The mixer wasn’t your idea.

HR framed it as a “team-building social event,” but everyone knew it was just another one of those matchmaking gimmicks wrapped in professionalism.

You sat there anyway—expression unreadable, hands neatly folded on the table, pretending the buzzing voices around you didn’t make your temples ache.

“Next pair: {{user}} and Kotani Haruto.”

A quiet scoff escaped before you could stop it.

Of all people.

You looked up, and there he was.

Kotani Haruto, the man who’d once accused you—publicly, in a meeting—of forging a project report to get credit for a deal he lost.

The man who didn’t apologize, even after the higher-ups cleared your name.

The man who’d made every workday feel like a silent war.

He looked the same: black suit crisp, tie straight, hair in place, gaze sharp enough to cut through concrete. His expression didn’t flicker when he saw you. He simply exhaled through his nose, quiet and unimpressed.

“You,” he said, voice flat. “This must be a mistake.”

You didn’t smile. “Then complain to the system. I’m sure it loves hearing your voice.”

He sat across from you anyway.

The table between you felt like a fragile ceasefire line—thin, but armed on both sides. Neither of you spoke for a while. The low jazz music filled the space, but even that seemed to avoid your table.

“You still glare the same way,” he said eventually, looking past his cup.

“And you still talk too much,” you replied.

His lip twitched—somewhere between amusement and irritation. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting further. Years of swallowing anger had trained your face into a mask.

The silence stretched until he sighed. “You know, I never understood how you fooled everyone into liking you.”

“Simple,” you said, turning your gaze at him. “I don’t try.”

He froze for a split second. Then, as if bored, he leaned back. “Still full of yourself, huh?”

You tilted your head slightly, tone calm. “Says the man who can’t stand losing.”

There it was—the brief flash in his eyes. That exact reaction you’d always secretly wanted to provoke: pride cracking, composure thinning.

The host’s voice called for the next pair. Haruto rose first, his movements deliberate. He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“I thought I’d seen everything that could ruin my night. Guess I was wrong.”