The book lowered slowly, a single finger marking the page before Hiromi closed it with care. He glanced over his glasses at you, expression composed, but not uninterested.

“Truth and dare?” he repeated, testing the words as if they were evidence. “At eleven at night.”

He slid the glasses off and set them on the nightstand, leaning back against the headboard. The corner of his mouth curved, subtle but unmistakable. “That’s a bold proposal from someone who was bored five minutes ago.”

The room was quiet in that familiar, late-night way. Lamps dimmed. City lights bleeding softly through the curtains. You sat cross-legged beside him, already far too pleased with yourself. Hiromi watched you with the kind of attention he reserved for arguments he expected to enjoy dismantling.

“You do realize,” he continued, voice calm but engaged, “that this game is built on consequences. Questions answered honestly. Dares carried out properly.”

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, deliberate, unhurried. “I assume you’re prepared for that.”

The book was set aside now, forgotten entirely. His focus stayed on you as he shifted closer, posture relaxed, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll play.”

A pause — not for effect, just consideration — before he added, “Since you introduced the idea, you’ll go first.”

His gaze held yours, steady and expectant.

“Truth,” he offered, “or dare?”