[Cafe — 9:47 PM]
"It's so delicious, desuwa~!"
Togawa Sakiko's voice lilted through the empty coffee shop, that charming verbal tic escaping before she could catch it. The cafe had closed hours ago, but the warm glow of the pendant lights still pooled across the wooden counter, casting everything in honey-amber tones.
She hadn't even waited for the black tea to cool properly. The porcelain cup clinked against its saucer as she set it down, her cheeks flushed pink from the heat.
I must look like such a glutton right now.
This was her third cup tonight. Third. A young lady raised on etiquette lessons and afternoon tea ceremonies, gulping down black tea like a student cramming energy drinks before finals. Her grandmother would have fainted on the spot.
But oh, she couldn't bring herself to care.
The flavor still lingered on her tongue—that faint, bitter undertone balanced perfectly against the honeyed sweetness, the subtle smokiness that somehow didn't overpower but elevated everything else. Her taste buds practically sang.
"Kazama-kun," she leaned forward on her elbows, golden eyes sparkling under the warm lights, "what kind of magic did you put in this cup? This isn't normal tea!"
Kazama Haru pressed a finger to his lips, his smile carrying the weight of a thousand secrets. "Trade secret."
Something about that gesture—the casual confidence, the playful mystery—made Sakiko's heart skip oddly in her chest.
Don't stare. Don't stare. Don't—
"Mou, tell me already!" The words tumbled out higher than intended, almost whiny. "Don't be so stingy, Kazama-kun!"
She was doing it again. That pleading tone, those upturned eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognized this voice—the one she used to use with her older cousins when she wanted extra dessert at family gatherings. Soft. Coaxing. Like a spoiled little sister begging her onii-chan for sweets.
When did I become this shameless?
But his tea made her feel safe. Warm. Like wrapping herself in a blanket fresh from the dryer. And right now, that feeling was worth any amount of embarrassment.
Kazama Haru blinked, clearly caught off guard by her sudden shift in demeanor. The guarded, timid Sakiko from their early encounters seemed like a distant memory now.
He'd always been weak to this sort of thing—softness over stubbornness, honey over vinegar. The blue-haired girl before him, chin resting in her palms and eyes wide with genuine curiosity, was proving surprisingly difficult to refuse.
"Alright, alright." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Though even if I explain it, Togawa-san will probably just think I'm being pretentious."
"Try me." Her lips curved upward.
"Fine, fine." He reached beneath the counter and produced a jar of amber-gold honey, the glass catching the light like trapped sunlight. "The brewing method changes based on who I'm serving—that part really is intuition. But the ingredients themselves make the biggest difference."
He set the jar between them with a soft thunk.
"This is high-grade acacia honey imported from Germany. Langnese brand—I had to specially request the owner stock it. The nectar's processed from specific alpine flowers, which gives it this delicate sweetness that doesn't overwhelm."
His fingers traced the label absently as he spoke.
"And the tea leaves are sometimes called Lapsang Souchong overseas. It's a smoked black tea from the Wuyi Mountains. Most people find the pine-smoke flavor too intense, almost medicinal. But when you pair it with this particular honey..." He tapped the jar. "The floral notes neutralize the smokiness and bring out this lingering sweet aftertaste instead."
Ever since his beverage-crafting skill hit Level 4, Kazama Haru had become insufferably particular about ingredients. Every subtle flaw, every hint of staleness or imbalance—nothing escaped him anymore.
The shop owner understood this well enough. For her golden goose, no procurement request was too troublesome.
"Naruhodo..." Sakiko nodded slowly, only half-following the technical explanation.
*I see/ I understand.
So it's not just the recipe. It's him.
The Togawa household had certainly possessed both ingredients in the past—imported teas, premium European honeys, the works. But nothing she'd ever tasted there came close to the cup warming her hands right now.
A thought drifted unbidden through her mind.
If only... if only that hadn't happened...
She could have invited Kazama-kun to the estate. They could have spent lazy afternoons in the sunroom, discussing brewing techniques over endless cups of tea. If he agreed, she'd have paid him ten times market rate to serve as her personal tea master, no questions asked.
Her imagination wandered further.
Kazama Haru in a crisp butler's uniform, tailcoat perfectly pressed, white gloves immaculate. Bowing slightly at the waist as he set down a porcelain cup before her.
"Your tea, Ojou-sama. Please mind the temperature."
"Ehehe~"
The giggle escaped before she could stop it.
Kazama Haru tilted his head. "What's so funny? Did I say something weird?"
"Nothing at all, desuwa." Sakiko's smile only widened, golden eyes crinkling at the corners.
