Chapter 1: The Bathroom Door Ajar
The hallway was always too narrow. Tonight, with the steam bleeding out from under the bathroom door, it felt like a tunnel. Yuji stood frozen, his shoulder pressed against the cool wall, the cracked linoleum slick under his socks. The air was thick with lavender soap and the damp, intimate heat of her shower.
He could hear her humming, something tuneless and soft. The water had stopped. A droplet hit the floor inside with a flat, final tap.
His mind was a broken record, the image playing on a loop he hadn’t asked for: just five minutes ago, pushing this same door open by instinct, a towel in his hand she’d left in the kitchen. The curtain wasn’t fully drawn. A slice of pale skin, the curve of a hip, wet dark hair plastered to a slender neck. He’d jerked back, sealing the door shut with a silent, frantic click, but it was too late. The vision was branded onto the backs of his eyelids.
His palm was flat against the bathroom door now, not pushing, just feeling the vibration of her movement inside. His own breath felt too loud.
“Yuji?” Her voice, muffled by the wood, made him flinch. “You need to pee? I’m almost done.”
He swallowed. His throat was dust. “No. I… can you come out for a second?”
The silence from the other side was different now. The rustle of a towel. “Out? I’m not dressed.”
“Just… wrapped up. Please.”
Another pause. The lock clicked. The door opened just a foot, releasing a billow of steam that carried her scent, clean and warm. Choso peered out, her long dark hair a damp weight over one shoulder, the towel tucked securely above her chest. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat. She looked young, concerned. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Everything was wrong. He was wrong. The words were a tangled knot in his chest, barbed and shameful. He couldn’t look at her face, so his gaze dropped, then immediately snapped back up to the safety of her eyes. That was a mistake, too. The towel’s edge, the faint shadow between the fabric and her skin.
“Yuji?” she prompted, her brow furrowing.
“I saw you.” The confession fell out of him, a broken thing.
“Saw me?” She blinked, then understanding dawned, painting her cheeks a deeper red. “Oh. The door. It’s okay, it was an accident. Forget it.”
“I can’t.” The words were a raw whisper. He felt sick with want, a hot, crawling sensation under his skin that warred with a churning disgust. He was her brother. He loved her. This wasn’t how that was supposed to feel.
“Yuji, stop.” Her voice held a gentle warning, the one she used when he was spiraling about a test or a fight. “It was nothing. Go to your room, okay? We’ll forget it.”
But he was anchored to the spot, the hum of the fluorescent light filling his skull. He’d spent his whole life in her shadow, chasing her approval, basking in her indulgent smiles. This was different. This was a cavern opening up inside him, and he was teetering on the edge.
“It wasn’t nothing.” His voice gained a desperate strength. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
Choso’s hand tightened on the edge of the towel. Her knuckles were white. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” He took a half-step forward, invading the cloud of steam. She didn’t retreat, just watched him with wide, conflicted eyes. He saw the protectiveness there, the ingrained habit to soothe him, warring with a dawning, uncomfortable awareness. “Just… once. I need to… I need to see. Please. Just let me look. Properly.”
The word ‘properly’ hung in the humid air, ugly and specific.
Her breath hitched. She shook her head, a small, frantic motion. “You’re not well. You’re confused. This is… we can’t.”
“I’m not confused!” he insisted, the declaration sounding pitiful even to him. He raked a hand through his spiky pink hair. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. And you… you let me get away with everything. You always have. Just… just this one more thing.”
He hated himself for saying it, for weaponizing her love. The guilt was a physical taste, metallic and sour. But the desire was a fever, burning it all away.
Choso stared at him. The gentle sister who’d bandaged his knees and helped him with his homework was gone, replaced by a woman backed into a corner, her own breath coming fast. She looked at him—really looked—at the tension in his lean frame, the anguish on his face. She saw the boy she raised, and the stranger staring back.
A long moment stretched, fragile and terrible. The only sound was the drip of a tap inside and the frantic drum of his heart.
Slowly, hesitantly, her grip on the towel loosened. Not a surrender, but a tremble. The terrycloth sagged, just an inch, revealing the delicate notch at the base of her throat.
“Choso-nee…” he breathed, a plea and a curse.
She didn’t speak. Her eyes were glistening, unfocused. She gave one faint, almost imperceptible shake of her head. A denial. Or maybe a paralysis.
He waited, every muscle taut, the world narrowed to the space between them, to that sliver of exposed skin.
She closed her eyes.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, the sound barely there.