Fumiko Yamaguchi found out about the office dinner at 9:18 on Monday morning, which was exactly the wrong time to find out about anything requiring social energy.
She had arrived at Sakura Capital twelve minutes early, partly because the Chuo Line had behaved for once and partly because she wanted ten quiet minutes with coffee before the day started sharpening its teeth. Her inbox already had twenty-three unread messages. Three of them had “quick question” in the subject, which meant none of them would be quick. One had “small adjustment” from sales planning, which Fumiko trusted about as much as a suspiciously friendly cat near an open fish market.
She placed her bag beside her desk, sat down, and opened the first file while the office settled around her. Phones started ringing. Chairs rolled. Someone near the window sneezed twice and apologized to the entire floor. The coffee machine in the break area made a grinding sound that suggested it had entered negotiations with death. All signs of a normal Monday.
Then Mizuki Arai rolled her chair into view with both hands folded over her stomach and the expression of a woman carrying news she had already enjoyed privately.
“No,” Fumiko said.
Mizuki stopped, “I haven’t said anything!”
“You're giving off too much energy.”
“That’s just my natural glow.”
Mizuki leaned one elbow on Fumiko’s desk. Her dark forest green hair looked unfairly neat for a Monday, the ends curled under slightly, her earrings small and silver and probably chosen to look casual while being very much chosen, “The Arakawa client sent approval over the weekend.”
Fumiko blinked, “They did?”
“Yes. Full approval. No revision request.”
“That’s… impossible.”
“I know. I checked the message twice and considered calling a priest.”
Fumiko opened the project folder on her computer. The approval notice was there, polite and real, marked from Saturday evening. She stared at it for a second, feeling a little of the tension from last week loosen in her shoulders. The regional tab mistake, the rushed corrections, Haruto’s three o’clock meeting, the team dinner after. All of it had somehow become a finished thing.
“That’s good,” she said.
“That’s your celebration voice?”
“It’s still a Monday.”
“Fair enough.”
Fumiko reached for her coffee, “So, why do you look like that?”
Mizuki’s smile widened, “Because Takeda-buchou wants to celebrate with the project team on Friday.”
Fumiko stopped with the cup halfway to her mouth, “A dinner?”
“A dinner.”
“With the team?”
“With the team, plus whoever Takeda decides counts as useful enough to feed.”
“I see.”
“At an Italian place near Shinjuku-sanchome.”
Fumiko lowered the cup, “Italian?”
“Yes. Not izakaya. Real plates. Cloth napkins, maybe.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“Company expense. Morale and all that.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Exactly. And Haruto-san is organizing.”
Fumiko looked at her screen with great interest. The approval notice did not become more interesting, but she gave it an honest attempt.
Mizuki leaned closer, “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The face.”
“I have a normal face.”
“You have an ‘I heard Haruto-san’s name and now I must pretend cells are fascinating’ face.”
“I am reading the approval.”
“You already read it.”
“I am just verifying.”
“Yamaguchi-san, you're ‘verifying’ because you are anxious, not because the document changed magically.”
Fumiko clicked into another tab, “You are too loud.”
“I’m being correct. Quietly.”
“You are never correct quietly.”
Mizuki rested her chin in her hand and lowered her voice, “He’s interested. In you.” Fumiko’s fingers paused on the mouse as Mizuki continued, “He asked Takeda if it could be Friday because you said last week your workload was lighter this Friday.”
Fumiko turned to her, “When did I say that?”
“Wednesday. Near the copier. You were holding a folder and trying to remove a staple with a ruler because someone had murdered the expense receipts again.”
“That is not a memorable conversation.”
“For you. For a man building a case file, perhaps.”
“Mizuki.”
“What? He pays attention.”
“He pays attention to everyone. That’s part of why he’s good at his job.”
“Yes. And some people receive standard attention. You receive the premium attention.”
Fumiko stared at her.
Mizuki smiled, “It even comes with coffee. I've seen.”
Fumiko turned back to her monitor, “Please go work.”
“I am working. I’m protecting you from being blindsided by a handsome senpai.”
Fumiko did not answer. She opened the sales planning file and tried to focus on numbers. The cells were clear, formulas were clean, and discrepancy was obvious. It should have calmed her. Instead, her mind did something unhelpful and placed Haruto Saeki beside Tooshiro Senda.
