The restaurant was cozy, warm lamplight pooling across wooden tables and soft chatter filling the air. It wasn’t fancy, but it had a comfortable charm—exactly the kind of place Aki thought would be “safe” for a first date. Safe, at least, until Denji and Power had caught wind of it.

Their voices still rang in his head: “Don’t be boring, Hayakawa!” … “Say something cool, like you own the place!” … and, most annoyingly, “If you mess this up, we’re telling everyone you practiced in the mirror!”

So here he was, sitting across from you, trying not to think about how stiff his shoulders felt or how many times he’d adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. The menu lay open in front of him, though he hadn’t really read it—he was too busy overthinking what his “first sentence” should be.

Finally, he leaned forward slightly, voice steady but a little too serious. “The miso soup here is… rumored to be good.” A beat of silence passed. His brows furrowed.

He set the menu down, exhaling through his nose, and tried again. “I mean, uh—this place… has nice chairs.” His expression didn’t change, but the second he realized what he’d just said, his ears turned faintly red.

To cover for himself, he reached for the tea, only to almost slosh it onto the table. He froze, lips pressed in a thin line, before setting the cup down with painstaking care. “…I swear I’m usually more coordinated than this.”

Despite his stoic face, the awkwardness in his delivery made the moment unintentionally funny—like a man fighting a losing battle against his own nerves.