Chương 178: 67.An Unexplainable Stirring 3

By the time we hauled our gear back to No. 22 Platinum Bridge Street, the sky had collapsed completely into evening. The door opened and that familiar cocktail hit me—voices, heat, laundry detergent, snack crumbs, and the specific brand of chaos that belonged to Unit 144. For a second I almost laughed. I'd been running around all day, but stepping through this door was what finally felt like coming home. Then Jess's voice drifted over from the living room.

"Well, well—our off-campus mobile vehicle inspection duo finally decided to grace us with their presence?" I stopped dead. There it was. The familiar smart mouth, the familiar needling, familiar enough to make me want to yank the helmet bag off my arm and jam it over her head. Jess was lounging against the sofa, holding someone's drink, wearing a grin that was equal parts smug and asking for it. Her eyes swept between me and Maki like radar.

"So how'd it go?" She dragged the words out.

"Productive day? You two stared at those bikes so long, I thought you'd walk straight from the showroom into a wedding venue—" I opened my mouth to fire back.

"You—" But before I could get a word out, Maki stepped half a pace forward, tone as flat as if she were asking whether the trash had been sorted.

"Jess." Jess blinked. Maki looked straight at her. Expression completely deadpan. Then, very naturally, very evenly, and absolutely mercilessly:"Are you lonely too?" The living room went dead quiet. Not hyperbole. Actually silent. Even Roy, scrolling through his terminal nearby, froze. D's snack stalled midair. From the basement stairs came the suspicious sound of Harvey choking back a laugh. And Jess— Jess is a glass cannon. All offense through her mouth, all defense through attitude.

The second someone scores a direct hit on her core, she depressurizes like a punctured valve. Her face went scarlet instantly.

"Who—who the hell is lonely!" She shot off the couch, ears burning.

"I am not! I just—I just saw you two come back so late and thought maybe—no, why do I even care! Who gives a shit! Don't think you're hot shit just because you said that, and Hoshino, what is that look, I don't even—fuck this!" The more she talked, the messier it got, sentences losing subjects and objects and basic logic. Like a weapons platform someone had just punched straight through the chassis, cooling system gone. Finally she slammed her cup down and practically bolted upstairs.

"I am completely not lonely!!" Stomp, stomp, stomp— Her footsteps hammered the stairs, trying to convince the whole world. Herself especially. Two seconds of silence. Then D offered his honest assessment:"Direct hit." I almost doubled over laughing. Not because Jess was pitiful—though she was, a little—but because I genuinely hadn't expected Maki to just drop a tactical nuke like that. That wasn't a normal clapback.

That was taking everything Jess did—the sniping, the spectating, the poking at other people's boundaries for sport—and firing it straight back into her face. And the most brutal part was that Maki hadn't even raised her voice. No I'm about to end you energy whatsoever. She'd just calmly asked: Are you lonely too? And Jess had simply ceased to function. … This woman is genuinely terrifying. I clutched the doorframe, laughing so hard I could barely stand, and looked at Maki.

"That was way too—""She was being loud." Maki set her bags on the table with perfect composure.

"And she started it."

"So you just punched her soul out of her body."

"It was a question."

"You call that a question? That was a precision strike on someone's central nervous system." Maki looked like she couldn't be bothered to argue.

"If it works, it works." That made me laugh harder. Because she genuinely wasn't trying to be cool. She'd just thought: Jess keeps using us for target practice, so I'll address the root cause. And in her mind, the root cause was clearly: You're running your mouth like this because you're lonely, aren't you? Too ruthless. Too accurate. Too fucking reasonable. But after the laughter died down, I couldn't help glancing up the stairs.

Jess had a sharp tongue and thick skin, but the moment you actually hit something real, her reaction was huge—like armor that had never finished growing. High attack, zero defense. Always blowing other people up, then falling apart when it was her turn. Honestly, that was a little troublesome. And the woman standing next to me, Maki Kushima, specialized in taking people apart with a single sentence. A weird premonition hit me. This wasn't going to stay just a funny story we'd laugh about tonight.

None of us knew that yet. We didn't know Jess's chaotic dig would turn into some strange overture later. We didn't know how much recoil Maki's too-calm counterpunch would leave behind. All we knew right then was this: We'd looked at bikes. Bought gear. Held hands. Came home to watch Jess shatter into pink glass fragments in real time. Standing in the entryway with a helmet bag and gloves still in my hands, I suddenly felt like this entire day had been unreal.

