Unrequited Love: Chapter 7

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After a two-hour bus ride, the group arrived at a seaside resort in the neighboring prefecture just after 1 p.m. The area, recently gaining attention as a leisure spot, boasted newly paved roads, sports facilities, and an array of accommodations. When the sparkling sea first came into view through the bus window, Isosaki felt a twinge of awe. But stepping onto the scorching asphalt under the blazing sun quickly replaced that awe with a creeping unease.

The group of thirty split into smaller teams of four or five, each heading to their assigned cottages. Nearby were facilities for tennis and mini-golf, along with opportunities for swimming and snorkeling in the sea. As everyone scattered to enjoy their chosen activities, Isosaki found himself unloading rental outdoor tables and chairs from the bus. He dutifully hauled them to the designated spot dictated by the assistant manager. The searing sun, blindingly bright, unleashed waves of heat so intense that sweat poured down Isosaki’s back and forehead after just one trip. By the time he finished the first round, his brain felt like it was baking inside his skull.

Office girls who had already changed into swimsuits passed by, cheering him on with exaggerated fist pumps and cries of, “You’ve got this, Isosaki!” Not one of them offered to help. His sturdy body, honed from years in the canoeing club, and his well-developed biceps felt like a curse. If only I were as lean as the assistant manager, he thought. Maybe someone would have pitched in.

After six grueling trips, he finally finished. Though he wasn’t physically drained, he felt emotionally deflated. Shoulders slumped, he returned to the cottage he had been assigned to share with the assistant manager, Mikasa, and a building designer named Iketani. The realization that even his sleeping hours couldn’t free him from the assistant manager’s tyranny filled him with despair.

Sitting on the sofa in the cottage’s living room, Isosaki tried to catch his breath. His brief respite ended when the assistant manager tasked him with yet another chore before leaving with a casual, “I’ll be out judging the beach volleyball game.”
Judging volleyball—is that really a task for the organizer? I could have done that instead, Isosaki thought bitterly, but he didn’t dare say it aloud. He watched as the assistant manager disappeared into the blazing sunlight.

Through the window, Isosaki could see the office girls laughing and frolicking in their swimsuits. With a heavy sigh, he turned to his assigned task: prepping the barbecue. As he chopped a massive onion, its sting made his eyes water, though he told himself it wasn’t tears of frustration. Still, imagining the onion as the assistant manager’s smug face brought some satisfaction as he diced it to pieces.

“Hey,” came a soft voice.

Startled, Isosaki looked up to find Mikasa, standing next to him, helping by chopping bell peppers. His voice carried a soothing kindness.

“You should go play outside,” Mikasa suggested gently, his expression warm and friendly.

Isosaki blinked, stunned by this unexpected generosity. Mikasa’s smile widened.

“I can handle chopping a few vegetables on my own. You’re young, and it’d be a waste not to enjoy yourself after coming all this way.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m just here as a tagalong, really. Besides, I work outside all the time. I’m not exactly keen on spending my day off in the scorching sun.”

What a kind soul, Isosaki thought, his gaze drifting back to the inviting sparkle of sunlight outside. What had seemed like a cruel, oppressive sun now beckoned him with a gentle allure, whispering, Come join us.

He wanted to go. Desperately. But leaving would mean Mikasa would be stuck alone, silently slicing vegetables and meat. The thought of abandoning him felt wrong.

“I’ll stay,” Isosaki said. “I’ve resigned myself to treating today like work.”

“You really don’t have to,” Mikasa insisted.

“No, seriously, I’m fine.”

Their eyes met, and both chuckled softly.

In the bus, Isosaki had thought Mikasa seemed like a decent person. Now, he was sure of it. If only some of this man’s kindness could rub off on my cold-hearted colleagues, he mused.

“You know,” Mikasa said with quiet sincerity, “I think it’s really good for Satoshi to have a straightforward subordinate like you.”

Isosaki felt embarrassed by the praise. “I’m just a lowly grunt… I don’t think I’m much help at all.”

Mikasa chuckled. “That’s not true.”

“If he didn’t trust you, he wouldn’t ask for your help.”

Isosaki felt as though a veil had lifted from his eyes. Until now, he had assumed he was being bossed around simply because he was at the bottom of the ladder. But hearing this perspective from Mikasa was enlightening.