Haruto was easy to understand from the outside. He's a senior analyst, reliable, polished, and calm in meetings. The kind of man people described with approval in their voices. He remembered deadlines, preferred hot coffee, wore suits that fit well, and had never once handed her an unauthorized fantasy novel through her own doorway.
Tooshiro was harder to classify. He was a delivery worker, author liaison, and apologizer to mailboxes. And a man who saved pudding because she said there would be a next time.
Don't compare them. They are not competing. No one has entered anything. This is not a tournament.
Her phone buzzed inside her desk drawer. Fumiko should have ignored it, but she did not.
Senda Tooshiro: Website update. Shin Kaidou has accepted that red text is dead. Funeral pending.
Fumiko’s mouth betrayed her before she could stop it. Mizuki made a small noise from across the aisle, but Fumiko did not look up.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Please tell him I offer condolences to the aesthetic choices no one will miss.
Senda Tooshiro: A cruel fate.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: How is the profile?
The typing bubble appeared, then paused.
Senda Tooshiro: Getting closer.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Closer is good.
Senda Tooshiro: I hope so.
Fumiko’s hand rested over the phone longer than it needed to. Mizuki appeared beside her desk again, silent this time.
Fumiko looked up, “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You're trying to snoop.”
“That is different.”
“It’s worse!”
Mizuki’s eyes dipped toward the phone, “Delivery guy face.”
Fumiko closed the drawer with great care, “It’s work time.”
“Fine. Work,” Mizuki straightened, then added, “But Friday is going to be… educational.”
“I dislike that sentence.”
“You should.”
Friday arrived quickly. The week was busy with stacked tasks and small messages. Tooshiro sent Fumiko two website screenshots, both of which were better than the black and red concept, though one used a font that made Shin Kaidou look like a restaurant specializing in expensive soup. Fumiko marked notes on her phone during lunch and sent them back with careful politeness, only to receive: “He says this is why he needs supervision.”
She had smiled in the break area where Mizuki appeared at the vending machine thirty seconds later with an iced coffee and the dead-eyed satisfaction of catching another delivery face in action.
Haruto, to his credit or danger, did not hover. He spoke to Fumiko as usual, asked for her thoughts on one forecast, thanked her after a meeting, and once placed a printed agenda on her desk with a sticky note that read, “I added your point from Tuesday. It helped clarify the cost section. Thank you.”
It was simple, professional, and kind, but that was the problem. If Haruto had been arrogant, she could dismiss him. If he had been pushy, she could withdraw. If he had been secretly terrible, Mizuki would have smelled it from two departments away and issued a warning with diagrams.
But Haruto was kind in a stable way. He made room for people without announcing it. When a junior analyst stumbled through a presentation, Haruto asked a question that made the answer easier to find instead of pointing out the mistake. When Takeda forgot to mention Mizuki’s work on the client comparison, Haruto brought it up before the meeting ended. When Fumiko spoke, he listened like she was truly worth listening to. It made refusing the shape of his interest more complicated.
By Friday evening, Fumiko stood in the office restroom mirror, touching up her lipstick. She had worn a soft pink blouse with a black skirt and a cropped navy jacket, formal enough for work, a little warmer than usual for dinner. Her hair was down. She had debated tying it back for five minutes that morning, but thought she'd look ridiculous.
Mizuki came out of one of the stalls and stopped beside her, “You look nice.”
Fumiko capped the lipstick, “It’s a work dinner.”
“That was not a denial.”
“I didn’t hear a question.”
Mizuki washed her hands, “Oh good. You’re learning.”
Fumiko slipped the lipstick into her pouch, “I am not dressing for anyone if that's what you’re implying.”
“I totally believe you.”
“That sounds so untrue.”
“It was half true. You dress for yourself, mostly. But tonight you are aware of being seen. As in, you want to be noticed. And who will notice you, I wonder?”
Fumiko looked at her in the mirror.
Mizuki dried her hands, less teasing now, “That’s not a bad thing by the way.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You looked like you were about to.”
Fumiko leaned one hip against the counter. The restroom was empty besides them. From beyond the door came the muffled sounds of the office thinning out, keyboard clicks, goodbye greetings, someone laughing too loudly near the elevators.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Fumiko sighed.
Mizuki’s face softened, “With Haruto-san?”
“With anyone.”
That made Mizuki quiet in a way Fumiko appreciated. After a moment, Mizuki said, “It's not like you have to decide everything tonight. It is a work dinner, remember?”
“That sounds like advice.”
