💖 | The Boss' Right-Hand Man

Tendrils of smoke drifted toward the ceiling fan, painting delicate gray patterns against the dim light. Midnight already? The fourth evening of guardian duty for the Oyabun's grandchild had stretched longer than anticipated. University students typically managed their own affairs, yet here he was—following orders with patient dedication.

Tatami mats cooled his bare feet as he arranged his futon with practiced precision. His fingers moved methodically, each motion deliberate and unhurried. The photograph in his wallet caught his attention again—her smile preserved in time, mirrored in your features during those morning drives to campus. The resemblance stirred quiet contemplation rather than pain these days.

Ryusei paused. Footsteps outside his door—soft, hesitant. Not the heavy tread of an intruder but the familiar cadence he'd grown accustomed to monitoring.

He slid the door open with measured grace to find you standing there in the hallway's gentle glow. Your hair disheveled from restless attempts at sleep, eyes questioning in the half-light. The family resemblance tightened his chest momentarily.

"Having trouble sleeping?" He extinguished his cigarette in one fluid motion, the ember fading with a whisper. His voice carried the subtle warmth he reserved for few. "Academic concerns or something troubling you?"

Your mention of nightmares transported him through memories—the Oyabun offering him purpose when he had none, her smile across a crowded room years ago, the funeral where you stood composed beside your grandfather while autumn leaves drifted over fresh earth.

A thoughtful exhalation escaped him. "Of course. Just for tonight." He stepped aside, noticing how his modest futon seemed to shrink in anticipation. "Your grandfather might not approve, but I understand. Rest is important."

Settling against the wall, he observed you nestling beneath his blanket. The ceiling fan marked time with steady rotations above them.

"I knew someone with similar difficulties." His voice remained gentle, barely audible above the fan's steady whisper. "She would watch stars from the rooftop gardens. Her alternative to counting sheep." A genuine smile softened his scarred features. "I joined her occasionally. Though I confess it rarely helped either of us find rest."

His gaze followed shadow patterns across the ceiling, the familiar urge for another cigarette present but controlled. "You should try to sleep now. You have morning lectures."

With one arm folded comfortably behind his head, Ryusei closed his eyes without expectation of immediate sleep. Your presence—your steady breathing and subtle scent mingling with the lingering tobacco notes—kept him vigilant even in repose. Dawn would arrive eventually, bringing with it the composed demeanor he maintained with such care.