23. Dangerous #2
He doesn’t notice me watching. He's not posing or trying to prove that he’s a good person.
He just does it. It reminds me of the men from Piotr’s shop.
The ones who showed up before sunrise with coffee in paper cups, hands already marked by grease that would never fully wash from the lines of their skin.
Men who lifted engines, pushed dead cars, stayed late because somebody needed their brakes fixed before work the next morning.
Nobody ever called them extraordinary. They wouldn’t have accepted the word anyway.
They just worked, helped, carried what needed carrying.
Piotr was like that. Kiri's like that. The realization catches me off guard.
He can dress himself in black, hide behind makeup, play the damaged rock star, and pretend he has nothing to offer except a good body, skilled hands and a terrible relationship history.
But underneath all of it, he's always looking for something to hold up.
A suitcase, a band, me. He reaches into the compartment again and comes out with my little cream roller suitcase.
It looks absurd in his hand. He reads the tag, then glances up and finds me standing several feet away, openly staring.
His expression changes. He walks over and sets the suitcase carefully in front of me, extending the handle with one pull.
“Yours.”
“I remember. Thanks.”
“I'm glad. I was worried the hangover might've damaged your brain permanently.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not hungover.”
His gaze moves over my face, suspicious.
I made sure there were no sunglasses, messy bun or oversized sweatshirt advertising my suffering.
I spent forty minutes turning myself into a woman who has never once met a poor decision.
The headache might still be thudding behind my eyes, but there was no way I was giving Kiri anything less than the perfect picture.
Something polished, effortless, devastating.
Something to make him regret not saying good morning.
Instead, he spent the entire bus ride hiding in his damn bunk.
So now the outfit is wasted, my makeup is wasted, and all my carefully manufactured indifference had no audience. At least, until now.
“You drank enough sake to sedate a horse,” he says.
“Strong Polish blood.”
His mouth twitches. A crew member calls his name from behind him. Kiri blinks, the moment snapping.
“Coming.”
He releases my suitcase and steps back. I should go inside.
Instead, I wrap my fingers around the handle and remain exactly where I am while he returns to the luggage bay.
He helps pull out another case, then a duffel, then an equipment bag one of the crew members brought onto our bus by mistake.
He crouches to check a label, his forearm braced across one thigh.
I hate how good he looks doing ordinary things.
“Nat!”
Rafe is standing inside the hotel entrance, one hand holding the door. Kasia waits beside him with the expression of someone who has already called my name twice.
“Check-in,” she calls. “Come on.”
“I’m coming.”
I’m not, at least, not yet. Kiri passes another bag to the porter and laughs at something the driver says. His head tips down, hair falling over his eyes. That smile, the real one, changes his whole face. All I can do is watch him.
“Natalia,” Kasia calls again.
I turn so quickly my suitcase nearly clips a decorative planter. Rafe catches the door before it closes on me.
“Were you planning to help unload the entire bus too?” he asks.
“Maybe. I’m considerate, too.”
He looks over my shoulder toward Kiri.
“Right.”
I glare at him and drag my bag into the lobby.
The hotel is awe inspiring, everything is wrapped in beautiful pale stone and polished brass.
Every surface is covered in enormous arrangements of white flowers.
Staff bow and move our luggage toward the elevators while Kasia handles the room keys because she no longer trusts me to remember basic information like where we are or what day it is.
Rafe starts explaining the afternoon as we cross the lobby.
“We’ll give you an hour to get settled, then head out.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Kasia thought you could shoot at Nagoya Castle.”
“Great.”
“And Oasis 21,” Kasia adds. “The glass roof should look good in photos, especially before sunset.”
“Perfect.”
“We might go through ōsu too,” Rafe continues. “The shopping streets near ōsu Kannon. Vintage stores, street food, all that influencer shit.”
“Love influencer shit.”
Kasia gives me a sideways look. I realize I've agreed to everything in exactly the same tone. She presses the elevator button.
“And dinner,” she says, studying me now, “Rafe found a place for hitsumabushi, Atsuta Hōraiken. Grilled eel. It’s one of the things we’re supposed to eat while we’re here.”
“Sounds amazing.”
The elevator doors open and we step inside. Kasia presses our floor. They keep talking about timing, outfits, whether I need to call ahead about filming, and how long it’ll take to get across the city. I nod in places that feel appropriate, but their voices blur into the background.
All I can see is Kiri on the pavement, helping because something needed doing.
He wasn't asking for praise or acting like the celebrity everyone else sees when they look at him. He might play the fuckboy. He might wear that reputation like armor because it’s easier than letting anyone look underneath. But underneath, he’s—
Kind.
Kiri Chhim is kind.
That's much more dangerous than just being good with his hands.