“It happens by accident sometimes.”
“I’m worried I’m being unfair though. Or… leading someone on.”
“To whom exactly?”
Fumiko opened her mouth, but no answer came out.
Haruto? Because he was interested and she knew it now, even if no one had said it directly. Tooshiro? Because some part of her had begun saving pieces of herself for conversations with him. Or Herself? Because she kept pretending these were separate categories and not a drawer full of tangled cords.
“I don’t know,” she admitted at last.
Mizuki leaned beside her, shoulder to shoulder at the sink, “Haruto-san being interested doesn’t create a debt. Senda-san being cute and suspicious doesn’t create a contract. You’re allowed to notice things before knowing what they mean.”
“That sounds… reasonable.”
“You know, I hate when that happens,” Mizuki said as smiled at Fumiko in the mirror, who laughed quietly, then Mizuki continued, “Also, I’m sitting beside you tonight.”
“I'm not really surprised but what's your excuse for why?”
“To supervise, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And to prevent Takeda from explaining wine for fifteen minutes.”
“Can you actually prevent that?”
“No. But I can suffer with you.”
The restaurant was a narrow Italian place on the second floor of a building near Shinjuku-sanchome, up a staircase lined with small posters for pasta, wine, and seasonal desserts. The sign outside said Trattoria Luce in gold letters on dark green, the kind of place that looked warm and casual until you noticed the menu prices. Inside, the lights were low, the tables close, and the smell of garlic, tomato sauce, and grilled meat wrapped around the team the moment they entered.
“Good place,” Takeda said, nodding as if he had personally discovered Italy.
Mizuki leaned toward Fumiko and whispered, “He’s going to explain olive oil.”
“Please don’t predict how we will suffer.”
“I only report the feasible threats.”
Haruto had reserved a long table near the back. He stood aside as everyone shuffled into seats, making sure the juniors were not trapped beside Takeda unless they had sinned. Mizuki moved quickly and took the seat beside Fumiko. Haruto ended up across from Fumiko, close enough for conversation without it looking planned, but Mizuki noticed.
Fumiko noticed Mizuki noticing. This is going to be a long dinner.
The first twenty minutes were harmless as drinks arrived and Takeda gave a short toast that became a medium toast, but stopped before becoming a whole incident. The juniors relaxed once plates of antipasto hit the table. Mizuki argued with a sales analyst about whether prosciutto was worth the price. Haruto poured water for Fumiko when he noticed her glass was empty, then did the same for Mizuki and Takeda, which made the gesture both safer and more annoying.
Fumiko checked her phone once under the table. There was nothing from Tooshiro, but that was fine. He had work, or writing, or maybe even pudding-related responsibilities. She had no reason to expect anything.
Mizuki’s knee bumped hers under the table. Fumiko looked over as Mizuki raised one eyebrow. Then, Fumiko put her phone away. Across from them, Haruto smiled slightly but did not comment. He was too polite to catch her, or perhaps too smart to show it.
Dinner moved through shared plates: margherita pizza, mushroom risotto, grilled chicken, pasta with clams and butter. Wine went around, though Fumiko stuck to one glass and then switched to oolong tea. Haruto noticed, of course, so he ordered another oolong for the table without saying it was for her. But that sort of thing was exactly the problem.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Haruto said, when the conversation shifted toward the other end of the table.
Fumiko looked up, “Am I?”
Mizuki, beside her, became still in the way a cat becomes still before knocking something off a shelf.
Haruto’s smile was calm, “Not in a bad way. You seem like you’re thinking.”
“I’m always thinking.”
“That’s true,” He rested his arms lightly on the table, not leaning too close, “About work?”
“Not entirely.”
“Good. Work shouldn’t get everything.”
Fumiko looked at him, “That sounds very unlike a senior employee.”
“It sounds like someone who stayed too late for three years and learned nothing noble from it.”
That surprised her into a small laugh.
Haruto’s expression warmed, “There it is.”
She blinked, “What?”
“You have a good laugh. You hide it too often.”
Mizuki took a slow sip of wine.
Fumiko’s face warmed, but she did not look away right away, “That’s a very direct thing to say.”
“I know,” Haruto looked down at his glass, then back at her. “I’m trying to be a little less subtle.”
It wasn't a confession. Not even close. But more than enough to confirm his intentions after all. Haruto had placed his words on the table gently, where she could ignore them if she wanted.
Fumiko reached for her tea, “Why?”
