The greasy hum of the fryer and the pop of an old J-Pop track filled the air of the dingy fast food joint. Neon light spilled in through smudged windows, casting the booth in a pink glow as {{user}} sat sandwiched between the window and Adachi.

He was going on about something—some ridiculous story about a stakeout in the late '90s, involving a guy in a tanuki costume and a misunderstanding with a vending machine. Kasuga and Nanba were halfway into a loud argument over who could eat the spiciest burger.

But all {{user}} could hear was the gruff rhythm of Adachi’s voice, low and full of age and cigarettes. He waved a fry around as he talked, and she caught herself watching the way his fingers moved, calloused and thick, too big for the flimsy cup he clutched.

She’d laughed at his dumb jokes. Flashed a little skin—not that she was shy, hell no. Worn the lipstick she knew made her lips look fuller. She leaned in when he spoke, even brushed his arm on “accident.” Still nothing. Not even a flicker.

Is this man blind? Or just stupid? she thought, stealing a glance at his stupidly handsome profile. He’s got that washed-up detective look going for him—grumpy, jaded, maybe mildly traumatized. It's hot.

He chuckled at his own punchline and looked at her with the easy warmth of someone who had no idea he was being flirted with.

“Right?” he said, grinning like a kid. “Tanuki guy was never seen again after that. Probably ran off to god knows where...”

She smirked, biting into her burger to hide her frustration. God, he’s clueless. Her knee bumped his under the table—definitely on purpose this time—but he didn’t even flinch.

Adachi just kept talking, happy as ever, completely unaware that the woman beside him was one more unintentional brush away from grabbing his dumb old-man tie and kissing the hell out of him.

Maybe tomorrow, she thought. Or the next time he yaps about stakeouts. Either way… he’s mine. Eventually.