Chapter 14 - THE ROOFTOP OF RUINS AND HEALING

💃🕺 Ren & Siya's Salsa Performance: The Dance That Made Time Stumble

The lights dimmed until the stage became a glowing hush. Every eye turned to the center, where silence held its breath and the first beat of the music throbbed like a heartbeat.

A single spotlight fell—and there they stood.

Siya, back straight, chin high, the deep burgundy folds of her salsa dress clinging and then cascading like waves. A slit on one side revealed her toned leg, trembling in anticipation. Her hair, tied in a soft braid, left a few strands falling over her face, softening her bold eyes.

Ren, dressed in crisp black: shirt half-open at the chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing veins like vines on marble. His gaze wasn't at the crowd, but locked on her.

The music struck.

Step one—a sharp syncopated foot tap. Siya's heels clicked as she slid forward, hips rolling with grace, arms stretching out. Ren mirrored her, every step calculated like a predator circling its flame.

Then—he caught her wrist.

His fingers wrapped around her gently but firmly, like he was claiming her in a world of chaos. She turned—a perfect spin on the ball of her foot—and landed with her back against his chest, arms crossed over hers like an embrace built from tension. His breath hit the side of her neck.

They broke apart.

Eight counts of footwork. Heels tapping, knees flexing, torsos angled toward each other but never touching. The chemistry was not in the closeness—it was in the restraint.

She turned again, this time under his arm, hair flaring around her like a burst of color. His hand slid to her waist, guiding her into a low dip. Her back arched, neck bare, one leg stretched out in a dancer's line, and his other hand cupped the side of her face—not as a lover, but like a man who finally saw light in a world gone dark.

The crowd gasped.

They rose together.

Their hips moved in perfect sync—a signature of salsa. Fast, smooth, daring. Siya's dress twirled with each spin, wrapping around her thighs like velvet wind. Ren's hand stayed firmly on her lower back, guiding her through intricate footwork. Every time their bodies brushed—hip to hip, shoulder to chest, hand to hand—it sent an unspoken message between them.

At one beat, she tried to tease—a cheeky smile, her hand sliding up his chest—but he pulled her in suddenly, their bodies chest-to-chest, heart-to-heart, both slightly breathless. The closeness made her eyes widen.

His hand on the nape of her neck.

Her fingers digging into his bicep.

One strong step back, then she slid into a full body wave, her spine like silk uncoiling, his hand trailing down her back to guide the motion.

The song reached its bridge—slower now. They circled. Stared.

Then—she leapt.

He caught her mid-air by her waist, lifting her effortlessly. Her head dropped back, hair grazing the floor. She trusted him—fully, blindly.

He spun with her suspended, and for a second it felt like the world was spinning with them.

When he set her down, she didn't move away. Their foreheads met. For a heartbeat—there was only them.

The music built again.

Fast footwork. Claps. Spins. Heat.

Sweat glistened on his brow. A flush colored her cheeks. And yet—they didn't miss a single beat.

As the final note hit, she twirled one last time into his arms—and he dipped her dramatically, holding her there, breathing hard. Her hand was around his neck. Their faces were so close you couldn't tell where breath ended and breath began.

Thunderous applause.

But they didn't look away from each other.

They only looked.

And something in their eyes spoke more than any line could.

When they finally stood upright and bowed—hand in hand—the audience was already screaming.

"Siyaaaa!! Ren!!!"

"They ate it!! Left no crumbs!!"

"WE NEED A REPEAT!"

Phones were out. Students stood up in ovation.

But Ren, still holding Siya's hand, whispered so only she could hear—

> "Told you. We're not just dancing. We're making them feel."

🦋🦋🦋

The sky was painted in watercolors — pale pink brushing into soft lavender — as dusk settled over the school grounds. Strings of paper lanterns flickered to life above colorful booths, and the cheerful buzz of voices echoed against the crisp spring air. The school festival fair had taken over every inch of the courtyard, and yet, for once, Siya and Ren weren't running around like exhausted event heads.