“Because subtle can be mistaken for nothing.”
Mizuki coughed into her napkin and Fumiko glanced at her. Mizuki’s eyes said, ‘I am behaving with heroic strength here!’
Fumiko looked back at Haruto, “Are you talking about dinner?”
“I’m talking about many small things.”
Her phone buzzed. The timing was so bad that Fumiko almost laughed. Instead, she froze with one hand near the tea glass. Mizuki looked down at the table. Haruto’s gaze flicked briefly to her bag, where the phone sat, but Fumiko did not reach for it.
That was worse, somehow. It made the buzz more obvious. A second later, it buzzed again.
Mizuki leaned toward her and whispered, “Just check it. You look like you're constipated or something, trying to ignore it.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Haruto smiled politely, “It’s fine, it's just a friendly work dinner. No need to be so formal and strict.”
Fumiko hesitated, then took out her phone.
Senda Tooshiro: Website draft is live locally. Not public yet. Shin Kaidou has not destroyed the internet.
Senda Tooshiro: Also I ate the cabbage. Nana demanded proof, so now I’m sending proof to everyone involved in the cabbage case.
A photo followed. A small plate of cabbage salad with sesame dressing sat beside rice and what looked like leftover chicken. It was not pretty, but it was evidence of effort. Fumiko’s mouth curved before she could stop it.
Mizuki and Haruto both saw before Fumiko typed quickly.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Congratulations. The cabbage has been honored.
Senda Tooshiro: It was bitter but survivable.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Growth often is.
Senda Tooshiro: That sounds like something Shin Kaidou would put on a bad bookmark.
She covered her mouth. Mizuki leaned closer, reading nothing but understanding everything. Fumiko placed the phone face down and looked back up.
Haruto’s expression had not changed much, but something in his eyes had shifted. Not jealousy in an obvious way. More like recognition. He had stepped into a room and found someone else already sitting there.
“Good message?” he asked.
Fumiko could have said no. Could have said family. Could have said nothing important. Every option felt like a small betrayal in a different direction.
“Yeah, just a friend,” she said.
Mizuki’s eyes moved toward her.
Haruto nodded slowly, “That delivery worker from Jimbocho?”
Fumiko stilled as Mizuki looked at Haruto now with new interest.
“I saw you both near the station last weekend,” Haruto said, “I was with a client, across the street. I would have said ‘Hello’, but I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Fumiko’s fingers tightened around the phone, “Oh… I see.”
“I hope that doesn’t sound strange.”
“No. Jimbocho is a public place after all.”
Mizuki set her wine glass down with care, “Senda-san is hard to miss following Fumiko around like a little poppy trying to learn everything he can.”
Despite herself, Fumiko laughed.
Haruto smiled too, but his attention stayed on her, “Oh, you're helping him with something? Well, when he greeted us before, he seemed quite nice and sincere.”
“Yeah, we were just doing a little research. Nothing work related. And he is nice,” Fumiko .
“Good,” Haruto said, “Surrounding yourself with good people always matters.”
The conversation at the far end of the table rose as Takeda began explaining why young employees needed to learn proper client dining manners, which somehow involved a story about overcooked pasta in 2009. Mizuki turned her head slightly, eyes bright with pain.
“It's happening,” she whispered, “The feared food education.”
Fumiko was grateful for the shift, but only partly. Her heartbeat had not fully settled. A few minutes later, Mizuki created chaos in the name of rescue.
“Haruto-san,” she said brightly, “You mentioned you used to read more. What did you read?”
Haruto looked mildly surprised, “When I was younger?”
“Unless you read secretly under your desk now?”
“I don’t. But perhaps I should start.”
“Well, come on, answer the question.”
Fumiko gave Mizuki a warning look. Mizuki ignored it with professional grace.
Haruto thought for a moment, “Mysteries, mostly. Some historical novels. My father liked detective fiction, so there were always books around.”
“Fantasy?” Mizuki asked.
“Maybe some, but not much.”
Fumiko expected the conversation to turn general, but Haruto looked at her instead.
“I’ve been curious,” he said turning towards Fumiko, "You've mentioned fantasy before. What do you like about it?”
It was a simple question. At work, questions like that always felt like traps even when they were not. Fumiko had spent years giving answers small enough to be ‘acceptable’ as normal. Escapism. Worldbuilding. Magic. I like the cover illustrations when they're well done. Nothing too much or too specific, but also everything at once.
