Thermae

I sat in the silence that followed. Not quite crying. Not quite breathing either.

Just… suspended.

The call had ended with such warmth. A promise to meet. A plan to reunite. But now, that warmth felt like sleight of hand. A magician’s trick to distract me from the real act: disappearance.

I didn’t know where he was.

And the worst part? I didn’t even know if he wanted me to find him.

I chewed on the inside of my lip, head bowed, fingers still gripping the pen Ryoji had handed me. Notes lay forgotten on my lap. Everything blurred together—our cover story, the call, the way he’d said “Wakkanai” like it meant nothing, when it clearly meant everything.

Was it even him?

Or was this just another carefully curated illusion?

And then something strange started crawling back to me. Letters. Weird letters.

The kind that used to show up backstage during the Italy tour. Anonymous. Offbeat. Poetic, even—like snippets from a dream. I’d laughed them off with the other girls.

“Crazy fans,” we’d said. “Enigmatic admirer, probably harmless.”

But what if they weren’t? What if they were never harmless?

Before the thought could form fully—before I could fall headlong into its spiral—Ryoji’s voice cut across the fog like a scalpel.

“Not here,” he said.

My head jerked up. “What?”

He was already checking his watch, his tone clipped. “You still have the swimsuit you wore in Tokyo, right?”

“…Yes,” I said slowly, eyes narrowing. “And?”

“Thermae,” he said. “One floor below. Come with me.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

He was already turning toward the door. “We’re heading north soon. If we take the low-profile route, it means eight hours in a crate inside a cargo transport. No baths. No downtime. No chance to unwind.”

“You want me to what?” I stood up, incredulous. “Ryoji, I don’t think a pool dive or spa day is what I need right now—”

He didn’t even glance back. “It’s not for what you need right now. It’s for what we won’t have later. And I won’t pass on it.”

I stared at him.

Was he serious?

…Of course he was serious.

He was always serious.

Still, it felt surreal.

One second I was unraveling the truth behind a man possibly being hunted by his own government—my own father—and the next I was being instructed to go fetch a swimsuit and prep for a soak.

I opened my mouth, ready to toss out a sarcastic protest—

And stopped.

Because he had a point.

If what he said was true—if the next leg of our trip was about to be cargo holds, smuggler’s routes, and no pit stops—then this might actually be the last time I saw sunlight, felt clean water, or had the space to breathe for who knows how long.

A bath. A soak. A quiet moment.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

My shoulders lowered as the tension bled out, replaced by reluctant acceptance. I exhaled through my nose and rolled my eyes at myself.

“Fine,” I muttered, brushing my hair back. “But if I find out this is some elaborate scheme to dunk me in ice water, I swear I’ll scream.”

Ryoji didn’t smile.

But I could have sworn I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Just a little.

He paused by the door, tilted his head toward me, and said flatly—

“Just don’t yell ‘Cannonball’ this time.”

I blinked. My jaw dropped a little.

“You remembered that?”

“I remember everything, Natsumi.”

And then he walked out, leaving me speechless—and maybe blushing—before I hurried to follow.

The floor below was quiet.

No music. No ambient chimes. Just the distant hum of machinery and the gentle splash of moving water.

I stepped out from the booth, still tying the knot of my towel as the warm light of the thermae wrapped around me. The air was misted and scented faintly with hinoki wood and minerals.

And then—

Time paused.

Ryoji stood under the cold shower.

Back turned. Head lowered. The water ran in hard rivulets across the lines of his shoulders, down his spine, vanishing into the drain like steam off a blade.

He wore only a short black swim trunk, cut high on the thigh, and a dark, slightly frayed wristband on his left arm—long enough to cover half his forearm.

Functional, almost tactical. Nothing about him felt like leisure. As always.

He wasn’t just fit. He was sculpted. Built like a statue from another age. A figure of motion and tension and weathered resilience.

Broad shoulders. Lean muscle. Not the kind earned in gyms, but forged in whatever world he’d survived. His abdomen flexed with each breath, scarred in places, not just surface-level but deep—marks that told stories I hadn’t heard yet. One traced across his side like a memory carved by fire.

I stood there, frozen, towel forgotten in my hands.

I had stolen a glance before but now: It was hard not to look at him.

And just as hard to look at him.

My throat felt suddenly dry. My legs, heavier than they should have been.

Then, without a word, Ryoji stepped from the water and descended into the pool with calm efficiency, disturbing barely a ripple as his body slipped into the warmth.