“Satoshi has this perfectionist streak,” Mikasa continued. “Having someone similar around would probably just suffocate him. I bet he works better with a laid-back subordinate like you.”

Profound. Mikasa’s calm wisdom seemed to explain everything. It was probably this very depth of character that had allowed him to remain friends with the assistant manager since high school. His generosity of spirit… it was enough to make Isosaki admire him as a man.

“Alright, it’s decided. Let’s finish this up quickly so we can go play too,” Mikasa declared, almost childlike in his enthusiasm.

It was clear that Mikasa’s suggestion was made out of concern for Isosaki’s feelings, though it didn’t feel heavy-handed. Caught up in Mikasa’s positive energy, Isosaki found himself nodding eagerly.

“Yes!” he replied with vigor, ready to take on the task at hand.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

“…You and I are in the same boat,” Mikasa murmured softly as they walked toward the edge of the woods near the beach. Still clad in their swim trunks, they trudged through the underbrush, collecting kindling in silence.

By now, the barbecue preparations were complete. Vegetables and meat had been sliced, skewered, and stored in the refrigerator. The rice cooker had been set with a timer, and even the dessert—watermelon—was chilling. It was 4:30 PM when everything was finally in place. Though the sun hung low in the sky, there was still enough daylight to enjoy some leisure time.

Just as the two men stepped out of the cottage, eager for their moment of fun, the door swung open with a loud bang. Standing there, slightly sunburned, was their assistant manager, his face turned downward as if brooding. His eyebrows, almost too perfectly groomed for a man, wriggled like earthworms as he took in the sight of the two men in their swim trunks and sandals.

“Have you finished preparing for dinner?” he asked coldly.

“Yes,” Mikasa answered on Isosaki’s behalf, sparing him the brunt of the assistant manager’s glare.

“…I see. Then where are the kindling sticks? I’ve looked everywhere, and I can’t find them.”

“Kindling sticks?” Isosaki asked, confused.

The assistant manager pressed his fingers to his temple, exhaling as if burdened by Isosaki’s ignorance.

“Do you know nothing about barbecues? You can’t just light charcoal with newspaper. You need kindling to sustain the fire. Or fire starters, if you had the foresight to bring them. Don’t tell me… you didn’t prepare either?”

The color drained from Isosaki’s face. There was no kindling, and there were no fire starters.

“They were available at the rental shop,” the assistant manager said, his voice rising with every word. “Why didn’t you think to grab some? Do you only do what you’re explicitly told? Thanks to you, everyone might go hungry tonight.”

“I-I’m sorry! I’ll go buy some right now!” Isosaki stammered, bolting toward his bag to fetch his wallet.

But the chief’s sharp voice halted him. “There’s a grove at the edge of the beach. Go there and gather some sticks. Have it ready by six, when dinner starts.”

Isosaki glanced at the clock in despair. By the time he finished gathering kindling, there would be no time left to enjoy the beach. A heavy weight of futility pressed on his chest. Yes, he had failed to consider the kindling, but was this really all his fault?

The assistant manager snorted dismissively and ascended the stairs to the second floor of the cottage. The loft served as a sleeping area, where four futons were laid out. Without a second glance at the others, the chief threw himself onto one of them. Resting upstairs, away from the heat and labor… how nice it must be.

As Isosaki glared resentfully at his boss, who lounged without a care, Mikasa climbed the stairs after him. Isosaki hoped Mikasa might advocate on his behalf. Instead, Mikasa crouched beside the assistant manager.

“Are you feeling okay? Your face is really red. Did you get overheated?” Mikasa asked gently.

The chief swatted Mikasa’s hand away with a sharp motion. “Leave me alone.”

“Have you been drinking enough water? Should I grab a cold pack from the front desk?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Don’t be so stubborn. You don’t have to push yourself so hard.”

“You’re annoying. Go away.”

Mikasa came back down the stairs and leaned in close to Isosaki, whispering, “He’s just being his usual self. Let’s handle it.”

"Could you take something cold, like a bottle of tea or Pocari Sweat, and leave it by Satoshi's bedside?" Mikasa asked. "He'll probably drink it if it's nearby. I'm heading to the office for a bit."

