OUR STORY (BxB)

Chapter 28

-TAMARO-

This year tested all of us. At one point, the word disbandment wasn't just a distant fear—it was something we actually spoke aloud. But somehow, through all the exhaustion and uncertainty, we held on. We became more honest, more aware. We didn't leave anyone behind. We matured not because we had to—but because we chose each other.

The trip I planned reminded us of why we're still here. Why we became idols in the first place. And the answer was the same across every heart in the room: this isn't just a career. It's our passion. It's the dream we breathed into life. We want to create music that reaches people—heals them, holds them. Reminds them they're not alone.

The road ahead will still be rough. We know that. But now... we're ready. We're more than a group. We're a bond that refuses to break.

We were at the company headquarters, seated around a long table, awaiting the arrival of the new shareholder. Akiro sat beside me as always, and while we chatted softly about random things—just enough to ease the silence—I could still feel the weight of the moment pressing down. Then Mr. William walked in, and all conversation stopped. We rose and greeted him with a formal bow, the room falling into polite hush.

Behind him stood a man, maybe in his forties, who carried himself with a confidence that bordered on theatrical. Gold jewelry clung to him like declarations—watches, chains, rings—shouting not just wealth, but the need to be seen. As he scanned the table, his eyes moved from member to member until they landed on me. And stayed.

There was something about the way he looked at me—too long, too pointed. I felt a chill beneath my skin, even though I didn't flinch. His gaze didn't speak respect. It didn't speak curiosity. It felt layered, invasive. And I hated that I couldn't place his intentions. I exchanged a glance with Akiro, subtle but charged, and kept my silence. For now.

"Boys, this is Mr. Chan, our new shareholder," Mr. William said as he entered the room. "Mr. Chan, these are our boys."

We stood, one by one, and shook his hand out of respect. When it was my turn, his grip tightened—unnaturally firm—and his smirk stayed far too long. Goosebumps crept across my skin, but I masked my discomfort, pretending everything was fine. No one else had to know. Not yet.

I stepped beside Akiro afterward, quietly slipping my arm around his shoulder, grounding myself in him as we faced Mr. Chan together. The man's attention shifted immediately. His eyes followed every move I made, narrowing when I leaned into Akiro. I saw his jaw tense. He didn't speak, but something in him bristled. It wasn't admiration—it was something colder, sharper.

The others were still talking casually with Mr. William about our upcoming projects, but beneath it all, there was an undercurrent of tension—one that curled itself between me and this polished stranger draped in gold and power.

"I have a gift for you boys," Mr. Chan finally said, breaking the moment, just as Mr. William wrapped up the announcements.

"You're so generous, Mr. Chan," someone responded cordially, likely Joshua.

But I didn't feel grateful. I felt watched. And I wasn't about to let my guard down.

"Nah, it's nothing. Everything for our boys," Mr. Chan said lightly, but his glance lingered on me just a little too long—like a message folded inside a smile. Moments later, his staff entered with seven sleek paper bags, each stamped with the mark of a luxury brand. We thanked him, as expected, performing gratitude with the same precision we'd been trained to master.

When he left, Mr. William turned to us. "Boys, Mr. Chan is now the second highest shareholder. His decisions will be considered carefully, and they may shape your direction moving forward."

"Even if we're against it?" I asked quietly, feeling that familiar stir of unease.

"I don't think Mr. Chan would do anything to make you fall," Mr. William replied, calm but vague.

I didn't argue. I just shut my mouth and listened.

Beside me, Akiro leaned closer. "Tamaro, are you okay?" he whispered gently.

"Yes, baby," I said with a small smile. "I'm just a little tired."

But inside, I wasn't tired. I was wary. Watching. Protecting. Because when power smiles too sweetly, it's rarely harmless—and I refuse to let anyone decide our future without knowing who they're threatening first.

