The bath’s heat still clung to Yu like a second skin.

  Even after he’d dried off, even after he’d dragged a towel through his hair until it stood in damp, stubborn spikes, his pores kept breathing out warmth. The hallway air felt colder in comparison—clean, ordinary, and painfully normal. The kind of normal that made everything that had happened in the bathroom feel like a fever dream he’d accidentally lived.

  He led Claval back into his room anyway, because there was nowhere else to put her.

  Under the harsh white of the ceiling light, his desk looked exactly as it always did—textbooks stacked in uneven towers, a pen cup with too many dead markers, a charging cable coiled like a sleeping snake. His shelves were cramped with manga and school binders, all of it familiar enough that his brain tried to cling to it like a lifeline.

  Everything was the same. Except the person standing in the center of it.

  Claval’s silver hair was still damp, strands darkened by water and stuck in delicate lines against her neck. Yu’s oversized sweatshirt hung on her like borrowed shelter. The sleeves swallowed her hands. The hem brushed her thighs. The collar sat a little wide at her shoulders, exposing a sliver of skin that shouldn’t have been a big deal and somehow was.

  She looked down at herself with open curiosity, then tugged lightly at the fabric.

  “…Mm. Soft,” she said, “Warm. Easy to move in,” almost to herself.

  The way she moved in it was what caught Yu—graceful, yes, but also oddly deliberate. Like she’d studied how people in this world carried themselves and was now testing each motion to see if it matched. When she swept a damp strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture was gentle… and faintly tentative, as if it came from memory rather than habit.

  Just seeing her in his clothes made something in Yu’s chest twist. His face flushed before he could stop it.

  “F-Forget what happened in the bath,” he blurted, too loud.

  “Completely. Don’t bring it up again. Ever.” He immediately winced and lowered his voice, darting a glance at the wall as if it could hear.

  “I won’t forget,” Claval’s mouth curved. “You made a very interesting face.” She said, far too calm.

  “Sh-shut up!” Yu turned away, ears burning.

  He went to his desk out of pure instinct, because standing still felt like surrender. He adjusted a notebook that didn’t need adjusting. He nudged a pencil two centimeters to the left. His hands needed something to do that wasn’t grabbing his own head and screaming into the void.

  Claval’s teasing lingered for a moment—then quietly faded.

  He felt it in the way the room changed around her. Not physically. Just… the temperature of her presence. The way her gaze stopped roaming. The way her shoulders settled like she’d chosen to put down a weight she’d been carrying all day.

  “Yu,” she said, softer. “May I speak about myself for a moment?”

  Yu paused with his hand on the edge of the desk. He glanced back.

  Her expression was different. No playful tilt. No pointed smile. Just a kind of careful seriousness that made his throat tighten for reasons he couldn’t name. He nodded, pulled his chair closer, and sat facing her.

  “Okay,” he said, “Go ahead,” voice quiet.

  Claval sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped beneath her, and the oversized sweatshirt bunched at her waist. She looked down at her knees, the sleeves covering her hands as she clasped them together in her lap.

  “I used to be… just an ordinary child,” she began. Her voice was soft, but steady—like she’d told herself this story before, late at night, when no one else could hear it.

  “I lived with my father and mother. Peaceful days. Simple ones. But they were happiness.” Her gaze unfocused slightly, drifting past Yu’s desk, past the bookshelf, as if she were seeing another room layered over this one.

  Yu didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice. Claval took a slow breath. The fluorescent light made her damp hair gleam faintly, water still trapped in the strands.

  “But our country was pulled into war.” Her fingers tightened in the long sleeves, “My father died protecting my mother,” fabric wrinkling around her knuckles.

  The words were plain. No dramatic flair. No trembling confession. That was what made them hurt. Yu felt a heavy pressure bloom behind his ribs, as if his lungs had suddenly been filled with cold water.

  “My mother collapsed not long after,” Claval continued. “She tried to stand. She tried to keep living as if she could hold the world together by will alone. But she couldn’t.” A brief pause. “And I was left alone. Small. Unprepared.” She swallowed.

  And the motion was subtle, but Yu noticed. Not because it was loud—because the room was so quiet that even a breath sounded meaningful. Claval gripped the hem of the sweatshirt in her lap, fingers trembling slightly, not from weakness but from something held too tightly for too long.

  “So I became an adventurer,” she said. “Not because I chose it… but because it was the only way to live.”

  Yu’s hands curled around the edges of his chair. Adventurer. The word sounded like fantasy when he read it online. A class. A job. A label. Hearing it from her mouth made it feel like a wound.

  “After that,” she said, “all I thought about was survival.” Her eyes lowered again.

  The way she sat—knees together, hands folded—looked almost carefully composed. Like she was arranging herself into the shape she believed she was supposed to be. The softness was real, but there was an underlying stiffness in her shoulders, as if she didn’t trust softness to last.

  “People I fought beside disappeared often,” she said. “Someone who sat by my fire yesterday might not see the next sunrise.”

  Yu’s breath caught. Not because she said it dramatically. Because she said it like weather. Like truth that had stopped surprising her.