Like I'd gone out to handle one practical thing and accidentally brought something else back with me. Maki finished putting things away and turned to find me still rooted to the spot. A small frown.

"Why are you just standing there?" I snapped out of it.

"…Nothing."

"Then get in here."

"Yeah." I closed the door and walked into the living room. That night, after my shower, the first thing I did when I got back to my third-floor room was shut the door. The second thing was lean against it and stare into space. Not because I'd suddenly achieved enlightenment, and not because I was lightheaded from skipping dinner.

It was because I'd just made the unfortunate discovery that the clearest image in my head wasn't the bike we'd bought, wasn't the row of suits at the showroom who'd snapped to attention at the scent of money, and wasn't even Jess's spectacular meltdown courtesy of Maki's surgical strike. It was ten seconds at a crosswalk. … Get a grip, Hoshino Shimo.

I was already cursing myself as I threw my jacket over the chair and swept the terminal, hair tie, and two mystery receipts off the bed to clear space for a proper life evaluation. I sat on the edge of the mattress and thought about it seriously. What the hell was that? The first time—outside the showroom—I could barely construct a defense for her. Crowded. Windy. People shoving. She grabbed my arm for a second. Reasonable. Reasonable enough to nearly give my heart problems, but the logic held.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. The second time was different. The second time, she reached back on her own. No warning. No explanation. No "watch out or you'll trip" to make it officially acceptable. She just put her hand back, and I—spineless as ever—put mine right in it, making the whole thing look like something we did every day. That was the problem. Too natural. Suspiciously natural.

Natural enough that now, every time I closed my eyes, the same scene played: her half a step ahead, black hair tied high, shoulders straight, hand reaching back like she'd carved out a space there long ago and was just waiting for me to fill it. Disgusting metaphor. I know. But unfortunately accurate. I dropped onto my back and covered my eyes, trying to use darkness to crush the loop playing in my head. Didn't work. The human brain is never less cooperative than when you need it to play dead.

Especially when you've spent all day deflecting with sarcasm and attitude, and now it's night, alone in your room with no distractions, and you have to face one brutal truth: I care. The kind of caring that gets worse the harder you try to fake that you don't. I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. The pillow had done nothing wrong. The bed had done nothing wrong. That fucking traffic light, on the other hand.

If that intersection had been wider, narrower, more crowded, less crowded—maybe none of this would've happened. But everything had been exactly right: crowd busy enough, distance close enough, timing natural enough. Even her letting go had been perfectly calculated—no opening for me to question her on the spot, but just enough to leave me here cooking myself alive. I made a muffled sound into the pillow. So annoying. Really fucking annoying. I'd almost convinced myself today was just practical business.

Looking at bikes, picking gear, killing an afternoon. Even if it looked a little like a date, I could still prop it up with "we were just running errands." But hand-holding is different. Hand-holding comes with this infuriating built-in quality: no matter how you explain it, things never quite go back to exactly how they were before. Especially with someone like Maki. She treats every unnecessary word like a drain on national resources.

Yet she was the one who pulled this move—so brief, so casual, so quietly devastating. I pulled my face out of the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Moonlight leaked through the curtains, cutting a thin white line across the room. I stared at it for a long time, then—in what was probably my lowest moment—lifted my own hand and looked at my palm. … I've lost my mind. But I still remembered. Her palm had been warmer than expected. The grip wasn't heavy—just steady.

Not the kind that drags you somewhere, more the kind that says just stay with me and means it quietly. The second that thought finished forming, I slapped my hand back down. No. Stop. If I keep going, I'm genuinely not sleeping tonight. I sat up and grabbed my terminal, hoping to find something to cool my head down. The screen lit up—first thing at the top was the purchase confirmation. Model. Payment. Delivery. Insurance.

Every word clear and orderly, radiating the administrative beauty of a world still running exactly by the book. But I stared at it for thirty seconds and only thought about one thing: She'd blocked the free bike for me today.

"If it were for me, I'd take it. But I'm here for Hoshino today. I'm not putting that on Kushima's tab." Different from the hand-holding, but just as maddening. Because it meant she wasn't acting on impulse. She'd been thinking about what I'd mind, what I'd hate, what I'd refuse to owe. She'd calculated all of it and carved out a space between her world and my limits—somewhere I wouldn't have to feel compromised. Honestly, that's scarier than being handed flowers. You can pretend not to understand flowers.

