-back shifts… It feels wrong. Like I'm living someone else's life. One I don't deserve."
A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it. She wiped it away quickly.
"When my father told me about the marriage contract, I was already prepared to accept it. I thought—this is what I have to do. This is what my life has come to. Give up whatever choices I had left and just survive."
She sank onto the opposite end of the couch, her body curling slightly, like she was trying to protect something fragile inside her from breaking.
"But then you showed up," she whispered, "and changed everything. And I didn't know what to do with that."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Then Ren stood.
He crossed the space between them in two steps, crouching down in front of her, his hand reaching up slowly to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"You don't owe me anything," he said, voice low, firm. "I didn't do this because I wanted something in return."
She met his gaze, and what she saw in it made her breath catch.
"You shouldn't have had to grow up like that," Ren murmured. "You shouldn't have had to carry all of it alone."
The warmth of his palm cupped her cheek, and her eyes fluttered shut as more tears escaped.
And then she felt it—his lips pressing gently to her forehead. A gesture so tender, so careful, that it undid whatever was left of her composure.
A sob escaped her, quiet and shaking, and she leaned forward—into him.
Ren didn't hesitate.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest, letting her bury herself in the strength and warmth of him. She clutched his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her from breaking apart completely.
"I don't know how to respond to this kindness," she whispered, her voice muffled against him. "No one had ever done so much for me. You are the first."
Ren's lips brushed against her hair.
"With me, you don't have to act strong. You can be yourself. You are just twenty years old. You should be like any other girls, doing the things you like, hanging out with friends, "
The moment lingered, heavy with emotion.
"It's late. Go to sleep, Emi. Tomorrow we will talk again." Ren pulled her away and said gently.
She nodded, barely, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and rose slowly to her feet. Her fingers curled at her sides, reluctant to let go of the warmth he'd wrapped her in just moments ago. Her legs moved, but every step away from him felt heavier than the last.
She climbed the stairs quietly. As she reached the guest room door, her hand hovered over the knob, but she didn't open it.
She turned slightly, just enough to check if he was still watching. He sat on the couch below, head tilted up, eyes on her through the shadows.
They stared at each other in silence, the space between them full of unsaid words and suspended tension.
And then slowly, Emi opened the door and stepped inside the guest room. She walked quietly to the bed and sat down at the edge, the cool sheets brushing her fingertips as she pulled the blanket over her legs. But the cold was no match for the warmth still clinging to her skin—the warmth of being held in Ren's arms. He had held her steady and strong, yet so gently, like she wasn't a burden. Like she mattered.
Her throat tightened.
Lying on her side, Emi stared into the dim quiet of the room, but her mind refused to settle. Her heart pounded, loud and uneven, as if it hadn't realized the night was supposed to be over. No matter how still she lay, the storm inside her wouldn't ease.
She had never felt this way before. And somehow, feeling safe with him was the part that scared her most.
Maybe Ren was just being kind, she thought, the doubt creeping in like a whisper. Maybe he pitied her. Or worse… maybe he saw her like a younger sister—someone to protect, not someone to care for the way she was beginning to care for him.
The thought hit harder than she expected. Her chest ached, and a tightness rose in her throat. He was older, about eight years, confident and steady, the kind of man who probably had women around him all the time. Women who were polished and poised, who knew how to move through his world without hesitation.
And her? She was just Emi. Twenty years old and still trying to hold herself together. Still grieving the mother who had been everything to her. Still cleaning up the mess her father left behind. She didn't stand out. She didn't impress. She simply survived.