I blinked, mind catching up with the moment. He was already seated at the center of the shallow end, submerged to the chest, arms braced behind him along the pool edge.

God help me.

I turned quickly to the showerhead beside me, almost fumbling the temperature control.

The water hit too hot, and I welcomed it—anything to flush the blush out of my face.

It didn’t help.

He was just there, in the back of my vision, calm as ever, like this was nothing. Like I wasn’t quietly melting into a puddle of embarrassment under scalding water.

The last time we were at a pool…

Tokyo. That rooftop hotel.

Me, Shizuka, and Kyoshi had jumped in like kids again—splashing, joking, pretending like we weren’t older, like things hadn’t fractured. Ryoji had stayed back then, lounging on the patio with a shirt on, sunglasses shielding his gaze.

That had been a wise choice.

Because if this version of him—bare, wet, and built like a Renaissance sculpture—had stepped into that pool with us back then?

Shizuka would have choked on her orange juice.

Kyoshi might have had a sudden existential crisis.

And I…

I probably would’ve drowned.

And honestly?

That still felt like a risk.

Meanwhile, the water was perfect.

Warm, not too deep, with a faint mineral bite—more natural spring than hotel spa. I slid in slowly, arms wrapping around myself—not from cold, but from the leftover sting of embarrassment. The water reached my collarbones as I drifted across the pool, careful not to splash.

Ryoji was already there. Reclined against the far edge, arms resting loosely on the stone lip, eyes closed like he could fall asleep right then and there.

Part of me wanted to believe this whole thing was just coincidence. The letter from the bureau. The threats back in Italy. Even the vanishing act of the agency’s bodyguard. Maybe life really was just that cruel and chaotic.

But lately… it didn’t feel random. It felt curated. Like someone had set the stage just right—and I was the only one who didn’t see the script.

“So, my dad isn’t in Wakkain…” I started, then tripped over the name again. “Wakka… Wakkanai, right?”

It was the dumbest way to open the conversation, but also the only way I could.

My brain was trying to juggle too many things—fear, confusion, embarrassment, and… whatever storm of nerves Ryoji’s half-submerged body was stirring in me.

He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

His voice echoed low and steady against the walls. Steam curled lazily in the upper air. Water trickled from one of the side fountains like a soft ticking clock.

“But if he’s with the government,” he continued, “he might just go there to meet you and keep the cover up. They’d have contingency plans for that.”

I nodded. Slowly. Let the words sink past my chest and into the water. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. Just floating in the heat like it was the only place left in the world where things made sense.

“Right…” I murmured.

Then I looked at him. Really looked. Calm, unreadable, perfectly still.

“But… won’t they try to tail us again?”

“They might not need to,” he said. “They know we’ll be there to visit your father.”

“So we’re playing right into their hands.”

“In a sense, yes,” he admitted, voice unbothered. “But no. We told them our destination. If this is a government op tied to high-clearance leaks, they’ll wait for you to show up to your father. Apprehend you then. Less resource-intensive.”

I blinked.

The water moved softly around me, little ripples from where I’d drifted closer. He was still leaning against the side, neck tilted just slightly, and his chest rose and fell in that quiet, stable rhythm of someone who lived in danger like it was a season.

I dipped lower into the water again, letting my lips hover just above the surface, steam warming my face. The pool was starting to feel like both a cocoon and a trap.

“But if they’re still tailing us instead,” Ryoji added, finally cracking one eye open to look at me, “it means the situation is worse than just that. It means arresting you has a higher priority.”

He paused.

“Even worse would be if they tail us, without arresting you. It means it’s not the same branch or agency that’s working with your father, and it’d mean they want him, not you”

That landed harder than anything else.

They’d wait for me to come to him.

That was what he said. What he meant was: They think I’ll lead them there.

I turned slowly, floating backward, watching the lights blur against the ceiling through the haze. I wanted to scream. Or hide. Or dive deep into the water and stay there until all of it went away.

Instead I just floated. Breathing. Existing.

Funny how the embarrassment helped.

It gave me something small, something normal to hold onto, like slipping on a ballet shoe just right. Because if I could still feel awkward and flustered around a man, then maybe I hadn’t lost everything. Maybe I could still be… me.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” I said finally.

“You didn’t,” he agreed. “Either way it’s still too early to jump to conclusion”

The silence after that was long. Heavy. But it wasn’t bad. Not really. It didn’t feel tense this time. Or loaded.

It was warm. Full of things we didn’t yet know how to say.