After the conversation with Mr. William, we headed straight to the dorm. He gave us space to rest before the chaos began again. Tomorrow would be intense—album work, rehearsals, the usual whirlwind—but for now, we had a moment of calm. And even in all the busyness, something had changed. Everything had become smoother. There was a quiet understanding, a rhythm we didn't have before.

Akiro and I stayed close—closer than ever. On camera or off, we didn't hide anymore. We grew bolder. In every variety show, there was always a gentle moment between us—a shared laugh, a quiet glance, a touch that spoke more than words. Even the staff had stopped interfering. It was as if they'd accepted that what we had wasn't a phase. It was real.

During the fan meeting in Japan, we couldn't help but stay side by side. In every group photo, we were practically glued to each other. Our sweet moments after reconciliation became part of the air—soft, natural, visible. And for the first time in a long while, it felt like love didn't have to hide.

The after party buzzed with warmth and relief. The Japanese staff had prepared everything with care—soft music, beautiful lighting, and just the right amount of laughter in the air. We had done it. The fan meeting was a success, and for a few hours, we let ourselves enjoy that victory. Everyone was having fun, drinks on the table, energy high, hearts lighter than they'd been in weeks.

Then a staff member leaned toward our group and spoke, almost casually: "Mr. Chan is here to congratulate you."

The words tightened something in my chest.

I looked up, and there he was at the entrance, walking like he owned not just the room, but the moment—draped in gold jewelry that shimmered under the soft lights like trophies. Every inch of him shouted wealth. Influence. Power. But more than that, his presence was too deliberate. Too pointed. There are many shareholders in the company—but this man, this Mr. Chan, seemed too attentive. Always showing up. Always watching.

We stood out of respect, bowing politely. But behind the gesture, unease sat quietly in my gut.

And as he walked toward us, I didn't just feel like we were being congratulated. I felt like we were being measured.

"Good evening, Mr. Chan," Renz said politely, rising from his seat.

Mr. Chan smiled, dripping with charm. "How are you, boys? I had a business meeting here in Japan, so I thought I'd stop by to congratulate you. You've worked hard."

His staff stepped forward, offering branded paper bags—luxury stamped across every surface. "I hope you like it," Mr. Chan added, his eyes landing directly on me, holding there just a beat too long. I forced a smile, offered a quiet "thank you," and let the moment pass without drawing attention.

Everyone thanked him graciously, and he nodded with satisfaction. "Enjoy the party," he said before slipping away, gravitating toward other executives across the room.

We returned to our table, the air lighter but still charged with something I couldn't name.

"Baby, I'll get dessert," I said, rising slightly.

"Stay here, Roo. I'll get it for you," Akiro replied, ready to stand—always trying to shield me in quiet ways.

I reached for his wrist. "No, baby. Stay. I'll get it."

"I'll go with you," he insisted, voice soft but firm.

That was Roo. Never letting me walk alone—not even for a piece of cake. And in a room full of uncertain smiles and golden distractions, it was his presence I clung to.

"It's okay, baby. Just stay here and wait for me," I said softly, and left our table with purpose, heading toward the dessert spread. I scanned the options carefully, thinking about what Akiro might want—something light, maybe citrus, or that soft mochi he liked.

Then I heard it.

"Mr. Saito."

My name—spoken in a voice that sent chills up my spine.

I turned slowly, knowing before I saw. There he was. Mr. Chan. Just half a meter from me, standing far too close for comfort.

"Mr. Chan," I said with a respectful bow, swallowing the instinct to step back.

"You really are handsome," he said, eyes fixed on me with an unsettling smirk. "I thought you were just handsome on screen—but you're even more stunning in person."

I wasn't prepared. No filter, no space. Just blunt words that turned the warmth of the party into something cold. I tried to smile, but it felt hollow. "Ahh... no, Mr. Chan, I'm really not that handsome," I replied, embarrassed more than flattered.

Because compliments from him didn't feel like admiration. They felt like possession.

"No, Mr. Saito. You are the most handsome man I have ever met. Your beauty is ethereal," Mr. Chan said, and the words wrapped around me too tightly, unexpected and impossible to escape.

