Don’t Stop Knocking

On Thursday, the rain started before sunrise.

It hadn't been in the forecast—not that Yuu checked it often—but by the time he reached the office lobby, the sky outside was a bruised gray and his collar was damp. The receptionist, a cheerful intern named Rina, gave him a sympathetic look as she handed him a paper towel. He murmured thanks and tried not to look as defeated as he felt.

The elevator ride to the twelfth floor felt longer than usual.

He knew Kenji would be there already. Kenji was always early. Always composed. Always in control.

Yuu wasn't sure what to be today.

As the doors slid open, the smell of burnt coffee hit him before anything else. Someone had left a pot on too long. Fitting, Yuu thought. Everything this week felt a little off—scorched at the edges, sour where it used to be warm.

Kenji was at his desk.

Of course he was.

Reading something intently, back straight, not a single hair out of place. Yuu hovered near the doorway for a second, unsure whether to say anything. Whether to try again. Whether there was even a point.

He didn't speak.

Just walked to his own desk, head down, and opened his laptop.

The morning passed in a blur of email threads, design reviews, and hollow small talk with other team members. Yuu smiled when expected, took notes he didn't need, and forced himself not to look in Kenji's direction. Not even once.

Until noon.

That's when it happened.

An email. Subject line: Q2 Client Review Strategy – Revisions Requested.

Nothing unusual. Except the attachment. It wasn't from the strategy team or a manager. It was from Kenji.

And in the document, buried three paragraphs down, was a comment bubble next to a revised headline concept. It read: "Hayama's original phrasing had better cadence. Suggest reverting." – K.T.

Yuu blinked.

It was the first acknowledgment in days.

No direct message. No spoken word. Just six typed words. Six words that shouldn't have mattered—except they did.

Because Kenji hadn't just seen him.

He'd backed him. Publicly.

Yuu sat back, unsure what to do with the flicker of warmth that sparked in his chest.

By three, the rain had turned into a full-blown storm, tapping against the windows in steady, nervous rhythms. The team huddled in the conference room to prep for a pitch Kenji would be leading.

Yuu was there, just close enough to be heard if he spoke up. He kept his comments short, clean, professional. No jokes. No wandering glances. When Kenji asked a question, Yuu answered with just the right amount of confidence.

Kenji didn't avoid his eyes.

Didn't linger, either.

But something had shifted. Slightly.

Enough that when the meeting ended, and people started filing out, Yuu found himself alone in the room with Kenji again.

The moment sat between them like a fragile thing on the table. Neither of them moved.

"I saw your comment," Yuu said finally, voice quiet.

Kenji looked at him, expression unreadable. "It was accurate."

"Still." Yuu shrugged. "Thanks."

Kenji nodded once. "You're good at what you do. That hasn't changed."

Yuu tilted his head. "But something else has."

A pause.

Then: "Yes."

Yuu swallowed. "You said it's easier this way. But it doesn't feel easy. Not for me. Does it for you?"

Kenji didn't answer right away. He stood there, one hand resting against the back of a chair, the other tucked into the pocket of his slacks. His suit today was navy. Not quite as sharp as his usual black, but no less deliberate.

"No," he said finally. "It doesn't."

Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.

"So what are we doing?" Yuu asked. "Pretending the retreat didn't happen? That we didn't have fun? We didn't get a little closer?"

Kenji looked at him, this time without flinching. "We're doing what we have to."

"But who decides that?" Yuu's voice wasn't angry, just tired. "You keep drawing lines and acting like it's the only option. Like there's only one version of what this has to be."

Kenji's mouth twitched, just slightly. "There's the version that keeps us both employed. That keeps things professional. Clean."

Yuu stepped closer, barely a foot between them now. "And there's the version where we're honest. Even if it's complicated."

Kenji looked at him then, really looked.

And Yuu saw it.

The crack. The sliver of vulnerability beneath the calm. The part of Kenji Takahashi that had offered him a coffee once, and laughed—actually laughed—at something he said under his breath. The version that had opened up, briefly, at the retreat, somewhere between a bonfire and a story about his first failed pitch.

Kenji said nothing.

But he didn't step away.

That was enough.

For now.

Yuu exhaled and gave him a small, sad smile. "Okay. We'll play it your way. For now."

Kenji nodded once, like that cost him something.

As Yuu turned to leave, Kenji spoke—just a whisper behind him.

"Hayama."

Yuu paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"…Don't stop knocking."

Yuu froze.

Then, without turning around, he said, "Wasn't planning to."

And walked out into the storm.