Emi hated how acutely aware she was of Ren Kazama.
It had all begun after that night—the one that should have been nothing more than a close call, a blur of fear and adrenaline—but instead became something far more unsettling. Ren and Daiki had appeared out of nowhere, intercepting danger with the ease of men far too used to it. They hadn't hesitated, hadn't flinched, and in that moment, they had become more than just distant names whispered in back alleys or late-night rumors. They had become real. Tangible. Inescapable.
She told herself it was just gratitude she felt. That was all. A natural reaction to being saved. But if that were true, why did everything suddenly feel different?
At work, she found herself attuned to every shift in the atmosphere, especially when Ren entered the room. Conversations dimmed, shoulders straightened, and people instinctively quieted in his presence. He didn't need to speak to command attention; it followed him naturally, like shadows clinging to a flame. Even Daiki, who could joke his way through a gunfight, adjusted his tone around Ren.
But it was Ren that drew her eye.
It wasn't just the tailored suits, though those never failed to fit him with precision, nor was it the way he adjusted his cuffs with quiet certainty. It was the presence he carried—the calm, sharpened weight of someone who never needed to assert his authority because it was embedded in every breath he took. His very existence demanded attention, and no matter how hard she tried, Emi couldn't stop noticing.
Most of all, she noticed when he watched her.
She sat at her desk, trying to lose herself in the routine of organizing files, but his presence a few feet away made that impossible. Ren was seated at the small table near the windows, reviewing documents in complete silence, but it might as well have been thunder for how loudly he echoed in her awareness.
She exhaled softly, trying to shake off the tension coiling in her spine. You're just overthinking, she told herself. Get a grip.
She stood to retrieve a folder from the cabinet, just as Ren rose from his seat.
Their shoulders brushed—a brief, passing touch, but one that jolted through her like a static shock. Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned to step back instinctively, only to bump into the edge of the desk behind her. And still, Ren didn't move.
He remained standing far too close, the clean scent of him—fresh linen layered with something smoky and unfamiliar—wrapping around her in an invisible shroud. The air between them shifted, thickened, and for a moment, the only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat.
"You're tense," he observed, his voice low and measured, the kind of tone meant to slip beneath defenses rather than crash through them.
"I—no, I'm not," she replied quickly, her voice betraying her with its shaky undertone.
He arched a brow, clearly unconvinced.
She shifted her weight, trying to step away, but the desk behind her left nowhere to retreat. And Ren still didn't move. If anything, he leaned in slightly, bracing one hand against the desk beside her, not trapping her—but surrounding her nonetheless.
His proximity made her skin prickle with awareness. Every breath felt shallow, her mind too occupied with the space between them—or lack thereof.
"Relax, Fujimoto," he murmured, gaze flicking briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. "I don't bite."
Her throat went dry. "Could you… please move?"
Instead of stepping back, Ren tilted his head just slightly, studying her with an unreadable expression, as though she were a puzzle he hadn't yet decided whether to solve or protect. His gaze moved slowly, not lecherous, but assessing in a way that made her breath stutter.
"You're uncomfortable around me," he said softly, almost curiously, like he was stating a fact he already knew but wanted to hear her deny.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I wonder why," she muttered, tone tight with effort.
Ren's lips curved—not a full smile, just the barest hint of a smirk. "I make you nervous."
Her cheeks burned with heat, frustration flaring in her chest. "You—"
Before she could finish, Daiki's voice echoed from the doorway, casual and far too amused. "Am I interrupting something?"
Ren finally stepped back, as smooth and collected as ever, like the last few seconds had been nothing at all. Whatever flicker had danced in his eyes was gone, sealed behind that impenetrable calm.
"No," Emi said too fast, her voice a touch too high.
Daiki's eyes drifted from her flushed face to Ren's perfectly even expression, and a knowing smirk stretched across his face. "Sure. Totally looked that way."
Emi wished she could melt into the floor. Ren, of course, looked as unbothered as ever—confident, composed, and infuriatingly calm.
And that, more than anything else, was what got under her skin.
Because she was affected. Deeply.
And he… he pretended he wasn't.
But she wasn't a fool.
*****
Ren Kazama had faced dangerous men, negotiated with crime lords, and taken down enemies without breaking a sweat.