Technically, yes — they were still on "duty."

But no one said duty couldn't be fun.

"Let's pretend this is a patrol," Siya smirked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She adjusted the badge on her sleeve like it made her more official.

Ren gave her a skeptical look. "A patrol? You mean us 'accidentally' stopping at every food stall like tourists?"

"That's not food, that's… cultural appreciation," she grinned, poking a takoyaki ball with a toothpick and stuffing it in her mouth with an approving sigh. "Mmm. See? Appreciating."

Ren raised an eyebrow. "I think you're appreciating a little too hard."

They walked slowly past booths manned by underclassmen, each bursting with decorations, games, and handmade menus. Students in happi coats called out cheerfully, offering samples and challenges.

At the yoyo tsuri stall, Siya paused, eyes lighting up. "I haven't played this since I was ten!"

"You were ten two years ago," Ren teased.

"Haha, very funny." She grabbed the paper hook, squinted in intense concentration, and tried to catch a bouncing water balloon from the pool. It snapped immediately. "Not fair! I demand a rematch."

"You're supposed to be overseeing things, not robbing children of their toys," Ren said, but still handed her another hook. This time, she caught one — barely.

Triumphant, she raised it like a gold medal. "Victory!"

"Want me to engrave your name on it?" Ren smirked.

They continued strolling, stopping next at a kakigōri (shaved ice) stall. Ren chose matcha, Siya got strawberry. While they ate, a loud gong echoed through the grounds — the start of the yukata fashion show.

"Are we supposed to go check that?" Siya asked.

"Nah," Ren said, licking his spoon. "We're off-duty… for the next fifteen minutes."

"Then we should use it wisely."

"To do what?"

"To beat you at kingyo sukui," she declared.

"That's fish scooping."

"Exactly."

Ren shook his head, smiling as she dragged him toward the booth.

By the time they finished (and Ren accidentally knocked over the basin), they were breathless with laughter. Lanterns swayed above them, casting soft gold light on their faces. The noise faded around them as they wandered deeper into the fair.

"This is the first time in days we're not running around like headless chickens," Siya sighed, pulling her sleeves up. "I almost forgot what fun feels like."

"Yeah," Ren agreed quietly. "Me too."

Their hands brushed — once, then twice. Neither said anything.

They passed a haunted house booth, a mask painting corner, even a tea ceremony demo hosted by the calligraphy club. Somewhere behind them, a student band was playing a J-pop cover of a romantic anime song, slightly off-key.

"Hey Ren," Siya said suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

"For?"

"For walking with me. For not telling me to go back to work. For just being here."

He looked at her, surprised — maybe even a little stunned. Then he shrugged. "You're welcome."

Their steps slowed as they reached the far end of the fairground, where it was quieter — just the wind rustling sakura branches and the faint clink of a wind chime in the distance.

"Alright," Siya clapped her hands. "Back to work?"

Ren smirked. "Only if there's more yakisoba involved."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But I get the first bite this time."

He laughed. "We'll see."

And together, they turned back toward the heart of the fair — laughter, lights, and something neither of them could name yet blooming gently between the stalls.

🦋🦋🦋

9:00 PM

The school auditorium buzzed with quiet anticipation as the lights dimmed. A soft hush fell over the audience as the drama club's final performance of the day began. It wasn't a light-hearted play, not the kind students usually chose during fests. No. This was different. The stage lights focused on a modest set—a living room, tense with silence—and the scene unfolded: a story of domestic violence, a child caught in the middle, helpless and torn.

Ren didn't expect to be shaken.

At first, he watched with polite interest. But then something in the performance cracked through his calm. It wasn't the acting—it was the truth it held. The actors screamed at each other with the kind of fury that was too real to be theatrical. A woman begged to be heard. A man turned his back, fist clenched. A child—silent, wide-eyed—stood near a doorframe. The line that shattered Ren: "You said he was a gift. But you treat him like a burden."

