Chapter 5: Jealousy at the Party
The coffee shop standoff had become legend. At least, in Mayu’s version. For three days, she’d reenacted it, playing all the parts, ending with a dramatic whisper of “She doesn’t need distractions.” It made my skin prickle every time.
By Friday, the energy needed an outlet. Mayu decreed it. “House party. Off-campus. Volleyball adjacent. You’re coming. No arguments.”
Now, I was pressed against a sticky wall in a living room that pulsed like a single, sweating organism. The bass from the speakers was a physical vibration in my sternum. The air was soup—hot, thick, smelling of citrus vodka, stale beer, and too many bodies. I held a warm cup of something Mayu had handed me an hour ago, the contents mostly untouched.
Across the room, Yuki held court.
He was by the sliding glass door, a beacon of calm in the chaos. His teammates formed a loud, shifting ring around him and a cluster of girls from the soccer team. I recognized them. Confident, laughing, their eyes bright with intent. Kaito was there, his arm already slung around a blonde’s shoulders, talking close to her ear.
Yuki had a red plastic cup in his hand. He was nodding at something a brunette was saying. She touched his forearm, her fingers lingering on the corded muscle there. He didn’t shake her off. He just took a long drink. His laugh, usually so rare, cut through the noise once—a short, hollow sound.
“See?” Mayu yelled directly into my ear, making me jump. She gestured with her drink. “He’s pretending. Watch his eyes.”
I did. Even from here, I could see it. His gaze would sweep the room, land on me for a fractured second, then dart away. Each time, his expression would shutter closed before he turned back to the brunette, whose name I now remembered was Chloe. She was practically molded to his side.
“He’s drinking a lot,” I shouted back. The observation was a knot in my stomach.
“He’s nervous,” Mayu corrected, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The scene evolved with a slow, inevitable tension. One of the freshmen blockers was now making out with a redhead against the bookshelf. Kaito and the blonde had disappeared down the hall. The group around Yuki tightened, became more insular. Chloe’s hand migrated from his arm to his bicep, her thumb stroking the fabric of his t-shirt. She said something, tipping her face up to his, her lips a deliberate, glossy pout.
Yuki looked down at her. His face was flushed from the alcohol, his eyes a little glassy. He said something back. She smiled, a victorious little thing, and went up on her toes. Her intention was clear, her movement direct. She was going to kiss him.
He stepped back.
It wasn’t a dramatic recoil. It was a single, stumbling step that put a foot of cold air between them. His cup sloshed. His brow furrowed, a deep, confused line forming between his eyes. He looked at her, then over her head, his gaze searching, desperate, and finally anchoring on me.
Chloe’s smile froze, then melted into baffled irritation. She said something sharp. Yuki didn’t seem to hear her. He mumbled an apology that got lost in the music, turned, and began moving through the crowd. He moved like a ship cutting through a heavy sea—a little unsteady, his shoulders bumping people, his eyes locked on his destination.
Me.
He reached our little enclave by the wall. He smelled like whiskey and fabric softener and heat. Up close, he was truly drunk. His pupils were wide, his usually precise movements soft at the edges. He just stood there, looking down at me, that same pout from the coffee shop—the one he’d directed at Kaito—now turned inward, a vulnerable, drunken frown.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice straining to be heard.
He didn’t answer. He just looked at me, his dark eyes swimming with something unguarded and miserably sad. Then he stepped forward, closing the last of the distance, and wrapped his arms around me.
It wasn’t a greeting hug. It was a collapse. His full weight leaned into me, his face burying itself in the curve of my neck and shoulder. He was solid and warm and utterly heavy. One arm banded around my back, the other hand came up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading into my hair. He let out a long, shuddering breath that was hot against my skin.
I froze, my own arms pinned awkwardly at my sides, the plastic cup still clenched in one hand. I was a small pillar holding up a monument. The music thumped. People shuffled past. Over Yuki’s shoulder, I saw Mayu’s eyes go wide, then soften. She gave me a helpless, what now? shrug before she was tugged into a conversation by someone else.