I didn't know how to respond. I offered a faint smile, bowed out of habit, polite but distant. He kept staring—without reservation, without shame—and I wanted to melt through the floor.

Then someone took my arm.

"Mr. Chan," Akiro greeted, voice steady but cool, his hand firm around mine.

"Mr. Yamamoto," Mr. Chan replied, his gaze dropping to where Akiro's fingers wrapped possessively around my arm—as if taking inventory of our closeness. His jaw shifted. That subtle clench. That moment of calculation.

"Roo, I was waiting for dessert," Akiro said, eyes on mine—not just reminding me, but reclaiming me.

"Ahhh... sorry, baby," I replied softly. "I was just talking to Mr. Chan." I turned back toward Mr. Chan, who now wore a more serious expression—no longer playful, no longer flattering. Just measured. Watching.

"Ohhh, I think I should head back to the hotel," he said suddenly, his voice lighter again. "It's already late."

He offered a brief nod and bid goodbye. But the moment lingered, heavier than his words. And as he walked away, the air felt just a little easier to breathe.

"I don't like the way he looks at you," Akiro said, eyes fixed on Mr. Chan's retreating figure.

"Why, baby? How did he look at me?" I asked, already smiling. My baby—so easy to read when jealousy brushed against him.

"The way I look at you," he muttered, reaching for a plate and serving himself dessert. "And I hate it."

"Are you jealous, Mr. Yamamoto?" I teased, voice soft but playful. I knew what that blush behind his eyes meant.

"Yes, I am jealous," he said without hesitation, turning his back to me in mock protest.

I laughed under my breath and followed him back to our table. He didn't say a word—just ate his dessert, ignoring my attempts to catch his attention. But I saw it. The way he held the spoon just a little tighter. The pout he couldn't hide. I smiled to myself. My baby was impossibly cute when he was jealous.

It was almost sunrise by the time we got back to the hotel. The city outside was still asleep, quiet between neon and daylight. Most of the members were a little drunk, even Akiro. I was the only one who hadn't had much—not because I didn't want to celebrate, but because I wanted to stay clear. Focused. Ready.

When we entered our room, Akiro kept his silence. He took off his clothes without a word and disappeared into the bathroom. I waited, patient, letting the hum of the night settle as I sat on the bed. When he came out, towel wrapped around his waist, he didn't look at me. He just climbed into bed, back turned, breath steady but distant.

I knew what I was going to do.

I stepped into the bathroom, showered quickly—washing off the remnants of tension, rehearsed laughter, and lingering discomfort. When I came back out, the air was cooler. Akiro lay still, tucked beneath the blanket, facing the wall.

I climbed into bed quietly, inching toward him without a word. Then I wrapped my arms around him from behind, letting my body curve gently into his. I kissed the nape of his neck, soft and slow. He didn't move—not at first. But I felt him sigh, his back pressing just slightly into mine, the kind of silent response that always said more than language could.

This was how we talked when words felt too loud.

"Baby, are you mad at me?" I whispered into his ear, my breath feathering gently against his skin.

"I'm not," he answered, low and quiet.

I smiled and slowly pulled him to face me. His eyes met mine, and there it was—jealousy, soft but unmistakable, flickering beneath the warmth.

"Baby, don't be jealous," I said, brushing his hair back and tucking a strand behind his ear. "I'm all yours. They can look—but no one touches me the way you do."

He huffed. "Haizzt... why are you so beautiful, Roo? I hate when people look at you with that kind of desire."

I laughed, leaning in. "So should I make my face ugly?"

He scoffed, "Tsk."

I grinned and gave him a quick kiss. His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. I kissed him again—slowly this time—and he responded without hesitation, arms curling around me.

"Always remember, baby," I whispered against his lips, "I'm always yours."

"Yes, Roo," he breathed, his gaze intense. "And tonight, I'll make you mine again."

His kiss deepened, claim threaded through softness, and in that moment, the whole world felt like a quiet room lit only by the echo of our names.