Behind The Closed Doors

Fuyumi stepped into Yua's office with a deliberate quiet, though her flushed cheeks betrayed any attempt at composure. The soft click of the door behind her sounded final.

Yua, legs crossed and reclining in her chair, looked every bit the CEO, tailored suit, effortless confidence. The only thing informal about her was the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, her eyes sharp with amusement.

Their gazes locked, and then, laughter.

Not polite laughter. Real, breath-snatching laughter that peeled away the tension like old wallpaper. Yua tossed her head back, dark hair falling over her shoulder as she wheezed.

"Jesus Christ," Fuyumi whispered, then immediately covered her mouth and started that awful breathless giggling you do when you've completely embarrassed yourself.

"That bad, huh?" Yua questioned mockingly.

"Shut up." Fuyumi was still giggling, pressing her palms against her cheeks. "God, I'm such an idiot. Did you...please tell me you weren't watching."

"Oh, I was watching." Yua turned her screen around. Paused security footage of Fuyumi with her hand flat against Riku's chest, looking up at him like he was about to kiss her. "Every frame."

"Oh God." Fuyumi actually whimpered. "Turn that off."

"He barely brushed you and you were melting."

Fuyumi dropped into the chair opposite, breathless. "I kept it professional."

"Oh sure, if 'professional' means nearly climbing him in the hallway."

They laughed again, the kind of laughter women share when the stakes are high but the moment is still theirs.

Yua's expression shifted, the smile lingering even as her tone sharpened. "You little menace. I said test him, not test-drive him."

Fuyumi fanned her face. "Please. Like you've never blurred a line or two."

"That's not the point." Yua leaned forward, closing her laptop with a decisive snap. "The point is you never miss an opportunity to cause chaos, do you? And don't think I didn't notice, he's been on your radar since when? Because I distinctly remember you making eyes at him during his last stint here."

"Making eyes?" Fuyumi scoffed, but her slight smile gave her away. "Maybe I appreciated his... potential."

"Potential he was apparently too dense to recognize. Or," Yua's voice took on a more thoughtful tone, "maybe he just wasn't interested in office complications back then. God knows he had enough problems without adding workplace drama."

Fuyumi's smirk turned thoughtful. "He's changed. You saw it too, right?"

Yua leaned back, gaze drifting to the skyline. Her voice dropped a notch, more serious now. "Yeah. He used to flinch when someone raised their voice. Now he holds it. Looks back like he's measuring people."

"It's not just confidence," Fuyumi murmured. "He's… grounded."

"And polished. Too polished. That kind of glow-up doesn't come from a few self-help books."

"Serious help," Fuyumi echoed.

Yua didn't argue. Her fingers tapped the desk in a rhythm that betrayed thought. "I remember six months ago, he was barely scraping by. Contract work. Late invoices."

She stood, moved to the window. The golden hour threw shadows across her face, softening her otherwise steel-cut profile.

"So what's changed?" Fuyumi asked quietly.

Yua turned, a flash of calculation in her eyes. "That's what I intend to find out."

A beat passed. Fuyumi adjusted in her chair, her tone lighter but not careless. "You really promoted him on one meeting? That's not like you."

"It wasn't about the meeting. It was the way he didn't flinch when I pushed. The way he returned serve. He's not just back. He's... loaded for something."

"That worries you?"

"No. That excites me."

There was a quiet between them now, less laughter, more awareness.

"So what's the play?" Fuyumi asked.

"Mm." Yua's lips curved, but it wasn't quite a smile. "It'll be interesting, watching him in action. Either he's rebuilt from the ground up… or he's just better at bluffing."

She lifted a file off her desk, not really looking at it, more as a pause than a task. ""The Ministry project begins Monday, but I'm not waiting till then."

Yua flipped the folder open with a flick.

"I've arranged a preliminary session tomorrow. Informal. I want to see how he handles real data, real pressure. Let's test if the sharpness he once had still holds."

She didn't look up.

"You'll be there too. With me."

"And if he's not?" Fuyumi asked, voice quieter. Curious, not mocking.

Yua didn't look up right away. When she did, there was a trace of amusement in her gaze, teasing, almost indulgent. "Then we'll see what breaks first, his act or his restraint."

—

The door clicked softly behind Fuyumi. Yua sat still for a beat, then reopened her laptop. Spreadsheet. Keystroke. Surveillance feed.

Riku, standing in the VP suite.

He wasn't moving. Just staring out the glass at the sprawl of the city.

Not admiring it. Assessing it.

Yua watched, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.

He almost proposed once. Clumsy. Honest. A confession under the moonlight after a gala.

Back then, he was all nerves and sincerity. And she...

She had already been promised. To Kaito Sugimoto.

Third-gen tycoon. Handsome. Polished. Ruthless.

Their marriage had been more headline than home. All flash, no warmth. Power couple. Empty house.

Kaito was cold. And worse, incapable of giving her what she craved.

Emotionally. Physically.

He called her insatiable. Unfeminine.

She called him inadequate.

Eventually, it became about silence. About staying in different rooms. Speaking in clipped tones. A cold war in designer clothes.

She didn't break. She calculated. She rebuilt herself from resentment and ambition.

Now Riku stood again on the edge of her life. Not fumbling. Not afraid. But shaped.

And God help her, she noticed.

Yua folded her legs, the silk whisper of fabric barely audible. Her lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite anything soft.

Had she brought him back to exploit his skills? Or because some part of her wanted to test what he'd become… against who she now was?

She stared at the feed a moment longer. Then, almost idly:

"Let Fuyumi play. We'll see if he's ready."

A pause. A breath.

"This isn't about nostalgia. It's about control."

But even as she said it, her eyes stayed on the screen.

And lingered.

—

The cafeteria at 3 p.m. felt forgotten. The fluorescent lights buzzed gently. Trays clinked. Conversations blurred into white noise.

Riku moved through it like someone stepping into a memory—half-familiar, half-foreign.

He grabbed a coffee, a sandwich. Was heading toward the corner when a voice called:

"Riku?"

Tanaka from IT. Sato from marketing. Kuroda from design.

Not close friends. Just people he used to nod to in the elevator.

They waved him over. No formality. Just space made, like muscle memory.

Tanaka smiled. "Didn't expect to see you down here."

"Didn't feel like room service," Riku said.

Sato raised an eyebrow. "VP now and still drinking sludge coffee? That's commitment."

They chuckled. The kind of laugh that carried no pressure.

Kuroda leaned forward. "It's true then. You're back. Different."

"Different how?"

"Like you know something we don't. Like you've stopped waiting for permission."

Riku didn't answer right away. He sipped his coffee.

"Maybe I have."

They nodded. No sarcasm. No jealousy. Just acknowledgment.

Tanaka lifted his cup. "Glad to see it, man. Whatever happened, you came back sharp."

Sato added, "Just don't start wearing sunglasses indoors and ignoring us."

Riku smiled. "I still remember which vending machine eats coins."

Laughter again. Easy. Familiar.

But underneath it, a quiet shift.

The gap between who he was and who he now had to be.

They talked shop, office gossip, shared a few inside jokes.

But by the time he left, he knew: they wouldn't sit like this again.

Not as equals.

And that, he realized, wasn't pride.

It was cost.