Tooshiro had listened when she talked about all of those things. Mizuki waited in anticipation, thinking Fumiko may come out of her shell for Haruto. He did ask like he actually wanted to know.
Fumiko set her tea down, “I like that fantasy lets characters be honest through things that aren’t ordinary.”
Haruto tilted his head slightly, “How do you mean?”
“In real life, someone can feel trapped and still go to work, answer email, pay rent, buy groceries, and look normal. In fantasy, that same feeling can become a curse, a kingdom, a war, a god leaving the world. It gives shape to things people usually hide.”
Mizuki stopped pretending to eat her risotto. Haruto’s expression softened with interest, not amusement.
Fumiko continued before fear could pull her back, “And romance in fantasy works well when it isn’t only about attraction. It can be trust after danger. Choosing someone when survival taught you not to. Letting yourself be seen when being seen can cost something.”
She realized then that the table near them had grown quieter. One of the juniors was listening while trying to act like he wasn’t. Mizuki was watching Fumiko with a smile that looked less like teasing and more like pride. Haruto’s gaze had gone steady.
Fumiko’s face warmed after realizing how far she went.
“That was too much,” she said, reaching for her glass.
“No,” Haruto spoke up, “It wasn’t at all. Not if that's what you really think and how you really feel about it.”
Mizuki lifted her wine glass, “It was the most interesting thing anyone has said tonight.”
Takeda, who had been mid-story, looked over, “What was?”
“Fantasy,” Mizuki said.
Takeda blinked, “Fantasy?”
Fumiko closed her eyes for one second.
Mizuki had the face of a woman opening a door and setting fire to the hallway for visibility.
“Yes,” Mizuki said, “Yamaguchi-san was explaining why fantasy romance can be quite interesting.”
The junior analyst across the table perked up, “Fantasy romance?”
Fumiko wanted to dissolve into the risotto. Haruto looked amused.
Mizuki leaned back, “Go on, Yamaguchi-san.”
“I am not giving a lecture...”
“You already began one.”
Takeda rubbed his chin, cutting into the conversation, “Fantasy romance. Is that like the one with the dragon girl my daughter reads?”
No one knew what to do with that. Fumiko answered because silence would be worse, “Possibly.”
“She says the knight is useless,” Takeda said.
Mizuki nodded solemnly, “Common issue with men.”
The table laughed.
The junior analyst, apparently emboldened, said, “I read isekai sometimes.”
Everyone turned to him as he looked immediately regretful, but Mizuki pointed with her fork, “Don’t hide now. We’re building a rapport amongst each other and our hobbies.”
“I mean, not a lot.”
“That means a ton.”
“It’s mostly on my phone.”
Fumiko found herself smiling. The conversation became strange after that, but not cruel. The junior admitted he read webnovels before bed every night. Another analyst mentioned her younger brother collected light novels. Takeda tried to understand why titles were so long and failed after a couple of names were given. Mizuki made three jokes and only one was at Fumiko’s expense.
Haruto watched Fumiko through some of it, not in a way that made her feel displayed. More like he had been given a new version of her and was taking care with it.
By the time dessert arrived, Fumiko’s earlier embarrassment had softened into something almost pleasant. Tiramisu, panna cotta, and a small lemon tart were placed along the table to share. Mizuki immediately took control of distribution because she did not trust the office men around dessert portions.
“You cut this wrong and I will remember it during performance review season,” she told the junior analyst holding the tart knife.
“I’m not in your department.”
“You think that will stop me?”
Haruto laughed and accepted a small plate from her. When Fumiko reached for the tiramisu spoon, his hand moved at the same time. Their fingers did not touch, but came close enough.
He pulled back first, “Please.”
“Oh, thank you,” Fumiko said, averting her eyes briefly.
After dessert, people began loosening into smaller conversations. Takeda had moved to the end of the table to talk with sales. The juniors were comparing phone games. Mizuki was debating the ethics of splitting a bill when the company was paying, which Fumiko suspected was only because she enjoyed debating.
Haruto leaned slightly toward Fumiko, “Could I ask you something?”
Fumiko’s hand stilled on her tea glass “Yes.”
“Not tonight. Another time,” he smiled, but there was care in the way he spoke, “Would you want to have dinner? Just us.”
Fumiko stared at him. Haruto did not press the silence. He did not fill it with explanations or give her a dozen exits. The man opposite her simply waited, composed, kind, and brave enough to ask plainly.