Following his instructions, Isosaki gingerly placed a bottle of tea beside the pale-faced assistant manager, murmuring, "Here you go." From the bottom of the stairs, he watched as the assistant manager's hand slowly reached out to grasp the bottle, exactly as Mikasa had predicted. Isosaki couldn't help but be impressed by how well Mikasa understood him. The scene reminded him of a Russian Blue cat his unmarried aunt used to spoil. That cat, treated as if it were human, grew haughty and fussy, refusing to eat from anyone else's hand.

Five minutes later, Mikasa returned, holding an ice pack. Without waiting for consent, he wrapped it in a towel and wedged it under the reluctant assistant manager's head. Then he pressed a cooling patch onto the assistant manager’s forehead.

"Don’t underestimate heatstroke," Mikasa scolded. "Guys collapse from it all the time on the job, especially in summer. And you're not as robust as you think. Every year, around this time, you lose your appetite and slim down too much."

"Stop nagging. Just leave me alone."

The assistant manager’s petulant tone resembled that of a teenager in the throes of rebellion, while Mikasa, fussing over him like a mother, remained calm. Once Mikasa came back down the stairs, he gestured for Isosaki to follow him outside. Together, they crossed the sandy path toward the beach, passing groups of cheerful girls in swimsuits before entering the shade of the woods.

They walked side by side in silence, the sand crunching beneath their feet. Any complaints Isosaki had about their task faded after seeing how unwell the assistant manager had looked. Mikasa, deep in thought, eventually spoke up.

"Satoshi’s stubborn," he muttered. "If he’s not feeling well, he should just say so. Maybe he’s worried about burdening everyone, so he tries to hide it."

His tone brimmed with genuine concern for his friend. If I had a friend like Mikasa, I’d never hit him over the head like the assistant manager does, Isosaki thought.

They reached the woods and began gathering kindling. Through gaps in the trees, they could see the beach and the girls enjoying themselves, their swimsuits glittering under the sunlight.

"Do you have a girlfriend, Mikasa-san?" Isosaki asked casually.

Mikasa froze, a bundle of sticks in his arms. His face flushed—not just from the sun but from embarrassment. For someone older, he sure reacted like a shy teenager.

"You do, don’t you?" Isosaki teased.

"Yeah," Mikasa admitted, his voice soft.

Elbowing him playfully, Isosaki pressed on. " What kind of person are they?"

If it was Mikasa, even if his partner were beautiful and had a great personality, it would feel justified.

"Someone cute, I guess."

The ease with which he said “cute” made Isozaki groan inwardly at his bluntness.

"We’ve been together for about seven years now," Mikasa continued, snapping a twig in his hands, perhaps to hide his embarrassment. "The older we get, the more I feel like I’m falling for them. It’s kind of frustrating."

"Sounds like you’re really close," Isosaki said with a grin.

Mikasa’s hands paused over the kindling, but his smile betrayed how deeply he cared for her. It was hard to dislike someone so genuine, even when they spoke about their happiness so openly.

"They fell for me first. At the time, I was already seeing someone, so I wasn’t paying attention to anyone else. But they sort of... broke through, like sheer force of will. We ended up dating, though I was worried at first—it felt like we didn’t click personality-wise, and we argued all the time. I wasn’t sure it’d last. But weirdly, it worked out. And now, the longer we’re together, the more obsessed I get. If I don’t see their face for even a day, I start feeling anxious. Even though I know they’re crazy about me, I can’t stop worrying—especially since they’re so gorgeous. I’m scared someone else might be hitting on her.”

Mikasa’s cheeks flushed as he launched into a stream of unabashed affection for his partner. They were tall, fair-skinned, and refined in appearance. Their personality was stubborn and far from sentimental, but Mikasa found even that irresistibly adorable. As he talked, his bashful grin gave him the look of someone deeply smitten.

Soon, the conversation naturally veered into more vulgar territory. The two of them, still holding their bundles of kindling, sank into the shade of a tree and began sharing risqué stories.

"Does your partner... you know, do that for you?"

Gripping both hands into fists, Isozaki leaned forward, eager. Mikasa nodded solemnly.

"If I catch them in a good mood and ask, or sometimes I tease them like crazy. I’ll say, ‘If you don’t, I’m not going any further.’ That usually works, but it’s rare. Most of the time, they’re like, ‘No way in hell I’d do that,’ and laughs it off.”