This kind of thing is harder to dismiss. I put the terminal aside, lay back down, and entered a cycle with zero dignity. Close eyes. Think of her. Open eyes. Roll over. Tell myself it was just hand-holding. Close eyes again. Think about her adjusting my helmet strap. Open eyes. Wonder what I did in past lives to deserve being executed by my own memories at midnight. Worst of all, I'd started replaying what she'd been wearing.

Off-white turtleneck, khaki pants, handbag—understated, intelligent, basically bulletproof. Nothing flashy, yet it gave you this dangerous illusion: if today hadn't been about bikes but an actual date, she would've been perfectly dressed for it. … Wait. No. I froze the moment that thought finished. I was already running if today hadn't been about bikes but a date as a baseline assumption? I'm fucked. Actually fucked. I covered my face and mentally carved myself a headstone: Here lies Hoshino Shimo.

Cause of death: the other party held her hand once and she hallucinated herself into insomnia. Fucking pathetic. If Jess ever found out, she'd have material for three years. If Harvey found out, he'd smirk and say "I knew it." If D found out—D would probably just say, very calmly, "Oh." That last image actually made me laugh. Short and quiet, but it let some pressure out. Fine. Let me think about it then. Nobody on the third floor could see me right now. My dignity was technically intact on the surface.

I could talk tough all I wanted, but I wasn't an idiot—after everything that happened today, there was no packaging this back up as "normal outing." It wasn't normal. Hadn't been for a while. I just didn't know if this not-normal was me overreacting alone, or if she was maybe, just a little— Just a little would be enough. That thought was enough to keep me awake all over again. Damn it. I don't know what time I finally passed out.

I only know that the last time I checked, the world outside had gone completely quiet—like everyone else had the decency to sleep—while I was still lying there losing an argument with ten seconds of hand-holding. No spine whatsoever. But very, very real. I woke up the next morning somewhere between "technically alive" and "please let no one have witnessed last night." I got cleaned up and went downstairs. The moment I hit the first floor, coffee and toast smells drifted from the kitchen. Mornings at No.

22 ran to extremes: dead silent or refugee-camp chaotic. Today was moderately chaotic—which counted as normal. D sat at the table with breakfast that perfectly summarized his life philosophy: edible, filling, no time wasted. Harvey was technically awake, but half his soul still looked trapped in basement servers. He held his mug, eyes focused on invisible circuit diagrams. Ash was by the window reading something, like a morning portrait titled Don't Talk to Me, I Haven't Decided If I'm Being Civil Today.

Roy and Lan were murmuring about schedules or supplies. Everything looked perfectly normal. Until I saw Jess. She was standing by the counter, half a piece of toast in her mouth, hair messily tied up, clearly not fully booted yet. Then she turned, saw me— And froze like an overheating terminal. One full second of lag. Then she whipped her gaze away. Fast enough I genuinely worried about her neck. … Oh. I stopped on the last step and suddenly felt energized. Jess.

Still hadn't rebooted properly after Maki blew her off the map last night. I suppressed the urge to let my mouth curve upward and kept my voice aggressively ordinary:"Morning."

"What's morning about this!" Jess fired back almost reflexively, voice pitched half a note higher than usual.

"It's practically noon already. Someone who had such an exhausting off-campus inspection yesterday finally decided to get up?" Incoming fire. But the targeting was way off. It was barely past eight. Noon was still a solid two sleep cycles away. D took a bite of breakfast, glanced at the wall clock, and calmly reported facts:"0812." Jess: "I know that!" D: "Oh." Harvey ducked his head over his coffee, shoulders giving a suspicious tremor.

I almost cracked right there but held formation, walking over to grab a glass and fill it with water.

"You're running pretty hot today."

"Who's running hot?" Jess spun to glare at me, ears betraying her by going red first.

"I just think certain people went out yesterday to handle official business and somehow managed to make it all very... very..." She stalled out. I kept pouring and helpfully supplied:"Efficient?" Her expression curdled.

"Who said anything about efficient! I'm talking about that look—your face when you came back was disgusting!" I nearly choked on my water.

"What do you mean my face was disgusting?"

"That expression!" She started gesturing wildly, movements getting more chaotic by the second.

"Like—ugh—you know! That whole thing where you're obviously in a great mood but won't admit it, and you're hauling all these bags like you spent the whole afternoon just—" She cut herself off, clearly realizing she was building an increasingly incriminating romantic debrief entirely on her own. I set my glass down and looked at her slowly.

