Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Threads of Temptation

The morning sunlight filtered through the paper screens of the riverside house, soft and golden. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and blooming lilies outside.

Haruto sat at the low table, sipping tea with a relaxed smile, blissfully unaware of the storm that churned just across from him.

Miyu.

She held her cup too tightly, her knuckles pale. Every time Haruto leaned closer to set something down, every time his voice brushed her ears, her heart jumped painfully.

Ayame noticed.

She always noticed.

The older girl’s crimson eyes lingered on Miyu, watching how she fidgeted, how she avoided looking directly at Haruto, how her throat worked nervously when he so much as smiled.

It was delicious.

So that’s how it is, huh...? Ayame thought, lips curling in a catlike smirk.

When Haruto excused himself to fetch more water from the well, the silence between the girls was immediate—thick, heavy, alive.

Ayame leaned forward, resting her chin lazily on her palm.

"You know, Miyu..." Her tone was light, sing-song, but her eyes glimmered with dangerous amusement. "You’ve been acting... strange."

Miyu stiffened, nearly choking on her tea.

"I–I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Ayame chuckled, low and teasing.

"Oh, come on. You’re shaking just from sitting across from him. You think I wouldn’t notice? You think he wouldn’t notice?"

Miyu’s heart lurched. Her face went crimson, her breath caught in her throat.

"I—I’m not—!"

Ayame reached out and gently tapped Miyu’s hand with a finger, tilting her head.

"You know what it looks like, right? You look like a girl about to snap. A girl who wants something she’s not supposed to want."

Miyu’s chest tightened.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Ayame’s smirk widened, her voice dropping to a whisper sharp enough to cut.

"Tell me, Miyu... do you want him?"

The question was a blade sliding between ribs.

Miyu froze, trembling, her pulse thundering so loud she thought Ayame must hear it. Shame and desire tangled in her chest like choking vines.

Her lips quivered, but no answer came.

Ayame sat back, satisfied with the silence. She didn’t need words—the way Miyu’s eyes flickered, the way her thighs pressed together under the table, the way she bit her lip—was all the confession Ayame needed.

"Hah. Thought so," Ayame purred, brushing her hair back. "But don’t worry. I’m not going to tell him... yet."

Miyu flinched at that word—yet.

Ayame leaned closer one last time, her breath brushing Miyu’s ear, soft and mocking.

"Just be careful, Miyu... because the longer you keep pretending, the more obvious it’ll be. And sooner or later..."

Her smile sharpened.

"...you won’t be able to hold back."

Haruto’s footsteps returned from outside, and Ayame sat back casually, sipping her tea as if nothing had been said.

Miyu sat frozen, her body burning with humiliation and raw, unbearable truth.

She knew Ayame was right.

She was breaking.

The afternoon light dappled through the garden trees, soft and golden, spilling across the wooden veranda where the three of them sat together.

Haruto leaned over a scroll, explaining something about the old ink strokes he had discovered, his voice calm, patient. His hand brushed Miyu’s sleeve as he pointed at a character.

Miyu’s breath hitched.

The warmth of his touch lingered far too long in her mind, rippling through her chest, tightening her thighs beneath her robe. She tried desperately to focus on his words, but her eyes betrayed her, darting to his lips, his hands, the curve of his throat.

Ayame noticed.

Of course she did.

Her smirk was subtle at first, but it grew every time Miyu stiffened or flushed. Finally, Ayame leaned forward, her voice sweet and casual:

"My, Miyu... you’re awfully quiet today. Something distracting you?"

Miyu nearly dropped her brush.

"N-no, not at all—I’m listening."

Haruto glanced up with a gentle smile. "It’s fine, Miyu. You don’t have to force yourself—"

But Ayame cut him off with a playful laugh, sliding closer to his side, pressing her shoulder against his.

"She’s just shy, Haruto. You fluster her so easily."

Miyu froze. Her blood went cold and hot all at once.

"A-Ayame!" she hissed, her voice too sharp, too quick.

Haruto blinked in confusion. "Fluster? What do you mean?"

Ayame’s smile turned wickedly innocent.

"Oh, nothing serious. Just that every time you lean close to her, she gets all red. Watch—"

Before Miyu could react, Ayame nudged Haruto so he leaned closer again, his face now just inches from Miyu’s.