But Emi Fujimoto?
She was becoming a problem. A problem he hadn't anticipated. And yet, here he was—thinking about how she had looked at him earlier.
The way her breath hitched when he got too close. The way she had stumbled back, her face turning bright red as if she had never been that close to a man before.
It was amusing. But it was also irritating.
Because if anyone should be unaffected, it should be him.
And yet, for the first time in years, he found himself noticing things he had no business noticing.
The way she always tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she was trying to figure out the work. The way her fingers tightened around her pen when she was nervous.
The way she smelled faintly of vanilla and something soft—not like the overwhelming perfume of the women in his world, but something natural, something warm.
And the worst part? He found himself wanting to know more.
How she'd react if he touched her again. If she'd turn bright red like before. If she'd push him away or freeze in place, eyes wide with something between nervousness and something else—something unspoken.
He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. This is ridiculous.
He should be focusing on his work. On the underground deals that needed to be handled. A soft knock at his office door snapped him out of his thoughts.
And then—a soft knock at the office door.
He straightened slightly. "Come in."
The door creaked open, and she stepped in first—eyes lowered, clearly hesitant. But it wasn't just her.
Behind her came a familiar face.
Sora.
Ren arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "Fujimoto has brought backup," he remarked dryly, gesturing subtly to the empty seats across his desk.
Sora stepped forward with a small, polite nod. "I just came to thank you… again. For what you did last night."
He gave a light shrug. "You're welcome. Though I don't usually consider scaring off drunken pests a favor worth remembering."
Sora tilted her head, unbothered. "Then let me repay it anyway."
Ren paused. His gaze shifted briefly toward Emi, who fidgeted beside her friend, obviously unsure why she was here.
A beat of silence stretched before he said, casually but pointedly, "Actually, there's something you can do."
Sora blinked. "Oh?"
He folded his hands together on the desk. "Take your friend shopping."
"…Shopping?" Emi echoed, startled.
"For clothes. Shoes. A decent bag." His tone remained neutral, but his eyes flicked to Emi's worn-out outfit before returning to Sora. "She's an employee now. I expect a certain level of presentation in my office."
Emi's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
The heat rose up her neck fast, and she looked down, suddenly very aware of the faded edges of her blouse, the scuffed toe of her shoes, the straps of her bag that had been resewn three times. She shifted awkwardly, mortified.
"I… I didn't think—" she began, flustered, but he cut in gently.
"You didn't need to think. Just follow through," Ren said, his voice quieter now, but firm.
She swallowed hard. Part of her wanted to protest—say she didn't care how she looked, that clothes weren't important—but somewhere deep down, she felt the sting. Her pride bristled, even though he hadn't said anything cruel.
Why would she even think—for a second—that a man like him might look at her any differently? Based on how she looked? On how little she had? Ridiculous. No man would. Not when she could barely scrape enough together to survive. Not when she'd spent the last five years thinking of every yen as rent or food or another dent in her father's debt.
Ren stood and pulled open a drawer, sliding a black card across the table toward Sora. "Don't hold back. She needs everything. And make sure it's appropriate for work."
Sora's eyes widened slightly. "This… is a lot of credit."
He didn't flinch. "I'm aware."
Sora glanced at Emi—her friend, her stubborn, self-sacrificing friend who never once spent a yen on herself unless it was absolutely necessary—and then back at the card. A slow smile tugged at her lips.
"All right," she said. "Let's give her the makeover she never asked for."
Emi stared at both of them, caught between stunned silence and mild horror. "You two are talking like I'm not here."
"You're not the one making decisions today," Ren said simply, returning to his seat.
Emi's lips parted, but the words never came. She saw it again—that glimmer in his eyes. Something unreadable, but not unkind. She didn't know if it was pity. She hoped it wasn't.
But Sora caught it too. And for the first time, she didn't question his motive.
If this was how she could repay his kindness—by making sure Emi could walk into work with her head held a little higher—then she would do it. And quietly, she made up her mind.
Emi deserved more than hand-me-downs and exhaustion.
She deserved to be seen.
And judging by the way Ren Kazama was already looking at her—Sora wasn't the only one who thought so.