The library the morning after the typhoon was filled with the scent of damp wood and old paper. The power had returned, and the hum of the air conditioning felt like a return to civilization. Luke sat at their usual table, tapping his pen against his notebook. He hadn’t slept much, his mind looping the sound of Yuki’s voice in the dark.

  When the heavy library doors swung open, it wasn't just Yuki who walked in.

  Beside her was a guy who looked like he had stepped straight out of a high-end fashion magazine. He was tall, with messy blonde hair and a grin that seemed to radiate a natural, effortless charisma. He was dressed in a tailored trench coat that made Luke’s hoodie look like a rag.

  "And then I told the dean, 'If the trains aren't running, you can't expect the poetry to flow!'" the guy laughed, his British accent cutting through the quiet library like a silver bell.

  Yuki was laughing too—a light, genuine sound that made Luke’s stomach do a strange, uncomfortable flip.

  "Luke! You're early," Yuki said, noticing him. She didn't look tired at all; if anything, she looked energized. "This is Oliver. He’s an exchange student from Oxford. We were in the same advanced linguistics seminar this morning."

  Oliver stepped forward, offering a hand with the kind of confidence Luke only possessed in his dreams. "Ah, so you’re the legendary Luke. The 'Silent American' who takes down bullies and bows like a samurai. Pleasure to meet you, mate."

  Luke shook his hand, feeling the callouses on his own ink-stained fingers. "Hey."

  "I was just telling Yuki that she’s far too brilliant to be stuck in this dusty corner all morning," Oliver said, leaning against the table and invading Luke’s space with a friendly, casual ease. "There’s a new gallery opening in Roppongi this afternoon. Very chic, very 'New Tokyo.' I’ve managed to snag three tickets. You should both come."

  Yuki looked at the tickets, then at Luke. "I don't know, Oliver. We have a lot of kanji to get through."

  "Nonsense!" Oliver waved a hand dismissively. "Language is lived, not studied in a morgue of books. Come on, Yuki. It’ll be just like that summer in London, remember? Only with better sushi."

  Luke looked down at his notebook. That summer in London. He felt a cold realization wash over him. He wasn't the only one who shared a past with Yuki. He was just the one who shared the struggle. Oliver shared the "gold."

  The "lesson" that followed was a disaster.

  Oliver stayed. He didn't just stay; he participated. Every time Yuki tried to explain a nuance of a character, Oliver would chime in with a witty anecdote or a clever mnemonic device. He was fast, he was funny, and he made the complex world of Japanese seem like a game he had already won.

  "You see, Luke," Oliver said, pointing at the character for 未来 (Future). "The first part is 'not yet,' and the second is 'to come.' It’s the poetry of the 'not yet.' Beautiful, isn't it?"

  Luke grunted. He was struggling with the stroke order, his hand feeling heavy and clumsy. Every time he looked up, he saw Oliver leaning closer to Yuki, whispering something that made her smile.

  The intimacy of the phone call from the night before felt like it was miles away—a fever dream that didn't belong in the bright, academic light of day. Here, Yuki wasn't the girl who was afraid of the dark. She was the "Cool Queen" again, and Oliver was her perfect match.

  "I think I'm done for today," Luke said abruptly, closing his book with a dull thud.

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  Yuki blinked, her smile fading. "Wait, we haven't even finished the practice sentences. Are you okay? You look... pale."

  "Just a headache. Probably the storm," Luke lied, avoiding her eyes. He felt a hot, prickly sensation in his chest—a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn't depression. It was sharp, green, and ugly.

  "Oh, cheers for that," Oliver said, clapping Luke on the shoulder. "A bit of rest is just what the doctor ordered. I'll take Yuki to the gallery, and we'll bring you back some inspiration, yeah?"

  Luke didn't wait to hear Yuki’s answer. He shouldered his bag and walked out of the library, the sound of Oliver’s effortless laughter following him down the hall.

