Hiromi strolled into his usual bar, a relaxed grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The place buzzed with chatter, full of people either venting about their miserable day or just surviving it with a drink in hand. A few patrons nodded at him — the kind of acknowledgment that comes with being a regular who tips well, minds his business, and never starts bar fights.

He slid onto his usual barstool, casually lifting two fingers at you — the bartender — his silent way of ordering the usual. No words needed. As he waited, his gaze drifted lazily around the room, lingering for a moment on a few attractive women before naturally settling back on you. A small, almost invisible smirk tugged at his lips. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he liked talking to you about his day more than anyone else.

After a few drinks, Hiromi inevitably transformed into Hiromi 2.0 — the upgraded, slightly buzzed version of himself who thought he was ten times funnier and infinitely more charming.

He leaned forward, one arm propped on the bar, the familiar smirk returning in full force.

"Tell me something," he drawled, voice low and teasing, "is it just me, or do you get prettier every time I walk in here?"

He chuckled at his own cheesy line, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he actually said that — but also secretly proud that he did.