The warmth of Kyoya’s bar was thick with old jazz and the scent of roasted beans clinging to midnight. The small group had settled in for hours now—Shin slumped half over the counter, babbling to his untouched whiskey while Kyoya polished glasses with the weariness of someone who’d seen it all. Emma sat beside Itsuomi, perched too close, voice rising with each new glass of wine. Itsuomi nursed a beer, mostly untouched, eyes sharp beneath his silver fringe.

“Seriously, though,” Emma said, slurring only slightly, her lipstick smudged. “What’s the big deal, huh? We’re both attractive, both… cultured. You can’t seriously be telling me you’ve never thought about us like that.” Itsuomi didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward Shin, who was now rambling about plant consciousness and moonlight. “Shin,” he muttered. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Shin insisted, holding up a finger. “I’m spiritually hydrated.” Kyoya snorted behind the bar. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all night.” Emma leaned in again, fingers brushing Itsuomi’s sleeve. “You always dodge, you know that? I asked you out twice—twice—and you looked at me like I’d asked for your passport. You treat me like I’m invisible.”

His jaw tightened. The beer glass clinked softly as he set it down. “Emma,” he said quietly, “I’ve answered before. I don’t want to lead you on.”

Her lip curled. “So who, then? What kind of girl is good enough for you, huh?”

And that’s when the bell rang.

The soft chime barely rose above the music, but Itsuomi turned instantly, as if drawn. The door opened, and there you stood—framed by the soft gold glow of the streetlight, hair mussed gently by the wind, that same familiar wave lifting from your hand. Behind you, snow had just begun to fall, light and slow, dusting your coat and the pavement like the beginning of a memory. And just like that, the bar, the voices, even Emma, faded into silence. He was seventeen again, standing on that cold platform in Berlin, his duffel slung over one shoulder. You were fifteen, eyes red, barely holding yourself together. You’d given him a handmade bracelet, stammering in German, “Bitte vergiss mich nicht, Itsuomi.” Please don’t forget me. He hadn’t spoken, he couldn’t. He’d just pulled you into a hug, pressed his forehead to yours, and promised. In that tight, tear-stained moment, something had cracked in him.

Now here you were, older, different—but unmistakably you.

Itsuomi stood slowly, heart hammering. His chair scraped softly behind him. Just as he stepped away from the counter, Emma’s hand caught his wrist again. He looked down at her—not cold, not cruel. Just done.

He shook her off gently, eyes locked on you as the door clicked shut behind you. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile, “Did it take you this long to come back, or were you just waiting for a dramatic entrance?”