The Kurokawa and Y/N families were best friends.

That was the explanation every adult gave when they saw us together.

What they didn’t say was that it meant I never got a day to myself.

He was the young master of Bonten’s future.

I was the young master of the Y/N estate.

Two heirs. One garden. Too much trouble.

We met when we were 6.

I remember the sound first. The party downstairs was loud. Too many voices, too much clinking glass. My mother’s kimono smelled like cherry blossoms and starch. I was hiding behind it because grown-ups scared me.

Then a hand grabbed mine. Small, warm, and impatient.

“You’re coming with me,” a boy said.

I peeked out. Golden hair, sharp even as a kid. Black uniform already tailored to him. Eight years old and he looked like he owned the house.

“Where?” I whispered.

“Anywhere but here. It’s boring.”

That was Izana Kurokawa.

He didn’t ask my name. He didn’t need to. From that day on, he just called me.

Izana visited every weekend.

He’d show up at the gate in a car that was too expensive for a kid, hop out, and walk straight to my room like he lived there.

He broke my model planes on purpose, just to see if he could put them back together better. He did.

He stole the taiyaki from my plate, ate half, and then came back ten minutes later with three more flavors. “Yours were bad,” he said.

At night, when the house was quiet, he’d end up in my room. Not in the guest room his family paid for. In mine.

He’d sprawl across my bed, head on my pillow, and talk until he fell asleep.

Sometimes he’d mumble things. “White moon,” he said once, around 9. “That’s you. You’re pale. And quiet. And pretty. Mine.”

I didn’t know what it meant. I just liked the way he said it, like it was a fact.

Our mothers thought it was cute.

“Look at you two,” my mom would laugh at dinner. “Childhood sweethearts.”

Izana’s face would go red and then hard. “We’re not kids,” he’d snap.

But under the table, his pinky would hook around mine anyway. He never let go first.

We grew up like that.

Training in the mornings. Garden in the afternoons. Rooftop at night, where he’d tell me Bonten was going to be his and I’d tell him I didn’t want an empire, I just wanted to read.

“You can read in my empire,” he said. “I’ll build you a library.”

It was perfect.

Safe. Predictable.

Until I turned 12.

It happened at dinner.

My father set down his chopsticks. “Y/N. You’ll be studying abroad.”

The room went quiet.

“Two years,” he continued. “The best schools are overseas. It’s time you learned how the world outside works.”

I nodded. That’s what young masters did. We nodded.

Inside, my stomach dropped.

Izana didn’t come over that weekend.

He didn’t call.

On my last day, I thought he wouldn’t show up at all.

But he was at the gate.

Black uniform. Hands in his pockets. Hair catching the morning light. He looked older than 14.

“You’re leaving,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’ll come back,” I whispered. My voice sounded small even to me. “Two years. That’s all.”

For a second I thought he’d yell. Or break something. That’s what Izana did when he was upset.

He didn’t.

He just looked at me with those golden eyes, and something in them went cold and sharp.

“You better,” he said finally. Soft. Final.

My father’s driver opened the door. I got in.

The car pulled away down the long driveway.

In the side mirror, Izana didn’t wave. He just stood there, watching until the gate closed.

That was the last time I saw him for years.

On the plane, I kept thinking about the rooftop. About taiyaki. About “white moon.”

I told myself two years was nothing.

I told myself he’d be the same when I got back.

I was wrong about both.

---

Seven years is a long time.

London became university. University became boardrooms.

I learned contracts. I learned languages. I learned how to sit still while people talked about me like I wasn’t there.

I did not learn how to stop looking for gold hair in a crowd.

Bonten grew without me.

Izana’s name was in every article. “Kurokawa heir.” “Phantom of Tokyo.”

I stopped reading them after a while.

I was 19 when my father called me home.

“Y/N Holdings needs you,” he said.

So I came back.

---

The estate was exactly the same.

Cherry blossoms. Stone paths. The garden we used to hide in when we were kids.

The party inside was loud. Speeches. Cameras. “The young master has returned.”

I slipped out the back door ten minutes in.

The garden was quiet.

Cold air. The pond was frozen at the edges.

I sat on the old bench. The one with the carving we made when we were 10.

_I + I_

Stupid.

Footsteps on gravel.

I didn’t look up.

“Still running away from parties?”

That voice.

Deeper now. Slower. But I’d know it anywhere.

I turned.

Izana.