Miyu’s heart stopped. Her breath came shallow, trembling, her lips parting as if in silent confession.

Haruto tilted his head curiously, completely oblivious to the storm he was stirring.

"Miyu? Are you alright?"

She nodded too quickly, her cheeks blazing, her eyes darting down in shame.

Ayame bit back a laugh, her eyes glimmering with cruel delight.

"See what I mean?" she purred. "She looks like she might faint if you touch her again."

Miyu’s whole body trembled, humiliated, trapped between denial and truth. She couldn’t even meet Haruto’s eyes.

He gave a soft chuckle, scratching the back of his head. "You’re exaggerating, Ayame. Miyu’s always been a bit... sensitive."

The word—sensitive—landed like a knife in Miyu’s chest.

Her thighs pressed tighter together.

Ayame leaned her chin into her palm, watching Miyu like a predator savoring her prey. She didn’t need to say another word; every twitch, every blush, every trembling breath Miyu gave was proof enough.

And Haruto, in his gentle cluelessness, only made it worse. When he reached for the ink stone, his fingers brushed hers again—completely casual, completely unknowing.

But to Miyu, it was fire. It was unbearable. It was everything she had been trying not to feel.

Ayame’s smirk deepened. She whispered under her breath, low enough that only Miyu could hear:

"You’ll break soon."

Miyu nearly whimpered.

The sun had dipped lower, painting the garden in amber hues. Scrolls and brushes lay scattered across the veranda as Haruto carefully explained each ink stroke with his usual patience.

Ayame leaned back lazily, watching with a feline grin. She had seen enough of Miyu’s fidgeting, enough of the way her fingers clenched around her brush, enough of her bitten lips. It was time to cut deeper.

"Haruto," Ayame said suddenly, her tone playful but purposeful. "Why don’t you show Miyu the brushwork properly? You always tell her what to do, but she learns better by... hands-on guidance, don’t you think?"

Miyu’s head snapped up, wide-eyed.

"Eh? N-no, that’s not—"

But Haruto, kind as always, only nodded.

"She might be right. It’s easier if I guide your hand directly, Miyu."

Miyu’s pulse pounded in her ears.

"W-wait, I can—"

Too late. Haruto shifted closer, his warmth pressing at her side. His hand—steady, warm, unknowing—slid over hers, curling his fingers gently around her trembling grip on the brush.

Her breath caught.

The bristles touched parchment, but Miyu barely saw the ink lines. She only felt the way his chest nearly brushed her shoulder, the way his steady breath ghosted against her cheek, the way his hand held hers so firmly, so naturally.

Her thighs pressed tighter together beneath her robe. She wanted to melt, to scream, to run—anything but endure this slow-burning torment.

Ayame bit her lip to stifle a laugh. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, her voice dripping with fake encouragement.

"Yes, yes... just like that, Haruto. Guide her hand. Make sure she feels the movement properly."

Miyu’s entire body jolted at the word feels.

Haruto, oblivious, leaned closer, adjusting her wrist with care.

"Don’t be so tense, Miyu. Relax your hand... like this."

His fingers slid over her palm, gently pressing until her grip loosened.

Miyu’s lips parted, a tiny, trembling breath escaping. Her face burned, her body betraying her in every possible way.

Ayame’s grin widened.

"She looks like she might collapse from your touch, Haruto. Careful, or she won’t last the lesson."

Miyu’s eyes snapped to Ayame, fury and humiliation and desire all tangled in her gaze.

"Stop...!" she whispered, too weak, too broken.

But Ayame only tilted her head, eyes gleaming.

"Why? You’re enjoying it."

The brush trembled in Miyu’s grasp, ink blotting the parchment. Her body quivered under Haruto’s steadying hands, every heartbeat screaming the truth she could no longer deny.

Ayame leaned closer, her whisper cutting sharp into Miyu’s ear so Haruto couldn’t hear:

"You’re already his in your heart. Admit it."

Miyu’s breath shuddered. Her eyes squeezed shut. The ink stroke faltered.

Haruto glanced at her with concern, tightening his hold to steady her trembling hand.

"Miyu? You’re shaking. Are you alright?"

Her answer died in her throat, strangled by guilt and desperate longing.