Michiko stared down at the napkin, her name inked in perfect strokes across the center.
Neat. Clean. Unmistakable.
Iwai Michiko.
The handwriting wasn't overly stylized—just precise. Slanted slightly, like it had been written with intention, not flair. It was almost clinical in how calm it looked. As if Ji had written it a thousand times before.
Her fingers clenched around the paper before she even realized she was moving. She folded it once. Then again. Creasing the lines hard like she could break the meaning behind them. Then, without ceremony, she shoved it deep into her purse like it was something obscene and filthy she couldn't afford to leave in plain sight.
When Kaede returned from the restroom, Michiko was already standing.
"Everything okay?" Kaede asked, slightly out of breath, fixing her hair in the reflection of a nearby glass panel. Her tone was casual, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, maybe even concern.
"Yeah," Michiko said quickly, too quickly. "Just—need some air. I'll be back in a minute."
Kaede blinked. "Do you want me to—"
"No," Michiko said again, firmer this time. "It's fine. Just… stay."
She didn't wait for Kaede's response. She slipped through the front entrance with a practiced ease, head down, the glass door shutting behind her with a soft hiss that somehow seemed unnaturally loud. The night air hit her like a slap, cool and damp with the scent of April showers and cheap cologne from the crowd nearby. She stepped off to the side, away from the main street, exhaling. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she paced a short stretch of sidewalk, arms crossed, her heartbeat uneven and erratic.
What was happening here? Why did it feel both familiar and unnerving?
She hadn't told Ji her name. Fumi had used "Michi-chan" that night, sure, but not her full name. She'd never once mentioned her surname aloud. Yet, there it was, written by Ji as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, as though they'd been waiting for her to catch on.
And the drink. Not the one she ordered, but the one she'd secretly favored. The one that made her close her eyes and hum quietly—the lavender, the yuzu, the salt—crisp on her lips, an unforgettable combination. Ji had remembered. Had chosen it with intention.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't romantic. It felt like a claim. A quiet declaration, masked as a cocktail. Michiko's throat tightened. She wanted to label it as creepy or intrusive, something she could easily dismiss. Yet the truth was more complicated. It was unsettlingly intimate, as if Ji saw parts of her she was desperate to keep hidden.
A muted click shattered her reverie—the door eased open and slid shut with barely any sound. Moments later, the thud of footsteps glided across the threshold, measured and familiar, each step a steady drumbeat in the hush. She didn't need to twist her head to know who had arrived.
Ji materialized at her side, close enough that the warmth radiating from their body brushed hers through the thin fabric of her jacket, though their shoulders didn't touch. They stood easy, one hip subtly cocked, as if they owned every silent inch of the night. Michiko's tongue caught on her lower lip, her voice stalled by the odd comfort swelling in her chest at Ji's nearness.
It was unsettling—this effortless companionship, as though they had rehearsed this moment in private long before. She turned just enough to catch Ji's profile in the dim glow of the streetlamp. Their gaze was fixed on the empty pavement ahead, pupils calm, as if nothing in the world could rattle them.
"You owe me a drink," Ji said, tone as smooth as velvet and low enough to rattle her bones.
The words weren't an invitation. They weren't teasing. They were a steel hook anchored behind her ribs.
Michiko stiffened, a flicker of heat rising in her cheeks. "I didn't order that drink."
Ji's lips curved in a slow, deliberate smile—half mischief, half knowing. "You didn't need to. I pay attention."
She forced out a scoff. "So you've already figured me out?"
Ji tipped their head, the streetlight catching in their lashes. "Hardly. But I noticed enough to remember what matters."
Her pulse slapped against her throat. She spun to face them. "You think a drink matters?"
Their answer was a whisper and a breeze at once: "I think it matters to you. Therefore, it matters to me."
Silence stretched taut between them, like an unseen wire strung too tight. Michiko's stomach knotted. She hated how unmoved Ji appeared, as if they hadn't unspooled her every secret the last time they'd been alone.
"I'm on a date," she said, voice cooler than she felt, reminding both of them of a promise waiting inside.
"You kissed her like you were trying to convince yourself of something."
She inhaled sharply, the truth clawing up her. "Were you watching?"
Ji's eyes turned to a sight that displayed amusement laced with intensity. "It's hard not to."
Her jaw twitched so hard it ached. "You're delusional."
"I'm interested," came the quiet correction, slipping past her defenses like smoke in a draft.
She swallowed, voice fragile. "You really think that means anything to me?"
They paused—no triumph in their eyes, only certainty—and then said, "It does."
The admission laid between them, raw and tender as a fresh wound. Michiko knew she should step back, return to Kaede's waiting smile, and leave Ji to the shadows. Yet her feet felt fused to the pavement, her breath unwilling to carry her away.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered, each word tripping on the night air.
Ji leaned in, erasing the last inches of distance, their voice a hush against her ear. "I want to see you again. On a night when you're not trying to lose yourself in someone else's arms."
The vulnerability in their tone knocked the breath from her lungs. This wasn't a game. It was an offering, and she wasn't sure she could refuse.
Ji tilted their head slightly, their gaze fixed intently on her, as if every nuance of her reaction was a puzzle they were determined to solve. "Saturday. I get off at seven," they said, their voice a gentle command, the words hanging between them like a delicate thread spun from certainty.
Michiko nodded faintly, her voice faltered, trusting herself only to utter a soft, "Okay." Her heart fluttered like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar.
Ji leaned back just a touch, their eyes lingering on her that spoke of affection, yet tempered by a careful restraint. "Wear something enticing," they said with a light, teasing note as they stepped away, granting her space.
Michiko stood rooted to the spot, her gaze following Ji as they disappeared back inside, leaving her alone with the night. Her heart pounded in her chest, a wild drumbeat that resonated through her bones, her nerves laid bare and tingling like exposed wires. She remained there, motionless, for long moments, the quiet night air swirling around her, as she confronted the truth she had long evaded:
She had agreed. And not only had she agreed—she felt it, deep within her, an undeniable certainty that she meant every word.