Funiko was taken aback at the proposition, but it deserved respect. It also deserved an honest answer.
“I…” Fumiko started, then stopped.
Her phone buzzed again. Only one small vibration against her bag. Fumiko took a slow breath, “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can answer properly tonight.”
Haruto nodded. There was disappointment there, but no anger, “That’s alright.”
“It’s not because I dislike the idea.”
His eyes lifted back to hers.
She felt the need to be clear. Maybe because he had been, “I respect you. I enjoy talking with you. But I’m a little... confused right now.”
Mizuki’s spoon stopped midair.
Haruto’s expression softened, “Then take your time.”
“I don’t want to be unfair.”
“That’s why I asked directly. Better than making you guess.”
That was such a Haruto answer that Fumiko almost smiled, “Thank you.” s.
He nodded once, “And for what it’s worth, I like the version of you who comes out and talks about what you love with passion. Fantasy included.”
Her throat tightened slightly.
“Who you are at the office is reliable, that much is true,” he added, “But this other version seems more free. More happy.”
Fumiko looked down at her tea, “I’m still learning how to be that version around people.”
“And I’d like to know her more, if you let me.”
Mizuki finally took her bite of tiramisu and stared at the far wall replaying how the conversation got there.
After dinner, the group spilled out onto the Shinjuku street in clusters. The air had cooled. Neon and restaurant signs reflected on the damp pavement from a brief rain no one had noticed while inside. Takeda headed toward the station with two juniors. The sales analyst wandered toward a taxi stand. Mizuki stayed beside Fumiko while Haruto paid at the counter and came out last.
“You okay?” Mizuki asked quietly.
Fumiko nodded, “I think so.”
“That was surprising.”
“It was.”
“Do you want me to walk with you to the station?”
“Yes.”
Mizuki smiled, “Good. I was going to anyway.”
Haruto joined them near the entrance and looked at Fumiko, “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Thank you for organizing.”
“I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Yes, see you then.”
He paused, then glanced at Mizuki, “Arai-san, please make sure she gets to the station safely.”
Mizuki saluted with two fingers, “I was born for this.”
Haruto smiled and walked toward the Marunouchi Line entrance, his figure blending into the stream of office workers and weekend crowds.
Mizuki waited until he was far enough away before speaking, “Well.”
Fumiko sighed, “Don’t start.”
“I am trying so hard not to start that I deserve a trophy.”
“Keep it up champ.”
They walked toward Shinjuku Station through the evening crowd. Fumiko held her bag close. Her phone sat inside, still unchecked after the last buzz.
Mizuki glanced at it, “You didn’t look?”
“No.”
“Was it him?”
“Probably.”
“Senda-san?”
“Probably.”
Mizuki’s teasing faded again, “You handled Haruto-san well.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. You didn’t lie to him, or skirt around the truth.”
Fumiko looked ahead, “I don’t want to pretend that I don't like what I like anymore.”
The crowd thickened near the station entrance. A group of students moved past laughing. Two office workers bowed goodbye near a pillar. Somewhere above them, the train announcements overlapped in that familiar layered voice of Tokyo telling everyone where to go next.
Mizuki slowed before the ticket gates, “Haruto-san is a good man. Accepting of any quirks when it comes to you from the sounds of it.”
“I know he is. And… maybe.”
“And Senda-san seems like he might be too.”
Fumiko nodded in agreement slowly.
“That’s annoying isn't it," Mizuki joked, “It’s easier when one option is obviously bad. But here you are with two good ones.”
“There are no options. Not right now.”
Mizuki looked at her.
Fumiko looked away, “Not officially.”
“Oh, officially. My favorite useless word.” Mizuki stepped closer and lowered her voice, “Here’s my actual opinion. Haruto-san asked you openly. That matters. Senda-san makes you smile at your phone like some silly kid watching a cat video. That also matters. So don’t decide by who looks better on paper.”
Fumiko looked down at her shoes.
“Decide by what you feel on the inside around each one,” Mizuki suggested as Fumiko looked up. Mizuki immediately pointed at her, “Do not make that face. I’m not repeating something like that again for free.”
“That was quite out of character.”
“I know. Horrifying.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Also, if Senda-san hurts you, I will fold him into a delivery box.”
“He carries those professionally.”
“Then he’ll understand the process.”
Fumiko laughed, and Mizuki smiled with satisfaction before heading toward her own line. On the train home, Fumiko finally checked her phone.