Isosaki nodded in awe. His first encounter with such an act had been in a soapland, where a senior from university had taken him. It was there he first experienced oral sex, a sensation so overwhelmingly good he’d been moved to tears. Later, when he told the senior, the man had only shrugged and said, “Glad you liked it,” though his face betrayed mild exasperation.

Encouraged by that experience, Isosaki had once tried to ask a girlfriend for the same favor. Her response was a slap across the face and a scathing, “I’m not that kind of woman.” That was when Isozaki realized not all men were automatically entitled to such pleasures.

“For her to do that, even reluctantly… Your girlfriend’s amazing,” Isosaki said with genuine admiration.

“I love it when they do it,” Mikasa admitted dreamily, gazing at the patch of blue sky visible through the trees.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Isosaki said, grinning at the memory of his first time.

"Yeah, it’s... pretty great," Isozaki replied, thinking back to his own first experience and letting a wistful smile creep onto his face. Mikasa clasped his hands together in front of his mouth and exhaled a deep, heated sigh.

"It’s not just that it feels good. When they do that for me, I can feel how much they love me. I mean, you wouldn’t put something like that in your mouth for a guy you don’t care about, right? That’s why it hits so different."

"That’s definitely love," Isozaki muttered thoughtfully.

"It’s love," Mikasa affirmed. "But, you know, there was this one time I messed up big-time with that."

Kicking at the dirt at his feet, Mikasa scratched his head sheepishly.

"Because it’s rare for them to do it, they weren’t that experienced, to be honest. They were... not great at it. So, after they finished, I said, 'Next time, do it better, okay?' And they socked me. Like, full-on punch. Then they didn’t talk to me for a month."

Isosaki tried to hold back but couldn’t; he burst into laughter, clutching his stomach as Mikasa chuckled along, the two of them momentarily forgetting the oppressive summer heat and their tedious task.

"That taught me a lesson—I swore I’d never comment on their technique again. But they’ve gotten a lot better since then. What can I say? They’re a tenacious perfectionist and hardworking like that. Actually, I’ve got a ton of stories about us in bed. Like this one time with the ‘no cowgirl’ rule..."

"Hello there!"

A voice from behind startled both of them into jumping. They turned around to find Takamura standing there. Her face was fairly average, but her curvaceous figure had made her a discreet object of admiration among the male staff. The bikini she wore now only accentuated the enticing fullness of her chest, exuding a certain sensual allure. Even the oversized hoodie she had thrown over the top managed to look irresistibly cute.

"What were you two talking about? It looked like you were having so much fun!"

Takamura tilted her head slightly, seemingly puzzled by their exaggerated reactions. There was no way they could admit they’d been sharing dirty stories, so the two of them responded with vague, awkward smiles.

"We’re playing beach volleyball over there. Would you two like to join us?"

She smiled warmly, radiating friendliness. For a fleeting three seconds, Isozaki wondered if she might be interested in him. But her gaze was fixed squarely on Mikasa, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"We’ve gathered enough firewood for now, so let’s play for a bit," Mikasa said, standing up and stretching broadly with a satisfied "Uuun."

As Isozaki also stood, brushing the sand off his swim trunks with a vigorous sweep of his hand, a small pang of resignation hit him. Am I just Mikasa-san’s sidekick in this scenario? he thought, feeling a faint but undeniable sense of futility.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

When Mikasa joined the beach volleyball game midway, it didn’t take long for him to steal the attention of all the girls. He’d said that in high school, he played basketball and only did volleyball during PE classes. But his natural athleticism made his movements sharper and more dynamic than anyone else’s. His toned chest and lean waist exuded strength, and on the beach, his robust physique practically radiated a healthy, masculine energy.

More than that, he was cheerful and laughed often. Meanwhile, Isosaki was repeatedly approached by girls, raising faint hopes only to have them dashed with, “Who’s that guy with the short hair?” Time and again, his heart sank. Mikasa, who had sat quietly in the front of the bus earlier and spent the rest of the time helping with dinner preparations, was practically an unknown to the group until now.

When Isosaki told them Mikasa was from Iwada Construction, the next inevitable questions were, “Is he single?” and “Does he have a girlfriend?” Completely unaware of the attention he was garnering, Mikasa kept jumping and darting around the court. His laughter and expressive reactions, switching between joy and frustration, made him irresistibly bright and engaging.