  He didn't head for his dorm. He headed for the gym. He needed to hit something that wasn't a desk.

  The university gym was a cavernous, concrete room that smelled of rubber mats and old sweat. Luke didn't head for the weights. He went straight to the heavy bags in the corner, the ones used by the boxing club.

  He didn't have gloves. He didn't care. He wrapped his hands in some discarded athletic tape he found on a bench and began to strike.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Every punch was for a different frustration. One for the "gold" of California he could never reach. One for the way Oliver said Yuki’s name like he owned the vowels. One for the fact that he had actually believed, just for a night, that he was special to her.

  "Your form is terrible. You’re going to break your wrists."

  Luke stopped, his knuckles stinging under the tape. He turned to see Sato standing there. The bully wasn't wearing his designer jacket; he was in a tattered gray sweatshirt, his nose still taped up, holding a pair of worn-out boxing gloves.

  Luke wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "What do you want, Sato? I’m not in the mood."

  Sato didn't sneer. He didn't mock. He just threw a pair of spare gloves at Luke’s chest. "If you’re going to hit something, hit it right. You look like a pathetic amateur."

  Luke caught the gloves, staring at them in confusion. "Why are you helping me?"

  Sato walked over to the bag next to Luke’s and delivered a sharp, professional-grade jab that made the chain rattle. "I’m not helping you. I’m helping the bag. And honestly? I saw that blonde guy with Yuki earlier. He looks like the kind of guy who thinks he’s better than everyone because he can quote Shakespeare."

  Sato looked at Luke, a rare moment of honesty flickering in his eyes. "I might be a jerk, American. But at least I’m a jerk you understand. That guy? He’s a shark in a suit. He doesn’t see 'ghosts' or 'monsters.' He just sees trophies."

  Luke looked at the gloves in his hands, then back at the guy he had pinned to a desk just days ago. The world was officially turning upside down.

  Luke slid his hands into the gloves. They were warm and smelled of leather and gym dust, but they felt more honest than the crisp pages of the textbook he’d slammed shut earlier. He tightened the Velcro straps with his teeth, his eyes locked on the heavy bag.

  "He’s not a shark," Luke muttered, though the conviction wasn't there. "He’s just... better. At everything. He’s the kind of guy people actually want to talk to."

  Sato snorted, moving into a rhythmic bounce. "People want to talk to him because he’s loud. In this country, being loud is just a different way of being invisible. He doesn't hear the silence. He doesn't know what it’s like to be stuck."

  Sato landed a heavy hook on his bag. Whack. "He thinks Yuki is a puzzle to solve. But you?" Sato turned his head, a strange, grim smile touching his lips. "You look at her like she’s the only person who can see you. That makes you dangerous, American. It makes you real."

  Luke didn't answer. He lunged at the bag, letting out a breathy grunt as he connected. He thought about Oliver’s perfectly tailored coat. Punch. He thought about the way Yuki had laughed at the "gold" comment. Punch. He thought about the phone call—the vulnerability in her voice when she admitted she was scared.

  That was his. That was the one thing Oliver didn't have. Oliver knew the "Cool Queen." Luke knew the girl who sat in the dark with a dying candle.

  "You’re overthinking again," Sato barked, stepping behind Luke’s bag to steady it. "Stop thinking. Start moving. If you want to keep her, you don't do it by hiding in a gym. You do it by showing up."

  Luke stopped, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin onto the mat. He looked at Sato—the bully, the victim, the unexpected coach. The hierarchy of the university had collapsed. The "kicked dog" and the "jerk" were standing on the same bridge.

  "Why are you telling me this?" Luke asked, his voice raw.

  Sato shrugged, stepping back and wiping his face with a towel. "Because if you lose to a guy in a trench coat who says 'cheers,' I’ll have to beat you up again just to restore my own honor. Now, hit the bag. Ten more minutes. Then go find her."

  Luke nodded, a newfound fire sparking in his gut. He didn't just hit the bag this time. He drove through it.