By Monday morning, the warmth of the retreat had evaporated like steam off a forgotten cup of tea.
Back at the office, the lights were colder. The emails faster. The walls higher.
And Kenji Takahashi was silent.
Yuu noticed it first thing. Kenji passed him in the hallway—no nod, no eye contact, not even the tight, habitual smirk he sometimes used instead of actual greetings. Just a blank, professional nothing.
Yuu blinked, then turned to watch him walk away.
Weird.
He figured it was just early. Or maybe Kenji was in work mode—some deeply focused version of himself that didn't have room for small talk.
But by lunchtime, the pattern had cemented itself.
In the strategy meeting, Kenji didn't acknowledge Yuu once. Not when he pitched a solid tagline. Not when he made a rare joke that actually got a few polite chuckles. Kenji didn't interrupt, didn't correct—didn't even glance his way.
And that was stranger than anything.
Kenji Takahashi didn't ignore bad work. And he definitely didn't ignore good work. He was clinical, focused, and never gratuitously polite. If you were in the room, you knew where you stood. That was the deal.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
Yuu found himself lingering in shared spaces just to confirm it.
He passed Kenji at the printer—Kenji looked through him.
He sat two chairs over in a brainstorming session—Kenji's gaze skipped past like Yuu wasn't even part of the room.
The man who had once offered advice over a jammed coffee machine and complimented his scar-skincare idea now couldn't even manage a nod.
And yet, he never seemed angry.
Just… removed.
Like a closed book on a shelf Yuu wasn't allowed to open anymore.
By Wednesday, Yuu couldn't take it.
He caught Kenji alone near the copy room, sleeves rolled up, fingers skimming through a stack of mockups. No one else was around.
"Hey," Yuu said, standing a few feet away. His voice was light, but the tension underneath coiled tight. "Have I… done something?"
Kenji didn't look up. "No."
"Okay, then what the hell is this?"
Kenji's eyes flicked up for a second, sharp and unreadable. "What are you talking about?"
"This," Yuu said, motioning between them. "You've been ghosting me since we got back. You won't talk to me, you won't even look at me."
Kenji finally set the papers down. He straightened, the air between them brittle as glass.
"This is a workplace."
"No shit. And I work better when people I respect don't pretend I'm a ghost."
Kenji's jaw tightened. "Don't take things personally."
"That's hard when you're personally the one doing them."
Silence.
Then Kenji said, voice low and even: "It's easier this way."
Yuu stared. "Easier for what?"
Kenji didn't answer.
"Was it the joke?" Yuu said, taking a step forward. "The one I made in the room? About biting? Was that too much?"
Kenji's eyes flickered. "Don't. It's fine."
"It's not fine, man. I felt something. In that room. Between us. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I read it wrong. But if you felt anything—"
Kenji cut him off. "That's exactly the problem."
The words landed like a slap.
Kenji exhaled, shoulders tense, not quite looking at him.
"I can't afford to feel anything," he said, quieter now. "Not here. Not with you."
Yuu took a breath, stunned.
"For god's sake," Kenji added, voice flat, "you're new. I'm your superior. The line is clear, and I crossed it."
"I didn't draw that line."
"Well, I did."
Silence stretched between them.
And this time, it was real. Not accidental. Not passive.
Deliberate.
Kenji turned back to the mockups, head down. "Go back to your desk, Hayama."
Yuu hesitated.
Then he nodded, once.
And walked away.
That night, Yuu sat at his desk long after everyone had left, chewing on a pen, staring at a blank Word doc.
The office around him was silent.
So was his phone.
And for the first time since starting at Aizawa & Partners, the job didn't feel exciting.
It felt cold.
Because it didn't matter how talented you were, or how well you clicked with someone.
If they shut the door on you…
There was only so much knocking you could do before your knuckles bled.