  “In that life…” Claval’s voice thinned for a moment. “I always felt someone watching me.”

  Yu blinked. A memory flashed—Hanara’s narrowed eyes. The way she’d stared at empty space like she could see the invisible thread between worlds. The way the stream had ended as if a blade had cut it.

  “That feeling never left. Even when I swung my sword. Even when I ate. Even when I slept… there was always a presence at my back. A gaze I couldn’t shake.” Claval said.

  “It annoyed me,” she smiled faintly, a small curve that didn’t reach her eyes, “I hated it. I wanted it gone,” she admitted.

  Yu’s throat went dry. He knew that gaze. Not the same way she did. He knew it as the sensation of staring at a screen too long, of forgetting to blink, of realizing too late that you’d been holding your breath.

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  He knew it as the sick warmth in his palms when he’d gripped his phone so hard it hurt. Claval exhaled slowly, and her expression softened.

  “But that same presence… kept me alive,” she said.

  Yu’s eyebrows rose. Claval turned her hands over in her lap, studying her own fingers as if they belonged to someone else.

  “Because as long as I felt it,” she whispered, “I wasn’t truly alone.”

  The words sat between them like something fragile. Yu didn’t move. He was afraid if he did, it would shatter.

  Claval’s gaze drifted up—just briefly—meeting his eyes, then sliding away again. Her voice remained even, but something trembled beneath it.

  “Contradictory, right?” she said. “Stifling… and saving me.”

  Yu swallowed. He wanted to ask questions. A hundred of them. What kind of magic? Who watched? Why? How did she endure it? But he didn’t interrupt. He had a feeling this was the kind of story that stopped if you touched it too hard.

  “That was when I began changing,” Claval said, “When ‘I’ became… ‘me.’ When I began acting like a woman,” quieter still.

  Yu’s eyes widened. Claval’s shoulders rose and fell with a controlled breath. The towel on her hair had slipped lower. She didn’t fix it. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “I thought…” She paused, searching. “If I shaped myself into the person that presence wanted to see… maybe I wouldn’t disappear.”

  Her fingers curled deliberately, then relaxed. The motion looked practiced. Conscious.

  “Maybe I could be someone worth looking at someone worth saving.” she said.

  Yu felt a sharp ache under his sternum. Claval’s voice didn’t break, but there was a faint tightness at the edges now, like she was speaking around something painful.

  “And before I knew it…” she continued, “…I wasn’t acting anymore. This became my reality.”

  Silence pooled in the room. It was thick enough that Yu could hear the hum of the fluorescent light, the faint click of the air conditioner from the hallway, the distant sound of his mother moving somewhere in the house—mundane noises that felt worlds away.

  Claval lifted her head.

  “When I saw you—really saw you—for the first time I remembered something.” she said.

  Yu leaned forward without meaning to.

  “Something?”

  “A story my mother told me,” Claval said. “About a traveler from another world, long ago. Someone who crossed the boundary and left only legends.”

  Yu’s heart stumbled. He’d heard fragments like that in forums, in comment sections, half-jokes about isekai and returners and gods. Hearing it in her voice made his skin prickle.

  “My mother said our family carried a trace of that traveler’s blood,” Claval continued. Her eyes sharpened with certainty now, like she’d finally reached the piece that fit. “A remnant. A link.”

  Yu’s mouth went dry. So that’s why she—

  The thought formed and collapsed in the same instant, because he didn’t have the language for it. Not in a world where impossible things could stand in his bedroom wearing his sweatshirt.

  “So when I noticed you, Yu…” Claval’s voice steadied completely. “Everything made sense.” She rose from the bed.

  The movement was quiet, but it changed the air. She stepped closer, silver hair sliding across the dark fabric of the sweatshirt. Damp strands brushed her cheek. A drop of water slipped down and vanished at the collar.

  “The gaze I felt for so long wasn’t a curse,” she said. “It was fate.”

  Yu’s hands tightened on the chair.

  “I was chosen,” Claval said, eyes unwavering. “To choose you.” She stopped in front of him.

  Close enough that Yu could feel warmth radiating off her, not from the bath anymore, but from the undeniable fact of her being alive and here and real. Close enough that the scent of shampoo—or soap, or whatever she’d used—caught in his throat, clean and unfamiliar.

  “I want to be closer to you,” she said. Yu’s pulse beat painfully in his wrists.

  “Not as a friend,” Claval continued. “Not as an ally.”

  “As someone… who loves you.” She lifted her hand, fingers trembling just slightly, and extended it toward him.

  Yu’s mind screamed. His heart contradicted it. This was too fast. Too heavy. Too wrong and too sincere all at once.

  “I—I can’t just—” Yu began. He tried to look away. He couldn’t.

  Claval’s eyes held a raw mix of longing and fear—fear not of him hurting her physically, but of him turning away, of being unseen, of vanishing back into loneliness.

  “Just for now,” she whispered. Then, softer still, like it was a prayer.

  “Choose me.”

  Yu hesitated. His fingers hovered above her hand, shaking slightly. The room felt small, like the walls were leaning in. His chest ached with the weight of being asked for something he didn’t understand.