"Jess."

"What?"

"Right now you sound like you're conducting a mission review."

"I am not!"

"An emotionally invested mission review."

"Hoshino, don't flatter yourself!" Beautiful. With that line, she'd officially redirected fire from yesterday's me-and-Maki onto today's herself. Ash finally lowered her datapad across the room and shot a cool glance our way. Silent, but the look clearly read: Excellent tinder. Please proceed. What really broke the situation was Maki walking out of the kitchen right then.

She'd probably just finished with the kettle, holding her own mug, hair loosely tied back, wearing that morning-exclusive expression—still flat, just slightly less armored than usual. Her eyes swept between me and Jess.

"What happened?" She shouldn't have asked. The moment she did, Jess lit up like someone had jammed a superheated battery down her back.

"Nothing happened!" Suspiciously rapid-fire.

"I was just telling her—telling her there's not much breakfast left! Not my fault she slept in!" Maki looked at the table. Obviously plenty of breakfast remaining. Toast. Eggs. Even a small plate of ham someone had brought back yesterday. She looked back at Jess.

"Weren't you just saying her face looked disgusting when she came back yesterday?" I looked down at my water, nearly spraying it across the table. Jess went rigid.

"Kushima, you—!"

"I'm establishing context."

"Nobody asked you to establish context!"

"Your explanation was incoherent." Maki calmly set her mug down and took the seat diagonally across from me.

"Detrimental to comprehension." Absolutely surgical. The kind of surgical that cuts deeper precisely because it's completely sincere. Jess opened and closed her mouth several times before finally pointing at me with zero conviction.

"Just—don't get smug about this!" I blinked.

"Smug about what?"

"You know what!"

"I really don't."

"You do!"

"I don't."

"You—" She ran out of viable ammunition, just locked up there like a weapons platform with full ordnance and a completely fried fire control system. D observed her for a moment and delivered his concise assessment:"You're off your game today." Jess whipped around.

"D, shut up!" D returned to his breakfast, completely unphased.

"Oh." I finally lost it and laughed. Not a big laugh—just a short, quiet sound. But Jess heard every decibel of it, and her face climbed another full shade of red.

"What are you laughing at!"

"Nothing." I propped my chin on my hand and looked at her.

"You're just really cute today." That was deliberate. Purely deliberate. She'd spent yesterday using me for target practice. If I didn't collect some payback, I might as well write my name backwards. Jess walked straight into it.

"Who's cute!!" Her reaction was so explosive that even Roy had to turn away with what sounded like a cough but was probably a laugh. Maki sat beside me, quietly sipping her water. She didn't take sides—just waited for the most lethal moment and added, with perfect timing:"She was complimenting you." Jess: "That is not the point!!" Flawless. Absolutely flawless. I was still laughing when I realized—this had stopped being normal morning banter somewhere along the way. Jess was completely off-kilter today.

Her mouth still wanted to attack, but every shot was going wide. I was only tossing casual returns, but somehow each one felt more like deliberate teasing. And Maki sat slightly to the side, expression perfectly flat, somehow managing to nudge the entire situation into stranger, funnier territory with surgical precision and minimal words. This was dangerous.

The kind of dangerous where you could feel something buried under the floorboards—just a thin fuse right now, no one could say where it might burn to, but if you had any tactical instincts at all, you knew: eventually, something was going to detonate. For now, everyone could still pretend not to notice.

Jess finally grabbed her cup in a huff and moved to a seat farther from me, muttering harmless complaints under her breath—this is ridiculous, who cares about you two, why is the air so annoying today—none of which carried actual threat and all of which were, unfortunately, kind of adorable. I bit into my toast and looked up—straight into Maki's eyes. She looked at me for exactly one second. Just one. Then looked away, easy and unhurried, like nothing had happened. But I caught it anyway.

Faint, but definitely there—something like resignation. And underneath that, something quieter: a kind of indulgence that seemed reserved specifically for me. I'm fucked. I'd barely slept last night, and now this. Today's operational capacity was officially compromised. The worst part was, I didn't mind. I sat there chewing my toast, suddenly wanting to sigh. No. 22 was getting messier by the day. Not the kind of mess that meant blown circuits in the basement, kitchen fires, or Jess losing a verbal engagement.

A different kind of mess. Quieter. More insidious. The kind that sent you back to your quarters at night to lie on your bunk and stare at the ceiling for reasons you couldn't tactically justify.