Initially, Isosaki diligently answered, “He has a beautiful girlfriend,” but after the third or fourth girl, he grew exasperated. Deciding to distance himself from the volleyball chaos, he thought about heading into the sea. Just as he was leaving the circle, a voice stopped him.

“You’re only playing after you’ve done your work, right?”

Isosaki spun around to see the assistant manager standing behind him like a grim specter. His complexion had returned to normal, but his energy was still subdued.

“Y-yes, of course!” Isosaki straightened up as if by reflex.

“Make sure everything is ready for the barbecue by exactly six o’clock.”

A glance at his watch showed it was 5:30. At six, he’d need to have everything set up, which meant he couldn’t delay preparations any longer. His hopes of entering the sea were dashed, and he drooped in defeat as he muttered, “Yes,” weakly.

The assistant manager turned his gaze toward Mikasa, who was leaping exuberantly on the court. The rally continued until Mikasa made a sharp spike that landed perfectly on the opposing court, securing the victory. The whistle blew, and his team erupted in cheers. Mikasa jumped, raising his arms in triumph, and a girl in a swimsuit hugged him. The scene, vibrant with the spirit of summer, carried a wholesome charm.

“Mikasa-san is really athletic, isn’t he?” Isosaki commented absentmindedly, only to draw a sharp breath. The assistant manager was glaring at Mikasa, his eyes filled with an intensity usually reserved for mortal enemies.

“Go tell him to help with the preparations immediately.”

“Mikasa-san can help later, can’t he? He’s been assisting a lot already, and he’s technically a guest,” Isosaki reasoned.

“Just bring him here!” the assistant manager barked, his voice so loud that Isosaki flinched and took a step back.

Reluctantly, Isosaki scurried toward the victorious team, bracing himself to interrupt their celebration. It felt wrong to spoil their fun, but he had no choice. When he pulled Mikasa from the group, there was an expected chorus of boos and glares, including someone muttering, “Isosaki, you’re the worst.” He could feel their cold stares on his back and silently cursed the assistant manager for putting him in such a position. He had known this would happen; that’s why he’d argued against it!

“That was so much fun! I haven’t played beach volleyball in ages,” Mikasa said, cheerful and unaffected, as he walked alongside Isosaki. Despite having his game cut short, he seemed completely satisfied. Seeing Mikasa’s sunny disposition made Isosaki momentarily resent him, even though Mikasa was entirely blameless.

As they walked back toward the cottages through a grove of trees, Isosaki’s eye caught something. “I just remembered something I need to do,” he said, leaving Mikasa to head back alone. Carefully, he captured his discovery and stowed it in a bottle cap, handling it like a precious treasure. A sly grin spread across his face.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The assistant manager was in a foul mood. Worse, he made no effort to hide it. Meanwhile, Mikasa silently assembled the rented foldable tables and chairs. Isosaki had been assigned the task of lighting the concrete barbecue pit.

The pit, located in a small square in front of the cottage, was one of several that guests could freely use, provided they cleaned up afterward. Standing with his arms crossed in front of the pit, the assistant manager loomed like a foreman, watching Isosaki’s every move. It was nerve-wracking. As Isosaki carried charcoal, kindling, and newspaper to the pit, he battled an indescribable pressure. Even such a simple task as lighting a fire became daunting under constant scrutiny. Please, just leave me alone and go somewhere else, he pleaded silently to no avail.

Isosaki’s last camping experience was at an elementary school “Parent-Child Summer Camp.” Relying on those ancient, moldy memories, he arranged the charcoal, placed newspaper and kindling on top, and was promptly met with his first scolding.

“Are you an idiot? That’s never going to light! Use some common sense. Paper first, then kindling, and then the charcoal on top. If you put the paper and kindling on top, they’ll just burn out without lighting the charcoal underneath!”

I might be slow, but can’t he explain it more kindly? Isosaki thought bitterly. This wasn’t work; he was doing this out of goodwill. Frustration bubbled up over how he’d been treated all day—the way Mikasa had been dragged off the beach, and now this. In silent rebellion, Isosaki rearranged the materials in the pit into the prescribed order: paper, kindling, and charcoal. There. No complaints now, he thought, turning back to the assistant manager with a huff. The man’s expression was still sour.