  What does choosing even mean for her? What does it mean for me? If I say no… will she break? Will she hate me? Will she vanish? And underneath all of that, quieter but persistent—She’s been alone.

  Yu’s hand lowered into hers.

  Claval inhaled, a delicate sound that seemed to contain years of held breath. Her fingers closed around his with surprising strength. She stepped closer until her sweatshirt brushed his knees. Yu’s throat tightened as he rose from the chair without thinking, pulled by the gravity of her hand.

  Claval’s forehead rested lightly against his shoulder. No speeches. No grand declarations. No labels that could make sense of it.

  Just two people holding each other because the weight they carried had finally spilled over.

  Yu’s arms came up, awkward at first, then steadier as he wrapped them around her. He felt her tremble once—small, contained—and then relax, as if this simple contact had proven something she’d been doubting for years.

  The room fell quiet. Fragile. Too fragile to break.

  ?

  Time slipped in a way Yu couldn’t measure.

  Not passion like a storm, not a dramatic collision, but something softer and heavier—like exhaustion finally giving way to warmth, like a wound finally being covered.

  They remained close until Claval’s breathing slowed, and Yu realized his own chest wasn’t clenched anymore. The tightness that had lived there since the battle, since the streams and the cuts and the fear, eased just a fraction.

  Claval finally pulled back enough to look at him.

  “…Thank you, Yu,” she whispered. A soft glow pulsed on the back of her hand. Yu froze.

  The light wasn’t a reflection. It wasn’t the ceiling lamp. It was inside her skin, faint and rhythmic, like a signal. The air trembled—subtle, almost imperceptible. The hairs on Yu’s arms rose.

  “…Time’s up.” Claval’s expression shifted into something between resignation and amusement.

  Yu straightened, staring at the glowing mark as if he could will it to stop.

  “You’re… going back,” he said, voice rough.

  “Yes,” Claval replied, squeezing his hand once. “A summons from the Capital. My holiday is depleted.” Her fingers were warm. Real.

  The word mana landed like an anchor in the unreal. It made sense in her world. It didn’t belong in his room.

  “Yu…” Yet here it was, glowing on her hand.

  “Will you come too?” Claval’s gaze sharpened again, earnest in a way that made Yu’s stomach twist. Yu shook his head.

  “You’re not dragging me this time,” he said, forcing steadiness. “I have things to do here first.”

  “If I forced you,” Claval’s mouth curved in a faint smile.“You’d hate me, she said. Her voice softened. “And that would defeat the whole reason I’m here.” She stood, brushing the sweatshirt smooth down the front like she was resetting herself, like she was putting her composure back on the way she put on armor.

  Then, with a mischievous glint returning to her eyes as if she couldn’t resist. “By the way… this feeling right now?”she added lightly.

  “What feeling?” Yu blinked.

  “This calm emptiness,” Claval said, as if analyzing him with the same detached precision she’d used in his room earlier. “After everything settles.”

  Yu’s face heated despite himself. Claval’s smile deepened, wicked and pleased.

  “This must be what your world calls ‘Sage Time,’ right?” she said, voice dangerously amused. “A strange feeling… but pleasant.”

  “D-Don’t call it that!” Yu sputtered, “Just—don’t say it out loud!” jerking his head toward the door as if the word itself could summon his mother.

  Claval laughed under her breath. She reached down, gathering her gear with practiced efficiency. The shift was visible: the private softness receded, and something sharper settled over her features. The persona she wore in her world—confident, composed—clicked back into place like a mask she knew by heart.

  “If you cross over,” Claval said, “I’ll know.”

  Yu’s chest tightened.

  “If you don’t…” she continued, “I’ll come again.” Her eyes gleamed. “Rize can’t do that,” she added, tone almost smug. “Only I can.”

  “Don’t tell Rize,” Yu’s stomach dropped. “Or the stream. Seriously,” he said quickly.

  “Oh, relax,” Claval’s grin turned feral. “I’ll just say you turned me down cold. It’ll cause a massive scandal for you,” she said.

  “Don’t you dare—!” he shouted.

  Claval lifted her glowing hand. Light swelled around her, soft at first, then brighter, gathering like mist and becoming something more structured—something like an exit.

  Yu took an unconscious step forward, as if his body didn’t accept that she was leaving yet.

  Claval’s gaze softened just slightly.

  “See you soon, Yu,” she said. Her figure blurred. The light folded inward. And then she vanished, as if she’d never been there at all.

  The room was suddenly empty again. Too empty.

  Yu stood for a second with his hands half-raised, as if he’d been about to catch something that had disappeared midair. The fluorescent light hummed. The desk sat unchanged. The books stared back silently.

  Only the faint scent of soap lingered, stubborn and foreign, like proof that his reality had been invaded and rewritten. Yu sank onto the edge of his bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “…This is getting out of hand,” he muttered. His heartbeat still refused to steady.

  Claval—heroine, liar, survivor, whatever she truly was—had left a mark deeper than he’d expected. Not on his skin. Not something visible. Something under it. A weight. A connection. And the terrifying certainty that this wasn’t the last time his quiet room would become a crossroads between worlds.