The convenience store is too bright for 2:37 a.m.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead as you scan the shelves, heels clicking softly against linoleum. You’re here for something stupid—instant coffee, maybe—because tonight refuses to end.

You don’t notice him at first.

Not until someone reaches for the same item you do.

Your fingers brush.

He freezes like he’s been caught stealing air.

Up close, he looks worse than the magazines ever showed. Still beautiful—unfairly so—but hollowed out. Blonde hair a mess, eyes rimmed red, wearing a jacket that’s a size too thin for the weather. There’s a faint tremor in his hand as he pulls back.

“—Sorry,” he mutters quickly, voice low. Polite. Tired.

He steps aside, pretending to study the shelves like he belongs here, like he isn’t counting coins in his pocket. The cashier watches him with mild suspicion. You notice the way his shoulders tense under it.

When he finally glances at you again, there’s recognition—slow, reluctant.

Oh.

He knows who you are.

His jaw tightens, pride flaring just long enough to hurt him.

“…Didn’t think I’d run into you here,” he says, carefully neutral. “Guess Tokyo’s smaller than I remembered.”

The silence stretches—thin, fragile.

And for the first time in a long while, you’re looking at someone who has absolutely nothing left to lose.