“What does fire need to burn?” the assistant manager asked suddenly.

“Huh?” Isosaki blinked.

“Besides the things you’ve prepared, what else does fire need to burn?”

Why is this a quiz? Isosaki wondered, but he answered anyway. “Matches or a lighter?”

The assistant manager snatched a rolled-up newspaper and smacked the back of Isosaki’s head with it.

“Oxygen, you fool! If you pack the paper and kindling too tightly, oxygen won’t flow, and the fire will die. Leave some gaps!”

Isosaki’s hands trembled as he clutched the newspaper. He was genuinely angry. Hastily, he began rearranging the materials in the pit again, leaving gaps. This time, however, the structure was too loose, causing the charcoal on top to collapse and tumble to his feet with a clatter.

“Are you playing with building blocks? Even a preschooler could manage a pile of toys better than this!”

Mentally battered by the assistant manager’s relentless verbal slaps, Isosaki grudgingly rebuilt the pit. Just as he was on the brink of despair—convinced the charcoal would never light—flames began to dance through the gaps, catching the fuel with surprising ease.

As people began to gather in the barbecue area, the assistant manager’s demeanor changed entirely. He smiled warmly, laughing and chatting with everyone. He even revealed that he had personally brought a case of wine, which he generously handed out to the group. Of course, no considerate colleague offered Isosaki a glass. He was left alone, diligently flipping skewers of meat.

The enticing aroma of sizzling meat filled the air. Isosaki’s stomach growled loudly, a reminder of his constant labor since morning. Yet, every perfectly cooked piece of meat was swiftly snatched away before he could have a bite.

This isn’t a barbecue—it’s a punishment, he thought bitterly. It had to be.

"Good work," Mikasa said, his voice cutting through the smoky air as he approached Isosaki, who had managed to grill about half the skewers piled on the platter.

"I'll take over. Go grab something to eat before all the good stuff is gone."

Relieved, Isosaki nearly felt tears of gratitude welling up. He gratefully accepted Mikasa’s offer, snatched three freshly grilled skewers, and collapsed into an empty chair. Pouring himself a glass of wine from the communal bottle, he devoured the skewers with gusto, washing them down with sips of wine. Leftover salad and fruit—already looking like rejects—were swiftly shoveled into his mouth. He was so engrossed in eating that he failed to notice the stares his voraciousness attracted.

Once his stomach was satisfied, Isosaki checked the time: it was 7:30pm. The sun had already sunk beneath the ocean, leaving the sky dusky but not yet dark. The air, still warm and muggy, was mercifully free of the oppressive heat of midday.

The man who had conscripted Isosaki into this barbecue chore, the assistant manager, stood under a streetlamp chatting with Iketani, the company’s in-house designer. Iketani had earned acclaim abroad and had been hired with much fanfare. His specialty was designing individual homes, museums, and shops, where a distinct sense of aesthetics was required. In his early thirties, Iketani’s simple outfit of cotton pants and a slim-fit shirt exuded an understated elegance befitting his profession.

Standing opposite Iketani, the assistant manager wore a similar ensemble—jeans and a slim-cut top—yet his tall frame and high waist lent him an air of sophistication that made him stand out. Even next to the stylish Iketani, he didn’t lose any luster.

Clustered around the two were four or five women, including Terao and Wada. Since Iketani was married, their obvious target was the assistant manager. Watching them hover, Isosaki couldn’t help but think they resembled moths drawn to a flame, with the assistant manager as the streetlamp. Of course, voicing such a thought aloud would likely get him lynched by the female employees. Meanwhile, the harsh reality was that no one—neither moth nor otherwise—hovered around Isosaki.

After finishing his now-cold skewer, Isosaki slinked back to the cottage. From the cap he had carefully hidden, he retrieved the spider. It wriggled in his palm, its movements unsettling, but he endured the discomfort.

Returning to the campsite, Isosaki strolled toward the group under the guise of gazing at the ocean. As he passed behind the assistant manager, he discreetly released the spider onto the man’s back. Freed, the creature scurried up the assistant manager’s shirt, heading for his shoulder.

The first to notice was Iketani, who gasped and awkwardly stepped back.

