The "Public Claim" in the cafeteria had turned the campus into a hive of speculation. For Ren, the sudden shift from "target of mockery" to "object of Kaito’s affection" was dizzying. But the rumors didn't fix the hole in her heart; they just put a spotlight on it.
The Sanctuary
Three days later, Ren sought out the only place she felt truly invisible: the old Arts & Crafts basement. It was a dusty, forgotten room used by a small club that usually met on Tuesdays. It was Thursday, so the room was empty.
Ren sat at a back table, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. She reached deep into her messenger bag and pulled out a small, wooden hoop and a piece of white linen.
In high school, when the boys called her "one of the guys," she had started embroidery. It was her silent rebellion. Every stitch was a reminder that she possessed a delicacy the world refused to see.
She was working on a pattern of pale blue hydrangeas. Her movements were precise, her long, elegant fingers guiding the needle with a grace that would have shocked her classmates. For a moment, the "Prince" was gone. She was just a girl lost in the color of thread.
The Intruder
The heavy wooden door creaked. Ren jumped, instinctively shoving the embroidery hoop under a stack of old newspapers. She stood up, her face instantly hardening into its "cool" mask.
"I’m sorry, I was just leaving—"
She stopped. Kaito was standing in the doorway, his golden hair slightly messy from the wind. He wasn't wearing his school blazer; he had on a simple black turtleneck that made him look older, more serious.
He didn't say anything at first. He walked slowly toward her table, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on the corner of the blue thread peeking out from under the newspaper.
"You're very fast with those hands," Kaito said, his voice echoing in the quiet basement. "But you're not fast enough to hide that from me."
The Exposure
Ren felt the heat rush to her cheeks—a deep, burning flush of shame. "It's nothing. Just a stupid way to pass the time. It doesn't fit the 'image,' right?"
Kaito reached out and gently pulled the newspaper aside. He picked up the hoop, holding the hydrangeas up to the light. He traced the tiny, intricate stitches with his thumb.
"My mother collects vintage lace from France," Kaito said softly. "She would say your tension is perfect. This isn't 'nothing,' Ren. This is beautiful."
Ren bit her lip, her defensive walls trembling. "If the guys at the mixer saw this, they’d laugh even harder. 'The Prince likes to sew.' It’s pathetic."
"Why?" Kaito stepped closer, his gaze intense. "Because you're 'supposed' to be tough? Because you're 'supposed' to be one of them?"
He set the embroidery back on the table and leaned in, trapping her between his arms and the desk. "They want you to be a 'guy' because it makes them feel safe. If you're just a girl—a girl who is talented, and sharp, and beautiful—they don't know what to do with you. So they try to simplify you."
The Shared Secret
Ren looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to be the girl who gets the flowers, not the girl everyone expects to be the protector."
Kaito reached into his own pocket. He pulled out a small, worn-out sketchbook. He opened it to a page filled with chaotic, dark charcoal drawings—buildings that looked like they were weeping, skies that were filled with static.
"Everyone thinks I'm the Golden Prince because I have the perfect smile and the perfect grades," he whispered. "But this is what's actually inside my head. If my father saw this, he'd call it a waste of time. He'd tell me to focus on the 'blueprints' of a real career."
He looked from his dark sketches to her bright hydrangeas.
"We're both hiding, Ren. But you don't have to hide from me."
The New Pattern
He picked up a needle from her kit. "Show me."
"What?" Ren blinked.
"Show me how to do a stitch," Kaito said, sitting down in the chair next to her. "If we're going to have a hidden life, we might as well do it together."
Ren hesitated, then slowly sat back down. She took his hand—his skin was warm and steady—and guided his fingers through the fabric.
For the next hour, the two most "perfect" people on campus sat in a dusty basement, sharing a secret that had nothing to do with their reputations. They weren't Princes. They were just two students, one teaching the other how to mend the things that had been torn.
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