The train screeched into Willowbrook Station like it, too, wanted to scream. The brakes howled, metal biting metal, and for a second Haru Nakamura wondered if it was a warning—a last chance to turn back.
But it was too late.
He stepped off the train, his worn sneakers touching down on cracked concrete, as if crossing an invisible threshold. The air smelled of pine needles and damp soil—familiar, earthy, and yet it curled in his chest like a bruise. Willowbrook. His hometown. The place he swore he'd never return to, not even if the earth cracked open.
But promises had power.
Especially the ones made to a dying mother.
At twenty-four, Haru didn't feel young. Life had aged him in silent ways—his silence, his shame, the years of being invisible even in his own home. The kind of boy who flinched at doorways and lowered his eyes at dinner tables. Always quiet. Always polite. Always hurting.
His dark hair clung to his forehead, the July humidity wrapping around him like a ghost. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, as if it could shield him from what was coming.
And what was coming... was the Nakamura house.
A wooden structure at the end of a narrow street, silent and unchanged. It looked the same, but it felt different. Older. Uglier. Maybe it had always been that way. Or maybe it was just the weight of memory.
He hesitated on the front step.
Last time he'd been here, he'd left in the middle of the night with a duffel bag and tears in his eyes. He never said goodbye.
Now he was back.And he hated himself for it.
Before he could knock, the door swung open.
"Haru!" His mother, Hana, launched forward, arms open wide. She smelled of lavender and miso soup, and her embrace made his knees buckle.
"My sweet boy," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You came home."
Haru buried his face into her shoulder, swallowing the knot in his throat. For her—for her—he would pretend, just for a moment, that he wasn't breaking inside.
Behind her, stood him.
Kenji Nakamura.
His father. A man of few words and fewer emotions. His presence had always filled the room like a stormcloud. Broad-shouldered, spine straight, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
Haru's spine stiffened instinctively.
But instead of the scowl he expected, Kenji offered… a smile.
A stiff one, but a smile nonetheless.
"Welcome back, son," he said, his voice oddly gruff. "We have some news."
Haru blinked, confused. "News?"
His mother took his hand, leading him into the living room—still the same dusty floral curtains, same outdated clock ticking too loudly. But something was off. The air was thick, like it was holding its breath.
Kenji stepped forward, his hand landing on Haru's shoulder. The touch made Haru flinch.
"Congratulations," Kenji said, grinning. "We've arranged your marriage."
The world stopped.
"…What?"
"You're getting married," his father repeated, like it was the weather. "The ceremony is in two days."
Haru staggered back, his eyes wild. "W-What are you talking about?!"
Hana quickly handed him a photograph, her eyes too warm, too hopeful. "He's wonderful, Haru. Handsome, educated, from a good family. He'll take care of you."
Haru's trembling hands lifted the photo.
And the world turned to ice.
Lucien Caldwell.
Piercing green eyes. Sharp jawline. Blond hair. The cruel smirk that had haunted Haru's worst nights.
College.
The mocking words. The snide laughs in the hallways. The time Lucien cornered him in the library and whispered things no one else dared to say.
The man who had broken him in pieces—and watched with amusement.
And now… he was Haru's fiancé?Tears stung his eyes, hot and furious.
Kenji mistook it. "Look at that! Crying tears of happiness! I knew you'd be pleased."
Pleased?He wanted to scream.But nothing came out.
"The wedding is in two days," Kenji added, brushing past him. "Lucien's family already agreed."
Haru sank onto the couch, the photograph slipping from his fingers like a fallen blade. He felt his mother's hand on his shoulder, gentle and naïve.
She didn't know.
She didn't understand what she was asking.
That night, in his childhood bedroom, Haru lay curled up on the faded sheets. Moonlight spilled across the floor, but it couldn't reach the cold inside him.
Lucien.
Why him?
Why now?
He could still hear that cruel laugh echoing in his head—"You're pathetic, Nakamura." The whispers behind his back. The emails. The humiliation.
He thought he'd escaped.
But fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.
He clutched the pillow to his chest, whispering, "Why him? Of all people, why did it have to be him?"
No answer came.
----------------
The wedding day dawned gray, rain clouds heavy over Willowbrook like a bad omen.
The Nakamura home buzzed with distant chatter—relatives, guests, clinking glasses and laughter. But inside Haru, there was nothing but ice.
He stood before the mirror, dressed in a tailored suit that fit too well. His reflection stared back—a stranger in formal clothes, pale-faced, lips pressed tight like a wound refusing to bleed.
This is not a wedding.
This is a funeral.
A knock on the door. Kenji entered, straightening Haru's collar. "You're doing the right thing," he said. "It's a good match."
For whom?
Haru followed him in silence.
The hall was filled with murmurs. "Such a lovely groom." "I heard the other boy is from the Caldwells!" "What a power couple!"
Power couple?
More like predator and prey.
At the altar, Lucien stood tall and calm, dressed in white, his blond hair gleaming. He hadn't seen Haru yet—he was talking to the officiant, casual, confident.
Until their eyes met.
Lucien's mouth parted.
"Haru?"
Haru didn't answer.
Lucien stepped forward, surprise lighting his face. "Haru… it's you? You're the one I'm marrying?"
His smile was bright. Like a sunrise. Like nothing had happened.
Haru's lips curled—not in a smile, but a storm. His silence was louder than words.
Lucien's smile faltered.
He remembered.
The ceremony passed in fragments—rings slid onto fingers, vows mumbled, cameras flashing like gunfire. Haru stood unmoving, hand in Lucien's, but his soul was a thousand miles away.
Their fathers embraced, already celebrating their business alliance.
And Haru stood in a suit that felt like chains.
Later, in the car, Lucien opened the door for him like a gentleman.
Haru didn't move.
Lucien slid in beside him. "I didn't know," he said quietly. "I didn't know it was you. If I had—"
Haru pressed himself against the window, his face blank. "Save it."
Lucien paused. "I meant what I said… I'm glad it's you."
Silence.
And Haru's silence screamed louder than Lucien's words ever could.
The Caldwell mansion was enormous—marble floors, golden fixtures, and rooms that echoed. But Haru didn't care. He barely heard Lucien's mother gushing about the wedding. He barely noticed Lucien disappearing down the hall.
"I'll be back in an hour," he said.
Good. The longer he was gone, the better.
Haru shut himself in the bathroom. The moment the water hit his skin, he collapsed.
He sobbed.
For the life he lost. For the boy he was. For the man he might've become—if Lucien hadn't taken it from him.
"I'm in hell," he whispered.
And now, he was married to the devil.
Later that night, he curled up on the sofa, a blanket clutched to his chest. The bed across the room remained untouched. Haru stared at the ceiling, his eyes hollow.
He didn't know what came next.
But he knew this much: he would survive.
Even if love never bloomed.
Even if Lucien never changed.
Even if his heart never healed.
He would survive.
Because Haru Nakamura always did.