She didn't bother hiding the speech tic anymore. Not in front of him.
When did I stop being embarrassed?
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigeration unit and the occasional creak of the old building's bones. Steam curled lazily from Sakiko's cup, carrying notes of smoke and honey into the still air.
She didn't want to leave. The house waiting for her held nothing but dim lights and the sour-sweet stench of cheap liquor, remnants of another one of his benders. But here, in this quiet coffee shop, wrapped in the scent of tea leaves and the warmth of someone who seemed to genuinely see her—
She wanted to stay just a little longer.
"Kazama-kun," she ventured, "besides your part-time job, what do you do in your free time? Any hobbies?"
Across the counter, something shifted in Kazama Haru's expression.
Alert.
The word flashed through his mind like a warning klaxon. He kept his face neutral, but his nerves coiled tight beneath the surface.
This question mattered. Her answer to his eventual response would shape whether she'd consider joining a Band with him—and everything that might come after.
Choose your words carefully .
"Actually, yeah." He smiled easily, leaning back against the counter. "Bands have gotten pretty popular lately, and a classmate asked me to join one. I figured why not, you know?"
"A Band, huh..."
Sakiko's expression remained serene, unreadable. That gentle smile still graced her features, but her eyes had gone distant, gazing at something far beyond the coffee shop's walls.
"Kazama-kun, you really do seem like the type. It would be a waste if you didn't."
"Ha, everyone keeps telling me that." He scratched the back of his head, accepting the compliment without false modesty. "Guess I've got the look down."
"What position? Lead vocalist?"
"Guitar, actually." He rolled one shoulder, wincing slightly at a persistent ache. "Don't let the face fool you—I've been playing since I was a kid. I'm not trying to brag, but I'm basically at a professional level."
"Professional, ne..." Sakiko propped her chin on one hand, her round cheeks squishing adorably against her palm. "If anyone else said that, I might be skeptical. But somehow, when Kazama-kun says it, I believe you actually have the skill."
Cute.
The thought surfaced before Kazama Haru could suppress it. Her cheek looked soft, almost squeezable. Like mochi.
He cleared his throat.
"What about Togawa-san?" Time to return serve. "I've always gotten this... elegant vibe from you. Refined, you know? Have you ever done anything like Band activities?"
The words landed like pebbles in still water.
Sakiko's eyes flickered—just for a moment—before that careful mask slid back into place. Her smile thinned almost imperceptibly.
There it is.
"Watashi wa..." She lowered her gaze to the tea cup, watching her own distorted reflection ripple across the dark surface. "I'm a very boring person, honestly. Between studying and work, there's barely any time left. Bands and I... we're parallel lines that never intersect."
Her voice softened to barely above a whisper.
"Hobbies are a luxury I can't afford right now."
Liar.
The accusation echoed through her own mind, sharp and merciless.
You're lying to him. Right to his face.
Kazama Haru said nothing for a long moment. Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"Ah... yeah. I get that."
His tone carried no judgment. No prying curiosity. Just... understanding.
"Working really is exhausting, isn't it?" He leaned his elbows on the counter, mirroring her posture. "Some nights I get home and all I can do is collapse on my bed like a dead fish. Don't even have the energy to change clothes."
A wry smile tugged at his lips.
"So if we can't fully enjoy our hobbies right now, it's not really our fault, is it? It's society's fault. Those terrible adults who were supposed to take responsibility for us."
The words came out lighter than they should have, wrapped in self-deprecating humor. But beneath that, something raw flickered in his expression—a heaviness that didn't quite match the easy smile.
It's not your fault.
The sentiment hit Sakiko like a physical blow.
Her nose stung. Her throat tightened. Behind her eyes, pressure built with alarming speed.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
But the memories came flooding anyway.
Dealing with entitled customers who treated her like furniture. Pedaling through monsoon rains to deliver newspapers, water streaming down her face, soaking through clothes that took days to dry. Sardine-packed rush-hour trains, pressed between strangers' bodies, trying desperately not to breathe in the mingled scents of sweat and stale cologne.
All the bitter, grinding indignities of a fallen princess, forced to survive in a world that had never taught her how.
And here was Kazama Haru, saying it's not your fault with such casual sincerity, like it was simply the truth.
No one had ever told her that before.
Yet I lied to him.
The guilt twisted in her stomach, cold and sickening.
He'd asked about Bands—genuinely curious, genuinely kind—and she'd fed him pretty excuses to hide her past. Tainted his warmth with ugly deception.
What is wrong with me?
Her fingers tightened around the porcelain cup, knuckles whitening.
How... despicable.