Black coat. No tie. Hands in his pockets. Hair longer, falling over one eye.

He’d filled out. Taller. Broader. The boy was gone.

But the eyes were the same. Gold. Sharp. Tired.

He looked at me like it had only been a week.

Seven years.

“You came,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It was relief.

“I had to,” I answered. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “The company.”

He walked closer. Stopped a few feet from the bench. Like he wasn’t sure if I’d move if he got too close.

“You got taller.”

A pause.

“Still small.”

I almost laughed. “You too.”

“I didn’t get small.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

Silence. The kind we used to be good at.

Then he sat. Not next to me. On the other end of the bench. Leaving space.

Respecting it.

That was new.

“The garden’s still here,” he said, looking at the pond.

“You still come here?”

“Every time I’m in the city.”

He picked up a dead leaf. Crushed it. “Thought maybe you’d come back to it.”

My chest hurt. “You didn’t call.”

“You didn’t write.”

“I tore the letters up.”

“I know.”

I looked at him. “How?”

“Because I did the same thing.”

Oh.

He finally looked at me. Really looked.

“You’re not a kid anymore,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“Because I’m not good at being a kid anymore either.”

The wind moved through the trees.

He reached out, slow, and brushed a petal off my shoulder. His fingers barely touched me. Cold.

“You’re still pale,” he murmured. “Still quiet.”

He dropped his hand.

“Still mine.”

It wasn’t a demand this time. It was just... fact.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

“White moon,” he said, so soft I almost didn’t hear it.

The nickname from when we were 9.

Inside, the music started again. Someone was calling my name.

Izana stood up first.

“Come inside when you’re ready,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

He didn’t tell me to follow.

He didn’t grab my hand.

He just walked back toward the house.

And for the first time in seven years, I wanted to follow him without being told.

The party was still going when I went back inside.

Crystal. Strings. People in suits that cost more than cars.

“Young master Y/N!”

“Welcome home!”

Hands on my shoulders. Glasses in my face.

I nodded. I smiled. I did everything I was trained to do.

I didn’t look for him.

I didn’t have to.

I felt him the second I stepped into the main hall.

Like heat. Like pressure.

Like the room had tilted two degrees and everyone else just hadn’t noticed yet.

Izana was by the bar.

Black shirt. Sleeves rolled up. No jacket.

He wasn’t drinking. He was just watching.

Not the room. Not the speeches.

Me.

Every time I turned, he was already looking.

When I talked to my father’s business partner, his eyes tracked my hands.

When I laughed at something my mother said, his jaw ticked.

When I reached for water, he was already holding out a glass.

One of his men placed it in my hand.

“From Kurokawa-sama,” he murmured, and walked away.

I didn’t drink it.

Dinner was worse.

Long table. White tablecloth. Twenty people.

My seat was at the head, next to my father.

Izana’s seat was at the other end.

He didn’t speak once.

But his eyes never left me.

Not when the servers came.

Not when my father toasted “to the future of Y/N Holdings.”

Not when someone asked if I was seeing anyone.

“Y/N is focused on work,” my mother answered quickly.

Across the table, Izana set his glass down.

The sound was small. The room went quiet anyway.

After dinner, people lingered.

I tried to.

“Walk with me,” a voice said behind me.

Izana.

He wasn’t asking.

He was already walking toward the terrace doors.

And I was already following.

The terrace was cold.

Tokyo lights below us. No one else out here.

He leaned against the railing. Hands in his pockets again.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

“You look tired,” he said finally.

“I am.”

“Seven years is a long time to be tired.”

I looked at him. “You look different.”

“I am different.”

A beat.

“Do you like it?”

The question was soft. Dangerous.

I didn’t answer.

He turned to face me fully then.

Close. Too close.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “But I’m not waiting another seven years to hear it.”

My breath caught.

“Iz—”

“White moon.”

He said it like he was testing it. Like he was afraid I’d flinch.

I didn’t.

His hand came up. Hovered near my cheek. Didn’t touch.

“You can go back inside,” he said quietly. “To your party. To your company.”

A pause.

“Or you can stay out here. With me.”

The door behind us opened.

One of my father’s aides. “Young master. They’re asking for you.”

I looked at Izana.

He didn’t move. Didn’t push.

Just waited.

I stepped back inside.

But I could still feel his eyes on me.

And I knew, with a certainty that scared me, that the night wasn’t over.