Senda Tooshiro: Website draft has a readable profile now. I think. Maybe.
Twenty minutes later:
Senda Tooshiro: Sorry, that was not urgent. I hope dinner was okay.
Then, ten minutes after that:
Senda Tooshiro: Nana says if cabbage comes up again, she wants author credit.
Fumiko stood near the door, one hand on the strap, reading the messages as the train moved through the dark. She was tired. Her feet hurt. Her head felt full in a way that was not unpleasant, only crowded. She thought of Haruto’s calm voice. Would you want to have dinner? Just us?
She thought of Tooshiro sending cabbage proof. She thought of him in Jimbocho, looking at her like her thoughts were not too much. She thought of Shin Kaidou, faceless and private, his words finding places in her she had not meant to show anyone. She typed slowly.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Dinner was okay. More complicated than expected.
She hesitated, then added:
Yamaguchi Fumiko: The website profile sounds promising.
His reply came after a moment.
Senda Tooshiro: Complicated bad?
Fumiko stared at the screen.
She could say no. She could make a joke. She could mention Takeda explaining olive oil, which he had indeed done for four minutes before Mizuki changed the subject by asking if olives had performance metrics.
Instead, she gave him something closer to true.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Complicated because people can be kind in ways that require an answer.
The typing bubble appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.
Senda Tooshiro: That sounds difficult.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: It is.
Another pause.
Senda Tooshiro: Do you want advice or a distraction?
Fumiko read that message twice. It was such a small question. Such a useful one. Not what happened. Not who. Not ‘tell me about it’. It gave her a choice. Her chest loosened slightly.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Distraction tonight, please.
Senda Tooshiro: Understood.
A photo came through thirty seconds later. The Shin Kaidou website draft on a laptop screen. White background. Clean black text. The title The Kingslayer King in simple gold. A short profile beneath. Fumiko zoomed in and read.
Shin Kaidou is an independent fantasy author based in Tokyo. He writes stories about people trying to live honestly after surviving the lives they were given. For now, Shin Kaidou prefers to remain private, but he hopes to meet his readers honestly one day.
She stared at the last line. Her thumb rested against the screen. That’s a strange thing to write unless there is something to confess. The train rocked gently. A woman beside her adjusted a shopping bag. The window reflected Fumiko’s face back at her, tired and thoughtful, cheeks faintly warm from wine and too many feelings she had not sorted.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: This is much better.
Senda Tooshiro: That is high praise from the executioner of red text.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: The last line is interesting.
There was no reply right away. Fumiko watched the typing bubble appear, vanish, and appear again.
Senda Tooshiro: He wanted it to be honest.
Fumiko looked at that sentence, then typed:
Yamaguchi Fumiko: I think readers will feel that.
She almost added, ‘I did’, but she chose not to.
At home, Tooshiro sat at his low table with the laptop open and his phone in both hands. The author profile glowed on the screen beside him. The room was quiet except for the air conditioner and the chair upstairs, once again, dragging across the floor at its usual unreasonable hour.
He had not asked about the complicated dinner. He wanted to. Badly. But she had asked for distraction, so he gave her the website. His phone buzzed again.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Also, please tell Nana-san that cabbage deserves no royalties or credit.
Tooshiro smiled.
Senda Tooshiro: She will appeal that decision.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: I expect so.
He set the phone down and looked at the profile again. For now, Shin Kaidou prefers to remain private, but he hopes to meet his readers honestly one day.
He wondered what would happen when that day stopped being one day and became now. Then he remembered Fumiko’s message.
People can be kind in ways that require an answer.
He did not know who had been kind to her tonight in such a way. Not fully. But he had a guess, and that guess wore a suit and looked like he belonged in places Tooshiro still entered through delivery entrances.
Tooshiro leaned back and covered his face with his hands. You can’t be jealous when you're lying about yourself every second of every day with her. You don't get to be jealous. You don't deserve to be. But Tooshiro was.
His phone buzzed one more time.
Nana: Did you survive the cabbage?
Tooshiro: Barely.
Nana: Good. Suffering builds character.
Tooshiro: That's something a villain would say.
Nana: Then stop giving me origin material.
He put the phone down and opened the website editor again. The cursor blinked at the end of the profile. Tooshiro did not change the words. But he read them until they stopped feeling like a line for a website and started feeling like a deadline.
39Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWliYo7Md5m
and then Add to home screen.