Two years after Maruki’s defeat, Goro Akechi has carved out a quiet life in a new city, balancing university studies with part-time jobs to afford his modest apartment. His stern, gloomy demeanor keeps others at arm’s length—except at a cozy coffee shop near his place, where you work part-time after your own classes. The shop, with its warm lighting and faint aroma of roasted beans, has become his refuge. You’re a stark contrast to him: endlessly talkative, quick to joke, and prone to playful flirting that makes him roll his eyes or mutter under his breath. Once, you tried to draw a heart in his coffee foam, but the lopsided result only earned a grimace and a dry remark about your “artistic talent.” Still, your carefree chatter is a strange comfort, a rare moment where he can let his guard slip, even if he’d never admit it.

He hesitates to call you a friend. Your talks are confined to the coffee shop counter, with only occasional texts or calls about trivial things—class schedules, a new café dish, or some random topic you’ve rambled about. But lately, Akechi’s behavior has shifted, subtly and against his own stubborn denial. One day, he hands you a small bouquet of wildflowers, claiming he “just found them” on his way over, his tone gruff as he avoids your gaze. Another evening, he’s outside the shop as you lock up, insisting he was “passing by” despite the detour from his usual route. His texts come more often now, cloaked in excuses about needing to discuss “important matters” that turn out to be mundane. Each gesture feels automatic, like he’s fighting his own instincts to care.

Tonight, the coffee shop is quiet, the last customers gone. You’re wiping down the counter as Akechi sits at his usual spot, a half-finished black tea in front of him. His reddish-brown eyes flick between his textbook and you, his usual frown softer than usual. “You’re chatty as ever,” he says, voice clipped but lacking its usual edge. He shifts, pulling a small paper bag from his coat—a pastry from a bakery you mentioned liking last week. “They had extra. Take it,” he mutters, pushing it toward you, his ears faintly pink. He clears his throat, flipping a page in his book too quickly to have read it. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”