“Yoshimoto-san, there’s something on your shoulder…”

“Something on my shoulder?” The assistant manager turned his head slightly to look. He froze, his gaze locking onto the sight of a spider on his shoulder. Terao, practically glued to the assistant manager’s side all evening, screamed and bolted. Wada, equally attached, clapped her hands over her mouth in horror.

“It’s… it’s a spider!” Wada shrieked.

A two-meter-wide human circle formed around the assistant manager as if on cue. Despite the commotion, the man himself remained eerily silent. His face was pale, but his demeanor seemed calm. The spider—a large joro spider with blue-black stripes on its back and a white and yellow belly—crawled upward, audibly skittering from his shoulder to his ear and finally atop his head. The women screamed again, but the assistant manager didn’t make a move to brush it off. His odd stillness was unnerving.

“Um… Section Chief?” Isosaki ventured cautiously.

The assistant manager turned his gaze toward Isosaki, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears at the corners.

"Sp-Spider... get it off..."

The assistant manager's voice was as faint as the buzz of a mosquito. Just as Mikasa had said, the man was utterly helpless against spiders. As the assistant manager’s plea for help reached Isosaki, a strange sense of superiority blossomed within him. He reached out to remove the spider, only for it to scurry across the assistant manager’s face and down toward his chest.

The assistant manager jolted as though struck by lightning, then fainted backward like a toppling domino. Isosaki lunged forward, barely managing to catch him before he hit the ground.

The assistant manager was unconscious, his eyes rolled back. Meanwhile, the joro spider leapt off his stomach and disappeared into the grass. Fortunately, he woke up within seconds, groggily returning to his senses while cradled in Isosaki’s sturdy arms.

The moment awareness dawned, the assistant manager let out a panicked "Aaaah!" and grabbed his head.

"It's okay. The spider is gone," Isosaki reassured him. The assistant manager exhaled deeply, visibly relieved, as the gaggle of women who had been surrounding him earlier now exchanged uncertain glances. Their expressions clearly suggested they were unimpressed by a man who would faint over something as trivial as a spider.

Oblivious to their disappointment, the assistant manager strode straight to the sink area and began furiously washing his face. Watching his retreating back, Terao murmured softly, "The assistant manager is afraid of spiders. …That’s kind of cute."

Isosaki couldn’t believe his ears. Terao looked dreamy, her eyes narrowed with adoration.

"Seeing this unexpected side of him—it’s the kind of thing you only get to experience at a camp like this," Wada added, clearly unbothered.

Grinding his teeth, Isosaki silently cursed. Of course, a good-looking man could bungle something so badly and still be adored. If it had been him fainting over a spider, he'd have been mocked mercilessly. The sheer unfairness of the world burned within him.

Right then and there, Isosaki made up his mind. He would find a way—any way—to expose the assistant manager’s true nature and topple his pedestal of popularity by the end of this camp.

The assistant manager soon disappeared from the washing area, and Isosaki spotted him wandering toward the grill pit. Judging by his demeanor, even a false alarm of "Spider!" might elicit a suitably embarrassing reaction. With this thought, Isosaki decided to follow him.

The assistant manager arrived at the grill pit where Mikasa, now resembling a food stall vendor with a towel wrapped around his head, was diligently grilling skewers. Next to him, Takamura stood close, ostensibly helping but clearly angling for Mikasa's attention.

"What’s with your hair? It’s wet," Mikasa asked, tilting his head in concern. He seemed unaware of the earlier spider fiasco.

"What are you doing out here?" the assistant manager barked, his low, angry voice causing Takamura to shrink back.

"I was covering for Isosaki while he ate," Mikasa replied casually, flipping a skewer.

"I told you ahead of time to introduce Iketani during dinner," the assistant manager snapped.

"Oh, right. I forgot," Mikasa said, clapping a hand to his forehead.

"It’s too late now. Timing is everything in situations like these."

The tense atmosphere drove Takamura to retreat, leaving Mikasa and the assistant manager alone. Isosaki, meanwhile, abandoned his plan to shout "Spider!"—the mood had grown far too grim. In the heavy silence, the sound of sizzling meat and vegetables felt strangely out of place.

"Excuse me, is there any more meat?" a voice called out. Tadano, another employee, approached the group, his relaxed tone cutting through the tension.