“Yuki?” I whispered into his ear.
A slight, negative shake of his head. His nose nudged my collarbone. His hold tightened, almost possessive. I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart through both our shirts, a counter-rhythm to the chaotic bass.
This was the captain of the men’s volleyball team, one of the most composed people I knew, publicly drunk and clinging to me in the middle of a party. The girl he’d left, Chloe, was watching from across the room, her expression a mix of scorn and curiosity. Others were starting to glance our way.
Slowly, I let my free hand come up and rest tentatively on his lower back. The muscle there was rigid. I patted it once, a clumsy, soothing gesture. He made a low, indistinct noise and relaxed a fraction, his entire body sagging further into mine.
I was stuck there. Anchored. The world partied on around us, a blur of color and noise, and at the center of it, Yuki Ishikawa was silently, drunkenly holding on as if I was the only solid thing left in the room.
The music seemed to fade, becoming a dull throb at the edges of a sudden, intimate silence defined by his breathing and the frantic beat of my own heart. I gave his back another pat, the gesture feeling ridiculous. “Yuki. You have to let me go soon, okay?”
“No.” The word was a muffured, immediate protest against my skin. His arms tightened, a reflexive lock. “Not soon.”
“People are staring.”
“Don’t care.” He lifted his head just enough to speak, his cheek still pressed to my temple. His words were a warm, slurred rush. “They kept making me talk to them. Pushing them at me. Like it was… team building. Kaito was being a dick about it.”
His breath hitched. He pulled back just far enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine with a drunken, desperate intensity. The usual quiet command was gone, stripped raw. “He said it would cause a problem. A big problem. Between us. If I was rude.”
I blinked, trying to follow the logic. “If you were rude to the soccer girls?”
“Yes!” he said, too loud, his face earnest and splotched with flush. “Because I didn’t want to talk to them. I don’t like them. I don’t… I don’t want…”
He faltered, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then back up. The confession tumbled out, clumsy and unfiltered. “I like you. I only like you. So talking to them felt like… lying. And you’d see it. And you’d think I wanted to. And then there’d be a problem.”
The sheer, simple anguish in his voice stole my air. This wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t poetic. It was a frustrated, intoxicated unraveling of every withheld word since high school. He’d been calculating social debts and team politics while all I saw was a girl touching his arm.
“Yuki,” I managed, my own voice soft. “You are incredibly drunk.”
“I’m clear,” he insisted, swaying slightly. His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones. The touch was shockingly gentle. “I’m so clear right now. I like you. I have forever. Since you laughed so hard at my sister’s joke you spilled soda on my gym bag. It stained. I kept the bag.”
A stunned, breathy laugh escaped me. The detail was too specific, too real to be anything but truth. “You might regret this version of clarity in the morning.”
“I won’t.” He said it with absolute, drunken conviction. His forehead came to rest against mine. “I’ll regret the shot of cheap tequila. I won’t regret this.”
“Well, look at this!” Mayu’s voice cut in, bright and teasing. She appeared at our side, her grin electric. “The captain’s abandoned his post. Turning into a complete sap, are we?”
Yuki didn’t even turn. He just slid one arm from my face down around my shoulders, pulling me tighter into his side, using his body to shield me from her teasing. “Go away, Mayu.”
“He’s confessed, hasn’t he?” she stage-whispered to me, ignoring him. “I can tell by the pathetic look on his face. And the death grip.”
“I said go away.” His voice dropped, a low growl that was more pleading than commanding. He buried his face back in the crook of my neck, his entire weight settling onto me once more.
I stumbled a half-step, bracing against him. The physics were comical. I was anchored, holding up a towering, affectionate, completely plastered athlete. Mayu dissolved into giggles, waving a hand in front of her face. “Oh my god. You’ve got a six-foot-four koala hanging onto you. He’s not letting go.”
He wasn’t. His arms were a permanent, warm vise. In the swirling chaos of the party, surrounded by the debris of his confession, I slowly let my own hands come up to rest against his back. I held on, too.