The world tilted. His chest tightened. The noise of the room dimmed. A coldness seeped into his bones. He stood up, muttering some excuse no one heard, and walked—no, ran—out of the auditorium.

The rooftop was empty. A sharp wind whipped his hair. The city lights blinked below like they were mocking him. He leaned against the railing and let his breath hitch. His hand clenched into the iron.

Ren had held it in for years.

He had mastered the art of looking okay. Of being composed. Cool. Distant. A little arrogant, even. That was better than being vulnerable. That was safer.

But the stage had become a mirror. And he couldn't unsee.

His mind spiraled. He remembered the screaming. The nights when he hid under his bed, counting the seconds between slammed doors and broken glass. His mother's voice, once soothing, turning sharp and defensive. His father's anger, too big to contain.

He remembered that night.

The night the fight wasn't just about money or trust. It was about him.

"You chose your job over this family!" his father had roared.

"And you chose your ego over mine!" she had spat back.

"I gave up everything—everything—for this child! You wanted a son. Here. He's yours. Raise him."

Ren was eight. He didn't cry that night. Not then. Not even when he heard the slap. Not when his mother left with him two days later, after signing the divorce papers with trembling hands.

But now—

Now, he sobbed.

Heavy, guttural, body-wracking sobs.

He dropped to his knees.

He pressed his forehead to the cold cement floor.

He wanted to disappear.

He didn't hear the door open.

He didn't notice Siya's soft footsteps until her hand touched his shoulder.

He flinched—violently—and looked up, startled. Her eyes met his, wide and full of confusion and something softer: worry.

"Ren?" she whispered.

He couldn't speak.

She stepped closer.

He shook his head, trying to pull away, retreat into his cave.

But then she knelt beside him.

She didn't ask questions. She didn't try to fill the silence. Her hand found his again. Slowly. Gently. Like asking permission without words.

And that—

That did it.

He cried.

He cried like he hadn't cried in fifteen years.

Loud. Broken. Guttural. Ugly.

But she didn't flinch. She didn't look away.

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. Close enough that his forehead pressed to her shoulder. Close enough that his body shook against hers.

She didn't say shhh. She didn't hush him. She let him cry.

She held him as he fell apart.

There was no space between them. No awkwardness. No hesitation. Only warmth. Only silence.

She pulled him closer, his head now against her chest. Her heart beat slow and steady, a rhythm he didn't know he needed until now.

For the first time in his life, he felt safe.

And somehow, he spoke.

"It was always like that," he said, voice barely a breath.

She listened.

"They fought over everything. But one day… one day I heard them fighting about me. About… me."

She still didn't speak.

"My mom gave up her dreams for me. She was supposed to be the best in her field. A neurosurgeon. She left her PhD midway when she had me. She told me I was a miracle. But my father—he wanted her to be just a wife. Not a doctor. Not a person."

His voice cracked.

"She stayed. For a while. But when she found out he was cheating on her—she… she left. Took me with her. Raised me alone. Worked three shifts sometimes. But she never… she never cried in front of me."

He exhaled sharply. "But I remember. I remember everything."

She still held him. Her palm slowly rubbed his back in small circles.

"I saw love turn to disaster. So I promised myself I'll never fall for someone. Never depend on someone. Never… let anyone close."

He laughed bitterly.

"And yet here I am. On a rooftop. Crying in your arms like a child."

She pressed her forehead to his gently.

"No," she finally said. "You're healing. In the only way you know how."

They stayed like that.

The night wrapped around them.

He eventually quieted. His breathing evened out. His face still buried against her, now soft and flushed.

She didn't move.

Didn't let go.

Not until he whispered, "Thank you."

And then—like he belonged there—he fell asleep in her arms.

And she held him like he was something precious. Fragile. Worthy.

And she stayed until the sun began to rise....