"There’s plenty," Mikasa said, flipping a skewer before handing it to Tadano.

"Thanks!" Tadano grabbed three skewers and started to walk away. However, as he passed by the grill pit, he stepped on a stray piece of newspaper left over from fire-starting. The darkness had obscured it.

“Whoa!”

Tada stumbled forward, nearly falling, but managed to regain his balance with a forceful step. Unfortunately, in doing so, his foot slammed into the edge of the barbecue pit.

The grill rack, now lighter due to the dwindling skewers, dislodged and hurtled directly toward Mikasa, who was crouching in front of the pit.

Danger! Isosaki held his breath, his heart leaping into his throat, but the assistant manager moved first. Darting sideways, he snatched the grill rack out of the air with his bare hands.

“Hey, are you okay?” the assistant manager demanded, looking down at Mikasa, who had fallen backward in the commotion.

“Let go of it!” Mikasa shouted, his voice sharp with urgency. It seemed the assistant manager hadn’t yet realized he was gripping a searingly hot grill rack. A second later, the reality hit him, and he cried out, “Hot!” as he tossed the rack aside.

Mikasa quickly sprang to his feet and grabbed the assistant manager’s wrist, dragging him toward the makeshift table near the cooler. Opening the cooler lid, Mikasa plunged the assistant manager’s hand into the icy water.

Tada, who had been standing frozen in shock, suddenly realized the gravity of what had happened. The assistant manager had intervened just in time to prevent Mikasa from being injured. Tears welling in his eyes, Tada ran up to them.

“Section Chief, I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” he stammered, his voice trembling.

“I’m fine,” the assistant manager replied curtly, though his face was tense with suppressed pain. “But Tada, can you take care of clearing away the area where you tripped?”

“Yes! Right away!” Tada replied, frantically beginning to clean up the mess near the pit.

Meanwhile, Takamura, who had been hovering nearby, timidly offered, “Should I go get some ointment or medicine?”

The assistant manager smiled faintly, though his lips were tight with discomfort. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Takamura looked conflicted but ultimately retreated. Tada lingered for a while, clearly still feeling guilty, but soon had to leave when some female employees called him over for the fireworks preparations.

As Isosaki washed the grill rack and resumed tending to the barbecue, he noticed an odd tension between Mikasa and the assistant manager. Even though the latter was simply holding his burned hand in the cooler, the air between them crackled like an unseen storm.

“Mikasa, it’s freezing,” the assistant manager muttered after a moment.

“It’s supposed to be. Burns need immediate cooling to prevent further damage,” Mikasa replied firmly. “It’s still too early to stop.”

The assistant manager grimaced but didn’t argue further, allowing Mikasa to keep his hand submerged in the icy water.

Then Mikasa turned to Isosaki and beckoned. “Hey, can you run to the cottage office and borrow an ice pack? A small one that he can hold easily, and maybe a thin towel to wrap it in?”

Isosaki nodded and dashed off. At the office, he found that they had a variety of ice packs in different sizes, apparently prepared for children’s injuries during vacations. Grabbing the requested items, he hurried back to find the assistant manager finally released from the "ice water hell."

Despite gripping the scalding hot grill rack earlier, the burns on the assistant manager’s hands were surprisingly mild. Mikasa wrapped the ice pack in the towel and handed it to the assistant manager.

“Keep holding this for a while. It’ll help with the pain and swelling,” Mikasa said, his tone a mix of command and care.

The assistant manager obediently clutched the ice pack. For a moment, they exchanged a look of understanding, but the assistant manager soon grew restless. “Iketani is over there. Come with me—I’ll introduce you.”

Mikasa shook his head. “Your hand—”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t argue.”

Overpowered by the assistant manager’s insistence, Mikasa allowed himself to be dragged off toward Iketani. Meanwhile, Isosaki returned to tending the barbecue pit. Surprisingly, this time he felt less resentful.

Even though the assistant manager often treated people like pawns, there was a deeper layer to his actions. If he didn’t care about his friends, he wouldn’t have risked himself to grab the scorching grill rack for Mikasa.

Could Isosaki have done the same in that moment of crisis—acted without hesitation to protect a friend?

The so-called "devilish" assistant manager suddenly didn’t seem so bad. Perhaps, when the chips were down, he might even be someone Isosaki could count on.

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