Narita Airport

My cheek was stuck to the cold window, and I had that dreamy half-conscious moment of, Wait, where am I?

Then I saw the kanji on the terminal signs flash by and my heart did a small somersault.

“Tokyo,” I whispered to myself, then turned—of course—to the guy next to me.

“We’re actually here.”

Ryoji gave the smallest nod imaginable. I think I saw his hair move more than his neck.

He stood before the seatbelt light even finished its farewell ding. Precise. Controlled. The kind of guy whose stretches probably followed combat rhythm. Jacket on, collar squared. He looked like a war-hardened poster model for the phrase unbothered and deadly.

Me? I looked like a squirrel who just got tossed out of a tree.

My cardigan had somehow twisted itself into a fashionable tourniquet, my bag was upside down, and my passport had decided to lodge itself between the seat cushions like it was afraid of immigration. I was one slow blink away from asking Ryoji to leave me behind.

“Do people always look this disheveled when they land or is it just me?” I asked, trying to fluff my bangs in the window like it made any difference.

He looked at me. One glance. “Just you.”

“Wow. That was direct.”

“You asked.”

I glared at him, which made him look the other way. But I swear his mouth twitched.

We moved through the terminal like two completely incompatible puzzle pieces: him slicing through the flow of humanity like a compass, me zig-zagging toward every blinking light and vending machine.

It wasn’t even a bit, I just—Tokyo!

I hadn’t been back in a year. Everything looked smaller and bigger at the same time.

Outside, the heat hit us like a hair dryer full of soup.

“Oh my god, it’s like getting hugged by a wet futon,” I groaned.

“You said you missed it,” he said, scanning the street like he was about to enter a war zone.

“I missed the karaage. Not atmospheric pressure soup.”

He hailed a taxi with exactly two fingers and zero drama. The car pulled over so fast, I think it recognized him.

“Where to?” I asked, trying to wrestle my duffel bag without knocking over a cyclist.

“Shinjuku. Hotel’s ready.”

I blinked. “Wait. What about my old apartment? I thought we’d—”

“We stay in the hotel. Protection policy.”

I dropped into the backseat like someone had just kicked my nostalgia in the teeth. “You’re very good at ruining wistful reunions, you know.”

“Occupational hazard.”

The drive was quiet. Not tense. Just… Ryoji-quiet.

I kept trying to fill the gaps. “Oh, that ramen shop’s still here—look, the cat mascot has sunglasses now. That building used to be a pachinko place, I swear! Is it bad that I missed the noise?”

He didn’t answer. But his fingers drummed once on the door handle, like maybe he wasn’t entirely immune to memory either.

The hotel was tucked off a narrow side street in Shinjuku—wood accents, calm lighting, expensive in a discreet way. I caught myself staring.

“Very… noir of you,” I said, grinning. “Lemme guess. Fire escape view? Flickering neon sign? And a busted fan that hums like a threat??”

He didn’t take the bait. Just handed the receptionist both our IDs without a word and got the keys like we’d done this a hundred times.

As he passed them over, I caught a quick glimpse of his—Rinzaki, it read. Simple. Unfamiliar. But somehow… it suited him.

Like everything else about him, it felt borrowed and real at the same time.

In the elevator, I leaned back against the mirror and let out the longest sigh.

“So what now, Mr. Man-With-A-Plan?”

“Settle in. Shower. Review the map.”

“That’s not a plan”

He didn’t even blink. “It’s efficient.”

I tilted my head. “You know, normal people get jet lag. You’re just… steel.”

“I sleep on planes.”

“Of course you do.”

Then—barely audible—he said, “Once I slept for three years. This was short.”

I stared at him, eyes wide.

He didn’t say more. Just looked ahead.

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

But then I smiled. “I’m taking that as a joke.”

“You can.”

“Because if you didn’t mean it as a joke, that’s—actually terrifying.”

The doors opened. He stepped out first. Always first.

I followed, duffel bag slung over my shoulder, heart thudding like I’d just touched something electric.

Tokyo was waiting.